Daemon d-1

by Daniel Suarez

  Lindhurst looked darkly at Vanowen. “That’s a touching sentiment, but I seem to remember it was you who told me to cut IT head count by half and slash the benefits of the rest. That left us with plenty of disgruntled people in our midst.”

  “You took your bonus, if I remember.”

  “Look, let’s not turn this into a blamestorming session. There’ll be plenty of time for that if we fail. In the meantime, we should focus on what we’re going to do.”

  “You mean what you’re going to do. I’m going to Moscow to maintain the appearance of normalcy. But I want a report in my inbox by the time I land, detailing precisely what you intend to do to solve this problem.”

  “No e-mail. Our systems are compromised. The phones, too. They’re voice over IP-the signals go over the computer network. We’ll need to use our personal cell phones and handwritten correspondence only-nothing enters a computer concerning this situation. Not a single typed character. Not even a scheduled meeting between us. Nothing.Otherwise they’ll know what we’re up to.”

  Vanowen was slightly taken aback. “You’re serious?”

  “Russ, you might not have noticed, but this entire organization is stitched together with computer networks. You can’t enter the parking garage without producing half a dozen records in some database. Sobol says he has people on our staff, and they no doubt can see everything we’re doing.”

  “If you ask me, this is simple: we shut everything off and go back to using pens, paper, and phones. Lay off all these IT bastards. We’ll see how they like that.”

  Lindhurst took a deep breath to keep from losing his temper. He heard this suggestion from time to time from men of Vanowen’s generation. Lindhurst chose his words carefully. “Russ, our competitors deliver market information in seconds to their clients, and we need to also. That doesn’t even begin to cover the fact that we need information just as much, if not more, than our clients in order to make a profit. If you turn off these systems, you may as well lock the doors.”

  Vanowen was already nodding. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. But damnit, I knew this would happen one of these days with these goddamn computers.”

  Lindhurst let this Nostradamus-like postdated prediction go uncontested. “Let’s be explicit, then: you go about your normal schedule. I’ll see what I can do about the problem, and when you return, we meet first thing. In person and off-site.”

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t simply call the authorities?”

  “Look, even if we decide to contact them, the more we know about what’s really going on, the better. We’re only talking about a few days more, and this thing has been inside us for months. Remember, the slightest hint that there’s trouble, and this thing is liable to pull the plug on all our data.”

  “But would it really do that? Then it would get nothing.”

  “This isn’t a person,Russ. It’s a logic tree. That’s like wondering if a computer has the courage to put the letter Don-screen if you tap the «D» key. I suspect that a few employees have handed over control to the Daemon. I’m hoping I can quietly discover who and convince them to change sides again.”

  Vanowen waved that topic aside. “I don’t want to hear details. Just tell me when you’ve solved it. Now get out of here, I’ve got to get ready to leave.”

  Lindhurst put the remote down. He moved to leave but then turned back toward Vanowen. “What’s in Moscow, Russ?”

  Vanowen scowled. “What?”

  “I’m just curious why you’re heading to Moscow. Are we setting up a branch office there?”

  Vanowen pointed to the door. “Go solve this problem, will you, please?”

  Lindhurst regarded Vanowen for a moment more. He knew the old man was hiding something from him. He just didn’t know what.

  But for once, Lindhurst had a few cards up his own sleeve. Cards that the old man’s generation didn’t even know existed.

  Chapter 32:// Message

  B ack screen. Suddenly a gleaming chrome logo hissed in from the left while ultrapasteurized techno music thumped in over the title:

  News to America

  The title twirled into infinity as inset video images crisscrossed the screen, and the music built in tempo. Anji Anderson pushing a microphone at a businessman covering his face. Anderson helping a handicapped child take her first steps on artificial limbs. Anderson typing feverishly at a laptop keyboard in the open air while columns of black smoke towered over a city skyline behind her. Fast cuts following fast cuts. Half a second each. The human brain had to scramble to identify the image, determine whether it presented a threat, and just barely resolved it in time for the next image: Anderson standing, arms akimbo, glowering at the camera in the middle of Times Square while her name slid into place beneath her belt line. The music stopped cold.

