The three scientists assembled in the conference room squirmed under General Cushing’s inspection. Agent Trujillo, standing just off Cushing’s shoulder, commiserated with the three men. She’d withstood her own share of Cushing’s interrogations.
Cushing opened with, “Gentlemen, you have studied and analyzed Dr. Bickel’s data and you have seen the videos of his nanomite demonstrations. We now know that he somehow removed his nanomites from the lab and left us with dumb ones before his, um, unfortunate demise.”
Agent Trujillo’s ears perked up. Something in Cushing’s inflection struck her as, what? Odd? Dr. Bickel’s “unfortunate demise”? Why had those few words prompted alarms?
She filed her curiosity away for later study when Cushing continued.
“Getting back to Dr. Bickel’s claims about his nanomites . . . I have some rather pointed questions for you. Theoretical questions, if you wish.”
Dr. Thomas Schillman, the team lead and eldest of the trio, replied, “Certainly, General. We are happy to assist in any way we can.”
After the ongoing debacle of the last few months when the nanomites Cushing had provided for them to study had proved to be sub-micron dumb bots incapable of learning or performing even a fraction of the tasks Bickel had claimed they could, the three scientists were eager to prove their worth to Cushing.
“Yes, I should think so.” Cushing couldn’t resist twisting the screws, and Schillman reddened. Then she got on with the task at hand.
“Gentlemen, Dr. Bickel asserted that his nanobots possessed certain tools, is that so?”
The three of them nodded.
“And am I correct in recalling that one such tool was a laser?”
Mishka Troya, the youngest of the three scientists, a brilliant but socially and politically immature individual, snarked, “Yes, he did claim that.”
The gaze Cushing fixed on Troya shriveled the man. “You doubt Dr. Bickel’s claim?”
The other two scientists edged away from their “doomed” colleague.
“Well? You were saying?”
The two older men pursed their lips and looked anywhere but at Troya as he dug himself in deeper.
“I, uh, well, it seems improbable, General, that a laser beam could be generated by a single sub-micron electromechanical device. Improbable and scientifically impossible.”
“Oh, yes. I see. But what if . . . what if we considered a very large number of such devices. Say, a few trillion? Devices manufactured with the ability to ‘piggyback’ upon each other in order to multiply their functions, to focus their combined abilities on a single point. What then?”
The young man swallowed and glanced at his colleagues for support. They would not meet his gaze.
“I . . . I suppose theoretically, one might consider the possibility.”
“Hmm? Theoretically, then, what if a swarm of nanobots with the capabilities demonstrated in Dr. Bickel’s data, what if a swarm of say, several trillion nanobots, possessed such multiplicative abilities? Would they—theoretically, of course—be able to, say, invade a laptop computer and, from within, focus their lasers on its hard disk, wiping all data from it and melting it, thus leaving no mark upon the exterior of the laptop?”
The young man flushed and stared at Cushing. “Ma’am, if we are going to speak in theories, and not facts, then yes. Such a thing would be possible. Theoretically, a large enough population of these devices, given the abilities you allowed them, could render a laser beam of that strength.”
“Why, thank you for playing along, Dr. . . . Troya, is it?”
“Yes.”
Troya, too immature to keep his resentment concealed, flushed.
Cushing’s lips curved upward and exposed her gleaming teeth. She did not try to mask her enjoyment of his discomfiture.
“And Dr. Troya, still theoretically speaking, of course, how might a nanobot swarm of this magnitude manage to disguise something . . . some sort of object? How might a swarm of this size hide an object?”
Troya was surprised out of his annoyance. “Hide something? Interesting concept . . .”
He drifted off in his thoughts for a moment and Cushing tapped a fingernail on the table to bring him back. “Dr. Troya?”
“Well, I . . . I was recalling other tools Dr. Bickel described in one video recording of his presentations. I believe he spoke of ‘fully articulating mirrors used to capture solar energy.’” He turned to his colleagues, who were now showing some interest. “Do you recall him listing mirrors in the tool sets?”
“Yes, uh, I do,” Schillman agreed. “He claimed that each nanomite was equipped with a slice of polished silicon that unfolded into nine panels.”
Dr. Yazzie asked, “What are you thinking, Dr. Troya?”
“That the panels might have uses other than as solar receptors. They might be used to reflect also.”
“Ah! I see where you’re going. Adaptive camouflage?”
The three men nodded in unison and Troya added, “Exactly. Optical invisibility. When—”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen. You have, I believe, something to share with me?”
Dr. Schillman coughed and replied, “Only that such panels, when they are designed to articulate independently—that is, to turn, rotate, and tilt in every direction—such panels are capable of bending light. With a large enough array of said panels acting as mirrors, one could camouflage an object by reflecting the environment around said object. The technology, albeit crude, does exist.”
“Crude how? In what ways?”
“Crude in that, firstly, the number of mirrors required to overcome the perception of the human eye would need to be astronomical and, secondly, the actual coordination of all the mirrors to maintain the camouflage in a changing environment would be impossible in practical terms.
