S.W.A.P

Ref_ID.7241310 Jaydan : 1821 : 21 : 10 : 2087

They have no idea we are here, the people below. They scuttle across the freshly unfrozen plains like crustaceans on a beach at low tide, picking and scavenging their way across the bleak impermanent landscape. I have been wondering how the Trafficker's ship avoids being spotted by these crustacean people. For that matter I have no idea how we have avoided detection by the UN's armies of drones, satellites and radars. In the Hopper's tiny cockpit The Trafficker itself is seated just in front of me, but I dare not try to initiate conversation. Besides, I doubt it would give away the tricks of its very secret and illegal trade. I experience a sudden urge to jack myself into the Netverse and ask the Oracle about stealth ships and signal cloaking. But my choice a week ago has forever forfeited me that privilege.

The sandy wastes of what had once been called the Great Siberian Tundra give way to sparse and vicious grasslands; in time I spot the emaciated ruins of the once grand cities from the Kazak Boom. Now crumbling walls are all that remains, the metal scaffolding having long been stripped by bandits. For a moment I wonder if New La Jolla, my old home, will one day end up like these barren ruins. As is now the case for all Citizens of the First World I have grown up on a Sea City, orbiting about the Great Pacific Gyre, living off technology and generations of accumulated wealth. And I do not think the Sea Cities will end up like these abandoned desert citadels. The Kazaks only had uranium. We have technology. Or at least they have, for I am not a First anymore. The surgery has seen to it that I will never be able to go back to La Jolla, or enter any other First World City. Already I am wondering if I regret my choice. Might it just have been easier to die a First, rather than live as a Third?

Below me a team of oxen pull a railway carriage along an abandoned train track. Their owners are too small to make out, not that they matter anyway. The lack of sensory stimulation available in the cockpit is making me jittery. Again, I feel an overpowering urge to plug myself into the Netverse, I desperately want to experience the rush of data gushing into my synapses. But there is no way to quench this thirst. I will need to grow accustomed to the mundaneness of reality, if I am to survive in it. This is after all what I asked for, when I first sought out the Trafficker to undertake the body swap surgery. I look down at the small female hands which are now mine. They are thinner and spindlier then my old plump ones, but there is a toughness to the calluses and small muscular palms, that my old body would never have acquired. No doubt I will need this toughness for what is ahead of me.

I become aware of a rising feeling in my stomach, I think the Hopper is descending. I try to swallow but realise my mouth is too dry to permit it. I glance out the window – we are falling. The ground is rising so fast I don't have time to gather my thoughts. One minute the trees are moss on the ground, the next we are smashing through the upper story of dead branches and shrivelled leaves. I don't even feel the landing legs touch the ground. The Hopper has made its nest in a large clearing amongst the otherwise dense tree trunks. It occurs to me that the Trafficker has probably used this landing site hundreds of times. "Wait here." It says, and leaves through the small door in the back of the cockpit.

I sit in the room for what is probably hours but dare not move. All around me the old trees sway and creak as if engaging in an ancient occultist dance, preparing to sacrifice me to some demonic god of theirs no doubt. The fact that I know they are just trees does little to kill my nerves, after a life lived in virtual reality I am all to conscious of my mortality in the hands of those in whose company I will soon find myself. The first thing I realise is the smell. It's a damp, foul odour that sucks onto the inside of my nostrils, mouth and throat. As if the air is full of blood drinking parasites hungry to imbed themselves in the exposed arteries of my innards. It is the smell of land, the smell of the undeveloped world. It is a stench that I have never experienced before, and will now bare everyday for the rest of my life. The Trafficker must have left air vents open on the ship, because the next thing I realise is that temperature is dropping. Unlike the smell, the cold is a foe I have faced before - a few times when I was young I experimented with the manual temperature override on the shower's auto setting. I went down to five degrees and managed to put my back under the water for the whole of ten seconds. It was painful, but not like this – here the cold is in the air, getting in under my inadequate cloths and invading my core through my lungs. Presently I am shivering and hugging myself in the foetal position, like what I imagine a newborn baby would look like. I am so consumed with trying to conserve my body heat that I do not notice them approaching. It is only when they are right outside the cockpit that the silhouettes catch my eye and I realise their presence. Loose animal skin robes. Coarse black-brown hair. Long pleated beards. Clubs, knives, bows, arrows. And guns. The Trafficker has brought five of the Abrahamists with him. Their inscrutable dark eyes stare at me and I shiver back at them through the misted cockpit glass. I am very conscious that I am a helpless stranger who has never stepped foot on land, a weak man now trapped in a young woman's body, who is to live amongst these savages for the rest of my life.

Soon I find myself out of the Hopper and been transferred to the care of the Abrahamists. The Trafficker leaves. The leader starts to speak, his voice is guttural and heavy, but I understand his every word. He introduces each member of his party, specifying their name, age, family lineage and a noteworthy achievement – things like having killed eleven men, or fasted for a fortnight during Repentance. Such is my fear that I forget it all immediately, except the leader's name, which is Dzavad. After I don't say anything for a few seconds he turns me about roughly and we start walking through the trees.

"I am told that before coming here you were a man, yes?" he says to me, his voice soft now, controlled and unnervingly smooth. "Yes, I was." I reply quietly, knowing instinctively that it would be unwise to make eye contact. "That is well, for now we may speak as men." A pause, giving me time to appreciate his apparently astute observation. "You inhabit the body of my only daughter, Kazanna. Know that while you remain with our tribe no man will touch you, I forbid it. Know that I do this not out of respect to you. Know that I do this out of affection for my daughter. Do not mistake this for affection for you." I nod slowly, feeling more was required of me, I say "I understand.". He smiles without humour. "No. You are an infidel, and therefore you understand nothing about the world. For the rest of your life you are to serve me and my tribe. If you betray us, I will kill you. If you do not work, I will punish you. Though my daughter's soul has been sucked from the husk of her body by your infidel witchery, none will not use violence against that body in order to punish you. Do not think however that I do not have ways to make you want to die. Deny me anything, and you will beg for my knife. Do you understand now?" I could tell him that until a week ago I was fully prepared for death, even eager for it. Or I could point out that he must have paid huge amounts of contraband to have the Trafficker perform "infidel witchery" on his daughter, so she could use my body to live in the First World. But I do neither of these things. "Yes Leader." Dzavad makes what I interpret to be a satisfied snorting noise in his throat, then spits on the ground. His men follow this gesture. I decide against imitating them, I think he is trying to get ride of the bad taste that follows from speaking with me. Up ahead I can see campfire lights, we continue to shamble through the undergrowth and as we drawn closer carriages and mules materialise, interspaced amongst tents and torches. I follow the Abrahamists forward. Into the clearing and into my new life.