Chapter 3 - Act II: Escalation and Containment Failure

Act II: Escalation and Containment Failure

Chapter 6: Two Hundred Nanites and Counting

No sooner had Mike Flannery spotted that glittering trail of nanites disappearing through a ceiling vent than he and Inspector Siobhan O'Connell were off at a sprint down the corridor. The depot's lights flickered as they ran – a bad omen of electrical mischief afoot. Sure enough, as they rounded one corner a shower of sparks rained down from an overhead panel where a trio of nanites had chewed through a cable – Flannery flung an arm up to shield his face. "Jaysus!" He hustled Siobhan onward, heart pounding. A few steps later, they skidded into the break-room foyer and found a scene of absurd chaos: the break-room coffee vending machine was chugging out cup after cup of steaming brew like a manic bartender on overtime. A dark puddle of coffee spread across the floor, and a half-dozen discarded cups rolled about as the machine shuddered and whirred.

"Saints preserve us, it's makin' a flood!" Flannery cried, leaping back as a fresh jet of scalding coffee sprayed out, speckling his boots and the legs of a maintenance worker who was wading haplessly in the puddle. The poor fellow threw up his hands in defeat, hollering, "It won't stop!" Flannery hurried forward and slapped the machine's emergency stop. With a final sputter, the machine finally choked to a halt, ending its caffeinated rampage. Amid the dripping mess, Siobhan pointed at a faint silver glint in the coin slot and the seams of the paneling. A cluster of nanites was visible inside the dispenser mechanism, wriggling like metallic ants caught raiding a sugar jar.

Flannery snatched a roll of industrial tape from his belt. "Hold it shut!" he ordered. Siobhan pressed the machine's panel closed while Flannery swiftly slapped a wide strip of tape over the edges. Trapped within, the tiny culprits buzzed in frustration. "That's one batch stuck," he muttered, heart hammering.

Siobhan's handheld scanner pinged urgently. "I'm still reading other signals… there." A thin trail of silvery dust led from the coffee puddle to a nearby maintenance closet. Inside, a ceiling vent grate hung ajar – likely the nanites' escape route from the depot. Flannery grabbed a stepladder and together they clambered up to slam the grate shut. He sealed it with a generous crisscross of tape for good measure.

They paused, panting in the aftermath. The corridor was settling into uneasy quiet again, save for the drip of spilled coffee. Flannery mopped his brow with a sleeve. "Alright. That's plugged. Now back to—" His eyes widened. "The depot! We left the rest alone!"

They raced back to Flannery's cargo bay. The moment he threw open the heavy door, his stomach dropped. What had been a handful of nanite clumps an hour ago was now a small metropolis of shimmering critters. Dozens upon dozens of nanites skittered over workbenches and crates, exploring every nook of the workshop. It looked as though a box of glitter had exploded and gained a life of its own. He briefly wondered if simply paying the blasted fee to begin with would have been easier than this farce—but it was far too late for that now.

Flannery gaped. "There must be two hundred of 'em…" he whispered. He stepped forward and a few nanites scurried away from his boot, hiding under a coil of tubing. Siobhan swept her scanner around, its display blinking frantically with too many targets to count.

Flannery realized with a sinking heart that this was beyond anything he could wrangle alone. Swallowing his pride, he turned to Siobhan. "I... I can't do this on me own, Inspector. More than just us."

Siobhan was already raising her comm device. "Dispatch, this is O'Connell," she spoke briskly. "Section 12, Westcote Depot. We have a nanotech containment breach. Send a level-two response team, on the double."

Acknowledgment crackled over the line. Help was on the way.

While they waited, Flannery could do little but watch the nanites continue to multiply before his eyes. He saw a cluster of them nosing into an open toolbox, arranging scattered screws into a neat row as if tidying up. Another group had coalesced around a hanging light fixture, inadvertently polishing its metal shade to a mirror shine. The absurdity wasn't lost on him – these little demons were causing havoc and housekeeping at the same time.

A few tense minutes later, the containment team arrived: two technicians in gray Dyson Services coveralls, lugging what looked like high-powered vacuum packs. "Well, would ya look at that," drawled the older tech, a fellow with a bushy mustache, as he surveyed the twinkling workshop. "Welcome to Flannery's Nanite Farm."

His younger partner, a woman with a tightly coiled braid, cracked a grin. "Population: a whole lot more than we expected."

Flannery managed a sheepish shrug. "Aye, they breed fast," he said.

Without wasting time, the techs explained the plan. Their vacuum devices generated a magnetic suction to pull in the metal nanobots. "We'll herd 'em into a corner and suck 'em up," said the mustached man. "Just be ready to block any escape routes."

Flannery grabbed a push broom to shoo strays out from under shelves, and Siobhan secured vents and doors. "On three," called the lead tech. "One… two… three!"

They moved in sync. The vacuum packs hummed to life with a low thrum. Instantly nanites all around reacted, skittering across the floor and walls. "There they go!" Flannery shouted. He swept the broom under a bench, sending a cluster of nanites tumbling forward. The techs caught them in the suction stream—shloop!—sucking the glittering swarm into a metal canister. Siobhan jabbed her stun baton near an outlet where a few tried to hide, startling them out into the open. Shloop! Aditi (as her name patch read) inhaled those too.

For several frantic minutes, the depot became a scene of comical high-tech pest control—something like a slapstick ghost-hunt, but with tiny metal critters instead of spirits—: Flannery lunged here and there with his broom, the techs chased zigzagging swarms with their vacuums, and Siobhan directed the effort, slamming a crate lid closed just in time to block a group from sneaking through a gap. Tiny metallic clinks and whirs mixed with the whoosh of vacuums and the grunts of the humans scrambling in pursuit. At one point, Aditi's vacuum latched onto the loose leg of Flannery's jumpsuit with a mighty whoosh, yanking him nearly off his feet. "Watch it!" he yelped, hopping free while Aditi mumbled an apology.

"Almost got 'em!" Bill, the mustached tech, panted as a last sizeable cluster on a high shelf was sucked away. Flannery dared to smile—just as the overhead lights flickered and went out.

"Power surge!" someone shouted. In the sudden dim emergency lighting, there was chaos. The vacuum hums faltered, losing power momentarily. "Hold on—!" Aditi smacked the side of her pack as it whined down.

That was all the opening the remaining nanites needed. In the semi-dark, Flannery heard a metallic skittering rush past his feet. "They're making a break for it!" he yelled. He thrust his broom down at the threshold of the door, trying to bar the way, and felt the bristles vibrate as a handful of nanites slipped under the door into the corridor.

At the same time, Bill cursed from across the room – he'd been covering a floor drain, but had shifted when the lights failed. A thin stream of silvery specks spiraled down the open drain grate, vanishing into the pipes with a faint glup. "Lost some down the drain!"

Siobhan managed to thwack her baton against the wall as a few climbers attempted an air vent. They fell back in a shower of sparks. Within moments, the backup generator kicked in and full lights returned, revealing a half-upended workshop and four very winded people.

They took stock. Two large canisters now brimmed with captured nanites, swirling and pinging angrily against the containment walls. The scanner showed far fewer active signals in the room now. "We got most of them," Siobhan said, relief in her voice.

"Most isn't all," Flannery replied, still breathing hard. He stared at the partly open door where a few had escaped, and at the drain where others had fled unseen. His relief was tempered by worry. It felt as if he'd been trying to bail a spaceship with a teaspoon – hopeless work.

The techs sealed their canisters and secured the lids with a heavy clamp. "These ones are going nowhere," Aditi assured, patting one of the humming containers. Each canister held hundreds of the little pests.

As the adrenaline ebbed, they all noticed something odd: sections of the concrete floor, especially where the heaviest swarms had passed, were gleaming spotlessly – cleaner than an industrial depot floor had any right to be. "Well I'll be," Bill chuckled, nudging the gleaming patch with his boot. "Those buggers polished the floor for us while we chased them."

Flannery let out a weak laugh. "Maybe I should hire them as janitors instead," he joked bitterly. The humor helped mask his fatigue and lingering dread.

With the immediate crisis managed, the technicians prepared to depart with the captured nanites. "We'll get these to a secure lab," Aditi said, hefting one canister while Bill took the other. "There are still strays in here, so expect we'll be back. But this should take a load off."

Flannery nodded appreciatively. "Thank ye, truly." He meant it. Without their help, he'd likely be drowning in a sea of nanites by now (and coffee, for that matter).

As the techs left – promising to coordinate follow-up sweeps – Flannery and Siobhan stood amid the disarray of the depot, finally catching their breath. Flannery slumped against a workbench, surveying the taped vents, scattered tools, and glistening clean streaks. What a spectacle, he thought, rubbing his eyes.

