Hopscotch

by Kevin Anderson

  Eduard glared at the audience, turned from left to right when he was told, raising his arms, spreading his legs. He wore his nakedness like armor and endured it all, every moment of it. The price went up and up.

  Seeing him on the stage, Daragon remembered a young boy dripping wet from rain because he had sneaked out across the rooftops of the monastery. Eduard had always been happy-go-lucky, a rulebreaker. Now he was caught, and he would have to pay the price.

  The bidders obviously believed there was a certain prestige in owning the last body of such a high-profile criminal. The price shot higher. It made Daragon both nauseated and angry.

  When he could stand it no longer, he turned on his heels and slipped out of the arena, ashamed of what he had done. No longer sure of his beloved Bureau, he tried to force his wandering thoughts back into acceptable cubbyholes. Perhaps it would have been better if Eduard had just been gunned down during apprehension.

  Because of the used-up body he had taken from Eduard, Garth had to move with painful slowness, even given the manic ministrations of Pashnak. Garth tested the limits of what he could do. Unfortunately, it wasn't much.

  The assistant gave him a dangerously large dose of quick-acting painkillers, and the two of them stumbled toward the auction center. They didn't have much time.

  Neither of them anticipated the circus that surrounded the bidding. While the proceedings played on active-matrix billboards outside the BIE holding facility, Bureau guards blocked access to the arena to prevent anyone else from entering. “Exclusive bidding pool, forty people only,” the nearest guard said. “Cutoff was twenty minutes ago. Better luck next time.” The expression on the uniformed woman's face showed that she doubted Garth's body would survive until the next opportunity.

  “We're too late,” Pashnak said in despair. “Now you'll never get your body back. Why didn't Daragon let us know?”

  Flailing his sticklike arms, Garth pushed forward to the front portals. His body was a thousand aches and pains, all demanding his attention. Pashnak tried to clear the way, but his gaunt form could not muscle aside the gathered spectators.

  The uniformed guard just shook her head. “Closed proceedings, sir. Window of opportunity is over. No new bidders at this time.”

  “I'll top anyone else's offer,” Garth said with a croak.

  “The going price has no effect on my salary,” she said in a clipped voice. “Rules are rules.”

  Images swam in front of Garth's eyes from a combination of oncoming tears and impending unconsciousness. “Wait, you don't understand—”

  “Just watch on the screens over there, old man.” The BIE guard crossed her arms over a uniformed chest. “Bid on the next one. Won't be long before we catch someone else.”

  Pashnak led him away from the damaging press of people. “We need to get you somewhere safe, Garth. It's too dangerous here—you never should have left your bed.”

  Garth clenched his teeth, feeling the pounding pulse throb in his head. “How can I be too late to help Eduard!” He yanked his scrawny arm from Pashnak's grip and lashed out, trying to claw his way to the door. But his vision fuzzed, and his head swam. He couldn't breathe. He reached out a gnarled hand, straining forward . . . and collapsed.

  People gave him room to fall, but kept their attention on the COM screens. The bidding for Eduard had already reached a remarkable level.

  Pashnak used his sharp elbows to knock people aside as he clutched Garth to his chest. From the grayish caste of the withered skin, the blue tinge of his lips, he knew Garth was in extreme distress.

  “Out of my way!” He pulled Garth back from the crowd. “Out . . . of . . . my . . . way!” Not knowing what else to do, he roused the half-conscious artist and helped him stagger to the nearest medical center.

  As each bid went higher, Eduard remained expressionless, though his hatred of the crowd grew by orders of magnitude. Vampires hoping to claim his body even before the justice system killed him. He stared at the faces. The old men and women, the weak, the unattractive—everyone wanted his body, so long as the unwanted mind and soul didn't come with it. Body for sale.

  How many of those milling about outside the shimmering protective field were mere curiosity seekers, trophy-hunters who wanted to own the body of an infamous fugitive? They were jackals, fighting for leftovers they did not deserve.

