The Singularity Trap

by Dennis E. Taylor

  A stab of pain in his jaw made him realize he was losing control of his reactions. Deliberately relaxing his features, Moore turned and addressed the room. “You have your orders. It is a given that we can’t blink in this scenario. You accepted the possibility of death when you signed up—”

  A voice from the monitor interrupted Moore, causing him again to grit his teeth in irritation. Dammit, I’ve been working on that speech for years.

  “As an alternative, Admiral, we would be satisfied with an embedded SSE observer.”

  “That would not be a military decision, Commander, therefore it’s not one that I can make. You’d have to go through diplomatic channels on that.”

  “So that is a no?”

  “That’s a maybe, Commander. Convince my bosses.”

  “Very well. We will spare you the embarrassment of defeat at this time, Admiral. But should the danger from this experiment of yours become intolerable to the people of the solar system, rest assured we will act decisively. Meanwhile, my people will talk to your people.”

  Moore took a moment to roll his eyes. “Fine, Commander. Just make sure your lurking remains outside of our treaty zone. Out.”

  Moore made a throat slash motion, and the technician ended the connection. It was a reprieve of sorts, but not a resolution by any stretch.

  * * *

  Moore looked around the table. Serious expressions gazed back at him. No one had any illusions about the situation. “According to Surveil, the SSE fleet has parked themselves at one hundred thousand kilometers plus one meter distance.”

  “More or less,” Castillo said.

  Moore ignored him. “They’re sending a message. If the political winds shift, or if things go unshiny here for whatever reason, they’ll be back.”

  “Which could happen. Have you seen the news lately?” Nevin looked around. “A coalition of Representatives is pushing for a vote of non-confidence.”

  “Worrying, but it wouldn’t affect us directly,” Gerrard added.

  “It affects Naval High Command, and the fallout will inevitably run downhill, Commodore. I’m not so concerned about the direct orders as I am about the back-room deals.” Moore scanned the table one more time. “Sers, we are living in interesting times. If you have backchannel contacts, now would be a good time to renew acquaintances.”

  Investigations and Discoveries

  Narang watched over the shoulder of the technician as he re-tuned the AQRI. They had managed to encase a nanite in a plastic resin, without breaking it and without giving it a chance to start eating the resin. This was the real reason why they went through so many nanites. Trying to get one to stay still without turning it into a random pile of atoms or incinerating it had achieved the status of a never-ending game of Whack-a-Mole.

  Finally, success, and a chance to look inside.

  While one group had been trying to get a suitably prepared specimen, another group had prepared a series of scanning scripts in the event of success. Now, they would have the opportunity to test their work.

  The technician turned to Narang. “Third series started. First two went without a hitch. The nanite is still radiating virtual particles, so it’s still ‘alive’, whatever that actually means. Active, anyway. So we should get some good data.”

  Narang patted him on the shoulder. “Good. Text me the moment they’re done. If I’m not hovering over your shoulder at the time, of course.” With a smile, she turned and left.

  Her next stop was the lab where doctors were studying the images of Ivan’s internal structures. A certain number of scientists on Earth and in Near Space had been read in on the situation and were teleconferencing with the local staff. The lab was a madhouse of yelling and gesturing, as remote and local personnel argued over, well, pretty much everything.

  Most of the internal structures hadn’t even been identified. In a couple of cases, structures had disappeared between successive scans. It seemed the nanites could reconfigure to meet changing requirements.

  Narang watched two scientists full-on yelling at each other over some arcane point, complete with waving hands and shaking fists. She would have feared the possibility of violence, except that whenever they paused for breath, both participants settled into smiles of happiness.

  Great days for science. For Ivan Pritchard, not so much. Narang shook her head and headed for the conference room.

  “Morning, all,” Narang said as she came through the door. A chorus of morning’s drifted back. She grabbed a cup of tea and sat down at the head of the table. “So, what do we have?”

