False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(9)

I fling one of the couch throw pillows across the room. It’s an empty, childish gesture.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I yell at the empty room. My voice drops to a whisper. “How can I help you if I don’t know what you’ve done?”

The tears come again, and this time, I let them. They trickle down my cheeks, warm and salty. I don’t wipe them away. Memories of us in the Hearth flash through my mind. Going to our secret spot in the woods, whispering to each other for hours. Playing cards with our parents, Tila and I on the same team. Our voices lifted in harmony during sermon. The first time I saw her in that hospital room. She came back to me as soon as she woke up. Those first years after surgery, when we always walked holding hands because we still had to be connected in one way or another. And then the look on her face last night. The stark fear, the whites of her eyes showing. It was as if I didn’t know her at all.

This is not a dream. It’s too real. And there’s no going back.

“Why did you lie to me, of all people? What do I do?” I ask the empty room again.

There’s no answer.

Until there is: the implant in my ear beeps.

I have a message.

*

I’m back in the SFPD interrogation room. I came in by a back entrance, with my hood up to partly obscure my face.

Officer Oloyu stares at me from across the table. His eyes look tired, though his face doesn’t show it. I doubt he’s slept, but he’s popped a few Rejuvs to keep him going, just like I have.

“Why am I back here?” I ask, ignoring the pleasantries. I have water this time instead of coffee, but I still don’t touch it.

“Have you read the news this morning?” Officer Oloyu asks.

“I’ve noticed what’s not in it.”

An eyebrow quirks, along with the corner of his mouth. “Quite.”

“How did you keep this quiet?”

“Who controls the media bots?” he counters.

Decent point.

“Your sister is out of the news because this is part of something larger. If we’re to find out what’s really going on, we have to get to the bottom of it before they peg we’re onto them.”

“Them? Who’s them? What does this have to do with me?”

“This has everything to do with you.” He takes a breath. “The SFPD have a proposition.”

His body language has changed again—palms out, brown eyes calm but firm. He still looks heartbreakingly young.

My hand goes to my chest. I shake my head. “I don’t understand. Why do you need me?”

“What do you know about the Ratel?”

“The Ratel?” I echo faintly. They’re the main remaining source of crime within the city. The government has been trying to eradicate them for years, but they’re tenacious. They intimidate businesses; they have a hand in the property market, and some say within certain branches of the government or Sudice. Like everyone, I’ve heard the whispers that the Ratel have grown more powerful in recent years, morphing from an annoyance into something more significant and dangerous. I always figured it was just rumor, but looking at Officer Oloyu’s face, I’m no longer so sure. What else have they been keeping from the media bots?

Something stirs in my memory. Tila joked about the Ratel a couple of weeks ago. Or I thought it was a joke. I’d reprimanded her for being late to one of our dinners yet again.

“Just ping me if you’re going to be late. Obviously I’m not your mother, but you never used to do this,” I’d said, turning away from her.

“Oh, relax, T,” she responded, with that infuriating tilt of her head and flash of white teeth. “It’s not like I’m hanging out with the Ratel. I’m just late.”

I remember wondering at the time why she’d even joke about such a thing. I feel sick.

Officer Oloyu is still waiting for a response. “A little,” I manage.

“Do you know what they traffic in more than anything else?”

My breath hitches. “Not really.” I’ve never had any dealings with them. I go to work. I come home. I live my life as a law-abiding citizen of San Francisco.

“They traffic in dreams. More specifically, the information from dreams.”

“Zeal?” I ask, confused. Sudice own that. I’ve only plugged into Zeal a few times. It did nothing for me.

“No. Something new. Something different. The next step beyond Zeal. Have you heard of Verve?” He watches me.

I look at him blankly. “Never.” What would the next step beyond Zeal be? Zeal enacts fantasies, becoming catharsis for pent-up emotions. People start doing it in their early teens, and it’s often a lifelong habit. After they let off steam and come out from their fantasies, the aftereffects are soporific. Any anger or violent urges are suppressed, and if they build up again, the craving for another visit to a Zeal lounge kicks in. Tila and I arrived in San Francisco several years after those our age were hooked, and we never fell into it as much as the others. It’s integrated into therapy, into brainloading information. Most people use Zeal every day, in one form or another.

He hesitates, searching my face for signs of falsehood. I fight the urge to squirm.

“There are two reasons Verve is bad news. First, unlike Zeal, there is no comedown. If you enact a violent fantasy, then when you come out, you don’t feel sated. If anything, a desire for violence is heightened. If it were widespread, we’d see a very clear upswing in crime. Second, Verve is a way for the Ratel to mine dreams for information. It’s like a virus. Once you take it, it locks into your implants. Until the half-life leaves their system, the Ratel can watch what they see, hear what they hear, and even spy on their dreams.”