Hopscotch (13 page)

23

After receiving
Mordecai Ob's first generous stipend as his “patron,” Garth wanted to get away from people. And also to be inspired.

Even with the lackluster success of his first private exhibition, he remained undaunted. His head held so many ideas, so many images, that he needed to sort it all out. Soft Stone had taught him to meditate; maybe that would help. He would go somewhere and let his thoughts run unhindered.

Garth did an extensive batch of complimentary artwork for a travel broker in exchange for a deep discount on fares, then used some of Ob's money to travel to the breathtaking Waimea Preserve on the windswept north end of Oahu, a rugged jungle and river capped by a churning seascape.

Within the preserve, he followed a stream through palms and banana trees to volcanic outcroppings overhung with mosses and epiphytes. Garth stood with crowds on wooden decks to watch the famed cliff divers of Hawaii. The athletes plunged off the blackened rocks, sketching smooth arcs through the air into the foaming gullet of a waterfall.

Marveling at the perfection of their human forms, Garth toyed with the idea of hopscotching with one of them so he could try the dive on his own. But even if he did inhabit such a perfectly trained body, he would never inherit the abilities of the original owner. He might feel improved reflexes, and he might do a creditable job as a diver—or he might get himself killed.

Instead, he went to Waimea Beach, where the air was warm, the breezes stiff, and the sound of the surf like an avalanche. Curling waves battered the shore like blue-white hammers. Surfers carried polymer-lubricated boards and stood atop whitecaps that thundered to shore.

Excited, Garth stripped down to his bathing trunks and ran across the hot sand. The warm water welcomed him as he waded in. The sea, the mother of all life, was like amniotic fluid around his ankles, his knees.

He dove in. The ocean churned around him. Waves rushed one after another to the shore. The surfers went farther out, standing on their boards, laughing with each other. On the sand, families frolicked with their children, using static-wands to build ridiculously high sand castles.

Garth floated out, arms at his sides, kicking and splashing. The current flung him from wave to wave like jetsam after a shipwreck. He lay back, grinning foolishly up at the sky. He licked his lips, and the potent taste of salt startled him.

Everything he experienced filled the catalogue in his mind, and every moment was worth living for the new inspiration he received. When he got out his supplies again, he would somehow convey the powerful waves, using a language of colors and strokes to paint more than what he could see.

A whitecap splashed over his head, and he reveled in playing in the surf. Larger waves rolled in, slapping him down, and he paddled farther out to catch more of them. The foam pummeled him, dunking him under, and he pushed his way back up, laughing and coughing.

Before he could regain his breath, an enormous wave flooded over the top of him, shoving him down. Garth tried to swim to the surface, flailing his arms. Breaking free, he drew in a mouthful of saltwater and coughed it up just as another wave struck, pulling him farther out. The undertow grabbed at his ankles, sweeping his feet from under him, and ran with him.

Garth didn't know what to do. He bobbed back into the air and sun, thrashing about. He couldn't even see the shore with his burning eyes, didn't know which direction to go. A foamy wave slapped him in the face, blinding him. He went under again.

Garth shouted for help, but his voice was choked and the sea rumbled far too loudly for anyone to hear. He broke the surface, gasping, and swallowed another mouthful. Daylight seemed to have disappeared.

The undertow pulled him down again, deeper this time. All he could see was a blue-green storm that faded to black. . . .

The Emergency Medical Technicians roared onto the beach, their hovercars blasting a whirlwind of sand. Techs ripped equipment from storage compartments and plugged into remote COM links, requesting status and information.

Assisted by three panting surfers using jet-boards, teams dragged Garth's flopping body to shore. When they spilled him onto the wet sand, he still twitched. A crowd had gathered, children staring wide-eyed next to their parents. The techs shouted a rapid-fire rush of commands, questions, and answers. One peeled up his eyelid, then rolled him over, trying to expel water from his lungs.

The medical techs focused their remote uplinks, powerpacks, and diagnostic systems. Brushing caked sand away, they slapped electrodes onto Garth's clammy skin. Automatic analyzers and probes dipped needles into his bloodstream while the techs stood back to let COM do the complicated work.

