by Laura Lam
Diane never asks me what’s wrong, or if I’m feeling all right. I’ve masked everything behind Tila’s mannerisms. She’s brasher, doesn’t self-edit before she speaks. Or at least she doesn’t appear to, so it makes it seem she has nothing to hide. Though, obviously, she did.
I say farewell to Diane and make my way through the other names on the list. The only people I don’t ping are the friends from Zenith, since Nazarin says we’ll be going there soon enough.
When he first proposed that, so soon, I thought he was crazy. But now, as I say goodbye to Tila’s last friend on my list, I think it won’t be as bad as I fear. Although I have a lot less experience with seeing how the “hostess Tila” acts at work. Her job is a far cry from anything I’m used to doing—the machines I work with don’t speak to me, as I’m not in robotics—and I wonder if they’ll see straight through me as soon as I set my foot through the door.
After I finish pinging everyone, I lie down in an actual bed in my room and doze.
Nazarin comes for me a few hours later. When he knocks I tell him to enter, forcing myself to sit up. Though he’s only slept four hours, he looks refreshed, whereas I’m sure my hair is frizzy and my makeup has smeared halfway down my face. “No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid,” he says. “I’m to plug you back in. I’ll be going back out again. I’m needed.”
I get up, pulling my sweater around my shoulders. “What for?”
“Security for a Verve drop.” He sighs. We go downstairs. My feet drag on every step.
“Who are they selling it to?”
He grimaces. “They’re bribing a Zeal lounge, one of the shitty, off-grid ones, to spike the Zeal with Verve.”
My eyes widen. “Why?”
“I think they’re experimenting with it on a wider scale, and using the Zealots as a testing ground.”
“Fuck,” I say. Zealots are those who become so addicted to Zeal that they spend more of their lives plugged in than out. Sometimes, if their fantasies are too violent or depraved, the government takes an interest, worried that they might pose a threat to society despite Zeal’s soporific aftereffects. So some go off-grid and take Zeal in unregulated, horrible dumps. Anything for their dreams. Most of them don’t live long, spending so much time within the Zealscape they stop eating and waste away. I’ve always wondered why the government never cracked down on those illegal Zeal lounges. Now, with a sinking feeling, I wonder if it’s because letting them starve is easier and cheaper than stasis.
“I know. They have an orderly there, a lucid dreamer, who will be tasked to see how many dreams he can mine and how quickly. There might be more to it as well, but as a Knight, they don’t tell me much, and I can’t ask questions. I want to stop it, but I can’t.”
Because it’d blow his cover. That’s another aspect I haven’t thought of—how I’ll have to see horrible things and let them slide, because to speak up would make me stand out.
I don’t want to talk about it any more. “What are you shoving into my brain this time?” I ask in dread.
“We’ll give your brain a rest from Ratel info. Some of the data now will be physical fighting techniques. The rest of it…” Unease flickers over his features, and I can feel it mirrored in my own. “This … might not be easy for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s to help you with going to Zenith. Help you fit in.”
“You interviewed a hostess?”
His eyes flick away from me.
Oh. Shit. I suddenly understand, and I don’t know whether to be hopeful or angry. “You spoke to Tila.”
He nods. “Yes. She gave us an interview. For you.”
He’s looking for a reaction, but I keep my face blank and still, despite my insides turning to water. “OK.”
“Are you all right with this?”
What does he expect me to say? Of course I’m not all right with this. I’m not remotely all right with any of this. It’ll be the first time I’ve seen my sister since she was literally dragged from my arms by the police. She’s the one who hasn’t spoken to me since—for if Detective Nazarin was right, she didn’t wish to speak to me. After everything I’ve discovered about her, everything I’ve learned she’s hidden from me, and everything I know I will learn, will she still look like the same Tila I thought I knew?
“It’s what needs doing, right?” I say, with a weak, humorless smile. “Have to tie off the loose ends before we really go fishing.”