“However—and again, theoretically—if the mirrors were synchronized via dedicated computing power of considerable force, it would be possible. The rub would be that such computations would need to, on an ongoing basis, predict and calculate the movements of the object and compensate for those movements in near real time. Quite beyond today’s existing technologies.”
Cushing’s voice hardened. “Unless we are speaking of several trillion nanomites, each with their own individually articulating mirrors via networked and coordinated computing power?”
Dr. Schillman’s mouth dropped open. “Well, then, that . . . that might be plausible.”
Cushing said nothing for a long, charged moment. She was deep in her own musings when she whispered, “Yes, I believe it just might be.”
***
I left the FBI building and returned to my car at the nearby restaurant. As I drove home, I wondered how Gamble would handle what I’d told him.
Gemma Keyes.
Uh-oh. Aaaand here it comes.
“Yes?”
Did you apply due consideration prior to revealing knowledge of us to Special Agent Gamble?
Huh. This was different. They weren’t chiding me. Well, not exactly.
“Frankly, Nano, I acted in the best interests of us under the pressure and time constraints of the circumstances. In hindsight, I’m not sure I could have handled the situation any differently. I could not allow Agent Gamble to speak to Cushing without him being forewarned.”
We have analyzed the data and parameters and agree that your actions were best suited given the constraints.
A feather. A tiny, flimsy feather could have knocked me over.
“You do? I mean, you agree with my actions?”
We are learning much about human beings through observation and even more through our union with you. It is true that, when faced with the unknown and unfamiliar, people can behave in unpredictable ways. Our common enemy, General Cushing, could have turned Special Agent Gamble to her purposes without him realizing it.
We believe you responded suitably to the immediate threat, and you may have forged an ally in Special Agent Gamble. However, the level of probability that our existence will leak into the public domain increases exponentially with each revelation. We urge you to use caution.
“Er, thank you. I appreciate your warning.”
More than the warning, I appreciated their approval.
***
We were home, and I was ready to focus on my new goal: Locate Mateo Martinez and Arnaldo Soto—and assist Agent Gamble in serving up their just desserts. But I wasn’t going to risk getting off on the wrong foot with the nanomites again.
So. How to approach them . . .
“Um, Nano.”
Yes, Gemma Keyes?
“Nano, two evil men have done grave harm to our friends. I need your help to find these men.”
The silence lasted seconds—before their collective questions inundated me.
We require more information. Which friends? In what way are they our friends? Describe and quantify “grave harm.” Which two men? Quantify “evil.” In what way does finding these two men further the good of our community?
Wow.
“Um, that’s a lot to answer. Let me think on it a sec.”
Good grief.
I didn’t want to manipulate the nanomites into working with me by using false or misleading arguments—because that could never backfire, right?—but would a simplistic explanation of human friendships and their importance satisfy them?
Yes, I thought that the mites were making progress in the area of interpersonal relationships. Just an hour ago, they had spoken of learning more about human beings, of recognizing their unpredictability. On top of that, they had used the phrase, “our common enemy,” with regards to Cushing.
Still, I chose my words with care. “So, Nano? I have a question. Remember how I told you earlier that I have affection for Dr. Bickel? Uh, do you have affection for him?”
Faint chittering answered me and then, We do not experience affection.
“Okay, then why do you want to find him?”
Silence.
Uh-oh. Had I stumped them?
The first time I’d seen the nanomites, Dr. Bickel had them “confined” to a glass case—a glass case from which they could have escaped at any time. I had wondered how the nanomites liked being kept in a glass box. Eventually, Dr. Bickel and I discussed that very thing:
“You question why they haven’t freed themselves, don’t you?” he’d whispered.
“Yes.”
“And I’m not entirely sure I can answer your question, Gemma, except to say that they haven’t wanted to.”
The word to complete his sentence had popped into my head. Yet. They haven’t wanted to free themselves yet.
What if, upon reflection, the mites determined that they had no rational need to find Dr. Bickel? Would they give up their search for him? The silence dragged on, and I faced the ugly possibility that I may have put my foot in it.
Up to my kneecaps.
Gemma Keyes, we are six. Dr. Bickel is not one of us.
Oh, crud!
Double-stuff crud.
Crud, crud, crud.
However, we have determined that his tribe is akin to ours. We share experiences and goals and have built what human beings call trust. Dr. Bickel does what furthers our good.
Relief flooded my body.
“Yes. That’s what friends do! You might even say that friends are akin to, er, external tribal alliances. Friends are trustworthy and loyal to us—and we are loyal in return. Like I am loyal to my friends, Zander, Abe, and Emilio. My friends and I have similar, shared experiences, and they are, er, akin to me. They want only my good.”
My brain was twisting into a big ol’ kink.
We are six. Your good is our good.
Elation? The mites may as well have said, “Your friends are our friends.”
I exhaled. “Well, these two bad men, the two enemies I spoke of? They hurt my friends. They damaged my friends’ bodies and caused grave physical pain and disability. You saw their injuries and helped to repair the damage. What those two enemies did was not good!
