False Hearts Read online

  “T,” she whispered.

  “T.”

  It gave us strength.

  Mana-ma’s Confessional was a tent erected within a secluded room of the church. It was made of white silk, and within were only low cushions and a low table, in soft pastel colors. Often there was tea if you wanted it. It was meant to be calming, like a shrine to truth and Purity and release. Really, it was more like a hippie psychologist’s room.

  Mana-ma was perched on her usual cushion, dressed all in black, a stain on the pale colors of the Confessional. She held a cup of tea in her hands. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled at us. She seemed so damn proud. She was still buzzing from her triumph at the meadow.

  Mana-ma looked like a mother—warm and generous, with laugh lines about her eyes. She had skin the same brown as us, eyes so dark they almost looked black, her hair in the same tight corkscrews around her face. No, the Hearth’s not inbred, but a lot of us are related distantly to each other, or near enough. It was hard to tell what age Mana-ma was—she always looks the same in my memory. Ageless. I used to think she knew everything. She was a Vessel for God, the embodiment of Love.

  That was a lie, too.

  I remember wondering what the hell she was up to, in that moment before she spoke to us. What was the point of getting us to connect? What was the drug?

  “Sit, my children,” she said, gesturing.

  We had to almost lie down on our sides, resting our cheekbones together so we could both look at her. Taema was nervous—even more nervous than me. I fought the urge to stroke her hair. I had to admit to myself that Taema still believed in Mana-ma, or at least she did a heck of a lot more than I did. She felt guilty knowing she might have to lie, whereas I didn’t give a fig.

  We’d already lied by omission to Mana-ma, and it hadn’t sat well with my sister. We never told her about the tablet. How we (OK, mostly I) dreamed of the big, wide world and what we’d do if we could ever get to it. We didn’t tell her plenty of things. We skittered around the subject of sex and desire, pretending that we couldn’t become aroused when so close to each other. That wasn’t true.

  “I welcome you into the Enclave of the Self,” Mana-ma intoned, resting her palms on our foreheads. “Close your eyes and imagine all darkness, all unhappiness, leaving you, leaving only Purity and light.”

  We dutifully imagined this, breathing in and out, our chests rising and falling in tandem. I imagined I was covered in mud that dried and cracked and flaked off. The flakes scattered around me, whisking about on the wind like when paper has burned to ash. In my mind’s eye, I was just me, Taema nowhere around. When I opened my eyes, feeling her warmth, I felt no better, no lighter. Our heart was still weak. We were still dying.

  “The darkness cannot flee until you give voice to it. State the nature of it and it can no longer hold any power over you. Confess, and be free. Let the darkness absorb deep into the Earth, so you may leave lighter than when you entered.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for this. I’d believed it all, once upon a time, to a point. I don’t know why I was never as completely under Mana-ma’s spell as the others, what in me refused to give in. After we found the tablet, something irrefutable had changed in me. I knew this place wasn’t where I wanted to be. That Mana-ma might not be the real voice of God. It’s a scary thing, when all the beliefs you have shift under your feet like that. I didn’t know who to trust, how to feel, if my morals were my morals, or just the Hearth’s.

  Taema spoke first. I listened to the gentle sound of her voice, my eyes half-closed.

  “When our heart hurt,” she said, “I didn’t think of the Creator, or light, or goodness, like I should have done.”

  “And what did you think of, my child?”

  “I knew my soul could leave, and that I should prepare it since I’d have the time, but all I could think of was the pain, and that I didn’t want to die. All was dark and cold. I was scared.”

  Mana-ma leaned forward. “Did you have a vision? The Creator will sometimes deign to visit one so close to beginning the Cycle again.”

  “N-no…” My sister shook her head, shamefaced, hands clenching. I hated to see how easily Mana-ma could influence Taema’s emotions. Not that Taema was weak—far from it—but she was sensitive. Mana-ma made her feel like she had been wrong for no reason.

  I had an idea, but I decided to wait my turn as I played it over in my mind.

