The Sound of Algae Part 1

Join us at the Armchair Alien for a three part adventure featuring the backstory of Emiko Green, one of the main characters in Encoded Orbits.

Part 1

They say algae makes noise. The sound comes from tiny bubbles of oxygen algae creates—the oxygen the twenty-thousand people on Indigo Station need to survive. Moments later, the bubbles collapse, releasing a cacophony of white noise. But with my SCUBA gear on, the exaggerated sound of my own breathing is all I heard.

I pushed the thought away and focused on my work, clearing out garbage from the algae tanks. Somehow, people kept getting past the locked doors and ignore the big signs stating these tanks produce the oxygen we breathe and chuck stuff in. Why anyone did this blew my mind but cleaning up the garbage kept me employed—and I kept hoping I might get lucky and find something with enough value to pay off what I owe and keep the Debt Collector away.

Stretching my arms out like a superhero of old, I allowed my body to float and savoured a rare moment of delicious inactivity. The station beyond the tank walls vanished, leaving me cocooned in a ubiquitous green glow. The clamour outside faded, leaving calm in its wake. The tanks were the only place I felt that calm, the only real perk to my job as garbage collector. The warm water and green glow engulfed me in a bubble of serenity.

“Emiko, quit lallygagging,” my supervisor shouted in my earpiece, destroying the moment. “Something is blocking the drain in the back corner. Sort it out.”

“Sure thing, boss.” I angled my body where he directed and kicked. At the bottom, I adjusted my buoyancy to stay there. A different species of algae colonized on the hard bottom, giving the metal floor of the tank the texture of a plush toy. Using my hands, I propelled myself to the corner.

Shadows from the tank walls made this corner darker—like pea soup. I turned on the lights on the side of my face mask, and the sudden brilliance made my work feel clinical. The drain was right in front of me. A curved stick the length of my arm appeared jammed into it. I planted my flippered feet on either side of the drain and used both hands to pull it free.

“Got it,” I reported over the comms, holding the stick out in front of my face. The lighting tinged the object green, but no algae had grown on it yet. Someone must have thrown it in within the last day or so.

“Took you long enough.” my supervisor replied in the same tone he used to chastise me earlier. “Now get your ass out of the water. Your shift is done.”

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When I reached the surface, no one was waiting for me. I wasn’t surprised as shift ended ten minutes ago, and my co-workers were always quick to get the hell out of here. Although safety regs said no one was ever supposed to work alone, that wasn’t the reality we worked in. We didn’t belong to a guild, so no one watched out for us. I reached up and placed the curved stick on the platform before hauling myself, SCUBA gear and all, out of the water.

The platform remained the disaster it was when I hit the water. The maintenance guild was finally getting to the work we’d requested months ago. Securely part of a guild, the workers themselves spent most of their time at the food trucks by the tram station. No wonder they always ended up so far behind.

I swung my air tank off my back and removed my flippers before stopping to look around. From the hanging wires, I guessed the maintenance crew was doing electrical work. They left the space a wreck, toolboxes and gear scattered everywhere, including rubber matting covering about half of the metal grating of the platform. I was amazed my boss hadn’t chewed them out for the mess—that would be the treatment I’d expect if I left my gear lying around.

Being careful to keep the saltwater dripping from myself and my gear away from the wires, I picked up the stick and headed for the showers. Station directive 37-401 made it clear workers like me weren’t allowed to smell like algae on the public trams, and I couldn’t afford to be fined again. Six algae tanks surrounded by metal grate catwalks filled the cavernous space. Above, the massive lights needed to make the algae grow hung beside the vents to take away the oxygen produced. Following the most direct route, I headed to the change rooms, only stopping when I reached the main electrical panels.

A note had been left for me: the automatic controls for the lights were broken (hence the electrical work). My boss wanted me to flip the breaker to turn off the lights, and under no circumstances was I to mess with the breaker to the control system.

“Whatever,” I muttered as I turned out the lights. Without glancing back, I headed directly to the showers.

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Twenty minutes later, freshly scrubbed and wearing my normal uniform of a hoodie, cargo pants, and boots, I sat down to study the stick. I was 99% certain it wasn’t actually a stick, but I had yet to figure out what it was. So far, all I knew for sure was that it was organic, and organic things were rare and held value—stumbling upon something of value could go a long way towards fixing a few problems in my life.

With a salvaged bungy cord, I strapped the stick vertically to my backpack. The tip stuck up awkwardly over my head, and I hoped it wouldn’t get in the way. I swung my backpack on and ventured out into the end-of-shift crowds. The flow of humanity pulled me along to the tram station. As usual, the first tram was overcrowded. I peeled out of the press of bodies into an eddy of calm next to the wall and didn’t even bother to try to board.

The crowd thinned after the first tram pulled away. I leaned my shoulder against the wall to wait for the next one. Cooking food scents from the nearby kiosks made my stomach rumble, but I didn’t have enough credits to buy anything. I licked my lips and told myself I’d eat when I got home.

As a distraction, I pulled out my scroll and checked the messages on my feed. Seven waited in the queue. The first three were rejection letters for various gardening posts I’d applied for, each citing my lack of membership to the Grower’s Guild as the reason. I gritted my teeth at yet another instance of the catch-22 that kept me hunting for garbage at the bottom of the algae tanks.

Next, there were two from Long Enterprises; each stated that the money I borrowed was past due. I bit my lip as a knot formed in my gut. I thought I had more time! Squeezing my eyes shut, I let my head tip back and contact the wall. I didn’t have near enough credits in my account to pay back what I owed. Nothing I ever did changed my circumstances.

The clatter of a man pushing his taco cart brought me back to the station. Now was not the time for a pity party. I glanced back down at my scroll. With shaking hands, I deleted the messages without reading the fine print.

The next message was from the Grower’s Guild Head Office about my application to their apprenticeship program. I held my breath as a tiny bud of optimism formed inside me. I opened the message. As I scanned the words, I deflated. The response was the same as the last time I applied—all the apprentice slots have been filled by family members of current guild members. Family lines always got first dibs to guild slots, and I have no idea what line I came from. Hell, I don’t even have a last name.

My lack of a proper last name wasn’t my fault. Indigo Station harbours a plague that rears its head from time to time. The last time it appeared, the day I was born, the epicentre was the habitat module where my family lived. Our module was isolated, quarantine protocols applied. Three days later, the only survivors were the 89 babies in the maternity ward because one of the nurses had the presence of mind to seal it off. In the kerfuffle of rescuing us, references to our family lines were lost. As a short-term measure, we were all assigned numbers. Despite multiple promises by the station government to reunite us with our families, they quickly lost interest in getting us our real names. Nineteen years later, I’m still officially Emiko 3751.

Last cycle, using money I didn’t have, I hired a private investigator to find my lineage. If I could prove what my name was, I’d have a shot at getting into a guild. The last message was from him. Holding my breath, I opened it. Fumigation damaged the records, he wrote. Dead end, he wrote—but he took my money anyway.

With a sigh, I stepped on the tram.

to be continued…

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Stay tuned for the second instalment next week. And if you aren’t a subscriber nows the time!