Daemon

by Daniel Suarez

  “Then the bigger question is: why was it so important to kill these programmers?”

  Ross frowned.

  Sebeck watched him closely. “What?”

  Ross hesitated. “The Egyptian pharaohs slew the workers who built their pyramids—”

  “The programmers knew too much.”

  “Maybe. Maybe Sobol had some help to code this thing. He was dying of cancer, after all.”

  “But why on earth would they help him? Pavlos rode his dirt bike out here all the time. He’d have to notice this was designed to kill him.”

  Ross leaned back against the hood of the car. “I’m guessing they didn’t design this part. Sobol probably did that. They probably coded other parts. Maybe parts we haven’t seen yet.”

  They stood there a moment in silence, weighing the significance of this.

  Ross was the first to break the silence. “It’s interesting that this Singh guy died trying to get into a server farm.”

  “Why’s that interesting?”

  “Well, a server farm is basically a big data storage vault. Racks and racks of servers.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, if I were a programmer trying to get to a secret cache of data—or to physically stop some machine from running—perhaps I’d head for that server farm.”

  Sebeck leaned onto the car hood next to Ross.

  “Okay, so Singh, who probably works closely with Pavlos, hears about Pavlos’s death and makes a beeline for the server farm. Sobol anticipated this and kills him when he tries to enter. So you think there’s something in the server farm?”

  “Probably not anymore. It sounds like Sobol found whatever Singh put there. So what was Singh working on at CyberStorm? Do you know?”

  Sebeck strained to remember the name of Singh’s project. “Singh was lead programmer for a game called…Gate?”

  “The Gate?”

  “Yeah, The Gate.”

  Ross let out a pained groan.

  “What now?”

  “Do you know the story line for The Gate, Sergeant?”

  Sebeck gave Ross a look. Clearly he did not.

  “It’s about a cult opening a gate to the Abyss and releasing a demon that lays waste to the world.”

  Sebeck just stared at him.

  Ross laughed. “I’m talking about Sobol’s game, Sergeant—I don’t believe in demons and devils.”

  “Good. You had me worried for a second.”

  “The only daemon I’m worried about is the Unix variety. There’s a delicious irony here that I don’t think Sobol would be able to resist. You’d know what I’m talking about if you played his games. Now consider this: The Gate is an MMORPG.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “A massively multi-player online role-playing game.”

  “And what the hell is that?”

  “It’s a persistent 3-D game world experienced simultaneously by tens of thousands of players over the Internet.”

  Sebeck pointed at Ross. “Okay, now that sounds bad.”

  “In this case it’s very bad.”

  “Well, the Feds powered down the whole server farm last night. There’s not a pocket calculator running over at CyberStorm now. So whatever he planned is…”

  Ross didn’t look reassured.

  Sebeck persisted, “I mean, hell, whoever did this couldn’t put tens of thousands of steel cables and electrocution traps in people’s houses. Failing that, this is basically just another computer virus.”

  Ross jerked his thumb. “I need my laptop.” He walked back and pulled his laptop case from the rear seat. He laid it on the trunk and unzipped the top compartment.

  Sebeck walked up to him. “What are you doing now?”

  Ross had a credit-card-sized device in his hand. He scanned the area with it. “I’m seeing if there’s a Wi-Fi signal in this area.” He looked to Sebeck. “And there is.” He pointed to the meter on the device, which indicated a strong signal.

  Sebeck took the device and examined it while Ross started unpacking his laptop. “Okay, so what’s this prove?”

  Ross pointed to the gate down the road. “We need some indication that we’re on the right track.”

  “And this does that?”

  “Well, for starters it confirms that the gate or the winch could be wirelessly hooked in to the Internet.”

  “Like the black box over at CyberStorm.”

  “Right. It means a living human being didn’t have to be involved in this. The news reports said Joseph Pavlos went riding down here just about every day. That means his gate remote became a murder weapon only after Sobol died.”

