Black Rain

by Matthew B. J. Delaney

“Yes, sir. I was cleaning the exhalation condensers. The exhalation moisture from the party had filled the aqua receptacles, so I was moving the water to storage.”

  “Did you serve at the party at all?”

  “No, sir. I was tasked to only clean.”

  “Did you see anything unusual?”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated again, shifting uncomfortably on her feet. “I was on the basement level finishing a condenser when I heard footsteps and saw a man in a mask.”

  “A mask?”

  “Leather. With a long nose.”

  “Had you seen this mask before?”

  “Back when the Black Rain attack hit. Lots of people wore them. I saw them on TV. Protesters.”

  Memory glimpses of packed streets filled with protesters came to mind. After the attack, the city was in chaos. Lots of people took to wearing plague doctor masks. At that point, nobody knew what was making people sick. Hysteria gripped the city.

  “Was this man in the mask a guest?” Arden asked.

  “I thought so at first, but as he passed by me, he didn’t say anything. But he . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nodded in my direction. Like he was saying hello.”

  “And that’s unusual?”

  “Naturals never say hello. Never acknowledge us. This man, he actually reached out and touched my shoulder. His shirt was ripped and that’s when I saw the edge of a bioprint on his shoulder.”

  “What of?”

  “A lightning storm over a farmhouse.”

  “So he seemed angry to you?”

  “His bioprint indicated his mood was aggressive, yes. But he didn’t speak. He was limping, too. Like he was injured. Sort of holding his stomach.”

  “Could he have been shot?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “My sync notified me the library condenser was full, so I went upstairs, and that’s when I found Dr. Reynolds and his wife. Dr. Reynolds was . . .”

  “Was what?”

  “Still alive.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went to him to try to help him. He reached out and took my hand. I could tell he was dying.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He said, ‘The pain passes, but the beauty remains.’”

  The pain passes, but the beauty remains. What the hell did that mean?

  “Do you know what he was talking about?” Arden asked.

  The Synthate shook her head. “No. Then his eyes kind of went funny. And he died. So I synced my master and waited.”

  “Did you see anything unusual in the room?”

  “No, sir.” Her eyes began to water, and she swiped at them with her thick fingers.

  “Are you crying, White Moonstone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Dr. Reynolds was very kind to me once.”

  “You knew him?”

  “He designed my specs. So I guess one might say that he was as close to being a father as a Synthate can have. On the day of my harvest, I was in the awakening phase, still covered in amniotic, and he welcomed me to the world.”

  “Welcomed you?”

  “Yes, sir. We were in a group of a dozen Synthates. All Domestics. And he wished us all well and said he would do his best to find us good placements. And then he gave us each a present.”

  “What did he give you?”

  From the pocket of her uniform she pulled a small black spray bottle. Skin spray. The spray was used to treat wounds and burns. Arden had never heard of it being given to a Synthate before. He asked her, “Do you know what this is?”

  “Skin spray,” she said. “He told us that it was genomed to our exact skin tone. If we were ever in trouble, it would help us.” Her hand went back into her pocket and she pulled out a 2Dee photograph on static print paper. In the photo, White Moonstone stood next to Dr. Reynolds, the grow garden on Roosevelt Island in the background behind them. “He took this 2Dee with me on the last day of my training. I knew he would be at the party tonight, so I brought it with me. Maybe to show him in case he remembered me.”

  “Is this something he did with everyone?”

  “All the Synthates in my harvest. He spent a minute or two with each of us. I never forgot his kindness.” She wiped again at her eyes. “I hope you find who did this.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Arden and Sanders drove south on the FDR. The East River flickered with the lights of wave power farms and, beyond that, the thin strip of Roosevelt Island, the Genico Synthate Factory visible at the southern tip.

  “That the grow garden?” Sanders flashed an image on his sync.

  Arden navigated around an acid scrubber. “One of them.”

  “So why did Dr. Reynolds have such a special interest in Synthates?”

  “Pride in your work. Get attached. I don’t know.”

