Lucien was mulling over this terraform loop theory nonstop while he was down in the suffocating, wet sub-levels. However, his theory hit the fungal digestor, which got jammed, and the whole area started to stink.
The excrement of the ten-thousand starving people of Sanctum was being channeled through the brand-new Pancreatic Reclamator. It would eventually turn into a juicy, nutrient-rich liquid for the mycelial farms. But in fact, it was turning into a thick, vile sludge that was clogging the pipes and killing the local mushrooms. Like a god waking up, the Reclamator is not in a good mood. Its new assignment is at odds with what it was designed for thousands of years.
Lucien was up to his ankles in the filthy sludge and had a rebreather mask on. In one hand, he had a data-slate and in the other a probe. He was once tidy but now he was covered in dirt. The mycelial enzymes are too powerful, he said to Rhiza the Symbiote bio-engineer who was standing on a dry piece of old tendon. They are over-decomposing the human waste, and the removal of the important substances that the Junction's tissue still requires is the result. It's like giving soup to someone who wants a steak. It's not working.
Rhiza's eyes, which resembled spore-clusters, blinked as she pondered. The Junction is recalling its previous functions. We want it to do something new, but it wants the old good stuff. We have to... teach it again. Not by force. By talking to it.
Talking to it means we have to know what it understands, Lucien said, sounding irritated. He was into studying divine stuff, he wasn't a plumber.
It understands rhythm, a voice said from the doorway. Maxine Sharpe entered the smelly room, her enviro-suit spotless. She was carrying a small instrument, similar to the one used in the vats. The switch's frequency got the heart to listen. The fermentation frequency worked on the fungus. We have to find the Reclamator's frequency for 'deal with gross stuff.' A song for ordinary digestion.
It sounded reasonable. Lucien's eyes got bigger. Retraining! We have to locate the Junction's old rhythms when it was processing the good stuff and then gradually change them to correspond with the breaking down of... poop. He felt odd referring to it that way when talking about sacred biology.
They got down to work. Maxine connected her graft to the Reclamator's nerves and felt its confusion and revulsion at the bad fuel. She discovered the bright, joyous rhythm of Ambrosia secretion. It was complex and cheerful.
After that, she gradually introduced a new, childlike rhythm to go with the old one by using the emitter. A regular, diligent, solid rhythm. Besides, she also sent data about the sludge's chemical makeup directly into the Junction's brain. This is the stuff. This is what you do with it.
For a long time, nothing changed. The sludge remained. The Junction's tissue continued to be angry and uncooperative.
Then, a small movement. One little tube clenched and let go of a small amount of clean, fresh-smelling liquid. The Junction had started to digest regular stuff.
That was a tiny victory. But as the new rhythm was gradually becoming normal, the flow was starting little by little. The sludge was leaving. The pipes were getting clear. The poisoned mushrooms feeling the change grew new white threads towards the nutrients that could be used.
The loop, at least here, was functioning again.
Lucien and Maxine, tired, were sitting on a dry pipe, watching the recycled waste turn into food.
We're teaching a god to eat crap, Lucien said, and surprisingly, started to laugh. It was a tired, strange laugh, full of exhaustion and disbelief. I've been looking for the grand plan my whole life. And here it is: the holiest organ, learning to be a septic tank. It's the most amazingly humble thing I've ever seen.
Maxine didn't laugh. But she did look at the dripping with the same pleasure she used to get from a perfect harvest. Getting things done is its own religion, she said.
The word about the success of the Reclamator was spreading, a story about a small win. It didn't inspire poems, but it did get more plumbers, engineers, and people who were willing to do the dirty work to fix their broken world.
The Great Weaning was no longer just about ceasing a feast. It was about making meals with the leftovers. And the first, terrible recipe was yielding results.