False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(41)

“Come on,” Nazarin says, holding out his hand. With the barest hesitation, I take it and duck inside.

The Zealot lounge is dark, with red lights tracing the path to the back. The front is the waiting room, but dim enough to obscure faces. Zealot lounges do not scan your VeriChip at the door. You pay with actual coins. Anonymity guaranteed.

We wait our turn. Nazarin goes up to the woman behind the bulletproof glass of the counter. She’s chewing gum, blowing bubbles and popping them wetly. They murmur through the intercom, too low for me to hear. The addicts near me twitch in the darkness. Their fetid breath floats through the air, their fingers spasm on the fabric of their clothes. A woman leans close to me and smells my neck.

“You’re new to this,” she whispers. She’s lost most of her teeth. Her glazed eyes stare at me above dark bruises.

“First time,” I manage, fighting the urge to lean away.

“I don’t know whether to be envious or sorry for you,” the woman says. She could be my age, but she looks older. Her skin hangs from her wasted muscle. Her hand clutches the coins for her trip.

I lean away from her, wondering what this woman does in her Zeal-fueled dreams. I’m sure if I knew, it’d make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

Nazarin returns. “Come on,” he says. “We’re up.”

“It’s my turn,” the woman says, but weakly, as if all her fight has fled. She stares at the wall. I can feel the other Zealots’ eyes on me, even if I can’t make out their faces.

“I’ll see you in my dreams soon enough,” the woman says, her voice distant.

“I don’t doubt it,” I say, shivering.

I stand, and Nazarin takes my elbow, leading me through the dark.

An orderly is there, wearing a reassuringly white lab coat. It’s less comforting when I’m close enough to see it’s grimy about the cuffs. “The woman you wish to speak to is in too deep to take her out,” he says.

My muscles stiffen.

“How long until she can come up for air?” Nazarin asks.

The orderly’s eyes unfocus as he checks his ocular implant. “Fourteen hours at the absolute minimum.”

Shit.

“We don’t want to wait that long.” A sly passing of credits from Nazarin’s hands to the white-gloved orderly’s.

“Like I say, I can’t take her out without killing her, and I doubt you want that.”

That’s an option? Good God.

“But I can put you guys in a shared dream with a small dose, if you want,” the orderly continues. “You’ll have to deal with a lot of crossover, but you should be able to speak to her if you really go for it.”

I knew this was a likely outcome, but I’d been hoping to avoid it, yet it all has a feeling of inevitability. Deep down, I think I knew I’d have to visit Mia’s dreams tonight.

Nazarin senses my dismay and leans close. “The sooner we interrogate her, the sooner we can get to the bottom of this. You can find out what Tila was up to.”

Cheap ploy, Nazarin, but effective. “Is it dangerous?” I whisper.

“Of course it is. But you’ll be fine. You’ll be in control.”

“You’re lying.” I follow him down the corridor anyway.

*

Within minutes, I’m strapped into the Chair. It’s different from a brainloading Chair. Bulkier. More wires. It feels like a cage.

We’re in the same room as Mia, in Chairs on either side of her. Nazarin paid extra for privacy, so the fourth Chair is empty. I turn to look at Mia. She looks so small, with so many wires poking out of her arms and neck. People who sign up for long trips have to be catheterized. Her mouth is pulled into a faint grimace, showing yellowing teeth. The wrinkles in her brown skin are deeper, the cheekbones more prominent. She’s wasting away, like so many Zealots have before her, and so many others will. She doesn’t eat enough, doesn’t drink enough, and eventually, her body will give up. The government doesn’t step in here, though they’re meant to care for each and every citizen. How many people truly realize this is what’s happening, right under their noses? Why isn’t anything being done?

It’s a very small percentage of people who become addicted to Zeal on their first try. Those that do come out and are completely changed by what they’ve seen. What they’ve done. They can’t wait to plug in again and be who they are in their dreams. Real life can cease to have any meaning. If they have money, they fritter away their savings. If they run out, they receive unemployment, and the amount they receive is just enough to keep them in Zealot lounges. They spend enough time in the real world to eat some NutriPaste, perhaps clean themselves, go to the bathroom, and then they’re back to their nearest Zealot lounge, huddled in the darkness, waiting for the cold prick of the syringe to send them back to dreamland.

I still can’t help fearing I’ll like the dreams so much that I become someone who can commit murder. Someone like Tila could be.

No. Don’t think about that. But that re-creation of a holographic Tila stabbing Vuk, wrenching the blade up into his heart, haunts me just the same.

The orderly puts on a mask. It’s just for show—for all of Zeal’s dangers, there’s no risk of infection, even in a shithole like Mirage. He plugs us into the slots on the wall, starts up the program.