  Sebeck nodded. “Meaning the Daemon told the gate to kill Pavlos after it read the news of Sobol’s death.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Now we’ll see what I can glean from this wireless network.”

  Sebeck leaned over Ross’s shoulder as his laptop booted up. “What are you looking for?”

  “The usual: whatever I can find.” Ross logged on to his laptop, shielding his logon from Sebeck. Then he launched NetStumbler and waited for it to initialize. “This is a freeware program that helps me see wireless networks.”

  “I’m not computer illiterate, Jon. I have a wireless network at home.”

  Ross turned the laptop so the wireless card faced the Wi-Fi signal, and he almost pushed his laptop off the trunk lid. He caught it just in time, held on to it, and continued scanning.

  In a moment Ross smiled. “Oh yeah. I picked up an AP.” His face suddenly got serious. He looked up at Sebeck.

  Sebeck moved over to him. “What?”

  “If there’s one thing I know from playing Sobol’s games, it’s this: time works against you. You need to act fast or you’re dead.”

  “Okay, and…?”

  Ross turned the laptop around for Sebeck to see.

  Sebeck leaned down. The single entry in the NetStumbler window showed text under a column labeled SSID. The text read simply:

  DAEMON_63

  “I’d say there’s more trouble coming, Sergeant.”

  Sebeck pointed. “Get in the car.”

  Chapter 11:// The Voice

  DailyVariety.com

  San Francisco network affiliate KTLZ signed Hu Linn Chi to a two-year contract as Lifestyles reporter, replacing veteran Anji Anderson. The move is seen as part of the network’s overall strategy to reach a younger, hipper, more ethnically diverse demographic.

  Anderson was nearing forty minutes on the stair climber. Her work-out music mix drowned out everything except the pain. The sweat and the rage poured from her body.

  How could they replace her? She wasn’t old. Not yet.

  She kept driving forward.

  The Bay Club was pricey and exclusive, filled with high-powered business types and trophy wives. More than once she thought she saw them whispering and pointing. Her professional demise was in the trades. She burned with humiliation.

  Without another network-level job, she couldn’t afford this gym, much less her condo. Her credit card balances kept her driving forward, legs burning.

  She had saved nothing. She had been projecting an image of success. The reality of her modest roots was something she’d tried to hide even from herself. Her artificial world was coming down around her ears. They’d call it vanity. No one would understand that it was more than that. It was ambition. It was a willingness to risk everything. Wasn’t that admirable?

  Anderson’s cell phone lit up and vibrated on the tray in front of her. She stopped and pulled her earbuds out. She steadied her breathing and considered not answering it. It vibrated again.

  It could be Melissa with news of a job. She checked the display. The caller’s number was unknown.

  Anderson let it ring one more time, then answered it. “This is Anji.”

  “Is this…Anji…Anderson?” It was a strangely clipped and measured voice. A woman. British.

  “This is she.”

  “Was that a yes?”

 
; The sound was odd. It must be an overseas call. “Yes. I’m Anji Anderson. Who is this?”

  There was a pause. “I’m calling to let you know about a news story. A story that’s about to happen.”

  “I don’t know how you got this number—”

  “You just lost your job. I can give you a big news story. Are you interested?”

  Anderson just stood there, trying to decide. What was this, some sort of telemarketing scam? Was it another stalker?

  “I didn’t hear you say anything. Do you want the information? Just say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

  She tried to imagine what Christiane Amanpour would do. “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “‘Okay’ is not ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ You must understand before we continue that this is not a person. This is an interactive voice system. It can only understand certain things you say.”

  Anderson hung up. Damned telemarketers.

  Her phone rang again almost immediately. She let it go to voice mail. Psycho telemarketers. She looked around for someone who might be staring at her. No one seemed to be watching.

  Her phone beeped, and the text VOICE MESSAGE appeared on her display. She stared at the text, waiting for the phone to ring again. It did not.

  She speed-dialed her voice mail and put the phone to her ear, then pulled it away again and tapped in her voice mail password. Phone to ear once more.

  The familiar computer voice said, “You have…one…new message.”

