Soft Stone's disembodied head bobbed up and down in a quiet nod. “I am a luminous being now. I've soared through the databases . . . so much to explore, and so many of us here. Each new mind makes COM a vaster universe.”
Teresa held her breath.
“I've put together fragments of long-lost records that no normal human could have found. Perhaps you'll find the clue you need in them. I have finally discovered where Jennika went after the Sharetaker enclave. Try there.”
Soft Stone flashed the address of a business, and Teresa twirled, giddy with relief. When she leaned closer to the screen to thank Soft Stone, though, the female monk was no longer there.
56
Under a starlit sky, Eduard followed Artemis to one of his other bolt-holes in the rooftop greenhouse above a conjoined apartment complex. People lived and cooked and slept in the bustling hive below, but the roof acreage was privately owned by an urban agricultural firm. Artemis had no trouble bypassing the security.
Accompanied by a crisp evening breeze, they walked along crowded rows of corn and wheat and vegetables. Peas and carrots and green beans grew under rippling sunplastic awnings. “At least we'll have something to eat,” Eduard said.
“Got a fake gardener's shed where we can hide,” Artemis said, leading the way. “Set it up a long time ago. In a greenhouse this big, people are less likely to notice an extra little structure. Haven't been here in quite a while, though.”
“No problem. As long as there's a place to sleep.”
Artemis cocked an eyebrow. “Single cot—and a floor.” Eduard knew which one he'd get.
He felt strong again in Artemis's former body, and the older man now looked like the hapless inspec-tech, though he claimed he would shave the distinctive mustache soon.
Now the evening skyglow silhouetted a small shack. Artemis stood by the corrugated door, tugging at a lock clipped to the latch. “Whoa, what gives 'em the right to do that? This is my place.” He scanned the rooftop with narrowed eyes, alert and nervous.
“Some worker probably didn't know the difference.” Eduard reached into his pocket to withdraw a stolen laser cutter Artemis had given him, with which he made short work of the hasp.
Inside, the narrow cot had been propped against the wall, the floor strewn with gardening tools, sacks of fertilizers, and damp packages of forgotten seeds. Artemis huffed. “They're usin' this as a gardening shed! Some people have no respect for privacy.”
Once they redistributed the equipment, the two of them rested in safe privacy, though Artemis grumbled that he would have to put a new, impregnable lock on the door. They slept, so weary of each other's company that they had no need for conversation.
With his team of interrogators, Daragon interviewed the assaulted inspec-tech even before he had recovered from the Scramble dose. BTL professionals combed the cavernous warehouse, scouring for fingerprints, skin flakes, even dried saliva. The evidence technicians were the Bureau's best, but all their efforts couldn't help Daragon. He wasn't interested in identifying the body, but the person inside it. He suspected Eduard had done this.
“Tell me once more what happened,” he said, standing tall in his uniform.
The inspec-tech occupied a scrawny, pallid body that Daragon was sure Eduard must have worn not long ago. He leaned against the manual control housing that ran the facility's distribution lines and code-scanning eyes.
“I was just going about my rounds, checking everything, when a guy sprayed me in the face with some kind of drug. It hit me fast—I couldn't see, couldn't think. Then I was in a different body, and somebody else hit me with a stunner. I woke up with a splitting headache, in a head that isn't even my own.” He groaned. “I don't have any idea what I look like anymore.” The tech touched his cheeks, his clean-shaven upper lip. “My wife's going to be pissed. It took me a year to grow that mustache.”
Even without a chemical analysis, Daragon knew what the drug must have been, but he didn't know how Eduard had gotten his hands on it. The Bureau of Incarceration and Executions kept Scramble under tight control. Maybe he had obtained it from the same people who had provided him with the Rush-X he'd used to kill Mordecai Ob. Or was that yet another coincidence? Unlikely. Garth and Teresa might be gullible enough to believe Eduard's preposterous story, but Daragon was a BTL Inspector. He had already heard it all.
