The alarm went off while he was measuring how fast the mycelium climbed the wall. Junhyeok was kneeling on the floor of the culture room, ruler in hand. Overnight the white mycelium on the petri dish had stretched 8 millimeters. His hand, about to record the figure, stopped at the sound. Red letters on the wall panel: Sector 3 water-filter efficiency declining, the Emergency Resource Protocol activated. Junhyeok set down the ruler and rose. The damp air of the culture room had soaked through to the backs of his knees.
The ocean station Maru. Forty meters below the surface of the Pacific. A cylindrical underwater structure home to 3,400 residents. The nearest land was 1,200 kilometers away. A supply ship came once a quarter. In between, Maru survived on its own circulation. Water was purified and went round again, food scraps were broken down into fertilizer, carbon dioxide was eaten by algae that breathed out oxygen. The fungi Junhyeok raised were the crucial link that decomposed organic waste. Dead plants, food remains, even human excretions. If the mycelium couldn't break it down, Maru's circulation clogged.
Junhyeok left the culture room and walked the corridor. Five in the morning. The orange of the night lighting lay across the floor of the curving hallway. Maru's corridors bent gently along the cylindrical structure, so if you walked far enough your starting point appeared again up ahead. Walking that curve, Junhyeok passed his daughter's quarters. No light leaked from under the door. She'd be asleep. Seoha. Seventeen. Born on Maru, raised on Maru. The world above the sea she had only ever seen on screens.
Seoha had only one kidney. From birth. It could be managed by Maru's medical facilities, but she had to drink more water, and her protein output was higher than most people's. The high protein content of her urine could put a small strain on the water purification system. Until now no one had cared. But once the Emergency Resource Protocol was running, that could change.
People were gathering in the central control room. When Junhyeok arrived, the chair of the Resource Allocation Committee stood before the wall screen explaining the data. The Sector 3 filter had degraded, processing efficiency had dropped, and there was no spare filter. Forty-seven days until the supply ship. The chair spoke.
"For 47 days we have to manage drinking water for 800 people in Sector 3. We either cut the water ration, or we change how it's distributed."
One committee member cut in.
"Let's apply the Linked Exchange Rule. Tiered distribution based on individual biometric data raises efficiency."
At those words Junhyeok looked up.
The Linked Exchange Rule. Junhyeok had seen it six months earlier in the committee minutes. At the time it had only been reviewed and then shelved. The core of it was simple. In a resource shortage, each resident's body weight, activity level, metabolic rate, and water output are entered into the system, and individual water rations are calculated on a graduated scale. Those with high metabolic rates get more, those with low rates get less. Anyone whose output strains the system has their ration adjusted. Seoha's face rose in Junhyeok's mind. Proteinuria. Output that strains the purification system. It meant Seoha's kidney data would become a variable in resource allocation.
Junhyeok raised his hand.
"If we use biometric data for distribution, residents with an illness could be penalized."
The member who'd made the proposal looked at him.
"It's not a penalty, it's optimization. It's reasonable for someone who strains the system to be adjusted."
Junhyeok answered.
"Illness isn't a choice."
The member said.
"What here is a choice? The carbon dioxide you breathe out is nutrient for my algae, and your urine is the raw material for my drinking water. On Maru the body is infrastructure. When the infrastructure is under load, of course you adjust it."
Junhyeok shut his mouth. Not in concession, but because no rebuttal came to him.
The vote: 5 in favor, 2 against. Junhyeok cast a nay. But the rule was enacted. His steps were quick as he left the control room. He walked the curving corridor. From inside the walls came the sound of the purification system pushing water through. A low hum. A sound he never usually noticed. Now it seemed to be calling Seoha's name. Past the Sector 3 corridor, the smell of breakfast being prepared drifted out from the canteen. The smell of algae protein blocks being grilled. Morning on Maru always began with this smell. He went to Seoha's quarters. When he opened the door, Seoha was sitting at her small desk, looking at something on a tablet. She raised her head as he came in.
"Dad, why so early?"
Junhyeok sat down across from her. Seoha's face was lit by the tablet's blue glow. Junhyeok's wife had returned to land two years after giving birth to Seoha. Seoha had stayed with Junhyeok. On Maru.
"The emergency protocol has been activated."
Junhyeok said. Seoha looked at him.
"Water shortage?"
Junhyeok nodded.
"For 47 days the rations change. Based on biometric data."
Seoha's expression didn't change.
"My data goes in too, right?"
Junhyeok paused a moment.
"Once your kidney data is entered into the system, your ration could be adjusted because of the proteinuria."
Seoha set down the tablet.
