Black Rain

by Matthew B. J. Delaney

  Arden thought of his ex-wife. “You have coldhearted WASP?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “I’m kidding. Surprise me.”

  “All right, thirty minutes.”

  The Empire Hotel was a rent-by-the-hour shithole on the west side of Manhattan underneath the abandoned rail line. The line had been turned into a park, which had been quickly taken over by junkies and crackheads and abandoned until it was filled with weeds, broken bottles, and heroin needles.

  Arden parked two hundred yards from the hotel. Exactly thirty minutes later, a yellow taxi pulled up out front. A tall blonde stepped out, then disappeared through the lobby front doors.

  “You’re sure Benny Zero is still in business?” Sanders asked. “Thought he’d retire after the JFK heist.”

  Seven years ago, a container plane flying in from a Genico harvest factory in Malaysia had been hijacked at JFK Airport. Aboard were several hundred Synthates, stolen before they could be bio-tagged as Genico property. Over the course of the next year, the off-inventory Synthates kept turning up at Benny Zero whorehouses across the city. He was collared, did two years upstate for possession of stolen property, then got cut loose.

  Now, as expected, the blonde appeared back on the sidewalk. She scowled as she stood and tried to flag down a taxi.

  “No sucky, sucky,” Sanders said. “Poor thing.”

  As she disappeared into a taxi, Arden pulled away from the curb to follow them. They headed uptown for about twenty blocks, and then the cab turned east and into Koreatown. The neighborhood’s entire strip seemed like a single massive eyeScreen, each business’s pulsing pixels of light merging as if somehow connected by more than proximity. BBQ joints and karaoke clubs and body art dealers, hundreds of them crowded together along the block. The whole placed flashed as if the entire space were tied together and powered by one electrical cord, and if someone accidently pulled the plug, all would go dark in unison.

  The taxi stopped in front of a building in the middle of the block flashing eyeScreens advertised in Korean and English for a restaurant at street level, topped by a bioprint shop, topped by a pleasure parlor. Arden and Sanders double-parked and followed the blonde as she disappeared into the building. Inside was a narrow, shabby hallway, with a single elevator at its far end. The doors were already closing as they approached the elevator, and they watched the number display rise until the car stopped on the fourth floor.

  Then it returned and opened for them.

  The fourth floor was another narrow hallway, with a series of unmarked doors on either side. At the far end, a frosted glass door had the words “Trans Travel” printed on it in black letters. Sanders drew his weapon, then pushed it open. Inside was a small desk with posters of exotic travel locations on the wall. An old Korean woman sat at the desk, glancing up expressionless as Arden and Sanders entered the office. Silence descended on the room, then an old-fashioned telephone on the desk rang and the woman answered. She talked for a minute and wrote down information on the legal pad in front of her.

  “Where’s Benny Zero?” Arden asked.

  The woman went back to reading a newspaper that she had spread in her lap.

  “Well, we blew this case wide open,” Sanders said. “We’ll get departmental medals for this.”

  Arden went to the desk, and, ignoring the old woman, bent down and inspected the underside. Beneath was a large black button, which Arden depressed. There was a clicking sound, followed by the opening of a section in the wall. Visible beyond was a large lounge area with sofas and an eyeScreen tuned to glam rock. A half dozen Social Synthates of assorted flavors sat around on the sofa watching music 3Dees. The girls looked up at the detectives as they entered, but then quickly turned their attention back to the screen. Arden recognized one of them from the hotel. Beyond the lounge was another door. Arden pushed it open, and inside he found Benny Zero.

  Zero sat at a cluttered desk. Behind him was a single window that looked out into Koreatown, while in front of him sat an Asian Synthate in a satin bikini, her bioprint a melting ice cream cone. Between the two of them, lines of cocaine were neatly arranged on a shiny glass mirror. Zero leaned back in his chair as the two cops entered.

  “What is it with you cops?” Benny said. “You’re like a fucking black cloud that follows me.”

  “Benny Zero, how are you?”

  “Isn’t there a parking ticket you should be writing somewhere?”

