The Precipice gt-8

by Ben Bova

  “It’s all right,” she said, trying to mask her inner tension. “I’ll only be here a few minutes. You can go back to your work.”

  Instead, he walked with her as she headed for her office. “What’s this all about, Kris? Why do they want to lock you out of your own lab?”

  “It’s a long story and I’d rather not go into it right now, Charley. Please, I just need a few minutes in my office.”

  He looked unhappy, almost wounded. “If there’s anything I can do to help…” Cardenas smiled and felt tears welling in her eyes. “That’s very kind of you, Charley. Thanks.”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t be able to walk if it weren’t for you.” She nodded and added silently, And now that you can walk you’ll never be allowed to return to Earth.

  “Well…” he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, Charley. I’ll do that.”

  He stood there for another awkward moment while Cardenas wondered how long it would take Security to send someone to apprehend her. Finally he headed reluctantly back to his own cubicle. She walked slowly toward her office. Once Charley stepped into his cubicle, though, Cardenas swiftly turned down a side passageway toward the rear of the laboratory complex. She passed a sign that proclaimed in red letters AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. This was the area where newly developed nanomachines were tested. The passageway here was lined with sealed, airtight chambers, rather than the cubicles out front. The door to each chamber was locked. The passageway itself was lined with ultraviolet lamps along its ceiling. Each nanomachine type was designed to stop functioning when exposed to high-intensity ultraviolet light: a safety precaution.

  Cardenas passed three doors, stopped at the fourth. She tapped out its entry code and the steel door opened inward a crack. She slipped into the darkened chamber and leaned her weight against the heavy door, closing it. With a long, shuddering sigh, she reset the entry code from the panel on the wall, effectively locking the door to anyone who might try to get in. They’ll have to break the door down, she told herself, and that will take them some time.

  By the time the get the door open I’ll be dead.

  Dan dreamed of Earth: a confused, troubled dream. He was sailing a racing yacht, running before the wind neck-and-neck with many other boats. Warm tropical sunlight beat down on his shoulders and back as he gripped the tiller with one hand while the boat’s computer adjusted the sails for every change in the breeze. The boat knifed through the water, but suddenly it was a car that Dan was driving at breakneck speed through murderously heavy traffic. Dan didn’t know where he was; some city freeway, a dozen lanes clogged with cars and buses and enormous semi rigs chuffing smoke and fumes into the dirty gray, sullen sky. Something was wrong with the car’s air conditioning; it was getting uncomfortably hot in the driver’s seat. Dan started to open his window but realized that the windows had to stay shut. There’s no air to breath out there, he said to himself, knowing it was ridiculous because he wasn’t in space, he was on Earth and he was suffocating, choking, coughing.

  He woke up coughing with Pancho’s voice blaring in his ears, “Recharge your backpack, boss! You’re runnin’ low on air.”

  Blackness. He couldn’t see a thing. For a moment he felt panic surging through him, then it fell into place. Buried in the asteroid. Time to refill his backpack’s air tank. In the dark. By touch.

  “Lemme help you,” Pancho said.

  Dan sensed her beside him. The gravelly dirt shifted, crunched. Something bumped into his side.

  “Oops. ’Scuse me.”

  Dan pushed one hand through the gritty stuff, remembering where he’d put the cylinders.

  “I’ve got the hose,” he said.

  “Okay, good. That’s what I was lookin’ for.”

  “Groping for, you mean.”

  “Whatever. Hand it to me now.”

  Dan felt her hand pushing against his side. “I can do it,” he said. “Better let me,” said Pancho. “YOU’re tired and fatigue makes you sloppy, causes mistakes.”

  “I’m all right.”

  ‘Sure. But just lemme do it, huh? Tired astronauts don’t live long.”

  “And rain makes applesauce,” he mumbled, pushing the end of the hose into her waiting hand.

  “Don’t open it up yet,” Pancho warned. “Don’t want grit or dust contaminating the air.”

  “I know,” he groused.

