Terrified gasps and murmurs went up from the room. Rex glanced at me with concern.
“People like Carolyn, who runs our Logistics division,” Sloppy went on. A woman at a computer console appeared onscreen. She looked up, flashed a wooden smile, waved at the camera, and then went back to work. “People like Dave, who works in quality control.” Dave, standing at a workbench in a laboratory, peering at a beaker of bubbling green liquid, was too busy to look up. “And people like Nancy, one of our line workers.” Nancy, busily stuffing SLOP packets into cardboard boxes as they slide past her on an assembly line, shot us a desperate grin.
“Yes,” Sloppy went on, “there’s no way we could make SLOP without people. People like you! Whether you end up working in customer service, technical support, marketing, or any of the other exciting departments, you’re an essential ingredient in making SLOP.”
“I feel like the messaging in this film is a bit muddled,” said Rex. “Am I going to be ground up into food or not?”
“I suspect not, sir. The entire controversy may well have been based on a misunderstanding.”
“Now many of you have probably heard that you’re going to be literally ground up and made into SLOP,” Sloppy continued. “Let me assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. Setting aside the occasional industrial accident, there is simply no possibility you’ll be ground up and made into SLOP as long as you remain a productive Ubiqorp employee. And when your productive output falls below a minimum threshold, you’ll be painlessly euthanized, pulverized and added to the soil additive mixture in our plantations.”
“Well, I feel better,” said Rex.
“It’s true that in the early days of Ubiqorp, SLOP was made almost entirely out of people. That was a different time, however, and by the late twenty-ninth century, mass market corporate cannibalism was no longer consistent with galactic mores. With changes in the culture and advances in food texturing technology and flavor additives, Ubiqorp moved away from producing comestibles made from people in favor of genetically engineered soy-lentil hybrids. That’s right, these days SLOP is actually made from plants!”
“Gross,” said Rex, making a face.
Sloppy continued, “You’re probably thinking, ‘but Sloppy, if that’s true, why does SLOP still taste so much like people?’ Well, the secret is Ubiqorp’s patented Peopleization process, which gives SLOP a flavor and texture that is virtually indistinguishable from its original, people-based formula. It’s only through the tireless efforts of our Flavineers that SLOP continues to taste just as much like people as it did thirty years ago.”
Several people around us murmured and nodded in approval. Rex shrugged.
“So once again, welcome to Ubiqorp. I hope I’ve put to rest any concerns about how SLOP is made and just how much we value our people here at—” The other voice broke in again: “SLOP Production Facility Twenty-Three.” Sloppy went on, “It’s only with people like you that we can make SLOP taste as good as it did when it was made with people like you. And remember, if you don’t want to be SLOP, don’t be sloppy. After all, that’s my job!”
Chuckles from the group. The screen went black and the Ubiqorp logo appeared.
“That was terrible,” Rex said. “I’ve seen better films on the walls of a motel shower.”
“The character of Sloppy was poorly written,” I agreed. “I never understood his motivation.”
“That Nancy had real charisma, though,” Rex said. “I think she’s going places.”
A heavyset woman in a burgundy suit mounted a stage in front of the screen. “All right, newbies,” she said. “Time for your work assignments. While I can’t make any guarantees, at Ubiqorp we do our best to match new recruits with their aptitudes and preferences. Your initial work assignment will determine your career path at Ubiqorp, so choose wisely. Here are the positions we currently have open.” She went on to list a dozen or so different jobs, which all sounded about equally dreadful to me. Then she went on, “When I call your name, please exit through the door to my left. A placement specialist will take your request and direct you where to go next.” She began calling names off a list.
“I’m thinking soylent wrangler,” Rex said.
“Do you even know what that is?” I asked.
“No, but it sounds cool.” He held out his head. “Hey there, I’m Rex Nihilo, soylent wrangler.”
“It does have a nice ring to it, sir, but perhaps you would be more suited to a less physically demanding position. Nutrient mixer didn’t sound so bad. Or quality assurance agent.”
“Those sound boring,” Rex said. “And I bet soylent wranglers have more freedom of movement. That means a better chance at escaping.”
“Do you really think we’ll be able to escape?”
“Of course we’re going to escape,” Rex said. “You think I’m going to spend the rest of my life working in a SLOP facility?”
“I just don’t see how escape is possible,” I said. “I’m sure this facility is heavily guarded, and it’s in the middle of nowhere. Even if we got out, there’d be no place to go.”
“It’s that sort of thinking that landed you in a junk heap on Gobarrah,” Rex said. “Mark my words, Sandy, I’m getting out of here. And if you want to come with me, you’ll become a soylent wrangler too.”