  With his two-day scruff and bloodshot eyes, Benny looked like he was on the downspin of a two-day Euphoria binge.

  The girl stared dumbly at them. She was beautiful, with waist-length black hair and bright eyes; to Arden she looked about seventeen.

  “You have papers for her, right?”

  Benny rolled his eyes. “Come on, what is this? Some sort of half-ass shakedown? How about you take her in the back and check her for papers, enjoy, then get the fuck out of my office.”

  “Hmm,” Arden said, considering the offer. “That’s an idea. Is that cocaine I see?” He nodded toward the desk. Benny Zero made a sour face.

  “You missed some,” Arden said, gesturing to the remaining lines on the mirror. “Go ahead, finish it. Then we’ll talk.”

  “You want me to do fucking blow in front of you?” Benny Zero asked.

  Arden smiled. “Sure, what’s a party without good coke?”

  Benny Zero raised his eyebrows. “Whatever. You guys are the weirdest cops I’ve ever met.”

  From his pocket, Benny produced a small plastic straw. Arden turned his attention toward the bookshelf opposite the desk. He ran his finger over the titles and pulled down a large, hardcover atlas. Benny slid the straw into his left nostril before leaning down over the mirror. He vacuumed up one line, his face two inches from the glass. As he moved on to the second one, Arden lifted the atlas and smashed it down on the back of Benny Zero’s head.

  Benny’s face collided with the mirror, blood instantly pooling on its surface. His companion screamed and leaped up. She pushed past Arden, then stumbled out into the lounge, nearly tripping in her stilettos. Benny, shrieking in pain, fell backward in his chair. His nose was broken and bloody, the straw barely visible inside from where the impact had shot it up into his nasal cavity.

  “God, that’s disgusting,” Sanders said.

  “What the fuck did you do? My nose!” The powder on Benny’s face made him look like a very unhappy clown.

  Seeing Arden raise the atlas again, Benny held up his hands. “No more! Okay? What do you want?”

  Arden reached into his pocket and passed over a large handkerchief.

  “I want you to tell us everything you know about Synthate psychos running around New York killing naturals.”

  “Naturals?” Benny gasped as he tried to breathe, pressing the handkerchief to his nostrils.

  “Yes, naturals. A Genico researcher and his wife.”

  “I don’t know,” Benny said between breaths. “Maybe. I sold one to a guy.”

  “When?”

  “Around fourteen months ago. It was off-inventory Synthate, trained as a bodyguard and assassin. Real muscle for hire.”

  “Sold to who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Arden shook his head, then tapped the atlas. Benny hesitated before saying, “I don’t know, I swear. It was an anonymous buyer. I just have an address for the Synthate.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t remember, uptown somewhere.” Benny reached for the straw still in his nose and gently pulled. He gagged as it came out, bent and covered in blood. He dropped it to the floor, then opened his desk drawer and riffled through folders. He seemed to be having no success, but suddenly grunted. “Here,” Benny said, dropping a scrap of paper on the desk. “That’s all I have.”

  Arden picked up the tiny bit of paper. A Midtown address. He slipped it inside his pocket.

  “You can keep the handkerchief,” Arden said.

  CHAPTER 30

  Dolce was gone. But she had germina
ted a living creature, one that expanded inside Jack. His heart turned to wood, his lungs to hard branch, his blood became dark and solid. Pain was everything he knew. His body was only bruises. He was becoming a man made more of earth than flesh and blood. Knots formed under his eyes, dark mushroom brown. Fists crunched against his face, rendering his teeth and gums a rictus glued into place by sticky blood that thickened against his tongue like sap.

  Training camp had turned him into oak. Yet inside was a fragile root. Inside was a bit of sun, a quiet westerly wind, a rolling hill and the little root. Outside he was hardened, but inside was Dolce, alive within him. She was the root from which grew his strength. Every blow he took in the training court, he thought of her. Every kick from every guard reminded him she had once lived. She was the reason he endured.

