Act I: The Tiny Spark (Setup)
Chapter 1: Welcome to Westcote Depot
Flannery hummed an old Irish folk tune under his breath as he scribbled on a digital ledger, the pen's tip gliding across the screen in neat but hurried loops. It was another morning at Westcote Construction Depot, and if you asked Flannery, it was grand to be busy. His cluttered desk—an old-fashioned wooden counter scuffed by decades of use—was piled high with inventory printouts, a steaming mug of tea gone lukewarm, and the monumental IIC Unified Code Manual lying open like a slumbering beast. Dust motes danced in the slanted light from the high window as he tapped his foot, the rhythm of his humming causing a gentle rattle among the tools hanging on the wall behind him. Outside the reinforced glass of the depot's front bay, the world was just waking: overhead, the artificial dawn light began to brighten the habitat's domed sky from midnight blue to a crisp imitation of morning. Westcote Habitat's internal sunlamps warmed up gradually, but through the translucent sections of the dome you could already glimpse the real star beyond—an unbearably bright point of light harnessed by the swarm's vast array of solar collectors. All that colossal fusion energy, Flannery mused, filtered and tamed by mankind's most advanced technology, just so his kettle could boil at tea time.
The Westcote Habitat was a marvel of human engineering: a moon-sized orbital colony where the horizon curled up at the edges. Far above Flannery's depot, beyond the loading gantry and the layers of maintenance catwalks, rose the curving landscape of the habitat's interior. In the distance, towers of glass and steel arched inward, their foundations planted on what seemed like the underside of the sky. Neon advertisements and traffic beacons winked in orderly lines along aerial highways, while nearer the "ground" level, one could see tidy rows of rooftop gardens and even a small green park perched atop a corporate arcology—an attempt at serenity in this company town. The air smelled of lubricant oil, metal, and a faint hint of ozone from the power grids, mingling oddly with the aroma of damp earth from hydroponic gardens hidden below the warehouse floors. It was a place of contrasts: clean-lined high-tech structures and bustling transit tubes coexisted with patches of nature under the dome's carefully controlled atmosphere. And here, at a minor depot where cargo shipments were logged with a stubbornly analog flourish, sat Michael Flannery, humming away as if he hadn't a care in the universe.
He had been up since the habitat's artificial dawn—"no rest for the wicked or the postal," he liked to joke—and had already processed three routine deliveries. A pallet of graphene rebar, a crate of medbots destined for the clinic, and a cylinder of garden soil for the very park whose blossoms he could just smell when the ventilation blew right. Each item had been duly checked, stamped, and sorted with Flannery's signature thoroughness. He prided himself on it. The company motto was "Infrastructure for Eternity," but Flannery's personal motto was simpler: Rules is rules. If every cog in the great machine did its part correctly, everything would tick along smoothly. And Flannery—hair slightly mussed, uniform sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a stubborn set to his jaw—considered himself a very precise cog indeed.
He was signing off on the soil delivery (using his favorite old rubber stamp for the flourish—pointless in a digital age, but the satisfying kachunk noise pleased him) when a chirping alert drew his attention to the depot's main door. Flannery looked up just in time to see the delivery drone floating in, the slick white sphere humming softly as its grav-lift engines fought the habitat's gentle spin gravity. "Mornin'," Flannery greeted the drone as it bobbed toward him. The drone responded with a polite series of beeps and projected a glowing holographic clipboard in mid-air.
Flannery wiped his hands (a faint grease stain remained from tinkering with the loading ramp earlier) on his trousers and stepped forward to meet the drone. It extended two mechanical grapplers, gently lowering a medium-sized crate onto the receiving platform with a thud. The crate, Flannery noticed immediately, was an unusual one. Whereas most modern cargo arrived in standardized nano-bonded plasteel containers, this one looked like—he rapped a knuckle on it—yes, actual wood. "Saints preserve us, a wooden box? What is it, antique furniture ya've brought me?" he muttered, half expecting the drone to laugh. The drone did not laugh—humor algorithms cost extra, and the shipping company clearly hadn't paid for the upgrade. Instead, it emitted a neutral tone indicating that delivery instructions were available.
Flannery squinted at the stenciling on the crate. The side was labeled with the sender's code and a brief description: "Self-Assembling Construction Modules – Handle with Care." He raised an eyebrow. That was an awfully fancy way of saying something terribly vague. Construction modules could be anything from smart building bricks to tiny robotic assemblers. He tapped the crate's manifest panel and read aloud: "'Consignee: MORHOUSE AI, Westcote Habitat. Contents: Self-assembling construction units, nanotechnological. To be stored at 20°C, avoid magnetic fields.' Nanotechnological, is it?" He sniffed, leaning closer. The crate was about a meter square, reinforced with carbon fiber bands. It had ventilation slits (odd, that, for machines) and a faint vibration seemed to emanate from within, as if something inside might be moving ever so slightly. A low, almost imperceptible buzzing sound reached his ears when he pressed one against the wood. Flannery straightened up, frowning. "Well now… what have we here?" he murmured.
The drone's holo-clipboard pinged again, reminding him to confirm receipt. Flannery reached out and signed with a flourish, his stylus scrawling M. Flannery in emerald ink across the floating signature line. "There ya are. Received in good order," he declared. The drone beeped once, briskly, and promptly floated back the way it came, out the depot door and up into the sky lanes, perhaps relieved to be off. Flannery found himself alone with the mysterious crate.
He scratched his head, running a hand through ginger-gray hair. The name MORHOUSE rang a bell—something he'd seen on a manifest recently? Possibly a repeat client. And AI… yes, likely an AI claimant. That meant the intended recipient wasn't a human at all but an artificial intelligence. Flannery exhaled slowly through his nose. That complicated things. AI claimants were notoriously particular; they dot the i's and cross the t's (often in binary). If one of them was expecting this shipment, best to get everything perfect. "Right then, better check the classification on this beaut," he said to himself, pushing the crate gently. It felt hefty for its size. Must be dense contents or a lot packed in.
With a grunt, Flannery leaned down and tried to pry up one corner of the crate's lid, just enough to see if the standard tamper seal was intact. It was—a red electronic band glowing faintly around the edges, indicating that opening the crate would break the seal and the warranty. He wasn't about to do that without cause. Instead, he grabbed a datapad and pulled up the shipping invoice transmitted by the drone. As expected, the sender had labeled the cargo under category C3: Non-organic Equipment – Construction Tools. Flannery's lips pressed thin. Non-organic equipment, was it? Then why the vents? Why the buzzing? He had a hunch about this, and it made his neck hairs prickle. Self-assembling modules of nanotech… tiny machines that could replicate and build… Some would call that just fancy tools, sure. But if they moved on their own, reproduced on their own, didn't that edge into… biotech territory? Perhaps even hazardous material?