  Dr. Samuelson, seated to her left, spoke first, around a mouthful of doughnut. “There’s no doubt that Ivan Pritchard, as a biological entity, is gone. The Ivan Pritchard in isolation is one hundred percent nanites. So I think any question of ‘curing’ him has to be put to rest. There is no him left.”

  Dr. Narang nodded then looked to the next person around the table. Dr. Noelia Sandoval had a faraway look in her eyes as she began her report.

  “Ivan’s internal structure is amazing. It’s got a frame—I hesitate to call it a skeleton, since it only superficially resembles the human skeletal system—and something that performs the function of muscles although, again, only generally similar in placement and function to the human equivalent.”

  “Why have a skeleton and muscles at all?” Dr. Nakamura asked. “Why not just morph into whatever posture he wants?”

  “Too slow, for one thing,” Sandoval answered. “Plus, I don’t think it would look natural. And that appears to be very important to whatever converted Ivan.”

  “Explain, please,” Narang said.

  “Well, the entity, A.I., whatever, converted Ivan in such a way that he is shaped like a human being. He can smile, his biceps bulges when he flexes his arm, you can see quadriceps outlines on his thighs. Remember the day we first saw him, as he walked off the elevator? He looked and behaved completely human, except for the metal skin. Why? There is absolutely no reason to slavishly emulate the human form like that, unless it is an explicit requirement. Again, why?”

  “You have a theory, Dr. Sandoval?”

  “Just speculation, Dr. Narang, but I think the whole purpose of the transformation assumes some degree of continuing to deal with the natives. If he wasn’t quite human-like, if he fell into the uncanny valley of looks or behavior, it could be counterproductive.”

  “So,” Narang mused, “it’s a marketing thing?”

  Sandoval grinned. “I wouldn’t have put it like that, but yes.”

  “That’s just freaky,” Nakamura muttered.

  “Hell,” Samuelson interjected, “that’s not the freakiest part by a considerable margin.”

  All heads turned to look at him. Samuelson waved a pastry for emphasis. “You’ve read the report of the original incident. How long was that artifact there? A hundred years? A thousand? A million? There is a very good chance that when the artifact was created, human beings as a species didn’t exist. For that matter, apes might not have split off from the Old World monkeys yet.

  “The stuff that infected Ivan Pritchard was encountering what was, to it, a totally new species, of a totally new biology, with totally unknown behaviors and physical requirements. And within twenty-four hours, it had figured out how to convert him to metal in such a way that he was not only unharmed, but actually kept in perfect health. It figured out how his brain worked, and how to emulate it so that Ivan continued to be Ivan. And it figured out, at the same time, how to emulate all physical functionality well enough to reassure other members of the same species that we are still dealing with one of our own. From scratch, people.”

  Samuelson shook his head slowly. “We are so far out of our depth. We’re less than ants in this metaphor. What in hell are we up against?”

  In the silence that followed, Dr. Narang began humming Also sprach Zarathustra, earning her puzzled looks from the others. Philistines.

  The Continued Threat
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  Admiral Moore came into the room last, as befitted his rank and standing. The others stood, muttered greetings, then they all sat.

  “Sers,” he said. “Let’s review.”

  On cue, Lt. Bentley put images up on the holotank and wall screens. Various views of Ivan Pritchard and of the nanites cycled through the displays. The sequence ended with the internal scan of Ivan Pritchard, which even a non-medical-professional could see did not resemble the internal structure of a human being.

  Moore looked around the table. “Items: One, All of the other crew are coming up clean. Dr. Narang is not willing to make any definitive statement before all tests are complete, but privately she has admitted that she doesn’t expect to find anything. The nanites simply appear to be completely uninterested in anyone but Ivan Pritchard.”

  He tapped the table twice before continuing. “Two: There’s nothing special about Pritchard. He was simply the first person to touch the anomaly. Otherwise, we have to assume that the anomaly somehow arranged for the right person to be there first. I don’t believe in Chosen One scenarios, gentlemen. Therefore, the anomaly just wanted someone. And now is sticking with its choice.”