  The message played. It was that measured female British voice again. “Anji, watch the news tonight. The biggest news story in the world is about to occur in Thousand Oaks, California. The next time I call, perhaps you’ll listen.”

  Anderson saved the message. Should she tell someone? Should she call the police?

  What if the voice was telling the truth? She thought about that again: what if it was telling the truth? She considered it some more, then grabbed her water bottle and hurried toward the locker room.

  Chapter 12:// Opening the Gate

  From: Eichhorn, Stanley J.

  To: Patrol Officers; Major Crimes Unit; Bomb Unit

  Subject: Warrant service @ Sobol estate

  BodyText:

  East County SD will assist the FBI today in service of a search warrant at the Sobol estate, 1215 Potrero Road. Deputies on the second shift will be carried over until 6 P.M. this evening. Deputies assigned to the FBI search must arrive one hour early for a briefing in room 209. Bomb Squad members report to room 202 at 11 A.M.

  Sebeck and Ross drove down Potrero Road, past the Arabian horse farms and neo-antebellum mansions set amid the rolling hills. It was warm and sunny now. California oaks shaded the road and clustered densely around wrought iron entrance gates flanked by white split-rail fences and stone walls. Most of the mansions were set back far from the road and hidden behind hills and hedges. The spicy scent of hay perfumed the air.

  Ross studied the scenery. “Where are we going, Sergeant?”

  “Sobol’s estate. The FBI is there.”

  “I thought you were taking me back to my car.”

  “I need you to show the FBI exactly what you showed me back there.”

  “Look, they know where to find me if they have any questions.”

  “That’s just it. I’m afraid they won’t. And I’m not sure that any of their forensics experts have played Sobol’s games before.”

  The police dispatcher’s voice came over the radio. Sebeck grabbed the handset. “This is D-19. I’m 10-97 at 1215 Potrero Road. Out.” He looked to Ross. “We’re here.”

  Sebeck turned left past two marked patrol cars guarding the open gates of a large estate. He nodded to the deputies standing nearby and rolled past them, heading down the long driveway flanked by lines of mature oaks. In between the trunks they caught glimpses of a fine Mediterranean villa some distance ahead. This wasn’t a modern replica. It looked like an authentic 1920s-era mansion with a cupola and slanting roofs capped in terra cotta tile. The mansion was set back about a thousand feet from the road, nestled in a copse of manzanita trees.

  Ross whistled.

  Sebeck nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t know there was so much money in computer games.”

  “They generate more revenue than all of Hollywood.”

  The driveway ended in a wide cobblestone courtyard flanked by a horse stable, a six-car garage, and what looked to be a guesthouse or office. The main house lay straight ahead with landscaped lawns opening the courtyard on either side. Through these openings Sebeck saw sweeping views of the estate grounds.

  More than a dozen police vehicles were parked in the courtyard—FBI sedans, county patrol cars, a forensics van, an ambulance, and the bomb squad’s truck with a disposal trailer. But there was room to spare. The courtyard was large.

  Sebeck pulled up behind a sedan with white government plates. He and Ross got out.

  A couple dozen officers stood near the entrance to the main house. They were listening to Neal Decker addressing them from the steps leading up to the mansion’s heavy wooden door. It was a mix of county and local police, along with federal agents wearing blue windbreakers with the letters FBI stenciled on the back. It was impossible to hear what Decker was saying at this distance.

  Nathan Mantz came up to Sebeck as he and Ross took in the scene. “Hey, Pete. You’re just in time.”

  “How’d it go at the permit office?”

  Mantz shook his head. “No permit pulled for the winch housing. The gate was installed by a big GC named McKenser and Sons. Licensed, bonded, legit. Nothing in the permit applications about a winch. I put a call in to McKenser’s office, and they’re checking their records.”

  Mantz looked to Ross. “You’re that computer guy the Feds were holding.” He extended his hand. “Detective Nathan Mantz.”

  Ross shook his hand. “Jon Ross. I was cleared, by the way.”

