An avalanche of a shrug. "If the we can't reach the lake properly, then we shall crash into it."
"We'll all die!"
"Nonsense," he snorted. "We will only be going fifty, sixty kilometers per hour." A short pause. "You humans can take a crash at that speed onto concrete without damage, can't you?"
Their horrified expressions told him different.
"Oops."
"How soon till the bridge!" Kaye demanded, making a fast duplicate of his video disks and tossing them overboard for safekeeping. The rainbow flats scattered to the wind, a few landed in the lake and started dissolving.
"Oh, right about, now," Sergeant Zane said in a falsely calm poker voice.
"Jump!" Dr. Bentley yelled, and she did.
It was death one way or the other, so having little choice in the manner, Kaye and the rest joined her. Hugging his HoverCam for protection, Erik followed suit, hoping and praying that his insurance premiums were paid in full. This was definitely going to hurt.
The fall was short, and ended in a hard squash as the ex-passengers landed squarely in a large drainage ditch full of what drainage ditches were usually full off.
"Crap!" sputtered the spattered Zane, waist deep in stinking brown goo, and everybody agreed. Yep, that's what it was, all right. Good ol' non-toxic nightsoil from Oberion City. What a relief!
Rocky pulled himself free from the pit his landing had rudely formed in the concrete embankment and walked over to the edge to give a hand to the quagmired humans. Soon standing on the cracked lee, their three Gunderson Corporation PocketDocs extended mechanical spider legs and scurried out of belt pouches to begin assorted repairs and start the cleaning process. Gagging and retching, the battered humans watched as the thundering train roared past them on the track atop the steel girder trestle.
Barreling by at ever increasing speed, the steam engine tilted over dangerously as it took a gentle curve in the track and then leveled out just in time to soar straight off the still glowing end of the ruined bridge.
For almost a full second, the chugging train was suspended in the air, then it began to arc downward, rapidly descend and then plummet like a lead safe full of dead bricks.
The engine broke apart from the woodbin, which came free from the tanker and the three hit in a triad of meteoric impacts. A triangular geyser formed which made the precious bomb blast resemble a fishy fart. Sewage and biological toxins soared skyward forming for a brief moment a muddy mushroom cloud, the sight sending chills down everybody's spine.
In ragged stages, the aquatic undulations ceased, the aerial sludge rained back down into its steaming home and visibility returned. Roughly in the middle of the lake was the refrigerated tanker bobbing like a steel hot dog. Under the trinoculars, there appeared to not be even the smallest crack in its adamantine hull.
"The damn thing is still intact!" Kaye roared furiously, pulling out a handful of his curly hair.
"Yeah? Well, not anymore," Zane said, and the Bedlow was in his hand. The first shot merely cleansed the firing lenses in a harmless pyrotechnic display of lights. But the next emitted a shimmering beam of rainbow colors which stabbed out from the maw of the dire weapon and a neat line of puckered holes appeared in the resilient metal container, as if it was being attacked by a giant, invisible sewing machine. Wisps of steam rose into view from the punctures, and then a slick purplish fluid streamed out into the brownish-gray sludge of the lake.
Trying not to breathe deeply as the air made their lungs burn, the battered group waddled hopefully to the sticky beach for a better look. A minute passed. Another, and then another.
"Nothing is happening," Kaye commented, tucking away his fistful of hair into a pocket.
"Prack!" Dr. Bentley cursed, and she pulled a tiny vial of oily fluid from a pocket. "The activator!"
Recording everything, Erik lowered his mike and looked at the twenty meters of pungent chemical sewage that separated them from the sinking locomotive and surrendered. Whoever their unknown foe was had finally won. There was no way anybody could cross the morass of bio-toxins and survive. Not without spacesuits, which were hours away.
Both hands holding the vial to her heart, Dr. Bentley kicked one leg forward and lunged into a crouch, her right arm doing a hard fast whip forward.
The vial cannonballed towards the bubbling mess, and only a foot in front the vial dipped a bit and to the left, then crashed loudly on the metal hull. Like a glass comet, the tiny vial shattered into a million glistening pieces. Instantly, the purple goo underneath changed from white to brown, then green. Glorious green! Then everything sank from sight.
