He closed the cell door behind him and examined Sebeck without betraying emotion. No surprise. No irritation. Nothing. “Detective Sebeck.”
“Major.”
The Major narrowed his eyes and dragged a heavy wooden chair across the concrete floor to sit across from Sebeck. “Sergeant, I must say that I’m surprised to find you, of all people, serving the Daemon.”
“I don’t serve the Daemon. Where is Laney Price?”
“Tell me about your quest, Sergeant.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where is Laney?”
“He’s safe nearby—telling us everything about nothing we care about.”
Sebeck stared into The Major’s cold eyes. “What are you doing to him? He doesn’t know anything.”
“Tell me about the quest Sobol gave you. You’re supposed to justify the freedom of humanity, is that it?” The Major studied Sebeck’s bonds. “How is that going so far?”
Sebeck said nothing.
“What are you supposed to accomplish to achieve this quest of yours, Sergeant?”
“When are you people going to leave me alone?”
“Answer the question.”
“Are you with the government?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me!”
“Don’t shout. Shouting will only make you hoarse. And it won’t change anything. A lot of prisoners make that mistake. Now, let’s get back to your quest. How many darknet operatives are tracking the progress of your quest? How many are donating darknet credits toward its success?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb, Sergeant. We’re already creating darknet objects—like the quest thread you followed to us.”
Sebeck stared at the floor.
“We have a complete breakdown of your activities from darknet news feeds, and we know your circle of operatives. You’ve been on quite a journey.”
Sebeck shook his head slowly. “You evil prick . . . you’re carving up young people to—”
“Yes, we’ve infiltrated the darknet, Sergeant. We’re more creative than you imagine. And unlike you, we’ll do whatever’s necessary to win.”
“I’ve seen what you’re capable of.”
The Major looked at his watch. “Belief is malleable. All one has to do to gain access to the darknet is believe in its purpose. The teenage runaways I introduce to the Daemon consider me their dear friend. A friend who rescued them from life as a sex slave in some brothel—one who showed them a world they never dreamed existed. And once they’re in, they become very useful to me.”
“You cut off their heads and hijack their accounts!”
“Soon, we won’t even need to do that.”
“I thought I knew what evil was. But I was wrong.”
The Major just shrugged it off. “I don’t care, Sergeant. There’s no shortage of unwanted people in the world. Now let’s get back to this quest of yours. What happens if you succeed? What Daemon event are you trying to trigger?”
“Fuck you.”
“You won’t answer?”
“I don’t know. That’s the answer. Sobol gave me a quest, and I have no idea how to accomplish it.”
“What about this D-Space Thread you’re following?”
Sebeck realized with a pang of loss that he no longer could see the Thread. He no longer had HUD glasses, and D-Space was invisible to him. “I can’t see it anymore.”
“And what if we brought your HUD glasses? Would you lead us on the path of this Thread?”
“It wasn’t meant for you.”
“If you cooperate, I can give you your old life back. I can undo this curse Sobol cast on you. Make Detective Sebeck live again. Clear his name. Turn him into a hero.”
Sebeck just shook his head. “I’m not the person I was then, and I don’t want to be. I’ve seen the truth now.”
The Major nodded grimly. “Why would you help the same system that took so much from you?”
“This ‘system’ will help people take back control—from bastards like you.”
“ ‘Bastards like me’ serve a purpose. People need order, Sergeant. They need to be told what to think, what to do, what to believe, or everything will fall apart. This miracle of modern civilization doesn’t just happen. It requires careful management by professionals willing to do whatever is necessary to keep things running smoothly. . . .”
“Is that what you tell yourself?”
“It’s the truth, even if you don’t want to hear it.”
Sebeck shook his head. “I don’t have to believe you. I’ve seen the truth with my own eyes. The people don’t need to be protected from themselves.”
