Dean Koontz - DEMON SEED

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.’