Black Sunrise

by Brett Godfrey

  It all fit together so beautifully.

  Destruction is the motor that drives creation.

  Kim was right: Beeman needed better resources and more personal freedom. Human test subjects were vital to his continued path of discovery. North Korea would afford him an unlimited supply.

  Beeman spread butter evenly on four slices of bread and continued musing.

  The makeup of life at the molecular level mirrored the most basic mechanics of consciousness. The impulse to survive possessed by a tiny viral particle was a function of the arrangement of atoms within its DNA, and its ability to reproduce was a function of its physical structure and its environment.

  What differentiated chemical compounds from living material? Shift certain atoms, and a viral organism loses its impetus to continue as an organism, becoming merely inert matter.

  Why?

  Beeman had never admitted to his colleagues that his understanding of the structure of viral genetics was more intuitive than analytical. The mathematics of biochemistry played a major role in his accomplishments, but Beeman had begun to form an innate sense of how the building blocks of life operate, which transcended the mathematics of computational chemistry.

  He found molecular virology fascinating because viruses were the most elemental form of life. Chemistry was dull; viral engineering was the path through which one learned to become a god. By studying viruses, one could observe the distinction between chemistry and life most closely. Survival for a virus meant only one thing: reproduction. On the other hand, a human’s will to live fluctuated in response to the perceived worth of continued existence. Viruses reversed the food chain: smaller and simpler organisms fed upon larger and more complex ones. The laws of chemistry and physics are the same for all organisms, but the natural outcome of where those forces lead is exactly opposite for a virus than for any other organism—except humans. Humans were not the only life-forms to destroy themselves systematically, but they, like viruses, virulently infiltrated their environment and worked steadily to destroy it.

  Through sheer luck, Beeman had been able to observe human beings as they experienced death and near-death, and he had seen the same process he could actually detect when studying the behavior of genetically engineered particles. Beeman sought the common denominator that bound these processes, one ingrained into the very structure of reality.

  For centuries the question of how life animated matter had captured the imaginations of religious leaders, storytellers and physicians.

  Beeman sought to know, not for preserving life, but rather to understand the mechanism by which life abandons its hold on matter.

  Beyond anger, fear and hunger, what was the genesis of the urge to kill? Or the urge to die? Conventional psychology provided no answers, but studying the interface between life and matter had shed some light upon the nature of life itself.

  It was the nature of life to trade in the currency of death.

  A key ingredient of this mechanism existed in the frustrated libidos of Antonio and men like him, in their inability to act out their impulses freely—ironically the same sexual urges that propagate the human species. This inability drove their behavior in some ways and stunted it in others.

  The death-sex urge and survival-sex urge were two sides of the same coin, but the death-sex urge was the more powerful force, leading to rape, pillage, conquest, war, organized armies, weapons, fortresses, catapults, rockets, atom bombs and supercharged human advancement, while the survival-sex urge led only to babies, famine and disease.

  Antonio’s unrequited lust was the tool Beeman would redirect to make him crave torture and killing. The war Antonio was fighting with his conscience would end, and Antonio would be reborn as a new and much more powerful being—a walking, talking version of Black Sunrise, and just as sure to self-destruct eventually.

  But he had to prepare the bait, to serve as the irresistible lure necessary to draw the sloppy fool across those lines his parents and other childhood programmers had scored into his mind.

  As Beeman arranged the sliced meats, cheeses and bread for sandwiches, he turned his thoughts to how he would handle the meeting in two days with Kim, before he picked Antonio up at the bus station.

  He pulled out his phone and did a quick bit of Google research. The North Korean Worker’s Party ran several separate intelligence agencies. Most of the organizational branches were concerned with undermining the South Korean government and preparing for massive attacks upon the US forces stationed there. A group called the Research Department for External Intelligence, or RDEI, was responsible for gathering intelligence in the US, answering to the Central Committee of the Worker’s Party. There was also something called the Reconnaissance Bureau of the General Staff Department and another arm called the State Security Department. An administrative maze.

  Would Kim really pay him millions and leave his criminal acts undisclosed if Beeman were to give him samples of the virus and the data needed to reproduce and deploy it? It was easy to envision that Kim would simply kill him to keep him quiet, unless, of course, they wished him to defect and continue his research. In that case, they might allow him to live in luxury, as Kim had hinted, while guiding further bioweapons research for his new host nation. There would be many benefits, and a few downsides, to a new life in North Korea. First among the downsides was the lack of state-of-the-art computing and gene-splicing technology. Beeman could help with that, provided he received sufficient resources of other kinds, including money and logistical support.

  So should he offer to defect? It seemed so, but what was he missing?

  Beeman had no doubt that if he did not at least appear willing to cooperate with Kim, they would kill him, for the DPRK could not risk having their plans and activities on US soil discovered.

  The sandwiches were ready.

  Beeman placed each on a paper plate adorned with a handful of potato chips and a few slices of pickle.

  Loving touches.

  He needed more information and the time to work it all out.