Standing on the beach, the group stared at the woman.
"A curve ball. Sorry. Old habit," Alice said sheepishly. "I was the relief pitcher for the Luna Miners during my college days for three years running."
Straightening his filthy clothes, Erik took a stance before the lake, as the HoverCam reached out a mechanical arm and combed his hair into place. It then powdered his nose, adjusted focus and then flashed the On-Air signal.
"So, ladies and gentlemen, this is it. We have finally reached Lake Underdunk in spite of colossal odds. For any new viewers who may have just tuned in, this is Erik Kaye for TBBC, reporting live from the independent moon, Titan. Long a haven for chemical research, industrial dumping, and nuclear storage, the people of Titan, like those on Earth, have only recently started the odious job of cleaning up their incredibly polluted environment."
A half-turn to the stage left to show his good side and display a section of the bubbling cesspool. "And the scientists of Amalgamated Water have been plagued by mysterious problems from the very beginning. Missed shipments, mis-marked containers. Computer viruses, scrambled phone lines. Nothing violent, or overt. But a steady destruction of this totally innocuous project. Coincidence? No."
The anchor glanced over his shoulder at the smooth expanse of the dead lake.
"Due to their ever-growing population, Titan Central has domed over this sight and is attempting to reclaim this lost bit of biology. A noble task. Exemplary! Only," his voice lowered dramatically. "Can it be done?"
Tense moments passed, as Dr. Bentley wiped her face clean with a pocket-handkerchief, and prayed. After twenty years of hard work, the incredible project was starting. Alice glanced at her watch. Correction, had started two minutes ago.
Standing on an old abandoned aircar engine, Zane pointed, "Look!"
"Wait a minute, I seem to see something happening," Kaye said for his blind or inattentive viewers.
Something was swirling below the slimy surface. A bubble rose to the syrupy surface of the lake, then a second, a third, forth. Then a series of bubbles, next the center began to furiously boil. As fast as it started, the process stopped, and a great calm engulfed the hundred domed hectares of deep space refuse park.
Had the Y.U.M. worked? Was that it? A measly bubbling. A can of fizzy soda pop could have done better!
"Hey, I see something," Rocky said, his crystalline eyes extending on louvered stalks from inside his head. "The center of the lake...yes, it is...it's changing color."
"It's doing what?" Dr. Bentley demanded, pulling out a set of pocket trinoculars and dialing for computer enhancement.
Under the magnification, the blackish fluid now had a green area in the general vicinity of the crashed train. Was it an oil leak from the hydraulic system? Had the bar ruptured? Or... But as she watched, the green section turned aquamarine, dark blue, light blue and then clear. Perfectly clean water!
Dumbfounded by the extreme change, her wrist secretary ran a diagnostic on itself and sent an angry letter to the manufacturer for such obviously shoddy workmanship on its sensors.
Inch by inch, the circle expanded into the stygian, nigh impregnable, Underdunk, centuries of industrial pollution rendering it little more than a pool of mud.
Inexorably, the patch of clear water advanced towards shore annihilating the unidentifiable muck. Not pushed forward, but extended. As the slugg
ish lake met the bubbling barrier all contaminants disappeared and only impossibly pure water remained. The likes of which Humanity had not seen since dinosaurs trampled prehistoric Vikings taking a pee in a primordial stream.
Gradually coming into visibility, the bottom was an irregular expanse of rocks, and the occasional steam locomotive. Obviously its iron body was immune to the ravaging effects of the clean up.
Now in full operation, completely unleashed, and hungry as hell, the mutated microbes of Y.U.M. 123 tied tiny napkins about their throats and really went to lunch. Rapidly, the zone of clean water began spreading in every direction. Relentlessly it went into a true primordial feeding frenzy; the Y.U.M. ate everything not physiologically alive, thermally warm or chemically active in the abandoned lake.
Just then a gasping fish dove out of the mire and splashed happily into the cool blue. Amused, the observers smiled at each other. Life was indomitable. Even on Titan.