  Death would have been easy. They had taken everything from him. But he still remembered. He kept her inside, sheltered from the rain, the tiny root of memory, the small inch of humanity left inside of him. He carried her with him. Kept her safe. Love could be a weakness. But it could also be a strength. Love coupled with hate formed a perfect whole. The yin and yang of his new being.

  An armored train carried them to Bloomberg Island. Crowds surrounded the stadium and Jack scanned the frenzied faces through the bars, looking for someone he recognized from the old days. There was no one. Only the frightening anonymous crush of the mob.

  To be a Synthate was to experience pain. They owned nothing, not even their own selves, and they could be bought and sold as easily as a Samp. Regal Blue had been born knowing nothing else. But Jack had experienced life as a free natural. He had been happy. And now, he could experience the loss that only someone who had once been free could feel. The pain that only someone who had once been in love could know.

  Now as the moment of his first Games loomed before him, he followed his teammates into a concrete corridor beneath the stadium until the sound of the screaming mob outside faded to a low murmur. In practice, they wore team jerseys, but in the Games, they wore full historical uniforms. For this match, Jack and the rest of his team wore the uniform of the American colonial militia: black tricornered hat, chestnut-colored regimental coat and breeches, white shirt, black buckled shoes, and white stockings.

  “The last time you were here you were on the other side of the glass,” Regal Blue said and winked at Jack. “Tonight, you’ll have a much better view.”

  The last time he was here, Dolce had been alive.

  He remembered the feel of her hand in his. They had watched these same games from behind the glass, part of the last few hours he had spent with her before everything had been taken away. And being here now, even in the quiet before the violence, he felt reassured in that memory. He knew Dolce was on this field with him.

  The corridor was wide and sprinkled lightly with sand. Behind them, black body bags were stacked in piles against the wall. As the combatants marched, they were each handed a regimental flintlock and a deerskin pouch filled with cartridges and lead balls. Jack remembered from his training that the flintlock was a heavy, awkward weapon, inaccurate at long range but devastating against troops in formation. Jack slung the ammunition pouch over his shoulder and watched as eyeScreens fixed along the hallway 3Deed demos of the correct loading technique.

  “A skilled shooter can fire four or five times per minute,” a monotone voice instructed. “As you fire additional rounds, your rifle will begin to foul with black powder residue. This will slow your loading ability and increase the chance of a misfire.”

  Jack touched the silver cross Dolce had given him. Already the rhythmic chant of the spectators began to seep into his consciousness. They were up there. The naturals. Waiting for him to kill. And he would kill for them. He hated everything about what was to occur, and he hated himself most for being forced into the position of giving them what they wanted. If it was death they wanted, he would give it to them. But he would never forget what they made him do.

  Ahead now was a black metal gate. Beyond was the field of the battle. Coach Sharp and his staff waited near the door, headsets strapped on as they went over formation books.

  Strains of music could be heard, and then the stadium announcer’s voice. Suddenly the sounds of the crowd changed to low boos.

  “Houston’s heading out,” Regal Blue said.

  Behind them, a second gate rolled shut, trapping Jack and his team inside the corridor. The booing ceased, replaced again by the voice of the announcer heralding the arrival of the home team. Then cheering erupted amid the sharp blows of air horns and the shrill beats of loud dance music.

  “Okay, get ready!” Coach Sharp called out.

  With a rumble, the door slowly lifted upward. Light streamed down through the tunnel by degree and the crowd’s multiple voices swelled and burst with increasing intensity. The sound of the stadium was tremendous. Fireworks exploded and sent showers of falling sparks around the fighters as they moved forward, filling their eyes and nostrils with acrid smoke.

  “I’ll see you on the field,” Coach Sharp called out.

  Jack followed his teammates onto the field. His equipment bounced and rattled as he emerged into the night air. The smoke had irritated his eyes, and the high-intensity stadium lighting made him blink.

  Around him, everywhere, was the roar of voices, accompanied by the music’s unrelenting throb. The team came to a stop at the far end of the field. Sky King, the grand champion of the Games, ran down the row of combatants, slapping each on the shoulder as he passed by. Opposite them were the Houston lines, their British uniforms red and threatening.