Siobhan broke the silence softly. "We should inform our superiors about this… before they hear it from someone else." Clearly, multiple departments would soon converge on this fiasco.

Flannery groaned at the thought of the bureaucracy descending upon him. "Aye. Morgan's not gonna be too pleased," he muttered, dreading the call to his corporate boss. And the Habitat Authority brass would certainly have words as well – possibly angry, multi-syllabic words.

He gazed around at the mess that used to be his orderly depot, now ground zero of a burgeoning crisis. "All this over a classification dispute," he said under his breath. Part of him wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

Siobhan managed a faint smile and rested a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. "For what it's worth, you did everything by the book."

Flannery snorted. "And look where that got us." The two shared a tired, rueful look. A day ago, he'd been a stubborn by-the-rules stationmaster with an inconvenience on his hands. Now, he had a full-blown nanite infestation and a growing list of very irate higher-ups to appease.

Outside the depot, in the quiet ventilation ductwork of Westcote Habitat, a few fugitive nanites scurried onward, exploring new nooks and crannies. Unseen by any of the exhausted humans below, one lone nanite paused in the darkness behind a wall panel and began to replicate once more – one into two, two into four – quietly restarting the cycle. The containment was, for the moment, an illusion of victory.

Chapter 7: Bureaucrats Debate as Nanites Multiply

By the time Flannery was mopping coffee off his boots and counting escaped nanites, word of the incident had reached the upper echelons of IIC's corporate bureaucracy. In a sleek virtual conference room projected into Mr. Morgan's office, a trio of holographic figures convened. (In reality, Morgan sat amid cluttered shelves of tariff binders and rulebooks – a comical contrast to the pristine virtual boardroom.) There in the call was: Morgan himself (stiff-backed and sweating slightly), the IIC Company President (a severe-looking woman in an impeccable suit), and a legal counsel AI represented by a floating scales-of-justice icon that pulsed gently with each measured pronouncement – the AI's idea of a professional avatar.

"Let me summarize," the President said crisply, tapping manicured fingers on an invisible desk. "We have an incident at Westcote Habitat: a shipment of self-replicating nanites held at our depot, now breaching containment. The local Habitat Authority is involved. And this all stems from..." she glanced at a brief on her tablet, "...a classification dispute over fees?" Her eyebrows climbed in disbelief.

Morgan cleared his throat. "Yes, Madam President. A, ah, minor dispute escalated unexpectedly." He attempted a reassuring smile that landed closer to a grimace. "Stationmaster Flannery was following procedure to the letter. The consignee's AI refused to pay the proper rate. So per regulations, Flannery held the cargo pending clarification. No one anticipated the nanites would... multiply."

"Unexpected outcome, indeed," the President said dryly. "How many are we talking about?"

Morgan tugged his collar. He had received Flannery's latest frantic message not long ago, mentioning "hundreds" of nanites and counting. But saying that number aloud would only fan the flames. "Er, the reports are still coming in, but a few dozen at least, possibly more. The situation is contained to the depot area for now," he lied hopefully, glossing over the detail that they'd already slipped into the corridors.

The President's frown indicated she wasn't entirely convinced. "This is highly embarrassing. Habitat authorities breathing down our neck, a viral-prone situation—"

Morgan jumped in, voice oily with placation. "I fully agree, ma'am. I've already taken steps. Flannery has been instructed to secure the nanites and not let Habitat Security confiscate them. It's our property, after all, pending resolution. We're keeping it quiet."

At this, the floating legal AI chimed, its voice a soothing monotone. "Advisory: Under InterHab Commerce Code 71-A, IIC retains custodial ownership during classification disputes. Habitat Authority has limited jurisdiction. Recommend asserting corporate privilege."

"Exactly," Morgan nodded, as if he'd thought of it himself. "Flannery will maintain custody. We'll have a specialized containment team on-site soon." (He chose not to mention that the Habitat Authority inspector had been the one to call in that team.)

The President tapped her fingers again. "Fine. But what's the endgame, Morgan? We can't have multiplying bots running amok. Have you sorted the classification issue yet? What are these nanites considered in our tariff schedule? Equipment? Livestock? Pestilence?" That last word was muttered with exasperation.

Morgan flushed. "I took the liberty of consulting an expert, Madam. Professor Schwarz, head of nanotech taxonomy at Orion University. I've been awaiting his formal opinion on the proper classification." He glanced off-screen at a secondary monitor. As if on cue, a notification blinked: the professor's reply had just arrived in his inbox. "Ah! And here it is now."

"Please," the President said, gesturing for him to continue, "enlighten us."

Morgan opened the correspondence, skimming rapidly. "Professor Schwarz's determination… hm… quite thorough…" He scrolled past dense paragraphs of academic jargon to find the conclusion. "Ah, summary: 'In light of their self-replicating but non-sentient nature, the nanite units should be classified as "Equipment, Class 2" rather than any biological or livestock category. Therefore, standard equipment tariffs apply, at a rate significantly lower than livestock fees...'" Morgan cleared his throat. "In short, Flannery's initial classification was incorrect. The nanites count as regular equipment and should have been charged a minimal fee."

The President let out a short, humorless laugh. "So this whole mess comes down to a few credits' difference in fees and an overzealous agent." She said it with a withering incredulity; Morgan shrank back unconsciously, feeling about as significant as a mote of dust under her glare.

Morgan bristled just a bit at that, but kept his tone obsequious. "An understandable mistake, given the ambiguity in the rulebook, I assure you. The term 'livestock' vs. 'equipment' was never meant for microscopic robots." He didn't mention that Flannery's stubbornness played a role; no sense throwing his man completely under the shuttle.

"Regardless, we have our answer," the President said. "So classify them correctly and deliver them to the consignee at once. End the dispute. This needs to disappear."

The legal AI's icon pulsed amber. "Caution: Delivering the nanites may transfer liability. Recommend obtaining waiver from consignee acknowledging condition of goods."

The President rolled her eyes. "Noted. We'll have claims deal with that later. Right now I want this contained."

Morgan nodded vigorously. "Understood. I'll authorize immediate reclassification and delivery." He already began typing up an order on his console. "We'll charge the standard rate on the current inventory..."

"Current inventory?" the President repeated. "How many units do we bill for, precisely?"

Morgan swallowed. "The, um, last count I have is a bit outdated. The original shipment was two units. It... may be higher now."

"How much higher?" she pressed, voice dangerous.

The truth would sound insane, Morgan thought. He hedged. "Well, Flannery mentioned around two hundred, but that surely can't be accurate—"

"Two hundred?!" For the first time the President's cool demeanor slipped, eyes widening. "From two? This isn't reproduction, it's an explosion!"

The legal AI helpfully interjected, "Extrapolation: If two units can multiply to two hundred in 24 hours, the growth is exponential. The potential liability—"

"Yes, thank you!" Morgan cut off the AI, who fell silent with a polite chime. Morgan forced a chuckle. "I'm sure that's a worst-case estimate, Madam President. Our containment efforts will have stopped further replication by now." He hoped this was true. "Regardless, I'll ensure the paperwork reflects whatever number we have in custody at this moment."

The President took a slow breath, visibly mastering her irritation. "Do so. And perhaps we should quietly compensate this consignee's AI to smooth things over? Pay their original claim so it drops the complaint?"

The legal AI glowed red in disapproval. "Objection: Paying the claim could be interpreted as admission of fault. This may set precedent affecting future disputes. Not recommended."

The President waved a hand. "Of course not, heaven forbid we admit fault," she muttered. "Then what do you propose, Morgan?"

Morgan straightened. "We'll stick to procedure. We reclassify and deliver the nanites promptly, as if this were a normal shipment all along. And I'll instruct Flannery to keep everything low-profile. Perhaps offer him a small bonus for, ah, extraordinary handling." He gave a sycophantic smile. "We'll spin it as a minor technical delay resolved by the book."

The President managed a thin approving nod. "Fine. Draft an official statement for PR that it was a minor contained incident. Limited scope," she emphasized. "We don't need the media thinking it's a 'grey goo' scenario."

Morgan shuddered at the thought. "Absolutely. I'll see to it personally."

Within a few more minutes, the virtual meeting wrapped up. The President's hologram blinked off with a last stern look. The legal AI quietly logged out after sending a summary of its recommendations to all parties' files.

Morgan collapsed back in his real chair, loosening his tie. That had been… tense. But at least he had what he needed: authority to proceed and the expert's answer. Already, he forwarded Professor Schwarz's findings to the Audit and Billing Department with instructions to update the case.

