SARA KRING STARED OUT ACROSS THE COFFEE SHOP, GENTLY FEELING her bicep. She didn’t see her rapidly cooling skim latte, she didn’t see the scruffy creatives at the other tables—outfitted in flannel and noise-canceling headphones, busily coding and designing and writing on various streamlined pieces of electronic gear—and she didn’t see the space-themed decor or the truly gorgeous chalk mural against the shop’s back wall, erased and redrawn monthly by a new artist no matter how beautiful it might be. She didn’t see any of it because she was thinking about how weak her arm felt to her just then and remembering when it had been strong.
She hadn’t been in Paul White’s body for very long—maybe a minute—but she couldn’t stop thinking about what it had been like, and everything she wished she’d had time to do. If Gabby had let her, she thought she’d probably have stayed in Paul for much longer. Hours. Days. Weeks, months, years.
If Gabrielle White could figure out how to properly bring her technology to market, everything would just . . . flip over. Society’s written and unwritten rules about gender, sex, equality, and so much more would evaporate in a moment, replaced by . . . well, she didn’t know yet. She was a lawyer, a profession not known for its vision. If Gabby could—
But there was the problem. Her friend was brilliant, but in a specific, savant-like way. She’d never struck Sara as being particularly business-minded. Even if Gabby could hold on to her . . . what had she called it? The flash. Good name. Even if she could keep the flash secret for a decade, develop the tech, and keep it from the terrifying and all-powerful (as far as Detroit was concerned) Gray Hendricks, odds were that someone else would come along and take it from her. A bigger, meaner fish.
And, of course, since Sara had tied her wagon to Gabby, once someone came and took the flash, it meant neither would reap any of its benefits, financial, physical, or other.
Sara had been thinking about ways she might convince Gabby to let her flash again—into Paul, or anyone, really. Maybe she could offer herself up as a test subject. Gabby would need one. Not many people knew about the flash, and the more she told, the better the odds of the secret getting out.
And it would get out, Sara knew. It was inevitable. Then what? Maybe Gabby would end up explaining why she’d tried to keep the flash from Gray Hendricks, and who had given her advice on how she might do that—her loyal attorney, Sara Kring.
Career over. Disbarment. Maybe even jail time.
Maybe it wasn’t too late, Sara thought. Maybe she could tell Gabby to . . . no. No one could tell Gabrielle White anything.
Sara touched her arm again, flexing a little, remembering. She’d never had a thing for Paul White. He was always just . . . fine, there, a human being. Gabby’s husband. Intellectual and sensitive and not her type at all—but she was getting turned on thinking about him. No, not about him. About being him. She’d taken a moment to feel herself up during the switch, while Gabby’s back was turned, back in her office, and it was . . . nope. Shift away from that.
She looked around at the coffee shop again, forcing herself to see it. None of it seemed real, and that sensation wasn’t just confined to Ad Astra Coffee. The world as a whole felt flimsy, fragile, a stage set. Sara had knowledge about this technology that would change everything, a society-reinventing tsunami . . . and yet no one around her did. All these idiots at this coffee shop, drinking their lattes and chatting and being completely unaware that many of the old rules about what was possible, what existence as a human being was . . . were about to vanish. Ancient history.
Sara wanted to ride that tsunami. She wanted the new rules, when you could be whatever you wanted to be, and no one could tell you no because of your face, your body, anything. Because you were a woman. She wanted that, to be a huge, important part of it. The idea of waiting a decade, at best, for that new world to arrive . . . agonizing.
There had to be a way to move things forward on an accelerated timeline, or maybe figure out a way to get some ownership out of Gabby. Take a little equity stake in the flash in lieu of fees. Even 1 percent would make her rich beyond her wildest dreams. Even a tenth of a percent. She’d have to think about it.
Assuming, of course, Gabby didn’t blow it all somehow, which she would. Gabrielle had been the treasurer in their sorority for a semester, and bills had gone unpaid, dues uncollected . . . just a mess, from a business perspective. The woman’s mind just wasn’t wired for it.
Sara picked up her coffee cup—now cold, barely a sip gone. She stared at it.
She extended her arm out to the right, to its full length, and slowly upended the cup, letting the coffee and foamed milk pour down to the floor in a long beige cascade.
There was a sense of people reacting around her—or trying to. No one knew how. This was beyond the pale. Such things were just not done. The social contract, the rules . . . my goodness.
But Sara Kring was operating under the new rules, and as far as she was concerned, the new rules were no rules.
She stood, slung her purse over her shoulder, stepped delicately around the spreading pool of coffee, ignoring the outraged barista saying . . . something . . . to her, who cared . . .
. . . and left.