  His body striped with war paint, the New York Braves’ mascot rode bareback while gripping a long spear on a white horse across the field. When he reached halfway, he lifted the spear high as his mount reared up. Then he turned and rode hard toward the sideline.

  Jack scanned the crowd above him, a sea of red-and-black jerseys. Thousands of frenzied fans. Gazing first at the press box, he turned his attention to the executive seating area. He could see people behind the long panes of glass, distant shapes that were impossible to recognize.

  He reached into a narrow sack strapped to his shoulder and pulled out a spyglass. He aimed it up along the top edge of the stadium, toward where he and Dolce had sat together. The past had moved into the realm of the surreal. Restlessly, he continued to scan the crowd but saw nothing.

  “The Star-Spangled Banner” began to play. Pulling his eye from the lens, Jack saw his fellow Braves at attention, hands on their hearts as they regarded an American flag waving in a floating hologram.

  When the anthem’s last bars had ended and the crowd’s din was still suspended, the announcer continued to introduce the teams. The bagpipers sounded and a set of drums rattled in perfect time. Everything was happening quickly now and Jack felt himself pulled along, helpless against the inevitability of his situation.

  “First team!” shouted Coach Sharp from the sidelines. “Load your weapons!”

  At this, cheers exploded from the bleachers so deafening Jack barely heard the thud of fifty rifle butts striking the ground in unison as the teams began to load. Tearing open the small cartridge bag, he dumped powder into the pan of his flintlock.

  Across the field, the Redcoats formed a firing line. Their flags rose up behind them, furling in the wind as their drummers beat. Overhead more flares erupted. Then a bugle, amplified monstrously, sounded the call to arms.

  The battle had begun.

  The 12-pounders roared as disgorged lead shot into the air. The balls screeched, built with the intensity of a kettle left on to boil, before they ripped into the field just ten yards ahead of the Braves’ firing line. Chunks of dirt sprayed the faces of the men in the front line.

  “Company! Attention!” Coach Sharp’s voice rang out. “Forward march!”

  Around them the drums and the bagpipes began again. The Braves marched into a field of waist-high grass. Around them, the artillery fire continued, tearing up the ground as the ca
nnons closed their aim. A ball of grapeshot exploded on the right side of their line, felling two Synthates with splinters of shrapnel.

  “March double time!” Coach Sharp’s voice shouted.

  The lines hurried forward, driven by the blow of the grapeshot. The Houston line was fast approaching, the gap between them narrowing until Jack could see each man’s face in front of him.

  There were thirty yards between them when Coach Sharp cried out, “Line, halt!”

  The Braves stopped, rifles still resting against shoulders as they stood at attention. Jack felt his windpipe constrict, closing his brain off from air. The drums cut off, and the strains of the bagpipes died down with a last toneless wheeze.

  The Houston line had also stopped, their flags and shirt collars rolled limply in the slight breeze. In silence, the armies waited. Even the stadium had grown quiet, every fan leaning forward in anticipation of blood.

  “Line, make ready!”

  Jack brought the butt of his rifle up and pressed it against his shoulder. The flintlock was five feet in length and extended between the heads of his own first line. Across from them, the Houston ranks did the same, the black, quarter-size holes of their rifle barrels showing clearly as the weapons were brought up and aimed. Jack cocked his rifle’s hammer.

  “Take aim!”

  Scattered images flashed before him, snapshots in a picture book now torn out. The wind blew. The tips of the grass wavered. The silver cross felt cool around his neck. Dolce was dead. This is what the naturals made him do. They were turning him into a killer.

  “FIRE!”

  Jack eased his finger back on the rifle’s trigger. The metal hammer made a click before it snapped against the pan. There was a burst of flame, then a blinding flash of light and the butt of the rifle kicked back hard against his shoulder.

  Thick smoke was everywhere, stinging his eyes and leaving a dusty feel in his mouth with the heavy taste of ash. Through the smoke, Jack heard the thud of lead balls striking flesh in the lines around him. Men screamed. He was lost and alone in the white haze and waited for a lead ball to rip into him, but no impact came.