The captain looked around the table. No one spoke. He gestured to Kemp. “Please start the ball rolling, doctor.”
Kemp played with the documents on his tablet, unexpectedly nervous. This meeting would go on the record. Every word, every document, every hesitation might end up being analyzed for years by—he wasn’t really sure by whom.
“During an exploration of a small asteroid where a density anomaly had been detected, Pritchard was exposed to an unknown substance, which coated his suit arm. The crew removed the suit arm and got Pritchard into the airlock. There was no obvious indication that the substance had penetrated the suit, and a medical examination of Pritchard revealed nothing unexpected.”
Kemp paused to flip the document on his tablet. He had made notes, to keep his narrative focused more than anything else. He knew he would have a tendency to wander into conjecture otherwise.
“The next morning, the subject woke up with his arm partly converted to metal…” The retelling was almost hypnotic, and Kemp found himself having to avoid going into a sing-song tone of voice as he continued. His report stuck to observations and facts; no analysis, no theorizing.
Finally, he was done, and he looked to the captain.
Jennings turned to Chief MacNeil. “Technical analysis, Chief?”
MacNeil leaned forward, enthusiasm written plainly on his face. “The metal composition of the subject’s new limbs is not continuous. Rather, it is composed of a number of what we’re calling nanites—individual machines, somewhat smaller than a human cell. They are not identical, instead consisting of non-periodic shapes consistent with Penrose Tiles, but a three-dimensional version. They link together, forming what could be described as a mesh. Flexible, but extremely strong. And self-healing. Attempts to scrape off a sample have been frustrating, even if ultimately successful. The units flow around the tool and re-form behind it. We finally had to rig up something that would bite off a chunk and sequester it.”
“There is no apparent central control unit, or any indication of conscious intelligence. Despite this, the infectious agent seems to behave in an intelligent, coordinated manner.” MacNeil jerked, seemingly realizing that he was straying into speculation. And stepping on Kemp’s turf. He looked over at the doctor before continuing.
“The substance that was separated from the subject during the initial amputation had made its way through the ship in very close to a bee-line back to the subject. It apparently avoided critical systems and components, which would indicate an understanding of our ship’s design, at least on a general level.”
Now came the less honest part. Kemp knew that MacNeil wasn’t happy with this plan. None of them was.
“We placed a beacon on the asteroid where the anomaly was found. Identification number is in the notes.”
It was a lie of omission. Kemp doubted they’d have been able to persuade MacNeil to lie outright on the record. But not mentioning the part where they moved the asteroid, or the part where they waited almost a week before activating the beacon, was apparently at least tolerable.
Captain Jennings looked to Kemp again. “What is the status of the subject, Doctor?”
“He is now metallized up to mid-chest. Only above that line is he still human. The process shows no signs of stopping.
“The metallized body is still providing blood to his head, proper levels of hormones, oxygen, glycogen, and so on; and is cleaning the blood of toxins and waste in a manner indistinguishable from a normal body. I consider it a positive that the infection is putting so much effort into keeping the subject alive.”
“Prognosis?”
Kemp shook his head. “It would be rank speculation, Captain. We don’t know if the process will continue, although it looks like it at the moment. We don’t know if Ivan Pritchard will continue to exist as an individual once the process is complete. The subject is understandably concerned about that question, himself. It’s not unlike facing the possibility of imminent death. I’ve seen the same reactions from people about to undergo dangerous surgery that they might not survive. Imagine going under with the fear that you might simply never wake up.”
“Any sign of infection in any other crew, doctor?”
“None. The infection seems to be completely focused on Ivan. No nanites have been detected in other crew, and to the extent that Mr. MacNeil and I have been able to determine, they aren’t wandering about on the loose, other than for the scavenging.”
Captain Jennings nodded, then spoke into the air. “Under the circumstances, we can’t risk returning directly to Earth, or to any public terminus. We are therefore requesting that the ICDC set up some form of isolation while the ship and crew are examined for continued infection, and while the situation is evaluated for long-term dangers.”
The captain sighed, then pressed a button on his chair. “End of report. Astra, please bundle up all pertinent records and forward them to the ICDC.”
He looked around the table. “And may God have mercy on our souls.”
Writing Home
Dear Judy,
Please keep this away from the kids.
Something has happened. I can’t go into much detail, because, honestly, I’m not sure of the details myself. But the bottom line is, I’m sick. I seem to have caught something on one of the rocks we were prospecting. No one is sure what it is, but we’re worried about it spreading. So the captain has contacted the ICDC and we’ll be quarantined.
I’m not dying, I don’t think. That’s the good news. And the strike’s been confirmed, the money’s been paid, and we’re now wealthy beyond our wildest dreams, as soon as escrow clears. That’s pretty good, too.
But I may be contagious, and I may continue to be contagious. They just don’t know enough, yet.
Judy, I love you so much, and I want to return to you and spend the rest of our lives spending our money in frivolous ways. But if worst comes to worst, and this doesn’t work out, I’m glad that I’ll have managed to make your futures so much better.
I’ll keep you up to date. I’ll call as soon as we’re close enough for real-time. Please try not to worry.
