Micro

Don Makele knew very well what had happened to Fong and Rodriguez. Nineteen security bots had disappeared on the night of the break-in. They had swarmed onto an intruder, cut into his body, and circulated in the man’s bloodstream, slicing open arteries from the inside. But the bots weren’t supposed to do this. They weren’t programmed to kill anybody. They were supposed to photograph the intruder and cut the skin lightly, making the intruder bleed and thus leave a blood trace behind-and they were supposed to trigger a silent alarm. That was all. Nothing dangerous, certainly not lethal. But somebody had programmed the bots to kill. Vin Drake did it, Makele thought. The bots had sliced he intruder to ribbons, then had cut their way out of the man’s body, and jumped from that man to the next man like fleas. Bloodthirsty, lethal fleas. A burglar and his friends had gotten themselves killed. Accidents happen more often to assholes. But what did this detective know? Makele wasn’t sure, and it made him nervous.

He decided to get tough. He leaned forward and put his voice into Official Mode and said, “Is this company or any of its employees the subject of a criminal investigation?”

Watanabe let a signficant silence elapse. “No,” he finally answered. Not at this time.

“I’m glad to hear that, lieutenant. Because this company is highly ethical. The founder, Vincent Drake, is known for putting his own money into cures for orphan diseases, diseases that nobody else bothers to cure because they aren’t profitable. Mr. Drake is a good man who puts his heart where his money is.”

Lieutenant Dan Watanabe listened to this with a neutral face. “You mean, he puts his money where his heart is.”

“That’s what I said,” Makele answered, gazing back at Watanabe.

Watanabe placed his card on the security man’s desk, and wrote a phone number on it with his pen. “That’s my cell. Call it any time if anything comes up. I think Mr. Drake is expecting me.”

Vin Drake sat behind his desk, leaning back in an executive chair. An Oriental rug covered the floor, an antique. The air held a pleasant aroma of cigar. Given the pleasance of the aroma, Watanabe concluded that the cigar had cost more than ten dollars. The office had no windows. Soft panel lighting. He noticed, through a side door, a private bathroom with marble fixtures. Interesting to see that inside a warehouse. The guy took care of himself.

“We’re very distressed by the recent events,” Drake said. “We’ve been hoping you could help us.”

“We’re doing our best,” Watanabe said. “I just wanted to get more background on the disappearances.”

“Sure.”

Watanabe had been enjoying the portrait of Drake on the wall behind him. It wasn’t bad. Maybe a little pretentious, but lively. “Can you tell me what your company does?”

“Basically we make small robots and use them to explore nature, as a way of discovering new drugs to save human lives.”

“How small?”

Drake shrugged and put his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart.

Watanabe squinted. “You mean half an inch? Like the size of a peanut?”

“Maybe a little smaller,” Drake answered.

“How much smaller?”

“Somewhat.”

“One millimeter, say?”

Drake gave a crisp smile. “That’s barely feasible.”

“But have you done it?”

“Done what?”

“Made robots one millimeter in size.”

“We’re getting into proprietary areas.” Drake leaned back.

“Have you had any industrial accidents with your robots?”

“Accidents?” Drake frowned, and then broke into a chuckle. “Yes-frequently.”

“Anybody get hurt?”

“It’s the other way around.” Drake laughed. “People step on the robots by accident. The robots always lose.” He sighed and looked at his watch. “I have a meeting.”

“Sure. Just one thing.” Watanabe would describe what he’d seen in the microscope, but he would not show Drake a photograph of the device, because a photo was evidence, and you don’t flash evidence. So he kept things vague. “We’ve become aware of a device, pretty small, that appears to have what might be a propeller and cutting blades. It might be able to fly, or swim in somebody’s bloodstream. Is this a Nanigen product?”

Drake took a moment to reply; Watanabe thought the moment lasted a beat too long. “No,” Drake answered. “We don’t make robots like that.”

“Does anybody make them?”

Drake gave Watanabe a careful look. Where was this cop going? “I think you’re describing a theoretical device.”

“What kind?”

“Well, it would be a surgical micro-robot.”

“A what?”