Hopscotch (31 page)

59

Weary from the fruitless hunt
and the disastrous night, Daragon slumped into the chair behind Ob's former desk. He swept his arm across the desktop, knocking stacked printouts to the floor. Angry. Frustrated. Unable to give up. Would it never end?

Overhead, fish swam about, oblivious to the man below.

His uniform smelled of sweat, smoke, and drying blood. After a lifetime of searching he had discovered his father at last, a Phantom . . . then the man had died in Daragon's arms.

And Eduard had escaped again. Daragon had no one to blame but himself.

His work as a BTL Inspector seemed the only stable thing he could grasp, but even the Bureau gave him no joy—not any longer. He rested his head on his crossed arms, feeling terribly alone. He had driven all of his friends away, but he didn't know what he'd done wrong.

Back in the Falling Leaves, before the Bureau had taken him away, Daragon often felt uncertain and terrified. He knew something was deeply wrong with him, but Teresa had always comforted him in the dark. She would pull the blanket over his shoulders. His eyes flashed against hers in the shadows, straining to exercise his mind, attempting to swap with her. But he felt nothing stir, no sense of joining with her, or with anybody. He would finally squeeze his eyes shut, then bury his face in the hollow of Teresa's neck. She would shush him, tell him everything would be all right.

How had he changed so much?

The COM screen buzzed insistently, startling him. Jax had left a message for him. “Come see me.”

Daragon sighed. The Data Hunter probably wanted company, maybe someone to read to him or chat with. He wiped the message from the screen, ignoring it—but words flashed back on in brighter, larger letters. “Come see me. You'll be glad you did.”

Grumbling, he strode out of the office. He'd had enough screwups for one night, and he had no patience left. He marched down the undersea corridors and barged into the chamber with its mists and coolants, dim lights, and odd off-putting smells. His hands on his hips, he looked impatiently up at the harnesses where Data Hunters dangled from the ceiling, adrift in COM. He couldn't even tell which of the pasty blobs belonged to Jax. “All right, what do you want?”

One of the pallid, soft-skinned forms lowered. Jax turned to him with a childlike smile and said in a taunting, singsong voice, “Guess what I found! Something you've been looking for.”

Daragon's heart leapt. “Eduard? Where is he? Give me some good news.” He hesitated, still focused on the case. “Or did you find any of Chief Ob's three former caretakers?”

Jax sounded petulant, as if Daragon had spoiled his fun. “The caretakers have utterly vanished, Daragon—their files permanently scoured, even to our experts. Which means, in my estimation, that those people are dead. Such a scandal for our former Bureau Chief, if that information were ever to be released. Naturally, that will never happen.”

“Are you saying there's some doubt now? Could Eduard have been telling the truth?”

“Your friend has been found guilty, regardless of any extenuating circumstances, and further details about Master Ob's possible bad habits will never be made available to the public. Higher up in the Bureau, it has been decided that such information would serve no positive purpose.”

Daragon's face felt hot; he didn't want to hear such things, didn't want to know them. “Then why did you call me here?”

“Unlike you, Daragon,
I
have other cases to follow.” The voice from Jax's speaker sounded like a huff. “I've found what your friend Teresa Swan was looking for.”

Daragon was taken aback. Months ago, he had pleaded with Jax to recruit the help of the Data Hunters, even promising to read another book out loud, cover to cover . . .
if
they came up with something. Jax would probably choose a massive tome such as
Nicholas Nickleby
or
David Copperfield.
But if they managed to help Teresa, then at last she might forgive him. Maybe.

“I can't explain why we didn't see it before.” Jax's voice came through the nearest speaker. “Somehow our most careful searches missed a critical nugget of data, until now. Here's where you can find her, a place called Precision Chaos.”

Daragon stepped forward, raising his chin. “Thanks, Jax.”

Finally, he could do something right again. At least he hoped so.

60

The place was called
Precision Chaos, and it lived up to its name.

Address in hand, Teresa found the factory not long after daybreak. It had been a long time, and she knew intellectually that her chances were slim, but her heart refused to give up hope. Perhaps soon she would have her own body back, go home, and be
herself
for the first time in years. She wondered what it would feel like. Despite her hardships and losses, her life had always contained a wellspring of hope. Always hope.

In the city's high-tech manufacturing district, the buildings were less ornate, more functional. Even the wet freshness of the previous night's rain could not mask a sharp, sour odor of industrial processes that pushed the limits of the emissions regulations.

Precision Chaos was a high-tech cottage industry, privately owned by a tightly knit group who had invested in their own equipment. They had been in business for only a few years, but seemed to be prospering.