  Three taps. “Three: Ivan Pritchard is no longer human. Dr. Narang has determined definitively that there is no human tissue anywhere in his body. He claims to still be Ivan, but he could be an alien A.I.—or even a copy of an alien intelligence. How can we judge what can and can’t be done by whoever made those—” Moore swept an arm to indicate the AQRI image of the nanites. “—things?”

  Commodore Gerrard swiveled his chair to face Moore. “In case you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, that’ll be a very hard sell. Pritchard doesn’t have to prove that he’s human. He was human a couple of months ago; he has a birth certificate, a family, he pays taxes. It’s up to you to prove that he isn’t. And he’s got enough money to throw lawyers at us for the rest of forever.”

  “Yes,” Moore conceded, “and his crewmates won’t let it drop if he just disappears. And they can’t just disappear, thanks to Captain Jennings’s metaphorical dead-man switch. Unfortunately, we are potentially faced off against people who are rich, intelligent, have had weeks to think things through, and have seen enough bad movies to automatically see us as the enemy.”

  “Given what you’re not quite suggesting, Ted, they may be right on that last point.”

  Moore snorted. “I’m not suggesting anything definite, yet, Michael.” He looked around the table. “I am suggesting that Pritchard, as a problem, is not going to go away. And I feel confident in predicting that we won’t be turning him back into a human being. You read the reports. Those things evaporated him! We will, at some point, have to make a decision about him, regardless of your political or moral stance. I want you all to start thinking about this. Consider especially the uncomfortable scenarios, because those are the ones that will require hard decisions. The easy ones are, well, easy.”

  Around the table, frowns and pursed lips showed that he’d scored a hit.

  Admiral Castillo leaned forward and straightened the papers in front of him. Moore spent a moment admiring the move, a classic piece of upstaging. Without uttering a word, Castillo had all attention focused on him.

  “Sers, Admiral Moore has the right of it. But I’m going to suggest we should take it further. It may be, in the fullness of time, that we will conclude that Pritchard is not a threat. But right now we don’t know that. I’d like to see us prepare for the worst-case scenario.”

  “What do you have in mind, Admiral?” Commodore Gerrard kept a carefully neutral tone, but Moore could see the tension in his jaw.

  A quick flip through his papers, and Castillo held up a thick stapled bundle. “We had discussed a failsafe option early in this process. Narang kicked up too much of a fuss, but perhaps it’s time to resurrect the plan. This is a proposal for a nuclear failsafe. Attached to the isolation module, it would guarantee that we could completely remove any threat, should one materialize.”

  “A nuke?” Gerrard shook his head. “In Earth orbit? Imagine the reaction if we actually detonated it. And by the way, these are civilians, Admiral!”

  “I’m not implying they are guilty of anything,” Castillo replied, “except being in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, in the worst case, we could be facing a species-ending threat. Under those circumstances, I will push the button myself, even if I’m personally within the blast radius. And if we do detonate, it will be for good reason.”

  Moore rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, then looked up. “Gentlemen, I did say uncomfortable scenarios, didn’t I?” He looked around the table. “Let’s break and take some time to think about this. We’ll meet tomorrow and continue this discussion.”

  The others nodded, and one by one they filtered out of the conference room. Soon only Castillo and Moore remained at the table.

  “Well, Alan, you really took that and ran with it.” Moore reached over and pulled the stapled set of sheets toward him. “I find it interesting that you had this ready.”

  Castillo shrugged. “My job, Ted. Yours too, as it happens.”

  “Oh, meow. Not everyone immediately invokes nuclear threat.” Moore slid the sheets back toward Castillo. “Nevertheless, I take the point. I’ll give this serious consideration.”

  Castillo sat back and looked directly at Moore. “If this is what we think it is—extraterrestrial in origin—then it’s particularly galling that the ICDC is in charge. I wonder if there’s some way to invoke emergency powers or something.”

