Null Balls Inc.

The factory hung upside-down like a mechanical stalactite, its ceiling pulsing with conveyor belts and glowing molds. Null Balls Inc. had turned physics on its head—literally. Workers in magnetic boots clomped along the roof, guiding shimmering, egg-sized spheres upward to sorting bins. Each “null egg” was a marvel: a vacuum-sealed plastic shell packed with microspheres, buoyant enough to shave grams off shipping weight. They’d revolutionized logistics, one floating package at a time.


Downstairs—or rather, up on the ground—CEO Mira Patel watched the operation through a skylight, her reflection framed by the rising null eggs. The standard product was simple: bagged null eggs, each holding a quarter atmosphere of vacuum (0.25 atm, about 25 kPa). Inside, thousands of microspheres mirrored that pressure, their brittle shells intact until cracked by the jostle of transport. Once fractured, they leaked slowly, losing lift over a week before crumbling under sunlight’s UV kiss. Companies loved the weight savings; environmentalists tolerated the degradable glitter they left behind.


But Mira had bigger plans. She adjusted her tie as the elevator dinged, disgorging a man in Air Force blues. Colonel Derrick Vance, square-jawed and impatient, strode in with a briefcase and a gleam in his eye. “Ms. Patel,” he said, skipping pleasantries, “I hear you’ve got something the Air Force needs. Something that floats.”


Mira smirked. “You’ve seen the ads—‘Null Balls Inc.: Lighten Your Load.’ But I assume you’re not here for shipping peanuts.”


“I’m here for a carrier,” Vance said, slapping his briefcase onto her desk. “A flying aircraft carrier. Sixty thousand feet, mobile airbase, untouchable. The Pentagon’s dreamed of it since the Cold War. Rumor is, you’ve cracked the lift problem.”


She raised an eyebrow, then slid a tablet across the desk. “Not a rumor.” The screen lit up with schematics: a sleek, cigar-shaped behemoth, bristling with drones and radar domes. Sky Fortress Alpha. “We’ve upgraded the null eggs. Standard ones use cheap polymer—good for FedEx, not for you. These—” she tapped a cross-section, “—use carbon nanotubes.”


Vance leaned in, eyes narrowing. The diagram showed null eggs layered with nanotubes—four sheets, offset just enough to block air molecules entirely. Each egg held a near-perfect vacuum (0.01 atm or less), and the microspheres inside mirrored that resilience. No cracking, no leaking—just pure, relentless lift. “How much weight can they offset?” he asked.


“Per egg? About 50 grams of lift in a 10-gram package. Scale it up—millions of them—and you’ve got a hull that floats at 60,000 feet. Add propulsion, and it’s your mobile airbase. Solar-powered, stealth-coated, untouchable by anything short of a hypersonic missile.”


Vance whistled. “The Air Force has wanted this forever. Helium’s too scarce, hydrogen’s a fireball waiting to happen. This… this is it. What’s the catch?”


Mira leaned back, steepling her fingers. “Cost. Nanotubes aren’t cheap, and the manufacturing’s a nightmare—upside-down vacuum chambers, precision layering. Plus, they’re still UV-degradable. Your carrier’s got a lifespan—five years, maybe ten, before the eggs start breaking down. You’d need a maintenance fleet just to swap them out.”


“I don’t care about cost,” Vance said, voice hard. “Name your price. Planes, contracts, a blank check from Uncle Sam. We need this yesterday.”


She studied him, then nodded. “Deal. But there’s one condition: I oversee the prototype. Null Balls Inc. doesn’t just sell tech—we perfect it.”


Three months later, the Nevada desert shimmered under a cloudless sky. Sky Fortress Alpha hovered at 60,000 feet, a black speck against the blue. Mira stood beside Vance on a viewing platform, binoculars in hand. The carrier’s nanotube null eggs—millions embedded in its hull—gleamed faintly, their vacuum hearts defying gravity. Drones buzzed from its decks, a swarm of steel wasps ready for war.


“Worth every penny,” Vance muttered, grinning. “Mobile command, high-altitude strikes—Russia and China won’t know what hit ‘em.”


Mira didn’t smile. She was watching the horizon, where the first null eggs would soon drift free, their UV clocks ticking. Five years, she’d told him. Maybe less if the stratosphere’s radiation was harsher than her models predicted. The Air Force would get its dream—but Null Balls Inc. would get the next contract, too.


Below, in the inverted factory, a new batch of standard null eggs rose to the ceiling, destined for Amazon trucks and UPS drones. Above, the future loomed, buoyant and fragile as a soap bubble.