  “What other darkness lives in you, child? Speak it and let it free.” I fought the urge to curl my lip and slap her away from us. How had I never seen what a spider she was?

  “What else?”

  Taema licked her lips. “The Meditation frightened me.”

  Mana-ma nodded. “I know, my child. God’s world is terrifying and vast. But, together, we may access it. This is our purpose. Do not be afraid. This is wondrous. This is transformative. This is divine.”

  I noticed she danced around saying what it was for.

  “I will try,” Taema whispered.

  “Anything else, my child?”

  Taema tried to think of something else. Bless her. She had to dig deep to bring up any darkness. It was all too easy for me to think of dark things, but I’d long since stopped telling Mana-ma about them. Partly because I didn’t want Taema to hear what went on in my head. Mostly because I hated the way Mana-ma sucked it all up, reveling in the darkness of her flock.

  Taema eventually muttered something about how she dreamed of the world outside, and Mana-ma perked up at that, rearranging herself in her seat, like a cat puffed up at a threat.

  “Outside is where no one listens to God—to the birds and the trees and the ways of the world. They think all must bend to their will. They change the land, their bodies, regardless of how the Creator made them, their very souls. They think they can make themselves perfect, spitting in the Creator’s face, for my Husband has already made them perfect. Really, they sully all that they touch, and you must never forget that. Now, let that darkness leave the room, never to return.”

  “Yes, Mana-ma.” Taema was all meek, and I wanted to pull my lips back from my teeth and snarl. “That’s all, Mana-ma,” my twin finished.

  Mana-ma waved a bit of smoking sage incense around Taema’s head, though of course that made me cough, too. She and Taema hummed the One Note, and my face squished up because it was right against my ear.

  Then Mana-ma turned her attention to me.

  “Tila, my child,” she intoned. “Envision the darkness flowing from you, pooling on the floor, ready to leave and return to the Earth…”

  I imagined so much flowing out of me that it flooded the room to the Moroccan lamp hanging from the ceiling, but Tila and I floated on it while Mana-ma squatted at the bottom like a sunken stone. A few bubbles burst from below, then all was still. Then the darkness that had been in me carried us away from Mana’s Hearth out to the wide world, to San Francisco, dropping us off in Golden Gate Park. The darkness flowed back into me, and I was just like I’d been before.

  “Have you completed the visualization?” Mana-ma asked.

  I opened my eyes and smiled. “Yes.”

  “What darkness must you give name to so that it may have no power over you?”

  “I thought about dark and pain instead of light and goodness when I thought I would die, too. My soul wouldn’t have been Pure.”

  Mana-ma’s eyes lit up. “And did you have a vision?”

  “I did.”

  Taema turned her head. She almost always knew when I was lying. This time she didn’t know why.

  Mana-ma’s eyes shone and she took my hand. Her touch was all cool and clammy. I fought the urge to take my hand and wipe it on my shirt. “Tell me what you saw, my child.”

  She bought it. I think most people in the outside world think the people at the top of Mana’s Hearth know it’s all a crock of shit—that they’ve been shrewd enterprisers since the beginning—but I think Mana-ma believes. She believes just as much as, or more than, anyone else in the Hearth. Th
at’s why what I did next was just so easy.

  “I saw a man I’d never seen before and he was yelling at me to turn back, that what lay before me was only wretchedness. That everything I’d been told was a lie. He even told me who he was.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He called himself the Brother.”

  Mana-ma paled, rocking back from us. I think I said this before, but the mates of the Mana-ma of each generation were called the Brother. Which is kind of weird, now that I think about it. It was just what they were called, and sort of their role in the community. They were meant to support everyone, even Mana-ma. Because Mana-ma could only really be married to the Creator, for she was his voice.

  Because of the whole don’t-talk-about-the-dead thing, there was no real way for me to recall that name, as far as she knew. The Brother wasn’t mentioned in the Good Book, or the sermons, and it was so many years ago now that most people didn’t have any reason to mention him, or even think about him much.

