Freedom TM

disappeared.”
    “UCAVs?”
    “Smaller and easier to manufacture. They use electromechanical systems; microscale propulsion with no moving parts. It doesn’t require the precision manufacturing of turbines. It utilizes thermal transpiration to conduct a hydrocarbon fuel through aerogel membranes into twin Swiss roll jet engines. That helps to maintain core combustion temperature in tiny jet engines. Quite fascinating if you—”
    One of the consultants pointed at the monitor console. “Look.”
    There on-screen stood a figure dressed in a black riding suit and black motorcycle helmet, staring at them from two thousand miles away.
    The Major leaned into the microphone. “Loki. You seem to be hunting my people.…”
    “
Major. The last time I saw you, you were … oh, that’s right. You were shooting Roy Merritt in the back.”
    The Major gave a sideways glance to the assembled researchers, then spoke into the microphone. “A darknet lie.”
    “Of course. Facts no longer exist. Everything is a ‘point of view’ now. I can’t wait to burn your house of bullshit down.”
    “Apparently Dr. Philips was naïve to think we could rehabilitate you.”
    “You realize your little campaign against darknet communities is doomed, don’t you? I know what you’re going to do before you do it.”
    “You killed some people and wrecked some equipment. So what? There’s no shortage of trigger-happy dipshits willing to make a hundred bucks an hour. In fact, if you kill them, we don’t have to pay them their completion bonus.”
    “I will find you, Major. And what’s in your mind will lead me to your masters. Their industrial empire is about to come to an end.”
    The Major chuckled. “You’re not the first freedom fighter whose head I’ve put on a stick, Loki. You all fall in the end—usually betrayed by the very people you think you’re saving.”
    Loki cocked his head.
“Freedom fighter? Is that what you think I am?”
He laughed.
“I don’t give a shit about freedom. And if I have to kill a hundred million innocent people to get my hands on you, I’ll do it. Sleep well, Major.”
    Loki pulled the plug and the screen went dark.
    The control room was silent for several moments.
    Someone finally muttered, “Holy shit.…”
    The Major nodded absently. His campaigns had indeed fought and defeated a hundred liberation movements. They’d divided and confused citizens around the globe who tried to rise up against mining companies, oil companies, coal companies, biotech companies—and in the end the people defeated themselves.
    But none of those adversaries had their fingers wrapped aroundthe corporate throat like the Daemon did. And none of those adversaries had imbued a single psychotic individual with such unaccountable power as the Daemon had with Loki. This kid was ready to kill a hundred million people. And he’d already slain hundreds, possibly thousands. A whole new era of technological domination was about to begin—and for once, The Major might not be on the winning side.
    It suddenly occurred to The Major that he was afraid.

Chapter 14: // The China Price
    Jon Ross sat reading
Izvestia
on a handheld device while sipping espresso. He was in the coffee bar of his hotel in the Shekou District of Shenzhen. It was mid-afternoon, and he was dressed in a pressed, four-button black pin-striped suit with a light blue silk tie and a pastel shirt—all handmade in nearby Hong Kong. With his stylish HUD glasses he looked every bit the successful businessman catching up with affairs back home.
    Ross preferred Shekou because it allowed him to blend in. It was a pleasant neighborhood popular with expats. It had a small-town feel, but was packed with restaurants and night life.
    Here there were dozens of languages being spoken in the cafes and bars, and he was just one more foreign face among many. But none of that mattered now—not for the one piece of unfinished business remaining on this trip.
    He downed the last of his espresso as two Chinese men in rumpled suits approached his table. From their hard stares and air of impunity, Ross immediately knew they were policemen—probably Ministry of State Security.
    The first nodded and spoke in Russian. “Comrade Morozov. Good afternoon.” He smiled, revealing stained teeth.
    Ross lowered his handheld and replied in Russian as well. “Good afternoon. To what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen?”
    “There seems to be a problem with your travel