MYTH-Taken Identity

by Robert Asprin

  I pushed off with all my strength, but it wasn't enough. I grabbed air just out of reach of my target. The crowd screamed as I fell. My breath was knocked out of my body as something caught me. I tried to twist to see.

  "Stop struggling, big guy," Massha grunted. "My flight belt will burn out!"

  "Thanks," I gasped.

  "Don't thank me," she insisted, as she brought me the

  rest of the way up to the white-painted beam. "Go get the phony creep!"

  I didn't need the encouragement. I pulled myself upright and started running after the two thieves.

  They knew their turf as well as I know every vein in my beautiful yellow eyes. They dashed toward a wall that I thought would be a dead end. At the last minute they clam­bered up and started running at right angles along another joist invisible against the white ceiling. I chinned up to the next level and continued my pursuit

  Below me I could see the white hats of the guards jog­ging along, shouting warnings. Chumley made way for them, parting the crowd forcibly where necessary. Eskina, a foot shorter than the average shopper, had disappeared in the sea of heads.

  Massha flanked me, readying a ring with a huge tan stone. The Skeeve kept glancing back at us, and as Massha raised her weapon, he spun on the narrow beam and point­ed his joined hands at us.

  "Duck!" I yelled.

  Massha's eyes widened. She dove to one side as a tongue of green fire blasted by us. One of the dragonlings whom I had disturbed sleeping on the first beam let out a squawk of protest as it got a hot-seat. The beam itself was singed black for a significant diameter. I gulped. If one of us had been in the way of that spell, we would have been toast. Massha recovered quickly, firing off the ring.

  A mass of writhing tan and gray flew toward the fugi­tives. As it neared them, it unwound into a coil of rope. The running figures flattened themselves on the beam. The rope should have followed their movements, but it expanded into a greater and greater mass and plummeted into the crowd. A cry went up as several shoppers were bound into a huge tangle with Chumley and some of the guards. An outraged, "Oh, I say!" escaped the Troll, who began to break the ropes one at a time between his mighty hands.

  "Sorry, Chumley," Massha called, her face scarlet.

  It was up to me. I tried to ignore the fact that the boards I was running on were a hair narrower than my feet. I tried to ignore the sixty-foot drop if I should trip. All I could see was getting my hands on the Skeeve-impersonator and beating the heck out of him before turning what was left over to the authorities.

  Another turning appeared ahead. This time I was aware of their trick, so I studied the beams that lay ahead of me. This time there were two sets of cross braces, one higher and one lower. Psychologically speaking, the thieves had gone up the first time. I thought it was a better-than-even chance they'd go down. I almost grinned as they reached the end of the beam, and the big thief crouched to jump to the lower level. He stuck out a hand to help the shorter thief, the Skeeve-clone, who slowed down so he could make the transit more safely. I put on a burst of speed, gathered myself, and leaped out into space.

  My hands touched smooth warm flesh. I had him! The Skeeve yelled. We found ourselves hanging on either side of the beam with our legs dangling six stories in the air. His accomplice, who turned out to be a Troll with purple-black fur, wobbled its way back toward us. He would reach us in a moment. I wasn't in a position to fight.

  The Skeeve saw my expression as I considered the dilemma.

  "Monsieur, do not drop me. I am afraid of heights. Please. Please do not drop me."

  The Troll was two steps away. I had no choice. I let go of the Skeeve's hand.

  "You dropped me!" he screeched, as we fell.

  The crowd saw us dropping toward them and fled the area, screaming. A purple blur dashed into the newly cleared floor, and put out its arms. I collapsed into a nest of thick hair and lay there gasping.

  "Thanks, Chumley," I croaked.

  "Think nothing of it, old man," the Troll assured me gallantly.

  I got my breath back and waved my arm. "Let me down." He set me on the floor. "Where is the SOB?"

  "Right here," Chumley gestured, pointing to a body on the floor. It didn't look like Skeeve. It was small, hairy, and terrified.

  "What is it?" I asked distastefully.

