“Find something. We’re running out of time. Half the cops in the city will be headed our way.”
The van passed over the RFK Bridge, water turbines blurring by beneath them. In his hand, the tracking device continued to blink red. Even if they got rid of it now, the helisqualls still had them in sight. The van took a hard turn, and Jack was thrown against the rear doors.
“Where are you going?” he called out.
“Don’t know yet,” Night Comfort answered.
Jack focused back on the painting. The canvas was flat and blemish free. There was no place to hide anything there and for a moment, Jack began to doubt his theory about Reynolds. What if the scientist hadn’t hidden anything in the painting?
“Check the frame,” Night Comfort called out.
The frame was solidly constructed of several-inch-thick oak. The wood seemed smooth and completely seamless. Jack began slowly running his fingers over the back. He had almost tracked the entire length of the frame when his skin brushed against an inconsistency in the wood.
He bent down and saw a hairline seam in the wood.
“Hey, I think I’ve got something,” Jack called out. He dug his fingernails into the seam and slowly worked out a piece of wood. One six-inch segment of frame slid out, and from inside, a Samp cylinder popped into Jack’s hand.
“Find it?”
“Got it. Reynolds hid something in the frame. Looks like a Samp.”
“Samp for what?”
Jack studied the liquid as it rolled inside the clear container. “Don’t know.”
The van passed through an acid scrubber mist cloud, then bounced over a pothole. A brilliant white light flooded the interior. One of the helisqualls covered them with a searchlight.
“We’re never going to be able to outrun those things,” she said.
“We have to get out of sight.”
The van screeched and narrowly avoided a parking taxi. “I’m open to suggestions.”
Jack thought for a moment. “Remember the map we saw in Beach’s subway station?”
“So?”
“The tunnels extended all over the city. They must have openings somewhere. We just have to find them.”
“How do we do that?”
Jack quickly pulled out his sync. Trying to maintain his balance in the rear of the bouncing van, he did a quick search for Alfred Beach. He then cross-referenced the search with all of the holding data that Jack had downloaded from the Genico mainframe. In a moment, the search came back with the results. A single, ten-story granite office building 3Deed inside the car along with an address.
“Think I got something,” Jack said. “Head to 9 West 20th Street.”
Night Comfort turned the wheel of the van, and the tires screeched as they exited the FDR and began to head west through the Park conurbs.
Keeping her eyes on the road, she asked, “What’s there?”
“That was Alfred Beach’s home address the year he died.”
“So?”
“The entire building was bought by Genico a few years ago. If there’s going to be a tunnel entrance somewhere, that’s where my father would have put it.”
Rotors whined overhead as one of the helisqualls buzzed over the top of their van and moved ahead of them. “Hang on,” Night Comfort called, before she turned the wheel hard. The vehicle spun around a corner, then she accelerated past traffic and headed west on 47th Street.
“Where are you going?” Jack gripped the Renoir tightly, trying to keep the canvas from banging against the van’s interior.
“Park Avenue viaduct. We’ll lose them there.”
The viaduct was an elevator roadway that cut around Grand Central, then passed directly through the interior of the old Helmsley building. The helisqualls wouldn’t be able to follow them through the building. But as they sped down Park, there was something about the plan that bothered Jack.
One of the helisqualls struck a low wind farm, knocking the turbine against the side of an office building. Sparks and broken glass rained down on the sidewalk. Naturals scattered. Night Comfort accelerated, and the big engine roared as they jumped the curb around a garbage truck. Synthates in khaki-colored uniforms dived out of the way.
Jack realized what was wrong. The viaduct split as it entered the Helmsley building, and they were in the oncoming lane. Ahead loomed the massive 35-story building. Each of its two circular road entrances gaped open like mouths.
“You’re going down the wrong way!” Jack tried to pull himself toward the front, desperately grabbing at a seatbelt.
“Hang on,” Night Comfort said.
Seeing the approaching buildings, one of the helisqualls banked sharply. A burst of gunfire sounded from its mounted machine gun. The back tire of the van exploded, and the vehicle lurched forward, metal rims thumping against the pavement as they entered the darkness of the tunnel inside the building. Headlights bore down on them, and Night Comfort turned the wheel sharply.
The van impacted against the curved tunnel wall. Jack was thrown forward against the front seat. The Renoir frame slammed painfully against his leg. The van spun once, then came to a rest inside the tunnel. Somewhere a horn blared.
Night Comfort was out of the front seat in an instant. A yellow taxi had come to a stop just feet from their van. She ripped open the front seat of the taxi, then pulled out the startled natural driver.
“Come on, let’s go,” she called out to Jack.
Jack’s head was ringing from where he’d struck it against the back of the seat. He staggered toward the sliding door of the van, then turned and saw the Renoir. The painting lay undamaged on the floor of the van. He hesitated, looking at the priceless work of art.
“Just leave it,” Night Comfort said. “We have what we need.”
Jack knew he should leave it, but to be in the presence of that beautiful work of art had changed him inside. When he looked at the painting, he felt somehow free. And he didn’t want to just walk away from that.
