Odin tapped them. “Zip guns. These were thirty-eights. They slide in on tracks, so it looks like they can have various weapon loads. The other one had .410 shotgun shells.”
“They’re flying hand guns.”
“Dirt-cheap, highly inaccurate guns—but effective enough in close quarters.”
She examined what looked to be ports in the back. Charging sockets? There were also LED lights, all dead, but curious nonetheless. “If these run on my model, an appropriate number of workers would be ‘feeding’ the others. With weavers they pass along nectar—liquid food. Here, they probably pass along electricity, battery power. There seem to be electromechanical analogs for all the inputs and outputs of weaver swarm intelligence manifested in these things.”
She tossed it back onto the table in disgust. “But it looks like a toy. An evil toy designed by some sick, twisted—”
“Those ‘toys’ nearly killed all of us, and if we hadn’t fled, they would have. Lalenia pulled ten bullets out of our team, and that’s with body armor on.” He rewrapped the drone in its burlap shroud. “These things could be churned out of just about any contract factory in the industrialized world. Shipped anywhere by the thousands—just like toys.”
She looked up at him. “Oh, it’s worse than that. Those inputs and outputs—the stimuli and the response—they can take just about any morphology. These zip guns could just as easily be missiles. Those tiny rotors just as easily jet turbines.”
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“Ants are what’s called a ‘polymorphic’ species—they have various caste groups that can differ widely in size. For example, Pheidologeton diversus—the marauder ant—has supermajor warriors that are five hundred times the mass of one of their minor workers. And yet they are the same species and operate with the same brain—and belong to the same colony.”
“You’re saying these things could be easily scaled up using the same software brain.”
She gestured to the dead drone on the table. “I’m saying this might just have been a low-cost test version. A prototype. They could easily be made bigger.”
He contemplated this news. “Which means they will be. And I’ll need to take action before that happens.”
“Take action?” she asked. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re all in hiding. The entire military-industrial complex wants us dead.”
“Not the entire military-industrial complex.” He looked calm and sipped his coffee. “Just part of it.”
She threw up her hands. “Oh. Well, then it’s the part that can monitor the FBI, fake your satellite communications, launch killer drones, and manipulate the media.”
He nodded. “Most of the military’s logistics have been privatized. Its computer systems. Its networks. Satellites. But there are still people behind it all, and most people who work in defense are just plain folks trying to protect their country. That’s our advantage. We just need to uncover who’s behind this. And I’m guessing it’s not a large group. That’s the appeal of these machines. They seem like something that would save American lives, but once built, they can be quietly controlled by a small number of unaccountable people. No coffins coming home from their secret wars.” He nodded to himself again. “But finding a small number of unaccountable people is doable.”
She stared at the table. “I don’t share your optimism. Weaver ants have survived almost unchanged for a hundred million years because they dominate every environment. If someone’s supersized them, and that design is out there—then what’s to stop this from spreading? You remember what Ritter said: Everyone wants this.”
“We were able to come to an international agreement about nuclear and biological weapons. So we should be able to come to some agreement about robotic weapons too.”
“Odin!”
They both turned to see a group of young boys at the gate. The lead one rolled a soccer ball on the tips of his fingers. He wore a bright yellow soccer shirt with the number twelve on it, but the other boys were in a mishmash of clothing.
The lead boy called out, “Mira, todavía tengo la pelota que me diste, quieres patear?”
The other boys urged Odin on.
He turned to McKinney. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m being challenged to a contest of skill.” He stood and walked toward the gate. “Bueno, Pelé, vamos a ver como las mueves. . . .” He hopped the wall, and the knot of boys took off after him down the street, laughing as mangy dogs barked and ran alongside them.
McKinney grinned slightly, watching through the gate, as Odin kicked the ball around with a growing knot of boys. He leaned down and said something that made them all laugh uproariously. It was a side of Odin she’d never seen. He seemed a natural ringleader, and it was apparent these boys knew Odin. They were at ease around him. She found it hard to square this side of him with the elite warrior.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when another voice spoke right next to her. “Mind if I join you?”
McKinney turned to see Mouse standing in the doorway of the hacienda. “My God, you scared me; I didn’t hear you come up.”
