64
Meat market.
Eduard seethed in silence as they prepared him for display, ready for sale to the highest, most desperate bidder.
The BTL had refused to listen to him about Garth, denied him the right to trade back into the ailing man's body. This physique was impounded. Besides, if they had let him swap back into the dying old physique, who would ever bid on it? He might not even survive long enough for the upload execution.
But no one would listen. Daragon had sequestered himself, and one of the other Beetles had told him to be quiet. Eduard stopped insisting. By now, Garth might already be dead. He had never meant for that to happen.
The Bureau of Incarceration and Executions efficiently continued the process of disposing of everything Eduard had, everything he was, erasing every positive mark he had made in his life. It was a first humiliation, what they considered a necessary step to prepare for his elimination.
His ID patch had been reset to his old identity, which now listed all the convictions against him. Most of them were laughably false, but he saw no point in fighting them. Long before he'd been captured, his bogus trial was already over, convicted in absentia, the guilty verdict etched in stone. Daragon had obviously chosen sides, and politics in the Bureau would prevent him from exposing any damning evidence against Mordecai Ob. Nothing Eduard said would convince them otherwise. Why bother to look for proof, when you already know the answer?
As BIE handlers stripped and prepped the fine, strong body Garth had given him, he remained just cooperative enough to avoid harsh treatment. Now, both Garth and Teresa had paid with their bodies for
his
mistakes. He regretted so much. . . .
The handlers scrubbed him down and oiled his skin. He shook his dripping blond hair, and they combed it for him again. They wanted him to look as clean and perfect as possible to bring a good price. Some lucky bidder would have a new life, perhaps a terminally ill patient or someone old and decrepit.
They would use Scramble on him, if necessary. Trapped in a discardable, unwanted form, Eduard's soul would be ripped from his body and added to the ever-growing COM to benefit all humankind. Mental abilities were a resource to be tapped, brainpower for the masses. Felons like Eduard contributed back to society by increasing the overall scope of COM, adding to the nonsentient computer labor force.
Quite a contrast with what the Splinters believed, but Eduard took no comfort from it. They didn't know about Soft Stone. He would find out soon enough, after the handlers made a good show of selling his body. Garth's body.
A uniformed official ran a sensor over his skin, taking tissue samples and sniffing cellular residue. After a medical scan pronounced him free of diseases and contaminants, clean of all evidence of drug addiction (Eduard had to laugh at the irony!), the data was sent to available screens in the bidding room outside.
Under normal circumstances, prospective purchasers would have days to consider him, but because of Eduard's high-profile case, they intended to rush him through. Keep the ratings up. The bidding among an exclusive pool of prospective buyers would reach a frenzy, no matter what they did.
When they led him toward the stage, one guard squeezed his arm muscle. He looked Eduard up and down as if he were a piece of furniture and remarked to his partner, “Fine specimen, eh? Most of our terminal guests are worn out.” The guard chuckled. “If I was in worse shape, I might even bid for you myself.”
“You couldn't afford what I'm worth,” Eduard said.
The guard snapped back, “As a
body
maybe not. As a person—well, I've got some loose change.”
Floor lights indicated where he had to go. Trying to look haughty, Eduard stepped out into a roomful of hopeful people, from the curious to the desperate. A transparent, flickering field separated him from the crowd.
His eyes hardened, an unaccustomed expression on Garth's normally welcoming face. The limited pool of bidders stared at him, and he stared right back without flinching. He'd never seen such a batch of old and hurting people. All of them rich. Misfits. Vultures.
None of these people deserved what Garth had sacrificed for him. Not one of them.
Then the spotlights shone hot and white from all angles, illuminating his skin, his muscles, every part of his body. The customers were offering good money to live in this flesh, and they wanted a decent look. It was only fair.
“What you see is what you get.” Eduard tried to become a statue as the bidding started.
Standing in an observation alcove, Daragon watched from the background, disgusted. Since he was such a prominent Inspector, it was all part of his job—he had to see it through to the end.
Still, he was deeply troubled to see Eduard humiliated in such a way. Standing naked and defiant, the murderer of Mordecai Ob sizzled under the lights. Though he could see Eduard's persona on the inside, glowing in its familiar pattern, he still saw only Garth's body on the outside.
The Bureau had kept Daragon isolated since the apprehension at Precision Chaos, and they had not yet traced the identity of the body back to Garth—or so they said. But Daragon understood all too clearly what must have happened.
