Daemon (48 page)

“Actually, it’s a dynamic array capable of encapsulating a variable number of dimensional elements.”

Sebeck looked at him blankly.

Price patted him on the back. “You’re right. It’s a private dimension.” He made a scooting motion. “Better sit down. He’ll know if you don’t do it.” Sebeck stepped forward and sat in one of the stuffed leather chairs. He wiped a thin layer of dust from the armrests and shifted to keep the computer belt from pressing into his back.

Sebeck could actually see Sobol more clearly now, since he was closer. Sobol’s phantasm was gaunt, and the gaping eye socket looked horrific. He really did resemble a restless spirit wandering the Earth.

Sobol looked toward Price. “Leave us.”

“Damn.” Price looked to Sebeck. “You’re on your own, my man. I gotta leave.”

Sebeck gestured to the apparition of Sobol. “What the hell do I say to this thing?”

“I was hoping
you’d
know.” Price rushed out, closing the double doors behind him.

Sobol’s spectre gazed at the doors. A loud
click
sounded as they locked.

After a few moments, Sobol turned again to Sebeck. He smiled slightly. “I’m glad it was you, Sergeant. You were my favorite. So damaged by your choices. You never understood games. Maybe that’s why the world was such a mystery to you.”

Sebeck stared. “Why don’t you just die already?”

Sobol paused. “Mammals of every species indulge in play. Games are Nature’s way of preparing us to face difficult realities. Are you finally ready to face reality, Sergeant?”

“Kiss my ass.”

Sobol’s spectre pointed at his own forehead. “It’s so clear here. Even if you can’t see it.” He lowered his arm. “Civilization is about to fail.”

Sebeck felt a wave of anxiety wash over him.
Kee-hrist.

“The modern world is a highly efficient, precision machine. But that’s its flaw—one wrench in the works and it all grinds to a halt. So what does our generation get? A culture of lies to hide weakness. Decreasing freedom. All to conceal one simple fact: the assumptions upon which our civilization is based are no longer valid. If you doubt me, ask yourself: why was I able to accomplish this?”

Sebeck shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“But what if we corrected civilization’s weakness—as painful as that correction might be?”

Sobol changed expression, looking more relaxed. “But you’re probably confused. Why did I frame you? It’s simple: you were bait—bait that they took. The weak hide their weakness. By now, the plutocrats have put their money in safer havens, and I have closely watched this transfer. Now they are more vulnerable than ever.” Sobol grinned humorlessly. “You were my Trojan horse, Sergeant.”

Sebeck’s fingernails nearly tore through the chair leather. “Fuck you! You destroyed my life!”

Sobol’s spectre flickered almost imperceptibly. “An analysis of your voice patterns is revealing. Prosody tells me that you are agitated. Save your anger, Detective. It will make no difference to the outcome.”

Sebeck ground his teeth.

“Who will mourn for you, Sergeant? No one. You and I share that. We have sacrificed for the greater good. In gratitude I cared for your family in your absence—when no one else would. Your family has no idea that I am their benefactor.”

Sebeck leaned forward, another rage building. “What have you done?”

Sobol continued. “They will continue to have good fortune—but only as long as I can count on you, Detective.”

“You son of a bitch!” Sebeck swept a curio case off of Sobol’s desk, sending it crashing into the wall behind him. Glass shards flew everywhere. “Don’t involve my family!”

Sobol’s spectre flickered again. “There is that pattern again. You’re upset. I defer to your judgment in this matter. Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’: should the Daemon withdraw support from your family?”

Sebeck stopped short. He took a breath and realized he had no idea how to respond. If—

“Respond ‘yes’ or ‘no’—or I will make a random choice for you.”

“Damn you!”

“Answer NOW. Do you want the Daemon to withdraw financial support from your family?”

Sebeck shook his head and closed his eyes. “No.”

“Thank you. The Daemon will continue to provide for them. Now, please sit down.”

“I hope you’re burning in hell.” Sebeck sat.

“We both know you don’t believe in hell.”

Sebeck sat stunned at the spectre’s response.

