Black Rain
Page 17
“Why?”
“I think Martin Reynolds knew something about Black Rain that Genico didn’t want released.”
“Something worth murdering for?”
“Billion-mao industry. Murders happen every day for less.”
Outside the doors came a humming whine as the elevator began to move. Arden put a finger to his lips and they both turned silently toward the closed doors leading out of the Rainbow Room.
Sanders eased his 9mm from his holster. The elevator noise grew louder, finally ending with a chime and the rattle of the car opening. They waited in silence, eyes fixed on the double doors. Footsteps sounded on the tile floor. Then there was silence.
Quietly, they moved across the parquet floor and pulled open the double doors. Outside the hall was empty. Rows of closed doors faced them. The Synthate Liberation Front was still active in the zones, and they had a distinct hatred for cops.
“We should get out of here,” Sanders said.
Arden pushed the elevator call button and the doors reopened immediately. They only lowered their weapons when they were inside, the elevator car speeding back toward the ground floor.
“Want to have the crushers round this guy up?” Sanders said.
“I’d like to handle it.”
The elevator reopened onto the main floor. The area was dark. A figure in a hooded sweatshirt walked toward them. The man noticed Arden and Sanders and stopped abruptly at a shuttered gift shop. His face was shadowed by the hood, but Arden saw a bioprint form into a serpent on the back of his hand. Then the bioprint was a blur of motion as the Synthate pulled a barker with incredible speed from his waistband. Shots echoed in the dim space. Arden and Sanders dived for cover against the elevator wall.
Arden fired back with his 9mm, one of the NBC display cases shattering into fragments of broken glass. The Synthate turned and broke into a run. Sanders and Arden followed, sprinting across 45th Street and through Rockefeller Plaza. The figure weaved in and out between small shanties and boxes, and then headed straight for Radio City Music Hall. Arden, who’d fallen behind Sanders, already felt a sharp stitch in his side. He was still trying to negotiate his way, shoving aside anyone in his path, as ahead the Synthate opened the doors to the theater and disappeared.
Inside, the hall was dark and musty.
Arden slowed, gripped his weapon and moved more carefully. The theater’s grand atrium was empty, the atmosphere oppressive. The hall offered a heavy dose of the past, of a world before Synthates. Before Black Rain. Before the Brooklyn Bridge attack. Snack bars stood dusty and forgotten, glass shattered. Graffiti tagged up the frescoes on the walls. Euphoria droplet needles lying along the marble stairs shone like scattered bits of tinsel.
They moved up the steps and along the mezzanine hallway. The theater itself opened up in front of them, the stage below flanked by tiers of velvet seats. At the sudden sound of movement in the far balcony, Arden turned and fired blindly into the musty darkness. A second later he heard the echo of footsteps fading into the distance.
Arden and Sanders tried to find their way up to the balcony level. Most of the signs had deteriorated to illegibility or disappeared altogether, and the two quickly became lost in the stairwells and hallways that circled the interior. Eventually, Arden pushed open the right combination of doors and they found themselves in the balcony.
It was empty.
“This guy’s long gone,” Sanders said.
“Gone but not forgotten,” Arden replied as he shone his light on a blood spatter on the balcony wall.
Arden ran his DNA scanner over the stain on the wall and collected a sample. They found their way out more easily than they had in. The sampling he’d scanned would tell him the make and manufacturer of the Synthate. In order to actually get a look at the guy’s face, though, they’d need to crack the model code. The final one percent of any Synthate’s genetic code was encrypted by the manufacturer in order to prevent patent infringement. Given the millions invested in R & D, companies liked to protect their product.
The detectives made their way back through the theater to their parked patrol solar.
“We need to get access to Genico computer systems. They’ll be able to read this scan.”
“They’re going to fight a search warrant. No company likes to give up its patent secrets. These big companies, they can keep this in court for years before we get access to their records. Especially if they’re involved in the Reynolds murder.”
“I’m not talking about getting a warrant.”
They had reached the car. Sanders stopped walking and looked around the empty street. “What are you talking about?”
“You know.” Arden swung an imaginary baseball bat. “Swing for the fences.”
“No. No. No. Breaking in? A company like Genico is going to have massive security in place.” Sanders leaned against the car. “I’m your best friend and I would do anything for you, but there’s no breaking into Genico. It’s never going to work.”
“It will work if I have help from inside.”
“Nobody who works at Genico is going to help you.”
“You’re right. Nobody who works at Genico will help me. But someone who used to work there might.”
“Who do you know that used to work there?”
“We’ve never been formally introduced. But I have an idea of someone who might help. With the right motivation.”
CHAPTER 32
Awake.
Eyes open. Breathe.
Musket fire echoed in Jack’s ear, then faded to nothing. Overhead, a ceiling fan spun slowly. As he slowly sat up, his brain rolled inside his skull, creating waves of dizziness. He pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead and held it there.
