False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(13)
*
I’m to meet my new partner immediately. I don’t even go back to SFPD headquarters to give Oloyu my answer; I ping him through my implants.
I’m back on the MUNI. I swipe my VeriChip at the entrance, the fare deducting from my account, and take the elevator underground. I only wait a minute for the train heading toward downtown, and find a seat in the corner. The train pulls away. I cross my legs as the green glow from the underground algae plants passes by. Everyone looks sickly in this light, and my eyes dart to and fro. I keep rubbing my palms over my knees. Who am I meeting? What have I signed up for?
I get off at the McAllister and Pierce stop and walk the few blocks to the address I’ve been given. It looks like a residential house—one of those sweepingly beautiful, reconstructed Victorian houses, painted in pastel colors. I’ve always admired them, and when I came into a shocking amount of money for my role in the VivaFog, I debated buying one. But Tila scoffed, thought they looked like gingerbread houses, and so I held off. I wonder now why I let her talk me out of it. It didn’t seem important. How many times have I let her decide for me what I really want? Even now, I’m not making my own decisions, not really. This was all started by my sister, without her telling me anything.
I shake my head of the cobwebs of thoughts and climb the stairs, knocking on the door. It swings open on its own. I step in cautiously, a shiver running down my spine. The door closes behind me. Inside, the hallway is empty. No picture frames on the walls, no flowers, no tables strewn with personal items.
“In the kitchen,” a male voice calls.
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.