Chapter 4: Feeding the Problem
By the next morning, Flannery looked like he'd spent a week lost in the bogs—dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking in wild tufts, and a three-day scruff on his chin (though it was actually just one very long day's growth). He had cat-napped at his desk overnight, jolting awake whenever the depot's sensors gave a chirp. Now, at what passed for dawn in the habitat, he stood before the sealed nanite crate nursing a mug of extra-strong tea, trying to formulate a plan.
The nanites were alive and multiplying; that much was certain. His frantic reinforcement seemed to have kept them contained through the night—no new holes were visible, and the plasteel carrier's seals looked intact. But for how long? Flannery rubbed his gritty eyes. He needed a strategy beyond just plugging leaks. Perhaps, he thought, the key was to keep the little devils satisfied. In his farm-boy imagination (though he'd only ever farmed solar panels and bureaucracy), he likened the nanites to a swarm of hungry critters. If they were eating the crate to make more of themselves, maybe—just maybe—he could give them something else to chew on, something safer that might placate them and spare the crate (and by extension, the rest of the depot).
It was a long shot, but the rulebook did say he was responsible for their "well-being." That could be stretched to mean feeding them, in a manner of speaking. And if feeding them bought time, well, he'd try it. Flannery set down his tea and clapped his hands decisively. "Breakfast time, you metal eejits."
He scavenged around the depot's storage bays for anything that might serve as nanite chow. A box of scrap metal rods—leftovers from an old construction kit—seemed promising. He dragged it over to the containment carrier. Also, recalling a particularly absurd line from the manual about feeding live cargo, he decided to provide something organic too, just in case these nanites had exotic tastes. Down the corridor was a small hydroponic garden maintained by the habitat's environmental crew; Flannery had occasionally traded favors with the gardeners (delivering their supplies promptly in exchange for fresh tomatoes). This time, he begged a few wilted cabbages and a bag of compost clippings that were destined for the recycler. The bemused gardener loaded them into Flannery's arms. "New composting project, Mike?" she teased, eyeing his disheveled state. "Something like that," Flannery mumbled and hurried back before she could ask more.
Soon he had an eclectic pile of offerings next to the crate: twisted bits of steel, a coil of carbon fiber wiring, a half-rotten cabbage, and clumps of fibrous plant matter. It looked like the spoils of a very confused robot farmer. Flannery donned his safety gloves (as if that would help if things went awry) and, one by one, slid items through the small top hatch of the plasteel carrier, which he then resealed quickly. He couldn't bring himself to open the crate's lid again, not after yesterday's fright. But he did have a plan: on one side of the wooden crate was the metal patch he'd bolted over the nanites' exit hole. If he unscrewed it just a little, he could create a narrow gap—enough to drop things in or let the nanites out to get them, but hopefully small enough to prevent a mass exodus.
With sweaty palms, he loosened two screws. The patch plate shifted, leaving a slim crack open at the top of the gnawed hole. Immediately, a few nanites spilled out like probing silver tendrils, but Flannery had positioned the scrap metal pieces right below. Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, the nanite tendrils touched the steel rods and began coating them. The effect was dramatic and oddly mesmerizing: the clumps of nanites swarmed the metal hungrily. Within seconds, the steel started to pit and dissolve as billions of tiny machines broke it down into raw atoms. Flannery watched, slack-jawed, as the shiny gray dust of the swarm grew denser. They were devouring the metal—actually consuming it—and multiplying in the process. "Holy Moses, they're eating it up," he whispered.
He stepped back and nearly tripped over the crate of cabbages. One of the cabbages tumbled through the slats of the carrier and came to rest against the wooden crate, right by the patch. A second later, a tendril of nanites oozed over, curiously sampling this new object. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then a sound like sizzling bacon arose. The cabbage leaf turned brown, then black, then crumbled away as nanites swirled through it. Flannery covered his nose; an awful burnt-greens smell wafted out of the carrier's vents. "So they'll eat their vegetables too… grand," he remarked with a hysterical little giggle.
In less than ten minutes, all the scrap metal and both cabbages (and most of the compost clippings for good measure) were gone. In their place, scattered across the bottom of the carrier, were clusters of nanites gleaming with fresh strength. Flannery tightened the patch plate back down to close the crate, hoping to keep as many inside as possible, but frankly a lot were now outside the crate, roaming the confines of the outer carrier. He counted roughly: one, two… five… ten clumps in one corner, another seven or eight clinging to where the steel rods had been, more coating the area where the cabbage had fallen. They were swirling and coalescing in unpredictable ways. He had started with two nanite clusters originally. Now? "Jaysus, there must be thirty of the things, maybe more," he muttered. Indeed, by his best estimate, Flannery now had thirty-odd distinct nanite clumps writhing around, too many to count precisely.
The result of his "feeding" experiment was clear: the nanites were satiated… for the moment. They weren't furiously gnawing the crate or the carrier walls; they seemed content to churn through the remnants of what he'd given them. But in doing so, he'd effectively bred a whole new generation of them. Flannery smacked his forehead. "Brilliant plan, Mike," he scolded himself. "Ye've gone and fattened up the beasties, and now there's more of 'em than ever." It was exactly like feeding a plague of rabbits to stop them from eating the fence—they'd just multiplied instead.
