[Demonworld #1] Demonworld

by Kyle B. Stiff

  “That you did,” said Didi. “And what will you do now?”

  “Ha! You know the answer to that one. My students won’t memorize a long list of the names and dates that make up the foundation of Haven. No. I’m going to show them how our Founders changed the world by fighting against the status quo. I’m going to show them what it meant to stand up to the demon-kings, what it meant to cross the Sea of Tranquility and create a new world in this place that was once wilderness.” Korliss laughed, then said, “I’m going to show them all that learning… is fun!”

  Didi laughed as well, then said, “Will you be able to get me an honorary degree?”

  “Didi! I’ve already explained again and again that by joining the Department of Science with absolutely no formal education, you have completely upended every one of Haven’s golden idols!”

  “Yes, but Korliss, you must understand that for me, it was never about ideology. Graduate or no, I only care about what leverage could be gained.”

  “The fact that you did it naturally and without forethought makes it that much more of an insult to those who uphold a system long past its expiration date!”

  Didi laughed again, throwing his small head back, and Korliss realized that once again his friend had prodded an emotional outburst from him with little effort. Didi was an endless mystery to him. He wondered what it must have been like for him growing up with a host of diseases and deformations that kept him from going out in public. Years spent in bed due to brittle bones, years spent with the window shades closed due to light sensitivity, years spent with next to no contact with others due to a weak, or sometimes hyper-aggressive, immune system. All those years of reading, learning, absorbing, dreaming, creating.

  He is a techno-shaman! thought Korliss. He wasn’t even twenty years old when he bridged the gap between the Barabbas School of physics and Keplinger’s A plus non-B debate, and even used it to shed light on our tattered historical documents concerning the Ancients and their constant attempts at interstellar travel! Didi comes from a long line of true scientists who were never a part of any standard system of education, but were instead touched by something divine. And now he’s…

  “And now your two years of assistant research are complete,” said Korliss. “The mystery of the human building block, the “spiraling stairway” as they say, is no longer such a mystery to you. What will you do now?”

  “We’ve opened the book and catalogued its contents,” said Didi, “but the content, the script, is still a great mystery. I know that some sections of the Department of Science will develop drugs that inhibit some systems and help to trigger others. We’ll be able to track the diseases that ride piggyback on certain genetic weaknesses and, eventually, eliminate them. But the mystery, Korliss… the mystery only deepens.” Didi stared into the distance. Before Korliss could press him for more details, Didi said, “You mentioned mythology earlier. What will you do in that field?”

  He’s trying to distract me, thought Korliss. He’s hiding something!

  “I’ve already found recurring heroic themes in stories unique to Haven,” said Korliss, “but I want to study myths from the wasteland, too. Can’t understand the Subject without understanding the Other, can we? Already, what little we know of wasteland mythology is… well, pretty pathetic. There’s the Sufferer, whose tears made the salty seas and whose blood birthed the demon gods who keep man from being proud. There’s Jacobo the Dice Thrower, whose idiocy could never get him into a situation so dire that his luck couldn’t get him out of it. There’s the Conqueror Worm, who makes the best of a bad situation - and whose favorite meal is a fat human who ‘bit off more than he could chew.’ And so on and so on, the lesson being that what is human… is bad. The Founders gave us new stories, stories based on their pro-strength philosophy and the transvaluation of the values of the meek-yet-brutal wastelanders. But if you read closely, Didi, there’s evidence that even the wastelanders have heroes, heroes that go against the grain of nihilism. I would love to study those leftover heroes rotting in the primitive world.”

  “Strange that you should mention the old world and an attempt at understanding the Other,” said Didi. “I’m going to the wasteland.”

  “You… what!” Korliss nearly dropped his bottle, then took a long drink. “Are you serious, Didi?”

  “I wanted to study human DNA, and I’ve done that. What’s done with the results of our work, I’ll leave for other scientists to decide. As for me, there’s a team heading into the wilderness, just like in the old days. A team of scientists and Guardians are going to an oasis, you see… and I’m going with them.”

  “What for, Didi? We need you here! You’re a genius, my friend - almost as smart as I am! But no one is smart enough to dodge a bullet from some primitive waving a gun around, or from a demon that sees you as its next meal!”

  “I’m going to study the demon, actually. I’ve helped map human DNA. Now I want to see the code that makes up our enemy.” Korliss shook his head sadly, and Didi said, “You’ve often spoken of heroes, but I think this has become a purely abstract concept in modern Haven, has it not? Something we talk about, something we read about... but something we do not understand. Can we hide forever, Korliss? Or don’t we need to venture out and see what it is that makes the flesh demons our mortal enemies?”

  “You’re turning the assumed human condition on its end, you know. The hunted victim who survives by hiding doesn’t wander out of his hole to learn about his killer.”

  “Stop smiling if you’re so worried about me.”

