Black Rain

by Matthew B. J. Delaney

  And then Jack was alone.

  Other vehicles had been stopped by the collision as well. Jack stood unsteadily and walked toward one of them, a silver solar with a young woman behind the wheel. He waved his hand to her, and she looked terrified for a moment before she pulled away and sped off. Jack looked down at his orange jumpsuit. Of course she was afraid. He looked like an escaped convict. Well, he was. Sort of. But it was a misunderstanding. The police would be here soon. He’d wait, and everything would be sorted out.

  Something rustled behind him. One of the guards had pulled himself partly out of the overturned transport. Jack turned toward him and instinctively put his hands up.

  “Don’t move!” the guard said, breathing heavily. He was bleeding from his forehead and cheek, the front of his shirt soaked with red. He was still half inside of the vehicle’s cab and appeared to be stuck. Jack took a step forward to help him.

  The guard held out his barker, aiming it unsteadily.

  “Whoa! Wait a minute,” Jack said. Then the man fired. The sound of the shot seemed incredibly loud and Jack ducked. “Don’t shoot! I’m giving up!”

  The guard aimed again, but he was weak from the accident and Jack saw his weapon waver. Behind him, traffic accelerated away from the gunfire. Further up the highway, the red flashes of SFU cars quickly approached.

  Glancing back at the guard, he realized the barker was now braced on the edge of the metal door, the hand holding it no longer unsteady. The weapon was aimed directly at Jack. Without thought, he turned and ran.

  Night Comfort tore off her mask as the BMW sped southbound. Behind them, the chaos still visible along the edge of the highway receded into the distance. Barks sounded in quick succession.

  A bullet had shattered the back window of the BMW and she had to shout to be heard above the rush of air that filled the car’s interior. “We have to go back!”

  War Admiral was bent over the wheel, his knuckles white as he skillfully navigated around traffic. “We can’t. It’s too late.”

  In the rear seat, Kentucky Morning groaned in pain. The front of his jacket was soaked a dark crimson, slick and shiny. Behind them came a final gunshot. Then the BMW crested a rise in the highway and the scene vanished.

  “Are you okay?” Night Comfort asked.

  Kentucky Morning pressed his hand against his shoulder. “Just get back. I’ll be fine . . .”

  The fourth Synthate, Outback, also had her mask off. Her face was streaked with sweat and she fumbled through a medical kit that she’d pulled from beneath the seat. Night Comfort reached through toward the back and pulled apart Kentucky Morning’s jacket, revealing pale, torn flesh beneath, a round hole the size of a half dollar visible just below his collarbone.

  She’d seen enough barker wounds to know Kentucky Morning would be dead before they reached safety. She reached out and took his hand.

  The lights of SFU patrol cars flashed past them as they sped toward the accident, while across the water, a helisquall gunship was visible as it skimmed low over the river, its single searchlight cutting back and forth like a metronome. They had left Jack Saxton behind, after all the years they had spent searching. Now he was on his own. With no training and no direction, he’d be captured or killed within the hour.

  And everything would be lost.

  She felt a familiar anger and frustration build inside her, but another groan of pain from Kentucky Morning kept her focused. War Admiral exited near the old Brooklyn Bridge, the fragmented supports visible like jagged tree trunks against the night sky. He navigated the car beneath the bridge, toward South Street, then pulled it to a stop inside the abandoned warehouse of what had once been the fish market.

  War Admiral exited, raised the door to the building, and then flicked on the electric bulbs overhead. Years after being abandoned, the huge space still showed signs of its former use. Empty wooden crates decayed in the far corner near a broken-down forklift while large fish hooks and fading signs hung from the walls.

  “We need to get him out of the car!” War Admiral said. He opened the rear and grasped Kentucky Morning by the shoulders, slowly easing him off the seat and down to the concrete, his body completely limp.

  “Too late,” Night Comfort said, softly. She reached for War Admiral’s arm. “He’s gone.”