He turned his attention to his surroundings. The room was small, four windows across one wall, bamboo-slatted blinds drawn shut and seamed with cracks of red neon light from outside. The walls were covered with peeling paper and a faded carpet bunched on the worn hardwood floor. Where was he? A potted plant in a corner had shed all its dried brown leaves on the floor. How had he gotten here? He swung his bare feet onto the rug.
The battle. They’d won the battle. But after that, only nothingness registered. A blank space in time until now. Until this room. This unknown room. They must have given him something. A memory suppressant of some sort. A spasm of nausea hit him.
Through the slatted windows came the sound of traffic. He wore only a pair of boxers. His leg throbbed, but clean white bandages were wrapped around his thigh. His arm had also been bandaged. The wound didn’t hurt. Somebody had at least hired a good doctor.
Jack stood, slowly at first, keeping one hand on the bed for balance. He staggered to the windows but found the bamboo blinds wouldn’t open. Beyond the thin seam of red light, he wasn’t able to see what was outside. He moved to the door but found it locked. Next to the door was a small Automat window. He tapped the glass. Inside was empty.
What was this place?
Still exhausted, he collapsed back down on the bed and fell asleep.
He dreamed of Dolce. She had loved Naples, that ancient port along the Tyrrhenian Sea. She’d taken Jack there once, to the Aeolian Islands, off the coast of Sicily. He hadn’t thought of that afternoon in a long time and now in his dream he returned to an old memory.
They sat on the terrace of her cottage that overlooked the sea, which itself overlooked everything and nothing at the same time. The house was faded pink in color, blending in with flowers that blossomed along the hills.
“These islands are named after Aeolus,” Dolce said, turning to look out toward the sea. “The Greek god of the wind.” The water’s smooth blue surface was dotted with the masts of fishing boats. “He kept the winds of the world in a bag in his caves here. I can take you to them. To those caves.”
“I would like that.”
She wore a sundress almost the shade of the indigo sea. Her black hair was held back by a ribbon. She had the richest tan skin Jack had ever se
en, like the sandstone rocks that edged the shore.
Above them, driftwood timber beams stretched out over the porch covered by a thatch work of sticks. Sunlight penetrated the thatch, projecting patterned shadows against the salmon-colored walls.
White and pink roses grew along the dried sticks above them, dropping their petals to the ground. One fell on Dolce, sliding down the length of her black hair, before curling into her lap. She inspected the petal, rubbing its softness between her fingers.
A cat emerged from the bushes beyond the terrace, silently stalking an unseen insect.
“Would you like to see Aeolus now?” Dolce said. “See the cave where he keeps the wind of the world?”
She leaned forward and kissed him, her lips like the cool adobe walls of the cottage. “I’ll take you there.”
When Jack awoke, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. He touched the bandages once more with his hand, then slowly unwrapped the white gauze with his fingers to reveal a dark black bruise on the skin. He pressed his index finger against his thumb. He felt the ridges of his skin, and thought of the deposit touch box his father had left for him.
The radio in the corner played big band music as Jack began an inspection of his space. He started in the corner near the Automat window and moved first along the baseboard, then slowly up along the peeled paper wall. There was nothing unusual.
He turned his attention to the door. He expected it to be locked as it was before. But instead, the knob turned and swung open. Outside was a long hallway papered in faded peach that matched the color of the rug. A man in a charcoal-gray suit sat in a folding chair against the wall. He was a natural, midthirties, with the still handsome build of an athlete just past prime. There was an almost tangible capacity for violence that hovered in place somewhere inside him, strong enough that Jack felt that if he reached out to touch this man, an electric jolt would pass through his skin. The man nodded at Jack and said, “Good morning.”
“Morning. Who are you?”
The man stood and walked down the hallway toward an elevator. “Come with me.”
Jack followed and together they stepped inside the elevator car. The man slid the gate shut and worked the operating lever. The car jerked and began to move upward.
“I imagine,” the man said, “you must have many questions now.”
“Where am I?”
“You are in one of the Synthate Zones,” the man said. “My name is Charles Arden. I’m a detective in the NYPD.”
The elevator stopped and they stepped out into an art deco office with rosewood furnishings and a gray sofa. Sectioned off by a silk panel Korean divider, the office was framed by sets of windows covered by venetian blinds. Arden slid behind the large polished desk and sat himself in a comfortable-looking leather chair.
“How did I get here?”
“After the Games, all the Synthates who survive are brain blinded and brought to the zone. Easier for them to keep an eye on you. You’ll be here until the next Games,” Arden said. “Then you’ll fight again.”
Arden pushed a button on the desk and leaned back in his chair. Behind him, the venetian blinds slid open and revealed the world outside. Through the glass was a city. A throbbing, pulsing city, alive with neon and smoke. The street below was crowded with human forms and lined with grease shops and pleasure parlors illuminated with the strobes of flashing signs. The burned-out shell of a yellow taxicab rotted slowly on the corner while torn-open manhole covers spewed thick steam. Tall, dark buildings rose up from the street and stretched far to the north. The only familiar presence, the ubiquitous eyeScreen behind a protective metal cage, flashed images of Bloomberg Island.
