False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(15)

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.

“What’s it to be this time, sweets?” she asks. Her gaze flicks to me, assessing me from head to toe, before she focuses on the detective again. “Better not be too trying. I have back-to-back meetings all afternoon and if you tire me out, I’ll nap through them.”

“Identity switch,” he says. “This is a sensitive matter. I saw you returned the confidentiality agreement to HQ.”

“I’m hurt you don’t trust me,” she pouts. “When have I ever let you down?”