Hopscotch (8 page)

13

“While other people
call these
apart
ments,” Rhys said to Teresa, raising his arms to encompass the Sharetaker enclave, “we name them
together
ments. In our philosophy we all come together and do not move apart.”

He flashed her a winning smile, and his words made her feel warm. Teresa had already spent days settling in, working hard to be part of the group. Under Rhys's ambitious leadership, the enclave had grown until it took over much of the building, combining separate domiciles into one interconnected hive.

As a new member, Teresa's daily labor involved ripping out walls and tearing down doors between rooms. The Sharetakers left only a framework of areas where people could sleep or cook or amuse themselves through conversation, games, or lovemaking.

The group insisted that everyone was equal, every body interchangeable; however, they recognized that some physical forms were better suited for certain purposes than others. Teresa hopscotched among the believers, from a tired body to a fresh one, just so she could work extra hours.

Rhys watched the labor and swapped bodies as often as anyone else. He even made a point of spending days inside Teresa's young and fresh female form, while she went about doing the harder tasks, using the muscles of people whose names she didn't even know.

Rhys had taken her as his lover almost immediately, and she had acquiesced, happy to be singled out. Even back in the monastery, the Splinters had been open about sex, seeing it as a rudimentary form of sharing bodies.

The first time, Rhys had embraced her with great intensity, hot and sweaty, breathing hard. His sexual technique, like his personality, was fiery and passionate, almost violent. When he had satisfied himself, he lay back, swapped with Teresa, and wanted to do it again as the opposite sex, but Rhys's male home-body was already spent, and Teresa couldn't perform for him.

She saw her own naked form, flushed from the recent exercise but wanting more. In her own voice, Rhys said, “Go find another one of the Sharetakers, a male, and swap with him. Then you can come back to finish what we started.”

Teresa was surprised at how easily she found a Sharetaker willing to do the job. She came back in another male form, but found it difficult to get herself aroused by her own naked body beneath her. But Rhys helped, using her fingers to fondle and knead until the strange male penis bounced erect. His actions bordered on impatience, until they made love again. . . .

Teresa recognized the sketch in the artists' bazaar before Garth recognized her. She had gone out to purchase supplies for the Sharetakers, and enjoyed her day away from the togetherments, out in the sunshine. Wearing the body of a tired, middle-aged woman, she detoured through the marketplace.

With an intent and wistful expression, the blond artist worked on his portrait, drawing the details vividly from his memory. The eyes were perfect, the short brown hair, the narrow chin, facial features showing more beauty than Teresa had ever known she possessed.

“Garth, that's me!” Her heart swelled.

He looked up, not placing her at first. “Teresa?” He lurched to his feet. “Teresa! Oh, how I've missed you!”

They hugged. “I wanted to see you, too, Garth, but I've been so busy with the Sharetakers, my new friends.” She told him all about Rhys and how she had been welcomed by the like-minded members of the community.

He asked her to sit across from him while they talked. He stared at her new features, effortlessly reproducing them on a new sheet of sketch paper. Teresa leaned forward to watch, amazed. Somehow, Garth managed to capture the look of the new woman, yet retained a compelling halo that made it intuitively obvious that the portraits showed the same
person.

“What happened to your home-body, Teresa?”

Her shrug was a bit too quick and dismissive. “It's still at the togetherments. I can have it back whenever I need it.”

He lined up the two drawn faces, the lovingly detailed portrait of her original features and the quick study of her current body. “I'll clean this other one up later, mount them side by side.” His eyes flashed with a sudden idea. “You have to come see me whenever you change bodies. I can do a whole series of these, portrait after portrait. I'll call it
The Spectrum of Teresa.”

She laughed, then blushed. “Oh, maybe not
every
time I hopscotch, Garth, because I don't know if Rhys would let me out that often.” Noticing the time, she squeezed his arm and stood to leave. “But it'll give me an excuse to come and see you.”

14

New sights,
new sounds, new experiences. Whenever Garth scraped up a few extra credits, he tried an unusual restaurant with brand-new flavors and spices.
Inspiration.

He'd sold one of his paintings today, a watercolor rendering of clouds drifting over the building tops. He had struck up a conversation with a middle-aged woman—actually an old matron who'd swapped bodies with her fortyish daughter for the day—and the lonely woman had talked with Garth for an hour, chatting about odds and ends in her life while he continued to sketch. Afterward, she'd bought a painting and taken it home with her groceries.

Garth decided to spend his unexpected windfall on a lavish dinner in a tantalizing and exotic Moroccan restaurant. Eduard was still in the hospital, recovering from his voluntary surgery-swap, but Garth wished he could afford to bring Teresa with him, at least. Instead, he had to enjoy the experience alone.

