Garth learned how to multiprocess, how to trust his body's enhancements. Mechanical arms delivered drinks without spilling a drop; credit recorders deducted appropriate amounts from customer accounts; music played and changed and kept the dancers happy. Acquaintances engaged in banal chitchat that required very little effort for Garth to uphold his end of the conversation.
Using external cameras under the arched entrances, he spied on his own body as Rovin wandered around outside in the fresh air. The bartender stretched his legs, smelled the leaves on trees, stared up at the sun gleaming off polished windows of the skyscrapers. But he didn't venture far. Rovin kept looking toward the sparkling Club, then checking the time.
Well before the hour was up, Rovin hurried back, slipping past the surrounding rooms into the main bar. He practically ran to the central control chamber and pounded on the sealed door. “Okay, come on, Garth. Come on!”
“Are you bored out there already?” Garth asked, using parts of his mind to carry on four other conversations in various rooms, tables, and alcoves. “I was just starting to get the hang of this.”
Rovin's bright eyes carried an edge of fear. “I was afraid you might refuse to hopscotch back if you spent too much time as me.”
Garth considered the absurdity of the comment. The bartender was a wreck of flesh, only fractionally human, trapped inside a single building for all of his life . . . and he was afraid that
Garth
wouldn't give him his body back? The insight took him aback. Clearly, everyone had their own standards, their own needs—and Rovin had fashioned a life that satisfied him.
“Don't worry about that. I've learned what I need to,” Garth said. “It's . . . strange, but oddly compelling. Let's get back into our own shoes.”
Once restored, Rovin took a deep breath, his disembodied head barely moving in its harness. His eyes took on a glassy look as he scanned the Club through remote eyes, as if afraid Garth had conspired to burn it down or let barbarians trash the place.
His scarred head smiled at Garth, using his own eyes and mouth. The screens flickered, the views changed, and all of Club Masquerade seemed alive around them. Rovin took a few moments to settle into himself, to pick up his mechanical arms, to listen in on the conversations from tables around the bar. He cleaned a spilled drink and altered the tempo of the music to time it better with the throbbing lights.
“Thanks for the experience, Bernard,” Garth said. “Now I need to jot down some notes.”
The metal door to the control chamber unsealed itself. Offhandedly, the bartender chased Garth away, his voice somewhat embarrassed. “Go on, get out of here. I've got work to do.”
39
She saved the last rose
for Arthur, a beautiful cream-white bud. She thought about plucking the thorns from the stem, but Arthur would never have liked that. He wanted the whole object, the good parts together with the bad, the way nature had intended.
After tucking the flower at the bottom of her basket, she completed her delivery rounds through buildings, lobbies, and open-air markets. When she reached their usual fountain, however, she did not find the old man watching the water dance over the geometric shapes and flint mirrors.
Teresa sat holding the creamy rose, waiting for him. She had arranged a special surprise for Arthur. Garth had given her passes to see his F
RUSTRATION
exhibit, and that afternoon she would take Arthur through the wonderful maze of experiential art. The old man had helped Teresa to understand so much about her inner workings, and she wanted to share back with him.
She couldn't help smiling in anticipation. Her eyes flicked from person to person as she stared at passing businessmen, shoppers, young couples. She paced the square, peering down side streets and alleys. Expectant, she waited the better part of an hour. Arthur had never missed an appointment before. With growing alarm, she knew that it would not have slipped his mind.
Feeling a tug of urgency, Teresa didn't know where to look. The old man had no home that she knew of. He simply stayed wherever he liked. But she knew he'd been sick the last time they were together.
She went first to the automated cafeteria where they had planned to eat, hoping that Arthur had just confused their plans. When she saw no sign of him there, she moved to other places where the two of them had talked, shops and stores they sometimes visited. Teresa hurried down side streets, went to parks and other fountains, looked under trees and playground equipment.
But Arthur wasn't there.
Finally, she remembered Arthur's delight when he'd taken her through the maintenance corridors of the skyscraper where he had once worked. He had seemed so alive and excited that day.
Dodging pedestrians, Teresa ran until she found the maintenance access door Arthur had used. When she reached the rear of the building by the heating systems and air ducts, she let herself in with the simple code she'd seen him use.
She wandered the passages, following water and electrical conduits, squeezing into the tiny spaces between walls. She couldn't remember the exact route Arthur had taken when he'd showed her this place, but she was determined to look everywhere if she needed to.
“Arthur!” The sound echoed among the pipes. Rodents and insects stirred in the shadows, but she heard no answer, only her own voice thundering in the confined space. Its loudness frightened her. She hurried onward.
