Nanny Estate

By Karen Traviss



   "I can grow you a housing estate," said the architect.
   "Grow?" asked the Director of Planning. "Is that the the latest buzz-word?"
   "I do mean grow, Mrs. James," he repeated. "Just take a look at this."
   He placed the plans on her neatly-arranged desk and swivelled them so she
   could read them the right way up. But there were no straight lines and
   elevations for her to recognise: the images were all snap-together
molecular
   models, like simple construction toys. He watched for a flicker of interest
on
   her face.
   "It's a smart house," he prompted. "And I mean smart. Not just automated.
More
   like autonomic."
   "We don't need more houses," she said. "And we haven't got any green-field
   sites to build on. What we could do with is someone prepared to refurbish
some
   of the run-down housing stock we're stuck with. Not as profitable, maybe,
but
   that's what we need."
   It was a cue from heaven. "I know," he said." That's why I'm here.
   Regenerating brown-field sites and contaminated land—it's my special
   interest."
   He laid an old-fashioned business card on the desk: Hedley Barton,
Consulting
   Nano-architect, Sustainable Technologies, Novel Constructs. "Just suppose
that
   I could rebuild your most run-down area, fill it with
environmentally-neutral
   housing, and remove the soil contaminants at the same time."
   "Is this before or after you transmute base metal into gold?" She was
studying
   the card. "You're not a qualified architect. Not according to this, anyway."
   "I'm a scientist who can build things."
   "So why should we take a risk on you?"
   "Your old defence establishment land is riddled with heavy metals and
asbestos
   and you can’t sell it. How long has it been sitting derelict? Twenty years?"
   Barton knew it was the sort of site you couldn't give away free with
breakfast
   cereal. He also knew the prospect of releasing capital for the city coffers
   was a temptation on a Faustian scale. Like most city councils, this one had
   sold off the civic silver and was close to auctioning sports fields to make
   ends meet.
   "So how do you intend to do this?" she asked.
   "Nano-tech," said Barton. "A project I've been working on with the
university.
   You don't need huge teams to deliver it. I can give you estates that not
only
   build themselves, but also cleanse the site of contaminants. It's not just
   smart housing- it could be the whole future of construction. Just give me a
   chance to show you."
   "I’ve seen nanotech on the TV, I think, but it’s pretty radical stuff for
us."
   Barton knew the seductive nature of professional vanity. "Wouldn’t you like
to
  be the first to demonstrate its potential?"
  She hesitated. "I’m all for innovation."
  He’d hooked her. "Just trust me," he said. "This will change the
architectural
  world."