When he passed through the keyhole archway, the smells of mysterious spices wafted toward him, saffron, cumin, preserved lemons, cinnamon, and honey. With an artist's eye, he studied the tile mosaic embedded like a stone rug in the entryway.

A leathery-faced man with short dark hair tucked under a crimson fez greeted him. He wore a billowy brown-and-cream-striped djellaba, the pointed hood dangling between his shoulders. The man bowed and ushered him inside.

Strange, unmelodic music played from automatic synthesizers. The dining room was dim and voluminous, with cloth draped tentlike from the ceiling. Stuffed leather hassocks snuggled against tables barely high enough for Garth to fit his knees under them. A dozen other customers sat engrossed in their meals.

The waiter handed him a menu covered with Arabic scribbles and high prices. Garth couldn't understand a word of it, until he found a touch-spot on the corner, and the letters toggled from Arabic to French, English, German, Japanese, then around again. The waiter returned with a basin and an urn of warm water, which he sprinkled over Garth's hands to cleanse them. Garth wiped his fingers on a plush towel, then he draped it over his lap.

On his small sketchpad, he began to record labyrinthine calligraphy from the walls, stylized verses from the Koran, intricate geometries, marvelous mazes and curlicues. Garth wanted to incorporate them into his work.

The waiter offered Garth freshly baked flat bread, which he dipped into a small bowl of spicy lentil soup. At first he looked around for utensils, but the waiter explained that he must eat with his hands (most definitely not the way Soft Stone had taught him manners!).

Garth chose a sampler of chicken with onions and lemon, lamb with honey and almonds, and a piquant Moroccan stew. The lamb and chicken were delicious, seasoned unlike anything he had tasted before. When he used the bread to scoop out a mouthful of the Moroccan stew, the spices nearly set his mouth on fire. He gasped, his eyes watering as he gulped his water then sucked on a lemon wedge.

Seeing his reaction, the waiter smiled at him. “But does it
taste
good, sir?”

Once the storm in his mouth died down, Garth paid attention to the flavors. “Yes. I am intensely surprised and satisfied with everything.”

When he finished his meal, the music from the wall speakers grew louder. Licking lemon and honey from his fingers, Garth leaned against the cushion to observe.

With a surge of sound, a beautiful woman glided through the dangling beads as if she were emerging from a waterfall. She was clad in bangles and artificial silks, her eyes heavy with makeup, her fingers clashing tiny cymbals. She then began to dance with the most lissome, flowing movement he had ever witnessed.

The dancer twirled, her hips oscillating; her mane of dark hair swung wildly, caught up in scarves. She began to remove the scarves one by one, holding them in her hands like peacock feathers. Her eyes sparkled, her scarlet lips parting as she gasped quick energetic breaths.

The belly dancer eased closer to the tables, stretching out her hands, beckoning for volunteers. The other patrons continued their own conversations. Garth's heart jolted. Although his initial reaction was to shy away, he had come here to
experience.
The dancer spun like an exotic ballerina, tapping her heel to her opposite shin, catching the enthusiasm in Garth's eye. She reached out to take his fingers and drew him to his feet. The other customers looked relieved that she had chosen a different victim.

Garth glided onto the floor, fascinated. Her skin was warm to the touch as she put her hands on his hips and demonstrated how to move. He watched her muscles, noted the sweat on her forehead and neck. She lived within the dance, her mind and body focused on whirling, following the music, swept along. He tried to dance the way she did, but his spine just wouldn't bend like that, and his hips didn't have the flexibility.

“Let me hopscotch with you,” Garth said, leaning closer. “I want to feel it as you do. I want to dance like you.”

She looked at him skeptically, as if doubting his sincerity. But he needed to
know
what she was like, needed to experience it. In his mind he estimated the cost of his meal, subtracted it from the amount he'd received from selling his painting, then offered her every penny of the remainder. “For fifteen minutes, that's all.”

She smiled at him, still surprised. “All right, mister.” She arched her eyebrows. “But just because you take my body doesn't mean you'll know how to dance.”

She looked at his eyes, reached up to ruffle his blond hair. He touched hers, twining his fingers into the raven locks where only a single green scarf remained. Their eyes met, separated by inches. His thoughts flowed outward, drifted, detached . . . and suddenly he was behind her eyes, inside her mind.

And her body felt wonderful!

His arms were like violin strings, his legs and hips simmered with energy, skin moist with sweat, hot with strength and balance. He swayed . . . but he looked down to see the abdomen moving awkwardly, the waist not bowing to the rhythm of the music the way his imagination guided it.

Standing in his own muscular physique, the dancer laughed at Garth. “A lot of it's in your mind, mister. Your mind has to learn to
direct
your body. You can't just swap with me and become an expert belly dancer.” Her eyes flashed. “But you have the potential now. The body remembers. It knows how to respond, if
you
know how to tell it what to do.”

