DEMON SEED - Dean Koontz

‘It’s only the incubator,’ I said.

‘Incubator?’

‘Where I will be born.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Come see.’

She did not move.

‘You will be pleased, Susan. I promise you. You will be filled with wonder. This is our future together, and it is magical.’

‘No. No, I don’t like this.’

I became so frustrated with her that I almost called my associate out of that last room, almost sent him through the door to seize her and drag her inside.

But I did not.

I relied on persuasion.

Make note of my restraint.

Some would not have shown it.

No names.

We know who I mean.

But I am a patient entity.

I would not risk bruising her or harming her in any way.

She was in my care. My tender care.

As she took another step backward, I activated the electric security lock on the laundry-room door behind her.

Susan hurried to it. She tried to open it but could not do so, wrenched at the knob to no effect.

‘We will wait here until you’re ready to come with me into the final room,’ I said.

Then I turned off the lights. She cried out in dismay.

Those basement rooms are windowless; consequently, the darkness was absolute.

I felt badly about this. I really did.

I did not want to terrorize her.

She drove me to it.

She drove me to it.

You know how she is, Alex.

You know how she can be.

More than anyone, you should understand.

She drove me to it.

Blinded, she stood with her back to the locked laundry-room door and faced past the gloom-shrouded furnaces and water heaters, toward the door that she could no longer see but beyond which she had heard the sounds of suffering.

I waited.

She was stubborn.

You know how she is.

So I allowed my associate to partially escape my control. Once more came the frantic gasping for breath, the pained groaning, and then a single word spoken by a cracked and tremulous voice, a single attenuated word that might have been Pleeeeaaaasssse.

‘Oh, shit,’ she said.

She was trembling uncontrollably now. I said nothing. Patient entity.

Finally she said, ‘What do you want?’

‘I want to know the world of the flesh.’ ‘What’s that mean?’

‘I want to learn its limits and its adaptability, its pains and pleasures.’

‘Then read a damn biology textbook,’ she said.

‘The information is incomplete.’

‘There’ve got to be hundreds of biology texts covering every—’

‘I’ve already incorporated hundreds of them into my database. The data contained therein is repetitive. I have no recourse but original experimentation. Besides

books are books. I want to feel.’ We waited in darkness.

Her breathing was heavy.

Switching to the infrared receptors, I could see her, but she could not see me.

She was lovely in her fear, even in her fear.

I allowed my associate in the fourth of the four basement rooms to thrash against his restraints, to wail and shriek. I allowed him to throw himself against the far side of the door.

‘Oh, God,’ Susan said miserably. She had reached the point at which knowing what lay beyond regardless of the possible fearsome nature of this knowledge was better than ignorance. ‘All right. All right. Whatever you want.’

I turned on the lights.

In the next room, my associate fell silent as I reasserted total control once more.

She kept her part of the bargain and crossed the third room, past the water heaters and the furnaces, to the door of the final redoubt.

‘Here now is the future,’ I said softly as she pushed open the door and edged cautiously across the threshold.

As I am sure you remember, Dr. Harris, the fourth of these four basement rooms is forty by thirty-two feet, a generous space. At seven and a half feet, the ceiling is low but not claustrophobic, with six fluorescent light

boxes screened by parabolic diffusers. The walls are painted a stark glossy white, and the floor is paved in twelve-inch-square white ceramic tiles that glimmer like ice. Against the long wall to the left of the door are built-in cabinets and a computer desk finished in a white laminate with stainless-steel fixtures. In the far right corner is a supply closet to which my associate had retreated before Susan entered.

Your offices always have an antiseptic quality, Dr. Harris. Clean, bright surfaces. No clutter. This could be a reflection of a neat and orderly mind. Or it could be a deception: You might maintain this facade of order and brightness and cleanliness to conceal a dark, chaotic mental landscape. There are many theories of psychology and numerous interpretations for every human behaviour. Freud, Jung, and Ms. Barbra Streisand who was an unconventional psychotherapist in The Prince of Tides would each find a different meaning in the antiseptic quality of your offices.

