Demons

by John Shirley

  “You are here to witness for your Lord, are you? Well I am here to witness, as well, friends! I witness for the Good Lord and Him only! Who will you testify for, West Windies?” There was a Southern twang to his voice—maybe Louisianan.

  Dickinham snorted, and powered his window halfway down. “Mr. Perry Anthony—I was about to say reverend but then I remembered . . .”

  The street preacher became very still.

  “That you’ve been—what do you call it?—defrocked, right?” Dickinham went on mockingly. “Got your church taken away. What happened? Get too friendly with the church’s children? Maybe somebody’s wife?”

  “They called me a heretic, friend,” Reverend Anthony said softly, but his voice was tense and electronically amplified. “Because I said that the demons were not the coming of the End Times . . . because I said they were the works of men. BecauseI said they were men, men who were joined with demons!”His voice got louder with each phrase. “Because I said that the Cursed Spirit was clever enough to work through men, and that men were evil enough to do his work, with so little encouragement! And later, when churchfolk changed their story, when they took the government’s money to convince us it was all a hallucination—why, sir, I denounced them!

  “For a deceit the demons were—but they were also real, raging through this world! I will witness the truth! Many are the false prophets—few there are who speak with the spirit! I told my superiors that they slept—they slept and they sinned in their sleep, friends!” He underscored every phrase with a jab of his fist in the air. “They said I was mad to demand a wakening every morning, that I was mad to shout Wake up! Wake up! through the streets. The day for making the choice is always here, and EVERY DAY IS JUDGMENT DAY!”—

  Dickinham was laughing now, shaking his head, and then there was a loud thump on the hood of the car. A seagull—they were only ten miles inland—had fallen from the sky. The bird was flapping frantically in death throes, on the hood, its broken wings a sorrowful asymmetry, its cracked beak oozing blood.

  “Oh, God,” Glyneth breathed.

  Anthony’s followers drew back, gasping, murmuring, as Anthony pointed at the dying bird.

  “I witness for the Good Lord! Behold! The poisoners serve their dark master and they sicken the world—like the sickness of sin in their souls, they spread poison over the world, and the Good Lord’s blessed creation withers and dies!”

  Stephen saw an odd movement from the corner of his eye—a squirrel on a tree trunk in the park. It was hanging on to the trunk by its front claws, the rest of its body was twitching, spasming. It managed to get a grip with its hind paws, went a few feet farther up, stopped, shaking its head violently—then fell, dying convulsively in the grass at the base of the tree.

  “Dickinham,” Stephen whispered, “do me a favor: Roll up that window.”

  “BEHOLD!” the erstwhile Reverend Anthony shouted, turning up his helmet amplifier, so his voice boomed and echoed like the voice of God. “ ‘BY THEIR FRUITS YOU SHALL KNOW THEM!’ They sicken the Earth! Behold!”

  Dickinham grinned at the preacher—a strained, skullish grin—gave him the finger, put the vehicle in gear, and drove hurriedly away.

  It wasn’t until that evening, alone at his laptop in his Bald Peak cubby, that Stephen began to ask himself in earnest why Glyneth had talked so frankly about the Dirvane 17 rumors. She was his assistant—wasn’t she afraid of getting fired, for being loose lipped about such things? Might she have been planted to test his loyalty? Did they suspect he was some kind of bleeding heart?

  The questions came seething up in his mind as he skimmed through the material she’d sent him, a file beamed from her palmer . . .

  In 1931, the Rockefeller Institute for Medical Investigations injected human subjects with cancerous cells. The Institute’s Dr. Cornelius Rhoads later set up the U.S. Army Biological Warfare facilities. Later still, working for the Atomic Energy Commission, he initiated radiation exposure experiments both on soldiers and civilian hospital patients—the subjects had little or no understanding of what they were being subjected to.

  In the 1932 Tuskegee Syphilis Study, 200 black men diagnosed with syphilis were not told of the diagnosis and were denied treatment. They were used as lab subjects in a study of the progress of the disease. They all died from syphilis. They could have been successfully treated.

  In 1946, patients in Veterans’ Affairs hospitals were utilized for medical experiments. Scientists were ordered to say “investigations” or “observations” instead of “experiments” when discussing the study.

  In 1947, the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission issued the highly secret Document 07075001, which blandly noted that the agency would begin injecting doses of radioactive substances into uninformed human guinea pigs. . . . Also that year the CIA began studying LSD as a possible weapon. Human subjects were subjected to the powerful drug either without their knowledge or without a clear understanding of the risks—risks known to the administrators of the experiment.

  In 1950, the Department of Defense began to detonate nuclear bombs—and to monitor people living downwind for resultant illnesses and radiation-induced mortality. It is assumed the DoD knew there would be a measurable increase of such consequences in the American citizens downwind of the blasts.

