Daemon

horizon. Split-rail fences undulated over the contours of the land. The wind waved through the grass. The beauty of it almost brought Sebeck to tears.
    He was alive.
    Sobol stood next to the great oak, looking down at the ground.
    Sebeck moved to catch up, and as he reached the tree he could see a small headstone there, set in the grass near the low wall. Sebeck read the simple inscription.
    Matthew Sobol – 1969
    The inscription was centered – leaving no room for a date of death.
    Sobol’s spectre gazed out over the valley below. ‘I loved this place.’ He turned to Sebeck. ‘Are you familiar with the Fates, Sergeant? Greek legend said that they spun the threads of men’s lives and cut them at a length of their choosing. Like the Fates, I severed the thread of your life …’
    Sobol faced toward the horizon and extended his hand. Suddenly a glowing blue line appeared in D-Space, extending from Sobol’s palm and tracing almost instantly down the nearby road and through the hills, to be lost beyond the horizon.
    ‘Here is your new thread. Only you can see it, and it leads to a future only you can find.’
    At that, Sobol’s ghostly image turned and started descending slowly into the ground of his grave, as if walking down ethereal steps. He moved methodically, slowly – like a monk in procession. Just before Sobol’s head disappeared beneath the soil, he stopped and looked up, directly into Sebeck’s eyes. ‘The guardian of this node will teach you all you need to know.When you leave this place, Sergeant, remember that they killed Peter Sebeck once. Do not doubt that they will kill him again if he reappears. Alive you’re a grave risk to their world – such is your fate.’
    With one last glance, Sobol stepped down into his grave and disappeared beneath the grass.
    Sebeck stared for several minutes at the spot where his nemesis had disappeared. His thoughts were turbulent – not yet forming into anything definite. Why didn’t he feel rage? Depression? He finally looked up, and the thread was still there, undulating over the land, projected from where Sebeck stood. He flipped up the HUD glass lenses, and the glowing thread disappeared. He flipped them down, and the line returned.
    Sebeck heard the crunch of gravel, and he turned to see a black Lincoln Town Car easing to a stop just beyond the back wall gate.
    Laney Price got out and moved to open the rear car door. He motioned dramatically for Sebeck to get inside.
    With one last glance at Sobol’s grave, Sebeck approached the car, pushing open the wrought iron gate.
    Price nodded, still holding open the rear door. ‘I’m supposed to help you, Sergeant. Sobol said you’d know where to go.’
    Sebeck gazed back along the road behind them – away from the blue thread. He thought of his previous life. Of those he’d left behind. Of the sheriff’s department, Laura, and his son, Chris. Of everyone and everything he’d ever known. Peter Sebeck was dead.
    He turned to face the blue line again, tracing a glowing filament down the road and toward a distant horizon.
    ‘I’ll drive.’
    THE END

Acknowledgments
    It’s been said that writing is a solitary profession, but I just don’t see it. On the long journey to get this book published, I’ve met countless people who gave both their time and effort to pass
Daemon
on to others. I would be remiss if I did not show my appreciation to the following folks:
    Rick Klau and the whole gang at Google for finding a needle in a haystack. Stewart Brand and Peter Schwartz of the Long Now Foundation for opening so many doors. Jeffrey Rayport for making key connections. Don Donzal and the Ethicalhacker.net team for checking the details. John Robb at Global Guerrillas for bringing serious folks to the table. Jim Rapoza at
eWeek
for being the first to note Daemon in print. Craig Newmark of Craigslist for being cool to an unknown writer. Brilliant individuals such as Thomas L. and the inimitable Alexi S., who impact your life in ways you’ll never know. Tom Leonard at Valve Software for early encouragement. Mike and Carol Caley for their friendship and confidence in me. Frank and Charlene Gallego for bringing
Daemon
everywhere I could not. Anne Borgman for catching things everyone else missed. And my gratitude to Frank DeCavalcante, for inspiring a lifelong love of books and writing.
    Profound thanks as well to my wonderful literary agent, Bridget Wagner, at Sagalyn Agency, and also to my editor, Ben Sevier, for