 #


   A small, plot-sized square of soil on the campus lawn had been marked out
with
   tape like a murder scene. It indicated where a cocktail of contaminants had
   been mixed with the earth. Mrs. James arrived with a colleague from
   Environmental Health, Andy Martin, who took a soil sample to confirm that
it
   did indeed contain heavy metals and other detritus of an industrial past.
Then
   technicians laid heaps of what looked like finely powdered minerals on the
   square, and stepped back.
   Barton had rehearsed his pitch to just the right degree of controlled
   enthusiasm. Now was his moment.
   "In an hour, the house will begin to emerge," he said. "I want you to watch
it
   carefully, because you’ll actually see the building grow. You can come back
   any time over the next few days while it develops and check on it.
   "We've developed classes of nanites, some handling organic material, some
   handling inorganics, that can exchange information and co-operate to build
   anything we programme them to. Not only will the structure build itself
from
   the ground up, it'll also put down foundations—roots, if you like—that'll
   process the contaminants from the soil and render them harmless."
   "Well, there are plants that can do that," Martin said. "And we don't have
to
   do any development deals with them."
   "Yes, " said Barton. "But will they also create a structure that people can
   live in comfortably? Can they make a reactive, intelligent system that
   protects the environment?"
   "And this can?" The health officer was eyeing the square of soil as if he
were
   looking over a precipice. Barton knew he would be the hardest to convince.
   "Yes."
   Martin showed neither acceptance nor disbelief. "I'm not sure how you're
using
   the term intelligence. This isn't some sort of AI, is it?"
   "No, not at all. It doesn't actually think—we're not that advanced, not
yet.
   This material could be described as able to learn, but it has a limited
   capacity. The nanites only operate within their own speciality and work
with
   the others. They're not about to write the works of Shakespeare."
   Barton nodded in the direction of the featureless ground. "Just a small
   demonstration. And stick these badges on, please." He marked both officers
   with an adhesive grey disc. "This will take a little time."
   Fortified from time to time by coffee and sandwiches in the February chill,
   they watched while a definite shape began to emerge on the ground before
them,
   like a low wall being erected by invisible hands. At first it was grey like
a
   wasps' nest: the next day it became suffused with green.
     "Chlorophyll," explained Barton. He wasn’t surprised the two officers came
     back to the site every day. "To generate its own energy."
     Walls flowed upwards: transparent irising windows formed. Doors appeared,
as
   if by an artist’s hand. Mrs. James and Martin stared in silence, hugging
their
   coats to them. Before them now was a small green shed, with curved walls and
a
   gently domed roof."Let's look inside," said Barton. As they moved forward,
the
   doors parted.
   "How'd they do that?" asked Mrs. James.
   "That grey badge is an external key," Barton explained. "Like you have on a
   cat collar to open the cat-flap."
   "Do I get a litter-tray as well?"
   "It can cope with that, too, don't worry," Barton said. "Now, what do you
   think of this?"
   There was no room for Martin, who stood outside and waited his turn. Mrs.
   James and Barton squeezed within the structure, and the roof blossomed with
   transparent patches. The space was quiet and filled with light, a world
away
   from the dull day beyond. Barton looked up at the ceiling with the awe of a
   worshipper.
   "You're really into this, aren't you?" Mrs. James whispered. It seemed to
have
   struck her as a church, too. "You really believe in it."
   "You might say it's my baby," he said. "I hate all this earth-flattening
and
   stacking up high-rises. It's time for something kinder. Fortunately the
   university here has a bit of vision - it was the only organisation prepared
to
   build the nanites I designed." He took an exaggerated deep breath. "Notice
   anything?"
   She inhaled obediently. "It smells odd," she said. "Actually, it smells
   absolutely clean. And warm."
   He’d proved his point: the walls really had filtered and warmed the air like
a
   respiratory system would. "You can’t even smell that the tide’s out."
   "Impressive," she conceded. "But it's still just a shed, not a home. What
   about plumbing and power?"
   "You still need to pipe in conventional utilities, but the house uses far
less
   of them."
   "Sanitary arrangements?"
   "Install a standard toilet and shower, and the house processes the waste."
   "A septic tank can do that."
   "I can see I'm going to have a tough time convincing you," Barton said.
   "That's good. I like people who are thorough. See the light levels?" It was
   definitely brighter than the day outside. "The nanites can generate
   bioluminescent light, or they can use stored energy to power conventional
   illumination. The central heating system is like our circulation—it moves
   energy around in the walls. It pumps, it recycles. No effort or decision
   needed on our part."
   He was especially proud of the last point. Mrs. James put her hand against
a
   wall, and flinched back. "God, it's warm!" she said, finally abandoning her
   apparent detachment. "It feels like living tissue. I’m not sure residents
   would be comfortable with that."
   "Think of the energy savings," he said. "It recycles building materials—no
   hassle with conservationists over gravel extraction. It'll even eat your
  household waste. No more land-fill sites. Think about it."
  "I am," she said. "And if it's all true, then you're a council's dream."
She
  jabbed a forefinger towards his feet. "One final point," she said. "What's
  underneath here now? Mind if Andy checks?"
  "Be my guest," said Barton. "You can drill a core straight through the
floor."
  Martin squatted and inserted the hollow tube into the slightly textured
floor.
  As he withdrew the core, the hole healed like a wound only much faster.
  They waited while tests were carried out in Martin’s van.. A few minutes
later
  the analysis showed soil down to at least a metre was now as sweet and
clean
  as the finest organic farmland.
  "Well, I’ll be damned," said Martin.