"Does that mean less, or more?"
Junhyeok answered.
"I don't know. By purification load it goes down, by medical need it should go up. But the algorithm doesn't look at medical data. It only looks at load."
Seoha looked out the window. Beyond the observation port, the dark blue of the seawater swayed.
"So my body is a nuisance, then."
The words knocked the breath out of Junhyeok. Seoha laughed. It was not a laughing face.
"It's fine. Everything's connected down here anyway. I know my urine becomes someone else's water. I've known since I was a kid."
Seoha rose and stood before the observation port. The blue of the seawater settled over her shoulders and throat. Junhyeok stayed in his seat, watching her back. Seoha spoke.
"But it used to be that the water just went around. Now it's how many percent my kidney functions that decides the water ration. That's just—"
She stopped, pressed a fingertip to the port, and drew a small circle on the glass.
"It feels kind of naked."
On the third day of the trial, Junhyeok was recording the growth of the mycelium in the culture room. The rate at which it broke down organic waste was slower than usual. As the water ration shrank, the moisture content of the food had changed, and the fungi's decomposition efficiency had dropped. Junhyeok lifted a petri dish and held it up to the light. The tips of the mycelium had split. This was what happened to mycelium when it lacked moisture. When people's water went down, the food's water went down, the moisture in the waste went down, the fungi slowed, decomposition lagged, fertilizer dwindled, the seaweed dwindled, the oxygen dwindled. The entire circulation of Maru hung from one tip of Junhyeok's mycelium.
On the fifth day of the trial, Seoha came back from her routine checkup at the medical bay. In the evening she came to Junhyeok's quarters. The face that came through the opening door was not her usual one. Her lips were pressed into a thin line.
"The medical bay sent my checkup results straight to the resource system."
Junhyeok looked at her.
"Did you consent?"
Seoha shook her head.
"They didn't ask for consent. Under the Emergency Resource Protocol, medical data gets shared with the system automatically, they said. Behind my back."
Junhyeok's hands went still.
"Who told you that?"
Seoha answered.
"The medical officer. It's in a clause of the Emergency Resource Protocol."
Junhyeok switched on the wall panel and searched the protocol document. The clause was there. In an emergency, integration of medical data with the resource management system; individual consent waived. It was a clause that hadn't been in the minutes six months ago. It had been added to the enforcement ordinance.
Junhyeok went to the medical bay. Being night, only one medical officer was on duty, organizing data in front of a monitor. Junhyeok asked.
"I hear Seoha's checkup results were handed over to the resource system."
The medical officer looked up from the monitor.
"It's the Emergency Resource Protocol. I'm not the one who decided it."
Junhyeok looked at him.
"The kidney function readings of a 17-year-old kid went into the water ration algorithm. Do you understand what that means?"
The medical officer sighed.
"I do. If the proteinuria reading is high, the purification load score goes up, and the ration goes down. It bothers me too."
Junhyeok said.
"It's not that it bothers you—it's dangerous. On a station of 3400 people, if you combine sector and age and excretion data, you can figure out who Seoha is. Down to the fact that she has only one kidney."
The medical officer rubbed his hands together.
"I objected at first too. But if the system runs without medical correction, sick people can't get their water and collapse. Putting the medical data in is actually how sick people can get more."
Junhyeok stopped.
"They could get more?"
The medical officer nodded.
"With medical correction in place, kidney patients get more water. But the price is that your daughter's medical record goes up into the system."
Junhyeok left the medical bay and stood in the corridor. From the far end of the curving corridor came the hum of the purification system. Water was flowing inside the walls. Some of this water had passed through Seoha's body. Junhyeok laid a hand on the wall. The fine vibration of the flowing water traveled into his palm. He laid his right hand over his left. The warmth of both hands mingled. This warmth, too, would pass through Maru's cooling system and drain out into the seawater. He lifted his hand from the wall and pressed it back again. He counted the rhythm of the vibration. Once every 3 seconds. The cycle of the purification pump. Slower than a heartbeat, faster than a breath. Junhyeok was somewhere in between that rhythm. The station at night was quieter than by day, so the vibration was more distinct. A faint tremor rose from the floor as well. The rhythm of the purification pump. Its interval was close to a heartbeat. Junhyeok lifted his hand. He walked farther down the corridor and stood before the observation port in the station's outer wall. 40 meters below the surface. Beyond the port, the darkness of the deep sea stretched out. Now and then a bioluminescent deep-sea creature drifted past. A blue point slid through the dark and vanished. A moment later a green glow appeared. A luminous jellyfish. Its tentacles rippling slowly, it passed before the port. The jellyfish's light settled through the glass onto Junhyeok's face. The green grazed his forehead, and was gone. The creature out there did not wonder whether its body was infrastructure or a resource. It simply glowed. Junhyeok pressed his forehead to the port. The glass was cold. The temperature of the seawater. 12 degrees.