“Yes.” Still, he hesitates. “If you don’t want to do this, nobody is making you.”
“You’ve changed your tune. What, do you now think I won’t be able to do it?” Does he think I’m weak? I don’t want him to think me weak.
“No, not at all. I haven’t changed my mind in the least. But … sometimes, I wish someone had asked me that, the night before I went undercover. Asked me if this was really what I wanted to do, and given me the option to back out, without shame.” His head tilts downward. I can’t see his eyes.
“Would you have turned it down?”
“I’m not sure.”
His words frighten me. “It couldn’t be without shame. Not for me,” I say, almost gently. “I couldn’t leave my sister. I might be terrified of what’s going to happen. I might be so angry at her for hiding things from me that if she were here right now, I don’t know if I’d hug her or scream at her. But I could never just leave her to freeze. That’s not an option.”
He meets my eyes. “Good.”
Detective Nazarin plugs me into the machine. My eyes grow heavy.
I sleep.
* * *
Tila’s sitting at a table almost identical to the one where I saw all the Ratel people interviewed the last time I was plugged in. It’s only been a few days, but I’m shocked at the change in my sister. She seems haggard, and thinner. They’ve dressed her in a plain, dark blue uniform similar to nursing scrubs. Her short hair is frizzy instead of spiky—prison shampoo, I suppose.
The biggest difference is in her eyes. I’ve seen it before—she gets the same look when she realizes she has to either start a painting over again or ditch it entirely. The look that screams, I failed. It wouldn’t matter what I said to her. She couldn’t shake that the failure was due to something deep within her. A flaw.
Yet her strength is still there. The bright glint in her eye when she knows she has something the other person wants. I’ve been on the receiving end of those bright, tormenting eyes before. It could drive me crazy.
Across from her sits Officer Oloyu, the man with the Golden Bear tattoo. I’m half surprised it’s not Nazarin for a second; but then, he wouldn’t have had time to go see her, wherever she is, interview her, and be back to train me. Oloyu leans forward, but I can tell he’s nervous. “Tell me about the Zenith club, please, Miss Collins.”
Tila plays with a snag of dry skin next to her fingernail, almost as if she’s bored. She recites her litany. “I’ve worked as a hostess for the last four years. I started in some really shitty clubs, like Gamma Ray. I bounced around a couple of other places, then Sal took me on at Zenith. Right away I knew that was where I wanted to stay.”
She leans back in her chair. She has an audience for the first time in days. After all she’s put me through, I find it infuriating that she’s still putting on a show.
“That’s something I didn’t realize going in,” she continues. “That even though people pay money to go to these clubs, they sometimes still hate you, deep down. Hate that they can’t form any genuine connections in real life so they have to pay for you. Or pay for Zeal in the rooms and for you to join in, as they don’t have any friends who will link with them. They resent you for it. It can make things plenty awkward, lemme tell you. In Zenith, people are nicer, and really seem to like being around you.”
She’d said something similar to me before, but she’d also shrugged, saying that they loved her too. Love, hate, desire, envy, or simple enjoyment of her company. Sometimes all of it wrapped up together.
That stops her. “No, I don’t think he did.” Her voice is quiet.
“What’s the exact specification of your job at Zenith?” Officer Oloyu asks. I can tell he’s interested. He’s likely never been to a club like Zenith. Not on his salary.
She crosses her arms over her stomach, pulling the fabric tight against her breasts. She knows Oloyu’s looking. Her head tilts up, defiant, one corner of her mouth quirked. I know that look, too. “I suppose—I’ll never work there again, will I? I’ve been called a hooker, a whore, a call girl. All that. Whatever. It’s not just sex—sex work rarely is, anyway. I’m their fantasy.” She smiles, and it lights up her wan face. She has reclaimed many of those terms for herself, telling me the words couldn’t hurt her if she did. Maybe she’s distancing herself from other types of sex work because she’s speaking to a police officer. Even if being a hostess is not illegal, she’s still nervous. “These days, so many men and women work all alone, connected to their wallscreens and their small, cramped apartments. They don’t seem to understand how to make real friends, or maybe they want some who are a bit less … complicated. So they come to clubs like Zenith, where friends, lovers or almost-lovers are all lined up at the ready. There are no expectations, no birthdays to remember or weddings to attend. Connection without attachment. Without strings. Without disappointment.
