Slow River

3:40. It seemed strange to be in the middle of such a brightly lit emergency. In my imagination there had always been smoke, no power. Thick black murk. But everything looked normal except for the flashing red and the howling noise. The clock trickled seconds like sand: 3:58, 3:59.

The troughs were draining into the holding tanks. Microbes and their nutrient flow had also been diverted. I checked the concentrations: the system was compensating well, sending the correct ratios of bacterial strains.

I imagined the pollutant: smoky and sickly, an oily stink that curled around my mask.

Tetracholoroethylene, the readout said now. PCE, a short-chain aliphatic. Not as dangerous as some. If Magyar wasn’t panicking I would have plenty of time to get into the moon suit before the bugs started to metabolize the PCE into the more dangerous vinyl chloride and dichloro-ethylene. Skin-permeable, flammable, toxic. I switched radio frequency on the microphone.

“Magyar, can you hear me?” Maybe she had overestimated her proficiency with the suits. Maybe the real thing had been too much and she had fled with the others. “Magyar. Magyar, report!”

“I hear you, I hear you.” Her breathing, harsh in the enclosed environment of a level-A protective suit, came over the station’s speakers. “Don’t lose your marbles.”

I gri

“Hold on.” Some noises. “Ki

I briefed her on the PCE; it was the metabolites—the vinyl chloride and dichloroethylene—that would be most dangerous. “But the weakened bugs mean the system is unreliable. There are a score of things that could-”

The door opened: Magyar, huge and clumsy in her silver flash-coated moon suit, lugging a large case. “Your suit.”

It was strange to see her in front of me but hear her voice from behind. I took the case, put it on the floor, snapped it open, lifted out the equipment. The tank and two-stage regulators were heavy. I swung them out upright on the floor, then squatted to check the tanks and valves. I turned on the air, felt it cool and steady against my palm. A quick glance at my minitank. Reading empty. I slung the harness of built-in air hoses over my shoulder, then ripped off my EEBA and fitted the larger, silicon face piece over nose, mouth, and jaw. The air was cool and slightly metallic. The face piece fitted tight and clean. I chi

Magyar studied the board and flipped a switch, then pushed a button. The noise and flashing red lights stopped abruptly.

Cel and Ki

“For now, we all do as Bird says. Except when I disagree. Ki

I was already done, just checking that all the zips were fastened. Everything felt very unreal. I couldn’t make out Ki

“I asked you both to stay because I trust you, and Magyar and I may need your help. In the present concentrations you should be safe enough with SCBAs and ski

“Only if the troughs have been cleaned,” Cel said.

“That’s your job. And Ki

They both nodded. Ki

“Ki

“Where are you going?”

“The holding area. At the emergency station.”

The emergency station was set up like the readout station. Magyar and I ran through the checks. Amber numerals at the top of the console ticked from 14:04 to 14:05.

It was hard to believe it had only been fourteen minutes.

“All strains online,” Magyar said.

“Check.”

“The emergency-response crews will be arriving about now. Lights flashing, lots of shouting.”

“Decon zones being set up,” I agreed. “No one knowing what they’re doing.” A zoo. But we were here, on the spot, and if we did everything right we could keep the system from real shutdown time.

“Everything reads fine except the PCE. Still climbing.”

What a mess. I didn’t envy whoever had the job of explaining what had happened to the press. “Who’s the designated media liaison?”

“Who do you think?”

“Not Hepple…” It was fu

“Still climbing.”

“Vinyl chlorides”

“Steady.”

I swore.

“I take it that’s not good.”

“It should be rising rapidly as the bacteria process the PCE. How’s the dichloroethylene?”

“Steady.”

We had a problem. I queried the system: the bugs being fed into the tanks were viable. That wasn’t it.

16:04.

I began working the board.

17:16. 17:18. 17:19.

There. “It’s the substrate. Conditions are too anoxic—probably electron deficient. The bugs need electrons to fuel their metabolism. Without them they don’t reproduce. But that should have been compensated for by… Ah.”

I stared at the numbers.

“What? Tell me what it is, Bird!”

“The system should have automatically delivered glucose to enrich the mixture. It didn’t.” I showed her the screen trace I had run.

She followed the green and blue lines carefully to the red bar. “Looks like the drum is blocked.”

“Yes. But I’ve never heard of a glucose drum clogging before.”