On the morning of the 8th day of implementation, on his way to the cultivation lab, Junhyeok passed the canteen in Sector 3. A board on the wall displayed the current resource allocation. There were no names, but the rations were broken down by sector and age group in a bar graph. The bar for the teenage group was strikingly short. A resident standing nearby spoke to their companion.
“There’s one teenager whose ration is unusually high. Supposedly a medical adjustment.”
The companion looked over.
“You mean they’re sick?”
The first resident shrugged.
“Who knows. But how many teenagers can there even be.”
Junhyeok did not slow his step. But his heart quickened. There were fewer than 60 teenagers living in Sector 3. Teenagers receiving a medical adjustment, fewer still. From the data alone, it would take only a few steps to arrive at Seoha. Junhyeok went into the cultivation lab and shut the door. He sat before a petri dish and looked at the tips of the mycelium through a magnifier. They had split into three branches, each reaching in a different direction. Mycelium turns back when it meets an obstacle. What it cannot pierce, it goes around. Junhyeok had to find the way around.
That evening Seoha came to Junhyeok’s quarters. She spoke the moment he opened the door.
“Eunsu asked me. Why you get so much water.”
Junhyeok looked at her.
“What did you say?”
Seoha took off her shoes, came in, and sat on the bed.
“Just that it’s always been that way. But Eunsu says she heard from her mom. That there’s a kid getting a medical adjustment. Among the teenagers.”
Junhyeok held his breath. Seoha lay back on the blanket. Looking at the ceiling, she said,
“The algorithm gives me more water, so someone else’s water goes down. Of course those people wonder who I am.”
Junhyeok sat down beside her.
“It’s not of course.”
Seoha laughed. This time it was a real laugh. The bitter kind.
“Dad, there are no secrets here. In a place where my urine becomes those people’s water, can my kidney be a secret?”
Junhyeok could not answer. Seoha said, looking at the ceiling,
“I’m thinking of telling Eunsu. Just, I’ve only got one kidney. Then it’s not a rumor, it’s my own words.”
Junhyeok looked at her.
“You decide.”
Seoha turned her head and looked at him.
“But you’d hate it, wouldn’t you?”
Junhyeok thought for a moment.
“You saying it is fine. The system saying it is not.”
Seoha nodded.
“That’s the difference. Between me doing it and the system doing it.”
Junhyeok could not sleep that night. He lay on the narrow bed in his quarters and looked at the ceiling. A slightly cold draft came down from the vent in the ceiling. Air laced with oxygen the algae had made. Junhyeok closed his eyes and breathed. On the inhale his chest swelled, on the exhale it sank. This breath would ride the vent down to the cultivation lab. Junhyeok’s breath fed the algae, and the algae’s oxygen filled Seoha’s lungs. He opened his eyes. He could see a small stain on the ceiling. The mark of mold made by the damp. Junhyeok read the pattern of that stain. From the direction the mycelium spread, moisture was seeping in from the vent side. An occupational habit. He read mycelium everywhere. Junhyeok got up and drew a cup of water at the basin. He drank it. Tomorrow this water would become Junhyeok’s urine, pass through the purification system, and become someone’s drinking water. Junhyeok had both of his kidneys. If only he could give one to Seoha. But organ transplant surgery was impossible on Maru. There was no facility for it. Seoha had to live with one kidney.
On the night of the 11th day of implementation, Junhyeok stopped by the algae cultivation lab. It was over toward the station’s outer wall, a place where the dark blue of the seawater showed through the transparent barrier. Inside the culture tanks the algae grew slowly. The tanks’ lighting passed through the chlorophyll and turned a pale green, and that light stained the whole lab like an underwater forest. Junhyeok stood in that light and breathed. Inhale. Exhale. This algae made Maru’s oxygen. The carbon dioxide Junhyeok breathed out became the algae’s nourishment, and the oxygen the algae made came back into Seoha’s lungs. This cycle was beautiful. But he could not let this beautiful cycle swallow even Seoha’s kidney readings.
On the 12th day of implementation, Junhyeok submitted an amendment to the Committee. A proposal to separate the medical-adjustment data from the system, and to issue the additional rations for patients separately, out of the medical bay. The medical data would not go up into the system, but patients could still receive the water they needed. The chair asked,
“Separate issuance means securing a separate water reserve for the medical bay. Where do you take it from?”
Junhyeok answered.