  “I have, in fact, considered this. I’ve had some sub-rosa discussions upslope. No one is happy with the ICDC’s apparent refusal to consider strategic issues. But right now it’s acting like a disease and, like it or not, Narang and her crew are in charge.” Moore paused. “However, their mandate is well defined. At some point, they will wrap up and leave. Then things may change, and we may be revisiting this whole topic.”

  “I’m surprised you’re so unconcerned about the lack of a well-defined chain of responsibility on this project, Ted. The way things sit right now, you stand to inherit all of the blame and none of the credit, depending on how things turn out.”

  Moore still couldn’t decide if Castillo was maneuvering to gain control of this project by creating churn, or trying to bail entirely through the same tactic. The way this clusterfuck was developing, it could be either one.

  Well, no matter. For better or worse, Moore had the con, and it would stay that way. He stood and nodded to Castillo. “Until then, Admiral, we have our job and they have theirs.” With a parting salute that would never pass military muster, Admiral Moore headed for his office.

  It Hits The Fan

  Once again, Dr. Karin Laakkonen, the ICDC Director, was on the Vid, looking straight into the cameras with a fierce expression.

  Her prepared statement had contained all the standard disclaimers and non-explanations. Now she was taking questions.

  Reporter: Dr. Laakkonen, given the increasing unrest around the world, isn’t it time to come clean? Is there or is there not an alien infection?

  Laakkonen: There is not. We have one crew member who was injured in some kind of accident. No virus, bacterium, or other biological pathogen, terrestrial or alien, has been detected. No other crew member has succumbed to any similar effect.

  Reporter: Then why is the ICDC involved, Doctor?

  Laakkonen: The captain of the mining vessel was unsure of the circumstances and, in an abundance of caution, requested our presence and a quarantine. It is our mandate to respond to all such incidents.

  Reporter: Why is the quarantine still active, then?

  Laakkonen: We have not ruled out a non-biological basis for the injury, such as a toxic agent of some kind.

  Reporter: But surely that’s not within the ICDC’s purview?

  Laakkonen: Our staff are onsite. They are, for better or worse, part of the quarantine. Since they are as skille
d and well-trained as anything that another agency could field, they might as well be useful.

  The reporter, unable to make a dent in the official patter, sat. Another reporter immediately stood.

  Reporter: Doctor, we’ve gotten hold of a list of specialists who’ve been consulted on this situation. Cybernetics? Xenobiology? Xenoepidemiology? Is that even a thing? How do these apply to the mundane circumstances that you are trying to portray?

  Laakkonen: We don’t second guess our field staff, sir.

  Reporter: Okay, Doctor, let’s try this. Is there evidence that this is alien in origin?

  Laakkonen: Technically, we don’t have enough information to rule it out.

  Reporter: But do you have enough information to rule out a purely terrestrial source?

  For the first time, Laakkonen hesitated. Ivan understood the rules as well as everyone else. She couldn’t lie outright. If she did, she would be done as a media spokesperson. But misdirection was okay.

  Laakkonen: Opinions are still split on that question.

  The reporter scanned his notes for a moment, then sat down.

  Another reporter stood, instantly recognizable. Roberta Harrison from Topic Zero was generally considered to be equal parts piranha and pit bull when pursuing a story, and it was significant that she was part of today’s scrum.

  She consulted her tablet for a moment, then looked up at Dr. Laakkonen. Her expression could best be described as a predator considering how best to disembowel its prey.

  Harrison: Dr. Laakkonen, isn’t it true that your crew member is suffering from considerably more than a mere injury? In fact, isn’t he or she in the process of being converted into something completely non-human? And didn’t the agent responsible for this transformation, in fact, try to EAT the mining ship? Isn’t that really why everyone is in quarantine? Because there is a real, credible danger of an alien presence that could bring the literal Gray Goo scenario to pass?