“The victim has not been formally identified yet, but another hostess says they called him Vuk. He was tall, muscular, wore a sharp suit. Tipped very well. Spent a lot of time in the Zeal lounge. Tila was one of his favorites.”

“Vuk,” I say, tasting the name on my lips. The retinal display of my implants tells me the name means “wolf” in Serbo-Croatian. I send the text away. “Why are you telling me this?”

“We want you to come back in tomorrow,” he says. The hardness has left him again. I prefer him without it—it doesn’t suit him. Too forced.

“Why?”

“You’ll see. Please come to the station tomorrow at 0900. Take the MUNI. Come through the back entrance.”

“This is not a request?”

“No.” We’ve reached my apartment. He sets the hovercar down on the balcony. I sigh at the sight of my broken sliding glass door. At least the worst of the rain has stopped.

I get out without saying goodbye, stepping into my damp living room. I turn around, watching Oloyu lift the police car away.

“Vuk,” I say again. “Who were you?” A rich man, if he frequented the club, who liked to plug into the Zeal virtual world fantasies. I can just see a Sudice billboard for Zeal, flashing through the fog. A woman in a Chair, wires hooked up to her arms and temples, eyes closed, a smile on her face. Above her head, her dreams come to life—she’s clad in armour, and fighting a sinuous monster. The billboard blinks again. She’s flipping head over feet, wearing a skintight star-spangled uniform, an Olympic athlete. One last blink, and the tagline: Find your Zeal for life. What will you dream today?

What were Vuk’s dreams when he was plugged into that Chair, and did Tila join him in them?

I look down over the city again, wondering how I’ll find out who he was and how he entangled Tila in this mess.

3. Tila

THREE

TILA

They’ve given me an old-fashioned paper notebook to write my last will and testament, with a pencil blunt enough I can’t kill myself with it. I’m sure I still could, if I wanted to.

I refused a tablet. I don’t want them sneaking and reading this as I write. So here I am, with my paper and pencil. I’m more used to this than most people in the city—out in the Hearth, there are no fancy gadgets and very little technology.

I’m not going to write my last will and testament. What’s the point? I don’t have much to leave and my only next of kin is Taema, so everything goes to her. I couldn’t send any of my stuff to my parents at the Hearth even if I wanted to, since we’re apostate and all that.