One of the evidence technicians came down from the destroyed overhead room, obviously a hideout for whoever had jumped the tech. She held a handful of mulched cellulose strips and shredded fabric fiber. “Looks like there were two people using that room, sir.” Daragon surveyed the mangled mouse-nest of evidence, but had no idea how she had drawn that conclusion. He didn't ask.
“Right, two guys, I think,” said the inspec-tech. “And now one of them looks like me.” He squeezed his bicep. “Man, I've got to put some meat on these bones.” He turned to a smooth plate on one of the computer scanners, polished the reflective surface with his sleeve, and peered down at his own face. “Hey, this isn't the guy who jumped me first. It was dark, but I did get a good look at him—this face is somebody else.” He grumbled. “The first guy was better looking. Great, now I'm stuck with this one.”
Daragon studied the slight body and tried to imagine vibrant and energetic Eduard as such a person. On the run, Eduard would have had to trade down every time he swapped. Except when he tricked himself into a new body—like this man's.
Using his lapel communicator, Daragon called for the medical analyzer. “And bring your equipment with you.” He turned to the still-confused inspec-tech. “Sir, we'll need to do a deep-level residual scan on your brain. I already suspect who did this to you, but we need hard evidence.”
“All right, I guess.” The tech and Daragon both looked up as the medical analyzer found her way around the conveyor belts, past other BTL professionals dusting and illuminating the scene. Unslinging her pack, she withdrew the portable apparatus, one piece at a time.
“Through high-level analysis of your brain pattern, we can identify leftover mindprints from the swap,” Daragon explained. “But we've got to hurry to get a recording before your own persona obliterates all trace evidence.”
The med analyzer showed a brief glint of compassion as she removed electrodes and probes. “This is going to hurt.”
Though the inspec-tech hissed and whined, glaring at the BTL investigators with tear-filled eyes, Daragon had attention only for the results.
The med analyzer pointed to a sublimated trace, called up a reference pattern, and overlaid it. “There! Perfect match.” She withdrew the scan equipment and let the poor tech slump to the floor, cradling his skull in his hands. “It's your friend Eduard Swan, all right. He was the last one in this body.”
“Eduard's not my friend,” Daragon said too quickly.
“Just a figure of speech.”
Daragon was both exhilarated and dismayed to have his suspicions confirmed. Eduard now had a partner in crime, someone who had incapacitated this innocent man so that the fugitive could steal his body.
“So close to catching him.” Daragon clenched a fist. “Now we're back at the start again.”
“That's no big deal. I know how to find my body.” The inspec-tech leaned against the machinery, holding his aching head and blinking up at the harsh lights. “I just want the Bureau to get it back from the jerk who stole it.” He looked forlornly at his stick-thin arms.
Daragon whirled. “What do you mean, you know how to find it? Where did he go?”
“Ow! Not so loud.” The inspec-tech wrinkled his forehead and let out a long, quiet breath. “I work freelance as a roving inspector technician for seven different mechanical assembly lines. You never know when something's going to go wrong, but the managers sure as hell want it fixed pronto. By contract, I'm not allowed to hopscotch unless I'm on vacation—and then I can never lose sight of my home-body. My employers want to be absolutely certain they can find me anytime, anywhere.”
“How?” Daragon demanded.
“I've been implanted with a locator. My home-body was, I mean. We can track it down anytime we want.”
Loaded with energy and weapons, the Beetles converged on the rooftop greenhouse. They soared overhead with chopters and assault hovercraft. Bright lights stabbed across the dense rows of engineered crops, reflecting off transparent sunplastic. They stormed up narrow stairwells, combat boots pounding in the enclosed spaces. They burst through sealed access doors and blasted their way through security systems.
Express lifters carried reinforcements onto the roof. A gruff apprehension commander bellowed through a loudspeaker. His words ricocheted from the barricades in the sprawling gardens. “Surrender yourselves immediately or risk severe injury!”
Artemis was awake and at the shed's door in a flash, moving before Eduard even managed to sit up. “We're screwed, rabbit!” He bolted out of the doorway.
Eduard was up and running, scrambling to fasten his shirt, abandoning his shoes. He ducked low, hurrying past rows of genetically modified corn. Spotlights crackled toward the movement.
