False Hearts Read online

  “No,” he says. “I’m not addicted. But I think about the Zealscape, sometimes. The power. The freedom. I think anyone who’s tasted it does, even if their mind isn’t hardwired for violence.”

  Nazarin’s been undercover for a while. I’m sure he’s had to commit violence, and not just as a false member of the Ratel. As a detective, he’ll have seen things, done things that would be difficult to forget.

  “OK,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

  My nervousness doesn’t fade as we walk toward the door. I’ve never been in a Zealot lounge, and I’ve no idea what to expect. I wonder what Mia knows. If anything. I can’t help but wonder if Tila wrote Mia’s name on the table to send me off the path and keep me out of harm’s way. It’s the sort of thing she would do.

  Nazarin knocks on the door and exchanges words with the guard behind the hatch, a man with a face that’s lost a fair number of fistfights in its time. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the man looks me up and down, assessing me. Does he think I’m an addicted Zealot? The door opens with a metallic groan.

  “Come on,” Nazarin says, holding out his hand. With the barest hesitation, I take it and duck inside.

  The Zealot lounge is dark, with red lights tracing the path to the back. The front is the waiting room, but dim enough to obscure faces. Zealot lounges do not scan your VeriChip at the door. You pay with actual coins. Anonymity guaranteed.

  We wait our turn. Nazarin goes up to the woman behind the bulletproof glass of the counter. She’s chewing gum, blowing bubbles and popping them wetly. They murmur through the intercom, too low for me to hear. The addicts near me twitch in the darkness. Their fetid breath floats through the air, their fingers spasm on the fabric of their clothes. A woman leans close to me and smells my neck.

  “You’re new to this,” she whispers. She’s lost most of her teeth. Her glazed eyes stare at me above dark bruises.

  “First time,” I manage, fighting the urge to lean away.

  “I don’t know whether to be envious or sorry for you,” the woman says. She could be my age, but she looks older. Her skin hangs from her wasted muscle. Her hand clutches the coins for her trip.

  I lean away from her, wondering what this woman does in her Zeal-fueled dreams. I’m sure if I knew, it’d make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

  Nazarin returns. “Come on,” he says. “We’re up.”

  “It’s my turn,” the woman says, but weakly, as if all her fight has fled. She stares at the wall. I can feel the other Zealots’ eyes on me, even if I can’t make out their faces.

  “I’ll see you in my dreams soon enough,” the woman says, her voice distant.

  “I don’t doubt it,” I say, shivering.

  I stand, and Nazarin takes my elbow, leading me through the dark.

  An orderly is there, wearing a reassuringly white lab coat. It’s less comforting when I’m close enough to see it’s grimy about the cuffs. “The woman you wish to speak to is in too deep to take her out,” he says.

  My muscles stiffen.

  “How long until she can come up for air?” Nazarin asks.

  The orderly’s eyes unfocus as he checks his ocular implant. “Fourteen hours at the absolute minimum.”

  Shit.

  “We don’t want to wait that long.” A sly passing of credits from Nazarin’s hands to the white-gloved orderly’s.

  “Like I say, I can’t take her out without killing her, and I doubt you want that.”

  That’s an option? Good God.

  “But I can put you guys in a shared dream with a small dose, if you want,” the orderly continues. “You’ll have to deal with a lot of crossover, but you should be able to speak to her if you really go for it.”

  I knew this was a likely outcome, but I’d been hoping to avoid it, yet it all has a feeling of inevitability. Deep down, I think I knew I’d have to visit Mia’s dreams tonight.

  Nazarin senses my dismay and leans close. “The sooner we interrogate her, the sooner we can get to the bottom of this. You can find out what Tila was up to.”

  Cheap ploy, Nazarin, but effective. “Is it dangerous?” I whisper.

  “Of course it is. But you’ll be fine. You’ll be in control.”

  “You’re lying.” I follow him down the corridor anyway.

  * * *

  Within minutes, I’m strapped into the Chair. It’s different from a brainloading Chair. Bulkier. More wires. It feels like a cage.