  It seemed to take hours. Dan tried to keep from coughing but the air in his suit seemed awfully thick; his chest was hurting. He pictured old pantomime comedy routines as he and Pancho haltingly fumbled with the air hose, working blindly, and refilled each other’s suit tanks. They filled Dan’s backpack first, and within a minute he could take a deep breath again without it catching in his throat. Once they filled Pancho’s backpack he heard her inhale deeply. “Best canned air in the solar system,” she announced happily.

  “What time is it? How long do we have to go?”

  “Lemme see… seven and a half hours.”

  “That’s how long we’ve been down here?”

  “Nope, that’s how long we still have to go,” Pancho answered.

  “Another seven and a half hours?”

  Pancho laughed. “You sound like a kid in the back seat of a car.”

  He huffed, then broke into a chastened grin. “I guess I was whining, wasn’t I?”

  “A little.”

  A new thought struck Dan. “After the time’s up, how do we tell if the radiation’s really gone down enough for us to get back to the ship?”

  “Been thinkin’ about that. I’ll worm my extensible antenna wire up to the top of this rubble heap and see if we can link with the ship. Then it’ll be purty simple to read the ship’s sensors.”

  “Suppose the ship’s comm system’s been knocked out by the radiation.”

  “Not likely.”

  “But what if?”

  Pancho sighed. “Then I’ll just hafta stick my head out and see what my suit sensors read.”

  “Like an old cowboy video,” Dan said. “Stick your head out and see if anybody shoots at you.”

  “Hey, boss, you really did learn a lot from Wild Bill Hickok, didn’t ya?” This late at night there was only one man on duty monitoring Selene’s securitycamera network. He was a portly, balding former London bobby who had spent his life’s savings to bring himself and his wife to the Moon and live in comfortable, low-gravity retirement. He’d found retirement so boring, however, that he pleaded with Selene’s personnel department to allow him to work, at least part-time.

  The uniform they gave him wasn’t much; just a set of glorified coveralls with an insignia patch on the left shoulder and his name badge clipped over its breast pocket. But at least he could spend three nights each week sitting alone and content, watching the videos his wife always complained about while still feeling that he was doing something worthwhile. He half-dozed, leaning back in his padded swivel chair, as the twenty display screens arranged in a semicircle around his desk flashed views from Selene’s hundreds of security cameras. Actually, only nineteen of the screens showed the cameras’ scenes; the screen directly in front of the desk was showing the football match from Vancouver, live. But with the sound well-muted, of course.

  The computer did all the real work. The toffs in the main office programmed the computer with a long list of things that would be considered questionable or downright illegal. If the computer detected any such activity it sounded an alarm and indicated where and what was going on.

  With the score still tied and only four minutes left in the final period, the blasted computer buzzed.

  The guard frowned with annoyance. His central screen winked out for an instant, then displayed a ceiling-eye-view of a woman walking through one of the labs. unauthorized person blinked in red across the bottom of the screen. It took a few minutes to coax the information out of the computer, but finally the guard phoned t
he security chief, waking him of course, with the news that Dr. Kris Cardenas had entered the nanotechnology laboratory. The chief grumbled and cast a bleary eye at the guard, but at least had the good grace to say, “Thanks. I’ll send somebody down there.”

  Then he hung up and the guard went back to watching the football game. It was going into overtime.

  HAVEN

  Try as he might, Dan could not get back to sleep. Pancho had attempted to call Amanda and Fuchs, but there was no response from them. “Must be a lotta sizzle outside,” she said. Dan thought she sounded worried. Not her usual sassy self. Or maybe she’s just tired. Or bored. How can anybody be bored with this storm only a meter over our heads? Dan asked himself. Some storm. No thunder and lightning. No noise at all, unless you count the crackle and hiss when you try to use the radio.

  Quiet. Deadly quiet.

  Dan found the water nipple in his suit’s collar and took a sip. Flat and warm. Like recycled piss.

  More than seven hours to go. I’ll go bonkers by then: stark, raving nutty.