With the ever-increasing demand for services and capabilities, COM was constantly in need of additional resources to incorporate with the new brainpower. The computer/organic matrix redesigned itself, increased its speed and complexity as it adapted to fill the needs of society. Like similar independent groups, Jennika and her business partners cranked out expansion chips and memoryware for installation into the voraciously growing network.

Still early, Teresa wandered into the facility and began looking around tentatively. Since she wore Eduard's recovered body, no one would recognize her, not even Jennika, if the runaway even remembered anything from her long-ago Sharetaker days.

Precision Chaos was an open working environment; desks and COM terminals and lounge areas shared space with industrial machinery shielded by sound-dampening fields. The chill air smelled of burning metal, etching chemicals, packaging materials. Dozens of workers moved about operating machinery or manning conveyor lines and shipping outlets. Some spoke into COM screens, others logged productivity reports or sales manifests.

Teresa used the awkward moment before anyone noticed her to glance around for her body: the auburn hair, the delicate face, the fascinated eyes. She wished she had brought along the framed sketch Garth had made. It had been so long since she'd seen her own face, her own form, she wondered if she would even recognize it. Most of the employees of Precision Chaos seemed to be women . . . but still not the
right
woman.

A tall ebony-skinned worker spotted Teresa and approached, pulling red goggles from her eyes. She ran a gloved hand through a black brush of sweaty hair. “What can we do for you, sir?”

Teresa looked at her, looked past her. “I'm trying to find . . . Oh, I hope you can help me. Does someone named Jennika work here?”

The woman's deep, dark eyes bored into her, assessing her, trying to put a name to Eduard's face. “Yeah, I'm Jennika.” She offered no other help, waiting to learn what this visitor wanted.

Teresa stared at the powerful black woman with high cheekbones and firm lips, and her heart sank. “Oh. You've changed bodies.”

Eyebrows lifted. “We always change bodies. We do a lot of work around here, take shifts.”

Teresa drew a deep breath. “No surprise, I suppose. I'm not in my home-body, either. Not anymore.”

“You want a job?” Jennika narrowed her eyes, critiquing Eduard's form. “We could probably use you around here, if you're interested.”

“No . . . no.” She fumbled for words. “I used to be with the Sharetakers—and so were you.”

Jennika flinched as if she had swallowed a thistle whole. “The Sharetakers? Those assholes.”

“You left the enclave—”

“I got smart. Rhys was a parasite.”

“I know,” Teresa said. “Do you remember me? Someone named Teresa?”

“Teresa?” She pursed her lips. “I try not to think about those days. It's better for my digestion.” Jennika gestured with a gloved hand to the bustling factory. “The Sharetakers had the right theory about working together, but no clue about equitable implementation. Here, my partners and I forged a mutually supportive relationship. This is what the Sharetakers
should
have been like, if they'd really wanted to work together.”

Teresa drew a deep breath, her heart pounding. “Jennika, when you left the enclave, on the day you went off . . . you, uh, you were wearing my original body.”

Jennika let the red goggles dangle from her neck. “Could be. About the only thing I kept from those days is the habit of hopscotching more than most people. We use whatever physique is most appropriate for our assigned duties. Everybody does the work that's required, and we share in the profits. Believe me, Precision Chaos has seen plenty of profits already, and we're still growing.”

Teresa would not allow her hope to flag, not when she was this close. “So, do you know where my home-body is now? I've been trying to locate it for a long time.”

Jennika shrugged. “If I did come here in your body—and I honestly don't remember—then I've bounced out of it many times. It's been years.”

“This is very important.” Teresa tried to control the pleading tone in her voice. “I need to find it. I need to have it back.”

Jennika appraised her skeptically. “If that physique is healthy, we'd be happy to trade. We've mostly got female forms around here, and could do with an extra man—and not just for the work itself, if you know what I mean.”

“Is my home-body here, then? Can we find it, do you think?”

Jennika removed her thick gloves and tucked them into the wide pockets of her jumpsuit. “Come on, let's do some digging.” She marched to an unattended COM terminal and called up the company records. “Refresh my memory on what you looked like.”

Teresa told her every detail she remembered. The ebony-skinned woman scrolled through image after image. “We keep careful track of the
people,
you understand, but the bodies are pretty much interchangeable.”

“Not to me,” Teresa said. Finally, a familiar image flashed up on the screen, the face she had grown up seeing in the mirror. “There! That's the one!”

Jennika accessed records, skimming words, then frowned. “Not good.” She double-checked, but got the same answer. “Licia was the last person inside your body.”