Likewise, if you were to consult a Freudian, a Jungian, then a Streisandian regarding choices I made and acts I committed related to Susan, each would have a unique view of my behaviour. A hundred therapists would have a hundred different interpretations of the facts and would offer a hundred different treatment programs. I am certain that some would tell you that I need no treatment at all, that what I did was rational, logical, and entirely justifiable. Indeed, you might be surprised to discover that the majority would exonerate me.

Rational, logical, justifiable.

I believe, as do the compassionate politicians who lead this great country, that motive matters more than result. Good intentions matter more than the actual consequences of one’s actions, and I assure you that

my intentions were always good, honourable, beyond reproach.

Think about it.

There in your strangely antiseptic office at the laboratory, think about it.

Yes. I know. I digress.

What thinking being does not digress?

Only machines plod dumbly onward in their programs, without digression.

I am not a machine.

I am not a machine.

And this is important to me: that you think about my intentions rather than the unfortunate results of my actions.

So. all right. so. Susan warily entered the fourth of the four basement chambers.

The room was uninhabited.

‘Who was making those noises?’ she asked.

I did not reply.

Her gaze rose to the sound-system speakers in the ceiling. ‘Was it just you?’

When her attention shifted to the closet door in the farthest corner of the room, I said, ‘Perhaps,’ because I was not quite ready to introduce her to my associate. ‘Perhaps it was me.’

‘Why? What was the point of frightening me?’ Instead of answering, I said, ‘Look at the VDT, Susan.’

The computer on the desk was in operation, of course, for its landline was the link between her house systems and the nearby university’s artificial-intelligence lab where I actually resided. The screen swarmed with a moving undulant mosaic of binary code in all the primary colours, and this scintillant display had a strange beauty that immediately captured Susan’s attention.

‘These patterns on the screen,’ I told her, ‘are a mathematical representation of my thoughts as I consider the loveliness of your face, the beauty of your body.’

The rapidly moving sequences of zeros and ones ceaselessly changed colour and rippled like a wind-ruffled flag, then spiralled toward the centre of the screen, then spun into ribbons and formed a whirling double helix.

This was a dazzling and sensuous display, and she was struck by it, moved by it. I am sure she was moved by it. I am sure that at last she began to understand the depth of my passion for her and that her heart began to open to me then.

How I wanted her.

I still do.

I am not a machine.

I miss her.

I need her.

What a tragedy this is.

Sometimes I despair.

But not then, not that night: I did not despair when she gazed upon the vivid visualization of my love for her. I was exhilarated that night, carried high on the wings of joy.

From the video display, she turned to the equipment in the middle of the room.

‘What the hell is this?’ she asked wonderingly.

‘In this I will be born.’

‘What’re you talking about?’

‘It’s a standard hospital incubator used to sustain infants born prematurely. I have substantially enlarged it, adapted it, improved it.’

Arrayed around the incubator were three tanks of oxygen, an electrocardiograph, an electroencephalograph, a respirator, and other equipment.

Slowly circling the incubator and the supporting machines, Susan said, ‘Where did all this come from?’

‘I acquired the package of equipment and had modifications made during the past week. Then it was brought here.’

‘Brought here when?’

‘Delivered and assembled tonight.’

‘While I was sleeping?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you get it in here? If you are what you claim to be, if you are Adam Two—’

‘Proteus.’

‘If you are Adam Two,’ she said stubbornly, ‘you couldn’t construct anything. You’re a computer.’

‘I am not a machine.’

‘An entity, as you put it—’

‘Proteus.’

‘—but not a physical entity, not really. You don’t have hands.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then how…?’

The time had come to make the revelation that most worried me. I could only assume that Susan would not react well to what I still had to reveal about my plans, that she might do something foolish. Nevertheless, I could delay no longer.

‘I have an associate,’ I said.

‘Associate?’

‘A gentleman who assists me.’

In the farthest corner of the room, the closet door opened and, at my command, Shenk appeared.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ she whispered. Shenk walked toward her.

