It was like a stun grenade: red lights on the ceiling rotating; a mechanical clanging; in 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 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 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 upline 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?”