—19—
When Daragon went for his weekly meeting with Mordecai Ob, he wore his trim uniform with pride. Newly commissioned Inspector, Grade I. The two men would discuss pending cases and, frequently, Daragon’s triumphs in having solved difficult investigations, not just through using his “special” skill, but with intuitive brilliance, cleverness, and hard work.
As he stepped into the ornate underwater office, though, Daragon noticed immediately that his mentor was disturbed and contemplative. Summary stacks, hardcopy memos, and evidence files of investigations-in-progress lay piled around him, covering winking message lights embedded in his desk. Chief Ob sat staring into the gas fireplace, where silent flames forever struggled to consume silica-polymer logs.
“What’s wrong, sir? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Ob blinked at him in surprise, then he flashed a warm smile. “Do you now have the talent to read into troubled hearts, as well as just spotting identities?”
Daragon stood at attention. “I just try to be perceptive, sir.”
“Never mind, it has nothing to do with the Bureau.” Ob picked up a printout and scanned it. “Time to get back to work.”
“Sir, all aspects of your life concern the Bureau—especially if they impact your ability to function here.”
The man’s muscular shoulders sagged, but his voice had a hint of bemusement. “That sounds like something I would tell my best trainee.”
Daragon wondered if the Chief was experiencing more doubts about giving up his dreams to become an artist. He had seemed delighted with the philanthropic opportunity to aid Garth—he even had one of Garth’s paintings hanging on his BTL office wall—but occasionally Ob sulked with personal disappointment and regret. “Is it about Garth?” he asked.
“No … no, I’m quite happy with your friend and his ambition.” Using a control on the desktop, the Chief turned the flames down. “I know it probably sounds like a trivial problem, but I’ve recently lost access to my personal caretaker, and I need a replacement. Someone to keep my body in shape while I’m too busy with Bureau work.” He flexed his arm, gripping the bicep with his other hand. “I find that having my body kept fit sharpens my mind, but I don’t have time to do it myself.”
Daragon’s mind was already working. “What type of person, exactly, are you looking for, sir?”
“I won’t entrust my body to just anyone.” Ob folded his big hands in front of him. “I need someone honest and reliable to do my workout for me, while I devote my energy to administering the BTL.”
Daragon clasped his hands behind his back, standing tall and covering his excitement. This could be a chance to repay the great man for all he had done—and also help Eduard. “I may have just the right person for you, if you’ll let me suggest another one of my friends?”
Daragon waited in plain sight in the open-air bistro, scanning the street crowd. His Inspector’s uniform seemed to intimidate the customers around him. He pulled up the sleeve of his dark uniform and glanced at his watch. Already twenty minutes late. But then, free-spirited Eduard had never been a punctual sort of person, unless he was meeting a client for a swap.
He had no idea what body Eduard would be wearing when he came, but Daragon would recognize his old friend by his inner presence. He fixed his gaze on an old man hobbling toward the coffee shop. With his fluttering other-sight, he could make out the colorful core he knew to be Eduard, even without checking his ID patch.
Daragon waved to signal him over. Eduard approached with exceedingly cautious steps. His back was hunched, and his skin had a rough and leprous appearance. With a heavy sigh, he slumped into the chair as if someone had severed the puppet strings to his arms and legs.
“Look at you, Eduard.” Daragon shook his head in dismay. “What are you doing to yourself?”
Eduard waved a swollen-knuckled hand. “Some old guy had a hot date. Limited term. I’ll get my home-body back this evening.”
When the waiter came over, Daragon ordered a spiced drink, and Eduard asked for herb tea. “This body can’t handle too much caffeine. The digestive system is pretty much shot.”
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself. How often do you hopscotch? How many times a week?”
“Depends on how many clients I get.”
“Aren’t you worried about slippage? Too much swapping with too many different people, and you could end up … gone.”
Eduard shrugged, a marionette movement of his bony shoulders. “I’ve heard talk about it, but never anything but second-hand rumors. There’s no proof, no medical evidence.”
“So it can’t affect you?”
“Not if I don’t let it.”
“You’re whistling past the graveyard.” Daragon leaned forward conspiratorially. “Listen, I’ve got something much better for you.”
Eduard crossed liver-spotted arms over a sunken chest, annoyed at his friend’s scolding. “You mean, turn me into some kind of experimental subject for the Beetles?”
