“Considering what we’ve done, telling me something illegal can’t be that big of a deal.”
“It is,” Beeman insisted. “But tomorrow you’ll remember not one word of what I’m going to tell you.”
“You think I’m stupid?”
“Not at all,” Beeman said with a warm smile uncharacteristic for him. “I just know you’re going to forget this. You’ll be more focused on other things.”
“Seems we’ve gotten to where there’s no point in hiding anything from each other. Don’t we already know each other’s darkest secret?”
“I suppose you’re right. So let me finish. I was developing a protein involved in a cellular process that permits a specific type of virus—known as a bacteriophage—to reproduce with an unstable genome, perfectly reproducing certain life-cycle anomalies.”
“Holy fuck! I was afraid you might have done something like that.” Antonio shook his head in mock horror. “Seriously, dude. Am I supposed to understand what you just said?”
“You recall that my work involves genetics?”
“Don’t tell me—you invented an alligator that can walk on its hind legs and talk on a cell phone? The ultimate lawyer or something?” Catching Beeman’s look of resigned contempt, he sighed and said, “Sorry, keep going.”
Beeman frowned and looked away. “My virus can be synthesized, and it reproduces. It is a manufactured living organism that can replicate itself. It in turn reprograms a strain of bacteria present in all human lungs, making the larger organisms deadly, setting a clock within them like a ticking bomb by injecting genetic material the phage itself reproduces for distribution.”
“Wow.” Antonio was impressed, despite his confusion. “So, you made a superbug of some kind?”
“Yes. One that alters bacterial organisms, programming them to kill a host with a life cycle of infection and later apoptosis—cell death—operating on a universal timetable.”
“So, like, what? You get the little guys to die all at once, at a certain time?”
Beeman nodded with raised brow, evidently surprised that Antonio was keeping up at all, which pleased Antonio to no end.
“And we can now delay the onset of symptoms for a controlled interval to allow time for spread of the contagion and then stage the simultaneous expiration of the antigens at a point just further out to limit or adjust the magnitude of the LIE—lethal infectious epidemic—which my microbe can introduce into a specific population.”
“In simple words, please?”
“I synthesized a virus that can incubate, spread, kill and then go extinct on schedule, leaving the population of a given area decimated and defenseless, but no longer contagious. Safe for invasion, relatively speaking, assuming the rampant spread of secondary infections, such as plague, is prevented by rapid disposal of bodies, preferably by fire or lime in mass graves.”
“Like a germ version of a ‘nucular’ bomb?”
“Not quite,” Beeman said. “But a normal nuclear bomb would leave radiation, which would be the equivalent of a live virus in this analogy. But my virus ceases to be contagious and dies out after the damage is done, leaving no dangerous residual to threaten invading troops entering the battle theater after decimation of the target population. This has been the objective of my work for a decade. I finally solved all the problems, but at one time it was driving me to the breaking point.”
Antonio remained silent, stifling his desire to yawn. He was getting really sleepy.
“You see, this problem pushed me to unravel the very nature of life itself. I lost my way. So on impulse I synthesized and consumed a small dose of LSD. Then my mind opened a new doorway—I learned to think like the virus. It was as if I had become the new organism. I was navigating mentally on an atomic plane. Knowledge presented itself to me as instinct, intuition.”
“Some kind of drug-induced divine inspiration?”
“You could say that, Antonio. What I knew then was beyond words, beyond expression, even mathematically. I saw the structure of life itself in the patterns and vibrations of subatomic particles.”
Beeman was whispering now. Antonio noted that the music had ended.
“I saw what life is made of,” Beeman continued. “Would you like to know? This discovery affects you.”
“Sure.”
“Life is a question, and death is the answer. Death recycles itself. Life is made from death—it emerges between cycles of death, but without death there can be no life.”
“But hey, without life, there can be no death.”
“There you have it. Life is death is life.”
“So, the only meaning of life is death?” Antonio asked.
