A moment later his restricted perception flooded with soft white light. Then the light dimmed and turned orange, then red. A sunset appeared, falling over an ocean, waves rolling along the beach. Soothing music began to play.
Then a woman’s voice: “Please cease your attempts to resist. You are under arrest. Please do not resist.”
Somewhere outside, Jack felt his body lifted up off the ground. Cool air circulated through the helmet, relaxing him as the rolling ocean ebbed and flowed.
He felt movement below, a sensation of falling in his stomach. His mind tried to grasp what was happening. The elevator? They were taking him outside. The uncertain grip of hands around him was gone, replaced by a constant banded pressure around his chest and legs. He was strapped to something, a metal frame that slid beneath him, and then he felt himself being carried.
Maybe.
There was forward movement, but Jack couldn’t decipher direction or speed. Around him was only the projected sunset over the ocean and the ambient music. Faintly, Jack thought he heard the sound of a truck engine and he tried to pull himself forward, but the bands of pressure tightened against his chest and held him in place. He screamed for help, screamed for Dolce, but only the faint, soothing sound of the ocean responded back.
CHAPTER 22
Light.
Jack blinked in the brightness, his eyes hurting. A crusher stood over him, the restraint helmet in his hands. Jack was seated before a metal table. The table was bolted to the floor, the chair was bolted to the floor, everything shining like surgical steel under the overhead halogen bulb. The room was chilly.
The crusher put the helmet under his arm and walked out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. Jack was left alone. He shivered, then exhaled, a thin plume of cold steam issuing from his mouth.
As the Synthate population rose, the government, fearing a rebellion, had bestowed the crushers increasing amounts of power. Now they had an authority to search and detain even naturals that far exceeded the powers of any local police department.
Frightened, he closed his eyes and focused. His brother had betrayed him. His brother had lied and told the Synthate Fugitive Unit that Jack was a Synthate. And the crushers believed him. There must be a glitch in their database. Everything would straighten out eventually. For now, though, he had to remain focused in order to get back to Dolce.
A doorknob clicked and a section of the wall opened. Jack caught a quick glimpse of a second room, identical to the one he was in. Inside that room a man sat in an identical chair, behind an identical table, and in the moment before the door closed, Jack could see the stranger’s hands and feet were bound. The man’s head was down. A long train of sticky blood hung from his nose.
Suddenly the view was blocked by the closing door. Someone stepped into Jack’s room.
There was a chair at the opposite end of the table, and the newcomer pushed it forward and took a seat. He wore a short-sleeved blue mechanic’s shirt with jeans and boots. His hair was long and greasy and covered by a dirty white cowboy hat with the edges folded upward. He was thin but muscular, with veins like those of a heroin addict running the length of his forearms. He carried an old manila folder, which he placed on the table in front of him. He opened the folder and began to read, flipping pages back and forth. The cowboy looked up at Jack. “I know what you are.”
Jack blinked once. “Excuse me?”
But the man was already looking back into the folder. “I’m known as the Overseer. I’m with the Synthate Fugitive Unit. And if you don’t know what I am, I’m the only thing between you and a death squad.”
“The death squad?” Jack said. “That’s a sick joke.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. This is a misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding?”
“Yes. A misunderstanding. I’m not . . .” Jack paused, thinking. “I’m not whatever it is you think I am.”
The Overseer scratched the side of his nose, then flung himself across the table and punched Jack hard in the face. Jack’s head snapped back and sparks flickered in his brain. The metal chair dug into his back, and his body slumped forward for a second. He shook his head and looked up, his brain still foggy. Stunned, he stared at the Overseer.
“Still think there’s nothing I can do to you?” The Overseer took his hat off and regarded it. “I own you. I’m going to bend you, boy. Get you into shape. Just like I bend this hat. So don’t you wind up on my bad side. I’ll break you down.”
Jack kept quiet. This man was insane. He was outside the constructs of society.
