Kevin J. Anderson - Hopscotch

For BRIAN HERBERT

Without his help and friendship in stretching my own creative abilities, I could never have managed such an ambitious project. Working with him has made me a much better writer.

As night fell, the city fractured into a kaleidoscope of lights, like neon sparklers reflecting from rain-washed faades. Unabashedly garish, Club Masquerade hosted a dazzling assembly of humanity new people, old people, everyone wearing a different body for the evening.

Outside the entrance to the Club, lighted sidewalk panels flashed patterns, numbers inside squares illuminated by each pressing footstep. A gimmick. Split doorways led into tailored environment chambers: a British Empire Safari Club, a discotheque with mirror balls and strobe lights, a rustic Sequoia Room, an Arabian harem with colorful rugs and sweet perfumes, a domed Martian colony chamber with red rock and thermal springs.

The specialized alcoves opened into the main interior of Club Masquerade, a wild environment of lights, music, exotic food, and unusual people. ID patches worked overtime to keep track of who was who, which mind in which body. Sometimes the people had trouble sorting it all out in the morning.

A person could be anyone or anything here, for a limited time provided the desired body type was available. Pick a physique, swap with someone, wear it for a while, see if you like it.

Garth Swans home-body always looked the same, except when he was on the hunt for new artistic inspiration: broad shoulders, blond hair, blue eyes. Certainly nothing hed want to change for the long term. His shirt bore paint stains, charcoal and chalk dust, a smear of still-moving glittergel. To him, the people in Club Masquerade were a catalogue of humanity. Inspiration.

He looked up at the Clubs chaotic Hopscotch Board, aglow with swapportunities, people wanting to rent a muscular body for a few days of hard labor, old men and women willing to pay for a weeks vacation in a young and healthy physique, the usual sex ads searching for a two-night stand, once as a male, once as a female, or a blur of alternations before, during, and after.

At first he didnt recognize Teresa as she dodged across the floor. Today, her build was broad hipped and Rubenesque, her hair rusty auburn, her eyes green-blue. Her clothes were drab, loose fitting, as if they could have been worn by anyone... and probably were. She often joined small religious groups or philosophical communes, trying to find someplace to belong. Her latest group didnt seem to value individuality. But Garth certainly did, and he hugged her warmly.

The third friend, Eduard, looked tired from the hell he kept putting himself through, making a fast buck by swapping his body to endure unpleasant experiences surgeries, colds, dentist appointments for people who would pay to avoid the misery. He came in late, as usual, but his expression lit up when he found Teresa and Garth.

All three of them had grown up together, fellow orphan Swans in the Falling Leaves monastery. Garth assessed him in an instant, using an artists eye for details. At least Eduard used his hard-won money to buy stylish clothes to fit his dark-haired home-body.

Eduard pounded Garths broad back, then he took Teresa into a softer, more intimate embrace. He touched a new bruise that seeped through the makeup and freckles on Teresas rounded cheek. Whats this?

Oh, nothing, she said quickly. And its not mine, anyway. The last person who had this body got hurt.

Eduard brushed his lips to the bruise. Better?

Always.

They went to a private table Garth had chosen, surrounded by the white noise of conversations. Taking charge, he waved at the cybernetic bartenders image on the tablescreen. Hey, Bernard. The usual here, please.

A lump of flesh, all that remained of Bernard Rovins original body, remained inside a windowless control room at the heart of the building, but cybernetic substations kept the bartenders eyes and ears and automatic hands wandering throughout the Club. By now, he was more than familiar with the preferences of his regular customers, and within moments their preferred drinks appeared from dispensers.

I hate being predictable. Eduard reached over to switch his usual drink with Garths foamy dark beer instead. It could be dangerous.

Garth looked dubiously at the slushy blue concoction Eduard usually drank, now that he was stuck with it. Teresa was amused by his discomfiture. Youre always looking for new experiences, arent you, Garth? Drinking blue cocktail things will add to your artistic repertoire.

On the floor of the Club, several dancers moved slowly, carefully, trying to adjust to new heights, new weights, new degrees of muscle control. On one of the floating platforms, a scarecrow-thin man stumbled backward and fell comically on his butt. The short, large-breasted woman next to him moved with awkward, marionette movements as she hurried to help him.

Eduard chuckled. There should be a law against letting people dance unless theyve had at least an hour to settle into their new bodies.

Garth took another sip of his friends blue drink, tasted crackling sweetness that burned his tongue. This is tolerable, once your taste buds go dead.

Teresa turned to the blond artist. So what do you find inspirational these days?

Garths eyes lit up as he talked about his passion in life. Still trying to understand it all, but theres so much. For example, Im starting to wonder what it would feel like to be pregnant and deliver a baby. He pursed his lips, thinking out loud. Of course, that would require a long-term swap for at least the last month to get the full experience. And it wouldnt be easy to find a body Id want to live in for that long.

Especially not a pregnant one, Teresa said.

Eduard rolled his eyes. Artists! Who can understand them?

Teresa looked at him with amusement mixed with maternal concern. This, from a man who gets paid to undergo surgery for other people? Who swaps bodies to sit through someone elses dental appointment?

He sipped the beer he had taken from Garth, frowned, then traded drinks again. Hey, Ive got to make a living. It beats joining the Bureau, like Daragon.

Teresa brightened at hearing the young mans name. Daragon Swan had grown up with the three of them as wards of the Splinter monks, but he had joined the powerful Bureau of Tracing and Locations, the BTL. He should be almost finished with his training by now. I should check on him to make sure hes okay.

I wonder if he spies on us. Eduard flicked his dark eyes from side to side in a comically paranoid furtive glance. Its what Beetles do.

Teresa rested her chin in her hands. Oh, Im sure Daragon thinks of it as keeping an eye on his friends.

And lucky for us, if we ever get into trouble, Garth said.

The music swirled into a new mix, and the surrounding conversation grew louder. Three effete faux-intelligentsia at a nearby table continued an argument with much gusto and little actual information. A narrow-faced young man waved a pungent purple cigarette back and forth.

There are other precedents in mental development. Way back at the dawn of time, the human race went through a bicameral revolution, when our minds split into left and right hemispheres. He took a long drag from his purple cigarette with finality and a smug expression. This is simply another evolutionary step, our consciousnesses becoming detachable from our physical brains. The soul living by itself, interchangeable from physical host to host. Id say its a leap forward for the human species.