Hopscotch (34 page)

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.

Instead, she had been on a pointless quest for a body she had abandoned long ago, a body that was already dead. Her obsession with esoteric Big Questions and her lifelong searches for Universal Truths would mean nothing if she lost Eduard and Garth, people who loved her for who she was. Why hadn't she seen that before? Teresa swore not to let it fizzle without a fight.

Eduard was scheduled to be executed. He would be alone, but she had to find a way to be there. She could be present to support him, to help him . . . to offer her love if nothing else.

Eduard had saved her life more than once. He had shared her pain, helped her abused body heal, given her money when she needed it. Now she would help Eduard in whatever way she could.

Setting her jaw, Teresa headed off to the holding prison where Eduard waited out his last day.

67

So what else
was money good for? Garth didn't worry about what he would do afterward. He didn't really think there would
be
any afterward. None of that mattered.

Now that Pashnak was gone, no one would watch out for him. The other man's death was still an open wound, a foolish sacrifice that Garth never should have allowed in the first place, and now he could not correct the mistake—except by going forward.

He clutched Madame Ruxton's name and address in his hand. If he could just spend the money, cut the deal, he would have no regrets.

The skyscraper condo-complex was unremarkable and drab, without character, the kind of building Garth could have passed repeatedly without ever noticing its presence. For a wealthy woman, Ruxton apparently squandered little of her wealth on extravagant luxuries.

Determined, he signaled at her door and waited, knowing she would be suspicious, perhaps even frightened, of a stranger. Garth had never been good at planning ahead, but he tried to rehearse what he might say to the old woman.

Ruxton's face appeared on the door screen, tired and pinched. She had pale skin untouched by makeup, clean hair in an unattractive but serviceable cut, and once-expensive clothes. According to public records, she lived alone, had numerous business acquaintances, few friends.

“What do you want?” she asked without unlocking the door. “Go away or I'll call security, and then my lawyers.”

“I'm an artist. My name is Garth Swan, and I'm here to offer you a lot of credits,” he said. Her reptilian eyes brightened, then narrowed in suspicion. His words tumbled out before she could say anything else. “You've got something I need, Madame Ruxton. Something I need very badly. I'll pay.”

Standing there in Pashnak's gaunt body, he looked far from intimidating. “How much money?” Her question told Garth a great deal. She hadn't even asked
what
he wanted, what he needed—just the amount he would pay.

“Twice what you bid for Eduard's body. Right now, in unmarked credits.”

The door opened immediately.

Surrounded by squarish, expensive furniture, cold wall prints, and empty bookshelves, Garth felt the dreary emptiness of her life. He sniffed dust and old packaging in the air, meals cooked for only one person. He'd been searching to rekindle his own waning passion, but Ruxton didn't appear ever to have had any.

Eduard was due to be executed the following day, and this rich crone would walk away from the BIE termination facility wearing his strong and healthy body. Did she just want to make her harried, lonely life last longer? To what purpose?

She led Garth into a small sitting room, gestured toward a faded chair. “I have defensive systems, so don't try anything stupid.”

Garth clasped his hands in his lap to keep them from twitching. “Madame Ruxton, I need your body.” Then he told her the story he had concocted, as true as he could make it, laced with lies when necessary, distorting facts when appropriate. Because of the embarrassment and the sensitive nature of the case, and because he was a famous “panoramic experience artist,” he didn't want anybody to know about the switch. He feared his reputation could be ruined.

It sounded good. Eduard would have been proud.

As was quite apparent from her decor, Ruxton knew nothing about the art scene and had never heard of him. “But I too have a bit of a score to settle with Eduard,” she said in a raspy voice. “I could have had his body years ago, when he underwent major surgery for me. Unfortunately, he did not die when it would have been most convenient.”

Garth heaved several deep breaths. “You have already had your revenge, Madame Ruxton. The whole world saw you win the auction, Eduard himself saw it—and I . . . would rather we kept our agreement private.” In fact, it was imperative that no one find out. “In addition to the large sum I offer, I will swap you this well-cared-for body, if I can secretly take your place for the switch at the execution tomorrow.”