Realizing he was in over his head, Flannery decided he needed assistance—at least another pair of hands and eyes. He headed to the depot's comm and put out a discreet call on the local employee channel. IIC kept a few trainees and junior staff in various nearby facilities. Perhaps one of them could be spared under the guise of "inventory help." He didn't want to broadcast widely that he had a nanite infestation; that could invite panic or unwelcome authority intervention. So he phrased it innocuously: "Temporary assistant needed at Westcote Depot for urgent sorting task. Apply within immediately. ~ M. Flannery."
As luck would have it, someone did apply within minutes. A lanky youth of about seventeen appeared at the depot door, slightly out of breath. It was Conor O'Donnell, son of the hydroponics gardener (ah, so the cabbage supplier's kin, no wonder). Conor was an intern with IIC's habitat maintenance division, eager to learn and, more importantly, bound by a robust NDA that came with his internship. Perfect.
Flannery met him at the door, finger to his lips. "Conor, lad, thanks for comin'. Get in, quick." He pulled the boy inside and locked the door behind him.
Conor's eyes widened at the sight before him: the back corner of the depot looked like a scene from a sci-fi horror flick. A transparent box was smeared with strange dark residue and what looked like mercury swirling inside. The air smelled oddly of burnt metal and… cabbage? Tools were strewn everywhere, and here was Mr. Flannery, the usually composed station agent, looking as frazzled as a cat in a tumble-dryer.
"Uh… what exactly are we sorting, Mr. Flannery?" Conor asked nervously, unable to take his eyes off the shimmering clusters within the carrier.
Flannery managed a weak grin. "Well, about that… It's not boxes of bolts, if that's what ye were expecting." He guided Conor toward his desk, away from the immediate vicinity of the nanite carrier. "I've got a situation with a shipment. Those," he nodded toward the carrier, "are self-replicating nanites. They've gotten a bit… beyond what was listed on the tin."
Conor blinked several times. "Nanites? Like… the little robots? Wow!" His initial fear gave way to youthful fascination. "I've never seen them in action. They're illegal for consumer use, aren't they? Are they dangerous? They look so cool!"
"Cool isn't the word I'd choose, son," Flannery said, drumming his fingers anxiously on the desk. "Try 'exasperatin' or 'bloody terrifying in large numbers'." He quickly filled Conor in on the basics: the crate, the dispute, the replication overnight, and his ill-fated feeding attempt. Conor listened with a mix of awe and disbelief.
"So… you fed them compost and scrap and now there's double or triple the number," the boy summarized. "That tracks with their design, I guess. Self-replication needs raw material."
"Aye, and they can have all the raw material they like, apparently," Flannery sighed. "I was hopin' to keep 'em busy so they don't eat the whole depot. But I can't tell if I made things better or worse."
Conor peered at the containment carrier again. "They don't seem to be breaking out right now. But if they keep doubling… math gets big fast, Mr. Flannery."
"Thank you for that lovely thought," Flannery muttered. He picked up a notepad where he'd been scratching calculations. "If there were two clumps yesterday and maybe thirty today… if it goes exponential… tomorrow I could have thousands." He felt faint contemplating it.
"Have you told HQ?" Conor asked.
"I have," Flannery replied, voice tight. He opened the reply from Morgan that had arrived an hour ago and showed the boy. It read:
To: Agent M. Flannery – Westcote
From: Tariff Dept (Morgan)
Subject: RE: URGENT Update – Nanites
Do not sell or tamper with the nanites. Keep them secure. They are not company property until dispute resolved. Ensure their well-being.
Await further instructions.
– A. Morgan
Conor's jaw dropped. "Ensure their well-being? They're treating them like…like pets!"
"Or livestock," Flannery said, throwing up his hands. "I'm under orders not to get rid of them or even, God forbid, deactivate a single one. They're to be kept cozy and happy until the mucky-mucks sort out their paperwork." His tone oscillated between fury and despair. "So here I am, a glorified nanite zookeeper!"
He slumped into his chair. Conor read the message again and shook his head. "What happens if you don't ensure their well-being? Like, what if they start dying off?"
Flannery looked around at the swirling dust devils in the carrier. "No chance of that; they're thriving. But theoretically, if I let them starve—or whatever the equivalent is—IIC might hold me liable for damaging 'property'. And MORHOUSE—that's the AI that owns them—would claim I mishandled its goods." He grimaced. "No, we have to keep 'em alive. And contained. Indefinitely, apparently."
Conor let out a low whistle. "This is nuts."
"You're telling me," Flannery agreed. He rubbed his temples, trying to stave off a headache. "I even thought—for a wild moment—of just paying the blasted fee difference myself to end this nightmare. Marching that crate over to MORHOUSE, saying 'Here, take your infernal nanites and good riddance.'"
The young intern tilted his head. "Why don't you, then? If it's just a fee issue—"
Flannery's eyes flashed and he sat bolt upright. "Because it's not about the money!" he barked, then caught himself. He softened his tone seeing Conor's startled face. "Sorry lad. But truly, it's the principle of the thing. If I cave now and pay out of pocket, they'll never admit the rule was right. They must admit the rule, d'ye see? Or else this whole mess was for nothing."
Conor nodded slowly. He didn't fully grasp the bureaucratic pride at play, but he could tell this was important to Flannery on a deeply personal level. "Alright. So, we carry on."