Why had the successful artist gone out of his way to help a wanted fugitive? Daragon had kept that part quiet, trying to protect Garth. He had so much to lose—yet Garth had defended Eduard without question, and Teresa had thrown herself into mortal danger to protect him. Why?
Why?
How strong were the obligations of friendship, when the law was so clear?
Daragon knew he had to be very, very careful. Though Garth and Teresa must surely hate him, he still wanted to protect them, whether they realized it or not. He had always kept an eye on them, protecting them from their own mistakes. Now, though, they were at risk of making things worse for everyone.
The new BTL administrators wanted to make their mark. They would let nothing mar their triumph over capturing and punishing the man who had murdered Mordecai Ob. Knowing Garth was an accomplice, knowing how the BTL would react, Daragon had no choice but to keep his secret, for Garth's sake. But that was as far as his loyalty would go.
Right now, he hoped the auction would pass quietly, before anyone recognized the home-body of the famous artist.
Standing silently, he watched like a hawk as the limited group of invited bidders pushed forward, keying credit requests into handheld COM units. As the furious bidding climbed higher, Eduard stared boldly at them, impervious to their frenzy. That seemed to intrigue them even more.
Automated newscams captured the spectacle, broadcasting it realtime to COM channels, where the images were split and sent to various commentary groups, all of which found their own soapboxes and drew their own conclusions.
Eduard glared at the audience, turned from left to right when he was told, raising his arms, spreading his legs. He wore his nakedness like armor and endured it all, every moment of it. The price went up and up.
Seeing him on the stage, Daragon remembered a young boy dripping wet from rain because he had sneaked out across the rooftops of the monastery. Eduard had always been happy-go-lucky, a rulebreaker. Now he was caught, and he would have to pay the price.
The bidders obviously believed there was a certain prestige in owning the last body of such a high-profile criminal. The price shot higher. It made Daragon both nauseated and angry.
When he could stand it no longer, he turned on his heels and slipped out of the arena, ashamed of what he had done. No longer sure of his beloved Bureau, he tried to force his wandering thoughts back into acceptable cubbyholes. Perhaps it would have been better if Eduard had just been gunned down during apprehension.
Because of the used-up body he had taken from Eduard, Garth had to move with painful slowness, even given the manic ministrations of Pashnak. Garth tested the limits of what he could do. Unfortunately, it wasn't much.
The assistant gave him a dangerously large dose of quick-acting painkillers, and the two of them stumbled toward the auction center. They didn't have much time.
Neither of them anticipated the circus that surrounded the bidding. While the proceedings played on active-matrix billboards outside the BIE holding facility, Bureau guards blocked access to the arena to prevent anyone else from entering. “Exclusive bidding pool, forty people only,” the nearest guard said. “Cutoff was twenty minutes ago. Better luck next time.” The expression on the uniformed woman's face showed that she doubted Garth's body would survive until the next opportunity.
“We're too late,” Pashnak said in despair. “Now you'll never get your body back. Why didn't Daragon let us know?”
Flailing his sticklike arms, Garth pushed forward to the front portals. His body was a thousand aches and pains, all demanding his attention. Pashnak tried to clear the way, but his gaunt form could not muscle aside the gathered spectators.
The uniformed guard just shook her head. “Closed proceedings, sir. Window of opportunity is over. No new bidders at this time.”
“I'll top anyone else's offer,” Garth said with a croak.
“The going price has no effect on my salary,” she said in a clipped voice. “Rules are rules.”
Images swam in front of Garth's eyes from a combination of oncoming tears and impending unconsciousness. “Wait, you don't understand—”
“Just watch on the screens over there, old man.” The BIE guard crossed her arms over a uniformed chest. “Bid on the next one. Won't be long before we catch someone else.”
Pashnak led him away from the damaging press of people. “We need to get you somewhere safe, Garth. It's too dangerous here—you never should have left your bed.”
Garth clenched his teeth, feeling the pounding pulse throb in his head. “How can I be too late to help Eduard!” He yanked his scrawny arm from Pashnak's grip and lashed out, trying to claw his way to the door. But his vision fuzzed, and his head swam. He couldn't breathe. He reached out a gnarled hand, straining forward . . . and collapsed.
People gave him room to fall, but kept their attention on the COM screens. The bidding for Eduard had already reached a remarkable level.