Mouse sat where Odin had just been. “That’s how I got my nickname.” He looked at Odin directing the boys into teams in the quiet, dusty road. “Ah, soccer. My game has suffered a bit.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed he was good with kids.”
Mouse nodded in the group’s direction. “They look up to him. He understands what they’re going through.”
“What’s that?”
“They’re orphans.”
McKinney now looked with concern at the young boys.
“Lalenia runs an orphanage for the children of the disappeared. It’s a lot of kids.”
McKinney looked into the street. “I knew David was an orphan, but I had no idea about these children.”
Mouse observed her closely for several moments. “He told you his real name?” He turned to watch Odin playing referee of an impromptu soccer match. “That’s interesting.”
“He didn’t exactly tell me. Another man said it in front of me. Some guy named Ritter—the same man who mentioned you. But David said his own name wasn’t important—that ‘Shaw’ was just the street they found him on.”
“He told you that much? And he brought you here. Are you two . . . ?”
She held up her hands. “Oh . . . no! No, we’re just . . . colleagues.”
“Didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just that he doesn’t usually share information about himself. David doesn’t trust people easily.” Mouse studied her with his remaining good eye.
Nonetheless it felt like he was looking right through her. She squirmed.
“I worry that he’s missing a big part of life.”
“I imagine in his line of work trust doesn’t come easily.”
“You forget: I’m in the same line of work. And he came to us like this. As a kid, pretty much everyone who should have taken care of him, didn’t. He had difficulties. Learning disabilities. Turns out instead of being stupid, he was just very, very smart. No one checked. He grew up in juvie halls.”
McKinney watched Odin holding the ball up, the kids screaming with laughter. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because that man is a brother to me. I love him like my own flesh and blood. David projects an image of invulnerability—like nothing can hurt him—but we both know that’s not true.”
McKinney nodded slowly and turned to see Odin bringing the soccer ball to one of the smaller boys.
Mouse took a deep breath and tapped the table. “The militia’s having a celebration tonight. To welcome back the old team. I hope you’ll come.”
“I’m not really up for a celebration.”
“There’s no better time to celebrate friendship than when things are at their worst.” With one last tap on the table he stood and silently departed.
* * *
In the cool evening air the courtyard of the hacienda was filled with locals dressed in a wide array of inexpensive, but new
, clothing—men in modern slacks with bright print shirts, cowboy hats, and boots; the women in cotton dresses and shawls. The courtyard was strung with white lights, and a stage had been set up against a wall near the garden, on which a large band of guitarists, violinists, vocalists—and even a harpist—were playing. The audience had cleared away tables and was dancing joyously.
McKinney limped along with a cane and stood next to a large tree, observing the festivities. It was a type of Mexican music she’d never heard before. No horns—almost like country or bluegrass. With a lively beat.
The aroma of a whole pig roasting over a fire pit came to her, along with that of vegetables and fruit being grilled. Tequila and beer flowed, along with wine. There were smiling faces and laughter all around her. She remembered this from war-torn areas of the world. No one treasured happy moments more than those going through dark times. Mouse was right about that. Community was what sustained people.
At the far end of the courtyard, among armed militiamen, Odin’s team was gathered in a circle, their arms around each other. Some of them looked seriously inebriated. McKinney could see the grief in their expressions. Smokey in particular wept as Odin rubbed his crew-cut head, comforting him. Foxy raised a beer bottle, and they all poured it onto the ground before them. It appeared to be a memorial rite for their fallen comrade.
Doctor Garza put her arm around McKinney. “How are you feeling, Professor?”
McKinney looked up. “Stiff, but I decided to take Mouse’s advice.”
“Good. You need to exercise the leg. No dancing, though.”
McKinney laughed. “Don’t worry.” She gestured to the band. “I’ve never heard a mariachi band like this.”
“That’s because it’s not mariachi. It’s a conjunto huasteco ensemble—probably a little different to your ears. Oh, look. . . .” She pointed to Foxy, who had suddenly appeared onstage. He grabbed a small guitar as the band urged him to join them. “Foxy has a rare gift for the son huasteco. He must have some Mayan blood in him somewhere.” She grinned mischievously.
McKinney noticed that the group of mourning commandos had already broken up, and Foxy was taking the stage as the audience cheered and shouted encouragement.
