Part 15 (1/2)
”Will you stop it with that?” I said. ”There are no victims. Dewey and Louie are practising art, and I'm helping them. That's all.”
”Yeah?” said the demon. ”What sort of art, exactly? Ma.s.s murder?”
”The aesthetics of burning,” I said.
”Murder,” said the demon.
”There's no connection,” I said.
”Murder. Don't have any illusions.”
”Say,” I said, ”who are you, anyway?”
”I,” said the demon, ”am the only element in this story who isn't you yourself.”
”Nu, seriously,” I said. ”Why are you banging on about murder?”
”Because you, apparently, don't perceive those you kill as human beings.”
”I don't understand why you keep insisting I killed anyone.”
”Mr Kalmanson, for example,” said the demon. ”What happened to him?”
”I have had enough,” I said, ”of this conversation.”
And I went. And was brought back.
”As I said, you're not going anywhere. We were talking about Mr Kalmanson, for instance.”
”He wasn't a human being,” I said. ”He was an a.s.shole bourgeoisie, that's what he was.”
”And the children in the park?”
”A symbol of the moral decrepitude taking hold of the young.”
”A symbol?”
”Of course,” I said. ”Remind me, who are you?”
”I am your artificial consciousness,” said the demon. ”It looks like you can't be stopped any other way.”
”The establishment never looked favourably on alternative art,” I said.
”The establishment never looked favourably on genocide,” the demon said. ”Now you tell me--who are you?”
”I'm Huey,” I said.
”You made up Huey, Louie, and Dewey. You are the three of them together, or, to be exact, each one of them at any given moment.”
”That is complete nonsense,” I said. ”It's even stupider than your banging on about murder, murder, murder.”
”Really? Do you remember how long you've been Huey?”
”Louie,” I said.
The demon sighed. ”This way we won't get far. Tell me--can you call Huey and Dewey? Ask them to come here?”
”Sure,” I said, and they came.
”Say,” said Huey through a mouthful, ”doesn't it seem odd to you....”
”What?” said Dewey.
”That he, like, disappeared?”
”Who?”
”Enough of that!” said the demon and turned to me. ”You're only helping them, right?”
”Yes,” I said. ”I'm the technical guy.”
”Very well,” said the demon, pulled out a gun, and shot Louie and Dewey to death.
Smoke, without fire. Silence. Cinders.
”What have you done?”
”Now you don't have anyone to help.”
”But we have a lot more things...many more items for...our exhibition. There is still so much to do. Doing is every--”
”There is no exhibition!” shouted the demon. ”Forget it! It's finished! Gone! Enough!”
”Remind me--who are you?”
”I am your viral, artificial consciousness,” said the demon. ”You can't get rid of me. I'm a piece of software running on your brain's wetware, and based on your personality, just like Huey and Louie and Dewey, rest in peace. But them you made up, and me you haven't.”
”I didn't make anyone up.”
”Of course you did,” said the demon. ”The two--or three--of them are just aspects of your personality. I don't know what drug or technology you used to create them, but they are definitely you. The loop you're stuck in is probably some kind of side effect. Maybe you're afraid of something and don't want to move on.”
”I don't know what you're talking about and I'm not afraid of anything,” I said. ”And besides, you said you're also based on my personality.”
”But I come from outside,” said the demon.