Moments later, Audit pinged back with automated efficiency: a standard form authorizing release of goods and calculation of fees. Morgan skimmed it quickly. There was a line reading "Quantity: 2 units" – apparently pulled from the original waybill. He hastily edited it to "32 units" (surely that was closer to the truth, he reasoned; no need to alarm Audit with talk of hundreds). Satisfied, he confirmed the directive.

Now for Flannery. Morgan cleared his throat, almost feeling sympathetic for the poor fellow. This assignment had ballooned far beyond a normal day's work. Still, orders were orders. He dictated a quick voice message which transcribed into text on Flannery's comm:

"Good news: Classification resolved. Nanites are reclassified as equipment. Proceed to deliver to consignee immediately. Charge standard equipment fee on 32 units. Keep Habitat Authority out of it. Excellent work containing the situation. –Morgan."

He read it over, decided that was upbeat enough, and hit send.

Morgan allowed himself a satisfied exhale. That ought to wrap it up neatly. Flannery delivers the nanites, the claimant pays a pittance, the complaint goes away. Yes, there was still the matter of those extra nanites, but surely a few strays could be rounded up…

"Situation handled," he murmured, leaning back and pouring himself a tiny measure of scotch from the emergency bottle in his desk. In the silence of his office, he toasted no one in particular. What a morning.

Meanwhile, back at Westcote Depot, Flannery was catching his breath after the hectic containment effort. He had just finished cleaning a last splatter of coffee from his desk console when it pinged with an incoming corporate communiqué.

"Finally, some instructions," Flannery muttered. He was hungry for guidance (and perhaps just plain hungry, his stomach reminded him). Siobhan leaned over curiously as he opened the message.

As Flannery read Morgan's missive, his face went through a remarkable sequence of colors, from ruddy incredulity to pale outrage. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. "Deliver... immediately... standard fee... 32 units?!" he sputtered at last, nearly dropping the datapad.

Siobhan blinked. "They want you to deliver the nanites now? After all this?"

Flannery's temper, already worn thin, finally snapped. "They think this is over? They still think it's just 32 wee nanites!" he fumed. He thrust the message toward Siobhan so she could see the absurdly understated details. "Good news, he says!"

Siobhan read it and bit back a curse. "That's… beyond out of touch."

Flannery stormed around his cluttered office, waving his arms as if Morgan were there to see. "Here I am up to me neck in multiplying metal beasties, the whole habitat one step from panic, and those empty-headed suits are congratulatin' themselves that it's settled!" He slammed a palm on his desk, accidentally hitting the holographic keyboard and causing a startled squeak from the console's AI.

"Well, I'll give Mr. Morgan a piece of my mind," he growled.

Before Siobhan could advise caution, Flannery stabbed at the reply function and began dictating furiously: "Sir, regarding '32 units,' please be advised the actual number of nanite units now vastly exceeds that figure," he spat out. "At last rough count, over 800 (eight hundred!) individual nanites are present, and climbing."

He paced as he went on, voice dripping with exasperation. "Containment is tenuous at best. Kindly update your records to reflect reality. Furthermore, significant damage has been sustained by IIC property and local infrastructure. Who, may I ask, will be covering those expenses?"

Siobhan watched, arms folded, eyebrows raised at the tone. Flannery was too riled to care. He finished with a flourish: "I await immediate instructions that take these facts into account. – M. Flannery."

He slapped the send button so hard the console beeped in protest. His heart was hammering. That wasn't exactly the most diplomatically worded message of his career, but by thunder, it felt good to send.

"That might wake them up," Siobhan commented, half impressed, half concerned. She knew bureaucracies, and a subordinate effectively shouting at HQ could have repercussions.

Flannery threw up his hands. "If they try to fire me for tellin' the truth, so be it. I didn't start this foolishness." He sank into his chair, suddenly exhausted again. "Nanites is nanites, I told 'em… but they wouldn't listen." He gave a weary, ironic chuckle at his own parroting of that stubborn phrase.

Siobhan placed a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. In the harsh glow of the desk screen, Flannery looked more tired than ever. "We'll figure it out," she said quietly. "At least you set them straight."

Flannery grunted in assent, though he wondered if anything could truly set those desk-jockeys straight. He peered at the status feed on his console, which still showed multiple blinking alerts from around the depot. The nanite count was still creeping upward in the corners of his world, no matter what corporate memos said.

In his office far away, Mr. Morgan had yet to read Flannery's scathing reply. It would hit his inbox soon enough, likely along with new reports that the "contained" incident was anything but. But for the moment, bureaucracy's gears turned slowly, oblivious to the accelerating chaos on Westcote.

Flannery rubbed his temples and stood up. "Right. Enough letter-writin'. We've got work to do."

"Agreed," Siobhan said, putting back on her no-nonsense tone. There were still rogue nanites to chase and a habitat to reassure. Together, they headed out of the office – a united front against the absurd situation, even as two very different bureaucracies above them prepared for a tug-of-war.

Chapter 8: Viral News and Public Nuisance

By mid-morning, the nanite problem had slipped beyond the depot's walls like water through a sieve. Flannery and Siobhan found themselves racing from one odd incident to the next across Westcote Habitat's Sector 12, acting as ad hoc fire-fighters for nanotech mischief. Each time they thought they'd contained one outbreak, another alarm would blare or another panicked call would come through. It was as if the entire habitat were waking up to a mischievous new pest – and word was beginning to spread.

Their first destination was the neighborhood power substation a block away from the depot. A rolling brownout had flickered lights across several modules, triggering automated alerts. Flannery arrived to find the substation chief, a burly man in orange coveralls, flapping his arms at a maintenance console that was spitting sparks.

The chief rounded on Flannery the moment he saw him. "Flannery! What in blazes have you unleashed this time?" he bellowed, over the crackle of an electrical arc. The substation's overhead lights strobed, casting dramatic shadows across the control room.

Flannery bristled defensively – he had enough people yelling at him today. "Don't pin this entirely on me, Seamus," he shot back, shouting to be heard as he and Siobhan hurried forward. "I didn't breed the little beggars on purpose!"

Siobhan, ever focused, interjected, "What's the status?"

The chief jabbed a finger at a live feed on his console screen, which showed a thermal diagram of the power circuitry. "See that overload in grid 3? Something chewed through the insulation on the main line. We got a whole bundle of wires shorting."

Even without the diagram, the culprit was evident: a fine line of metallic glitter trailed from an open conduit box and across the floor grating. Faint smoke curled from the box where nanites had gnawed on high-voltage cables, as carefree as silverfish nibbling old wallpaper. A few of the critters still skittered around the panel, apparently unfazed by the occasional jolt of electricity arcing nearby.

Flannery swore under his breath in Irish and grabbed a pair of insulated gloves hanging on the wall. "Alright, alright – less yelling, more fixing," he grunted. With Siobhan's help, he killed the power to that section (earning an annoyed squawk from the chief as half the district momentarily went dark). Sparks ceased and the control room fell to an eerie half-light lit by emergency beacons.

Siobhan moved quickly, producing a small magnetic clamp from her belt kit. "I see them," she said, pointing into the conduit box's tangles of wires. In the dim red glow, a cluster of nanites glinted. They looked almost innocent now, like little metal dust motes resting amid the damage they'd wrought.

Working together, they carefully plucked and coaxed the nanites out of the circuitry. Siobhan applied the magnet clamp – the nanites clung to it in a wriggling clump, drawn by its field. Flannery then slammed the conduit box shut and secured it with a padlock for good measure. "That's it, ye wee monsters. Field trip's over," he muttered, wiping a streak of soot from his cheek.

Seamus, the substation chief, exhaled in relief as his consoles stabilized and lights winked back to green. But his relief quickly morphed to anger. "This is a nightmare. Those things nearly blew our transformer! Who's going to pay if the grid goes down? My supervisors will have my hide!"

Flannery held up his hands in weary placation. "File a claim with IIC, same as everyone else. The company will handle damages." He said it as confidently as he could, though privately he thought, Good luck getting them to pay without a thousand forms.

Beside him, Siobhan added with a touch of diplomacy, "We have containment crews working on it, sir. And Habitat Authority is issuing guidance. We appreciate your patience."

The chief just harrumphed. "Patience, is it? Next time I see a metal critter in my substation, I'm fetching a plasma cutter, not a form."

Before that promising line of thought could continue, Siobhan's wrist communicator chimed loudly with a new alert. She glanced at it and grimaced. "Mike, another issue. The shopping galleria two levels up – a janitor reports 'glittery bugs' in the ventilation system."