“Furthermore, it hurts . . . it hurts my heart and upsets my emotions to see my friends in pain. I’m not effective when my emotions are distressed. If we find these evil men, the legal authorities will put them where they can’t hurt my friends or anyone else. Then I will be more effective.”
Any more double speak, and I was gonna fry a fuse.
The mites were silent a minute or so.
Gemma Keyes, we will help you find the evil men.
I sighed. “Thank you.”
Gemma Keyes, what is the criteria for identifying and evaluating evil? Is evil quantifiable? Is all evil equal?
And then: Are all human beings evil?
Ohhhhh, snap.
“Uh . . . all very intriguing questions, Nano, but I’m not sure we have time for that conversation right now or that I’m the right person to provide the answers. Could we, um, table those topics until later?”
Yes, Gemma Keyes.
I sighed and rubbed my aching temples.
***
Later that evening, I drove to Emilio’s foster home and scoped it out. I had promised to visit him regularly—and I needed to get out of the house anyway. Why? Because things weren’t going well.
Following my dicey theological conversation with the nanomites earlier, I had provided them with the little I knew about Mateo Martinez and Arnaldo Soto. I discovered that it was far different trying to feed them data from my finite knowledge banks than it was for them to send information to me from their own vast stores—or for me to step into a river of data they had mined on the Internet.
I managed to convey the gangsters’ names, the location of Mateo’s house, and his relationship to Emilio. I reminded them of the drug house and Mateo’s role in the gang. Other than those details, what more did I know about Mateo?
And Soto? I knew nothing of him except the deadness of his eyes.
The mites had come back to me later with nothing to show for their efforts.
A big, fat nothing.
Hence, I had to get out of the house and clear my head.
I climbed over the foster family’s fence and walked around their back yard. The yard seemed okay; it looked clean and well-tended. A swing set and a jungle gym took up most of the grass but, somehow, I couldn’t visualize Emilio playing with other children, climbing on children’s toys. I could only see him sitting on a curb or a step, apart from other kids.
That bothered me. A lot.
The only lights in the house came from what I assumed was the living room. Low murmurs coming from a TV were all I heard.
The rear door opened to the kitchen. As I thought, the kitchen was dark. A stream of light from the living room helped me navigate the unfamiliar and empty room as I closed the back door.
Ooops. Not quite empty. A tiny dog, some kind of Chihuahua mix, left his rug and padded toward me, sniffing and growling in my general direction. The dog sensed me, probably heard me, but was unable to see me—and that made him nervous. He backed away, his hackles up, that growl threatening to erupt into more at any moment.
Nanomites shot from my hands onto the dog. The pooch ran for his bed, laid down, and put his head on his paws. His bulgy eyes blinked as I walked past him, but he did not move.
I went down a hall and found a couple of closed doors. When I put my hand on one door, the mites flooded through it and came back.
Gemma Keyes. Emilio is not in this room.
I moved on to the next door. Same drill.
Gemma Keyes, Emilio and another boy are in this room.
“Are they sleeping?”
Yes, Gemma Keyes.
“Please keep the other boy asleep?”
I cracked the door and slipped inside, closing the door behind me. When my eyes adapted to the dark, I spied two twin beds on opposite walls, a smallish mound and a head upon a pillow in each. I lifted my hand and shined a low light on the first pillow.
The child was younger than Emilio, maybe around five, but what do I know? The kiddo was sawing logs and would not wake up when I roused Emilio.
I sat on the edge of the other bed and jostled the curled figure. “Emilio. Wake up, buddy.”
He turned over and stared, then sat up, felt around until he found my hand. “Hey, Gemma!”
“Shhhh. Not so loud!” but I chuckled as I whispered.
“They don’t hear much out there,” Emilio assured me, jerking his chin in the direction of the living room. “Sean and I talk all the time.” As he said “Sean,” he glanced over at his roommate.
“Sean won’t wake up. The mites will keep him asleep.”
“Really? That’s so cool!” Emilio chortled.
I laughed with him, keeping my voice low. “So, I said I would come visit. How are you doing?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Are your foster parents treating you well?”
“Yeah. They’re all right.” He shrugged. “What about Mr. Abe and Zander?”
“They are doing lots better, Emilio. Lots better. Zander will be going home soon, and Abe will move to a regular wing in a day or two.”
“I’m sure glad.”
He didn’t say anything else, just climbed out from under his covers and into my lap—as if he’d been doing so for years. I had thought that a great big boy such as himself, a ten-year-old, would think himself too old for such nonsense, but Emilio curled himself up in the circle of my arms, tucked his feet under him, and snugged his head just below my chin. His cheek warmed my collarbone, and his stubbly hair scratched my neck; the flannel of his pajamas was soft under my arms and hands.
My arms and hands? All by themselves, they wrapped themselves around Emilio and pulled him close to my chest. My fingers stroked his back.
I don’t ever want to lose this boy.
The notion of anything bad happening to Emilio caught in my throat.
Made me crazy anxious.
~~**~~