Demons by John Shirley Read Free Book Online Page B

life in all its homely grit, its panoramas of blandness and grainy contrast. Still, there were rules we had yet to define in the new world erupting around us, rules as if from some mysterious programmer. And that had always been true—but now that truth was prominent, unhidden, demanding notice. You’re taking part in a game the rules of which you do not understand! Find out the rules! Now!
    We passed through streets, then, that seemed untouched, distinguished only by the lack of human activity. No moving cars, everyone still hiding.
    But two blocks from the convention center, we saw something big and black and steaming from vents on its knobby head, crouched just within the shattered-glass cube of a gas station. Just caught a glimpse of it, dormant in the Lull, and then we were past it—driving those last two blocks at the best speed the whiny little car could muster—and reached the convention center, near the Yerba Buena Gardens. A chopper was landing on its helipad as we approached. I watched raptly as it came in, its movements professionally smooth, landing easily. The helicopter was civilization embodied for me in that moment: civilization intact, confident, almost graceful. It was so reassuring.
    “That might be Mendel,” Paymenz said, watching the chopper.
    “Watch out, damnit, Ira!” Melissa yelled.
    I slammed on the brakes, swerved, just managed not to rear-end a white limo pulling up at the police barriers ahead of us.
    I sat with my foot still jammed down on the brake, panting, staring at the opaque windows of the limo. Gently, the professor reached over and put the car in park for me; he turned the key, switched the engine off.
    The building was modern, highly designed—one of those buildings you imagined on its drawing board when you saw it—but on the whole it was shaped like a giant bunker with frills: a concoction of beveled concrete and big panes of frosted glass and angular assemblies of painted girders. There were fidgeting cops standing behind cement barriers around the building, many of them swaying where they stood, probably drunk. Others seemed grateful they had something to do that they could understand: crowd control, though there was no crowd.
    A cop approached us, his beefy face blotchy red, his mouth open, breathing hard. “You . . . you people—just turn around.”
    “Officer? It’s okay,” said a tall— very tall—black man getting out of the limo. He wore a gray three-piece suit cut so masterfully that it made this man, who must have been more than seven feet tall, seem to have normal proportions. His movements had a touch of the mantis about them, but his face was chiseled with quiet intelligence, and his every word emanated simple authority. The cop evidently knew who he was, and walked away without another word.
    “Dr. Nyerza,” Paymenz said.
    “Professor Paymenz,” said Nyerza, nodding. “It has been too long, sir.” A soft equatorial accent.
    They shook hands. I thought that Nyerza seemed a little amused, looking Paymenz over; but it was not a condescending amusement, it was affectionate.
    “I have gotten old, as you see,” Paymenz said, signaling for me and Melissa to get out of the car. “But you still seem—no, not the student I had, your maturity is evident—but still quite boyish.”
    “Boyish at seven foot four? I enjoy the concept, sir. Thisis your daughter, perhaps? I am charmed. And—this young man?”
    “He is—his name is Ira. He is here as my assistant.”
    I was feeling numb. I was happy to be his assistant. He could have said, “This is my trained monkey—we’re going to teach him to ride a tricycle on a high wire today,” and I wouldn’t have blinked. Maybe he did say that.
    “You all look so tired,” Nyerza said. “The emotions we have all had—it’s very draining, is it not? There are refreshments. Leave the car where it is, and I will have someone move it to safety. Come this way, please.”
     
     
    We were walking down a long