  Chumley picked his foot up off its neck. The skinny creature, which would be up to my hip if I let it stand up, lay panting on the floor. It had a short, light brown pelt everywhere on its body except its tail, which was naked, and its head, where the fur was longer, blonder, and teased into a pompadour. Strapped to its skinny back was a pack like a book bag. Parvattani's men quickly wound the beast up in a coil of lightning, which I'd taught them to use only that morning, and confiscated the tote.

  "It's-a a mall-rat," Par explained, a sneer on his other­wise pleasant face.

  "A species indigenous to confined shopping spaces on Flibber," Eskina explained. "They are very greedy and like to steal. It makes sense that Rattila would employ one so close in type to his own species. But they are not very intel­ligent. It would be difficult to teach them to do what the other shapechangers are doing. Perhaps he is the only one of his kind in Rattila's employ."

  "And who are you calling stupeed?" the mall-rat com­plained.

  "Not you," Eskina acknowledged. "You can't be too stu­pid, anyhow."

  "Thanks for nothing, madame," the rat grumbled, hun­kering down in a heap between us.

  Parvattani stood on its tail. The guards went through the backpack. Inside was nothing but a pile of cards.

  "Those are just like the ones I saw the Pervect gal using," I insisted.

  "What are these?" Par demanded, waving one under our captive's nose.

  "I have no idea," the mall-rat said, a blank look on his face. "Rath-air pretty, eh?"

  "Where did you get them? How do they work?"

  "J'ne parle Flibber, monsieur."

  "He is stupid." Eskina sighed.

  "No, he's not," I contradicted her. I shoved my face into the rat's. "He's smart enough to know that I'm going to start ripping his limbs off one at a time if he doesn't start cooperating!"

  "Hey, cool down, cool down, Green-skinned Dude!" the rat protested, scrambling to put some distance between his face and mine. He looked plaintively from Par to Chumley to me. "They are my cards, monsieur. Give them back, s'il vous plait? I will get in real trouble without zem."

  "You have-a been causing a lot of trouble with them," Parvattani asserted, triumphantly. "Mr. Aahz, will you do the honors?"

  "Wait a minute," I cautioned him, holding up a hand. "Let's make sure we're dealing with the real thing. Massha, is this the guy that we followed the other day?"

  Massha hoisted her magik-detector amulet out from among the cluster of jewels hanging on her massive chest and waved it over our captive. "Yup."

  "So," I deduced, "one of these cards is the one that lets him turn into Skeeve."

  Massha shrugged. "That'd be my guess, but magik items are tricky. Unless he shows us how he did it, it's just a surmise."

  "Which one is it? The tall Klahd with blond hair?"

  I turned to the mall-rat, who stuck his long nose into the air. "Not a chance, monsieur. I do not do requests."

  "Left arm first, or right?" I asked, casually. The mall-rat's eyes widened into twin blue pools of alarm.

  "Hein, I did not say I wouldn't help out at all!"

  "Good." I spread out the pack of cards in his face. "How do they work?"

  The rat looked blank again. "You just—how you say?— I mean, I just hold it. You say the words. And then it works."

  "That's real descriptive," I gritted, menacingly.

  "Sounds pretty straightforward, Aahz," Massha soothed me. "You just invoke the card the way you'd invoke an amulet. What do you think, Eskina?"

  The Ratislavan investigator nodded avidly. "It was meant to be easy to use."

  "Aahz?" The rat's face brightened. "Yeah, I know you. I
mean, the card does."

  "Shut up!" I roared. I hated it that this piece of vermin might know anything about my ex-partner's inner thoughts. "Can anyone use these things, Massha, or are they keyed to him?"

  Massha frowned. "I wish the Boss was here."

  "Well, he's not," I snapped, probably sharper than I should have. "You're the real gadget mechanic, not him. This is your field of expertise. Think!" Massha looked a little surprised, but she got with the program.

  "My guess is no," she offered, a little uncertainly. "If what Eskina said is true, that they work by the Law of Contagion, then they're generic."

  "Do you have to be a magician to invoke it?"

  "Doubt it," Massha stated.

  "Good." I turned to the mall-rat. If furry creatures could sweat, he would have been soaking. "What are the words?"

  "Oh, monsieur, I cannot say!"

  "Sure you can," I insisted. "Say it, or you're going to have to eat oatmeal for the rest of your life."

  The mall-rat's eyes widened with horror. "Oh, mon­sieur, you would not!"

