“I’ve heard.”
“He worked on our Black Rain program. It’s a loss for the scientific community.”
“Are there any suspects?”
“The police are investigating now,” his father said. “I’ve heard it might have been a Synthate. But who knows. First the bombing, and now this. Things are going to be difficult for Synthates.”
“Sounds like you pity them?”
“How can one pity something so perfect?” There was silence for a moment, then he continued. “Dr. Reynolds was working on something else. A private project. Just for me.”
George waved his hand and the Samp numbers on the eyeScreen vanished. Technical specs for a Synthate line appeared, an image of a muscular Synthate with a war hammer bioprint 3Deed in space.
“How much do you know about Synthate design?” his father asked.
“Just the basics. I never agreed with the program to begin with,” Jack said.
“Synthates fall into four design categories. Social. Domestic. Industrial. Guard.” His father, never missing a chance to go over genetic design with his son, indicated the 3Deed Synthate that revolved in the center of the room. “This specimen here is from the Guard production line. Designed for security, like my friend Regal Blue. But also constructed to fight in the Games. Stronger. Faster. Modified with increased aggression. They are synthetic humans, share the same genetic composition as naturals, just upgraded.”
“I’ve seen the Games.”
“Then you know how they can feel pain. Can die. Just like naturals,” his father said. The Synthate on display changed to a beautiful woman. “This is a typical Social Synthate production line. Every pleasure parlor in the city has a handful. Disease resistant. Emotional downgrade.” The eyeScreen projected two more types of Synthates. Thick legged. Hardy looking. “These are our Domestic and Industrial lines. Synthates used for factory work. Construction. Nursing. Domestic servants. You were raised by one of the first productions of Domestic Synthates.”
Jack remembered the two grim-faced nannies who had cared for him as a child. Synthates were different back then. More primitive, somehow. Their personalities not fully articulated.
The eyeScreen flashed a series of Synthate bioprint tattoos. Snow-covered woods. A thunderstorm over a city. A desert.
“As Synthate development improved,” his father continued, “it became more and more difficult to differentiate between natural-born humans and Synthates. We experimented with different ideas. Giving them green blood. Changing the tone of their voice. But in the end we found that naturals were most comfortable around Synthates that looked human. So we developed the bioprint.”
“A modification to the genome that created color patterns on the skins of Synthates.”
“Biological tattoos. Each Synthate has its own unique moving bioprint genomed on the body. It serves as differentiator between naturals and Synthates. But even more, the bioprint is tied to the emotional core of each Synthate, and the image the bioprint can morph to reflects the Synthate’s mood. A sunset can change to dark clouds to show a dangerous feeling.”
His father put an arm on Jack’s shoulder and guided him out through the glass doors and onto the terrace beyond. The sky was overcast, a mass of fog obscuring the buildings on the New Jersey side of the Hudson. Regal Blue silently followed them, coaxing the falcon off its perch and onto his gloved hand. The bird reacted as it felt open air, shifting back and forth, its hooded head bobbing up and down.
“Before his death, Dr. Reynolds was doing work that would change everything,” the elder Saxton said as he slipped on one of the heavy leather gloves. “The genetic industry has been overwhelmed by greed. We have the ability to help millions, but we don’t. Why? Because there’s no profit in it. This is not what I intended. But apparently, it’s what I’ve taught one of my sons.”
“Phillip is trying,” Jack said. “I think most times he just wants to please you.”
His father stroked the falcon’s back, then offered his gloved hand up beneath the bird. The falcon’s talons clamped down on the glove.
“My son is so caught up in the pursuit of profits he’s failed to see how his actions affect lives. And his failings, I fear, are mine to share.”
“He’s still a good man,” Jack reassured him.
“Is he?” his father asked. “I’m not sure anymore.”
Deftly removing the hood from the falcon, he then held up the gloved hand and uttered a command. The great bird’s wings beat the air as it soared up and away from the terrace. All three of them watched the creature catch an updraft and soar between the skyscraper peaks, passing the kite wind turbines and descending into the valleys of Financial Plaza.