Ruxton tapped her fingers on the tabletop, scrutinizing him like a gravedigger studying a fresh corpse. Instead of sacrificing most of her assets, she could have a perfectly acceptable new body—Pashnak's was as good as Eduard's, for her purposes—and make a tidy profit on top of it all. Finally, she cocked her eyebrows and nodded appraisingly. “Do I look stupid to you? Done—you've got yourself a deal.”

Without giving her time for second thoughts, Garth transferred the credits into her account. Ruxton stared at the new balance, almost salivating, hardly able to believe her good fortune.

After they hopscotched, she ran her hands over her new cheeks. “It's not as glamorous as the physique I bought, but it'll do . . . considering the profit margin.” Garth looked across at her, seeing Pashnak's drawn, familiar face. He would have to spend the night here, in this apartment, to maintain appearances.

Ruxton glanced again at the balance in her account and grinned. “Now I can afford to stay in a first-class hotel again. Get myself a suite!”

While she grabbed a few of her things, Garth stood with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. The old woman walked away in Pashnak's body with a new spring in her step. She left Garth behind in her drab apartment, counting down the hours until his friend's scheduled execution. Everything had unfolded the way he'd hoped, and now at least Eduard had a chance.

Garth would go to the BIE termination center, masquerading as Madame Ruxton. As the world watched, he and Eduard would supposedly trade bodies. But when the time came, Garth planned to refuse the switch, secretly, leaving an astonished Eduard in his own body. A free man, with a brand-new chance at life.

And Garth would also experience the very last thing on his List.

His own death.

68

Hands clasped
in a combative stance, elbows on the beer-stained table, forearms vertical as muscles bulged. Teresa felt the strength in Jennika's sinewy arm, the smooth ebony skin rippling with tendons and hidden strength. She admired her well-toned forearm muscles, the
brachioradialis
(she remembered the Latin name from Arthur's copy of
Gray's Anatomy
).

Now she had to use them. She felt like a panther.

Across from her sat the off-duty BIE guard: square jaw, square shoulders, square head. His face flickered with a glint of amusement. Obviously, he didn't consider her a worthy arm-wrestling opponent, and that gave her even more motivation to win.

Teresa needed all the motivation she could get.

After studying public employee files from the Bureau of Incarceration and Executions, she had learned that one of the escort guards—José Meroni, a well-known womanizer—had a passion for arm-wrestling. He often hung out in a small neo-pub and challenged unsuspecting customers, much to the delight of the regulars. The stakes were usually no more than a round of drinks or a handful of credits. Tonight she had something much more substantial in mind.

On the night before Eduard's scheduled upload, Teresa had entered the neo-pub, attempting to recapture her wide-eyed waifish look, despite Jennika's athletic and iron-hard body. She peered around the bar, smelling sour beer and greasy food. Very different from Club Masquerade.

Teresa had recognized the escort guard sitting with his friends, gulping beer from an imitation medieval tankard. Given the man's penchant for winning, by now he must have had a difficult time finding new arm-wrestling opponents.

She strode across to Meroni, looked down at him, and watched his expression of surprise turn into a leer. Good, that was even better. When she challenged him to a contest, he had let out a guffaw echoed by his cronies. Her expression soured, and she repeated her challenge. “Or are you afraid of me, do you think?”

The others swept their tankards aside, clearing the tabletop. One vacated a chair so Teresa could slide herself across from the surprised José Meroni. She shucked her coat and thumped her elbow on the table, holding up her hand, ready to clasp his in a tight grip.

“Stakes?” he said. “I don't want to take too much of your money, lady.”

“Just a friendly match the first time.” She hoped he would fall into the trap, hoped she could pull it off. Mind, muscles, stamina, strength. Confidence. “Loser buys a round of drinks for your friends.”

The spectators cheered, delighted to be the beneficiaries no matter which contender won.

Teresa and the guard gripped palms, squeezed, tested. She dropped deep inside herself, concentrating, drawing on her inner strength. She had inhabited many bodies before, and could feel the muscles, the potential physical power inside her new form, if she could just release it.

