Freedom (TM) d-2

by Daniel Suarez

  Ross knew this was his cue and ignored PlineyElder, who was waving frantically. He moved toward the rings and held his hands over them, motioning in counter-rotating circles while speaking the darknet incantation that would permanently bind them with the spell. He’d practiced it many times in the shower at the hotel, and he hoped he’d get it right on the first try. “Fasthu, agros visthon, pantoristhas, antoriontus, pashas afthas.”

  Happily, as he finished, each ring pulsed with D-Space light.

  Ross stepped back, and the welding robot zapped each of them again, this time in a different place. As it withdrew, Ross moved in again and repeated his spell.

  The process was performed twice more, and as he spoke the last word, PlineyElder and WuzzGart were already next to him, holding their arms over the pedestal and chanting the words of a fictitious language of a fictitious race of people that had probably been thought up by some writer in a cubicle at Cyberstorm Entertainment in Thousand Oaks, California.

  Nonetheless, the Daemon had imbued these words with power.

  As the three reached a crescendo and simultaneously completed their chants, a brilliant D-Space light emanated from all the rings and slowly cooled, fading and ultimately disappearing. Now, however, the individual D-Space call-outs above each half-ring had been replaced by a single D-Space call-out, centered above the lone crystal on the parent ring.

  PlineyElder grinned. “The masterwork is a success!”

  They all shook hands, and Ross stood by eagerly as WuzzGart extracted the finished rings from the jig and dunked them in a bucket of water. He placed all four of them on a ShamWow he found on a nearby workbench and showed them off to Ross and the sorcerer.

  “Behold the Rings of Aggys!”

  The cloth held two sets of matching rings, one set smaller than the other. All were still steaming. The lone call-out on the ring with a crystal was an inscrutable alphanumeric sequence.

  WuzzGart pointed. “Note the quality of the welds. No alpha phase or swirling. You could get those buffed anywhere, and they’ll shine up like white gold.”

  PlineyElder nudged Ross and pointed up at his call-out. “Congratulations.”

  Ross just then noticed that he’d gone up a level. He was now a seventh-level Rogue. He’d missed the alert in his HUD display amid all the excitement. He nodded to both men. “Thank you, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

  WuzzGart placed the rings in a small velvet bag and handed them to Ross.

  PlineyElder pointed at the bag. “Those are powerful rings, master thief! Do not use them lightly or they will destroy themselves. Or even you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  WuzzGart started cleaning the pedestal with the ShamWow. “You must have a use in mind for these rings to go through so much trouble.”

  Ross nodded. “I’ll need them for a journey—through hostile territory.”

  “If it’s so hostile, why go there?”

  “Because I need to.”

  WuzzGart looked into Ross’s eyes, then he looked to PlineyElder. “I’ll bet you a thousand credits it’s a woman.”

  Both men laughed.

  “You have my thanks, gentlemen.” Ross put the velvet bag in his suit coat pocket, nodded once more, and headed for the exit.

  Chapter 13: // Epiphany

  “ Sir! We need immediate air support! We are being overrun!” The panicked face of the lieutenant filled the monitor, his head distorting on-screen as it darted side to side. Staccato gunfire chattered in the background.

  “Air support? Where the hell do you think you are, son, ’Nam? You’re in Illinois.”

  “We need help!”

  “Where’s your commanding officer?”

  “Dead, sir!”

  The Major sat in a windowless operations center thousands of miles away in an office park in Bethesda, Maryland.

  The screen broke up for a moment. “We need evac! We have been surrounded and are being overrun!”

  Gunfire in the background was suddenly much louder. There were screams of wounded and the sound of roaring engines—a sound that The Major was all too familiar with.

  “Son. I need you to calm down and provide a concise report.”

  “Sir—”

  “Report, goddamnit!” The Major hit the MUTE button on the console and turned to a nearby technician. “What group is this?”