“More aptly put, the essential source of life is death. This is more than just understanding the cycle of life. I’m referring to the underlying generator of the life cycle. Life itself has certain frequencies, but I’ve discovered that death does as well. It is a symphony, energy folding back on itself, being conserved and never destroyed—death energy from life energy and vice versa. Within a living system, such as this whole planet or a single cell in your brain, this symphony controls everything. It subjects all biochemical activity to its universal subatomic harmonics. This is what prompted the evolution of all life. I came to understand that harmonic frequency at the molecular and atomic levels. Genetic manipulation alone is not sufficient. Magnetic induction at extremely high frequencies is needed to stimulate and guide the biochemistry. With what I’ve discovered, I found the key to the creation of a potentially unlimited number of entirely new species. I can, eventually, revise the fabric of life, rearranging the tapestry of all life on this planet.”
Antonio recited one of the key mantras. “A god, by choice, and without mercy?”
Beeman nodded slowly and then pressed on. “I saw all of it, on every scale. I saw the whole system, from breaking and forming bonds in biochemical reactions in a single virus all the way up the scale—to the birth of stars and the orbits of planets, and up further still to the paths of star clusters within a spinning galaxy, to the motion of galactic bands and clusters through the universe. I understand the illusions of time, space and motion that make scientists believe in the fiction of dark matter.”
“Dark matter?” Antonio was lost.
“The sluggish propagation of time in the soul of a galaxy,” Beeman said with a casual wave of his hand.
“A galaxy has a soul?”
“It contains life and death, in abundance. And it has consciousness. A galaxy is one great mind, an organism so vast, so massive, it seems frozen in time, but it vibrates—resonates, actually—with the death harmonic in unison with all living matter, everywhere.”
“Are there words to the song?”
The right question, my friend, Beeman’s expression communicated. Antonio smiled.
“Yes. Death is life is death,” he answered with metronomic rhythm, clapping the back of one hand three times into the other palm. “I saw it all, as though I were God, or on the plane of God. I saw the fabric of life and death, the true nature of reality, which is that nothing truly exists except through death. The realizations it triggered were intoxicating; they continued, falling one to the next, like an endless row of dominoes.”
Antonio had a theory of what Beeman was saying. “So, when life first began, it wasn’t just some fluke accident or God’s hand of creation or whatever—you’re saying that death is built into the universe and it made life spring out of nowhere because it was hungry? You’re fucking with my head, dude.”
“This world, where beauty and horror coexist? They must coexist, but there is a dominant terminal, just as there is a dominant gender in every species. In the world of electricity, there is a positive terminal and a ground. The world runs on a single motor, Antonio, and it is death—life-giving death. The potential of your inevitable, certain death powers the motor of your life. Creatures that kill live, and those that live, die. This universe spawns predators. It gave rise to sharks and men. It gave rise to the
wolf and the eagle. It gave rise to us.”
“Fucking poetic, man! And you gave birth to your magic bug? What do you call it?”
“Its designation is AR-117.”
“Sounds like a rifle.”
“It is a biological rifle, of sorts. More of a biological atom bomb, as you said. AR stands for adjustable reproduction. Viral revision 117. It has one of the most rapid growth rates of any known organism. It is designed for airborne transmission. And it is resilient, until its programmed apoptosis is triggered. I based its underlying genetic structure on microorganisms found near volcanic jets on the ocean floor.”
“Leftover sea monster DNA?” Antonio giggled. “I actually think I’m following you, dude, but let me ask this—because it’s so deadly, you gave it the ticking self-destruct thing, so if we ever have to use it we won’t become extinct ourselves?”
“Very clever, my young Jedi.”
Antonio was surprised. He was still following Beeman—sort of. Who’d ever believe it? “You made this shit so we can really use it on some country overseas and not worry about it blowing back to wipe us out? That’s why it’s against the law for you to talk about your work?”
Beeman nodded.
