Black Rain

by Matthew B. J. Delaney

  Across the front entrance, letters spelled out “The Deco” in white and silver neon, flanked on either side by illuminated palm trees. A billboard near the street advertised shows starring Synthate-cloned versions of Humphrey Bogart, Lana Turner, and Rudolph Valentino.

  Jack made his way to the front door of the Deco and showed the business card to one of the Synthates, a hulking giant with a long scar running down the side of his neck. The doorman waved Jack through, and inside the casino opened up around him. The original structure of Carnegie Hall had been preserved, with its massive open ceiling and wide balconies rising up like layers around him. But the seats had been removed and the machinery of the casino filled the floor.

  Once people had sat here for Tchaikovsky. Now slot machines whirred and blinked while dealers presided over card tables and roulette wheels. A bustling crowd sat around tables and slots and stood packed together near roulette wheels and the green felt of craps stands. vidBoards strobed jackpot mao amounts, while voices in Chinese and English advertised games and shows and restaurants, rallying people to a frenzy.

  At the front, on the old stage, was a thick redhead Synthate in a tight blue dress that showed off her legs and well-rounded hips. Jack gave his hat to the hatcheck girl, and then he stood at the rear champagne bar between two rows of video slot machines as the redhead began her number.

  He waited a moment, then headed up a back set of stairs and out onto a balcony. Below him, the line was boisterous. People talked and laughed. To the north, what had been Central Park was now dark and overgrown, zoned off by the contaminant dome.

  “Hi there,” a female voice said. He turned to see a tall, strikingly beautiful woman in a fitted black dress. She had black hair and perfect eyes. Something about her was immediately familiar.

  “You must be Jack.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because you don’t have the look of a natural.”

  “What look is that?”

  “You know, that asshole look of entitlement,” she said. “And we’ve met before.”

  Suddenly Jack remembered. His father’s apartment. She was the Synthate Social girl. She extended her hand. “Night Comfort. Pleased to meet you again.”

  Her palm was warm.

  “I remember you,” Jack said.

  “And I remember you,” she said. “So what do you want here?”

  “Arden sent me,” Jack said, confused.

  “I know he did, but what do you want here? You looking to get killed in the Games? I only ask because, if your life continues on its current path, you stand a pretty good chance of getting your head blown off. So tell me, what is it you want?”

  “Revenge,” Jack said.

  “And you think this will make you feel whole again? This will be worth your life?” Night Comfort said.

  “You can’t understand.”

  Night Comfort stared at him. “You think because you were sent here, you know anything about loss. About real loss. Look around you, at the thousands of faces. Synthate faces. At least you were able to live out there and have feelings none of us will ever have. You know how much I would have given to feel what you feel?”

  “Then you don’t have any idea how hard it is to have it taken away from you,” Jack said.

  She considered this, and said, “I guess I don’t.”

  She took his arm and led him back inside to the edge of the balcony. Below them the casino floor chimed like a jukebox. The music onstage was going strong and the air was heavy with the smell of smoke sticks and alcohol.

  “Welcome to the Deco,” she said.

  Below them stretched an expanse of people. A living, breathing thing that seemed to ripple and move as a single massive creature. Natural men in expensive suits, Synthate women slung over them like colored scarves. Tables lined the floor, padded velour furniture behind them, some separated by thick velvet curtains the color of burgundy.

  The main bar stretched out in the middle of the floor, glass bottles of alcohol glistening under the lights in perfect rows while bartenders served the throng of patrons along the marble bar. Cocktail waitresses flitted in and out through the crowd between the card tables, delicately formed glasses stacked precisely on circular trays held in front of them as they moved from table to table.

  “Prostitution here is legal. Drugs are legal. Gambling is legal. Any vice you can name thrives in the Synthate Zone. There are no rules, no laws, no consequences,” Night Comfort said. “So be careful. Remember, this isn’t your old life. A murder here won’t even make the grid.”

  Below them, the band had a good rendition of Duke Ellington’s “Take the ‘A’ Train” going, the Duke and his musicians never sounding so good. The lead performer, a Synthate with a saxophone bioprint, looked just like Ellington, like a picture ripped from a book.

