Ross searched for a path through the crowd and noticed a current of people flowing along a makeshift lane. He headed toward it, inching his way through a mass of people. He caught most of a conversation at the end of a soup kitchen line as he edged past. . . .
“Where were you headed?”
“We were trying to reach Ohio—my sister’s in Columbus—but the bastards privatized the interstate. The tolls are insane.”
“We couldn’t afford gas. I’ve been trying to trade my truck for a motorcycle. You know anybody who has one?”
“No, sorry. . . .”
Ross reached the pathway and started passing individual camps—recent arrivals to homelessness. People with Infinitis and Lexus sedans. Furniture piled into the backs of expensive, crew-cab pickup trucks. A few people even had living room sets with sofas and matching chairs set up beneath tarps. Others used high-end camping gear meant for a trip to the lake. Still others sat, looking dazed and lost, in well-appointed camping trailers and motor homes. An economic hurricane had passed through these people’s lives, and they were still in shock.
Ross did see one burgeoning business rising out of the ashes of consumer culture. Several heavily armed men were standing atop a container truck as brokers at the open doorway haggled with refugees. A banner hanging along the side read: WE BUY WATCHES AND JEWELRY. Ross had seen them in every tent city—hustlers repatriating luxury items for sale back to Asian markets, where the real money was. High-value items worth their shipping weight.
Meanwhile, the bulky stuff—the plasma-screen televisions and furniture—was all winding up in piles, sold cheap to be stripped of metals and fabrics, and wood. Already trash was accumulating into mounds—some of it burning.
Ross finally reached the edge of a darknet medical clinic. A cluster of call-outs hovered there in D-Space. He did a quick search and suddenly his target flashed—a second-level Horticulturalist named Hank_19.
In a few moments Ross approached a weathered but hardy-looking man in his forties wearing a baseball cap, jeans, and a work shirt. He was lowering boxes off the back of a thirty-year-old stake bed truck into the waiting hands of clinic workers.
Ross waved, and Hank_19 waved back.
“You still headed to Greeley?”
“Yeah, just as soon as we drop off these supplies.”
“I appreciate the ride. Gas shortages have made traveling difficult.” Ross joined the crew off-loading and in a few minutes they had cleared the truck bed. Hank_19 wiped his brow and hopped off the tailgate. “Damn it’s hot.” He extended his calloused hand. “Henry Fossen. Call me Hank.”
Ross shook his hand. “You don’t go in for darknet handles, I take it.”
“My father gave me my name, and I intend to use it. I would’ve just selected the handle ‘Hank,’ but eighteen Hanks already beat me to it. You got a real name?”
“Jon.”
“All right, Jon no-last-name.” He looked up at Ross’s call-out. “I guess a twelfth-level Rogue’s gotta be secretive. What the hell’s a ‘Rogue’ do on the darknet, anyway?” He slammed the tailgate closed. “I thought rogues were bad guys.”
Ross laughed. “In the darknet we’re more like scouts. We infiltrate systems and facilities, and we detect threats to the network. Move about unseen, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, reconnaissance.”
“You could say that.”
“My boy’s in a recon regiment overseas.”
“I hope he comes home safe.”
“So do I. And I hope we get this economic mess sorted out before then.” He glanced up at Ross’s call-out again. “Well, you’ve got a four-and-a-half-star reputation on a three K base—which means you must be doing something right. Hop in.”
Fossen whistled to two younger men cradling scoped AR-15 rifles. They wore tactical gear and body armor—fourth-level Fighters with Scandinavian-sounding network handles. They had been busy talking to a young nurse at the aid station. They nodded to Fossen and came running, hopping up into the cargo bed.
Ross got into the cab with Fossen, and they were soon easing the old Ford stake bed through the tent city crowd.
Ross gestured to the truck. “Biodiesel?”
“No. Dimethyl ether. They split the water in Greeley with wind turbine electricity and add the hydrogen to something to create hydrocarbons. Makes a pretty good diesel fuel. I still don’t quite understand it. I had no idea half this stuff existed until a few months ago.”
“So, the guards . . . are you expecting trouble?”
He shook his head. “No. The town council requires armed escorts down to the city. A lot of desperate folks out here. But there’s a darknet recruiting station to the right. Hopefully it’ll get people sorted out in the next few months.”
Ross looked over to see a series of motor homes resembling bookmobiles. Dozens of call-outs clustered around them. Lines of civilians were waiting to be interviewed by the automated recruiting bot of the Daemon—what was known as The Voice. Ross had gone through a similar process, just not with such a crowd.
“This is just the first wave, I think. A lot more people are about to fall out of the old economy.”
“You think so?” Fossen brought the truck slowly through the crowd, people making way. He nodded to them genially. “I mean, how could we let this happen here in America?”
“It’s no accident. I’ve seen it before in other countries. It’s all about control. The powerful scaring people into submission.”
Fossen nodded. “I’ve had some experience with that. Just not on this scale.”
“This is nothing. The real shock is coming. Believe me.”
Fossen gestured to the tent city out the window. “This isn’t the real shock?”
“No. It’ll be much, much worse. They’ll try to psychologically traumatize the public into accepting a new social order.”
“And you know this because . . . ?”
“Firsthand experience.”
Fossen raised his eyebrows. “I can tell you’re going to be a barrel of fun on the way.”
After a few minutes Fossen finally brought them out of the crowd. As the old Ford picked up speed, the cab got much noisier, especially with the windows open, and they drove for a while without talking.
Eventually Fossen turned to his passenger, shouting, “So what brings a rogue to Greeley?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“They in trouble?”
Ross shook his head. “No. I got word a few days ago that an old friend I thought was dead is actually alive.”
“That’s good news. Does he know you’re coming?”
“He moves around. He’s hard to get in touch with.”
“Maybe I’ve heard of him. What’s his name?”
“The Unnamed One.”
“That’s his name? ‘Unnamed One’?”
“You might know him better by his real name: Detective Pete Sebeck.”
Fossen just frowned. “The Daemon hoax guy? He’s not really dead?”
“You didn’t see the news feeds on his quest?”
“I don’t read news feeds much. Not enough time in the day lately. How do you know he’s in Greeley?”
“I’ve seen feed reports that say he’s in the area.”
“That’s new to me, but like I said, I don’t read the feeds much.” Fossen seemed to be pondering something. “I’m no expert, but can’t you just search for his coordinates if you know his handle?”
“He keeps them unlisted—I suspect because of all the press he’s been getting. A lot of people are following his quest.”
“So he’s on a quest—as in, heroic journey and all that?”