Hopscotch (27 page)

50

After seeing
Juanita Cole's debut exhibition, Garth felt another extremely talented artist breathing down his neck. It reminded him that he wouldn't be on top forever, jolted him with a sudden drive. He didn't want to lose a valuable moment. “Pashnak! It's time to reclaim some lost glory. Enough sitting around.”

The assistant loved to see the renewed enthusiasm after Garth's recent malaise. The artist had rushed through L
OSS
, put it into the exhibition hall that had contracted for his next work, then plunged into a new project. Garth bustled out of the studio, his hands scrubbed and wet.

“Set up a meeting with Stradley—he needs to start earning his commissions again.” Though still a commercial success, L
OSS
had drawn smaller crowds than the previous three works, and it had turned the artist's attention to composing a biting commentary on another side of human nature, A
PATHY
. “He's been resting on our laurels for too damned long.”

Pashnak contacted the hype-meister's offices, requesting a conference. When his image sprang into focus, Stradley spoke without even taking a breath. “Is Garth finished with it yet? Please tell me that's what you're calling about. We've got people already waiting.”

“He's working like a maniac, Mr. Stradley. He asked me to set up an appointment with you. He wants to discuss some of the promotional efforts.”

Stradley frowned. “I hate it when creative types worry about business matters.” He glanced off to the side of the screen, already distracted by another emergency, another opportunity. “All right, send him around this afternoon. Three o'clock.”

“He'll appreciate this, Mr. Stradley.”

“Well, I'd appreciate it more if he spent his time working on his exhibition instead of talking with me. I'm the one who's supposed to be doing the talking.”

Ideas bubbled in Garth's head as he waited in the lobby while the hype-meister finished last-minute arrangements for another client. The receptionist gave him a fizzy orange drink without being asked.

Stradley finally gestured for him to enter. Garth plopped into the self-form chair in front of the desk. Message lights blinked; handwritten notes lay draped on image cubes or tacked to the wall next to gaudy tropical images. Three COM filmscreens blazed at the same time, chewing through different subject-searches.

Garth rubbed his hands together. “After L
OSS
, I think we need to figure out a different strategy to make more waves when the new work comes out—”

“Garth, I should warn you I've got a busy afternoon.” Stradley looked pointedly at the chaos of ongoing plans scattered about his office. “You should remember too that Mr. Ob is no longer footing the bill for my services, nor is he able to apply BTL pressure on me.”

“Excuse me?” He stiffened. “I know Mr. Ob's patronage might have helped me get attention at first, but my exhibitions have been successful enough to line a lot of pockets. After all the commissions I've given you, I'd think you could spare a few minutes to talk about my career, my comeback.”

“Comeback? I didn't know you ever left the limelight. Sure, the L
OSS
numbers dipped a bit, but so what? You're on solid enough ground.”

“But I want to keep building, not take a step backward. We're going to have to continue pushing the envelope.”

The hype-meister sighed, as if perfectly familiar with the way this conversation was going to go. “Look, Garth, you're not the only client I have, and you're not the only client who makes me money. Right now, I just landed a hot follow-up contract for Juanita Cole that's going to require most of my resources. I don't have a whole lot of extra energy at this time.”

Garth reeled as if a bomb had just dropped on him. Folding his hands across his desk, shoving notes aside, Stradley explained in an oh-so-sincere voice, “I know what you're thinking, what you're feeling. I've seen a lot of careers.”

“Including mine.”

“Including yours. Every client is a challenge, every prospect a conquest to be made. But once the conquest is over, I've got to move on to take the next hill, develop a new property, make a new star.”

Garth frowned at him. “So, since my works are already sought after, you're no longer interested in hyping me?”

Stradley forcibly kept his hands folded in front of him so he wouldn't fidget or sort through unwanted messages. “It's already done, the battle won. I don't want to sit around and milk past accomplishments. What's the challenge? That isn't what I do.”

The receptionist popped her head through the doorway, signaling Stradley, but he waved her off. Garth wondered if the interruption had been staged.
Give me ten minutes, then tell me I've got an important call. . . .
“What more do you want, Garth? You're already on top of the world.”

“But I'm not
done.”
He thumped the heel of his palm on the free-form chair to keep it from making him too comfortable. “We've already got the public's attention, and we have to punch them in the gut harder than ever before!”

“And how are you going to make yourself interesting? Forgive the joke, my friend, but do you really expect the consumer base to be interested in a work called A
PATHY
?” Stradley looked at him as if he were incredibly dense. “You're
famous,
Garth—get that through your head! Your work will never be ignored. Critics and viewers will come without being dragged. Publicity runs on autopilot for you. Juanita Cole is the one who needs my help right now. She's the skyrocket.”

Garth clenched his teeth, tasting sour orange from the fizzy drink he had finished while waiting. “So you just put my career on a shelf while you chase after another star.”