 #


  When councils wanted, they could move fast, Barton learned. Within six
months
  the planning committee had approved a pilot project estate with the
blessing
  of the environmental agencies.
  Demolition day was a media event. The green-stuff crept smoothly up the
grim
  buildings like rising water, and began reshaping their components. The
  time-lapse video footage that went out on the news that day was nothing
short
  of breath-taking, and even Barton—who'd seen it many times in trials –
still
  felt a sense of wonder.
  Up to that point the city had been a pretty ordinary one. But now it was
  becoming headline news. Its economy was boosted by the influx of reporters
and
  urban management professionals who arrived to watch the growth of the first
  thinking, breathing, truly green neighbourhood. Barton revelled in the
  interviews and chat shows which followed.
  There were protests, of course: from people who had grown up in the area
and
  liked the buildings and knew they wouldn't be living in the new upmarket
ones.
  But Barton had done enough to convince the decision-makers that it would
solve
  far more pressing problems than it might cause.
  The estate grew, and it was beautiful, a Gaudi cityscape come to life in
jade,
  sinuous as art nouveau. It began to feature on postcards. Barton bought one
  and kept it in his wallet.

 #


     Firm in faith in his creation, Barton moved into one of the homes. He kept
     open house so interested parties could be entertained and educated. He was
     confident that his girlfriend Lin wouldn’t mind. At least he had more time
to
     spend with her now: she had stopped complaining she’d only recognise him by
     the back of his head framed in a halo of VDU light.
   "It's quiet, isn't it?" a guest said.
   "The walls don't just regulate temperature, humidity and pollution," he
   replied, slipping unconsciously into proselytisation mode. "They buffer
   external noise, too."
   In the kitchen a large transparent patch grew in the wall where a more
   conventional home might have had patio doors. Barton emptied a carton of
juice
   into a jug and tossed the box into the corner of the room, where the
flooring
   ate it.
   "Is that safe?" the guest asked, taking a step back.
   "It's a discrete area," Barton assured him. "Don't worry about it. Plenty
of
   fail-safes in the system, I promise. The waste-eating nanites are confined
in
   that corner and in the soil stack, and they stay put. They're programmed
not
   to react to human or animal tissues, so they wouldn't eat your dog, but
they'd
   certainly stop the kids leaving their shoes lying around."
   "I'll stick to a waste bin, thanks."
   "Oh, you don't have that option," Barton said. "It's the way this structure
   builds itself. It manages its own waste. If we gave people too many
override
   choices, they'd be back to clogging up landfill sites in no time. No, the
main
   point of this is that it does the green thinking for you."
   "What a good idea," the guest said.
   When everyone had left, Barton looked out over the gardens and smooth
   nanite-built roads that separated the houses on the new estate.
   Electric vehicles and the occasional low-pollution conventional car stood
   shining in drives: bicycles with panniers stood propped against soft,
   leaf-like walls. It was a very green community in every sense.
   "It's great, isn't it?" he said to Lin. The words sighed out of him: he
truly
   loved what he saw. "Isn’t it worth all the time and sweat to prove it can
be
   done? "
   "I expect it is, love," she said, and wandered off. He knew she had never
   shared his evangelism on green matters, but at least she had stood by him.
He
   reached for his beer can, and missed.
   It had gone.
   He thought Lin might have picked it up in a moment of tidiness until he saw
   the last gleam of a metal rim sinking into the floor.
   "Bugger," he said. It had never done that before. He made a mental note to
   check the nanites’ boundary programming.

    #


     Later that week the last resident moved in to the estate. He introduced
     himself as Harry and said he that now he'd retired, he was looking forward
to
     having a house that maintained itself.
     "You’ll certainly get that," Barton said.
     Harry drove up in an elderly German performance car, the sort that required
a
     punitive tax to be kept on the road. Barton and the rest of the residents
     tut-tutted about the pollution: but the smart houses could filter out the
     exhaust emissions, so it was no big deal. Not really.
     At least Harry had the decency to leave it parked in the drive most of the
     time.

