Freedom TM

bobbing toward him in the fabric of D-Space. Name call-outs were a means of identifying other members of the Daemon’s darknet (or encrypted network). The glowing words
Chunky Monkey
hovered three feet over a pear-shaped silhouette moving in the shadows. It was the network name of Laney Price, Sebeck’s Daemon-assigned minder. Sebeck knew that a similar call-out reading
Unnamed_1
floated above his own head in D-Space. Matthew Sobol had indeed unnamed him by erasing Sebeck’s existence to the modern world, and giving him a new life on the darknet.
    Sebeck waited as Price labored toward him then collapsed on the ground nearby. The light from pico projectors in Price’s own HUD glasses cast a soft glow onto his face, revealing a twenty-something kid with a thick beard and a mane of unkempt black hair. His face shined with sweat.
    “Couldn’t we have … waited until daylight … Sergeant?”
    “The Thread has never led us off the highway. We’re close to something.”
    Price gazed around wearily. “It’s really leading you out here?”
    Sebeck could see the blue line extending like a crooked laser beam from where he stood, shooting uphill and disappearing over the ridgeline. It was the path Sobol had told him to follow. It was coded to him, and he was supposedly the only person in the world who could see it.
    “You don’t have to come with me.”
    “It’s my job, Sergeant.”
    “You honestly don’t know where the Thread is heading?”
    Price shook his head. “I’m just another slob on the darknet. Like you.”
    “No. Not like me. You
volunteered
for the Daemon. That’s the difference between us, Laney. Don’t forget it—because I won’t.”
    “For me it was an easy choice.”
    They sat for several minutes looking up at the stars and the occasional meteor trail.
    Price nodded, soaking up the atmosphere. “It’s pretty rockin’ out here.”
    Sebeck jerked his thumb uphill. “Let’s keep going.”
    In barely half a mile they crested the desert ridge in the moonlight. Price was panting and cursing by the time they reached the top. Sebeck was still in good physical shape—his prison ritual of situps and push-ups remained the first thing he did every morning.
    A quarter moon and a brilliant field of stars illuminated the surrounding mesas. Ahead Sebeck could see clustered shadows. The Thread led straight toward them.
    “There’s something up ahead.”
    Price was still sucking wind. “Anasazi Indian ruins.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “D-Space geotags. Layer nine. I could show you how to—”
    “And you claim you don’t know where we’re headed. Sure.…” Sebeck continued down the path.
    Behind him Price cursed again and struggled to keep up.
    Soon they came to the edge of stone ruins. They were taller than Sebeck would have expected for ancient Indian dwellings. The thick masonry walls were still several stories high, pierced by windows and doorways. He’d heard of cliff dwellers in the Southwest, but not freestanding stone buildings.
    The Thread led directly through a low doorway in the face of a towering masonry wall. Sebeck approached and reached out his hand to run it along the wall’s face. It was remarkably straight and tightly constructed.
    He kneeled down to look ahead and could see moonlightilluminating several roofless rooms, connected by a series of open doorways that lined up perfectly.
    The sound of Price’s footsteps were behind him. Sebeck turned. “Why are we here, Laney?”
    “I told you, man. I don’t know. I’m just supposed to help you reach your goal—that doesn’t mean I know where it is.”
    Sebeck glared at him then ducked into the rooms beyond. Price followed, and they moved cautiously through roofless rooms. Walls loomed above them, framing a field of stars.
    Before long the Thread led Sebeck down a worn stone stairway, and out into a circular chamber about forty feet in diameter, open to the sky. Above them, the distant mesas and cliffs of the canyon formed a jagged silhouette along the horizon. Twenty-foot walls surrounded the space, with several more entrances leading into it, but here the Thread ended in a swirling aura of blue light that floated above the glowing apparition of a man. The ghostly figure wore a Victorian jacket and tie, and leaned on a silver shod cane.
    It was a man Sebeck knew—the digital ghost of Matthew Sobol. The creator of the Daemon. Sobol’s avatar looked healthier than when Sebeck saw it last. It now took the form