“We don’t want to wait that long.” A sly passing of credits from Nazarin’s hands to the white-gloved orderly’s.
“Like I say, I can’t take her out without killing her, and I doubt you want that.”
That’s an option? Good God.
“But I can put you guys in a shared dream with a small dose, if you want,” the orderly continues. “You’ll have to deal with a lot of crossover, but you should be able to speak to her if you really go for it.”
I knew this was a likely outcome, but I’d been hoping to avoid it, yet it all has a feeling of inevitability. Deep down, I think I knew I’d have to visit Mia’s dreams tonight.
Nazarin senses my dismay and leans close. “The sooner we interrogate her, the sooner we can get to the bottom of this. You can find out what Tila was up to.”
Cheap ploy, Nazarin, but effective. “Is it dangerous?” I whisper.
“Of course it is. But you’ll be fine. You’ll be in control.”
“You’re lying.” I follow him down the corridor anyway.
*
Within minutes, I’m strapped into the Chair. It’s different from a brainloading Chair. Bulkier. More wires. It feels like a cage.
We’re in the same room as Mia, in Chairs on either side of her. Nazarin paid extra for privacy, so the fourth Chair is empty. I turn to look at Mia. She looks so small, with so many wires poking out of her arms and neck. People who sign up for long trips have to be catheterized. Her mouth is pulled into a faint grimace, showing yellowing teeth. The wrinkles in her brown skin are deeper, the cheekbones more prominent. She’s wasting away, like so many Zealots have before her, and so many others will. She doesn’t eat enough, doesn’t drink enough, and eventually, her body will give up. The government doesn’t step in here, though they’re meant to care for each and every citizen. How many people truly realize this is what’s happening, right under their noses? Why isn’t anything being done?
It’s a very small percentage of people who become addicted to Zeal on their first try. Those that do come out and are completely changed by what they’ve seen. What they’ve done. They can’t wait to plug in again and be who they are in their dreams. Real life can cease to have any meaning. If they have money, they fritter away their savings. If they run out, they receive unemployment, and the amount they receive is just enough to keep them in Zealot lounges. They spend enough time in the real world to eat some NutriPaste, perhaps clean themselves, go to the bathroom, and then they’re back to their nearest Zealot lounge, huddled in the darkness, waiting for the cold prick of the syringe to send them back to dreamland.
I still can’t help fearing I’ll like the dreams so much that I become someone who can commit murder. Someone like Tila could be.
No. Don’t think about that. But that re-creation of a holographic Tila stabbing Vuk, wrenching the blade up into his heart, haunts me just the same.
The orderly puts on a mask. It’s just for show—for all of Zeal’s dangers, there’s no risk of infection, even in a shithole like Mirage. He plugs us into the slots on the wall, starts up the program.
“Ready?” Nazarin asks. Lying supine, his face doesn’t look so harsh. His features look almost tender.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.
The orderly has connected the wires on our Chairs, so that we’ll feed into Mia’s program when the drug hits us. Couples and such will do it sometimes, so that they can revel in the Zealscape together. The thought makes me sick. “Sweet dreams,” says the orderly.
I feel the prick of the syringe.
Then we’re gone.
ELEVEN
TAEMA
I don’t like the inside of Mia’s head.
Everything in the dream world has a soft quality of washed-out gray and muted reds, blues and browns. I’m standing outside a building, gazing up at its broken windows. It’s a scaled-down version of the tower complexes in San Francisco, all steel, concrete and glass, five stories tall instead of fifty. The sky is dark, the clouds bruised black, blue and purple. Warm wind blows my hair, and the air smells like a storm is about to break. I’m wearing the mini-dress I wore to Zenith, for some reason, and the straps of leather dig into my legs. I can see, hear and feel everything, but it’s dampened in the way of dreams.
“Nazarin?” I call out, but there’s no answer.
Up above, the angry, frozen sky rumbles. Rain begins to fall, and my dress is soaked, my hair plastered to my head. Like Tila on Thursday night. Shivering and alone, I go into the house. Mia will be inside. Some part of me feels it.
The lobby of the minuscule apartment complex is empty. Crumpled leaves on the ground crunch beneath my feet. I climb the stairs, following the vague prickle of intuition that leads me to the top floor.
I hear the screams first.