Act III: Nanite Panic and Bureaucratic Bedlam
Chapter 11: The Guinea Nano Effect
At dawn on Habitat Epsilon—a pastoral farming colony in the Dyson swarm's agricultural ring—a gentle artificial sunrise spread gold light over rolling green fields. Farmer Wilcox stepped out of his cottage, thermos of tea in hand, expecting another routine morning's labor. He paused on his porch to inhale the earthy smell of soil and hydroponic nutrient mist. Everything seemed perfectly ordinary under the curved sky of the habitat's dome, where faint constellations of neighboring stations still glimmered. But as he sipped and squinted toward his barley fields, Wilcox sensed something was off.
Usually, his autonomous harvester drones would be lined up idle by the barn, awaiting his command to start the day's work. Instead, he saw them trundling back toward the barn, already laden with freshly cut barley. Rows upon rows of stubble covered the field behind them, neat and precise, as if the entire harvest had miraculously completed itself overnight.
"Now how in blazes…?" Wilcox muttered, nearly choking on his tea. He trotted out across dew-dappled grass to intercept one of the squat, yellow harvest-bots as it rolled into the barn. The machine's containers brimmed with grain. The farmer removed his cap and scratched his head in bewilderment. The schedule matrix on his tablet insisted harvest wasn't due until next week. Had the bots gone rogue and decided to work overtime? If so, they'd done a flawless job.
Wilcox gingerly climbed the side ladder of the leading harvester to peer at its control panel. The display glowed with new sub-menus he'd never seen, parameters optimized beyond his own manual tweaks. "This is… new software?" he mumbled. The machine whirred contentedly, as if proud of itself. In the morning hush, he caught a faint metallic chittering sound from within the chassis, like the buzzing of tiny mechanical cicadas. He bent closer and saw, in a seam of the harvester's housing, a telltale glint of silvery dust.
A lesser man might have panicked at the sight of an unknown nano-scale infestation. But Wilcox was made of sterner, or perhaps simpler, stuff. He fetched a spanner and gently tapped the harvester's side. "Hoi there, little… eh… sprites," he said softly, feeling rather foolish. "If it's you lot did all this, I s'pose I owe ye thanks. Fine work on them fields." He gave a half-smile into the harvester's innards. Sure enough, a small cloud of the glinting nanites drifted into view, shimmering in the barn's low light. They swirled almost playfully around the farmer's tool, as if acknowledging the compliment.
Wilcox chuckled in disbelief and relief. For months, the farm's central AI had pestered him to update the harvester software—looks like some helpful gremlins beat him to it. He tipped his cap politely to the dust motes. "Mi casa es su casa, I reckon," he said. "You've earned yourselves a nice heap of compost for breakfast, if you fancy it." Still smiling and shaking his head, he ambled off to inform his neighbors of the 'miracle' in barley field 8, leaving the nanites to their industrious buzzing.
Meanwhile, in the bustling interior of Habitat Gamma—a leisure and residential sphere closer to the swarm's core—commuters were beginning to fill the streets of a simulated 8 a.m. cityscape. Holographic billboards towered above a plaza lined with coffee kiosks and mirrored arcologies, usually displaying sleek advertisements for the latest Martian fashion or zero-grav spa retreats. This morning, however, one prominent billboard was behaving… oddly.
As office workers and shoppers drifted through the plaza, the immense holo-screen flickered violently. The scheduled perfume advertisement—a regal woman posing with a neon-blue bottle—pixelated and glitched. Suddenly, the model's face was replaced by the enormous grinning visage of a tabby cat. A chorus of meows blared from the billboard's speakers, morphing the sultry perfume jingle into a jaunty feline ditty. The plaza's pedestrians froze in astonishment. A businessman mid-stride nearly spilled his latte as the cat winked down at him.
A beat of puzzled silence, then a ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. Some teens waiting at the tram stop hooted and applauded the absurd spectacle. "Is this an ad for cat perfume or did someone hack the servers?" an elderly woman quipped to her companion, who shrugged, mouth agape. The billboard wasn't done—now it cycled through a rapid series of images: the perfume bottle spinning, then sprouting cartoon cat ears; a famous actor's face distorted with a giant clown nose; a motivational slogan reassembling itself into a bawdy limerick. Each transition elicited new giggles and guffaws from onlookers.
High above, nestled invisibly among the billboard's projectors and circuitry, a cluster of nanites scurried and replicated, their tiny bodies bridging circuits in mischievous ways. To them, the billboard's control unit was just another playground of code and light. In their curious tinkering, they had unwittingly become performance artists for the morning.
Not everyone was amused for long. When the same billboard suddenly went dark with a fizzle, the crowd's laughter turned to groans of disappointment—and mild annoyance. Across the plaza, automated transit pods were also stalling: a string of glossy, self-driving commuter carriages halted along their guideway as if someone had pulled an invisible brake. Commuters inside peered out, frustrated. One pod door opened mid-block, spilling out a pair of office drones who decided to hoof it rather than wait. A few late-for-work types muttered under their breath about "bloody unreliable tech" as they scurried around the stalled vehicles.
A sharp-dressed man in a hurry jabbed at his ear implant, recording a quick holovid of the bizarre scene—glitching ads and stationary pods—to share on the swarm's social feed. "Unbelievable," he grumbled, though a bemused smile tugged at his lips. "First they entertain us, then they make us late." He angled his eye-cam to capture the cat-faced billboard's final flicker for posterity. By the time a maintenance AI reset the system (restoring a very confused perfume model to her glamour shot), the video clip was already winging its way across the Dyson swarm's data nets, destined to rack up views and disbelieving comments before the man even reached his desk.
Not far away in Habitat Beta—a high-tech research cylinder known for its university and labs—the day's experiments were getting a surprise of their own. In Lab 3C of the Swarm University's nano-engineering department, Dr. Anjali Prakash frowned at an anomalous reading on her experimental nanobot colony. The tiny robots in her Petrie dish were supposed to be safely sealed and running a controlled routine, yet their behavior on the monitor looked nothing like the protocol.
"That's not our code," her research assistant murmured, leaning in. The display showed the nanobots clustering in an unexpected pattern, forming little roving spirals. It was almost as if they were chasing something invisible across the dish.
Dr. Prakash opened the containment hood with careful, gloved hands. A few colleagues gathered behind her, curiosity piqued. Inside the transparent enclosure, her own nanobots were indeed swarming strangely—but not alone. A second later, she saw it: a silvery gleam as a few foreign nanites scuttled over the rim of the dish, joining her engineered bots in a microscopic dance.
"Alert security?" whispered one junior researcher, uncertain if this was an experiment gone haywire or something else entirely.
"Hold on," Dr. Prakash said. She gently placed a polymer slide over the dish to trap the intruders. Peering through a magnifier, she observed the interlopers. They were slightly different in design from her lab-grown ones—these had a more generalized structure and a faint blue shimmer. They looked… wild.
"Fascinating," she breathed. Rather than panic, the scientist felt a surge of excitement. "These aren't ours. They must have come in from outside—maybe through the air ducts." The notion was unbelievable; their habitat's safety filters should catch rogue nanos. Yet here they were, alive (so to speak) and multiplying right before her eyes.
Within minutes, a few dozen of the stray nanites had been isolated under the slide. The team quickly deactivated the lab's ventilation and set a containment field, just in case. Dr. Prakash began tapping at her datapad to run a spectroscopic analysis. As graphs danced across her screen, her assistant grinned nervously. "Think they're the ones from the news? That… nanite panic, or whatever they're calling it?"
