False Hearts by Laura Lam Page B

though, if I’d been awake, I’d probably forget about a third of the names.
    Officer Oloyu asks my sister more questions, ones that I suspect Nazarin has given him. What is the layout of the club? What sort of food is served? Music played? Cocktail menu? Most popular liquor? A lot of it seems unnecessary. I’m only going to be at the club for an hour or two at most, speaking to the owner, Sal, and to Leylani, the girl who was meant to be entertaining Vuk that night. Still, everything goes into my memory bank.
    At the beginning my sister fights back, toying with Oloyu and giving flippant answers. Then she seems to tire of the game and gives him the answers he asks for. By the time the questions end, Tila’s visibly wilted, her voice hoarse. Officer Oloyu thanks her for her time. But before she leaves, she looks at the camera.
    It seems like she’s looking right at me.
    “I don’t need saving, Taema,” she says. “You don’t have to do this for me. And maybe you shouldn’t.”
    I can’t read her, and it hurts.
    She turns and leaves, the door clanging shut behind her. The scene goes dark.
    *   *   *
    When he returns sometime in the night, Nazarin turns off the brainload long enough for me to have a few hours of real sleep. I wake up to the information having settled better within my mind. I still feel tired, as though I’ve been doing calculus for hours. Brain gymnastics, Tila always called it.
    I’ve had nightmares about my sister. Over and over, I saw her saying that maybe I shouldn’t do this. Drawing away from me, her eyes calculating, weighing me up. Maybe she didn’t believe I could be her, do whatever she did. Maybe she didn’t trust me, that my mind couldn’t handle it.
    Even despite her manipulations, her games, I couldn’t let her go. I could never let her go into stasis without even trying to set her free. She knows that. So why try to warn me away?
    Maybe this is even more dangerous than I thought.
    I say nothing as I sip my ersatz coffee in the morning. Despite the nightmares, I haven’t changed my mind.
    The first thing I have to do is send the Ratel a message. Tila is evidently meant to work a shift at the Verve lounge tonight. Nazarin walks me through it. They have untraceable methods of contact. There’s a portal on an untracked website where Ratel members can check in. Nazarin knows the code, and he tells me just what to say. I’ll miss two shifts: next Tuesday and Thursday.
    A message comes back confirming it, and I sign off. The SFPD have changed my VeriChip to show my location as Tila’s apartment whenever I’m at the safe house, so if the Ratel do look up my whereabouts, it won’t arouse suspicion. Today is Sunday—by next Tuesday, I’ll have to go in. It’s not nearly enough time to get through all we need to, but it’s all the time we’ll get.
    I go through more brainloading and more physical practice with Nazarin, honing my body and my mind. They give me facial recognition software, to help me recall the faces Tila told me about in last night’s session, as well as another program which will help give me instructions if I do get into a physical altercation. I hope I don’t have to use it.
    Over Chinese takeout ordered from the replicator, Nazarin tells me more about his experiences in the Ratel, though he skitters away from a lot of the explicit details. After two intensive days, I feel more ready than I ever thought I could in such a short span of time.
    It’s not enough, though.
    I still have to change my face.
    *   *   *
    We go to a flesh parlor out of the city entirely.
    It was the easiest way to avoid people who might have known me or Tila. The SFPD, the Ratel, Zenith clients, my co-workers—none of them would bother traveling fifteen miles to change their features when there’s a flesh parlor on every doorstep.
    We take a hovercar over the Golden Gate Bridge flightpath. It’s been over a year since I left the city, unless it was for work. I always