  Except that little tidbit had slipped into that website about the Hearth, and I overheard our parents once mentioning “the Brother” in passing. I remember thinking it was weird they were talking about a brother in Obvious Capital Letters. So I asked them about it and they told me and Taema, but told me not to tell anyone else about him. I didn’t know why they were so nervous about it at the time.

  “You heard from the Brother?” Mana-ma asked. Her voice shook. It was the first time I’d ever seen her scared.

  I nodded. “He was really upset that I was there. Kept yelling at me to turn back, that there was nothing but darkness and pain beyond. He said the forest was poison.”

  That was considered bad, if you didn’t begin the next Cycle. How else could your soul grow and learn, on our world or another?

  “That can’t be right,” Mana-ma said. She gripped my shoulder, hard. “He wouldn’t say that. You’re lying. You’re lying!”

  With difficulty, I shrugged that shoulder, the skin of my chest pulling against Taema’s. “I’m just telling you what I saw.”

  Mana-ma looked deep into my eyes. Whatever she saw there, she didn’t like it. She backed away from me. “You’re ruining the sanctity of the Confessional by lying within its confines.”

  I said nothing.

  “You are lying. You must be! He can’t contact you. There’s no way.”

  I shrugged a shoulder, my skin pulling against Taema’s, all innocent. “Yesterday we connected with each other. Maybe I can connect with those beyond, too.” I was just throwing things out there and hoping they’d stick, and I’d struck deep.

  She grabbed either side of my head, looking deep into my eyes. Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it. She let me go.

  I didn’t register that she’d slapped me until I heard the noise and my cheek stung. Taema gasped, but I stayed silent. Taema’s hand clenched mine.

  “Get out of here. Get out.”

  “Don’t I have to formally release the darkness?” I asked, still all innocent.

  “I don’t think the darkness can be released in you,” she spat. “Get. Out.”

  We stood and walked sideways from the room, Mana-ma watching us go.

  “What the hell were you doing?” Taema asked as soon as we were out of the church and walking down the dirt road toward home. “What was the point?”

  “She does that to us, wrapping us around her finger. I wanted to see if I could do it, too. And I could.”

  It was easy, and sort of fascinating even if I knew, deep down, it was wrong. Like picking legs off of an insect.

  It made me wonder what else I was capable of.

  THIRTEEN

  TAEMA

  I wake up completely disoriented.

  My mouth feels like cotton wool and my vision is blurry. The room hums with the soft whirr of machinery. I try to move, but there are wires poking from my veins, holding me in place. I panic, not sure where I am. Have I come out of surgery again? My arm tries to move to my scar, but it can’t.

  “T,” I whisper. Where is she?

  “Is she OK?” asks a male voice I think I recognize. “It doesn’t normally take this long to wake up, does it?”

  “It’s her mechanical heart. Usually when people are … excited in the Zealscape, their heart pumps faster—works through the drug quicker.”

  I blink, shaking my head. A man leans over me. “You OK, Tila?”

  I start at my sister’s name, still trying to figure out where I am. I shake my head, but the man gives me a warning look. I squint. He’s a detective. Detective Nazarin. I remember. I focus on my breathing, everything coming back to me as the last vestiges of Verve leave my system.

  The orderly is taking out the needles from my arm. I shudder as I feel them slip out of my skin. Seems strangely barbaric and old-fashioned, but intravenous is still the best way to administer the drug to make the immersion in the Zeal or Verve world complete. You must know it wasn’t a Zealscape, I want to say. How much have the Ratel paid you? Have you contacted them? If he had, wouldn’t they already be here? I feel the aftereffects—a buzzing in my veins, a twitching in my muscles. If it was actually Zeal, my urge to kill and maim would be diminished. I’d feel happy and glowing. Because it’s Verve, I feel more keyed up than ever. I keep grinding my teeth together in anger, clenching my hands into fists.

  Mia’s still deeply dreaming, lying flat on the Chair. Time can go a bit funny on these drugs. It felt like I was only there for an hour at most, but it’s been three hours out here. According to the clock on the wallscreen above her head, she still has eleven hours of depravity before she has to wake up and remember what she did in the harsh light of day. Perhaps eighteen hours before she’s here again, ready for more. How can she bear to do this, day after day?