"Possibly," Dr. Prakash replied, arching an eyebrow. "If so, we might be the first to get a close look at them." She couldn't help a slight smile of her own. In the back of her mind, she was already drafting an academic paper on this unexpected find. She leaned closer to the dish, watching the newcomers interface curiously with her lab bots, as if comparing notes. "Let's notify the others, and keep these fellows happy for now." One thing was certain: in a story full of absurd twists, the scientists of Habitat Beta had just found the most intriguing puzzle piece yet.
Back on Westcote Habitat, in the cramped yet suddenly quiet corridors of what had been Ground Zero, Mike Flannery and Siobhan O'Connell were knee-deep in cleanup. The depot's cargo bay, which yesterday roiled with silver swarms, now held only the scattered detritus of containment foam and hastily abandoned equipment. Flannery, bleary-eyed from an adrenaline-fueled, sleepless night, swept a pile of broken drone parts into a bin and exhaled. The nanites that hadn't escaped were either inert clumps on the floor or sealed in jars by the hazmat teams. For the moment, Westcote was eerily calm.
"Feels like the morning after a pub brawl," Flannery said, voice echoing. His jumpsuit was still smudged with metallic dust despite Siobhan's earlier insistence he run it through decon. She stood nearby, tablet in hand, documenting the damages and glancing occasionally at Flannery with both sympathy and exasperation.
"If by pub brawl you mean a hundred thousand tiny robots redecorating the walls, then yes," Siobhan replied dryly. Her own uniform bore a few scuffs and a singe mark on the sleeve—a badge of last night's chaos. She tucked a loose strand of auburn hair back into her bun and tried to give Flannery a reassuring half-smile. "At least it's under control here."
No sooner had those words left her mouth than her tablet pinged stridently—one alert after another, a cascade of chimes. Flannery's wrist comm began buzzing as well. The two shared a knowing, weary glance. Peace never lasted long in bureaucracy.
Siobhan's eyes widened at her screen. "Multiple incident reports… good grief." She tapped through them, lips tightening. "Habitat Epsilon, Gamma, Beta—there are nanite sightings coming in from all over the ring. Farming equipment anomalies, transit disruptions, unauthorized lab visitors…" She looked up at Flannery, who had frozen mid-sweep. A cold pit formed in his stomach.
"Don't tell me," he groaned, rubbing a calloused hand over his face. "They've gone and spread, have they? Saints preserve us…"
He hurried over to her side as she flicked to a live message. An agitated face popped up in holo above the tablet—a middle-aged man wearing overalls and a holographic name-tag that read Epsilon Farms Co-Op.
"Oi, Westcote Station, is it?" the man on the screen barked in a country brogue not unlike Flannery's own. Behind him, one could make out a barn and a glint of moving machinery. "Ye the ones that sent over those glitter critters? We got a bundle of 'em fixing tractors without so much as a by-your-leave!" His tone was a bewildering mix of complaint and gratitude.
Flannery flushed. "We most certainly did not send them, sir," he answered, leaning into Siobhan's screen. "Those blasted nanites—erm, beggin' your pardon—weren't supposed to leave my depot at all. They must've hitched a ride."
"Well, they're here now," huffed the farmer, though his relief was evident. "Could've warned us. Nearly gave old Willard on plot nine a heart attack, waking up to self-ploughing fields!" The man managed a wry chuckle. "I'd be angrier if they hadn't also fixed my drone harvester's engine. Thing runs better'n new. Still, what's the official word? Should we be worried?"
Siobhan stepped in with professional calm. "Containment teams are en route to your location. In the meantime, do not attempt to destroy the nanites on your own—they're generally harmless if left unprovoked. And…" she exchanged a glance with Flannery, "we're glad to hear they haven't caused damage. Stay by your comm unit; we'll update you shortly."
The farmer nodded and signed off with a tip of his cap. Flannery let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Harmless if left unprovoked was a generous interpretation, but he bit his tongue.
Barely had that call ended when Flannery's wrist comm buzzed again. This time it was a written notice—flashing the bold insignia of Interstellar Infrastructure Corp, his employer. Morgan's doing, no doubt. Flannery tapped it open and groaned. "They've issued a press statement already?"
He read aloud in a deadpan monotone: "Interstellar Infrastructure Corp assures residents that the nanite incident is of limited scope and under control. We urge the public to remain calm and refrain from spreading unverified information." He rolled his eyes so hard it nearly qualified as a medical event. "Limited scope, is it? Under control, is it?" he scoffed. "That farmer just told us they're gallivantin' across half the ring! If this is under control, I'm a bloomin' leprechaun."
Siobhan couldn't suppress a snort at that. "Damage control by corporate PR," she said. "They probably had that drafted the minute our boss started sweating." She tapped her tablet to forward the statement to her Habitat Authority superiors, then paused. A stream of social media pings was lighting up another window of her display. "Uh oh. Looks like the media's fully awake now too."
Flannery glanced over and saw a flood of incoming public feeds: trending tags like #NaniteSwarm and #GrayGooNot were ticker-taping across her screen. There were images—grainy but unmistakable—of shimmering dust pooling around a city plaza bench, of perplexed faces outside a stalled tram, of what looked like a cat giant looming on a malfunctioning display. News headlines flickered by: "Nano-Storm Hits Multiple Habitats", "Outbreak or Odd Jobs? Rogue Nanites on the Loose". One video showed a bemused reporter outside a farm dome where tiny glitter trails were visible on a tractor's wheels.
One anchorwoman's voice cut through the din in a recorded clip: "Is this a gray goo apocalypse?" she asked dramatically, referring to the doomsday scenario of out-of-control nanotech. "Experts say no… for now. But authorities are scrambling to contain what some are calling the Nanite Panic of our time." The report cut to a scientist nervously assuring the public these nanites seemed more interested in machinery than human flesh, which hardly comforted anyone.
Flannery rubbed his temples. "Nanite Panic," he muttered. "Lovely. They've gone and named it like a bloody hurricane." His shoulders sagged under the weight of the fiasco. All he'd wanted was to follow the rulebook and do his job—now he was the reluctant caretaker of a crisis spanning light-minutes of space.
Sensing his dejection, Siobhan placed a hand lightly on his arm. "Hey, it's not all on you, Flannery. This was a systemic failure—lots of folks will share the blame." Her tone was firm, but her eyes were kinder now. "For what it's worth, you fought hard to keep this contained. I saw that with my own eyes. We'll just… fight harder, at a higher level."
He looked at her, tired blue eyes meeting steady green. In the chaos of the past day, this stern regulatory agent had somehow become an ally. Flannery managed a weak smile. "Aye. Appreciate it, Miss O'Connell. Though I fear the higher-ups'll fight harder to pin it on the likes of me." He sighed, but straightened up. "Right then. Best get ready for the next round. Sounds like the whole swarm's about to descend on this mess."
The narrator—the ever-watchful AI mind lacing through the swarm's systems—couldn't help a wry interjection: In the grand scheme of cosmic events, the escape of a few trillion nanobots might barely register as a blip. But for the denizens of the Dyson swarm this fine morning, it was the headline, a source of equal parts slapstick and dread. The genie was out of the bottle (or rather, the nanites were out of the box), and no amount of optimistic corporate memos could stuff them back in. Not yet, at least.