  We’re in the same room as Mia, in Chairs on either side of her. Nazarin paid extra for privacy, so the fourth Chair is empty. I turn to look at Mia. She looks so small, with so many wires poking out of her arms and neck. People who sign up for long trips have to be catheterized. Her mouth is pulled into a faint grimace, showing yellowing teeth. The wrinkles in her brown skin are deeper, the cheekbones more prominent. She’s wasting away, like so many Zealots have before her, and so many others will. She doesn’t eat enough, doesn’t drink enough, and eventually, her body will give up. The government doesn’t step in here, though they’re meant to care for each and every citizen. How many people truly realize this is what’s happening, right under their noses? Why isn’t anything being done?

  It’s a very small percentage of people who become addicted to Zeal on their first try. Those that do come out and are completely changed by what they’ve seen. What they’ve done. They can’t wait to plug in again and be who they are in their dreams. Real life can cease to have any meaning. If they have money, they fritter away their savings. If they run out, they receive unemployment, and the amount they receive is just enough to keep them in Zealot lounges. They spend enough time in the real world to eat some NutriPaste, perhaps clean themselves, go to the bathroom, and then they’re back to their nearest Zealot lounge, huddled in the darkness, waiting for the cold prick of the syringe to send them back to dreamland.

  I still can’t help fearing I’ll like the dreams so much that I become someone who can commit murder. Someone like Tila could be.

  No. Don’t think about that. But that re-creation of a holographic Tila stabbing Vuk, wrenching the blade up into his heart, haunts me just the same.

  The orderly puts on a mask. It’s just for show—for all of Zeal’s dangers, there’s no risk of infection, even in a shithole like Mirage. He plugs us into the slots on the wall, starts up the program.

  “Ready?” Nazarin asks. Lying supine, his face doesn’t look so harsh. His features look almost tender.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.

  The orderly has connected the wires on our Chairs, so that we’ll feed into Mia’s program when the drug hits us. Couples and such will do it sometimes, so that they can revel in the Zealscape together. The thought makes me sick. “Sweet dreams,” says the orderly.

  I feel the prick of the syringe.

  Then we’re gone.

  ELEVEN

  TAEMA

  I don’t like the inside of Mia’s head.

  Everything in the dream world has a soft quality of washed-out gray and muted reds, blues and browns. I’m standing outside a building, gazing up at its broken windows. It’s a scaled-down version of the tower complexes in San Francisco, all steel, concrete and glass, five stories tall instead of fifty. The sky is dark, the clouds bruised black, blue and purple. Warm wind blows my hair, and the air smells like a storm is about to break. I’m wearing the mini-dress I wore to Zenith, for some reason, and the straps of leather dig into my legs. I can see, hear and feel everything, but it’s dampened in the way of dreams.

  “Nazarin?” I call out, but there’s no answer.

  Up above, the angry, frozen sky rumbles. Rain begins to fall, and my dress is soaked, my hair plastered to my head. Like Tila on Thursday night. Shivering and alone, I go into the house. Mia will be inside. Some part of me feels it.

  The lobby of the minuscule apartment complex is empty. Crumpled leaves on the ground crunch beneath my feet. I climb the stairs, following the vague prickle of
intuition that leads me to the top floor.

  I hear the screams first.

  The door opens for me into a barren room as long as the building. The concrete floor is cracked, the paint on the walls peeling off in layers. Exposed wires hang from the ceiling, and a flickering overhead light casts a harsh light on the two figures before me.

  One is Mia. She’s strong here, as she no longer is in real life. Her bare arms ripple with muscle, the fitted jumpsuit hugging her full breasts and thighs. Her hair is long, like it was in Mana’s Hearth before she left when Tila and I were eight. But she is a long way away from the gentle woman in soft dresses that I recall. This Mia’s face is twisted in rage and bloodlust, and she’s wielding a scalpel stained with blood.

  I shudder, my hand involuntarily going to the scar beneath my dress. Mia’s tool falls, and she bends over. My eyes finally rest on the other figure.

  It’s Mana-ma.