Pashnak used his sharp elbows to knock people aside as he clutched Garth to his chest. From the grayish caste of the withered skin, the blue tinge of his lips, he knew Garth was in extreme distress.
“Out of my way!” He pulled Garth back from the crowd. “Out . . . of . . . my . . . way!” Not knowing what else to do, he roused the half-conscious artist and helped him stagger to the nearest medical center.
As each bid went higher, Eduard remained expressionless, though his hatred of the crowd grew by orders of magnitude. Vampires hoping to claim his body even before the justice system killed him. He stared at the faces. The old men and women, the weak, the unattractive—everyone wanted his body, so long as the unwanted mind and soul didn't come with it.
Body for sale.
How many of those milling about outside the shimmering protective field were mere curiosity seekers, trophy-hunters who wanted to own the body of an infamous fugitive? They were jackals, fighting for leftovers they did not deserve.
Finally, as the bidding became more strident, one old woman shrieked out an outrageously high number. Eduard looked over at her, recognized the wattled throat, pinched face, and reptilian gaze of Madame Ruxton. The woman who had tried to steal his body before, using a legal loophole to keep his form after he'd undergone difficult surgery for her. He wanted to spit at her.
For a moment, there was a shocked silence. No one topped her bid.
Eduard stared at Ruxton, studying her pinched face and weathered appearance. He was astonished she had managed to live so long. Lawyers surrounded her like a murder of crows, waiting for fresh carrion.
“Looks like you finally got my body,” he muttered. “Bitch.”
Eduard hoped she'd be destitute after the giant sum she had offered. Serve her right. Before long, Madame Ruxton might even have to lease out her precious new body just to make ends meet.
Eduard covered his emotions, however, maintaining a stony façade as he was led away. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.
65
Drifting in and out
of consciousness, Garth found himself back in his house again . . . in his rumpled bed, surrounded by easily recognized things that disoriented him with their very familiarity.
After his collapse, the pain and restless sleep had sent him . . . far away. In that dim, aching place he had expected to see Soft Stone again, her guiding hand taking him either toward the tunnel of light or pushing him back through the doorway to life. This time, though, he had been unconscious and alone. He had awakened without any revelations, without any help, without any hope.
Pashnak sat at his bedside, crying, holding Garth's hand. When the assistant saw that he had opened his eyes, Pashnak squeezed the hand tighter. “Oh, Garth—they weren't sure you would ever wake up again.”
“They? Who are you talking about? Where have I been?”
Pashnak's words came out in a rush. “I took you to a medical center, had them run scans on you. You've been there for most of a day. When they ID'ed the body you're in, they called up the old man's records and got the prognosis.”
“Not good, I'll bet.” Each breath sent a stab of pain through his overstressed lungs.
“They were surprised you're still alive. Can't offer any help, diagnosis terminal—imminently terminal.” He tried to blink the tear-sheen from his eyes. “They offered COM euthanasia for a small fee. I . . . told them no.”
Garth patted his hand. “I really blew it this time, Pashnak—everything I tried to do for Eduard . . . I failed.” He closed his eyes to push away the accusing thoughts in his head.
Pashnak got up and shifted the window polarization, letting misty daylight into the room. He remained standing with his back to the bed, a rigid silhouette. “I just don't understand why you would do such a terrible thing to yourself. You had so much . . .”
Garth lay back on the pillow and smiled wistfully. “Pashnak, I was glad to have a worthwhile reason to fight after all. It reminded me of how I used to be inspired. It was great.”
The assistant fussed with the sheets, tucked in the blankets. “I tracked the bidding through COM, because I thought you'd want to know.” He held a wrinkled printout in front of Garth's face. “This is the woman who bought your body. A rich old lady named Madame Ruxton.”
Garth tried to make his eyes focus. “I could have paid twice that much. It would've been so simple, if we'd made it to the auction. I could have saved Eduard, if we'd just gotten there in time.”
Pashnak's hands trembled. “That would have been the simplest solution. But the simplest solution doesn't always work.”
Garth could tell by the look on Pashnak's drawn face that the assistant had come to some kind of decision—though he couldn't imagine what the issue was.
“I've been with you for a long, long time, Garth. I've seen your moods, and I've seen what you can do. I held your hand through your pregnancy, I helped you walk when you were blind. I also saw you running out of steam and I was at a loss to help you. I didn't know what to do.
I
never lost faith in you . . . but you did.”
Garth sighed, trying to sink into the blankets and sheets. “Sorry for everything I put you through.”