“Cool. Don’t fuck with the USA. But your baby should have a sexier name.”
Beeman smirked. “We gave it a code name.”
“What is it?”
“Black Sunrise.”
“Cool. Sounds like a drink. But I wouldn’t want to try it.” And on that note, Antonio stood and walked unsteadily to the refrigerator, poured another shot for himself and returned to his seat with the bottle and his glass.
He tipped the bottle to Beeman, who shook his head.
“Black Sunrise,” Antonio said as he put his feet back up. “Did you pick that name because it sounds so fucking scary?”
“I gave a briefing to the Army and the State Department. I said if you expose a population to the AR-117 virus, a month later the sun would rise on a land blackened by death and decay; someone said it would be a ‘black sunrise.’ The name stuck. But the point is that the sun will rise, and the target nation is yours for the taking. Your troops march in, taking the land and all the resources of the dead nation.”
“You, my friend, are one spooky son of a bitch.” Antonio laughed nervously as he ran his hand through his hair. “Is there an antidote?”
Beeman frowned. “You mean a vaccine? Indeed there is—or at least there soon will be. We can choose who lives and who dies. We can inoculate particular people in advance. If Hitler had possessed this technology, there would be no Jew alive anywhere in the world today, and you, my friend, would be speaking German, along with the rest of the world.”
“Heil Beeman!” Antonio sipped his new drink. “State Department, huh? They must pay you a lot.”
Beeman raised his glass. “My gift to mankind.”
“Pleeeeeaaaase!” The tinny cry came faintly through the heating duct. “Help us!”
Beeman gave a kindly smile. “You, my friend, are the wolf. Now it is time for us to sleep.”
“Thought so,” Antonio said contentedly, moving to lie down on the couch and closing his eyes.
Chapter 9
Shivering in the darkness, Christie Jensen lay on her side on a foul-smelling mattress. Her chest, belly and thighs were pressed against Jackie Dawson’s back and buttocks to conserve heat; both girls were naked in the damp chill. She wanted more than anything for Jackie to stop shaking. Tremors rattled constantly through Jackie’s smaller frame, punctuated from time to time by wracking sobs that periodically erupted and subsided.
Though Christie was also terribly frightened, she had never seen anyone so abjectly terrified as Jackie was now. Christie feared she would likely be forever emotionally scarred by this nightmare. Beneath her outgoing veneer, Jackie was actually pretty fragile, very sensitive, easily hurt. Surrounded by total blackness, comforting Jackie gave Christie a purpose on which to concentrate, and this kept her from shattering into a thousand tiny shards. Soothing Jackie’s terror seemed easier somehow than confronting her own.
Hours ago, when Christie emerged from her delirium, waves of confusion and dizziness had overwhelmed her as the world turned several directions at once. A horrid ringing in her ears forced her to flee and hide beneath an abstract mantle in her mind. Then she’d realized it wasn’t there at all and that she had created it to keep from being driven mad by the hideous reverberation echoing outward from the center of her skull. Finally, it had stopped, and she’d curled into a ball and retched, seized by wave after wave of dry heaves, leaving her abdominal muscles quivering.
As the hours passed, her mind had slowly cleared. Feeling around in the darkness, she’d found Jackie beside her. Continuing to explore, she’d discerned they were on a plastic mattress inside a wire cage. She’d found a toilet and a bowl of water—nothing else.
Jackie began to sob again. Christie hugged her, soothing her, but it did little good—Jackie didn’t even seem to be aware that Christie was there. Her shaking reached a violent crescendo, and it felt to Christie as if the voltage of her own terror was electrocuting her friend. Christie felt the horror radiating from her, and it became contagious, soaking its way in through her abdomen.
“It’s okay, baby,” she whispered. “I’m with you, Jax. I’m here, honey.”
Time passed slowly, and Jackie became calmer, clearly benefitting from Christie’s body heat. Her shaking ceased, then resumed, then ceased again. Her breathing became deep and steady.