The Major glanced at his watch again. “You disappoint me, Sergeant. You really do. I would normally have taken a more patient and deliberate approach with your case, but time is of the essence, and I must be off.” He stood and pulled the chair back along the wall. “And you—along with your DNA—were officially cremated many months ago. We can’t have you popping up and ruining the official story. Not now.” He rapped on the metal door. A portal slid open with a clack. A moment of recognition and then the door opened.
Two beefy soldiers in ski masks with stun sticks and metal whips on their belts entered.
The Major pointed to Sebeck. “Take him and his friend out to the dump at Q-27. Put their bodies through a wood chipper. I don’t want anyone to find a shred of evidence that they ever existed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sebeck glared from his chair. “You motherfucker.”
The Major regarded him. “Look at the bright side, Sergeant. Your quest is over.” He exited as the guards pulled out their stun sticks.
Sebeck rode in the passenger bay of a heavy vehicle. A diesel engine rattling somewhere beyond steel walls. He could feel his hands lashed behind his back as he lay facedown on a hard, cold diamond-plate floor. He was still nude. Road vibration circulated through his bones.
He turned over to see several sets of combat boots nearby and looked up into the masked faces of soldiers with M4A1s slung across their chests. They looked back down menacingly.
The closest of them pointed a gloved hand in Sebeck’s face. “If I get any trouble from you, I’m going to make it painful. You hear me?”
Another soldier on the opposite row of benches kicked Sebeck. “You hear him!”
Sebeck had the wind knocked out of him for a moment. As he got air back into his lungs, he turned to the man. “I’m an American. I’m one of you. Why are you treating me like this?”
“Shut the fuck up, you commie prick!”
He landed another vicious kick to Sebeck’s ribs, sending him rolling.
That’s when Sebeck noticed Laney Price nearby. Price was also nude, and he sat slumped with his back against the front wall of the vehicle. Price was staring into space with unseeing eyes. He rocked back and forth, muttered silently to himself. Sebeck was horrified to see Price’s body. He expected that it would be overweight and just as hairy as the young man’s face and arms, but instead what he saw along Price’s chest, stomach, and legs was a solid mass of burn scars. Sebeck was horrified.
“Laney. Laney!”
One of the soldiers leaned into view. “Tough little fucker, that one.”
Another soldier chimed in. “Yeah, you’re not going to reach him. He knows how to deal with torture. Don’t you, boy? You’re an old hand.” He smacked Price’s head.
Sebeck crawled closer to Price. “Laney.” Price’s eyes remained unseeing as his lips moved in a repeating rhythm. The scars all over his body looked old.
“Curling iron would be my guess.”
Sebeck turned to face the soldier who said it.
Another soldier shook his head. “This fucker had some sick parents.”
Sebeck felt his heart dropping. He remembered Riley’s words to him back at the Laguna reservation: You never asked about Price’s suffering. How could he never have realized? I
t nearly swallowed him with grief. He looked to Price. “Laney. Listen to me, Laney!”
The vehicle suddenly slowed and lurched into a steep turn.
The lead non-comm stood up and grabbed an overhead handrail. “Let’s finish this and get back in time for chow.” He wrapped a cloth around his nose and mouth, as did the other men.
The vehicle came to a complete stop and the back wall lowered like a drawbridge. Before he could react Sebeck felt himself grabbed by the feet and dragged roughly across the diamond-plate floor. He felt the pain of a dozen small cuts, and then he was unceremoniously dumped onto the dusty ground. All he could smell was the stench of death—so thick that he tasted it as much as smelled it. He heard the squawking and shrieking of birds.
Sebeck sat up and surveyed his surroundings. They’d been traveling in some sort of six-wheeled, armored personnel carrier and arrived at a series of tall wood chip piles—probably from brush clearing at the ranch. Nearby was what looked to be a well-worn wood chipper on a trailer, its chute aimed at the smallest pile of wood chips. Just beyond the blower, crows and buzzards fed noisily on carrion already splayed in a long streak of red-brown covered with chunks of gelatinous meat. They bickered over the scraps.
The whole place reeked of dead flesh. As he glanced around he saw nothing for miles in any direction. It was just flat scrubland.