The assistant brushed it aside. “I was always so proud to be part of what you were doing. I was
honored.”
Garth reached up to run his fingers through the assistant's mouse-brown hair. Pashnak's lips trembled; he was obviously more frightened than he had ever been. “Last night, seeing you full of energy and
alive
again, ready to give everything to help your friend . . .
that's
the Garth I want to remember. That's the way I last want to see you.” Garth forced a wan smile, and Pashnak grabbed his hand. “I want you inspired again, fighting, and passionate—go help Eduard, if that's what you need to do. You can find a way.”
Garth winced as pain shot through him again. “Impossible, Pashnak. Right now, I doubt I could even get to the bathroom by myself.”
The assistant squeezed his hand so hard Garth was afraid some of his brittle bones might shatter. “Unless you hopscotch with me.”
Garth snorted. “Don't be ridiculous.”
Pashnak's face turned crimson. “I'm not being ridiculous! You're not the only one who can make sacrifices, you know—and this is the only way you're going to help your friend. Dammit, if you refuse me, then you're costing Eduard his only chance.” Garth swallowed hard and felt his body dying by rapid steps. Pashnak leaned close, his words like a kiss on the artist's wrinkled cheek. “Let
me
do something that'll make a difference for once.”
Garth's mind spun. He found it difficult to think with so much pain clawing at his thoughts. “Even if I do swap with you, it's still very remote. What exactly do you think I can do for him?”
The assistant crossed his arms over his chest. “I know you, Garth—when you're inspired, you can do
anything.”
Pashnak held out the wadded printout. “Take this. Go track down Madame Ruxton. She'll be at the execution tomorrow—or
you
can be in her place, if you make her the right offer.” He smiled deprecatingly. “My own body's not so great, but it's strong enough. Ask the old lady if this isn't better than being good-looking and destitute. She seems to be a greedy bitch.”
Seeing the wavering, uncertain look on the pallid old face, Pashnak reached down. “Better swap with me now, before I lose my nerve.”
Instinctively, desperately, Garth hopscotched out of his dying body into the gaunt form of his assistant. He drew a deep, deep breath, filled with wonder at how sweet the bedroom air smelled. Even these lanky arms and legs felt strong, capable of great things.
From the reverse perspective looking down on the old man in the bed, Garth saw how truly ill he had looked. He immediately changed his mind. “Oh, Pashnak—I shouldn't have done that.”
“I guess it's not so terrible,” he said. “I love you, Garth.”
“I know. I love you, too.” Garth bent down, his world focused on the dying man in front of him. “Forget it. I don't want to lose you as well as Eduard. This is my problem, and I need to pay the price.”
He touched the papery skin on the dying man's temples, but he could not hopscotch. A thin smile curled the assistant's old lips. “Sorry, Garth. I'm staying here, and you can't swap back with me unless I cooperate.”
He remembered seeing young Pashnak standing in front of the Splinters during his graduation ceremony, when the gaunt boy had swapped with Soft Stone, proving his ability. “Pashnak, swap back with me. Now!”
“No, not unless you've got some Scramble. After all these years, I think that's the first time I ever refused you.” He seemed to think that was funny. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. . . .”
“Pashnak!”
Looking up at the ceiling, the assistant said, “Will you read to me? Like you used to? When we were in the monastery?”
Tears filled Garth's eyes, and he embraced the man on the bed as gently as he could. “Of course.”
He rushed off, remembering how they had sat by candlelight, reading Dickens. He stopped in front of the library shelves, searching for the right book, any book. He grabbed
David Copperfield,
the novel they had been sharing when Pashnak left the Falling Leaves.
He hurried back, flipping through the pages, searching for the right place, a good scene. “Here's one.” He walked into the bedroom.
Where he found Pashnak already dead. The old body lay silent and motionless, eyes closed. One hand was clenched around a knot of sheets.
Garth's fingers turned to rubber, and the heavy book slipped with a thump to the floor. Pashnak didn't flinch or stir.
Garth cradled him in his arms, anguished. Now, of course, he had a thousand things to say. But it was too late.
He, himself, would have been lying there dead now, if not for Pashnak's sacrifice. And he'd already had more than his fill of useless sacrifices. Instead, Garth's options were now limited to one important thing. He didn't know how he could ever pull it off, but he was damned well going to try.
Garth prepared to go rescue Eduard. Somehow.
He shut down everything in his big house and left.