  Then he tasted blood in his mouth.

  It was like an electric shock. His entire body flinched. Everything else disappeared from his mind.

  Bleeding gums, he thought, trying to fight down the terror rising in him. One of the prime symptoms of radiation sickness.

  Or maybe you accidentally bit your tongue, he told himself. Yeah, sure, answered that sardonic voice in his head. You’ve had a bout of radiation sickness before, you know the drill. Only this time there’s no place to go to, nothing to do except sit here in this grave and let the radiation do its job on you. “Pancho,” he croaked, surprised at how dry his throat was.

  “Right here, boss.”

  “Can you turn on your suit’s recorder?”

  “Yeah, I think so…”

  Dan sensed her fumbling in the dirt. This must be the way moles live, he thought, depending on touch instead of sight. His stomach was fluttering, nauseous. Christ, don’t let me toss my cookies inside the double-damned helmet, he begged silently. Pancho said, “Testing, one, two, three.” A moment later he heard the words repeated.

  “Okay, the recorder’s workin’.”

  “Good,” said Dan. “Get this down.” He cleared his throat. It felt raw, raspy. Then, in as normal a voice as he could produce, he pronounced:

  “I am Dan Randolph, CEO of Astro Manufacturing Corporation. This is my last will and testament. The recording equipment will automatically mark this statement with the date and time.”

  “That’s right,” Pancho said.

  “Don’t interrupt, kid. Where was I? Oh, right, last will and testament. I hereby bequeath all my stock in Astro Corporation to my friend and loyal employee, Priscilla Lane, together—” Pancho was so shocked she didn’t even bristle at the use of her proper name. “To me? Are you loco?”

  “Don’t interrupt!” Dan snapped. “All my Astro stock to Priscilla Lane, together with all my personal belongings and possessions.” He had to stop and take a few breaths. Then, “And I nominate Priscilla Lane to take my place on the board of directors of Astro Corporation.”

  He thought about it for a few moments, then nodded, satisfied. “Okay, that’s it.

  You can turn off the recorder now.”

  “What’d you do that for? How come you—”

  “I’m not going to make it, kid,” Dan said tiredly. “The radiation’s getting to me. I want you to take my place on the board of directors and fight that sumbitch Humphries with every gram of strength you’ve got.”

  “Me? I’m just a hick engineer… a rocket jock, for cryin’ out loud.”

  “You’re my heir, Pancho. Like a daughter. I don’t have any family to leave anything to, and besides, you know Astro as well as anyone does.”

  “Not the board of directors.”

  Dan laughed weakly. “You’ll roll right over them, kid. The board needs some fresh, young blood. You’ll have to fight Humphries, of course. He’ll want to be made chairman once I’m gone.”

  In a quieter voice, Pancho asked, “You’re talkin’ like you’re at death’s door.”

  “I think I am. My gums are bleeding. I feel woozy. My ears are ringing. I just hope I don’t get the shits.”

  “The storm’s almost over,” she said.

  “So am I.”

  “Once we get back into the ship we can zip back to Selene in a couple of days.

  Maybe faster! I can goose her up to maybe half a g.”

  “And how will you brake her? Impact? Dive right into Alphonsus?” Pancho fell silent for several moments. Dan was glad she couldn’t see him. The way his insides felt, his hands would probably be shaking like a palsied old man’s if they weren’t buried in the asteroid’s rubble.

  “They can cure radiation sickness back at Selene,” Pancho said at last. “Use nanomachines.”

  “If I make it back to Selene.”

  “Only about seven hours to go,” she said. “Radiation’s levelin’ off.”

  “Not as deep as a well,” Dan quoted, “or as wide as a church door, but it’s enough.

  It’ll do.”

  “You goin’ delirious?”

  “No, that’s just Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Oh. Yeah, right.”

  “I’m going to take a nap, kid. I feel pretty tired.”

  “Good idea, I guess.”

  “Wake me when it’s over.”

