exactly like me?"
I don't, I said, speaking into the lobby microphone. You're seeing your own face. Happens a lot at first. In reality, we're wearing the face of a recent murder victim. I'm tracking down his killers.
"Why wear the guy's face?"
I've found it can help speed the investigation.
"Who was he?"
A man named Brad Larsen. He was also set to testify against your former employers.
"Was he a good-looking guy?"
Don't worry. The villagers won't come after you with torches and pitchforks.
Paul squinted. "If you say, so. But it's still damn weird. All I see is me."
It happens to everybody. It's too much of a shock to see your own consciousness in another man's face. Or so the theory goes. I saw myself for a long time until I came to terms with everything.
Paul grunted and dabbed his/my cheeks with a hand towel. He finished dressing us in a white shirt, red necktie, and gray suitcoat--the most stylish items in my limited wardrobe. I could sense Paul hated it, as if he was forced to wear his older brother's hand-me-downs. But until we received our first paycheck, there wasn't much we could do about it.
"Interesting choice," spoke a voice behind Paul, in the real world. It was the Ghost of Fieldman, whose image was distorted by the rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains. "Not everyone would put that ensemble together."
"Can't you shut him up?" Paul asked me.
If only.
* * * *
We arrived early, so Paul took the opportunity to stroll around the square for a few minutes. Rittenhouse Square was a well-heeled neighborhood, despite the scruffy kids in dashiki shirts playing beat-up guitars in the park. Giant apartment complexes, hotels and office buildings lined the four sides of the park, and every body and thing seemed to gravitate toward it, being the only patch of green for blocks and blocks. William Penn may have had a brilliant plan in mind when he first cooked up the city grid, but he didn't give much thought to green open spaces.
Soon, it was time for our appointment, and I surrendered control of my body. Watching Paul operate my body was an education. Every motion was studied, whereas mine were automatic, unthinking. Take entering the hotel. I would have marched right up the front desk, asked for Richard Gard's room, then taken the elevator to the correct floor. A straightforward, let's-go-to-work approach. But not Paul.
Paul walked into the hotel bar first. Slowly, as if he were too bored to be doing anything else. The bar was right off the side of the lobby; a dark, oaky-looking room. While I didn't exactly know what Paul was thinking--it was more like I possessed deep intuition about Paul's intentions rather than direct knowledge--I knew he was checking for signs of Gard. Why would Gard be here and not upstairs? Good question. It's not one I would have immediately asked.
Paul walked directly to the bar and took a seat. He looked at the bartender, then to the guy at his right. Sweaty, young, in a very fashionable tweed suit, though wrong for this time of year. Blonde hair falling in every direction but the correct one. He kept looking at the door, waiting for people to pass his line of vision.
Finally, Paul tapped him on the shoulder. "Mr. Gard."
The man started, then wiped his brow with a cocktail napkin and recovered. "Mr. Wojciechowski."
"No," said Paul, "I'm his senior associate. Paul After."
They shook hands. I received a sensory flash: sweaty palms . Ugh.
"Mr. Wojciechowski is seeing to some urgent business in Nevada," Paul explained. Good boy. Keep the famous Mr. W. shrouded in mystery. Clients loved that.
"I understand." Gard took a drink, then seemed as if a light bulb had gone off in his thick blonde skull. "How did you..."
Paul finished the sentence. "Know you? Come, now. I assume you're going to pay me a lot of money to predict what's coming next."
Damn. Mr. Mofo Disco Detective.
Gard seemed impressed, too. "Care for a drink?"
"In a moment," Paul said. "First, I'd like to know
I don't, I said, speaking into the lobby microphone. You're seeing your own face. Happens a lot at first. In reality, we're wearing the face of a recent murder victim. I'm tracking down his killers.
"Why wear the guy's face?"
I've found it can help speed the investigation.
"Who was he?"
A man named Brad Larsen. He was also set to testify against your former employers.
"Was he a good-looking guy?"
Don't worry. The villagers won't come after you with torches and pitchforks.
Paul squinted. "If you say, so. But it's still damn weird. All I see is me."
It happens to everybody. It's too much of a shock to see your own consciousness in another man's face. Or so the theory goes. I saw myself for a long time until I came to terms with everything.
Paul grunted and dabbed his/my cheeks with a hand towel. He finished dressing us in a white shirt, red necktie, and gray suitcoat--the most stylish items in my limited wardrobe. I could sense Paul hated it, as if he was forced to wear his older brother's hand-me-downs. But until we received our first paycheck, there wasn't much we could do about it.
"Interesting choice," spoke a voice behind Paul, in the real world. It was the Ghost of Fieldman, whose image was distorted by the rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains. "Not everyone would put that ensemble together."
"Can't you shut him up?" Paul asked me.
If only.
* * * *
We arrived early, so Paul took the opportunity to stroll around the square for a few minutes. Rittenhouse Square was a well-heeled neighborhood, despite the scruffy kids in dashiki shirts playing beat-up guitars in the park. Giant apartment complexes, hotels and office buildings lined the four sides of the park, and every body and thing seemed to gravitate toward it, being the only patch of green for blocks and blocks. William Penn may have had a brilliant plan in mind when he first cooked up the city grid, but he didn't give much thought to green open spaces.
Soon, it was time for our appointment, and I surrendered control of my body. Watching Paul operate my body was an education. Every motion was studied, whereas mine were automatic, unthinking. Take entering the hotel. I would have marched right up the front desk, asked for Richard Gard's room, then taken the elevator to the correct floor. A straightforward, let's-go-to-work approach. But not Paul.
Paul walked into the hotel bar first. Slowly, as if he were too bored to be doing anything else. The bar was right off the side of the lobby; a dark, oaky-looking room. While I didn't exactly know what Paul was thinking--it was more like I possessed deep intuition about Paul's intentions rather than direct knowledge--I knew he was checking for signs of Gard. Why would Gard be here and not upstairs? Good question. It's not one I would have immediately asked.
Paul walked directly to the bar and took a seat. He looked at the bartender, then to the guy at his right. Sweaty, young, in a very fashionable tweed suit, though wrong for this time of year. Blonde hair falling in every direction but the correct one. He kept looking at the door, waiting for people to pass his line of vision.
Finally, Paul tapped him on the shoulder. "Mr. Gard."
The man started, then wiped his brow with a cocktail napkin and recovered. "Mr. Wojciechowski."
"No," said Paul, "I'm his senior associate. Paul After."
They shook hands. I received a sensory flash: sweaty palms . Ugh.
"Mr. Wojciechowski is seeing to some urgent business in Nevada," Paul explained. Good boy. Keep the famous Mr. W. shrouded in mystery. Clients loved that.
"I understand." Gard took a drink, then seemed as if a light bulb had gone off in his thick blonde skull. "How did you..."
Paul finished the sentence. "Know you? Come, now. I assume you're going to pay me a lot of money to predict what's coming next."
Damn. Mr. Mofo Disco Detective.
Gard seemed impressed, too. "Care for a drink?"
"In a moment," Paul said. "First, I'd like to know
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