by Timothy Zahn
“Dangerous might be the wrong word,” a new voice suggested from Lydekker’s left.
Lydekker turned to see a middle-aged man in an expensive suit standing just inside the hallway in that direction. “Excuse me?” he said.
“I think daring would be the better term,” the man said. “Daring in all senses of the word.” He gestured behind him. “If you’d like to step into my office, perhaps I can elaborate a bit.”
Lydekker hesitated. But really, why not? It wasn’t like the day—and maybe his whole life—wasn’t shot to hell anyway. “Sure,” he said. “Lead the way.”
The physical took another hour, and was easily the most thorough check-up Nic had ever had.
And in the end, they still didn’t have any answers.
“There’s definitely some residual soft-tissue damage,” Woods said when she was finally finished. “Most of it’s borderline microscopic, and a lot is clustered around and through various neural groups.” She shot a hooded look at Blanchard. “Most of it wouldn’t even be noticed unless you were specifically looking for it.”
Blanchard nodded, not bothering with any I-told-you-so looks. “What’s the timeframe look like?”
“Like the broken bones, it seems to have occurred over several weeks,” Woods said. “More recently than the fractures, of course, since the fractures have completely healed.”
“How long ago?”
Woods shrugged. “The bones, probably three to four months. The nerve damage could be as recent as two weeks.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” Rosabel said. “What kind of injuries take a month to happen to you?”
“Maybe he was a skydiver or motorcycle racer,” Nic suggested. “Not a very good one, either.”
“There’s one more thing,” Woods said. “There are indications around the nose, cheeks, and eyes that the person had some work done. Probably during the period between the broken bones and the neural damage.”
“What kind of work?” Nic asked.
“Precision work,” Woods said. “It would seem to be … ?” She looked at Blanchard, as if afraid to finish the sentence.
Blanchard finished it for her. “Plastic surgery.”
Nic frowned at Rosabel. “Plastic surgery? What, on this face?”
“There’s nothing wrong with your face,” Rosabel said. But her voice sounded uncertain.
Nic looked back at Blanchard. The woman’s eyes were narrowed, and there was something in her expression that sent a chill up his back. “Doctor?” he prompted.
“You could be right about him being a bad motorcycle racer,” she said. “Someone like that could end up needing a little reconstruction somewhere along the line.”
“But you don’t think that’s the case.”
“No,” she said flatly. “I don’t.”
“Then what?”
Blanchard exhaled a long breath. “I have a thought,” she said. “But I’d rather not say anything more until I’m sure.”
“Is Nic in danger?” Rosabel asked anxiously. “I mean … if the man got into a fight with someone … ”
“I don’t think he’s in danger, no,” Blanchard hastened to assure her. “But you might want to stay close to your hotel for the rest of the day. You’re going to be in town another day or two, right?”
“We’re here until the end of the week,” Rosabel said, still sounding tentative. “Unless you think we should leave.”
“No, please stay,” Blanchard said. “There are some things I want to try to track down, and I’d like you here in case I find something.”
“Can you at least give us a hint?” Nic asked.
“I’d rather not say anything until I’m sure,” Blanchard said. “Trust me: I will get to the bottom of this.”
Nic looked at Rosabel. But there didn’t seem to be anything more to be said. At least, not now.
Later, though, Nic was pretty sure he would have a lot to say. And not all the words would be polite. “Fine,” he said, turning back to Blanchard. “But make it fast. If this guy was a vain wild-eyed klutz, I want to know it. Preferably before I walk in front of a bus.”
It was, Lydekker reflected, about the last thing he’d expected.
At the same time, considering the cesspool that was Southern California, it was practically inevitable.
“Drugs,” he said flatly.
“Not just drugs,” the man assured him. “I’m not talking the pedestrian stuff here—hey, you can get those anywhere. That’s why they’re called pedestrian. I’m talking about designer drugs: the best, brightest, most brain-spinningly powerful stuff on the planet.”
“And of course they’re perfectly safe?” Lydekker asked with just the right edge of mocking irony.
“What do I look like, a used-car salesman?” the man countered. “Of course they’re not safe. That’s why you don’t take them. You just borrow the body of the guy who does.”
Lydekker shook his head. “This can’t possibly be legal.”
“Well, see, that’s the real beauty of it,” the man said, grinning slyly. “In point of fact, it is perfectly legal. At least your part and our part is. We’re not selling illegal drugs, and you’re not taking them. The guy we hire for the switch—well, he’s in a boatload of trouble if he gets caught. But so far he hasn’t. And it’s obvious why he needs the money. It’s really a win-win for everyone.”
Lydekker thought about it. The whole thing was about as twistedly insane as anything he’d ever heard.
But in its own way it made sense. In fact, it made way too much sense.
And he was feeling pretty low. A little boost, especially when there was absolutely no danger to himself, might be a good way to burn off an afternoon.
“Well?”
Lydekker squared his shoulders. On the other hand, this wasn’t something you jumped into without taking time for thought and consideration. And, more importantly, without checking the relevant laws and statutes. “I’ll think about it,” he said, standing up. “Thanks for your time.”
