Black Rain

by Matthew B. J. Delaney

  “God, I don’t know how people can stand that much violence,” Dolce said as she unstrapped her shoes.

  “People’s appetite for it has always existed. People love the spectacle of violence. It’s in our nature.”

  “So you’re saying it’s genetic?” Dolce asked.

  Jack paused. “Maybe. I want to believe people are essentially good. Not that we’re being held back from violent acts solely through fear.”

  “Fear? Fear of what?”

  “Fear of going to prison. Fear of going to hell. I’d prefer not to think that the police department and God are the only things that stop us from killing one another.”

  “But if humans didn’t believe in the presence of a soul, in some eternal life force, however you want to describe it, do you think we’d be more violent?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, one might look at religion as our way of establishing checks and balances. Let’s say, for example, that humans are indifferent to violence. That we’re not naturally inclined toward it, but, in a race for scarce commodities, we’d use it as a means of getting what we wanted. If I have something you need, something in short supply, you’d be willing to kill me in order to get it. But the basis of religion is the presence of a soul, an eternal life within all of us.

  “So when we place that soul within a religious framework that teaches us most forms of violence are wrong, we’re suddenly faced with the idea of consequence resulting from our violent acts. Now, if you kill me, your soul’s doomed to punishment in the afterlife. And perhaps this is what keeps humans in check.”

  “And you think that without the presence of a soul, humans would have no check against their baser tendencies, like violence?”

  Dolce raised her palms. “I think humans, like almost all other forms of life, are essentially selfish beings. We’re born knowing hunger, and we constantly strive to satisfy our own needs. Do I think without the presence of a soul we’d all end up killing each other? I’m not sure. But I do believe there is balance to the universe. Symmetry. An equilibrium will always be found. For humans to exist, we must live within a society. And a society cannot function with the presence of extreme violence.

  “In my opinion our human moral code has less to do with a fear of punishment and more to do with our inherent need to maintain a stable society. A society filled with humans who cooperate with each other, rather than kill each other, will achieve far greater things.”

  On the eyeScreen, Jack watched as the Atlanta line was vanquished by the hometown New York Synthates. The camera panned the stands to show thousands of screaming faces caught in the frenzy of excitement over the victory.

  “What about them?” Jack gestured toward the eyeScreen. “How do Synthates fit into our society?”

  Dolce sighed. “I’m not sure. You know I’m not religious in a traditional way, but I do believe in the presence of a benevolent God, and so I don’t know how Synthates fit. Something seems very wrong with how we treat them. But I also think everything happens for a reason, and that perhaps we don’t yet know the role Synthates are to play. Whatever it is, I think it’s certainly more than their slaughtering each other for the general amusement of the crowd. Such sadistic spectacle isn’t what a benevolent God, what a benevolent universe, would want.”

  She sat next to him and Jack leaned back in to her, resting his head in her lap.

  “I have to believe there is good in the world,” she said as she ran her fingers through his hair. “Synthates were created for a reason. Sometimes we just have to wait to see what God reveals.”

  A seashell held to the ear produces the sound of the ocean. Night Comfort had told him that this was what it felt like to be a Synthate. You could sense this whole other world, this entire ocean of feeling, but inside was empty. Soulless. Lifeless.

  The feeling was an illusion. Jack held Dolce against him. The ocean never existed. Jack had felt this his entire life. That something was different. In the stadium, before three hundred thousand pairs of eyes, two armies of Synthates had rushed to destroy each other.

  Where did all the dead go?

  Later, he couldn’t sleep. He walked to the living room and the eyeScreen flashed old Warner Bros. cartoons, Marvin the Martian looking down at Earth through a giant telescope.

  Mute.

  He watched the silent images, then his eyes moved to the windows beyond. Outside, across the river, the city was dense with light. A Maglev train flashed by, crowded with people as it wound its way through the lights. There were vidBoards on every building through the conurb playing a silent looped commercial for the memory suppressant Samp Amnease.

