Freedom TM

continued with relentless precision until it had teased Ibanescu’s name from his mind. It finally said in a stilted, machine mispronunciation,
“Mr. Ibanescu, what is your legal first name?”
    A series of names scrolled slowly across the ceiling in front of him, but he no longer tried to close his eyes. What was the point? He knew it would simply speak the letters into his ears—which was even more excruciating.
    Sure enough, as the list scrolled down through the S’s and centered on “Stanislav,” the scroll slowed. Then stopped. “Stanislav” was highlighted in bold.
“Stanislav Ibanescu. Is this your legal name?”
    He knew there would be a pause, followed by the inevitable,
“Yes. This is your legal name. Are you Stanislav Ibanescu of Trivale bloc 25A?”
    Now he did close his eyes. This machine had in a matter of ten minutes completely identified him. It now knew who his family was, his history, everything. What a nightmare technology was. Then he thought,
If we had had this technology in the Securitate, we would never have fallen from power
. Whoever was doing this was someone he wanted to be part of. These people were
winners
.
    Just when you think America is finished …
    Now he was looking at his official state identification photo, his employment history, and his military history. It showed that he was currently employed by Alexandru International Solutions. His most recent tax copayments were from his employer, and this system seemed to have access to all of it.
    “Were you sent here by your current employer … Alexandru International Solutions?”
There was a pause.
“Yes, you were.”
Another pause.
“Did your job responsibilities include perpetrating acts of violence against unarmed civilians?”
Another pause. “
Yes. It did.
” Yet another pause. “
The financial resources of … Alexandru International Solutions … have just been deleted.”
    He tried to shake his head in disbelief, but couldn’t even manage that in the viselike grip of the head restraints.
    “Now let’s determine your social network. What is the primary means you use to contact your handler? Is it e-mail?”
A pause.
“No. Is it phone?”
A pause.
“Yes. By phone. What is the first digit of your contact’s phone number? Is it 1 … 2 …?”
    Ibanescu sighed deeply. His career, if not his life, was over. He stared intently ahead.
    “I would like application. Yes? Is this the word?
Application?”

Chapter 27: // Reunion
    Darknet Top-rated Posts +285,380↑
    For those of you tracking Unnamed_1’s quest, ask yourself: why has his thread been leading him in circles in the Midwest? What’s there that might justify our freedom to the Daemon? Is it the paramilitaries, or are those bastards looking for the same thing? C’mon, upvote this post, and let’s get some resources on this problem.
    Arendel****/ 793 9th-level Horticulturalist
    Pete Sebeck and Jon Ross sat in an outdoor cafe on Greeley, Iowa’s Main Street. Around their table sat another half-dozen people, various locals who had been following Sebeck’s quest on the dark-net feeds, as well as his recent exploits against paramilitaries. Introductions were long over, as was the meal, and the group was now talking animatedly. On the far side of the table, Laney Price was debating with an online gaming economist named
Modius,
while their hosts laughed uproariously. Today, Price’s T-shirt read: “What would Roy Merritt do?”
    Sebeck sipped his espresso and chuckled. He turned to Ross. “Laney’s kept me sane. I don’t know what I would have done without him.”
    “I guess it was luck of the draw that the Daemon selected him to revive you.”
    Sebeck grew somber. “My past life seems like a thousand years ago, Jon.”
    “I know the feeling.”
    “I think about my wife and my son every day, but contacting them would only put them in danger. And what would I say?” Sebeck raised his hands dramatically. “‘I’m not a mass murderer and by the way, the Daemon is real’?”
    Ross had no response.
    Sebeck leaned back in his seat. “So there I was in federal prison and imagine how I felt when they told me you were an imposter all that time we were working together on the Sobol murder case.”
    Ross grimaced. “Yes, you probably wanted to strangle me.”
    “I thought you’d
framed
me, Jon.” He took another sip of his espresso. “So what do I call you now?” He pointed up at Ross’s call-out. “It’s not really ‘Rakh,’ is