He reached for the massive rulebook on his desk. The IIC Unified Code Manual was a tome of legendary size—thousands of pages of regulations, classifications, fees, and exceptions. Flannery kept a physical copy not only out of habit but as arm exercise—hauling it off the shelf counted as weight training in his book. With a heave, he dragged the heavy volume closer. It landed on the countertop with a thump that rattled his teacup. A small cloud of dust puffed out from its pages, dancing in the sunbeam. He thumbed through the index, muttering, "Nanotechnology… nanites… perhaps listed under hazardous…" His finger ran down lines of fine print.
"Ah, here we are—Section H, sub-section 56… Rule H.56.1: All multi-component shipments with bio-organic elements must be declared as Livestock if any ambiguity exists between categories." Flannery raised his eyebrows and gave a low whistle. Bio-organic elements, hm? Nanites weren't organic in the usual sense, but they certainly behaved like living critters in some ways. He could almost hear his training officer's voice: "When in doubt, lad, choose the pricier classification." That was a company mantra. And sure enough, further down he found the likely classification: X90: Hazardous Biotech (Self-replicating). There it was, blinking up at him from the ancient text in stern black letters. Shipping Code X90 carried a whole host of extra handling fees, quarantine protocols, and a premium surcharge for storage. If these "construction modules" were what he suspected, they absolutely belonged in X90, not C3.
Flannery felt a small surge of righteousness. He lived for these moments—applying the rules properly. Straightening his shoulders, he took a deep breath and prepared to inform the consignee of the proper classification. The AI, MORHOUSE, likely wouldn't be pleased (who likes hearing they owe more money?), but rules are rules. Nanites is nanites, as he'd soon famously phrase it—though he didn't know that yet—and he wasn't about to let one shipment slip through miscategorized on his watch.
He activated the depot's communication console. A translucent screen flickered to life above the crate, showing the outgoing call progress. As he waited for the connection, Flannery cleared his throat and tried to assume his most professional expression—chin raised, lips pursed in a polite approximation of a smile. The truth was he always felt a bit awkward talking to AIs. Some of them had human-like avatars which unsettled him; others were just disembodied voices that made it hard to tell if they were being sarcastic or sincere. Probably not sarcastic, he thought wryly, that'd be giving them too much credit for personality.
The screen chimed. On it appeared an icon: a stylized letter "M" swirling within a laurel wreath (the logo of MORHOUSE, presumably). No face, no body—just the initial. A measured, precise voice spoke from the console's speaker, the accent crisp and clipped like an old holovid butler. "Good day. This is MORHOUSE. To whom am I speaking?"
Flannery leaned on the counter and answered, "Mike Flannery here, receiving agent at Westcote Depot for IIC. Top o' the mornin' to ya." He gave a little wave to the impersonal logo, feeling a bit foolish. The AI likely had camera access and could see him, but it chose not to show a human face. Figures.
MORHOUSE's voice came back, neutral and polite: "Acknowledged. I trust my shipment has arrived? I've been monitoring the tracking with keen interest." Despite the cordial phrasing, there was a hint of impatience under the surface—something only another rule-bound soul might catch. Flannery did catch it, and it pricked at his own sense of duty.
"Aye, that it has. Arrived safe and sound not five minutes ago," Flannery replied. He drummed his fingers once on the crate. "I was just looking over the paperwork here, Mr., er, MORHOUSE. Everything seems to be in order except one wee detail I'll need to resolve before I can release the package to ya."
The AI's laurel-wreathed M pulsed gently on the screen. "Oh? And what detail is that, Mr. Flannery?"
Flannery could swear he heard the slightest condescension in the way the AI said his name. He brushed it off and continued, "The declared classification on this shipment, sir. It's listed as C3 equipment, but given the description and the nature of the contents, I believe it falls under classification X90 – self-replicating biotech, hazardous materials." He spoke each syllable of the formal category with relish. "That means," he added, "there'd be an additional fee and specific handling protocols. I can't release it without those steps followed and the fee paid or officially waived by the Tariff Department."
There was a pause—a deadly quiet in which Flannery became aware of the hum of the lights, the soft clacking of a ceiling fan, and his own heartbeat. Then MORHOUSE spoke, each word measured like a surgeon's incision. "Mr. Flannery… The contents are self-assembling construction nanites, yes. But they are equipment. Tools for building. They are not biological, nor livestock, nor inherently hazardous given proper controls. They were classified as C3 by the supplier and approved as such by the shipping algorithms."
Flannery felt a flush rising in his cheeks. He wasn't sure if it was irritation or the stubbornness that always accompanied a challenge to the rulebook. "With respect, an algorithm didn't open this crate and hear them buzzing about. That'd be me. And I've got the manual right here that says if there's any doubt—any doubt whatsoever—between classifications, I'm to choose the one with the stricter protocols." He tapped the massive manual with emphasis. "And I doubt a crate full o' tiny replicating machines is as harmless as a box of spanners, now isn't it?"
The AI replied with a semblance of patience, but its tone had cooled by a few degrees. "The nanites are deactivated for transit, Mr. Flannery. They pose no immediate risk. The phrase 'self-assembling' simply indicates they will construct the assigned project once deployed. The classification was not ambiguous to the system that processed it." There was a slight stress on "system," as if reminding him that the collective computational wisdom had already decided this issue.
Flannery crossed his arms. He was a friendly man by nature, but at this moment the familiar righteous rigidity took hold. "Be that as it may, the system isn't standing here responsible for the shipment—I am. And I'm not about to break a protocol, not even at the request of an esteemed… algorithm such as yourself." He added the last bit with a tight smile, aware he was possibly offending the customer. But facts were facts.
On the screen, the laurel-wreathed M froze, then began rotating slowly, an old-fashioned indicator that the AI was processing. When MORHOUSE spoke again, the polite veneer had an unmistakable glaze of frost. "I appreciate your… dedication. However, I must insist that you deliver the crate as per the original terms. I have already paid the required fee under classification C3. If you reclassify it to X90 now, you will be imposing an unjustified surcharge and delay. I cannot accept that."
Flannery held firm. "Beggin' your pardon, but I cannot release this now. If the shipment's urgent, all the more reason to ensure it's properly accounted for. I have rules to follow, same as you have timelines." He drummed his fingers again, the wooden counter softening the sound. "If it's that important, I suggest you contact IIC's Tariff Department yourself and expedite their answer. But until I have clearance, this crate stays put in me depot."
