Sebeck sat in stunned silence for several moments.

Sobol's spectre sat on the edge of the desk near Sebeck. "I suspect that democracy is not viable in a technologically advanced society. Free people wield too much ability to destroy. But I will give you the chance to determine the truth of this. If you fail to prove the viability of democracy in man's future, then humans will serve society-not the other way around. Either way, a change is coming. I see it. As plainly as I see you sitting there."

Sebeck realized Sobol had indeed envisioned this moment-for here Sebeck sat.

"Do you accept the task of finding justification for the freedom of humanity, Sergeant? Yes or no?"

Sebeck sat staring at the floor. He missed his family. He was tired of being alone. Of feeling the hatred of the world seeping through the walls of every room he was in. Why was this happening to him? Why did it have to be him?

"Do you accept this task, Sergeant? Yes or no?"

Son of a bitch.

"I will ask one more time: will you-"

"Yes."

Sobol's spectre flickered briefly, then nodded. "Good, Sergeant. I'm glad you could overcome your hatred of me."

Sobol stood and walked toward the wall. His steps creaked on the floor to complete the illusion. He turned toward Sebeck. "Walk with me."

With a wave of the spectre's hand, a section of the wall opened in reality, revealing a narrow back hallway. Wainscoting and rich wallpaper lined the walls.

Sebeck rose reluctantly, glancing back at the sealed double doors he'd entered through, then looked again at Sobol's phantom padding down the hall.

Sobol turned back again to look over his shoulder. "Please, Sergeant."

Sebeck gritted his teeth and followed on Sobol's heels as the apparition opened another door at the end of the hallway. Brilliant sunlight and a mild, fresh breeze filled the hall. The sound of rustling leaves came in on the wind.

Sebeck stopped. It had been many months since he'd been outside. His nostrils flared, taking in the fragrance. Balmy air whirled around him.

Sobol's spectre beckoned him.

Sebeck strode down a short series of steps and into the sunlight. He hurried to catch up with Sobol, who was already moving across a green stretch of lawn beneath the shade of an ancient California oak. They were in a low-walled yard at the back of a great Victorian mansion.

Sebeck turned on his heels, drinking in the sun and the scenery. The Lompoc Valley lay around him. Rolling grassy hills dotted with oaks, blue mountains loomed on the horizon. Split-rail fences undulated over the contours of the land. The wind waved through the grass. The beauty of it almost brought Sebeck to tears.

He was alive.

Sobol stood next to the great oak, looking down at the ground.

Sebeck moved to catch up, and as he reached the tree he could see a small headstone there, set in the grass near the low wall. Sebeck read the simple inscription.

Matthew Sobol-1969

The inscription was centered-leaving no room for a date of death.

Sobol's spectre gazed out over the valley below. "I loved this place." He turned to Sebeck. "Are you familiar with the Fates, Sergeant? Greek legend said that they spun the threads of men's lives and cut them at a length of their choosing. Like the Fates, I severed the thread of your life…"

Sobol faced toward the horizon and extended his hand. Suddenly a glowing blue line appeared in D-Space, extending from Sobol's palm and tracing almost instantly down the nearby road and through the hills, to be lost beyond the horizon.

"Here is your new thread. Only you can see it, and it leads to a future only you can find."

At that, Sobol's ghostly image turned and started descending slowly into the ground of his grave, as if walking down ethereal steps. He moved methodically, slowly-like a monk in procession. Just before Sobol's head disappeared beneath the soil, he stopped and looked up, directly into Sebeck's eyes. "The guardian of this node will teach you all you need to know. When you leave this place, Sergeant, remember that they killed Peter Sebeck once. Do not doubt that they will kill him again if he reappears. Alive you're a grave risk to their world-such is your fate."

With one last glance, Sobol stepped down into his grave and disappeared beneath the grass.

Sebeck stared for several minutes at the spot where his nemesis had disappeared. His thoughts were turbulent-not yet forming into anything definite. Why didn't he feel rage? Depression? He finally looked up, and the thread was still there, undulating over the land, projected from where Sebeck stood. He flipped up the HUD glass lenses, and the glowing thread disappeared. He flipped them down, and the line returned.

Sebeck heard the crunch of gravel, and he turned to see a black Lincoln Town Car easing to a stop just beyond the back wall gate.

Laney Price got out and moved to open the rear car door. He motioned dramatically for Sebeck to get inside.

With one last glance at Sobol's grave, Sebeck approached the car, pushing open the wrought iron gate.

Price nodded, still holding open the rear door. "I'm supposed to help you, Sergeant. Sobol said you'd know where to go."

Sebeck gazed back along the road behind them-away from the blue thread. He thought of his previous life. Of those he'd left behind. Of the sheriff's department, Laura, and his son, Chris. Of everyone and everything he'd ever known. Peter Sebeck was dead.

He turned to face the blue line again, tracing a glowing filament down the road and toward a distant horizon.

"I'll drive."

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It's been said that writing is a solitary profession, but I just don't see it. On the long journey to get this book published, I've met countless people who gave both their time and effort to pass Daemonon to others. I would be remiss if I did not show my appreciation to the following folks:

Rick Klau and the whole gang at Google for finding a needle in a haystack. Stewart Brand and Peter Schwartz of the Long Now Foundation for opening so many doors. Jeffrey Rayport for making key connections. Don Donzal and the Ethicalhacker.net team for checking the details. John Robb at Global Guerrillas for bringing serious folks to the table. Jim Rapoza at eWeekfor being the first to note Daemonin print. Craig Newmark of Craigslist for being cool to an unknown writer. Brilliant individuals such as Thomas L. and the inimitable Alexi S., who impact your life in ways you'll never know. Tom Leonard at Valve Software for early encouragement. Mike and Carol Caley for their friendship and confidence in me. Frank and Charlene Gallego for bringing Daemoneverywhere I could not. Anne Borgman for catching things everyone else missed. And my gratitude to Frank DeCavalcante, for inspiring a lifelong love of books and writing.

Profound thanks as well to my wonderful literary agent, Bridget Wagner, at Sagalyn Agency, and also to my editor, Ben Sevier, for taking a chance on me and for being a joy to work with.

Thanks especially to Adam Winston, James Hankins, and Don Lamoreaux, writers and friends whom I've long admired and whose advice on early drafts of this book was much appreciated.

Thanks also to Stuart McClure, Joel Scambray, and George Kurtz for bringing attention to cracks in the system, and to Thom Hartmann, P. W. Singer, Neil Gershenfeld, Carl Zimmer, John Perkins, Kevin Phillips, and Jared Diamond, whose published works helped to crystallize some of the sociopolitical themes in this story.

Finally, tremendous thanks to my wife, Michelle, for her tireless efforts to help this book see the light of day. And for knowing I was a writer but marrying me anyway…