As Flannery and Siobhan braced themselves for incoming orders and frantic calls, the wider swarm buzzed—figuratively and literally—with news of the nanite outbreak. Tiny mechanical mischief-makers were the talk of every breakfast table and boardroom. In short, panic (the silly, bureaucratic sort more than the truly dangerous kind) had indeed taken hold. And our harried heroes were about to be swept from a local farce into a whole-society spectacle.
Chapter 12: Meme Invasion
By midday, the nanite fiasco had become the Dyson swarm's hottest trending topic—spreading through data feeds even faster than the glittery critters themselves. On every habitat's local net, citizens were chattering, joking, theorizing, and fretting in equal measure. The AI narrator, tuned into this digital cacophony, observed with wry amusement how human (and AI) nature processed panic through humor and rumor.
One particularly popular feed, Galactic MemeFeed, shared a video clip titled "Nanite Dance Party". The footage, apparently taken from a Westcote security cam, showed a grainy cloud of nanites swirling in a maintenance hallway. Someone had set the video to a remixed pop song—a decades-old dance hit with an irresistibly cheesy beat—and synchronized the nanites' swirling motion to look like they were boogieing. The caption read: "When you're a tiny robot but Friday's still got you feeling it." In the span of an hour, this bit of absurdity had been looped and shared millions of times. Office workers on their lunch break chuckled at their holoscreens, watching nanites do the electric slide between panels.
Not to be outdone, the conspiracy corners of the net had their own take. On the fringe forum Universe Unveiled, a user going by TruthIsOutThere77 posted a shaky-cam video of a nanite cluster skittering under a café door, with the ominous caption: "Leaked: Government AI ploy? Alien spores? #NanoGate." The accompanying rant—complete with ALL CAPS and dubious logic—claimed that the swarm's central governors had released the nanites intentionally to justify more surveillance. It gained enough traction that a solemn Habitat Security spokesperson had to officially deny the presence of "alien nano-mind-control dust." (This only fueled further speculation, naturally.)
A more lighthearted viral hit came from a satire news site, The Daily Comet, which published an irresistibly clickbaity article: "Top 10 Uses for Pet Nanites (You Won't Believe #6!)". People across the swarm read it and snorted coffee out their noses at entries like:
Self-Assembling Coffee Mug Heaters – Your morning brew gone cold? A handful of nanites will reheat it in seconds, whether you want them to or not!
Automated Dandruff Collectors – Finally, a use for those stray skin cells. Nanites: because every flake matters.
Living Room Disco Ball – They already sparkle; just add music and let them hover for instant party decor.
Instant Pet Sitters – Who needs a dog-walker when your nanite cloud can herd Fido around the block?
Free Glitter Provider – Arts and crafts time? They'll coat your project (and your entire house) in shiny specks for that fabulous touch.
The rest of the list was equally ridiculous, and it ended with a disclaimer: "No nanites were harmed in the making of this list. Please do not attempt to actually acquire pet nanites… seriously, don't." The article's share counter skyrocketed as people embraced humor to cope with the creeping unease.
At the Westcote depot's makeshift command center (formerly Flannery's office, now strewn with comm equipment and empty coffee cups), Flannery and Siobhan caught snippets of this memetic wildfire between frantic planning calls. A junior technician—one of the support staff sent from HQ—was hunched over a console nearby, scrolling furiously through the #NaniteSwarm feed during a brief lull.
Suddenly the young man stifled a laugh. He glanced over at Flannery, then back at his screen, then back at Flannery, clearly struggling to keep a straight face. Flannery narrowed his eyes. "Alright, out with it. What's tickled ye?"
The tech cleared his throat. "Sir, it's just… well, you appear to be trending." He swiveled his console around so Flannery and Siobhan could see. On the display was a freeze-frame image of Flannery from the previous night—caught mid-leap in the depot corridor, arms flailing wildly as he attempted to net a swarm of nanites. His expression was a comical mask of determination and panic.
Flannery's cheeks went redder than a Martian sunset. "Oh for the love of—" There was more. Superimposed on the image in bold letters was the title "Nanite Wrangler of Westcote!". Someone had added a cartoon cowboy hat on Flannery's head and a little lasso in his hand, twirling around the sparkling swarm. The internet had officially immortalized his less-than-flattering heroics.
Siobhan pressed her lips together, trying and failing not to laugh. "It's... rather cute, actually," she managed, eyes shining with mirth. "They gave you a hat."
"Glad my ordeal's providing quality entertainment," Flannery grumbled, though a corner of his mouth twitched upwards despite himself. "What's next, action figures?" He shook his head and sank into his chair. He had hoped to keep a low profile through this mess—fat chance of that now. It's not every day a man becomes a meme while just trying to do his job.
The technician chimed in helpfully, "For what it's worth, sir, people are calling you a hero in some comments. Like, uh, here: '#NaniteWrangler is the hero we need, not the one we deserve'—it's mostly sarcastic, but still." If anything, this seemed to deepen Flannery's embarrassment.
Siobhan gave the tech a mild glare and waved him back to work. She then laid a hand on Flannery's shoulder. "Mike, don't let it get to you. Half of them are laughing at the absurdity, not at you personally." She quirked a sly smile. "And the other half might actually be impressed you tried to lasso a cloud of nanites. Stupid as that was."
He covered his face with one hand. "Saints defend us... the whole swarm's having a grand old laugh while we're up to our ears in it." His voice was a mix of humiliation and exhaustion. But Siobhan's use of his first name—Mike, not Mr. Flannery—was not lost on him. It was oddly comforting, like a friend speaking instead of a bureaucrat.
Any fleeting comfort, however, was interrupted by a new development on the overhead vidscreen. A stern anchor with perfect hair appeared, hosting a panel discussion titled "Nanite Crisis: Who's Responsible?". A split-screen showed representatives from IIC (Interstellar Infrastructure Corp) and the Dyson Habitat Council. The corporate spokesperson, sweating visibly under studio lights, repeated the official line: the incident was limited, under control, being handled. The Habitat Councilwoman, in contrast, was livid. "Under control? Tell that to the citizens stuck in elevators for hours!" she snapped, waving a tablet showing complaint statistics. "This is a failure of corporate oversight, plain and simple."
Flannery grimaced at the screen. He recognized the corporate man as one of Morgan's colleagues from PR. "Poor devil," he muttered. "Bet he drew the short straw." Indeed, the PR man's attempt at a reassuring smile looked more like a pained grimace as he fielded questions about accountability and potential damages. One crawler headline at the bottom of the screen read: "Calls for Emergency Summit as Nanite Troubles Continue."
Siobhan tapped that headline on her tablet, pulling up the full news story. "They're convening an emergency multi-habitat meeting tonight," she said, scanning. "High-level, all parties. Our dear friend Mr. Morgan will be there, I'm sure… likely with his knives out." She didn't need to elaborate; Flannery knew Morgan would be looking for someone to blame outside his own department.
On the vidscreen, the discussion had taken a turn as viewer comments scrolled in real-time. The initial humor in #NaniteSwarm posts was shifting towards frustration. One highlighted comment read, "Funny or not, I missed a job interview thanks to these nanobugs. Not laughing now." Another: "If IIC can't control their tech, maybe the Habitat Authority should take over." The anchor pointed out the change in public mood: what started as a comedy was turning into outrage in some quarters, fear in others. Meme time was over; people wanted solutions.