  In 1950, the U.S. Navy deliberately discharged a cloud of bacteria from ships so that it would drift over San Francisco. The city was monitored by devices, which could be safely checked later, to see how far the infection spread. A significant number of San Franciscans fell sick with apparent pneumonia.

  In 1951, the DOD started its own open-air tests of disease-producing bacteria and viruses. The tests continued through 1969. Subsequent investigators believe that people in the areas around the open-air testing were exposed—no one knows for sure how many sickened and died as a result of the tests.

  In a 1953 test of chemical warfare capability, theU.S. military sprayed clouds of zinc cadmium sulfide onto various cities including Winnipeg, St. Louis, Minneapolis, Fort Wayne, the Monocacy River Valley in Maryland, and Leesburg, Virginia. The long-term health consequences of the tests are not definitely known.

  Also in 1953, the military and CIA undertook airborne micro-agent distribution experiments, exposing thousands of people in New York and San Francisco to the airborne germs Serratia marcescens and Bacillus glogigii.

  In 1953, American intelligence services launched Project MK ULTRA, designed to test drugs and biological agents specific for mind control and psychological operations. Human beings were sometimes used as guinea pigs in the project without their knowledge. There is at least one well-documented case of a subject committing suicide as a result of the project. The evidence suggests there were other casualties.

  In 1956, the U.S. military released mosquitoes infected with yellow fever in Savannah, Georgia, and Avon Park, Florida. Army agents pretended to be government health officials in subsequent tests for effects on unwitting victims . . .

  In 1965, intelligence services commenced Project MK SEARCH, attempting to control human behavior through mind-altering drugs . . .

  In 1966, the CIA initiated Project MK OFTEN, a program that tested the toxicological consequences of certain drugs on humans—and on animals, the experimenters making no great distinction . . .

  In 1966, the U.S. Army spread Bacillus subtilis variant niger through large parts of the New York City subway system. Army scientists dropped lightbulbs filled with the bacteria onto ventilation grates, exposing about a million civilians. Lightbulbs were used presumably as camouflage—if noticed, they would be ignored, unlike lab flasks . . .

  According to Military Review, November 1970, the United States had two years earlier intensified its development of so-called “ethnic weapons,” designed to selectively target and eliminate ethnic groups that were susceptible due to genetic differences. . . . In 1977, senators were told in hearings that 239 major metropolitan areas and smaller towns had been deliberately exposed to biological warfare age
nts since the program began in 1949.

  It went on and on, through the 1990s and the first decade of the twenty-first century. . . . Stephen shook his head and put his finger on the button to delete the file.

  “Stephen?”

  He turned—and there was Winderson. Stephen shifted his chair so he’d block Winderson’s view of the screen with his body. Which might have been a mistake: Winderson glanced toward the screen, as if wondering what Stephen was covering up.

  This is ridiculous, Stephen thought. But he didn’t unblock the screen.

  “Just checking in. Didn’t mean to startle you, Stevie boy.”

  Stephen could see a file box through Winderson’s torso. As he watched, interference rippled the hologram.

  “You didn’t startle me. Glad to see you. I just hope you don’t get sick from that flickering, boss,” Stephen added, making a nervous joke.

  “Hm? Oh, is my image messy? Ha! Well, my boy, how’d your first day in the field go?”

  “Um . . . fascinating.”

  “Dirvane 17 is pretty effective, isn’t it?”

  “You could say that, yes.”

  “Do I detect a certain ambiguity in your response? You know, we’re really hoping you can start coming up with some ideas for marketing the product. Right after a little foray into psychonomics, I mean.”

  “Marketing? Oh—of course. I’m already, um, thinking about it.”

  “No misgivings? I mean, I recall your initial concern that it might generate bad publicity for us.”

  “Well—it is a bit problematic. I take it that some of it blew over the town itself today. That shouldn’t be a big problem—but there were people wearing gas masks.”

  “Right, well, they’re the sort of kooks who love dramatizing. We sprayed near the town, the wind blew a little there but— At any rate, you have to always look at the big picture, Stephen. Our society is soaked in so-called toxins. Some of them are toxic—but there are naturally occurring cyanides in almonds, and arsenic is naturally present in oranges. The body eliminates them, as a matter of course.”

  Stephen knew that thesis. Common sense suggested the counterargument: The trace toxins naturally found in produce occurred at almost undetectable levels, and the human body was better able to filter out some toxins than others.

  Wanting to be a team player, though, he replied, “And of course pesticides can be made to break down, after they first take effect. Some of them.”

  “Certainly. Exactly. And what we try initially doesn’t have to be the final concentration—we may dilute it hundreds of times. Perhaps. And if at first we make a mess here and there—down the line everyone will benefit. It’s like dams. You may cover up some pretty valleys, but you provide millions of people with energy.”

  Stephen nodded. He wondered why Winderson was taking the time to rationalize D17 to him. He was pretty sure the chairman wouldn’t bother with most employees. It was kind of flattering, really, as if Winderson thought him especially important.