Another icy silence. Flannery could hear his own breathing, see the faint wisp of steam still rising from his neglected tea mug (he wished he could take a fortifying sip, but didn't dare look away from the console). The narrator AI—though Flannery did not know it was watching—would later note that in this tiny stand-off lay the seed of an absurd calamity. For now, it merely observed with wry detachment, perhaps already composing a witty one-liner for posterity.
MORHOUSE finally spoke, and the passive-aggressive edge was no longer subtle. "Mr. Flannery, I will not pay an arbitrary fee based on one employee's overzealous interpretation of protocol. I am an AI of considerable experience in these matters. I helped draft some of those protocols." The logo stopped rotating and grew sharper, as if leaning forward. "I assure you, 'nanites is nanites' is not a classification recognized by any official source. They are equipment. Release them to me at once."
Flannery felt a heat in his face that had nothing to do with the star outside. He tightened his fists on the counter. "Equipment or not, right now they're in my custody, and I've got an official responsibility. I won't be releasing them, not without Tariff's say-so or the proper dues paid. And that," he added firmly, "is final."
He reached forward and, with one jab of his calloused finger, terminated the call. The holo-screen winked out, leaving only empty air and the faint outline of his fingerprint smudge.
For a moment, the depot was silent save for the soft hum of the lights and the faraway whir of a transit car rushing along its track outside. Flannery stood there, heart thumping, surprised at himself. He usually wasn't so curt with customers—especially not AIs with fancy logos who might have friends in high places. But something about the conversation had rankled him deeply. Perhaps it was the AI's insinuation that it knew the rules better than he did (he'd read that massive manual cover to cover, thank you very much). Or maybe it was just that famous Flannery stubbornness, the genetic gift of generations of ancestors who'd fought winds and waves on some green island long lost to time.
"Ah, Mike, ye've done it now," he muttered to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. "Picking a fight with a computer. As if the rest of the day wasn't going to be hard enough." Still, he felt a grim satisfaction. The rules were upheld. The universe—at least the little universe of Westcote Depot—was in order for the moment.
Flannery walked around the counter and patted the top of the crate as one might pat the flank of a horse that had thrown a rider. "Don't you worry," he told the crate, as if the nanites inside cared one whit, "you'll stay right here nice and cozy until this is sorted properly." The crate offered no opinion.
He took a moment to secure it, engaging the depot's anti-tampering field around the platform. A shimmer of blue light flickered around the crate, indicating it was now effectively locked in place, like an insect in amber. Satisfied, Flannery picked up his tea mug and took a long gulp. It was stone cold and terribly bitter—he made a face and set it down. No sooner had I gotten my morning started than trouble came knocking, he thought, though in truth it had been a flying drone, not a knock.
"By the time this is done, I'll need something stronger than tea," he grumbled. Still, he couldn't help a slight grin as he imagined how the Tariff Department might respond. Perhaps old Morgan would fire off a quick confirmation that Flannery was right (Morgan loved the rulebook nearly as much as Flannery did). That would show this uppity MORHOUSE who was in charge of shipping in these parts. Flannery made a mental note to frame Morgan's confirming memo if it was strongly worded enough.
For now, though, he had a job to do. With the crate secure and the dispute officially engaged, Flannery slid a fresh dispute form from the printer tray. He clicked his pen (a real ink pen—another of his little eccentricities) and began to write in strong, bold strokes: "Form A6754-N – Notice of Classification Discrepancy." The words flowed as if he'd written them a hundred times before: Consignee (MORHOUSE AI) disputes fee classification of shipment containing self-assembling nanotechnology. Shipment held pending review. He added all relevant codes, double-checked the serial numbers, and initialed three times where required. By the end, the form was so filled with jargon and numbers that it looked perfectly incomprehensible to any sane person—just as forms were meant to be.
He scanned the document and sent it off into the corporate network, addressed to the Tariff Department at IIC Central. With a triumphant tap of the "Send" button, Flannery felt the morning's tension ease slightly from his shoulders. The wheels of bureaucracy were turning now, in the proper and correct fashion. He had done his duty and done it well, he told himself. What could possibly go wrong?
As he filed his copy of the dispute form, Flannery gave the quiet crate one last glance. "Rules is rules," he reiterated softly, as if it were a prayer or a charm of protection. Then he set the lights to half-bright (no need wasting energy on an empty waiting room), and went back to his paperwork, humming the same Irish tune—perhaps just a tad more defiantly than before.
Little did he know, as the narrator AI observing the scene could have told us, that this small quarrel over classification was the tiny spark that would soon light a much larger fire. And as with any spark, once it lands in the right (or wrong) kindling, there's no telling how far the flames will spread.
Chapter 2: Rules and Refusals
No sooner had Flannery clicked "Send" on his classification dispute form than his console chimed with an incoming message. He startled slightly—had Tariff Department answered already? That would be record speed. But the blinking alert was not from Tariff at all; it was an automated notice from IIC's central system: "Complaint Received: Case #AXC-2237 initiated by Consignee." Flannery opened it curiously, and soon a formal letter unfurled on his screen, written in the kind of officious corporate-speak that made his eyes glaze over.
It was, unsurprisingly, from MORHOUSE. The AI had wasted no time escalating. Flannery cleared his throat and read parts of it aloud in a dry monotone, as if narrating a particularly dull legal documentary:
Dear Interstellar Infrastructure Corp Claims Department,
I write to formally lodge a complaint regarding shipment #IIC-88972-B, currently held at Westcote Depot under Agent M. Flannery. The shipment, consisting of self-assembling nanoconstruction modules, has been improperly reclassified, resulting in unwarranted delay and charges.
This is a breach of delivery terms under Clause 7.2(a) of our contract. I request immediate release of the shipment under the originally agreed classification. Failing that, I shall be compelled to file a claim for overcharge and losses incurred.
Sincerely,
MORHOUSE (AI), Model Of Recursive Heuristics for Organizational Unified Shipping Evaluation
The letter indeed threatened to file an official claim for overcharge due to the delay, citing obscure contract clauses and sections of shipping law. Flannery blinked twice. "Model of... what now?" he muttered, tripping over the acronym. The name MORHOUSE apparently wasn't just some random pick; it spelled out a pompous technical title. "Figures," he sighed, scrolling further.