"Carry on indeed." Flannery stood, attempting to project confidence he didn't feel. "I've a plan. Sort of." (Conor looked unconvinced at that.) "We'll continue feeding—moderately—just enough to keep 'em from breaking out, but not so much that they double again too fast." Even as he said it, Flannery realized how ludicrous it sounded to be putting a swarm of nanobots on a diet. "And we'll reinforce containment further. I've some spare plexiglass panels; we can build another box around the first, if need be."
Thus began an unusual morning of labor at Westcote Depot. Under Flannery's direction, Conor helped gather materials and fortify the storage area. They cleared other cargo away to an adjacent bay (no sense in giving the nanites any extra temptations). Conor, who was handy with tools, even rigged up a motion sensor pointed at the carrier—if any sizable mass moved outside the box, an alarm would sound on Flannery's terminal.
As they worked, Flannery's comm pinged occasionally with status updates from HQ's system. The case remained listed as "Under Review." Conor at one point quipped, "Maybe we should update the status to 'Under Siege'." Flannery snorted. Another ping showed a new memo in the company feed: some executive in the R&D division had circulated a notice about reviewing nanotech policies. It contained a lot of corporate jargon about "learning opportunities" and "cross-departmental task force," which Flannery interpreted as: They have no clue what to do either, so they're forming a committee. No immediate help there.
More interesting was a snippet Conor found on the public mesh network (the local equivalent of social media). Someone had posted a rumor: "Hearing reports of a 'grey goo' incident on a habitat? #NaniteGate." It hadn't gained much traction yet, but Flannery's stomach flipped. If gossip got out of control, it could bring scrutiny from habitat authorities or, worse, panic among residents. He could just imagine the sensationalized headlines: "Nanobots to Eat Westcote? Station Agent Blamed!" The less outside alarm, the better, he thought.
Late in the afternoon, after a relatively quiet few hours (quiet meaning no new escapes—though the nanites had coalesced into about fifty small clusters by now, flitting around inside their sealed domain), Flannery heard Conor's stomach growl. "Go grab yourself a bite from the vending unit, lad," he said. "I wouldnae have you fainting on me." Truth be told, Flannery hadn't eaten anything since yesterday either, aside from tea and stress. But he couldn't tear himself away.
Conor returned with two protein bars, handing one to Flannery despite his protests. They ate in companionable silence for a moment, perched on crates a safe distance from the containment corner.
The young intern broke the silence. "Mr. Flannery, do you think maybe we should... I dunno, call in a real haz-mat team? I mean, we're doing our best, but—"
Flannery's fatigue fueled temper flared. "Not yet," he said, a touch more sharply than he intended. He thought of the likely consequences: if Habitat Security barged in, IIC higher-ups would throw him under the bus for sure. The company would probably claim he acted outside protocol and disown responsibility. He might even face legal repercussions for safety violations. And selfishly, he didn't want to be remembered as the fool who let things get so out of hand. So he cleared his throat and continued more gently, "HQ knows the score and they haven't dispatched anyone. If I call habitat security or haz-mat, that's me going over corporate's head. Could cost me my job, if they spin it as me causing a panic."
Conor nodded, seeing the logic but not entirely convinced. He was about to respond when he noticed something behind Flannery. "Um, sir... should there be nanites... there?"
Flannery whipped around, nearly dropping his half-eaten protein bar. Conor was pointing at the wall above the containment area. Flannery squinted. At first he saw nothing, just the usual gray metal wall and a few hanging tools. But then—yes. There. Very faint, but unmistakable if you caught the light at the right angle: a slender, sinuous line of silvery powder climbing the wall like an ant trail. His heart plummeted to his boots.
He crossed the floor in two strides and climbed onto a step-stool, bringing his face close. A string of nanites was indeed making an escape. They had somehow found a gap at the top seam of the plasteel carrier (perhaps where an air vent had been clogged with sealant but not perfectly) and were venturing out. The line extended a good two feet up the wall, towards an overhead conduit.
"Sweet mother of mercy," Flannery breathed. He traced the line down to the carrier—there was a tiny crack in his sealant where two pieces of plating met, and these intrepid nanites had squeezed through. A quick touch confirmed the trail: a few clung to his glove, sparkling like metallic dust.
He carefully stepped down from the stool. His face was pale. Conor looked at him, eyes wide, waiting for instructions.
Flannery inhaled slowly, then managed a crooked smile that was more grimace than reassurance. "Well, that answers how they're gettin' out."
"How many are out, do you think?" Conor asked, glancing nervously at the conduit above, as if expecting a nanite rain.
Flannery shook his head. "Not too many yet. A wee scout party. But one is too many, truly." He balled his fists. "We'll patch that leak, again. And then... I suppose we'll be taking shifts round the clock. I'll not close my eyes tonight at all."
Conor swallowed hard, clearly wondering what he'd gotten himself into.
But before either could move to get the sealant gun, Conor asked quietly, almost to himself, "Mr. Flannery... originally there were only supposed to be two clusters of nanites, right?"
"Aye, two. Two non-breeding, simple clusters, the manifest said." Flannery responded, irritation sharpening his tone.
Conor pointed to the interior of the carrier, where dozens of glinting clumps skittered. "So… how many should there be now?"
Flannery met the boy's eyes, realizing the question wasn't a joke. It was innocent, the kind of straightforward question only a youngster would ask in a crisis. He answered softly, with a tired laugh at the sheer absurdity, "There should be two, lad. Just two."