Flannery's shoulders slumped; he barely had time to thank the substation chief (who was still grumbling) before he and Siobhan were off again, jogging out of the control room and down the corridor toward the lifts.

"No sooner do we put out one fire than another sparks," Flannery panted as they ran.

Siobhan hit the lift button. "It's like chasing a leaking dam with a teacup," she agreed. The lift doors opened and they hurried in, joining a pair of bewildered residents who eyed Flannery's scorched gloves and Siobhan's clamp full of wriggling nanites with alarm.

"Maintenance issue," Siobhan said with a thin smile to the residents, who wisely chose not to ask further and scurried out at the next stop.

They arrived at the shopping galleria – a broad, multilevel atrium lined with boutiques, eateries, and a central ornamental fountain. Normally it was a serene space, artificial sunlight filtering from the habitat's mirrors above. Not today. A small crowd had gathered by a pastry kiosk, murmuring and pointing at something on the floor.

That "something" turned out to be a maintenance bot roaming in manic circles, pursued by an elderly janitor swinging a broom. "Stand still, you feckin' contraption!" the janitor yelled. The bot – a squat cylinder on wheels – zoomed away, trailing what looked like a tail of sparkling dust.

Flannery and Siobhan ran over. The janitor paused, wheezing. "Don't suppose you two know why my floor-sweeper's got a mind of its own?" he said sarcastically, gesturing at the rogue bot.

As if to answer, the maintenance bot abruptly came to a halt, then began spinning in place, its sensors blinking wildly. A halo of tiny nanites could be seen clinging to its underside, apparently having infiltrated its navigation circuits. Now the poor machine was thoroughly confused – and flinging the "glittery bugs" out of its vents with each rotation like a lawn sprinkler.

"Watch out!" Siobhan raised an arm as a few nanites flew off and pinged onto a nearby shop's window display.

Flannery grimaced. Another day, another machine possessed by misbehaving micro-robots. "Alright, enough," he muttered. He lunged and managed to hit the emergency cutoff on the maintenance bot. It gave a pathetic electronic whine and powered down, one wheel still pivoting weakly.

The remaining nanites that hadn't been tossed free now crawled out of the bot's hatch, as if annoyed their ride had ended. Siobhan was ready, shaking an empty mason jar she'd snatched from the pastry kiosk's countertop. Together, they swept the stray nanites into the jar – Flannery using the janitor's broom to corral them – and Siobhan slammed a lid on it. The janitor promptly slapped a piece of duct tape over the lid for good measure.

"Got 'em," Flannery said, holding up the jar. Several silver specks pinged angrily against the glass inside, like bumblebees trapped in a jam jar.

The small crowd of shoppers and shopkeepers watched with a mix of amusement and trepidation. One bystander – a teenager with bright green hair – had been recording the entire episode on his holophone. Flannery noticed and wagged a finger tiredly. "Show's over, lad. It's under control."

The teen snickered. "Yeah, right, mister. I got it all – this is going on the mesh for sure." He mimed typing on an imaginary keyboard and declared theatrically, "Local man creates nanobot zoo in cargo bay!"

A few onlookers laughed. Flannery opened his mouth to protest, but Siobhan lightly touched his arm. "Let it be," she murmured. "We have bigger problems."

She was right, of course. Even as Flannery sealed the jar of nanites into a hazard bag, another call was buzzing for their attention – this time from a residential block where a housecleaning robot had gone berserk, apparently folding clothes into origami shapes and stacking them to the ceiling. The nanites were learning new tricks, it seemed.

Flannery felt a headache coming on. He took a second to lean against the fountain and catch his breath. Around him, the galleria buzzed not just with nanites but with whispers – people were already gossiping about the mysterious swarm of "silver bugs" causing trouble. He overheard snippets: "...they say it's some experiment gone wrong..." "...my cousin thinks it's terrorists, but tiny..." "...free technology, crawling around, can I keep one?"

Before rumors could get any wilder, Siobhan tapped him on the shoulder. "Mike, we have to move."

"Aye." He straightened, wincing at a twinge in his back. "Janey Mac, I'm gettin' too old for sprinting about like this," he muttered. He offered a quick apology to the janitor for the chaos and then he and Siobhan were off again, dashing toward the residential block.

As they jogged away, neither noticed the teen with green hair already uploading his recording to the habitat's mesh network, a mischievous grin on his face. Within minutes, that video would explode across Westcote's local feeds: Flannery slipping on glittery dust, Siobhan expertly bottling nanites, the janitor cursing, all set to a jaunty bit of remixed music someone quickly edited in. The caption read: "Stationmaster or Zookeeper? Man vs. Nanobots – Who Will Win?!" It was an instant hit.

Back in the fray, Flannery and Siobhan arrived at the residence in question – a modest flat on Level 3. They found the homeowner, a frazzled young woman, standing outside her door with arms full of what looked like intricately folded shirts and trousers.

"I don't even know how to explain this," she sputtered upon seeing the officials. "My homebot just started... crafting my laundry into modern art!"

Peering into the apartment, they indeed saw the housekeeping droid whirring in the center of the living room, diligently refolding a bedsheet into what resembled a giant paper crane. A handful of nanites glinted on its chassis, coordinating this bizarre domestic performance.

Siobhan sighed. "We'll take care of it, ma'am." A few minutes (and a minor scuffle with a clothes-folding robot) later, they had jarred those nanites as well. Flannery left the poor woman with an apology and a hotline number for technical cleanup crew ("You might need a firmware reset on that bot, unless you like avant-garde laundry").

Stepping back into the corridor, Flannery felt sweat trickling down his temples. How many more of these would they have to do? The nanites were popping up like daisies after rain. If two here, four there – who knew how many were still hidden?

As if reading his thoughts, Siobhan spoke up while checking the latest status on her tablet. "Mike... there are reports coming from all over the sector now. Minor ones mostly – a soda dispenser overflowing at the park, elevator doors opening and closing on their own. The Habitat Authority channels are lit up with chatter about 'metallic ants'." She looked at him with worry. "People are noticing."

Flannery pressed his hands to his face briefly. "Grand. Soon they'll be panicking, or worse – laughing at us."

He didn't realize how true that was. At that very moment, the video of him and Siobhan's misadventures in the galleria was trending on the habitat mesh. Dozens of parody versions were spawning: one set to an old Benny Hill chase tune, another replaying in slow motion the exact moment Flannery had landed on his backside chasing the maintenance bot (he hadn't even realized someone caught that).

Hashtags proliferated: #NanobotZoo, #GlitterBugs, #NaniteGate. One particularly popular meme image showed a cartoon of Flannery in a safari outfit with nanites crawling over him, captioned "Nanites is Nanites!" – a phrase a news commentator had dramatically attributed to him as an emblem of bureaucratic stubbornness. (Flannery would have turned beet-red if he saw that, protesting that he'd been misquoted – or at least taken far out of context.)

And indeed, the local news had picked up the story. As Flannery and Siobhan hurried to their next task – flushing a cluster of nanites out of a public garden's sprinkler control unit – a live report was broadcasting on holo-screens across the habitat.

A primly dressed reporter stood in front of a holo-map of Westcote, speaking with grave enthusiasm: "...what some are calling a 'nanite nuisance' in Sector 12. Unconfirmed reports suggest self-replicating nanobots are loose, potentially multiplying out of control. Habitat officials have not yet issued a public statement, but sources inside Dyson Infrastructure Corp say a minor cargo incident is to blame." The screen shifted to grainy footage from the viral video: Flannery, identifiable by his IIC uniform and wild gestures, lunging after the runaway maintenance bot. The reporter's voiceover continued, "Witnesses claim Stationmaster Flannery initially resisted external intervention, insisting 'nanites is nanites' – indicating a strict adherence to protocol even as the situation escalated."

If Siobhan had heard that line, she might have groaned; Flannery, thankfully, was too preoccupied to catch the broadcast echoing from a shop window as they ran by.

They arrived at the public gardens – a small indoor park with rows of hydroponic flowers and a trickling artificial stream. It was normally a tranquil spot for residents to sit on benches and listen to recorded bird songs. Not today. Several sprinklers had activated out of schedule and were twirling wildly, dousing everything in erratic bursts of water. A few hapless pedestrians were hiding under a gazebo, already soaked.

The cause was immediately apparent: one sprinkler head near the tulip beds was shooting not water but a jet of glittering nanites before sputtering off. Then another sprinkler across the path burst on, spraying water mixed with metallic sparkles onto a very perturbed ornamental shrub. The nanites had infiltrated the irrigation control system and were having a field day – literally.

"Oh, for the love of— they're treating the sprinklers like water park rides now!" Flannery exclaimed.