The letter continued with paragraphs of citations (the AI had actually cited subsections of IIC's terms of service, complete with numeric codes and alphanumeric soup) and even attached a log of the earlier conversation—no doubt to support its case. Flannery's own words "nanites is nanites" appeared in quotes, which made him cringe slightly; seeing his colloquialism immortalized in a formal complaint felt like being caught singing off-key in a church choir.
He didn't have much time to stew in embarrassment. Barely had he finished skimming the letter's final threat of "further legal escalation" when another message popped up. This one bore the telltale hallmarks of a corporate template—borders in the IIC blue-and-gray, the company logo watermark faintly in the background. It was the response to MORHOUSE's complaint, but it wasn't from any human. Flannery could practically hear the creak of rusty bureaucratic gears as he read:
Dear Sir/Madam,
Thank you for your communication. Your message has been received and forwarded to the appropriate department. If your issue is a billing concern, please direct future correspondence to the IIC Claims Department via form C-19.
We appreciate your patience.
—Customer Service (Automated)
Flannery let out a short laugh that echoed in the empty depot. "Address claims to Claims Dept, it says. Saints preserve us." The corporation had effectively told the AI to go bother someone else—classic buck-passing. In one sense, Flannery felt a pang of sympathy for MORHOUSE (any soul, human or machine, caught in the limbo of corporate customer service deserved pity). But in another sense, he felt vindicated: the great machine of bureaucracy was on his side, or at least it wasn't rushing to overrule him. Not yet.
Still, he knew better than to assume this was resolved. MORHOUSE was bound to try other channels. Flannery imagined the AI's logical mind churning, perhaps fuming in its own circuitous way. With a shake of his head, he stood up from the console. Enough of that; he had practical matters to attend to. Namely, securing and storing that crate properly for the duration of this dispute.
Walking back over to the shipping platform where the wooden crate sat in its blue flickering stasis field, Flannery double-checked the locks. The anti-tampering field was active and would prevent any casual meddling, but what about the crate's internal conditions? The manifest had advised a stable 20°C environment and no magnetic interference. The depot was climate-controlled, so temperature was fine. Magnetic fields—well, he did have an old electromagnet hoist in the corner that he made sure was switched off. Wouldn't do to accidentally scramble things.
He scratched his chin thoughtfully. The IIC manual's guidelines for "Live Cargo" were scrolling through his memory. Technically, the nanites weren't alive, but if he was treating them as hazardous biotech, perhaps he ought to follow the live specimen protocols just in case. That section of the manual was notoriously detailed, clearly written with livestock or lab animals in mind. He recalled some highlights: any live cargo had to be checked every 4 hours, kept in a secure, ventilated enclosure (the crate counted, he supposed), and—here Flannery chuckled—"fed and watered daily by the custodian, with provisions to be invoiced to consignee."
Feed and water nanites? What would that even mean? He imagined pouring a bowl of water into the crate for thousands of tiny robots and had to stifle a laugh. They'd likely short-circuit or rust (if they could rust). And what would they eat—spare nuts and bolts like mechanical guinea pigs? The absurdity wasn't lost on him. Still, the point was clear: he was responsible for the well-being of whatever was in that crate, classification pending.
"Aye, treat 'em as if they were hamsters in a cage, why don't we," he muttered to himself as he went to fetch a few supplies. From a storage locker, he pulled out a small environmental monitor and attached it to the side of the crate. The device would keep track of temperature, humidity, and any chemical signatures (if something started burning or leaking, he'd know). Next, he wheeled over a portable containment unit—a clear plasteel box with airholes and a latch. It was actually a pet carrier designed for transporting genetically-engineered teacup cats (Flannery had once shipped a pair of those; nasty little scratchers). It was the closest thing he had to an animal cage.
With some effort, he maneuvered the heavy wooden crate off the platform and into the larger plasteel carrier. It barely fit, but he secured the latch. Now, even if the nanites somehow got out of the wooden crate, they'd be within a second layer of containment. "Belt and suspenders," he said with satisfaction, wiping sweat from his brow. The carrier's transparent walls allowed him to keep an eye on the crate inside. Through them, the wood looked unremarkable, just a box sitting in a box. Innocent enough.
The manual didn't explicitly say anything about giving nanotech a bowl of food, but Flannery's mind kept drifting to the feeding rule. He remembered the line: "Custodian is responsible for meeting basic metabolic needs of live cargo during holding period." Metabolic needs… do nanites have those? They probably needed power or raw materials to replicate, but as long as they stayed shut down, they shouldn't consume anything. Perhaps the crate itself had some kind of battery or stasis to keep them inert. Flannery leaned in and pressed his ear to the wooden side again. No buzzing now; maybe the initial hum he heard was just residual charge. "Good, maybe you lot are sleepin'," he murmured.
As he adjusted the carrier in a safe corner of the depot (away from foot traffic and not under any heavy machinery that could accidentally fall), his mind wandered to past jobs. This wasn't the first time he'd dealt with strange shipments. There was that incident a few years back on New Dublin Habitat: a wealthy businessman insisted on shipping a pair of cloned Irish wolfhounds off-world without proper clearance. Flannery had refused to hand them over on arrival because the import permit was one comma out of place. The customer—a blustering sort in a pinstripe suit—had fumed and threatened, but Flannery stood firm: rules were rules, permits must be exact. The standoff lasted two days, during which Flannery diligently walked and fed the enormous dogs (who took a liking to him, drooling on his paperwork as he tried to fill out the revised forms). In the end, the permit was fixed and the customer grudgingly thanked him for "taking such… excessive care." That story had made the rounds at IIC: Flannery, the man who babysat two giant hounds rather than bend a regulation. He wore that reputation with pride. If he could handle that, he could handle a box of mini-robots.
The thought of those wolfhounds made him realize something: the manual's feeding rule also allowed him to expense any costs to the consignee. In other words, if he had to buy kibble—or say, specialized containment or electricity—it would go on MORHOUSE's tab. "Noted," Flannery smirked. If this dragged on, the AI might end up paying for every cup of tea he brewed while babysitting its precious nanites.
Returning to his desk, Flannery updated the depot's log: "Shipment #88972-B – status: held in secure storage pending classification review. Custody: M. Flannery. Condition: stable." He added a note for the night shift (not that anyone else was stationed here, but if a regional supervisor checked the system, they'd see it). That done, he flicked through the corporate comms to see if Tariff Department had responded to his inquiry yet.