“Don’t get me wrong. Personally, I don’t have no problems with most Synthates. They work hard. They do their job. They respect authority. But I’m starting to have a problem with you. You don’t seem to be following the program.”
“I’m not a Synthate.”
“I got my start in Texas,” the Overseer said. “Catching illegals coming over the Rio. Mexicans. ’Course, after they opened the borders, I had to find another line of work. And I settled on this. The thing is, I’m good at my job. Damn good. And in this room, I’m about the closest thing to a God as you’re going to know. You don’t eat without me. Don’t shit without me. Don’t breathe without me. So if I say you’re a Synthate, well, I guess that makes you a Synthate.”
“But I’m not.”
“No?”
The Overseer turned to the folder in front of him and pointed at it with his finger. “This here’s the story of Jack Saxton. Cover to cover. I read it earlier tonight. Now, in this story, the white coats, our DNA lab here, detected some genetic anomalies in your blood.”
“Anomalies?”
The Overseer held up a finger, then opened up the folder in front of him and read its contents once more. There was a minute of silence before Jack lost patience and asked, “What did they find?”
“Excuse me?” He smiled. “Right, I’m sorry. You know, I think this stuff is fascinating. I should have gone to medical school.”
Jack felt the root of fear take hold in his chest but he tried to ignore it. “I asked you a question.”
The Overseer smiled again, even wider, as he leaned out over the table. “You want to know what he found? Let me see . . .” He ran his finger over a line of text in the folder. “The subject’s blood shows no indication of the Reverse Transcriptase protein, nor of any Retrotransposons, or their derivative LINE-I.”
The Overseer looked at Jack meaningfully.
Jack stared back blankly. “I don’t know what that means.”
The Overseer laughed. “I don’t know what the fuck it means, either! Until I asked . . . but wait, there’s a little more. The lab goes on to say that, ‘Upon further analysis, the subject’s genome appears to be devoid of all pseudogenes and retropseudogenes.’ So there, that’s what his report says.”
“I still don’t know what any of that means.”
“It means that your blood is missing a lot of shit that everyone else, us naturals, all have. None of it serves any purpose in the human body. If you were born without any of this genetic material, you wouldn’t even know that it was gone. You could go through your life happy and healthy.”
“And?”
The Overseer shook his head. “Fact is, even though we don’t need it, it’s all still there, in everyone. Gift from our mommy and daddy. Every natural has some of it, actually a lot of it, except you. There’s only one group on the planet that doesn’t have this junk DNA. You know what that group is?”
Jack already knew the answer, but he needed time to digest what was happening. “Who?”
“Synthates,” the Overseer said. “Genetically engineered humanoids. When scientists created Synthates, they did it perfectly, down to the last detail. But then they went and eliminated all the junk DNA.”
“So . . . what does that mean?”
“Well, that means that someone did a number on your genome, buddy. They built you up from scratch, the
n cut your DNA down till it was like a streamlined race car.” The Overseer cut his hand through the air, making a whistling sound. Then he stopped, looked at Jack, and said, “You’re a Synthate.”
Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms across his chest and stared.
“I’m not a Synthate,” Jack said finally. “I’ve got parents, I remember them. I was a kid, played Little League, rode a bike. I don’t have a bioprint.”
“Hey . . .” The Overseer raised his hands up in resignation. “I don’t do the tests. Not sure who genomed out your bioprint. You must have some friends.”
“I’m not a Synthate.”
“Stop jerking me around. You know damned well what you are. You don’t get a lawyer, you don’t get a trial. Synthates are property of the state from beginning to end.”
“Listen, if I can just make a sync call. Let me call my father.”
The Overseer reached into his front pocket, pulled a small photodisk from his pocket, and placed it on the table in front of Jack. The disk flashed blue then projected a 3Dee above the table of a room. A bed. Two dead bodies. Blood on the floor. The sheets.
