Hopscotch (5 page)

8

Daragon had not set foot
on the mainland in six months. The Bureau and its concerns had become his life, twenty-four hours a day, with every breath, waking or sleeping. He immersed himself in the databases, studying old cases, absorbed in the nuances of law enforcement.

Once humans had learned how to hopscotch, many new legal definitions and precedents needed to be set. The law stated that the “perpetrator” of a crime was the mind rather than the body. Investigations and prosecutions involved the
person
that had been inside a human vehicle when a felony was committed, backtracking the identity through COM or ID patches or sheer detective work.

It was difficult to track someone who did not wish to be found, but a person's mind left distinctive pathways on a host brain, much as a body itself was marked by its unique retinal pattern—or fingerprints. Unfortunately, such mental identification methods were time-consuming and excruciatingly painful for the suspect body, which more often than not turned out to be innocent.

Bureau Chief Ob had high hopes for Daragon, who could
see
the identities of people. Knowing the person to look for, he could find a guilty party at a glance, no matter which body the suspect wore.

“We've survived for over two centuries now on the sharpest razor edge human civilization has ever encountered,” Ob said during a conversation in his underwater office. “You've lived with the idea of swapping all your life, Daragon, so you don't see what a ticking time bomb it really is. Think of the opportunities for total upheaval, the lack of individualism as we have always known it. Without a ready and reliable means for identification of a ‘person,' society would crumble into chaos. The sheer potential for abuse boggles the mind.”

“Yes, sir. That is why the BTL is so important.”
The expected answer.
“But every person has an implanted ID patch.”

Ob tapped his fingertips together. “Useful only if people voluntarily synch after swapping. We each have our identity code, which we are supposed to carry with us, no matter what body we inhabit. After I hopscotch with someone, we are required—by law—to update our patches, so that my new body carries the correct ID. Most people do it without thinking.”

Daragon pretended to understand. “I can't imagine a situation where both parties would forget, considering the consequences.”

Ob ran his fingertip over the rectangle of polymer film on the back of his hand. “That's why the penalties are so severe for anyone caught with an identity that hasn't been updated. The Bureau is completely justified in cracking down. We dare not allow the public to discover that they
can
get away with fooling us.”

“Yes, sir, that would be dangerous.”

Ob got up to stare at his gas fireplace. Fish swam overhead. “And the people want it, too, don't you see? They understand the precipice we're on. The human race has managed to keep its balance by
not
allowing this potential to run rampant. Luckily, most people choose not to hopscotch very often. They find it disorienting or uncomfortable. They return to their home-bodies and live their lives in the body nature gave them.”

“Still, it seems impossible to control, sir, considering all the potential.”

Ob smiled as if Daragon had finally reached some sort of breakthrough. “Absolutely impossible. But that doesn't prevent the Bureau from fostering the impression. Think of art—sometimes subtle strokes accomplish more, have a greater impact, than blatant messages.”

The Bureau Chief was like a father to Daragon, who had never known one. Daragon wondered if one day he'd be able to find out the identity of his biological parents. Perhaps he could use the resources of the BTL to do it. . . .

Now, taking a rare break up in the open air at the offshore Headquarters platform, he climbed to the top of the derrick superstructure. Sitting high on the derrick, Daragon breathed the salty air and gazed across to the shoreline. The tall rectangular buildings stood like glittering blocks crowded to the edge of the water, on the verge of tumbling like dominoes into the sea.

He thought of his companions from the Falling Leaves. Daragon hadn't had contact with them in more than a year, but he often took advantage of the Bureau's network to keep an eye on them. He tracked Teresa through her succession of dead-end jobs. Garth ran about trying to become an artist. Then there was Eduard, leasing himself for whatever demeaning activities other people wanted to avoid. . . . He missed them very much.

Once he became a full-fledged Inspector, resplendent in his new uniform, Daragon decided he would show them what he had made of his life.

But not yet. He still had work to do.