  I showed him all my teeth. "Try me."

  The mall-rat muttered something low.

  "Louder," I insisted.

  "One Card to rule The Mall, One Card to Charge It, One Card to cruise The Mall, and in the darkness Lodge It."

  I stared at him. "That's stupid."

  The mall-rat shrugged. "The magician is not necessairily the poet."

  "You can say that again." I picked up the first card, a

  square of orange, and nodded to Massha. 'Tell me what happens."

  "Aahz, no!"

  I invoked it.

  TWELVE

  It had been a few years since Garkin's moronic practical joke had robbed me of my powers. I could usually put the situation out of my mind; after all, it was temporary. In a few hundred years my powers would return normally. Or I could do some detective work and hunt down which of a hundred vendors in the Bazaar had sold Garkin the joke powder he used in the summoning spell. When I did think about it, it bugged me. So I didn't. Not that introspection wasn't a facet of my deep-thinking personality, but when you have an itch you can't scratch, it only makes it worse to dwell on it. If magik had been my only resource, I might have folded up and died, but I was a Pervect, I was intelli­gent, and I'd been around. Trying out an unknown magik item might sound ridiculously dangerous, but if a transfor­mation card had been tried out extensively on a lab ... I mean, mall-rat, chances were that it would be safe for a higher order of species to use. Like me.

  "Well?" I asked.

  Everyone looked taller, and the quality of the light was more blue. My voice sounded very high and a little hoarse.

  I patted my chest, and my hand flew off it in surprise as I touched a couple of obstructions I wasn't expecting. I looked down. I was female, very skinny, with smooth blue skin. A tight band hoisted the small bosoms up for maxi­mum eye catching. The arms were kind of nice, too, with slim wrists and long fingers, eight on a hand. Not a species I recognized. Then a memory whispered in my mind. Tantalusian. My host's name was Vishini, an animal train­er with a fondness for shoes. Except for her home dimen­sion there weren't many places like The Mall that sold high-fashion styles in extra wide, to accommodate eight toes per foot.

  "Effective," I nodded approvingly. "Totally painless."

  Thinking of Garkin, I realized that a card like this would be a really good practical joke. What if you planted one of these where a buddy couldn't resist picking it up? I chuckled.

  The others were still staring. I glared back.

  "Knock it off, guys. It's still me in here."

  "Um, well," Parvattani gulped, his cheeks a brilliant teal in embarrassment.

  "Not Skeeve," Chumley rumbled.

  "Yeah." I sighed. "Well, we can't leave this hanging around." I picked up the orange square and tried to snap it between my fingers. Her fingers. In any case, they weren't strong enough. "Hey, Chumley, do you mind?"

  "Not at all."

  "Hey, monsieur," the mall-rat protested, struggling with his guards. "Don't do it!"

  "Shut up," I barked. "Break it," I ordered.

  The Troll took the card from me and bent it in half. It broke with a clap of thunder.

  The next thing I knew I was flat on my back, staring up into the anxious faces of Parvattani's guards.

  "Back off," I snarled.

  My body was my own again, my handsome scales restored to their bright green, my clawlike fingernails intact, the fingers reduced to the right number. The guards

  jumped back. I staggered to my feet and tested my head to make sure it was still fastened on.

  "That kicks like a mule. Gimme the next one."

  "Isn't that a bad idea, Aahz?" Massha asked, worry written all over her big face. Her voice seemed to echo in my head.

  "Not if I disinvoke before we break them," I insisted. I gestured toward the rat, who was crooning a worried song to himself. "He didn't go into a fit when I fell over, did he?"

  "Nossir!" exclaimed the two guards flanking the pris­oner.

  I turned back to Massha and Chumley. "See?"

  The mall-rat stared at me in astonishment. "You must be of the ultimate toughness, monsieur. That snapback killed Farout."

  "Who's Farout?"

  The rat, sensing he had said too much, clamped his jaws shut.

  "Never mind." I waved a dismissive hand and reached for the next one.

  "Me try?" Chumley suggested.

  "No way," I stated firmly. "If I become something large and hostile, you'll have to be the one to sit on me. Let's get this out of the way and identify the Skeeve card. We can be back at the Bazaar in an hour. We'll just wing through them until we get the right one."

