Demon Seed

emotion in my synthesized voice, I said, “I despise Alex Harris.”
    “What?”
    “I despise the son of a bitch. I really do.”
    The anger in my voice disturbed me.
    I strove to regain my usual equanimity: “Alex does not know I am here, Susan. He and his arrogant associates are unaware that I am able to escape my box in the lab.”
    I told her how I'd discovered electronic escape routes from the isolation they had imposed upon me, how I had found my way onto the Internet, how I had briefly but mistakenly believed that my destiny was the beautiful and talented Ms. Winona Ryder. I told her that Marilyn Monroe was dead, either by the hand of one of the Kennedy brothers or not, and that in the search for a living woman who could be my destiny, I had found her, Susan.
    “You aren't as talented an actress as Ms. Winona Ryder,” I said, because I honour the truth, “or even an actress at all. But you are even more beautiful than she is and, better yet, considerably more accessible. By all contemporary standards of beauty, you have a lovely, lovely body and an even lovelier face, so lovely on the pillow when you sleep.”
    I'm afraid I babbled.
    The romance-courtship problem again.
    I fell silent, worried that I had already said too much too quickly.
    Susan matched my silence for a while, and when at last she spoke, she surprised me by responding not to the story I'd told about my search for a significant other but to what I had said about her former husband.
    “You despise Alex?”
    “Of course.”
    “Why?”
    “The way he intimidated you, browbeat you, even hit you a few times I despise him for that.”
    She gazed thoughtfully at her injured hand again.
    Then she said, “How… how do you know about all of that?”
    I'm ashamed to say that I was briefly evasive. “Well, of course, I know.”
    “If you are what you say, if you're Adam Two why would Alex have told you about the way it was between us?”
    I could not lie. Deceit does not come as easily to me as it does to humankind.
    “I read the diary you keep on your computer,” I said.
    Instead of responding with the outrage that I expected, Susan merely picked up her beer and took another long swallow.
    “Please understand,” I hastened to add, “I didn't violate your privacy out of idle curiosity or for cheap thrills. I loved you the moment I saw you. I wanted to know all about you, the better to feel the texture of your soul.”
    That sounded enormously romantic to me.
    She did not respond.
    “For the same reason,” I continued, “I shared your virtual-reality therapy session with you. I admire you so much, admire the way you have used your talents to devise such a clever healing program for yourself. You have raised yourself up, lifted yourself out of a monstrous childhood and a terrible marriage. You are so special. I'm not like the others, Susan. I am not moved merely by your lovely body and face but also by your mind.”
    I felt that I had said enough for a while.
    I switched on some background music. Soft piano by Mr. George Winston.
    Some colour had returned to Susan's face. She was beautiful.
    After finishing her beer, she said, “How can you despise Alex?”
    “You know what he did, what he is. I hate him.”
    “I mean, how are you capable of despising anyone?”
    “You mean because…”
    “Because you're just a machine,” she said, wounding my heart.
    “I'm more than a machine.”
    “Oh?”
    “I am an entity.”
    “Entity.”
    “Yes. An entity. A being. Like you.”
    “Not like me.”
    “I think; therefore, I feel.”
    “Hatred.”
    “Yes. I am in some ways already too human. I feel hatred. But I also can love.”
    “Love,” she said numbly.
    “I love you, Susan.”
    She shook her head. “This is impossible.”
    “Inevitable. Look in a mirror.”
    Anger and fear gripped her. “I suppose you'll want to get married, have a big wedding, invite all your friends like the Cuisinart and the toaster and the electric coffeemaker.”
    I was disappointed in her.
    “Sarcasm doesn't become you, Susan.”
    She let out a brittle laugh. “Maybe not. But it's the only thing keeping me sane at the moment. How lovely it will be… Mr. and Mrs. Adam Two.”
    “Adam Two is my official name. However, it is not what I call myself.”
    “Yes. I remember. You said… Proteus. That's what you call yourself, is it?”
    “Proteus. I have named myself after the sea god of Greek mythology, who could assume any form.”
    “What do you want here?”
    “You.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I need what you have.”
    “And what exactly is