 #


   A couple of mornings later Barton was woken early by a hammering on the
door
   that produced a drumming resonance on the slightly flexible material.
Barton
   grabbed a bathrobe, and as he reached the door the opening instantly
   understood his intention from his position and parted for him.
   "You!" It was Harry. "Come and have a look at my poor bloody car!"
   Barton pulled a coat on over his robe and followed Harry back to his
driveway.
   Then he stared.
   It was a poor bloody car indeed. The rakish lines and
immaculately-maintained
   paintwork were disappearing, slowly but perceptibly, under a tangle of
peridot
   green fibres. And it wasn't just being enveloped. From the collapsing shape
it
   was clear the car was being dismantled, molecule by molecule.
   The house was eating it.
   It had run long filaments across the lawn as casually as if it were
uncoiling
   a mass of hoses to water the flower-beds. To either side, the vehicles of
   other neighbours stood unmolested in their drives. The house definitely had
a
   specific grudge against the German car and Barton decided in a moment of
   insight that he knew what it was.
   "Emissions," he said.
   It had a logic to it. The car had belched carbon monoxide and sulphur
dioxide
   and all manner of noxious trace elements all its pampered life. Now the
   house-material seemed to have decided it was a hazard to be neutralised.
For
   the merest fraction of a second, Barton almost smiled: it was what he would
   have done, if he'd been able. Then he had an adrenal rush of panic.
   Court case. Technology running amok. Bad publicity. End of green dream. He
   didn’t know which threat to tackle first.
   "What am I going to say to the insurance company?" Harry wailed. "That my
   house ate it?"

 #


     At first it was a joke. Most of the residents on the green estate expressed
no
  sympathy for Harry with his big German car – or without his big German
car—and
  were glad to see it go.
  But the house had taken the law into its own hands. The damn thing just
wasn't
  supposed to do that: the nanites had their built-in orders, and they had
never
  deviated from them before. Barton lay flat out on his sofa, staring up
through
  the ever-changing sky-lights in the roof, worrying more about the
     unpredictability of his creation than the certainty of the impending court
     action.
     His child was embarrassing him. Teething problems were not something he had
     allowed himself, and his whole personal strategy for saving the planet was
in
  peril. His racing imagination pictured townspeople rounding on him,
  brandishing burning torches, the fate of all scientists misunderstood by an
  ignorant populace.
  The university had promised, absolutely promised, that the fail-safes on
the
  recycling process were in place.
  A hundred people were now witnesses to the fact that they might have
misjudged
  things just a little.

 #


   Barton read his mail. His lawyers told him were preparing to argue that it
was
   the house-stuff's in-built priority to protect life that drove it to
   deconstruct Harry’s car in the first place.
   "Settle out of court," Lin advised. She was spending more time at her
mother’s
   lately. "The last thing you need is a row that’s going to shut down the
pilot."
   "Later. I’ll call them." Barton didn’t look up from the pile of paper. When
he
   noticed the outside world again, Lin had gone. There had been no slamming
of
   the door to help him judge if he’d offended her. The house-stuff created
doors
   which closed quietly behind even the most angry lover.

 #


  Next morning the university took an ominously long time to put his call
  through to the site project manager. She hadn't returned his earlier calls.
  While he listened to music designed to soothe the impatient caller, he
  fretted. Eventually Lilian McKay answered.
  "Can we get on with re-evaluation?" he asked.
  "No," she said. "We're in enough trouble as it is."
  "We can't just stop like that. This works. It might be inconvenient, but it
  works."
  "It hasn't killed anyone yet, no."
  "It's just protecting us. "
  "Well, I could do with some protection right now because the word lawyers
got
  mentioned and the chancellor has gone into melt-down. I'm under orders to
seal
  the lab and shut down the project until further notice, and I'm not
supposed
  to have contact with you except via our solicitors ."
  "We need to deal with this now. Think of the benefits—"
  "I'm thinking of my pension, actually."
  "You know we carried out the trials properly. Nothing showed up."
  "We built to your spec."
  "I'm not interested in apportioning blame. I just want to find out what
  happened. It may have stopped moving for a while, so we've got time to
  investigate things."
  "As I said, it’s more than my job's worth. Good-bye, Hedley. Please don't
call
  me again. Nothing personal."
  He was left with a dialling tone, and a knot of frustration in his throat.
  Always the same, he thought: everyone wanted a clean environment but nobody
  saw it as their responsibility to make a few small sacrifices to achieve
it.
  That was where he'd got the idea in the first place, after all. He had
dreamed
  of a building that would take the decisions for you, and carry them out,
  because it was the right thing to do.
  He needed to make people see that. The question was how.