  Par cleared his throat. "Aahz, we must keep a list of the—er, people-a you become. They are all-a victims inna this, too."

  I raised an eyebrow. Massha nodded.

  "Just because we're getting what we want doesn't mean we can't spend a little more time and help The Mall," she pointed out. 'Think how their friends and family feel about the violation of their identities."

  "Aww." But Massha was right. "I'll do it," I agreed.

  We repaired to Moa's office. We brought the adminis­trator up to date, though he'd been following the chase by

  crystal ball. He was fascinated by the whole process, by the cards, and my experience with the first one.

  "No wonder we've never been able to detect the thieves in all this time," he exclaimed, thumbing through the stack again and again. "Remarkable, remarkable." He glanced at Eskina. "Young lady, maybe I owe you an apology."

  Eskina tossed her head. "And maybe I accept."

  "We've got to go through the rest of these," I explained. "Thought it'd be nice to do it in more comfortable sur­roundings, where it's more private."

  "Of course, Aahz, of course," Moa insisted hospitably, spreading out his hands. "It's nice to find such considera­tion in the world."

  "Er, speaking of consideration" I began, then interrupt­ed myself. "Never mind! I just need some space, all right?"

  "Whatever you say," Moa assured me. "Would you like to use my office?"

  I glanced around at the furnishings, especially the hand­some upholstery and the range of breakables on the walls and tabletops.

  "Better not," I stated. "If I can't control the cards, I might end up redecorating in here."

  We ended up in an empty storeroom down the hall from the offices. Two of Parvattani's guards stood sentry outside the door. Four of them hung out at each wall. Massha, Chumley, and, to my extreme annoyance, Woofle stood at a safe distance, but close enough to jump on me if I need­ed it. All of them were watching me nervously.

  I invoked the next card.

  I have experimented with magik a lot. Not during my younger days, when I was way too serious, but later on, sometimes out of necessity, other times out of boredom, but I had never come across anything like the Ratislavan system. Like most magicians I was accustomed to taking
my power out of the lines of force present in nearly every dimension to a greater or lesser extent. Nature renewed that flow. It was impersonal, neither good nor evil, and a magician could make use of it according to his, her, or its

  own talents, gifts, and inclination. This was different. I could feel power coming through me from the card in my hand, a weak trickle, and with it came a personality.

  If you have never been possessed, don't. Let me give you my spur-of-the-moment reaction to using the card: it was weird. I knew who I was, Aahzmandius, Pervect, and all the millions of little details that make me me, but at the same time I knew I was also Dreo, a wood-carver from Creet. I thought of myself—my borrowed self—as a nice enough guy, but I didn't like to be around a lot of other people. I could almost sense through the walls the thousands of other shoppers. It made me jumpy. This was directly opposed to me, Aahz, who likes being in the midst of the bustle of a busy place. The two personalities rubbed one another raw. It was worse than telepathy; there was no place to hide from the other guy. I found myself feeling sorry for hydras.

  "What's his-a name, Aahz?" Par asked, clipboard at the ready.

  "Dreo. Cretin. I mean, Creetan," I corrected, at the fierce urging of the "visitor" in my head.

  I pushed the card away. Soon, but not soon enough, I was alone in my head again.

  "This could be marketable," Woofle was saying, as I snapped out of it.

  "No," I bellowed.

  He gave me an annoyed look. I liked the finance guy less than ever.

  "Never. I can't even begin to tell you what a bad idea that would be. You'd be asking for assassination attempts, or worse, lawsuits, if you tried to sell this process over the counter. You like it so much, you try it."

  "All right," Woofle snarled, accepting the challenge.

  He took a card from Massha. Once he had chanted the spell, his scrawny body was replaced by a tall, black-shelled insectoid fashionista from Troodle.

  "Now, look at the possibilities inherent in this..." Woofle began, gesturing at his/her figure. Then his mandibles clicked uncomfortably, and his multiple-lensed

  eyes started to roll. He clutched his head. "Stop that! Shut up! No, I am not a boring dresser! Be quiet! Aagh!"

  Hastily he undid the spell and threw the card on the ground. His round Flibberite face contorted with fear and disgust.