  They exited the highway near Wall Street. Ahead the great sky turbine structure of Genico slowly rotated in the wind. Most of the lights were off this late at night. They pulled along a front lined with Synthate shops and were met by a woman in a white lab tech coat. She had an identification tag clipped to her front pocket.

  Elsie Woods, Genico Laboratories.

  She shook their hands, then led the detectives toward the Genico building. Above them came a low rumble as the Maglev train sped by on its return trip from Bloomberg Island. Arden watched as the cars streamed by, fifty feet above them, passing directly through the center of the Genico building.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Woods. Dr. Reynolds worked for Genico?”

  She nodded, a tissue pressed against her nose. “Synthate design and some of our viral programs.”

  “He worked on Black Rain?”

  “He was working to find a cure for Black Rain; that’s right.”

  There was a long pause. Arden felt the old disappointment creep in on him. Another bad luck hand. In this life, the house won every time.

  “Was there anyone who might wish to harm him?”

  Elsie Woods shook her head. “No. Everyone loved Dr. Reynolds. He was a brilliant man,” she added. “Working on some of the toughest DNA puzzles in the field.”

  Arden wondered if that was how all scientists thought of their work, as puzzles. Put a piece here. Try this there. Nope, doesn’t fit. Start over. A puzzle made it sound fun. Something an American family once upon a time might have done together, listening to the radio on a wintry night. But his daughter wasn’t a puzzle.

  And Reynolds had to go and get himself murdered. Arden didn’t know the man, had never even heard of him, but whoever had taken his life had interfered with finding the cure for Black Rain. After the dirty bomb in Central Park, and the explosion on the Brooklyn Bridge, the Black Rain fallout was the worst terrorist attack in the city. Arden couldn’t help but feel angry.

  “You wanted to see his office?” Woods asked as they entered the Genico lobby.

  “That’s right.”

  They passed the front security desk and proceeded into the wide open foyer. Around them, volumetric displays projected into space, silently flashing colorful images. A Synthate cleaning house. A perfect blue-eyed five-year-old doing calculus. An old man playing racquetball like a teenager. Genico offered dreams of different lives. Lives free of chores. Free of failure. Of old age. Of pain.

  Genico. Live Your Dreams.

  “When my father was a kid, life sucked, and everything was about sweat and hard work,” Arden said.

  “It’s the traditional method of living,” Woods said as she tapped the elevator wall and the doors opened.

  “So maybe that’s how it supposed to be?”

  “If our technology never evolved, we’d still be living in caves, dying from smallpox and trying to catch food with our bare hands. So, surely, you’d admit that a little change is good.”

  “Never have an argument with a scientist. They’re smarter than you and have had more practice,” Arden said.
r />   Woods smiled. “What wise man told you that?”

  “My mom. She worked for a pharmaceutical company.”

  “Does she still?” Woods asked.

  “She’s dead.” Arden followed her out of the elevator. “Father, too.”

  Woods looked genuinely sad. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” Arden said, without turning to look at her. “You didn’t blow up the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “She died in the attack?”

  Arden nodded. It wasn’t something he cared to talk about. It wasn’t something he even cared to think about. He winced and rubbed his forehead.

  “We have Samps that can help you,” Woods said, her voice syrupy and well meaning.

  “How’s that?”

  “Our Amnease Samp. Modifies the Tet 1 gene responsible for memory. Can help reduce some of the pain.”

  “What, so I don’t remember my parents anymore?”

  “You won’t remember the pain of loss. The trauma of death.”

  “But that’s all part of it,” Arden said, feeling angry that he was even being forced to talk about this. “My parents lived and were taken away from me. So not only am I supposed to lose them, but also lose the memories?”

  “Just the selected memories. The painful ones.”

  “The pain is how I honor them. I would never let that be taken away.”

  Sanders quietly stepped forward, placing a hand on Arden’s shoulder. “Hey, man, let’s be cool.” Sanders was always cool. And Arden loved him for it. But Sanders hadn’t known pain like Arden had. He hadn’t known the threat of loss.