His eyes still on the falcon, George said firmly, “When I step down, I want you to take my place.”
Jack laughed, then realized his father was serious. Of course his father was serious. He never joked about business. Words left his mouth with the solidity of a chisel striking stone. Jack glanced at Regal Blue, but the milk-eyed giant stared straight ahead. Finally, he looked back at his father. “Me? No, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do know. It must be you.” He turned his attention away from the falcon and acknowledged Jack with a nod. “It has always been you. For reasons you can’t possibly understand now.”
Jack envisioned his brother. He was the one who craved control of Genico, and this would devastate him. But for a moment, Jack allowed himself to consider the possibility of running the company. Of molding it into something good. And he felt ashamed. Ashamed that the same news that would hurt his brother so much made him feel hopeful. Still, there were doubts. “I don’t know how to run this place. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“You can learn,” his father replied. “There are decent men and women on the board. Not everyone, but there are a few. You can learn from them.”
“I’m reformer, not a businessman.”
“This is why you must take my place. Genico must become what it was originally intended to be, a mechanism to help people, all people, to bring change to their lives.”
Surprise and excitement flared in Jack’s chest. He had never imagined himself part of the Genico machine, and certainly not its leader. In the distance, the falcon soared across the jagged landscape of lower Manhattan. Jack turned his attention to the east. A decon bot drifted down the East River beneath the wrecked structure of the Brooklyn Bridge, harvesting plastic from the water. The sun glinted on the river and the rows of wave farms, and beyond that, he could see out across to what must be a million lives in the Brooklyn conurb, each one filled with wants and needs, desires and hopes. Genico could help these people. All that was needed was someone to lead the company in that direction.
But Jack still wasn’t sure he was that person.
“Phillip cannot run Genico,” his father said. “He will eventually become a man of enormous wealth. Of great importance. But he is not a leader, not in the right way. He’s controlled by pride and greed.”
His father held up a gloved hand, and with a rush of air, the falcon returned to its master. George cooed to the bird as he slowly replaced the hood over its head. He stroked its wings, the feathers damp from fog. “You two have always been close. You must make him understand the reason for my decision. He will accept it eventually.”
“And if I refuse?” Jack asked.
“You won’t. In your heart you know this is best.”
“Can I have some time to think?”
His father passed the falcon to the gloved hand of Regal Blue. “Of course. I intend to announce my decision to step down at the next board meeting. One week from today. I hope to name my replacement at that time as well.”
“I understand.”
Regal Blue opened the glass door for them, and Jack followed his father back into the office. The Synthate carefully placed the falcon back on its perch, then reassumed his position in the far corner of the office, silent and unmoving as the rest of the furnitur
e.
George lit a cigar he pulled from his inside suit pocket. “I want you to go to the next Games.”
“That’s not really my thing,” Jack said. He hated the Games. They were a barbaric relic of ancient times that had no place in civilized society.
“Many important people will be there. People from Genico. And I think you should be seen by them. It’s safer that way.”
“Safer?”
“You’re about to take over the largest genomic research company in the world. You don’t want to be perceived as favoring Synthate rights. That would cost quite a few naturals a lot of money. So you will go to the Games. And you will not voice anything negative about our Synthate programs. You speak for the company now. Not just yourself. I left touch stubs for you at my apartment.”
“If that’s what you want.” Arguments with George Saxton could not be won. In the midmorning light, Jack could see his father’s age. The man who had created the genetic industry had refused to take a Samp his entire life. He preferred to let nature take its inevitable course.
“I have one more favor to ask of you.” Jack’s father lowered himself into his desk chair. “I won’t be around forever.”
“Don’t say that. We have Samps . . .” Jack began, but his father held up a hand to interrupt.