Daragon stiffened. “Why do you assume only bad things about the Bureau? If you only knew how much time I spend looking out for you and Garth, and even Teresa, whenever she leaves the Sharetakers’ enclave. We watch out for abuses of power and spotlight the dangers inherent in unregulated hopscotching.” Even to him, it sounded like rehearsed propaganda. “People are too tempted to sell their bodies, their lives.”
“Like me, you mean?”
Eduard gave him a teasing smile, but Daragon responded with a hard look. “You were glad enough for my help with Madame Ruxton’s lawyers.”
Eduard pursed his wrinkled lips, softening his voice. “Granted. I appreciate that. Sorry if I insulted you.” His sagging old face gave a very youthful-looking smile and he tried to salvage the mood. “Hey, this isn’t a conversation that friends have. I haven’t seen you in months.”
Daragon nodded apologetically. “Please let me make you an offer. It’s an opportunity I think you’ll like.”
While Daragon outlined his plan with a rising voice and enthusiasm, Eduard watched his friend skeptically. The waiter came with their drinks, and Eduard picked up his tea with shaking hands and took a quick gulp. “The whole thing sounds … interesting, but I’ve got some reservations. Remember how your precious Bureau tried to take over the Falling Leaves? They aren’t always shining knights on white horses.”
Taking this as a veiled criticism, Daragon shifted uncomfortably, very conscious of his own uniform. “Eduard, wouldn’t it be a better job than being sick in someone else’s body? Undergoing surgery for a coward?”
Eduard sipped his herb tea, trying not to show how much this crumbling body pained him. “All right, I’ll go and meet this Mordecai Ob. If he’s done so much for you, and for Garth, he must be a good man. I’ll hear what he has to say.” He pressed a hand to the small of his back as he stood up. “Doing this crap is getting to be a pain.”
They took a hydro-skimmer out to the BTL Headquarters. Back in his home-body again, Eduard looked around in the sunlight on the refurbished oil-drilling platform. The salt wind ruffled his hair. “Nice place. Not much of a tourist attraction, is it?”
“The Bureau rarely allows outside visitors. I had to get special permission for you.” Eduard pretended to be impressed, but Daragon wasn’t fooled. He just hoped his cocky friend would make a good impression on Mordecai Ob.
Down in the richly decorated office, the Bureau Chief had cleared his desk, turned on the fireplace, and set out an extra seat for Eduard’s benefit. Daragon spotted the subtle differences, pleased that his mentor was trying to make a good show.
Ob extended a large hand and took Eduard’s in his grip. “Very pleased to meet you, Eduard.” He gestured for the guest to sit in the new chair. “Daragon tells me I should hire you as my new personal caretaker, and so far, I have found his advice to be invaluable.”
Daragon’s heart warmed.
Eduard made himself comfortable in the formal chair. He crossed one leg over his knee, brushed the smooth armrest. “So tell me what this position entails, Mr. Ob. It sounds interesting from the way my friend describes it.”
Ob put his elbows on his desk. “I insist on remaining in shape, but I don’t have the time or the inclination to put in the necessary effort. Your sole job will be to exercise my body. That’s all. Several times a week, we will swap bodies for a few hours and you will go jogging and swimming. You’ll do calisthenics, you’ll eat healthy food while you’re in my body. Meanwhile, I’ll do my business in your body and get my work done without wasting time for a workout.”
“I can waste time for you,” Eduard said with what he hoped was a winning smile. “Anything else?”
“I may need your body in other, rare circumstances. Sometimes, because I am so recognizable as the Bureau Chief, I prefer to go out in public looking a little more anonymous.”
“Anonymous, that’s me. No problem.” Eduard folded his arms over his chest, playing the tough negotiator now. “And the pay will be … ?”
“Substantial. I’ll also arrange for guest quarters so you can live on my estate, in case I need you at an odd hour.”
“That’s a tall order,” Eduard said, covering his excitement. He couldn’t believe the opportunity. It sounded too good to be true.
Impatient, Daragon reproved his friend. “Eduard, you couldn’t get a better job than this.”
Eduard took a deep breath, clearly pleased with how his own body felt. He gazed across the polished desk, noting Mordecai Ob’s muscular physique. “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind doing my job in someone else’s healthy body for a change, instead of just gritting my teeth until it’s time to swap back.”
“Absolutely,” Daragon said, very pleased to be the mediator. “This is a great deal for all concerned.”
Eduard and Mordecai Ob shook hands, making the arrangement official.