  The screen flipped immediately to black. A color photograph of a small child faded in. A boy smiling into his birthday cake, surrounded by friends. Anderson’s voice rose. “Peter Andrew Sebeck was born in Simi Valley, California, only son to Marilyn and Wayne Sebeck. He was their ray of hope after the loss of their first daughter to leukemia two years earlier. Outgoing, well liked, Peter was a model child.”

  Another picture resolved over the first. It showed Sebeck in a high school football uniform, holding his helmet on his knee, once again smiling.

  “Peter appeared to have the perfect life. But his early promise was cut short when he fathered a child at the age of sixteen with Laura Dietrich, a girl he’d known only a short while. Within a year they married. Friends described it as a cold marriage, devoid of tenderness. Yet, to all outward appearances, Pete Sebeck was still a model citizen. He joined the Ventura County Sheriff’s Department at age twenty-one, took night classes to earn a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice, and rose quickly, becoming a twice-decorated officer and later a sergeant of detectives. To his fellow deputies, he was a no-nonsense officer and a family man-a well-respected citizen of Thousand Oaks, California, the safest city in America.”

  Chilling music rose. The image changed to a still photo of a menacing Sebeck being escorted in handcuffs, his face a blur of fast-moving rage, lashing out at reporters. It was the type of iconic photograph that made careers. A photo of the year. A symbol of the times.

  “But this faade concealed a darker side. Peter Sebeck, convicted mass murderer-nine of his victims federal officers. Another victim, a young colleague who trusted and admired him. Conspirator, embezzler, adulterer. Sex and drug addict. What drives seemingly normal people to commit heinous acts? Is it anger? Greed? Or does evil really exist? Can it possess you? Tonight we’ll find out as I interview Peter Sebeck live from Lompoc Federal Prison. This is News to America.”

  The techno music rose again. A title appeared:

  Sebeck on Death Row

  The screen resolved on Anderson, sitting erect and alert in medium close-up. She looked businesslike yet sexy in a dark Chanel suit. Her makeup was perfect in the warm glow of camera lights. The lighting had to be done carefully so as not to reflect harshly off the bulletproof glass partition-beyond which sat Detective Sergeant Peter Sebeck. The most hated man in America.

  She had helped to make that a reality.

  Sebeck stared from behind the small intercom microphone in the prison visitation cell. The studio provided a better sound system for this interview, and a smaller microphone was clipped onto Sebeck’s khaki prison jumpsuit. One quarter of all households in America were anticipated to tune in. Everything was in place, and after a quick smile Anderson began.

  “I must confess, Detective Sebeck, I’m surprised you agreed to this interview. I’m the person most responsible for your capture and conviction.”

  Sebeck regarded her coolly. “I agreed for my own reasons, not yours.”

  “So you still claim innocence?”

  “I am innocent.”

  “How do you explain the substantial evidence against you?”

  “It was manufactured by Matthew Sobol. He stole my ide
ntity years ago.”

  “So you still claim that Sobol’s Daemon is real, even though all efforts to discover such a thing have come up empty?”

  Sebeck tried to keep his cool. “The government wants people to believe the Daemon is a hoax. They think it takes them off the hook.”

  Anderson shook her head sadly. “Detective, you’ve already admitted your relationship with Cheryl Lanthrop-or did Sobol fake that, too?”

  “He facilitated it. It was designed to impugn my character.”

  “But you’ve been quoted saying-”

  “I’ve been incorrectly quoted-most of the time by you. And there’s no appeal to the court of public opinion, is there? But I guess you know that.”

  “Then this is a conspiracy against you? Everyone from the media to the police, and Sobol himself, have all conspired to frame you for these murders? You’re completely innocent?”

  “I’m guilty of this much: being a bad husband and a worse father. I’m guilty of having an affair and of being too egotistical to realize I was being set up.”