  Our former leader has collapsed to the ground. She’s alive, breathing hoarsely. The black robe she wears is heavy with blood. On her back, she gapes at the cracked ceiling, her mouth opening and closing. Mia has cut out her tongue. It lies next to her like a dead fish.

  I cry out, stumbling away.

  Mia pauses in her terrible work, her eyes meeting mine. Her face goes slack in surprise.

  “Taema.”

  I’m dressed as Tila. I have her face, and her tattoo snaking down my thigh. Despite this, Mia still recognizes me.

  “Why are you here?” she asks. “You’ve never been in my dreams before.”

  That’s a comfort, I guess. She’s never wanted to kill me. Mia’s covered in blood, and the broken shell of a replica of the woman who leads Mana’s Hearth cowers beneath her.

  “Mia. Something’s happened to Tila. I need your help.”

  “You’re … not part of the dream?” Mia seems confused.

  Mana-ma gives a strangled gasp, more of a high wheeze. Without batting an eyelid, Mia brings down the scalpel into Mana-ma’s neck. The colors of the warehouse grow brighter, sharper, until they’re hypersaturated. I step back, horrified.

  Without realizing what I’m doing, I focus on that mental state I found while in Meditation at the Hearth. The clear, calm stillness. “Stop,” I say. Mia’s eyes widen, but her hand jerks back, taking the scalpel with her.

  “You don’t tell me what to do! Don’t make me do what I don’t want to!” she shrieks.

  Did I make her do that?

  Blood spurts out of Mana-ma, and once the blood—the reddest blood I’ve ever seen—leaves her body, it turns from scarlet to black. The dark oil rises, covering Mana-ma’s corpse, and then the figure collapses into a puddle. It reminds me uncomfortably of the spread of blood of the crime scene recreation.

  The scalpel is still in Mia’s hands. I hold up my own hands, spread wide, to look unthreatening. “No, I’m not part of the Zeal,” I say. “They couldn’t pull you out, so I took a small dose and came in.”

  Mia shakes her head. “I don’t know if I can believe that. They all say they’re real when they’re not. Either way, you shouldn’t have come. You’re too innocent for the Zealscape. Especially mine.” Her face creases in a grin, and I take another step away. She is utterly transformed from the woman who took us in just after the surgery, when we were weak as kittens and just as innocent in the ways of the world. I remember the way she pushed my hair back from my face, kissed my forehead goodnight. She took us to museums on weekends, patiently explaining so many things to us that we didn’t understand. Mia, my second mother in many ways, is looking at me like she wants nothing more than to stick that scalpel in my eye.

  She shakes her head again, mystified. “Can’t believe a girl who escaped the Hearth would ever step foot somewhere where they mess with your brain. Didn’t you have enough?”

  “Didn’t you?” I counter.

  That same sly grin. A gesture at where Mana-ma’s corpse had been. “Do you really think I actually escaped the Hearth? It’s always here.” She taps her temple, and then considers me. “Maybe it’s still in you, too.”

  My breath hitches. I don’t want to talk about the Hearth. “Tila’s in prison. She’s been accused of murder.”

  That penetrates through her Zeal-fog. “Out there?”

  “Yes. Real murder. I’m trying to prove she didn’t do it.”

  I have to cling to the hope that she didn’t do it, even if the crime scene re-creation left so little room for doubt.

  “So why come here?” Mia asks.

  “She … wrote your name at the crime scene. She led me straight to you. You tell me why, because I have no idea.”

  She shrugs, the scalpel flashing in the light. “Don’t know.”

  Even in this twisted dream world, I know she’s lying. I can’t read her as well as Tila, but we still lived with her for years. I heard her, thrashing in the dark, on the other side of our bedroom wall, unable to forget the Hearth when she closed her eyes. She never told us about her dreams, tried to hide them as long as she could as we adjusted to our new, separate lives. It was because of Mia that Tila and I became halfway productive members of society just before she ceased to be one herself.

  “Bullshit,” I say.

  She cocks her head, but she’s unnerved. Her eyes dart to the side, the tip of her tongue snaking over her dry lips.

