Garrett Lindhurst marched purposefully toward the corner office on the fifty-first floor of Leland Equity Group’s palatial world headquarters. He clenched a rolled magazine in his hand like a baton in a slow-motion relay race and looked visibly worried. Worried about systems.
As chief information officer, Lindhurst held dominion over the systems that delivered the lifeblood of Leland Equity Group: real-time financial data. That data was delivered instantaneously to every corner of the organization and to every client. Every account and every dollar in every branch office passed through Lindhurst’s networks and data systems. Every e-mail passed through his servers. He had thirty regional VPs as direct reports and oversaw an empire of some five hundred IT employees worldwide.
And yet, Leland Equity Group was one of those multibillion-dollar companies that existed on the periphery of public awareness. Their unremarkable logo could be found in the skyline of any major city in North America, Europe, or Asia, and even if most people had no idea what the company did, they assumed it must be doing something important.
The reality was that, with eighty billion dollars in assets under management, the decisions made by Leland MBAs ruled the daily lives of two hundred million Third World people.
Following a (more or less) Darwinian economic model, Leland identified and quantified promising resource development opportunities in the far corners of the world. They had since formed private equity partnerships with local leaders for strip mining in Papua New Guinea, water privatization in Ecuador, marble quarrying in China, oil drilling in Nigeria, and pipeline construction in Myanmar. Anywhere local public and/or private leaders existed with abundant resources, a surfeit of rivals, and a deficit in capital, Leland could be found. And while these projects were theoretically beneficial, the benefits were best perceived at a distance of several thousand miles.
Leland’s equity offerings used tedious statistical analysis to mask the fact that their business centered on enslaving foreign people and ravaging their lands. They didn’t do this directly, of course, but they hired the people who hired the people who did.
Humanity had always trafficked in oppression. Before the corporate marketing department got ahold of it, it was called conquest. Now it was regional development. Vikings and Mongols were big on revenue targets, too—but Leland had dispensed with all the tedious invading, and had taken a page out of the Roman playbook by hiring the locals to enslave each other as franchisees.
To view Leland fund managers as immoral was a gross simplification of the world. And what was there to replace capitalism, anyway? Communism? Theocracy? Most of the Third World had already suffered nearly terminal bouts of idealism. It was the Communists, after all, who had littered the world with cheap AK-47s in order to “liberate” the masses. But the only lasting effect was that every wall between Cairo and the Philippines had at least one bullet hole in it. But nothing changed. Nothing changed because these alternate belief systems flew in the face of human nature. Of even common sense. Anyone who has ever tried to share pizza with roommates knows that Communism cannot ever work. If Lenin and Marx had just shared an apartment, perhaps a hundred million lives might have been spared and put to productive use making sneakers and office furniture.
Leland bankers told clients that they didn’t design the world—they were just trying to live in it. And incidentally, the wonders of the developed world rose from the ashes of conflict and competition, so they were helping people in the long run. For godsakes, just look at Japan.
And while the debate mumbled on, asterisked by legal disclaimers, Leland booked another highly profitable year.
But profitability was not what was bothering Garrett Lindhurst as he approached the CEO’s office suite.
Among Leland’s C-level executives, only Lindhurst was without decades-old family ties to the organization—but then again, the rapid expansion of computer systems in the corporate world in recent years had outpaced the ability of old-money families to produce senior technology talent. While Lindhurst hadn’t written any actual code since working with Fortran and Pascal back in his Princeton days, he had learned over the years how much systems should cost and what they needed to do.
In essence, computer systems needed to do only one of two things: make money or save money. Everything else was just details. Scut work. These tasks Lindhurst delegated to the executive senior veeps, who, in turn, delegated them to someone else…and so on. It was only during times of complete disaster that Lindhurst involved himself with the actual computer systems themselves.
Today was such a time.
Lindhurst pointed at the CEO’s temple-like office doors as he passed the executive secretary’s desk. “He in?”
“He’s leaving for Moscow in an hour.”