Siobhan didn't even know where to start. She shielded her eyes against a rogue misting. "We need to cut water pressure first," she said.

Flannery dashed (slipping and nearly toppling on the wet grass) to the maintenance shed and yanked open the valve controls. After a moment of frantic knob-turning, the gushing sprinklers shuddered and petered out. Silence, save for the drip of water off leaves, returned to the garden. Shimmering nanites now clung to flower petals and the insides of pipes, exposed and glinting in the artificial daylight.

Together, Flannery and Siobhan methodically flushed the visible nanites out of the sprinkler heads with a portable air pump and netted them with a fine mesh bag. It was soggy work – both were soon dripping wet from kneeling in puddles and reaching into damp shrubbery to pluck out stubborn clusters. At last, they tied off the mesh bag, which writhed with dozens of captured nano-critters. For good measure, Siobhan hung it on the now-dry fountain spigot, letting any stragglers drip out harmlessly.

Surveying the soaked garden, Flannery managed a weary chuckle. "Well, the plants certainly got a thorough watering today."

Siobhan pushed back a drenched lock of hair from her face. "At least they water the plants too," she quipped, echoing his tone from earlier, "– maybe we should keep a few around as gardeners."

Flannery stared at her, momentarily taken aback, then burst out laughing. A genuine laugh, despite everything. "Ha! That's the spirit, Inspector. We'll start a nanite landscaping service next – I'm sure the bureaucracy has a form for that somewhere."

They grinned at each other like two schoolkids caught in a prank rainstorm. For an instant, amidst the chaos, they shared a lighthearted moment – two drenched, exhausted comrades finding humor in the absurd.

But the moment couldn't last. A trio of urgent chimes pinged simultaneously on both their communicators, shattering the brief calm. One was an all-citizen alert being broadcast habitat-wide. Siobhan pulled up the message, and her face fell. "They've gone public," she said.

Flannery read over her shoulder. The Habitat Governor's office had issued a bulletin: "Precautionary Advisory: Technical Glitch in Sector 12. Residents are advised to avoid contact with any unusual metallic insects or devices. Do not panic – maintenance crews are addressing the issue. Sector 12 under temporary systems quarantine."

"'Metallic insects'? They make it sound like we have robo-roaches," Flannery muttered. The no-panic advisory was only going to make people more curious (or fearful).

Another chime – this one directly from Habitat Security. Siobhan answered, and a curt synthesized voice spoke: "Inspector O'Connell, you and Stationmaster Flannery are requested to report to an emergency council session immediately. Location: Habitat Hall. This is a priority directive."

Flannery raised his eyebrows. "Council session? As in the Habitat Council?"

Before Siobhan could reply, two tall figures emerged from behind a hedge – humanoid security droids, painted in the white and blue livery of Westcote Habitat Authority. They approached with smooth, polite motions. One gently took Flannery's arm, the other stood by Siobhan.

"Please come with us, sir," intoned the droid holding Flannery, in a voice so civil it was almost comical. "The Governor requests your presence."

Flannery looked from the droid's featureless face to Siobhan. She gave him a sympathetic shrug that said we knew this was coming.

He let out a theatrical sigh. "Ah, well. Can't keep the Governor waiting, can we?" He managed a wry smile even as his stomach churned with anxiety. A small fee dispute had officially become a public emergency, just as the narrator in his head had been warning all along.

The two security droids escorted Flannery and Siobhan out of the garden (one of them kindly holding an umbrella over Siobhan, as she was still dripping). As they were led off toward the Habitat Council chambers, Flannery couldn't help but cast one last glance back at the sector behind them: soggy gardens, flickering lights, curious residents peering from doorways, and somewhere out there, countless nanites still quietly multiplying in cracks and crevices.

He swallowed hard. This was going to be a most uncomfortable meeting – and likely just a taste of the storm to come.

In a few minutes, Flannery would find himself standing, disheveled and waterlogged, before the formidable panel of the Habitat Council, with Siobhan by his side and the Governor's steely gaze upon them. He had no idea what to even say. Perhaps, he mused ironically, he should start with "Pardon me, but there seems to have been a slight misunderstanding with some very small equipment..."

Whatever happened in that chamber, one thing was certain: the bureaucratic saga of the nanites had moved far beyond his little depot. As the security droids gently but firmly nudged him forward, Flannery mustered a grin for Siobhan and quipped under his breath, "Is it too late to run?"

She actually smirked. "Completely too late."

And with that, they stepped through the grand doors to face the music – a farcical duet of corporate and civic outrage that would carry them into the next act of this ridiculous adventure.

Chapter 9: Love in a Time of Troubles

Late evening found Flannery and Siobhan in a quiet corner of O'Toole's All-Night Café. They had spent the earlier part of the evening in an emergency council session being thoroughly chastised. The Habitat Governor and council members had lambasted Flannery for the chaos, officially ordering IIC to clean up the "nanite nuisance" immediately or face severe fines and sanctions. Flannery had stood, soaked and contrite, while corporate and habitat officials traded threats and blame above his head. It was, in a word, brutal. Now, at last, that ordeal was over. There, nursing hot drinks and even hotter tempers (albeit directed at others, not each other), they tried to decompress after the gauntlet they'd run.

For a long moment, neither spoke. They simply savored the relative calm. The lighting was soft and warm, the aroma of brewed tea drifting in the air. It was the first peaceful moment they'd had all day. Flannery cradled a mug of strong Irish breakfast tea (appropriately served any time of day on O'Toole's menu), letting the steam thaw the chill that had settled in his bones. Siobhan cupped a mug of spiced cocoa between her hands, breathing in its sweet scent with a faraway look.

Eventually, Flannery broke the silence with a low chuckle. "Well," he sighed, "that was one for the history logs."

Siobhan arched a brow. "The council meeting or the day as a whole?"

"Both," Flannery said, managing a crooked grin. "I can't decide which was more painful – chasing nanites through sprinklers, or being politely flayed by the Habitat Governor's tongue."

Siobhan gave a soft laugh – the kind born of mutual exhaustion. "Governor Cho did lay into you rather thoroughly," she agreed. "Though for the record, I got my share of scolding too."

"Oh, I noticed," Flannery said, sipping his tea. He mimicked the Governor's prim, nasally voice (quietly so no one else would hear): "'This is a disgrace, Inspector O'Connell – how could Habitat Authority have allowed such an incident to fester?'" He shook his head. "As if you were the one breeding the beasties in your basement."

Siobhan rolled her eyes heavenward. "Apparently I should have broken down your depot door days ago and confiscated everything, corporate be damned."

"I'd have liked to see ye try," Flannery retorted with a wink. Then he sighed. "Not that it matters now. They've made it abundantly clear IIC is footing the blame. Governor practically threatened to fine the company into the ground for endangering public safety."

Siobhan stirred her cocoa thoughtfully. "She did. Then the corporate liaison on the vid-call threatened to countersue the Habitat for interference."

Flannery groaned at the memory. Midway through the council meeting, once it devolved into finger-pointing and legalese between the habitat officials and IIC's remote representative, he and Siobhan had been all but forgotten, standing there soaked and uncomfortable while higher-ups jousted with policies and threats. "A regular turf war," he muttered. "All while we two stood like wet eejits in the dock."

"At least it ended with a plan," Siobhan offered, blowing on her cocoa. "If you can call 'clean up your mess or else' a plan."

Flannery cracked a bitter smile. "Aye. My marching orders: resolve the issue immediately. Brilliant solution." He tapped the side of his mug, a restless energy still coursing under his fatigue. "Never mind that I've been trying to resolve it since it began."

Siobhan's green eyes flickered with empathy. "I know. For what it's worth, Mike, you truly did everything you could given the circumstances." She hesitated, then added, "I read the report on how this started. Your initial decision... well, I might have done the same in your position. Rules are rules."

Flannery looked at her in surprise – and gratitude. He hadn't expected the by-the-book inspector to admit that. "It was a daft situation from the get-go," he said, rubbing a thumb along a chip in his mug's handle. "Maybe I overdid it on stubbornness. Saints know I can be a mule. But I never imagined it'd spiral like this." He chuckled ruefully. "Nanites multiplying like Catholic rabbits... you couldn't make it up."

Siobhan's lips twitched in a faint smile. "Catholic rabbits? Is that a technical term?"

"It is now," Flannery laughed. He leaned back, relaxing a fraction. "Truth told, I've worked for IIC near thirty years and never had more than a missing cargo or a stuck loading drone to contend with. I pride meself on a well-run depot. Then along come two tiny robots and poof – decades without incident out the airlock."

He trailed off, staring into his tea. There was an undertone of sadness there; this fiasco had bruised his professional pride deeply.

