Leviathans of Jupiter (32 page)

One of her female aides had called ahead to inform the chief nanotechnician that the IAA councilwoman was coming to visit his lab. “Don't ask permission,” Westfall had told her aide. “Simply tell him I'll be there.”

Following the directions displayed on her pocketphone, Westfall strode two paces ahead of her strapping assistants until she reached the section of the third wheel's main passageway where the makeshift nanotech laboratory was housed. Flashing displays on screens on both sides of the passageway's bulkheads warned:
DANGER—HIGH INTENSITY ULTRAVIOLET RADIATION
. She ignored the displays and strode up to the door that bore
NANOTECHNOLOGY LABORATORY
on its identification screen.

As she reached for the door's handle it slid back before she could touch it, revealing a slightly built young man with a round, freckled face and sparkling hazel eyes.

He smiled broadly and made a courtly little bow. “Mrs. Westfall, I presume.”

Katherine Westfall nodded graciously and stepped into the lab area. Turning, she told her assistants, “Wait outside, please.”

Franklin Torre's grin morphed into open-mouthed alarm. “Uh, Mrs. Westfall, you don't want them to stay out there. The UV isn't good for them, not for long exposures.”

Feeling nettled, Westfall gestured abruptly to her assistants. “Come inside, then. Stay here by the door.”

She looked around. The laboratory area was small, scarcely as large as her own sitting room, up in the top wheel.

“You don't seem to need much space, do you?” she said to Torre.

With a good-natured shrug, Torre replied, “Nanomachines are teeny little things. About the size of viruses. We don't need that much room.”

“I see. And you are…?”

“My name's Franklin Torre. I'm the director of the Zimmerman Nanotechnology Lab, at Selene.”

“Ah. Dr. Torre.”

“Mr. Torre,” Franklin corrected. “I never finished my doctorate. Got too busy doing real work.”

“I understand your sister is here with you,” Westfall said.

With a bouncy nod, Torre replied, “Yes, she is. You have good sources of information.”

Westfall looked around the smallish room again and saw that no one else was present.

Torre said, “Jan-Jan's not here at the moment.”

“So I see.”

Smiling pleasantly, Torre asked, “So what would you like to know about nanomachines?”

“Everything.”

“Okay. Here's the fifty-dollar tour.”

Torre walked her along the workbench that ran the length of the room and began to explain each and every piece of equipment on it: the electron microscope and its display screen, the stainless steel vat in which the nanomachines were built, the double-sealed domed chamber in which the devices were tested.

“Isn't all this dangerous?” she asked.

“Not really,” Torre replied easily. “We take all the necessary precautions.” Pointing to the gleaming vat in the middle of the workbench, “That's the only really hazardous area. When the disassemblers are first built they're nonspecific; they could attack a fairly wide variety of molecules. Over here in the dome we fine-tune them exclusively for particular molecules. They won't touch anything but those molecules once we've specialized them.”

“I understand that you're producing nanomachines that will destroy a particular type of virus,” she said.

“Rabies virus,” Torre answered, looking impressed at her depth of information. “We're using blood samples from one of the scientists on the staff here. The virus seems to be different from the standard forms in the medical files. It must've been genetically engineered.”

“Who would deliberately alter a rabies virus?” Westfall asked rhetorically.

Torre shrugged. “Not my end of the game. It doesn't make any difference to me who tinkered with the virus or how she got it into her bloodstream. My job is to wipe it out.”

They were at the end of the workbench, on the far side of the room. Westfall leaned a narrow hip against the edge of the bench. Her two assistants still stood by the door like statues or well-drilled soldiers, arms folded across their chests.

“I must say that your laboratory isn't very imposing.”

Torre chuckled. “Like I told you, nanos don't need much room. But they can accomplish tremendous things. Back at Selene we use nanomachines to build spacecraft of pure diamond. The nanobugs manufacture the diamond out of piles of soot, ordinary carbon. They turn individual atoms of carbon into sheets of structural diamond.”

“That type of nano is called an assembler, isn't it?”

