The ferry pulled along the edge of the wharf, and immediately a crowd of natural and Synthate beggars crowded around the gangway. Arden stepped from the boat and pushed his way through the crowd.
And then he saw her, as beautiful as he remembered. Night Comfort stood at the far end of the pier. She waved and smiled. She walked toward him and gave him a hug. Damn, she felt good.
“Charles,” she said, her arms wrapped around his back, “so good to see you.”
Night Comfort had a micro-pod inside one of the old military barracks that dotted the island. There was a twin bed, a nightstand, plain white walls, and a 2Dee of Arden’s daughter. He lifted the frame from the nightstand and studied it. His daughter before she became sick, laughing on a long forgotten summer day.
“I didn’t know you kept this,” he said.
She smiled.
Arden turned his eyes to the ground, suddenly ashamed of the micro-pod, the bare walls, the crowded squalor that Night Comfort endured every day. After his wife left, he had hired Night Comfort as a nanny. For five years she had lived with him. His daughter loved her. And for Arden, well, when you hire a Synthate, the manual tells you everything except how to feel around them. But she occupied a separate plane of existence.
She was Social-class Synthate. For that reason, her world could never align with the naturals, even after five years of living in the same house, breathing the same air, eating the same food, and loving the same daughter.
“Can we get out of here, go somewhere to talk?” Arden asked. He couldn’t endure a moment more in her tiny room. Her eyes traced the contours of his face and seemed to look straight through him. He felt sick that she lived here, ashamed that he’d driven her from his house and reduced her to this.
“Sure,” she said. “The walls close in on you pretty quickly. I’m working on a painting on the roof.”
Outside, Arden breathed deeply. The roof of her building looked out across the bay, the Statue of Liberty incredibly close and shining in the afternoon sun. Beneath them, Indi-pop music blared from a food stand while a group of kids ran along the sidewalk screaming and laughing as they followed a team of Synthate Guard class jogging in a tight group. The air smelled of spices and the harbor’s salty tang.
Near the edge of the roof was an artist’s easel, a half-completed canvas propped on it. A familiar image covered the top portion of the canvas. Night Comfort had painted Renoir’s Dance at Bougival, masterfully recreated, every detail and color perfect. On the canvas, a couple whirled in motion. The bottom portion of the canvas was blank, like the progression of a copier that had been turned off midway through a job.
“I didn’t know you painted,” he said.
“It’s mechanical. Something I got when I was created. It’s always this painting. I can’t get it from my mind. Probably just a whim of some Genico designer. So what brings you to our lovely island?”
“There was a murder,” Arden replied. “A natural.”
“I see. And you think it was a Synthate who did it?”
“Maybe. The victim was a scientist at Genico. Working on the Black Rain project.”
“So this is a personal case?”
“My daughter is dying. Yeah, it’s personal.”
“Normally I wouldn’t help a natural murder investigation, especially if the victim worked at Genico. I think you know that. But because it’s your daughter . . .” She paused and looked out across the bay. “You should talk to Benny Zero.”
“The Synthate dealer?”
Night Comfort’s eyes narrowed in anger. “He’s a pimp. And a slave trader. Nothing more. But he’s gotten involved in moving violent Synthates. If it was a Synthate who committed your murder, there’s a good chance he’d know about it.”
Arden knew Benny Zero, a true scumbag. Most people looked at Synthates and saw a human face, a human body, and gave them a certain amount of respect. But men like Benny were Synthate abusers and traffickers, preying on them with only profit in mind. Benny Zero was the worst of a despicable bunch.
“You’ve got all sorts of Synthate informers, any one of whom would have been happy to drop Benny’s name. Why come here?”
Arden felt a twinge in his chest, the familiar tightness around his heart that he’d carried with him since the day she left. The feeling had later turned to anger, and only recently had he begun, finally, to forget. But now the old feelings had returned.
He said nothing. Instead his eyes searched her face for some sign of hope. There was none.
She looked away. “I respect and cherish you for all the good things you’ve done for me. And I understand why you did the bad. But I truly wish my feelings for you extended beyond friendship.”
“Maybe over time, friendship, respect, this is a basis for . . .”
“For later resentment,” she interrupted him. “When feelings of love aren’t returned.”
Arden held up a hand to silence her. “I know your feelings. I wish I didn’t. But I didn’t come here to convince you. I just came here to . . . I don’t know . . . to see you again.”
“You don’t want me, Charles. I’m a Synthate, you’re a natural. I can’t have children. I can’t have the family you want.”
“I never asked you for those things,” Arden said.
“But you did ask me to leave your home,” Night Comfort returned sharply.
“That was a mistake. After the attacks, I blamed you for things over which you had no control. I know it wasn’t you or your people.”
“When you kicked me out, I was just another Synthate. You have no idea the things your people made me do.” She looked angry. “What I was forced to do to survive until Alphacon found me. Things that would make you think differently about me. And my people, we never resorted to violence. Ever. We never hurt naturals. While they hurt us every day.”
“I know that now and I’m sorry.”
