My handle was second-to-last — the bold number above each one made it easy to tell them apart. I walked up to it, my steps far more confident than they had been yesterday, and glanced at my clock. I had checked the job description that showed up in my interface before I had even woken up that day. It was unusually wordy.
Job: Handle 7. 100 full rotations.
Important additional details: Arrive at the location no later than 8:30. Replace the previous worker after the double signal and double yellow flash. Begin work. Complete the required number of actions. End your shift.
Description: After the short signal and green flash, immediately turn handle 7 in a full clockwise turn until it clicks. Permitted delay: 3 seconds. Required number of actions: 100 full turns.
Job location: Zone 4, Block 1.
Job length: complete full rotations of handle 7 until the required number is met. Do not skip any rotations.
Compensation: 8 sol.
Current time: 08:25.
An explanation for complete morons. Maybe there had been cases where someone didn’t understand a job correctly, or attempted to cheat the system. As I stood there watching, handle 7 was turned twice in a little over three minutes. The intervals varied in length by a few seconds each time. The third interval between rotations confirmed my guess — it was fifteen seconds longer. It made sense, since there was manpower involved in running this mutilated mechanism, and people didn’t have the same level of accuracy as a machine.
“Done,” a strong-looking woman exhaled wearily, releasing her hold on the handle and moving away from the wall. “Your turn. Get to it.”
I nodded at her. “Good morning.”
“For you, maybe. It’s evening for me.”
“Wait... you worked the night shift?”
“What do you think?” She snapped angrily. “Of course I did.”
“Right, yeah.”
I didn’t ask her anything else. She didn’t seem to be in the mood for pleasant conversation.
The signal went off...
I grabbed on, putting my whole weight on the handle and managing to bring it up to shoulder level. Without losing momentum, I pushed it to the highest point, and practically hung on it as it swung down. I heard a click. One rotation. I checked my interface to make sure it counted — ninety-nine left. I exhaled in relief.
“You an orc?” He asked.
“Goblin,” I answered, pointing to my left arm. “I didn’t do my job yesterday.”
“Shit happens,” he said, nodding in empathy.
I heard the signal. Turned the handle. His signal beeped, and he did the same. Then he turned to me again.
“I got demoted to goblin once, too. Started spending all the sol I had saved at Rob-Rob’s, then went on a bender in Drainagetown. They don’t like us there, though. I’d never even think of going there if I was sober. Got poisoned in one joint, barely survived. Then I found out I had been buying everyone food and drinks while I was blacked out, even gave away all my stuff. So when I came to... I was so sick I didn’t even want to live... They scammed me like a dumbass goblin. No offense. Smart guys don’t live as goblins.”
“None taken. You’re right.”
“Yeah. I spent the rest of my sol on medicine and spent a week in my capsule just laying there like a sweaty worm. For the first three days, the world just spun constantly. I really thought I was gonna die. Then there was the weakness. My friends carried me on their backs to go get food and water, I don’t even know what I would have done without them. I worked my ass off for a long, long time to get back to being an orc. It’s really the best. Orc life — now that’s living!”
“For sure. Orcs are honest. Hard workers.”
Our conversation was interrupted by another signal. I turned the handle, then turned to my neighbor again.