She barely registered Lindhurst’s presence. A stone-faced woman in her fifties, she was many years in the CEO’s service and effectively had more authority than any two senior vice presidents put together.
But Lindhurst had more authority than ten. He pushed his way through the towering double doors.
“Garrett!” she called after him.
He ignored her and proceeded into the CEO’s cavernous office at a quick pace.
The tanned, pampered face of Russell Vanowen, Jr., CEO and chairman of Leland Equity Group, looked up from reading a letter. He scowled. “Damnit, Garrett, make an appointment.”
Garrett heard the doors close behind him, and he took a deep breath. “This can’t wait.”
“Then just pick up the phone, for chrissakes.”
“We need a face-to-face.”
Vanowen regarded him like a statue would a pigeon. Vanowen had that obsessively groomed look of the fabulously rich—as though his head were the grounds of Augusta National and a hundred grounds-keepers swarmed over it each morning. The ring of white hair sweeping around the back of his head was perfectly manicured like a green. The pores of his skin were flawless. His suit was masterfully tailored to make his husky form look manly and authoritative.
Yet, for all his obvious fastidiousness, Vanowen did not look soft. He was stocky, intimidating, with a presence that projected itself without having to speak; his eyes scanned a room like twin .50-caliber machine guns. And he had an almost mystical authority in this office, with its bank of tall windows overlooking downtown Chicago and Lake Michigan beyond. This was a fabled seat of power, overlooking the length and breadth of the land.
Lindhurst proceeded toward Vanowen’s massive teak wood desk, still thirty feet away. “We have a major problem, Russ.”
Vanowen still held a letter in one hand, glaring over his reading glasses. He reluctantly dropped the letter on his otherwise empty desk and removed his glasses. “When you say ‘we,’ I take that to mean ‘you.’” He glanced at his massive watch, tugging a cuff-linked sleeve up to see the face. “I’m heading out to the airfield any minute.”
There wasn’t any time to finesse it. “We’ve lost administrator rights to our network.”
This did not have the impact Lindhurst hoped.
Vanowen shrugged slightly and now looked greatly irritated. “So what the hell do you want me to do about it? You’re the CIO; ride your people until they fix it. Jesus, Garrett.”
Lindhurst sat down in one of the uncomfortable leather chairs, pulling it right up to the desk. He leaned in close, still clutching the rolled magazine. “Russ, listen to me: we don’t have any control over our databases.”
“My response is the same. Now would you let me read this letter, please?”
“WE ARE UNDER ATTACK.”
That got Vanowen’s attention. “Attack?”
“Attack. All offices, worldwide. Look, I get in this morning, and I have phone calls from six division heads telling me they can’t log on as admins to our servers. They think it’s a layoff and that they’ve been shut out on purpose.”
“Were they?”
“Not by us. Turns out no one can get an admin logon—not even here in the main office. All systems rebooted last night. And somehow, somebody took over our network. We have only limited rights to it.”
Now Vanowen looked really angry. He pounded his fist on the desk. “Jesus Christ, Lindhurst! Why the hell wasn’t I told about this sooner? Our clients must be screaming bloody murder.”
“Hold on a second. Our Web sites are up, and we can access data, no problem. So can our clients. We can even change data, so no one outside Leland knows yet.”
Confused and getting angrier by the moment, Vanowen gestured, “So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that we can’t back up, restore, or change our servers. We can’t even export data.”
“I may not know much about this stuff, Lindhurst, but I do know we spent thirty million dollars on backup systems. Surely you can take a backup copy and restore it.”
“That’s just it; our backup SANs are toast. Our off-site replication trashed. The log files were faked. We have no backups newer than four months ago.”
Vanowen squinted at him. “How is that possible? I spent forty-seven million dollars on IT last year alone. We were supposed to have the most advanced network security money can buy. You assured me of that. You assured the board of that. That’s why we hired you.”
“I don’t think our systems were breached. Not from the outside. I think it’s an inside job.”
“Call the FBI.”
“We can’t do that.”
“The hell we can’t.”