“Is this a mistake?” the Overseer asked, indicating the pictures.
Jack cringed, disgusted. “What is this?”
“Two bodies. Pretty vicious even for a Synthate,” the Overseer said. “Martin Reynolds and his wife. Believe he worked with you.”
“He worked in the labs,” Jack said. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?”
“C’mon, you know who killed Reynolds and his wife.”
Jack shook his head, not following what the Overseer had said. “I don’t understand . . . who?”
“You! You, you fucking savage. You fucking killed them, then snuck on home to your little life thinking nobody would know any different.”
“Me?” Jack shrank back, horrified.
“Synthate cells under the female vic’s nails. You worked with the male vic. And you’re a Synthate. Sounds pretty good to me.”
“You’re crazy.” Jack’s voice sounded shrill, his throat tight. “There are thousands of Synthates out there. And the coding is proprietary. No reader can identify any particular one. Not that it matters, because I’m not a Synthate. I didn’t kill them.”
“Listen up. As a runaway, the SFU owns you now. We’ll be selling you off to the Games, I expect. Maybe a death squad, but I doubt it. They’ll find a use for you. You’re too expensive.”
This can’t be happening, Jack thought. He had to get out of there. He had to get back to Dolce. She was what was most important now. Whatever had to be done, he swore he’d get back to her. It was all that mattered.
The Overseer stood and adjusted his hat. “You lived years in our world. It’s time to go back to your own.”
A door opened at the back of the room and two uniform crushers charged in with stun sticks. The blows came hard and fast. Electric pain tore through Jack’s body and the world went black.
CHAPTER 23
Hidden below Wall Street, deep in an abandoned subway line, Night Comfort studied the Metropolitan Museum of Art schematic that 3Deed from her eyeScreen. Around her, the forgotten subway tunnel was filled with paintings and artwork. Rembrandt’s Storm on the Sea of Galilee and Vermeer’s The Concert hung from the faded brick wall, while a sculpture by Degas stood near the old token booths. An office had been constructed inside the former workers’ lounge, and here Night Comfort had the plans spread out on what was once a break table.
She had come to believe the study of art was the study of the soul. They had all come to believe this. And the question of a soul was what differentiated them from naturals. If each Synthate also had a soul, it would make them the equals of naturals.
The problem was Synthates weren’t permitted by law to own art. So that left them only one option. To steal it.
Gathered around Night Comfort, a half dozen Synthates studied the blueprint with her. Suddenly the door was flung open.
“We found him,” War Admiral announced as he entered.
“Found . . . who?” Night Comfort asked.
“The one we’ve been hoping for.”
She straightened. “Where?”
“He’s here, in New York. Our monitors picked it up. Someone ran a scan of his DNA.”
“A he?” Night Comfort asked with a hint of disappointment. Still, very little about this moment could be disappointing. They had been searching for years.
“He is. His name is Jack Saxton. He works for Genico.”
Night Comfort looked at the rest of her council and smiled.
“But there’s bad news,” War Admiral said.
“What?”
“The crushers have him. They were the ones that ran his scan. That’s when it popped on our screens. I checked their grid. Looks like they were tipped off about his location earlier today and picked him up at his residence.”
“Oh no.” She shut her eyes in frustration. “Do they know who he is?”
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.”
The eyeScreen brought up a map of Manhattan. There wasn’t much time. They had to act now.
“Where did they do the scan?” she asked.
“There were two. The first was in Brooklyn,” War Admiral answered. “The second was in SFU headquarters.”
“We have to try and get him before they transport to the Island.”
“I don’t think we’re ready for that scale of engagement now,” someone said. “He’ll be in an armored carrier. We need more time to plan.”
“I’ll go,” War Admiral said, stepping forward.
“Are you sure?” Night Comfort asked.
“I’m ready.”
“Good, then let’s get him back. We’ve looked for him for too long to give up now.”