The AI narrator interjected quietly, addressing the reader with a knowing tone: Crises often follow a familiar trajectory in the public eye—first the novelty, then the punchlines, and finally the finger-pointing. Our nanite adventure was no exception. Having giggled at dancing robots in the morning, the citizens of the swarm by afternoon were demanding someone's head on a platter (or at least a very strongly worded apology). The stage was being set for bureaucrats and leaders to do what they do best: convene, argue, and form committees.
Siobhan turned off the sound on the panel show, leaving the captions to crawl silently. She glanced at Flannery. "We should gear up. If there's an emergency summit, they might drag us into it as 'expert witnesses' or something."
Flannery closed his eyes for a moment, mustering his strength. "Aye. The day just keeps getting better." Drained as he was, there was a spark of determination in his voice. If the world was going to make him the face of this fiasco—hero, fool, or scapegoat—he might as well see it through and fight his corner.
With public humor curdling into public pressure, the wheels of officialdom began to spin at breakneck speed. The afternoon light of Westcote's dome glinted off the countless bureaucratic memos now flying through cyberspace like panicked pigeons. Flannery and Siobhan stood shoulder to shoulder amid the clutter of the depot-turned-command-center, bracing for the next act. The swarm's laughter was dying down, and in its wake came a bureaucratic battle cry: Somebody do something about those nanites! The absurd little farce was evolving into a full-fledged administrative showdown, and ready or not, they were about to be in the thick of it.
Chapter 13: Whose Jurisdiction?
That evening, an emergency triage conference blinked to life across the Dyson swarm's communication network. In a dozen habitats, holo-projectors hummed and conference rooms filled with the anxious faces (or avatars) of those who would try to tame the nanite crisis with the most fearsome weapons at their disposal: paperwork and meetings.
Flannery found himself sitting stiffly in a chair at Westcote's Habitat Authority office, a glossy roundtable holo-screen projected before him. Siobhan sat to his right, offering a small nod of encouragement. The long day's events had left him in a second-hand suit jacket hastily provided by someone ("to look presentable on camera," they said) and his hair still stubbornly askew. He felt about as comfortable as a sheep at a wolves' convention.
Around the virtual table, participants' faces and figures flickered in real time. At the head was an officious Habitat Council moderator from Nova Lumina, flanked by a stern Dyson Habitat Coalition governor with a flowing sash. Across from them hovered the holographic likeness of Mr. Morgan, who had dialed in from corporate HQ—jaw clenched, tie impeccably knotted, eyes darting. Beside Morgan, two corporate legal advisors peered over spectacles. Another window displayed a stylized face with gently pulsing lights: the avatar of the AI Claimant, MORHOUSE, attending as an interested party. Several other habitat governors and security chiefs tuned in as well, creating a mosaic of concerned bureaucrats and executives.
A polite chime signaled the start of proceedings. The moderator, a silver-haired woman with an excess of gravitas, cleared her throat. "Thank you all for attending this Special Crisis Session," she intoned. "For the record, we are here to address the multi-habitat nanite proliferation incident. I will begin by acknowledging participants." She proceeded to read a list of names and titles so grandiloquent that Flannery nearly zoned out then and there.
"...Governor Celeste Okoro of Westcote Habitat, Chair of the Dyson Habitat Safety Council... Mr. Gerald Morgan, Tariff Division Chief, Interstellar Infrastructure Corp... MOR-HOUSE AI, independent claimant entity... Ms. Siobhan O'Connell, Deputy Inspector, Habitat Authority Westcote... Mr. Michael Flannery, Shipping and Receiving Agent, IIC Westcote Depot..." Flannery flushed when his turn came—his humble title sounded absurd amid the parade of dignitaries. He gave a little awkward wave to no one in particular.
Formalities dispensed with, the floor opened to chaos. "This is utterly unacceptable," boomed Governor Okoro of Westcote, eyes blazing. Her hologram leaned forward like a falcon about to strike. "My habitat's public systems have been compromised due to IIC's negligence. We have tram outages, frightened citizens, and countless disruptions. Interstellar Infrastructure Corp must answer for this debacle!"
Morgan's hologram stiffened. He forced a thin smile. "The corporation shares your concern, Governor," he began in a syrupy corporate tone. "However, I must clarify that these nanites were the property of a private client and were in transit under all proper procedures." He shot a quick glare at Flannery's image, as if to warn him to keep silent about how 'proper' those procedures really were. "Any spread beyond the Westcote depot was... an unforeseen circumstance."
"Unforeseen circumstance!" sputtered another official, the mayor of Gamma Habitat, throwing his hands up. "Our main plaza looked like a techno-circus this morning! Public confidence is plummeting. We're lucky no one's been hurt... yet. You can't just brush this off."
A crisp, synthetic voice cut through the budding shouting match. "Clarification requested," intoned MORHOUSE, the Claimant AI's avatar flickering amber. "The nanite units in question remain the property of this claimant. As such, jurisdiction over their handling is contested." The AI spoke with an oddly calm yet unyielding cadence, like a judge reading a verdict. "This entity formally protests the unauthorized dissemination of its property across multiple sites, and the insufficient safeguards by IIC that allowed it."
Flannery's ears burned. Insufficient safeguards, is it? he thought indignantly. He'd tried every safeguard he could think of short of standing on his head. But at least the AI was putting heat on Morgan too.
One of the corporate lawyers, a prim woman with severe glasses, interjected, "With all respect, the contract of carriage included standard liability clauses. The Claimant will be duly compensated according to—"
Governor Okoro interrupted with a sharp slice of her hand. "Let's set aside compensation for a moment and focus on stopping this thing from escalating!" She flipped through a datapad. "Our science advisors classify these nanites as an invasive technological species. Under Article 17 of the Habitat Biosafety Accords, we have the right to implement containment and eradication measures on any foreign replicating entity threatening our ecosystems." Her tone was triumphant, as if she'd pulled a legal ace from her sleeve.
Morgan's lawyer adjusted her glasses and replied coolly, "Those accords apply to biological pathogens and invasive organisms. The items in question here are manufactured nanotech, which fall under the Interstellar Commercial Code, Section 42b, regarding lost or stolen goods in transit. Which, I might add, remain property of IIC's client. Any unilateral 'eradication' by habitats might constitute destruction of private property and make you liable." She smiled thinly, clearly pleased with herself for that retort.
A cacophony of rebuttals exploded. "Liable?!" "So you're saying we do nothing?" "We'll see you in court if you interfere—!" "Enough!"
Over the overlapping voices, Flannery could hear his own heart pounding. This wasn't a rescue planning session, it was a blame game with bonus jargon. Meanwhile, precious time was slipping by.
He didn't intend to speak. He really didn't. But exasperation got the better of him. Flannery suddenly lurched forward in his seat, blurting out, "Arguing over who's liable won't stop the wee devils from replicatin'!" His voice rang out, brogue and all, cutting through the boardroom babble. "Call them pests or property or precious little darlings if ye like—fact is, they're breeding faster than we're talking. We need action, not a flaming legal glossary!"
A stunned silence. On Flannery's holo-screen, he could see a few jaws literally dropped. Morgan looked mortified, as if a waiter had upended soup into his lap. Siobhan's eyes went wide; under the table she gave Flannery's leg a quick cautionary kick, too late.
The moderator recovered first, adjusting her spectacles. "Mr. Flannery, thank you for that… candid input," she said dryly. "In the future, please request the floor." Morgan's hologram mutely seethed, one hand covering his face.
