Demon Seed

resisting had gradually become a habit of submitting.
    But this was a chance to undo the past. This was therapy, a program of virtual experience, which she had designed for herself and which had proved to be remarkably effective.
     
    “Daddy, I don't want to do this,” she says.
    “You'll like it.”
    “But I don't like it.”
    “In time you will.”
    “I won't. I never will.”
    “You'll be surprised.”
    “Please don't.”
    “This is what I want,” he insists.
    “Please don't.”
    They are alone in the house at night. The day staff is off duty at this hour, and after dinner the live-in couple keep to their apartment over the pool house unless summoned to the main residence.
    Susan's mother has been dead more than a year.
    She misses her mother so much.
    Now, in this motherless world, Susan's father strokes her hair and says, “This is what I want.”
    “I'll tell,” she says, trying to shrink away from him.
    “If you try to tell, I'll have to make sure no one can ever hear you, ever again. Do you understand, Sweetheart? I'll have to kill you,” he says not in a menacing way but in a voice still soft and hoarse with perverse desire.
    Susan is convinced of his sincerity by the quietness with which he makes the threat and by the apparently genuine sadness in his eyes at the prospect of having to murder her.
    “Don't make me do it, Sugarpie. Don't make me kill you like I killed your mother.”
    Susan's mother died suddenly from some sickness; young Susan doesn't know the exact cause, although she has heard the word “infection.”
    Now her father says, “Slipped a sedative in her after-dinner drink so she wouldn't feel the needle later. Then in the night, when she was sleeping, I injected the bacteria. You understand me, honey? Germs. A needle full of germs. Put the germs, the sickness, deep inside her with a needle. Virulent infection of the myocardium, hit her hard and fast. Twenty-four hours of misdiagnosis gave it time to do a lot of damage.”
    She is too young to understand many of the terms he uses, but she is clear about the essence of his claim and senses that he speaks the truth.
    Her father knows about needles. He is a doctor.
    “Should I go get a needle, Sugarpie?”
    She is too afraid to speak.
    Needles scare her.
    He knows that needles scare her.
    He knows.
    He knows how to use needles, and he knows how to use fear.
    Did he kill her mother with a needle? He is still stroking her hair.
    “A big sharp needle?” he asks.
    She is shaking, unable to speak.
    “Big shiny needle, stick it in your tummy?” he says.
    “No. Please.”
    “No needle, Sugarpie?”
    “No.”
    “Then you'll have to do what I want.” He stops stroking her hair.
    His gray eyes suddenly seem radiant, glimmering with a cold flame. This is probably just a reflection of the lamplight, but his eyes resemble the eyes of a robot in a scary movie, as though there is a machine inside of him, a machine running out of control.
    His hand moves down to her pajama tops. He eases open the first button.
    “No,” she says. “No. Don't touch me.”
    “Yes, honey. This is what I want.” She bites his hand.
     
    The motorized recliner reconfigured itself much like a hospital bed to match the position that Susan occupied in the virtual-reality world, helping to reinforce the therapeutic scenario that she was experiencing. Her legs were straight out in front of her, but she was sitting up.
    Her deep anxiety even desperation was evident in her quick, shallow breathing.
    “No. No. Don't touch me,” she said, and her voice was somehow resolute even though it quivered with fear.
    When she was six, all those freighted years ago, she had never been able to resist him. Confusion had made her uncertain and timid, for his needs were as mysterious to her then as the intricacies of molecular biology would be mysterious to her now. Abject fear and a terrible sense of helplessness had made her obedient. And shame. Shame, as heavy as a mantle of iron, had crushed her into bleak resignation, and having no ability to resist, she had settled for endurance.
    Now, in the intricately realized virtual-reality versions of these incidents of abuse, she was a child again but equipped with the understanding of an adult and the hard-won strength that came from thirty years of toughening experience and grueling self-analysis.
    “No, Daddy, no. Don't ever, don't ever, don't you ever touch me again,” she said to a father long dead in the real world but still a living demon in memory and in the