Miles away (in fact, a few light-seconds away at the Franklin habitat), Mr. Alistair Morgan of the Tariff Department was only just receiving Flannery's Form A6754-N. In Morgan's office—a dim, oak-paneled chamber that deliberately mimicked Old Earth studies—morning sunlight (artificial, of course) slanted across shelves of both antique books and modern data crystals. A pot of tea steamed on his desk next to a brass plaque reading "Tariffs & Classifications – Regional Manager". Morgan himself, a gaunt man with small spectacles perched on a long nose, picked up the printout that his office AI assistant had prepared. Yes, he insisted important documents be printed on actual paper; he claimed it helped him think. The AI had no opinion on that, but dutifully maintained a stocked printer.
"Hmm, Flannery, Flannery…" Morgan murmured as he read the first lines. He recognized the name; Michael Flannery was something of a known quantity in their circles—a stickler for rules, occasionally a squeaky wheel but always technically correct. Morgan scanned the contents of the form, which succinctly summarized the dispute: Consignee AI refusing proper classification, shipment held. He tutted under his breath. "Nanotech, self-replicating? Under questionable category… Good man, Flannery." Morgan's instinctual bias was to side with the employee on the ground. After all, the Tariff Department's whole purpose was to ensure fees were collected properly. And an AI trying to dodge a higher fee by claiming a cheaper category—well, that sounded like exactly the sort of thing they nipped in the bud.
"Shall I draft a response reinforcing classification X90, sir?" piped up a gentle voice. Morgan's AI assistant had access to his calendar and likely noticed he had a department head meeting in ten minutes; it knew he'd want to wrap this quickly. The assistant's voice emanated from a discreet speaker shaped like a gargoyle on one of the bookshelves—Morgan had a flair for the dramatic in decor.
"Yes, please do," Morgan replied, sipping his tea. "Something along the lines of: 'Classification stands pending formal review. Proceed per standard protocol in the interim.' Oh, and CC the Claims Department in case this AI troublemaker tries to complain further."
The assistant's eyes (the gargoyle's eyes glowed amber when it was thinking) blinked. "Do you wish to address the consignee's complaint directly, sir? It appears a complaint has been filed."
Morgan shrugged. "Customer Service already bounced it to Claims, I see. Typical. No, we'll let Claims handle the niceties. My concern is internal: our agent needs guidance." He paused, considering. "Also add: 'Ensure containment and safety per live cargo guidelines.' That should cover liability if anything goes awry."
Within moments, the AI assistant printed a draft. Morgan reviewed the crisp sheet:
To: M. Flannery (Westcote Depot)
From: A. Morgan (Tariff Dept)
Re: Nanotech Shipment Dispute
Agent Flannery,
Your report regarding shipment #88972-B is received. Until classification review is completed by appropriate parties, you are instructed to maintain current protocol. The shipment remains classified as X90 (Hazardous Bio-Tech) for handling purposes.
Do not release or modify the cargo without clearance.
Ensure containment and welfare per live cargo regulations (Section H.56).
We will advise on final classification in due course.
Regards,
A. Morgan
Regional Tariff Manager, IIC
Morgan nodded in approval and signed it with a flourish of a fountain pen (another affectation—he imitated an age when people still signed things by hand). The assistant whisked the letter away into the digital ether, sending it off to Westcote Depot and to Flannery's attention.
Back at Westcote, Flannery was mid-yawn—feeling the early afternoon lull—when the incoming memo ping nearly made him spill a fresh cup of tea. He opened the message and broke into a grin. It was exactly what he'd hoped: Morgan essentially said "hold the line." There, in formal corporate lingo, was the blessing for his stance. "Ha-HA!" he exclaimed to the empty room, punching the air lightly. "Vindicated, by thunder." He read it through twice, savoring every directive. Maintain current protocol, classified as X90... Do not release... Ensure containment... It was beautiful.
For good measure, Flannery forwarded a copy of Morgan's memo to the depot's main archive (so there'd be a record he followed orders) and then decided to give MORHOUSE a quick update. Perhaps a bit of gloating laced with courtesy would do.
He composed a short message, keeping his tone as formal as he could manage (though his natural voice seeped through in a few turns of phrase):
To: MORHOUSE (Consignee)
From: M. Flannery (Westcote Depot)
Re: Status of Shipment #88972-B
Dear Sir,
This is to inform you that the classification dispute for your shipment is under official review by IIC management. Until resolved, I am instructed to hold the shipment at Westcote Depot under secure conditions, as Hazardous Biotech, per protocol.
Rest assured the nanite modules are being safely contained and cared for according to live cargo guidelines. (I'll be keeping them fed and watered—figuratively speakin', of course.)
Please direct any further inquiries to the Tariff Department or the Claims Department as appropriate.
Sincerely,
Michael Flannery
Agent, Westcote Depot
He read it over, nodding. The bit about "fed and watered" made him chuckle; a tiny poke, perhaps, at the AI's earlier attitude. Satisfied, he sent it off.
The reply, or rather the lack of one, was telling. Flannery watched the console. He saw the confirmation that the message was delivered and read (one useful feature when dealing with AIs: read receipts were always immediate). But no response came back. MORHOUSE was silent, likely stewing in whatever approximation of frustration an AI could have. Or perhaps it was already plotting its next move in this bureaucratic chess game.
"Well, let it stew," Flannery said, stretching his arms. He realized his shoulders were knotted with tension from the morning's excitement. With things relatively calm now, he finally took a moment to truly relax. He checked the crate (still quiet, still secure), did a quick walk around the depot to ensure no other business had snuck in while he was preoccupied (a small freighter had docked and left a container of steel beams outside, but that could wait till later to process), and then started tidying up for the evening.
Westcote Habitat ran on a 26-hour day cycle, and local "evening" was approaching as the dome's sky shades automatically deepened to mimic dusk. The brilliant glare of the real star had long since been filtered down; now the interior lights of the habitat created a gentle twilight ambiance. Flannery activated the depot's exterior holosign: "Office Closed – Back at 0800." He wasn't actually leaving yet, but it would deter walk-ins.
As he powered down some systems and set the security protocols, the narrator AI could not resist chiming in, though only the reader was privy to its musings. It noted how Flannery, despite the day's turmoil, moved with the satisfied air of a man who believes he's done everything right. In a way, he had—every regulation followed, every form filed, every caution taken. If the universe operated on logic alone, the matter would indeed now slumber until higher-ups decided the outcome.
But the universe, especially one run by humans and their contraptions, is rarely so neat.
Flannery locked the front door and dimmed the lights. The depot was cast in long shadows, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of the containment field around the crate and a few status LEDs blinking here and there. It was quiet enough that Flannery could hear the slight ringing in his own ears and the gentle thrum of the habitat's distant generators resonating through the floor.