  The orderly finishes and I get off the Chair, unsteady on my feet.

  I lean closer to Mia, and then I swallow hard. I’m almost sure I see the barest hint of bruising around her throat, and another thin mark where the scalpel nicked her. But that can’t be possible, can it? I clench my hands into fists deep within my pockets.

  Nazarin looks a bit better than I feel, though not by much. He’s decidedly green around the gills. I want to ask him what he saw. Were his urges to kill just as strong, and if so, who did he hurt in that shared dream world?

  Nazarin tips the white-coated orderly extra, and he responds with an obsequious nod. He opens the door for us and smiles, but to me it seems more of a leer. I squeeze past him, as does Nazarin, and the orderly leads us down the hallway, his perfectly coiffed hair solid as a helmet under the dim lighting. He motions toward the discreet side exit.

  I brush off my arms after we leave, as if I can shed all the horror of what I’ve seen. I’m shaking, even though it’s a warm San Francisco night. I let out a breath, my ears perked for an alarm, my eyes to the sky for any unmarked hovercars to take us away. I’m grateful we made the effort to wear masks, and can only hope the orderly didn’t lean in close enough in the dim light to see the seams. They’re not something that works well in the bright light of day, but are usually reserved for costume parties or nights out on the town.

  We walk along beside the garish advertisements of the Mission district. All the smiling, bright men and women seem to be cackling at me.

  “We need to talk about what happened,” he said. “But not here.”

  “Back to the safe house?” Though I don’t feel comfortable there, between the Chair and seeing that spread of false blood in the upstairs room.

  “There’s another safe house, closer. Just around the corner. We’ll regroup there, then head back to the main one.”

  He sets off, and I trail him.

  * * *

  The extra safe house turns out to be a small apartment, and it’s Nazarin’s second home. He has one that the Ratel know about, but this is a separate one, not in his name. He’ll sometimes meet his superiors here, he explains, since he can never go to the SFPD headquarters. Or he’ll come here when he wants pri
vacy, escape. They’ll be shutting it down soon, or assigning it to someone else, since he’s moved to the new safe house to train me.

  Though Nazarin has spent nights here, there’s nothing personal about it. It could be a hotel room. It’s a studio apartment, though the one room is a decent size. The bed, with cushions against the wall to make it double as a sofa, takes up a corner; a tiny kitchenette takes up a second; a bathroom another (it has a door, at least) and a wardrobe the last corner. A table and chairs are by the window, and he gestures for me to take a seat.

  I wonder what his actual apartment looks like, whether there are knickknacks and photographs that would give a glimpse into his life. Tila and I, when we lived together, had a perfect shelf in my entrance hallway to show people just a little bit about us. Holographic images of the two of us, our arms around each other. My engineering degree, and a little glass award I won for my work on VivaFog. A gorgeous, glazed pot Tila made herself and false sunflowers, some of her smaller pieces of artwork, and a glass sculpture a client at Zenith had given her. All of it rested on top of a scarf we bought when we went on holiday together to United Korea. Now it’s only my half, photos and engineering accolades, and it doesn’t look right.

  Nazarin passes me a glass: more SynthGin and tonic. Better than nothing. I shoot it down my throat, grimacing at the subtly wrong taste. I close my eyes, but I keep seeing the screaming mandrakes with the familiar faces. One had looked like Mardel. My eyes snap open.

  “Got any more?” I ask.

  He takes my cup the three steps to the kitchenette and dutifully pours me more. I drink it down.

  “I don’t know what you saw, or what you learned,” he starts. He’s barely touched his drink, swirling it around in the glass. He makes a pretty, if somewhat frightening picture. He’s taken off his overtop and wears a tank, the muscles on his arms bulging beneath his brown skin. He has more pale scars crisscrossed along his forearms. The light from the ceiling screen casts part of his face in shadow. He’s taken off his shoes, and the sight of his socks—the beginnings of a hole in one big toe—makes him look strangely vulnerable.