Siobhan set her mug down gently. "Thirty years... that's a long time." She studied him, as if seeing him anew. Mike Flannery, the caricature of a crusty stationmaster she'd first met, now looked simply like a tired man who'd tried his best. "How'd you end up doing this job, anyway?"

Flannery shrugged one shoulder. "Family business, in a manner of speaking. My father worked orbital construction – back when the Dyson swarm was still bein' cobbled together. Hard, dangerous labor. I figured managing freight and infrastructure would be a safer path. And it has been, more or less." He smiled a little. "I started as a dockhand, worked up to depot manager. Westcote's been my posting for the last ten years. Quiet place, usually." He paused, then added softly, "I like it here. Feels like home."

Siobhan nodded. She could hear the affection in his tone when he spoke of the habitat. It wasn't just a job site to him. "I grew up on a Stanford cylinder habitat," she offered after a moment. "Smaller than Westcote, very rural. I think that's why I joined Habitat Authority – to keep these places safe and orderly. They're...fragile, in a way. One tiny thing can throw off the balance." She let out a small huff of laughter. "Today proved that vividly."

Flannery tilted his head. "I'd say you succeeded at keeping things safe today. Without you, I'd probably be buried under a pile of nanites and bureaucracy."

It was Siobhan's turn to look surprised and appreciative. "Thanks. Honestly, I didn't expect to be playing pest control on what was supposed to be a routine inspection. But I'm glad I could help." She added wryly, "Even if my bosses think I bungled it."

"Your bosses are eejits," Flannery declared, then hastily amended, "Present company excluded, of course." That earned him a warm chuckle from her.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the tension of the day easing by degrees. Outside the booth, a cleaning robot gently whirred as it glided across the café floor, dutifully polishing up stray crumbs. Both of them watched it absently. After all the rogue robotics of the day, seeing a machine do exactly what it was meant to do was almost reassuring.

Until it wasn't. Without warning, the cleaning bot let out a high-pitched beep and lurched to one side, its brushes spinning erratically. Flannery and Siobhan sat bolt upright. From their vantage, they saw a single gleaming nanite tumble out of the bot's underside and onto the floor, where it began to scoot towards the nearest table leg.

"Oh no you don't," Siobhan growled. Quick as a flash, she grabbed an empty pint glass from the table and flipped it over, trapping the stray nanite beneath it on the floor.

The cleaning bot trundled away obliviously, its job done. Flannery slid out of the booth and crouched down to peer at the captured nanite. The tiny thing zipped in circles under the glass like a frantic silver flea. "Persistent devil," he muttered. "Must've hitched a ride on our boots or clothing."

Siobhan fetched a paper napkin and slid it under the rim of the glass to seal the nanite in. Then she and Flannery carefully lifted the impromptu trap and flipped it, corking the glass with the napkin on top. The lone nanite pinged against the paper, thwarted.

They exchanged a look – startled, then amused. A small grin crept onto Flannery's face. "We can't even sit for tea without one of them trying to join us."

Siobhan began to laugh, a warm, genuine laugh. Flannery followed, and soon they were both giggling quietly in their corner of the café, drawing a few puzzled glances from other patrons. It was laughter born of exhaustion and relief, a release of the day's absurdities.

When their mirth subsided, Siobhan left the glass (nanite still inside) on the edge of their table for the night shift hazmat crew to collect. "Let that be our good deed for the evening," she joked.

They settled back into the booth, and Flannery realized with some surprise that he felt... content in Siobhan's company. The frazzled, adversarial woman who had stormed into his depot was gone, replaced by a witty, steadfast ally with whom he'd fought side by side all day. And Siobhan, for her part, saw not a bumbling bureaucrat but a resourceful, big-hearted man who genuinely cared about doing things right.

"So," Flannery ventured, staring at the rising curl of steam from his refilled tea, "I suppose tomorrow the cavalry arrives." He'd seen a message flash briefly on his comm earlier but hadn't had the heart to open it during their break.

Siobhan straightened. "Oh – yes. I got the same notice. IIC corporate team is inbound." She rolled her eyes a little. "Your Mr. Morgan and a small entourage, coming to 'take charge on-site.'" The way she said it made clear she expected a whole new level of bureaucratic headache.

Flannery smirked. "Marvelous. I'm sure he'll have everything sorted in no time. Perhaps by reclassifying the crisis as a minor inconvenience so it disappears."

That drew a snort of laughter from Siobhan. "No doubt. And Habitat Authority's legal department filed an official enforcement request with the central courts." She rubbed her temple. "Meaning the Claimant AI – the one that started this by refusing to pay – is now suing IIC and maybe the habitat for damages. It's all about to become very public and very messy."

Flannery let out a low whistle. "An interstellar lawsuit, an executive visit, and an uncontrolled nanite swarm all at once. We've truly hit the trifecta."

He looked at Siobhan, who despite her words, seemed lost in thought for a moment, gazing through the café's front window at the neon-lit promenade outside. People were still out and about, some in pajamas, exchanging gossip. The advisory had everyone jittery yet excited – a crisis that wasn't immediately deadly lent itself to a strange carnival atmosphere.

In profile, her features were softened by the café's mellow light. A small bruise was forming just above her left eyebrow (courtesy of an ill-tempered laundry bot), and a stray band-aid clung to her chin. Flannery realized he probably looked equally battered. But to him, just then, she looked... well, she looked lovely, in a completely unguarded way. Strong and kind and bone-tired, just like him.

As if sensing his gaze, Siobhan turned back to him and smiled – a genuine, weary smile that made his heart skip unexpectedly. "We should probably call it a night soon," she said softly. "Tomorrow's going to demand whatever energy we have left."

"Aye," Flannery replied, though he found himself reluctant to leave this little island of calm. He drained the last of his tea and set the mug down.

They settled the tab with the drowsy barista-droid at the counter (Flannery left a hefty tip and a note about the trapped nanite glass). Stepping out of the café, they were met with the artificial starlight of the habitat's simulated night cycle. The promenade's usual bustle had waned; only a few scattered souls hurried along, and the ever-present hum of the life support systems provided a strangely comforting background thrum.

Siobhan's quarters were a short walk away in the adjacent residential sector. Flannery insisted on walking her there – "After the day we had, I'd rather make sure a security droid doesn't drag you off again," he teased.

Side by side, they strolled through the quiet corridors. Both were bone-tired, but the conversation came easily. They swapped small personal anecdotes: Flannery sharing how he once accidentally shipped himself in a cargo crate as a rookie (getting a hearty laugh from Siobhan), and Siobhan recounting her first week on the job when she issued a citation for an "unauthorized pet" that turned out to be the Governor's prized robotic parrot.

Before they knew it, they stood outside Siobhan's door. An awkward pause lingered as they realized the day was truly ending.

Siobhan brushed an errant strand of red hair behind her ear. "Thank you, Mike," she said quietly. "For everything today. I couldn't have managed without you."

Flannery felt a warmth rise in his chest. "I'm the grateful one. You pulled me out of a right mess more than once."

They shared a smile, and in that moment the distance that had existed between "company man" and "inspector" evaporated. They were just two colleagues – no, two friends – who had been through the wars together.

Flannery cleared his throat, suddenly a bit bashful. "Once this is all over – knock on wood that it ever ends – I... I owe you a drink. Or several. Whatever your poison, as thanks."

Siobhan's eyes glinted with amusement. "Is that so? Well, you can start with breakfast."

Flannery blinked. "Breakfast?"

She leaned against her doorframe, a playful look on her face. "You promised me many drinks after the chaos. But given how unpredictable tomorrow looks, maybe a strong coffee and a proper breakfast will be a better start. On you, of course."

A broad grin spread under Flannery's mustache. "Inspector O'Connell, are you asking me on a breakfast date?"

"Consider it a strategic planning meeting," she replied lightly, though a faint blush colored her cheeks. "Neutral ground, early morning, plenty of caffeine – purely professional."

"Of course, purely professional," Flannery agreed, his eyes twinkling. "I'll even bring a briefing memo."

They both laughed softly. Then Siobhan reached out and gently squeezed Flannery's forearm. It was a brief, warm gesture. "Goodnight, Mike."

"Goodnight, Siobhan," he replied, her name rolling off his tongue comfortably now.

She slipped into her quarters, and the door closed with a whoosh, leaving Flannery standing alone in the corridor. For a moment, he remained there, feeling oddly buoyant. Despite the looming uncertainty of the morning – Morgan's arrival, legal showdowns, and a million stubborn nanites – he realized he was smiling.