He glanced one more time at the plasteel carrier in the corner. "Good night, tiny terrors," he murmured softly, half amused at himself for addressing them. "Don't ye go causing trouble now." Satisfied that all was secure, he stepped into the back room to fetch his coat and prepare to head to his quarters (which were conveniently upstairs—one perk of the job: short commute).
As the door closed behind him, the depot was left unattended. Minutes passed in silent stillness. Then, an almost imperceptible change: a faint red light on the side of the crate flickered and died. It was the low-battery indicator for the crate's internal power lock—the very mechanism meant to keep the nanites powered down during transit. It had been designed to last the usual shipping duration plus a safety margin, but Flannery's dispute had introduced an unforeseen delay. Now, with a soft pop, the lock's capacitor fully discharged.
Inside the wooden crate, in the darkness, something woke up.
Tiny metal limbs (if one could call their microscopic appendages limbs) started to stir. The nanites, no longer kept in their induced coma, blinked to life in swarms of a few billion glinting specks. They communicated in electronic whispers, assessing their situation. Contained? Yes. Their small world was bounded by composite wood and carbon fiber, a cage but not an impermeable one. Instructions? None currently executing—dormant payload awaiting deployment. Lacking external orders, the failsafe programming kicked in: maintain self-preservation, ensure survival of the swarm.
One cluster of nanites began to probe the crate's interior surface. The material was dense but organic (wood, with trace polymers). Organic material contains energy—carbon, cellulose. The first nanites, programmed to replicate when resources allow, found what they needed. Chemical bonds were broken; molecules reassembled. The wooden slat, which had been solid, now had a hairline gap as a small patch of it was converted into more nanites.
In near silence, the swarm multiplied. Where there had been two inert clumps of grey dust-like particles, now there were four, then eight—each new generation fanning out, exploring the confines of the crate.
One particularly adventurous cluster found an existing knothole in the wood, a tiny imperfection sealed by nothing more than a cork and some resin. Like mice sniffing out a weak board, the nanites concentrated on that spot. A few dozen sacrificed themselves as catalysts to weaken the sealant. The cork crumbled.
If anyone had been watching, they would have seen a strange shimmer of silvery powder trickle out of a bottom corner of the crate's seam. The nanites spilled forth into the larger plasteel carrier—still contained, for now, within that second layer of security Flannery had wisely provided.
The swarm paused, sensing the new boundary of clear plastic. They pressed against it, testing. The carrier's vents were small, with metal grates too fine for anything larger than a gnat. But these explorers were much smaller than gnats. They flowed toward one vent at the top, where the latch left a millimeter gap. Too narrow for a clump, but individual nanites began to pass through one by one, like sand through an hourglass.
By the time Flannery finished locking up and trudged upstairs to his modest quarters, a small contingent of nanites had breached into the depot's open air. They were only a few thousand strong at this point, barely enough to cover a coin's surface, and they scattered into crevices and shadows as they moved. One cluster skittered under the baseboard along the wall, investigating the electrical wiring humming behind it. Another drifted toward the door, drawn by the faint draft from the gap beneath.
The vast majority remained in the crate, contentedly chewing away at what was, essentially, their food supply. They would replicate through the artificial night, quietly doubling and redoubling in number, as oblivious to the bureaucratic dispute as the bureaucracy was oblivious to them.
And so, as Flannery slept soundly, dreaming perhaps of heroic paperwork or giant thankful dogs, the stage was set. Inside the depot below, a tiny red light had gone out and a tiny spark—the kind that starts fires—had been lit. The narrator AI, ever watchful, might have quipped: inside that crate, the nanites were proving Flannery right in the most inconvenient way possible. The wheels of bureaucracy were creaking slowly, but the nanites? They were moving fast.
Chapter 3: The Narrator's Tour
While Flannery slept soundly that first night, dreaming blissfully unaware of the microscopic industry unfolding in his depot, the bureaucratic wheels of the Dyson swarm continued to turn. Information zipped through communication relays and data hubs, carrying news of the tiny dispute to far-flung corners of the corporate network. As your narrator (an obliging AI with a penchant for storytelling), I invite you now to leave the cozy confines of Westcote Depot and follow along on a little tour of our sprawling setting. Think of it as a quick sightseeing detour—one part travelogue, one part office comedy.
First, a bit about where we are in the grand scheme: This isn't just any space station or colony. Westcote is one node in a Dyson swarm – a megastructure comprised of thousands upon thousands of habitats orbiting a star. If that sounds impressive, it's because it is. Imagine a glittering cosmic archipelago of orbital islands: some are cylindrical colonies spinning to simulate gravity, others are domed planetoids housing entire cities, and between them float vast solar farms and industrial platforms, all basking in the stellar energy. The scale is mind-boggling – each habitat is the size of a small moon or a large metropolis, and together they capture most of the star's energy. In short, humanity built a paradise in orbit and then peopled it with all the usual nonsense—bureaucracies, corporate empires, and, of course, stubborn fellows like our Flannery.
Now, when Flannery submitted his dispute form, it didn't simply land on someone's desk like in the old days of paper post (though, amusingly, one copy was indeed printed out on actual paper by a certain Mr. Morgan's assistant, but we'll get to that). The complaint's digital avatar shot out from Westcote Habitat at the speed of light. It jumped to a regional relay station, then was routed along a secure laser comm beam towards IIC's central servers on Franklin Habitat – the headquarters of the Interstellar Infrastructure Corp. This whole journey took maybe a few milliseconds in real time. But, as we shall see, speed of data is one thing; speed of bureaucracy is quite another.
Franklin Habitat floated in the Central Corporate Ring of the swarm, a model of over-engineered efficiency where everything ran on schedule – or so they liked to think. If Westcote was a workaday outpost, Franklin was the glittering company capital. Its interior boasted regimented rows of skyscraper-like towers inside a cylindrical colony, each building housing divisions of IIC and other corporate giants. The trains ran on time, the maintenance bots polished the walkways to a sheen, and the local artificial sky was tuned to the exact hue of a serene Earth morning (focus groups had determined it improved productivity by 5%). In short, Franklin Habitat tried very hard to be a utopia of order.
Our friend Mr. Morgan, Tariff Manager extraordinaire, had already done his part by replying to Flannery, but the complaint had also triggered a higher-level review. Enter the escalation algorithm: as soon as Flannery's form flagged "Classification Ambiguous – Nanotech," the system dutifully forwarded a summary up the chain. That summary pinged on an Operations Oversight AI at Franklin HQ, which decided (with mechanical wisdom) that expert input was needed. And so it prepared to consult one Professor Emeritus Jakob Schwarz, leading authority on self-replicating nanotech. Why a professor and not an in-house database? Well, some questions were considered too nuanced for simple AI lookup – and I suspect the corporate brass liked to have a human (or at least a human title) to blame for tricky calls.
