Daniel Suarez - Daemon

Sebeck took it warily. It was like a thick money belt and was made of black, stretchable nylonlike material with a sleek titanium buckle.

Price was fiddling with the glasses. “The belt’s a combination satellite phone, GPS, and wearable computer. Methane-oxide fuel cell battery’ll last for about three days. Works in conjunction with the glasses. Be careful with it. It’s ruggedized and water-resistant, but don’t go driving nails with it. The glasses alone cost about fifty thousand dollars.”

Sebeck was taken aback. “What, are you joking? Who paid for them?”

“Daemon’s got cash, bro. Hell, you ain’t seen nothing.”

“Why’s it giving them to me? I want to destroy the Daemon.”

“Because it wants to have a word with you.”

Sebeck considered this for a few moments. Then he fastened the belt around his waist. It fit well and felt like a lifting belt.

Price slid the HUD glasses onto Sebeck’s face.

Sebeck wrapped the band around his head. “Nice fit.”

“Should be a perfect fit. They scanned your head.”

“They? Who’s they?”

Price shrugged. “Fabricators. Micro-manufacturers. Hell, who knows? The Daemon shipped it to me.”

Sebeck noticed the lens flicker momentarily, then return to normal.

“It’s got a retinal scanner and a heart pulse sensor. If you’re a member of the network and still alive, it knows who you are and what your rights are. It senses the moment you take them off. Put ’em on, you just logged on. Take ’em off, you just logged off.”

Price walked briskly over to a cluttered desk nearby. “Wait a sec.” He grabbed another pair of glasses sitting there and put them on.

They looked at each other.

Suddenly, Sebeck’s lenses blinked, then information appeared at the top and bottom of the “screen.” He focused on Price and was surprised to see a name call-out box hovering over Price—just like in the game The Gate. Price’s screen name was apparently ChunkyMonkey.

“You gotta be shitting me….”

“No, man. Check this out.” He pointed at Sebeck’s glasses. “See the green bar-stack next to my name? That’s my network power relative to you. That number seven—that’s my skill level.”

Price appeared to have seven bars.

“Network power?”

“It’s a point system. I see no bars—that means you’re a wuss compared to me. How many bars do you see?”

“Seven.”

“That means I’m nominally seven times as powerful as you. It has to do with the Shamanic Interface, but we’ll cover that later. Right now, we gotta see One-eye before he goes into a loop. He must know you’re awake by now, since you just logged on.”

Sebeck was having difficulty absorbing the reality of it all.

Price approached him. “Here…” He adjusted one side of the glasses, lowering a short piece of metal. “Sound boom. Gives you audio by vibrating the bones in your head. Works as a microphone the same way.” Price motioned for Sebeck to hurry. “You good to walk, or should I get a wheelchair?”

“I can walk.”

Price came up alongside and helped to steady him. “This way.”

Price brought them toward an alcove into which was set a pair of imposing oak doors about nine feet tall. Sebeck still felt dizzy and the glasses weren’t helping. Inexplicable information kept flashing and winking at him. “God, it’s like walking with sports scores flashing before my eyes.”

“Never mind that. You can customize it later. If you want to see without the glasses, flip the lenses up—they’re on a hinge. Don’t take the glasses off, or you’ll log off the system—and it’ll take a few seconds to get logged back on. You’ll get used to it.”

They reached the door. Price motioned for Sebeck to stay put, then he grabbed the door handles. He glanced back. “Sergeant, welcome to the Daemon’s darknet.” He opened the doors.

They swung inward, revealing a plushly appointed but rather stodgy office with stuffed leather chairs and thick carven furniture. It looked like the office of an eighteenth-century natural philosopher. Bookcases and curio cabinets filled with insect and rock specimens lined the windowless walls. There was dust everywhere.

But what riveted Sebeck’s gaze was the translucent apparition of Matthew Sobol sitting behind the big mahogany desk, hands folded, as if waiting patiently. It was post-surgery Sobol, with his open eye socket, hollow cheeks, and bald head—a shriveled wreckage of a man ravaged by chemotherapy and cancer. He was wearing the same suit he wore at his funeral.

His spectre nodded in somber greeting. “Detective Sebeck. I’ve been waiting for you.” He motioned for Sebeck to come forward. “Please, have a seat.”

Sebeck looked to Price.

Price nodded in commiseration. “I know. It’s freaky, but don’t worry. You’re not Hamlet. This is a Temporal Offset Projection, Sergeant—it’s an interactive 3-D avatar projected over the GPS grid. It’s only visible and audible in your HUD glasses.”

Sebeck studied the spectre. He flipped up his glass lenses. Sobol disappeared. He flipped them back down again and Sobol’s spectre returned. “It’s a private dimension.”

“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.”