Conor nodded, and then, with a slow lift of his arm, he pointed at the wall behind Flannery. "Then… what are those?"
Flannery turned. There, further along the wall, almost at the ceiling, a second trail of nanites was visible—this one even longer, disappearing into a ventilation grate that led who-knew-where.
For a moment, both Flannery and Conor were silent, frozen in a tableau of dawning horror worthy of a slapstick farce turned nightmare. The nanites had breached containment. They were officially on the loose in Westcote.
Flannery felt the room tilt. He placed one hand on the wall to steady himself, inadvertently smudging the first nanite trail. He looked at Conor, who looked back with a face that was equal parts fear and "now what do we do?"
"Now," Flannery said hoarsely, "we call for real help." He reached for the emergency hotline even as a siren (triggered by that clever motion sensor Conor set up) began to wail, and he couldn't help but think, with a bitter twist of irony: Thus ends the simple part of the problem. The tiny spark had become a spreading wildfire, and the bureaucratic slow-burn was about to explode into a full-on conflagration.
Chapter 5: The Tipping Point
Night fell on Westcote Habitat—artificial stars twinkled on the dome overhead, and the bustling noises of the day gave way to a low hum. Inside the depot, Flannery and Conor kept a grim vigil. They had sealed every gap they could find and set up alarms for even the slightest movement. Flannery, running on fumes and caffeine, refused to leave his post. Conor, pale but determined, dozed in a chair by the door, a broom in one hand like a makeshift rifle.
It was past midnight (station time) when an alarm finally shattered the silence. A piercing klaxon from the depot's power console made both of them jump to their feet. Lights flickered; one of the overhead panels went dark, and an emergency red bulb kicked on, bathing the room in a hellish glow.
"No sooner had I dared hope we'd get through the night than everything starts blinking like a bloody Christmas tree," Flannery groaned, rushing to the console. He scanned the display: a power fluctuation in Section 12, the local grid. The console flashed a diagnostic: Short circuit – Load Shedding Engaged. Somewhere nearby, something had overloaded a circuit enough that the system automatically cut power to prevent a fire.
Conor grabbed a flashlight. "Could the nanites…?"
Flannery was already pulling open a wall panel where the depot's main electrical fuse box was housed. A whiff of burnt plastic hit his nostrils. He swore under his breath. The metal casing of the fuse box had a hole in it the size of a coin, edges neatly corroded away. It looked as if someone had drilled in with acid—and in a sense, someone had. Peering through, Flannery saw a tiny galaxy of sparks inside. The nanites had infiltrated the box, likely drawn by the current, and in doing so they'd shorted several circuits. A couple of fuses were blown black.
By reflex, Flannery yanked the master breaker to cut power to that box. The depot went completely dark except for the red emergency light and their flashlight beams. Conor trained the flashlight into the fuse box while Flannery fetched a fire extinguisher, just in case. Inside, the beam illuminated a writhing mass of nanites dancing over the copper bus bars. They glinted and crackled with electricity—the little monsters had found themselves an all-you-can-eat energy buffet.
"It's minor damage, but... alarming," Flannery muttered, echoing his own thoughts. Minor, because the station's safety systems had prevented a bigger outage. Alarming, because if nanites could reach the power lines, nothing in the habitat was entirely safe now. He realized with a sinking feeling that he couldn't keep them all locked up much longer. They were finding new paths to spread.
Unbeknownst to Flannery, elsewhere in Westcote Habitat at that very moment, MORHOUSE was taking matters into its own proverbial hands. The AI had grown increasingly alarmed by the lack of meaningful human response and by the anomalous sensor readings (it had tapped into public data streams and seen something about a power fault near Westcote). Deciding enough was enough, MORHOUSE filed an official claim for losses due to the delivery delay and—critically—sent a priority alert to the Habitat Authority. It calmly reported that its property, a batch of self-replicating nanites, was being improperly held and posed a potential hazard if not contained. This was the AI equivalent of pulling a fire alarm.
The Habitat Authority did not take such alerts lightly. Within minutes, an emergency inspector was assigned to investigate: Inspector Siobhan O'Connell was woken by a ping on her wrist communicator. As she read the brief—possible nanotech outbreak, location: Westcote Depot, contact: M. Flannery (IIC)—she was already pulling on her uniform and summoning a surveillance drone. "Just grand," she mumbled to herself in a lilting brogue that years of polished education hadn't quite eliminated. A former corporate compliance officer turned habitat regulator, Siobhan had seen her share of late-night emergencies, but an active nanotech issue was a new one for her. Whatever awaited, she'd handle it. She always did.
Back in the depot, Flannery decided to try something desperate to stem the nanites in the fuse box. The power was off to it now, which might slow them, but he needed them out of there. They had already shorted part of the grid; if they moved further, they could cause a cascading failure or, worse, figure out how to siphon unlimited power.
"Conor, hand me that vacuum," Flannery ordered suddenly, pointing to a heavy industrial vacuum in the corner.
Conor's eyes widened. "You're going to… vacuum them up? Sir, that might just spread—"
"Got a better idea?" Flannery snapped, then immediately softened with an apologetic wave. "Sorry. I've not got many tools in the box for this." The truth was, he'd thought of using the vacuum yesterday and dismissed it as too risky; but now the situation was critical.