Garth swam in black velvet, a zero-gravity environment that left him with no worries. He saw no one else, heard no sound, experienced a total absence of sensations. Until he saw a pinprick of light far in the distance.

The spark grew steadily larger, coming toward him until it formed a bright apparition of Soft Stone herself, her bald head shining, her glowing face as blunt featured as he remembered it. But her smile was softer than he had seen in some time, her skin luminous.

“You can't stay here, little Swan.” Her voice was quiet, but it filled the blackness around him. “This place isn't for you.”

In Garth's befuddled state, the presence of his long-dead teacher seemed perfectly reasonable. “But how do I get out? I don't know where I am, and I don't know the way back.”

“Why, use the door,” she said. “It's right behind you.”

He turned and found himself before a massive wooden door that bristled with ornate carvings. He recognized it as the door from the Falling Leaves.

“Go on,” Soft Stone said. “Right out there. That's where you belong.”

Not daring to question the monk's orders, Garth grasped the handle. He opened the door.

And opened his eyes.

“There he is,” one of the medical techs shouted, looking up from the COM diagnostics.

Sunlight burned into his still-unfocused eyes. He coughed, then retched, then turned his face sideways as a stomachful of lukewarm seawater spewed from his mouth. The techs helped ease him to a sitting position. Garth's muscles seized up. His knees drew toward his chest, his abdomen spasming.

A black static of unconsciousness fluttered around his field of vision, only to retreat again. He heard the pounding surf like a scolding whisper in his ears. The sunlight was very, very bright, dazzling on the sands.

The other tech, calm and professional, began plucking the electrodes and analyzers, yanking needles out of Garth's flesh. “You're lucky we received the call when we did. We got here immediately and gave you treatment, thanks to COM. You only had about a three-minute window.”

“Thank you,” Garth croaked. He couldn't think of anything else to say, but that phrase seemed appropriate. He looked around himself, still disoriented, expecting to see Soft Stone herself standing among the people on the beach. If he had almost died, surely she would have come to be there with him. . . .

Perhaps she had indeed been there, in her own way. Soft Stone's image and her words had been vivid in his mind, but it must have been a near-death hallucination, something he had subconsciously wanted to see during the last flickers of his life.

Shaking off the disorientation, Garth huddled on the beach trying to get warm. Despite the bright Hawaiian sunshine, his skin felt icy.

While the first technician hauled the equipment back to the hover rescue vehicle, the other gave Garth a powerful stimulant injection and attached a tiny, temporary cardiomonitor to his chest. “We've got to keep your heartbeat regulated to bring you back to normal.”

Garth hung his head in his hands as thoughts reeled around him. He'd traveled to Waimea to see new things, to collect exotic sights and landscapes and details that he could add to his artwork. Instead, he had come face-to-face with his mortality.

He had almost died because of his stupidity, blindly walking into danger just because it had looked interesting. He hadn't intended to put himself at such risk, hadn't meant to be a daredevil—he'd just been foolish. Life was such a transient thing, a thread so thin it could easily be snapped.

As he sat shuddering, it became clear to him how trivial his own quest for inspiration had been. He had to do more than just visit pretty landscapes. He must work harder at understanding
people
if he ever intended to produce art that would have an impact on humanity.

Garth understood now why his art exhibition had been such a failure. The lack of publicity had been only the first weakness; the superficial art itself hadn't drawn in the crowds. He thought back to the works he considered his masterpieces, but now they seemed bland and derivative—images that were captured, yet not tamed. Not interpreted. He'd been showing only
external
things. No depth, no point, no
heart.
He hadn't infused it with a “soul,” with any part of himself.

Still shaky, Garth got to his feet, feeling the stimulants coursing through him. His body was alive again, but his mind would never be the same. He looked up and down the beach, saw the people standing around. There were no longer any surfers risking themselves for the fun of it. His ordeal had been a shock to all of them.

Garth brushed glittering sand off his arms and chest, then coughed again. His mouth tasted terrible. He wondered who had sent the alarm to the emergency crews, how the medical techs had known to come so quickly. But the techs were packed up and already leaving, the crowd was dispersing. A few brave souls ventured back into the water, but no one approached him. No one claimed responsibility for saving his life.

