Hopscotch

by Kevin J. Anderson

  At some point in the process, Teresa needed to sabotage the routine, prevent the actual upload. She hadn’t even thought about what might happen afterward, how she would ever free Eduard. She was desperate and impulsive—just as Eduard had been when he’d saved her.

  Impersonating José Meroni, Teresa discovered where the power stations were. Next to the control room, she took responsibility for the small details of Eduard’s last moments, volunteering for additional duties. Even from here, though, the odds were not good.

  Behind a transparent wall, where the witnesses waited with eager or restless expressions, Eduard sat in his restraint chair. Her heart leaped when she saw him. She stepped closer to the recording window to peer in at her friend, longingly trying to communicate with him.

  He glared up at her, but from his perspective, Eduard saw only a guard who was part of the Bureau in charge of killing him. She offered him a faint smile, but he made a rude face at her. Dismayed, she turned away.

  Madame Ruxton had arrived, alone. Over the loudspeakers, Teresa heard the ominous sentence read. Whether truth or lies, this was how history would remember her friend.

  There wasn’t much time left. Flustered, Teresa headed out of the observation deck and bumped clumsily into Daragon as he marched down the corridors. Wearing his Inspector’s uniform like a dark shield, he looked busy and distracted, his expression troubled.

  Alarmed, she scuttled past him, averting her eyes and hoping to appear like a busy guard with a tight schedule. He looked right at her, right into her. She saw a flash of startled recognition on his face.

  Daragon stopped in his path. She froze for a moment. Her heart skipped a beat, then another.

  But he did nothing. Instead, Daragon just turned and went about his business, as if he didn’t know her.

  Expecting alarms at any instant, she continued her charade. She made her way to the control room and tried to blend in while watching the preparations reach their final stages. A spray vial of Scramble had already been prepared for Eduard, and others sat on the shelf beside it. An attendant unsealed the door and entered the execution chamber.

  Through another small window, Teresa saw Eduard waiting. Madame Ruxton was seated on his left in a restraint chair. Eduard turned his face, refusing to look at her, not wanting to see the old woman’s body in which he was bound to die.

  He seemed so far away from her.

  72

  It amazed Eduard that people would come to watch him die—and do it with such obvious glee. Lantern-jawed Olaf looked indignant and betrayed, though Eduard had given him more material for sexual fantasies than the maintenance man had had in his entire life.

  Then there was the woman who had gotten Teresa’s waifish body, trading with Olaf so the window man could have his lanky home-body back. Before she’d met Eduard, the woman had been overweight and dying of some degenerative disease—so what did she have to complain about?

  Daragon still hadn’t shown his face, but he was probably lurking about somewhere. Eduard wondered if the duty-bound Inspector even felt guilty about what he had done. Probably not, given his Bureau brainwashing. He had clearly made his choice, refusing to believe Eduard’s story against his revered mentor’s.

  Worst of all—or perhaps best—he didn’t spot his true friends, whatever bodies they might be wearing now. He wouldn’t want Teresa to see him strapped in this chair. He wanted her to remember him, but not like this.

  And sadly, Garth must have died by now, trapped in the decrepit old body. That part hurt the most. He had never intended to hopscotch with the artist when he’d gone to the mansion for the last time. Though he felt little remorse for the death of Mordecai Ob, after what the man had done to him and the other three caretakers, Eduard’s betrayal of Garth warranted this most extreme punishment. With his selfishness, he had caused the death of his friend; therefore, in that instance, he was guilty of murder.

  Just before the “beneficiary” of his body was led in to join him, Eduard sat seething as technicians wrapped his chest with a flexible stun mesh—a conductive fabric connected to discharge packs that could knock him flat if he tried to resist.

  If he tried to escape, the BIE guards would probably gun him down, maybe drag his bleeding and mortally wounded body back here so they could upload him before he died. The end result would be the same—except then Madame Ruxton wouldn’t have the benefit of walking away in Garth’s body.