“I believe we should live as God created us. No regrets. I started this business to do a small part to alleviate suffering, not to extend my span on Earth. Life is fragile. Delicate. So easily subjected to the whim of fate. When I’m gone, there may come a time when you find yourself in trouble.”
“What do you mean, trouble?”
“You’ll know if the time comes. There’s a deposit box held in an account at the Bank of New York at the Wall Street branch. If you ever find yourself in a tight situation, I want you to go and retrieve it. I left something for you there.”
Jack sat forward, intrigued by the secrecy. “I’ll find it.”
“The box is already coded to your touch. No one knows about this. Not your brother. Not Dolce. No one. You and I are the only two people, and you must always keep it that way.”
“I will.”
“Promise me. I almost lost you once already.”
“I promise, Pop. Now try and relax, okay?”
Relieved of the burden, George leaned back in his chair. The Synthate specs vanished from the eyeScreen, replaced by a 3Dee of the Redwood Forest. And in that second, any moment of intimacy that they might have shared as father and son was gone. The falcon beat its wings, and Regal Blue stepped forward to tend to the bird.
“Pancrease keeps dropping,” George said. “My son acted stupidly.”
CHAPTER 8
Just after three a.m. in the Palladium, Phillip stared at a Jean-Michel Basquiat painting while a freestyle dance-rock version of Laura Branigan’s “Gloria” blared in the background. On the wall of monitors that rose over the dance floor and winked like fifty eyes, a tree swayed back and forth in perfect time to the beats while the blue-and-red cubed walls flashed in synchrony. Phillip turned back to the Basquiat, a particularly disturbing image of two yellow-and-red scratched-out figures on a stark black background.
Someone slid by on roller skates. The line out of the bathroom snaked toward the dance floor. A bartender lit a drink on fire. Hello, world. Say no to drugs.
A strong buy sat on the sofa next to Phillip; a blond natural with thigh-length black boots, a short skirt, and a ponytail. She had a hand on Phillip’s knee, and in some distant realm, Phillip was aware of this pressure, this transference of heat from her palm, through his linen pants, to his skin, but now he was so focused on the Basquiat that everything else seemed secondary. The girl’s hand. The man in the violet Calvin Klein briefs dancing near the Andy Warhol. Drought in the Sahara. The encroaching hour of work.
The Palladium was filled with strong buys tonight. Beautiful naturals and Synthate pleasure workers filled every crevice of the dance floor. Phillip smacked his lips together; his mouth felt filled with sand. His throat burned with a thirst strong enough to draw his attention away from the painting. On the table was a small green vase filled with orchids. He grabbed the vase, held the edge to his lips and drank. Water and orchid stems fell against his body. Jack appeared from the men’s room and tugged on Phillip’s shoulder.
“Move out to the moon!” Jack screamed over the jungle beats.
Phillip reared back with alarm, a frightening image of his Upper West Side loft honeycomb suddenly transported to the lunar surface, the Earth a distant ball of bluish light visible through his floor-to-ceiling windows.
“What?” Phillip screamed back, a hand cupped to his ear.
Jack spoke again, this time slower and clearer, the words thankfully taking on a less foreboding meaning. “I said, YOU’VE GOT WORK SOON!”
“Oh.” Phillip looked at his watch. It was now 3:30 a.m. The last half hour had evaporated somewhere into the smoky club past. Phillip was losing the battle with time. He stood suddenly.
“I need to be at work,” he said sharply as his mind snapped into focus.
“Your nose is bleeding.”
Phillip touched his upper lip and his finger came away red.
“You should go home, go to sleep.”
“I feel fantastic, buddy.” Phillip patted Jack’s arm reassuringly. “I just . . . need . . .”
Phillip paused midsentence as something caught his attention. He watched, horrified, as the Basquiat moved on the wall. The yellow man opened his mouth and spoke to Phillip in a stream of color. “Analysts recommend a strong sell on . . .”
