A Stranger in Paradise

by Edward M. Lerner

  That complacency vanished the day Sherry Nilsson appeared in the Student Union. Every move she made declared her a spacer. Somehow she made the unaccustomed struggle against gravity graceful and exotic. He admired her from afar, giving no thought to the improbability of a spacer picking Manhattan, Kansas as a destination. Looking back, he didn’t think much in those days—or the thinking he did wasn’t done with his head.

  Opposites truly did attract. Sherry was as willowy as Jason was burly, as blond and Nordic as he was dark and Mediterranean, and—the biggest contrast of all—an econ postdoc. Had he found buttons cute, doubtless he would have added cute-as-one to Sherry’s list of virtues. She drew Jason like a moth to a flame, and he could only hope that his fate would be less clichéd and fatal.

  It would be weeks before he wondered whether Sherry was here precisely because she was his “type.” Or that his technical skills and working-class roots, not his diamond-in-the-rough charms, had attracted anyone’s interest.

  Jason tried to insinuate himself into her circle. Sherry and her friends seemed always to be debating politics or economics. He often couldn’t tell which. He decided that the boundary wasn’t necessarily clear-cut.

  With uncharacteristic patience he dallied at the outer fringes of her clique. Then one day the main topic was government regulation of innovation. He swallowed hard. The verbal jousting had at last touched on a subject in which Jason could claim expertise. It had something to do with technology, anyway.

  It was time to make his move.

  Jason coughed softly. He cleared his throat. He eventually got Sherry’s attention, which turned out to be as unsettling as her smashing good looks.

  “So what’s the big deal about these little machines?” Sherry asked when he named his field, smiling at her own pun. Aimed directly at him for the first time, her ice-blue eyes almost left him tongue-tied. “Of what conceivable use is a millimeter-long gear or motor? And if smaller is better, why settle for half-measures? Why not go all the way to nanotech?”

  He rallied: This was his chance to make an impression. “Of what use is any gear or motor? We size machines for the tasks they handle. Micromachines ideally suit specific tasks.”

  “Surgery on mosquitoes?”

  He nearly melted at the saucy curl of her lip even as he took exception. Lord, but he was smitten. “No, Sherry, although I could probably build the tools for that job.”

  Micro electromechanical systems were a narrow specialty even within the engineering field. MEMS robotics was a niche indeed. K-State had a solid program, as did a handful of other schools worldwide, but that was it. Jason had plenty of experience explaining his passion to relatives and friends—and that MEMS devices were about a million times larger than nanobots.

  He chose an example that worked for most laypeople. “Look, say an optical fiber goes dead in a trans-Atlantic cable. Signal repeaters are hundreds of kilometers apart, so a break—say, from a shark bite—could be anywhere between. Locating the damage by timing reflections from the break isn’t precise. Searching for a break by sub or remote-controlled submersible is damned expensive. So is laying new cable. That is a suitable problem for micromachines.”

  “Huh.” She cocked her head. “What does a micromachine do? The backstroke?”

  He had to laugh. “Imagine a gnat-sized robot able to move among the fibers within the cable sheath. Deploy a few gnatbots in every repeater. If a repeater loses signal from one direction, it sends a gnatbot creeping down the cable toward its silent neighbor. When the ’bot sees light leaking out of a damaged fiber, it’s found the problem. Having counted its steps along the way, it reports back the exact location of the break.”

  “How?”

  Her friends looked bored. Some wandered off. For all their haranguing about technology regulation, few of them ever showed interest in technology.

  “How can it report?” Jason grinned. “It’s easy. Look, the robot is tiny. It’s inside a fiber-optical cable. It simply polishes the broken fiber end into a usable state and beams its own light signal down the fiber.” It could even be designed with a bit of fiber running through its body. Polish both ends of the break, and splice the ends to itself: repair the quick-and-easy way.

  Sherry considered. “That’s clever. But how would you control such a gadget?”

  He reveled in her interest. “For a task that simple, I’d program it to be autonomous. For more complicated jobs, adding a low-power laser comm link is appropriate.”