They pressed their hands together, sweating and straining. Her eyes half-closed, she barely registered the look of surprise on Meroni's face. He pressed harder. His face turned red. Teresa countered and pushed, the power building in her arms, giving not a centimeter.

The guard fought back, delving into his own reserves, possibly for the first time. Their elbows ground against the sticky tabletop. Her forearm wavered from vertical as she lost ground. Sweat trickled down her cheek. She drew a deep, cold breath, and resisted with even more strength.

Meroni fought for his pride in front of his friends, but she was fighting for something much more important. She envisioned Eduard, helpless, captured after all this time. He had sacrificed so much for her, for Garth, for himself.
Eduard.
She pushed harder.

The guard's elbow slipped, and she pushed his forearm toward him. As he began to waver, his dismay increased, his confidence waned. Teresa saw the chink in his armor and pressed harder, gaining leverage. She winked at him.

The back of his fist slammed onto the tabletop, and she released her grip, standing as the spectators tittered nervously. They'd never seen Meroni lose, especially not like this. Teresa flexed her fingers to loosen them. “The gentleman here is buying us all drinks, I believe.” She met the guard's gaze, saw his wounded pride.

“A fluke!” he said, because he didn't know what else to say. He challenged her to a rematch, but his confidence was already crumbling.

So she defeated him again.

“Now's your big chance,” she said, while some of the patrons chuckled, others sat astonished. “The chance to prove yourself.”

Teresa flirted with Meroni, stroking his sweaty cheek with her long fingers. His voice was gruff, on the edge of surly. “What do we do now?”

“Now we swap. Do it again.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Let me prove I can beat you in
your
body, too.” She didn't want the man for his muscles—she just needed his uniform, his identity, and his access to the termination facility.

José Meroni blinked in surprise, assessing her lean female form. “What'll that do? I can't possibly win if I—”

“Oh, really?” She raised her eyebrows. “I just proved that this female body is strong enough to beat yours. It should be a sure thing for you. Muscles are muscles—see if you can do it yourself.” Teresa continued, as haughty as she could manage. “It's all in the mind, total self-confidence . . . or are you afraid you don't have enough confidence?” She waited a beat. “You can just surrender now, if you like.”

“What are the stakes this time?” he growled.

She gave another sexually charged smile. Rhys had trained her how to do it. “It's just a matter of whether I get to be in the male body first later on tonight, or you.”

The spectators gave appreciative whistles and catcalls, tinged with envy, and that was enough to puff Meroni's confidence again. “Sounds good to me.” He rubbed his sweaty palms together with a whickering sound. The bar attendant brought the round of drinks, and each of the spectators grabbed a fresh glass. No one ventured a toast on Teresa's behalf.

The guard leaned across the table, nostrils flaring. They hopscotched, then placed their elbows on the table again. The spectators hooted, urging Meroni to win back his honor.

But Teresa knew this time would be easy. The guard had more brawn, heavier weight—and inside her already tired body, he would have no idea how to tap her deep reserves of strength. And he had already been beaten, his confidence shattered, his embarrassment crippling him. The first two times, Teresa had been somewhat outmatched, but had still managed to turn the tables on him. For this rematch, Teresa started out with a decided advantage, not just in weight and musculature, but in attitude—and easily trounced him.

Head low, still in a female body, the guard stood up. Leaving his fresh drink unfinished, he grabbed Teresa's arm—his own arm. “Let's get out of here, then. Synch your ID patch with mine.”

“Oh, no hurry for that.” Smiling warmly, Teresa and Meroni sauntered out arm in arm. “We'll be swapping a few more times before the night is done.” The bar patrons hooted or applauded, and the shamed Meroni added a little more strut to his step.

Outside, she walked with him on the night streets, trying to pick up the pace. While still wearing Jennika's shape, she had swallowed a powerful, timed tranquilizer before entering the neo-pub. She hoped they would get to Meroni's place before the drug kicked in. She didn't want to drag him all the way home.