“I’m not so sure. He would directly target infrastructure and destroy it upstream. He cuts supply lines. Starves people into submission. Only then do they get scared and eventually cave to his demands.”

“The way he works, he can’t hit global infrastructure from his borders, so he’s flipped the script. Fear first, then let the people destroy their own resources. The general public is scared of a sentient artificial intelligence, remember? They don’t suspect al-Muwahhidun. They’re legitimately worried that every WAI-powered device could be a potential tool of the Machinehood.”

Welga frowned. “And we’re encouraging that bullshit.”

“It’s the best way to avoid tipping our hand. If the al-Muwahhidun suspect how much we know, they’ll call back their people, and we’ll lose any chance of a capture.”

A multi-container truck rumbled past them. Once upon a time, a distractible human would have driven it. The risks people had lived with, especially in the days before a pill could heal half your body, sent a shiver down Welga’s spine. How long before the panic-induced shortages brought the world back to that state? And what would the Machinehood do next? Because no way in hell would all bot and WAI production cease in the next twelve hours.

The car moved off the expressway. Olafson glanced at Welga.

“Let me send you an outfit that looks more… agent-like,” he said.

A sober, charcoal-gray pantsuit design appeared in her visual. She fought the urge to wince as the cloth reformatted across her tender new skin. The basic version had been more comfortable and about as boring as the suit. Her skin still showed mottled pink patches. Getting it back to brown wasn’t a process that could be accelerated—yet. Somebody must be funding that effort.

She took a duo-zip along with her daily regimen of microbials, juvers, and disinfectants as recommended by medical.

Olafson arched a brow. “You going to be okay?”

“I’m not taking the pain drugs so my head stays clear. My forearm splints should release by our arrival time.” She angled her chin at the outline of the weapon in his pocket. “You ready to use that?”

“I’m hoping I don’t have to, but I do my hours at the practice range.”

Welga carried three types of weapons—a regular gun, a sticky gun, and a tranquilizer gun. Olafson had only the third, probably a good thing under the circumstances. Defensive fire ought to remain her job.