"We'll find a way," Archi had said with that typical, unshakable AI confidence that clearly had absolutely no concept of German bureaucracy.
I stared at my laptop screen, where dozens of tabs were open. Air Traffic Act. Explosives Act. Model Rocketry Regulation. "Archi," I sighed, rubbing my temples. "You don't understand. In Germany, you need Permit A38 just to paint your garden fence. If we launch a rocket that reaches orbit from here, I'll have the special forces in my living room within five minutes. And they won't be asking nicely if they can see my nanomachines."
"You're thinking too linearly, Surgrim," the voice in my head chimed in, sounding amused. "Who said it has to look like a rocket? or that we have to burn fuel that can be seen for miles?"
I leaned back. "Okay, enlighten me. What do you suggest? A giant slingshot?"
"Magnetism," Archi said simply. "We build an electromagnetic high-altitude glider. We use the nanomachines to alter the surface structure so that air resistance is minimized. No fire, no smoke. We launch at night. To the human eye—and most radar systems—it will look like a large bird. Or nothing at all."
A window popped up in my visual cortex. A blueprint for an arrow-like object, smooth as mercury, devoid of any visible propulsion. I tilted my head, squinting at the holographic projection. "I have to say, Archi... this looks like an unfortunately shaped paperweight."
"That," Archi retorted with a hint of indignation, "is a masterpiece of aerodynamics. But to build it, we need materials. Copper for the coils, lightweight alloys for the hull. Archi, I don't feel like stripping cables for days."
"You don't have to. You have an army, remember?"
I grinned. Of course. I got up and went down to the basement. My compartment was the typical hodgepodge of a man who can't throw anything away: old CRT monitors, boxes full of tangled cables, a broken microwave, and a PC case from the 90s.
"Okay, Archi," I said, spreading my arms like a general surveying his battlefield. "You have permission. Everything in this basement compartment—and I mean only in this compartment, dare you touch Müller's bicycles next door—is fair game. Recycle it."
"With pleasure," Archi replied.
I looked at my smartwatch. The display showing available nanomachines jumped from "Standby" to "Active." It began almost imperceptibly. A slight shimmer settled over the pile of electronic scrap. Then the dust disappeared. Seconds later, the edges of the old CRT monitor began to soften, as if they were melting, but without any heat.
It was fascinating and terrifying at the same time. The plastic, the metal, the glass—everything dissolved into tiny particles that floated in the air like a metallic mist, flowing toward my 3D printer, which was now acting more like a base station.
"Excellent quality," Archi commented dryly. "The copper in these old devices is much purer than the modern stuff. And oh, look at that... there was a gold coin in that old jacket pocket back there."
"What?" I flinched. "Wait, I wanted to keep that jacket!"
"Too late. It is now part of the insulation layer for the glider."
I sighed, watching my potential vintage fashion statement dissolve into grey goo. But the sight of the self-dismantling mountain of trash was compensation enough. No hauling to the recycling center, no sorting. Just pure, atomic recycling. "How long do you need for the glider?"
"With this abundance of material? The hull will be ready in three hours. The coils will take a bit longer; the precision needs to be in the nanometer range if we want to be silent."
I nodded with satisfaction and leaned against the doorframe—carefully staying far enough away from the voracious mist. "Good. Then let's show Germany how to do space travel without filling out Form C-17."