Daemon d-1

by Daniel Suarez

  They revealed a colder, empty room with a dark granite floor, harsh lighting, and a lofty ceiling not visible from where he stood. Two men in white orderly coats and comfortable shoes stood in the center of the room. They were muscular, one black, one Asian. Their hair cropped close. No jewelry. They didn’t have an unfriendly look in their eyes, but neither were they extending leis in welcome. They both nodded from twenty feet away. The black guy, the bigger of the two, spoke first. “Mr. Taylor.”

  Mosely stood in the doorway. He wasn’t about to leave its relative safety. “I don’t know what you want Taylor for, but I ain’t him.”

  “We know you’re not Taylor.”

  “Then why you callin’ me Taylor?”

  “Because sack of shit would be derogatory.”

  Mosely digested this first hint of trouble. He glanced around. “Where’s the white guy?”

  “What white guy?”

  “Oh, don’t give me that shit, brother. There’s always a white guy. Ain’t no brother gonna go through all this trouble just to get some nigga jumpin’ through hoops.”

  They stared impassively. The big one spoke again. “If you’re trying to ingratiate yourself with a racial or class-based dialect-save your breath.”

  Not good. Mosely shifted uneasily. He glanced behind him. Somehow another set of blond wood doors had closed ten feet behind him. He hadn’t heard a thing. Didn’t even feel the air move. He immediately got onto the balls of his feet, casting about for danger.

  “Mr. Taylor, please step forward.”

  “Fuck you! Tell me why I’m here.”

  “Would you prefer to be in prison?”

  “Right about now, I’d say ‘hell yeah.’”

  They both chuckled.

  Definitely not good.

  “Look, if it’s any consolation, we’ve been through this, too.”

  “Yeah? What’s ‘this’ precisely?”

  “Just step into the room, please.”

  “I want some answers, goddamnit. I’m not moving until I find out just who the fuck is behind this and why they brought me here!” His voice echoed into the room.

  “We have no desire to harm you.”

  “Then pack your no-neck ass up the way you came and get the cracker-in-chief out here. Now!”

  The two men exchanged looks and sighed. Then they marched with purpose toward his position in the doorway.

  Mosely pulled off his tie. No good wearing a noose to a brawl. He wrapped the silk fabric around his right fist. In a few moments he was dancing, fists ready in the doorway. “Come on, Knick and Knack! You want a piece a this? Come get some!”

  The two men stopped walking. They seemed disarmingly nonchalant. There was a subtle look in the big one’s eye. A gentle nod to a target past Mosely. Oldest trick in the book. But still…

  Mosely cast a quick glance behind him. The doors were gone, and now there were half a dozen burly men of several races standing right behind him. One extended a silver stick into Mosely’s side. There was an electric pop, and Mosely dropped like a sack of bone meal. He remembered nothing more.

  *

  He awoke spread-eagled on a table in the center of a larger room. His suit had been replaced by lighter clothing, and his limbs felt constrained. He tried to turn his head to look, but even his head was clamped tight, with some sort of vise pressed in on his temples.

  He reflexively struggled against his bonds. After a few moments thrashing, he concluded they might as well have been welded to the side of the Queen Mary. They weren’t going anywhere. He also felt the sting of something in his right arm-like an intravenous needle.

  Beyond the valley of not good.

  He cleared his throat. “All right. We got off on the wrong foot. I see that now.”

  Medical experiments.

  He had always been a courageous man-mostly because he didn’t particularly care whether he lived or died-but there was something about the sterile, impersonal cruelty of this place that reached in, grabbed him by the brain stem, and wouldn’t let go. A primordial terror welled up inside him.

  “Hey! If you’re gonna torture me, then the least you can do is talk about it first.”

  A bizarre sound stopped him cold. It seemed to be emanating from around his head and sounded like a jackhammer as heard through thirty feet of rock. It was hammering impossibly fast. Then slow. Then it actually made chirping noises in stabs. Then all was silent.

  A familiar face hove into view over him. The big guy. “Mr. Taylor.”