Stradley shook his head, and for the first time Garth saw real emotion behind the publicist's eyes. “Why do you think you need my services at all anymore, Garth? I'm helping someone else get to the level you're already at. I was there for you when you needed it, and now Juanita needs it a lot more than you do. She's my challenge and my passion—and in a few years, no doubt, I'll be having this same discussion with her, too.” He sighed and mumbled to himself, “Artists! They never learn.”

Feeling lost and disappointed, Garth stood, ready to leave. Stradley pawed through his gathered messages. “Look, Garth—Juanita's coming for a meeting in just a few minutes. I'd like you to meet her. You've seen her show, right? It would be a good idea for you two to talk. She's experienced your work, too, and was very impressed by it.”

Confusion buzzed around Garth. He backed toward the door. “No . . . no, sorry. Not interested.”

Stradley crossed his arms. “What are you afraid of?”

“Afraid? No, that's not it. I've got to get back to work.”

Stradley flicked his head back and forth as he scanned all three of his COM screens. “We're pushing the deadline on your new show, and it's got to be finished on time. Even if it is A
PATHY
. Don't lose the brownie points you've earned from the past exhibitions.”

Garth departed from the hype-meister's offices. Juanita Cole was due to arrive at any moment, and he left in a hurry so he wouldn't risk meeting her.

51

Being so close
to capture, for so long, made Eduard feel even more alive. Every moment passed with heightened awareness, deeper suspicion, faster reflexes . . . and frazzled nerves. He had to pay attention to
everything.

But the stranger who reached out for him from the dim alley was a real master at stealth. The man touched his arm, and Eduard leaped aside, ready to whirl and fight, if necessary.

“Whoa, I'm not one of
them!”
the man snapped in a whisper. “Don't make a scene. Someone will notice.”

Eduard had learned the danger of drawing attention to himself. He froze. “What do you want?”

“Been watching you, rabbit. Come on, I want to save you—and protect myself.” The man had an average body, plain clothes, unremarkable features, and very, very bright eyes. “You're good, but not good enough.”

Grasping Eduard's elbow, the stranger led him toward the alley's private dimness. “You've got the potential to be one of
us.
Potential. But they're huntin' hard, and you could make it come crashing down. Can't let that happen. Gotta teach you what you've gotten yourself into, otherwise you muck it up.”

Eduard had acquired the narrow-eyed, skeptical gaze of a combat-weary jungle soldier, attuned to peripheral vision, senses heightened for anything out of the ordinary. He followed, but kept his distance. “You have no idea who I am. If you knew, you'd call the Beetles without a second thought.”

“Well, that's my other option, if you prove to be too dumb to be trained.” The stranger waited as a cluster of laughing athletes walked past on the nearby street, jostling each other. “You're Eduard, right? One of them Swans from the Splinter monastery?” He flashed his bright, bright eyes. “Must be crazy even to talk to a rabbit as hot as you. This manhunt has made my life a living hell, but I may as well show you what you're doing wrong. Live longer, both of us.”

Eduard found it hard to restrain himself. “I haven't done too badly alone.”

“One mistake can screw up everything. Just like your little mistake with Chief Ob. Or was that something you did on purpose?”

Eduard stared at him in disbelief. The man found this greatly amusing, and he laughed without making a sound. “I don't have any particular love for the BTL—especially not Mordecai Ob, so in a way you've done me quite a favor.” He glanced around, found a relatively clean spot in a recessed doorway, and squatted against the wall. “Do you know what I am?”

Eduard refused to lower his guard. “A crazy old man?”

Angry, the stranger jabbed a finger at Eduard. “I'm a
Phantom.
The only one you're ever likely to see.”

Eduard caught his breath. “A real Phantom? How old are you?”

“Spent the last two centuries outrunnin' death. By my reckoning, I'm two hundred and thirty-seven years old. Does that count as a real Phantom?” The man spread his hands wide. “I call myself Artemis, though it's probably high time to change that name again. Guess it'll do for the moment.”

“And what do you know of Bureau Chief Ob?”

“I know that
Inspector
Ob almost caught me twenty years back. Closest I've ever come to having my balls clipped. I stole the body of some starving young artist, didn't know who she was, but Ob took it as a personal insult, came after me like an express train. Took me months to muddy the trail enough to shake him. For decades I've been hiding while Ob climbed the Bureau ladder.” He grinned. “But which one of us is still standing, eh?”

“Twenty years ago? And you think the Beetles are still after you?” Eduard couldn't believe it. “Does the word
paranoia
mean anything to you?”

Artemis glowered at him. “I know how to spot 'em, even with all their tricks. Here, let me show you one little thing that'll make you a believer. A true believer.” He scuttled off down the alley without looking over his shoulder, confident that Eduard would follow. He did.