“I really think I’m more suited to something like quality assurance,” I said. “I have an excellent memory and eye for detail. If for some reason we can’t escape, I think I could be reasonably happy in a position like that.”
“Reasonably happy? Is that what you want? To be ‘reasonably happy’?”
“Um,” I said. “Yes?”
“Well, then by all means sign up for your cushy quality assurance job. As for me, I’m not going to settle for a life of corporate mediocrity. Sure, the life of a soylent wrangler is a hard one, but it will be worth it when I shake the dust of this lousy planet off my boots. I’ll be sipping martinis in the Ragulian Sector while you’re filing reports and getting beaten out by Nancy for the role of Linda in the Facility Twenty-Three production of Death of a Salesman.”
That didn’t really sound so bad to me. One of the problems with being a robot, though, is that I’m effectively immortal, which means that I could be stuck in this job literally forever. I could probably tolerate it for a few decades—and things would improve once Nancy was too old for most leading roles—but a millennium in Quality Assurance would fry my circuits for sure. At least if I stuck with Rex, I stood a pretty good chance of being killed in a relatively quick and painless manner.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll sign up to be a soylent wrangler.”
“You’ve made a wise decision, Sasha. Soylent wrangling is where it’s at. You’ll see.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Willie Everpay?” the woman called.
“That’s me,” said Rex. “Remember, soylent wrangler.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ve got it.”
He gave me a thumbs up and exited the room. After several more names, the woman called my name and I exited the room to find myself in a nondescript office with another door in the far wall. Behind a desk sat a neatly dressed young man. “Have a seat,” he said, indicating the chair across from him. “I’m Chip. They told me we had a robot in this batch,” he said, “but I didn’t believe it. What was a robot doing at Xanatopia?”
“Reassessing my life choices, mostly,” I replied.
“Well, we don’t discriminate here at Ubiqorp. I’m sure we can find a satisfactory position for you. Perhaps in Logistics or quality assurance?”
“I was thinking soylent wrangler sounded good.”
Chip laughed. “Nobody volunteers to be a soylent wrangler. That’s where we put the candidates who have no skills of any kind. I’m sure we can find a more suitable option. What are you good at?”
“I speak over three million languages,” I said. “I have an excellent memory and an eye for detail.”
“Hmm,” said C
hip. “Anything else?”
“Nothing I can think of.”
“Surely there must be something. Any hobbies or interests? Even if you don’t think it’s relevant.”
“Well,” I said, “there is one thing. I highly doubt it will be of any use to you, though.”
“Can’t hurt to tell me,” said Chip. “The absolute worst thing that could happen is you’d be assigned soylent wrangling.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m, uh, something of an amateur thespian. In fact, I was once the breakout star in an all-robot production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”
“Really?” said Chip, suddenly very interested. “Have you ever done Streetcar?”
“Of course!” I said.
“Which part?”
“All of them.” I dropped my voice an octave. “Hey, Stella!” Up half an octave and a half. “You quit that howling down there and go back to bed!” Back down. “Eunice, I want my girl down here!” Up: “You shut up! You’re gonna get the law on you!” Down: “Hey, Stella!”
“Wow, that’s terrific!” Chip said. “Our production opens on Thursday, but Nancy in packaging is being a total diva as usual. If she doesn’t start showing up to practices, we may have to delay the premiere. If you’d agree to be Nancy’s understudy, it might light a fire under her. We can fit you in to a supporting role for sure, and who knows, maybe you’ll even get to play Blanche at some point. Of course, you’d have to work here in the main facility. I could pull some strings to get you into Quality Assurance or Logistics.”
“So no soylent wrangling then?”
“No. You’d be too remote to get to practice on time. Besides which, soylent wrangling is incredibly dangerous. I can’t have a Blanche understudy missing an arm.”
I shuddered at the idea. “Is it really that bad?” I asked.
“Soylent wrangling? Other than being hot, dirty, monotonous, dangerous, offering zero hope of advancement, and having to work alongside the absolute worst specimens of humanity on Jorfu, no, it’s not that bad.”
I sighed. “And there’s no chance of transferring later if wrangling doesn’t work out.”
“None. Soylent wrangling is a one-way track to nowhere. The good news is that life expectancy is about twelve weeks.”
“Twelve weeks!”
“Well, yes. Of course, that statistic is skewed by the number of hazing deaths during the first few days. If you survive the week, your odds go up considerably. And half of the deaths after the first week are escape attempts.”
“People die trying to escape?”
“Oh, yes, all the time. That’s how the deaths are classified, anyway. Probably a lot of them are suicide attempts. They run right into the energy field surrounding the plantation and zap! I hear it’s a relatively painless way to go.”
“Has anyone ever actually escaped?”