  “Give a brother a break, man. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. Warmonk sold me for medical experiments, didn’t they?”

  The big man shook his head. “Just wait.”

  “Goddamnit, I don’t want to wait! Tell me what the fuck is going on!” He struggled again, primarily to emphasize his seriousness, not from any belief that he had a chance in hell of breaking free.

  The big guy was checking something around Mosely’s head. “You’re about to find out. That too tight?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then it’s perfect.” He looked right in Mosely’s eyes. “You were right about one thing, my friend. There is a white guy. At least he used to be white. He’s probably sort of grayish by now.” He laughed heartily and lowered a combination goggles/headset onto Mosely’s face-blinding him.

  “What the…You motherfucker!”

  The big man’s booming laugh receded.

  Mosely tried, batlike, to divine the shape of the room and his position in it from the echoes of that laugh. But the headphones made it impossible. Everything was muffled now, and he was blinded by the goggles, which were as opaque as a blindfold.

  The strange, muted jackhammer noises recommenced. Suddenly two large television screens appeared before his eyes. Combined, they filled his field of vision and gave the effect of twenty-foot-wide theater screens viewed from ten feet away. They were crystal clear. The left one showed an image of the human brain-all done in the colors of the rainbow. It was a Bob Marley brain, with hues advancing and receding across the temporal lobes to some unheard Rasta beat.

  The right screen flickered for a moment and, true to the big guy’s word, a white guy appeared in medium close-up on-screen. The jackhammer noises continued throughout, and the brain color map changed.

  Mosely remembered this white guy’s face from somewhere.

  The man nodded and spoke-his voice came in over the headphones. “You recognize me. That’s good.”

  Mosely shouted, “Who are you?”

  The colors chased each other over Bob Marley’s brain and settled in reddish hues toward the front.

  The white dude was unrattled. “Before you start asking more complex questions, let me show you who I was…”

  Suddenly his image was replaced by actual television news footage of reporters talking, headlines, and rotating graphics

  “Matthew Sobol built a deadly trap for federal officers serving a search warrant on his Southern California estate…”

  The video images chased each other over the screen. It was all coming back to Mosely. They had watched the news in amazement in the prison rec room more than half a year ago. They were sort of disappointed when it turned out to be a hoax.

  The video clips continued as they finally settled on the photograph of Matthew Sobol-a close-up image with his name right beside it. The reporter was talking…

  “The Daemon hoax was apparently intended to frame Matthew Sobol-who last week died of brain cancer.”

  The photograph was suddenly replaced by the live image of Matthew Sobol in perfect digital clarity.

  The white guy.

  “News of my death has not been exaggerated.”

  “Holy shit…”

  The brain color map shifted, bluish waves lapping and rising all around.

  “Now you truly understand. The Daemon was not a hoax.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “Yes. Please keep your questions simple. I’m not much of a conversationalis
t anymore. But I anticipated your question.” There was an almost imperceptible jump in Sobol’s image. Then he continued. “Why are you here? You’re here so I can determine whether your motivations are compatible with mine.” Sobol gestured as if he were physically present. “The equipment around you is a powerful functional magnetic resonance imaging scanner. It is scanning the neural activity of your brain in real time. Neurons work like logic gates on a computer chip, firing electrical signals in specific sequences to accomplish certain tasks or to conceive certain generalized concepts.” Sobol paused. “It is a controversial fact that technology has discovered a way to see not only truth or falsehood in a person, but their very thought processes in action. Even before they can act upon those thoughts. Dissembling or deliberate deceit is orchestrated by the frontal lobes…”

  The frontal lobes were highlighted on the left-hand screen-over the image of what was presumably Mosely’s brain. Other areas were highlighted in turn as Sobol continued, “Fear, aggression, empathy, and recognition all have their unique signatures in the human brain. Mental disorders, such as schizophrenia, also have their telltale patterns. So you see, you can hide nothing from me. I am about to know you better than anyone has ever known you. Perhaps even better than you know yourself.”