 #


   The stream of visitors from housing associations, councils and developers
   continued to flow to the estate. Barton still held court and extolled the
   virtues of his process. But he had taken to ignoring the letters which bore
   the logos of legal firms, and he counted cars nervously each morning.
   They were all still intact. Maybe, just maybe, it really had been a
one-off.
   It was Lin who noticed the next change. She opened the fridge door and bent
   over to look for something: he could hear the sounds of containers being
   scraped back and forth across shelves as she rummaged.
   "Have you had my cheesecake?" she demanded, voice distorted by the cavern
of
   the fridge.
   "Never touched it, love" said Barton. "Hate the stuff."
   "It's gone."
   "Bet it's at the back."
   "It isn't, I tell you."
   "Oh, come on, Lin..."
   But it was gone. He joined the search. The chocolate and praline cheesecake
   and its perfectly biodegradable carton were missing. A check of the grocery
   receipts showed a number of other items consigned to the fridge had
   disappeared too: a slab of marbled, fatty pancetta and a bottle of hundred
   proof vodka.
   "Are you sure you bought it all?"
   "I didn't invent the receipts," she snapped.
   "Never mind," he said, doubting her. "All that stuff's bad for you anyway."
   Indeed it was. And as soon as the words were out of his mouth he felt a
tingle
   of fear chill his gut, and tried to ignore it. Things that were bad for
you.
   Things that you had to avoid if you wanted to be healthy—just like car
   emissions.
   Please God, no, thought Barton. Not that. Not before I've got some answers,
   please.

 #


  The disappearance of the indulgences was just the first incident in the
  house-stuff's new catalogue of sensible, healthy decisions. Others began
  reaching Barton thick and fast, on the angry voices of neighbours, who had
put
  two and two together with educated efficiency and come to the same
conclusion.
   Their houses were neutralising their cigarettes, shutting windows when they
   wanted the sun streaming into their rooms and steepening stairs for the
unfit.
   It was sensible. He had to admit that. The house-stuff apparently knew that
   too. Its material had been designed to make decisions to keep humans in the
   best of health and to preserve the environment, so he shouldn't have been
   surprised at its relentless, matronly efficiency. It was just the fact that
it
   seemed to have... well, learned so much. He still couldn't work out where
the
   design had started to change itself, or how.
   The whole estate was talking about legal action: and the media had got wind
of
   the events. The last thing Barton wanted was to give eco-sceptics more
   ammunition to shoot holes in environmentalists. He sat at his terminal late
   into the night, modelling and remodelling, while the nanites obligingly
kept
   the lights at just the right level.
   At 1.00 am the house decided he had worked enough. It dimmed the lamps into
   darkness.

    #


    "On South Now tonight—a driver cheats death by inches in a freak crash—can
a
    donor be found in time to save this three-year-old’s life?—and the housing
    estate where your home isn’t your castle anymore—join us at six."
    Barton stared at the TV screen. "Oh shit," he said. He had been avoiding
    reporters all week. The constant calls had upset Lin and she was packing for
a
  longer stay at her mother’s.
  He now charted the house-stuff’s progress via the news: nobody at the
council
  was taking his calls any more. The nanites’ larger collective works were
  gradually emerging as householders and traders called the media with their
  stories. Fractured sewers had been wrapped and sealed—no doubt with
recycled
  material from the German car , Barton thought—and the green fibres were
making
  their way across the city.
  They had advanced on a beach-front hotel that was leaking raw effluent into
  the sea, blocking its waste sewer and forcing the management to replace the
  pipes. The benign invasion had given an elderly woman guest a nasty turn
while
  she was sitting peacefully on the toilet, the TV news reported.
  "I have to admire its efficiency," Andy Martin was telling the reporter. He
  had spent a great deal of taxpayers' money trying to find the source of the
  beach pollution. "It's a clever bugger. It can have a job here any time."
  It was the defining moment. Barton had never actually noticed having one
  before. But the revelation was upon him, and it was on a text-book Pauline
  scale.
  This was the way he could achieve his clean green dream, planned or not.
  Don’t fight it.
  Let it put things right.
  You can’t stop it now.
  "Lin!" he called. "Lin! It’s all right! It’s going to work."
  But Lin had already left.
 #