Christie thought she heard something else, a faint sound coming from behind her in the darkness outside the cage. Holding her breath, she sensed someone.
Turning her head very slowly, she absorbed the blackness in her vain struggle to see, forcing herself not to cry out or even breathe. Her heart pounded behind her eyes, as though it had climbed up into her head.
What lay in the void beyond?
The sound stopped. She waited, blood rushing in her ears.
Then came a reedy whisper in the darkness—a slow rasping hiss.
“Dirty girls.”
Gasping for air, Christie tried to clutch Jackie closer to her, but the girl had gone as stiff as a bronze statue. Christie heard screaming, and she realized it was her own before Jackie started screaming with her.
The shrill howling made it easy for Beeman to slip away unheard. When he reached the stairway, he chuckled.
How could he make Antonio understand? Beeman would have to keep him from spoiling this delicate process in his haste to satisfy his blunt sexual urges. In Beeman’s quest to unravel the secrets he sought from the human soul, timing would be everything. He took a long time reaching the top of the stairs, relishing the operatic tribute below, biting his lower lip with pleasure as he savored the dying remnants of primal terror.
Death is life is death.
In the living room, Antonio lay on the couch in his clothes, his large, hooked nose aimed upward like a mountain peak, a stream of spittle dribbling from his open mouth.
Beeman sat across the room and stared at him.
“Patience, my friend,” he whispered, quoting the greatest of all men. “Each step in a journey is a journey unto itself.”
And the journey was just beginning.
Chapter 10
“Twenty minutes out.”
“Thanks, Rick,” said Jensen, rubbing his face as he woke from his much-needed catnap. Rick Adkins was the pilot-in-command of Jensen’s business jet, a Phenom 300 that at this moment was descending at 360 knots, still a couple of miles above the Rockies. The luxurious cabin was surprisingly quiet. If he hadn’t been so short on sleep, he’d have flown the plane himself. For now, he was crouching just outside the entrance of the cockpit.
“Where are we?”
“Hickey, Larks Six.”
Jensen knew the routing by heart, somewhat south of a direct course into Denver. “Weather?” he asked.
Adkins turned in his seat to face Jensen. “Dodged a couple o
f cells. We’re clear of that stuff now and have a clean shot into Centennial. Expecting a few bumps as we start down. Nothing heavy. We’ll break out over the foothills.”
“What’s the weather on the ground?”
“Good.” Adkins checked notes he’d jotted on the small clipboard strapped to his knee. “Sky clear; visibility ten plus; wind 150 at six, gusting fifteen. Landing one-seven left. Temp, twenty-six.” He looked up, computing in his head. “About eighty Fahrenheit. A perfect day.”
“Thanks.” Jensen returned to his seat.
He and Janet would soon be meeting with the Denver police.
From his years as an assistant district attorney, he thought he had a good idea of what to expect, but he was optimistic nonetheless. At least he would be directly involved in the effort to find his daughter instead of waiting idly for a phone call.
Diagonally across the aisle, Janet was curled in her seat like a cat, staring into space, her brow furrowed, deep in thought. Leaning forward, he took her hand in his.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said.
“I know it.” Janet sighed. “But where do you think she went?”
Jensen shook his head.
“What worries me most? The key stuck in the door of that car. You think they were abducted?”
“It’s possible,” Jensen answered soothingly. “But there are other equally likely possibilities. All the things we’ve talked about, and more we haven’t thought of.”
“But Christie’s usually so good about returning voice messages. What other explanation is there?”
Jensen had been asking himself that same question for hours. He’d conjured up several scenarios, but none seemed convincing. The problem with cooking up scenarios was that they tended to darken as you went, leading down an unproductive road. It was somehow easier to cook up a nightmare than a harmless explanation.
“How many times have we worried ourselves sick over her?” Jensen asked with a kind smile.
Black Sunrise Page 5