Daniel Suarez - Kill Decision

McKinney nodded to herself. “A colony-specific identifier. They could use it to identify their colony mates, and to organize colony activity.”

Tegu looked up from soldering several microchips to wire leads. Though Asian, he spoke English with no accent whatsoever. “Well, quite a few of the microchips on these antennas generate an electrical signal in the presence of a specific chemical signature.” He held up the evil-looking drone. “I managed to power it back up.” On McKinney’s alarmed look he smiled. “Don’t worry, I removed the gun barrels first. But it is a vicious little fucker…”

He held the drone up to McKinney’s face, and they immediately heard the firing pins on the gun rails clicking maniacally as it tried to kill her.

“Face-detection chip. Goes for a head shot if it can. I don’t know where you found this thing, but whoever designed it should seriously consider anger management counseling.”

Odin leaned in. “What about the chemical detector?”

“Oh, yes.” Tegu held up what looked like a modified voltmeter-the one he’d just been soldering. “Gustavo and I ran some tests and discovered which chips on these antennas are responsible for detecting the perfluorocarbons.” He ran his hand along the antenna that he’d grafted onto the voltmeter. “I removed the antenna and attached it onto this old voltmeter.” He pointed at the green LED numeric display. “The antenna detects the presence of these chemical taggants, and I’ve wired it so this display shows their concentration level.”

McKinney accepted the jury-rigged detector and held it up to the perfluorocarbon canisters. The LED readout immediately raced up into the hundreds. As she pulled it away from them, the readout started to count downward. “Meaning we can now follow their trail.”

Odin collected the cylinders from Gustavo. “Meaning we can hunt them. Hopefully back to their source.”

Henry Clarke sat in a damask armchair next to his bed in an Egyptian cotton robe. A bottle of Dalmore fifty-year-old single malt was open on the table in front of him. A crystal glass of Scotch chilled by cold granite stones stood half-full in his hand.

He could hear the gentle breathing of a young woman in his bed nearby-sound asleep beneath the silk and down. He glanced back at her lush red hair. Her perfect alabaster skin. Clarke considered what a positive reflection she was on him, and he thought of places where he should be seen with her. He took another sip of the Dalmore.

The light of the sixty-inch plasma-screen television played over the girl’s form in shadows. The TV was on a clever mechanism that concealed itself in the wall when not in use. Clarke had gotten tired of waiting the several seconds it took for it to rise from its hiding place, and now he left it uncovered all the time. There was a moral in there somewhere, but he couldn’t fathom what it might be through the fog of Scotch. Perhaps: “Just because you can, doesn’t mean…” No, that wasn’t it.

The pattern of the shadows suddenly calmed-meaning the commercials were over. He turned to face the screen again. He liked watching the news in the middle of the night with the sound turned off. A vaguely mannish British anchorwoman spoke silently for several moments, and then the screen was taken over by U.S. senators and pundits. Now there was file footage of twin Manta Ray drones flying in formation-above the Statue of Liberty, no less! A twofer: a veiled 9/11 reference (guarding sacred ground), and a positive association with liberty. Marketing psychologists deep in the bowels of M amp; R had no doubt thought that one up.

But the news had moved on now to shots of American FBI and Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agents confiscating what looked to be remote control toy airplanes and vehicles-the larger ones that require a license to operate. We were declaring toys illegal now?

Clarke unmuted the TV with the remote. The anchor spoke with the video as a backdrop: “… emergency legislation amending FCC Part Fifteen to restrict remotely piloted and autonomous vehicles in the United States-including those licensed to operate at fifty megahertz on the six-meter band. In anticipation of the change, federal agents seized stocks of remote control aircraft and rocketry equipment from special interest clubs and retailers, and also detained suspect individuals for questioning.”

The video showed agents putting a handcuffed, balding Middle Eastern man in a Windbreaker into the back of a sedan on some grassy field. People in a nearby crowd-apparently fellow enthusiasts-were shouting angrily.

So they were restricting automation now? That was an odd development. He thought it risky to instill fear of the very thing they were pushing as the security solution. The footage depicted these hobbyists as suspicious. A fringe element that needed to be monitored. He could smell Marta’s scent on this.

His cell phone vibrated, causing the young lady in his bed to stir. He reached over to the nightstand to grab it and spoke softly. “Yeah.”

“You’re not in the office.”

“I had plans. Everything’s under control-you forget I can monitor operations from anywhere.”

“There’s still value to being in the office.”

“I see you’re rolling out new product tonight. Not sure I see the rationale.”

“What’s not to understand? Certain knowledge needs to be branded subversive. These machines are no longer toys. It was the same with the Internet-at some point hacking became a national security matter. Drone use needs to be restricted to the professionals now.”

Clarke frowned at something on-screen. “Well, it makes my job harder. I mean, they’re questioning a high school kid for sending a camera to the edge of the atmosphere with a weather balloon.”

“It could just as easily have been anthrax spores, Henry.”

“Where the hell would a high school kid get anthrax spores? More importantly, why?”

“If hackers are the militia of cyber war, then hobbyists are their drone war cousins. It’s safer for everyone if we scare them now. Put them on notice. Isolate them. Like we did with the WikiLeaks people.”

“For the record, I think it’s a mistake. It’ll create a grassroots backlash that will take thousands of puppeteers weeks to dilute.”

“Well, then I suggest you stop sipping Scotch and get your ass back to the office…”

Linda McKinney spent her days wandering Lalenia’s ranch in the warm, dry weather, using a hiking stick for support and as protection against stray dogs. Her strength had returned, and she could walk a considerable distance now. It was surprising how such a small hole had nearly drained all the life out of her.

But what life was left to her? Where could she go? She’d been recovering in Mexico for two months, and now it was almost March. She couldn’t help thinking that there was no clear path home. Had they declared her dead? she wondered.

She thought about the antidrone team-or what was left of it. Foxy had flown off to Mexico City-gone to connect with informants, or buy weapons, or sell the plane-nobody would tell her which. Tin Man had gone away to get specialist treatment for his leg injury. Meanwhile Odin and Mouse spent most of their time together, running around the area on shadowy business. She didn’t see Odin much.

Was this her life now? An expat American hiding in rural Mexico? She wondered when the hunt would resume. Or if it would resume.

In the meantime she walked. As she did, McKinney studied the ground. It was a habit she’d formed after a decade of field research. She had lately been monitoring Argentine ants- Linepithema humile. She noticed a trail of them and followed the tiny species back to its nest. Much smaller than weavers, they were nonetheless the most likely to give weavers trouble in the future. The reason was simple: They’d evolved into a single supercolony that spanned continents-trillions of members and possibly millions of queens. They were the Wal-Mart of ants-existing like a single, vast multinational corporation. Their numbers outstripped all others. Even far more ferocious ants simply could not kill all the Argentine ants, and eventually, their food sources were eaten out from under their mandibles.