Filling half the sky, the ringed majesty of Saturn reflected like fresh diamonds off the sparkling lake within a lake. Unstoppable, the patch of shiny blue, heralded by its bubbling green cuff, raced off in every direction. In only minutes, the entire surface turned a beautiful deep azure blue. And the zone of visibility descended deeper and deeper into the murky lake with every passing second. Soon, more fish were exposed, along with a turtle and a very surprised looking octopus, which promptly swam away.
However, the surface color change did not stop as it reached the river feeding into the lake, and the grayish water of the contaminated tributary underwent the same incredible transformation as the microbes raced upriver, into a sewer pipe and out of the protective dome. The Y.U.M. had a lot to do in its remaining six hours, and every second of that was going to be spent feeding and breeding.
A soft wind blew over the sticky humans, and it did not make them cringe. It smelled faintly of air conditioning. But fresh was the operative word. Clean and fresh.
"Holy Buddha, Mary and Zeus, it worked," Erik Kaye whispered, the filthy microphone dangling limply in his hands.
Polishing his laser, Sergeant Zane suddenly stopped and snapped his fingers for attention. The anchor looked, gasped, smiled and then resumed his more formal stance of a news reporter. Ah, now they had some answers.
Although the water of the lake was perfectly clear, the center of Underdunk was too deep to see. But lining the shoals and along the shallow banks leading to the shore was a forest of underwater skeletons, their feet in tubs of concrete. Over in a sandbar was a collection of automobiles with more skeletons handcuffed to the steering wheels. There were stacks of letters, piles of knifes, and a small mountain of pistols. Everything was in remarkably good condition.
"And now we know why the project had secret enemies," Dr. Bentley announced, looking into the crystal clear expanse of the new water.
Near the bubbling locomotive on the bottom of the lake, resting on a bed of golden sand were boxes and file cabinets. Old and rusty but many, most, appeared still intact.
"Evidence," Kaye guessed out-loud for his unseen audience. "Most likely, organized crime has been using this place as dumping sight since time immemorial. Or at least since 2245 when the United Planets colonized Titan."
"And if this process works here, it'll work for anywhere. Even on Earth!"
"Or Choron," Rocky whispered. A clean Choron. Both of his brains boggled at the concept. What a wild notion. His children could actually go into either of the oceans and not explode. Wow.
"Honorable Dr. Bentley, old pal," the alien, began smoothly, retracting his eyestalks. "May I humbly ask for the formula of these amazing microbes to clean my own homeworld of our pollution?"
"Yeah?" the woman asked suspiciously. "And how much will you sell it to them for?"
The words burned like fire in his mind, but summoning some secret hidden inner strength, he heroically said them anyway. "I...I shall not sell it."
"You? Do something for free? Ha!" Zane snorted.
The fresh lake air wafted over him and the alien happily filled his lung. Ah! "Doctor, there are some things even more important than...." Immediately, his throat constricted. No, he couldn't say it. What the hell, he'd give the Y.U.M. to his government as a charitably donation to lower his taxes. Ah, much better. To his race 'free' was the only four-letter word not used in polite company.
"Well, you have been instrumental in helping us complete the project," Bentley murmured. "So, yes, agreed. But no blackmarket reselling."
"Never!" the alien cried in horror. His honor was on the line here. Besides, there were witnesses, and a verbal contract was always as good as the police force which backed it up with guns.
Finished making a report to his superiors, Officer Zane released his collar button and smiled at the dirty group on the shore. "Tactical support groups from the local police, UP military and InterPlanPol will be here in six minutes. Even the president of Mars and his dog are coming. "
"This," he added unnecessarily, "is big!"
Bentley nodded. "Excellent. Thank you, officer."
"No problem, ma'am." Walking to the edge of the lake, Erik Kaye swabbed the toe of his boot in the water. Instantly the leather was washed clean and the polished removed. "And just consider what other criminal delights we will find at the bottom of the Hudson River in Newer York, the Thames River in England, the Rhine of Germany, or the sea of Japan?" Running a hand through his matted hair, the big officer smiled. "How much critical evidence in capital cases are we going to reclaim. And how much of this will be linked to organized crime?"
"Yes, indeed," Kaye said, swinging microphone and HoverCam to face the police officer. "Exactly how many unsolved crimes are about to become solved? How many murder raps cleared, innocent prisoners set free, and drug lords sent to jail? What is your professional opinion, sergeant?"
