Hopscotch by Kevin J. Anderson

the sea of information.
    He waited in silence, not certain of the protocol he was supposed to follow, until finally he said in a loud, firm voice, “I need some help.” Bubbles continued to jet into the coolant and recirculation tubes. He saw no motion, no reaction.
    One of the embryos drifted in its floating restraints and turned a sightless face toward him. A voice that oozed sarcasm came out of a small speaker on the far side of the room. “Ahh, somebody's come to give my life purpose! What is it you seek? Wait, forgive my lack of social graces . . . we get no practice in here.” The body stirred as if a breeze had wafted through the room. Now, the voice came from a different place, closer to the floating creature. “My name is Jax, and you must introduce yourself properly before you make a request. I'm not just a genie in a bottle who's required to give you three wishes, you know.”
    Daragon had anticipated Data Hunters to be alien and incomprehensible, not talkative. “My name is Daragon. I need to find someone in order to help a person who requires medical treatment. Can I call your attention to a case file?”
    “Ah, a humanitarian gesture. How wonderful!”
    He punched in the file, and the hovering Data Hunter scanned it in a millisecond. “Ahh, it'll keep me occupied for a while,” Jax said through the speaker. “That's what we're here for, after all. But first, you must promise to meet my payment request.”
    Not knowing what to say, Daragon smoothed his trainee Inspector uniform. “But you work for the Bureau. We're part of the same team.”
    Jax's body did not stir, but the voice coming from the speaker had an interesting lilt. “We all have our price. Do you want me to help you or not?”
    Daragon sighed. “All right, then. What is your price?”
    “I want you to come and talk to me. We don't get much company, and I can find anything else I need through COM. But the network can't provide plain, faulty human companionship.”
    “If that's all you want, then I agree to your terms.”
    “Good. Come back in an hour and I'll have the information you need. After you use the information, I want you to come and tell me what you did.”
             
    Daragon tracked down the business offices of the person who now owned the brother's original home-body. The current inhabitant was a public relations specialist who dealt with celebrities. His name was Stradley, and he called himself a “hype-meister.”
    As Daragon waited in Stradley's lobby, he tried to appear properly ominous in his clean BTL uniform. He glanced at the receptionist, who shrugged toward the door where Stradley sat “in consultation” with one of his clients.
    Finally, the exuberant hype-meister burst out of his office wearing a grin, and Daragon immediately recognized the missing brother's home-body from the file images. Stradley's false smile transformed into a scowl. “So, what does a Beetle want in my office? You guys certainly don't need
my
help with publicity. Of course, the Bureau could use a bit more favorable coverage.”
    Daragon didn't rise to the bait. “That's not why I'm here, sir.”
    Stradley crossed his arms over his chest. The hype-meister wasn't taking good care of his physique. His neck and face seemed slack, a bit jowly, and he had begun to grow a potbelly. The eyes were bloodshot, the movements frenetic, as if he sampled too many stimulants. Daragon hoped the body remained in good enough condition for the necessary medical treatment.
    “State your purpose, then. I'm a busy man and I command high hourly rates. I'll start charging if you waste my time.” Daragon wondered how the man would ever get a bill through the BTL's bureaucratic accounting systems, but he did not press the matter.
    “We've come for your body, sir. Someone needs the loan of it—the sister of its original owner.”
    The hype-meister narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out Daragon's angle. “Say again? Why on earth is the BTL messing