False Hearts (6 page)

I walk through, trying to keep my tread firm rather than hesitant. A man leans against the table, arms crossed over his chest. He’s muscled, with strong eyebrows, a slightly hooked nose, and scars on his knuckles and forearms that, in this city of image perfectionists, draw my eyes.

“Hello,” he says, pleasantly enough.

“Hi,” I say hesitantly. It seems very informal after all the interrogation rooms at the police station. The kitchen looks as stark and un-lived-in as the hallway.

“I’m Detective Nazarin,” he says, moving toward me and holding out his hand. I take it. His handshake is warm and firm.

“The undercover agent,” I say, feeling stupid.

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate. I wonder what he’s done as part of the Ratel. What I might have to do, now that I’m joining him. He sees me eye the door nervously. “We’re the only ones here.”

“I thought there’d be others.” A whole team, determined to keep me safe.

“There will be. But not until they’re needed. Do you want a drink?”

I do, but I shake my head, clasping my hands into fists. I’m shaking again, and it irritates me, but being here means it’s real. It’s happening. I’m about to start training with this scarred stranger who could probably snap my neck without breaking a sweat.

“Do you want to go to a room and settle in, or have a tour and get started?”

“I’ll get started.” It’s not like I’d be able to relax here.

He walks ahead of me, his stride sure and powerful.

One room is filled with dozens of wallscreen monitors, showing the street outside and other locations through the city. Others show long streams of code, blinking in the dim light. Empty chairs and desks line up in front of them.

“The rest of the team will mostly be watching us from the SFPD headquarters, but they can be based here occasionally, once we’re undercover.”

So many screens. There’s the outside of the TransAm Pyramid. There’s the outside of my apartment building, and Tila’s. The police station. Warehouses. Stark skyscrapers.

“Right,” I say, for lack of anything better.

He shows me the other rooms. Many of them are empty. There are a few bedrooms, stark as hotels. I throw my bag into one that has a good view of the park. He doesn’t show me his room.

The last area of the house is the training room. It’s large, with that gym smell of rubber, metal, old sweat and cleaning solution.

To the right is a practice mat, weights and staffs along one wall. My eyes are drawn instead to the brainloading Chair on the right.

He sees the hesitation, his brow drawing down in confusion. “You knew brainloading would be the main component of the training, correct?” he asks. “We don’t have time to do it another way. Your file says you used a Chair frequently when you came to San Francisco, to catch up on all you and your sister hadn’t learned while at the Hearth.”

At the mention of my sister, I suppress a flinch. I’m here because of her. This is all happening because of my twin, but I still miss her with a pain deeper than my scar. I stand unnaturally still, every muscle tense. I force myself to appear unconcerned. I’m annoyed my fear is so obvious. “It’s fine,” I say, keeping my voice smooth. “I just haven’t used one for years, is all.”

That machine was one of my first introductions to modern technology after the actual surgery. Upon realizing just how damn ignorant we were, Tila and I had jumped into Chairs willingly enough, brainloading information on history, politics, math, science and anything else that captured our interest. Tila had been more interested in art history and other cultures, whereas I’d been drawn to science.

People were surprised by how easily and quickly we integrated the information. Most people had a fifty percent retention rate. Good, obviously, for hours of information pooled into a brain, and people often finished degrees by age sixteen or seventeen, so we were grossly behind. It didn’t take long for us to catch up. From our training with Mana-ma, we had a ninety-five percent retention rate.

It wasn’t long before others expressed interest in our abilities, though our background was kept largely under wraps. Tila found a tutor for her art, and I found a mentor to further my education in engineering. Tila grew sick of it all a lot sooner than I did, leaving her mentor in order to do her own art without plugging into the Zealscape. I stayed, and I did well.

After I finished my education, I never touched a Chair again. I hate the feeling of information trickling into my brain. It’s like it fills my skull with noise and pushes out who I am. I always woke up after a night of downloading information as tired as when I’d gone to bed, muttering facts to myself as I made coffee. Perhaps it was harder for us because of our high retention rate, or the fact that Zeal is not as pleasurable for us as for others. In any case, I prefer to learn things the way the brain was meant to absorb them.

