I asked, hoping it was the good kind.

“Run-of-the-mill.” she said, text flickering green off of her glasses as she scrolled through it. “Some comment spammer found our little hideout. Shall I kill them now?”

I nodded and with a flick of her wrist and a few key taps Lacey dropped seven small canisters of depleted uranium on a warehouse in Bangalore. They would hear them coming, almost certainly. The canisters would emit a high pitched whistle as they de-orbited messily, raining near death upon the poor humans. They would escape, of course. The killing was only rhetorical. These guys expected rocks to be thrown at them from space.

If this had been the good kind of spam, the H+ kind, made of complex algorithmic events instead of cheap labor we would have responded more subtly. An invitation to our honeypot might have been sent, hoping to catch one of those emergent intelligences that sometimes liked to weave strange poetry in the margins of long dead blog posts.

“Maybe next time.” I said with great sadness.