  Finally, as the bidding became more strident, one old woman shrieked out an outrageously high number. Eduard looked over at her, recognized the wattled throat, pinched face, and reptilian gaze of Madame Ruxton. The woman who had tried to steal his body before, using a legal loophole to keep his form after he'd undergone difficult surgery for her. He wanted to spit at her.

  For a moment, there was a shocked silence. No one topped her bid.

  Eduard stared at Ruxton, studying her pinched face and weathered appearance. He was astonished she had managed to live so long. Lawyers surrounded her like a murder of crows, waiting for fresh carrion.

  “Looks like you finally got my body,” he muttered. “Bitch.”

  Eduard hoped she'd be destitute after the giant sum she had offered. Serve her right. Before long, Madame Ruxton might even have to lease out her precious new body just to make ends meet.

  Eduard covered his emotions, however, maintaining a stony façade as he was led away. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.

  65

  Drifting in and out of consciousness, Garth found himself back in his house again . . . in his rumpled bed, surrounded by easily recognized things that disoriented him with their very familiarity.

  After his collapse, the pain and restless sleep had sent him . . . far away. In that dim, aching place he had expected to see Soft Stone again, her guiding hand taking him either toward the tunnel of light or pushing him back through the doorway to life. This time, though, he had been unconscious and alone. He had awakened without any revelations, without any help, without any hope.

  Pashnak sat at his bedside, crying, holding Garth's hand. When the assistant saw that he had opened his eyes, Pashnak squeezed the hand tighter. “Oh, Garth—they weren't sure you would ever wake up again.”

  “They? Who are you talking about? Where have I been?”

  Pashnak's words came out in a rush. “I took you to a medical center, had them run scans on you. You've been there for most of a day. When they ID'ed the body you're in, they called up the old man's records and got the prognosis.”

  “Not good, I'll bet.” Each breath sent a stab of pain through his overstressed lungs.

  “They were surprised you're still alive. Can't offer any help, diagnosis terminal—imminently terminal.” He tried to blink the tear-sheen from his eyes. “They offered COM euthanasia for a small fee. I . . . told them no.”

  Garth patted his hand. “I really blew it this time, Pashnak—everything I tried to do for Eduard . . . I failed.” He closed his eyes to push away the accusing thoughts in his head.

  Pashnak got up and shifted the window polarization, letting misty daylight into the room. He remained standing with his back to the bed, a rigid silhouette. “I just don't understand why you would do such a terrible thing to yourself. You had so much . . .”

  Garth lay back on the pillow and smiled wistfully. “Pashnak, I was glad to have a worthwhile reason to fight after all. It reminded me of how I used to be inspired. It was great.”

  The assistant fussed with the sheets, tucked in the blankets. “I tracked the bidding through COM, because I thought you'd want to know.” He held a wrinkled printout in front of Garth's face. “This is the woman who bought your body. A rich old lady named Madame Ruxton.”

  Garth tried to make his eyes focus. “I could have paid twice that much. It would've been so simple, if we'd made it to the auction. I could have saved Eduard, if we'd just gotten there in time.”

  Pashnak's hands trembled. “That would have been the simplest solution. But the simplest solution doesn't always work.”

  Garth could tell by the look on Pas
hnak's drawn face that the assistant had come to some kind of decision—though he couldn't imagine what the issue was.

  “I've been with you for a long, long time, Garth. I've seen your moods, and I've seen what you can do. I held your hand through your pregnancy, I helped you walk when you were blind. I also saw you running out of steam and I was at a loss to help you. I didn't know what to do. I never lost faith in you . . . but you did.”

  Garth sighed, trying to sink into the blankets and sheets. “Sorry for everything I put you through.”

  The assistant brushed it aside. “I was always so proud to be part of what you were doing. I was honored.”

  Garth reached up to run his fingers through the assistant's mouse-brown hair. Pashnak's lips trembled; he was obviously more frightened than he had ever been. “Last night, seeing you full of energy and alive again, ready to give everything to help your friend . . . that's the Garth I want to remember. That's the way I last want to see you.” Garth forced a wan smile, and Pashnak grabbed his hand. “I want you inspired again, fighting, and passionate—go help Eduard, if that's what you need to do. You can find a way.”