Suddenly she saw a pale object at the bottom of a steep stairwell. She rushed forward to see the heavy book,
Gray's Anatomy
with its cover open, facedown on the syncrete floor. Arthur must have dropped the book from above . . . but this was his most prized possession. He would never have just abandoned it.
“Arthur!” she called. “Oh, Arthur, are you up there?”
She thought she heard a sound and raced up the stairs, grabbing the metal rails. Her legs worked like pistons as she pumped up one floor after another, paralleling the elevator shaft.
She found the old man collapsed on the fourth landing, huddled in a corner and unable to get up. He gazed at her with dull eyes and tried to sit straighter. “Teresa, you found me. I must have led you . . . on quite a chase.” She knelt next to him, grasping his bony shoulders. Arthur was clearly dying. “Didn't mean to be so difficult,” he gasped.
“You always told me I should welcome challenges,” Teresa said. “Here, let me help. I need to get you to a medical center.”
He just smiled up at her. The skin on his face looked like a leather wrapping, slowly sagging. “I'm not sure that'll do any good. We're probably too late.” He forced a brief chuckle that degenerated into a wheezing cough. “You know how often I've told you about the complexity of the human body. Okay, the problem with a system so complicated is that too many little unexpected things can go wrong.”
Frantic, Teresa hauled the old man to his feet. Though she was not very muscular, she found the strength to lift him. “I've got to get you out of here. You can't die yet.”
He leaned on her and coughed again. “I'm afraid I don't have much choice in the matter.”
Teresa refused to give up. Slipping an arm around his waist, she wrapped one of his bony arms around her shoulder. “Let's get you down these stairs.”
Arthur struggled to assist her, but he was helpless. “That's too much trouble, Teresa. My only real request is for you to get me outside again.” His cracked lips curved upward. “I'd rather die surrounded by sunshine than walls and shadows.”
She struggled to haul him down one narrow metal step at a time. Her waifish body was small and weak. At any moment she feared she might drop him, letting the frail man tumble downstairs with a crack and a snap of bones. Teresa wished she had somehow managed to keep her home-body, that she had not let the Sharetakers blur her mind as she swapped from person to person. As someone else, maybe she could have helped Arthur more now.
Regrets. It was much too late for such regrets.
Halfway down the stairs, Arthur gasped and Teresa felt him slump into unconsciousness. Limp, he was actually easier to carry, since the stuttering movements of his trembling limbs hadn't helped her much anyway. She just prayed that he hadn't already died.
Finally she wrestled the old man to a maintenance exit. She popped open the metal door on the mezzanine level and dragged Arthur outside. She slumped with him onto the concrete and loose pebbles of a hovercraft loading dock that overlooked the square.
The fresh air seemed to revive the old man. He took a deep breath and shook his head. Yellow-gray hair lay around his skull like dirty straw. Teresa propped him up, resting his bony shoulders against her chest. She hugged him. “Arthur, please fight. Please stay alive.”
“My, but you're demanding,” he said weakly, then coughed again. She saw blood on his lips. The whites of his eyes had hemorrhaged, turning a deep crimson. His whole body shuddered.
As Teresa held him, she knew he was slipping away. Leaving her. She would be alone and adrift again. She swallowed hard and decided to try one last time. “Oh, Arthur, please hopscotch with me. You don't need to die.”
He shook his head and groaned.
“I mean it, Arthur. This is my only way to thank you.”
He shook his head, blinked his watering eyes.
“Look, if we swap, I don't plan to give up and die,” Teresa continued. “I'm sure I can survive long enough in your body to reach help. You're totally worn out. You must have been fighting this for years. But I'm strong. I can take care of your body just long enough to reach the medical center. It's your last chance.”
“No,” Arthur said, his voice hoarse and husky.
“I can
save
you! But only if you let me.”
She needed Arthur to stay alive, to keep teaching her, even if it meant he had to give up his stubborn principles and switch bodies. Even if she couldn't survive in his fading body, Teresa decided that his life was worth more than hers, because he
understood
so much more about it.
But as he stared at the bright blue sky, Arthur seemed disappointed that she would even suggest such a thing. “Haven't you heard a word I've said?”
Teresa held him. He clung to his principles to the end, and she felt ashamed that she had tried to convince him otherwise. Arthur gazed into the sun, then his eyes stopped blinking. The bright light reflected from his face, and he died.
She stared at his face, looked at the air around him, hoping she could somehow watch the soul leave his body, much as she had witnessed during Soft Stone's upload into COM so long ago.
But she saw nothing, no spirit, no angels, no wondrous passage. Arthur was gone, his old body empty. A lifeless husk.
She held his lifeless form on the landing, silently sobbing.
40
After they swapped
for another morning routine, Mordecai Ob frowned as he settled into Eduard's home-body. With an expression of distaste, he flexed the sore, weakening muscles. “Eduard, you feel like crap. If you can't maintain yourself better, I'm going to have to get a new caretaker.”