CHAPTER 24
Jack opened his eyes. There had been a sound. He lay for a moment more on the cold metal bed as he stared at the ceiling. His head still throbbed from the blow he’d taken . . . when? Yesterday? The day before? An hour ago? He rolled over on his side to survey the rest of his cell. No. He wasn’t inside a cell, but in the back of a van. With him were three others, each in orange jumpsuits and white sneakers, seated on a metal bench.
Jack rolled himself up and onto his feet. He looked down, surprised to see that, just like the three others, he too was clad in orange. Beneath him, he could feel the bump and roll of the road. They were being transported somewhere. What had the Overseer said? He would be sold into the Games?
His trio of companions stared blankly at the wall. Bioprints marked them as Synthates, Guard class most likely. They had tough faces lined with old scars. None of them acknowledged his presence until Jack stood to stretch his legs, and then one looked over at him, shook his head, and hissed a quick, “No.” Jack sat back down and the fellow resumed his vacant expression.
Once he was able to get to a sync, Jack would reach out to a team of Genico lawyers. They could order more tests. He had nothing to hide. The tests would prove he was natural.
Then it occurred to him. If he could be wrongly accused and imprisoned, how many others had been falsely accused as Synthates? Hundreds, maybe thousands. And some of these, he was sure, had to have died in the Games. Distracted by this line of thought, Jack barely noticed that their transport vehicle had stopped.
Simultaneously the three Synthates looked at each other. Some wordless message passed between them. Each bent over at the waist and tucked his head between his knees. The position was vaguely familiar to Jack. Outside their vehicle sounded the heavy diesel rumble of an approaching truck.
The noise grew louder, now bearing down on them. His fellow prisoners kept their heads tucked between their knees, and just as Jack thought, crash position, the rumble was on top of them. Something slammed against the van and then the world flipped.
Jack’s body hit the roof of the vehicle hard and he felt the wind fly out of him, leaving him gasp
ing. Then he was thrown against one wall. His arms still cuffed behind him, he couldn’t protect himself, and his head struck the edge of the metal bench. Light and pain flashed in his brain and he struggled to stay focused.
Then everything stopped. He lay stunned and motionless, curled on what had been the side of the van. The three other men were sprawled around him. Two of them moaned, struggling to sit upright. The third wasn’t moving at all. Somewhere outside the vehicle wall came the sound of running feet, then a saw whirred to life, followed by the screech of metal being cut. Sparks shot into the vehicle through the walls, and a spinning blade appeared. The doors were wrenched open and a black stretch of pavement became visible.
A face covered by a black ski mask appeared. Hands reached out and pulled Jack from the destroyed vehicle. He flopped down onto the pavement and rolled over onto his back. Through the pain in his head, he vaguely registered that it was night and he was on the edge of the FDR. He saw streetlights along the highway and the illuminated Williamsburg Bridge in the distance. He had just been pulled from an armored Synthate transport van, now overturned on its side, a tractor trailer rig almost embedded into its frame. Near the tractor trailer was a solar BMW.
Four figures, all in ski masks, worked to pull the prisoners out of the wreckage. One of the figures leaned over Jack and clipped his handcuffs loose.
The masked figure put a gloved hand on Jack’s shoulder, and then a woman’s voice said, “You’re free, brother.”
From behind came a gunshot and everyone ducked for cover. More shots rang out and the front windshield of the BMW exploded into fragments.
The two other rescued Synthates wasted no time, jumping the FDR guardrail and dashing off, each in different directions. The third figure still lay motionless. Forced backward by the gunfire, the figures in ski masks clambered back into the BMW. With a screech of tires, the BMW sped toward Jack and the rear door flew open. “Get in!”
Bullets continued to rain down on them. Someone inside the vehicle screamed in pain. An SFU helisquall skimmed low over the river toward him. As Jack watched, the BMW accelerated again out onto the FDR, the rear door still open, swinging wildly on its hinge before it slammed shut on its own.
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