“Right!” Torre seemed delighted that she knew the term.

“But what you're producing here is a different type of thing altogether, isn't it?”

Nodding again, Torre said, “Yep. We're making disassemblers. Their job isn't to build up new molecules out of individual atoms. Their job is to take apart certain specific molecules, break 'em up into individual atoms.”

“And the molecules they attack are the rabies viruses.”

“Right again.”

“Once you've programmed them.”

“Programming isn't the right term to use, really,” Torre admitted. “It's not like programming a computer. It's more like reshaping a machine tool. Mechanical, not electronic.”

Just then the door to the laboratory slid open and Grant Archer stepped in, nearly bumping into Westfall's two guards.

“It's all right,” she called to her men. “Let him through.”

Archer clearly looked flustered as he approached Westfall and Torre. But he managed to put a smile on his bearded face and said, “I hope Mr. Torre here is showing you everything you want to see, Mrs. Westfall.”

“He certainly is,” Westfall replied, making her tone sound languid, almost bored.

“We're very lucky to have him here,” Archer said. “He's helping Deirdre Ambrose recover from her viral infection.”

Westfall straightened up and started walking slowly along the workbench, back toward the front of the room and the two dark-suited men waiting by the door. She lingered by the chamber where the unprogrammed nanomachines were created.

Her brows knit slightly and she asked, “But aren't nanomachines dangerous? Couldn't these things you're putting into Ms. Ambrose's blood destroy more than just her rabies virus?”

“No,” Torre and Archer said in unison.

“But you told me—”

“Maybe I gave you the wrong impression,” Torre said. “Nanomachines are machines. They're designed to do a specific job and that's all they can do. Once they're specialized they don't change or mutate on their own. They're not dangerous.”

Tapping a lacquered fingernail on the stainless steel vat, Westfall insisted, “But you said the ones in here aren't specialized. They could eat up a large variety of materials.”

“They never get out of this laboratory,” Torre explained, with some impatience showing in his reddening face. “Not until they're fine-tuned for a specific type of molecule.”

“Aren't they called gobblers?” Westfall asked in her hushed, little-girl voice. “Haven't they been used to kill people?”

Torre's face was flushed. But before he could reply, Archer said, “Yes, nanos have been used to murder people. They were deliberately designed to attack any carbon-based molecules they encountered. They were designed and used by madmen.”

“That's why they're banned on Earth,” Torre said, controlling himself with obvious effort. “Plenty of madmen back there.”

“Yes, of course,” Westfall murmured. Then, “So the gobblers you're building here can only attack rabies viruses.”

“The specific type of virus that's infecting Deirdre Ambrose,” Torre said.

“And it couldn't get loose and attack anything else?”

“No, it couldn't,” Torre said firmly.

“Besides,” Archer put in, “the nanobugs couldn't survive outside this laboratory environment. The passageway outside is drenched in high-intensity ultraviolet light that will deactivate the nanos on contact.”

“Ultraviolet light,” Westfall murmured.

“We design the nanos to be deactivated by UV,” Torre said. “It's a standard safety precaution.”

Westfall nodded, apparently satisfied. “Thank you for a very enlightening tour, Mr. Torre,” she said.

His composure recovered, Torre extended his hand as he said, “If there's anything else you want to know, just give me a holler.”

“Yes. I'll do that.” As she approached the door, one of her guards opened it for her and she swept regally out of the lab.

Archer puffed out a breath of air. “I wonder how she found out that you were here,” he muttered.

Torre waggled a hand in the air. “Well, she seems satisfied that we're not going to destroy everything in sight.”

Archer looked at the still-open door. “I hope so.”

But as she stepped into the elevator with her two assistants, Katherine Westfall was thinking, There's no security at that lab at all! Anyone could walk right in and take a sample of their nanomachines. They must lock the door at night, but we could get through without any real trouble.

Then she asked herself, How can I get a sample of the gobblers that haven't been specifically programmed yet? I'll need some nanos that can attack a wide variety of things.