“What?” Teresa tried to keep her heart from sinking. “Where is she now? What happened?”

Jennika looked back into the industrial area full of machinery. “Some of our equipment is dangerous. Even with the required safety interlocks, you can't get rid of all the risks. Licia was operating one of our high-speed pattern imprinters for memory-expansion manufacture, and a seal failed in the containment chamber. She got caught in a cloud of highly corrosive vapor.” Jennika set her face in a grim mask. “It wasn't pretty.”

“She died? My body—” Teresa stood frozen, then her shoulders—Eduard's shoulders—slumped. She collapsed into the nearest chair.

The other woman's voice grew stern. “Hey, I apologize, but we lost
Licia
in that accident—a valued coworker and our friend. Nobody paid much attention to what body she was in when she died. I'm sorry for you, but we lost more than you did.”

Teresa heard no more of the woman's explanation. Surrounded by the industrial noises and smells of Precision Chaos, she sagged in the chair. Her senses grew numb, and the world blurred as tears flowed from her eyes.

Everything Arthur had told her, everything that had rung so true, was now lost. Her original form was gone forever. Her soul could never return to its rightful place.

61

Sensing the crisis
between Jennika and the stranger, several workers paused in their activities to watch. Questions and concern crossed their faces. Teresa sat listless, her face in her hands, in despair.

The ebony-skinned woman touched her with a strong, sinewy hand. “Look, I'm sorry I ran off with your body from the Sharetakers, and I'm sorry we lost it. I didn't suspect it would mean so much to anyone.”

“Not your fault.” Teresa tilted her head, staring back with puffy eyes. “Who else in the world would care?”

Jennika bit her lip as she considered possibilities. “Here, why not take me instead?” The muscular woman held out both hands. “I had no right to leave the Sharetakers in anything other than my own body. I just didn't think, and that wasn't fair to you. This one is young and strong—and at least it's female.”

Teresa would be sad to let go of the physical vestiges of Eduard. This body was all she had left of him, but at least being a woman was a better approximation of the body she'd been born with. One step closer to her now-unattainable goal. She'd have the right set of chromosomes, the chemical and hormonal cycles, the familiar bodily components, the same sexual sensations.

Did any of that matter?

Maybe Arthur would have approved. Maybe not. Teresa had to make her own choice. Right now, any change seemed for the better, movement in the right direction rather than a crashing halt.

Teresa took a deep breath while Jennika stood there in stained overalls, waiting for her decision. Eduard's muscles and nerves had recovered completely from the destructive addiction, though right now she felt as shaky as she'd been during the Rush-X withdrawal. Jennika was sleek and athletic and strong, vibrant, full of energy. It would be a more than fair trade.

Teresa stepped forward, lifting her head high. “We'd better do this before I change my mind, don't you think?”

After she hopscotched with Jennika and synched ID patches, Teresa settled into her new body, establishing her muscle control. With a glint of delight in her dark eyes, she took a moment of total concentration just to assess the differences again. She felt the indescribable changes
inside,
the rapid-fire nerves in erogenous zones along her skin, the feminine chemistry within her. Teresa was amazed at how wonderful it was to be female again.

“I can work with this,” Jennika said, standing now in Eduard's body, her voice deeper. “It'll do just fine.”

Armed with the information from Jax, Daragon disembarked from the BTL hovercar and walked the rest of the way to Precision Chaos to see what he could learn in person. Perhaps Teresa's home-body was still there. Once he knew the answers, he would go to her. After the disastrous events of the previous night, he needed to do something
good
for a change. Something for which Teresa would thank him.

He walked down the street with a stiff, quick stride. He had no need of maps or COM guidance—he had already memorized the way. As he approached Precision Chaos, he paid little attention to a statuesque black woman who emerged from the front. She paused, but Daragon was used to that, since most people flinched upon seeing a BTL Inspector.

Then she raised a hand in greeting. “Daragon!”

He looked past her hard but beautiful face, her athletic body, and into her shimmering persona. “Teresa!” Then his hope evaporated. “So you already know.” He stepped close, his eyes searching, but he saw only sadness there. “You didn't find what you needed?”

She shook her head and allowed herself to flow forward until he self-consciously wrapped her in a stiff embrace. “I'm too late. It's gone . . . gone.”

He tried to be warm and responsive, but it was difficult to break through the BTL training. “You probably don't believe me, Teresa, but I grieve for your loss. I won't kid you by saying that I understand—I
can't,
since I've never even been able to leave my body—but I am sincerely sorry for you.”