“Foxy, toca una canción!”
There was laughter and people clapping. McKinney couldn’t help but smile. On the edge of the gathering there were children as well, dancing and playing. Their laughter was infectious, as they shouted for Foxy to play.
Foxy started boldly strumming his borrowed Spanish guitar, and the crowd roared their approval as he fell in with the rest of the band. But soon he began to play around their music, weaving rhythms in and out as people cheered. He began to sing with a rich baritone voice. It was stirring, passionate music, whose lyrics McKinney couldn’t understand. But that wasn’t quite true. She could feel the bittersweet story in the emotion of music. It was just as Foxy had said back in Kansas City. Music transcended language.
McKinney had to admit the man had talent, all the more surprising given his headbanger proclivities. But she could see the truth in his belief that music connected people. All around them was joy, even amid sadness.
Mouse suddenly appeared out of the crowd and took Doctor Garza’s hand. “Señorita . . .”
Garza laughed and turned to McKinney as he led her to the dance floor. “Excuse me, Professor.”
McKinney smiled. “By all means.”
But just then she also felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Odin. He stood silently for a moment as others moved around them.
McKinney motioned to her cane. “Doctor says I shouldn’t—”
“Follow me.” Instead of heading to the dance floor, he motioned for her to follow him as he headed toward the edge of the crowd. “I need you to see something.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Our guests are only here for tonight.” He was already moving ahead, and she limped after him with the cane. In a few moments it was apparent that he was leading her toward a barn not far from the main house. On the way, just beyond the lights and noise of the celebration, she was surprised to see armed militiamen standing guard in the darkness. They all nodded to Odin as he passed. It reminded her about another truth of war—there were no time-outs.
When they reached the barn, Odin brought her through a gap in the open doors into what appeared to be a workshop. Two men were gathered around a well-lit workbench there, one a younger Asian man, the other a distinguished-looking Mexican man in his fifties. Both were clearly dressed for the party but were now busy examining the damaged drone Odin’s team had reassembled from their encounter in Colorado.
The men both looked up as Odin and McKinney approached.
Odin nodded to them, gesturing to McKinney. “Gustavo, Tegu, this is the professor.”
They both nodded back and extended their hands. “Professor.”
Odin turned to McKinney. “Tegu used to manage communications for smugglers, and Gustavo was a senior chemist for the drug cartel that controlled this region.”
“You’re a chemist?”
Gustavo shrugged. “It was not my goal to work for the cartels, Professor. I was a chemical engineer, but then, sometimes we’re not given a choice. I have a wife and children.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
Odin gestured to the workbench. “I sent chemical samples and asked Tegu to bring some equipment and have a look at our little friend—see if your theory about pheromones panned out.”
McKinney moved up to the workbench and could see Tegu using some sort of voltmeter to test connections on the black drone. “And what have you found?”
Gustavo answered instead, picking up one of the aluminum cylinders, but gesturing to the dead drone. “Fascinating design. This appears to be a chemical-dispensing, chemical-reading electromechanical machine. The pepper scent you smell is a diluted mixture of oleoresin capsicum, the active ingredient in pepper spray. This cylinder here contains o-chlorobenzalmalononitrile. It’s a lacrimator found in teargas. Both very common chemicals you might find present at any riot or civil disturbance.” Then Gustavo held up the remaining capsules. “But these two cylinders are the interesting ones. They contain what are known as chemical taggants, used by law enforcement agencies like your DEA and ATF to invisibly mark narcotics, or cash—or anything, really. We have run into these before.” He held up one metal cylinder for them all to see. “Perfluorocarbons—chemical structures that do not appear in nature. Odorless, colorless, and which dissipate at a predictable, measurable rate. You can reliably determine how much time has elapsed since they were applied.”
McKinney looked to Odin. “That’s just like the pheromone matrix of ants. The message dissipates over time. And is unique.”
Gustavo palmed the cylinders. “These are cyclic perfluorocarbon tracers that can be detected in concentrations as little as one in ten-to-the-fifteenth parts. This one is perfluoromethylhexane, and the other is perfluoro-1, 3-dimethylcyclohexane. These two chemicals, combined, could create a unique chemical signature—like a code.”
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.”
CHAPTER 23
Collateral Damage
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.
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