Slow River

“Yes,” whispered Spanner, “yes. Oh soon, soon.” Her hand was running down Lore’s ribs now, cupping her hip-bone, running back up to her breasts. Then it began to move slowly, very slowly down the center of her body. It held her stomach, pressed. On the screen, bizarre images of red and purple flowers shimmered; the music was rising to a deafening crescendo.

Spanner had both arms around her now, both hands moving rhythmically over her body, belly, flank, thigh, inside her thigh, back to her belly, over and over, “Please, Spanner. Oh, please,” and Lore no longer cared whether or not the woman heard, no longer cared whether or not she saw. She writhed in Spanner’s arms, trying to thrust herself onto Spanner, any part of Spanner, just so that she could feel hot, live skin between her legs. And the room was thick with her own smell, sweat and need and sex, and Spanner’s, and she wanted to spin inside her need forever, without touching, but now Spanner was urging her, turning her to face the back of the couch, belly against the leather, breasts over the top, legs apart. She heard the soft zzt of Spanner’s zipper and felt breath on the back of her neck, Spanner’s thigh pushing between her own. She arched backward, trying to make the connection, but then Spanner’s hand came around the front to dip slowly, teasingly, through her labia. “Ah…” She shuddered. “Please Spanner, oh please.” But Spanner was positioning herself, wet and hot against Lore’s moving buttocks, and suddenly the couch cushion sagged to one side as the woman, naked from the waist down, climbed onto the couch. She touched Lore’s hair with one hand. The other was between her own thighs. She was looking at Spanner.

“Now,” she said, and Spanner slid her finger deep inside Lore and Lore’s muscles were clamping down around it, she was straining, humping, and Spanner was gasping behind her, pulling herself up and down, leaving hot, wet trails, and the woman was flushing deep deep red and laughing and crying out and their triple need tore up inside Lore, right up into her guts until she screamed and every muscle in her body went rigid and she slid sideways onto the cushions, Spanner still inside her.

It was still hot. The man snored gently. The screen was blank.

* * *

The hardest part of the shift for me was always half an hour after the break, when there were still nearly four hours to go and my blood sugar was low. Today, I felt restless and tense and hot. At the readout station I pushed the hair off my face with the back of one hand and just hoped there was nothing toxic on my glove. Hepple, though he was keeping a low profile since Magyar had hinted I was a Health and Safety spy, was still demanding hourly readings.

The readings were normal, absolutely normal, but something nagged at me. Maybe it was just the fact of Hepple’s demands, but something seemed not quite right. I checked everything I could think of, even the enzyme levels and secondary by-products like dichloroethylene. Everything on the button. It must be the heat making me tense. I waited for my neck muscles to relax. They didn’t.

I missed Paolo, wondered what he was doing now, but it wasn’t that. I was waiting for something to happen. I just didn’t know what, or why.

I downloaded the latest results onto a slate and went to find Hepple. He was in his glass office.

Instead of motioning me to put the slate on his desk, he reached for it immediately. He was looking the numbers over thoroughly when I left.

Maybe he was expecting something, too.

I went back to trough forty-one, decided to replace some of the rushes, just because I was restless, then changed my mind and went back to the readout station and checked the monitors. Everything was fine. So why wasn’t I happy about it? Think. Start at the beginning. The plant and equipment itself? Everything seemed in order. The influent? No. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with the bugs, either; they were standard tried-and-true van de Oest series. Guaranteed, as long as they were supplied with…

And then I remembered. The puddles, the truck, the driver calling, “Sorry about that!” The logo: BioSystems.

I swore, ran a sample on the bug food. Took down one of the slates and after a few minutes’ fiddling managed to access some old records. Compared the two. Just as I thought. I picked up the phone. “Magyar, I need to talk to you.”

“What’s happened?” Even over the line I could hear her tension. She was waiting for something, too.

“Just get here.”

I felt savage. If Hepple had appeared right then I think I would have kicked him until he bled. Four million gallons a day, straight into the city’s mains, and he was risking it all for the sake of shaving half a percent from the plant’s operating costs.

Magyar arrived, breathless. “Tell me.”

“Hepple. Stupid bastard.” I was so angry I could hardly speak. “The bug food. Hepple bought the cheap stuff. Generics.”

The folds around her eyes seemed to swell slightly, making her eyes look smaller. “How bad is that?”