“I could reference the mathematics involved in quantum stealth technology, but that would only complicate it for you,” he drawled, a little disappointed.
“If it’s all that important to you, why don’t you try it again the simple way,” I countered, my tone chilly, expression indifferent. I didn’t appreciate his revived superior attitude.
“I see.” He fidgeted with a button on his lab coat as he, I hoped, was reforming his approach. “Gemma, do you recall how I described the mites’ role division as tribes?”
“Sure.”
He cleared his throat, ready to turn another corner in his lecture. “In nature, some creatures operate, innately, through what is called “hive” or “swarm” intellect. Ants, bees, birds, fish, and so on employ hive intellect: Ants march, bees swarm, birds flock, and fish school.
“Well, the nanomites also have a highly developed swarm mentality in which the tribes communicate, share information, and act in concert. They hold what I’ve termed “confabs” to share data, tribal perspectives, and possible solutions. Once a course of action is decided, the nanocloud—instantaneously—acts in a mutually agreed-upon manner.”
“Yes, you said that already.” I was following but, given his emphasis, I was starting to snap to new ramifications. “Are you saying that they think?”
He beamed. I was, again, a dull but at least satisfactory student. “Yes, in a very authentic way, they think. Of course, they are not capable of independent thought—each tribe’s algorithms determine the range of its input into the nanocloud’s decision making process. The nanocloud is dependent upon and limited by the advice and consensus of the whole of all the tribes’ participation—but the nanocloud can arrive at that consensus and act upon it in real time.”
“Wow.”
“Yes, er, as you are quite fond of saying, wow.” He ran his gnarled little hand through what bit of faded red hair remained on his head. I sensed he was near the apex of his discourse, close to the climax of his lecture.
He held up one finger. “Reflect for a moment on the nanocloud, on the trillions of nanomites, each armed with its own mirror. So trillions of mirrors, yes? But each mirror is more than a single, nano-sized slice of polished silicon. Each mirror, when fully deployed, has nine separate panels. The mites unfold their mirrors in three rows of three, multiplying the nanocloud’s reflective capacity by nine.”
He held up a second finger. “Next, consider that each of the nine panels is an independently articulating sheet. This means the mites can adjust the angle of every panel individually—any direction, any degree—to achieve maximum absorption or reflective effectiveness.”
I watched his third finger go up. “Now think of each panel providing near-real-time reflections of the world around them and think of their joined computations approaching the speed of light.”
He paused for effect. “Finally, think of them wanting to hide themselves.”
We drew near the glass case containing the nanocloud, and still nothing came to me.
“I-I don’t follow.”
His face fell; he felt sorry for me—which didn’t go down well.
“Just spill it, Doctor Bickel,” I growled.
“Think, Gemma! Use that splendid, analytical mind of yours! The reason General Cushing wants the nanomites. Why she is obsessed with them.”
I struggled to connect the dots.
Think of them wanting to hide themselves. Think of each of panel providing near-real-time reflections of the world around them.
“Are you saying they can sort of camouflage themselves?”
Dr. Bickel’s expression read, Come on; you can do it!
Grrr!
“That they can use the, uh, reflections of their mirrors to . . . to . . . make it look like they aren’t there? To make people see what is around them instead of seeing them?”
His eyes lit up. I was making connections, at last. I struggled on.
Why would Cushing want this ‘quantum stealth’ technology, this hyper-whatever-he-called-it thingy? What kind of military applications would it—
“Are you saying the nanomites can make other things invisible?” I was incredulous.
“It’s optical invisibility, Gemma, optical invisibility. Also known as passive adaptive camouflage. The mites create optical invisibility by utilizing their mirrors to bend light and reflect the surfaces around them. Nanostealth.”
“But is that still invisible? They can make themselves and other things invisible?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked up to the case and shouted, “Nano! Hide.”
The shimmering cloud flowing through the glass case paused. Froze in place.
And disappeared.
Chapter 10
I stared into the case, searching for them. Nothing. The empty interior of the glass case stared back at me.
“The nanocloud is still in the case, right? I just can’t see it?”
“You actually can see the cloud, Gemma, but the nanomites are reflecting a perfect 360 degree image of the environment around them, so that while you are looking directly at them, your brain believes the case to be empty.”
My brain crunched the implications until, vaguely, I understood why Cushing wanted the nanomites, wanted their technology. “If Cushing were to get the nanomites, if she could replicate them on a large scale—”
“General Cushing doesn’t merely want them for use in foreign wars against America’s enemies, Gemma. She believes the only way to ensure national security is to monitor everyone, at all times, legally or not.
“At heart, Cushing doesn’t want the best for a democratic nation; she wants control. She is evil and she is ambitious. She must never get the nanomites, Gemma. Never. Whatever it takes, I must ensure that they remain out of her hands.”
“But-but if they are so dangerous in the wrong hands, if they can be used for evil, then why—?”
“Why build them in the first place? Why teach them?” Dr. Bickel stood a little taller. “Do you know how much suffering the nanomites could alleviate? How many diseases they could cure? All cancers could be overcome, quickly removed from a body by the mites’ coordinated attack. Injuries and birth defects could be repaired without overtly invasive surgeries.
