by Rick Barba
In the ICU, Jackie Madkins was heavily sedated, so getting a coherent story would have been difficult. In any case, the endotracheal tube running from the ventilator down her throat into her ravaged lungs made it impossible to conduct any interviews just yet.
The on-duty physician, Dr. Joseph Revier, spoke into a diagnostic console microphone near her bed.
“Smoke inhalation likely, based on multiple factors,” he reported. “Initial call indicated a smoke influx, reported to the caller by the patient . . . although the emergency response team found none at the scene. Other primary evidence: heavy concentrations of black particulate residue found in patient’s nose, mouth, and respiratory passages.” He glanced over at the resting woman and frowned. “However, lung scan results are contradictory. Tricorder molecular scans also remain unresolved.”
His med-com beeped. He flipped it open.
“Revier here,” he answered.
“What’s with the sample, Joey?”
Revier frowned again. “What do you mean?”
The voice on the other end laughed. “Dude, the sample vial you sent us is empty,” he said. “You been diverting again, bro?” “Diverting” was a hospital term for stealing prescription drugs for personal use.
“What? I packed that thing full,” Revier said, sitting up straight. “That vial was black.”
“Well, it’s crystal clear now.”
“Crap,” said Revier. “Something got switched up in delivery, maybe. Whatever. I’ll get you another one right away.”
“Cool,” said the lab tech. “You joining us for the game tonight?”
“Hell yes,” said Revier.
A passing nurse tapped his shoulder and pointed over at the bed.
“What’s that?” asked the nurse.
Dr. Revier turned to look, then blinked rapidly.
A black, smoky haze hung in the air just above Jackie Madkins.
Uhura wasn’t sure if her Aunt Uhnu actually butted heads with a rhinoceros—she kind of doubted it, although Uhnu was certainly crazy enough to do such a thing. More likely Uhnu had simply fallen and hit her head, or suffered a small stroke. But the rhino story was the family’s exotic way of explaining Uhnu’s strange babbling.
Later, med-scans would reveal severe damage to key language centers in Uhnu’s brain, the areas of her cerebral cortex associated with word order and meaning. Uhura already knew this intuitively, however. From a very young age, Uhura was the only one in her family who could understand Aunt Uhnu during these episodes.
The reason: Uhura would listen more to how Uhnu was speaking than to what she was saying.
This experience of “translating” Uhnu’s gibberish was an early lesson in the importance of prosody—the rhythm, loudness, pitch, and intonation of speech . . . or, as Uhura explained it as a child, “the talking music.” The brain’s prosody functions are clustered in the opposite brain hemisphere from the word-meaning functions, and they were undamaged in Uhnu’s brain. So the music of her expression was precise, but the actual words themselves were chopped up in odd ways.
Uhura had discussed this issue with her instructor, Commander Spock, several times over the past year.
“When translating languages,” she told him, “I find that sometimes it isn’t enough to listen precisely. Sometimes you have to listen . . . differently. Like listening to music.” She laughed and said, “That probably sounds lame.”
“I find perfect logic in what you’re saying,” Spock had replied.
And that’s how Uhura made her first breakthrough on the Doctor.
The nagging familiarity she heard in the killer’s voice had to do with the rhythm of his phrasing. Uhura was a master of all three Romulan dialects—they were her best alien languages. After one particular replay of the recordings it hit her: She was listening to Romulan rhythms, if not Romulan words exactly.
Of course, the samples were so brief that it was difficult to verify. She created a spectrogram for each 911 sample—a digital picture of the phrase—and ran it through a stress-inflections module she’d created for her Romulan translation software. This turned up a number of Romulan phrase matches. A few too many, in fact.
“Computer, how many matches do we have at ninety percent likelihood and above?” she asked the console.
“Sixty-two,” replied the console.
“Sixty-two?” exclaimed Uhura. “Are you sure?”
“Checking now,” said the computer. “Yes, sixty-two confirmed.”
“Great,” said Uhura.