  War Admiral sagged to one knee and hung his head. Night Comfort stood and walked to the window, looking out across the East River toward Brooklyn. In the distance she could see SFU helisqualls as they circled over the accident scene. Somewhere to the north was Jack Saxton. And if he had any chance at all, he would be running.

  CHAPTER 25

  Back in his Miami days, Jack had always been known for his speed, and now he ran as fast as he ever had. He hopped the guardrail in a single fluid bound, then sprinted toward a row of tall brick honeycombs. He flattened himself in the shadows and, catching his bearings, realized he was just off 14th Street in lower Manhattan. NYPD and SFU patrol cars flew by down the FDR and screeched to a halt next to the overturned transport.

  Near the building, in the dark shadow of a loading dock, was a dirty green dumpster. Jack used a touch bucks credit to open the lid and dropped down inside. Standing knee deep in garbage, he ripped open bags, looking for anything that he might wear. He found a checkered shirt streaked with grease that covered up most of the prison uniform. He could almost pass for some sort of starving East Village artist, temporarily at least. Thank God he had no bioprint.

  He clambered out of the dumpster. The aging conurb buildings around him were all part of a complex that stretched five blocks north, with small parks and walkways running between them. As he reached the edge of the first path, he slowed. It was late, and very few people were out walking. He had to find Dolce. He believed that only an hour or so had passed since he’d left her at home. He hoped she was still there.

  Ahead he saw the glow of an ATM and ran toward it. They hadn’t shut down his touch bucks yet, but he wouldn’t have much time before they did. Jack pressed his four fingers against the bioscan pad. The machine responded immediately and allowed him to get mao from his checking account. He withdrew the maximum, then, with bills in hand, he stepped out onto First Avenue and raised his hand to flag down a passing taxi.

  Jack figured he had only ten to twenty minutes before his picture was broadcast again across every vidBoard in the city. A cab screeched to a stop as he flashed the fistful of mao and gratefully jumped in the back.

  Jack gave his home address, then sat back and fingered Dolce’s silver cross. The driver barely looked at him in the rearview as they sped down 14th Street. He would get Dolce, then they’d leave the city. Find a hiding place outside the conurb. Then Jack could contact his lawyer, arrange for another genetic test. He would prove he wasn’t a Synthate. That he hadn’t murdered Reynolds and his wife. That he was natural. Then he would arrange for his surrender. This running around was too dangerous.

  The transport vehicle carrying him must have been attacked by the same rebels Jack had seen on the news. They’d been freeing Synthates all across the city since the beginning of the Games. As the taxi weaved in and out of traffic, Jack saw no flashing red lights behind him. He appeared to be safe.

  When they pulled in front of his building, Jack threw the bills at the cabbie and jumped out. He rushed past the doorman and into the elevator. He had formed no plan, and when he stepped onto his hall, he acted only on instinct.

  Two crushers stood outside his honeycomb. Jack sprinted forward quickly, closing the distance between them. One of them turned, surprise registering on his face before Jack buried his fist into it.

  Just as the second crusher turned, Jack struck him hard with his elbow, knocking him back. His head struck the doorframe and the man collapsed. Stepping over the two officers, he entered the apartment. The living room was empty. Slowly he pushed the bedroom door open and was greeted by disarray. The mattress was turned over on the floor, a framed window broken, the condenser smashed and leaking water. B
loody sheets were balled in the corner of the room, and lying facedown on the hardwood floor was Dolce. Her feet were bare, her arms thrown out to either side, blood pooling around her body.

  Jack felt his mind empty. He collapsed to his knees and reached out to touch the back of her head. His fingers came away bloody.

  “My baby, my baby,” he whispered. “Oh God, please . . .”

  Footsteps sounded behind him. Jack turned and saw two crushers in the doorway, their weapons trained forward.

  “Don’t move!” one of them shouted. Jack’s entire body was numb. Nothing mattered anymore. Slowly he raised his hands over his head.

  “Step toward me!” one of the crushers commanded.