  Garth winced as pain shot through him again. “Impossible, Pashnak. Right now, I doubt I could even get to the bathroom by myself.”

  The assistant squeezed his hand so hard Garth was afraid some of his brittle bones might shatter. “Unless you hopscotch with me.”

  Garth snorted. “Don't be ridiculous.”

  Pashnak's face turned crimson. “I'm not being ridiculous! You're not the only one who can make sacrifices, you know—and this is the only way you're going to help your friend. Dammit, if you refuse me, then you're costing Eduard his only chance.” Garth swallowed hard and felt his body dying by rapid steps. Pashnak leaned close, his words like a kiss on the artist's wrinkled cheek. “Let me do something that'll make a difference for once.”

  Garth's mind spun. He found it difficult to think with so much pain clawing at his thoughts. “Even if I do swap with you, it's still very remote. What exactly do you think I can do for him?”

  The assistant crossed his arms over his chest. “I know you, Garth—when you're inspired, you can do anything.” Pashnak held out the wadded printout. “Take this. Go track down Madame Ruxton. She'll be at the execution tomorrow—or you can be in her place, if you make her the right offer.” He smiled deprecatingly. “My own body's not so great, but it's strong enough. Ask the old lady if this isn't better than being good-looking and destitute. She seems to be a greedy bitch.”

  Seeing the wavering, uncertain look on the pallid old face, Pashnak reached down. “Better swap with me now, before I lose my nerve.”

  Instinctively, desperately, Garth hopscotched out of his dying body into the gaunt form of his assistant. He drew a deep, deep breath, filled with wonder at how sweet the bedroom air smelled. Even these lanky arms and legs felt strong, capable of great things.

  From the reverse perspective looking down on the old man in the bed, Garth saw how truly ill he had looked. He immediately changed his mind. “Oh, Pashnak—I shouldn't have done that.”

  “I guess it's not so terrible,” he said. “I love you, Garth.”

  “I know. I love you, too.” Garth bent down, his world focused on the dying man in front of him. “Forget it. I don't want to lose you as well as Eduard. This is my problem, and I need to pay the price.”

  He touched the papery skin on the dying man's temples, but he could not hopscotch. A thin smile curled the assistant's old lips. “Sorry, Garth. I'm staying here, and you can't swap back with me unless I cooperate.”

  He remembered seeing young Pashnak standing in front of the Splinters during his graduation ceremony, when the gaunt boy had swapped with Soft Stone, proving his ability. “Pashnak, swap back with me. Now!”

  “No, not unless you've got some Scramble. After all these years, I think that's the first time I ever refused you.” He seemed to think that was funny. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. . . .”

  “Pashnak!”

  Looking up at the ceiling, the assistant said, “Will you read to me? Like you used to? When we were in the monastery?”

  Tears filled Garth's eyes, and he embraced the man on the bed as gently as he could. “Of course.”

  He rushed off, remembering how they had sat by candlelight, reading Dickens. He stopped in front of the library shelves, searching for the right book, any book. He grabbed David Copperfield, the novel they had been sharing when Pashnak left the Falling Leaves.

  He hurried back, flipping through the pages, searching for the right place, a good scene. “Here's one.” He walked into the bedroom.

  Where he found Pashnak already dead. The old body lay silent and motionless, eyes closed. One hand was clenched around a knot of sheets.

  Garth's fingers turned to rubber, and the heavy book slipped with a thump to the floor. Pashnak didn't flinch or stir.

  Garth cradled him in his arms, anguished. Now, of course, he had a thousand things to say. But it was too late.

  He, himself, would have been lying there dead now, if not for Pashnak's sacrifice. And he'd already had more than his fill of useless sacrifices. Instead, Garth's options were now limited to one important thing. He didn't know how he could ever pull it off, but he was damned well going to try.

  Garth prepared to go rescue Eduard. Somehow.