  Then the images changed, and Jack studied an advertisement for the Deco Casino in the Synthate Zone, featuring a Rudolph Valentino clone crooning before a backdrop of poker tables.

  Crusher vehicles were lined up on the street outside Jack’s building. Crime had been rising. It was the population density; it had to be. Everyone crowded together, no open spaces anymore. No wonder sometimes people went a little crazy.

  “Can’t sleep?” Dolce entered the room, her eyes not quite open. She yawned.

  “No, I was just–”

  Jack paused midsentence as something caught his eye. Through the window, the random flow of lights changed. The vidBoards outside had all gone blank, the arbitrary array of imagery suddenly shutting down and leaving grayness.

  “What is it?” Dolce asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Look outside.”

  Something important must have happened. The vidBoards remained gray for a moment more, then a word flashed on each of their screens.

  Wanted for Murder.

  Jack’s eyes widened. He watched as the lettering spread out, separated, and moved off the screen. Then another image appeared, rotating back and forth, giving a full dimensional view. This time it was a face.

  Dolce grabbed his hand.

  It was Jack’s face.

  On each of the vidBoards, Jack’s face rotated back and forth. His name appeared alongside his picture, the lettering big and white on the vidBoards.

  Wanted for Murder.

  Jack’s face stayed on the vidBoard, and beside it appeared the digitized image of a matronly looking woman. “This Synthate has murdered and is now hiding amongst you,” she stated solemnly. “Under the Fugitive Synthate Act, no one is to harbor this wanted Synthate. He is hiding under the name Jack Saxton.”

  What the hell was happening?

  Jack removed his driver’s license, the hologram image on its front flashing “Suspended, Warrant Outstanding.”

  He was being shut down.

  “What’s going on?” Dolce asked, her voice panicky.

  There was a jangling noise outside. The sound of heavy footsteps moving down the hall. Jack strained to listen. Voices, hushed whispers, then a clatter of metal. He stared at the door, unable to move, unable to think. He had a moment more of indecision before the door exploded inward with a burst of white light and a shower of broken wood and plaster smoke.

  Dolce screamed as a giant, black mass burst through the door. A dozen eyes of light shone and dipped and came toward them. Then the mass separated, the eyes stretched out across the room. The lights blinded Jack, and he shielded his eyes with a hand.

  Voices screamed.

  “Don’t move! Don’t move!”

  “Hands up! Don’t fucking move!”

  Dolce was yanked from his arm and something punched Jack’s gut. He gasped as the wind was knocked from his lungs.

  Shadows stepped out from the darkness, men in black coveralls, bulky Kevlar tops and stubby-looking barkers. The pain in Jack’s gut was so intense he could barely breathe. Dolce moved to help him but two men forced her back. Another blow to Jack’s gut followed and he collapsed to the ground.

  He saw Dolce slammed hard against the wall and a dark anger rose up inside him. He tried to pull himself upright again, but several sets of boots surrounded him and he was forced to the gr
ound. He felt a band of cold metal along his wrists, then heard the sharp clink of handcuffs.

  “Wait! This is a mistake!” Jack called out. The only response was the press of a boot against the back of his neck.

  Hands grabbed beneath his shoulders and he was jerked to his feet. A light shone in his face. One of the figures, clad in helmet and goggles, stared at him.

  “Open your mouth,” a voice behind the helmet commanded.

  He felt rough hands around his jaw, his mouth forced open. A set of hands appeared, shoving a single Q-tip into his mouth and scraping the bud along the inside of his cheek. Jack gagged, but the hands held his head in place. The Q-tip was removed and pressed into a small plastic DNA analysis tube. The tube processed the material, then flashed Jack’s information on a small digital screen.

  Two crushers did the same to Dolce, forcing her mouth open and pressing the Q-tip inside.

  “Dolce!” Jack yelled and moved toward her. Again he was forced painfully back.

  “Shh, shh.” A voice called out from somewhere behind the line of men in combat gear. “This won’t do at all.”

