Nicola Griffith (24 page)

NINETEEN

It happened just before one in the morning, and there was nothing anyone could have done about it.

I was walking away from the readout station with the latest figures when something in my peripheral vision made me turn back. The numbers on the volatile organic counters were rocketing. All the alarms went off.

It was like a stun grenade: red lights on the ceiling rotating; a mechanical clanging; an electronic shrilling. All designed to pump adrenaline into the system and make you move
fast
. A computer-generated voice came over the sound system. “Attention! This is not a drill! Attention! Evacuate the premises in accordance with emergency procedures! Attention. . .”

I pulled off my filter mask, grabbed the emergency-escape breathing apparatus from the shelf, and snapped the mouthpiece over my face. Air gushed, cool and clean. I held the mask in place while I slipped on the head straps and clipped the minitank to my belt. My suit would protect most of my skin, and I had five minutes of air.

Beyond the glass people began to run. I looked at the readouts.

System already locked down and isolated. Influent diverted. Bright amber numerals ticking away the seconds since the alarms kicked in: fifty seconds. Gauges for holding tanks beginning to show increasing volume as the line pumps reversed their flow. Good.

Good,
I thought again, and wished my heart didn’t feel squeezed between two plates.

I waited, and waited another ten seconds before I realized no one was giving orders. The emergency-response coordinator had evacuated the plant. Job finished. The rest was up to the regional fire department’s response teams, and the expert system. But that would take too long.

I pulled the microphone free from its hook, switched it to manual and primary sector. “This is Bird. Attention Magyar, Cel, and Kinnis—stand by. Attention everyone else.” My voice was blurred by the EEBA mask, but not too badly. “Emergency escape breathing apparatus available in hatches six, eleven, and fourteen. The air’s good for five minutes. Leave immediately. Attention Magyar. There are two moon suits at hatch six. Suit up, bring the second suit to me here at the monitoring station. And hurry.”

I checked my tank—four minutes left—and the readouts. The system had still not identified the volatile organic compound. I did equations in my head. Protection factor, threshold limit value, maximum use concentration. Worst-case scenario: There were maybe three minutes left before the fumes would be dangerous to someone without a mask. Air for one minute after that. I checked the clock:
2:18.

I was shivering.
Run,
my body was saying. I began to wheeze. Psychosomatic—it had to be.

“Cel, Kinnis. When your EEBAs are secure, go to locker . . . Go to locker. . .” But my mind was blank. What locker, why?

You’re panicking.
Red light skimmed the white concrete floor as the ceiling lamps outside went round and round. Think. Where was the self-contained breathing apparatus stored?

Think!
No good. The afterwash of the panic had wiped the memory away.

“Attention Magyar, Kinnis, Cel. I can’t remember which locker the SCBAs are in. Cel, Kinnis: You have four minutes’ air left. Go to drench shower two and wait. Magyar: Find the SCBAs, take them to Cel and Kinnis at drench shower two. Cel, Kinnis: If Magyar isn’t there in three minutes, leave. Otherwise, I want you all here, on the double.”

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 dichloroethylene. 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 grinned under my mask—despite the smell, despite the danger, everything. There was never any way to tell who would panic in an emergency. “I wasn’t.”

“Hold on.” Some noises. “Kinnis and Cel now have their gear. I’m on my way. Tell me what’s happening.”

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 chinned on the radio. “Keep your eyes on the vinyl chloride while I get into this thing.” I stepped in the heavy neoprene boots and pulled the suit up to my waist. The bat-winged upper half was awkward, but I managed. Hood next. It cut my peripheral vision a bit.

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

Cel and Kinnis came in. “What happened?” Kinnis asked, at the same time as Cel said, “Tell us what to do.” They both looked uncertainly from Magyar to me and back again.

“For now, we all do as Bird says. Except when I disagree. Kinnis, help her on with that thing.”

I was already done, just checking that all the zips were

fastened. Everything felt very unreal. I couldn’t make out Kinnis’s expression from behind two layers of metallicized PVC, but he moved tightly, tensely.

“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 skinnies—but give each other a quick visual check for tears or weak spots in your suits. If conditions change, I’ll ask you to leave.” They both nodded. “Here’s the situation. Somewhere up-line there’s been a massive spill of PCE. It got into our pipes. It’s killed everything in the troughs. Right now, everything’s being pumped back out into the holding tanks. Influent has been diverted to other plants, but we’re monitoring it. As soon as it runs clear, we can take it again.”