  “It’s the celebrity genetic reconstitution program. Something just for the casino. Part of the entertainment,” Night Comfort said. “The band leader looks like Duke Ellington, because he is Duke Ellington. Genetically speaking, anyway. The casino hired one of the big genetic groups to tailor for them a group of Synthates modified to look like celebrities from the twenties to the forties. They perform all the shows here, the attractions. The Mirage casino had Siegfried & Roy, we’ve got Duke Ellington, Humphrey Bogart, and James Cagney. Among others.”

  “Their Duke is excellent.”

  “He was made to be excellent.”

  “And what were you made to do?”

  Night Comfort smiled slowly. “Depends who you ask.”

  “What if I ask you? What do you think?”

  “I think Synthates are better than naturals. Smarter. Stronger. I think it’s only a matter of time before the revolution begins.”

  Jack remembered now her revolutionary talk. Then a more obscure memory popped unbidden into his head. Her voice. He had heard it before, under different circumstances. She had been the woman in the mask, the one who had freed him from the crusher transport.

  “You were there,” Jack said, amazed. “You knocked over the SFU transport. Your voice.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “Synthates need a voice.”

  “Take the ‘A’ Train” was dying out, the music giving way to the melodic sound of conversation throughout the club.

  “So you work for Arden?” Jack asked, still trying to figure her out.

  Night Comfort laughed. “I work for an organization. We’ve been looking for you for quite some time now. That’s why we broke you out of SFU custody. Unfortunately, you managed to get yourself arrested again.”

  “Looking for me? Why?”

  “All in time. But for now, you’re here to meet Rudolph Valentino, correct? He runs the zone. He’s a Synthate, but everything that comes through here, he gets a piece of. Sex. Drugs. Gambling. If anyone would know about what happened with you, it’d be him.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  Night Comfort smiled. “This is the zone. Everyone here is dangerous.”

  “Does that include me?”

  “Depends if you think you have anything to lose. Most of us here have nothing. That’s what makes us dangerous. We’re all slaves. How much worse could death actually be?”

  “Everything I have was taken from me. Sometimes it’s worse to have a thing and lose it than to never have it at all. Makes you hate the ones who took it from you.”

  “You’re going to need that hate. All of it. Hate will give you something to live for. Make you strong.” Night Comfort looked down to the crowd below. “The one you’re looking for is down there.”

  Below them, Jack could see into the dark recesses of the casino floor. Night Comfort pointed to a circular table on the far side of the club facing the stage. The table was backed by a cushioned booth in which sat a group of five or six Synthates talking in clouds of thick smoke. A man in the center of the group was wearing a white linen suit, striped shirt, and high-waisted trousers. His necktie was pulled down a few inches off the collar. His sho
es were black and white two-tones, his hair slicked back with brilliantine. Jack studied his face. Something about it looked familiar.

  “Rudolph Valentino,” Night Comfort said. “That’s Genico’s version sitting over there. The reconstituted DNA project. They took the real Valentino’s DNA and made a Synthate with it.”

  The resemblance was amazing.

  “Should I go talk to him?” Jack asked.

  Night Comfort pulled on her smoke stick and smiled. “He’s going to love you. But be quick. The Games begin again soon. And you’ll be due back in battle. You don’t have much time.”

  The table was littered with empty glasses, bottles of champagne, and smoke stick trays. The Synthates laughed and conversed amongst themselves. As Jack approached, he saw that all five seated around the table were men, Valentino in the middle. They were dressed sharply, most in linen suits, their hair slick and shining. Onstage a shapely blonde was singing something low and sweet, the men at the table mostly ignoring her.

  Valentino barely looked up as Jack approached. He waved his hand dismissively. “We’re all set on drinks. A pack of smoke sticks would be nice.”

  “Are you Rudolph Valentino?”

  Valentino turned at this, looking up at Jack, his eyes flickering down the length of his body.