  As he followed the instructions, his hands were brought behind him and metal cuffs tightened around his wrists. Jack sank back to his knees. There was nothing left. Everything slowed. Even his blood seemed to turn to ash inside his veins.

  “What do you want to do with him?”

  “The Braves always need bodies.”

  Jack was lifted up under his arms. His strength gone, he felt himself dragged out of the room. There was a sharp prick as a syringe pierced his shoulder. Instantly the blackness surged up around him and he fell into nothingness.

  She’s gone.

  Jack opened his eyes but could see nothing. He lay on a hard bench, the feel of cool metal against his skin. Once again, the walls and floor rattled, the sound of a road passing underneath and an engine somewhere forward. The darkness was complete.

  Dolce was gone. Only the rough sensation of the world around him was left.

  He ran his cuffed hand along the wall, smooth and metallic. Wherever they were headed, this time, he doubted there’d be another escape. The past few hours replayed in his mind like a nightmare.

  He pounded on the wall with his hand, trying to get someone’s attention.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” said a voice from the back. “If I were you.”

  Jack, startled, looked around, but could see nothing in the darkness.

  “Just relax, we’ll be there soon enough,” said the voice.

  “Who are you?” Jack asked.

  “I am nobody,” came the reply. “Just like you now.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Phillip sat behind his Genico desk staring out across Battery Park. Hearing a knock, he turned as Amy entered. He was in a bad mood. She set his coffee on the edge of the desk. Her eyes were red and rimmed with tears.

  “Thanks,” he said, pointedly ignoring her obvious distress. The entire office had heard what had happened to Jack. And even worse, about Dolce’s death. He’d never seen so many weepy faces. Dolce had been a mistake. The SFU had behaved excessively. But Phillip couldn’t let himself feel bad about either of them. Mama would dull the pain and the guilt. She always did.

  He turned back toward the window, but Amy remained paused in the doorway. He gave up on waiting her out. “You’re like a tree, rooted to the ground. What’s the problem?”

  “Your father.”

  Phillip’s chest constricted. “What about him?”

  “He wants to see you.”

  “All right.”

  She lingered awkwardly. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  “Listen, we got together a few times and I bounced up and down on you, and la-di-fucking-da. But let’s keep this relationship a little fucking professional, okay?”

  Amy turned and practically ran out of the room.

  “Thank you for your condolences!” Phillip shouted after her.

  Standing, he began to pace, muttering to himself. Finally, with a sigh, he gave a last glance out the window. “Daddy wants to see me.”

  The elevator opened onto his dad’s floor.

  “Yoo-hoo! Mr. Saxton!” Phillip called out as he popped a Vicodin and two red Euphorias. “Dad?”

  The reception area was empty. The weapons hung silently behind their glass cases. Phillip entered the rear office. His father’s chair was turned away behind the massive desk, New York City outlined beyond. A virtual fire raged in the fireplace while the giant grandfather clock tick-tocked resolutely.

  Phillip entered the room quietly. His father remained still, even as he approached.

  “Hey, Pop,” he said pleasantly. No movement. Phillip reached out and tapped the back of the chair. Nothing. Then he twisted the chair around and his father revolved to face him.

  The elder Saxton’s skin was ash white, his mouth hanging open and eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. Startled, the younger man took a step backward. He looked around the room to make sure he was alone, and then stared at his father.

  Was he dead?

  Through the window, lights flashed across the city. But on this side of the glass, there was an incredible stillness. Phillip pressed his fingers against the old man’s neck. The skin was cold with the barest hint of a pulse. A flick of pain flashed through his chest, as infinitely precise as a paper cut. Even through the dullness of Mama, he felt its sharpness.

  The old man was still alive.

  He sat on the edge of the desk opposite his father. A sweet odor filled the room. Phillip had never experienced it before, but somehow he knew it was the scent of someone close to death. He held back a wave of anxious tears. And suddenly he was eight years old again, holding his dad’s hand. There was a closeness he hadn’t felt in years. He loved the old man. If only his father had felt the same.