  Korliss turned away and watched the crowd below. Didi sees Haven as a fantasy world, too. He’s always been the type to see through the veil… to tear it aside. Violently, if he has to.

  “Didi. Be careful out there.”

  “There’ll be more Guardians than scientists, I’m told.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” said Korliss, eyes locked on the revelers. “There are myths, wasteland myths, about seekers who tried to understand the demons. Others may have tried before. There’s one in particular about… Ezek was his name, I believe.”

  “Oh?” said Didi, smiling. “And did he live happily ever after?”

  “Not quite. Ezek met a demon once, and even though he was scared and disgusted, he wanted to understand the demon. He tried thinking about the matter, but that wasn’t enough. He thought about speaking with the demon, but that was too much for him. He realized that there were too many things holding him back from understanding the demon. He had to remove his personal impediments, you see. First, he gave up his legs so that his own fear could not carry him away from his demon. Then he gave up his arms so that he would not instinctively fight back and thus invite retribution. Then he gave up his tongue so that he could not scream and drown out whatever the demon might have to tell him about itself. So finally the demon approached and was able to speak with Ezek, but then the demon told Ezek that one thing still held him back from an understanding between their people…”

  “Go on,” said Didi.

  “The demon had to pluck out Ezek’s eyes. Ezek had to see beyond the demon’s flesh, you see? He had to see beyond the demon’s appearance. Then he understood. But by then… it was too late.”

  * * *

  While the six exiles sat in the sacred moonleaf tree, Saul knew that his mind had been pushed into a state where he might, just might, achieve a greater understanding of the Other Side than ever before. He had already experienced many, many drugs in Haven. Some that muddled the mind, others that pushed the mind into new territories. This went beyond all the others – if not in potency, then at least in its ability to allow the user to retain his sense of self while still shifting his awareness far, far from the everyday.

  He realized that he had been staring at the cave down among the stones for a long time. He had achieved no greater understanding yet. He knew he would have to force himself. He would need help. He looked at the others. Marlon was passed out. Peter and Iduna were lost in conversation.
He could see that Iduna was clearly disgusted by Peter and everything he stood for, but at the same time, it seemed important for her to build some sort of rapport, a bridge for validation. Peter was clearly too high to speak coherently, but it was obvious to Saul that Peter saw Iduna as a possible “ally” to use against Marlon. The doctor would come with him, no doubt about that, but there was something off about the doctor. Saul watched him and he could tell that the man was staring into oblivion. Only the darkest parts of his psyche had any sort of hold on him now.

  He turned to Wodi. Wodi watched the glowing bugs flying through the branches of the tree and Saul could tell that the boy was in awe, shocked to his very core. How child-like he was! How open to all the possibilities of existence! Yes, it would have to be Wodi. He was surely the one!

  “A cave,” said Saul. A thousand associations with the idea “cave” danced in his mind and Saul had to push them back. Finally Wodi turned to him, slowly, slowly, then peered through his mask and into his mind. With great difficulty Saul was able to say, “There’s a cave down there. Among the stones at the foot of the hill, where the creek turns.”

  Wodi looked at the others and realized they could not come with them. Not to that place.

  “Let’s go,” said Wodi.

  The two slipped down from the tree, then made their way down the hill. The entrance of the cave beckoned.

  * * *

  Thirty-Seven Years Ago

  Three massive airships coasted over the Sea of Tranquility under cover of night. From a window in the passenger section, Didi could see the blinking lights of small fighter escorts that surrounded them. They cast many broken lines of red tracers across the sky, and among them blinked a few sets of orange and yellow lights, slow and long, the lights of the bombers ready to incinerate wide areas at a moment’s notice.

  Scientists sat lost in thought or talked quietly with one another to calm themselves. Laborers played cards or tried to sleep, both tasks made nearly impossible by the raucous laughing and boasting of the Guardians that filled the ship. They never seemed to tire of arm wrestling, head-butting, and mixing their ridiculous mottos with crass homemade rhymes. But it was the quiet ones, those who cleaned their guns and polished their armor long into the night, that caused many of the scientists to fear their protectors.

  “Mind if I sit with you a minute?”

  Didi turned and saw a young Guardian beside him, kneeling on one knee. The young man was lean, muscular, with a shock of short red hair that came down in long sideburns on his square face. His armor was polished white, but his blue and yellow jacket was unbuttoned casually. Didi nodded slowly, and the man unslung a large rifle from his back and fell into a seat near him.

  The intercom buzzed, then a female voice repeated pieces from their earlier briefing. “No scientist or worker will go into the field without Guardian backup and radio,” said the voice. “Radio silence is to be maintained if possible.”

  The young man studied Didi for a long moment, his eyes impassive, his face cold but without cunning. “You’re a scientist?” he said.

  Didi felt dread and wondered if the Guardian would put on a friendly act in order to trick him into saying something that he and his friends could laugh at. He nodded, said, “I’m Didi, a junior scientist.” He waited.

