“We need to get out of the street,” Jill told them, “and find a place where people aren’t moving so much.” She looked down a row of shops, and said, “There—that gift shop. It’s the perfect place.”

But The Pet raised his hand. “Uh, excuse me, but won’t it be easier if people are sitting down? Like maybe in the Starbucks next door?”

“Why would I want to make it easier?”

They walked right through the glass front of the gift shop, a store full of china figurines, and leftover Christmas decorations at half price. The floor was thin, and they had to struggle to keep themselves from sinking. Jill pointed to two fleshies in line. “Half-jack those two,” she told them. “Hide behind their minds without taking them over, then focus on one hand, and make that hand take something and slip it into their pocket without them knowing.”

“That’s shoplifting,” said The Pet.

Sebastian Var]ner

“Are you a skinjacker or aren’t you?” snapped Jill.

“I hate to tell you this,” said SoSo, “but I stink at half-jacking. Most of the time they know I’m there, and they freak out.”

“Practice makes perfect,” said Jill. “Now do it before you sink!”

SoSo looked at the fleshie, clenched his fists, and leaped inside. The Pet did the same to his fleshie, and both disappeared.

The moment they were gone, Jill made her move, jumping right through the wall into the Starbucks—which wasn’t just full of people sitting down, it was full of people with computers. Without a second to lose she jumped into the closest one—a fat guy with way too much facial hair, and the instant she was inside—

—Down twenty points, stupid stock market, sell sell sell—

Jill knocked him unconscious and took over his body. It had been a long time since Jill had used a computer, and they had changed considerably. The keys were smaller, the screen bigger, and the maddening touchpad was nothing like a mouse.

She managed to close the stock market window, and found a mail icon. She clicked it, played around with the menu until she opened a new blank e-mail. Then she got to work typing out the names—but when she looked at her hands, she saw only her two index fingers extended, and she couldn’t make her other fingers touch the keys. This idiot didn’t know how to type! He could only hunt-and-peck, and although Jill knew how to type—she had learned as a child from an old Mavis Beacon typing program—her own ability could not override the fat guy’s lack of muscle memory.

C’mon! Faster! Faster! But no matter how quickly she tried to type, she kept having to correct errors, and find the right keys. Jill calmed herself down and concentrated, knowing that frustration would only make it worse.

Maril;ou DiLuzio