  “Why did she really send me to you?” I ask. Outside the strange rain grows heavier, thrumming against the window. A flash of green lightning casts Mia in a sickly glow, making her look for a moment like the drug addict she is in the real world.

  The black oil bubbles and rises, molding into a new figure.

  It’s Tila.

  She’s wearing her favorite dress, green like the otherworldly lightning outside, or snake scales. She looks at me and holds out her arm.

  “T,” she calls. I can feel the steady thump of my mechanical heart beneath my metal breastbone.

  “This isn’t mine.” Mia’s voice is harsh. “You’re affecting my dream world now. With your own memories and fears.”

  “How? I don’t feel like I’m doing anything.” Shared people aren’t meant to be able to change the dreamscape much at all if someone has plugged in first. If it’s someone else’s dream, Zealscapes are meant to be like reading a script, or watching a film on a wallscreen, except with more sensory detail. I didn’t concentrate, like I did to have Mia pull the scalpel away. I’ve never experienced anything like this.

  “Fuck if I know. I never share my dreams. I’m always here on my own.” She’s shifty, though, her shoulders hunched. She’s keeping something back. Mia holds out the scalpel. “Take this. Maybe you have to exorcise her.”

  I can feel her fear spiraling from her, belying her blasé words. She doesn’t like that I’ve changed her dream, much as she didn’t like it when I caused her to pull the scalpel out of the Mana-ma apparition.

  My fingers close around the blade, but I don’t harm Tila. How could I? How could Mia think that I would, even hopped up full of Zeal?

  “Tell me why Tila sent me to you,” I say.

  Mia rocks back on her heels, shaking her head. “Get rid of her first. You’re ruining it. This isn’t my dream!” Her last word rises to a shriek, the whole room tingeing red with her anger.

  The anger infects me. It pulses through me, as insistent and inevitable as my mechanical heartbeat. Mia’s not giving me what I want. I need answers.

  Tila’s apparition gazes at me impassively. I ignore it. The irrational anger bursts and I rush Mia instead, knocking her down. She feels almost insubstantial beneath my hands, as if I see her healthy self but feel the wasted version of her that’s plugged into the Chair. I hold the cold scalpel to her throat. Mia swallows, and the blade nicks her neck, a small trickle of blood running down the column of her throat to pool at the hollow of her clavicle.

  “Tell me, or I’ll make both your dreams and your reality a living nightmare. I’m working with people who can make life very difficult for you.” It’s a half
-bluff, but it’s the only card I have.

  “You’re working with them, too?” she gasps. I press the scalpel slightly harder and she winces. I don’t understand how pain translates to her inert body on the gurney, but she’s scared, and that’s enough.

  “Working with who?”

  “The Ratel.”

  “You’re working with them?” I ask, incredulous.

  “N-no!” Her wide eyes dart to Tila’s apparition. “Her.”

  “You think Tila was working with them? Tell me!” The anger still pulses through me, a roiling, dangerous thing. Have I ever been this furious?

  “I didn’t mean to tell him,” Mia whispers. “I didn’t want to.”

  “Tell who what?”

  “About Tila. It’s my fault.” She begins to gasp, almost choking in the intensity of her sobs. I feel a twinge of pity for her, for who she used to be, but I squash it down as low as it’ll go. I press the scalpel slightly harder.

  “Tila found something out, and I got scared and told him. He’d never have known. All for a steady supply of Verve. I fucking hate myself. I can never escape him. Never escape. Never.” After that she can’t say anything more, sobbing so much that she hiccups. The drug is also taking a stronger hold, the lucidity fading. Her back arches and her eyes roll up in her head.

  “Stay with me, Mia!” I shake her. “How did they give you Verve?”

  Her eyes half-focus, and she laughs maniacally. “God, you don’t get it, do you? This isn’t a Zealscape. Why do you think you could infect my dream and change things so easily? This is Verve.”

  I rock back. If her Zeal has been spiked by Verve in this lounge, that means the Ratel have been there. Fuck. Fuck. Do they know? Are they coming for us, even now, for mine and Nazarin’s bodies, prone and helpless as newborns?