Love,
Ivan
Ivan hesitated for several seconds, staring at what he’d typed. How could he tell her that he might not even exist in a few more days? How could he explain that, even if he did, he might never be allowed to leave?
Not yet. He owed it to her to let her know something was wrong. But the rest…he’d have to think on it. With an angry jab, he pressed send.
He wanted so much just to go home, to hold Judy in his arms. He wanted the family dogpiles on the ratty old couch. And, mostly, he just wanted to touch them one more time.
It wasn’t going to happen. Ivan looked at his hands. Chrome, all the way up. There was no cure for this. And it probably wasn’t going to stop. He was dead, for all practical purposes. He poked the interface on his chest, the point where flesh met metal. The difference in texture was obvious.
From the inside, it felt no different. He could feel his fingers poking the chrome part of his chest. The sensation was neither more nor less sensitive, or odd in any way. Even his fingers seemed to have the same sense of touch. But from the outside…
Ivan stared at his fingers for several seconds more, then slowly moved the keyboard and put his head down on the desk. His shoulders shook, then his hands. Within seconds, he was sobbing, his cheeks pulled back in a rictus of emotional overload.
Between ragged breaths, he kept repeating, “Oh, God, Judy, I love you. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”
Eventually, wrung out, he threw himself on his bunk and was unconscious within seconds.
ICDC
Dr. Madhur Narang looked up from the file. “Is this a joke?” She noted in passing that the slight lilt in her voice from her New Delhi origins had become more pronounced. That happened when she became excited, which made her a truly awful poker player.
“I wish it was.” Dr. Karin Laakkon
en, ICDC director and Narang’s immediate boss, waved a hand toward the folder. “We received this yesterday, and we’ve verified the source. It’s a class-IV Chrysler-Morrison mining ship, the Mad Astra, returning early from a tour of the belt. They have recently registered a large strike, so are not motivated to casually create any kind of controversy. I’ve had some people look at the supporting documentation, and it’s not obviously faked.”
“What are we planning to do?”
“Well, we do have plans in place for isolating incoming space ships. Thus the word Interplanetary at the beginning of our name. I’ve asked the Isolation Systems people to have something ready, and we’ve sent orders to the Astra to proceed to the specified coordinates.”
Laakkonen poked at her tablet. “Which brings us to this meeting, Madhur. I’m putting you in charge of the case. Benton is more senior than you, but she is somewhat unimaginative and by-the-book. I don’t think that’s optimal for this particular situation.”
Narang grinned at her boss, silently agreeing. Dr. Sydney Benton was a knowledgeable doctor and an excellent technician, but far too inclined to retreat into standard procedures when things went off the rails.
Her tablet beeped, and Dr. Narang looked down to see the file that her boss had just sent. She quickly flipped through it. Travel itinerary, authorizations, contacts… Narang smiled. She was going into space.
Dr. Laakkonen chuckled, correctly guessing the reason for Narang’s expression. “This is your first time, isn’t it?”
“I’ve had all the courses, of course. But I’ve never been up higher than sub-orbital.”
Laakkonen was silent for several seconds, and took on a serious expression. “Maddie, this smells. We both know it. If we take the report at face value, you know what it implies, right?”
Narang’s voice was hushed. “First Contact.”
Laakkonen nodded. “With all the social and political upheaval that implies. Even without the Grey Goo or Space Invaders narratives. Tread carefully. Be very careful with what you say. We don’t want to start a panic.”
Narang had a feeling that some level of public panic was inevitable. “We’ll have to keep a very tight lid on this one.”
“While not appearing to be doing so. And something will get out eventually anyway. That’s my responsibility, Maddie. You just worry about the actual incident.” Laakkonen stood and stuck out her hand. “Good luck, Dr. Narang. Here’s hoping this turns out to be overblown.”
* * *
Six hours later, Dr. Narang was on Olympus Station, seated in a public lounge. She watched the crowds file past in both directions as she waited for her Navy contact to make an appearance. Meanwhile, the bench was comfortable, she was early, and she was in space! Olympus Station, the hub of the Solar System. Very possibly the most important place in the Solar System. From here, ships headed to the research stations at Mercury’s poles, to the orbiting platforms around Venus, the Lunar and Martian colonies, the Belt, even the Titan and Ganymede outposts.
The shuttle trip had been an experience, though. Narang decided she’d prefer to stay spaceside or groundside as long as possible. Commuting would be several layers of hell, although one might get used to it eventually.
The people walking by seemed an even mix of military, civilian professionals of one kind or another on some personal mission, and just plain tourists. Narang found herself mildly surprised that there were still people with enough wealth to consider a trip into space as nothing more than a vacation getaway. Like going to Miami. Back when there was a Florida.
Her phone buzzed, and Narang looked at the screen. Her Meetup app was registering the presence of her designated contact.
She stood and turned away from the crowds and spotted the uniformed man approaching. He’s just a baby. The officer looked like a poster boy for recruitment ads. Emphasis on boy. When had she gotten old enough to think of people that way?