  “Optimal Outcomes, sir. An outfit out of Dallas.” The technician brought up a map on his own screen that showed a satellite view of a planned community. “They’re bivouacked in a half-finished housing development in Huntley, Illinois.”

  “Panicky fuckers.” He let up on the MUTE button.

  The lieutenant was taking deep breaths. “We are being engaged by unmanned elements of the Daemon.”

  “Razorbacks?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many?”

  “Unknown, sir. Our sentries were taken out by what appear to be radio-guided darts. If we had tactical radar to detect incoming—”

  “What do you want, a Phalanx cannon? You’re not a military base. You were supposed to lay low and wait for orders.”

  There was more mayhem and screaming in the background. The lieutenant on camera leaned out of frame and fired several bursts from a weapon. “Somehow they found our location. We are being overrun, sir!”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Have the local police gotten involved?”

  “I don’t know!”

  The Major hit the MUTE button again and spoke to a nearby technician. “I need a mop-up crew down there, ASAP. Get them government credentials, and make sure they round up all the Daemon equipment they can find.”

  He switched off the MUTE button and spoke to the screen. “How effective were fifty-caliber rifles against these things?”

  “Sir?”

  “The Barrett rifles. Are they effective against razorbacks?”

  The guy tried to control his breathing. “Yes. Yes, sir. But the snipers were quickly taken out by return fire. Deadly accurate return fire.”

  One of the technical advisers next to The Major leaned in. “Could have been acoustical triangulation or infrared muzzle-flash detection systems. They can track a projectile back to its source. It makes sense if Sobol was dipping into our research pipeline—we’ve got some prototypes in the field.”

  The lieutenant shouted. “Sir! We need help. Now!”

  Several Weyburn Labs consultants were still scribbling notes.

  One of them leaned into The Major’s ear. “The inertial flywheel on the razorback that powers the blade arms is a problem in close quarters. Hundred thousand rpm rotation. If it gets cracked, it’ll turn into a shrapnel bomb. Ballistics tests show it’s safer to take them out at a hundred meters or more.”

  More note taking.

  “Sir! Can we get help?”

  “We just have a few more questions, son… .”

  “Goddamnit, sir! We are dying!”

  “Well, then. You’re dismissed.”

  Suddenly the lieutenant glared into the screen. “You fucker!”

  There was nearby screaming, and the lieutenant turned to open fire offscreen. There were desperate shouts for help and the roar of engines. Then the lieutenant fled—a swift blur crossing the screen on his tail. After a few moments, of loud engine noise, there was suddenly comparative silence.

  The Weyburn Labs team in the control room also sat quietly for several moments, still jotting notes.

  “Have we determined yet whether these razorbacks are remotely piloted, autonomous, or semiautonomous?”

  One of the consultants responded. “Surveillance recordings show them vacillating between fight-or-flight behavior and advanced problem-solving.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means razorbacks can apparently operate independently or under the remote control of a pilot or remote AI—perhaps a cloud-based logic. A single operator could conceivably shift his control from one razorback to another—like jumping
between avatars in a game.”

  Another technician nodded. “They’re a promising concept. Razorbacks don’t require ammunition, and they terrify the populace. It’s the perfect crowd control weapon. Surgically precise.”

  The Major pondered this. “And electronic countermeasures to their remote control?”

  “The ultrawideband used by the Daemon makes ECM difficult, but not impossible. The trick is that we need EWOs in place with specialized equipment—but we don’t know where the Daemon is going to hit us next. And using the equipment jams our own communications.”

  One of the technicians butted in. “Excuse me. Major, there was a Mark V security blimp over Huntley, too. It disappeared minutes before they came under attack. Whatever got it came in under radar. We just examined the blimp video. Looks like drone aircraft. Small. Fast. Not very sophisticated. It might even have simply rammed the airship.”

  “So it’s got an air force now?”

  Another one of the Weyburn Labs guys responded, “The darknet philosophy seems to be large numbers of small things—swarms. In this case, microjets. We’ve found the wreckage of several near sites where our surveillance drones have disappeared.”