  Kris Cardenas was surprised at how her hands trembled as she worked. Programming nanomachines to disassemble carbon-based molecules was a snap, a no-brainer. Just a slight modification to the procedure they used every day to build diamond mechanisms out of bins of soot.

  It wasn’t the difficulty of the work. As she sat at the lab bench, peering intently at the desktop screen that displayed what the atomic force microscope was showing, she thought about the consequences.

  Gobblers. I’m deliberately creating a batch of gobblers. If they get loose…

  Calm down! she scolded herself. Go through this logically, step by step. Okay, they’ll break in and find me dead. Lying on the floor. I’ll leave a note on the computer screen. Put it in big red letters, so they can’t miss it. I’m only making a microsample of gobblers and I’m disabling their assembly capabilities. They can’t reproduce. They’ll be contained inside my body.

  But what if they get outside your body? They’ll be taking you apart from the inside. What’s to stop them from getting out?

  Nothing, she told herself. So I’ll turn on the UV overheads before I swallow the bugs. That will destroy them once they get outside my body. A knock on the door startled her.

  “Dr. Cardenas? We know you’re in there. Open up, please.”

  She wiped the display from the AFM and began hurriedly typing her suicide note. “Warning. I have ingested a microgram of nanomachine disassemblers. They are programmed to take apart carbon-based molecules. Do not allow them to go beyond the confines of this laboratory. Disinfect the lab with high-intensity ultraviolet light before moving my body or touching anything in this room.

  Notify—”

  Someone banged on the door, hard. “Kris! It’s Doug Stavenger. You don’t have to do this. Come on out.”

  She scanned the red block letters on the display screen and erased the final word; no need to notify Doug, he’s already here.

  “Kris, it’s not your fault.” Stavenger’s voice was muffled by the heavy steel door, but she heard the urgency in it well enough. “Come out and talk this over with me.”

  She got off the spindly-legged stool and went to the sampling site at the end of the bench. A gleaming cup of lunar aluminum sat there, half full of water that contained the nanomachines that were going to kill her. “Kris,” Stavenger called, “you’ve spent your life developing nanotechnology. Don’t throw it all away. Don’t give them another reason to say nanomachines are killers.”

  She picked up the cup and held it in both hands, thinking, I can’t live with this guilt. I’ve committed murder. I�
��ve killed four people.

  Stavenger was shouting through the locked door, “That’s what they’ll say. You know that. They’ll say that nanomachines killed the foremost researcher in the field. They’ll use it to show how dangerous nanomachines are, how right they’ve been all along to ban them.”

  She looked from the cup to the closed, locked door. It was Humphries’s idea, but I did it. Willingly. He pulled my strings and I danced like a blind, obedient little puppet.

  “Don’t throw your life away, Kris,” Stavenger pleaded. “You’ll be destroying everything you’ve worked for. You’ll be giving them the excuse they need to come back here and force us to obey their laws.”

  Humphries, she thought. Once I’m dead he’ll be able to blame the whole thing on me. His lawyers will talk his way out of it. He’ll walk away from this. From four murders. Five, counting me.

  Cardenas carried the cup back to the sampling site and sealed its aluminum top to its rim. Once the top clicked into place she placed the cup in the disposal oven and closed its door. The inner walls of the oven fluoresced as its ultraviolet lamps bathed the cup.

  Why should I die for Martin Humphries? she asked herself. Someone’s got to stand up to him. Someone’s got to tell the truth about this. No matter what it costs, I’ve got to face him, face all of them.

  “Come on, Kris. Open the door.”

  They’re watching me through the security camera, Cardenas knew. She went back to the computer and erased her message. One of the staff people can destroy the gobblers tomorrow, she told herself. They’re safe enough in the oven for now. Slowly she walked to the door, then stopped at the keypad on the wall next to it.

  “Doug?” she called.

  “I’m right here, Kris. Open the door, please.”

  “This is silly,” she said, feeling stupid, “but I don’t remember the sequence I used to reset the lock.”