The window behind him displayed a slowly rotating panorama of stars, with a bright three-quarter moon glowing in the background. A studio director would have swooned over the setup. Immaculately pressed uniform, short, wavy chestnut hair, and a good, strong chin completed the picture. She could almost believe his image had been digitally cleaned up, except this was live.
Unaware of the internal drama he was generating, he stuck out his hand. “Dr. Madhur Narang?”
She took the hand. “That’s me. Presumably you’re my contact.”
“Lieutenant George Bentley, at your service.” He gave her a natural, friendly smile. That was encouraging, at least. Thank the universe he didn’t appear to be either a by-the-book, rigid military type, or a preening, self-absorbed pretty boy. She had a bad tendency to needle people who were too full of themselves.
They wove their way through the crowds to the traxi station and signaled for a ride. Within moments, an automated cart rolled up the exit ramp from the roadway and stopped in front of them. They sat down, and Lt. Bentley spoke a destination. The traxi’s panel flashed up the words “Restricted Site” followed by “Authorization Recognized”. The traxi accelerated down the entrance ramp and merged into the automated traffic level, and they sped around the circumference of the station.
Once they were underway, Lt. Bentley turned to her. “I read the file. As Admiral Moore’s assistant, I have the required access. This isn’t some kind of complicated test of the system, is it?”
Narang shook her head and gave him a lopsided smile. “If it’s some kind of massive put-on, I’m in the victim group, too. I’ve decided I’m just going to go with standard procedure, based on a generic emergent situation, until I see a reason to behave otherwise.”
“Fair enough. Although I expect you’ll have to repeat that at the briefing.” Lt. Bentley turned to face forward with no further comment, and Narang took the opportunity to review what she knew as the traxi continued along the roadway.
It took only another minute for them to arrive. The traxi took the exit ramp to the station and they got off. Without a word, the lieutenant pointed to a set of offices clearly marked with the symbol of the United Earth Nations Navy.
Once through the doors, Lt. Bentley spoke briefly with the receptionist. She motioned with a hand, and gave him what sounded like a room number.
The destination turned out to be a conference room, with a sophisticated audio-visual system, including a latest-gen holotank in the middle of the table.
Six officers were already seated. Dr. Narang wasn’t great with military insignia, but going with the premise that more chrome means higher rank, she estimated that she was in the presence of some very heavy hitters.
Lt. Bentley seated himself at the foot of the table, further reinforcing her estimate of the level of seniority.
“Dr. Narang,” the officer closest to her said. “I’m Admiral Ted Moore. These are Commodore Michael Gerrard, Admiral Alan Castillo, Rear Admiral Georgia Richards, Commodore Alice Nevin, and Lt. Colonel Neil Martinson from the Marines.” The officers nodded as they were named.
“I admit to being a bit confused.” Dr. Narang looked around the table. “Our standard shared protocol calls for the military to provide an isolated hab platform to service the quarantine of the subject vessel. There’s no mention of the entire Chiefs of Staff assisting.”
The assembled officers chuckled at the bit of humor. Admiral Moore smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Narang decided that he was her most likely adversary in any power clash. Late fifties, gray hair done in typical military buzz cut, and square-built, the admiral looked like the type of person who rarely took anything other than the straightest line to a goal. No subtlety, no wasted energy.
“Dr. Narang, I wouldn’t call this a standard incident,” Admiral Moore replied, losing the smile. “The common opinion is that this is alien technology. I think that fact renders this, at least somewhat, a military matter.”
Dr. Narang nodded and sat back. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since you have a
ccess to the contents of the file. And I don’t disagree with you about the alien part. However, there are protocols to deal with alien contact, and they don’t mandate a military presence.”
“True,” the admiral said. “But those are predicated on actual aliens that can be, at least in principle, negotiated with. What we have here looks more like a piece of technology gone rogue. Even if you don’t assume a military purpose, I think you’d have to admit there are definite military and security implications.”
“I see your point, Admiral. However, your role in this situation is, at least at the moment, purely logistical support. I hope I won’t have to be constantly fending you off. No offense.”
Admiral Moore smiled again, this time showing some actual warmth. “None taken, doctor. We’re quite used to being the bad guys by default, as are you, I would imagine. But one of our number…”—the admiral waved a hand toward Commodore Nevin, who nodded—“has a niece on the Mad Astra, as it happens, so I think you can depend on this committee taking a soft approach to the problem, regardless of the stereotypes.”
Dr. Narang nodded in agreement. It never paid to think of people in terms of clichés. The admiral had good intel and had drawn some valid conclusions. She would have to accept that this was going to be a joint operation.
“The Mad Astra will be here in a few more days,” Admiral Moore continued. “We will have the isolation module completed, per the requirements of the Joint Isolation Protocol. Bentley will let you know when it’s ready for inspection.”
“Excellent, thank you.” Narang flipped open her tablet and pulled up a document. “I do have some issues and concerns…”
She was fairly certain she saw a not-quite-suppressed sigh from Admiral Moore. Narang tried not to smile. Let the games begin.
A Difficult Conversation
The Singularity Trap Page 9