The computer had a sophisticated speech recognition database and was quite familiar with Uhura’s speech patterns. So its internal analysis of Uhura’s response correctly identified her tone.
“You are displeased with the result,” said the computer.
Uhura always found it somewhat amusing when the computer tried to analyze and identify her state of mind.
“No, I’m thrilled,” she said.
After a pause, the computer said, “You are being ironic.”
“Very good, computer,” said Uhura. “I’m proud of you.”
The console did not respond. Uhura grinned. Praise does not compute, she thought. This computer was starting to assume her personality. “Give me a printout of all sixty-two Romulan prosodic phrase matches and their translations, please,” she said. She rubbed her temples. “And please note that I’d kill for a cup of coffee right now.”
“Request is printing,” replied the console, and the laser printer across the room clicked to life.
“And my coffee?” asked Uhura.
Another pause. Then the computer said, “I’ve sent a warning to the on-campus cafeteria.”
Uhura started laughing loudly.
Not far from Uhura, in the next building, Dr. McCoy was poking a finger at Kirk.
“You chased him?” said McCoy incredulously.
Kirk shrugged. “He was following me.”
“Do you have a death wish?” bellowed McCoy.
“I don’t like being followed,” replied Kirk.
“For the love of all things holy!” exclaimed McCoy.
He dragged Kirk by the arm over to one of the lab’s console monitors. “Come here, friend. Let me show you what we learned about this guy you just chased.”
McCoy punched up the video of Dr. Reyjik’s amoeba experiment and briefed Kirk on the unsettling characteristics of the residue found on Gaila’s skin and her internal tissue samples.
“That’s just . . . creepy,” said Kirk, watching the black bits swarm the amoeba.
“Even though it acts like a biological entity, its structure just seems a little too . . . perfect, doesn’t it?” said McCoy. “I mean, look at it, Jim.” He froze the screen and clicked in for a close-up of just a few bits. “Every one of these submicron bits looks precision engineered.”
He clicked the play button and the microscope video continued. Kirk watched with intense fascination. When the amoeba exploded, Kirk flinched. When the swarm re-created a translucent amoeba, his mouth dropped open. When the video ended, he just stared at the blank screen.
“Wow,” he said quietly.
“Yes, exactly,” said McCoy.
“So what is that stuff, Bones?” asked Kirk. “And how did the Doctor get it?”
“I don’t know, Jim, but that damned nickname really angers me,” said McCoy. “Why would they call him that? I’m a doctor. He’s not.”
Kirk was surprised. “It’s not like you to get so angry, Bones,” he said.
“Anyway,” said McCoy, waving it off, “that perfect polyhedral structure convinced me to walk our dust sample over to the materials science lab.”
“And what did they say?” asked Kirk.
“Hang on,” said McCoy, flipping open his communicator. “Let’s get an expert in here.”
Ten minutes later, Dr. Parag Chandar knocked on the door. He looked far too young to be running any lab, let alone one of the most advanced nanotechnology centers in Federation space. He was a good
friend of McCoy’s; they played squash twice a week together.
“Ah, James Kirk, the man himself,” said Dr. Chandar amiably as he shook Kirk’s hand. “We meet, finally. Leonard tells me much about you. It’s remarkable how much money you owe him, Jim.”
Kirk laughed. “Yeah, well, I pay him back by keeping Starfleet away from his Ole Miss transcripts.”
“Gosh, I’m so glad I finally got you two jokers together,” said McCoy.
Dr. Chandar pulled a small silver cube from his pocket and plugged it into a data port on the lab’s main console. “Let’s take a look at our little guy, shall we?” he said. A few windows popped up on-screen. He tapped the touch screen to open one. “Here’s a good place to start.”
The window displayed a slowly spinning 3-D schematic of a single black particle.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” said Chandar. “Like a cut gem.”
“Incredible,” said McCoy.
“So what is it?” asked Kirk.