MISSION CONTROL CENTER

Max Yeager was surprised to see Linda Vishnevskaya sitting at the central console in the otherwise empty control center. All the other consoles were dead and quiet, the big wall screens also blank, except for the one at the front of the chamber that showed
Faraday
hanging in orbit outside the station.

“What're you doing here?” he asked, almost in a growl.

She turned, her violet eyes wide with surprise.

“What are
you
doing here, Max?” she countered.

He sagged into the chair of the console closest to her. Jabbing a thumb toward the image on the wall screen, he explained, “Big meeting tomorrow morning to decide the date for launching her back into the ocean.”

Vishnevskaya's face relaxed into a warm smile. “So the little father has come to check out his baby one more time.”

Yeager made a sour face. “I'm an engineer, not a sentimental old fart.”

“No, not sentimental,” she said, straining to keep her face serious. “Not at all.”

“I'm trying to work out a defense system for her. Something that'll keep those damned sharks off her.”

“You want to protect your baby,” said Vishnevskaya, with an impish gleam in her eye.

“She's a machine, a ship,” Yeager protested. “I've got a couple of daughters, you know. I can tell the difference between a machine and a human being.”

“You are married,” Vishnevskaya said.

“Divorced. Almost twenty years ago.” Yeager looked uncomfortable, but he added in a near-whisper, “Who could put up with an engineer for a husband?”

Vishnevskaya lapsed into silence.

“I was figuring,” Yeager said, getting back to business, “that we could rig the outer shell with a high-potential electric field. Shock anything that comes within a dozen meters of her skin.”

“A dozen meters?” Vishnevskaya shook her head slightly. “Electric fields dissipate rapidly in water, don't they?”

“The water's slightly conducting. It's laced with ammonia and other ions. Acidic.”

Arching her brows, Vishnevskaya admitted, “It might work, then.”

“I think I can make it work. Just enough to keep those damned sharks off her.”

“Could you use the light panels on the outer hull?” she suggested.

“The light panels?” Yeager thought about it for all of a second. “Nah. Archer and the science guys wanted them so they could flash pictures at the leviathans. Try to communicate with them visually.”

“Yes, but—”

“No, I need something more than a bunch of blinking lights to defend her,” Yeager said.

“You're going with her, aren't you?”

Yeager flinched with surprise. “Going with her? What do you mean?”

Smiling almost sadly, Vishnevskaya said, “You're going to insist that you be one of the crew. You can't let her go down there without you.”

He tried to frown, but instead his expression melted into an admission of defeat. “Yeah, I want to go with her. I don't know if Archer and the other paper pushers will let me, though.”

Vishnevskaya gave a little sigh, then said, “It would help if you volunteered to be immersed in the perfluorocarbon. You could show Archer and the others that you can stand the physical pressure.”

Yeager brightened slightly. “You're right. I ought to get some time in at the immersion center.”

He got to his feet and headed for the door, leaving Vishnevskaya sitting in the emptied control center, wishing she had kept her mouth shut.

*   *   *

Red Devlin was startled when Katherine Westfall suddenly showed up in his kitchen.

It was well after midnight. The rest of the kitchen crew had gone to their beds, but not Devlin. This was his domain and he worked his own hours. He had been tinkering with one of the serving robots, replacing the LED display screen that covered its flat top.

“Mr. Devlin?”

He jerked erect, dropping the pliers he'd been holding; they clattered onto the tiled floor. The kitchen was in its off-hours lighting, pools of brightness separated by swaths of dark shadow. The woman stood in shadow, silhouetted against a cone of light.

“What're you doing here?” he snapped, annoyed at this intrusion into his domain.

“I'm Katherine Westfall,” she said, stepping closer to him. “I need to talk with you.”

Devlin wiped his hands on his grimy apron. “Mrs. Westfall?”

It was her, all right. He recognized her from the images he'd seen on the nets. Small, slightly built, her face sculpted in planes and hollows like a statue out of ancient Egypt. She wore a one-piece coverall of coral pink that fitted her like a second skin. Jewelry glittered at her wrists, her throat, her earlobes.