  Maybe it would be worth the trouble after all.

  But Eduard was finished running. Having had time to objectively consider Artemis’s long but ultimately wasted life as a Phantom, he realized how little he had accomplished in his own existence, as well. Maybe the old bitch Ruxton would live for another century in borrowed bodies. Eduard hated that thought.

  The first attendant held out a spray vial of Scramble, as if it were a weapon. “This’ll make you groggy and knock down your resistance.”

  “No need. I’d rather keep my clarity of thought. I won’t resist.” Eduard raised his chin to indicate the ugly industrial walls, the metal plates with protruding rivets. “I want to see this beautiful scenery to the end.”

  “Suit yourself.” After the tech powered up the COM upload links, the arm restraints on his chair slid away, leaving him with only the leash of the stun mesh.

  Gracious escort guards ushered in the weary-looking crone. Eduard remembered Ruxton leering at him before the surgery and how she had tried to steal his body afterward. “You don’t deserve this reward, no matter how much you paid,” he told her. Garth had sacrificed much more for him.

  Ruxton met his burning gaze, her face open and hopeful. She seemed calm now, properly smug. He remembered her during the meat-market auction, her eager shouts and predatory actions that had dominated the other competitors. She had ruthlessly outbid everyone else just so she could purchase his body and exact her revenge—and he despised her for it.

  Next to him, one of the two attendants saw his face redden. He held up the ominous spray vial again. “Do I need to use this, after all?”

  Eduard glared at Ruxton. “No problem.”

  He flexed his hands, artist’s hands, with delicate and clever fingers for creating images that had made the world pay attention. With wistful admiration, he thought of what Garth had done with his panoramic experiences. For so long, he had endured the unpleasant aspects of human experience to understand everything about life—and share it with his audience. Garth had truly made a difference, forced people to understand things they may not have wanted to think about.

  Teresa too had given openly and selflessly of herself. She had devoted days, years of searching and contemplation. She had fought to pry explanations from the universe and from her own heart. She had made herself a better person because of it.

  Eduard, on the other hand, had botched everything.

  “Please, Eduard . . .” the old woman said from the restraint chair beside him. Her words came out in a husky whisper, as if she didn’t want the guards to hear what she was saying.

  Frowning, he turned to her. In a moment he would be forced to inhabit this parasite’s body, just before the executioners drained his mind, his consciousness, his “soul” into the computer/organic matrix.

  She gave him a tentative smile, as if trying desperately to communicate with him. He refused to offer her the comfort of a response.

  The technicians applied electrodes to the thinning gray hair on Madame Ruxton’s scalp and temples. From there, Eduard would be sucked through conduits into COM. Hopscotching into eternity.

  “Eduard, please listen to me. . . .” He realized how strange her expression was, how unexpected. He had expected Ruxton to gloat. He couldn’t fathom what she was thinking.

  Then the guards wrapped her fragile body with a stun mesh as well, to prevent him from making any violent outburst immediately after the swap and before they could upload him. A firm band bound each outer wrist to the chairs, leaving their adjacent arms free so they could touch during the actual hops
cotching. Eduard began to regret his promise of cooperation. Maybe a dose of Scramble would feel just fine right now.

  The technicians left the room, sealed the doors behind them. Bright lights reflected off the dull metal walls. Beyond the broad observation window, the spectators watched, eager for the show. It would only be a few moments, now.

  Ruxton whispered in a voice she knew the wall sensors would not pick up. “Eduard—it’s me. Garth! I’ve come to die in your place.”

  She reached over to touch him so they could hopscotch.

  73

  Time had run out. Teresa knew there would be only a few seconds before her sabotage in the control room was detected.

  Sprayed with stolen Scramble, the execution techs wouldn’t come to their senses anytime soon. One sat dazed and oblivious, staring at the screens in front of him; the second babbled incoherent sounds, swaying from side to side in his chair. The rest of the upload schedule ran like clockwork.