“So that’s what I do. I talk to them. I pour them drinks. I laugh at their jokes. I listen to them. I look them in the eye. Most of the time, that’s all they need. They have a nice time, and then they go home to their empty apartments and their wallscreens.”
“And if they need more?”
She shifts in her chair, resting her head on one hand. She’s positively chatty, now that she’s started. She has a rapt audience in Oloyu, and she wants to entertain. “It’s usually only high-end business people who have enough money to use Zeal in the club. We’re exclusive. Best product, best experience, and all the hosts and hostesses are great actors in the Zealscape. For the clients, it’s like a mini-holiday in a really expensive virtual reality hotel. The same host or hostess can plug in the whole time, but only if they want to. They get a bonus. Sometimes if they wake up in between fantasies, they’ll have physical sex, but that’s only if they want to. Same with sex when in the Zealscape. It’s not about the sex. Or again, not only about it. It’s to feel close to someone, even if it’s just for a little while, but still knowing the next day they can get on with their life without any guilt. And the sex is freely given or not at all, and the client can’t complain. They all understand the rules.”
And what if they didn’t? Would they grow angry? Angry enough to attack Tila?
“And do you stay overnight?” Officer Oloyu asks. He shifts in his chair, probably aroused and uncomfortable with it.
Tila shrugs a shoulder, the movement seamless and elegant. “Sometimes. Not that often. I have to actually like the person. Want to spend more time with them. Most of the time, I’m happy enough just to stay in the bar and chat and laugh with them. It’s a good job. Was a good job.”
She falters, and her mask slips. There’s the vulnerable side of my sister. The side that only I see. Then it flits back up, and she’s back to figuring out how she can wrap him around her finger. With a dip of my stomach, I realize I’ve seen her use that expression on me, too.
Here, in the brainload, I finally let myself think what I’ve avoided thinking for some time now: has she used me too? But at the same time, I wonder if it’s like back in the Hearth. Where my own mind couldn’t be trusted, and Tila had to spend weeks convincing me that we needed to escape. I shy away from that, unable just now to cope with the guilt of how I once believed in Mana-ma unfalteringly.
“And was your night with Vuk an overnight stay?”
She shakes her head. “No. He liked Leylani for that. I was only a hostess to him.” Her eyes slide to the side, and I know she’s keeping something back.
“Right. We need a list of all the people you work with, and what they look like. Your file says you’re an artist, so perhaps you can draw them?” Oloyu clears his throat.
My sister narrows her eyes. “Is this for Taema?”
Oloyu hesitates, as if he’s not sure if he should answer. “This is to help with the investigation.”
She fidgets. “And I have to do it?”
What is she thinking? It used to be I’d always know. She’s hesitating, not jumping to help until she knows all sides, works out her advantage. Altruism is not a trait my sister inherited. Not even for me.
When I’m awake, I don’t think such nasty thoughts about her. Why am I so cruel when my body is unconscious?
“You agreed you would,” Oloyu continues.
Her mouth twists, but she takes the proffered drawing paper and pencil. She pauses before she draws, tapping the pencil against the table. Why haven’t they given her a tablet? Finally, she brings the pencil to paper.
It fast-forwards her drawing, but I stare at her furrowed brow and the way her hair obscures half her face. How many times have I watched her draw?
When she finishes, she holds up the paper. I drift closer, examining the names and the faces. Even sketched in haste, her drawings are beautiful. Dispassionately, Tila gives each name, a short description, and a few key personal details about each person. I feel the information sink into the deep recesses of my brain. As soon as I see these faces in the real world, I’ll recognize them.
