*
When people think of Zeal, they don’t think of the dark, dingy Zealot lounges. They think of brainloading. They think of the bright, shiny lounges in the nice parts of the city, a place for people to go to let out a little steam and return to the real world, refreshed. They think of the drug that keeps the city largely crime-free, and provides a little fun along the way; all thanks to Sudice, Incorporated. The company I used to work for, along with so many other people in San Francisco. I’ve never thought before about how many tendrils the company has within the city, and how much the government owes it for its many inventions.
Those dark Zealot lounges, though; those, most of the city tries not to think about, and they do a very good job of forgetting. They don’t sit and imagine those who might be the worst criminals, serial killers or rapists or abusers, locked in the Zealscapes, too out of it when they come out to think about anything except plugging in again. The people who go there have dreams so dark they don’t dare go to the beautiful lounges. They say the government can’t properly eavesdrop on dreams, not in great detail—but not everyone believes that. So they go underground.
Mirage is one of the worst Zealot lounges, and that’s where we head in the hope of finding Mia.
Mia. I haven’t seen her in a year and a half. She took us in when we left the Hearth. She was like a second mother, or an aunt. We lived with her for years—the only other Hearth apostate, or at least the only one we met. We loved her, and she loved us, but she was always troubled. In and out of the nicer Zealot lounges, but when her Zealscapes became darker, police showed up at our door. She cleaned up her act until she almost seemed like the Mia we knew when we first came to her.
After the last time she relapsed, and disappeared to an off-grid Zealot lounge, both Tila and I washed our hands of her—at least, I thought we both did. It wasn’t easy, but I couldn’t watch her self-destruct. She turned down all my efforts of help, of therapy, of rehab. There was no going back for her. Not this time.
I still felt guilty about that, but I couldn’t help her if she wasn’t willing to help herself.
Nazarin thankfully has the night off with the Ratel, though he’ll be there all day tomorrow. There’s still a chance we could be recognized if the Ratel have visited Mirage before. We’re both wearing masks, like a temporary visit to a flesh parlor. They fit perfectly over our features, light enough not to be noticed but enough to trick the camera drones, and we can peel them off when we wish. There’s a small chance the orderlies might notice, if they look too close, but so many there are overworked and underpaid, I think we’ll be all right. My mask itches.
We take the MUNI down to the Mission district. By the time we arrive, night has fallen. The streets here are full of wavering holographic ads. They assault the senses as we walk down the street: men and women wearing next to nothing, displaying their wares, licking their lips suggestively and calling out to us what they’re offering. Loud, tinny music blares from each of them in a cacophony. If anyone still had epilepsy these days, they’d have to avoid this whole neighborhood. I feel the beginnings of a headache flaring at my temples. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I make my way through the glare, Detective Nazarin at my side.
The ads grow darker, more reds and blacks and deep blues. They flicker, leaving the streets in darkness but for the street lights. There’s no sense of welcome. The people who come here want only the dreams they’re too afraid to dream in a proper Zeal lounge.
Mirage is at the end of the street. An ad of a palm tree in a desert ripples over the front of the building. A stone sphinx wavers in the distance, and as we watch, it opens its mouth and yawns before gazing at us mysteriously. The windows are shuttered. I don’t want to enter.
In that building I know there are dozens of people strapped into Chairs, wires poking from their veins, their eyelids twitching as they live out their dreams.
I wonder what causes some people to favor more violent dreams than others. Some say that people who are predisposed to crime have different brains, like damage to the prefrontal cortex. That means that the two hemispheres of the brain can’t communicate properly, and aggressive impulses are in overdrive. Ticking time bombs.