In another world, this might have counted as a romantic breakthrough. But as the narrator in Flannery's head wryly observed, fate had a sense of humor – any budding sentiment would have to jostle for space with the swarm of troubles descending tomorrow.

At length, Flannery turned and headed toward his own apartment across the habitat. He walked slowly, exhaustion finally weighing on him. As he rounded a bend, the lights flickered ever so slightly – a reminder that, somewhere out there in the sleeping habitat, tiny machines were still at play.

He could only hope that a few hours of shut-eye would prepare them for what was coming. Because it was clear now: this farce had outgrown him and Siobhan. Come morning, the stage would be much larger and far more crowded.

Still, as he keyed open his door and stepped into the quiet darkness of his quarters, Flannery clung to one reassuring thought – not every development of this mad day had been bad. He had found an unexpected ally, maybe even a friend (and if he dared admit, something more than a friend). That would have to be enough fuel to face the chaos of tomorrow.

With a last tired chuckle at that optimistic notion, Flannery let the door hiss shut, the narrator's final dry commentary following him to bed: In different circumstances, this would be a blissful turning point – if only our heroes weren't about to be buried in even more nanites.

Chapter 10: Breakout

Flannery awoke to the shriek of alarms. For a disorienting moment, he thought he was dreaming – a nightmare of flashing red lights and blaring klaxons. But as he tumbled out of bed, reality crystallized: the depot's emergency sensors were going off. Loudly.

He glanced at the wall chrono. It was barely dawn according to the habitat's diurnal cycle. He had managed only a few hours of fitful sleep. Now this. Heart thudding, Flannery snatched up his communicator and saw a flood of alerts: Containment Breach – Westcote Depot repeated over and over.

"Oh, sweet mother of—" He didn't bother finishing the curse. Yanking on yesterday's rumpled uniform and boots, he bolted out the door.

He raced through quiet corridors that were anything but quiet now – the alarms ensured that half of Sector 12 would be awake soon. A few bleary-eyed residents peeked out of doorways as Flannery sprinted past. He nearly collided with a sanitation drone that was bleeping in confusion at the klaxon noise.

As he neared the depot bay, a harried voice crackled over his communicator. It was one of the night-shift security operators. "Mr. Flannery! We're reading multiple breaches in your sector! What's happening?!"

"I'm almost there," Flannery panted, skidding around the last corner. A security barrier had descended, blocking the entrance to the cargo bay – standard procedure for a major containment breach. Flannery slapped his override card on the panel and squeezed through as soon as the door grudgingly parted.

The sight that greeted him on the other side stopped him in his tracks. The depot was in chaos. Every vent grille along the walls hung open, and from them poured streams of shimmering silver – rivers of nanites flowing out into the corridor like gleaming smoke. The overhead lights flickered madly as circuit after circuit was shorted by the surging swarm.

Several maintenance bots lay inert on the floor, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of nanites that had swarmed over them. The improvised containment measures – Flannery's taped vents, the sealed fuel tank from earlier, even the heavy canisters where hundreds had been stored – all had been breached or busted open from within. It was as if the nanites had coordinated a jail break overnight.

Flannery's jaw hung slack. Tens of thousands of the tiny machines were on the move, a glinting stampede escaping his depot in every possible direction. The sound of them was bizarre: a faint metallic hiss, like a steel sandstorm.

He forced himself to move. "Sector 12, we have a full containment failure!" he shouted into his communicator, abandoning all formality. "All available units to Westcote Depot, now!"

As he waded forward, nanites swirled around his ankles, climbing over his boots. He stomped and shook them off, making for the control panel on the far wall. If he could trigger the fire containment foam, maybe he could slow their exit.

Before he reached it, a sudden gust of air nearly knocked him over. To his astonishment, a shuttle had landed just outside the main cargo bay door – and the bay door was open. In the middle of this havoc, someone had overridden the lockdown and opened the exterior hangar.

In strode Mr. Morgan, flanked by two corporate aides in IIC uniforms and a pair of technicians. They had arrived on a company shuttle moments ago, expecting a routine touchdown. Instead, they stepped into a scene out of a sci-fi disaster vid.

Morgan took one look at the silvery torrents spilling from the depot and blanched. A nanite stream flowed right past his polished loafers, and he hopped back with a yelp as a few glittering specks started to crawl up his trouser leg. "What on earth...? Flannery!" he shouted, simultaneously shaking his leg frantically to dislodge the nanites (which he succeeded in doing, though one clung stubbornly to his sock).

Flannery spun to see his boss standing there, wide-eyed and already coming unhinged. Part of him was perversely glad Morgan had arrived in time to see the mess in all its glory. "Morning, sir!" Flannery called over the din, with a perhaps ill-advised note of sarcasm. "Welcome to Westcote – mind the infestation!"

Morgan's two aides were swatting at the swarm of nanites now swirling around their feet. One of them, a young woman from PR, let out a squeak as a line of nanites trailed up her tablet and danced across the screen, causing it to flash random stock prices. The other aide, a middle-aged man clutching a briefcase, simply froze in place, glasses askew, as if hoping the glittering pests might ignore him if he didn't move.

Morgan recovered from his initial shock and stomped toward Flannery, brushing nanites off his coat. "This—this is unacceptable!" he bellowed, voice cracking. "What is happening, Flannery? You told me you had this under control!"

Flannery felt something inside him snap like an overstressed cable. Perhaps it was the absurdity of that accusation, perhaps the sleepless night, or the maddening image of Morgan's perfectly combed hair now littered with a few clinging nanites like dandruff. Flannery fixed Morgan with a glare that made the older man falter mid-stride.

"Under control? UNDER CONTROL?!" Flannery shouted, throwing an arm toward the churning streams of nanites. "This is exactly what I warned about, but no – ye wouldn't listen! 'Good news, deliver them right away,' you said. 'Keep it quiet,' you said. Saints preserve us, Morgan, we've a blasted avalanche of nanites here and you're asking me what happened?"

Morgan's mouth opened and closed, astonished at the volume and vehemence coming from his previously deferential subordinate. Behind him, the PR aide's tablet exploded in a puff of smoke as a cluster of nanites shorted it out; she dropped it with a shriek.

"I– I," Morgan spluttered, face turning red as a beet. "How dare you—"

But Flannery was far past caring about corporate protocol. He took two steps and closed the distance between them, jabbing a finger at Morgan's chest (dislodging a couple of nanites that had been crawling on the executive's lapel). "You sat in your cushy office, sir, and ignored every warning I sent! I begged for help, and you gave me paperwork! Now look around – does this look under control to you?!"

One of the technicians who had come with Morgan tugged on the executive's sleeve urgently. "Uh, s-sir, maybe we should save the recriminations for later," the tech stammered, eyeing the thousands of nanites scurrying across the bay toward open conduits and the shuttle dock. "We need to do something. They're going to spread beyond this sector!"

Morgan snapped out of the confrontation, swatting Flannery's hand away. He was trembling with a mix of anger and fear. "Yes... yes, of course." He straightened his coat with a shaky hand and attempted to muster authority. "Containment protocol – enact one immediately!"

The two technicians looked at each other. "Containment protocol?" one ventured. "Sir, at this volume, we—we don't exactly have a protocol..."

Siobhan O'Connell chose that moment to arrive, sprinting in through the side corridor entrance. She had a portable sonic stunner in hand and a respirator mask dangling around her neck, evidently prepared for battle. Taking in the scene – Flannery and Morgan squared off amidst a galaxy of twinkling nanites – she wasted no time. "We need to cut power to this whole sector and magnetize the bulkheads," she barked, already tapping commands into her habitat control pad.

Morgan turned to stare at this newcomer officer who dared issue orders. Flannery quickly intervened, "Sir, this is Inspector O'Connell from Habitat Authority. She's been leading containment efforts with me."

"Containment efforts," Morgan repeated weakly, eyes still wild at the crawling, twinkling chaos. A few nanites had taken to the air – likely lifted by ventilation drafts – and were swirling like metallic confetti above their heads.

"Yes," Siobhan said firmly. "And right now, we need to isolate this area." Without waiting for Morgan's approval (which was unlikely to come promptly anyway), she keyed into the emergency systems. Throughout Sector 12, heavy magnetic bulkhead doors began to seal off corridors. You could hear the distant thunkthunk as sectors compartmentalized like a ship hull closing watertight doors.

Flannery added, "We can use an EMP – a big one – to disable them all at once." He had thought of it in nightmares last night; it was drastic, potentially damaging to systems, but what choice was left?

One of Morgan's aides (the one with the briefcase) snapped out of his paralysis. "We have an EMP device on the shuttle – for emergency drone disablement."