As kids, he and Eduard had loved to explore the old brick monastery. Attic room, dusty shadows, the scent of mildewed rafters. With a grunt, Eduard forced the crank on an old half-circle window. Fresh, damp wind gusted through the opening. “Come on, let's slip outside. Soft Stone will never know.” He thrust his face into the breeze. “We can hop on the roof, make our way over the eaves to the tube walkway next door.”

Eduard was like a big brother to him, someone who had the brashness to attempt the things Daragon secretly wanted to do. His almond eyes flicked back and forth, searching for excuses. “But what if we're caught?”

“Then we'll get sent back here. And if we don't go, we'll be stuck here anyway.” Eduard flashed his charming grin. “Friends
do things
together, you know. Besides, I want to get something special for Teresa. Don't you want to help me? For her?”

And with that, Daragon was helpless. “All right, but we need to be careful.”

Keeping low, they climbed an access ladder onto a connective walkway, then scampered to the neighboring high-rise. Down at street level, Daragon stared at the towering buildings, a forest of mirrored glass, polished stone, gleaming metal. Walls were colored with finger paintings of chameleon pigment. Elevators like deep-sea diving bells rode on the outsides of skyscrapers.

Grinning, Eduard pointed to a lonely-looking military recruiting station. He nudged Daragon in the ribs. “What do you think, should we join the Defense Forces?”

They had recently watched a heart-wrenching story about brave soldiers during a major mid-twentieth-century conflict. Daragon didn't find the entertainment cycle nearly as engaging as the Dickens novels Garth read aloud to him and another boy, Pashnak. A great general had been mortally wounded during the height of a battle. Knowing the fate of his comrades was at stake, a quiet infantryman (who had been a coward for most of the story) selflessly sacrificed himself by hopscotching with his general, dying in his place so that the military leader could lead the troops to a spectacular victory. Eduard insisted that the twentieth-century wars had occurred long before anyone knew how to swap bodies.

They sat on a sun-warmed flowstone bench to watch the world. Shadows strobed across the sunlight from the row of hovercars humming overhead. Eduard studied people passing through doorways, suspicious shapes slipping quickly from beneath one awning to another. He pointed out a well-dressed man who edged along a building wall.

“Hey, have you ever heard of the Phantoms, people who hopscotch bodies again and again so they can outrun death?” Eduard asked, his eyes full of wonder. “Trading themselves into younger bodies, healthy physiques, doing whatever it takes to stay alive. Imagine, some of the Phantoms are supposed to be five and six hundred years old!”

“People haven't even known how to hopscotch for that long.” Daragon wasn't so credulous. For a Phantom to stay alive for centuries, he would have to maintain an extremely low profile, a quiet existence, leaving no trail and attracting no attention. “Besides, the Beetles would know about it, wouldn't they? Nobody has any proof.”

Eduard watched the stranger until he passed around a corner and was lost in the crowd. “Well, I believe it.” He pointed to a man haggling with a food vendor across the street. “If they found a way to doctor their ID patches, how would you ever know? That man there could be a Phantom.” He indicated a woman climbing into a hovercar parked at a charging terminal. “Or
she
could be one. Or that old couple, with their heads down—they could be waiting for their chance to steal young and healthy bodies.”

Daragon was more concerned about the people whose bodies they stole, rather than the Phantoms themselves. He shook his head each time. “They've all got ID patches. Besides, can't you just . . .
see
inside to who they really are?”

Eduard looked at him strangely. “Even the Beetles need scanners and equipment to figure that out.”

“I don't.”

“Yeah, right.” Restless, Eduard got up from the bench. “Well,
I
want to become a Phantom. Like a candle flame passed from wick to wick, never burning out.”

Wandering farther, Eduard and Daragon saw the open-air flower market at the same time, a profusion of colors and scents: bouquets of pink and yellow carnations, long-stemmed roses as red as blood, genetically modified exotics in a garish profusion of neon or metallic colors, with selective scents ranging from peppermint to sandalwood. Some blooms had been silica-enhanced so they would never wilt.

Teresa loved flowers.

“But we don't have any money,” Daragon whispered. In the monastery, they had no need for credits.