Bystanders stared at Garth, and he discovered that he was not embarrassed by this attention, or resentful of it. Instead, he studied the people in return, tried to understand who they were and why they reacted the way they did. Now that he was alive again, truly alive, the world and its people seemed even more interesting to him.

All of a sudden, it seemed so clear to him what he needed to do to capture the essence of
what it meant to be human.
It was not enough just to see everything . . . he had to
be
everything. And the ability to hopscotch gave him an opportunity that artists throughout history hadn't had. Garth decided to embark upon a quest that would change his life and set him on a course of exploration for years to come. He would report to Mordecai Ob, then he would tell his friends.

He didn't really comprehend anything about humanity after all.
But he would learn.

24

The Sharetakers' money problems
did not go away, and Rhys followed Teresa around the togetherments, pressuring her to ask her friends. “Why are you so resistant? If this guy Eduard is interested in your well-being, you should be able to talk him into helping us out. And that artist you keep seeing—Garth?—how many credits does he have?”

“Oh, Rhys, they're not even members of our group.” A few workers continued dismantling walls even after dark, converting rooms into open areas. Everything was public, everyone in plain sight. Teresa had no place to hide. “I gave the Sharetakers everything I own. I did whatever you asked, because I want to be part of this enclave. But Eduard and Garth shouldn't be expected—”

When she tried to walk away, looking for something important to do, Rhys grabbed her small bicep so hard that his fingers made painful indentations. “Give me a break, Teresa! You told me Eduard has a plush job, working for some rich man. What could he possibly need all his credits for? The Sharetakers could certainly use the money here. Don't we deserve it?” Rhys frowned at her. “If your friend really cares for you, he would help you out. Help
us
out.”

She pulled her thin arm from his grasp, but this body felt so tiny, so easily overpowered. “That's not the way a real friendship works, Rhys.”

Certainly some of the other recruits would have better prospects for raising money, but Rhys hounded Teresa in particular. Now, though, being “special” had degenerated into a nightmare.

After so many months of obstinate optimism, Teresa finally began to see the redheaded leader more clearly. Rhys often went out of his way to push her buttons, as if trying to provoke her. His abusive tendencies had been growing more and more apparent, but Teresa was so accommodating, so eager to please, that she often slipped past his wrath—and that made Rhys angrier still.

She kept hoping she could fix him. Perhaps he didn't even know he was doing it, and she could make him see what was happening. “Rhys, all the Sharetakers give what we can . . . but forcing me to pressure other people, that goes against our philosophy. Don't you see?”

His face turned a dark red. “You're talking to
me
about my own philosophy? You think you understand it better? You're just a follower, Teresa, and not even one of the brighter ones—”

As she watched his anger escalate, Teresa tried again, more careful now. “Oh, Rhys, please calm down. I know how much you've done for the group. We know how hard you think, how tough it is to run the enclave.” She lowered her already small voice. “All Sharetakers are partners, equals—you don't need to resort to power plays with me, or with any of us.”

Inside the open togetherments, the Sharetakers could hear everything she said—and Rhys was acutely aware of the fact. As she tried to be reasonable, Teresa felt many eyes on them, dozens of spectators observing a confrontation. “Rhys, if we need credits, I could bring some work here into the enclave. I've done a few jobs searching COM, and there's always somebody looking to hire those services. We could set up some COM terminals in here, link up to the whole network. Other members have experience, too, don't you think? We could farm out for odd consulting jobs, do outside work. We could get a very good price on a dozen or so filmscreens—”

Instead of being convinced, though, Rhys reacted as if this were the last straw. “No COM terminals!” Teresa flinched. She could feel the heat on his skin. “They spy on everything.”

Teresa took a small step away from him. “Rhys, it was just a suggestion. I was only trying to help.”

“I'm sick of your useless
trying.
Always trying, never doing.” He shoved her away from him, and she stumbled backward, disoriented in her waifish body. He took her fall as an affront. “I didn't push you that hard! Get up.”

Rhys jerked her to her feet, yanking her thin arm hard. “Please stop it, Rhys. You're hurting me.”

“Don't be such a weakling. Always whining, always finding excuses not to do your share.” Teresa honestly didn't know what he was talking about, how he could have imagined such failings in her.

