I'm writing a sci-fi book that ties the power law, AI, the singularity and many interesting topics. Working title "Children of Satoshi".

It will come out in a a couple of months.
Here is Chapter One.
CHAPTER ONE
Santa Barbara, November 2008
The run had been short that morning, four miles along the bluffs above the channel, and Hal had come back into the house with his t-shirt darkened in the usual places and the usual mild satisfaction of a body that had done what was asked of it. Fran was in the kitchen with the boys’ breakfast dishes. He kissed her on the side of the head and went upstairs to the office, which faced the back garden and the live oak that he had not pruned for two years and was beginning to feel guilty about.
His desk, since he had begun working from home for PGP four years earlier, had developed the small archaeology of a writer’s desk: notes from a project last spring still in the corner where he had put them, a coffee cup Fran had given him for his fortieth birthday now used for pens, a print-out of a paper on lattice-based cryptography that he was supposed to be reviewing and would, he told himself, get to today.
He opened the laptop. The email client loaded its usual freight of mailing-list traffic — IETF working groups, cypherpunks remnants, the small private list that Phil and a few others maintained. He worked through them in the order he had developed over years, deleting what he could, archiving what he should, opening the few that earned a second look.
The Bitcoin paper was four messages from the bottom of the metzdowd digest.
He almost passed over it. The subject line was bland — Bitcoin P2P e-cash paper— and the author, one Satoshi Nakamoto, was a name Hal had not encountered before. There had been so many of these papers over the years, from so many people, all of them earnest, most of them broken in one of the three or four ways that all such schemes were broken. Hal had himself published one of the better attempts, RPOW, and it had reached the small audience of people who understood what it was trying to do, and had then receded into the archive of interesting failures, and Hal had made his peace with that.
He opened the message. James Donald had already replied. Donald’s reply, characteristically, raised the scaling concern Hal would also have raised, and was characteristically a little more peremptory than was helpful. Hal scrolled to the original and clicked the link to the paper.
Nine pages.
He read them straight through, in the way that he read everything, paying full attention because his attention was the only honest currency he had to spend on the work of others. When he reached the end he sat for a moment with his hands flat on the desk and then he scrolled back to the beginning and read it again.
The first reading had been for shape: what is this thing, and where does it break. The second was for proof: where, exactly, in the structure of the thing, does the breakage occur, and where does the document show that the author has anticipated the breakage and answered for it.
The breakage points he expected were the usual ones. Sybil attacks, where one party pretended to be many. Double-spending in the absence of a trusted third party. The free-rider problem of getting anyone to validate transactions if validation cost something. The economics of the long term — what happens when the early incentives fade and the system has to live on its own metabolism. He had built, or watched others build, partial answers to each of these, and the partial answers had been the reason Hal still believed something like this could be made to work, and the reason he had also believed it would take another decade of incremental progress to get there.
What was on his screen was not incremental progress.
The thing the paper did, which he did not at first allow himself to credit, was put the proof-of-work and the chain together in a way that made each compensate for the other. The proof-of-work made the chain expensive to forge. The chain made the proof-of-work permanent. The combination was, on inspection, obvious — every cryptographer who had thought seriously about digital cash had known about both pieces — and the author had then done the patient careful additional work of solving the dozen small problems that the obvious combination created. Difficulty adjustment. The first-block ambiguity. The economic incentive for miners to follow the longest chain even when a fork briefly threatened to make defection profitable. Each problem was answered in a paragraph or two, and each answer was correct.
He sat for a while with the screen. The light in the office had changed since he started reading; the live oak through the window had shadowed and the sun was somewhere behind the western roofline. From downstairs there was the distant clatter of Fran preparing lunch, which meant it was nearly noon.
Three hours, he thought. He had read a nine-page paper twice, and three hours had passed.
He went down to the kitchen. Fran had made tuna salad and was eating it from a bowl, standing at the counter, reading something on her phone. She offered him the bowl without looking up. He took a bite and gave it back.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said.
“Reading.”
“Anything good?”
He thought about how to answer. He thought of three or four things and discarded them all. “I think so,” he said. “Maybe.”
She looked at him, and the looking was the part of her he had loved longest. “That kind of maybe?”
“That kind of maybe.”
She gave him the bowl again. He ate two more bites and then went back upstairs.
He composed the email at his usual measured pace, deleting more than he kept, the way he wrote everything. The question he eventually asked was about scaling. If Bitcoin became, in the long view, what its proposer seemed to imagine — a global system handling the volume of Visa or beyond — what would the bandwidth and storage requirements be, and would the proof-of-work network’s energy consumption converge on something the planet could afford? He had done some back-of-the-envelope arithmetic himself, in the half-hour before composing the email, and the numbers were larger than they were small. He included his calculation, with the appropriate caveats, and asked the author to check his work.
He hit send at four in the afternoon. He went out into the back garden, looked at the unpruned oak, decided again to leave it for next weekend. The marine layer was starting to thicken over the channel and the air had the mild salt-and-eucalyptus smell that he had loved for twenty years and would, he supposed, love until he died.
The reply came at twelve minutes past one in the morning.
He had not been asleep. He had not, lately, slept the way he used to. Some small clumsiness in his right hand had begun to bother him in the past two months, and the bothering had taken him into the kind of low-grade vigilance over his own body that men his age sometimes acquired and then sometimes recovered from. He had been at his desk reading something else when the new-mail tone sounded.
The reply was three paragraphs. The first acknowledged Hal’s calculation, took it seriously, and offered a small correction in his favor — Hal had been pessimistic about the storage cost of the chain by a factor of two, having forgotten that pruning of spent transactions was possible without compromising the security of the chain itself. The second paragraph laid out the author’s own scaling estimate, which assumed widespread adoption over a horizon Hal could only describe as patient. The third paragraph said that the energy question was real and that there was no good answer to it yet, and that the system’s energy consumption would scale with the value it was protecting, which seemed to the author both correct and worrying, and that the worry was not a reason to abandon the work but a reason to do the work well.
Hal read it twice.
He read it twice not because there was anything in it he failed to understand, but because something about its cadence had caught at him in a way he could not name. The reply was correct. The reply was clear. The reply was, in the way of all good mailing-list correspondence, a little more formal than necessary. But there was something underneath the formality that was not in the formality of the cypherpunks Hal knew. The sentences were too evenly weighted. The author had taken Hal’s question and not only answered it but anticipated the next two questions Hal would have asked, and had answered them in the same paragraph, in a way that did not feel like presumption but felt instead like a very patient person who already knew where the conversation would go and was willing to walk Hal there.
He sat with it. The house was quiet; Fran and the boys had been asleep for hours. The window above his desk gave back his own face in the dim, with the screen’s light angled across it.
He saved the message. This was an unusual thing for Hal to do. His correspondence file was thin by design — most of what he received was technical traffic that needed to be answered or deleted, and saving was reserved for a small number of letters from people he intended to write back to in a form that would matter. He looked at his correspondence folder for a moment, and then he created a new folder inside it and called the new folder, after a small hesitation, Nakamoto. He moved the message there.
He closed the laptop.
The dark window looked back at him. Beyond it, somewhere below the bluffs, the channel was where it always was. He thought, briefly, that he should get up and go to bed. He thought, instead, that he would sit for a while longer.