“Understand this, Russ: they can flush our entire network down the toilet with a single keystroke—from just about anywhere in the world. This company is hanging by a thread.”
The room got deathly quiet. Still staring, Vanowen spoke with the sort of calm voice that usually precedes violence. “Explain this to me, Garrett.”
“It gets much worse.”
“Worse? How the hell can it get any worse?”
“Watch.” Garrett motioned for Vanowen to follow him.
Vanowen’s office was huge, with a double-height ceiling and windows. Several sets of sofas and leather chairs were placed about the room, with a wide plasma-screen television on the far end and a conference table nearby, encircled by chairs. The place was easily a couple thousand square feet.
Vanowen reluctantly got up from his desk and followed Lindhurst to the plasma screen. Lindhurst was already fiddling with a remote he had picked up from the credenza there.
Vanowen settled into a conference table chair. “I’ll see that the people behind this go to federal prison for the rest of their lives.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see in a moment.” Lindhurst gestured to the plasma screen. “Have you used this video conferencing system yet? It cost seventy thousand dollars.”
“Goddamnit, Lindhurst—”
“Okay, look, this system is jacked into our corporate network. I put something out there that I want you to see.” Lindhurst used the remote to navigate to an intranet Web page, which filled the screen. “I found an e-mail in my inbox this morning. It was from the system administrator—the new system administrator. The person who took my rights away. That e-mail contained a hyperlink—which I copied to this network share.” He navigated to another page and clicked a hyperlink. “Here is what I saw….”
Vanowen looked impatiently at the screen.
The seventy-inch plasma monitor suddenly went black and after a few moments a whooshing sound effect escorted a whirling logo into the center of the screen. It was a stylized emblem of the words: Daemon Industries LLC.
A professional-sounding female announcer came on, along with cavorting corporate music. It was like an infomercial or network marketing video. Her voice was cheerful. “Welcome to the Daemon Industries family of companies. In just a moment you’ll hear some of the exciting new opportunities available to you in this fast-growing global organization. An organization to which your company now belongs. But first, a word from our founder…”
Vanowen frowned. “Lindhurst—”
“Shh!” He pointed.
The screen faded in on a man in his mid-thirties. He was sitting in a chair next to a fireplace. The chirpy corporate Muzak continued in the background. Words appeared at the bottom of the screen:
Matthew A. Sobol, Ph.D.
Chairman & CEO Daemon Industries LLC
Sobol nodded once in dour greeting.
Lindhurst hit the PAUSE button on the remote. Sobol froze in mid-nod. “That’s him.”
“That’s who?” Vanowen squinted at the words on-screen. He turned back to Lindhurst. “Never heard of him. Is this the person who broke into our network?”
“Yes.”
“Call the FBI.”
“Won’t do any good, Russ. Matthew Sobol’s dead.” Lindhurst handed the rolled magazine to Vanowen.
Vanowen just glanced down at it, then with some reluctance took it. He unrolled it and moved it to arm’s length so he could see the cover with his myopic eyes. The same Matthew Sobol was on the cover of the magazine. It was eight months old. The headline read: Murderer From Beyond the Grave. “That guy?” Vanowen tossed the magazine onto the nearby conference table. “That was a hoax.” He motioned to the plasma screen. “So is this. My kid at USC could probably make this video on his Powerbook.”
“Russ, someone managed a coordinated global attack that not only stole rights to our worldwide network, but they did it months ago without raising a single alarm. They didn’t leave a trace. Matthew Sobol was one of the few people who could have pulled it off.”
“You’re frighteningly gullible. Jesus, some hackers got into our network, and they’re trying to put one over on you. Call the FBI.”
“Russ, no one faked this video. If you listen to him, you’ll see what I mean.” Lindhurst released the PAUSE button.
Matthew Sobol came back to life on-screen. The infomercial music faded as he finished his nod. “By now you’re beginning to realize that you no longer control your network and that your backups are damaged beyond repair. I am now an integral part of your organization—and have been for several months. Let me assure you that your corporate data is safe, and that sufficient backups exist off-site to provide seamless protection in the event of a natural disaster or other calamity.