“Can you imagine the insect infestations that could be corrected, rebalanced without the use of harmful chemicals? Can you fathom the effect of the nanomites on food production worldwide? Starvation would become a thing of the past! The nanomites could predict weather patterns and facilitate rescue attempts under collapsed buildings! The list of good they could do is endless, Gemma.”
His speech stirred me. I guess he knew it would.
“Will you help me, Gemma?”
I nodded. “I’ll try it out, Dr. Bickel. See how it goes.” I was committed now, but I felt oddly okay with it. And at least my money problems would be over for a time.
“And Dr. Prochanski did not help make the nanomites?” I asked in a whisper.
“That sham of a scientist? Not a chance.”
Dr. Bickel’s mood shifted. “The nanomites are purely my invention. I may not have invented three-dimensional printing, but the ion printhead? Mine. The nanometer universal serial bus? Mine again. Their intellectual attributes? All mine. I alone wrote the mathematical algorithms that allow them to function, to learn, to repair.”
“Every move that buffoon, Prochanski, made in the last three years was aimed at bringing my R&D to fruition so that he could help Cushing steal it—and so that he could claim credit for my work.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s why he latched on to you, Gemma. He used you to spy on me, but the bugs I planted recorded everything.”
I can safely say that Dr. Bickel launched into a bit of a tirade at this point. In a strident voice he rehearsed Dr. Prochanski’s schemes and lies, his betrayal of our country, of Dr. Bickel himself, and his manipulation of me.
His rant didn’t last long, and I figured he just needed to vent. He had been, after all, cooped up here alone
for three months and had been forced to give up his entire life because of Prochanski and Cushing.
When he finished, he reddened, mortified by his outburst. He again stammered an apology. I said I understood. And I did. After all, who was I to judge?
I actually felt okay about Dr. Bickel. We’d weathered two or three short-lived spats and one embarrassing meltdown in the space of about six hours. That kind of transparency and resiliency was good for a healthy relationship. At least that’s what Aunt Lucy had always said.
“Actually, Gemma, I need to retract a few things I said.”
I cocked my head, waiting for him to speak.
“I said the nanomites were my invention, that it was all my doing.”
I nodded.
“Except . . . every person is born with gifts, born with certain aptitudes and intelligences. Some are given more; some less. Yes, I have worked hard, but I can’t take credit for what I’ve been, uh, given. I should have acknowledged that.”
I thought it an interesting perspective. “So, ‘given,’ as in given by God? You believe in God?”
“Yes,” he whispered, “but I confess I often feel very far from him.”
I couldn’t help him there, so I said nothing.
Dr. Bickel and I parted company with an awkward handshake an hour before dawn. He counted out eight hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills into my hand before we parted and handed me a list of things he wished me to bring to him in a week’s time. I stared at the cash in my hand.
I can pay my past-due utility bills and restock my kitchen.
I left Dr. Bickel’s “lab under the mountain” before dawn with my mind spinning, my wallet full, and my heart a little troubled. I retraced my steps through the tunnels until I arrived at the door that led outside the mountain. I stepped outside, carefully closed the door behind me, and listened to the mechanism on the other side spin and slide home the bolts.
I peeked out from behind the rock outcropping and scanned for vehicles on the dirt road surrounding the mountain. By the position of the moon, night was almost spent. At least I had a little moonlight for my hike down the foothills.
I crept down to the three rocks that mark my PIDAS crossing, my “sentry boulders” as I’d started to think of them. I yawned. The next time I came, we had agreed that I would come just before dawn and stay until the sun set and shadows appeared on the foothills to help disguise my coming and going.
I waited and watched before starting across. I crouched and pushed through the cuts in the PIDAS fence and jogged away from the restricted area without incident. An hour later I arrived at my car.
The next week dragged on. “Real life” felt anticlimactic compared to all I’d learned and experienced on my trek up the foothills. I bought groceries, paid bills, and put the remainder of the cash Dr. Bickel had paid me into a coffee can in the freezer. And I planned my next trip into the mountain.
The downside of that first visit to Dr. Bickel’s lab? His rant played on a continuous loop in my head. I fixated on his accusations of Dr. Prochanski, a man I had once admired and to whom I had given my trust. I began to process the extent of Dr. Prochanski’s duplicity. As each piece of his deception came clear, the weight of his betrayal grew.
Dr. P didn’t encourage me because he cared. He didn’t suggest that I improve myself because he valued me. I thought he was a friend—or at least a trusted mentor.
But he didn’t care. He manipulated me. Exploited me. He had a plan and he needed information. And who did he pick? He picked me—someone he thought too naive and gullible to catch on to what he was doing. He picked me because I fit the bill: loyal, unquestioning, stupid. He used me and then he threw me away.
I scrubbed at the moisture leaking from my eyes, angry with myself because I’d misjudged Dr. P so badly, because I had been naïve and gullible. Because I had been deceived. Made to look a fool.
Having been so deceived was the worst part. I’d been a victim before, but I had never thought of myself as a fool. It stung.
