False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(23)

Nazarin pops a Rejuv and sets the steaming cup in front of me. “They put a lot more into you than I’ve ever seen before in two hours. You sure you feel all right?”

“Fine,” I say, trying to sound so. I take a sip of coffee. It’s the sanitized San Francisco stuff, nearly caffeine-free, with creamer, but it’s warm as it slides down my throat.

“Do you have any questions about what you’ve learned?” Nazarin asks.

I frown. “I’m still sorting through it. Maybe later.”

Nazarin glances at the clock above the replicator. Half past six. “I’ll leave you to drink your coffee. But then you should phone Tila’s friends. Your first assignment. I have to go.” His eyes are a little puffy, despite the Rejuv.

“Right,” I mutter, staring into the coffee cup. Nazarin stands, and pauses right before he passes me. For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to rest a hand on my shoulder. I think I would have appreciated the gesture. In the end, he sighs and leaves me be.

“Hey,” I call after him, and he turns. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.” Two years older than me. He probably became a cop at eighteen, a rookie recruit around the time I entered San Francisco. “Why?”

I shrug a shoulder as he leaves. “Just curious.”

I drink the coffee slowly, laying out all the recently acquired information in my mind. Between this and my already chaotic anxiety about Tila and about what I’m doing, my brain seems too crowded. I want to scream, to let it all out. I clutch the coffee cup tighter, and then force my fingers to relax. I push the chair away from the table and fold my body into a corner of the room, so that both walls press against my shoulder blades. I breathe in, breathe out, and empty my mind of all extraneous thought.

It’s time to phone my sister’s friends, as my sister, and tell them I’m going away to China.

I can’t do it. It’s a simple thing, and the easiest job I’m likely to have undercover, and I can’t do it. Sweat breaks out along my skin. So much stress and heartache over the last twenty-four hours has been building, and the dam finally breaks. My mechanical heart thumps rhythmically in my chest against my metal sternum—completely immune to the external factors that would speed or slow a biological version.

Tila—why did you do this to me? What were you trying to do? To prove?

My fingertips find the familiar scar as I blink my burning eyes and slow my breathing. I close my eyes, grabbing my emotions and forcing them under control. Even now, I can’t escape Mana-ma, but at the moment, I’m glad of her training.

I imagine the fear and the stress as darkness swarming around me to settle on my skin. Then, deep within myself, I kindle a light that starts from my heart and emanates outward, a pure white to eradicate the darkness. My skin is now clean and glows softly, settling in my mind.

“I’m calm,” I whisper aloud. And I am. I’m almost giddy with it. A last breath, and I’m back to myself.

I meditate for around ten minutes, the tension leaking out from my neck and shoulders. I float in nothingness, in blackness. All anxiety lifts from my skin, in tiny flurries, like soot in the wind. When I open my eyes, I’m almost giddy from the endorphins. I return to the kitchen table, my breath even and steady. The information has ceased overwhelming me. I’m myself again, more or less.

I learned this from Mana-ma, and part of me feels nervous when I do it. As if just by meditating, I’ll somehow fall back into her thrall. But I’ve … we’ve been free of her for years.

I set the pings to audio only. Tila has a lot more friends than I do. It never bothered me before, but looking at the list of names downloaded from my implants and projected onto the kitchen table, I feel like she’s left more behind in this world than I have. Her artwork. She collects people, and always remembers faces and names. Though I’ve made some impact with my VivaFog machines, I only have a small circle of friends, and I couldn’t say for certain if I’m closer to them than she is to hers or not.

“Here goes,” I mutter, and ping the first name on the list. I have a little thrill of anticipation. I’ve often wished I could be more like my sister: stronger, braver, so sure of herself, whereas I always questioned myself and my perception of others. I relied on her too much, in many ways. By channeling her, maybe I can start relying on myself.

I start with Diane, the curator of an art gallery nearby. Once, she had an exhibition of Tila’s artwork. It was a success and yet after that first and last exhibition, Tila couldn’t stand the thought of another gallery opening. She told me they were stealing pieces of her by buying her art. I hadn’t understood it: wasn’t that the point of making art? You put a little bit of yourself on canvas, or into a sculpture, or onto a page, and then you give or sell it to others so they also enjoy it?

Since then, whatever work she did was never seen by anyone but the two of us. Her paintings are beautiful, and it seems a shame that nobody else shares them, but I respect her decision and the reasons behind it, and so does Diane. They’ve remained close friends.

“Hey Tils!” Diane says.

“Hey, Di,” I say, folding my face into a smile—even if she can’t see it, she’ll hear it in my voice. I lean on my right elbow, like Tila does. She pitches her voice different from me, a little lower, but aside from that, our inflections are identical. We can still speak at the same time if we want to. It unnerves people when we do it. Diane’s speaking, and I focus on her words.