Job location: Zone 3, Block 6.
Deadline: Evening end-of-work alarm.
Compensation: 15 sol.
Short and to the point.
The oval-shaped corridor was a hell of a mess. It was incredibly filthy, and an air of bitter desperation and futility hung heavily over everything.
I stopped laughing and reached a hand out to run my fingers along the wall, collecting a small amount of the viscous gray substance. I rubbed it between my fingers and sniffed it. I wasn’t about to taste it, though — it smelled weird. Like a mixture of flour, seaweed, and engine grease with a faint whiff of something chemical-like, caustic and acidic. The slime didn’t burn my skin, and had a paste-like feel to it. From a practical point of view, the worst thing about it was its slipperiness. What the hell is this stuff? Did someone really mix five tons of flour with three tons of grease and add a few gallons of vinegar? That made no sense. Well, nothing made sense here, so my guess was just as good as any other. What else would you call the spectacle happening in front of me if not utter nonsense?
Thirty or so rational adults in varying physical condition were relentlessly hauling slime-filled buckets, one or two at a time, gritting their teeth. I had no idea who I had been before — some clever technique had blocked my memories for good. I had no memory of my personal experiences, but watching those people struggling to complete this CGS job (an acronym I came up with for Collect Gray Slime), I immediately noticed that they were wasting their energy and not being nearly as productive as they could be. They were either stumbling slowly or running. If they had lined up in a row, passing full and empty buckets to each other and taking a step forward after each cycle of forty standard containers, they would have been much less tired and would get the job done much faster.
I felt the urge to raise my hands and exclaim something dramatic like: ‘Heed my words, people! I will show you the way!’ But I said nothing. I stood in the corner and watched, not bothering anyone, thoughtfully rubbing gray slime between my fingers. I no longer felt the urge to laugh. My legs were shaking after the long walk, and my elbow hurt a lot. But my head was working fine.
You might ask: why should the whole line take a step forward after every forty buckets if they were working together?
Because everyone’s jobs were unique to them. Mine was an easy one-time job:
Task: Collect Gray Slime. Easy (O).
Description: Collect and deliver forty standard containers of gray slime to the receiver unit.
I guess the system decided to cut me some slack since it was my first day in this cesspool of sadness. My job was listed as ‘Easy’, with O for ‘one-time’ in brackets so that I didn’t get too excited. I was afraid I would end up having to lug way more than forty standard containers of slime if I got this job again. Just thinking about that made me shudder.
Buckets were turned in at the receiver unit, a simple and functional device. A narrow, twelve-foot-long opening, the lower edge knee-high and the upper edge waist-high. There was a foot-deep niche in the wall above it, which made access easier, and a running conveyor belt inside the opening.
Turning in full buckets was incredibly easy — you just had to put them on the conveyor belt, no lifting required. Then you had to follow the wall a little further and grab a shiny new bucket from a small ledge in front of an open window. Grab the bucket and get back to collecting slime! That made sense. Trying to shake the thick, sticky slime out of the slippery bucket would be a huge waste of time.
The other workers didn’t waste any time standing around by the conveyor belt after they delivered a bucket. Things ran like clockwork. A worker would put a bucket on the belt, take a few steps, get a clean bucket and move on back to the source of the slime. There were no sounds, no flashing lights to mark the deliveries. The information must go straight to the worker’s interface.
Okay. Easy enough. Time to move on — I’ve only figured out half of the process so far. I stepped aside to let a pair of beefy, tough-looking guys pass me, then followed them, using their back as a shield against the flailing crowd. The tired workers swung like pendulums, and my elbow was in really bad shape… So I acted like I only had one arm. Lifting anything with my left hand was unthinkable, even something as light as a glass of water or a spoon. My elbow would instantly punish me with an immediate surge of pain for being so bold.
My strong torso, more or less functional right hand, and skeletal legs that just barely held up my weight were my assets. The legs were the worst part — I had no idea how they would handle an extra fifty pounds of weight. Well, maybe less than fifty. It’d better be less…
I grabbed the clanking bucket, weighing it in my hand. It wasn’t very heavy. No more than a few pounds. I flexed my arm a few times, preparing it for a heavy load. I hobbled towards the first ‘cog’ — a huge square room off of the hallway. The workers in front of me were headed that way, too.
Okay…
What do we have here? A leak?
How else could I describe it?
The gray slime dripped from the walls and the ceiling. There was no visible source, but the whole room was covered in the sticky gray substance.
I had no time to wonder what was above us. There were more pressing problems at hand. I stepped to the side and watched the others closely. They worked quickly and smoothly: they found the wall with the fattest payload of slime, put their buckets on the floor, and scooped handfuls of slime into it, repeating if necessary. More often than not, they scooped too much into the bucket and the slime spilled onto the floor. Then they carried the buckets off to the hallway. I already knew what happened after that.
All right. A full bucket? I looked inside and noticed a thin indicator line an inch below the edge of the bucket. Up to here, right? Okay, let’s try that…
I walked to the wall and put my bucket down. I used my right hand to help a chunk of slime slide into it. Plop! I peered down at the results and did it again. Plop! That would do. And now for the moment of truth. I leaned down and grabbed the slippery handle, then tried to straighten up. My foreign arm stretched out and… Ouch! Something popped in my shoulder and my elbow throbbed in pain. But the bucket came up off the floor with a slurping noise. I stood, leaning to the side, realizing I would have to drag that weight all the way to the receiver unit at the entrance.
“Come on, nullbie!” I said to myself.
One small step! To my own surprise, I did it. I stayed on my feet! Another step! And another. And another! I laughed to myself. It was a day full of limping, that was for sure.
Ten steps later I had to stop, put the bucket down by the wall, and assess my condition. My hands were sore and my knees hurt. My back felt all right, but my right shoulder ached. I let myself take little break, then got back to it.
Thud! A guy walking past casually kicked my bucket over, the contents spilling all across the floor. A girl with messy blonde hair, clinging to the guy’s arm and swinging her hips as she walked, let out a high-pitched laugh.
“Hey, you!” I said.
He turned to me with gleeful anticipation. Glancing quickly at the ceiling, he made sure neither of the two observer domes were there. I saw a brief flash of fear in his eyes, but then he looked at me with the self-confidence and relaxed brazenness of youth and strength. He was really young, and even though his arms might have belonged to a man in his fifties, their previous owner had been solidly built. His legs were tan and bulging with muscle, and he stood in an openly defiant stance. Badassery incarnate. He had the first three-digit number I’d seen so far: 107.