“I need . . .” Phillip pushed away from his brother. His foot latched on to the edge of a sofa that had not been there ten seconds earlier and he stumbled backward. “To get to work . . .”
Jack reached out and caught his arm. “Easy there, brother.”
Feeling a sudden burst of efficiency, Phillip turned and strode off. His mind was clear now. He rampaged his way through the crowd, knocked a strong buy waitress over a table, pushed a Boy George lookalike into the wall. There was no time to waste. Someone, somewhere, was trading something. There was mao to be made.
On the street he flagged a taxi.
“My watch to take me to the Genico building,” Phillip said as he dangled a Blancpain Villeret Ultra-Slim watch to the driver. “In under ten minutes.”
“No . . . no . . . I cannot do this,” said the driver, a South Asian natural with a turban and thick black beard, shaking his head.
“Ten minutes. And the watch is yours.”
“No, no.”
“What is so complicated? You worship the elephant with ten fucking arms! How can you not understand what I’m saying?” Phillip pressed his fingers on the touch bucks screen. The screen thanked him. “Fine. Touch bucks. Just drive.”
The cab lurched forward, and Phillip held on as they sped down the empty, shabby streets of the Synthate section in Midtown. Phillip’s sync vibrated. He picked up the call.
“What are you doing?” His brother sounded almost petulant. “Tell me you’re going home.”
“Negative. The Hang Seng is trading. Everything is a strong buy now,” Phillip gushed. “I need to go to the gym. The rupee is overvalued. I’ll make a million mao before breakfast.”
“Whoa, slow down,” Jack said. “I think somebody did too much Euphoria tonight.”
The taxi pulled up in front of the slowly spinning Genico sky turbine. Without a word to the cabbie, Phillip was out of the car. He sprinted toward the front doors, the sync still pressed to his ear.
“Please tell me you’re not going to work like that,” Jack said.
“Correction,” Phillip said as he banged on the glass doors to get the guard’s attention. “I’m already at work.”
The security guard, a bruising Synthate whom Phillip had never seen before, opened the door cautiously, and Phillip blurted out, “I’m Philip Saxton. My father owns the building. Reporting for work.”
The security guard eyed Phillip�
��s clothes. “I know who you are, Mr. Saxton.”
“Good. How’s your portfolio?”
Phillip rushed past the guard to the elevator. He waited impatiently for the doors to open. His sync rang again, and he saw his brother’s name on the projection. Without thinking, Phillip threw the sync and watched as it sailed, still ringing, across the building lobby. The Maglev train whirred by overhead.
The elevator opened.
The eighty-ninth floor was black and empty. He sprinted down the long rows of cubes, past darkened monitors. The motion-sensitive lights flashed on behind him as he ran, like the strobe of runway beacons urging him forward, faster, faster. He pushed open the glass door to his office. Syncs beckoned him. His computer called to him. Behind the glass case, the scale model of the Alinghi seemed to ride along the fluid wave of his desk.
Warm wetness broke from his nose. He dripped sweat. It was all too much.
“The Samp Market is bearish. We recommend a strong sell.”
Phillip staggered a few steps forward. The world turned. The market closed.
CHAPTER 9
Jack found his brother facedown in the middle of his office. Phillip still wore the clothes from the Palladium, a white linen suit with a peach-colored undershirt. His head was turned to the side, a large wet spot of drool visible on the carpet.
Jack squatted and rolled his brother onto his back. Slowly Phillip’s eyes opened and he groaned. His pupils dilated, then focused. Turning his head, he looked up at his brother.
“What time is it?”
“Eight thirty in the morning.”
“Perfect timing,” Phillip said as he licked the white crust from his lips. “Just came in to do a little work last night.”
Phillip sat up, steadied himself, then stood. Making a face, he buzzed his secretary.
“Rough night?” Jack asked.
“I’ve had rougher.”
“Right. Anyway. As stimulating at this conversation is, I’ve got to get upstairs and check in.”
“Ecology emergency?”
Black Rain Page 6
