Chapter 13:// Demo
BBC.co.uk
Dead Computer Genius Slays Police, Federal Agents- Thousand Oaks, CA — Authorities have surrounded a walled estate owned by the late Matthew Sobol, a leading computer game designer who died earlier this week of brain cancer. Six law officers were killed and nineteen others injured serving a search warrant at the property. They were reportedly attacked by a computer-controlled SUV that still roams the grounds.
Anderson's North Beach condo had twelve-foot pressed-tin ceilings, original wood floors, full-height windows with a fabulous view of the windows across the street, and enough Victorian charm to draw grudging praise from the snottiest folks she knew. It had taken her years to decorate, and she never tired of appreciating the style it reflected upon her. Even though she could no longer afford it.
But her eyes were riveted right now to the plasma screen television hanging within a Victorian picture frame on her living room wall. There was breaking news from Thousand Oaks, California-just as The Voice had promised.
She sat numb with fear and excitement all at once, soaking up the images on the screen.
In the absence of facts, a local reporter was breathlessly transforming hearsay into news under the harsh lights of a live remote: "Thanks, Sandy. Sources describe a scene of total carnage and devastation on the estate. The area has been cordoned off, with FBI tactical units brought in. Once again, a robotic killing machine is roaming the estate grounds, unleashed by a recently deceased madman. That madman: Matthew Sobol."
Anderson's cell phone vibrated on the coffee table in front of her. She looked at it and recoiled in terror. The phone vibrated again, moving slightly across the tabletop.
Christiane Amanpour would answer it.
Anderson timidly picked up the phone and pressed the SEND button-not saying anything, just listening.
A man's voice came over the line. "Do you know who I am? Answer 'yes' or 'no.'"
She watched the video footage of injured policemen being loaded into ambulances. "Yes."
"Clearly speak my name."
"Matthew…Sobol."
There was silence for a moment. Then, "If you contact the authorities, I will know, and you will lose the exclusive on this story."
Anderson's hands were trembling as the voice continued.
"I am analyzing your verbal responses with voice stress analysis software-I can tell if you lie to me. Answer truthfully or our relationship is over. Remember: I have extended my will beyond physical death. I will never be gone from this earth. Do not make an enemy of me."
Anderson dared not even breathe. She wasn't a religious person-but she felt as if an evil force was on the other end of the line. An immortal being.
"Do you still want to be a journalist? Answer 'yes' or 'no.'"
Anderson swallowed hard and took a breath. She used her best broadcasting voice. "Yes." Anderson's heart raced.
There was a pause.
"Do you want access to exclusive information on this story? Answer 'yes' or 'no'…"
"Yes."
A pause.
"Do you agree to keep our relationship secret from everyone-with no exceptions? Answer 'yes' or 'no.'"
"Yes."
Another pause.
"Are you prepared to follow my instructions in exchange for success and power? Answer 'yes' or 'no.'"
Anderson caught her breath. This was the proverbial Rubicon. If she crossed it, there was likely no turning back. Years from now she would remember this moment with either regret or relief-but she knew she would never forget it.
The Voice insisted, "Answer 'yes' or 'no.'"
Anderson's mind raced. She couldn't let it go now. It was a machine-it wouldn't judge her. Worse, she would never know the whole story if she declined. Didn't a real journalist pursue the story no matter what? Wasn't that admirable?
"Yes."
Yet another pause.
"Do you believe in God? Answer 'yes' or 'no.'"
Anderson was taken aback. She hesitated, not sure whether she did or not. Then, "No?"
A pause.
She half expected a lightning bolt to smite her.
Suddenly the British-sounding female voice cut in, speaking with its clipped, synthetic efficiency.
"Your user ID is…J-92. Remember your ID…J-92. It is your identity. You have been assigned a role. If you deviate from this role-for any reason-you will be removed from the system. Follow all instructions, and the system will protect and reward you."
Anderson was trying to gather her thoughts to say something, but then she realized there was no one to say anything to. She had cashed in her morals at a vending machine.
The Voice continued like the unstoppable force it was. "An airline ticket is waiting under your human name at the…Southwest Airlines…ticket counter at…Oakland International…Airport. Proceed to this location within the next…four…hours. If you speak to anyone else regarding this matter, you will be killed."
The line went dead.
Anderson stifled a scream of terror. What had she done?
She looked up to see video footage of body bags being lifted into a coroner's van on the evening news — mute testimony to the truth of the threat.
Chapter 14:// Meme Payload
From: Matthew Andrew Sobol
To: Federal Authorities; International Press
Re: Siege of My Estate
Federal authorities besieging my Thousand Oaks estate are hereby advised to refrain from further incursions onto the grounds for a period of no less than 30 days, inclusive of and commencing at 12 noon today. All those entering the grounds prior to that time will be resisted with deadly force.
Members of law enforcement: You are not my enemy. However, it is vital that my work continue. I will do what I must in self-defense.
Upon expiration of this deadline, you will be free to take possession of the estate, my server room, and its data. Failure to follow these instructions will result in the loss of all data and the deaths of many more people.
Sebeck knelt on the ground next to a black body bag. He stared emptily at the fading sunlight reflected on the black vinyl.
Ross watched from some distance away, leaning against the side of an ambulance. Five more body bags were lined up nearby. FBI agents consoled each other. There were tears on many faces.
Sebeck took a deep breath and finally stood. He turned toward Ross with a smoldering rage. "Jon!"
Ross followed as Sebeck strode through the tarpaulin walls of the makeshift morgue and into a crowd of FBI agents, local police, county tactical teams, paramedics, reporters, and technicians laying siege to Sobol's estate. Literally hundreds of people ringed the place. City workers were setting up construction lights to illuminate the staging area as the sun began to set. The road was closed to civilian traffic, and something resembling a heavily armed county fair stretched along its length. Police from three neighboring jurisdictions were on hand.
Nearby homes had been evacuated. The Feds were in the process of quarantining the Daemon; power and phone people were cutting service to Sobol's property. Sebeck could see their hydraulic lifts clustered around utility poles a considerable distance from the estate. He guessed power was being killed to the entire neighborhood, and diesel generators added to the general din.
Sebeck kept moving, tugging Ross through the crowd, alternately surging ahead, then turning back to face him.
"It can't be a machine. There's a living person behind this."
Ross didn't respond.
"Someone was controlling that Hummer."
Ross looked grim. "My condolences on Deputy Larson."
Sebeck glared at him. "Don't you tell me that was software."