  One of the hangers-on inched closer. He was a jaundiced, gaunt fellow, a painter of some kind enamored of the starving-artist tradition. “Could your creature find its way back out?”

  “Device,” Jason corrected automatically. “Sure, but why bother? Gnatbots should be dirt cheap.” And for that reason, the ’bots would not be stationed hundreds of kilometers apart, only in the repeaters, but scattered along the length of the cable.

  People looked surprised at that answer. (Jason did not process at the time that Sherry showed no surprise. It all came clear later.)

  Jason said, “A micromachine is a few pennies-worth of silicon and metal, no different than an integrated circuit. The machinery and its controls are formed at the same time, by the same industrial processes, from the same chip. The big costs are upfront: design labor and manufacturing equipment.” Like nanotech, for that matter.

  More of Jason’s audience excused themselves, headed for a laser-art exhibition. His ire—he’d listened to their preaching often enough—vanished when Sherry made no move to follow.

  “So you can talk. I had begun to wonder.” She laid a hand on his elbow. “Buy a girl a cup of coffee, sport?”

  For weeks, he and Sherry discussed politics, life in space, economics and—to his unending surprise—microengineering. Some of her questions, hindsight being 20/20, suggested more than passing familiarity with MEMS.

  Sherry’s friends kept happening by to chime in. Over beer and pizza one evening, when they were curiously alone, Jason asked when their chaperones were due.

  “I deserve that.” Sherry sighed. “You really understand microengineering, don’t you?”

  Some sixth sense told him that, contrary to appearances, she had not changed the subject. “No offense, but how would an economist know?”

  “Does Ron understand poli sci?”

  Ron was one of Sherry’s maddening crowd. Ron sounded off now in Jason’s mind’s ear, pedantic and domineering. Jason grimaced. “I have my doubts.”

  “Why?” Sherry persisted.

  “Ron is too sure of himself. Too much of a know-it-all. I can’t respect someone incapable of saying ‘I don’t know.’ ”

  She smiled. “While you pick words carefully and consider the ramifications of what you say. And you do occasionally say ‘I don’t know.’ That’s how I’m sure you know your stuff.”

  By that standard, he would concede she knew economics. “What bearing does this have on your chaperones?”

  “Co-conspirators,” Sherry whispered, standing. “We were evaluating you.” And in the course of a long, moonlit stroll, she explained.

  “Are you with us?”

  It was obvious in retrospect: Her cronies had been probing Jason for his political views. Sherry was the bait to keep him there. It was unclear whom that admission most embarrassed.

  What did he think? With a few reservations, he sympathized with her aims—and so what? The ends were not the issue. The proposed means were.

  And prison, quite likely, if things went wrong.

  Had Sherry educated him? Indoctrinated him? Were hormones making his decisions? Or did they simply agree?

  “Jason?” Sherry’s voice cracked, her face drawn with worry.

  Every prospective recruit was a prospective informant or undercover Syndicate agent. She had not decided lightly to approach him.

  This was not, Jason decided,
a deceitful face. Yes, he was in—although he had a final bit of due diligence to perform. He would do that on his own.

  Whatever he learned, he wouldn’t—couldn’t—turn in Sherry. “Okay, I’m in.”

  She slumped in relief.

  He continued, “Sure, I could use the university microengineering labs to build you tiny spybots. I could teach you and your friends to control them.

  “But I have a better idea.”

  “. . . Announced today that the SSS Helsinki will be commissioned on Tuesday. The Helsinki, eighth and newest member of the Syndicate’s deep-space fleet, will accommodate missions of up to a year’s duration. Equipped with the latest engines, the Helsinki will be the fastest of the Europa-class cruisers. Syndicate spokesman Alain Lamoureaux stated that . . .”

  Shortness of breath did nothing to mitigate the propaganda. Freefall jogging only looked easy. Every step Jason took on the treadmill tried to bounce him—equal and opposite reactions made undeniable—into the air. Powerful bungee cords hooked to belt loops yanked him back. Wrist and ankle weights (okay, not weight, but still mass: resistance in the form of added inertia to be fought) intensified the workout.