  “UCAVs?”

  “Smaller and easier to manufacture. They use electromechanical systems; microscale propulsion with no moving parts. It doesn’t require the precision manufacturing of turbines. It utilizes thermal transpiration to conduct a hydrocarbon fuel through aerogel membranes into twin Swiss roll jet engines. That helps to maintain core combustion temperature in tiny jet engines. Quite fascinating if you—”

  One of the consultants pointed at the monitor console. “Look.” There on-screen stood a figure dressed in a black riding suit and black motorcycle helmet, staring at them from two thousand miles away.

  The Major leaned into the microphone. “Loki. You seem to be hunting my people… .”

  “Major. The last time I saw you, you were … oh, that’s right. You were shooting Roy Merritt in the back.”

  The Major gave a sideways glance to the assembled researchers, then spoke into the microphone. “A darknet lie.”

  “Of course. Facts no longer exist. Everything is a ‘point of view’ now. I can’t wait to burn your house of bullshit down.”

  “Apparently Dr. Philips was naïve to think we could rehabilitate you.”

  “You realize your little campaign against darknet communities is doomed, don’t you? I know what you’re going to do before you do it.”

  “You killed some people and wrecked some equipment. So what? There’s no shortage of trigger-happy dipshits willing to make a hundred bucks an hour. In fact, if you kill them, we don’t have to pay them their completion bonus.”

  “I will find you, Major. And what’s in your mind will lead me to your masters. Their industrial empire is about to come to an end.”

  The Major chuckled. “You’re not the first freedom fighter whose head I’ve put on a stick, Loki. You all fall in the end—usually betrayed by the very people you think you’re saving.”

  Loki cocked his head. “Freedom fighter? Is that what you think I am?” He laughed. “I don’t give a shit about freedom. And if I have to kill a hundred million innocent people to get my hands on you, I’ll do it. Sleep well, Major.”

  Loki pulled the plug and the screen went dark.

  The control room was silent for several moments.

  Someone finally muttered, “Holy shit… .”

  The Major nodded absently. His campaigns had indeed fought and defeated a hundred liberation movements. They’d divided and confused citizens around the globe who tried to rise up against mining companies, oil companies, coal companies, biotech companies—and in the end the people defeated themselves.

  But none of those adversaries had their fingers wrapped around the corporate throat like the Daemon did. And none of those adversaries had imbued a single psychotic individual with such unaccountable power as the Daemon had with Loki. This kid was ready to kill a hundred million people. And he’d already slain hundreds, possibly thousands. A whole new era of technological domination was about to begin—and for once, The Major might not be on the winning side.

  It suddenly occurred to The Major that he was afraid.

  Chapter 14: // The China Price

  Jon Ross sat reading Izvestia on a handheld device while sipping espresso. He was in the coffee bar of his hotel in the Shekou District of Shenzhen. It was mid-afternoon, and he was dressed in a pressed, four-button black pin-striped suit with a light blue silk tie and a pastel shirt—all handmade in nearby Hong Kong. With his stylish HUD glasses he looked every bit the successful businessman catching up with affairs back home.

  Ross preferred Shekou because it allowed him to blend in. It was a pleasant neighborhood popular with expats. It had a small-town feel, but was packed with restaurants and night life.

  Here there were dozens of languages being spoken in the cafes and bars, and he was just one more foreign face among many. But none of that mattered now—not for the one piece of unfinished business remaining on this trip.

  He downed the last of his espresso as two Chinese men in rumpled suits approached his table. From their hard stares and air of impunity, Ross immediately knew they were policemen—probably Ministry of State Security.

  The first nodded and spoke in Russian. “Comrade Morozov. Good afternoon.” He smiled, revealing stained teeth.

  Ross lowered his handheld and replied in Russian as well. “Good afternoon. To what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen?”

  “There seems to be a problem with your travel documents.”

  “My travel documents?”

  The man nodded.

