Jon Evans - Swarm

It was too much, the image was too terrifying. I put back the note, abandoned my exploration, fled back to my room, locked my door behind me. Somewhere outside an enraged dog kept barking. They feed the dead to dogs. When I finally found sleep it was full of blood-soaked nightmares.

The drug lord arrived at dawn.

A small fleet of armoured SUVs brought Jorge Ortega to our humble abode. We met him outside, at the gate. He was shorter and rounder than I had expected; not fat, but wide and compact, with a smooth round face and thin lips. Despite his diminutive stature he radiated so much sheer presence that it was hard to tear my eyes away. Maybe it was knowing that he could have me killed with a wave of his hand, but whatever the reason, he seemed more there, more alive, than anybody else I had ever met, as if he were the Ur-man and the rest of the world only a figment of his imagination.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said politely, shaking my hand. His English was faintly accented, more British than American. He was extremely soft-spoken. He didn’t need to speak up. The instant he opened his mouth, everyone in earshot shut the hell up.

“You too,” I lied.

Nearby, Dmitri and Dana embraced, and seemed genuinely delighted to see each other. She was a pretty woman with dark hair and a runner’s build, dressed all in black but for her visually dissonant pink-and-brown teddy-bear backpack.

“Come,” Ortega said, “let us walk.”

He set a fast pace around the outside of the fence, clearly a man who liked to be in motion. We followed. Above us the drones began to circle. Ortega had asked to see them put through their paces.

“I never thought they would live up to their claims,” Ortega said. “An individual vehicle following a signal, that made sense. But a whole flock, talking to each other, using collective tactics, I’m still amazed. Your swarm technology,” he said to me, “it will change the world.”

“It’s not really mine.”

“But you gave it to us. You’re our Prometheus.”

“Careful with that match,” I said without thinking.

He stared at me, looked affronted. For a horrible second I thought he would order me flayed with a potato peeler.

Then he chuckled. Even his laughter was scary. “On the contrary, Mr. Kowalski. When no one else has fire, your light must burn as brightly as it can.”

I figured if I’d made him laugh I probably wasn’t about to die, and pushed my luck a tiny bit. “So that your customers can find you?”

He looked at me, then at Dmitri, sharply. It was all the confirmation I needed. Dmitri looked scared, shook his head.

“Logical conclusion,” I explained, a little triumphant. I knew it was insane to be talking like this but I couldn’t stop myself, I felt giddy. “Why else would you do this?”

“Yes,” Ortega admitted. “New York was my first commercial.”

“Your first?”

“Do you box, Mr. Kowalski?” I shook my head. “A one-two punch is ten times more effective than a single jab. America knows this well. Ask Nagasaki.”

I stared at him.

“Especially if it goes unanswered. And it will. America’s fear makes them weak. Who do you think will volunteer to head the DEA now? I believe that position will remain vacant for a long time. America’s politicians scream they will never talk to us, but that was before they understood that they too are vulnerable. Personally vulnerable. They will negotiate now. Not directly, no. But they will allow the governments in Mexico and Colombia to settle. Do you even know there are wars going on, here and there? Undeclared, but wars. In Mexico five thousand die every year.” I thought of the torture chamber I had discovered. This urbane, well-spoken man had ordered those deaths, and the slaughter in New York. “We will have a truce. But first we must have Nagasaki.”

I licked my lips. My mouth was dry. He might even be right: a second attack, proof of his impunity, might transform knee-jerk rage into terrified realpolitik. Both the American government and its people might decide in a hurry that the War On Drugs wasn’t really worth fighting if the other side could shoot back.

“Nagasaki where?” I asked.

To my surprise he answered. “Far away. Showing our reach. The second most hated nation on Earth, after America, is the empire that preceded it. There is a G8 meeting next week in London.” Ortega smiled. “I can promise you it will be an explosive event.”

I stared at him, astonished, overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the notion. It was one thing to hear Sophie and Jesse and Anya talk about how armed drones and especially swarms were unstoppable, could kill anyone. It was another entirely to talk to someone who apparently actually intended to use them to assassinate the leaders of the eight wealthiest nations on the planet.

It was possible, in that his drones really were unstoppable and he might well succeed, but it was also insane. It would make him an international pariah on the scale of Osama bin Laden.He would never be able to hide in Mexico, or anywhere else.

“Why?” I asked.

He considered his words. “To usher in a new era.”

“What era?”

“Mine.”

I forced myself to nod politely. He seemed so quiet and courteous, but he had killed his way to preeminence in Mexico’s drug underworld, arguably the most brutal and violent society on the planet. Was he actually crazy, megalomaniacal, in a flawed-brain-chemistry way? Was I talking to a functional madman? It seemed the most likely explanation – and the most frightening one. Who knew what a madman would do, or what trivial act might provoke his wrath?

“Until then we must tighten security,” Ortega continued. “I’ll be stationing more men here to watch the property.”

His look at me, and then Dmitri, walking hand in hand with Dana. His meaning was clear: and to watch you.

“No problem,” Dmitri said.

“Dana will come back with me tomorrow.”

At that the Russian lovers paled. “You said she could stay,” Dmitri protested. “You said she could stay here from now on -“

“No. Tomorrow she returns.” Ortega sounded like a teacher correcting an error of fact. “I will not risk any lapses or distractions until your work is done.”

Dmitri nodded sullenly, like a scolded schoolboy.

“What else do we need to do?” I had thought we were finished the testing.

My question was apparently beneath Ortega’s notice. It was Dmitri who eventually answered, low-voiced: “We need to test multiple swarms working in concert.”

We walked onwards. My mind reeled. Sophie had given deadly next-generation technology to a megalomaniacal psychopath, who was planning to use it to kill the leaders of the free world – with my help – and there was nothing I could do. Any attempt at sabotage, to delay their readiness past the G8 meeting, would be futile and suicidal. They were already more or less ready, and Dmitri had learned enough that they no longer really needed my expertise.

My trump cards, the kill switch and Sophie’s secret override, were both useless thanks to Dmitri’s network filters. I had no cards to play at all, now, only the hope that they wouldn’t execute me now that I knew too much and was no longer useful except in a generic skilled-engineer way.

As we passed the goalposts, the six drones howled through them. The tunnel test.

“How do they keep their formation?” Ortega asked.

Dmitri looked at me, and I realized I was the expert.

“Mostly just by sight,” I said hollowly. “Like birds or insects, a few very simple rules can lead to quite complex swarm behaviour. But they can communicate with each other, too, to report sightings, and to make collective decisions.”