Demons (31 page)

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 agents 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 here?”

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?”

“Um—where?”

“To drink cognac, of course. You wanted to do something for me. You can have a drink with me. That’d help.”

She didn’t wait for his answer. She swept past him toward the door, swinging her purse. He followed, feeling dreamlike.

Don’t kid yourself, Stephen,
he told himself.
You’re not that lucky.

A hundred uncertain steps later he was standing with her as she unlocked the door to a little dorm-type room. There was just space inside for a queen-sized bed, a dresser, an open closet—with a garment bag hanging inside and a suitcase—a desk with a closed laptop, a gooseneck lamp that provided the only light. Beside the laptop was a bottle of authentic cognac and two snifters. He didn’t think about there being two snifters till a long time later.

Just now his mind was full of the sight of her taking off her jacket, tossing it over the desk chair. “Close the door. We haven’t got enough of the good stuff for Dickinham and those other clucks,” she said.

He closed the door. Not wanting to seem to assume too much by sitting on the bed, he stood awkwardly in the middle of the little room. He crossed his arms—then, feeling that he looked vaguely hostile, he put his hands in his pockets.

She uncorked the cognac, poured them each half a snifter, and looked at him in feigned dismay. “For heaven’s sake, sit down! You’re making this little room seem even smaller, standing there like that.”

Heart pounding, he sat on the edge of her bed and accepted the snifter. She sat down next to him, setting the cognac bottle within reach, and leaned against the wall. She raised the glass to him, said “Chin-chin,” and drank deeply. “Hoo, boy. Stephen, I’m telling you, this is the good stuff. Dale’s private stock. Organic French grapes.”

Organic?
he thought.
Winderson prefers organic?

It was, anyway, a delicious cognac, but it had a kick; already his head was swimming. “Whoa. Strong stuff.”