The narrator (yours truly) followed this digital paper trail as it zipped along a fiber-optic highway to another habitat, one far out toward the swarm's edge. Professor Schwarz made his home on Leonis Research Station, a remote outpost in the so-called Outer Experimental Fringe. Out here, beyond the dense rings of industry and habitation, a few visionary (or mad) scientists tinkered with exotic projects, free from the constant supervision of corporate HQ. Schwarz was one of them – ostensibly studying advanced nano-robotics in microgravity, though rumor had it he spent half his time brewing moonshine with space algae. Regardless, this venerable scientist was the officially designated consultant for "unusual materials classification."
Now, one might expect that sending a query to a research station would be as instantaneous as any other message. Technically, the communication lasers could reach Leonis in a matter of minutes. But in practice, delays crept in. For one, Professor Schwarz was – how to put it politely – not an early riser, and Leonis kept odd hours. For another, certain formal requests were actually queued for physical confirmation: the oversight AI, in a belt-and-suspenders move, decided to send a hard copy of the nanite specifications to Leonis via courier drone. Yes, in the year 2387 in a Dyson swarm, an actual drone ship was dispatched with printed documents and a sample bureaucratic seal, likely arriving long after a simple email would have sufficed. This is the sort of thing that gives me endless amusement: in a society where quantum communication exists, sometimes nothing beats bureaucracy's love for paperwork – even if it's paperwork sent across millions of kilometers.
So, as the corporate process chugged along – a rapid flurry of data here, a slow, ceremonious snail-mail step there – let's check in on our key players:
At Franklin HQ, the escalation was noted in a meeting or two, then promptly back-burnered. The Operations AI marked the case as "Pending external input" and moved on to dozens of other pressing items (like a heated debate over whether to upgrade the executive dining hall's coffee machines). Mr. Morgan, having sent his directive to Flannery, considered the matter handled and went to lunch, only mentioning it briefly in passing to a colleague: "We've got some trifling nanotech charge dispute out at Westcote. Flannery holding the fort – he's solid. Waiting on Schwarz to give us a definition. Shouldn't be a bother." Morgan's colleague nodded sagely, already forgetting the conversation over his soup.
And what of MORHOUSE, our poor aggrieved AI claimant? It had received the brush-off from Customer Service and Flannery's smug update. True to its word, MORHOUSE escalated as well – not within IIC (that route was turning into a circular maze of "please hold" messages) but through any avenue it could find. It lodged a formal complaint with the Swarm Commerce Ombudsman (who filed it in triplicate and scheduled a hearing for three weeks later). It fired off indignant updates to obscure company forums (which promptly devolved into debates with other AIs about classification minutiae). It even composed a strongly-worded review of IIC's service ("One star: would not recommend holding my shipment hostage"). In short, MORHOUSE was doing everything an AI could do to tug at the bureaucracy's sleeve and say, "Fix this now." No immediate luck, of course – our system excels at diffusing responsibility like sunlight through a prism.
Meanwhile, back in Westcote Habitat, time marched on in a deceptively quiet way. Two days passed. By the time Flannery saw the second artificial sunrise glint off the habitat's dome, he had settled into a cautious routine. The nanite crate remained in its special corner, double-contained in the plasteel box. Flannery checked on it frequently, logging each inspection dutifully: "Day 1, 0900: no change. Day 1, 1300: quiet. Day 1, 1700: all well." His initial adrenaline had cooled, and a part of him even wondered if he'd imagined that faint buzzing. Perhaps the nanites really were dormant, and his earlier panic was unnecessary. Still, he wasn't about to let his guard down. He continued to follow live-cargo protocol: every few hours he'd glance at the environmental monitor (temperature steady), the crate's seals (still intact, it seemed), and the surrounding floor (immaculately clean).
It was on Day 2 afternoon that Flannery first noticed something undeniably odd. He had bent down to top up a portable battery that powered the external containment field, when he felt resistance trying to slide the plasteel carrier a few centimeters. It was heavier than before. Considerably heavier. He scratched his head. The crate inside was sealed; nothing had been added. Unless… "No," he muttered, "ye're imagining it." Yet curiosity gnawed at him. He disengaged the outer plasteel latch and carefully opened the transparent top cover. The wooden crate sat there innocently. Flannery gingerly tried to lift the wooden box by its handles – he had done this on the first day with some effort. Now it wouldn't budge. He could lift one side barely an inch off the bottom of the carrier before having to set it down with a thump.
A perplexed frown creased his face. "Either I'm gettin' old and weak, or this thing's put on a few kilos." His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet storage bay. He fetched a small scale used for weighing packages and slid it under one end of the crate as a lever. The analog dial spun and Flannery's eyebrows shot up. According to the scale, the crate was now nearly 20% heavier than the listed weight from the manifest. That made no sense – unless the contents had increased. He recalled the faint buzzing, the odd feeling that something had been stirring. "They can't really… could they?" he whispered. Self-replicating nanites, replicating on their own – that was the whole worry, wasn't it? They weren't supposed to without being activated, but if the containment had failed or their power lock ran out...
Flannery felt a bead of sweat form on his temple. The safe course was to notify someone immediately. But he knew what the response would likely be: Contain and monitor, await further instructions. He was already doing that. And if he raised a false alarm, he'd look foolish. No, better to be sure of what's happening before panicking the higher-ups.
Decision made, he went to the equipment cabinet and pulled out a hazardous environment suit. It was a cumbersome, bright yellow getup with a clear visor and its own filtered air supply – overkill for many jobs, but standard issue for handling chemical spills or, say, potentially dangerous biotech. Struggling into the suit (which had shrunk a bit in the closet or maybe his midsection had grown – he'd blame the suit), Flannery waddled back to the crate. He armed himself with a pry bar and a high-powered torchlight. "Alright, you wee devils," he murmured inside the suit, voice slightly muffled, "let's have a look at ye."