“Yes, I’ve done quite a bit of research on you, Sergeant. But don’t confuse me with someone who gives a damn about you. You will live or die, and I don’t care which. The only thing I care about is the Daemon’s goal. There’s a greater good in this than you can understand—perhaps than you’ll ever understand. Since you were clever enough to save yourself, you may be of some use to me still. If the Daemon triumphs, tens of millions will die. If it fails, billions will die, and we will fall back to a seventeenth-century agrarian economy. Those are the stakes, Sergeant.”

Sebeck was practically climbing out of his skin. He whispered under his breath, “Goddamn you…”

“You want to destroy the Daemon—but you offer nothing in its place. How can you expect to handle the future if you can’t even handle the present? I’ll tell you what the Daemon is: the Daemon is a remorseless system for building a distributed civilization. A civilization that perpetually regenerates. One with no central authority. Your only option is what form that civilization takes. And that depends on the actions of people like you.”

Sobol stood and started pacing behind the desk. For the first time Sebeck noticed that the desk chair was also a phantasm—there was no real chair behind the desk.

“There are those who resist necessary change. Even now they think only of protecting their investments. I am at war with them. A war that you’ll never see on the evening news. And to my mind, the outcome of this war will decide whether civilization flourishes—or collapses into a thousand-year dark age. Perhaps even with the eclipse of the human race as the dominant species on this planet.”

Sobol ran his hand along the scar on his skull. “My enemies will show themselves soon, Sergeant. As much as you despise me, they are your true enemy. I am merely an inevitable consequence of human progress. An unfeeling, unthinking thing.”

Sebeck sat in stunned silence for several moments.

Sobol’s spectre sat on the edge of the desk near Sebeck. “I suspect that democracy is not viable in a technologically advanced society. Free people wield too much ability to destroy. But I will give you the chance to determine the truth of this. If you fail to prove the viability of democracy in man’s future, then humans will serve society—not the other way around. Either way, a change is coming. I see it. As plainly as I see you sitting there.”

Sebeck realized Sobol had indeed envisioned this moment—for here Sebeck sat.

“Do you accept the task of finding justification for the freedom of humanity, Sergeant? Yes or no?”

Sebeck sat staring at the floor. He missed his family. He was tired of being alone. Of feeling the hatred of the world seeping through the walls of every room he was in. Why was this happening to him? Why did it have to be him?

“Do you accept this task, Sergeant? Yes or no?”

Son of a bitch.

“I will ask one more time: will you—”

“Yes.”

Sobol’s spectre flickered briefly, then nodded. “Good, Sergeant. I’m glad you could overcome your hatred of me.”

Sobol stood and walked toward the wall. His steps creaked on the floor to complete the illusion. He turned toward Sebeck. “Walk with me.”

With a wave of the spectre’s hand, a section of the wall opened in reality, revealing a narrow back hallway. Wainscoting and rich wallpaper lined the walls.

Sebeck rose reluctantly, glancing back at the sealed double doors he’d entered through, then looked again at Sobol’s phantom padding down the hall.

Sobol turned back again to look over his shoulder. “Please, Sergeant.”

Sebeck gritted his teeth and followed on Sobol’s heels as the apparition opened another door at the end of the hallway. Brilliant sunlight and a mild, fresh breeze filled the hall. The sound of rustling leaves came in on the wind.

Sebeck stopped. It had been many months since he’d been outside. His nostrils flared, taking in the fragrance. Balmy air whirled around him.

Sobol’s spectre beckoned him.

Sebeck strode down a short series of steps and into the sunlight. He hurried to catch up with Sobol, who was already moving across a green stretch of lawn beneath the shade of an ancient California oak. They were in a low-walled yard at the back of a great Victorian mansion.

Sebeck turned on his heels, drinking in the sun and the scenery. The Lompoc Valley lay around him. Rolling grassy hills dotted with oaks, blue mountains loomed on the horizon. Split-rail fences undulated over the contours of the land. The wind waved through the grass. The beauty of it almost brought Sebeck to tears.

He was alive.

Sobol stood next to the great oak, looking down at the ground.

Sebeck moved to catch up, and as he reached the tree he could see a small headstone there, set in the grass near the low wall. Sebeck read the simple inscription.

Matthew Sobol—1969

The inscription was centered—leaving no room for a date of death.

