“What’s the exact specification of your job at Zenith?” Officer Oloyu asks. I can tell he’s interested. He’s likely never been to a club like Zenith. Not on his salary.
She crosses her arms over her stomach, pulling the fabric tight against her breasts. She knows Oloyu’s looking. Her head tilts up, defiant, one corner of her mouth quirked. I know that look, too. “I suppose—I’ll never work there again, will I? I’ve been called a hooker, a whore, a call girl. All that. Whatever. It’s not just sex—sex work rarely is, anyway. I’m their fantasy.” She smiles, and it lights up her wan face. She has reclaimed many of those terms for herself, telling me the words couldn’t hurt her if she did. Maybe she’s distancing herself from other types of sex work because she’s speaking to a police officer. Even if being a hostess is not illegal, she’s still nervous. “These days, so many men and women work all alone, connected to their wallscreens and their small, cramped apartments. They don’t seem to understand how to make real friends, or maybe they want some who are a bit less … complicated. So they come to clubs like Zenith, where friends, lovers or almost-lovers are all lined up at the ready. There are no expectations, no birthdays to remember or weddings to attend. Connection without attachment. Without strings. Without disappointment.
“So that’s what I do. I talk to them. I pour them drinks. I laugh at their jokes. I listen to them. I look them in the eye. Most of the time, that’s all they need. They have a nice time, and then they go home to their empty apartments and their wallscreens.”
“And if they need more?”
She shifts in her chair, resting her head on one hand. She’s positively chatty, now that she’s started. She has a rapt audience in Oloyu, and she wants to entertain. “It’s usually only high-end business people who have enough money to use Zeal in the club. We’re exclusive. Best product, best experience, and all the hosts and hostesses are great actors in the Zealscape. For the clients, it’s like a mini-holiday in a really expensive virtual reality hotel. The same host or hostess can plug in the whole time, but only if they want to. They get a bonus. Sometimes if they wake up in between fantasies, they’ll have physical sex, but that’s only if they want to. Same with sex when in the Zealscape. It’s not about the sex. Or again, not only about it. It’s to feel close to someone, even if it’s just for a little while, but still knowing the next day they can get on with their life without any guilt. And the sex is freely given or not at all, and the client can’t complain. They all understand the rules.”
And what if they didn’t? Would they grow angry? Angry enough to attack Tila?
“And do you stay overnight?” Officer Oloyu asks. He shifts in his chair, probably aroused and uncomfortable with it.
Tila shrugs a shoulder, the movement seamless and elegant. “Sometimes. Not that often. I have to actually like the person. Want to spend more time with them. Most of the time, I’m happy enough just to stay in the bar and chat and laugh with them. It’s a good job. Was a good job.”
She falters, and her mask slips. There’s the vulnerable side of my sister. The side that only I see. Then it flits back up, and she’s back to figuring out how she can wrap him around her finger. With a dip of my stomach, I realize I’ve seen her use that expression on me, too.
Here, in the brainload, I finally let myself think what I’ve avoided thinking for some time now: has she used me too? But at the same time, I wonder if it’s like back in the Hearth. Where my own mind couldn’t be trusted, and Tila had to spend weeks convincing me that we needed to escape. I shy away from that, unable just now to cope with the guilt of how I once believed in Mana-ma unfalteringly.
“And was your night with Vuk an overnight stay?”
She shakes her head. “No. He liked Leylani for that. I was only a hostess to him.” Her eyes slide to the side, and I know she’s keeping something back.
“Right. We need a list of all the people you work with, and what they look like. Your file says you’re an artist, so perhaps you can draw them?” Oloyu clears his throat.
My sister narrows her eyes. “Is this for Taema?”
Oloyu hesitates, as if he’s not sure if he should answer. “This is to help with the investigation.”
She fidgets. “And I have to do it?”
What is she thinking? It used to be I’d always know. She’s hesitating, not jumping to help until she knows all sides, works out her advantage. Altruism is not a trait my sister inherited. Not even for me.
When I’m awake, I don’t think such nasty thoughts about her. Why am I so cruel when my body is unconscious?
“You agreed you would,” Oloyu continues.
Her mouth twists, but she takes the proffered drawing paper and pencil. She pauses before she draws, tapping the pencil against the table. Why haven’t they given her a tablet? Finally, she brings the pencil to paper.