“No problem,” the man said. “When you’re ready, we’ll be here.”
More to the point, Lydekker reminded himself as he headed back to his car, while there might be occasional roles out there for skiers, there were a lot of roles for junkies, ex-junkies, and about-to-be junkies. This might just give him the precise edge he needed.
Besides, he’d heard a lot about some of these designer drugs. Business interests aside, this kind of experiment could be interesting.
The nightmares came back that night, as tense and frightening as they had the night before.
But this time, Nic was ready. Not just for the emotional impact, but with his mind cleared and geared to try to grab onto some of the details instead of letting them blow away in the wind.
Despite Rosabel’s insistence that he’d been shouting in a foreign language, he’d assumed that the dreams would be his typical post-return stuff: images of heat and fear, death and flying bullets, and most especially the IED that had cost him the use of his legs.
To his surprise and dismay, the dreams were totally different. And in a way, even more horrifying.
“I was in a small room,” he murmured to Rosabel as he lay on his back, feeling cold sweat running down the side of his face onto his pillow. “Sitting or lying down, I couldn’t tell which. I couldn’t move my arms or legs. There were bright lights in my eyes, and a bunch of men moving around the room behind the lights. Some of them were laughing.”
He paused, searching Rosabel’s face for some clue as to how she was taking this. But her face was a mask. “Go on,” was all she said.
“They were laughing,” he said, closing his eyes. For some vague reason he felt uncomfortable seeing her watching him. “And then two of them came into the light … and hurt me.”
“How?”
“Every way they could,” he said, a fresh wave of horror rippling through him. “With needles, and knives, and—” He broke off. “Every way they could,” he repeated. “And I couldn’t move at all.”
“And then you woke up?”
“Yes,” he said. “But not until … ” He opened his eyes. “This guy”—he touched his chest—“this guy, Rosabel, was tortured.”
For a long moment neither of them spoke. “We have to tell Dr. Blanchard,” Rosabel said at last. “Or someone at the VA. Someone has to be told what happened.”
“Maybe,” Nic said slowly. “But that’s the problem. What did happen?”
“I thought you said he was tortured.”
“He was,” Nic said. “But who was torturing him? Terrorists? The mob? Some sadist serial killer? A foreign government? Our government?”
Rosabel stared. “You’re not serious. Our government?”
“I don’t know,” Nic said, rubbing at his eyes. Suddenly, his whole body felt prickly. “All I know is that everything seems gray these days. There’s no black and white anymore; no good guys in white cowboy hats. Maybe there never were.”
“Of course there were,” Rosabel said fiercely. “There still are. We just have to find them.”
“Maybe,” Nic said. He took a deep breath and looked at the clock. “But we’re not going to find them at four in the morning.” He forced a smile. “They’re all sleeping the sleep of the virtuous, you know.”
Rosabel gave him an equally forced smile. “I guess we can wait until morning to go hunting.”
“Yeah,” Nic said soberly.
He only hoped all the good guys were indeed sleeping the sleep of the virtuous, and not the sleep of the long-since dead and gone.
By eight in the morning Lydekker had made his decision. By ten he was at the Walkabout office, filling out the paperwork.
By noon, he was stumbling down an alley in the body of a junkie.
The alley was a frightening place. It was filthy and fetid, reeking of vomit and urine and hopelessness. The body he was in was even worse: wracked with sores, itching with fleas or lack of hygiene or both, dizzy with hunger and lack of sleep.
But Lydekker didn’t care about any of it. Even as he stumbled along, whatever his host had taken just before the transfer began to take effect.
It was the most powerful, most exhilarating experience he’d ever had. His day of skiing paled in comparison with this new and blazing light. The best meal of his life—the most exquisite lovemaking—the emotional high of his first acting award—all of it was nothing. All that mattered, or would ever matter, was the serene, glorious magic that had ignited his body and lit up his mind.
He found a convenient section of alley wall and slumped down onto the broken pavement, gazing at the brilliance of the cloudy sky and the glorious music of the traffic passing by forty feet away. The glow, the fire, the pure mind-swelling pleasure …
He had no idea afterward how long he sat there. All he knew was that when he suddenly came to himself the streetlights had come on, a light rain was falling, the alley’s odors were curling his nostrils, and he felt like complete and violent hell.
He also didn’t have the faintest idea where he was.
Luckily, the Walkabout people had supplied his borrowed body with a GPS set for backtrack. Plodding down the street, forcing one foot in front of the other through the pain and utter despair throbbing through his head, he finally made it.
Leaving the World Cup skier’s highly disciplined body for his own had triggered something of a letdown. Leaving the junkie’s was like stripping off a three-day-dead animal that had somehow fused itself to his skin. He left the Soulminder office feeling like he’d died and then been given a new chance at life.
But though the headache and body sores were gone, the memory of that last bitter withdrawal depression lingered.
As, indeed, did the memory of the incredible high that had gone before it.
The morning phone call to Dr. Blanchard lasted about fifteen minutes. After that, following Blanchard’s instructions, Nic and Rosabel again spent the day in their hotel room.
