ayye, wobot

In the President’s Club, at a backroom table, a small group of wobots flash each other furtive glances and wring their hands, the secret mission still glistening inside their wires.
“We’re agreed then,” says one of the wobots.
“No way around it, far as I can see,” says another.
“Well then,” says a third, laying his aluminum hand on the table top, to be covered by other aluminum hands.
“Swarm,” they say, quietly.