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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
The girl watched impatiently, waiting for the wimp her boyfriend had picked on to start pleading with him or, even better, start a fight and pay for it.
I decided to disappoint her. Leaning my shoulder carefully against the wall, I pointed at my overturned bucket and smiled widely.
“A word of advice: don’t do that again.”