  Mosely was starting to tremble again. He saw the colors change in the brain diagram on the left-hand screen. He instinctively knew it was fear. He was seeing his own fear develop on-screen in real time. Feeding on itself.

  “You are afraid.”

  It took all Mosely’s restraint to keep from screaming in terror. He held it in, tightly closing his eyes. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Why not you? Society threw you away. Even you had given up on yourself. But I see the promise in you.” A pause. “I brought you here because you were found to be above average in most ways. You are highly intelligent, and your personality profile shows you to be self-reliant and resourceful. These are traits I need in my soldiers.” Another pause. “I don’t care about your level of education-that can be remedied-or your background, which doesn’t matter. Nor do I care about the things you’ve done. I only care about the things you’re goingto do. My followers will wield incredible power. I am going to see whether my faith in you is justified.”

  Conflicting emotions swept over Mosely. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he watched the colors swirling over the image of his brain. He realized that try as he might, he could not biofeedback his way through this. He could not fathom-much less control-the sweeping patterns of color rippling over the folds of his brain.

  Sobol’s words percolated through the fear and confusion. “I will not lie to you; there is no escape from this place except to join with me. I tell you this because it’s not something you decide. It is a fact about you that we will discover together. After this course I will simply know whether you have joined me. And you will know also. You can try to fight it, but the result will be no different.”

  Mosely felt the fear again, but then resolve rose in him, too. This was knowable. The rules of the game were laid out, and now he could face it head-on. Now he felt the rage building. His body tensed.

  Sobol continued. “If at any point I find you unsuitable, I will kill you. Since I bear you no ill will, your death will be pleasant-an overdose of Demerol. So you see, your death will be far more agreeable than mine was. Perhaps this will be of some comfort to you.”

  “Fuck you, Sobol!”

  Sobol paused. “I see you have no special fear of death. Instead, you feel rage at your helplessness. But you are not helpless. Far from it. Your defense lies within you. I will measure your character, and if you have merit, then you have nothing to fear from me. On the contrary, you will walk under my protection to the end of your days.”

  Another pause.

  “Let’s begin. You do not need to speak, although your eyes must remain open except to blink normally. You can disregard this instruction, but doing so will commence your death by injection after thirty seconds. You can choose this fate, if you wish, but since no pain awaits you in any event, you may as well follow this course to its conclusion.”

  Sobol regarded Mosely with an appraising look. “You are beginning to master your fear. That’s good. Make yourself ready.” A pause of several seconds. “And we begin…”

  The right-hand screen dimmed and Sobol dissolved into blackness. A single word appeared in large white letters:

  FAMILY

  After a few seconds it was followed by several more in turn:

  RELIGION, VIOLENCE, SEX, LOVE, LAW, FREEDOM, HOPE, HONESTY, RESPONSIBILITY, HONOR, DEATH.

  The screen went black again. Then the word FAMILY reappeared. It lingered on-screen, like a searchlight stabbing out for him in the darkness.

  Mosely couldn’t help but recall his son. His lost son. Mosely’s recollections from his own childhood flooded in-growing up without a father. Alone. Guilt flowed through him. Self-loathing. Deep colors ebbed and flowed over the image of his brain. It no doubt signified strong emotion. Sobol was onto him already.

  Mosely blinked a couple of times beneath the goggles. He could close his eyes forever and let the Demerol flow into his veins. He had more control over his destiny now than he had had in a long time. He had an exit door. A strangely reassuring one. He opened his eyes.

  Then the film began.

  A quick succession of video scenes. People talking with each other, hugging, greeting one another. A man picking up a child and laughing. Parents hugging. An elderly couple walking arm in arm. A child graduating. The pride of the parents. A child in sorrow. Sickness. An elderly man flatlining in a hospital bed to the pitiful shrieks of his wife. An angry father shouting at his children. A mother raising the back of her hand over a terrified child in a bedroom doorway.

  It surprised Mosely that the most painful scenes were scores of videos on children. Interacting with their parents, screaming, playing, hugging, crying, laughing. Innocence abandoned. Innocence in peril. In fear.