  Jack turned as the group of men split apart. From behind them walked a heavyset man in a suit. His face appeared to have been poured from pancake batter. Loose and pale with ripples of fat. Jack knew the face well. William Calhoun, Chief of the Synthate Fugitive Unit. The Synthate community was terrified of Calhoun and his crushers.

  Calhoun waved his hand. “Sit him down.”

  A kick to the back of his leg forced Jack to the floor. One of the crushers checked the DNA reader, then turned to Calhoun. “It’s him.”

  Calhoun studied Jack. “Did you really think you could live this way forever?”

  “What?” Jack asked, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “Our code never lies,” Calhoun said. “How long did you think you could hide the fact that you’re a Synthate?”

  Jack was stunned. Slowly he said, “A Synthate? I’m not a Synthate.”

  “You know what the penalty is for a runaway Synthate? Public shocking. One hundred times.”

  “Dolce, tell him I’m not a Synthate. This is ridiculous.” Jack tried to rise, but the crushers held him in place.

  “Ah,” Calhoun said, as he turned his attention away from Jack. “And you must be Dolce.”

  One of the men spoke quietly into Calhoun’s ear and showed the chief something on the DNA reader. Calhoun studied the reader. “It seems we have two Synthates here.”

  Calhoun advanced toward Dolce. She tried to pull her head away from him, but he took a handful of her hair and inspected it.

  “Beautiful work,” he said thoughtfully as he looked her up and down. “Who made you?”

  “Get your hands off me.” She lifted her chin away.

  Jack felt a wave of anger ripple through his stomach. Dolce wasn’t a Synthate. Neither one of them was. Calhoun pulled down Jack’s shirt and inspected his bare shoulder. “No bioprint. All Synthates are required to have an exposed bioprint at all times.”

  “I don’t have a bioprint because I’m a natural.”

  “A natural is born from a human mother and father. A Synthate is an artificially created humanoid, who is by law deprived of his or her liberty for life, and is the property of another.”

  “The codes don’t apply. I am a natural. Why are you doing this?”

  “Because runaway Synthates pose a threat to the structure of our country. And there is nothing so dangerous as a Synthate attempting to pass as natural. Mocks the work of God. Synthates are not godly creations.”

  “Listen, listen to me please, just listen,” Jack pleaded. “Call my father. He’ll tell you. George Saxton. Or . . . or my brother. Call my brother.”

  “I’m well acquainted with your brother.”

  “Then call Phillip. He’ll tell you everything.”

  “I don’t have to call him,” Calhoun said.

  “Why not?” Jack asked.

  “Because . . .” a familiar voice said from the doorway, “. . . I’m already here.”

  A figure stepped forward from behind the wall of crushers. Jack squinted against the light as Phillip came into the room. Jack was overwhelmed by his relief at seeing a friendly face.

  “Phillip, thank God,” Jack said. “Tell them, tell them I’m not a Synthate. I’m a natural. Help me!”

  Phillip cocked his head and said, sadly, “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Jack.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Do you remember what happened to my trophy?”

  Jack knitted his eyebrows in confusion. “What trophy?”

  “The trophy I won in music. For the piano.”

  Jack’s brain worked slowly, bogged down by the confusion of everything happening. He tried to remember what his brother was talking about. He vaguely recalled piano lessons, maybe a recital competition, but no memories beyond that. Nothing about a trophy. And even if there had been one, he couldn’t see how it mattered now.

  “I don’t know . . .” Jack said, cautiously. “What are you talking about?”

  “The only fucking trophy I ever won!” Phillip exploded in anger. “He saved your awards. Your medals. But what happened to mine? I brought it home, and I never saw it again. I thought he’d put it on the mantel. Where people could see it. But it found its way to oblivion. Its proper place.”

  Something cold and tight pressed against Jack’s chest.

  “I won that fucking trophy. And he never cared. Just like he never cared about anything, all because you were so good. Because you always had to be the best. Had to win everything. And it wasn’t fair. And it’s still not fair. Because you had an advantage.”

  “What advantage?”