“Let’s call it a nanite,” said Chandar. “We could call it a nanorobot, or nanobot for short, but that term seems clunky and doesn’t do it justice. Nothing does, really. This guy is amazing. He’s technically a machine with substantial computing power, but he acts like a living organism.”
“Interesting,” said Kirk. “If it’s a machine, who built it, and for what purpose?”
“Excellent questions, Cadet,” said Chandar, smiling.
“Got any answers yet?”
“None whatsoever.”
“We just found the damn things last night, Jim,” said McCoy.
“I know.” As Kirk watched the particle on-screen, the side with the white etching rotated into view. “What’s that white mark?”
Chandar shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “That exact same glyph is on every nanite we examined. Some of the guys think it might be the manufacturer’s ID, like a logo or something. Others suggest it’s a time-date stamp, or maybe a code or message.” He shrugged again. “We had fun with that one.”
McCoy looked at Dr. Chandar. “So how does this thing work, Parag?”
Chandar tapped open another window on the monitor screen. In this video, several nanites swirled around one another, then locked together to form a larger entity.
“Each speck is smart,” he replied. “Each likely has many gigabytes of computing power. It moves effortlessly.”
Dr. Chandar opened a third window. This one showed nanites swarming to coat the amoeba’s cell wall, locking together into a deadly blanket.
“And there’s clearly communication between nanites,” continued Dr. Chandar. “Each likely has a built-in receiver, because of the way the whole swarm acts as an intelligent superentity.” He gestured at the on-screen image. “Look at it, gentlemen! All those bits moving with one purpose, one mind. Like hive insects.”
McCoy didn’t even try to hide his disgust.
“I hate insects,” he said.
“Sorry,” said Dr. Chandar.
“Are they following internal programming,” asked McCoy, “or just doing what they’re told by somebody else? I mean, does the swarm think, or just follow orders?”
Chandar shook his head sheepishly. He raised his palms.
Kirk scratched his face. “Hmm. So these things can get inside of people?”
McCoy fielded this one. “They’re subcellular, Jim,” he said. “Unbelievably tiny. Built at the molecular level. Small enough that they can easily penetrate skin or other membranes and migrate to targeted organs.”
Kirk pointed at a nanite. “Say, what are those little nubs and pockmarks on each side?”
Parag enlarged the window to full-screen size and zoomed in.
“Universal connectors,” said Parag. “Pins and ports.” As two nanites locked together on-screen he added, “See how they match up perfectly? This brilliant design allows the swarm to form an infinite array of shapes and functions. You saw an example: First, it physically scanned and analyzed the structure of the amoeba. Next, it self-replicated to create the approximate number of bits it needed. Finally it linked into a perfect model of the amoeba, including internal structure, organelles. All in a matter of seconds!”
“That is impressive,” agreed Kirk.
“But that’s not the only advantage of the design,” continued Chandar. “Since each nanite is essentially a self-contained computer, the connectors also let them link into a distributed computing network!” He stared at McCoy, his eyes blinking with delight, clearly expecting a reaction.
“Parag, I’m a doctor, not a computer scientist,” growled McCoy. “Can you explain, please?”
“Well, think of Einstein’s brain,” said Chandar.
McCoy glanced at Kirk. “Do I have to?”
“Listen, what exactly was Einstein’s brain?” said Chandar. “We’d all agree it was a remarkable organ. Every brain is. But it was merely a collection of neurons, right? Cells. Individually, each neuron is not that smart. But when they work together, twenty or thirty billion of them, well, they can think the way Einstein thought.”
Dr. Chandar pointed at the slow-motion replay of nanites linking into a chain, then into a solid figure.
“The swarm,” he said, “when connected by these links, becomes an immensely powerful supercomputer. The level of its artificial intelligence must be very high.”
He gazed at the screen. “Little Jack and his brothers are more sophisticated than any nanotech we’ve ever developed or even put on our dream board.”
“Dream board?” asked Kirk.
Chandar adjusted settings on the console touch screen.