Sobol’s spectre gazed out over the valley below. “I loved this place.” He turned to Sebeck. “Are you familiar with the Fates, Sergeant? Greek legend said that they spun the threads of men’s lives and cut them at a length of their choosing. Like the Fates, I severed the thread of your life….”

Sobol faced toward the horizon and extended his hand. Suddenly a glowing blue line appeared in D-Space, extending from Sobol’s palm and tracing almost instantly down the nearby road and through the hills, to be lost beyond the horizon.

“Here is your new thread. Only you can see it, and it leads to a future only you can find.”

At that, Sobol’s ghostly image turned and started descending slowly into the ground of his grave, as if walking down ethereal steps. He moved methodically, slowly—like a monk in procession. Just before Sobol’s head disappeared beneath the soil, he stopped and looked up, directly into Sebeck’s eyes. “The guardian of this node will teach you all you need to know. When you leave this place, Sergeant, remember that they killed Peter Sebeck once. Do not doubt that they will kill him again if he reappears. Alive you’re a grave risk to their world—such is your fate.”

With one last glance, Sobol stepped down into his grave and disappeared beneath the grass.

Sebeck stared for several minutes at the spot where his nemesis had disappeared. His thoughts were turbulent—not yet forming into anything definite. Why didn’t he feel rage? Depression? He finally looked up, and the thread was still there, undulating over the land, projected from where Sebeck stood. He flipped up the HUD glass lenses, and the glowing thread disappeared. He flipped them down, and the line returned.

Sebeck heard the crunch of gravel, and he turned to see a black Lincoln Town Car easing to a stop just beyond the back wall gate.

Laney Price got out and moved to open the rear car door. He motioned dramatically for Sebeck to get inside.

With one last glance at Sobol’s grave, Sebeck approached the car, pushing open the wrought iron gate.

Price nodded, still holding open the rear door. “I’m supposed to help you, Sergeant. Sobol said you’d know where to go.”

Sebeck gazed back along the road behind them—away from the blue thread. He thought of his previous life. Of those he’d left behind. Of the sheriff’s department, Laura, and his son, Chris. Of everyone and everything he’d ever known. Peter Sebeck was dead.

He turned to face the blue line again, tracing a glowing filament down the road and toward a distant horizon.

“I’ll drive.”

THE END

It’s been said that writing is a solitary profession, but I just don’t see it. On the long journey to get this book published, I’ve met countless people who gave both their time and effort to pass
Daemon
on to others. I would be remiss if I did not show my appreciation to the following folks:

Rick Klau and the whole gang at Google for finding a needle in a haystack. Stewart Brand and Peter Schwartz of the Long Now Foundation for opening so many doors. Jeffrey Rayport for making key connections. Don Donzal and the Ethicalhacker.net team for checking the details. John Robb at Global Guerrillas for bringing serious folks to the table. Jim Rapoza at
eWeek
for being the first to note
Daemon
in print. Craig Newmark of Craigslist for being cool to an unknown writer. Brilliant individuals such as Thomas L. and the inimitable Alexi S., who impact your life in ways you’ll never know. Tom Leonard at Valve Software for early encouragement. Mike and Carol Caley for their friendship and confidence in me. Frank and Charlene Gallego for bringing
Daemon
everywhere I could not. Anne Borgman for catching things everyone else missed. And my gratitude to Frank DeCavalcante, for inspiring a lifelong love of books and writing.

Profound thanks as well to my wonderful literary agent, Bridget Wagner, at Sagalyn Agency, and also to my editor, Ben Sevier, for taking a chance on me and for being a joy to work with.

Thanks especially to Adam Winston, James Hankins, and Don Lamoreaux, writers and friends whom I’ve long admired and whose advice on early drafts of this book was much appreciated.

Thanks also to Stuart McClure, Joel Scambray, and George Kurtz for bringing attention to cracks in the system, and to Thom Hartmann, P. W. Singer, Neil Gershenfeld, Carl Zimmer, John Perkins, Kevin Phillips, and Jared Diamond, whose published works helped to crystallize some of the sociopolitical themes in this story.

Finally, tremendous thanks to my wife, Michelle, for her tireless efforts to help this book see the light of day. And for knowing I was a writer but marrying me anyway…

You can learn more about the technologies and themes explored in
Daemon
by visiting www.thedaemon.com or through the following books: