Seven Days to Topside

"That's pretty deep pipe for deploying roach pellets," I said.

"Environmental wants to get a head start on population control before the warm season starts."

"Even with you newbies, we don't have a big enough crew for the Pit. You know what's down there?"

"Management okayed stealth. No contact, no cleaning. Just deploy and leave."

"What's your name?" I asked the tall one.

"Bastil." He mumbled the names of his two companions, both whom raised their hands like school kids being called on, but to me they were just Bric and Brac. I should have asked more questions.

I went over the rules with the newbies: No unnecessary noise; no crowding; no lagging behind; when I stop, all stop. I checked to make sure their rat sticks were fully charged and that they brought their own water filtration units. Finally, I verified the integrity of the seals on the roach bait. We wouldn't want any surprises before we got to the Pit.

When I was satisfied they each took a drum. The canisters had concave fittings attached so they could be carried like backpacks. I motioned Jazin to take the fourth.

He heaved it over his shoulders. "Heavy bait."

"The concentration meters on two of these drums read zero," I said to Bastil. "This bait is stale."

"Testing a new formula. The attractant is pheromonal. The meters aren't calibrated to it yet."

I looked at Jazin. He shrugged.

We marched.

Hours passed. I only knew that because of the chronometer I wore, like every other san-tech. Time didn't matter much to a san-tech and was generally measured in years, and always counted down by how many you had left underground. Nobody talked much, which suited me fine. When one of the newbies started humming to himself, I stared him down until his voice drifted away into his own head. No noise.

We stopped occasionally to clear debris, take readings, flush bug nests. We burned out a spider coven. All part of any job, no need for stealth until we got deeper.

We picked our way through a particularly treacherous section of pipe with a reputation among san-techs. The Creek we called it. 250 meters above us stood the Alfresh Projects: 50 square kilometers of human beings stacked 40 stories high and tight into little boxes run by slumlords and gangsters. Every person in Alfresh was a whore, a thief, a killer and a victim at some point in their life; the closest humankind could get to social cannibalism and still call itself civilized. I grew up there, which is why I came down here.

Piles of debris clogged this older sewer section constantly: Slow moving molten flows of caked feces and grease, throw-away electronic components, dead animals, parts of human bodies; the accumulated refuse of humans living too close together for too long a time. These pipes were too narrow for the automated sweepers. They needed manual clearing. The human touch. Crews like ours kept the pipes flowing and the excrement going.

I thought about retirement again. San-techs were the only city employees that could retire after two tours—four years—served almost entirely underground. Most san-techs are young when they start, like I was, and unconcerned about the mortality rate. What kid with bad grades and no future doesn't think about having the good life topside before most of their wealthy peers are even out of college? The thought of breathing topside air again made me think of the rain. I sipped from my water pouch.

The tunnel pipe came to a large junction splitting out in several directions. That's when I noticed something unusual ahead. I motioned the crew to stop.