“That’s where we log all our nuttiest ideas,” he said. “You know, the ones that nobody thinks are possible.” He grinned. “And of course they eventually become our gold-priority projects.”
“Clarke’s Second Law,” said Kirk, nodding.
Chandar was delighted. “Precisely!” he said.
McCoy looked annoyed. “What the hell are you two talking about?”
“Arthur C. Clarke, my friend,” said Chandar. “A great writer who happened to be a visionary man of science. He stated his famous laws of prediction nearly three hundred years ago: ‘The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.’”
Kirk watched the rotating model of the single nanite with an amused grin. “So you named it . . . Jack?” he asked.
McCoy rolled his eyes. “They name everything over there,” he said. “Lab equipment, specimens, vehicles. Vending machines.”
“Well, this fellow deserves a name,” said Chandar, eyeing the screen with near reverence. “It’s a miraculous technological achievement. Almost magical.” He gave Kirk a sly glance.
Kirk nodded. “Clarke’s Third Law,” he said. “Even you know this one, Bones. ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’”
“Well, gentlemen, maybe it is magic,” said McCoy darkly. “But we’ve seen what this magic dust can do to a living organism. Sorry, but I’m a doctor, and that disturbs me.”
Kirk nodded. “Good point, Bones,” he said.
“And one other thing, Parag,” said McCoy to Chandar. “You said it underwent self-replication. How could it do that?”
Chandar opened another window on the screen. This showed the sequence in which the frenzied swarm imploded the amoeba.
“This swarm appears to scavenge organic materials for its building blocks,” said Chandar. “Then, with remarkable efficiency, it generates a sort of factory that pumps out new nanites.”
“It scavenges organic materials?” repeated McCoy.
“Yes, Leonard,” replied Chandar.
“Don’t you mean, it crushed the amoeba and then used amoeba guts to build nanite babies?”
At this, Chandar lost a little of his enthusiasm. “Well, yes,” he said. “That would not be an inaccurate statement.”
McCoy gestured abruptly at the screen. “Okay, so let’s start asking some obvious questi
ons,” he said, his voice rising. “Like, why is some lunatic out on the streets of San Francisco using a smart dust swarm to liquidate the organs of perfectly innocent people?”
Kirk nodded. “And where did he get it? How does he control it?”
“Maybe he doesn’t!” said McCoy. “Would you look at that stuff? Maybe the damned swarm calls the shots!”
A grim admiration crept across Kirk’s face. He could always count on McCoy to look at the Human side of any equation. The tone in the room had certainly changed. He said, “Whatever this stuff is, we need to get your new information into the hands of the authorities investigating this case.”
Chandar smiled and nodded toward the console. “I’ll leave the data cube with you,” he said. Then he turned to McCoy. “I must go now, Leonard,” he said. “There is so much more to do. We’ve really just started.”
McCoy grabbed Chandar’s hand and shook it. “Thanks for the lesson, Parag. It was most enlightening.”
After Dr. Chandar left, McCoy sat down at the console and gave Kirk a sharp look. “Do you see now why you shouldn’t try to confront huge killers just because they’re following you?”
Kirk sat in a chair next to McCoy. “Hey, I chased him off,” he said.
“Are you sure about that?” asked McCoy. “You probably just led him to the campus.”
“He ran away.”
“That doesn’t mean he stopped following you.”
Kirk sighed. “You just want to argue now, don’t you?”
McCoy slumped wearily. “No, I’ll pass on that,” he said. “Let’s just get this cube to the admiral and call it a night.”
An hour later in the xenolinguistics lab, Uhura pored over the laser printout of all sixty-two common Romulan phrases that matched the rhythms of the killer’s phrasing. As she worked quickly through their translations, she found that most were easy to discard.
“Computer, I think we can drop this one too,” she said to the console. She read the phrase in Romulan: “‘Your sand fleas have already been ionized.’”
“Phrase thirty-one, confirmed as rejected,” said the console.