Then Jack’s eyes settled on something he did recognize: directly across the street, broken neon tubes flickering bravely, the old Radio City Music Hall sign.
He was still in New York City. Still in Manhattan. But in Midtown now. He hadn’t been here since the Synthates took it over. Not many naturals came up here. But he was no longer a natural.
“Not what you remembered, is it?” Arden asked.
“God, no,” Jack said. He had no idea it was this bad. The censored news images everyone received showed small, orderly micro-pods. This place looked war ravaged.
“I came here as a kid,” Jack said. “It was beautiful. Shows every night. Professionals in suits walking to work. Everything was bustling. This was Midtown Manhattan, the center of the universe.
“Twenty years of Synthates did this. It’s not Midtown anymore. Now they call it Necropolis. City of the dead. Home to thousands of Synthates.” Arden leaned forward. “I was the detective assigned to the Reynolds murders.”
“I didn’t kill those people.”
“Did I say you did?”
“But if you were the detective assigned to the case, then what am I doing here?”
“Because you’re an easy mark.”
“And who are you? The cop with the heart of gold?”
Arden shook his head. “Not exactly. You’ll always be a Synthate, there’s nothing I can do about that. But what I can do is help you find the people who put you here, the same ones who murdered Dr. Reynolds. And the ones who murdered your wife. And in return, you can help me with a problem I have.”
Jack’s hands tightened to fists. He thought of his brother. Phillip had not acted alone. He was sure of that now. He had needed the support of others at Genico and inside the SFU. There was a depth to what had happened to him that Jack didn’t understand yet, but he didn’t know if he wanted a cop involved.
“Why do I need your help?”
“Come here,” Arden said. “I want to show you something.”
Arden opened the glass sliding door and street noise assaulted them. Horns and cries dueled over the constant hum of released steam. Arden stepped out onto the balcony, twenty stories high. Evening was falling, streaks of red burning across the darkening sky. Around them the zone stretched out its electric painted landscape. Traffic was light. Gasoline-powered public buses, dredged up from thirty years ago, hauled their metal bodies slowly up the avenue. The blue neon of a restaurant across the street advertised cheap steak dinners, a few forms hunched over on bar stools while the owner wiped down the counter.
In the distance to the north, high over the street, the Maglev streaked by, a single thin line of light that traveled down toward lower Manhattan. Jack watched the train as it moved into what had been his old life.
Arden lit up a smoke stick and glanced toward lower Manhattan. “Without me, you will never make it out of the Synthate Zone. How’s your arm?”
Jack felt the tenderness in his right forearm. “Sore. Why?”
“Tracking chip. Every Synthate in Necropolis has one. You leave here without authority, they know.”
“Who are they?”
“The Synthate Fucked Unit,” Arden said, calling the SFU by their not-affectionate nickname. “Only Synthates with valid work permits can leave here. Every morning the Maglev carts out construction workers, maids, dishwashers. All the jobs naturals don’t want to do. It all falls on you. The grease that keeps the natural machinery working.
“I can get you out of here. But freedom has its cost.”
“What cost?” Jack asked warily. He could no longer trust naturals. They were the master and did what was necessary to protect their power. But because Jack was so powerless, he had nothing to lose.
“I don’t think we’re there yet. Neither one of us has reason to trust the other.”
“So it’s something illegal?”
“Would breaking the law stop you from your revenge?”
“Nothing would stop me,” Jack said evenly.
“This is why I chose you. Free will is a powerful thing. You’ll help me with my problem because you want to. Because of what I can give you in return. There’s no loyalty with someone who kills for mao. They can be bought and sold. But you, you’re powered by something that can’t be bought. Just as I am. That’s what’s important to me.”
“Why don’t you see him?”
“He doesn’t trust naturals.”
“He’ll help me?” Jack asked.
“Oh yeah.” Arden smiled. “He’s going to love you.”
CHAPTER 33
There were several sets of suits in the closet of his living quarters. Jack chose a charcoal-gray pinstripe. Outside, he kept his head down and walked north toward where Arden had said the casino would be.
Jack was amazed by how quickly the city had fallen apart. Homeless and addicts lay passed out along the street corners. The small shops and restaurants were crowded as evening fell, and Synthates still in the uniforms of their day jobs filled the streets—maids and construction workers, nurses and cleaners. A crusher surveillance drone sped by overhead, a black camera eye gleaming as it hovered over the remains of a health club before the craft turned and headed west down 54th Street.
He had lived just on the outside of this world, but Jack had no idea of the squalor most Synthates were forced to live in. He could never have imagined the pressure of this constant surveillance, the daily desperation involved in just surviving.
The casino was visible from blocks away, the old Carnegie Hall transformed into a gaudy gambling and entertainment complex called the Deco. The clientele outside were all well dressed and looked like big-city types—Samp brokers, politicians, tourists and visitors who took the Maglev from lower Manhattan for a night of blackjack, and Synthate whores. A security team of massive Synthates guarded the street outside, ready to push back any invaders from the impoverished zone a few blocks away.