  “Please forgive me, Detective, but that sounds far-fetched.”

  “Yes. That’s the whole point. It was designed to be far-fetched.”

  “Designed by Sobol?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you’re asking everyone to believe you, instead of the facts. We’re to believe that Sobol went to Herculean lengths to frame you-spending not just millions but tens of millions of dollars in the effort?”

  “I’m not asking anyone to believe anything. To be honest, even I wouldn’t believe me.”

  “So you don’t blame anyone?”

  Sebeck stared hard at her. “Oh, I blame some people. But their time will come.”

  “That sounds like a threat. Do you believe the American public will be sympathetic toward threats?”

  “I’m not here to talk to the American public.”

  “Then who are you here to talk to?”

  “The Daemon.”

  “The Daemon?” Anderson was taken aback. “The Daemon doesn’t exist, Sergeant.”

  “You and I both know that isn’t true.”

  Anderson shrugged blissfully. “No, I don’t know that.”

  “You’re real proud of yourself, aren’t you, Anji? Famous and rich-isn’t that what the Daemon promised you? And all you had to do was sell your soul-if you ever had one.”

  “I didn’t come here to be insulted, ex-Detective. Why don’t you tell us your side of the Daemon hoax instead? Help us understand your point of view.”

  “Keep them entertained, Anji. Keep them busy and distracted. That’s your purpose, isn’t it? I see that now. Be careful, because I’m starting to understand Sobol. Maybe even better than you. I’ve had plenty of time to think in here. Why did Sobol warn me?”

  “Sobol warned you? How did he warn you?”

  “At his funeral he said he would destroy me. Those were his exact words. And that’s exactly what he did. He destroyed everything that once defined me. It doesn’t make sense that he would warn me-unless he had further plans for me.”

  “So he’s your friend now? Does that idea comfort you?”

  Sebeck looked her straight in the eye. “Fuck you.”

  Anderson clenched her jaw angrily for a moment. Then a pleasant smile spread across her face. “We have a time delay, Detective. But please watch your language. This is a family show.”

  “I understand what Sobol meant now.”

  “Well, you’re running out of time to solve the case, Sergeant. If the Supreme Court refuses your appeal, you’re scheduled to die by lethal injection. You must be impressed by the unusually swift hand of justice.”

  Sebeck contemplated it calmly. “It is unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps it was the murder of those federal officers.”

  “Why are you helping this thing? Do you think it will ever let you go? Do you think you will ever be free?”

  Anderson ignored him. “You’re undergoing psychiatric treatment. Is that going well?”

  “I’m through talking to you. I came here to send a message to the Daemon.”

  “Well, you’d better hope it watches television, Detective.”

  Sebeck looked directly into the camera. “At Sobol’s funeral, he phoned me. He said that I had to accept the Daemon. That in the months before my death I had to invoke it. And although it will make me sound more insane than ever, my message is this: I, Peter Sebeck, accept the Daemon. And I am ready to face the consequences.”

  Sebeck turned to the prison guards and federal officials standing behind Anderson. “That message needs to get out. She’ll try to cut it from the interview-and when she does, you’ll know she’s afraid. You’ll know she’s in collusion with the Daemon. If you think I’m a nutcase, then that’s all the more reason to get my message out there. It proves your case against me. It condemns me.”

  Anderson watched grimly from beyond the bulletproof partition. “Sergeant, there is no Daemon. But I’ll be happy to pass along the message.”

  Sebeck pointed at her. “You and I will meet again.”

  Anderson felt strangely exhilarated. Sebeck was sexy when he was pissed off-and god, did this guy have balls. He was going to die, but he was going down swinging. She motioned to stop rolling camera, then locked eyes with Sebeck. “I’ll convey the message. Have no doubt.”

  She had a direct line, after all.

  And word from the Daemon was that Sebeck must die.

