Daemon

by Daniel Suarez

  The crab scuttled toward its hole.

  “Sacculina is a parasite that infests saltwater crabs. It burrows into their flesh and extends tendrils into the crab’s bloodstream and brain. It chemically castrates the crab and becomes its new brain—controlling it like a zombie.”

  The screen then showed an image of a Sacculina-infested crab, with the bulging sack of the parasite filling its abdomen.

  “It compels the crab to raise the parasite’s young. It enslaves it.”

  The screen changed to a close-up computer animation. It was a double helix of DNA, with each set of genes showing clearly as rungs on the genetic ladder. The perspective moved along the length of the helix.

  “And so have thousands of parasites done with us. After tens of thousands of years, a parasite becomes so much a part of us that they evolve into sections of our DNA.”

  Certain sections of the DNA were highlighted, one after another.

  “They have so enslaved us that we believe we’re reproducing ourselves, when in reality, we’re reproducing hidden others within us. Forty percent of our genetic code consists of these useless segments of DNA—sections that serve no useful purpose to us. Nearly half the human genome is just the ghostly remnant of parasites.”

  The images of DNA dissolved back to Sobol, sitting in his armchair by the fireplace. “By now, you’ve figured out that my Daemon is your parasite and that you are hopelessly infected. The Daemon will sip your corporate blood, but it will not be fatal. More importantly, the Daemon will keep other parasites out of your system, strengthening your immunity and ensuring that the corporate host continues to survive.”

  The fireplace background dissolved, and Sobol now appeared on a black background. He was more serious.

  “But know this: my Daemon has enlisted humans within your organization. These are hijacked cells in the corporate organism. People who thirst for more power. That’s how the Daemon got in. You have no way of knowing who is responsible. My Daemon can teach almost anyone to defeat network security—especially from an existing network account. The reality is that my Daemon now controls your global IT function. Your business will operate as before, and no one will suspect that there is anything unusual going on—except that perhaps your systems will run better than they did when you were responsible for them.

  “Your natural inclination will be to resist this indignity, of course, and so you will be tempted to contact the authorities. That is your choice—although the moment my Daemon detects such contact, it will wipe your company’s data off the face of the earth. And don’t even think of replicating your databases from scratch with paper files; remember that my Daemon has agents among your staff. You can hide nothing from it. If you start polygraphing or if you lay off everyone, the Daemon will destroy your company. If you attempt to infiltrate an undercover operative into your IT department, it will destroy your company. If you attempt to exert control over your IT department or to create a new one, it will destroy your company. In short: if you attempt to do anything other than ignore my Daemon, it will destroy your company.

  “As a financial enterprise wholly reliant upon the trust of your clients, the loss of all your clients’ data will bring ruin upon you. As for insurance: the Daemon will annihilate you whenever you reappear, and it will never stop until both your company and you as individual officers are financially destroyed. Being a nonsentient narrow-AI construct, the Daemon doesn’t give a damn what choice you make. It’s as dumb as Sacculina.” A pause. “And just as effective.”

  The fireplace background reappeared, and Sobol smiled again. “I hope you and my Daemon can peacefully coexist. I think you’ll find that, as the years roll by, you’ll be glad indeed that you didn’t try to defy it—especially as you take market share from those companies that did defy it. So, please, carefully consider your options, and just remember—no matter what you choose—you serve a crucial role in evolution. Even if it’s just as food for the survivors. Thanks for watching.”

  Sobol waved pleasantly as the saccharine corporate Muzak came up, accompanied by fanatical applause. Credits rolled by impossibly fast.

  The female announcer returned. “Don’t touch that dial! In a few moments, you’ll have a chance to see how you can avoid destruction at the hands of the Daemon. And be sure to take the Daemon quiz—”

  Lindhurst hit the STOP button, and the screen went black.

  Vanowen sat there like someone who had just been through electro-shock therapy. His mouth hung open for several moments before he turned dull eyes toward Lindhurst. “It’s really Sobol.”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

  There were a few moments of silence.

  “We have to call the authorities.”

  “If we call the FBI—and word gets out about this—our investors will bail. And sue.”

  Vanowen nodded. He suddenly frowned, as if remembering to be angry. “Damnit, Lindhurst, what kind of an organization are you running down there? Your systems may be responsible for the destruction of this company—a company with a century of history. When the shit hits the fan, I’m going to point the finger of blame squarely at you, where it belongs, and you can count on that.”

  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 i
t 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 D on-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

  Black 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 façade 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 identity 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.”