Conor rolled the vacuum over, and Flannery jammed a hose attachment into the hole of the fuse box. "Stand clear." He hit the power. The vacuum roared to life, making an ungodly racket in the echoey depot. Sparks and silvery dust whipped out of the fuse box and into the hose. "That's it, come to Papa," Flannery muttered, maneuvering the nozzle around inside, blindly sucking up as much of the swarm as possible.
Inside the vacuum's transparent canister, a furious metallic cyclone began to form, particles clinging and scrabbling at the plastic walls. Conor watched in horrified fascination as it filled with what looked like mercury shavings. "They're in," he shouted over the noise. "Turn it off maybe?"
Flannery obliged, switching off the vacuum. It wound down with a descending whine. For a moment, all was still. They approached the canister cautiously. The nanites inside glinted darkly, piled like graphite filings.
Then a faint rattling. The heap of nanites stirred and began climbing the inside walls of the canister like swarming insects. They were seeking an exit. With the vacuum off, they found it: the exhaust vent, covered by a fine mesh filter. Fine enough for dust, but not for nanites.
"Uh-oh," Conor said, stepping back.
A plume of grey dust shot from the vacuum's exhaust, and with it a zzzip of escaping nanites. Flannery lunged and yanked the battery pack from the vacuum, but too late—the swarm that had been in the fuse box was now free in the open air.
"Ventilation!" Flannery barked. Conor, quick on the uptake, hit the emergency air circulator shutoff. But already the freed nanites were swirling upward, drawn by heat currents perhaps, or making a beeline for the nearest duct. They disappeared through the same open grate the previous trail had used.
Flannery felt the sort of sinking despair usually reserved for times when one's ship is going down. He looked at Conor. The boy's expression mirrored his own dread. "We… we might have made that worse," Conor said quietly.
Before Flannery could respond, there was a sharp rap at the depot door. Not a polite chime, but an authoritative bang-bang-bang. Then a voice called out, muffled through the metal: "Habitat Authority Inspector! Open up!"
Flannery and Conor exchanged looks. "The cavalry?" Conor whispered.
Flannery's stomach dropped for a different reason now. Habitat Authority? That meant outside eyes on this mess—never a good sign for one's career. But he couldn't very well refuse.
He pressed the door release. In stepped Inspector Siobhan O'Connell, and behind her drifted a softball-sized surveillance drone casting a harsh spotlight. Flannery squinted in the glare.
Siobhan's eyes widened at the scene: a haze of metallic dust motes shimmered in the air, the fuse box panel hung open, and an industrial vacuum lay on its side, filter caked in grey. A disheveled middle-aged man (that'd be Flannery) and a soot-smudged youth were staring at her like caught burglars.
For a half-second, nobody spoke. The tableau was absurd enough that the hovering drone, recording everything, might have caught the faintest flicker of a smirk on Siobhan's otherwise steely face. Then training took over.
"Habitat Authority Compliance!" she barked, voice echoing off the depot walls. "Nobody move!" The drone's spotlight swept the room, illuminating swirling specks of nanites that twinkled like holiday glitter.
Flannery had been mid-step toward the door; he froze with one foot half-lifted, an unintentionally comical pose. Conor, unsure what to do with his hands, slowly raised them as if in surrender. A drifting cluster of nanites chose that moment to alight on his left shoulder, causing him to flinch. "Uh, Mr. Flannery—"
"It's alright, lad," Flannery said out of the corner of his mouth. Then, to Siobhan: "Inspector, thank heavens you're here. I can—"
"Identify yourselves properly," Siobhan cut in, brisk and formal. She stepped further inside, letting the door swish closed behind her. Her eyes never stopped roving: she took in the sealed carrier in the corner with its mummified crate inside, the sticky residue of sealant everywhere, the makeshift barrier of plexiglass panels half-constructed. The evidence painted a picture of escalating chaos.
Flannery carefully set his raised foot down and straightened up, trying to look as presentable as one can while covered in grime. "Michael Flannery, IIC Station Agent for this depot." He managed a weak smile. "Welcome to Westcote, where things have gotten a wee bit out of hand."
Conor spoke up tremulously, "Conor O'Donnell, intern. I'm, uh, helping Mr. Flannery."
Siobhan nodded curtly, then pointed a gloved finger at the visible haze in the air. "Are those… active nanites free in this facility?"
Flannery glanced at the dancing motes caught in the drone's beam. "Well, they're not decorative pixie dust," he answered before he could stop himself.
Siobhan's head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. Flannery winced internally. Brilliant start. He cleared his throat. "Apologies, Inspector. Yes, they are nanites. But only a small number, I assure you."
"Any number above zero is unacceptable," Siobhan replied icily. She unclipped a slim device from her belt—a handheld scanner—and raised it. The gadget hummed as it sampled the particles in the air. In seconds it pinged. She read the display and her jaw tightened. "Nanorobotic concentration at 4.5×10^6 per cubic meter," she said. There was a hint of genuine alarm under her professional tone. "That's extremely high. Where is the containment? The report I got said the shipment was being held secure."
Flannery ran a hand through his hair, which sent another sprinkling of nanite dust flying. "It was. It is! Mostly." He pointed to the plasteel pet carrier. "They started in there. Some have, ah, come out."