Sebeck felt Price thrown against him, and as he sat there next to Price in the dust he leaned in once more to look Price in the eyes. He got up close. “Laney! Laney, it’s me, Pete! Talk to me. Please.”
There was a flicker of recognition in Price’s eyes, then they focused on Sebeck.
Sebeck looked around him as a squad of soldiers stared at two others pouring gasoline into the wood chipper’s fuel tank. Another was preparing a video camera with a ghoulish grin on his face.
Sebeck turned back to Price. “Laney, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that it ended like this.”
Price’s brow contorted. “It’s not your fault, Sergeant. Sometimes things end badly.”
“I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I know you didn’t have to be here—and now I’ve gone and failed everyone.”
Price shook his head slightly. “Your quest wasn’t about you, Sergeant. It was about how people reacted to it. It was their quest. You’re just carrying the flag.”
Sebeck stopped. The truth of it hit him. It was the effect his quest had on others that was the purpose. He was just an icon. It made his burden suddenly easier to bear.
Just then the wood chipper’s deafening engine roared to life, and the birds lifted off in panic, fleeting shadows against the sun. Two soldiers walked up to Sebeck. One pointed first to Sebeck, then the wood chipper. They both nodded and slung their weapons. They grabbed Sebeck by the elbows and started carrying him to the bloodstained maw of the roaring machine. Sebeck felt primordial fear grip him as he struggled and dug his bare heels into the dirt. “No!”
They dragged him, twisting and shouting.
But then it suddenly became much easier, and he fell to the ground. Oddly, he was also sopping wet. He turned up toward the man carrying him on his right, but saw that the soldier was missing from the waist up. The man’s severed arm still tightly gripped Sebeck. He stared at it in disbelief. It was not the sort of thing a civilized mind readily computed.
Sebeck then realized no one was holding him to his left anymore either, and when he turned he saw his other executioner’s torso had emptied its contents across the dirt. The rest of the man lay farther on.
And now Sebeck noticed that the roar of the wood chipper was punctuated with crackling gunfire and the roar of more powerful engines. He turned to see several unmanned, blade-covered motorcycles wielding twin swords, slashing at the soldiers as they raced past. Already, one of the mercenaries lay on the ground, screaming and legless. Several of the soldiers were in prone positions, firing on the motorcycles to little effect, but then clutching their eyes as green laser light played across their faces. Blinded, they tried to grope their way back to the troop carrier, but got cut down.
One of the guards managed to make it through the open armored car door, but a motorcycle followed him up the ramp and chopped him into sections with a couple swift sword slashes.
Soon their captors lay in pieces on the ground, blood everywhere, and a score of automated motorcycles slammed down hydraulic kickstands and started preening themselves like praying mantises—spinning their sword blades to clean the blood off.
Sebeck looked to Price, who sat in stunned silence, spattered in blood, but otherwise apparently okay. The only sound was the piercing drone of the wood chipper engine. Sebeck glanced around but could see only fallen bodies and pieces of bodies. He crawled on his belly toward Price, who was trying to sit up.
Price shouted. “Are you hit?”
Sebeck shook his head. “No! This is someone else’s blood!”
Just then the pack of unmanned bikes parted to make way for a lone rider in a black helmet and riding suit. He drove directly up to Price and Sebeck and looked down at them. He dismounted his bike, and suddenly all the engines turned off. A gesture of his hand sent a bolt-straight arc of electricity into the wood chipper, killing its engine as well.
As the chipper wound down, the rider removed his helmet and riding gloves revealing an unnerving sight. It was a young man, early twenties, but his eyes had been replaced with black lenses with flat black rims. Wires ran from drill holes in his bruised temples to an enclosure at the base of his neck. All of his fingers appeared to have been replaced with titanium or silver prosthetics, topped by gleaming claws. He moved stiffly, as if in pain.
The rider knelt down in front of them, staring right into Sebeck’s face with his lidless, metallic eyes. An artificial voice, deep and menacing, spoke an inch or so in front of the man’s mouth—without his lips moving. It was apparently hypersonic sound. “Where is The Major?”
