Black Rain

by Matthew B. J. Delaney

  “Good luck, my son.”

  The image of his stepfather blinked out. A door hidden in the wall at the end of the room swung open, revealing a hallway.

  Together Jack and Night Comfort walked through the open doorway. Beyond was a small elevator car with an ivory-numbered panel.

  “What now?” Jack asked as he looked at the panel. According to the elevator, they were on the bottom floor. “The car doesn’t go any lower.”

  A set of gears cranked, the doors closed, and the car jerked downward. They were going beneath the street.

  “Guess it does,” Night Comfort said.

  The floor vibrated beneath Jack’s feet and the air grew cooler, offset by the continual clank of the elevator motor.

  After a minute, the car slowed, then stopped abruptly. The doors slid open and the light from the small overhead bulb in the elevator illuminated the first few feet of a marble-tiled floor.

  They stepped out of the car into darkness. Night Comfort spoke. “Where do you think we are?”

  “No idea.”

  She pulled a flashlight from the duffel bag. A brilliant stream of light shot out and illuminated the open space before them.

  They stood at the edge of a long, elaborately furnished underground subway station. The floor was mosaic marble tile, which stretched back to giant decorative planters that Jack imagined must have at one time held high-reaching palm plants. In the center of the room was a wide fountain, now dried and filled with plaster dust, and beyond that was a colonnaded wall spaced with marble statues. At the edge of the tiled floor was a five-foot drop-off, rail tracks visible below.

  The station had been remarkably preserved. The walls looked freshly scrubbed and the floors still shone like they were newly waxed. A small section of the ceiling had collapsed over time, littering the inside of the fountain and a portion of the marble floor with plaster dust, but the rest of the station was in pristine condition.

  Jack followed Night Comfort toward the end of the tracks, past an old ticket booth, the glass still intact and perfectly clear. A single yellowed ticket lay on the floor in front of the booth. Jack bent down, picked it up, and inspected the face.

  THE BEACH PNEUMATIC TRANSIT CO

  1ST OF MARCH, 1870

  260 BROADWAY, ENTRANCE UNDER DEVLIN BANK AND TRUST

  OPEN FROM 10 TO 5

  FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE UNION HOME AND SCHOOL FOR SOLDIERS’ AND SAILORS’ ORPHANS

  ADMISSION, 25 CENTS.

  “Beach’s Road,” Night Comfort said, as her sync 3Deed a moving image of the subway station in its prime. “This was built by a man named Alfred Beach in 1870. It was the first underground transit system in New York City.”

  Beyond the ticket booth was a set of new glass doors. Lights flickered on as they moved forward, revealing an underground Genico lab of shining metal and glass, everything meticulously recreated. They walked through the lab inspecting everything.

  “You could design any Samp you wanted down here,” Night Comfort said.

  “This was where Reynolds was working. This is where he designed the 6th Day Samp. This was why they killed him.”

  They jumped down onto the old rail tracks and walked up the line past the lab. Over one hundred years ago, New York’s wealthiest walked this same path to be marveled by Beach’s creation. And now there was a new technological creation.

  After twenty feet, they passed out of sight of the subway station and the laboratory, and entered into the tunnel. Around them, the walls were brick and mortar and rose up to form an arch some fifteen feet overhead.

  Out of the shadows loomed the blocky form of a subway car. Their lights reflected off the windows, the brass bell that hung from the front, and the gold-plated strips that lined the red wooden frame. The car was about twenty feet in length, constructed neatly of wood and brass, with sets of windows, lightly dusted with age.

  Along the side was printed in gold leaf, “Beach Pneumatic Transit.”

  Night Comfort reached up and pulled on the brass-fitted handle, and one of the double doors swung open with a creak of old hinges. She stepped up inside the car and shone her light around. Inside were seats composed of thin wooden slats. Beneath the seats were hinges that allowed them to fold up and down. The forward section of the car had a seat for the conductor, in front of a panel of knobs and levers and highly polished brass fixtures.