“Eduard, I know you're there.” Daragon's voice. His chest clenched.
The rooftop was empty of innocent bystanders, and the Beetles would not be overly cautious. Since they already believed him guilty, the BTL troops were all too anxious to use their firepower. Eduard had seen what they'd done to the poor old man on the park bench. He knew there could be no surrender, even if he wanted to. He couldn't trust anything that Daragon promised.
Apprehension specialists tromped under the overhanging transparent awnings, pushing aside dwarf lemon and orange trees, searching the plant-tangled shadows for the concealed fugitives. The Beetle uniforms were so dark that they melted into the shadows.
Artemis didn't spare a glance at Eduard. “You're on your own, rabbit.” The Phantom scuttled away, keeping low among the plants and equipment.
Despite the vast and cluttered space, the BTL troops would cover the broad rooftop area in no time. Gunfire erupted with bright flashes, spitting stun projectiles at imaginary targets. A rain of needles clinked off the walls and sheds.
“Eduard, you've got to surrender!” Daragon called again. “Please!”
Eduard ran bent-legged away from the voice. On the other side of the roof, Artemis crept through a covered area and emerged twenty meters from a back door. Eduard recalled a small, half-forgotten maintenance stairway; no doubt the old Phantom would try to use that for his escape.
The apprehension team spread out in their relentless search. Moving as quietly as he could, Eduard backed toward the roof's edge—nearly a hundred stories up—hoping the troops had no clear idea of where he was.
He stumbled over a pile of stored equipment at the edge of the dropoff. Reaching down to touch it, he was delighted to recognize a mag-lock harness, the same kind he had used while maintaining the windows and skyscraper walls. Now if he only had time to hook up the harness, strap himself in, and attach it to the guidepaths that lined the outer walls. . . .
The troops closed in on him, covering every inch of the rooftop. As Eduard fumbled with the latches, prepping the mag-lock harness, two Beetles prowled out ahead, holding scanning equipment. They stared down at tiny palm-held screens. A tracker! They turned toward the far exit doorway.
Eduard could make out the vague form of Artemis crouched at the stairwell, fumbling with the lock on the escape door. The trackers closed in on the other man, weapons ready to fire, but they hadn't spotted him yet. Artemis looked up at them, terrified.
More gunfire blazed into the night, striking nothing. Not stun pellets this time. Eduard wondered if it was just intimidation. He gripped the mag-lock harness, saw bloodthirsty apprehension troops knocking over plants, rustling the cornstalks.
He swallowed hard and gripped a spare fastener. It would make a loud ringing sound, clear above the pell-mell activity. As hard as he could, he flung the metal fastener like a tiny disk, away from both Artemis and himself. The piece struck a pole supporting a plastic awning and bounced off with a loud clang. It caromed off the syncrete rooftop to reverberate against the roof ledge.
The brittle metallic sound was unmistakable in the night. The Beetles turned from their tracking screens. One officer instinctively opened fire.
Artemis chose that moment to bolt away from the stairwell where they had been converging, running toward Eduard. A BTL tracker saw the movement and swung his blazing light to expose the Phantom. “There he is!”
Artemis froze, then flailed his arms. “No! Not me! Eduard's over—”
Eduard secured the mag-lock harness over his shoulders, pulled the attachments to the front of his chest, and swung over the lip of the roof. The nearby Beetles arrowed toward Artemis like dark moths, giving Eduard the moment he needed.
“Hold your fire!” Daragon screamed.
Nobody listened. Weapons blazed as Eduard dropped off into space, skidding down the tall building. . . .
Daragon ran forward, shoving officers aside. Much too late, one of the lieutenants bellowed, “Secure your weapons. The suspect is apprehended.”
Daragon whirled, looking at the crew. “I ordered no shooting! Damn you, this is worse than the last botch-job! I am in charge of this operation.” He glared at them, uniformed officers all. “I intend to get all of your ID numbers, find every discharged weapon, and put each one of you on report.” He fumed. “I hear the Data Hunters are looking for new recruits.”