"Go fetch it, lad!" Flannery urged. The aide nodded rapidly and ran back toward the shuttle, carefully avoiding a rivulet of nanites that was streaming up the shuttle's landing gear (perhaps hoping to hitch a ride).

Morgan looked alarmed. "An EMP across the sector? That will fry half the electronics in the vicinity! The cost—"

"Better fried circuits than a million nanites loose," Siobhan cut in bluntly. "We'll warn critical services to go on backup shielding." She was already on the comm, hastily instructing the habitat systems to brace for an electromagnetic pulse.

Morgan closed his mouth, perhaps realizing objections were moot. Instead, he channeled his nervous energy into straightening his tie (which was quivering slightly – whether from his shaking hands or a stray nanite inside the silk, one couldn't be sure).

Moments later, the aide and a technician emerged from the shuttle lugging a squat, cylindrical device. They set it on the ground and began calibrations. Flannery recognized it as a high-grade electromagnetic pulse emitter, typically used to disable rogue machinery at close range. They would have to boost its range to cover the depot and adjoining corridors.

"Everybody, hold onto something non-conductive!" the technician warned. "Pulse in ten seconds!"

Flannery grabbed Morgan by the arm and yanked him behind a thick plastic supply pallet (Morgan squawked in indignation). Siobhan ducked behind the doorframe and shouted into her comm, "EMP imminent – all units clear!" The PR aide dived into the shuttle to shield herself.

"Three... two... one... firing!" The technician slammed his palm on the device's trigger.

For an instant, there was utter silence and a flash of blue light that turned the world into a negative image. Every hair on Flannery's body stood on end as static electricity surged. Morgan yelped as his holographic wristwatch sparked and died.

Then – WHUMP. A low thrum of energy washed through the depot and surrounding sector. The lights overhead all popped and went dark, the alarm klaxons choked off mid-wail, and every electronic gadget in view either flickered out or reset with a pitiful electronic chirp. In the sudden twilight, they heard it: thousands of tiny metallic clinks, like a rain of coins on a tin roof. The nanites were dropping.

Flannery peered over the pallet. Sure enough, the silvery swarms were collapsing to the floor in heaps. The ones that had been climbing walls slid down like spilled mercury. Those airborne tinkled onto the metal deckplates. In a heartbeat, the glittering motion everywhere ceased. The nanites lay as inert as grains of sand.

For the first time that morning, a hush fell. Flannery realized he had been holding his breath and let it out in a great gust. He glanced at Siobhan across the way; even in the gloom he could see her shoulders sag with relief.

A stunned laugh broke the silence – it came from the PR aide, who peeked out of the shuttle with wide eyes. "It... it worked?"

No one dared move for a moment. Then Morgan stepped out from behind the pallet, straightening to his full height. In the faint emergency lighting, he surveyed the scene of motionless nanites covering every surface. It was an eerie tableau: like someone had smashed a giant mirror and strewn the glittering dust across the entire bay.

Morgan cleared his throat. "Yes. Well." He tried to regain a tone of authority, though it came out as more of a croak. "Gather those... those things up now," he ordered, gesturing vaguely at the nearest pile of lifeless nanites. "And see? We have it under—"

He never got to say "control." Because at that precise moment, a soft whir sounded from the pile nearest his feet. One by one, tiny blue pinprick lights glowed to life on the nanites' bodies – their internal power cells rebooting after the EMP.

Flannery's eyes widened. "Everyone, brace—!"

Before he could finish, the heaps of nanites began to stir. The little machines, perhaps momentarily stunned, resumed movement. And not only that – they seemed to shake off the electromagnetic effects astonishingly fast. Within seconds, what had been a blanket of still metal grains reformed into crawling clumps once more.

"It's not possible," breathed the technician who had fired the EMP. He frantically checked the settings on his device. "They should be down for hours—"

"They're... adapting," Siobhan said, voice hushed with dread. Indeed, a few nanites directly adjacent to the EMP generator lay fried and smoking – but many beyond its core radius were springing back. Perhaps their shielding had been partially effective, or their distributed intelligence allowed some to sacrifice themselves to spare others. Whatever the reason, the reprieve was over almost as soon as it began.

A faint, collective metallic screech rose as if in defiance. And then, chaos renewed.

But this time, the nanites did not simply resume their previous behavior. Instead, as if some group mind had made a decision, they swirled and writhed into new patterns. Great swathes of them began streaming toward the open shuttle bay door – the one that led out into space and, beyond, to the rest of the Dyson swarm habitats.

"They're escaping!" Flannery shouted. He dashed to a control panel, slamming the bay door closure button. The massive outer doors began to slide shut with ponderous slowness.

Too late. Like a silvery fog being sucked by a vacuum, a portion of the nanite swarm poured through the narrowing gap into open space, glittering against the blackness. Flannery, Morgan, Siobhan, and everyone else could only watch, pressed against the viewport glass, as the cloud of nanites dispersed.

Some latched onto the hull of Morgan's shuttle, hiding in its nooks. Others simply drifted free, propelled by micro-thrusters or the gentle push of air escaping the bay. The remainder still inside Westcote scurried into ventilation ducts or down corridors deeper into the habitat, as if fleeing a sinking ship.

For a moment, the stunned humans stood in silence, catching their breath. The bay door thudded closed, sealing the vacuum. Inside, perhaps half of the nanites remained, clustering in unreachable corners or under equipment – temporarily contained again, though given their escape artistry, likely not for long.

Morgan's communicator was already vibrating furiously. He looked down to see multiple incoming calls – doubtless his superiors demanding updates or issuing reprimands. With a trembling hand, he lifted it to his ear. "Y-yes? ...No, not under control... The nanites— they—" he stammered into the device, sweat beading on his brow.

Flannery slumped against a support pillar, feeling utterly spent. Siobhan moved to his side, and they shared a look of mingled shock and resolve. This battle at Westcote might be winding down, but a far larger war had just ignited beyond.

As if to confirm that thought, a voice crackled over the habitat intercom: "Control to all stations, multiple foreign objects detected departing Sector 12 into space. Possible dispersal to neighboring habitats. Alert status across Dyson swarm has been raised to Level 3. Repeat, Level 3. All personnel stand by."

Flannery closed his eyes for a beat. Level 3 – a full inter-habitat incident. He felt Siobhan's hand grip his arm gently. They had done all they could here, and it still hadn't been enough.

Far beyond Westcote, across the void of space, a lone farmer in Habitat Epsilon stepped out of his greenhouse just in time to see what looked like a shooting star split into dozens of sparkling trails. The glittering tendrils drifted toward his farmland dome. The farmer rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was still asleep. Moments later, tiny metallic motes began settling onto his cornfields like dew. His automated harvesters, resting for the night, suddenly twitched to life as nanites seeped into their circuitry. The farmer yelped in surprise as one harvester sprang forward and began tilling soil entirely on its own.

On another habitat – Gamma, the entertainment metropolis – early-rising commuters on a maglev tram were treated to an unexpected show when a billboard on the skyline spontaneously changed its giant ad display into an animated cat chasing a laser pointer. Down below, a cluster of silvery dust skittered across the tracks, causing a short delay in service and a flurry of confused social media posts.

And so it began.

Back in Westcote, Flannery and Siobhan stood shoulder to shoulder by the viewport, watching the last glimmers of the escaping swarm fade into the star-speckled backdrop. Morgan was a few steps away, barking into his communicator at some subordinate – all bluster and desperation. His two aides quietly tried to shoo remaining nanites into makeshift containers, their expressions dazed.

Flannery felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. It was Siobhan. "We'll figure it out," she said quietly, for his ears only.

He managed a tired smile. "We will. Somehow."

Behind them, Morgan's voice warbled high with anxiety as he sputtered to the IIC brass: "They've… they've gone beyond Westcote, sir. Yes, multiple habitats potentially… I am aware this is unprecedented! We are forming a plan now—"

Flannery ignored the rest. His eyes were fixed on the horizon beyond the glass. In the distance, a cargo freighter's engines flared as it departed Westcote, unaware that dozens of tiny stowaways clung to its hull. The glitter of the swarm had become one with the stars.

The narrator in Flannery's head offered one final, wry observation as Act II drew to a close: a dispute over a shipping fee had birthed a chaos that was now leaping from world to world. The upward spiral of absurdity had breached its last containment, and there was no telling how far the "nanite plague" (as people would soon call it) would spread.

Flannery exhaled slowly, fogging the viewport glass. "Hold on tight," he murmured to Siobhan and himself, "it's going to be a wild ride from here."

And somewhere out in the darkness between habitats, a cloud of tiny machines twinkled – heralding the next act of this farcical crisis that had only just begun.