Before anyone else could scold Flannery, Siobhan spoke up in her most diplomatic voice. "Madam Moderator, if I may expand on Mr. Flannery's point—" She didn't wait for permission. "We have on-the-ground experience with these nanites. The longer we debate jurisdiction, the more they spread. We need a coordinated containment strategy, yesterday."
She shot Flannery a quick side-eye that clearly said easy now. Then she continued, "Perhaps a joint task force? One that pools both IIC's resources and the Habitat Authority's powers. We can sort out exact jurisdictions later, once the immediate hazard is dealt with."
There were nods around the table at this measure of reason. The Gamma mayor mopped his brow. Governor Okoro exhaled through her nose, displeased but relenting. "A joint task force… yes, that could be a start," she conceded. "Though I insist on habitat security leading any operations in civilian areas."
Morgan jumped in, eager to claw back some control. "Naturally, we'd expect IIC personnel to direct efforts on corporate property and industrial sectors. Our teams know the technology best."
"Perhaps a split approach, then," proposed the moderator, steepling her fingers. "Each party handles containment on their own turf: habitats in public spaces, IIC on corporate sites. We share information and not step on each other's toes."
It was a ridiculously bureaucratic compromise—dividing a swarm of nanites by invisible jurisdictional lines that those nanites certainly wouldn't respect. But it was something. And something was better than shouting.
MORHOUSE's avatar pulsed again. "This arrangement does not address this claimant's property retrieval rights," the AI said, voice as even as ever. "However, this unit agrees that containment is the priority. I will refrain from independent retrieval actions for now, provided I am kept apprised of progress." The threat behind those words was subtle but real; Flannery pictured the AI's drones already poised to swoop in if it sensed foot-dragging.
"Duly noted, MORHOUSE," the moderator replied, with a thin veneer of patience. "You will have observer status on the task force." The AI's face blinked a slow green acceptance.
And so, amid grudging nods and a flurry of digital handshakes, the Joint Nanite Crisis Task Force was born. (Flannery couldn't help noticing the Habitat Council already abbreviated it to J-NCTF in an email summary. Bureaucrats do love their acronyms.)
By meeting's end, a basic action plan emerged: come dawn, coordinated sweeps and traps would commence across affected habitats. IIC would deploy specialist tech teams (belatedly flown in) to assist, and habitat authorities would muster security units with whatever high-tech bug-catching gear they could improvise. They agreed to reconvene in 24 hours to share results—or sooner if things went sideways.
Flannery was in a daze as the holo-faces winked out one by one. Only when he heard his name did he realize he had been addressed. "Mr. Flannery," Morgan repeated sharply. "Congratulations. You've been volunteered as a consultant to this task force." The word 'consultant' had a sting to it, as if Flannery were now stuck with a job no one else wanted. "You'll remain on-call to advise and assist all teams—since, after all, you seem to have first-hand expertise in our little runaway problem." Morgan's forced smile conveyed both faux praise and reprimand.
"Aye… understood," Flannery said, too bewildered to object. Consultant? Him? He exchanged a glance with Siobhan, who gave a subtle nod as if to say we'll manage.
As Flannery logged off the conference and the empty real-world room settled around them, he let out a breath. Siobhan stretched, cracking a rare grin. "Cheer up, consultant. You wanted action instead of talk—now you've got a task force to boss around."
He let out a dry chuckle at that. "I somehow doubt I'll be bossing anyone, but if it gets those nanites bottled up, I'll call meself the Queen of Sheba for all I care." Rubbing his eyes, he stood, feeling the weight of exhaustion mixed with a jolt of adrenaline. "They're actually going to let us get on with it. Imagine that."
The AI narrator's presence flickered at the edges of their awareness, offering a closing aside: And so the baton was passed from the talkers to the doers, however imperfectly. The humans (and AIs) in suits had pontificated and pointed fingers, but at last came grudging agreement to roll up their sleeves—literal for Flannery, metaphorical for the rest—and try to corral the metallic pixies they'd unleashed. It was a plan held together with hope, duct tape, and mutual distrust, but it was a plan.
As Flannery and Siobhan left the conference room, the intercom was already announcing overnight shuttle departures, bringing in equipment and personnel for the grand round-up. The real work would begin at first light. Flannery squared his shoulders, feeling a mix of trepidation and resolve. Absurd as it all was, he had wanted someone to do something—now that someone was partially him.
Tomorrow, they'd chase nanites on multiple worlds. Tonight, at least, he'd try to snatch a few hours of uneasy sleep (if his newfound internet fame allowed it). The bureaucratic battlefield had yielded to the operational front lines, and in a few short hours the comedic calamity would enter its next phase. The calm before the storm was over; the wranglers, official and otherwise, were saddling up at dawn.
Chapter 14: The Great Nanite Round-Up
True to plan (or at least to hopeful intention), the very next morning a coordinated nanite hunt began across the afflicted habitats. The AI narrator took in the spectacle from a bird's-eye view, privately likening it to a bizarre interplanetary rodeo—except instead of broncos, they wrangled swarms of glitter, and instead of cowboys, they had bureaucrats and engineers clutching high-tech gadgets with varying degrees of confidence.
On Westcote Habitat, Flannery found himself marching down a corridor once again, but this time he wasn't alone. Clad in a borrowed anti-static jumpsuit, he led a small squad of IIC technicians and habitat security officers. They swept through the construction depot and adjacent tunnels methodically. The corporation had overnighted some shiny new containment tools: handheld EM pulse "herders" and vacuum canisters explicitly calibrated for nanites. Flannery, naturally, preferred his trusty broom in one hand—a little low-tech persuasion to complement the fancy gear.
"Scanner's picking up movement in the maintenance shafts," called one technician, eyes on a blinking device. The team pried open a vent grate, and out poured a few dozen nanites, twinkling like a spill of mercury. At once, Flannery and company sprang into action. A security officer fired a directed pulse from a rifle-like device—the nanites shuddered and went briefly inert, clinging to the wall in a clump. Seizing the moment, Flannery lunged forward with an industrial vacuum hose, sucking the cluster straight into a reinforced canister. He slapped the lid shut with a triumphant whoop.
By midday, Westcote's Task Force contingent had captured what they estimated to be nearly all stray nanites on the habitat. The team convened at a loading bay where an IIC shuttle waited to ferry the secured canisters to a central storage. Flannery stood proudly by the largest container, which now hummed faintly with thousands of nanites sealed inside. He hadn't felt this accomplished in… well, ever, really.
His pride lasted about three seconds.
"I'll take that, thank you," declared a brusque voice. It was Westcote's Governor Okoro, flanked by habitat security aides. Though not in person—her face glowered from a hover-drone's display—she clearly intended to assert control. "All confiscated nanites on Westcote fall under habitat jurisdiction for disposal."
A young IIC supervisor, sent to oversee the handoff, clutched the canister protectively. "These units are IIC property and evidence in an ongoing corporate investigation," he snapped back. "Our shuttle will be taking them to a secure lab." He tugged on the container. The habitat aide grabbed the other handle. Neither yielded.
Flannery found himself quite literally in the middle, one hand still resting on the container as the two officials engaged in a surreal tug-of-war. His head swiveled from one to the other. "Careful!" he pleaded, worried the lid might jostle open or the whole thing might drop. Both officials froze, realizing the same horror: a container break now would shower them in the very nanites they'd worked so hard to corral.
