Daemon

convenient.’
    McCruder held up his hands. ‘Don’t blame me. We all got into this, and I don’t feel like finding out what happens if we quit. Big things are changing in the world – things we can’t stop. We’re just cogs in the machine, and if we malfunction, we’ll be replaced. We owe it to ourselves to survive. Shit, we owe it to ourselves to
thrive
. That’s what our ancestors did, and that’s what we’re gonna do. It’s our natural fucking purpose.’
    Everyone was quiet as they sat listening to the grinding sound coming from the Haas.
    Eventually Voelker nodded. ‘I know you’re right. I just didn’t think I’d ever be playing this role. I wanted to design consumer electronics.’
    Khan leaned against the workbench. ‘I wanted to build suspension bridges. News flash: nobody gives a fuck what we want.’
    McCruder rapped his knuckles on the countertop. ‘So how does the board of Autocracy, Inc., vote? Do we elect to continue in our present endeavor?’
    They glanced at each other, then all raised their hands. ‘Aye.’
    McCruder nodded. ‘The ayes have it. This will make a massively parallel cybernetic organism very happy.’ He pointed to the busy Haas. ‘When are these pieces due?’
    Voelker thought for a moment. ‘They need to be placed at the waypoints by tomorrow, noon.’
    McCruder was back to examining the computer screen. ‘We’ll need time to study these schematics. They look involved.’ He peered closely at the screen. ‘This is serious engineering – look at that flywheel housing – and those hydraulics.’
    Voelker nodded. ‘Graphite-epoxy flywheel spinning at seventy thousand rpm in a vacuum. Floating on a bed of magnetism.’
    Khan was pointing at the screen again. ‘You gotta admit, that’s some cool shit. It even
looks
nasty. We should render it to see what it looks like in color.’
    McCruder ignored him. ‘When does the first stock unit arrive?’
    Voelker grabbed the mouse and navigated to the header of the message. He read for a moment. ‘Friday.’
    McCruder pointed at the Haas. ‘You need help to finish these pieces on time?’
    ‘No. They’ll be done.’
    McCruder started back toward the Mustang. ‘Then I suggest we study those plans and make sure we’re the best damned cogs the Daemon has.’

Chapter 38:// Assembly
    He was a poster child for overdesigned American culture. His square-toed dress shoes had the soles of hiking boots, as though intended to navigate an urban cliff face. His draping dress pants concealed six pockets pleated into its folds, each one with a trademarked name (e.g., E-Pouch), giving him the cargo capacity of a World War I infantryman. Yellow-tint sunglasses wrapped his face, unaccountably designed to withstand the impact of a small-caliber rifle bullet while filtering out UV rays and maximizing visual contrast in a wide range of indoor and outdoor lighting conditions.
    In all, his outfit required nearly two thousand man-years of research and development, eight barrels of oil, and sixteen patent and trademark infringement lawsuits. All so he could possess casual style. A style that, in logistical requirements, was comparable to fielding a nineteenth-century military brigade.
    But he looked good. Casual.
    He walked along the city streets, passing coffee bars and cafés so packed with people that it seemed as if no one had homes to go to. He passed dogs with backpacks and kids wearing Rollerblade sneakers. Everybody with casual style.
    It felt good to be among them again. His depression had almost swallowed him whole when his first job was sent offshore. Then his second job. Then his third. Not much call for project managers in the States anymore.
    But now he understood again. The world made sense again – and he was still all for progress.
Disruptive innovation
, they called it. Change was good. Painful, but good. It made you stronger. When you stopped changing, you started dying.
    For the first time in years, he knew his situation was secure. He knew he could afford rent – even in his price-inflated neighborhood. That he could dress and live in a style befitting a man of his intelligence and education. He no longer compared unfavorably with people in magazine articles. He was back on track.
    He had a purpose. And right now that purpose was to proceed to a specific GPS waypoint and await further instructions from The Voice.
    The Voice’s feminine synthetic words came over his wireless earpiece: ‘
Cross the