  Exercise here. Be pushed from the ship in a wheelchair when we return to Earth. It’s your choice, Sherry had said.

  So he exercised every chance he got.

  Just twenty minutes offworld Jason had hurled, spraying lunch and probably the two meals before that. Loudly and sloppily. And floated through his own drifting vomit, too nauseous to care. That was plenty to live down.

  His stomach lurched at the memory, and he tried to focus on the newscast. Four Europa-class ships were being shown. At the center of the image utility craft swarmed. They serviced the nearly outfitted Helsinki, hanging in space beside its birthplace: Syndicate Station Three. The camera shot came from the tethered sensor pod that orbited three hundred meters Earthward from the main body of the station.

  Jason trudged on, his sweaty tunic clinging. The few metal ships looked crude and quaint among the translucent diamond hulls of the nano-grown Syndicate ships. Craning for a different view into the holo, he glimpsed the metal ship docked at Beta port.

  This ship.

  For years, the Tom Paine had shuttled between Earth and the Lagrange points, tapping the mineral wealth of the Earth/Luna Trojan asteroids. Scarcely a third the length of the sparkling Syndicate cruisers, the Tom Paine was representative of independents’ ships: an antique.

  The logic was inescapable. Metal hulls massed more than carbon, burning more fuel. Metal hulls were less dependable. A few grams of nannies kept the new-style hulls in repair—not that much could harm a diamond—but a metal ship needed an inventory of spare parts. Spares sacrificed that much more potential cargo capacity. And lugging extra fuel and spare parts required even more fuel . . .

  When diamond spaceships began working the Trojans, independent miners could not compete.

  Independents like Bill Nilsson remained in space any way they could. Too often that meant demeaning support contracts for near-Earth Syndicate operations, and even that work was disappearing. They saved their pennies and dreamt of the day when they would buy their own synthetic diamond hulls—

  Until, Bill said, even the cockeyed optimists had to accept the truth. The Syndicate would never, for any price, equip potential rivals.

  Breathing deeply to clear his head, Jason tried again to focus on the vid.

  “In other news today,” the ’caster went on, “Edouard Smithson, France’s ambassador to the United Nations, formally introduced the much-discussed global legislation to ban nanoengineering activities on Earth. Citing two recent loss-of-containment incidents on Syndicate Station One, the ambassador called nanites, ‘Too great a risk to life for prudent terrestrial development.’ ”

  The holo cut to Smithson, a long-faced man with eyebrows like woolly caterpillars. In dolorous tones, the ambassador said, “While my colleagues and I recognize the promise of nano-fabrication, we must not—and we will not—endanger life on Earth through hasty and potentially irreversible experiments. The technology can only be developed safely in space, where any incidents are intrinsically isolated.”

  Jason managed, just barely, not to shout at the vid. How interesting that these incidents occurred on an obsolete station. Was Syndicate Station One more valuable as an object lesson than as scrap?

  Toweling wet hair, Sherry entered the ship’s tiny dayroom. “You know, we do have exercise videos.”

  Jason gestured at the vid. “Sanctimonious scumbag. Who besides the Syndicate works with nanites on an industrial scale in space? Everyone else works Dirtside—and without any incidents.”

  She killed the webcast. “We knew this was coming, Jason. That’s why you’re here. We need to stay on task.”

  He was so sick of this treadmill. The station gym had a dozen kinds of zero-gee exercise equipment, none of which he would use. Docking charges alone were more than they could afford. Every minute any of them spent off the ship added “environmental fees.” Breathing was not to be taken for granted in space.

  He kept trudging. “You’d never guess from any words leaving Smithson’s lips that the Syndicate is a state-owned enterprise of the Eurasian Union. Or that without nano-fabbed diamond hulls and platforms, no one can compete out here with the Syndicate.”

  She gave a minimal flick of hand and arm that reminded, “Who told you?”