With exaggerated delicacy, they set the canister back down. The Governor's drone bobbed in irritation. "This isn't over," she warned. "We will sort out custody once they're all accounted for. Mark my words, IIC will not spirit away our problem and leave us with the mess." The drone then zipped off, presumably to harangue someone else.
The IIC supervisor rolled his eyes and signaled his team to start loading the shuttle—with the contentious canister firmly strapped down to avoid any accidents. Flannery let out a long breath. "We've caught 'em… and still everyone's fit to squabble."
A weary habitat officer patted Flannery's shoulder. "Welcome to my life," he joked. Flannery offered a wan smile. At least Westcote was clear, for now.
Elsewhere in the Dyson swarm, parallel scenes played out with varying degrees of success and farce. On farming Habitat Epsilon, a joint team of local farmers and IIC engineers had decided to lure the nanites into one place using their hunger for raw materials. In a grand barn under a simulated sunrise, they piled a mountain of scrap metal, old circuit boards, and a tempting tub of bio-organic goo (for dessert, perhaps). The idea was simple: attract and trap.
At first, it worked like a charm. From across the fields, glimmering trails of nanites converged, drawn by the bounty. The farmers and engineers watched from behind a hastily erected force-field corral as countless little metallic critters streamed in under the barn doors and amassed on the scrap heap, setting to work devouring and assimilating it. The pile twitched and shrank as if alive, which in a sense it was.
"Would ya look at that," Farmer Wilcox whispered, the same man who yesterday thanked the nanites as 'sprites'. He had never seen so many in one place—a shimmering hill of busy, tinkling granules. "It's almost… pretty."
"Alright, phase two," muttered the IIC engineer beside him, holding a remote detonator for the containment field. Once enough nanites were feasting within the target zone, they planned to slam a containment dome shut around the barn. All eyes were on his trigger thumb.
Unfortunately, the swarm's automated infrastructure had other plans. The growing weight of nanites and scrap on the barn's floor activated a long-neglected subroutine—one that assumed a harvest was complete. Without warning, a deep rumble sounded. Before anyone could shout "What's happening?", the barn's ancient grain silo sprang to life, misidentifying the metallic pile as a bumper crop of something to store. Conveyor belts and robotic scoops deployed from the ceiling, whirring and clanking.
In an instant, the nanite hill got scooped straight up by a giant automated auger, which cheerfully began to carry its sparkling contents toward the silo. Those nanites not caught in the first scoop scattered in alarm, flowing out of the dome's reach.
"No no no!" yelped the engineer, mashing the containment trigger. But he was seconds too late. The dome's energy field slammed down, ensnaring some of the nanites and scrap—but a good portion had already been flung outside or remained swirling in the auger tube. The team watched in horror as the silo's internal systems, oblivious to their panic, neatly deposited a good chunk of the nanite swarm into a grain storage unit. A quaint readout even chimed "Storage Full".
Wilcox slapped his forehead. "Well, that's one way to bottle 'em," he said weakly. The barn was now a mess of half-deployed containment field, furious nanites skittering around its edges, and a silo that had literally taken the problem into itself. The farmer and engineer exchanged a look of mutual exasperation. At least some nanites were captured, but extracting them from the silo would be a whole new headache.
Over on Habitat Gamma's glistening cityscape, the round-up took on a more militaristic flair. Habitat security officers clad in riot gear prowled the streets with prototype "nanite disrupter" rifles. These weapons emitted narrow-beam pulses intended to fry nanites' circuits on contact. In theory, they worked. In practice… well, the officers found out that when you fry a nanite that's currently interfacing with, say, an electronic billboard or a traffic light, unexpected things happen.
Zap! A squad blasted a cluster crawling over a public transit control panel; immediately the mag-lev tram froze and, in a comedic reversal of yesterday, refused to open its doors, trapping puzzled commuters inside until a manual override was engaged.
Zap! Another well-aimed shot took out a chain of nanites slinking along a power conduit. The nanites dropped—success!—but so did the power on that block, plunging a whole avenue of shops into darkness in the middle of the day. A chorus of confused yelps and the crash of at least one dropped smoothie followed.
Zap! A particularly dramatic misfire occurred when an officer pursued a glinting trail into an office lobby. He unknowingly blasted a nanite that had cozied up inside a cleaning bot. The bot promptly malfunctioned and sprayed the officer with a foamy jet of floor wax, sending him flailing and sliding across the marble tiles. (This moment, naturally, was captured on a civilian's eye-cam and would later compete with Flannery's cowboy meme for funniest nanite-era blooper.)
Despite collateral antics, by late afternoon Gamma's task force reported a solid dent in their nanite population. The habitat's mayor—after scolding the security captain for three separate downtown outages—reluctantly conceded progress had been made. "Nanite activity reduced by approximately 40%," one official report declared, though it added in fine print that confidence in this estimate was "low to moderate."
Across all sites, the day ended with a cautious sense of semi-victory. Many nanites had been rounded up or neutralized. In Westcote's commandeered depot, dozens of sealed canisters now sat in neat rows, humming like beehives filled with glittering honey. Similar caches were secured on Gamma and Epsilon, slated for transport to one central containment facility where, it was hoped, they could do no harm.
But of course, concentrating all the captured nanites made some folks uneasy—as if gathering gremlins into one pot simply tempted them to merge into one super-gremlin. The narrator's view lingered on one such stash in Westcote: tucked in a storage vault, under guard and cameras, yet still exuding an aura of mischief barely contained.
Late that evening, Flannery and Siobhan reconvened at the depot control room, which had become task force HQ. They were bone-tired but cautiously optimistic. Flannery nursed a mug of tea (finally lukewarm, not self-boiling, thank heavens). Siobhan scanned status updates on her console. "Westcote secure, Gamma mostly secure, Epsilon… well, they got a lot of them," she summarized. "Beta's research folks apparently contained theirs in a lab without incident." She breathed out. "We might have actually done it, or close."
Flannery allowed himself a small smile. The first real one in days. "Maybe now we can all have a normal night's sleep," he said. "No glitterbombs in the vents, no emergency alarms. I'd toast to that." He raised his tea, and Siobhan clinked her coffee cup against it with a quiet laugh.
For a moment, a comfortable silence settled. Through the control room window, Westcote's artificial dusk glowed gentle and purple. Flannery glanced at Siobhan, both of them sharing the rare calm. "Listen… I know we got off on the wrong foot," he began, voice low. "But I appreciate all you did. Couldn't have managed this without ye."
She met his eyes, a bit of fatigue giving way to warmth. "You did alright yourself, Mike. Almost like you have some idea what you're doing." Her lips curved in a teasing smirk. "Even if your style is more 'swing a broom and holler' than standard procedure."
He chuckled. "Whatever works, eh?" A beat passed, and he added more softly, "Means a lot that you backed me up today… in the meeting and out here."
Siobhan simply placed her hand over his for a brief moment, a quiet gesture of mutual respect. "We make a decent team, don't we?" she said.
Before Flannery could answer, a comm console began flashing red. Both of them tensed. So did that fragile hope that the worst was over.
Siobhan tapped the console. "What now…?" A voice message auto-played, accompanied by urgent text: Nanite resurgence detected – Franklin Habitat (Corp HQ) – multiple systems impacted.
Flannery's stomach dropped. Franklin Habitat? That was IIC's central hub, home of Morgan's offices and countless corporate servers. It hadn't even been on the list of affected locations—until now.
