Red Twilight: Long Distence Runners

Chapter 5

He Who Touches Heaven

Marks opens his eyes. The last days, maybe even weeks, seem to be gone from his memories. His eyes roll from side to side. He is at home, in his suburban house with techno-colored walls and thick carpets, retro furnishings, and contemporary art. It doesn't take Marks but a second to notice that things are not as they should be. He is standing in the kitchen, leaning over a blank space on the floor, staring as his hand is reaching out for an invisible milk saucer. Next his eyes move decisively to the right, searching for the laundry room that is hidden behind the pantry, but it isn't there. Next to the left there is a spiraling staircase that leads to his and Ako's bedroom; the stairwell is there, but it leads into a blank wall.

Marks stands up straight and makes his way over to his record player; he thumbs through his disks. They're all blank, as if erased. The television turns on as if of its own will. Marks watches as his face comes into view. "Hello, Vigeta. I know what you're thinking. Sir Emit Brown would not approve." The face on the TV references an eighteenth-century philosopher he learned about in school. "But seeing I am the dead speaking to a ghost, I'm confident it can be forgiven." Marks takes a step, intrigued by the phantom-like image before him.

"Vigeta, you have been damaged. Your body is in horrid disrepair. It's nothing that the repair mechanism I implanted within you cannot handle. But that is only the beginning of the conundrums we are in. We are behind enemy lines, and your hardware is being tampered with as we speak."

Marks leans off to one side, studying the image closely, crossing his legs and resting on one arm. Marks speaks to his reflection, "Seeing the nature of our relationship and your less then impeccable reputation, I'm sure you can understand why I find it difficult to believe you, friend."

The image on the TV leans in close. "You don't trust me? Good, I wouldn't either. So allow me to expand your horizons. If you are indeed Marks Karingson, then clearly you should remember your youth. What year were we born?"

This is unbelievable, sitting here having a conversation with one's television, but why not play along? Likely this is some kind of joke set up by Allen or Ako. "I was born November 15, 1912."

The face on the screen grins. "That would make us eighty-nine years old, wouldn't it? Do you feel like a man nearly a century old? Do you look like a man that was in America before the automobile? You need to look no more other than at your own reflection to see the all too adverse truth. You are an artificial life form, or more appropriate, we are the life form. You are a reboot program, and I am your operating system."

Marks rest one hand on his check, a single finger floating alongside his eye in ponder. "If that is so, then by what paradox are we aware of each other as separate but equal entities, and then furthermore why should one of us have knowledge above or beyond that of the whole, in this case whole being the entity initialed there before?"

"This would all be far simpler if you would accept this 'we are one' idea. As a student of Cid Arthur and passionate disciple of Buddha, one may expect you to be more open-minded."

"Let us assume for a moment that I believed somehow you and I are both Marks Karingson, then how would you explain this place we are in and why I find it both comforting and alien?"

"Thank you," the image speaks. "This is the 'catch' here. Vital system information is stored in case of 'data crash,' 'short circuit,' or 'date refresh.' The alien tingling you are experiencing is inspired by 'file corruption.' We at the moment are running of the minimal 'specs' needed to run our 'AI.' Much of our advanced programming was damaged alongside our 'hardware.' Now I have one more thing to say that is of the utmost importance. In order to rebuild ourselves the way our designer intended us to be, we will need the backup program. It is stored on an MSD or disk of some kind. I don't know the exact specifications, but we need it."

The room starts to fall out of focus; something is tinkering with Marks. The room fades to a soft white, and he can feel himself changing—into what he yet cannot say. The experiences most be that of birth—dizziness, disorientation, a gradual shift from wakefulness to sleep with no clear line between them. It is as remarkable as it is terrible.

* * *

Allen leads Dr. Rhys, a neophyte computer technician, into the robotics lad where the seemingly debilitated martinet still lies. "Rhys," Allen speaks up, "I understand you worked alongside Dr. Karingson on a project shortly after you arrived here."

"Yes," the young doctor explains briefly but upon spotting the broken droid looks shocked. "Shit! What is that?!" He runs over to the crushed device.

"Frankly, I hoped you could tell me. We found it in Marks' lab after the security malfunction last week. We can't be confident, but it looks like an advanced SI or AI."

"It looks like a T-series android."

"I don't watch movies."

"So," Rhys turns to his employer, "what do you want me to do with it?"

"Equip a control device, bring it on line, and monitor it. A fantastic piece of machinery like this could make your career." Allen leaves Rhys to his work.

For most of the day, Rhys stares blankly into the images produced by a series of scanners he has attached to the android. The amazing complexities as alien to him as would be are pictures of the human brain. Yes, it is there; yes, we can see how it works; no, we can't understand why it works yet. The only thing that Rhys finds he can do is install an antenna into its spinel structure, a modem near its lower brain, and a behavioral modification chip near its heart. With these things in place, he can transmit data from this creature to any laptop of his choice.

Rhys find that he barely has time to stitch up the monster before it starts to come to life like some brute out of a horror movie. Eyes snap open and the composed life form sits up; it turns to face the mad doctor with what should be lifeless eyes but somehow that show intelligence and murderous intent. The monster stands; Rhys backs away, placing his back to the wall. What should be a moment of glorious conquest is overshadowed by an overwhelming terror and grief. "It lives! For God's sake, it lives!" Rhys boasts in madness.

Marks stares at the young doctor that seems to be suffering temporary insanity. "I don't mean to brag, but I do have training as a physiologist. I might be able to help you get your life back in order. Now tell me how long have you had these feelings of overwhelming emotions? Are you Jason Rhys by any chance? I understand that you're are a new arrival to our little family here."

It takes a moment or two for it to dawn on Rhys that he is not Victor Frankenstein and Dr. Karingson isn't a homicidal giant. "Late in my high school career was when I first started to notice I had some trouble keeping my imagination under control. And yes, I'm Dr. Rhys. I was transferred here form Snelling lab where I was in IT."

Marks is no monster; in fact he is no less human than anyone else as far as Rhys is concerned. Had he not seen the scans, he would have had no reason to think that this isn't Dr. Marks V. Karingson in person.

"Dr. Karingson, you have a marking on your neck. Do you know what . . . ?" "It is a prison tattoo. It reads 52757-84472," Marks interrupts.

"Where did you get it?"

"A freedom camp I visited in V.i.r.g.i.nia."

This conversation goes on for hours; Rhys is captivated by Marks' stories about love and war and about his travels across the world. Rhys stares at Marks, almost unblinking, waiting for any signs of his inhuman nature. There is none. He breathes, he blinks; every satiety of motion we consciously or subconsciously expect to occur. It is mesmerizing to think that he is not a man. Smart, witty, lucid, he is not just a man, he is a great man, with amazing insight into Rhys' most intimate problems.

* * *

Early in the morning, Allen goes looking for Rhys, finding him right where he left him—in Marks' lab. Quickly, Rhys uses his remote to deactivate the old doctor, then jumps to his feet in attention. "Mr. Wesker, we need to talk." Rhys grabs his superior's arm. "Buy me breakfast." He nearly pushes Allen out of the office.

The two of them make their way down to "the canteen"—their on-site all-purpose eatery. Allen takes a seat that has been reserved for him and his upper-class friends. "I trust that this means that you were able to repair my damaged piece of hardware." Allen sits patently for Rhys' reply.

Rhys wiggles in his chair and starts with a vocalized pause. "Ahhmm, yes, I was able to bring unit 52757 online, but it's not at all what you think it is—"

Allen raises his hand to cut off Rhys next thought, "Can we control it?"

"Well, . . . no, not really. Marks has an advanced personality system. It's not like anything I've seen before. He is clearly programmed to execute orders, but also has the option of ignoring them."

"He is not Marks, but that aside, can you override this protocol?"

"Well, that's a no with a but or a yes with an although. We could feed him falls sensory input and make it so everything he remembers or copies we can see and then regurgitate just the information we want him to have or delete things we don't want him to know."

"That sounds good. Can we make more of him?"

"I can't figure out how the hell we made this one. The wiring, the software, the way it is arranged is out of this world."

"Marks was amazing, wasn't he?"

"The basic outline isn't too complex. It looks more or less like one of our cyber dons, but it's not the hardware that is the real magic here. It's the way he moves . . ."

"Is it janky, unnatural?"

"No, it's insanely accurate. He sighs, he breaths, he blinks, he pushes his hair way from his face, he sweats . . . Can you believe it, a computer that sweats!?"

"Can you imagine the possibilities of having a Marks Karingson in every laboratory?" Allen grins maliciously.

Rhys shakes his hands out in front of him in protest. "Impossible! Did you forget the part of 'he can disobey orders?' He might just freak out one day and go Arab on us, and with the type of armor he is packing, we'll need to drop a building on him."

"Well, that's ironic." Allen chokes down a smirk. "Now, friend, here is what I want you to do. Set up your mind control gizmo. This thing thinks he is Marks. Let's play along with that. I want you to tell him: first off, the night of the fire did not pass. Ako is not dead. She was called on by the US government to assist in a type-4 classified case and may not contact him for an extended amount of time. She took Tara with her when she left. Let him know that he has placed his apartment up for rent, feeling that it would be for the best if he were to stay here in the labs till his wife and daughter came back. In fact on the day of the so-called fire, he didn't even come into work. He was helping his family set up for their trip."

Rhys scrambles for his notebook. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, when he came back yesterday, he had found that his office had been vandalized and one of his experiments is still unaccounted for."

"What is unaccounted for?"

"Four specimens that were part of the Tail project."

"Is that true?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. And I believe that our former security guard took them when he left."

"Do you want me to tell him that too?"

"No, he will figure it out. You know, just for good measure why not line him with explosives while you're at it?"

Rhys is plagued by a foul taste in his mouth while Allen spins his tangled web of lies. What evil did Allen do to this old man that would summon him back from the dead? There is no way that 52757 is a computer program; he is alive, and he is looking for something. Rhys has a good idea what it is too. But for now there is nothing he can do but what he is told. God help us! Although Rhys did have at least one good idea. If Marks is a ghost, he is going to need friends, so Rhys volunteers for the job.

* * *

It's not long after Marks comes back online that he is ready to track down his missing hardware. He makes his way down to "Armaments," nearly dragging Rhys behind him and starts assembling an assortment of artillery that would be emasculating to most armies. "How long has Officer Egget been MIA?"

"Since the fifth."

"Likely he has gone out of state," Marks theorizes. "Tail-0.1 is self-sufficient. She could have been moved by any conventional method. Tail-2.1 'Nile' is only pushily developed. She could be operating at 25 percent power and still pass as human but not likely. Tail-9.0 and Tail-NEARO were still in development last I checked and have the mentality of children at their best. They can't be pulled out of cryonics for at least seven more months without severe difficulties. They could only be transported within subzero conditions, and that limits our target escape routes."

Marks picks up an assault rifle that folds up into the shape of a briefcase, then a handful of grenades. "Wait, Marks, what are you doing? You're going to bring them back alive, aren't you?"

"Tail? Yes. Officer Egget? No," Marks explains coldly. "Officer Egget most likely made his way to filmier grounds. Family friends and friends of family might be receptive to his need, and therefor would sympathizes. That means, in order to smoke our rouge out we need to go after his family first."

"Are you sure?"

"In his place, that's what I would do. All we need to do is start killing relatives till he turns himself in."

"What if he won't bite?"

"Freedom means having nothing left to lose. If we kill everyone he knows and he doesn't come here begging for forgiveness, that means we need to look to other sources. Money for example is a fantastic motivator to those that have little of it. Start offering street punks a grand to start chasing him. Suddenly gas stations become hazardous to one's health."

"What is Tail and what makes 'it' that valuable?"

"Self-sufficient, self-replicating, and self-repairing super computer. She has full spectrum of emotion and freewill. She has a wireless Internet jack built into her brain, and her batteries will never die. She is the most dangerous weapon I ever designed and the most beautiful . . . She is worth killing for, even dying for, if need be it."

Rhys thinks carefully about the words Marks chooses to use. Marks seems to use his linguistics consciously; every word has a meaning and therefore . . . "Wait up. I get it, I get it! You built a computer into a human being. What the hell were you thinking—"

Marks cut him off. "To be fair, it is more canine than human. A splicer grows faster than a human and there are fewer civil actions protecting animals than humans. Besides our investor on this project was more concerned with time than anything else. The money was becoming tighter with every day without results, so I pushed for the project to follow the path of least resistance and l.u.s.t . . . a fox was the simplest choice, next to dolphin, but . . ." Marks trails off into his own thoughts. "Officer Egget has family living in Tampa I do believe. How quickly can you get me there?"