“Before I continue, let me caution you to watch this video in its entirety before contacting your local or federal authorities. This recording contains important information that may affect your decision to involve those entities in this situation.”
A light musical jingle accompanied a twirling inset picture that spun to a stop alongside Sobol’s head. It was a video of Sobol’s mansion roaring in flames.
Sobol smiled pleasantly. “As you can see, involving the authorities is no guarantee of your safety. Although they would certainly be willing to try again at your location.”
The inset video image transitioned to a collection of quivering question marks.
Sobol looked intently into the camera. “But you’re probably wondering just how you got yourselves into this situation. To answer that question, surprisingly, we need to go back hundreds of millions of years to the very origins of life on Earth.”
The question marks expanded to fill the screen and faded away as the entire screen dissolved to an image of primordial Earth. It was a 3-D computer animation of the ancient seas, teeming with exotic life—razor-toothed fish with whiplike probosces and flitting schools of tiny translucent organisms.s
Vangelis music rose on the surround-sound speakers. Sobol narrated, “Let me tell you the story of the most successful organism of all time: this is the story of the parasite.”
On-screen a large, particularly evil-looking fish with twin rows of splayed fangs and a spiked dorsal array glided into view. Just then, a small organism swam for the area just behind the enormous fish’s gills, where it latched on, unnoticed. A dozen others followed it and also latched on.
Sobol spoke. “Early on, evolution branched into two distinct paths: independent organisms—those that exist on their own in the natural world—and parasites—organisms that live on other organisms. And it was, by far, the parasites that proved the more successful of the two branches. Today, for every independent organism in nature, there exist three parasites.”
The computer animation transitioned from one eon to the next—from amphibian to reptilian to mammalian—with parasites continuing to evolve along with their hosts, infesting some species, driving them to extinction, while other species evolved means to keep them at bay—at least for a time.
“These two strains of evolution have been locked in a primordial arms race, constantly evolving to best each other for supremacy of this planet. As parasites evolve to perfect their systems against a species of host, the host evolves to evade their attack. Scientists call this theory of an eternal genetic struggle the Red Queen Hypothesis—a name taken from Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass.”
On-screen, the image suddenly changed to an animation of Alice in Wonderland—with the Red Queen running along a hedgerow maze and looking toward little Alice, who struggled to keep up. She was saying: “Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place.”
The screen changed to a video of a small pond, with snails moving through the mud.
“Animal behavior has evolved to battle parasites. In fact, we have parasites to thank for the existence of sex. Sex is a costly and time-consuming method of reproduction. Experiments have shown that, in the absence of parasites, species evolve toward parthenogenesis—or cloning—as the reproductive method of choice. In parthenogenesis each individual is able to self-replicate. But this produces almost no genetic variation. In the presence of parasites, cloning, while more energy-efficient, is not a viable reproductive strategy. It presents a stationary genetic target to parasites, who, once introduced into such a system, will quickly dominate it.”
The screen changed to an animated diagram of twin sets of human DNA strands, which moved as Sobol spoke.
“Sexual reproduction exists solely as a means to defeat parasites. By mixing male and female genes, sex produces offspring not exactly like either the male or female—making each generation different from the last, and presenting a moving target to intruders intent on compromising this system.
“Even with this variation, parasites continue to pose a threat…”
The screen changed to color film footage of native villages with truly hideous parasitic infestations; children with bulging, worm-filled bellies; malaria victims.
“…and parasitism evolves and moves through any system—not just living things. The less variation there is in a system, the more readily parasites will evolve to infest it….”
The screen showed food-borne illness outbreaks—images of fast-food restaurants. The camera panned to reveal identical restaurants running down the sides of each street, in Dallas, in Denver, in Orlando, in Phoenix….
“Perfect replication is the enemy of any robust system….”
Then images of identical rows of computers in a data center, all running the same operating system…
“Lacking a central nervous system—much less a brain—the parasite is a simple system designed to compromise a very specific target host. The more uniform the host, the more effective the infestation.”