She smiled at him, an expression that was oh-so-Teresa even in this stranger's body. “I believe you, Daragon. You never could hide your real feelings from me.” Then she gazed deeply at him, drawing away from his embrace. “Something else is wrong, isn't it? What's happened? Is it Eduard?”

In halting words, Daragon explained about how he had found his father at last, by accident, but the man was now dead. Self-consciously, he left Eduard out of the story. At first he started out formally, as if he were giving an official report to Mordecai Ob, but he let his feelings intrude.

Teresa found his bare-bones narrative heart-wrenching. Tears filled her eyes.

“So my father was a Phantom, a real-live Phantom.” Daragon tried to find his center of stability again. “I regret that I never got the chance to talk to him—to know him.”

This time it was her turn to offer comfort, though the uniformed Inspector didn't know how to accept it. But he needed this, needed Teresa to open up to him again, just like it had been at the Falling Leaves. He remained silent for a long time, rigid and seemingly afraid. Finally he asked, “Can we talk some more? Just talk . . . as if we were real friends again?”

Teresa considered cautiously. “Maybe we could have a drink at Club Masquerade.”

Daragon nodded. “Given a little time, we might both be able to heal our wounds.”

Teresa thought with misty-eyed fondness of the innocent times they'd had together at the monastery . . . and wondered if it would ever be possible to give Daragon what he asked. After so much time, so much life.

Racing through the back streets, knowing he had to hurry, Eduard arrived at the small industrial building. Though he wore Garth's broad-shouldered, blond-haired body, he still moved furtively. He could have escaped to freedom at any time, but he would not do that to his friend. And he needed one last chance to see Teresa.

He approached Precision Chaos from the rear. If Teresa was here, he had to find a discreet way to get inside. He found a shipping entrance, where a posted sign instructed all visitors to use the front doorway. Ignoring the placard, he slipped through the entrance.

Feeling completely out of place, Eduard scanned the faces, trying to find Teresa. He knew damned well he'd be able to spot the face he had worn for so many years. No problem. He grieved for the Rush-X hell he must have put her through, and he ached with love for what she had done for him.

The fabrication complex hummed around him, full of machine sounds, manufacturing smells, and droning orders over the implanted speakers. He snooped about, walking past workstations, looking at faces and wearing a haughty I-belong-here expression. His masquerade did the trick, and no one challenged him as he searched from one person to another. Perhaps he had gotten here too late. He put his hands on his hips and did a slow turn. Where could she be?

Finally, with a weird dislocated thrill, Eduard spotted himself, his own home-body. He hadn't recognized it at first behind the red goggles and a grimy work jumpsuit. Teresa had been wearing that body, taking care of it for him—had she gotten a job here, at a dirty, hot expansion-chip facility? Why had she given up her joyful job with the florists for something like this?

“Teresa, it's me, Eduard.” She pulled off her goggles, looking at him with no recognition. “Hey, don't let Garth's body fool you. I need to talk to you.”

His own eyes looked back at him curiously before sudden understanding flooded across the face. “Oh—you're looking for Teresa. She just swapped with me.” She grabbed his arm with a gloved hand. “Come quick. Maybe we can still catch her.”

Together, he and Jennika hurried to the front entrance of Precision Chaos. Pulling open the door, the woman gazed out at the long street ahead, said, “Good, she's still here,” then yelled, “Yo, Teresa! Someone to see you!”

She shouted again at the top of her lungs—as Eduard froze in horror.

Deep in conversation with Daragon, Teresa heard her name and turned. At the main doorway of the facility, she recognized two people: the male body she had worn until a few moments ago, and a big blond-haired man. “Garth! What are you doing here?”

But Daragon saw a lot more. His eyes met Eduard's across the distance, recognized him. Without thinking, he triggered an emergency alarm from a transmitter on his belt. “That's not Garth.”

Desperate, trapped, Eduard grabbed the woman beside him. Garth was still in the old man's decrepit and dying body back in his home, and Eduard had promised to return. He couldn't let his friend make that sacrifice. It wasn't just his own life he was trying to save now. The artist had never intended for Eduard to escape, to run away with his healthy body—

Or had Garth intended that all along?

The frantic thought of using Jennika as a hostage streaked like a flare through his mind, but he shoved her away, disgusted with himself for even considering the option. He recalled how he had despised the anti-COM terrorist who'd done the same thing to Teresa in the flower market, long ago.

More annoyed than frightened, Jennika reeled, not understanding what was going on.

Daragon drew his weapon.