  Mosely found himself weeping silently behind the goggles, the tears rolling down his cheeks. He imagined his own son, alone in the world. And his own responsibility for this. A son who would never know family, thanks to Mosely’s selfish stupidity. He almost closed his eyes forever and let the Demerol take him. He felt broken beyond repair-but the voices of children brought him back time and again. Those innocent faces that did not yet know cruelty. And the scenes kept coming for hours. There was now a special focus on children, as if Sobol had found Mosely’s weak spot and was rubbing salt into the wound to see just how painful it was. Before long, images of abandoned children were all that were shown. Waiflike children walking forlorn and frightened on fearsome city streets. Mosely was a sobbing wreck. “Stop! Please stop!”

  Soon the screen went black again, and the word RELIGION came up briefly. It lingered for only a few moments before it was replaced with the word VIOLENCE.

  Sobol’s mental searchlight was stabbing out for him again. Mosely could see the colors lapping in waves over the image of his brain.

  The screen went black, and the films came up again.

  The video showed a man tied into a chair in a drab cell. He was gagged. His eyes were wild with fear as a bearish man holding a machete entered the room. The bearish man proceeded to shout in what sounded like Russian. He raised the machete, and Mosely couldn’t restrain himself from closing his eyes as the sound of steel slicing into flesh came through the headphones in perfect digital stereo. Muffled screams followed.

  Mosely fluttered his eyes open and revulsion filled his throat with bile. It was a vision from hell, larger than life and twice as loud. The bearish man was hacking his victim to death-one limb at a time. It was not faked. Of that Mosely had no doubt. A deep depression came over him as he watched. It was beyond revulsion. The fact that such a thing could be suffered to exist. That a film could be made of it. It said more than he ever wanted to know about the depravity loose in the world. A slow boiling anger came over him
. Was that man butchered just for this goddamned film? Fuck you, Sobol! Fuck you! Go ahead, read my mind, asshole! Mosely kept shutting his eyes momentarily as the machete came down. Two chops to sever the right arm at the socket. One for the left arm, as the torso fell forward over the legs…

  He couldn’t face it anymore. Mosely was breathing rapidly. The sounds were horrible. He couldn’t escape them. Then just as suddenly they stopped.

  Mosely opened his eyes to blackness.

  What followed was a seemingly endless procession of violent scenarios-some more disturbing than others. In one, a man beat a woman bloody, when suddenly another man rushed in to attack the first-while the injured woman fled. Then there were scenes of men fighting each other-with fists, then knives, then guns. Then children fighting. Then adults attacking children. Women attacking women. There were street fights, ritualized duels, senseless accidents, electrocutions. Then sadomasochistic brutality. Erotically charged violence. Followed close on by violence against animals. It all looked entirely too real. The languages of the people in the films were mostly foreign, but the images had the raw, uncut look of a digital video shot as it happened.

  Mosely’s emotions ranged all over the map and frequently conflicted. He found himself tensing with righteous anger, then becoming aroused, then repulsed, and everything in between. Subtle differences in the interaction of those on-screen brought about shocking differences in his feelings even regarding similar events.

  He couldn’t guess how many hours had gone by. He felt as though he’d spent a tour of duty on the front lines. His mind was bursting with horrific images, and he was nearing the limit of his endurance for violence. As the hours crept by, the themes kept changing, but slowly, imperceptibly. Previous themes sometimes returned. Families changed to images of faraway places and cultures, then images of poverty, then of wealth, then of weddings, then of funerals. Cars crashing together in intersections-apparently from fixed traffic cameras. A nonstop procession of highway carnage and death. People committing suicide in protest, burning themselves alive. Then people dying in accidents while doing adventurous things like rock climbing or BASE jumping. More shots of adventurous people succeeding-accomplishing great feats. Then people trekking through wild lands, climbing high mountain-tops. Then of historical events-from moon landings to Khrushchev blustering. Malcolm X faded into Martin Luther King, Jr.