Eduard grinned, good-natured. “We just wait for an opportunity. Maybe somebody will . . . drop something. Be flexible.”

They walked among the flowers, sniffing some, fingering others. A midnight-blue orchid opened from a perfect bud to full bloom, then collapsed back into a bud again, cycling in a single minute.

Suddenly, the COM traffic-control substation across the street exploded, two stories up. The blast tore a hole through the side of the building. Chunks of stone, glass, and hot metal rained down as screaming bystanders scrambled for safety. A restaurant's striped awning caught on fire.

Thinking fast, Eduard snatched a mixed bouquet of color-coded carnations, rainbow-petaled daisies, and talking daffodils. He grinned as if it were a game. “Come on, let's go!”

Daragon gaped at him. “You didn't say we were going to steal anything.”

“It's not hurting anybody. Here, I'll let you give half of them to Teresa.”

With the disruption of COM, the interleaved skylanes of hovercars swirled like a stirred anthill before the backup safety systems kicked in and vehicles automatically landed in rapid succession, filling the crowded streets.

The safety systems lost only one hovercar, a topaz-blue single-passenger model. Directly above the wrecked substation, the vehicle veered from its impedance path, slipped through the protective electronic net, and plummeted into a bistro across the street.

Inside the flaming hulk of the crashed hovercar, Daragon could see a mangled driver trying to free himself. Some people ran toward the scene and some fled, while others remained frozen, watching. “We've got to help. Can't we do something?”

Eduard looked at him in astonishment. “Are you better trained than all those people? Ambulance crews will be here in a minute, and the Beetles, too.”

Daragon swallowed hard, still reluctant about breaking the law, but took the flowers from Eduard. With their prized bouquet in hand, the two young men raced back to the monastery. . . .

Now behind the heavy desk in his office, Mordecai Ob steepled his fingers like a lobster trap. “Daragon, you must not operate under the misconception that the only reason our BTL exists is to capture criminals. That function often falls under the purview of other Bureaus.”

“But sir, I've found a lead on one of our most wanted fugitives. The terrorist behind the bombings that caused such turmoil in COM several years ago.” He'd wanted so badly to make Mordecai Ob proud of him.

After thinking about the explosion in the flower market, Daragon had checked on the status of the anti-COM fugitives. When he learned that the leader, a woman named Robertha Chambers, remained at large, Daragon applied his imagination. He followed unlikely leads, vague aliases, until he located her. He covered his exuberance when he brought the news to Ob, but now even his hidden smile began to falter.

“I know you've put a lot of energy into this, Daragon, but we've already captured the rest of her anti-COM band. The last one is due to be uploaded and executed tomorrow. The problem has been eliminated. Robertha Chambers poses no threat.”

“But why don't we wrap up the case, sir?” Daragon did not want to reveal his personal connection to the matter. “There's no statute of limitations. We could take Robertha out. Think of what a coup that would be.”

Under Ob's olive-brown gaze, Daragon felt that he still had much more to learn. “There are second- and third-order effects of what the Bureau does. Have you considered that perhaps I've known about her all along? Robertha Chambers believes she has a clever disguise, living out in the open where no one will suspect her.” He looked hard at the young Inspector. “The simple fact is, the BTL isn't interested in apprehending her.”

Daragon sat down in the guest chair. He stared at the blue-orange flames in Ob's gas fireplace, wrestling with the concept. “I don't understand, sir.”

The Chief was a model of patience. “Seems our ringleader has no stomach for a full-fledged revolution. Robertha gathered a band of big talkers and pushed them into violence. She relished the power, enjoyed being in charge. Now that her group is gone and she almost lost her life, Robertha's found a safer way to get her thrills. The BTL considers her effectively impotent where she is.”

“But that doesn't mean we shouldn't capture her. She can still hurt people. What if she takes advantage—”

“Daragon,
think,
please.” Ob's voice had a sharper edge to it. “With this supposedly dangerous person at large, the BTL can maintain stepped-up surveillance and an obvious presence in places where we have no legitimate reason to be. We can always apprehend Robertha later, if we so desire. But she won't cause us any more problems.”