The screen changed to a video image of a hermit crab moving along the sandy ocean bottom. The camera followed it as Sobol spoke.
“But if they’re so successful, why haven’t parasites taken over the world? The answer is simple: they have. We just haven’t noticed. That’s because successful parasites don’t kill us; they become part of us, making us perform all the work to keep them alive and help them reproduce….”
The crab scuttled toward its hole.
“Sacculina is a parasite that infests saltwater crabs. It burrows into their flesh and extends tendrils into the crab’s bloodstream and brain. It chemically castrates the crab and becomes its new brain—controlling it like a zombie.”
The screen then showed an image of a Sacculina-infested crab, with the bulging sack of the parasite filling its abdomen.
“It compels the crab to raise the parasite’s young. It enslaves it.”
The screen changed to a close-up computer animation. It was a double helix of DNA, with each set of genes showing clearly as rungs on the genetic ladder. The perspective moved along the length of the helix.
“And so have thousands of parasites done with us. After tens of thousands of years, a parasite becomes so much a part of us that they evolve into sections of our DNA.”
Certain sections of the DNA were highlighted, one after another.
“They have so enslaved us that we believe we’re reproducing ourselves, when in reality, we’re reproducing hidden others within us. Forty percent of our genetic code consists of these useless segments of DNA—sections that serve no useful purpose to us. Nearly half the human genome is just the ghostly remnant of parasites.”
The images of DNA dissolved back to Sobol, sitting in his armchair by the fireplace. “By now, you’ve figured out that my Daemon is your parasite and that you are hopelessly infected. The Daemon will sip your corporate blood, but it will not be fatal. More importantly, the Daemon will keep other parasites out of your system, strengthening your immunity and ensuring that the corporate host continues to survive.”
The fireplace background dissolved, and Sobol now appeared on a black background. He was more serious.
“But know this: my Daemon has enlisted humans within your organization. These are hijacked cells in the corporate organism. People who thirst for more power. That’s how the Daemon got in. You have no way of knowing who is responsible. My Daemon can teach almost anyone to defeat network security—especially from an existing network account. The reality is that my Daemon now controls your global IT function. Your business will operate as before, and no one will suspect that there is anything unusual going on—except that perhaps your systems will run better than they did when you were responsible for them.
“Your natural inclination will be to resist this indignity, of course, and so you will be tempted to contact the authorities. That is your choice—although the moment my Daemon detects such contact, it will wipe your company’s data off the face of the earth. And don’t even think of replicating your databases from scratch with paper files; remember that my Daemon has agents among your staff. You can hide nothing from it. If you start polygraphing or if you lay off everyone, the Daemon will destroy your company. If you attempt to infiltrate an undercover operative into your IT department, it will destroy your company. If you attempt to exert control over your IT department or to create a new one, it will destroy your company. In short: if you attempt to do anything other than ignore my Daemon, it will destroy your company.
“As a financial enterprise wholly reliant upon the trust of your clients, the loss of all your clients’ data will bring ruin upon you. As for insurance: the Daemon will annihilate you whenever you reappear, and it will never stop until both your company and you as individual officers are financially destroyed. Being a nonsentient narrow-AI construct, the Daemon doesn’t give a damn what choice you make. It’s as dumb as Sacculina.” A pause. “And just as effective.”
The fireplace background reappeared, and Sobol smiled again. “I hope you and my Daemon can peacefully coexist. I think you’ll find that, as the years roll by, you’ll be glad indeed that you didn’t try to defy it—especially as you take market share from those companies that did defy it. So, please, carefully consider your options, and just remember—no matter what you choose—you serve a crucial role in evolution. Even if it’s just as food for the survivors. Thanks for watching.”
Sobol waved pleasantly as the saccharine corporate Muzak came up, accompanied by fanatical applause. Credits rolled by impossibly fast.
