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 mean to explore more, but I’ve been too busy, usually working on VivaFog machines even on the weekends. When we were younger, Tila and I would take so many day trips from the city. We went up to Monterey, to Santa Cruz, to Berkeley. We’d pack picnics and laze on the beach or in a park, Tila sketching and me reading a book before exploring the shops and the markets. I miss those days.
Nazarin takes us up to Marin, the affluent area where tech workers commute in and out on the underwater high-speed BART. He looks tired. Working for the Ratel by night and training me by day means he’s functioning on too little sleep. Rejuvs help, but they’re not a substitute for proper sleep. The flesh parlor he’s chosen is one of the best in the nation. When the hovercar touches down, my nerves refuse to behave, no matter how much of Mana-ma’s training I use.
They’re going to change my face.
Not much, but enough. I keep trailing my fingertips along the lines of my brows, my nose, my cheekbones. Nazarin notices but does not say anything. I swallow, putting my hands down. It’s not much of a change. And I can always change it back.
We sit in the waiting room. I press my nails so hard into my palms that they leave marks. I’m shaking and I can’t seem to stop. Nazarin lifts his hand, pauses as if tempted to take it away, and then rests his hand on top of mine. He gives me a look out of the corner of his eye as if to say: is this too much? Should I not? His hand is warm, the palms callused. I can see the small scars, pale against his skin, which is only a little lighter than mine. I put my other hand over his and squeeze, grateful for the comfort, before taking both hands away.
A nurse pokes his head into the hallway, his scrubs white and crisp, and makes eye contact.
“I’ll be right here,” Nazarin says.
I give a sharp nod. I follow the nurse through the bright, white walls and into a room. There’s another Chair within. I’ve had my fill of these things the last few days. They’ll knock me out, and through gene therapy and a scalpel, I’ll wake up with a different face.
“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” the nurse says, helping me into the Chair and plugging the wires and electrodes into me. I’m still shaking. He gives me something to calm me, until I feel as if I am floating. I listen to the beeps of the monitors and my mechanical heartbeat. It reminds me of that first day I awoke from surgery.
The door opens. In my addled state, for a moment I wonder if it’s Tila, coming in to find me, IV trailing behind her.
It’s only the doctor, coming to change my face to molten wax and mold me into my sister. The SFPD doctored the files, to make it seem like “Tila” went back to her original face, and has now changed her mind yet again.
He comes forward and asks if I’m all right. I nod. I’m floating, high above myself. He sends me to sleep, and my last thought is that actually, I don’t mind this. My face will change, but I’ll look exactly like my sister again.
EIGHT
TAEMA
I’m wearing Tila’s clothes.
They’re nothing like my usual attire—a coverall for scurrying up a VivaFog antenna, listening to its gentle hum as it draws the fog into its whirring machines, or a dress similar to the ones we wore in the Hearth on weekends, plain, comfortable, unremarkable. All the things this dress is not.