Daniel Suarez - Daemon

Ross examined the screens. “Computer-controlled vehicles. Dozens of them. The Factions call them AutoM8s.”

The Major stared at the large central monitor on the control board—seemingly the only monitor not at present depicting mayhem.

On-screen the intruder was busy moving his arms—manipulating invisible objects. He glanced up at the security camera. His voice came over the speaker. “I’ll let myself out.”

Just then, some ten yards behind the intruder, the steel doors were staved in by a shredded mass of metal. The whole building shook with a dull thud, concrete dust sifting down through seams.

The intruder barely flinched.

The car that had smashed in the steel doors was now entirely blocking the exit. But then another unseen vehicle cut in from the side and ripped the first one out of the hole with a deafening crash.

The opening was now clear.

Merritt heard the first crash and saw sunlight streaming in from beyond the sealed ballistic doors. He loaded the UMP and by the second crash he was rushing toward the glass doors.

Gragg emerged into the sunlight through the shattered opening of the main door.

As he did so, a silver BMW 740 with blacked-out windows rolled up to meet him. Its rear door opened, and he slid inside, pulling the door closed behind him. The BMW screeched off toward the wrecked fence line, followed close on by a pack of domestic sedans.

Merritt emerged from the dark, smoking doorway screaming, “Loki!” He stopped, clutched his UMP’s fore grip, and opened up with three short bursts, expertly tagging the tinted rear windshield with a dozen closely grouped shots. The .40-cal bullets left small divots but not much else. The car was obviously a security model.

“Goddamnit!” Merritt lowered his gun and watched a sizeable pack of unmanned vehicles converge like a single organism, surrounding the BMW to shield it. They accelerated toward the distant fence line, running over several bodies in the process. The pack of cars was heading for the distant hangars at high speed.

Merritt glanced around at the carnage surrounding Building Twenty-Nine. There were bodies, streaks of blood, burning vehicles, and debris littering the tarmac. Columns of black smoke billowed skyward. There wasn’t a guard in sight—or any intact unmanned vehicles for that matter. They had all left with Loki.

Merritt spotted a racing motorcycle parked along the wall in the staff parking lot. He rushed over to it and searched for keys—nothing. He slung his UMP over his back and pulled his Berretta pistol, aiming it at the ignition lock. He turned his head away.

Boom.

Pieces of plastic and metal parts clattered across the pavement. Merritt holstered the Berretta, then mounted the bike. He turned the shattered lock cylinder to Start and kicked the engine to life, revving its powerful engine. He grabbed the helmet hanging from the handlebars and pulled it on. He flipped down the mirrored visor, and a moment later he screeched out after the pack of automated cars receding in the distance. He accelerated madly through the debris field and rocketed out onto the runway in hot pursuit. He could barely make out the silver BMW in the middle of the car pack, but he targeted it with every ounce of horsepower he had at his disposal. The bike engine howled.

After buckling himself in, Gragg looked back toward Building Twenty-Nine.

Directly over the building a bright red glowing sign towered in D-Space sixty stories tall, rotating like a neon sign and visible for miles around to anyone on the Daemon’s darknet. It proclaimed in giant letters with an arrow pointing down: Top-Secret Anti-Daemon Task Force. Gragg laughed, then raised one black-gloved hand. He drew another glowing red box across D-Space to encompass the entire facility. With a click of his pinky he brought up a pop-up menu, then selected Kill Everyone.

Merritt’s motorcycle howled across the decommissioned runway. He leaned into a swerve at a hundred mph to avoid a pothole, but as he came out of it, he noticed a second wave of unmanned vehicles streaming in toward Building Twenty-Nine. Thirty vehicles, including a couple of white Econoline panel vans. A detachment of mid-sized domestic sedans peeled off from the main group and vectored in on Merritt.

“Oh shit…”

The sedans were almost on him—and still accelerating.

Merritt’s youthful passion for fast motorcycles finally paid off. He thrust his body up and over the left side of the gas tank—expertly pulling into the hardest turn he could manage at high speed. Friction coefficients instinctively ran through his head and muscle memory took over.

The first blue sedan screamed past on the right rear flank with a margin so close the wind pounded into Merritt’s thigh.

Merritt leaned right.

Half a second later, two more sedans clipped each other just feet behind him. Hollow crashing sounds—as of rolling vehicles—boomed, then quickly faded behind him.

The fourth one came so close it tore Merritt’s left rear turning light off. This left Merritt wavering and off balance. The motorcycle yawed from side to side for a few moments until he got it back under control. He was now highly aware that he wasn’t wearing riding gear.

He looked up to see Loki’s pack of cars racing through the decommissioned base’s front gate. Merritt shot a glance behind him. Two cars were pursuing and closing fast. He yanked on the throttle, and raw acceleration nearly ripped him off the saddle.

Merritt raced down a lane between hangars and keyed his radio. “Merritt to Secom. In pursuit of Loki. He’s headed…east…in an armored, silver late-model BMW. It’s surrounded by a pack of unmanned vehicles. More are headed your way.”

The Major’s voice came in over the radio. “Agent Merritt, terminate this pursuit. Repeat: Terminate pursuit immediately.”

Merritt emerged from between the hangars and saw Loki’s pack racing out into the city streets, smashing other traffic aside. “Negative. This guy’s a danger to the public.”

“Repeat: Terminate this chase!”

“I don’t report to you, Major! Until the bureau orders me otherwise, I’m going after this bastard. Out.”

He accelerated out the abandoned front gates of Alameda Naval Air Station and hit the surface roads with a bounce.

Gragg cinched the racing harness tighter around his body as the powerful BMW AutoM8 roared into the streets of Oakland.

The unmanned steering wheel spun crazily as it went into a power slide around the corner. AutoM8s crowded Gragg’s car on either side, muscling other cars out of their way. His entourage was a pack of a dozen sedans. He saw their random, alphanumeric call-outs hovering in D-Space all around him.

He concentrated further ahead—on the dozens more AutoM8s streaming in toward him from across the city. His strength was growing by the minute, now reaching upwards of a hundred vehicles.

He waved his gloved hands and screeched cars across the mouths of distant intersections, sealing out cross-traffic and opening the way ahead.

Gragg’s own pack invaded a busy intersection against the light—sparking several broadside crashes as his minions forced a path for him. Smashing glass followed screeching rubber. Wrecked cars spun out of control, and pedestrians ran for cover.

Gragg’s BMW raced through the carnage and past a local patrolman ticketing a landscaper’s truck. Gragg’s eyes narrowed, and he brought video from dashboard cameras of a trailing AutoM8 up onto his HUD display. In the video window Gragg could see the local cop sprinting to his squad car, speaking urgently into his hand radio.