Rhys points at himself. "Me?"

* * *

After leaving the pub and after entrusting their cargo to a mercenary, Dwight looks at Sanchez. "That man is going to kill us."

"Only if we're lucky," Sanchez jokes. "I think seeing that we were government employees up till last week it's more likely we'll be gunned down by assassins."

"Where did you meet this guy?"

"Never did. My cousin down in Mexico is a pharmacist on the drug cartel's payroll. Sometimes the service of a man like that is necessary when times get tough."

"So what do we do next?"

"Marks didn't say. Do you know anyone down here that could hide us out maybe?"

Egget lifts his head in ponder. "Did you just say your cousin is a Mexican drug lord?"

"No, you can't be so ethnocentric. There is no FDA international. So when there are drugs pending approval here in America, my cousin can buy them direct at half their retail price and sell them back to American consumers. It's a good deal really. Last I heard the profit margin is so great that one of his clientele can almost single-handedly pay off his living expenses each month, and it is still cheaper than traditional healthcare around here."

"That is just sick . . ."

Marks sits quietly, watching his prey from a car down the way. Where any other man would need a scope to see, Marks can make out his target perfectly. Where are they going? Where is their car? Where is Tail?

"Marks, what is going on?" Rhys demands. "You know I'm your lab assistant. Covert-operations, are really not in my job description."

"You're here as my friend, not my partner." Marks steps out of the mid-sized

Subaru. "Let's see how well direct confrontation works. I want Tail back." Rhys leans in and shouts at Marks, "I don't remember you being like this."

Marks tunes him out as he walks briskly down the road to his co-conspirators.

Rhys takes action; Marks will kill those two no doubt. He calls the police.

Egget stops and throws his arm out to stop his traveling companion. "Is that Marks?" he asks.

"Dr. Karingson," Dwight yells once he is confident it is. "Are we glad you're

here . . ."

Marks withdraws a long-barreled pistol from his overcoat. Sanchez is the first to react, stepping in front of Dwight. Marks shoots the Spaniard in the foot, then shoves him over as he pushes his way to his target. "It's not fatal, but the blood loss will be if you don't pack the wound," he explains as he steps over the doctor. Dwight steps back in fright as it dawns on him that this is not the Marks Karingson he knew, but instead the metallic monster he watched being constructed.

Marks' hand rises to grab Dwight by the skull. The crushing force of Vigeta's hand thrusts Dwight onto his knees. "You will tell me where Tail is and then you will die." His voice is cold, heartless, soulless.

Sirens blare in the deep. Marks detects flashing lights over his shoulder. These two are either very clever or very lucky. Dwight struggles to stand, grabbing at Marks' arm for leverage. The cars squeal to a stop. Police pour out on to the street, looks like a dozen of them at first glance. A tad liberal, don't you think? There are more coming from the other direction; Marks can feel them.

Marks grips Dwight's wrist and twists it firmly; pivoting about, he lifts upward, forcing Dwight to his feet and tipping him back. The crazed doctor whispers in his ear, "Examine your predicament carefully. If you pull away from me or drop to your knees to try and escape, the weight of your body will be forced on your sphenoid. Your arm will be severed in a way that only bionics can fix. You can't afford that on your income. So don't move." Marks places his long-barrel on Dwight's shoulder, aiming at the nearest enforcer's vehicle.

The police encircle the old warlord. One officer shouts out, "Release the hostage and place your firearm on the ground!"

Marks speaks up slightly so the cops can hear him, "I don't see where that would be inclusive to my interest. You see these men are thieves, if not kidnapers, and I d.e.s.i.r.e my property aka partner to be relinquished as so much returned to my care or embrace. As it were, I do not believe you are capable or qualified to perform the actions therein described as well as required, so a partnership of cooperation is impossible."

The enforcer in the lead steps out from behind his car. "You are surrounded. There is one way out."

"You make an unwise assumption in that my plan involves escape."

"Stay calm. we can work through this. You say that man is a thief. Hand him over to us, and we'll take care of things from here." The agent slides in closer.