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

“That’s your job. And Kinnis’s. Even if you get only three or four back up, it’ll keep the system moving. First, a warning. PCE is toxic, in liquid and vapor form. First signs are dizziness and nausea. Either of you two feel dizzy, leave immediately. The gas will irritate your eyes and burn your skin. Check your masks carefully for a tight seal. Do that by turning off your air for three seconds and trying to draw a breath. If you can, you’re leaking. Do it now, before the fumes get bad. When the fumes get concentrated enough—though they shouldn’t, especially where you’ll be—you could suffocate without your respirators. So don’t remove them for any reason whatsoever. Once the bugs start to metabolize the PCE there’ll be vinyl chloride and dichloroethylene.” I hesitated, then decided there was no such thing as too much information. And I didn’t know exactly how much Magyar did or didn’t know. “Vinyl chloride and dichloroethylene are much meaner than PCE. Carcinogenic, recalcitrant, and very flammable with a low flash point. Neither of you have flash suits. Once the concentration of those chlorinated aliphatics reaches a certain point, you leave. Got that? Good. Now, either of you know how to program by remote?”They both nodded. Kinnis remembered his radio. “Yes.”

“Kinnis, you stay here and reprogram the rakes for removal of reeds. Cel, I want you to start hosing down the troughs. The two of you will coordinate pumping out the tainted swill.” The members of the emergency-response team were probably only just arriving and climbing into their gear. “Kinnis, keep an eye on this number at all times.” I pointed to the vinyl-chloride readout. “If it gets above two-fifty, evacuate immediately. Stay on this radio frequency—” I glanced down. “—frequency A. Magyar and I will be on B.”

“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 on-line,” 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 funny, really. I wondered if he even knew that some of this was his fault. “How’s the PCE doing now?”

“Still climbing.”

“Vinyl chloride?”

“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.”

Silence. “Are you saying this was deliberate?”

“It’s very possible.” I would bet on it, especially given the filled air tanks, the greased pumps.

Silence again. It was hard to tell what she was thinking in the bulky suit. “I’m going to unplug that drum.” The radio flattened her voice. “Keep me informed of changing conditions.”

I switched to Kinnis and Cel’s frequency. “You’re going to have longer than we thought. How are the troughs?”

“Give us another twenty minutes and we’ll have four troughs cleaned out and ready for restocking,” Cel said.

“More now that I’ve finished the reprogramming and can help,” Kinnis added.

“Keep the channel open, and keep me informed. Out.” Back to B frequency. “Magyar?”

“Here. I’ve found the problem.”

“What is it?”

“A closed-head drum lock.”
Locks, always locks.
She grunted. “Damn gloves are so clumsy.”

“Be careful, there’s—”

“Sparks, I know. But whoever did this was smart enough to use a nonsparking lock bar and what looks like a bronze alloy lock body. Polyethylene gaskets.” Another grunt, then a sigh of satisfaction. “Electronic locks might be fancy, but not much stands up to a simple crowbar.”

But monsters don’t use force. They don’t dare.
Gray Greta. What would she have done in this situation?

There was more noise over the suit speakers. On my board, figures began to move.

“Glucose should be running now,” she said.

“It is.”

“You know, Bird, you’re going to have to get over this impression you have that I’m dumb.”

“I know.”

I switched frequencies. “Cel, Kinnis—with any luck you can stay there a while longer. The next strain of bugs should kick in and metabolize the chlorinated aliphatics well before they reach a dangerous concentration.”

“If you say so.” Cel sounded impatient, as though she just wanted to get on with what she was doing and leave the thinking to someone else. I wondered how it would be to trust like that.

The vinyl chloride and dichloroethylene concentrations climbed steadily. I waited for the methanotrophes to start working. The numbers kept going up. Something was going wrong.

“Cel, Kinnis, I want you out of there, now. The concentrations are getting too high. There’s danger of a fireball.”

“We only need another minute or—”

“Now. Acknowledge that.”

“Acknowledged.”

Magyar came back, still hefting the crowbar. She watched while I checked one readout after another.

Nothing was responding the way it should. The readout kept climbing. In desperation, I turned up the thermostat. Maybe heat would kick start the methanotrophes.

“What’s going on?”

“No methane monoxygenase.”

“This one time, assume I’m dumb.”

“Methane monoxygenase, MMO, is the enzyme secreted by the methanotrophes as they metabolize the vinyl chloride. No MMO means something’s wrong.” The nutrient lines were clear and open, feeding steadily. “I don’t understand it. They got their food, they’ve. . .” Except they might not have the right food. Hepple had replaced the correct, van de Oest nutrients. Time for desperate measures. I knew, in the final analysis, what methanotrophes ate. “Cel, Kinnis. Are you out?” No reply. “Cel—”