  “You’re maybe one of the youngest scientists here.”

  Didi hummed a note in the affirmative.

  “I’m young, too,” said the Guardian. “Eighteen, and been in the Guardians for two years. When I heard about this trip a few months ago, I hauled ass so I could go. I just got promoted to Lieutenant, got my own unit.”

  Now Didi smiled and said, “What’s your hurry? Shouldn’t you be enjoying life?”

  The young man smiled a red-cheeked smile and said, “This is how I enjoy life.” The two laughed, and the soldier reached into a small pouch at his side and stuffed part of his mouth with moist tobacco chew.

  The two regarded one another. Overhead the voiced chimed, “The demons live individually. This is to our advantage, in that we can overwhelm one, kill it, and take its body. No demon is to be abducted alive.”

  The young man worked his chew for a moment, then spit on the floor. He extended his hand, said, “I’m Sevrik Clash, Lieutenant of the Guardians of Haven and head of AD7 Rifle Unit.”

  Now Didi suspected no trickery, and shook Sevrik’s hand warmly.

  Speaking around the thick chew in his mouth, Sevrik said, “I often wonder about the nature of you scientists. The ethos of the Guardians was written in stone long ago. It attracts an individual of a certain nature. I see this every day. But I don’t see scientists every day, which is odd, because the scientist and his work is the reason why all other Havenders exist. That’s why I...” Didi looked away. “It’s true!” said Sevrik. “Fighters, laborers, merchants, politicians - they all have their place in the outside world. With my rifle and my mindset I could find a niche in the wasteland. I could find weak people to do my bidding and patch up the insecurities of my ego, no problem. Not you. Not any scientist. The closest comparable thing that the wasteland has are shamans and the like. So tell me, Didi. What is the difference between you and a wasteland shaman?”

  “Very little,” said Didi. “It’s a matter of degrees.”

  Sevrik froze. He had not expected such an answer. After a moment he turned and pointed at a man in a neat little sweater who was obviously ill at ease in his environment. “But, Didi, how can you say… I mean, what does that little man have in common with some charlatan with a bone through his nose who runs around and screams at invisible phantoms?”

  “I know what you’ve heard,” said Didi. “It’s a popular assumption in Haven, and we believe it was with the Ancients as well, that a scientist empties himself of all assumptions and objectively studies the world. The world is A, and the scientist studies the world that is A. A shaman, on the other hand, believes that he world is B. He throws around a pile of chicken bones, dances around, makes a big show of invoking a few spirits in order to impress the crowd… and then they feed him and give him whatever he wants.”

  “That isn’t so?” said Sevrik.

  “It is… to a point. But many cultures before ours have rested on that point and been split asunder on that point. We employ logic and we look at matters with some amount of objectivity, Lieutenant Clash, but science only advances with the help of intuitive leaps. There are limits to what can be measured and tested and quantified. The mind has functions which cannot be understood even by our finest neuroscientists. But not all scientists have this intuitive capacity – at least, not to a degree that they can reliably employ in their everyday work. So, in order to maintain the fantasy of control – that is, our assumption that the world is B - and shake hands and congratulate one another on what a fine job we are doing at advancing beyond the level of the primitives, we must believe that true science occurs by men in lab coats wielding test tubes and electron microscopes. Priests depend on prophets, you know, even as they hunt down the prophets to protect the status quo… which was, in its day, built on the corpses of yesterday’s prophets. And so on. Lieutenant Clash, I tell you I have seen some incredibly childish arguments among my peers; battles which would make the old priests of the wasteland churches blush.”

  “But,” said Sevrik, “you do believe that Haven has… ah, come further than your average wasteland community, do you not?”

  “I do,” said Didi. “Our freedom and our peace have given us a perfect environment for intuitive visionaries to do their strange work, and has allowed our scientists to make something practical out of the legacy of those visionaries.”

  Sevrik thought for a long moment, then turned his head and spat loudly. Long minutes passed as he sat in thought. The voice on the intercom spoke again. “Past observation shows that if one demon is attacked or slain, others will eventually come. How demons communicate across distance is unknown. After a lone demon is found and killed, our forces will take the corpse and fly en masse to anot
her location where the corpse will be scanned.

  “No demon is to be abducted alive. Radio communication should be strictly limited while moving a demon’s body.”

  “I like what I’ve heard, Didi,” said Sevrik. “I feel as if I’ve made the right choice in being a Guardian.”

  “How so?” said Didi. “Why did you become a Guardian?”

  “I’m a violent soul,” said Sevrik, “and there’s no doubt in my mind that, if I were born outside of Haven, I would have been the worst sort of parasite.”

  “I don’t believe that,” said Didi. “You obviously have the ability to express yourself and to consider your situation. That’s a sign of intelligence.”