"Will he?" Firenze asked.
"Absolutely." Halstead replied. "That's why he was hired."
Firenze hypothesized, "Hence, why he's only docking in large ports. It's an implied threat."
"Correct. And only visible to those who know the ship is compromised. Sakharov's taunting us into acting rashly."
Firenze said, "Okay, what about a virus? It's a dynamic space, controllable with electronic warfare. We could hit it with a limited AI worm, have it lock the ship down, cut the controls to the drive, and spin it down for a soft landing somewhere safe. Then, after it's landed and cooled, ground forces move in and clear it. The mercenaries are locked in their rooms and casualties minimal."
Halstead nodded approvingly, but then held up a finger and said, "Interesting theory. Here's the counter: Perimeter Group, upon losing control of the ship, use their internal, non-integrated radios to coordinate a massive response. They use torches and explosives to cut free of their rooms and reassert manual control. Authority regulations forbid any vessel from being AI-driven without an override, so they'll have options. Now they know we're coming, and they start hitting hostages."
"Jamming, sir. We blackout the internals."
"They'll recognize that as a signal to attack. Sakharov was in special forces before he went dark. He'll know what's happening."
"Knockout gas. We can synthesize it in the air system with the right virus."
"Paris, 2513." Halstead replied. "Internal Security Agency RAST teams and gendarmerie attempted to free hostages from a hotel by flooding it with an asphyxiant 'knockout' gas. The dosage was too hard to control, hostages went into shock, and hundreds died. Worse, the terrorists, many of whom were in a heightened state of arousal, were able to withstand the effects long enough to inflict additional casualties and still mount a limited resistance."
"Drones, then." Firenze proposed. "We gas the sections without civilians, seal the ship, and then send in remote control combat drones to clear out the rest."
"You're jamming them, remember?" Halstead pointed out. "Even if you aren't, they'll jam you the moment they realize you've sent in RCVs." The colonel motioned to the yellowed window, to the rusted machines beyond, and said, "It's a harsh world out there, Mister Firenze. There are many tools at our disposal, but they are just tools. Nothing substitutes for a good man close at hand. That's what we do. That's why we exist. So long as there's some knucklehead out there who thinks that shooting, stabbing, or bombing is the best way to make a point, you'll need people like us to go dig them out. Those types don't stop when you ask nicely."
Firenze nodded along. The colonel had a point. Decisions had to be made locally, to prevent jamming or hijacking, but that didn't mean it had to be people. He raised his final argument, "What about AI drones, sir. They can't be jammed. They're stronger, more resilient, more accurate than even your team. And they don't feel fear."
Halstead's cold eyes narrowed, but his words were measured, "That would seem reasonable, wouldn't it? They're efficient, loyal, effective. Better still, no one loses a child, spouse, or parent when a killbot gets blown to pieces." The colonel reached down, fiddled with one of his binders. His mustache twitched again. "There's just one problem. If you want to deploy killbots, you've got to keep an army of them."
"We don't?" Firenze asked.
"Damn right, we don't!" Halstead replied. "And don't think they haven't tried, but good officers shut them down every time."
"Why? Too expensive? Bodies are cheaper?" Firenze couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"Because they're too cheap!" Halstead snapped. He took a breath, smoothed his whiskers with one hand, and then said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bark at you, but you brushed against a mindset I particularly despise." He drew another breath, then asked, "Do you follow the news, Grant?"
"Sometimes?" Firenze replied.
"Few do. Most just watch the highlights, the social channels, the gossip and drama. It's astroturfed, almost all of it." Halstead sighed. "Did you know that the Authority has been embroiled in police actions against Path elements for five years? Did you know that this war has cost over nineteen hundred lives?"
"No!" Firenze protested. "Is that classified? I know some people who'd be pissed-"
"It's not classified. I wouldn't tell you if it was, but it doesn't need to be. It's on the bottom of the feed every week."
"Why don't they protest?" Firenze demanded. He'd seen the storms brew around Article Two and Monterrey. Suze and Kendrix had filled street corners and augsim-commons with agitprop, but he'd never heard about this silent war. Why wouldn't they drag this front and center?
Halstead answered, "They don't notice because it's not our lives being lost. Most have been snuffed from the Path ranks, exterminated by aerial drones and vicious little computer worms that crash cars into walls. Right now, there are automated hunter-killers out there, choosing life or death for someone who never sees the judge. He's an enemy of the state for sure, but right now, he's a father, sitting down for dinner, and thousands of feet above, there's a little computer brain, calculating whether it should dedicate fourteen kilograms of high explosive to terminate his life. He'll never know.