In the adjoining areas of the togetherment, Sharetakers stopped their work. Teresa looked at some of the familiar faces, questioning—but when she turned her gaze, the moment he wasn't the full and complete center of her attention, Rhys slapped her hard across the cheek.

“Look at me, dammit! This is between us, not you and them.”

Her skin burned. “Leave me alone, Rhys! I'm doing everything—” She raised her hands, but that provoked him to hit her harder.

“You're doing
nothing.
You yourself are nothing. You're just sponging off the hard work the rest of us are doing.”

“That's not true!” Biting back a cry of pain, she pulled, trying to break free. With a wicked grin, Rhys let go of her arm just as she tugged. She sprawled backward, hitting her head against the remnants of the nearest wall.

Two Sharetaker workers scurried away, looking sidelong at Rhys. No one helped her.

“Now look at what you've done!” He stepped closer and kicked her in the hip. Not hard—but he was just warming up. “Not only have you upset me, but you're interrupting the work routine, disturbing other members.”

She rolled away, trying to get her footing again.

“What have you been telling them when I'm not here to listen?” His eyes blazed. “Distorting Sharetaker philosophy? We welcomed you into the enclave as one of us, and this is how you repay me? For all the love I've given you?”

“But Rhys, I never said—”

He cuffed her so hard that blood trickled from a cracked lip. No matter what she said, what she did, his reaction darkened, like a tiny pattering of pebbles building to an avalanche. Rhys's words weren't even meant for her: they were intended for the Sharetaker audience around him. He was performing now, putting Teresa in her place.

With a sick feeling that hurt even more than the physical blows, she recalled the previous disenchanted members who had spoken against Rhys—and how they had been ostracized and forcibly evicted. She had never thought it would happen to her.

Trying to get up, Teresa felt a sharp pain in her wrist. Rhys lashed out once more, kicking hard this time. She folded. In the wonderful open environment of the Sharetakers' quarters, she had no doors to lock, no place of safety.

She got to her knees and began to crawl away, but Rhys hit her in the small of the back with his bunched fist. “You're not welcome here anymore, Teresa!”

Her arms and legs gave out, spilling her flat on the floor. She looked around her for some sort of support. “Help me!”

The Sharetakers backed away. They looked uncertainly at Rhys for instruction, then glowered at her. “. . . never appreciated what we do around here.”

“. . . always clinging to Rhys . . .”

“. . . what did she bring to the group?”

The floor and the archways reeled around her, and Teresa could barely keep her balance. She eventually made it to the half-wall, leaving a blood smear on its freshly painted white surface.

The believers sided with Rhys, their leader, and left her out of their circle. Teresa could see it in their eyes—these people with whom she'd lived, shared, and swapped bodies over and over again. Now they bore the faces of strangers.
Strangers.

Rhys found one of the small hammers among some tools in a corner. He picked it up and slapped the heavy black head against his palm.

Finally, full-fledged panic overwhelmed her. Teresa lurched away, but through a haze of tears and sweat and blood she couldn't see where she was going. She turned in fear to look at Rhys one more time—just as he tossed the hammer at her. Teresa dodged sideways so that the hammerhead only clipped her collarbone. She heard the dry bamboo
snap
inside herself as the bone broke cleanly.

A surge of adrenaline muffled the nerve-shouts of pain. She looked through a red-black curtain of near-unconsciousness to see Rhys just standing there, watching her. The thrown hammer could have crushed her skull—could have
killed
her—and he had not missed on purpose.

Now he let her go with no more than a smug smile for farewell.

Battered, Teresa fled, forced to take slow lifters and stairs, while her tormentors slid down firepoles to reach the street level and cut her off. Blood tasted salty and metallic in her mouth. Her sides ached with broken-glass pain.

She just wanted to be far away, beyond the reach of the Sharetakers. Teresa would have to take the body she was wearing now, small and waifish and broken. The believers followed her, hurling insults, increasing the pain with their cruel taunts. In a few moments they might even turn into a mob, and she would never get out alive.

Badly injured, both physically and psychologically, Teresa knew of one place she could go, someone with resources who would welcome her and help her, no matter what.

Disoriented, she reeled toward the enclave doorway. She would run to Eduard for help.