  He would hold Kim at bay with talk of the logistical difficulties of removing the virus and the data from the lab, which would give him at least a little time to make other preparations. Kim would push him, but Beeman knew he was the essential ingredient of the plan. It was very, very unlikely they had any other means of acquiring Black Sunrise, so he had a much greater degree of bargaining power than Kim would want him to recognize.

  Beeman should be able to prevent Kim from interfering with his plans here at the cabin, at least for several more days. He would demand that as part of the non-negotiable price in return for his full cooperation and defection.

  It would be a delicate balancing act, he thought with a smile, as he balanced a can of cola on each plate, making his way carefully down the stairs to the basement.

  Chapter 19

  Christie’s slim body stiffened when she heard the sound of someone coming.

  Jackie heard it too and slid back against the rear wall of the cage, pulling her knees up to her chest and crossing her ankles to shield as much of her body as possible from view.

  Christie rose unsteadily to her feet, fighting a wave of dizziness, and stepped to the front of the cage. She wanted to be comfortable with her nakedness, knowing that whoever was coming would feed on fear.

  Jackie sat up. “What are we doing here?” she asked, her brown eyes wide with fear. “Are we going to die?”

  “Quiet, baby,” Christie whispered. “Someone’s coming.”

  Sliding the hidden panel open slowly with his elbow, Beeman entered the concealed room, setting the plates and soda cans on a table.

  “Good afternoon, ladies. I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but I thought you might like to have something for lunch.”

  Both girls stared at him in silence, breathing heavily, from either fear or relief at the prospect of eating. Probably both.

  For the past two days, they’d been drinking out of the toilet’s tank, surviving without food,
shivering fiercely in the night with cold mountain air pouring in from somewhere. Burning energy without replenishing it, they had lost weight and were what Antonio would call “model slim.” Both were weak; Kitten was lethargic.

  Yet Dove stood upright and gazed at him defiantly.

  “What? Not hungry?” Beeman shrugged. “Then I’ll take these away.” As he started for the door, the brunette whimpered. He stopped but did not turn to face them.

  “Please,” said the blonde. “Please, we are starving.”

  Beeman very slowly turned to face her.

  Her fingers clutched the wire fence, as if to tear the material apart. She was definitely the bolder and more self-assured of the two. She would be the last to break, and almost certainly the most useful in the long run. Watching them carefully, Beeman savored the possibilities.

  He would use Antonio to break Kitten, and when she was broken and obedient beyond all doubt or hesitation, he would goad Antonio into killing her. After all, Kitten would never make the journey from prey to predator, would she? Could he then use her death to manipulate the older girl and make her into a weapon? Perhaps one to kill Antonio?

  And then to kill herself?

  Delicious, reprogramming life and death. It was what he had been born to do. Cruelty was nothing more than a way for man to free himself.

  Approaching the cage once again, Beeman smiled. “I’m so glad,” he said. “I would hate to see these go to waste. It’s nice to be appreciated. To see that the little things I do aren’t taken for granted.”

  When it was clear that he was waiting for a reply, Kitten spoke. “What do we have to do so you will give us the food?”

  Beeman smiled broadly, sliding the table on which he’d placed the food closer to the cage. “Stand up, Kitten. Come here.”

  Whimpering, Jackie stood and did so, covering her chest with her arms, though Beeman never looked anywhere except into her eyes. He raised each plate, still balancing the sodas precariously.

  “Look at this food, Kitten. Which one would you like?”

  “I don’t—” She stopped herself. “Whichever one you want to give me?”

  Beeman set the plates on the short wooden table along the wall outside the cage. He dug into his pocket and withdrew the key to the padlock. As he removed it and raised the horseshoe-shaped latch, it reminded him of the gate he’d left unlocked when he was in third grade, causing a vicious Rottweiler he’d been taunting for days to maul Pamela Clark to death. He’d watched the hideously gratifying spectacle from the safety of his perch high in a tree.

  “Kitten, you may come out.” His voice remained soft and soothing. The brunette bent down to step out through the small door, never taking her eyes off Beeman. As she was stepping through, Dove reached out and put her hand furtively on the younger girl’s shoulder.

  “Be careful, Jax.”

  In a flash, Beeman slipped his knife from its sheath and slashed Dove’s right forearm. The blonde hissed and cried out, quickly pulling her arm back. Blood poured freely from the laceration. Beeman was surprised by how gratifying it felt to slice human skin. He’d performed ghastly experiments on animals, with no feeling of pleasure or regret, in the course of his lab work, but cutting human flesh was another thing entirely.

  He hadn’t expected that.

  Kitten turned involuntarily, crying out at the sight of the knife and Beeman’s startling speed. With his free hand, he took a fistful of her hair and yanked her the rest of the way out of the cage. She stumbled and fell to her hands and knees. Beeman quickly shut the door, and replaced the padlock, snapping it shut with a crescent frown twisting his thin lips.

  Dove clutched her arm to her chest. Blood seeped from between her fingers and trickled in deep red lines over her belly and down her pale thighs. A loud groan pealed from her throat.