From his pocket, Arden revealed a handful of DNA ID rings. They had been taken during a raid on a Chinatown storage center last month. The Chinese had become skilled in fabricating knockoff ID rings which, when scanned, provided legitimate natural ID. The rings were sold to Synthates to provide them with fake identification.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Had a few of these lying around,” Arden said. “I figured you could use them.”
Night Comfort paused, still uncertain. “You’ll be arrested for treason if they find out you gave me those.”
“I know what you’re involved with,” Arden said. “I know what it means for you and I understand why you do what you do. Maybe this will keep you from getting caught. Because the crushers will come after you.”
“Thank you,” she responded as she took the fob from him. She studied the painting. “I can recreate almost any masterpiece. Van Gogh. Degas. Even Andy Warhol. But I just can’t seem to paint my own original. I don’t know why that is. It’s troubling. I thought the mastery of art would prove the existence of a soul. But I’m a good forger. Nothing more.”
“You’re a beautiful artist,” Arden said, the conviction of his voice surprising him.
Night Comfort gazed off across the water. “No. But when I look at art, touch art, I feel better about myself. Closer to something good.” She turned her attention from the harbor and looked at him. “You said they will come for me. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Will you come after me, too?”
“I’m no crusher.” Arden remembered their time together. “But I will always come after you.”
The boat ride back was slow, the diesel engine fighting the current all the way up the East River to the South Street Seaport. Everything Synthate was still powered by the old means, gasoline or diesel. A water taxi carrying naturals cut through the river past them; a biofuel-powered catamaran, its top decks were scattered with men in business suits relaxing on comfortable cushioned chairs, drinking coffee and watching syncs. Arden studied his surroundings. The Synthate ferry was a relic, an antique
craft that looked like it had been pulled from a nautical museum after being dredged up from the bottom of the ocean following a shipwreck. The deck was crowded and dirty, the air thick with diesel smoke, and there was no sign of a life preserver anywhere.
No wonder Synthates felt the way they did, Arden thought.
Now it was only a matter of time before the rebellion. The Brooklyn Bridge had been only the beginning. We naturals had been shocked at the attack. The Synthate Domestic who watched our kids while we were at work, fixed our lunch; the Synthate Industrial who paved our road, took out our garbage, all with a smile; was it possible these friendly figures could secretly hate us so much?
We never saw it coming. One day we all just woke up and realized that maybe all our coffeemakers and vacuum cleaners and dishwashers had suddenly turned human, bringing with this new order all the evils we naturals were capable of.
The ferry docked near the seaport and Arden filed out along with the rest of the Synthates. The Synthates moved toward the intake line and waited as crushers checked their work scans before they were allowed onto the island of Manhattan. Arden moved around them and passed through security with his NYPD shield.
Arden’s parents had died on the Brooklyn Bridge that day. And that was the day he had also lost Night Comfort. He’d known she was involved with the Synthate rebellion and on the day of the attack he had come home in a rage. He had found her in his house making lunch for his daughter and had gone berserk. He smashed things and punched holes in the walls, but never touched her. Only told her she had to leave. And that if he saw her again, he would personally make sure she was handed over to the crushers.
At that point the rebellion was divided into many different factions, and later he found out Night Comfort had nothing to do with the attack. But by then it was too late. He had sought her out, but she refused to come back with him. And she would continue to refuse from that day forward.
Arden walked along South Street toward Battery Park. There he stood and looked across the water to where he could see the landmarks of the harbor: Governors Island, Bloomberg Island, and, near both, the Statue of Liberty.
Naturals never should have created Synthates, he thought. We never should have enslaved them like we have. But now they’re tied to us and we to them, and so, together, our destinies will lead to an inevitable violent future.
Arden was certain of this. And he was just as certain that, in all the coming chaos, he would save his daughter. No matter what that required of him.
That evening as Arden drove past the broken form of the Brooklyn Bridge, he thought back to the day his daughter was born. He remembered having such an incredible feeling of dependence on the doctors and nurses, people he’d never met. He’d felt strange giving himself over to someone else’s authority. He’d never felt more powerless in his life.
And years later when she’d gotten sick, when he found himself back in those same sterile rooms, this time the doctors and nurses had no answers. And the powerless feeling had come again. He hated the feeling. Almost as much as he hated what was killing his daughter.
They have a cure for Black Rain already.
Someone had lied to him. And his daughter was dying because of it. He felt helpless no longer. Inside now was only rage.
CHAPTER 20
Near the bar, Jack saw his brother and Lieberman deep in discussion. Phillip was stroking the bare back of a tall brunette in a skin-tight leather minidress as he listened intently. Out in the stadium, the announcer bellowed, “Today’s competition, between the Atlanta TNT and New York’s own Braves, is being brought to you by Golden Beverages, the Champion of Beers, and Nucleotech Genetic Pharmaceuticals. Ladies and gentleman, it’s the Battle in New York!” There was a pause as the stadium lights flashed thousands of watts of brilliance. “Let’s get ready to declare war . . . it’s showtime!”
There was a rustle of interest around the room. Movement began in the direction of the window. Jack and Dolce took a seat.