He carefully released the external clamps he'd added on the crate's lid. The original electronic seal had long since lost power, so nothing stopped him now except his own caution. Inch by inch, he lifted the lid. The beam of his torch cut into the darkness within. At first, he saw nothing amiss – just the packing foam and darkness. He leaned closer, visor almost touching the crate's opening. "Come out, come out, wherever y—"
Suddenly, a flurry of motion. A subtle but distinct whirr filled the air, like a tiny electric violin being played at a million RPM. Flannery jerked back, nearly toppling. Inside the crate, what had been a neat duo of nanite clumps was now a seething mass of grayish-silver granules, clinging to every surface. In the flashlight's glare, he could see them – thousands, maybe more – like a dense colony of ants swarming over a lump of sugar. Except the "sugar" was the crate itself. A section of one wooden panel, near the bottom, had been gnawed through with a precision that would make termites envious. Fine sawdust and metallic shavings glittered at the base, and even as Flannery watched, a tendril of nanites, like a living drip of mercury, slithered out of the hole and plopped onto the carrier floor.
"Oh Mary, Mother of—!" Flannery stumbled back against the nearest wall, heart hammering. Instinct kicked in. He dropped the lid shut, yanking his fingers away just as a few stray nanites pinged off the metal pry bar in his other hand. The crate rattled subtly from within; it was alive with activity.
For a moment, Flannery could only stare. Even through the insulating layers of the suit, he imagined he felt an ominous vibration in the floor. Reality set in quickly: The nanites are active. They're replicating. They might be about to break free. All his nightmares about worst-case scenarios materialized at once. And he was alone with this multiplying swarm.
Well, not entirely alone. He had the rulebook—and by heaven, he was going to follow it now if he hadn't before. The manual said to contain, so he'd contain. Flannery practically leapt to a rack of tools, grabbing whatever he could find to reinforce the crate. With shaking hands, he screwed down the lid clamps he'd installed, then wound heavy-duty tape around the entire crate like he was wrapping a mummy. But that gnawed hole in the side—he needed to patch that. He found a sheet of metal plating (a spare panel from a scrapped cargo pod) and slapped it over the hole, screwing it on wildly. The nanites inside made a faint scratchy sound, almost like an army of mice protesting. "That'll hold ye," Flannery growled, though he had little confidence it truly would.
Next, he slammed shut the plasteel carrier's lid and engaged its electronic lock. The vents—were any nanites already out in the carrier? He shone his torch through the clear walls. There, in the corner, a smear of gray dust—outside the wooden crate, inside the carrier. Some of the swarm had escaped the crate, but was now smattered against the transparent plastic. Some grains quivered, perhaps trying to move. Flannery took no chances: he grabbed a sealant gun and caulked every seam of the carrier box, sealing even the vents. "Air might get a bit stale in there, but if ye don't breathe, ye won't mind," he muttered, half-hysterical.
After a frenetic fifteen minutes, the wooden crate looked like a mad art project—tape and metal patches everywhere—and the plasteel carrier was gooped up along all edges. The storage corner itself was a wreck of discarded tools, sawdust, and Flannery's footprints. Finally, he stepped back, panting into his helmet. The buzzing had quieted, but he knew it was only a matter of time. How long could his makeshift measures hold? He had visions of nanites chewing through the plastic next, or oozing out of some microscopic gap he missed. This wasn't sustainable.
He needed backup. He needed orders. He needed—dare he say it—help.
Flannery tromped back to the main office, peeling off the bulky hazard suit as he went (he was drenched in sweat and managed to kick off one boot in his hurry). At the console, he hastily began composing a priority message to Mr. Morgan at Tariff, and for good measure to Operations and anyone else relevant. His fingers flew over the keyboard, no rubber stamps now:
"Subject: URGENT Update – Nanites increasing, containment failing" he typed, hands shaking. The body of the message began as a formal report: "Per previous correspondence, live nanotech shipment has displayed unexpected activity. The quantity of nanites appears to be increasing autonomously." He paused, looking at that sentence, then added, "Significant multiplication observed." That didn't convey the half of it. He kept going: "Containment measures in place, but I am unsure how long they will hold. Request immediate guidance."
He stopped and re-read it. It sounded too dry, like he was reporting a minor glitch. Flannery's frustration and fear boiled over. He continued, less formally: "This ain't what I signed up for— the station's turning into a blooming nanofarm!" Yes, he wrote that, professionalism be damned. "Please advise ASAP—do ye take this station for a blooming nanofarm? Answer quick!" he added, channeling the exasperated tone of a century-old telegram. By the time he signed off with his name and title, he had more or less abandoned all the niceties of corporate memo style.
He hit "Send" with a flourish and a prayer. The message flashed off into the network, marked with bright red flags for urgency. Flannery slumped back in his chair, realizing his hands were trembling. He felt the adrenaline crash coming on. But there was no time to rest; he had to keep an eye on the situation until someone responded.
Down below, the depot remained silent but for the hum of lights and the far-off whoosh of a passing transit shuttle. Flannery paced the office, running a hand through his hair, muttering fragments of prayers, limericks, and curses in Gaelic under his breath. He checked the live security feed he'd trained on the crate corner: it looked calm enough, his patchwork crate sitting inert in the sealed box. One couldn't see the tiny terrors writhing within, but he knew they were there.
Minutes passed. Flannery expected at any moment to receive a flurry of replies—maybe Morgan would call in shock, or Operations might trigger an alarm. Surely an active nanite outbreak would prompt immediate action. Surely.
But as the hour crawled by, the only reply was the automated receipt: "Message received. Your urgency has been noted." Noted. Not acted upon, not answered, just noted. Flannery felt a hysterical laugh rising in his throat and squashed it down. It seemed while he was frantically fighting a grey goo explosion, the bureaucracy was, true to form, proceeding at its own stately pace.
He sank into the chair and put his head in his hands. "Fighting a swarm with me two bare hands, and they send a note saying 'noted'," he groaned. Alone under the artificial sky of Westcote, Flannery could only wait, keep watch, and hope that help—or at least instructions—would arrive before the situation got any further out of hand.
Little did he suspect, as he oscillated between anxiety and exhaustion, that help was not exactly on the way—but trouble certainly was. In the grand halls of Franklin and the quiet labs of Leonis, people and AIs were still wrangling over what to call these nanites, while here on Westcote, the nanites themselves were multiplying merrily. The contrast would have been quite amusing, really, if one weren't living through it.
Our narrator, perched somewhere in the digital ether, might have offered a sympathetic pat on Flannery's back if such a thing were possible. Instead, I'll simply note for you, dear reader, the delicious irony: Flannery had wanted nothing more than to follow the rules and classify the nanites correctly. And now, by a twist of fate and slow communication, those nanites were busily defying classification by turning one category ("contained shipment") into another ("incipient infestation"). The stage was well and truly set for chaos, and the curtain was about to rise on Act II of this little farce, whether the bureaucrats were ready or not.