  He shut down everything in his big house and left.

  66

  As green-clad eco-engineers wrestled with robotic digging apparatuses taller than themselves, Teresa leaned against a building, watching and thinking. She didn't even know what part of the city she was in.

  Arboretum crews shouted to each other, dancing with sycamore saplings as they replanted the greenery along one side of a boulevard. Cranes, pulleys, and mulchers brought down the sprawling old trees, trimmed the branches, processed the wood into aromatic by-products. The boulevard was rapidly transformed as she watched—deadwood removed, new growth added.

  Leaving the loud machinery behind her, Teresa wandered the streets until she found an unoccupied public COM terminal. She searched for news of Eduard, scanning current-events files. He had been forbidden visitors, and even she could not see him.

  COMnews was full of maddeningly slanted reports. Teresa had fled from Precision Chaos, remained out of touch. No doubt if she'd been available, media hounds and scancopters would have demanded interviews about Eduard. Maybe she should have seized the attention, tried to tell the real story and appeal to public sympathy. But she knew their minds were already made up.

  Teresa searched for more information, all the while secretly hoping she would encounter the image of Soft Stone again. But the monk's ethereal presence made no appearance. Teresa was on her own, again.

  Numb now, punching in code numbers, she tried to contact Garth once more. He at least would help her; together they could find some way to fight for Eduard. They had to think of something together. As a rich and famous artist, maybe he had the power and resources to do something. He had connections, and a vivid imagination.

  But Garth was gone, again. In the past day, over and over, no one had answered her override requests for an urgent communication. At the very least Pashnak should have responded. Signal after signal faded without an answer. Finally, Teresa decided to go there in person.

  She jogged down the streets toward Garth's mansion. Jennika's body had great energy reserves, resilient muscles, and a generous lung capacity. She ran, her breaths even and steady, with barely a sweat breaking across her brow.

  When she arrived at Garth's extravagant house and activated the outside intercom, however, no one came to the door. She pressed her thumb on the speaker button. “Garth! Pashnak! It's Teresa—oh, let me in! We've got to talk.”

  The place looked like a haunted house. For the first time she could remember, Garth wasn't there for her when she needed him.

  At another COM terminal, she punched in the BTL emergency number, the direct-contact code Daragon had
given her long ago. She had to talk to him face-to-face. Instead of seeing Daragon's image, though, a stern-faced receptionist intercepted her call. “May I help you? This is a private BTL channel.”

  “I need to speak to Inspector Daragon Swan.”

  “Inspector Swan is unavailable. At his own request, he has been placed on administrative leave and is in seclusion.”

  Teresa frowned. If she could just talk to him, plead with him, maybe she could convince him to request a delay. There must be a reasonable doubt. “Oh, perhaps he'll be available for me—my name is Teresa. I'm sure he'll speak to me.” If necessary, she would play upon his past feelings for her, but she suspected that wouldn't help. He was a stranger now.

  “Inspector Swan is unavailable.”

  Frustrated, Teresa stared back at the receptionist's stony face. “You haven't even checked. I'm a very close friend of his, and I wouldn't be calling him if this wasn't an emergency.”

  In a case surrounded by so much publicity—especially considering the numerous casualties incurred during the hunt, the Beetles would certainly apply the toughest punishment with all due speed. An example had to be made.

  “Inspector Swan is unavailable,” the receptionist repeated.

  “Are you listening to me at all?” Teresa leaned closer to the screen, exasperated.

  “Perhaps you're the one who hasn't been listening, ma'am.”

  “When will Inspector Swan be available, do you think?”

  “Not before the upcoming execution. He has many details to attend to. After that, he has a great deal of work to do in consolidating the new Bureau.”

  Teresa disconnected, furious. By then it would be too late.

  She put her hands on her hips, finally galvanized. She'd do it all alone if she had to. It was never too late, and she would never give up. She had wasted so many months searching for her original body. All that time, she could have been fighting within the system, speaking on Eduard's behalf, working with Garth to use his public platform to expose the injustice.