Sniffling and gritting my teeth, I vowed, “No one will ever take advantage of me like that again.”
THAT WEEK I BOUGHT a sturdy backpack at REI, one large enough to carry groceries but not, once packed, too heavy for me to carry on my trek up the foothills. Of course, the filled backpack also had to fit through the tight crack behind the beam in the main tunnel.
I filled the list Dr. Bickel gave me and, on the day we’d agreed, repeated my hike of the week before. I made the trip in the near-dawn darkness without any difficulties and arrived at the hidden entrance just as the sun cleared Sandia Crest.
Dr. Bickel “oohed” and “aahed” over the fresh foods I’d brought him. I was happy for him, and it gave me a little satisfaction to see his tired eyes light up.
Then he gave me a lecture on the strict “security protocols” he demanded I use: Absolute secrecy on my part and no Internet searches that could in any way attract attention. He presented me with a long list of keywords I was never to use in emails, social media, or search engines. The obvious ones were his name, General Cushing’s name, and anything to do with MEMS technology.
“So I’m not supposed to look for work anymore?” I complained. “All of my adult work experience is in the MEMS and AMEMS labs at Sandia. Of course my résumé contains most of your keywords!”
“We can make an exception for that,” he rushed to assure me, “although I do hope our arrangement is satisfactory?”
“It is, for now,” I returned, “but how long do you plan to stay holed up here? When the nanomites are, er, ready, won’t you want to reveal them—and yourself—to the world? Isn’t that the surest way to keep the government from confiscating and, er, exploiting them?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t have those answers for you yet, Gemma.”
I could tell he was troubled by my questions. Cushing had thrown a wrench into his intentions for the nanomites—even though he had foreseen and planned for possible government interference. I was convinced that Dr. Bickel had schemes he was unwilling to disclose yet.
I folded my arms. “Well, I can’t take money from you and still claim unemployment.”
“I would prefer that you did, since I’m paying you in cash. It would be safer for me.”
His face was growing a little red. I stood my ground.
“No, Dr. Bickel. I won’t cheat. I can’t keep claiming unemployment if you are paying me.”
Dr. Bickel stroked his beard and considered my ultimatum. He gave his scraggly beard a last tug as if coming to a decision. “Very well. We will consider you an independent contractor and your work for me a contract position. At the end of the year, I will provide you with a legitimate 1099-MISC, one that will pass muster with the IRS. The money you receive from me will be legitimate self-employment earnings you can report to the unemployment office. You won't need to claim unemployment benefits as long as you work for me.”
“How will you do that?” My frown deepened. “Will it be legal?”
“Yes, quite. Leave that to me. I have avenues,” was all he would say.
I left late that day, conflicted and tussling within myself. On one hand, I had money in my pocket that would allow me to sleep at night instead of worrying that my electricity would be turned off. On the other hand, I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake by agreeing to help Dr. Bickel. I wondered if opening up that email hadn’t been the biggest misstep of my life.
I will have to get a real job again someday—and Dr. Bickel isn’t exactly in a position to write me a glowing recommendation, what with the whole being “dead” thing and all.
I had another idea.
I can keep looking for work while helping Dr. Bickel and, when another job comes up, I will take it. If I make trips for him after that, I won’t take any money for them.
I SPENT JULY FOURTH with Abe. He cooked brats in his backyard and I brought a salad and a dessert. When it grew dark we saw some of the fireworks from Kirtland and, closer, from peo
ple in the streets around us who insisted on defying the law against aerials.
I’d been so preoccupied with the whole “Dr. Bickel” thing that I hadn’t thought about Zander in days—until he showed up on my doorstep two days after the Fourth.
“Hey. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in and say hi.”
“Hi, yourself.”
“Meet me in the backyard?” Zander’s voice was playful and his grey eyes crinkled in that way I liked.
“Lemonade or tea?” I arched my brows in a mock-serious manner, the rest of my face expressionless.
He sighed. “Oh, wow. That’s a tough one.”
I frowned. “Well, you should have come prepared.”
We stayed in character, both of us severe and serious, until he cracked. I, of course, knew that I would win. I could keep a straight face forever.
“I’ll leave it to you then,” he grinned, and we laughed together.
I went to see what I had in the fridge while he loped around the house. He was waiting for me on the steps when I came out with ice-filled glasses and raspberry iced tea.
“Good choice,” he murmured after downing his first glass.
We talked for an hour or more, I think. He managed to pry most of my history from me that day. He was good like that, letting me talk and actually listening.
“So your twin sister—Genie? She’s an identical twin?”
“Technically, yes, but we don’t really look like each other. We’re not alike in any way, actually.”
“So what’s she like, this lawyer sister of yours? And if you’re identical twins, you must look something like her,” he insisted.
I shuddered inside. “Well, she’s quite pretty, actually; she’s very stylish and can be witty and vivacious. But I’m like a twentieth-generation photocopy of her. A really bad copy.”
Zander looked at me then, puzzled. “Then she must be drop-dead gorgeous.”
Now I was confused. “Wha-what do you mean?”
“Are you fishing for a compliment, Gemma Keyes?” Zander demanded.
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