Officer Oloyu asks her to then sketch and describe the most common clients to frequent the club, especially those she’s worked with most often.
At this she finally starts to look concerned. She hides it well enough. But not from me. “This is for Taema. You’re putting her undercover, aren’t you?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“When you first took me in, you told me you were putting her in protective custody. You can’t do this. Going undercover is too dangerous for her.”
I can’t help but bristle. She thinks I’m soft.
Oloyu’s mouth twists. “Why? Because of what you’ve done as part of the Ratel?”
She scoffs. “Nice try. No confessions.”
“We already know irrefutably you worked with them. There’s no need to be coy. So why isn’t your sister allowed to go undercover?”
“So she is undercover.” Her eyes are bright with triumph.
Oloyu’s mouth twists as he bites down a curse.
“Gotcha.” Tila smirks and bends over the paper. Again, the strange fast-forwarding as she draws, me unable to turn my “eyes” away from the quick movements of her fingers holding the pencil. Again, the sketches of men and women appear, their names, their habits, their dreams and desires find a place deep within my mind. I won’t forget any of them, even though, if I’d been awake, I’d probably forget about a third of the names.
Officer Oloyu asks my sister more questions, ones that I suspect Nazarin has given him. What is the layout of the club? What sort of food is served? Music played? Cocktail menu? Most popular liquor? A lot of it seems unnecessary. I’m only going to be at the club for an hour or two at most, speaking to the owner, Sal, and to Leylani, the girl who was meant to be entertaining Vuk that night. Still, everything goes into my memory bank.
At the beginning my sister fights back, toying with Oloyu and giving flippant answers. Then she seems to tire of the game and gives him the answers he asks for. By the time the questions end, Tila’s visibly wilted, her voice hoarse. Officer Oloyu thanks her for her time. But before she leaves, she looks at the camera.
It seems like she’s looking right at me.
“I don’t need saving, Taema,” she says. “You don’t have to do this for me. And maybe you shouldn’t.”
I can’t read her, and it hurts.
She turns and leaves, the door clanging shut behind her. The scene goes dark.
* * *
When he returns sometime in the night, Nazarin turns off the b
rainload long enough for me to have a few hours of real sleep. I wake up to the information having settled better within my mind. I still feel tired, as though I’ve been doing calculus for hours. Brain gymnastics, Tila always called it.
I’ve had nightmares about my sister. Over and over, I saw her saying that maybe I shouldn’t do this. Drawing away from me, her eyes calculating, weighing me up. Maybe she didn’t believe I could be her, do whatever she did. Maybe she didn’t trust me, that my mind couldn’t handle it.
Even despite her manipulations, her games, I couldn’t let her go. I could never let her go into stasis without even trying to set her free. She knows that. So why try to warn me away?
Maybe this is even more dangerous than I thought.
I say nothing as I sip my ersatz coffee in the morning. Despite the nightmares, I haven’t changed my mind.
The first thing I have to do is send the Ratel a message. Tila is evidently meant to work a shift at the Verve lounge tonight. Nazarin walks me through it. They have untraceable methods of contact. There’s a portal on an untracked website where Ratel members can check in. Nazarin knows the code, and he tells me just what to say. I’ll miss two shifts: next Tuesday and Thursday.
A message comes back confirming it, and I sign off. The SFPD have changed my VeriChip to show my location as Tila’s apartment whenever I’m at the safe house, so if the Ratel do look up my whereabouts, it won’t arouse suspicion. Today is Sunday—by next Tuesday, I’ll have to go in. It’s not nearly enough time to get through all we need to, but it’s all the time we’ll get.
I go through more brainloading and more physical practice with Nazarin, honing my body and my mind. They give me facial recognition software, to help me recall the faces Tila told me about in last night’s session, as well as another program which will help give me instructions if I do get into a physical altercation. I hope I don’t have to use it.