“Jack,” she called out again. “Come on.”
“Synthates aren’t even allowed in museums,” Jack said. “This is our chance. We may never get this moment again.”
“Let it go,” she said softly. “Jack. Let it go.”
All the hatred built up over time suddenly seemed to explode. The naturals had taken everything beautiful from his world. He wanted to take something beautiful from theirs. Outside the sounds of sirens were fast approaching. Jack flipped open a gravity knife from his pocket and carefully cut along the frame until the canvas fell free from the wood. The tracking device imbedded in the frame continued to blip its red light.
“Sorry, Pierre,” Jack said as he rolled the canvas into a tube. “But our people need this more than yours.”
With the roll of artwork in hand, Jack jumped from the van and joined Night Comfort in the taxi. Cautiously she pulled out from the tunnel and back into the night air outside the Helmsley building. Overhead the sky was clear. Jack imagined that both helisqualls would be hovering on the opposite end of the tunnel, waiting for their van to appear. They didn’t have much time before cops and crushers entered the viaduct, found the smashed van, and realized what had happened.
“We need to get underground,” Jack said, clutching the painting in his lap, the 6th Day Samp still in his pocket.
“We can’t go to the Ramble,” Night Comfort said. “We can’t take the chance of leading the crushers there.”
“And anywhere near Genico is going to be crawling with crushers now after Calhoun’s disappearance. We’ll have to try Beach’s home. Hopefully we can find a tunnel entrance.”
CHAPTER 48
The building at 9 West 20th Street was closed for the night, but a scattering of lights in the higher floors showed the edifice wasn’t completely empty. They left the taxi parked on the street outside. Jack pulled on the single glass door and found it locked. The front lobby was dark.
“We could break it,” Jack said, knocking on the glass.
> “No.” Night Comfort shook her head. “There would be an alarm.”
Jack saw a touch screen mounted on the wall near the door. He pressed his palm against the screen and the door lit green and swung open.
“Looks like someone left you the keys,” Night Comfort said.
They entered the building cautiously. Beyond the doors was a small, anonymous lobby, with a single elevator and an empty doorman’s desk. The acid scrubber churned quietly in the corner. A metal door opened into darkness. Jack found a switch, and lights flickered on to reveal a set of metal stairs leading down.
“Another gloomy tunnel underground. Great,” Night Comfort said as she stepped past Jack and began walking down. “That’s just what we need.”
After ten feet, the stairs leveled off to a flat concrete hallway that stretched beneath the building. The hallway was lined with eyeScreen pedestals that flared to life as they moved forward. Each pedestal 3Deed a human form, which revolved in space along the edge of the hall. There were dozens of 3Dees featuring both men and women. Some were muscular, some beautiful, some short and stocky, all varied impressions of the same form.
“What’s happening?” Jack asked as they walked down the hall.
“They’re all Synthate Design classes. From the inception of the Synthate program.” Night Comfort walked slowly down the line. “Each class has slight modifications so they can be differentiated from one another. But this is an entire history of a people.”
Jack could see how the first Synthates had gradually been divided into the four classes: Social, Domestic, Industrial, and Guard. Night Comfort stopped before a 3Dee of an athletic young man, constructed with the perfect proportions of a Michelangelo statue, but built from flesh and bone. “This is the male prototype for my class,” she said. “This is our Adam.”
“What happened to him?”
“Who knows? Probably extinguished in some pleasure parlor somewhere.”
Beyond the Social Adam were more pedestals with 3Dees of other Synthates. Jack walked slowly down the line, taking in each one. They were all variants of one another, like the stencil drawings of Darwin’s finches. Or the ascent of man from the apes. Each prototype was another variation on evolution, all carefully constructed in a lab.
And then Jack felt his heart drop. The world seemed to shift and move forward in one jerky motion, like the gears of some terrible machine clicking into place.
“My God,” Jack said.
“Find something?”
Jack couldn’t answer. Could barely speak.
What is this?
Jack had found something. He had found Dolce. And she was standing in front of him.
Jack reached his hand out for his wife. His fingers passed through her, as if she were made of mist. Am I hallucinating?
Night Comfort squeezed his arm. “She’s a 3Dee. She’s not real.”
Jack look down and saw the eyeScreen base at her feet. Her image projected upward into space. He reached out once more, and again his hand passed through her body. Then Dolce looked at him. “Can I help you, sir?”
That was her voice. But there was something creepy about its sound. Something empty.
He turned toward Night Comfort. “What’s happening?”
“This must be a showcase model,” Night Comfort said. “For Synthate stores.”
Dolce bowed slightly. “Maybe I can be of service. Do you have any questions?”
This wasn’t his Dolce. This was just a shadow. A puppet with her face. But she stood before him so full of life. So real. “Who are you?”
“I am Synthate model 5300. I’m happy to serve a variety of home and relaxation needs.”
Jack wanted to feel doubt. “Dolce wasn’t a Synthate.”
Night Comfort frowned, and studied the 3Dee. “She may have been.”
