Behemoth by Peter Watts Page B

get these feelings. About hurting them. Hurting girls.”
    â€œAnd how do they make you feel?” The voice had edged subtly into the masculine.
    â€œGood. Awful. I mean—I like them. The feelings, I mean.”
    â€œCould you be more specific?” There was no shock or disgust in the voice. Of course, there couldn’t be—the program didn’t have feelings, it wasn’t even a Turing app. It was basically just a fancy menu. Still, stupidly, Achilles felt strangely relieved.
    â€œIt’s—sexy,” he admitted. “Just, just thinking about them that way.”
    â€œWhat way, exactly?”
    â€œYou know, helpless. Vulnerable. I, I like the looks on their faces when they’re … you know…”
    â€œGo on,” said TheraPal TM .
    â€œHurting,” Achilles finished miserably.
    â€œAh,” said the app. “How old are you, Achilles?”
    â€œThirteen.”
    â€œDo you have any friends who are girls?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œAnd how do you feel about them ?”
    â€œI told you!” Achilles hissed, barely keeping his voice down. “I get—”
    â€œNo,” TheraPal TM broke in gently. “I’m asking how you feel about them personally, when you’re not sexually aroused. Do you hate them?”
    Well, no. Andrea was really smart, and he could always go to her for help with his debugs. And Martine—one time, Achilles had just about killed Martine’s older brother when he was picking on her. Martine didn’t have a mean bone in her body, but that asshole brother of hers was so …
    â€œI—I like them,” he said, his forehead crinkling at the paradox. “I like them a lot. They’re great. Except the ones I want to, you know, and even then it’s only when I…”
    TheraPal TM waited patiently.
    â€œEverything’s fine,” Achilles said at last. “Except when I want to…”
    â€œI see,” the app said after a moment. “Achilles, I have some good news for you. You’re not a misogynist after all.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œA misogynist is someone who hates women, who fears them or thinks them inferior in some way. Is that you?”
    â€œNo, but—but what am I, then?”
    â€œThat’s easy,” TheraPal TM told him. “You’re a sexual sadist. It’s a completely different thing.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œSex is a very old instinct, Achilles, and it didn’t evolve in a vacuum. It coevolved with all sorts of other basic drives—fighting for mates, territoriality, competition for resources. Even healthy sex has a strong element of violence to it. Sex and aggression share many of the same neurological paths.”
    â€œAre you—are you saying everyone’s like me?” It seemed too much to hope for.
    â€œNot exactly. Most people have a sort of switch that suppresses violent impulses during sex. Some people’s switches work better than others. The switches in clinical sadists don’t work very well at all. ”
    â€œAnd that’s what I am,” Achilles murmered.
    â€œVery likely,” TheraPal TM said, “although it’s impossible to be sure without a proper clinical checkup. I seem unable to access your network right now, but I could provide a list of nearby affiliated medbooths if you tell me where we are.”
    Behind him, the Achilles’s bedroom door creaked softly on its hinges. He turned, and froze instantly at his core.
    The door to his bedroom had swung open. His father stood framed in the darkness beyond.
    â€œAchilles,” TheraPal TM said in the whirling, receding distance, “for you own health—not to mention your peace of mind—you really should visit one of our affiliates. A contractually guaranteed diagnosis is the first step to treatment, and treatment is the first step to a healthy life.”
    He couldn’t have heard, Achilles