  He held two fingers over the old man’s mouth. He felt the faintest whisper of breath. There was life in there still. And suddenly Phillip wanted desperately for the old man to live. If only to witness everything that would happen next.

  Phillip turned on his sync. “Regal Blue. I need you.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The light thrust itself into Jack’s brain. He rolled over onto his back and the sun burned through his closed eyelids. His head pounded rhythmically with his pulse, his stomach stirred, and he retched violently.

  “Jack,” said a voice hidden in the light. “Time to wake up.”

  Slowly he opened his eyes. He lay on dusty ground. Standing above was a dark figure silhouetted by brightness. “Sleep well?”

  Jack sat up, wiped his lower lip, and then rubbed his forehead again. He shielded his eyes with one hand and recognized a familiar face. Regal Blue, his father’s personal bodyguard, stared down at him with his one good eye. Jack jumped to his feet. If Regal Blue was here, that meant his father was close by.

  The sudden movement jarred Jack, and he pressed dusty fingertips against his temples as another wave of nausea hit him. “Where am I?”

  “Training camp.”

  “Where’s my father?”

  The blow from the rifle stock struck Jack hard in the gut. “No talking,” a guard snapped, interrupting them.

  Regal Blue took an angry step forward, then stopped. His face melted back to complete calm and he stared into the distance. Jack gathered his breath and straightened himself up. He didn’t meet the guard’s eye. Instead, he turned to observe his surroundings. He stood with a small handful of Synthates at the edge of a promontory ending among cliffs. Below them was the wide expanse of the ocean. Waves broke apart against rocks, tossing foamy bursts into the air like sparks. Pale objects floated in the water, battered back and forth between the rocks. Jack focused his eyes on them.

  Dead Synthates.

  “Pay attention!” The guard pointed to the arid expanse that stretched out before them. Another transport van now pulled up, and, once its doors were opened, more Synthates were unloaded. Soon they stood together in a group, eleven in total, prodded forward into a ragged line. Like Regal Blue, each was a giant, thick with muscle and built for fighting. Many of them had long, ugly scars on their bodies. Diagonal slash marks across their arms or chest, star-shaped bullet wounds in their legs and abdomen. Their bioprints flared violence. The stifling afternoon sun was baking the ground to clay.

  When Jack turned his attention from his fellow captives, it was to the wild confusion on
the plateau. Beyond the newcomers, a mass of men stretched out in all directions, producing layers of movement and sound. Jack stared hard at the multitudes of arms and legs, listened to the grunts and screams of voices, trying to make sense of it all.

  Yet a governing order was clearly in place. To his right, groups fought each other in timed rhythms with dulled ax blades, while ahead of him men fired rifles at round targets spaced fifty yards distant. Others pounded at each other with their fists while small bands of wrestlers grappled inside a sandy circle.

  Coaches observed the figures, blew whistles and banged clipboards. As the afternoon heat grew steadily more oppressive, Jack saw several combatants collapse on the field. These Synthates were eventually dragged out of the way, but in the meantime they were simply ignored.

  Jack looked out to the bleachers lining the far side of the field. In the stands, kids, moms, and dads were all absorbed watching the practice. Off in a corner he saw a golden retriever sniffing at a downed Synthate; beyond lay a parking lot filled with family transporters.

  A golf cart glided across the field toward the newly arrived Synthates. The vehicle was driven by a leathery fellow in a Braves golf shirt, while next to him sat a beefy guy wearing a team tracksuit and baseball cap. The cart pulled up in front of the ragged line and the passenger stepped out. He had thick hands and features that looked slapped together from globs of clay. He inspected Jack along with the rest of the line. He didn’t look pleased.

  “I’m Samuel Sharp,” he announced. “The head coach of the New York Braves and the closest thing to God that you sorry sacks of genetic slop will ever know.”

  Sharp clasped his hands behind his back and began speaking. “You are here to train and to fight and to battle in the Games. That is your one and only goal and, as easy as it sounds, many of you miserable Synths will fail to complete your mission.