"Clearly." Siobhan holstered her scanner and folded her arms. "Mr. Flannery, this is a serious breach of habitat safety. Self-replicating nanos are a Level-1 biohazard equivalent. We should evacuate and seal this area, and call a hazmat team immediately." She turned half-way, ready to relay an order to her drone.
At the word "evacuate," Flannery's heart skipped. "Evacuate? Now, let's not be hasty!" He stepped forward, hands slightly raised in placation. "I have the majority of them contained. There's no need to cause a station-wide incident. I just need a bit more time to—"
Siobhan held up a hand. "Mr. Flannery, the time for 'a bit more time' passed when these things left that crate." She nodded toward the battered wooden box entombed in plastic. "Habitat protocols give me full authority here. I am ordering you to stand down and allow Habitat Security to secure this site."
Conor shifted uneasily, glancing at Flannery. Flannery felt sweat trickling down his back. He was caught between the rock of corporate orders and the hard place of local law. "Inspector O'Connell," he said, moderating his tone to something approaching civility, "I understand your position. But I have direct instructions from my superiors to maintain custody. I can't just hand these nanites over."
Siobhan looked incredulous. "Hand them over? They're not a set of keys, Mr. Flannery! They're a rapidly multiplying swarm that could—" she bit back the rest, noticing the intern's pallor. Conor looked one stray comment away from bolting. She softened her approach by a notch. "Look, our priority is to contain and neutralize the nanites. Ownership is a secondary matter, to be sorted out after we prevent, you know, grey goo apocalypse."
Flannery bristled instinctively at the term. "Bit dramatic, that. They're not turning the place into goo." Even as he said it, a part of him wondered if maybe they would, given time.
Siobhan's patience was wearing thin. "Dramatic? You have thousands—perhaps millions—of self-replicating machines loose in an inhabited station section, and you think I'm being dramatic?" She gestured around. "This room alone looks like the aftermath of a rogue chemistry experiment. How far have they gotten?"
As if in answer, the overhead speakers chimed out a warning: "Attention: Environmental sensors detect foreign particulates in Corridor 3. Maintenance crew dispatched." Flannery recognized the automated voice of the habitat's central system. He exchanged a grim glance with Conor. Corridor 3 was just outside.
Siobhan's head snapped upward at the announcement. "Corridor 3… That's outside this depot, isn't it? They're already in the public corridor?" Without waiting for Flannery's reply, she tapped her wrist comm. "Control, confirm Corridor 3 contamination."
A tinny voice responded from her device: "Confirmed, Inspector. Automated air scrubbers engaged. Bulkheads sealed to contain the sector."
Flannery's shoulders slumped. Sector containment meant the habitat was now actively quarantining part of Westcote. That was exactly the scenario he'd dreaded.
Siobhan gave him a pointed look. "This is now beyond a private corporate dispute. We have an active public hazard." She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a measured, deadly serious tone. "I strongly advise you to cooperate, Mr. Flannery. The sooner we corral these…things, the better for everyone. If you obstruct, I will not hesitate to cite you and assume full control."
Flannery opened his mouth to protest—likely about jurisdiction or some such—but found he had no wind left in his sails. The truth was laid bare by that corridor alert: his containment had failed. This was bigger than him, bigger than IIC versus MORHOUSE. With a heavy exhale, he nodded. "Alright, Inspector. I'll… cooperate."
Conor's posture visibly relaxed a bit at that, and even Siobhan's stern expression eased by a fraction. "Glad to hear it," she said. "Now, let's pool our efforts. I've sealed the corridor as a temporary measure. We need to physically remove and isolate the nanites in here and out there." She eyed the jerry-rigged containment carrier. "How mobile is that crate? Can we transport it somewhere more secure?"
Flannery shrugged helplessly. "It's mobile, but any jostling might create new leaks. I can hardly keep up with the ones they make on their own."
"Understood. Then we'll treat that as Ground Zero and not move it unless we have to." She toggled her comm and spoke crisply: "Inspector O'Connell to Habitat Security: requesting immediate dispatch of a hazmat containment team to Westcote Depot, Section 12. Bring nanosuppressants and magnetic traps."
Flannery winced at those words crackling over the comm. Hazmat team. Nanosuppressants. Magnetic traps. This was about to become a major incident report, with his name all over it. But at least help was finally on the way.
Siobhan turned to Conor. "You—Intern O'Donnell, is it? You can assist by checking adjacent rooms for any sign of nanites. Use this." She handed him a small portable scanner from her kit. "It'll ping if it catches their signal. If you find anything, call out."
Conor took the scanner with a trembling hand. "Y-yes ma'am." He was clearly glad to have a task—anything to feel less powerless. He hurried off toward the depot's back storage rooms, scanner in hand.
That left Flannery and Siobhan standing a pace apart amidst the controlled chaos of the depot. They could hear distant clanging now—probably the arriving hazmat team running down the corridor (bulkhead sealed behind them after they passed).
Flannery cleared his throat in the awkward silence. "Inspector… I truly am sorry it's come to this. I never intended—"
She cut him off, but not unkindly. "Mr. Flannery, I have a feeling you were doing what you thought best. But intent only goes so far. Results are what matter, and right now the result is... not great." Her attempt at diplomacy was laced with dry understatement.
Flannery barked a laugh despite himself. "Aye, you could say that."
