Nazarin knocks on the door and exchanges words with the guard behind the hatch, a man with a face that’s lost a fair number of fistfights in its time. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the man looks me up and down, assessing me. Does he think I’m an addicted Zealot? The door opens with a metallic groan.

“Come on,” Nazarin says, holding out his hand. With the barest hesitation, I take it and duck inside.

The Zealot lounge is dark, with red lights tracing the path to the back. The front is the waiting room, but dim enough to obscure faces. Zealot lounges do not scan your VeriChip at the door. You pay with actual coins. Anonymity guaranteed.

We wait our turn. Nazarin goes up to the woman behind the bulletproof glass of the counter. She’s chewing gum, blowing bubbles and popping them wetly. They murmur through the intercom, too low for me to hear. The addicts near me twitch in the darkness. Their fetid breath floats through the air, their fingers spasm on the fabric of their clothes. A woman leans close to me and smells my neck.

“You’re new to this,” she whispers. She’s lost most of her teeth. Her glazed eyes stare at me above dark bruises.

“First time,” I manage, fighting the urge to lean away.

“I don’t know whether to be envious or sorry for you,” the woman says. She could be my age, but she looks older. Her skin hangs from her wasted muscle. Her hand clutches the coins for her trip.

I lean away from her, wondering what this woman does in her Zeal-fueled dreams. I’m sure if I knew, it’d make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

Nazarin returns. “Come on,” he says. “We’re up.”

“It’s my turn,” the woman says, but weakly, as if all her fight has fled. She stares at the wall. I can feel the other Zealots’ eyes on me, even if I can’t make out their faces.

“I’ll see you in my dreams soon enough,” the woman says, her voice distant.

“I don’t doubt it,” I say, shivering.

I stand, and Nazarin takes my elbow, leading me through the dark.

An orderly is there, wearing a reassuringly white lab coat. It’s less comforting when I’m close enough to see it’s grimy about the cuffs. “The woman you wish to speak to is in too deep to take her out,” he says.

My muscles stiffen.

“How long until she can come up for air?” Nazarin asks.

The orderly’s eyes unfocus as he checks his ocular implant. “Fourteen hours at the absolute minimum.”

Shit.

“We don’t want to wait that long.” A sly passing of credits from Nazarin’s hands to the white-gloved orderly’s.