shook his head at the COM screen showing the terrorist about to be executed. “Stupid people. As if anybody would really be able to knock out COM. We'd go back to the Dark Ages.”
On screen, the decrepit prisoner could barely hold his head upright in the upload chair. Before the scheduled execution, some ailing old man had bought the condemned terrorist's body so he could be healthy and fit again. The swap was now complete. In another chair next to the condemned man, the man's original, healthy physique was now inhabited by the lucky bidder; the restraints automatically loosened.
Garth set his sketch aside and stared at the screen in morbid fascination. Execution attendants finished applying electrodes and upload cables to the now-palsied terrorist. He raised liver-spotted hands to fend them off, but his muscles were too weak.
After stripping away all personality and independent thought, the justice system uploaded a condemned person's mind into COM to add to its engram processing power. The living matrix supposedly grew stronger, more flexible each time. The announcer's description of COM as a “sweatshop of souls” alarmed Garth. If that was the case, what of Soft Stone? What of all the other Splinters who had voluntarily hopscotched into the matrix?
When the on-screen execution countdown ended, the victim trembled, jerked once, then fell slack like an empty suit of clothes. Beside him, in the other restraint chair, the healthy body watched. Now that his role as a propaganda tool had been fulfilled, he was eager to get away and begin his new youthful life.
The artists in the bazaar cheered or made catcalls. Garth blinked and tried to understand.
Without further ceremony, the execution attendants disconnected the empty body and hauled it away. Then the news-screen moved on to another breaking news story, this time about a colorful kite festival being held in the Rocky Mountains.
Deeply moved, Garth looked at the charcoal and chalk dust on his fingers. He always understood the world better if he inhaled it, rolled it around inside, gave himself time to digest it . . . then put it forth as artwork.
The daily flutter of activity swirled around him. Merchants and customers went about their business, the execution already forgotten.
11
Wearing his best suit of clothes, Eduard went to the plush upper levels of offices that were inhabited by lawyers of all kinds. He made a cursory check of his appearance, straightened the conservative collar, brushed back his dark hair, and walked into the meeting with a tough expression on his face. When the negotiations started, he had to make sure he got off on the right foot. He'd never had an opportunity this big before, and he relished the prospect.
A crowd of expensive suits waited for him in the boardroom—representatives of the client, family members, and legal counsel. No face bore the slightest glimmer of a friendly expression. All business. No problem.
Eduard wondered if
he
should have contracted a legal advocate of his own, but he preferred to be independent, without relying on supposed “experts.” He'd made many swap agreements before, though never with such formality.
Behind the boardroom table hovered several go-fers, lower-echelon employees anxious for any job in a big firm. Their sole purpose was to be on call during long, arduous deliberations. Anytime one of the executives had a full bladder, a go-fer would swap bodies and walk out of the room to relieve him- or herself. No need to put an important meeting on hold to take care of bodily functions.
A cadaverous old woman sat propped at the end of the long table. She leaned forward, bracing herself on shriveled arms. Her skin hung like loose fabric on her bones, tinted a grayish-green from the bizarre medical treatments she had already endured. Her eyes were sharp and reptilian, her nose pinched. Eduard had never before met a person who seemed so altogether unpleasant.
“I am very happy to meet you, Madame