  “Maybe.” Valentino smiled, leaned back in the chair. Jack noticed the eyes of the other four men on him as well. They were all handsome, high-cheekboned models with soft lips. Valentino turned his head to the figure next to him, a delicate man in his early thirties. “Well, this one is certainly bold.”

  “I need to talk to you,” Jack said.

  Valentino waved his hand again. “Sit down with us. Have a drink and maybe later I’ll give you my autograph.”

  The rest of the table broke into laughter.

  “It’s not about that.”

  “Oh please, sit down and have a drink,” Valentino said, exasperated. “Don’t be so serious.”

  Jack sat down at the end of the table, crammed next to a thin black Synthate with a white V-neck sweater and pinstripe shirt and tie. He smiled at Jack. “You fought in the Games?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you’re one of our conquering heroes? Cheers,” Valentino said, leaning in toward Jack. The smell of brandy was heavy on his breath. “Look at that face. You’re beautiful, passionate. Please don’t ever get dragged into the Games again. I don’t want anything to happen to that face.”

  The men at the table laughed.

  “You should sing for him,” someone called out.

  Valentino smiled. “You want to hear me sing? I did shows, twice a day for the casino.”

  “Well, actually . . .”

  “Then I will!” Valentino stood up unsteadily, slicked back his hair with one hand, and moved toward the front. The blonde had finished her number and Valentino stepped onstage, shielded his eyes with one hand against the lights, and made his way to the microphone. Around him, the crowd cheered in a soft wave, raising martini glasses up to him.

  Valentino looked out at the audience. “This song is inspired by the great Rudolph Valentino movie The Sheik. 1923.”

  Music started behind him and Valentino began singing, a wavering version of “Kashmiri Love Song.” The tune was slow and sad, familiar to Jack in the dim recollection of memory. Valentino sang well, his voice tremulous with feeling.

  The men left at the table gazed openly at Valentino onstage. One of them leaned in toward Jack. “He did so many silent pictures, people never knew he had such a wonderful voice.”

  Jack scanned the club. Smoke wreathed everything, leaving a pale haze over every lamp. Through the open doors to the terrace he saw Night Comfort. She turned from the lights of the city and met his eyes. Onstage Valentino continued to sing.

  And Jack felt the loneliness of this place; this city of the dead, filled with empty people lost like seashells among the sand of glamour and light. Valentino ended the song, bowed once to the crowded room, then wordlessly stepped from the stage and returned to his seat. The men with him laughed and patted him on the back, but Valentino’s mood seemed to have changed. He waved them off and looked at Jack and said, “You wanted to speak with me? About what?”

  “Arden sent me,” Jack said, unsure of how to respond.

  Valentino was playing with two speared olives, rolling them around in the clear liquid of a martini glass. He pulled the olives out and slid one into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Then he turned to the man next to him, a tanned Brazilian-looking Synthate with jet-black hair. He offered the other olive to the man.

  Valentino turned back to Jack. “Let’s go. You and me. I’m tired of this place. These slot machines give me a headache. I want to go home. Will you take me home? I need attention tonight.”

  Jack leaned back slightly. “I’m not . . . um . . .”

  “A fag?” Valentino asked. “Believe me, if I’d wanted that from you I could take it.” Valentino stood up, the men at the table watching him, waiting. “Well, I’m leaving. Julian, give me a hug.”

  Chosen, the Brazilian stood and Valentino hugged him, then kissed him on the cheek and pulled away. “You’re killing me.”

  Valentino turned, patted Jack on the back, and walked out of the casino. Jack followed him across the floor, past blackjack tables, then down the long marble staircase and out onto the warm street. Valentino’s automobile, a cream-colored Avions Voisin convertible with big, shining silver headlights, was parked out front of the Deco.

  “Get in,” Valentino said, opening the driver’s door.

  Valentino was quiet during the ride, the sweet smell of alcohol lingering in the pools of stagnant air inside the car. He lived in a penthouse in the old Ritz-Carlton, directly on the park. The building had long been abandoned by naturals and now housed only the most influential Synthates. Valentino left the car out front and they passed through the main lobby, heading up in a marble-covered elevator.