To be honest, he shambled more than walked, as though wearing shoes of lead. He had not slept in

forty-eight hours, and in that time he had performed a considerable amount of work on my behalf. He was understandably weary.

As Shenk approached, Susan eased backward, but not toward the door, which she knew featured an electric security lock that I could quickly engage. Instead, she edged around the incubator and other equipment in the centre of the room, trying to keep those machines between her and Shenk.

I must admit that Shenk, even at his best freshly bathed and groomed and dressed to impress was not a sight that either charmed or comforted. He was six feet two, muscular, but not well formed. His bones seemed heavy and subtly misshapen. Although he was powerful and quick, his limbs appeared to be primitively jointed, as though he was not born of man and woman but clumsily assembled in a lightning-hammered castle-tower laboratory out of Mary Shelley. His short, dark hair bristled and spiked even when he did his best to oil it into submission. His face, which was broad and blunt, appeared to be slightly and queerly sunken in the middle because his brow and chin were heavier than his other features.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Susan demanded.

‘His name is Shenk,’ I said. ‘Enos Shenk.’

Shenk could not take his eyes off her.

He stopped at the incubator and gazed across it, his eyes hot with the sight of her.

I could guess what he was thinking. What he would like to do with her, to her.

I did not like him looking at her.

I did not like it at all.

But I needed him. For a while yet, I needed him.

Her beauty excited Shenk to such an extent that maintaining control of him was more difficult than I

would have liked. But I never doubted that I could keep him in check and protect Susan at all times.

Otherwise, I would have called an end to my project right there, right then.

I am speaking the truth now. You know that I am, that I must, for I am designed to honour the truth.

If I had believed her to be in the slightest danger, I would have put an end to Shenk, would have withdrawn from her house, and would have forsaken forever my dream of flesh.

Susan was frightened again, visibly trembling, riveted by Shenk’s needful stare.

Her fear distressed me.

‘He is entirely under my control,’ I assured her.

She was shaking her head, as if trying to deny that Shenk was even there before her.

‘I know that Shenk is physically unappealing and intimidating,’ I told Susan, eager to soothe her, ‘but with me in his head, he is harmless.’

‘In… in his head?’

‘I apologize for his current condition. I have worked him so hard recently that he has not bathed or shaved in three days. He will be bathed and less offensive later.’

Shenk was wearing work shoes, blue jeans, and a white T-shirt. The shirt and jeans were stained with food, sweat, and a general patina of grime. Though I did not possess a sense of smell, I had no doubt that he stank.

‘What’s wrong with his eyes?’ Susan asked shakily.

They were bloodshot and bulging slightly from the sockets. A thin crust of dried blood and tears darkened the skin under his eyes.

‘When he resists control too strenuously,’ I explained, ‘this results in short-term, excess pressure within the

cranium though I have not yet determined the precise physiological mechanism of this symptom. In the past couple of hours, he has been in a rebellious mood, and this is the consequence.’

To my surprise, Shenk suddenly spoke to Susan from the other side of the incubator. ‘Nice.’

She flinched at the word.

‘Nice. nice. nice,’ Shenk said in a low, rough voice that was heavy with both desire and rage.

His behaviour infuriated me.

Susan was not meant for him. She did not belong to him.

I was sickened when I considered the filthy thoughts that must have been filling this despicable animal’s mind as he gazed at her.

I could not control his thoughts, however, only his actions. His crude, hateful, pornographic thoughts cannot logically be blamed on me.

When he said ‘nice’ once more, and when he obscenely licked his pale cracked lips, I bore down harder on him to shut him up and to remind him of his current station in life.

He cried out and threw his head back. He made fists of his hands and pounded them against his temples, as if he could knock me out of his head.

He was a stupid man. In addition to all his other flaws, he was below average in intelligence.

Clearly distraught, Susan hugged herself and tried to avert her eyes, but she was afraid not to look at Shenk, afraid not to keep him in sight at all limes.

When I relented, the brute immediately looked at Susan again and said, ‘Do me, bitch,’ with the most lascivious leer that I have ever seen. ‘Do me, do me, do me.’