“Sorry, sir. I'd hoped it would get better by now. Is it possible that something you're—”
“It's your problem, Eduard, not mine,” Ob said with a scowl. “It's hard for me to do my own work when I'm in a body that feels this bad.”
“If you'd like, sir, I can swap back.” Eduard watched the man closely for his reaction.
Maybe I should just keep your precious body for myself and run off. Leave you stranded in mine, whatever it is you're doing to it.
“Should I make an appointment for a deep-level medical scan to identify what's the matter?”
“No, no.” The Bureau Chief shooed him out of the study. “You've got a long workout to do, and I have an important teleconference meeting that requires absolute privacy here. Don't disturb me.”
Eduard departed, trying to hide the flare of suspicious anger in his eyes. Ob sealed the door to his sanctum and switched off the lights. Sunshine filtered through the leafy screen of hibiscus vines that covered the window. The world seemed dim and dreary again, especially after he'd seen Garth's triumphant success, and he needed more inspiration.
Using borrowed trembling hands, Ob popped open the bottom desk drawer to reveal a case of glasgel capsules. Eduard had been his addiction receptacle for months now, but the young body-caretaker was nearing the end of his usefulness. Ob didn't dare let him consult a competent medical professional, since a deep-level scan would detect the residue of the illegal drug, and then there would be too many questions.
Ob had reconfigured the capsules himself, increasing the dosage. Eduard's body had grown so accustomed to Rush-X that he needed more and more of the drug to achieve the full effect. Eduard had lasted longer than his three predecessors, but the body had reached its limits—a larger amount would be quite dangerous, even for someone who had already tolerated so much Rush-X.
Once again Ob shuddered at what might have happened had he used the drug in his own body, instead of surrogates like Eduard. Since there was a chance he might still get caught, he had already used the resources of his Bureau authority to set up Eduard to take a fall. He had even planted several capsules of Rush-X and related paraphernalia in the caretaker's quarters, which Ob would conveniently “find,” if necessary.
Now, he withdrew the fragile capsule and held it in his fingers, anticipating how the dissolvable glasgel would break and the vibrant fluid dribble under his tongue. He raised it to his lips.
The videoscreen on his desk rang, demanding his attention. The priority tone was so loud and sharp that Eduard's jittery fingers nearly crushed the capsule. Regaining his composure, Ob hid the Rush-X from view and activated the receive-call button. His mouth was very dry.
Inspector Daragon's image stared back at him, attentive and expectant. “Sir,” he said without waiting for a response, “you and I had our regular caseload meeting scheduled for this morning. I'm out at Bureau Headquarters, but I understand you're working at home today? Would a teleconference discussion suit you instead?”
Ob controlled his surprise, taking special care to keep the capsules hidden. He had been so focused on the morning's drug fix that he'd forgotten entirely. “I apologize for not being there as promised, Daragon. I've been very busy and needed to handle several urgent matters at once.”
“I understand, sir. I can be as concise as possible.” His voice was calm, his demeanor indisputably professional. Ob wondered what he had done to engender such loyalty in the young Inspector. Daragon Swan was probably the best of the lot, the finest achievement the BTL could hope for.
It shamed him to realize how far from the mark he himself had fallen.
Daragon summarized his cases, updating him on the Bureau's progress in numerous fugitive hunts and investigations. Ob pretended to listen, fighting to keep a mask of interest on his face while the back of his mind clamored for the drug. He felt the slick capsule in his sweaty fingers.
Would Daragon never finish? Why did he take on so many cases, and why did he have so damned much progress to report?
Finally Daragon summed up, then hesitated. Impatient, Ob blurted, “Is there something else, Inspector?”
“Sir, you're not looking at all healthy. Eduard's body seems to be experiencing some sort of illness. Perhaps he should see a specialist?”
Ob stiffened. “I am sorry to inform you, Inspector, that your friend isn't working out very well.” He raised a hand, palm up, to cut off any excuses. “He exercises well and does his job, but unfortunately he just doesn't take care of his home-body with the same dedication, and I have to deal with this discomfort during my workday.” He looked somberly at the screen. “I've given him every possible chance, but I believe he has problems that neither of us suspects.”
Daragon frowned. “I understand, sir. Still, I'm very concerned about Eduard's health—”
“Well, I'm afraid I can't put up with it anymore. I have already advertised for his replacement. I should have a new personal caretaker in a few days. I do hope Eduard recovers from his personal problems, but I've simply got too many vital Bureau duties to allow this kind of distraction to go on any longer.”
Daragon swallowed his reaction, torn between wanting to please Ob and wanting to protect his friend. He nodded crisply. “I had counted on him to do better than this. I hope you aren't upset with me for bringing Eduard to your attention.”