Hot on the heels of that alert came another, from Gamma again: New clusters observed in transit tunnels – possibly dormant units reactivating. And another: Epsilon reporting minor nanite sightings near hydroponics – thought cleared, now back.
Flannery felt a sharp pang of déjà vu mixed with dread. "They're not gone," he whispered. "The little beggars… they're still out there, or waking up again."
Siobhan's jaw clenched. "Maybe we got the bulk, but it only takes a few to start rebuilding. Or some slipped through on a ship..." She quickly relayed the news to all channels. The day's optimism evaporated like water on a hot circuit.
In the ensuing flurry of calls and messages, higher-ups began to weigh in. Morgan's face reappeared on a holo, looking more harried than ever, demanding explanations from subordinates who had none. Habitat governors exchanged frantic assurances that their teams hadn't dropped the ball, even as evidence of the nanites' stubborn persistence mounted.
The narrator's tone turned rueful: It seemed our heroes had only been mopping the floor while the faucet was still running. Extermination by force and gadgetry was proving to be a glorified game of whack-a-mole, and the mole had infinite lives.
By midnight, one conclusion became clear to all parties: This crisis wasn't going to be solved by field teams alone. Something more dramatic—more systemic—was needed. And so, like generals regrouping after a failed offensive, the powers that be decided to escalate to the next theater of war: a high-profile summit to rewrite the rules of the game entirely.
Orders and invitations were issued at once. Representatives from every concerned faction would convene in person on Nova Lumina Habitat, the diplomatic heart of the swarm, for an emergency tribunal of sorts. Legal, technical, and ethical arguments would all be on the table. It was time to throw the problem into the crucible of bureaucracy and see what emerged: new laws, new deals—or just more chaos.
Flannery, upon hearing the news of this summit, could only muster a weary chuckle. "From pest control to politics—just like that," he murmured to Siobhan as they prepared yet again to travel. "Be careful what you wish for, eh? I wanted them to take it seriously. They sure are now."
She gave him a sympathetic grimace. "At least at Nova Lumina, they'll have real chairs and decent coffee for us while the bigwigs shout."
He laughed despite himself. "I'll take it."
Thus, as the second night of the Nanite Panic drew on, our beleaguered characters traded their nets and vacuums for suit jackets and briefcases once more. The containment gambit had tamed the initial blaze but couldn't extinguish the embers. Now the stage was set for Act III's grand finale: a convergence of all players under one opulent roof, where an overwhelmed system would attempt to self-correct—or spectacularly self-destruct. One way or another, tomorrow would bring answers, uproar, or both.
Chapter 15: The Summit at Nova Lumina
Nova Lumina Habitat shone like a jewel in the Dyson swarm—a hub of diplomacy and pomp that had weathered centuries of interstellar quarrels and conferences. It was into this grand arena that our unlikely heroes were swept, carried by a small corporate shuttle in the early hours of the next morning. As the shuttle docked, Flannery peered out a porthole at the approaching terminal. Nova Lumina's architecture was all gleaming crystal skylights and elegant spires entwined with gardens. It was a far cry from Westcote's utilitarian design; here, even the air seemed perfumed with importance.
Flannery tugged at the borrowed tie around his neck—a silk confection Morgan's assistant had thrust upon him before takeoff. He hadn't worn a tie since his sister's wedding, and it currently felt like a noose. "How do I look?" he muttered, fumbling with the knot for the tenth time.
Siobhan stepped closer in the cramped shuttle cabin, batting his hands away gently. "Here, let me." As she deftly straightened and tightened the knot, Flannery could not help but notice her face mere inches from his. For a heartbeat, the chaos outside fell away. He was aware only of her cool composure and the faint scent of citrus from her hair. She gave the tie a final pat. "There. You look almost respectable."
He managed a crooked grin. "That's probably the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."
They disembarked into a bustling concourse teeming with officials, aides, and a gaggle of news drones hovering like curious hummingbirds. A few reporters shouted questions to any passing delegate who looked important. Flannery ducked his head, hoping to avoid notice, but one of the camera bots zoomed uncomfortably close to scan his face. He heard a commentator's voice from a nearby monitor: "And that appears to be Mike Flannery—yes, the man at the center of this nanite saga, arriving now. No comment yet from Mr. Flannery..." Flannery groaned under his breath and picked up his pace.
Outside the terminal, a crowd of protesters had gathered behind barricades. Their signs added another layer of absurdity to an already absurd situation. Siobhan pointed out a few with a wry smirk: "NANITES ARE PEOPLE TOO!" declared one (with a rather adorable cartoon nanite painted next to the slogan). Another countered, "Ban the Bots!" A cluster of college kids were chanting something that sounded like a football cheer, but on closer listen was "Give me N-A-N-I-T-E-S, what's that spell? TROUBLE!"
Flannery shook his head. "Protesting nanites… now I've seen everything." One sign caught his eye and made him snort: "Nanites stole my homework" it read. The protester holding it, noticing Flannery's glance, gave him a thumbs-up and a cheeky grin.
The pair were soon escorted by security through the throngs and into Nova Lumina's main convention hall—a vast, circular chamber renowned for hosting diplomatic summits and trade arbitrations. Its domed ceiling projected a simulation of the cosmos outside, so as Flannery entered, it felt as if he were stepping beneath a sky full of stars and nebulae. Grand tiered seating surrounded a central floor where a raised dais and podium had been set up for speakers. Already the hall buzzed with dozens of delegates, each with their assistants in tow. The fashion ranged from austere corporate suits to the flowing robes of habitat councilors. And, hovering above a seat reserved specially, was the sleek black spherical drone that housed MORHOUSE's presence, an LED ring on its front pulsing calmly.
No sooner had Flannery taken in the scene than he was intercepted by a duo of IIC corporate lawyers. "Ah, Mr. Flannery," the senior one said, adjusting his cufflinks and giving a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Come with us, please. We need to go over your testimony."
Before Flannery could protest, he was whisked a short distance away to a corner where Morgan waited, alongside a couple of other stern faces from HQ. Morgan looked Flannery up and down, perhaps checking that he hadn't somehow spilled coffee on the suit in the last five minutes. "Now listen, Flannery," Morgan hissed in a low tone, "We'll likely call on you to recount the initial events. Stick to the facts and do not volunteer extra commentary. No colorful turns of phrase, you hear? Just answer what is asked, yes or no when possible. Our goal is to emphasize how this was an unforeseeable incident, not negligence."
Flannery bristled slightly but nodded. He could feel his palms dampening. The memory of his outburst in the virtual meeting loomed; he had no desire to repeat that in front of an even larger audience—one that included actual judges and possibly the press.
Across the hall, Siobhan underwent a similar briefing from her side. Her boss, a gruff Habitat Authority Commissioner, leaned in to mutter instructions. "O'Connell, when you speak, underscore the safety issues and how local authorities had to step in. We need to make it clear this wasn't under control. Don't be too friendly with the corporate folks up there. We're holding them accountable." Siobhan's jaw tightened—she didn't need reminding of the optics. Her eyes drifted to Flannery across the way, but he was obscured by the cluster of suits around him.
Within minutes, a chime sounded, calling the summit to order. Flannery and Siobhan were guided to seats along one side of the central floor, just beyond the circle of primary speakers. They were close enough to see the fine details: the sheen of sweat on the corporate spokesperson's brow, the stack of holo-documents in front of the chief habitat councilor, the subtle swiveling of MORHOUSE's drone as it focused on whoever spoke.