Artemis ducked into a small street, where they went through the side entrance of a clothing shop. From there, the man took a lifter to the third level and across to an open food court.

“Go to those benches near the window and look outside onto the streets. Don't worry—the glass is mirrorized. I already checked. The only thing they can see is a reflection.”

“Who? Who can see?”

“Just look, rabbit!”

Feeling a sudden chill, Eduard peered through the broad window. Hovercars passed in interleaved lanes, people walked below, businesses went about their daily activities. Cloud shadows dappled the buildings. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Pretty good, isn't it?” Artemis leaned close to his ear. His breath smelled of onions. “Look at that man on the corner, handin' out sandwich tokens.” He tapped the glass. “Does he really fit? And that woman holdin' blue balloons? Gotta know the crowd, see the patterns, understand how it all works, so you can pick out sharks ripplin' through the currents.”

Artemis continued to point out unsettling details—a furtive man here, a too-casual person there. Eduard saw nothing compelling about any individual example, and he began to suspect the Phantom's overactive imagination.

Until he spotted
Daragon.

He was wearing a sport jacket, muted plaid shirt, casual pants—but his facial features, his dark hair and almond eyes, remained the same. Daragon had disguised himself as a solitary businessman on lunch break, trying to be unobtrusive. Eduard gasped and drew back from the window.

Artemis patted his shoulder paternally. “Now do you see it? I saved you from a setup, a stakeout. You owe me, rabbit.”

Eduard walked unsteadily back into the food court. He wanted to get away, but he didn't dare go out into the streets. He had swapped bodies since the last time the Beetles had almost caught him, and he had lost his own identity on his ID patch—but Daragon had his uncanny ability to see someone's real persona. The Inspector needed only to get a glimpse of him. . . .

“Whoa, careful, careful,” the Phantom whispered, catching up to him in the food court. The smells of hot oil and condiments cluttered the air. “Don't call attention to yourself.”

Eduard skewered him with a stare. “How did you know?”

“Survival.” Artemis laughed. “You don't stay on the run for so many decades without being able to spot somethin' like that.”

They glided through the ever-shifting crowd, making no waves. A woman in a gray suit set down two wrapped sandwiches on an empty table, then headed toward a napkin dispenser. Without hesitation, Artemis casually snatched the sandwiches and walked with Eduard toward the lift tube.

“Come on, I know a safe place.” He held up the sandwiches. “Let's have lunch, and we can talk some more.”

One of the places where Artemis liked to stay was a forgotten back room in a former hotel. During the chaos of remodeling operations years ago (which Artemis claimed to remember), he had slipped in at night to wallseal a door here, disguise an opening there, and create a private chamber for himself.

The room was dim and stuffy with an unpleasant chemical odor, but Artemis assured him it was safe. A tiny, low-energy glowplate burned in the corner, not enough to make the room bright. The scattered darkness made the place seem hushed and secretive.

The Phantom flopped down on a narrow cot with well-worn fabric and a frayed blanket. He unwrapped the two sandwiches, peered under the bread, and chose the one he liked best. He handed the other to Eduard.

Eduard gobbled the food. He found it difficult to let down his guard, but he enjoyed the stolen lunch more than any food in recent memory. While he ate, he studied the other man huddled over his sandwich. Even here, Artemis still flicked his eyes from side to side.

“I used to idolize immortals like you,” Eduard said around a mouthful of mortadella and provolone sandwich. He picked out a pepperoncini. “I'd study the crowds, always wondering if I'd ever see a real Phantom.”

“You'd never know it, even if you did.” Artemis brushed a hand across his lips. “There's no way to tell.”

“I fantasized about what it would be like to outrun death.”

Artemis grinned, his mouth full of food. “It's exciting.”

Eduard glanced around the dim room, recalling how the Phantom had sneaked to this claustrophobic hiding place, how he had stolen an inexpensive sandwich. “I always thought a Phantom would accumulate a lot of wealth over so much time. I expected you to be living with a bit more . . . extravagance.”

Artemis finished his lunch and wadded the paper, tossing it into the corner where other old wrappers made a disarrayed pile. “Wealth means too much attention. To be a Phantom, you gotta learn to be invisible and to value other things—such as personal safety and anonymity.” He stretched out on the cot with an exaggerated yawn. “Sorry I don't have another cot, but you can curl up there on the floor. Get yourself a good night's sleep, a safe one. No worries.”

Eduard found a clean spot against the wall. He had slept in worse places. On the run, he'd grown accustomed to napping anywhere he could hide for a few hours. Artemis hit a switch, and the glowplate's weak illumination faded.

“Stick with me, rabbit, and you'll learn everythin' you need to know.”

Eduard settled back to sleep, but for a long time he was unable to feel safe, despite the other man's reassurances. Artemis snored, content with his place, but Eduard's disappointment deepened.

The Phantom might know how to
survive,
but he had forgotten how to
live.