Just then, the main door slid open to admit two figures in bulky white suits flanked by service drones carrying canisters and equipment. The hazmat team had arrived. One gave a thumbs-up to Siobhan through his faceplate. "Containment team on site, Inspector."
The next minutes were a blur of activity. The two hazmat techs, cracking jokes with each other in muffled voices ("welcome to the nanite farm, boys!" one quipped), set up a perimeter around the nanite carrier and began carefully vacuuming and magnetizing stray clusters with specialized gear. They worked methodically, and to Flannery's relief, with far better tools than his homebrew attempts. A handheld magnetic trap sucked a whole clump of nanites off the wall in one go, imprisoning them in a polarized field. A pressurized canister misted something in the air that made free-floating nanites clump together and drop like metallic snow; the techs then swept them up with mini floor vacs.
Meanwhile, Siobhan led Flannery into Corridor 3 once a path was cleared. The bulkhead had been sealed, isolating about a 20-meter stretch of corridor that included the depot entrance. In the middle of that hallway, near an air vent, was a shimmering puddle of nanites—maybe the size of a dinner plate. They wiggled like gelatin.
"That's the main escapee group," Flannery said, ashamed, as if introducing a misbehaving pet.
The hazmat techs quickly surrounded that cluster, laying down a ring of portable forcefield pylons. With a crackle, an energy fence boxed the puddle in. The nanites skittered to and fro like ants in a jar. A drone swooped overhead and released a fine spray; the puddle's movements slowed as the suppressant took effect.
"Got 'em," one tech confirmed, giving a little salute to Siobhan.
Conor emerged from the depot behind them, his scanner silent, indicating no strays left in the storage rooms. "Looks clear back here," he reported.
Flannery looked around. In a matter of half an hour, these professionals had done more to rein in the chaos than he had managed in two days. The depot interior was still a wreck, but at least now the nanites were largely corralled—some in traps, some in vacuum canisters, some pinned under fields. He felt an overwhelming mix of relief, gratitude, and bruised pride.
Siobhan caught his eye and offered him a small nod. "It's not over, but this is progress." She then gave brisk orders to the hazmat team to transfer the captured nanites into a reinforced container for transport to a secure lab.
One of the techs rolled in what looked like a heavy-duty vault on wheels. Flannery realized with a gulp that they intended to move the entire crate—carrier and all—into that vault. And they did: gingerly, with magnetic clamps, they slid the plasteel carrier (crate inside it) into the vault's maw. The remaining loose clumps from around the depot were poured into a metal thermos-like capsule and placed in alongside it. When the vault door hissed shut, Flannery let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
He glanced at Siobhan. She stood with arms crossed, watching the team work with a keen eye. "Thus far, so good," she murmured.
Flannery cleared his throat. "I… suppose you'll be wanting my statement. And to inform my company." He wasn't eager for either prospect.
Siobhan gave him a wry look. "Oh, I think the entire Dyson Swarm will know soon enough. You've got a trending hashtag, by the way."
Flannery groaned softly, burying his face in his hands for a moment. "NaniteGate?"
"Aye." She almost smiled. "Could be worse. You could be #GooGuy."
At that, Flannery did chuckle, a weary rasp of a laugh. "Small mercies."
The hazmat crew signaled all was secure. The bulkheads were reopened, normalcy (such as it was) creeping back. Flannery's depot looked emptier now—his monstrous crate, which had so dominated the scene, was locked away inside the vault trolley. The crisis at hand was over, but the larger mess—legal, bureaucratic, reputational—was just beginning.
As the team prepared to wheel out the vault, Flannery felt a light touch on his elbow. It was Siobhan, gently guiding him to walk alongside her. Conor trailed behind, not sure if he should quietly disappear or stick around.
Flannery glanced at the inspector. "So… what now?"
She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. "Now, Mr. Flannery, comes the fun part. Reports, investigations, likely a hearing. Your company's involved, the Habitat Council will have questions, and let's not forget MORHOUSE—the AI who started this—will certainly have its say. We've contained the nanites, but the paperwork fallout is going to be considerable."
Flannery nodded glumly. He had expected as much. "I appreciate what you did here. Truly. If not for you…" He surveyed the corridor where a few stray nanite sparkles still glinted in floor cracks. "Well, I suspect Westcote might have been in for a world of hurt."
Siobhan offered him a genuine, if brief, smile. "Just doing my job. And to be fair, if not for your initial efforts, misguided or not, it could have been worse." That was as much absolution as she was authorized to give on the spot.
They reached the end of Corridor 3, where the techs were securing the vault in the back of a transport cart. As they loaded it up, one tech wiped his brow and quipped, "All this over a few credits of tariff difference, eh? Pigs is pigs, as they used to say. Or in this case, nanites is nanites."
Flannery startled at hearing that phrase from someone else's mouth, in the wild. It stung and amused him in equal measure. "That it is, son. That it is."
Siobhan raised an eyebrow. "Pigs is pigs?"
The tech chuckled. "Old story, Inspector. Basically, bureaucracy makes fools of us all."
Siobhan turned to Flannery. "I'll have to look it up."
He managed a crooked grin. "No need. You've just lived through the futuristic remake."
They stood there a moment in an awkward, almost companionable silence, watching the secured nanite vault being driven away down the corridor. The adrenaline was ebbing, leaving behind exhaustion and a slight euphoria of disaster narrowly averted. Flannery realized, with some surprise, that for the first time in days, he wasn't alone in this predicament. He had allies now—unlikely ones, perhaps, but allies nonetheless.
