They say algae makes noise - Part 1
Emiko's backstory
Here we follow Emiko from the Encoded Orbits trilogy as she navigates her world before joining up with the others.
Part 1
They say algae makes noise. The sound comes from the tiny bubbles of oxygen algae creates, the by-product of photosynthesis. Moments later, the bubbles collapse releasing a cacophony of white noise—at least that’s what they tell me. With my SCUBA gear on, the exaggerated sound of my own breathing is all I hear.
Today is just another ordinary workday clearing out garbage from the algae tanks. Somehow people get past the locked doors, and ignore the big signs stating these tanks produce the oxygen we breathe, and chuck stuff in. These actions blow my mind but cleaning up the garbage keeps me employed.
Stretching my arms out like a superhero of old, I allow my body to float and savour a rare moment of delicious inactivity. It’s like the station beyond the tank walls is gone, leaving only a ubiquitous green glow coming from all directions. The clamour outside recedes away, leaving calm in its wake. The tanks are the only place I feel that calm—it’s the only real perk to my job as garbage collector. The warm water and green glow surrounding me feel so right.
“Emiko, quit lallygagging,” shouts my supervisor in my earpiece, destroying my moment. “Something is blocking the drain in the back corner, get it sorted out.”
“Sure thing, boss.” I angle my body where he’d directed and kick. At the bottom, I adjust my buoyancy to stay there. A different species of algae colonizes the hard surface giving the metal floor of the tank the texture of a plush toy. Using my hands, I propel myself to the corner my supervisor directed me to.
Shadows from the tank walls make this corner darker—like pea soup. I turn on the lights on the side of my face mask and the sudden brilliance makes my work feel clinical. The drain is right in front of me with what looks like a curved stick the length of my arm is sticking out of it. I plant my flippered feet on either side of the drain and use both hands to pull it free.
“Got it,” I report over the comms, holding the stick out in front of my face. The lighting tinged the object green, but no algae grew on it yet—someone must have thrown it in within the last day or so.
“Good,” my supervisor replies in the same tone he used to chastise me earlier. “Now get your ass out of the water, your shift is done.”
When I reach the surface, no one is waiting for me and I’m not surprised as shift ended ten minutes ago. Safety regs say I’m never supposed to work alone, but the reality is always different. We don’t belong to a guild, so no one watches out for us. I reach up and place the curved stick on the platform, before hauling myself, SCUBA gear and all, out of the water.
The platform is still the disaster it was when I hit the water. The maintenance guild is 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 consuming embalmed milk, a station specialty containing more ethanol than anything even loosely describable as ‘milk.’ No wonder they always ended up so far behind.
After swinging my air tank off my back and removing my flippers, I look around. From the hanging wires, I can guess the maintenance crew were doing electrical work. They left the space a disaster, toolboxes and gear are scattered everywhere. And they left their rubber matting covering about half of the metal grating of the platform. I’m amazed my boss hasn’t chewed them out for the mess—that would be the treatment I’d expect if I left my gear laying around.
Being careful to not let the salt water dripping from myself and my gear pool near the wires, I pick up the stick and head for the showers. Station directive 37-401 made it clear workers like me aren’t allowed to smell like algae on the public trams and I couldn’t afford to be fined again.
The enormous space is mostly consumed by six algae tanks surrounded by metal grate catwalks. Above hang the massive lights needed to make the algae grow and vents to take away the oxygen produced. Following the most direct route, I head to the change rooms, only stopping when I reach the main electrical panels for the space.
A note has been left for me—the automatic controls for the lights are broken (hence the electrical work). My boss wants me to flip the breaker to turn off the lights, and under no circumstances am I to mess with the breaker to the control system.
“Whatever,” I mutter as I turn out the lights. Without glancing back, I head directly to the showers.
to be continued…
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