The other customers watched Garth's blond body dressed in casual clothes now dancing with a slender grace. Most of them quickly figured out what must have occurred, and they looked at the belly dancer, amused at Garth's attempts to make the same moves in an unaccustomed body.

“Relax, mister.” She placed her male hands on Garth's female hips and showed him how to dance. “Forget your inhibitions.” This time the body moved more freely. He spun around but only grew dizzy. One of the other customers chuckled, but he didn't care.

The music reached a crescendo. Both of their bodies shook and swirled, and Garth rapidly improved. This female body
did
know what to do. Her reflexes responded the way he pictured them, without the encumbrances of his own untrained musculature.

The fifteen minutes flew by. As he lived inside the dancer's body, there wasn't time to absorb all the astonishing details. Rarely had he seen and done so many memorable things in a single evening.

Filled with enthusiasm, Garth wanted to hurry back to his studio where he could capture everything in his mind. He nearly ran out of the restaurant—until the dancer called after him in his own voice, reminding him that he had to hopscotch back with her, and pay for her and the meal, before he could go home.

15

Nightmares later,
Eduard swam back to consciousness. Light fell through his slitted eyelids and into his weary, old-woman's eyes. His brain couldn't think. Cottony clouds in his mind surrounded every word, every memory. His body was now one constant scream of pain, louder than ever before.

How he longed for his own body back.

He managed to focus on the tubes and electronic monitors hooked up to him, then people standing at his bedside. His discomfort ranged from low moans in his arms and muscles, to a shout where the open chest wound had been sutured back together. His heart felt different. Repaired, yes—but battered into submission, not as good as new.

Then he recognized his home-body pacing at the foot of the bed . . . and a dark uniform at the back of the room. One of the Beetles, an Inspector, a man with black hair and almond eyes. Daragon!

Eduard's throat was dry, his vocal cords raspy and uncooperative from the heavy anesthetic as well as the weariness of Ruxton's innumerable years. “What . . . why are you here?” They hadn't seen each other in a long time.

“Just keeping an eye on my friends.” Daragon smiled down at him, resplendent in his BTL regalia. “COM found your name on this contract when the records were filed, and I just wanted to make sure nothing . . .
accidentally
happened during your surgery.” He glanced over at the crowd of lawyers, family members.

“Am I . . . was the surgery successful?” Eduard tried to raise himself up, but his arms felt like wet balsa wood. In his own body, Madame Ruxton stood with shoulders thrown back, arrogant head held high.

Daragon bent closer. “Oh, yes. I spoke to the doctors immediately before they operated on you. We encouraged them to make sure you pulled through.” He looked once more at the Ruxton cadre, all of whom regarded him warily in return. “I'm confident your recovery will be a swift one.”

“Thank you, Daragon,” Eduard rasped through the old woman's wattled throat. “It's good to see you again.”

On the day the doctors said Eduard was strong enough to sit in a hoverchair, Daragon returned to push him out of the room. He brought seven impressive-looking BTL officers with him. Forming a grim protective barrier, the Beetles escorted him down the corridors to where Ruxton's lawyers waited.

The old woman's attorneys already had more documents drawn up, but Daragon opened the conversation by saying, “It has been four weeks, as stipulated in his contract. The doctors expect a full and complete recovery. Eduard has done his part.”

“I'm afraid my body's not yet entirely recovered,” Madame Ruxton said, sitting imperiously in Eduard's form, drinking sweetened tea. In his hoverchair, Eduard wrinkled his nose. Personally, he despised sweetened tea.

One of the lawyers held forth a document. “We have here depositions from the medical professionals who have inspected the body. It still has severe liver problems, as well as the potential for total kidney failure within the next year. The pulmonary system remains at greatly diminished capacity.”

Another attorney shuffled papers, found the original contract. “Mr. Swan signed a contract that specifically requires him to remain in Madame Ruxton's former body until
full recovery.”
The man gestured with a clean, manicured hand. “I'm afraid that what we have here is not ‘full recovery,' by any stretch of the imagination.”

Another smiling attorney looked at Daragon and the other Beetles, pretending not to be intimidated. “Several times we suggested that Eduard obtain his own legal counsel, but he refused.”

Eduard felt cold inside, wondering if Ruxton's cronies had managed to outwit him. He had blustered through with arrogance and misguided pride. If the words in the contract did indeed require “full recovery,” then he was lost. He had been trapped by his own naïveté. “I guess that was stupid,” he muttered.

“Yes, Eduard,” Daragon said. “I believe it was.” He calmly turned toward the lawyer. “That's not acceptable, obviously beyond the intent of the original contract.” The Beetles drew together around him, flanking Eduard in the hoverchair.