  Woods pressed her lips together awkwardly. “I’m sorry. Of course. You’re right.”

  They continued to move through the building. The floor was dark, but at the far corner, a single light was on. Someone working late.

  Woods walked directly toward the lit office and pushed open the door. Inside, a man was bent over a desk. He whirled around to face them. He was in his early thirties and handsome, sporting a pink shirt with slick hair. The man looked up, startled at the sudden intrusion.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Phillip,” Woods said apologetically. “I didn’t mean to . . .” She paused, then blurted out, “Dr. Reynolds was killed tonight.”

  The man named Phillip stiffened in his seat and leaned back, quickly composing himself. Then he said, “How? What happened?”

  “I still don’t know. He and his wife . . .” She looked toward Arden and Sanders. “These are the detectives investigating the case.”

  “Oh,” Phillip said. There was a long pause. Manners might have dictated that Arden now introduce himself. But he stayed put. Awkwardness was a detective’s best friend. People said stupid things to fill the silence.

  Finally, Phillip got up, stepped forward, and offered his hand. “I’m Phillip Saxton. Senior Broker, Genico Trading. George Saxton is my father.” Up close, Arden could see he was high on euphoria. His eyes looked like watery radishes, and he kept running his tongue over whitish lips.

  “Well, that’s tragic news,” Phillip said to Woods as he headed for the door. He suddenly turned to the detectives. “Of course, if there’s anything you need . . .”

  “You’re Phillip Saxton. Senior Broker, Genico Trading,” Arden cut him off. “I’m sure I can find you for help.”

  “Right, well . . .”

  “Did you and Dr. Reynolds have an appointment tonight?” Sanders asked.

  “I came down to check on a research project file.”

  “Like the cure for Black Rain?”

  Phillip laughed. “I wish there were one. One day maybe.”

  “Right,” Arden replied. “One day.”

  Phillip left and Arden turned back to inspect the office. It was small, with a view out toward Bloomberg Island, just above the Maglev track. The space offered a simple desk with an eyeScreen, a small garbage bin with fifty trash credits, and some kind of ergonomically designed buoyancy chair.

  Arden turned back to Woods and pointed at the chair. “These as comfortable as everyone says?”

  “I guess so.”

  Arden eased himself onto it. “Nice.”

  He spun himself once around, then knocked against the eyeScreen terminal. The screen flashed to life, the desktop 3Deeing in front of him, the touch screen security preventing access.

  “Oops,” he said.

  “Oh, um . . .” Woods began. “I think that’s confidential.”

  “Sure. Of course it is,” Arden said. He could probably get a judge to sign off on a warrant to access Reynolds’s files. But then again, maybe not. Big firms like Genico had powerful enough attorneys to hold up access to proprietary corporate files for months. Even in a homicide investigation.

  “So tell me more about Dr. Reynolds and the Black Rain program,” Sanders said.

  “After the attack, Genico began research on developing Samps to combat the pathogens. Then, when people started getting sick, the research program was accelerated. He was working toward a cure. Why? Do you think that might have something to do with his death?”

  “We’re looking into all possibilities.”

  Somewhere a sync rang. Woods held up a finger. “Would you please excuse me?”

  “Of course,” Arden said.

  She turned and left the office. Arden turned toward Sanders. “Hey buddy, keep an eye out.”

  “What are you doing?”

  From his pocket, Arden produced the biomimicry hacker, then with a quick look toward the office door, he tapped the hacker against the eyeScreen. The eyeScreen read the Dr. Reynolds DNA signature and flashed on. Images illuminated the glass in rapid succession as the hack downloaded the contents of the doctor’s eyeScreen.

  Search warrants could be so inconvenient sometimes.

  “She’s coming back,” Sanders said.

  The hack ended and Arden slipped the device back into his pocket just as Woods rounded the corner.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Where were we?”

  “We were just finishing up.”

  She looked disappointed, but nodded. “Of course.”

