Daniel Suarez - Daemon

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.”

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 street.”

He obeyed and found himself moving into a crowded retail plaza ringed with national chain stores. The carnival atmosphere was augmented by street performers wearing photo IDs—proof that their family-friendly, drug-tested talents were on an officially sanctioned list in the management office.

The plaza was packed with consumers.

The Voice spoke again. “Waypoint nine attained. Stand by…stand by. Vector 271. Proceed.”

He turned in place, looking closely at a handheld GPS screen until he was facing 271 degrees. Then he proceeded at a normal walking pace as people jostled past him.

“Report ready status of assembly.”

The Daemon’s workshop was open for business. He slipped one hand into his E-Pouch and removed a grooved steel machine part, six inches long. He wrapped his hand around it and kept walking vector 271. “Assembly ready.”

“Prepare to tender.”

He could see the target approaching through the crowd—a twenty-something white kid in parachute pants and a sweatshirt bearing a university acronym. He had the calm, composed look of a Daemon courier. They were on a collision course as people swirled around them like random electrons. The kid extended his right hand as he came forward. They were just feet away.

“Tender assembly on phrase: ‘Hey, Luther.’ Confirm.”

The kid came right up to him, holding forward a different steel part. A cell phone headset was now visible on his close-cropped head. The kid nodded. “Hey, Luther.”

Both men extended their hands and slid the steel parts together. They mated perfectly with a satisfying click .

“Assembly confirmed.”

A pleasant chime sounded over the line. “Operation complete. Twenty network credits. Demobilize.”

The kid took control of the combined parts and continued walking.

The Voice came over the phone headset. “Assembly stage two. Vector 168. Prepare to tender.”

The kid held the assembly down at his side, turned to the appropriate compass direction, and proceeded through the crowd at a brisk walk. In a few moments he and a young woman locked on to each other. She was big-boned, dressed like a businessperson. Utterly invisible to most men. The kid vectored in.

“Tender assembly on phrase: ‘Afternoon, Rudy.’ Confirm.”

The woman nodded as she came up to him, a flip phone handset held to her cheek. “Afternoon, Rudy.”

He placed the two-part assembly into her hand and disappeared into the crowd. “Assembly confirmed.”

A pleasant chime sounded over the line. “Operation complete. Twenty network credits. Demobilize.”

She snapped the kid’s two parts into a yellow plastic base and moved through the crowd, following her new vector.

As he headed back to the parking structure, the kid imagined the tactical assembly now under way; like swarming nanobots amid the mass of shoppers, the Daemon’s distributed assembly plant ran half a dozen independent lines, with no individual having knowledge of anything more than the few seconds in front of them and the mechanics of the single assembly for which they’d be responsible. The parts arrived in place at the moment they were required, The Voice vectoring them into a collision course. Assemblers came and went, passing the assembly on to the next worker in the chain after confirming completion of their step. Redundancy gave high probability that sufficient parts would arrive on station at the appropriate moment, and that waylaid assemblers could be quickly replaced.

What he didn’t know was what they were building. He wondered if he’d ever know.

In the battered lobby of a C-grade office building, a (now) debt-free graduate student faced the wall and clicked a methane-oxide fuel cell battery into place inside a form-fitting plastic handle.

The Voice spoke to him over his earpiece. “Confirm assembly completion.”

He powered the unit up and waited for a diagnostics check. A green light came on. Ready. He lowered the assembly out of sight. “Assembly complete.”

A pause. “Stand by…stand by…”

He looked around the lobby. It was a typical two-story box in a low-end tech park. Security consisted of locked doors with mag-card swipes at the entrances. In other words: no security. Long halls laid with orange indoor-outdoor carpeting crossed each other in a barren atrium in the center of the building.

He waited patiently in a water company uniform, complete with photo ID badge and water-bottle-laden handcart as The Voice kept repeating, “Stand by…” in his ear every ten seconds.

Then it paused. “Vector 209. Prepare to tender completed assembly.”

This was it. The Receiver was coming. He glanced at his GPS and turned to face the security door.