While the other BTL officers quailed at the threat, a scanning specialist trotted up, holding out his probe. The blip on the screen gleamed bright. “Yeah, that's the tracer. We've got our man.”
Daragon bent over, touching the chest of what had been the inspec-tech's body. But though they had followed the implanted homing device, he could see with his own eyes that the flickering persona still clinging to a last moment of life inside this body did not belong to Eduard. Not Eduard at all.
He slapped away the scanning apparatus. The probe slipped out of the specialist's hands and clattered across the rooftop.
Overpowering nausea welled up within him as he stared at the blood soaking into this body-snatcher's clothes, clotting in the trim mustache. The wounds were not from stun pellets.
The apprehension team reacted instantly. “If there's another person here, we've got to find him.”
The BTL men spread out again, sounding off by numbers and setting up a grid search pattern. Below on the streets, reinforcements ran toward the building. Troops scoured the apartments from floor to floor before Eduard could get too far away.
Convulsively, Artemis reached toward Daragon with a grasping hand. “Please,” he said, his voice wet from the blood filling his lungs. “Can't die like this. Not after so long. Won't somebody hopscotch with me?”
“I'm afraid not, sir.” Daragon wondered how he could apologize to the dying man. But as he stared into the dimming persona, he sensed some connection, something familiar. Nothing he had ever seen before, and yet it still belonged . . . to him.
Artemis croaked a wheezing sound that might have been laughter, but remained as quiet as faint wind. “Lived more than two hundred years . . . and now I gotta die because I'm shot by mistake? Not even for crimes that I did?”
“There's a tracer in your body, sir,” Daragon said. “The technician had a locator.”
Artemis moaned and closed his eyes. “Knew we shoulda killed him . . . then no one would've known. Eduard wouldn't let me.”
Daragon leaned closer, still puzzled at the odd familiarity of the persona. He didn't understand what the connection could be. Then he jerked upright as recognition flooded through him. Of course! Just like when he had met his mother. He sensed parallel patterns, similarities, a recognizable biological link. When he'd tracked down his mother in Club Masquerade, she had said that his father was a Phantom. He saw traces of himself in the dying man's persona.
“You're my father.” He knelt closer, touched the man's shoulder, stroked his cheek. “My name is Daragon. I'm your son
. You've never met me before.”
Artemis clasped his hand and opened his eyes to slits, while his other hand fumbled for something in a pocket. He didn't question Daragon's confession, but his eyes held an icy calculation.
“My son? Won't you please swap with me? Do that for your father.” He took a long breath. “Save me if you can.” His hand slid out of his pocket, holding some sort of spray vial.
“I can't.” Daragon grabbed the man's wrist and deftly twisted it so that the Scramble fell to the rooftop. This was his father, and the man didn't even know his son's greatest failing. “I don't know how to hopscotch.”
In the mag-lock harness, Eduard skimmed down the side of the building, dropping floor after floor in a blur. On the streets below, he saw lights and armored men at every exit. Chopters circled all levels like carrion birds as they scanned higher and higher.
Even if he reached the street, Eduard knew he couldn't get away. Not in this body. He had watched the Beetles tracing a mere blip. Perhaps they had managed to tag him somehow. They were hunting this body, this ID patch—if he couldn't switch, and immediately, he would never survive this night.
The safety-configured controls on the harness slowed him. He peered into windows as he dropped past, seeing families, couples, empty quarters. He had no way of barging in, and he refused to threaten an innocent family. Eduard had none of the Scramble that Artemis had used to force an unwilling person to hopscotch. He was out of options.
As he dropped down another floor, he spotted a reflection in the glass, an old man lying in bed surrounded by dim lights. In front of his dull eyes, an entertainment system played a videoloop on low. Eduard hovered, noticing the man's frail arms, his skeletal face and sunken chest, the tubes and monitoring devices attached to his body.
Here, Eduard thought. A grim chance, but better than nothing.
As he hung in the harness, he withdrew his laser cutter. With its blazing tip, he sketched a rectangle in the main window. The Beetles would already be closing off the building. He nudged the glass inward and slipped into the room, then disconnected the harness, and hauled it inside with him.
Hopscotch Page 31