The Chair by itself is fairly antiquated. As of a few years ago, most people can download information directly into their brain, with extra implants in the hippocampus and frontal cortex. They don’t have that in Zeal lounges, but it’s the inevitable next step. Neither Tila nor I have those extra implants, and I’m glad they haven’t asked me to get them. I’d rather have the Chair.

“You have your room to store your things, but I’m afraid you’ll be sleeping here, most of the time,” Nazarin says. “Come on, let’s go have some coffee. I’ll help fill you in on what you can expect over the next few weeks.”

Finally. Oloyu hadn’t gone into a lot of detail about the day-in day-out plans of being undercover. He didn’t know.

He makes the coffee—well, orders it from the replicator—and sets the makings on the table. I’ve been in his presence over half an hour and I still have no idea what to think of him.

“So. We don’t have long to train you,” he begins. “Tila works at the Verve lounge a few times a week. We know where she goes and what her shifts are, and we do know how she communicates with them. We can tell them you’re ill, which means you can miss one, maybe two shifts, but after that they’ll expect you back. I can’t have the luxury, so I’ll still be working my usual night shifts while you brainload.”

“Verve … lounge?” I ask.

“That’s what she does for them and how she rose so fast through their ranks.” He seems frustrated that I’m confused. “Surely Oloyu told you about Verve?”

“Some. That it’s different from Zeal, and they need lucid dreamers to mine it. I didn’t realize that I’d have to do it so soon. Or that there were lounges for it.”

“By the time that happens, you’ll be trained and know what to do.” His words are so confident I allow myself to believe them, at least a little.

“OK,” he continues. “Today, you’ll be contacting people with your cover story, and we’re going to switch your VeriChip to your sister’s. Once that happens, you’ll contact your friends to tell them her cover story, and then you’ll be able to contact the Ratel. We’ll also start your training. It’ll be physical, hand-to-hand combat, and weapons, and as much information as you can retain. I’m here every step of the way, and any questions you have, you can ask me.”

Despite his harsh features and his scars, his eyes are warm. It steadies me a little more.

“How long have you been undercover?” I ask.

“A little over two years.”

That’s a long time. If he’s deep undercover, that means he might not have been able to contact his close friends and family, and even if he could, he’d have to lie to them day in and day out about what he was really doing with his time.

Like Tila lied to me. And how long will I be doing this? A few days, weeks, months? Years?

I push the thought away, but a worse one follows in its place. “Have you … met my sister?”

“I have. Not often, but we were at some of the same parties, and I saw her in passing if I dropped off deliveries at the Verve warehouse.”

A strange thought. I feel strangely exposed. “What about … the fact we don’t look alike?”

“Visiting a flesh parlor will be one of the last steps.”

I touch my face. Like everyone else, I’ve been to flesh parlors and erased a line here, a dimple there. I’ve never done anything drastic, but I’ll have to change my hair, my nose and my cheekbones. Not much, but enough that I won’t recognize myself so easily in the mirror. Enough that I’ll look like Tila again. “Can I change it back … after?”

“There’s no reason you can’t.”

I’m not reassured. I stare at the dregs of my coffee, counting my steady heartbeats.

“Do you feel ready for the first step?” he asks gently.

I look up, pressing my lips together. “Sooner we start, the sooner it’s over with.”

He gives me a smile, and it transforms his face. His eyes light up, and they crinkle around the corners. I can almost forget the scars hiding beneath the buzz cut of his hair, and the smile puts me a bit more at ease, despite the strangeness of this day.

He gives me my script but leaves me alone to make the calls, saying he’s only a ping away if I need him. I thank him, glad he won’t be hovering.

One by one, I go through my few friends and colleagues. I’m only amending the story of my life a little—or what was going to be the story of my life, before all this happened. I’m to say I’m going to China earlier than I planned, and Tila’s coming with me. Once I change my implant, I’ll phone Tila’s friends. It’ll be my first undercover role: to convince them that I am my sister. I shiver at the thought.

After those first calls are done, it’s physical training. Detective Nazarin takes me to the room with the Chair and the gym. He faces me, crossing his arms over his chest. “You have muscle mods, correct?”