The Titan officer grinned. "I think the warden at the United Planets penitentiary better dust off 'Sparky' the electric chair, because it's gonna get mighty busy real soon."
Finally understanding, Rocky pursed his forehead. Criminals had been disposing of evidence in the polluted water? Hmm, damn clever actually. "No wonder somebody tried so hard to stop us. Hell, every criminal organization probably wanted us dead."
Gleefully happy, Alice Bentley agreed. Although not designed for it, Y.U.M. was in the process of removing more than one type of human pollution.
"Ha-ha, we win!" she laughed, arms akimbo.
***
The next day on Earth, a growing crowd of people waved and cheered on the Hudson River shoreline, a bold few even dove into the fantastically pure expanse of water filing the mouth of the river. Where sparkling waves lapped at the banks, trash was no longer visible, graffiti gone from rocks, wood pillions and ancient concrete embankments appeared new and strong. Even the ever-present, pungent cheese smell was thinning from the air. More than a few onlookers started hacking and choking at the invasion of oxygen to their weathered lungs. Immediately, their neighbors began selling cough drops.
Then arcing the horizon came dozens of horribly beweaponed United Planets Leviathan-class hovertanks. Maneuvering over the clear water, hatches slid open on the sides, and out dove hundreds of soldiers in armored spacesuits, which functioned perfectly well as diving suits. And had much better TV reception. Each trooper was carrying a very large wicker basket that was empty for the moment.
Meanwhile, in countless luxurious penthouses across Manhattan, groups of well-dressed gangsters started packing for Pluto - when suddenly an armada of police Tarantula helicopters lifted into view outside the windows, and from the front door there came a very official knock-knock.
Trapped, the crime lords slumped in resignation, some of them openly weeping. While outside the penthouse window could be seen a foaming green band racing up the Hudson river, eventually heading for the poisonous Finger Lakes, the undrinkable Niagara Falls, the toxic Great Lakes, the putrid Ohio River, even the deadly Mississippi. Across the world, the common folk cheered and danced, while numerous
industrialists underwent desperate plastic surgery in their racing limos and more than one drug lord simply shot himself in the head to save the police the time and trouble of a trial. Unstoppable and uncaring of these antics, the microbes continued eating themselves to a glorious death across the entire world; South America, Australia, South Africa, Europe, Russia....
The terraforming of Earth had finally begun.
-THE END-
"I was once doing some research on London in the 1880s, and found numerous references to the infamous Bow Street Runners of the 1820s," Nick said, trying not to pontificate. "And my first thought was, the Bow Street who?"
The Sound Effects man had taped the earlier sign to the glass, and now was holding both hands together as if praying. Finally looking down, Nick went cold as he realized the DJ was gone. Oh hell.
"Well, a few days later after some research in the local library...this was before the internet, you know, I had my answer," Nick went on, trying not to sound nervous. "And I immediately started work on a short story about the amazing Runners. It is one of my most requested pieces when I do a dramatic reading, and a personal favorite. Enjoy."
A MATTER OF TASTE
"One-two-three!" screamed the furious crowd of Scottish villagers, and the crude battering ram surged forward once more. With the sound of splintering wood the huge doors blocking the entrance to the abandoned coal mine crashed apart, splinters exploding into the night air heading towards the moon.
"For God and King!" bellowed a red-faced dollymop, brandishing an executioner's axe.
Shouting in victory, the mob of highlanders dropped the old weathered caber and started to charge in through the ruined barrier, the local constable and grimy navies waving their wooden staves and blunderbusses.
In the lead of the angry throng was a lean whippet of man sporting a soft brim hat, swallow tails coat, tight breeches and fine Hoby boots. They were dapper gentleman's clothes from Weston in London. He looked a toff, but tucked firmly into his black leather belt was a short ebony baton crested with the imperial seal of England, the badge of a vaunted Bow Street Runner. Grasped in his big callused hands were a brace of ornate Collier pistols, the long tapering .72 barrels of the new style breechloaders gleaming like polished justice in the rosy dimness of predawn.
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