  With a gruff voice, pretending to be José Meroni, Teresa had ordered the BIE escort guards to take up alternate stations. Acting the part of a man still sour from the embarrassing defeat of the night before, she bullied them into leaving her alone with the upload technicians busily making their final double checks.

  A hungry COM waited to receive Eduard’s soul into its labyrinth. Cables and conduits were already connected to the old woman’s body, electrodes attached, power sources primed.

  Two quick sprays of Scramble had taken care of the techs. Everything would begin to fall apart soon. Succeed or fail, she had to be done in the next few minutes. . . .

  Teresa hammered at the computer access pads, trying to shut down all power to the area, to the entire building if necessary. If she could crash the system locally, she would save Eduard—at least for a while.

  Beyond that, she hadn’t thought of what she would do. Maybe she could shout out the story of what had really happened between Eduard and Mordecai Ob, maybe she could expose the Bureau’s cover-up, how they had refused to consider that their heroic Chief might be a monster inside.

  Doing so would destroy Daragon, too. But it might buy Eduard a second chance.

  Now, on the monitor, she saw Eduard engaged in a hushed but heated conversation with the old woman who would soon receive his body. Maybe he could resist the transfer somehow, cause a delay. That would give Teresa the few minutes she needed.

  She wished she could talk to him, explain her plan—as pathetic as it was—but she didn’t understand how the BIE computer system worked. She didn’t know what she was doing, which commands to enter. She pounded on the polymer touchboard in dismay, cracking its coverplate.

  She scanned through the system, selecting tangential items, meeting dead end after dead end. Finally, she found the right command string, a set of glowing letters that would act as a binary guillotine blade to shut down the facility. She looked down at the cracked control plate, hoping she hadn’t damaged anything in her outburst.

  Lights flickered on the upload panels. Frantic, Teresa skittered clumsy fingers over the board, punching in the first part of the instruction set.

  “You don’t want to do that, Teresa,” Daragon said, standing in the doorway. He looked imposing in his Inspector’s uniform. He had known all along. “It won’t help him, and it’ll only delay what has to be.”

  Through the observation port, she saw Eduard and the old woman hopscotching. She had to act now.

  Unwilling to accept defeat, Teresa finished her command string. Daragon sprang toward her, but couldn’t react fast enough. COM accepted the precise override instructions.

  All the power went out. The termination facility shut down, swallowed in sudden blackness. . . .

  Daragon sealed himself and Teresa inside the control chamber. “I’ll keep them out for now.” His face was ruddy in the emergency backup lights, full of anguish and never-forgotten love. “I don’t know how much I can protect you, Teresa—but I can’t let you get away with this. I have to stop you.”

  “Why? Just because it’s your duty?”

  Quickly and efficiently, he worked to restore the power, all the while talking to her. His patience and confidence were maddening.

  “This silly stunt will only delay the end by a few minutes—and for what? Do you think it makes any difference to Eduard? This will only get you convicted, as well—and I . . . I can’t allow that.” His fingers flurried over the keyboard, trying to reestablish a link with the power supply and reconnect the termination facility to COM. “Eduard wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  Guards hammered at the sealed door to the control center, but Daragon did not release the locks. He wouldn’t relinquish his control of the situation.

  Teresa realized that in José Meroni’s body she outweighed him. She could pound him senseless using the guard’s muscles . . . just as Eduard had done for her, intimidating Rhys with the huge Samoan’s physique.

  But the thought made her sick. She simply couldn’t do that, not to Daragon, not using the same abusive methods the Sharetaker had used. The violent thoughts drained out of her.

  The power came back on, crackling through light tiles, dazzling bright. Daragon toggled the facility-wide intercom and spoke in an authoritative voice. “Our apologies for the inconvenience. The problem has been identified and resolved. We will now proceed without further delay.”

  She looked up in panic at Eduard again, to fix his face—Garth’s face—in her memory. Teresa wanted to scream. Instead, she asked for help.