“But she had no bioprint. She had a childhood. I grew up with her.”
“She might have been a prototype.”
“So you’re saying my wife was what, like a test run of some new Synthate model?”
“We had heard stories of a new design. More like a natural than a Synthate. But still from a grow garden.”
“She was pregnant with my child,” Jack said. “How do you explain that?”
“I have been designed to be fully reproductive,” the 3Dee of Dolce said. “I will be the perfect companion for those naturals seeking to start a family with a loving partner.”
Jack felt suddenly sick. “You’re saying you can give birth?”
“Yes. I will be designed to be as fully reproductive as a natural.”
Jack turned to Night Comfort, his face white. “Who am I talking to right now?”
“It’s a Synthate display model. Most of the answers are prerecorded. Some interaction is possible, but basically you’re talking with a Genico mainframe. It’s a Synthate advertisement.”
“Who designed you?” Jack asked the 3Dee.
“Genico Industries.”
The excitement he had felt the day Dolce had told him she was pregnant suddenly faded away. Everything felt empty and contrived, part of some Genico master plan.
“Will you know you’re a Synthate?” Night Comfort asked.
Dolce looked down at her. “I do not understand your question.”
“After your inception, will you know you’re a Synthate or will you think you’re human?”
“That is determined by my mate or those naturals who choose to adopt me as a parent. I will be told the truth after my inception. I will be aware that I am a Synthate. But if my mate or my parents so choose, I can be given Amnease Samps and my memory modified so that I have no recollection of my beginnings.”
Her voice was hollow. Empty of emotion. Like she was reading from a script. He tried to reconcile the Dolce he remembered with this lifeless image that now stood before him.
“Have we met before?” Jack asked.
Dolce studied Jack, her eyes heartbreakingly blank. She shook her head. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, sir.”
An intense wave of sadness flooded through Jack. He reached again for Dolce, but pulled his fingers back before he touched her. God help him, but he wanted to hold on to this illusion for a few minutes more. He couldn’t bear the sight of his hand passing through her projection.
“I’m so sorry,” Night Comfort said to him.
“I don’t understand. I’ve known this woman my entire life,” Jack said. A thought occurred to him. “How many of you are there? How many were produced in the first inception?”
“The first inception occurred twenty-nine years ago. In that inception there were two Synthates with my exact coding produced.”
Two. My God. Somewhere in the world was another just like his Dolce.
“What happened to those two?”
“One of the engineered Synthates has been retired.”
“And the second?”
“The second currently habitats a residential community east of here. I can send an address to your sync.”
“Is she living as a natural or a Synthate?”
“I do not know.”
Jack tried to absorb this information. He imagined this alternate Dolce and what life she might be living.
“Were there any Synthates of your design class produced with a male coding?” Night Comfort asked.
“Yes. There was one Synthate male produced.”
Jack looked up sharply. He hadn’t even considered such a possibility. There was a male Synthate. Would that mean Dolce had a brother?
“Do you know his location?” Jack asked.
“I have no knowledge. He was removed from the database after his inception date.”
“Can you show me what he would look like?”
“Of course.” The 3Dee of Dolce flickered, then shifted to display a new image of a fully grown man. The man rotated over the projection pad and gave Jack the shock of his life.
Above him, rotating in 3Dee over the projection pad, stood Phillip Saxton. Jack felt a chill run
the length of his body. He struggled to understand. “My brother is a Synthate?”
“That’s not possible,” Night Comfort said. “Your brother is so average. No Synthate is genomed to be that way.”
“So what is this? Why am I looking at him?”
“I’m not sure,” she replied, then turned toward the man. “Do you have a name?”
The 3Dee of Phillip turned to look at her. “I am Synthate model 5300m. I’m happy to serve a variety of home and relaxation needs.”
“How many in your production class?”
“There was one of my model in production.”
“Where is he currently?”
“My information does not contain that record.”
“When was your production date?”
“Five years past.”
Jack turned back to Night Comfort. “So Genico made a perfect model of my brother. For what purpose?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t know, either. But I can’t stand to look at him anymore. Let’s go.” Jack turned and began to walk away from the pedestal.
Night Comfort caught up with him. “I know how hard this must be for you.”
“To see that my whole life and every person in it has been a Genico lie?”
“I’m sorry.”
From behind them came a voice. “Wait. Please.”
Jack’s heart accelerated. Slowly he turned back. Dolce stood again on the pedestal. But now she seemed to stare with increased alertness. “I do know you, Jack Saxton.”
“You remember me?”
“Remember is not the appropriate word. We have never met.”
“So how do you know me?”
“Your face is familiar to me. I was instructed that you might come.”
“Instructed by whom?”
“Dr. Martin Reynolds. Do you know him?”
“I know him,” Jack said, thinking of the murdered scientist. “He told you I would come?”
“He said that you were very special. And one day you might come. And that if you did, I was only to talk to you.”
“Talk to me about what?”
“Do you have the key?”
Jack glanced at Night Comfort. “What’s she talking about?”
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