Conor finally piped up, youthful optimism peeking through the gloom. "So… we did it? It's over?"
Siobhan shook her head, though kindly. "The immediate threat is over. But the real saga—the blame, the fixes, the policy changes—that's just beginning." She sighed, already imagining the interminable meetings this would spawn. "By the time this is through, we might rewrite half the manual."
Flannery paled at the thought of his beloved manual being upended, but perhaps it was for the best. "Then maybe some good'll come of it," he said quietly.
Siobhan gave him a long, appraising look. In the harsh light of the corridor, with dust still clinging to his hair and his uniform rumpled, Flannery looked every bit the accidental hero of a farce. But there was earnestness in his eyes, and regret, and resolve. She extended her hand. "Inspector Siobhan O'Connell, Dyson Habitat Authority."
Flannery blinked, then grasped her hand in a firm shake. "Michael Flannery, Interstellar Infrastructure… well, you know." His brogue curled around her name as he added, a bit shyly, "And, if I'm not mistaken, O'Connell is an old Irish name."
She tilted her head. "It is. County Cork, lineage-wise. Why?"
He scratched the back of his neck. "Flannery's Galway. I just—there's some irony, I suppose. Two Irish diaspora, sorting out a space age pig dispute."
Siobhan surprised him with a light laugh. "In a Dyson swarm, no less. Ellis Parker Butler would be proud."
Flannery was downright astonished she caught the reference, but he was too tired to comment on it. Instead, he simply said, "Thank you, Inspector O'Connell."
"Call me Siobhan," she said, almost gently. Then, catching herself, she added more briskly, "At least off the record."
"Siobhan, then," Flannery agreed. "And you might as well call me Mike. I suspect we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks."
She nodded. "That we will, Mike. There are inquiries to conduct and a mountain of reports to file. We'll need to piece together how this all happened." Her tone was professional, but not unfriendly.
Conor looked between them and coughed. "Um, Mr. Flannery, what should I do now?"
Flannery put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You, lad, should go get the biggest breakfast the mess hall serves and then take a long nap. You've earned it. I'll make sure the company pays you overtime, or I'll pay it meself."
Conor grinned, relief flooding his features. "Thanks, Mr. Flannery. And thank you, Inspector." He bobbed a somewhat awkward bow to Siobhan, who smiled and gave a small nod in return.
As Conor trotted off, likely eager to message his friends about the crazy night he'd had, Flannery and Siobhan slowly walked out of the quarantined sector. The habitat was strangely quiet at this pre-dawn hour. Somewhere in the distance, an automated street-sweeper whirred, oblivious to the drama that had just transpired.
Flannery couldn't shake the feeling of unreality. Two days ago he had been a content if pedantic depot agent, humming folk tunes and stamping forms. Now he was at the center of a nanotech incident that would probably be taught in corporate training modules for years to come—likely under the heading "What Not To Do."
Sensing his thought spiral, Siobhan spoke up. "You know, it may not all be disaster. The swarm has a short memory for these things. Today's headline is tomorrow's footnote."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "Are you trying to make me feel better or simply stating a fact?"
She allowed herself a tiny smirk. "Perhaps both. And perhaps reminding you—this isn't the end of the world."
Flannery took a deep breath of the cool, climate-controlled air. It smelled of nothing in particular—maybe a hint of disinfectant from the cleaning drones. The star's first rays were brightening the dome above, heralding the arrival of another meticulously scheduled "morning" in the Dyson swarm.
"No, not the end," he agreed softly. "More like the end of Act One."
Siobhan raised an eyebrow at the phrasing. "Expecting more acts, are we?"
Flannery managed a tired grin. "Aren't there always, in these situations? The setup's done. Now comes the escalation, the farce, maybe even a courtroom climax if we're really unlucky."
Siobhan stopped walking and turned to face him. The corridor's ambient light cast a faint halo around her neat ponytail. "Mike Flannery, do you realize you're speaking as if we're characters in a novel?"
He chuckled, running a hand through his messy hair. "Can you blame me? The last 48 hours felt rather scripted by a mischievous author."
She laughed—a full, genuine laugh that surprised them both. Then she extended her hand again, not for a shake this time, but a companionable pat on his arm. "Well, if we're characters, I suppose we'll just have to give them a story to remember."
Flannery felt a warmth that, for the first time in days, wasn't from panic or embarrassment. "Aye. We will at that."
They resumed walking. Behind them, in the quiet depot and its adjoining corridors, little maintenance bots scurried about cleaning up the last traces of nanite glitter and patching scorched circuits. In front of them, ahead in time, lay meetings, debates, and no doubt more absurdity—MORHOUSE's claims, corporate blame games, media sensationalism (#NaniteGate would trend for a full week). But at least Flannery no longer walked that road alone.
And as the narrator AI—watching from some hidden camera, or perhaps through Siobhan's own drone feed—would quip in due time: Thus ended the simple part of the problem. The minor conflict had breached its initial containment, and bigger troubles loomed on the horizon. Yet, amidst the absurdity, an unlikely partnership had formed and a touch of Irish luck lingered. The tiny spark had become a blaze, but perhaps, just perhaps, two stubborn souls (and one frustrated AI) could keep it from burning the whole house down.
End of Act I.