  “Soft Stone . . . oh, Soft Stone, are you there?” She leaned closer to the terminal, begging the equipment, as if it could hear her. “I can’t do this myself. I’m trying, but I don’t know what to do.”

  After an interminable moment, the COM screen blurred, and the old monk’s blunt-featured visage appeared. Daragon stared in amazement, his cool BTL demeanor melting away.

  “I always taught you and Eduard to follow your own paths . . . even if they lead you to a cliff.” Soft Stone’s synthesized voice carried layered implications, questions, warnings.

  Teresa could not allow herself to think beyond the simple inquiry. “Oh, please help me stop this.”

  The placid monk looked at her from the depths of the filmscreen. “Do you truly think that is best? For him and for yourself? And for Daragon? Let me take him, little Swan. I will watch over Eduard, and you can live your life.”

  Daragon had always been calm and reasonable, not impulsive like Eduard, not passionate like Garth, not uncertain and questioning like Teresa. “We have to finish this,” he said to Teresa, and to Soft Stone.

  Teresa couldn’t answer, not even trying to fight back tears. She thought of the administrator monk at the Falling Leaves, poor Chocolate dead in his sleep before he could upload himself into COM. She remembered the beautiful ceremony in the monastery library, when Soft Stone had departed into the vast unexplored network. If only it could be like that for Eduard. Not this . . .

  “After today, I will be gone, little Swan,” Soft Stone said. “I’ve interfered enough.”

  Daragon stood with Teresa by the console, refusing to look into the execution chamber. He input the commands to prepare the forced upload into COM, then spoke into the private channel intercom. His words reverberated in the execution chamber. “Are you ready?”

  Teresa bit back a moan. Inside the chamber itself, Eduard and Madame Ruxton sat anticipating, dreading, hoping.

  “Don’t worry about Eduard.” The monk vanished into the screen, drowned out by gray static.

  Daragon turned to her, his fingers poised above the controls. He lifted his eyebrows for her benefit. “I could call in another guard, but if it has to be done, don’t you think Eduard would rather have a friend do this? With compassion, rather than malice? I’ll have to live with the knowledge for the rest of my life.”

  Before he could do anything, though, lights on the consoles flashed all by themselves. Daragon and Teresa looked at each other. The connection to COM was ready. The upload be
gan of its own accord.

  “Soft Stone,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Through the observation port, Teresa watched Madame Ruxton’s body twitch and jerk, resisting the pull on Eduard’s consciousness, dragging him into the computer network in a final, irrevocable hopscotch. Eduard’s mind would add to the ever-expanding network, helping it grow in its own mysterious ways.

  After a long, impossible moment, Teresa watched the old woman’s now empty and useless body die.

  Daragon stood next to her, his back now turned to the execution chamber. He looked crushed, but said nothing. The glimmer of a tear in his eye looked startlingly out of place on his stony visage.

  Finally, he unsealed the door and walked away, leaving Teresa to stare through the recorder glass. Ruxton’s unwanted form sat motionless, wickerlike arms akimbo, drained and dead.

  Eduard was gone. . . .

  EPILOGUE

  Later, much later, Teresa went to Club Masquerade, alone.

  The three of them had always gathered here. With youthful optimism, she and Garth and Eduard had promised never to miss a meeting . . . but all that had changed. No one here would recognize her in Jennika’s physique, not even the bartender.

  She was back in her athletic female body again. It had taken her two days of sweet-talking and lovemaking to convince José Meroni not to report her unauthorized switch. Though incensed, he was even more mortally afraid that his buddies would learn how easily she had duped him even after the arm-wrestling defeat. He couldn’t stand that humiliation.

  In the aftermath of Eduard’s upload execution, Teresa had been willing to face the consequences of her attempted sabotage, but Daragon had intervened again. He kept her involvement quiet, saying the right words and using his remaining connections in the BTL to “take care of things.”