  Chapter 33:// Response

  Yahoo.com/news

  Sebeck’s Macabre Message-In a live interview with Anji Anderson Friday at Lompoc Federal Prison, Peter Sebeck, the ex-Ventura County Sheriff’s detective convicted in last year’s Daemon Hoax, directed a bizarre message to the late Matthew Sobol: “My message is this: I, Peter Sebeck, accept the Daemon.” Legal experts doubt a belated insanity defense will have any effect on Sebeck’s pending federal appeal.

  In a dark storage room in a nondescript export company in the Huang Cun Industrial Zone of Dongguan City, China, a low-end server stood wedged between stacks of toner cartridges and counterfeit software packages. A long-forgotten CAT-5 cable ran from the back of the machine, snaking behind towering boxes containing yet more boxes, and terminated in a Fast-Ethernet jack just to the left of an overloaded electrical outlet-both lost to sight behind cases of Communist Party propaganda pamphlets, printed specifically for use as props in Western theme restaurants. The Ethernet jack ran in turn to the company network, which in turn led to the corporate Web server, which in turn led to the world.

  The computer fan hummed as the machine used RSS to scan the contents of the same four hundred Web sites every minute. And at exactly seventeen minutes past midnight, Greenwich Mean Time, the machine stopped scanning.

  The computer’s hard drive whined to life and started clicking feverishly-sending out packets to hundreds of IP addresses before committing digital suicide by erasing itself.

  Another Daemon event had been triggered.

  Part Three Six Months Later

  Chapter 34:// Sacculina

  “What the hell is going on with these numbers, people?” Russell Vanowen, Jr., looked up from the PLs in his executive financial summary. He frowned down the burled walnut table running the length of his paneled corporate boardroom. The familiar faces of two dozen Leland board members and senior executives stared back. The faces were all the more familiar because he served on their boards, too. “I’ve got seven divisions running over budget, with only IT on target. What the hell is going on here? Why didn’t I receive any guidance on this?”

  Harris Brieknewcz, the CFO, shook his head slowly. “Russ, let me stop you right there. These numbers are wrong.”

  “Wrong? How are they wrong?”

  “Wrong as in not right. Look…” He slid an open binder across the table. Other execs passed it on to Vanowen. “This is what we’re getting from our off-line systems.”

  “What the hell, Harris-you mean spreadsheets? You’r
e passing me spreadsheets? Why did I spend fifty million dollars on a real-time enterprise accounting system if we can just use spreadsheets?”

  “The accounting system is wrong. Things are being assigned to the wrong cost centers.”

  “Forget cost centers-we’re sixty million dollars over budget this month. It doesn’t matter how you move the shells around. You’ll still have the same number of shells.”

  “Yes, but the numbers aren’t being assigned to the correct cost centers-”

  “Well, then your people are screwing up the entries-”

  “They’re not screwing up the data entry, Russ. We’re not sixty million dollars off the mark this month from keying errors. I had my people start recording these problems because-”

  “Why is this the first I’ve heard about it?”

  Brieknewcz stopped, girded himself, then continued. “You haven’t heard about it because Lindhurst told me they’d fix it. It’s under his purview, not mine. IT runs the accounting system.”

  Milton Hewitt, the executive VP of the brokerage division, leaned forward. “He’s right, Russ. Our cost centers are under budget this period, and we exceeded our revenue targets. But these reports coming out of the accounting system are all screwed up.”

  Several others voiced their agreement.

  Vanowen threw up his hands. “Jesus H. fucking Christ…” He looked around. “Lindhurst! Where’s Lindhurst?”

  Everyone glanced around theatrically. They knew he wasn’t present. Again.

  Vanowen dropped his leather folio onto the table with a bang. “Goddamnit! Janice!”

  The disembodied voice of Vanowen’s secretary carried over from somewhere among the chairs lining the wall. “Yes, Russ.”

  “Is Lindhurst in today? Has he been reminded of this meeting? The monthly board meeting?”

  “I checked his calendar. He should be in. I phoned him this morning.”

  “And what did he say?”