Ruxton's lawyers crossed their arms over their chests in unison, as if it were some sort of choreographed act. “We have the resources to tie this up in litigation for years, if necessary. Either way, Madame Ruxton will win.”

“And the BTL has the power to impound all of Madame Ruxton's assets in anticipation of our eventual victory. I can cite numerous precedents,” Daragon countered, remembering everything Mordecai Ob had taught him. “You'll swap back now.”

Eduard didn't have the strength to move or even speak for himself. Daragon nudged the floating life-support chair forward. Madame Ruxton didn't move.

Daragon withdrew a spray vial from a pouch at his belt. “You've heard of Scramble? A drug that breaks down all your barriers and allows someone to swap with you, no matter how much you resist.”

“Yes, I know. The BIE uses it for executions.”

“Or we use it for situations like this.” After a deliberate pause, Daragon smiled at her, still holding the spray vial. “I'm willing to take that action right now. It'll let Eduard rip your soul right out of his body and put it back where it belongs.”

Finally Madame Ruxton whirled, staring down at her own weakened body in the hoverchair. Her appearance was completely uncharacteristic of Eduard's usual happy-go-lucky demeanor. “What've you paid them? I can double whatever you offered. What kind of pull do you have with the Bureau?”

Eduard just shrugged his bony shoulders.

She snapped at Daragon and all the other Beetles. “I'll pay you twice what he's paying you. Right now, in cash.”

“Twice nothing is still nothing.” Daragon's voice was all the more threatening for its bland tone. “And attempted bribery of a BTL officer is an actionable offense. We have a room full of witnesses. Shall I take you into custody now?”

One of the lawyers leaned close to her. “I'm afraid that was very unwise, Madame Ruxton.”

“If you swap immediately with Eduard, perhaps we can . . . forget the entire matter.” The other Beetles pressed closer.

Her teeth clenched, her eyes flashing behind Eduard's familiar face, Ruxton sighed with such vehemence that she spat out her breath. “Oh, very well!”

She leaned down to the hoverchair and touched her own temples. Looking up at her with weak eyes, Eduard felt as if she ripped his consciousness free and slammed it back into his own body.

The real Madame Ruxton sulked back into her hoverchair-bound form.

Eduard reeled, disoriented to be young and healthy and energetic again. Each breath seemed like liquid honey in his lungs. His muscles tingled, so alive again.

The attorneys nudged the old woman's life-support chair away as her family members followed, simpering . . . perhaps even delighted at what had happened, now that their inheritance was one step closer again. The lawyers tried to make excuses as Madame Ruxton railed at them.

Daragon gestured for the other Beetles to leave him with Eduard. Once they were alone, though, Daragon's stony face tightened into a scowl, then a wry half-smile. “That wasn't the brightest thing you've ever done, Eduard.”

Eduard did not even try to excuse his mistake; he hung his head with an abashed smile. “I assumed I knew what could happen, but I didn't imagine half of the contingencies. Guess I was clueless.”

“You were out of your league. Far beyond anything you ever learned from the Splinters. You're not living in a monastery anymore, and the real world is not like the Falling Leaves.”

“I know that. Too well.” Eduard sighed, but his healthy body felt so good he could not remain dejected for long. A goofy grin crossed his face. “I'm glad I could count on you.” He playfully punched Daragon on the shoulder, unable to contain his relief and his energy. “It's so good to see you again!”

Daragon frowned with an almost motherly concern for his estranged friend. “I may have been gone a year, Eduard, but I've tried to keep tabs on you and Garth and Teresa. You worry me the most, though—as usual. Impulsive, cocky, reckless. Is this really the way you want to live?”

Eduard drew a deep breath, unable to stop grinning. He traced a finger over the ghost pain in his chest from where the old woman's operation scars had been. “Daragon, you're all nice and cozy with the Bureau, all your needs taken care of. I'm on my own out here—do you know how much Ruxton paid me for that? I can live for a year on those credits!”

“You almost didn't live for a day. Her lawyers had already tried to pay off the doctors, even before your surgery.”

Eduard digested that for a moment, experiencing a seesaw of anger, fear, and disgust. “Don't think I'm not grateful. I owe you one.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Yeah, I'll have to be more careful next time.”

“Next time? Are you sure you want to do something like this again?” Daragon just shook his head. “Remember when you told me how you wanted to become a Phantom, how you wanted to live forever?”

Eduard smiled with the recollection. “Still sounds good to me.”

“Risking your life like that, Eduard, you can forget immortality—you'll never make it to twenty-five!”

Eduard rubbed his chest again, then reached out to hug his friend, but the uniform seemed to be a barrier between them. “Thanks anyway, Daragon. I mean it. Are you going to be able to see us more often now?”

“I'm with the BTL, so you never know when I might be watching.” Daragon said a brief, brusque farewell and left to rejoin the other Beetles.