  “It’s amazing,” Jack said slowly as he surveyed the inside of the car. “That all this was forgotten for so long.”

  A map was posted on the wall of the car. It showed a network of subway lines that stretched beneath the city. They were all old tracks, ones Jack had thought were abandoned. Genico must have refurbished them somehow, and together the lines formed a hidden transportation network that ran beneath the city. The tracks ran up to Central Park and linked each of the Synthate Zones together before funneling down to the Beach subway station and the hidden laboratory.

  Jack stepped back onto the tracks. Nearby, a ladder had been bolted into the brick wall.

  “Any idea where this goes?” Jack gripped the ladder and began to climb.

  Night Comfort followed, and soon they began to hear street noise above. The ladder opened into a small, bare room with a single door. They could hear a murmur of voices, the low sound of Muzak and the long whoosh of the Maglev.

  Cautiously Jack pushed open the door and they stepped into the garish light of a Synthate retail shop, featuring white walls trimmed with Lucite and matte butcher block tables with eyeScreens 3Deeing various Synthate designs. Naturals walked through aisles shopping for servants and laborers and comfort workers, while through the front panel glass, Jack could see the iconic Wall Street Bull.

  The door closed behind them, and Jack turned to see the words “EMPLOYEES ONLY” stenciled on the front.

  “There was no Synthate attack here,” Jack said slowly.

  “What?”

  “There was a bombing at the Synthate store nearby Genico. Supposed to have been a Synthate resistance attack. But it was just an excuse to shut the place down and finish the tunnel.”

  Jack surveyed the store. Naturals streamed in through the front, many of them walking with their personal Synthates.

  “This place is perfect,” Jack said.

  “Why?”

  “Synthates come and go without suspicion. My father knew this. That’s why he built the tunnel here,” Jack said. Together they left the Synthate store and stepped out into the sunlit plaza. Across the plaza, the Genico sky turbine slowly turned. Phillip was in there somewhere.

  But here in the sunlight, Jack thought of a different time.

  “Dolce and I used to walk through here,” Jack said as he and Night Comfort headed past the National Museum of the American Indian.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Night Comfort said. “The pain passes, but the beauty remains.”

  Jack’s fists tightened in surprise. Night Comfort saw his expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “The pain passes, but the beauty remains,” Jack repeated. “What is that?”

  Night Comfort replied, “It’s just something Synthates say.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “We learn it at the grow gardens. It’s supposed to give us hope, I guess,” she said. “It’s a famous quote.”

  “From who?”

  “Pierre-Auguste Renoir.”

  “The painter?” Jack said, feeling a rising excitement. Jack raised his hand to his forehead. Everything had suddenly become clear.

  He knew where Reynolds had hidden the 6th Day Samp.

  CHAPTER 43

  The Maglev let Jack and Night Comfort off at Fifth Avenue and 79th Street. They each carried one of the knock-off DNA rings that Arden had given Night Comfort. The scanners read them each as Chinese naturals, and none of the transit crushers even looked their way on the ride up.

  A few blocks south, the Central Park dome rose up over the pond and the Ramble, protecting the Upper East Side naturals from th
e supposed radioactivity beneath. Jack thought of Alphacon and the Synthate village hidden beneath the camo dome. He wondered how long they would remain safe. So much had been revealed to Jack in such a short time, his mind still struggled to grasp it all. Was he one of the only few who knew Synthate secrets? How many were out there who knew what he did?

  And he knew nothing about the oddities of his own timeline. His wounds from the battle seemed to have all healed. Even with his Synthate ability to repair faster, such a feat still seemed impossible to explain. And the blackout before waking in the hotel room . . . what was behind that?

  There were still so many things that he couldn’t piece together. Life was moving so fast that the edges had become a confusing blur. But he had to keep moving forward.

  “Where are we going?” Night Comfort asked as they walked past the expensive park conurbs.