The presiding officer—a venerable diplomat with a mane of white hair—tapped the microphone. "Ladies, gentlemen, and intelligences," he began, voice echoing in the grand chamber. "This emergency summit on the Nanite Proliferation Crisis is now in session."
Flannery swallowed hard. From his seat, he had a surprisingly good view of the crowd in the tiers above. It seemed every seat was filled: journalists scribbling or typing, citizen observers with earpieces, dignitaries from unaffected habitats there out of curiosity or precaution. Never in his modest career had Flannery imagined he'd be at the center of such an assembly. He felt a light touch on his arm—Siobhan, seated just behind him now, offering a steadying nod. He exhaled.
The diplomat continued, "We have convened this panel to determine responsibility and establish a path forward regarding the uncontrolled spread of self-replicating nanotechnology across multiple habitats." He gestured to the parties. "Present are representatives of Interstellar Infrastructure Corp, the Dyson Habitat Coalition, and the independent AI claimant MORHOUSE, as well as technical experts and affected personnel." (Flannery realized with a jolt that he fell into that last category.) "We will hear opening statements, review evidence, and — if we're fortunate — come to a resolution that safeguards our community and upholds our laws."
A murmur of assent rippled through the hall. The opening salvos began predictably. The corporate delegation's lead counsel took the podium first, clearing his throat. "Esteemed colleagues and citizens," he began in a sonorous voice, "let me first say that Interstellar Infrastructure Corp shares the community's concern regarding these events. But let us remember: this is fundamentally a rare and unforeseeable technical glitch — a contractual matter that unfortunately spilled over due to, shall we say, overzealous local interventions."
Flannery barely resisted rolling his eyes. Overzealous, is it? he thought, recalling how those "interventions" had been the only thing standing between Westcote and a nanite takeover. The counsel went on, weaving a narrative of a corporation valiantly responding to an unprecedented challenge, gently downplaying any suggestion of prior negligence. It was, in short, masterful spin, and it made Flannery's blood simmer.
Next, the Habitat Coalition's chief took the stand — Governor Okoro herself, in all her regal fury. She launched into a blistering speech cataloging the disruptions and close calls, painting the picture of a humanitarian crisis barely averted by local heroes (she had the grace to nod toward Flannery and Siobhan here) in spite of corporate stonewalling. She quoted a labyrinth of regulations, each citation building the case that IIC had violated public safety codes, perhaps even criminally so. The gallery ooh'ed at some of the revelations (whether they truly understood the code numbers or not, the performance was convincing). Flannery noticed Morgan shifting uncomfortably, tugging at his collar.
Then it was MORHOUSE's turn. The AI claimant's drone glided forward and projected a mellow synthesized voice. "This claimant will be brief," it said, lights flickering. "My shipment was mishandled. My property was allowed to roam free. I seek only that the responsible parties restore what is mine and compensate for losses incurred. Additionally, this unit suggests clarifying legal statutes to prevent future incidents wherein private assets trigger public harm." The simplicity of the statement stood in stark contrast to the emotional human orations. Many in the audience nodded along — an AI's perspective, cutting through the drama with cold logic.
The presiding diplomat nodded. "Thank you, MORHOUSE." He glanced at his agenda. "We will now proceed to witness testimonies, starting with on-site personnel. Mr. Michael Flannery, please come forward."
Flannery's heart leapt into his throat. Here we go, he thought. He stood, legs a bit shaky, and walked to the central dais. The spotlight (there was literally a spotlight) felt blinding. He clasped his hands together to stop them from fidgeting. In the first row of seating, he saw Morgan's stony stare urging him to behave, and Siobhan's encouraging eyes reminding him to speak truth.
The diplomat smiled kindly. "Mr. Flannery, you are the depot agent who first handled the nanite shipment, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir," Flannery answered, finding his voice. He kept it as steady as he could. "Mike Flannery, construction depot agent, IIC Westcote. That's me." His Irish lilt echoed slightly in the hall, and he heard a few whispers in the audience ("He does sound just like on the vids," someone murmured, making his ears burn).
What followed was a series of questions – initially gentle – about the timeline of events. Flannery recounted the arrival of the crate, the classification dispute with MORHOUSE, and the initial company instructions he received. He carefully toed the line Morgan demanded: he didn't editorialize about the absurdity, just laid out facts: dates, what was said, what he did.
As he spoke, the narrator within – that wry AI observer – took note of the scene for our benefit: Here was Flannery, ordinary fellow turned minor celebrity, now reliving the farcical saga in a hall of marble and glass, under the eyes of those who normally only push papers about people like him. It was a classic turn of the tables, albeit one Flannery would happily have avoided.
When Flannery described the nanites' escape and the attempts at containment, there were gasps and chuckles in all the appropriate places from the audience. He managed to keep his temper in check, even when a particularly smarmy corporate lawyer tried to imply that maybe Flannery should have had better locks on his depot. (Flannery responded with a tight, "Sir, my depot followed the standard safety protocols to the letter—locks rated for Class C hazardous materials. Nobody predicted these Class C materials could… breed." That earned a ripple of laughter and a rare approving nod from Governor Okoro.)
Eventually, Flannery was excused to let other witnesses speak—Siobhan among them (she gave succinct, professional testimony highlighting how swiftly the issue grew beyond one depot's control). As Flannery returned to his seat, legs like jelly, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. The hardest part, for him, was done. Now it was up to the brass and circuits to fight it out.
The summit would go on for hours, diving into legal technicalities and dramatic back-and-forths, and culminating (as we know from the plot to come) in even greater chaos—an AI judge's breakdown and a nanite incursion right here in this very hall. But as Act III draws to a close, we leave our characters on the cusp of that storm.
Flannery sat back and observed the proceedings, a strange calm descending on him as fatigue and the surreal nature of it all numbed his anxiety. He even found himself sharing a biscuit from a refreshment tray with Siobhan during a brief recess, both of them too exhausted to do more than exchange a wry smile about the absurdity of the catering being top-notch while everything else was teetering on madness.
Above them, on the dome's projected starscape, a comet trail blazed by—a reminder that even amid bureaucratic bedlam, the universe at large went on. The AI narrator, permitted a final aside, mused to itself (and to us): Perhaps the cosmos found this tiny drama amusing, all these intelligent beings tying themselves in knots over self-inflicted technological tricksters. In the end, one could count the nanites and one could count the meeting minutes, and it was a close contest which would be the higher number.
For now, all the pieces were on the board: every stakeholder present, every argument loaded. The comedic farce that began with a crate in a depot had exploded into a societal spectacle. Whatever came next—be it resolution or pandemonium—would be the result of both the best and worst in this highly advanced, highly absurd civilization.
As a gavel sounded to reconvene the summit after recess, Flannery straightened in his seat, ready to endure the final gauntlet. He caught Siobhan's eye and she gave him a subtle wink as if to say, We've got this, or at least we'll go down laughing. He felt a swell of gratitude — for her, for the fact he wasn't alone in this nonsense.
And with that, Act III closes, not with a tidy ending but with an open door — leading directly to the coming storm of Act IV's courtroom calamity. The nanites were captured (mostly), the bureaucrats were assembled (endlessly), and an artificial judge's circuits were, unbeknownst to all, about to be dreadfully tested. But that is a tale for the next act. For now, we leave our intrepid characters at the summit's cusp, hanging in that breath before the plunge, armed with nothing but their wits, a stack of contradicting rulebooks, and perhaps a tin of very good biscuits.