Free Freedom TM by Daniel Suarez
Authors: Daniel Suarez
& Resort” logo on the side of the van. “You’re with us until you certify with the shamanic interface.”
He glanced back at the car and shrugged. “I’m good to go.”
“You’re leaving your factor behind?”
“He’s a spy planted by Sobol.”
She reached up to manipulate unseen objects in a way that Sebeck had seen Price do many times. A few moments later she shook her head. “I don’t see that he’s reporting to anyone. Although, he has been tasked by Mad Emperor to handle the logistics of your quest. Unlike you, he can quit this task at any time and be replaced.” She lowered her hands. “But neither has he given you high marks for cooperation.”
“Leave him.”
She just looked at Sebeck. “And your things?”
“Replaceable. A few changes of clothing, toiletries.”
“If that’s what you want.”
______________
Riley drove the passenger van south into scrublands, past creosote bushes and the occasional piñon tree. They were headed toward distant mesas of tan rock, mottled by the shadows of clouds. Sebeck was glad that the Thread no longer loomed in front of him. His view was unobstructed for the first time in a long while. The only reminder of his quest was when he looked at Riley and saw the subtle aura glowing above her call-out—she was his current goal.
He focused his attention out the window. A surprising amount of grass grew in the lowlands this time of year. It was beautiful.
Sebeck sensed Riley studying him, but for several minutes they drove in silence. She finally spoke. “I know who you are.”
Sebeck didn’t respond.
“You’re that detective—Sergeant Peter Sebeck—the one who was framed for the Daemon hoax.”
Sebeck nodded.
“They put you to death.”
Sebeck nodded somberly again. “If you believe the news.”
“You’ve lost a great deal. Your career. Your reputation. I don’t imagine you’re here voluntarily.”
“No.”
“Did you know Matthew Sobol? Is that why he gave you this quest?”
“Sobol was my primary suspect in a murder case. From the point my name entered the news, I was in the Daemon’s sights. Sobol effectively framed me with a computer program.”
“How did you survive your execution?”
Sebeck shrugged. “Ask Price. He was the one who revived me at the funeral home.”
“You mean Chunky Monkey, the operative back at the travel center?”
Sebeck just gave her a look. “His name is Laney Price. Another misfit the Daemon found somewhere.” He cast a glance at Riley. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
Sebeck decided to change the subject. “Is this your tribe’s land?”
“No. Right now we’re passing through the Acoma reservation. I’m a Laguna Indian. We’ll reach Laguna land in about fifteen minutes. The Navajo nation is north of us—much larger—and the Zunis are to the west.”
Sebeck gazed out the window at the mesas and light green grass bowing in a breeze. “This is beautiful country. I always thought of New Mexico as just sand and rocks.”
“The Spanish word for lake is
laguna
. That’s how our tribe got its name. Access to water is what attracted Europeans.” She pointed into the distance and a line of tan rock on the horizon. “The Acoma pueblo up on that mesa was first settled in eleven hundred A.D. It’s the oldest continuously occupied community in North America.”
Sebeck was genuinely surprised. “So they didn’t fall along with the Anasazi civilization?”
“You have an interest in Anasazi history?”
“It came up recently in conversation.”
“Well, Acoma rose partly from the collapse of Chacoan society. Some of the survivors resettled here.
“Acoma was attacked in the late fifteen-hundreds by the Spanish. They used cannons and attack dogs to force their way up the stone stairway onto the mesa. They killed all but two hundred and fifty of the twenty-five hundred inhabitants and cut one foot off every male survivor. The children were given to Catholic missionaries, but most of
He glanced back at the car and shrugged. “I’m good to go.”
“You’re leaving your factor behind?”
“He’s a spy planted by Sobol.”
She reached up to manipulate unseen objects in a way that Sebeck had seen Price do many times. A few moments later she shook her head. “I don’t see that he’s reporting to anyone. Although, he has been tasked by Mad Emperor to handle the logistics of your quest. Unlike you, he can quit this task at any time and be replaced.” She lowered her hands. “But neither has he given you high marks for cooperation.”
“Leave him.”
She just looked at Sebeck. “And your things?”
“Replaceable. A few changes of clothing, toiletries.”
“If that’s what you want.”
______________
Riley drove the passenger van south into scrublands, past creosote bushes and the occasional piñon tree. They were headed toward distant mesas of tan rock, mottled by the shadows of clouds. Sebeck was glad that the Thread no longer loomed in front of him. His view was unobstructed for the first time in a long while. The only reminder of his quest was when he looked at Riley and saw the subtle aura glowing above her call-out—she was his current goal.
He focused his attention out the window. A surprising amount of grass grew in the lowlands this time of year. It was beautiful.
Sebeck sensed Riley studying him, but for several minutes they drove in silence. She finally spoke. “I know who you are.”
Sebeck didn’t respond.
“You’re that detective—Sergeant Peter Sebeck—the one who was framed for the Daemon hoax.”
Sebeck nodded.
“They put you to death.”
Sebeck nodded somberly again. “If you believe the news.”
“You’ve lost a great deal. Your career. Your reputation. I don’t imagine you’re here voluntarily.”
“No.”
“Did you know Matthew Sobol? Is that why he gave you this quest?”
“Sobol was my primary suspect in a murder case. From the point my name entered the news, I was in the Daemon’s sights. Sobol effectively framed me with a computer program.”
“How did you survive your execution?”
Sebeck shrugged. “Ask Price. He was the one who revived me at the funeral home.”
“You mean Chunky Monkey, the operative back at the travel center?”
Sebeck just gave her a look. “His name is Laney Price. Another misfit the Daemon found somewhere.” He cast a glance at Riley. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
Sebeck decided to change the subject. “Is this your tribe’s land?”
“No. Right now we’re passing through the Acoma reservation. I’m a Laguna Indian. We’ll reach Laguna land in about fifteen minutes. The Navajo nation is north of us—much larger—and the Zunis are to the west.”
Sebeck gazed out the window at the mesas and light green grass bowing in a breeze. “This is beautiful country. I always thought of New Mexico as just sand and rocks.”
“The Spanish word for lake is
laguna
. That’s how our tribe got its name. Access to water is what attracted Europeans.” She pointed into the distance and a line of tan rock on the horizon. “The Acoma pueblo up on that mesa was first settled in eleven hundred A.D. It’s the oldest continuously occupied community in North America.”
Sebeck was genuinely surprised. “So they didn’t fall along with the Anasazi civilization?”
“You have an interest in Anasazi history?”
“It came up recently in conversation.”
“Well, Acoma rose partly from the collapse of Chacoan society. Some of the survivors resettled here.
“Acoma was attacked in the late fifteen-hundreds by the Spanish. They used cannons and attack dogs to force their way up the stone stairway onto the mesa. They killed all but two hundred and fifty of the twenty-five hundred inhabitants and cut one foot off every male survivor. The children were given to Catholic missionaries, but most of