Sebeck stared at the table like a child who’d been scolded.

Riley moved to the front of the room. “May I begin?”

Sebeck nodded.

“The shamanic interface is the mechanism for interacting with the darknet. It’s called the shamanic interface because it was designed to be comprehensible to all people on earth, regardless of technological level or cultural background.” She made a series of precise flourishes with her hands, leaving behind glowing lines in D-Space that formed an intricate pattern. As she finished, an unearthly, angelic voice sounded in the room, like a good spirit.

Sebeck looked around him for the origin of the disembodied voice.

Riley lowered her hands. “It was a hypersonic sound, Sergeant. Linked to a macro that I created based on somatic gestures. But my point is that it looks like magic. Even the most remote tribes in Papua New Guinea understand the concept of magic—and that certain rituals must be observed to invoke it. They believe in a spirit world where ancestors and supernatural beings watch over them. The shamanic interface simply connects high technology to that belief system, granting ‘powers’ and equipment as a reward for useful, organized activity.”

Sebeck leaned back in his chair. “Useful to whom?”

“Humanity, Sergeant. This is big-picture stuff. Repositories of human knowledge and technology are being designed and built by various curator factions around the world. The spec is simply that these repositories be durable, inspire awe, and be equipped with automated systems that can teach people useful knowledge to empower the more rational among the population so that they can achieve leadership positions. That way, should human civilization be lost in a region, this system could put locals back on a path to regain knowledge in a generation or two. It could also be useful in resisting a downward spiral to begin with.”

Sebeck looked at the solid walls around them. He looked back at Riley quizzically.

“Correct. Two-Rivers Hall will be a repository when it’s finished. That may take many decades.”

“But doesn’t this just spread mysticism? Lies, essentially?”

“You mean fairy tales? Yes, initially. But then, a lot of parents tell young children that there’s a Santa Claus. It’s easier than trying to explain the cultural significance of midwinter celebrations to a three-year-old. If false magic or a white lie about the god-monster in the mountain will get people to stop killing one another and learn, then the truth can wait. When the time is right, it can be replaced with a reverence for the scientific method.”

“And this is why Sobol created the Daemon?”

She shook her head. “No, this is why they call it the shamanic interface. Because it resembles sorcery—and might as well be to low-tech people. But unlike sorcery, it exists and conveys real power.”

Riley raised her hands in front of her. “Now let’s teach you how to use it.”

Two days later Sebeck stood leaning against a railing on the edge of a terrace set atop Two-Rivers Hall—nine hundred feet above the desert floor. The view from atop the great monolith of stone was impressive, with mesas extending in a ragged line toward the horizon.

The master plan for the construction on the valley floor was more apparent from up here, although Sebeck now knew how to interrogate the objects themselves in D-Space. He could see call-outs for faction members, and knew also how to zoom in on them or adjust the layers of D-Space in his field of view. Or send messages. But none of that interested him just now.

He laid his chin on the aluminum railing and pondered the Scale of Themis, center-screen at the bottom of his HUD display. It fascinated him. It was a measure of the distribution of power within a Daemon user population. He could set it to show the whole darknet or just the holon he occupied. At present it was scaled to his current holon. It took the form of a slender needle on his control bar—in this case, leaning slightly to the right. Sebeck had customized his display so that he would always see it. If he looked closely enough, he could see it fluctuating.

Riley had taught him that the extreme right position meant Daemon power was held in very few hands, while all the way to the left meant Daemon power was evenly distributed across virtually everyone.

Oddly, she told him the goal was not to have the needle at either extreme. Too much power in too few hands defeated the common good, while too little power in any single person’s hands made it hard to get anything done. Thus, the goal for a darknet community was to try to peg the needle right in the center—“due north” they called it.

It looked like the Two-Rivers faction was about fifteen degrees off due north. Sebeck wondered if Riley skewed the scale. He’d had a chance to learn just how respected her opinions were in this holon. She wasn’t too impressed by herself. Individuals can always malfunction, Sergeant. Including me.

Riley was an interesting woman. Sebeck couldn’t recall ever meeting a person so patient, yet unyielding. She also demonstrated a prodigious knowledge of the world around her. He was starting to realize he wasn’t the center of Sobol’s new world order. Strangely, that gave him a measure of relief.

Sebeck considered the Daemon’s virulence. Riley had explained to him that the Daemon grew less virulent the more it spread. And that it became more ruthless as it contracted. It was designed like a natural organism to resist its own eradication with lethal force if necessary. It did explain the bloody origins of the Daemon, but Sebeck still couldn’t accept it. It was basically a parasite on human society, one trying to achieve symbiosis. A balance between what it took and what it gave. Yes, it drove them toward preserving civilization, but it diminished free will. And did they really want a cybernetic organism designed by a madman hanging over their heads?

Sebeck heard footsteps on the stone stairs behind him. He turned to see Laney Price wearing a new black T-shirt and parachute pants. The words “THANK YOU . . . for not emoting” were emblazoned on Price’s shirt in bold white letters.

“Where are you getting these stupid T-shirts?”

He stretched the fabric to read it. “Like it? Latest thing, man. Smart plastic. I got it at the gift shop the day I got in.”

“Wait . . . there’s a gift shop?”

“Yeah. Flexible, programmable plastic display. Takes about an hour to change messages. Pretty cool, huh?”

Sebeck turned back to the railing. “You downvoted me, you prick.”

Price came up alongside him. “Well, what did you expect? You treat me like crap.”

“A two-star reputation ranking?”

“Oh, out of a base factor of one! Big deal. You can fix it. Try not being a dick. It works wonders.”

“I oughta downvote your reputation ranking.”

“I’ve got a base factor of four hundred and six, pal. Good luck. And on what grounds, by the way? You know damn well that it has to be for a cause, and that it must pass muster on an fMRI countercharge.”

Sebeck threw up his hands. “Jesus, we sound like a couple of geeks at a Star Trek convention.”

“I happen to speak Klingon, pal. So . . . Hab SoSlI’ Quch!”

They heard more footsteps and turned to see Riley coming up to join them.

Sebeck nodded to her in greeting.

She appraised him. “You may not like it, Sergeant, but you’ll make an able member of the darknet. I think you’re ready to continue your quest.”

“Then you’re rating me?”

She nodded and raised her ringed hands. With a few precise movements she moved an invisible object to an invisible place, and Sebeck noticed a message come across his HUD display. It told him that Riley had just rated him on a scale of one to five—scoring him a four. Now with a base of two he had a reputation score of three. Half a star above average.