  “My brother told me that Reynolds had turned into something of an art collector before he was murdered. The prizes of his collection were Renoir’s painting, Dance at Bougival, and an extremely rare eighteenth-century Guarneri violin,” Jack said. “Valentino mentioned the painting. He said I would do well to remember it.”

  “Why?”

  “I think Reynolds left something in the painting that will get us to the 6th Day Samp.”

  Night Comfort shook her head. “How could you know that?”

  “It just makes sense. I think Reynolds was a good man. I think he wanted what was best for Synthates.”

  “But why hide secrets in a painting?”

  “Because he knew Synthates were naturally drawn to art. He gave you all a genetic predisposition to be artists and musicians. He felt that creativity and culture would help define a people.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “And in his death, he made sure that the painting would be kept safe.”

  “So let’s go take a look at this painting and see if there’s anything.”

  Jack stopped walking and sighed. “Well, that’s the thing. According to Reynolds’s will, after his death, the Renoir and the Guarneri violin were both bequeathed elsewhere.”

  “So we’ll track them down. Where are they?”

  Jack pointed to the massively secure building across the street. “Unfortunately the painting and the violin are both there now.”

  Night Comfort followed the line of Jack’s finger until her eyes rested on the massive beaux-arts–styled Metropolitan Museum of Art. Stretching five city blocks, the building stood like a fortress on the edge of Central Park.

  Night Comfort looked confused. “I’m sorry, you said what we need is in there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s the Metropolitan Museum of Art. One of the most highly guarded buildings in the world.”

  “I know. That’s probably why Reynolds thought the 6th Day Samp would be safe.”

  “It is safe. There’s no way we can get to it.”

  Jack smiled. “I’m sure we can figure out a way.”

  From inside Genico, Phillip watched a solar island float slowly down the Hudson as it headed toward its anchorage in Jersey to power down for the night. The last loop of a Genico ad 3Deed along the front of the island; a pregnant mom talked and smiled with a genome technician, while below scrolled the words, Now your child’s potential has no limit.

  That wasn’t actually true. There were careful limits set on human growth and natural modification. Legally, as long as you still wanted to be considered a natural, there were limits. So you could become smarter. But never brilliant. A better athlete, but never godlike. Too much genetic modification and you might no longer scan human. And that was why Jack had always been better. He was stronger and faster and smarter than anything nature had intended. He wasn’t human. He was a fake.

  And he was still alive. He was still out there. And as long as that was true, Jack would always be better than his brother.

  The Genico turbine continued to slowly rotate and the view changed toward the north, the electric neon glow of the Synthate Zone casting a halo toward the sky. Phillip’s office was empty now, but Jack had been here. Somehow he had escaped the battles and made his way home. Back to Genico. Even now, even with Phillip’s complete control of the company and Jack fighting in the pits of the Games, Phillip still felt the familiar haunt of inferiority. And he realized with sudden, sharp clarity that it was impossible to enjoy his success as long as he felt this way. Feeling less than was sometimes worse than actually being less than.

  But it didn’t have to be that way.

  Now your child’s potential has no limit.

  Phillip ran a company whose entire specialty was making people better. Making them stronger. Faster. Smarter. More beautiful. He could be better, too. No crushers were taking his scan. And whatever happened, it would be worth beating his brother. Just for once in his life. To exist on that higher plane. To know that you were better than everyone around you. Not just because you had more money. Or had a faster car. Or a better-looking woman. But that you were fundamentally better, in a deeper evolutionary way. You were literally a better, more evolved human being.

  In their liquid form, Samps were actually quite beautiful. Phillip held the vial in his hand up to the soft white of the city skyline. Inside, the liquid rolled like quicksilver. Genico had designed plenty of Samps to make you better, but none to make you go back to the way you were. Because who would want to be worse? So if he took this Samp, there was no going back. His old life would be gone forever, replaced with this newer, shinier, stronger one in which he might finally become the star and Jack a supporting player.

  He would no longer be human. But people said that like it was somehow a bad thing. He would be more than human.