The female announcer returned. “Don’t touch that dial! In a few moments, you’ll have a chance to see how you can avoid destruction at the hands of the Daemon. And be sure to take the Daemon quiz—”
Lindhurst hit the STOP button, and the screen went black.
Vanowen sat there like someone who had just been through electro-shock therapy. His mouth hung open for several moments before he turned dull eyes toward Lindhurst. “It’s really Sobol.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
There were a few moments of silence.
“We have to call the authorities.”
“If we call the FBI—and word gets out about this—our investors will bail. And sue.”
Vanowen nodded. He suddenly frowned, as if remembering to be angry. “Damnit, Lindhurst, what kind of an organization are you running down there? Your systems may be responsible for the destruction of this company—a company with a century of history. When the shit hits the fan, I’m going to point the finger of blame squarely at you, where it belongs, and you can count on that.”
Lindhurst looked darkly at Vanowen. “That’s a touching sentiment, but I seem to remember it was you who told me to cut IT head count by half and slash the benefits of the rest. That left us with plenty of disgruntled people in our midst.”
“You took your bonus, if I remember.”
“Look, let’s not turn this into a blamestorming session. There’ll be plenty of time for that if we fail. In the meantime, we should focus on what we’re going to do.”
“You mean what you’re going to do. I’m going to Moscow to maintain the appearance of normalcy. But I want a report in my inbox by the time I land, detailing precisely what you intend to do to solve this problem.”
“No e-mail. Our systems are compromised. The phones, too. They’re voice over IP—the signals go over the computer network. We’ll need to use our personal cell phones and handwritten correspondence only—nothing enters a computer concerning this situation. Not a single typed character. Not even a scheduled meeting between us. Nothing. Otherwise they’ll know what we’re up to.”
Vanowen was slightly taken aback. “You’re serious?”
“Russ, you might not have noticed, but this entire organization is stitched together with computer networks. You can’t enter the parking garage without producing half a dozen records in some database. Sobol says he has people on our staff, and they no doubt can see everything we’re doing.”
“If you ask me, this is simple: we shut everything off and go back to using pens, paper, and phones. Lay off all these IT bastards. We’ll see how they like that.”
Lindhurst took a deep breath to keep from losing his temper. He heard this suggestion from time to time from men of Vanowen’s generation. Lindhurst chose his words carefully. “Russ, our competitors deliver market information in seconds to their clients, and we need to also. That doesn’t even begin to cover the fact that we need information just as much, if not more, than our clients in order to make a profit. If you turn off these systems, you may as well lock the doors.”
Vanowen was already nodding. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. But damnit, I knew this would happen one of these days with these goddamn computers.”
Lindhurst let this Nostradamus-like postdated prediction go uncontested. “Let’s be explicit, then: you go about your normal schedule. I’ll see what I can do about the problem, and when you return, we meet first thing. In person and off-site.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t simply call the authorities?”
“Look, even if we decide to contact them, the more we know about what’s really going on, the better. We’re only talking about a few days more, and this thing has been inside us for months. Remember, the slightest hint that there’s trouble, and this thing is liable to pull the plug on all our data.”
“But would it really do that? Then it would get nothing.”
“This isn’t a person, Russ. It’s a logic tree. That’s like wondering if a computer has the courage to put the letter D on-screen if you tap the “D” key. I suspect that a few employees have handed over control to the Daemon. I’m hoping I can quietly discover who and convince them to change sides again.”
Vanowen waved that topic aside. “I don’t want to hear details. Just tell me when you’ve solved it. Now get out of here, I’ve got to get ready to leave.”
Lindhurst put the remote down. He moved to leave but then turned back toward Vanowen. “What’s in Moscow, Russ?”
Vanowen scowled. “What?”
“I’m just curious why you’re heading to Moscow. Are we setting up a branch office there?”
Vanowen pointed to the door. “Go solve this problem, will you, please?”
Lindhurst regarded Vanowen for a moment more. He knew the old man was hiding something from him. He just didn’t know what.
But for once, Lindhurst had a few cards up his own sleeve. Cards that the old man’s generation didn’t even know existed.