Daniel Suarez - Daemon

“Pete, we need to reconnect with the Daemon as soon as possible.”

“We’re just stumbling around blind.” Sebeck got into the car.

Ross thought for a moment. “I know a good coffee place near here.”

“That’s a start.”

Calabasas was an upscale bedroom community not far from Woodland Hills. It was part of the circulatory system of L.A. and, like most towns, straddled an artery of freeway.

Ross guided Sebeck to a new shopping plaza—a riot of pastel stucco, imitation fieldstone, and palm trees—that more resembled a Tim Burton film set than a retail center. The sprawling parking lot was clogged with tiny au pair cars and the monstrous SUVs of stay-at-home moms.

Sebeck gazed at the scene from an outdoor faux-French café. Beyond a nearby railing stood a burbling water feature replete with ducks, as though this wasn’t a desert but a mill pond in the south of France. If someone cut the pumps, Sebeck figured the ducks would be dead inside of six hours. He tossed a piece of croissant to them and sipped his AA Kenya coffee.

Across the table Ross sipped a triple latte. The cup was something straight out of Alice in Wonderland. Sebeck frowned. “What the hell was that thing that attacked us last night? And how did it know my name?”

Ross put his latte down on a freakishly large saucer. “I’m not surprised it knew your name, but I am surprised it spoke your name—particularly since I didn’t hear it.”

“What do you mean you didn’t hear it? It said my name in a huge booming voice.”

“Yes, but I think the file only played for you.”

“What file?”

“The sound file. Someone was recorded speaking your name. That recording was saved as a sound file, and your computer played that file on command. But it wasn’t on my laptop.”

“Why would I have the file but not you?”

“Because Sobol placed it on your computer.”

“But that should have been easy. Sobol’s press release said Ego puts a back door in every machine that runs it.”

Ross took another sip of his latte and shook his head. “No, I don’t buy that.”

“Hold the phone. You were the one saying that Sobol could do anything. That we shouldn’t underestimate him. Now you’re saying he didn’t put a back door in the Ego AI engine?”

“What sense would it make to place a back door in a program, and then tell everyone? All that would do is drastically reduce the number of machines Sobol would have access to. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Sobol was insane.”

“So everyone keeps saying. You know, it would have taken a coordinated effort—by many people—to place a back door in release code.”

Sebeck pondered it. “So, why would Sobol lie about the back door? That lie basically destroyed his own company.”

Both men realized it at the same time.

Ross tapped his chin, thinking. “So, the reason was to destroy his company. I have no idea why, but clearly, that must have been the purpose of the press release.”

“It’s just insane….”

“Maybe, but if there was no back door in the Ego AI engine, it brings us back to the question: how did the Daemon know it was you last night? Remember: you were playing on someone else’s account.”

Sebeck shrugged. “You’re the expert.”

Ross took another sip of his latte. “You were running the game on the same machine you received Sobol’s e-mail on, correct?”

“You mean the e-mail with the video link?”

“Yes.”

Sebeck nodded.

“This whole time we were focusing on what Sobol said in that video, but it never occurred to us that playing the video might also install a Trojan horse.”

“To do what?”

“Open a back door in the computer that runs it.”

Sebeck thought for a moment. “Wait. Aaron ran that video file on the sheriff’s network. Hell, I think most people at the department got a copy. It also found its way to a lot of journalists.”

Ross put his latte down. “Shit, if Sobol used the same kernel rootkit I encountered at Alcyone Insurance, he could open a back door in the sheriff’s network. Sobol could even monitor e-mails between you and the Feds. And antivirus programs wouldn’t detect it.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“If you run a malicious program, that program can do a lot of bad things and not just to you.”

“Christ, how could I be so stupid?”

“We’re not positive that’s what happened. Not yet.”

The thumping of a helicopter registered above the surrounding traffic—it was coming in low and fast. It suddenly crested the roof of the plaza anchor store and swung low over the parking lot.

Sebeck and Ross craned their necks up to see an LAPD chopper angling in directly toward them over the shopping plaza. The chopper wash sent the ducks scurrying for cover under a fairy tale bridge.

Sebeck shielded his eyes against the wind as the noise built to deafening levels. Dozens of napkins flicked away on the wind as nannies squealed in alarm and fled from the surrounding café tables.

Sebeck looked to Ross. “What the hell’s he up to?”

Just then sirens approached from several directions at once. Cars screeched in from every entrance of the parking lot. Sebeck glanced to see federal sedans and Los Angeles police cars race up onto the courtyard paving stones. The cars hadn’t quite stopped when agents wearing bulletproof vests and Kevlar helmets issued forth aiming M-16s at him and Ross. The flak vests were emblazoned with the letters FBI .

A dozen voices shouted, “Hands on your head!”

More agents came rushing through the back of the coffee bar, M-16s and HKs aimed and ready.

Sebeck glanced back and forth in confusion. He raised his hands slowly, shouting back, “What the hell is going on?”

“Hands on your head, or we will shoot!”

Something was beyond wrong. Sebeck looked at the faces of the agents and police arrayed around him. There was abject hatred in their eyes. Burning anger. He knew that look. It was the look reserved for the vilest criminals. They were closing in from two directions—leaving a clear field of fire. Twenty or thirty heavily armed men. Sebeck glanced at Ross, who already had his hands on his head. “What the hell is going on, Jon?”

“I don’t know. But the Daemon’s got something to do with it.”

“This is your last warning! Put your hands on your head, or we will open fire!”

Sebeck felt his blood rising. He put his hands on the back of his head but looked to Ross. “Why are they looking at me ?”

“I don’t know.”

The Feds hit Sebeck like linebackers. They piled on him, pounding him into the concrete, wrenching his hands behind his back and handcuffing him. Then they patted him down and took his service Beretta away. The lead agent hissed into his ear. “If I had my way, I’d put a bullet in your head, Sebeck.” He rammed Sebeck’s face into the sidewalk, and then they pulled him up roughly, shoving Ross aside. Blood flowed from Sebeck’s nose down his shirtfront.

“Peter Sebeck, you are under arrest for the murder of Aaron Larson and other local and federal law officers, for conspiracy, wire fraud, and attempted murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law….”

The world warped as Sebeck’s mind seemed to float four feet above his head. This was impossible. Every pair of eyes bored holes of hatred into him. How was he the Daemon? How was this possible?

He turned toward Ross, standing now beyond a wall of FBI agents. “Jon. Jon!”

“Pete, it’s the Daemon!”

Agents pulled Sebeck along, and half a dozen others shoved him forward from behind. In a second, Ross was lost to sight in the knot of people.