"In a way, one person at a time." Conroy reached down and removed his composite foot; scratched his stump. It always itched when he was tired. He placed it on the table with a light clack , the fabric’s weave glinting under the overhead lights. "Power is like roots from a tree, fractal, each piece linking to its neighbor. That is our next step, you see. The Bridge is becoming a franchise, my family splitting and seeding other zones across the country; east, west, and north to start. Vincent here"—he nodded to One-Eye—"will take his leave soon, to the misty waters of the Bay Area. The Golden Gate aggregated long before we did, though that is based around residential units, not a factory such as this one. Do you understand what I’m telling you?"