Ob couldn't have asked for a better outcome or reaction. “It was nothing you could have predicted, Daragon. Your friend Garth has been an exceptional find, exactly what I hoped. But with Eduard, well . . . sometimes people just let you down.” He reached for the screen controls. “Now, if you'll excuse me. I have important matters before me.”
“Yes, sir.” Daragon dutifully signed off.
Ob opened his mouth and slipped in the glasgel. His jaws cracked down—releasing the blessed flood of liquid creativity, exuberance, and sense of wonder, to soar through his system.
While he jogged, Eduard wished the exhilarating feeling would never stop. Ob's muscles were so strong, so well conditioned. The way his own body should have felt.
What is he doing to me?
Teresa had suggested that he simply walk away from what was obviously a worsening situation. But he had been stubborn, trying to uncover what was going on. Soon, he wouldn't have any choice.
The night before, Eduard had stumbled out of his apartment and fallen to his knees in the cool air as the wind rustled the tall blue spruces. He coughed and dry-heaved on the walkway. As he huddled on his hands and knees in the darkness, he'd looked over to the gardener's brightly lit cottage, quiet and peaceful. Eduard considered going to talk to Tanu, but he simply felt too bad. He couldn't present himself like this.
Now, though, wearing Ob's home-body, he was reminded of the way a healthy human being should feel. He ran along the extended jogging course, past his second wind, beyond the “wall” where he ceased to concentrate on what his muscles were doing.
The Samoan gardener stepped in front of him and gestured for him to stop. Eduard barely snapped out of his trance in time. He stumbled to a halt. The look of concern on Tanu's face shocked him.
“Eduard,” he began, then seemed at a loss for words. “This has gone on too long. I must . . . must show you something.”
Astonished, Eduard sucked in a quick mouthful of air. “What changed your mind?”
“I saw you last night, how sick you were.” He swallowed hard, and his huge neck seemed barely able to contain his Adam's apple. “This isn't right. It's not what you agreed to do. I watched the others, and I did nothing. But not this time. In a few days, you'll be gone, and Mr. Ob will have a new caretaker . . . and he'll do this all over again.” His brown eyes were large and sad.
“A new caretaker?” A jab of fear ran down Eduard's spine. “But I've done everything that bastard—”
“You have done more than you know. You are my friend, Eduard. I don't want to see you go. I don't want to see you die.” Tanu gestured for Eduard to accompany him. They crept along the side wing of the house, staying out of view of the windows and moved to Ob's private offices.
The brick walls were overgrown with thick hibiscus, and the heady perfume was nauseating in its sweetness. Tanu put a finger to his lips as they approached the main window in Ob's study. The Samoan hung his shaggy-maned head in sorrow and disappointment.
Heart pounding, Eduard crept up to the window and parted the leaves.
Inside the private office, behind a locked door, the Bureau Chief sat at his desk, complacent about security precautions. In Eduard's body, he leaned back with his eyes glazed and milky. His hands were spread out, tapping fine tremors on the desktop. A thin line of spittle ran down his chin.
In an open case on the desk, Eduard saw individual capsules of a milky substance. He remembered the terrible squid-and-cleaning-fluid taste in his mouth. “You son of a bitch.”
The pieces dropped into place. Rage seethed deep inside him, and he wanted to smash through the window to grab the man by the collar. All along, the Bureau Chief had known full well what was wrong with Eduard, why he felt so awful. And he'd blamed Eduard anyway.
Ob had been riding his addiction, risking nothing for himself. Sandor and Janine and Benjamin—the previous trainers. Eduard was next in line, to be completely used up. Ob would then find a new caretaker, his next victim—a fresh body to addict and destroy. And Eduard Swan would probably vanish, just like the others, erased by the capabilities of the BTL.
He drew back from the study window, his face red. Eduard had been the perfect patsy. Trembling, he stepped away from the vine-covered glass, before he could betray his presence.
Tanu frowned. “There's still time for you to get away. Run, now.”
But Eduard couldn't think of fleeing in Mordecai Ob's body. The Bureau Chief with all the resources of the BTL would stop at nothing to get his own form back before Eduard could talk.
Instead, his thoughts grew vengeful, his outrage greater than when he had gone to avenge Teresa at the Sharetakers' enclave. Ob's deeds were worse, more malicious, even than Rhys's.
Disturbed, Tanu shook his shaggy head, as if he could tell what Eduard was thinking. “I won't swap with you this time. You can't use my body to kill.”
Eduard brooded in silence. This was more personal. This required something more . . . appropriate. “I'll take care of this problem myself,” he said, his voice a grim icicle. “In my own way.”
No problem.