  “I don’t see how that’s possible, but …” Ross removed his billfold from his jacket. “May I take care of it here?”

  “Attempting to bribe a government official is a serious crime in China.”

  “Attempting, perhaps. What about succeeding?”

  “This is no laughing matter, Mr. Morozov.” He switched suddenly to English. “Or should I say, Mr. Ross?”

  Ross remained calm. He placed money on the table to pay his check and put away his billfold. He switched to English as well. “Your English and Russian are both excellent.”

  “Thank you. Please mention that to my commander when you see him. Now, if you would please come with us …”

  “May I ask to see your credentials?”

  The man opened his coat to reveal a pistol in a shoulder holster.

  “That’s the one that counts, isn’t it?”

  The man gestured for Ross to follow them.

  Ross sighed then grabbed his handheld and laptop case and complied.

  They brought him outside to a waiting car. It was an unmarked Jeep Cherokee knockoff—what some of the expat Americans had taken to calling “Cheeps.” They opened the door for him, and Ross got in. He noticed that there were no door handles on the inside, and a wire mesh stood between him and the front seat. He was now their prisoner.

  The officers got in front and drove off in dense traffic without a word either to each other or to Ross. They drove for only a few minutes before pulling to the curb on a highly fashionable restaurant block. The place was bustling with shoppers and young professionals.

  The men got out and opened the door for Ross, who stepped onto the sidewalk and met the gaze of his captor. “I’m confused. Am I bribing you or not?”

  The man just grabbed Ross’s arm and along with his partner they moved toward an upscale martini bar done in clean Scandinavian glass and hardwoods with a minimalist logo that was so hip it would be indecipherable to Chinese and Scandinavians alike. The place was packed with cigarette smoke and young, mostly Chinese white-collar professionals who quickly parted to let the grim-faced plainclothes policemen through.

  Soon they approached a booth in the rear of the bar—the only quiet corner. The tables all around it were conspicuously empty. There, a young Chinese man in a well-cut suit waited with a frosted martini glass
in front of him. He smiled as he saw Ross approaching.

  Ross couldn’t help but return the smile. It was Shen Liang. Shen was an old friend from Ross’s dot-com days in Portland—back in the late nineties. Before everything went to hell. Shen had been a kid just out of Stanford back then—barely familiar with America and Western culture. He was a brilliant young mind who’d taken in everything the Chinese universities had to offer at the time and was hungry for more.

  Ross and Shen had worked together at a start-up Web company named Stiletto Design—“Cutting through the noise” was their motto. It was the quintessential Web commerce shop with high ceilings, exposed brick, Aeron chairs, ping-pong tables, and soon-to-be-worthless stock options. They were expanding like mad in those days, designing merchant solutions for banks, insurance companies, and half-assed Web start-ups. Young men and women working long hours and late nights—it was a great place to be a young single person. The memory was just a haze of work, alcohol, and sex.

  As Ross sat down, Shen extended his hand and spoke in perfect American English. “Jon Ames. Or I guess it’s Jon Ross, nowadays. What’d you get married or something?”

  “It’s complicated, Liang. You look like you’re doing well.”

  Shen motioned to the nearby plainclothesmen and said something in Mandarin.

  The lead officer nodded, and both men departed.

  Ross watched them go, then turned back to Shen, who was nodding. “I am doing well. I wish I could say the same for you.”

  Ross gave him a quizzical look.

  “Jon, you’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “Then this isn’t a social call?”

  Shen grimaced and motioned to a beautiful young woman in a miniskirt. She came to the table immediately, and he pointed her to Ross.

  “I’ll have a Stoli, straight up with a twist, please.”

  “Of course, sir.” She hurried off.

  “Russian vodka. How telling.” He focused an appraising look at Ross as he lit a tiny cigar. “So …” He put his gold lighter away. “After all these years I find out that your name isn’t really Jon Ames.”

  “Liang—”

  “And that Interpol has a global red notice out on you. That you’re the FBI’s Most Wanted Man. Imagine my shock.”