The whole way here, I had wondered what a standard container was.
And there it was — a bucket! A shiny metal bucket that looked like it would hold about five gallons. It wasn’t tapered at the bottom or anything, just a big tub with a thin metal handle. And heavy as hell!
At that point I started to laugh uncontrollably, huddled in the corner next to the entrance to Zone 3, my palm pressed to my face. In that moment, I realized that if I was going to die, I would die of laughter, not of despair. I would try to be optimistic about everything first, then realistic. Screw pessimism.
Job: Collect gray slime. Easy (O)
Description: Collect and deliver forty standard containers of gray slime to the receiver unit.
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.
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.