  She looked at the man who’d cut her, in shock and disbelief.

  He dragged Kitten away by her hair, leaving the sandwiches on the table.

  As Beeman left, he heard Dove start to cry, and once she started, she couldn’t stop. He stood just out of sight of the cage, listening and savoring the melodic tones of her sobbing.

  What fun!

  Chapter 20

  Christie whimpered as she rocked back and forth, sitting on edge of the toilet. She watched the blood run copiously from between her fingers as she pressed her hand tightly over the deep cut, cradling her forearm against her abdomen.

  She was afraid to lift her hand from the cut, fearful of how deep it might be. Her arm felt like it was on fire. The shock of what had happened, combined with the terrifying sight of so much of her own blood, led her to fear that the blade had filleted her arm to the bone.

  She opened and closed her right fist, relieved that there was no loss of function or feeling in her fingers. That meant the slash had not severed her tendons. She guessed there was no serious damage to nerves or muscle, but she couldn’t be sure.

  She hoped she was right, but she would have to look.

  She forced herself to peel back her hand and look at the gash.

  Pivoting on the edge of the seat, she raised the porcelain lid from the toilet tank and set it on the cement floor. She scooped handfuls of water onto the cut. The water made the laceration burn. Tears poured down her cheeks.

  The cut was deep but did not appear to have reached muscle. She could get by without stitches, but there would definitely be a scar. Blood was still pouring freely from it, but the water made it easier to inspect. It was nearly four inches long. While she could see the cross-section of her skin along the wall of it, it was not deep enough to reach muscle or any major blood vessels.

  The sharp pain gradually turned into a deep throbbing that radiated up her arm. She replayed in her mind the instant the knife had flashed unexpectedly into her skin, feeling more like a sledgehammer than a blade.

  One of the keys to functioning under extreme pressure, she’d learned at SALO, was to accept reality while keeping it separate from fears and imaginings. Plans, goals and tactics were far more useful than visualized worst-case scenarios. Even though they felt real, thoughts and feelings were not reality. They were just reactions; indeed, you had to experience them without criticism or condemnation but never confuse them with reality. Unlike useless feelings, her ability to control her viewpoint, direct her attention and actions could influence future reality. She had to remain calm, view her reactions dispassionately, accept them and let them pass.

  There was no one in the room now. She was hurt, but not badly. Her cut was clean. She covered it by wrapping her arm with toilet paper.

  But it was so hard.

  No, she thought, not hard. Easy.

  There was nothing she had to do. Nothing at all. Just let the terrible feelings bore through her and depart. The key was not to push the fear and sadness away but to be present in the moment, aware of everything, clinging to nothing.

  Dad, thank you for SALO.

  She focused on her breathing while she finished washing the cut and flushed the toilet to evacuate the bloody water. Then she replaced the heavy porcelain lid. As she did so, it slipped from her wet hands and banged against the tank. A chip of white porcelain, roughly the size of her finger, landed by her foot.

  She picked it up. One edge was literally razor sharp. The opposite side was flat and smooth. She held it, pinched between her thumb and middle finger, the flat back surface pressed against her index finger, and made a cutting motion in the air.

  Now she too could lash out suddenly.

  She saw that the missing part of the lid was visible when it was back in place on the tank, so she turned it around and put it back down. The broken part was now hidden from the view of someone outside the cage.

  She stared at the ceramic fragment. Running her finger lightly over the sharp edge, she realized she could use it to cut away some of the mattress to make a bandage. Of course, if she did so, the man would know she had found a cutting tool and take it from her. So she tucked the precious sliver
beneath a corner of the mattress and lay down, curling into a ball with her back to the wall, as had become her habit.

  She thought of the cut on her arm and how it would feel to grip the ceramic sliver tightly, lash out and slit that old fucker’s throat.

  Could she do it? Could she cut him?

  Was she quick enough? Did she have the courage?

  She had never hurt anyone on purpose, but then again, she’d never had a good reason to do so—until now.

  What was happening to Jackie?

  She quieted her breathing and listened for any sound that might provide some clue as to what was going on upstairs, but there was only silence.

  Time crept past with excruciating slowness.

  What was going on upstairs?

  She wished she could hear something. The silence was unbearable, but when it was later broken, Christie would give anything not to hear.

  The man dragged Jackie up the stairs by her hair. Her mind had become like jelly, cut a voice from deep inside of her said that this was the price she would pay for how she had used natural attributes to control men. As a young teen, she’d learned to watch men for signs of approval. She’d learned that they could be manipulated and controlled by the way she moved her body, how she locked eyes, how she controlled her voice, how she kept track of what was important to them. She’d learned what made men tick.

  All for a single purpose. To find love and acceptance—and she’d come so close with Robert. She’d found her place in life. She’d made a future for herself with a man she could love forever. But now, there was no future, no happy ending. She knew she would die here, and perhaps in the next few minutes. She might never see Robert again—a thought which tore her soul from her chest. She knew that her death would tear him apart; she longed for a way to soften his pain and to ease her terror.

  At least let it be quick.