“I’ll cut the wash water for the cultivation lab. My fungal cultivation efficiency will drop, but if I stretch the 3-day cycle to 4 days, I can free up 50 liters a day.”
The chair looked at him.
“If the fungal efficiency drops, the breakdown of organic matter slows.”
Junhyeok nodded.
“It slows. But it can hold for 47 days. I’ll make up the rest by hand.”
After deliberation, the committee passed the amendment 4 to 3. The medical-adjustment data came down off the system. Seoha's supplemental ration was issued separately, out of the infirmary. The strange bar for the teen group vanished from the screen. The cost came out of Junhyeok's cultivation room. As the wash water was cut, the growth of the mycelium slowed noticeably. Every day before dawn Junhyeok came out to the cultivation room and turned the substrate by hand, adjusted the humidity, and misted the mycelial tips so they wouldn't dry out. What had been 4 hours of work stretched to 6. His hands grew rough. The acidity of the fungal culture medium split his skin open. His joints ached. It was not easy for a body past 50 to endure that dawn work every single day. On the morning of the 15th day, turning the substrate in the culture tank, a pain came into his lower back. Not sharp, but heavy. Junhyeok gripped the rim of the tank and stopped for a moment. The cultivation-room light was shining on the white surface of the mycelium. The mycelium was growing, knowing nothing. Whether Junhyeok hurt his back or split his hands, it made no difference to the mycelium. All the mycelium needed was humidity, temperature, and substrate. Junhyeok straightened his back and went on with the work. Giving the mycelium what it needed. Guarding what Seoha needed. Doing both at once — that was Junhyeok's 44 days.
On the 20th day of the measure, Seoha came looking for Junhyeok in the cultivation room. He was on his knees, examining a petri dish. Seoha stood in the doorway and spoke.
“Your hands are cracked, Dad.”
Junhyeok looked at his hands. The skin between his index and middle fingers had split open.
“It's the culture medium. I'm fine.”
Seoha came in and crouched down beside him. She looked at the mycelium in the petri dish.
“It's slowed down.”
Junhyeok nodded.
“Because I cut the wash water. But it's growing.”
Seoha looked at the back of his hand. The cracked skin, the swollen joints. Seoha said,
“It's because of me.”
Junhyeok shook his head.
“It's a problem with the system design.”
Seoha stared at him.
“Liar. You cut the water to the cultivation room so you could take the medical-adjustment data down. I know all of it.”
Junhyeok looked at Seoha. Her eyes were wet.
Junhyeok pulled off his glove and laid a hand on Seoha's shoulder.
“Better my hands chap a little than your kidney data up on 3,400 people's screens.”
Seoha shook her head.
“Your body is part of Maru too. If you can't grow the mycelium, all of Maru slows down. You can't do this over just me.”
Junhyeok paused for a moment. He could not argue with what she'd said. His body, too, was inside Maru's cycle. If he collapsed, the fungal cultivation stopped, the breakdown of organic matter slowed, and all of Maru slowed with it. But Junhyeok answered.
“I chose this. That's what matters.”
Seoha took hold of his cracked finger. In the humid air of the cultivation room, their warmth met.
The supply ship arrived on the 44th day. A new water filter was installed. The emergency protocol was lifted. Rations returned to normal. Junhyeok set the cultivation room's wash water back to its original cycle. The mycelium grew fast again. The white mycelium on the petri dish reached out 12 millimeters in a single day. Up 4 millimeters from the 8 the day before the alarm. The difference of the wash water. Measuring those 4 millimeters, Junhyeok looked at the cracked skin on the back of his hand. It still hadn't healed. Skin regenerated more slowly than mycelium grew. Junhyeok took up the ruler and measured the length of the mycelium. 12 millimeters. He recorded it. Then he looked at the split in his own index finger. It had opened about 3 millimeters. He wanted to record this too. But this data he entered nowhere. Junhyeok's damage was Junhyeok's own.
In the evening Seoha came to the cultivation room. Junhyeok was writing up his records. Seoha peered into the petri dish.
“It's faster.”
Junhyeok nodded.
“The wash water's back.”
Seoha set the dish down and took his hand. She touched the cracked index finger.
“This'll take two weeks to heal all the way.”
Junhyeok smiled.
“Slower than the mycelium.”
Seoha laughed. A real laugh, this time. In the humid air of the cultivation room, her laughter spread. Through the room's vent that breath would go out, and travel to the algae. But Seoha's breath was Seoha's own. In a connected world, you could share breath and still not share data. That possibility was growing in Junhyeok's cracked hands. Like mycelium. Slow, but never stopping.