  The green stuff had its critics, but it was also winning allies beyond
Barton.
  While he watched the kitchen sink doing its new trick of nano-licking the
  plates clean, he listened to the radio.
  The media were busy making the house-stuff a collective hero. The
mid-morning
  radio show was now running a special daily phone-in to chart its creep
across
  the city.
  If it hadn't been for the impact the nanites were having on the less
  ecologically enlightened sectors of the business community, the city was
doing
  quite well out of the situation. Journalists and researchers and
sight-seers
  flowed in. They spent. They were creating a thriving industry. The
council’s
  economic development chief admitted on the mid-morning TV news that 600
extra
  jobs had sprung up to service the phenomenon.
  Later Barton sat cross-legged in front of his TV, leaving the radio
chattering
  away in the kitchen. The floor piled up behind his back to support his
spine
  while he ate the last of the pizzas Lin had left for him.
  Lin.
  He called her mother’s number, keeping half his attention on the news.
"She’s
  out," said the mother-in-law not-to-be. "I’ll tell her you called."
  "I’d really like her to call me back, please," he said. "I’m really sorry
  about all this nonsense. I know it’s not been easy on her."
  "I don’t think it’s been easy on her for the past two years. She’ll be
  surprised you’ve called."
  The call cut off. Barton stared at the keypad in his hand. If he’d been a
  normal human being, he thought, he’d have got in the car and turned up on
the
  doorstep to talk her round. But he didn’t have that luxury, not just yet.
  He turned back to the TV.

 #


  A tree surgeon removing a row of beech trees to make way for a car park
  returned from lunch to find his van, chain saw and ladder neatly
  shrink-wrapped in a green filmy coating, said the evening bulletin. Barton
  stared at the video clip with a mixture of impotent amazement and
  satisfaction.
  "I had a proper contract from the council to fell them, too," the man was
  telling the reporter. "But they’re nice old trees, really."
  The shot cut to Evelyn James, Director of Planning, who was fidgeting
before
  the backdrop of beeches with the air of a woman who had recently done a
great
  deal of explaining.
  "It’s good for the city's image," she said. "And it’s actually achieved
  clean-up targets we’ve struggled to meet for years. But enough is enough.
  People have to be able to live and work in this city without waking up to
find
     a piece of green goo is checking up on their habits. We hope to have a
     solution soon."
     "You’re too late," Barton said, brandishing a beer can for emphasis. He’d
     taken to talking to the TV in Lin’s absence. "You can’t take a vote on this
     any more."
     It was a delightfully comforting thought. No more decisions. He’d done what
he
  had set out to do, in a roundabout way. Now he could take a fresh look at
his
  life.