  “Fuck it,” Phillip said, then injected the Samp. The liquid was cool, then burningly cold. He felt the coldness spread through his arm, slowly filtering through the rest of his body. Like an entire colony of worker ants, the Samp went to work on his body on its most basic level, changing him, making him better, making him more like Jack.

  The controlling dynamic of this new Phillip would be stronger, faster, smarter. The new human. As a kid he had loved comic books. He took to the superheroes who started off as ordinary and then were exposed to some reactant, their lives thus changed to something extraordinary. Peter Parker wasn’t born as Spider-Man. He had to be bitten by a radioactive spider. The Flash had to be exposed to chemicals. And Steve Rogers was the biggest faker of them all with his Super Soldier Serum. Born too sickly to be accepted into the Army, he cheats, takes a drug, and becomes a superhero. And not just any superhero. Captain America.

  So what’s the lesson there? If you could take something to make you better, it wasn’t cheating. It was being an American. It was making your own limits. Steve Rogers was human. Captain America wasn’t. But did we penalize him? No. We named him after our fucking country.

  But that was comic books. This was real. And just like the Super Soldier Serum, a Samp could override the natural in any of us. Phillip had always wanted more. And now he was going to do what it took to get it. And just like Steve Rogers, he would become the new super soldier.

  CHAPTER 44

  William Calhoun watched his interview on the eyeScreen, then turned as the office door opened and his assistant entered. Calhoun hushed him with a single finger.

  “Of course we will track them down with vigor,” the eyeScreen image of Calhoun said. “Synthates are a threat to the national security of this country. Soon there will be a time when the population of Synthates is equal to the population of naturals, and we must consider the consequences of this. Lawlessness. Riots. Killings. The Synthate is not a child of God. He is a wild creature. An animal. He must be controlled. Monitored. And those that escape will be tracked and punished by the SFU.” The eyeScreen image of Calhoun turned and stared deeply into the camera. “And I give my word of honor on that to every American.”

  Calhoun clenched his fist in support of his eyeScreen counterpart. His timing had be
en perfect, but more than words had made the American public love him. Audiences adored his feeling. The depth of his feeling. His loathing for the fugitive Synthates. The ones who tried to live outside the bounds of law. Who turned their backs on their masters.

  “The Synthate is a coward. They do not have the same strength of spirit as we naturals. He lacks our fortitude of character, our notions of honor. But this does not mean he is not dangerous. But the weak are his prey. His device is intimidation. This is why we must be strong. Vigilant. And let all Synthates fear the SFU.”

  The interview ended and Calhoun’s assistant Mr. Minton cleared his throat.

  “Yes, what is it?” Calhoun asked, turning from the vidScreen toward his assistant.

  “A gift arrived for you today, sir,” the assistant said as he held out an envelope. “From the Genico Company.”

  Calhoun took the envelope and opened the flap with a flick of his boot knife. Inside was a small card with a handwritten note.

  Thank you for your consideration. Enclosed is a token of our gratitude.

  Calhoun had found that his rewards for service had risen commensurately with his rise in the SFU. And now, after his promotion to sector chief, he was able to more fully enjoy the small tokens of gratitude his hard work and service had provided.

  “And the gift?” Calhoun asked.

  “Is in the next room,” Minton said. “But I must warn you, since the C-16 provision, it has been more difficult to attain your exact request.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” the assistant said apologetically, “she may be a bit older than your usual.”

  Calhoun clasped his hands behind his back. “Oh . . . I see.”

  Synthates allowed a man’s actions to reflect the full range and desire of his taste. An act that might be considered immoral with a natural could be considered quite normal when done with a Synthate. Calhoun had always experienced an attraction, an irresistible force, that drove him toward young girls. It did not seem unnatural to him to desire smooth, tight skin. But of course, with naturals, to take a fifteen-year-old to bed was considered a perversion under the law. He could be arrested and imprisoned for merely acting on what he deemed a natural impulse.