  “A secret.” Phillip held up one finger across his lips mockingly. “Shh, mustn’t ever tell. Mustn’t ever tell. Nobody can ever know. Once I asked Dad why you were so good at everything and I wasn’t. Know what he did? He slapped me. He said never mention it again, and then he fucking slapped me across the cheek. So we tiptoe around it.”

  Phillip began pacing the room with exaggerated silent steps, like a cartoon cat burglar sneaking past a sleeping guard. Jack felt a seed buried deep inside him, a small bit of hibernating life all at once exposed to light and water and now suddenly growing. “Who told them I was a Synthate?”

  “But he never asked how I was feeling. What I wanted in life.”

  “Who told them I was a Synthate?” Jack repeated.

  “I did. I called the crushers,” Phillip said, his chin jutting out.

  The seed exploded with growth inside his chest, massive roots tearing through his heart and lungs. “My God, why?” Jack asked.

  “You were always his favorite, and you weren’t even natural. You’re not supposed to be the one he thinks of as a son.”

  There it was, Jack thought, a lifetime of jealousy brought to bear in one sentence. “I think this conversation is over.” Phillip turned to the waiting crushers. “You can take him.”

  “No!” Dolce shouted. Two crushers had her pinned against the wall. “Please, no!”

  “So you’re a Synthate, too?” Phillip walked toward her, bent down, and pressed his forehead against Dolce’s. “I should have known. You two really are perfect together.”

  “Phillip, let her go,” Jack pleaded. “Please . . .”

  “Let her go?” Phillip considered the statement. “Let her go. Let her go.”

  “Please, Phillip, please . . .” Jack said. “You know her, we grew up together. Take your revenge on me. Not her.”

  Phillip turned to Calhoun and said, “He’s right. You can let her go.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Calhoun replied.

  “What do you mean?” Phillip said. “She wasn’t part of our . . .”

  “No bioprint makes her a runaway. Synthate Code says any runaway is subject to one hundred stuns. Anyone who harbors a runaway is subject to imprisonment.”

  “But—”

  Calhoun held up
a hand. “That’s the code.”

  Phillip looked visibly upset. He rubbed the top of his head and turned to face the window, confused suddenly. Then he looked back at Dolce. “I’m sorry.”

  “Fuck you,” she said simply.

  Jack tried to meet his eye. His brother had the power to do something. To get their father involved. Even the crushers would back down before George Saxton, but Phillip never looked at him. Instead, his brother looked blankly around the honeycomb before he turned and left.

  Calhoun watched him go, then turned and addressed his men, nodding at Dolce. “I’m not finished with her just yet.”

  He ran a finger down the side of her cheek. She pulled her head away, then lunged forward and spit in his face. He wiped his eye and slapped her hard with the back of his hand. Her head snapped back.

  “Don’t make me break you down,” Calhoun said.

  Jack surged forward. With his arms pinioned behind his back, he struck against Calhoun hard with his chest, swung up with his head. Jack felt the top of his skull impact bone and Calhoun was knocked backward.

  Hands grabbed him and the butt of a barker struck him in the chest. He collapsed onto his side as more blows fell on his head. He tucked his chin toward his chest and tasted blood as boots struck him hard in the face and neck. Finally, the beating stopped and he was hoisted back to his feet.

  A trickle of blood streamed from Calhoun’s nose. He wiped at it and spit on the floor. “The Synthate who, having struck any natural, to have produced a bruise, or the shedding of blood in the face, shall suffer capital punishment.”

  Jack charged forward again, but one of the guards swept his feet out from beneath him. Without his hands for balance, he fell forward and struck his chin on the floor. His body went light, then he rolled to his side and kicked hard. His foot impacted something soft, and Jack heard a grunt of pain.

  “Brain blind him!” a voice shouted, and the weight of bodies fell on his chest, holding him in place.

  One of the crushers held something that resembled a black motorcycle helmet, forcing the contraption down over Jack’s head and tightening it around his neck. Inside the air was hot. A visor slid down the open front of the helmet and shut Jack off completely into darkness. The helmet was padded and soundproof. He felt the grip of the gloved hands, but sound diminished to nothing.