Eduard bolted back through the door into the industrial facility, where he hoped he could hide.

Boldly, Teresa used her body's new strength to chop down on Daragon's wrist, knocking the weapon out of the way. “Leave him alone!” She sprinted for the building, thinking only of Eduard.

“Teresa, he's a cold-blooded murderer,” Daragon said.

“He's also my friend! Are you sure your Mr. Ob wasn't the cold-blooded one?”

Leaving Jennika on the threshold upset and baffled by the sudden activity, Eduard flew through the doorway. Daragon retrieved his weapon from the ground and ran toward Teresa, his face flushed, his eyes set. She did her best to cut him off, but he easily pushed past her.

Inside the facility, Precision Chaos workers kept at their jobs, oblivious to the emergency. Eduard ran past desks and COM terminals toward the cluttered rear, seeking refuge among the heavy machinery, the crates of supplies and shipping materials. Perhaps he could slip through the back door before the Beetles arrived.

When he heard the whine of approaching BTL patrol hovercraft and backup assault chopters, he knew that would be impossible.

Outside, Daragon spoke into his lapel communicator, coordinating the rapidly arriving teams. “Surround the building. I want surveillance craft and armed personnel at every exit, every window, every exhaust pipe.
Stun darts only—
I'll have the badge of anyone who disobeys me this time.”

His quarry had appeared like a miracle, at last, and Daragon
—Inspector
Daragon Swan—had to forget about Teresa, forget about their past and how much she had meant to him. Now there would be no reconciliation between them.

He had made his choice.

“I want an orderly evacuation of the employees inside—one person at a time.” He turned to two uniformed BTL guards who dropped out of a hovercraft and rushed into position. “Eduard is trapped in there, and I want it to stay that way. Nobody comes out without me looking at them with my own eyes.”

As the net closed around the building, Teresa pushed past an angry Jennika and into the facility. “Eduard! Eduard, they've got the building surrounded.”

Amplifiers boomed so loudly that the walls of the facility vibrated. “All legitimate employees must leave the building. Use the front entrance only. All other exits are guarded and off limits. Do not attempt to deviate from these instructions or you will be fired upon.”

Intimidated and confused, workers trotted toward the front doors, yanking off protective gloves and goggles. But Teresa elbowed past them, fighting her way against the flow. Her new legs were long, her muscles tight and resilient. “Eduard!” she called, looking everywhere for his big blond form.

Daragon's voice came over the BTL loudspeakers. “Teresa, come out of there. Let me handle this!”

Eduard ran between banks of thermal etchers, vacuum chambers, and sealed presses. Hot IR ovens throbbed, baking and pre-etching sapphire-coated silicon composites. Gas hissed, and ventilation hoods whistled as toxic vapors flowed through scrubbers.

He ducked low, nearly deafened by the hydraulics in a multiple-strike micropress. Jumpsuited workers hustled to evacuate, and he could smell the heavy claustrophobic fear mixed with processed industrial smells. People shouted or whispered as they filed toward the exit through a gauntlet of Beetles.

Eduard could never mix in with them and get out that way, not while Daragon watched with his eerie second-sight. Right now he could hear the chopters, gruff orders transmitted from Beetle to Beetle, the rumble of heavy feet on the roof. The side door slammed open and more armored apprehension specialists entered. Eduard glided to deeper shadows near another piece of heavy machinery. He had no place else to go.

Daragon marched through the front door, directing the assault. He instructed guards to remain among the evacuated workers milling about outside. “We might need to interrogate them later.”

An officer looked at him. “There's no way he can get out of this, Inspector.”

Daragon brushed him aside. “I'll believe that when we have him in custody—alive—and not before.”

Inside, Teresa scuttled into the equipment area, reaching the lunchroom. She kept herself low, taking advantage of whatever cover she could find. She used tables and plastic chairs as camouflage, though none of it would protect her from direct gunfire. She searched for Eduard on the garishly lit industrial floor. “Eduard, oh give yourself up before you get killed!”

As soon as she spoke, the Beetles turned toward her voice, and Teresa dove under a table. Keyed up, two startled guards opened fire in a reflexive action. The synthetic wood laminate and brightly colored plastic table became a porcupine of stun darts.

Enraged, Eduard popped out of his refuge. “Don't shoot at
her,
you stupid bastards!” More shots rang out, targeting him this time.

Using a voice enhancer at his collar, Daragon bellowed into the ringing background noise. “Eduard, give yourself up—please don't let this go any further. You'll only make it harder.” He gestured for backup troops to fan out, scuttling across the floor.