  Syndicate lobbyists were all over this “issue.” The money was flowing. Campaign contributions. Economic development aid. R&D grants. Outsourcing contracts. Syndicate scientists normally unavailable for comment were suddenly everywhere on the ’net, gloomily asserting the inevitability of further incidents. Three media giants (all well supported by Syndicate advertising) were promoting epic miniseries about gray-goo disasters. Never mind that, for reasons of safety, no one made nanoconstructors robust enough to survive in the wild. And that people smart enough to build a nanoscale self-replicator were smart enough not to try.

  Spacer sympathizers Dirtside predicted Smithson—meaning the Syndicate—had ample votes in the General Assembly to enact the ban.

  Sherry’s econometric models projected the Syndicate would drive the independents from space within three years, before they could complete their own offworld nano-fabs. The Syndicate would own all the resources of space, with Earth’s billions as a captive market.

  Jason brushed a sodden lock of hair from his forehead. “Yeah, Sherry. You told me. I guess I didn’t really believe it. It’s easier, somehow, to believe it out here.”

  He stopped the treadmill. Carefully, he detached the taut bungee cords, then put on his Velcro slippers. They went together to the bridge, and Jason belted himself into the chair at his control console. “I believe it, but I refuse to accept it. Let’s go get the bastards.”

  Sherry plucked at her hamburger bun, and then in the air at the crumbs she had set loose. Her hair was pulled back in a long ponytail that floated behind her baseball cap. She returned Jason’s smile of encouragement.

  If only someone could encourage him.

  “Very illuminating.” Bill spoke from the ship’s galley, to which he had disappeared for a coffee bulb. Caffeine megadosing was the older man’s one vice. The dour spacer had fallen upon hard times—he was ship’s captain, pilot, engineer, and cook.

  “Yeah, right.” Jason considered another burger and thought better of it. The first churned unhappily in his stomach. Today’s swatted scout was their sixth try at crossing that room.

  Bill called out, “No, I mean it. Literally. The lighting in that service area was fairly bright. Could you add photocells to a scout? It could recharge its batteries for the final sprint.”

  “Hmm.” Jason straightened out of a slouch. “If we could . . .” They couldn’t, of course. He pulled up the schematics anyway, hoping to be wrong.

  A gnatbot had six independent
legs, each with a dedicated micromotor. Locomotion was the biggest drain on the internal battery that filled the ’bot’s guts.

  “Zoom, please,” Sherry said. He did, and she leaned closer anyway. “Fewer legs?”

  Maybe it could get around with fewer legs—but no. Jason shook his head. “Can’t, without sacrificing its disguise. To pass for a bug”—unwelcome, but innocent; the station was full of stowaway insects and their spawn—“it needs six legs.”

  The head was dominated by two integral CCD cameras, each capped with a fisheye lens for 180o visibility. Two piezoelectric sensors astride the head served as ears. Jason thought aloud. “We need both cameras for stereoscopic imaging. We need both mikes to triangulate sound sources.”

  Four dark regions, stubby steerable rods, marked the robot’s back. The right pair were infrared lasers; the left pair photodetectors.

  The whole damn surface was in use! Where could he possibly add photocells?

  “We’re so close,” Bill said. “You’ll find a way.”

  Jason closed his eyes. “You know, Bill? That optimism of yours can be really annoying.”

  The hell of it was they were so close.

  In just a few days they had stretched a comm network, an invisible daisy chain of two-way infrared links, across the station. (Only one link, from the Tom Paine itself to the relay in the docking collar, used radio, at less-than-cell-phone power levels, so they could conspire behind closed airlock hatches.) The first relay placements were easy. While playing tourist they stuck ’bots to dimly lit spots in the public corridors. These fixed relays needed only to pivot and twist for aiming.

  Then they dumped mobile ’bots into the station’s air ducts to extend the network into the guarded and secure Syndicate-only lab annex. Fans did the work, delivering ’bots across the station. The micromachines grabbed hold where they could. In seams between duct segments? To dirt within the pipes? They would never know, and it hardly mattered.