Marks pushes up slightly more on Dwight's arm, forcing him onto tiptoes. His back binds; Dwight screams. "You wish him dead, by all means keep walking. As for your proposition, I'm not convinced that the litigations of your antirepublicanism would be cascaded in a direction that would satiate my needs. No deals will be made if you press the issue henceforth. These men will die, and so will you and your team. If you wish this resolves without negativity you will leave without hesitation."

"I see ten armed men facing you down and ten more will be here any minute. You can't win if you fight. Let your hostages go."

"You are a terrible negotiator. I hope your captain knows that." A dark light spirals around Marks; spectral wind embraces the warlock . . . but then it recedes. Marks suddenly notices a lack of energy; his kie won't come forth. Somehow something is blocking it. But that is impossible. Kie is not Mana; it doesn't come from the earth. It never fluxes. So long as the energist summoning it is healthy, it is self-sealing, a bottomless well of power conjured into existence by its wisher.

The police officer standing before Marks whispers to himself, "What the hell was that?" The officer taps the microphone on his caller. "Take him down."

Marks squints as his peers into the face of the law enforcer. With magnificent force, he thrusts himself upon Dwight and launches him into the cop, throwing them both to the ground. Marks spots a sniper crouching in the grass a dozen yards away; in a display of superhuman reflexes, he turns a half circle and fires the long barrel once. The bullet strikes the chamber of the rifle, jamming it.

The officers open fire on the machine of war; two more cars come into sight. Marks stands strong, fearless in the face of the ever-growing force. The artillery connects, and yes, the bullets do sting, but Marks is confident that they will never kill him. Marks lowers his hands to his side and two globs drop from his sleeves. The globs strike the ground; developing insectoid legs, they run at the cars, exploding in a column of fire that bounces two of the cars fifteen feet in the air.

Shock and awe rapidly dominates. The polices scatter having drastically underestimated the resolve of their enemy. Emboldened, Marks walks into the fray. The police drastically tries to reorganize in the midst of chaos, but Marks is in control. Marks shoots one cop in the legs two times each and another he pistol wh.i.p.s, sending careening through the air. The lieutenant he sees fit to steal the firearm from as he walks past into the flames. Marks snatches up Sanchez and carries him away residing Egget to his fate.

* * *

Darkness overtakes Marks as he steps back into Rhys' car. All at once the world changes. Marks finds himself back where he had started, standing in the living room of his loft, looking down at where his cat dish should be. His own voice comes from behind. "Hello again, Vigeta, do you believe me yet?"

* * *

Rhys and Allen quickly find themselves seized from their daily affairs and brought before their benefactor. At the top floor of the eastern tower rests a lone room with a window twenty foot tall and two hundred feet across. The carpet is red with fine stained wood around the exterior. The entirety of the top floor is the private suite of Shaun Clawed. Shaun is both intellectually and physically imposing. He is a man of wealth and fame. Shaun is no larger than the average man but has a powerful persona to make up for what might otherwise be overlooked presence.

"My friends," Shaun acknowledges his guests, "I understand that we, as a military class operation, enjoy a level of sovereignty. For the most part, no one asks me any questions. I like it that way. I like many of my coworkers like to abuse that privilege from time to time by doing things that the general populist aren't promoted to do. Now what I need you two to understand is that with that privilege comes a need for a level of discretion." Shaun stands before his window with his hands crossed behind his back, looking out into the night sky.

"We can't very well, for example, go around picking fights with law enforcement, seeing how some cops have trouble understanding our chain of command, and you know I have a real problem trying to come up with a believable excuse as to why one of my employees so think fit to call down alien TEC. To smite a dozen civil servants."

Rhys cuts in, "The type-37 spider bomb is no longer IDed as alien TEC. Not since it was purchased by Black Ops. It's now considered B-list." "Rhys," Shaun calls out.

"Yes?"

"I don't care. Since 8:00 a.m. I have been on the phone with FBI, CIA, NSA, ATF, CDC, ICE, Interpol, and every other government organization with an initializem, trying to explain how six beat cops ended up hospitalized after an industrial accident."

Allen throws down his two cents, "You know, considering, six is a fairly low body count."

"Allen, you are not leaving base again without my permission. Rhys, I have another job for you. Don't bungle this one up."