Swing those shovels! I want this water moving. Get the level down by at least a foot or it will never be “shift-end” for you. Move!’
Ode and Drum shovelled briskly, throwing more water than silt. The activity warmed up their muscles, loosening tight joints. Being retreads they lacked the larger, heavier bones of the regular SS worker, who was genetically selected for the work. They worked with a smaller shovel, but put in more hours.
Furlong returned to the control room to study the flow rates. Sluggish. Without the dredge the silt accumulated at an alarming rate in spite of vigorous manual efforts. The Hive’s outflow tract was in danger of blockage. Furlong was even more concerned now that his job requisitions were being filled with retreads rather than regulars.
‘How are the new ones doing?’ asked Furlong.
‘Slowed predictably after you left. Their bodies are still weak and soft. Not much silt moving. Let’s hope that their edible-gathering will pay for their CQB while they’re here. We can’t fill our roster with nonproducers.’
‘They’ll do their share. Ill see to that,’ said Furlong.
Ode and Drum splashed through the thirty-foot-diameter pipe, guided by eerie bioluminescence of Panus stepticus mycelia growing in damp sludge high on the walls. Sewermeck directed pencils of light from their Belts.
‘There’s a weir. Dig!’ commanded Drum’s Belt.
They paused and shovelled at the silt dam. A light beam focused on a horned slug the size of Ode’s foot.
‘Pick it up,’ said his Belt.
Ode nudged the slug cautiously with his shovel.
‘What is it?’
‘Sewer slug – a gastropod. Flavours.’
‘Edible!?’
‘Good perishable flavours,’ explained his Belt. ‘Fringe benefits of the Wet Crew. Put it in your Belt pail.’
As they worked their way down the tube, their Belts pointed out other delicacies: shaggy fungus balls, slime pods, worms, and snap larvae. The air took on a brackish odour when they neared the tidal sump. Marine photo-bacteria glowed blue-green in their footprints.
‘Don’t walk out on the delta,’ warned the Belts. ‘It is too soft and drops off rapidly. Your tour of duty ends here. The outhatch is back by that wall on your left – under the orange light.’
Two tired old Citizen retreads climbed the service ladder into the barracks – into bright lights and warm, dry, air. Drum pulled off his boots, spilling water and silt in a brown gush. His feet were white and badly wrinkled. He hunched over, studying his cold, numb toes intently.
Ode sorted through the pails of edibles. A snap larvae swam on oar bristles.
‘What’s the tithe?’
‘Fifty percent,’ said his Belt. ‘Drop half down the flavour chute to Synthe. Divide fluids and grit also.’
He paid their tithes and sat back while several of the regular Wet Crew showed how a handful of live creatures added an entirely new dimension to the pseudoconsommé.
‘I call this my sewer bouillabaisse,’ said the Nebish with the spoon. ‘You must stir it carefully. Don’t fragment the little creatures. Keep them intact so you know exactly what you are eating.’
Drum grunted and struck the floor with his boot.
‘What is it?’
‘A hitchhiker. That bug was between my toes. It bit me.’
Ode walked over and looked under the boot. A yellow-red, nondescript splotch remained on the floor while a tangle of legs came up with the boot heel.
‘That’s my blood in that stain,’ complained Drum.
‘Your toe doesn’t look too good,’ said Ode. ‘It’s swollen – dark. Do you know what kind of a bug it was before you smashed it?’
‘Lots of legs.’ Drum shrugged. ‘Why?’
‘Looks like a nymph, from the way it exploded – very little body chitin. Some of them can be dangerous: toxic venom, vectors, retained mouth parts. You’d better take it down to Bio for speciation. Stop at a Medimeck on the way back to see if the bite needs any treatment.’
Ode wrapped the crushed bug in a wet towel
Ode and Drum shovelled briskly, throwing more water than silt. The activity warmed up their muscles, loosening tight joints. Being retreads they lacked the larger, heavier bones of the regular SS worker, who was genetically selected for the work. They worked with a smaller shovel, but put in more hours.
Furlong returned to the control room to study the flow rates. Sluggish. Without the dredge the silt accumulated at an alarming rate in spite of vigorous manual efforts. The Hive’s outflow tract was in danger of blockage. Furlong was even more concerned now that his job requisitions were being filled with retreads rather than regulars.
‘How are the new ones doing?’ asked Furlong.
‘Slowed predictably after you left. Their bodies are still weak and soft. Not much silt moving. Let’s hope that their edible-gathering will pay for their CQB while they’re here. We can’t fill our roster with nonproducers.’
‘They’ll do their share. Ill see to that,’ said Furlong.
Ode and Drum splashed through the thirty-foot-diameter pipe, guided by eerie bioluminescence of Panus stepticus mycelia growing in damp sludge high on the walls. Sewermeck directed pencils of light from their Belts.
‘There’s a weir. Dig!’ commanded Drum’s Belt.
They paused and shovelled at the silt dam. A light beam focused on a horned slug the size of Ode’s foot.
‘Pick it up,’ said his Belt.
Ode nudged the slug cautiously with his shovel.
‘What is it?’
‘Sewer slug – a gastropod. Flavours.’
‘Edible!?’
‘Good perishable flavours,’ explained his Belt. ‘Fringe benefits of the Wet Crew. Put it in your Belt pail.’
As they worked their way down the tube, their Belts pointed out other delicacies: shaggy fungus balls, slime pods, worms, and snap larvae. The air took on a brackish odour when they neared the tidal sump. Marine photo-bacteria glowed blue-green in their footprints.
‘Don’t walk out on the delta,’ warned the Belts. ‘It is too soft and drops off rapidly. Your tour of duty ends here. The outhatch is back by that wall on your left – under the orange light.’
Two tired old Citizen retreads climbed the service ladder into the barracks – into bright lights and warm, dry, air. Drum pulled off his boots, spilling water and silt in a brown gush. His feet were white and badly wrinkled. He hunched over, studying his cold, numb toes intently.
Ode sorted through the pails of edibles. A snap larvae swam on oar bristles.
‘What’s the tithe?’
‘Fifty percent,’ said his Belt. ‘Drop half down the flavour chute to Synthe. Divide fluids and grit also.’
He paid their tithes and sat back while several of the regular Wet Crew showed how a handful of live creatures added an entirely new dimension to the pseudoconsommé.
‘I call this my sewer bouillabaisse,’ said the Nebish with the spoon. ‘You must stir it carefully. Don’t fragment the little creatures. Keep them intact so you know exactly what you are eating.’
Drum grunted and struck the floor with his boot.
‘What is it?’
‘A hitchhiker. That bug was between my toes. It bit me.’
Ode walked over and looked under the boot. A yellow-red, nondescript splotch remained on the floor while a tangle of legs came up with the boot heel.
‘That’s my blood in that stain,’ complained Drum.
‘Your toe doesn’t look too good,’ said Ode. ‘It’s swollen – dark. Do you know what kind of a bug it was before you smashed it?’
‘Lots of legs.’ Drum shrugged. ‘Why?’
‘Looks like a nymph, from the way it exploded – very little body chitin. Some of them can be dangerous: toxic venom, vectors, retained mouth parts. You’d better take it down to Bio for speciation. Stop at a Medimeck on the way back to see if the bite needs any treatment.’
Ode wrapped the crushed bug in a wet towel
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