  The elevator doors opened and Valentino staggered out. A manservant in a tuxedo stood in attendance at the edge of a long black-and-white-tiled hallway.

  “Mrs. Valentino is awaiting you in the library, sir,” the butler said.

  Jack wasn’t sure if the butler had seen him yet, but if he had, he gave no indication of surprise.

  “Fine, Edward, tell her I’ll be in,” Valentino said.

  “Very good, sir.”

  The butler disappeared behind a door at the far end of the hallway and Valentino turned back to Jack, indicating a room off to the side. “Wait in there if you like. The reception room.”

  Then he headed off after the butler. A door closed. After that came voices, angry voices, male and female, a subdued argument taking place somewhere in the penthouse. Jack stepped into the dark reception room. He flicked on the light switch and two gas lamps behind colored glass sparked to life.

  The reception room was large and luxurious. Two leather sofas formed an L in the center around a glass table topped with picture books on New York City. A large bay window across the front looked out on Central Park. A big electric crystal radio sat in the corner of the room, framed in mahogany wood.

  The walls were hung with various arms, an Indo-Persian round shield and battle ax, a spiked Iranian war helmet, and an eighteenth-century English smallsword. Seeming out of place hung a reproduction of Renoir’s Dance at Bougival. Jack remembered seeing the same reproduction from one of his tours of the Roosevelt Island Genico Grow Garden.

  Alongside the painting were clippings from the front pages of various newspapers, each from the summer of 1926, set in frames and placed along the wall.

  U.S. Commander Byrd First to Fly Over North Pole

  Gertrude Ederle First Woman to Swim English Channel

  Rudolph Valentino, ‘The Sheik,’ Cinema Heartthrob, Dies of Perforated Ulcer at 31

  Jack sat down on one of the leather sofas and picked up Motion Picture magazine from off the glass table, the cover fronted by an illustration of Rudolph Valentino
wearing a long desert turban from the movie The Son of the Sheik. Jack opened the magazine, becoming so engrossed in flipping through old articles that he didn’t hear Valentino come back into the room. The Synthate walked to the liquor cabinet, poured a drink, went to the window, and looked out across the park.

  “Genico is making a theme park in California,” he said. “Old Hollywood. They’ll populate it with Synthates like me, have the public come. Charge for tickets. There were twenty thousand one hundred and twelve trees of thirty-seven different varieties in Beverly Hills in 1929,” Valentino said. “You know how many trees the Beverly Hills section of the new Genico park has? Twenty thousand one hundred and twelve with thirty-seven different varieties. The exact number. It took them eight years to get that right.”

  Valentino swirled his drink, then sipped again.

  “Listen, I need to talk to you about things that have happened to me,” Jack said. “My name is Jack Saxton, I—”

  “I know who you are,” Valentino interrupted. “What’s happened to you.”

  “That’s why I came to see you, because I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m here. What happened to me. They said I murdered all these people, but I didn’t. And then they said I was a Synthate, which I’m not. I’m natural.”

  “And what am I?” Valentino said, turning away from the window. “I’m a Synthate. So, if I’m not natural, then who am I?”

  He moved to the front-page newspaper headline. Rudolph Valentino Dies at Age 31.

  “Am I him?” Valentino asked, looking at the headline. “Is he me? Are we the same person, just ages apart? I turn thirty-one in two months. Genico runs this place. Do you think they’re going to let me live to see thirty-two? That would be factually inaccurate. These people know the exact number of fucking trees in Beverly Hills. Do you think they would let their biggest star be older than thirty-one?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Rudolph Valentino made thirty-two movies between 1917 and 1926. Do you know how many movies Rudolph Valentino, me, how many I have made?”

  Jack shook his head. “No.”

  “None. I have never made a movie in my life. I am indistinguishable from Rudolph Valentino and all I am is a living picture in this history book they call Necropolis. That’s all I am. A picture in a book. And when I reach thirty-one, they’ll tear out the picture and throw me away.