The hours dragged on, a strange mixture of boredom and tension that reminded Nic of his days in the Army. Between room-service meals, Rosabel pretended to be interested in one of the old movie channels. Nic pretended to catch up on his sleep.
The sun had set, the city’s buildings disappearing into sparkling lights, when Blanchard finally called.
The car was waiting at a side door when they emerged from the hotel. Nic had expected Blanchard to be alone, and he was wrong. “This is Frank Everly,” Blanchard introduced the driver as they pulled back into the street. “He’s head of overall Soulminder security.”
“Oh?” Nic asked, studying the man’s profile in the glow of headlights coming through the windshield. “I didn’t realize we were that dangerous.”
“You’re not the ones I’m worried about,” Everly said. “Did you have dinner yet?”
“No,” Nic said. “But we had a late lunch.”
“There are some snack bars and water bottles back there if you get hungry,” Everly said. “Might as well settle in—it’s going to be a bit of a drive.”
The bit of a drive turned out to be nearly two hours long, taking them from D.C. through northeastern Maryland to somewhere in northern Delaware. The house Everly finally pulled up in front of was an old one, Nic noted as they walked toward it, eighty years old at least. “Who are we meeting?” he asked.
“A family of refugees,” Blanchard said, her voice grimmer than he’d ever heard it. “They’re from—”
“Somewhere else,” Everly cut her off. “Sorry, Doctor, but that’s a need-to-know.”
“I suppose,” Blanchard said reluctantly.
The door was answered by a young man about Nic’s age, his face showing the same dark skin and eyes as Nic’s own new body. “I’m Dr. Blanchard,” Blanchard introduced herself. “This is the man I spoke to your father about.”
The young man gave Nic a long, penetrating look. Then, without a word, he stepped aside and gestured the group to enter. Closing the door behind them, he slipped past them and led the way into a brightly lit living room.
Where, Nic noted uneasily, more than just a single family was waiting. Thirty people more than a single family, in fact. They were everywhere, filling all the available chairs and couches and lined up two deep in the back and sides of the room.
And all of them had similar Middle Eastern faces.
He felt Rosabel tense up beside him. “Doctor?” he murmured, gripping his wife’s hand.
“Sorry—this was my idea,” Everly murmured before Blanchard could answer. “I told Anwarr he might want to invite everyone in the area who knew Ishaq.”
Nic felt a shiver run up his back. Who knew who? “You should have warned me,” he said quietly. “I don’t do too well with crowds. Not anymore.”
“It’ll be all right.” Everly tapped him reassuringly on the shoulder, then eased forward past the young man. “Anwarr?” he called.
“I am Anwarr,” an old man said, rising from one of the couches in the front of the group where he’d been sitting with a tight-faced woman about his same age. “This is the man?”
“It is,” Everly confirmed. “Nic, would you step forward, please?”
Nic looked over the silent group. For the most part, their faces were unreadable.
“It’s all right, Nic,” Blanchard said. “Go ahead.”
Swallowing, Nic released Rosabel’s hand and moved up beside Everly.
“May I?” Anwarr asked.
Everly gestured permission. Slowly, like he was approaching a potentially dangerous animal, the old man walked forward until he was about three feet from Nic. There he stopped, his eyes studying every square inch of Nic’s face. “He is close,” he said uncertainly
. “But … ”
“I told you there was some plastic surgery,” Blanchard said.
“Yes.” Anwarr hesitated. “May he speak?”
“Of course,” Blanchard said. “What would you like him to say?”
Anwarr visibly braced himself. “The war will not be won by matching the regime’s brutality,” he said, as if reading from a mental script. “It will be won by capturing, not towns, but the hearts of the people.”
“Nic?” Blanchard murmured.
Nic grimaced. “The war will not be won by matching the regime’s brutality—”
And on the couch, the old woman abruptly put her hands to her face, slumped forward at the waist, and burst into tears.
Nic turned to look at Blanchard. But the doctor only had eyes for Anwarr.
And Anwarr seemed to have eyes for no one. “Yes,” he said, the word almost inaudible over the woman’s sobbing and the murmurs of the rest of the people as they moved forward en masse to comfort her. “This is our son.” His gaze flicked briefly to Nic’s face, then dropped away again. “This was our son,” he amended in a voice of infinite sadness.
And suddenly Nic felt like he was going to be sick. “Doctor?” he said urgently.
“Yes,” Blanchard said. Nic could hear an edge of Anwarr’s grief in her voice, and a tinge of Nic’s own nausea.
But mostly what was there was anger. Cold, dark, simmering anger. “Yes, we’re done,” she confirmed.
“Come on,” Everly said, stepping back and taking Nic’s upper arm. “Anwarr, I’m so very sorry.”
“A moment,” Anwarr said.
Nic froze. The man was staring at him again, a dullness in his eyes. “Yes?” Everly asked.
“I want you to know,” Anwarr said, his eyes still on Nic, “that this is not your fault. You are not to blame. Promise me you’ll remember that.”
Nic swallowed. “I’ll remember,” he said.
Anwarr bowed his head. “Then farewell. Live your life unfettered. Ishaq would have wished that for you.”