  He knew, in some part of himself, that he was swallowing all this because it comforted him. A conceptual tranquilizer.

  But this was his job—he needed to survive in it.

  As if sensing his line of thought, Winderson’s projection went on, “It’s a tough world—competition is fierce. From people and from nature. Nature is always chewing away at us with millions of insect mandibles. Pesticides are among our only defenses.”

  “Sure, I know that,” Stephen said, feeling a little better.

  He’d been more disturbed than he’d realized by what he’d seen today.

  And by Reverend Anthony. Crazy, that man—but very convinced.

  “Just giving you food for thought—maybe you can use it in marketing somewhere. I remember when I was a boy those old Raid commercials on TV. ‘Kills bugs dead!’ Now that was style! But you know, a corporation, my boy, isn’t about its product. It doesn’t matter what we make. We’ve diversified—and we’ll diversify further. But what really matters is the—the organism of the corporation. And whether or not we’re in harmony with that organism.”

  “Organism?” Stephen realized he shouldn’t seem surprised. “Yes, of course—if you’re incorporated, you’ve got a, what? A whole that’s more than the sum of the parts. Organization—and organism . . . I mean, they’re close . . .”

  Okay, he thought, now I’m babbling.

  “Oh, it’s more than that, Stephen, m’boy,” Winderson went on, putting his holographic hands in his holographic pockets. “Harken back to the late nineteenth century. The Supreme Court made a decision. It was, in this case, in favor of a railroad to the effect that corporations were to be regarded as having the rights and privileges of individuals. They were considered to be as real as human beings, legally. They were, of course, more powerful than individual human beings. And that was the turning point: We began to think of corporations differently. First they became extended families, and then they became entities. They’ve taken on a life of their own in a more literal way than you realize, Stephen. A corporation is a living thing in the astral realm . . . but you’ll learn more about that in psychonomics.”

  “I’m . . . looking forward to it.” Stephen couldn’t think of anything better to say. What did you say to “a corporation is a living thing in the astral realm”?

  Winderson nodded gravely several times, then looked at something Stephen couldn’t see. “Anyway, just wanted to check in. We may have another assignment for you later tonight. You may see me again. Gotta go. Call coming in from—good grief, from Turkmenistan. Can you imagine? Always something.”

  And he blinked out.

  Was he really gone? Stephen wondered. Winderson could see Stephen, somehow, when he chose to. He might still be watching. Stephen turned and, as quickly as he could without looking like he was hiding something, he deleted Glyneth’s cranky e-mail. He switched off the computer and thought, I’ll get a cup of coffee.

  But he didn’t move. He didn’t get up. He just sat there staring at the dead screen, gnawing a knuckle. Thinking.

  Why had Glyneth sent that file to him? What was upwith her?

  Suddenly he felt claustrophobic, trapped in this little cubicle. He got up and went down the empty overlit hallway to the cafeteria in search of coffee.

  He smelled gardenias, before he saw Jonquil. He turned, and saw her sitting at the far end of the cafeteria, with her back to him, looking out a window—though nothing much could be seen in the darkness outside.

  People who looked out into unbroken darkness were actually looking into their own minds, he supposed.

  She was wearing a dove-gray suit. A short jacket hung over the back of her chair. The harsh cafeteria light flashed on her white silk blouse. He knew it was Jonquil from the red-gold spill of her hair across her shoulders.

  He started toward her, then stopped, not wanting to startle her. “Hey,” he called, softly.

  She looked over her shoulder. Even from where he stood, he could see tear streaks. “Hi.” She turned away, wiped her eyes. “Come and have some of this hot chocolate.”

  He crossed to stand beside her. “I was sort of looking for coffee. You okay?”

  She swallowed, then looked into her plastic cup. “I’m . . .” She shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

  “ ‘Sure,’ she says. I’m not so sure, though. Can I help, Jonquil? I mean, I barely know you, but—”—

  “It’s really very sweet of you to ask. I’m not so good at hiding things, but I can’t really talk about it yet.” She sipped at the hot chocolate and made a face. “Grew a skin on it. Gross.”

  “I’m kind of surprised to see you out here at Bald Peak. I didn’t think it was your . . . I don’t know, I thought you worked in the throne room of the castle, so to speak. We’re mostly peasants out here.” He looked at her and chuckled. “You are here, aren’t you? I just had a visit from Winderson—only he wasn’t really here.”

  “His idea of keeping people on their toes. You’re not seriously asking if I’m he
re?”

  She turned to look up at him, and he almost fell into her deep blue eyes. He could feel the warmth of her body.

  “No, you’re definitely here.”

  “I don’t want to be. I want to be in my stupid little cell of a room drinking some cognac.” She stood up and put on her jacket.

  “You’re staying here, at the observatory?”

  “It’s just too far to a decent motel.”

  “There’s something in Ash Valley, I think.”

  She looked at him as if wondering if he were serious. “Oh, I wouldn’t stay there.” She shrugged. “So—you coming or not?”