“There was a time when our nation was locked in mortal conflict to decide its own fate!” boomed the announcer. “Now again, we are divided in civil war, as North and South, New York and Atlanta, meet on tonight’s battlefield. We take you back in history, to September 17th, 1862, the bloodiest single day of battle in the entire Civil War. We bring you now to the killing fields of Antietam!”
Overhead a dazzle of fireworks exploded.
“McClellan versus Lee, Union versus Confederate. Twenty-five thousand men killed in battle. This evening, for your entertainment, we present again . . . Antietam!”
The noise was thunderous as the crowds below stood in their seats, applauding and then stamping on the bleachers. The eyeScreens 3Deed images of an incredibly thick-necked Synthate with a shaved head and gray eyes. He was Sky King, the grand champion of the battles, the most dominant Synthate ever to fight in the Games.
Since the beginning, Synthates had never received natural names, possibly because a Night Comfort, Rasputin, or Sky King was somehow easier to turn into a slave than one named Elaine, Robert, or Steven. Or maybe whoever was in charge simply liked the creative challenge. Whatever the reason, the end result was that all Synthates sounded less like humans and more like racehorses.
Sky King was the best of them all.
A siren sounded. The Games had begun.
Atlanta and New York were spaced about two hundred yards apart, with each one lying flat behind long stone fences and a few overturned horse carts, the scene exactly like the black-and-white Civil War 2Dees Jack remembered from textbooks. There was a booming sound and a flash of light inside a cloud of smoke. On the New York side, cannons placed behind an encasement of dirt and logs launched rounds of shot toward Atlanta. Teams of Synthates operated the guns, and flames burst forward as the giant iron frames heaved backward in unison.
The crowd whooped and hollered.
“This reminds me of your games,” Dolce said. “The fans, game day, a whole stadium chanting your name. Sometimes I used to hate that.”
Jack looked at her, surprised.
“I never told you that, did I?” Dolce said. “I worried it would take you away from me. But then I’d see you down on that field. And you were so good, so strong, so special, that I knew you were doing what you were meant to do. That nobody was like you. It was what God made you to do, and so I hated myself for wanting to take that from you.”
He’d never imagined himself away from her, and no game could possibly pull them apart. But now that he understood what she’d been feeling during those years, he felt regret. On the field, Atlanta was getting the worse of the battle. Fires had broken out along their walls of defense. Trees burned, throwing sparks into the air. Dead lay behind stone walls, arms thrown backward at odd angles, faces singed and black.
Ten new Atlanta Synthates hunkered down behind the broken remains of a stone house. The structure had been struck twice by New York cannon fire, and bits of rock and broken timbers lay scattered across the field along with three dead Synthates.
Phillip rejoined Jack and Dolce, a glass of champagne in one hand, a cracker topped with black caviar in the other.
“Impressive so far, huh?” Phillip said as he popped the entire cracker into his mouth. “Atlanta’s so weak this year. I’m embarrassed for them. I’m standing here, embarrassed for them right now.” He downed the glass of champagne with a single tilt of his head, wiped his mouth, and patted Jack on the back. “Cheer up. You look like you’re at a fucking funeral.”
“Yeah, sure.”
On the field, the eerie sounds of bagpipers began drifting up from the encircling clouds of mist. Drawn out by the pipes, the Braves emerged from behind their bulwarks. Together they ran forward, heads lowered, rifles raised. The bagpipes continued to sound as the crowd chanted, “Charge, charge, CHARGE!”
Facing their attackers, Atlanta’s fighters sensed the oncoming wave of death running through the smoke. Their head coach, seeing them weaken, shouted out across the ragged lines,
and Atlanta rifles fired a volley into the oncoming Braves.
“My God, this is terrifying,” Dolce said, holding one hand over her half-open mouth.
New York faltered only slightly, and with a scream, they reached the low stone wall defense, hurled themselves over, and smashed into the Atlanta line.
“Atlanta is putting up some solid resistance, but at this point, they just don’t have the numbers to hold back the Braves,” the television commentator said on eyeScreens. “I’d be very surprised, too, if Coach Sharp committed any more Synthates to this battle. It’s just too early in the season to lose so many fighters.”
On the side, the Atlanta coach stared out across the field toward his line, three or four assistant coaches surrounding him. Shaking his head in disgust, he slid two fingers across his own throat.
An alarm sounded out across the field. The signal of defeat. Both teams dropped their rifles, and heavily armed crushers entered the field to keep the Synthates in check. The protective barrier separating the stadium seating from the field began to slide down, and heat poured out from still-burning cottages. Silhouetted against the rolling flames, the New York players turned their blood-and-smoke-smeared faces toward the crowd and raised their arms in victory.
The field was a ruined mess of mud and broken stone, flames and singed bodies. Synthates certainly died real enough.
Dolce touched Jack’s shoulder. “I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone. Let’s just go home.” As they always were, the Games had been too much for both of them. He put his arm around her. “Sure, this isn’t for us. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 21
“Lights on. Dim.” Jack closed the door to their honeycomb and poured a glass of orange juice. The eyeScreen flickered on and 3Deed silent images of tonight’s battle.
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