I nod. “Enough to keep me toned without having to exercise much.” Because I’m lazy.

“Good. That’ll help with recovery. Fighting techniques will be part of the information you download, but let’s see how you are on your own.”

He runs me through a basic diagnostic, figuring out how much weight I can lift or press, how flexible I am, how fast and far I can run. His fingertips rest on the pulse of my neck, taking my resting heart rate. I look up at his dark brows, the scars, the square jawline. He’s attractive in a dangerous way.

“Slow resting heart rate,” he says.

“They programmed it that way.”

He smiles a little, and again it lights the harshness of his face.

I think I do a little better than he expected, which is good, but I can tell he wishes I were stronger than I am. I think of my sister—the muscles on her arms. She claimed it was from dancing with customers at the club, plus a few extra implants. I didn’t wonder at the time why she felt the need to be so much stronger. How dangerous are the Ratel—has she needed to physically protect herself?

Nazarin teaches me self-defense moves. I’ve never taken any kind of combat sport, though I’ve often wanted to. Tila convinced me to go with her to dance classes instead. Some of the moves I learned in capoeira transfer pretty well, at least.

Overall, though, it’s a thoroughly humbling experience. Detective Nazarin doesn’t hurt me, but after a while his light blows start to ache. My limbs aren’t moving as quickly or as seamlessly as I’d like. Nazarin easily dodges my paltry attempts to attack him.

“You’re small and quick. Your best hope is to avoid the blows. If you came up against someone like me in a real fight, you wouldn’t stand a chance.” He probably weighs about half again what I do, so he has a point. It grates, but I learn.

He’s not a bad teacher. He doesn’t shout—he tells me what I do wrong, but praises what I do right. As my muscles grow more exhausted, his voice seems to hum near my ear: “Duck, left, back,” and I move almost without thinking.

Detective Nazarin calls a stop after three hours. I’m panting, but proud of myself that I kept going and didn’t ask for breaks except the odd gulp of water. Nazarin is glazed in perspiration, but strangely, he smells good. Musk and cologne and clean sweat.

“Strong start,” he says. “Soon, you’ll be better.”

Once it’s wired into my brain.

“Now,” Detective Nazarin says, “it’s time for you to legally become Tila, at least for a little while.”

*   *   *

I have enough time to shower and choke down some vat jerky and dried fruit before Detective Nazarin takes me to meet Dr. Kim Mata, a biohacker working for Sudice, Inc.

We can’t go to the Sudice headquarters: they’re the parent company of VivaFog and I’ve already told my co-workers I’ll be on a jet to China imminently, and it would compromise Nazarin’s cover. But we can’t bring Dr. Mata to the safe house. Instead we make our way down to one of her empty properties. She’s often hired by the SFPD to do these sorts of jobs, Nazarin says, but she keeps it quiet from Sudice. I’m surprised she’s able to.

Time to switch identities.

On the way there I lean against the window, my tired muscles quivering. It feels good, though, like my mind has connected better with my body now that it has that particular buzz of exercise exhaustion. I’ll take some Rejuvs when I get back, and between that and my implants, tomorrow my muscles won’t even be sore, but I’ll be that much stronger.

How much stronger do I have to be? What exactly do they think is going to happen?

We meet Dr. Mata in one of her townhouses by SF State. The walls are pure white and there is no furniture. Dr. Mata is Japanese-American and tiny, barely coming up to my shoulder, and I’m not the tallest of women. She’s also one of the few people in San Francisco who has let herself age, at least a little. There’s the barest hint of wrinkles around her eyes and at either side of her mouth. It’s refreshing to see a face that looks lived in, evidence of countless smiles reflected on her skin. I estimate she’s about forty-five. She has dark hair cut in a bob to the corner of her jaw, and a face that’s always on the verge of grinning.

“Can’t keep away from me, can you, darling?” she says, dimpling at Detective Nazarin.

“My heart beats only for you, Kim,” he responds, deadpan.

She rolls her eyes. I’m amused by their exchange. Dr. Mata is open and friendly, and Detective Nazarin seems more at ease around her. With her easy manner and the way she slouches against the wall, she doesn’t strike me as one of the most prominent biohackers in the world and worth a few million credits or more.