But more important, the moment she rated him, a new blue Thread sprang into being about ten feet above and in front of Sebeck’s HUD view. It ran quickly from the mountaintop, through the valley, and to the horizon northeast of them, where it disappeared.
Sebeck took a deep breath. It was difficult to tolerate the return of that domineering line. Where it would lead was anyone’s guess.
“Do you see it, Sergeant?”
He nodded. “Yes. My Thread is back.”
“I thought it might be. It seems your quest will lead you to places and events. Although how that might ultimately lead to this ‘Cloud Gate’ you’re seeking, I don’t know. I’ve searched for anything called a Cloud Gate in the structure of the darknet but found nothing. However, there is mention of it elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“In myth.”
“Great. So, I’m searching for a myth. . . .”
“Myths still have power, Sergeant. Sobol knew that. His games are predicated upon them. Myths are the archetypes that recur again and again in the hopes and fears of mankind. They have a hold upon us. The entire concept of a daemon stems from the guardian spirits of Greek mythology—spirits who watched over mankind to keep them out of trouble, and that’s become real enough.”
Sebeck shrugged. “Okay. What do these myths say about a Cloud Gate?”
“It was the gateway to the heavens and guarded by the Horae—the goddesses of orderly life. The Horae were also known collectively as the Hours and the Seasons. Their mother was Themis—the goddess of justice and order.”
The name tugged at Sebeck’s memory. “As in the Scale of Themis?” She nodded. “An allegorical personification of moral force—a myth powerful enough that she became enshrined in our own society as Blind Lady Justice—one of the only goddesses of our new Republic. Her symbol surrounds us to this day.”
Sebeck absorbed this, still uncertain what to make of it.
Riley placed a hand on his shoulder. “In Sobol’s online fantasy world, The Gate, different planes of existence were linked by gates, and those who controlled them or passed through them could control or change the course of world events. The outcome of your quest may affect us all, Sergeant.”
He nodded somberly.
She placed her hand on Sebeck’s shoulder. “Follow your Thread. I believe your heart is in the right place, even if you don’t agree with Sobol’s vision. Question everything. But don’t be surprised if the world you thought you knew never existed.”
Chapter 8: // Erebus
Grain Prices Spike On Crop Reduction—Year-over-year direct subsidy applications by U.S. corn and soybean farmers plummeted in parts of Iowa, Missouri, Kansas, and Nebraska, sending world grain futures skyrocketing. The U.S. Department of Agriculture reported an unprecedented nationwide 6 to 7 percent decrease in acres of corn and soybeans under cultivation . With U.S. production representing 42 percent of the world’s corn and 34 percent of its soybeans, analysts are bracing for potential shortages of grain-fed livestock as well as processed food additives derived from corn and soy.
The Major stared down the length of Sheikh Zayed Road from his conference room on the fifty-third floor. Gleaming skyscrapers lined the twelve-lane highway below, creating a man-made canyon topped by familiar multinational logos. Not far off he could see Burj Dubai, the tallest building in the world. Its towering presence helped remind everyone that this wasn’t a wasteland of sand, but a petri dish of business culture.
Dubai was the perfect business environment. A blank slate—the way it should be everywhere. No interference. No taxes. No protestors. It had been a smuggling port for centuries, bringing gold into India and serving as a conduit for everything from slaves to silks. But now the coves and creeks on the coast had been turned into marinas for mega-yachts and resorts packed with sunburned Russians. First-world infrastructure and office blocks had been laid down with such vengeance in the last ten years that slow-moving pedestrians risked being paved over.
What The Major liked most about the Emirates was that there was order. Everyone accepted their role. The Filipinos provided service, the Indians and Bangladeshis provided labor, and expats from the U.S., Europe, Japan, and China did the business. The Emiratis . . . well, everyone needed at least one, but they stayed out of the way for the most part.
The only real authority was the market, and that was increasingly true the world over.
The Major returned his attention for a moment to the conference room and two MBAs tag teaming a PowerPoint presentation. They were here to parse reality into benchmarks and deliverables. He glanced over at his staff agronomist, who was listening with rapt attention to their bullet points, taking notes. That was his purpose.
But not the purpose of the meeting. The Major stood along the rear wall, ostensibly a back-office troll. However, these young MBAs had no idea that they were really taking this meeting with him. They were bringing a problem that needed solving, even if they didn’t realize it. They were the messengers.
His firm would get the contract. It would be for an infrastructure security assessment or a market risk analysis, or something similar. Korr Business Intelligence Services did not advertise, and they did not submit proposals. They were the junior partners of a security consultant to the engineering department of a construction division of a real estate subsidiary of a financial group. They had no signage out front and no listing for their firm in the lobby directory. Most of their employees were economists, researchers, and mathematicians. And very few of them had any idea what they were really doing here: preserving the global economy.
The two MBAs were still droning on about methodologies. These junior executives were always so earnest in their Savile Row suits. One was a pasty-white Brit, the other a Pakistani, also with an English accent. Probably graduates of the best schools. A wife and two young children at home—and no idea that there was video on file somewhere of them having sex with young women (or men) while they were on business in Panama, or Mali, or Brazil, or anywhere really. Get the footage while they’re up-and-coming—before they suspect anyone would care. Before they become powerful. These rich dynasties had been using offshore photo mills for decades to enforce loyalty with one another, their business partners, and their kids. Get them married, set them up as respectable people in the community. Pay them tons of money—but always get photos of them with underage hookers. The more perverse the better. It could pay huge dividends when they chaired a government committee or tried to go public with damaging information. Political ideology didn’t matter. They hosted junkets for left-wingers, right-wingers. The Major had cut his teeth on a Panama operation like that back in the late eighties, using cocaine and sex workers to generate potentially career-ending imagery that made the business world go round. Photoshop had pretty much ended the still picture side of the business by making photographs meaningless. High-def video was the only way to go now, and sooner or later computer graphics would do that in, too. Someone really had to come up with a solution, or the entire blackmail industry was doomed. Thankfully, The Major had long ago moved on to more serious operations.
The MBAs were now evaluating world commodity markets, highlighting key items with laser pointers.
The Major contemplated his present line of work—and what led him here. It was over twenty years ago that he’d taken his first life. God did not, in fact, strike him down. Instead, a problem disappeared.