  Arden moved to leave, then Reynolds’s last words occurred to him. He turned back. “Does the saying, ‘The pain passes, but the beauty remains,’ mean anything to you?”

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s a nice thought, though.”

  “I guess it is,” Arden said. “Comforting. Thank you for your help.”

  CHAPTER 5

  A thin morning rain fell and the pavement began to glisten. The algae fins of taxis splashed water onto the curb, while the mass of kebab vendors and Africans selling Luis Venetion purses and Rolex watches rushed to put up striped umbrellas. Phillip Saxton checked the care label of his Caraceni suit, scanned the sidewalk for any female strong buys, then hurried out of the parking garage. From what he remembered, it rained more now than when he was a kid. But at least since the citywide acid scrubbers had been installed, the sky had stopped drizzling bursts of pepper spray.

  His brain, however, still drizzled the lingering effects of Club USA. A dull pain roosted like a gargoyle over his eyes and he thought he detected a note of derision in his liver. He chewed two aspirin, then downed a Vicodin with the remains of a bottle of meltwater. Phillip thought of the cop last night in Reynolds’s office and his headache grew worse. Time to push reality away. The sidewalk was packed with the Wall Street crowd headed into work, and somewhere a sync rang. After a moment, Phillip realized it was his.

  “You coming in?” an apathetic female voice asked.

  The voice belonged to his secretary, Amy. He checked his watch. Ten minutes late. He walked faster. Phillip had slept with Amy a total of twelve times. The exact number of Durex in a box. Neither one of them could muster the enthusiasm necessary to make the required additional thirteenth purchase.

  “Yes, I’m coming in right now.”

  “Long night?”

  “Club USA is always a long night.” Ahead, t
he Genico skyscraper slowly rotated like a giant Rubik’s Cube, each floor its own wind-powered turbine. Four Synthates who looked like male models cleaned the windows. Phillip paused, stared at his reflection and gently patted the curve of his hair. “Anyway, I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “Good, the natives are restless.”

  The models finished cleaning the windows and in unison moved toward the new Synthate retail shop that stretched along Financial Plaza. Synthate boutiques had sprung up quickly across the country. As ubiquitous as cell phone stores had once been, each offered consumers the ability to design their own genetically engineered humanoid beings.

  In this way, thousands upon thousands of unique Synthates had been fabricated and shipped to keep homes clean and gardens trim, babysit children, and become personal trainers, cooks, and massage therapists. For anything the consumer demanded, there was a Synthate to be supplied. And conveniently located at a mall or shopping center near you!

  Phillip clicked off the sync and turned his attention toward the feeling of warmth the Vicodin had begun to spread through his abdomen. He preferred the old drugs. Phillip was a senior broker at Genico Trading. His was one of the more important names flanking the multitude of cubes spanning the massive open floor plan. Each cube was hooked to a sync, all of which rang and rang, driving the firm like the firing synapses of a hungry, pulsating brain.

  He nodded to the company doorman, James Wilson, a retired New York City sanitation worker, sixty-nine years old, with a wife and a son.

  Wilson’s son was born deaf, and the doorman had been able to secure a patent for the gene Connexin 27, the fragment of material linked to deafness in naturals and isolated in little Jimmy Jr. Connexin 27 later became Connexio, a Samp that cured deafness and added seven more zeros to the Wilson family checking account.

  James Wilson was the new American dream. Father a genetic defect. Isolate the gene. Become a millionaire. The doorman currently had these funds foolishly squirreled away in bonds (such a waste!), each earning around two and a half. He also possessed a genetic predisposition toward Alzheimer’s and a deluded belief that opening doors was a noble profession.

  Know your customer, the SEC’s golden rule.

  Not that many years ago, James Wilson would have begun the slow descent into Alzheimer’s, gradually deteriorating into a human vegetable without the memory capacity necessary to follow the plot of Knight Rider. But now, with his millions, and the help of someone like Phillip Saxton, this ordinary doorman could invest in his own future. Could save himself the indignities of old age. Could net for his broker a Van Gogh worth of commissions.