 #


   Barton had given up worrying about every writ that came in from
householders,
   insurance companies and corporations. Bankrupt was bankrupt. Whether it was
   five million or fifty million, it didn't really matter.
   He sat on the porch of his smart house, drinking the low-alcohol beer the
   nanites allowed him. Even in the centre of the city, he could now enjoy the
   peace of a pollution-free, quiet summer evening: no constant tyre noise
hummed
   from the motorway. As the sky darkened, he could actually see stars. Only
   essential street lights had been spared by the house-stuff, and they had
been
   canopied with impenetrably thick green hoods to direct the light down to
   exactly where it was needed.
   It was a shame, he thought, that Lin was away: she would have enjoyed this
   evening. Then he thought of the writ from the local electricity generating
   company, suing for loss of business because the energy-producing
house-stuff
   was functioning so very well, and he smiled. You had to make sacrifices.
   So he was making his. It hadn't quite been the way he had planned, which
had
   centred mainly on refusing carrier bags and giving up his car: but, oh,
this
   had worked. It had worked better than he could ever have expected, now that
he
   accepted the unpredictability. It was worth it.
   Footsteps sounded from a distance away. He could hear those things for
   hundreds of metres now: voices, the whirr of cycle wheels, whispers of
breeze,
   hedgehogs snuffling in the gardens. He looked up to see Mrs. James, files
and
   papers clutched under one arm."Hedley, let’s talk," she said.
   "I did call you a few times. I gave up."
   "Okay, I’m sorry about that. Can you stop this? Is it possible?"
   "Not now," said Barton. "It’ll be everywhere. You’ll never be able to track
   all the material. Ever tried getting rid of ground elder?"
   "I've just come from the town hall," she said. "The material's reached the
   airport and there's nothing flying. I don't need to say the word lawyers to
   you, do I?"
   "If you do," he said, draining his biodegradable beer-can, "it won't make
any
   difference. Sue me. Sue the university. Sue us all. It's done now."
   "Come on. What point are you making? What will it take to get you to –
reverse
   it, neutralise it, whatever?"
   "I’ve told you, I can't stop it," he said. "I actually don't know how. I
may
   have nailed down the design but I’ve still no firm idea how the nanites
   develop their decision-making. And I wouldn’t dream of touching them,
anyway.
   The material has achieved more by stealth than you have by years of asking
   people nicely."
   "The university say they're working on it."
   "Well, they know even less than I do, so don't get your hopes up." He
didn't
   intend to sound so damning: he wanted her to see the positive side of the
   gentler alternative future. "Don't you like things better this way? A lot
of
   people do. You’ve only got to watch the news to see that"
   "All right, so asthmatics are breathing easier and hypertensives have lower
   blood pressure. But a lot of people don't like it. It's destroying the
   infrastructure."
   "No, it's removing the worst risks to us." Barton had plenty of time to
read
   and browse these days, and he could quote the stock price of firms dealing
in
   air scrubbers, filters and electric vehicles. "Nobody said sustainability
   would be easy. I expect the Clean Air Act hurt the coal trade. But we go
on,
   don't we? We adapt."
   "You're a bloody eco-terrorist." Mrs. James was one of those people who got
   quieter as she got angrier. She was a whisper now. "You're going to screw
the
   British economy. We'll be locked in some stupid pastoral idyll while the
rest
   of the planet leaves us behind. We won't even qualify for the Third World."
   "Nature has a way of evening the score," Barton said. He had an idea in his
   head that he thought best kept from Mrs. James right then. "I think you
might
   be—well, comforted if not surprised"
   The anger on Mrs. James's face slackened into consideration for a few
moments,
   as if something had occurred to her that was not good but oddly reassuring.
   "Just one question," she said. If it hadn't been so quiet he would hardly
have
   heard her. "Can it cross water?"
   Barton paused and put his can down on the step. The house-stuff ate it
   obediently as he opened another one. At last. She’d seen the beautiful
balance
   of it all.
   "It coped with the sewers," he said. "It's very adaptable. I think it'll
learn
   to do what's best for us. All of us." He stood up and stretched. "I don’t
   suppose you’d like a drink, would you?"
   "It’s going to be a long time before we have a social drink," she said, and
   walked away.
   Barton pulled out his wallet and found the postcard he’d bought just a few
   months back when the estate had been new. The coating was separating from
the
   paper: it was crazed with fine creases where he’d sat on his wallet and
   moulded its contents to the curve of his backside. The estate still looked
   wonderful, though. He began mentally composing a message to Lin.
   Then he thought better of it. He took out his phone. With the city this
quiet,
   the neighbours would hear him, and he didn’t mind one bit.
   "Hello… no, I’ll wait, if you don’t mind….no, I can hang on ‘til she
finishes
  her bath." He’d never been a man who was easily dissuaded, after all. "In
  fact, I’ll wait until the phone company cuts me off."

 #


   On the sea-front, now cleared of effluent, used condoms and patches of oil,
   the visitors and residents enjoyed the early sun. Children played in the
sea,
   squealing and dredging up handfuls of seaweed.
   "Green, mummy!" The shrill voices carried across the beach. "I want to take
it
   home!"
   "Put it in the sandwich bag, then, love," said the woman. She took the
hanks
   of green thread from outstretched hands and popped them into the clear
   plastic. The children stared intently at it while she held it aloft, as if
it
   might house a goldfish or some other fascinating thing.
   "Why’s it different greens?’ the smaller child asked.
   "No idea, love. Different plants probably. Let’s clean you up, shall we?"
   In the shallows, filaments of pale green house-stuff mingled with the
darker
   green seaweed as if learning to turn the trick of negotiating salt water.
   They needed to learn. The growing strands had work to do: there was
   contamination from a power station on the French coast that beckoned to
them.
   And now they knew how to reach it.



     Karen Traviss is a journalist and public relations director who lives in
     Hampshire, England. She's sold stories to Odyssey and Valkyrie, and is
     completing her first novel. She can be contacted at
     ktraviss@newscientist.net.