I am reminded of the “tinctures” in Bruce Sterling’s novel Holy Fire (1996) – home chemistry sets that make more or less everything, from hot cocoa to pheromones. This scene describes a bad batch flushed down the toilet and the police response this crime provokes:
“We overcooked the batch,” Antonio said. “We have to flush and start over.”
“What do you mean, flush?” Brett said tensely.
Antonio gestured at the bathroom door.
Brett sat up in the hammock, sending it swaying sickeningly. “Look, you can’t flush a bad tincture down the commode! Are you crazy? You have to decompose a bad tincture inside the set. Man, they’ve got monitors in the sewer system! You can’t just spew some bad chemical process into a city sewer. It might be toxic or carcinogenic! That makes environmental monitors go crazy!”
“We flushed bad batches before,” Antonio said patiently. “We do it all the time.”
“A bad lacrimogen run?”
“No, entheogens. But no problem.”
“You are an irresponsible sociopath with no consideration for innocent people,” Brett said mordantly, bitterly, and with complete accuracy.
…
There was a sudden violent burst from the bathroom. A blast of explosive compression. The door flew open and banged the wall hard enough to break a hinge.
Everyone stared in amazement. There were gurglings, then a sudden violent burst. Sewage jetted obliquely from the toilet and splattered the ceiling. Then rusty bolts snapped and the commode itself jumped from its concrete moorings and tumbled into the cellar.
A gleaming machine with a hundred thrashing legs came convulsing from the sewer. It was as narrow as a drainpipe and its thick metal head was a sewage-stained mass of bristles and chemical sensors. It grabbed at the doorframe with thick bristle-footed feet, and its hindquarters gouted spastic jets of white chemical foam.
It arched its plated sinuous back and howled like a banshee.
“Don’t run, don’t run,” Kurt shouted, “they punish you more if you run,” but of course everyone ran. They all leapt to their feet and scrambled up the stairs and out the door like a pack of panicked baboons.
Maya ran as well, dashing out into the damp and chilly Roman street. Then she turned and ran back into the squat.
She snatched up her backpack. The sewer guardian was sitting half-buried in an enormous wad of foaming sealant. It turned at her, aimed camera eyes at her, lifted two flanges on its neck, and began flashing red alarm lights. It then said something very ominous in Italiano. Maya turned and fled.