Sebeck shook his head. “I don’t know, but I just left him. They took us out here.”
The rider’s expression was unreadable with his metal eyes. He stood and stared at the horizon.
“Thanks for rescuing us. Who are you?”
Price answered. “He’s Loki Stormbringer, Sergeant.” Price leaned close and whispered. “You remember—Jon Ross mentioned him. . . .”
Sebeck did remember. The most powerful sorcerer on the darknet. And almost as ruthless as the Major himself. Sebeck couldn’t help but think they deserved each other. He twisted to reveal his tied hands. “Can you please untie us, Loki?”
Loki gazed at the horizon with his dead eyes. “You should leave this place. Everything here is about to die. . . .”
With that Loki walked to his bike, and started it. His two dozen razorbacks started up as well. Then an even larger swarm of razorbacks swept past—at least a hundred strong—and Loki merged into it. A flock of dozens of microjet aircraft also howled low overhead in close formation. The entire retinue thundered into the distance, back the way the truck had brought Sebeck and Price. Back toward the center of the ranch.
Price nodded. “He’s even scarier in person.”
Sebeck started crawling toward nearby bodies. “We can probably find a knife on one of these.”
“Hey, look.”
Emerging from the edges of the wood chip piles were a couple dozen armed men in Ghillie suits. As they got closer Sebeck realized their poncho-like suits were more than just physical camouflage—they appeared to reflect whatever was on the other side of them. They were translucent.
He could see their telltale HUD glasses. They had electronic multibarrel rifles slung across their chests and gave the thumbs-up sign to Sebeck and Price as they approached.
Several of them watched the horizon and skies as a tall, muscular-looking darknet operative came up to them and flipped up his bulletproof mask to reveal that he was African American. “Are either of you hurt?”
Sebeck shook his head. “No.”
“Are you The Unnamed One and
Chunky Monkey?”
Price exhaled deeply. “That’s us, man.”
“I’m Taylor. An operative named Rakh sent us to get you.”
Sebeck nodded. Jon Ross.
He made motions with a gloved hand in D-Space as several other darknet operatives cut Sebeck and Price’s bonds. They also offered canteens to them.
He called to the others, “Morris, let’s get them some clothing and gear!”
“We’re on it.”
Price rubbed his wrists. “That was calling it pretty goddamned close!”
“Loki Stormbringer has gathered an army of machines. He’s going to attack. Many others are going to follow him in.”
“Attack? What attack?”
“We came to stop Operation Exorcist. Unmanned vehicles are opening up the roads. We’re pushing in overland.”
“You’re here for The Major and his men?”
“Yes. Have you seen him?”
Sebeck felt his temper starting to flare. “Yeah, and if you’re going after him, we’re going with you.”
Chapter 35: // Infil
Only on the Texas prairie could a three-thousand-square-foot home be called a bungalow. Natalie Philips’s quarters were located in a cluster of other bungalows, all done in Southwestern style—tiny Alamos of white plastered brick with flat roofs and a cosmetic bell tower. It was part of a subdivision of corporate residences located about a mile from the main house across landscaped grounds with fountains, ornamental gardens, and rows of poplars. Beyond the complex the prairie extended unbroken to the horizon. It was peaceful out here. Actual solitude.
The interiors of the bungalow were first-rate—hardwood planks, adobe walls, and hand-hewn beams. High ceilings, hand-woven rugs, and expensive-looking Southwestern art adorning the walls. The entertainment centers for each bungalow were insane. Seventy-inch plasma televisions with surround-sound stereo systems linked to an impressive music and movie library drawn off of some central server—but no Web access. No outside phone service, only in-house room service. There was a fully stocked bar and a small kitchenette with a microwave, as well as a disproportionately large dining room that could easily seat a dozen people. There was a separate servants’ entrance with a ramp for bringing in carts, connected to concealed servant paths that ran between the homes behind hedges and fences—as though they were modern Mad Ludwigs, unwilling to countenance the serving staff.