  Sebeck kept his eye on the crowd of agents in the distance. “Yeah, it turns out Mr. Ross here is quite an expert—on a few subjects. I brought him out to the canyon scene, and he shed some light on things. I’ve got important information for Decker.” Sebeck pointed to Decker, who was addressing the troops. “What are the Feds up to?”

  “They’re preparing to search the house. FBI bomb squad and forensics teams came up from L.A. Decker’s treating this as a hazardous search.”

  Ross nodded. “He’s right. It is.”

  Mantz gave him a curious look.

  Sebeck jerked a thumb at Ross. “He thinks it’s Sobol, not somebody at CyberStorm. Now he’s got me wondering.”

  Mantz nodded, impressed. “Really?”

  Sebeck tore a page out of his small notepad and handed it to Mantz. “Nathan, do me a favor; here’s the manufacturer and serial number on the winch assembly. When we get back to the station, check with the factory to see if they have a record of the wholesaler they shipped it to. Let’s find out what else was purchased.”

  “No problem.” Mantz pocketed the piece of paper.

  Sebeck walked toward the gathered officers. Ross and Mantz followed. They passed three FBI agents preparing a tracked bomb disposal robot. Ross took a keen interest, peering over their shoulders as they tested the video cameras with a large remote control.

  They were having problems. The operator smacked the handheld controller. “Try channel four. Is the picture any clearer?”

  Sebeck tugged Ross along.

  Decker was still addressing the troops. “…papers, computers, electrical components, tools. Virtually everything should be considered dangerous until the bomb squad marks a room as clear. If you find a device—”

  Decker leaned down as agent Straub said something to him. Decker looked up again at the crowd. “Hang on. Is anyone else having radio problems?”

  Most of the officers held up their hands and voiced in the affirmative.

  Sebeck noticed a man in his fifties and a woman in her forties standing among the FBI agents. The two civilians looked pensive. Sebeck turned to Mantz.

/>   Mantz responded. “The caretaker and the security guard. Husband and wife. Sobol’s widow lives in Santa Barbara. They separated before his death. Get this: she told them she couldn’t live in the house because she heard voices. They’re tracking her down as we speak. I was hoping she’d be here….” Mantz pulled a folded magazine page out of his jacket pocket. He unfolded it to reveal a photo of a tanned and beautiful blonde wearing a string bikini and stretched out on the wet sand of a tropical beach. “The widow Sobol. Miss New Zealand, 2001.”

  Sebeck grabbed the page. “Holy shit.”

  Ross leaned in. “Wow.”

  Mantz grabbed it back. “Show some respect. She’s in mourning.” He folded it and put it back into his jacket pocket. “Sobol may have died of cancer, but I still envy the bastard.”

  Sebeck was already walking toward the crowd of agents and officers. He waded through them, headed directly for Assistant Chief Eichhorn.

  “Hey, Chief.” Sebeck stepped aside and gestured toward Ross. “This is Jon Ross—the computer consultant from Alcyone.”

  Chief Eichhorn nodded toward Ross. “One of the guys the Feds brought in.”

  “They cleared him this morning. I was bringing him back to Woodland Hills, and I stopped by the Pavlos scene to get serial numbers. Mr. Ross detected a wireless device there. He has some pretty mind-blowing theories about how Sobol’s doing all this. I think Decker should talk to this guy.”

  “Pete, the FBI brought experts in from L.A. and Washington.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know how many of them have spent serious time playing in Sobol’s games. Mr. Ross has.”

  “I can’t vet Mr. Ross’s skills—no offense—can you, Pete?”

  “Somebody technical should listen to him.”

  Suddenly the FBI robot crew leader stepped between them and called up to Decker on the patio. “The robot’s a no-go, Neal. There’s signal interference. This guy probably has spread spectrum radio towers or something inside.”

  Decker looked around. “Should we have the city cut power to the house?”

  The lead operator conferred with the other two, then looked up to Decker. “The computer forensics team will want to keep the power on—otherwise they might lose computer memory evidence.”