Chip laughed. “A flock of geese flew into the energy barrier about thirty years ago and the barrier went down for a few seconds. A couple of wranglers got out and got five klicks before being eaten by a bogbear. So I wouldn’t count on it if that’s your plan.”
I nodded. This was an impossible situation. Should I live up to my promise to Rex and live a short and probably miserable life as a soylent wrangler? Or renege on our agreement and take a cushy job with a chance to finally make something of myself on the stage?
Sadly, I knew the answer as soon as I posed the question. If I betrayed Rex, it would haunt me for the rest of my days. And if I took an office job, that could easily hundreds of years. And there’d be no handy energy fields around for me to run into when the guilt and monotony finally became too much.
I sighed. “I think I’m going to stick with my first choice.”
“Seriously? After everything I said? You still want to be a soylent wrangler?”
“Want is a strong word. But yeah, I think that’s what I’m going to have to do.” I didn’t want to tell him about my commitment to Rex for fear they’d separate us out of suspicion that we were up to something.
Chip shrugged. “Well, it’s your life. I guess we’re stuck with Miss Can’t-Be-Bothered-To-Show-Up-To-Dress-Rehearsal.” He stamped a sheet of paper on his desk and handed it to me. “Through that door. Go down the hall till you get to the red door. There’s a transport to the plantation waiting outside.”
I nodded and took the paper. “If you’re ever short a Stella, you can always—”
“Through the red door, please,” Chip said without looking up. “Next!”
I sighed and went through the door into a long hall lined with doors of different colors. I was surprised to find Rex about halfway down, standing in front of a blue door.
“The transport is through the red door,” I said.
“Transport?” Rex asked.
“To the plantation.”
Rex furrowed his brow at me.
“Where we’re going to be working. As soylent wranglers.”
“Oh, right!” Rex said. “Yeah, I changed my mind on that. The whole soylent wrangler thing sounded kind of icky. Sasha, you’re looking at Ubiqorp’s newest quality assurance agent. And between you and me, I think I have a pretty good shot at playing Stanley it their production of a Streetcar Named Desire. ‘Hey, Stella!’ Huh? Pretty good, right?”
If I were capable of strangling Rex, I would have done it. But, unable to will my fingers around his neck, I simply stood with my fists clenched, trying to calm down enough to speak.
“What’s gotten into you, Sasha? I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“Sir,” I said coldly, “we had agreed to volunteer to be soylent wranglers. It was a key element of your escape plan.”
“I’ll come up with a new plan. Come with me to Quality Assurance and we’ll figure it out together.”
“I can’t! I’m already slotted for soylent wrangling!”
“Oh. Well, I’ll figure something out then. Cheer up, Sasha. Everything will be fine.”
The blue door opened and an attractive young blond woman leaned into the hall. “Willie Everpay?”
“That’s me!” said Rex.
“Great!” said the young woman. “I’m Tammy. Come with me and I’ll show you to your desk. How do you like your coffee, Willie?”
“Same as I like my women, Tammy. Hot, sitting on my desk, and wrapped in polystyrene.”
Tammy giggled and Rex followed her through the door. “Catch you later, Sasha,” said Rex. “We’ll be in touch.”
The door closed behind them. I sighed and made my way down to the red door at the end of the hall.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I boarded the transport, which was big enough to hold at least thirty people, but was completely empty except for me and the driver. Apparently I was the only new recruit dumb enough to sign up for soylent wrangling. I took a seat near the front and tried to make conversation with the driver, who was separated from the passenger area by a wire mesh barrier. He ignored me. When it was clear no one else was going to show up, he pulled away from the curb. We raced past several buildings and then stopped briefly at a guard shack in front of a metal arch about ten meters high and fifteen meters wide. I realized, as the transport driver showed some papers to a guard, that the arch was a gate in a vast domed energy barrier, barely visible shimmering yellow in the late afternoon sun. I estimated from the dome’s curvature that its diameter was at least ten kilometers. This was clearly the plantation Chip had mentioned. The heavily guarded gate appeared to be the only way in or out. While I watched, a bird strayed too close to the field and disappeared with a squawk and an explosion of feathers. The transport started up again, and soon we were inside.
The paved road ended on the other side of the gate, but the transport continued along the dusty ground, past rows and rows of the big, weird-looking plants I’d seen earlier. The only structures I saw were tall vertical poles that rose several meters above the tops of the plants, spaced about fifty meters apart. At the top of each pole were four speakers, one toward each point of the compa
ss: a sort of public address system for the plantation. After several minutes, the transport stopped at a seemingly arbitrary point in the road. The door slid open. “Everybody out!” the driver barked.
Looking out the windows, I saw nothing but rows of the weird plants in all directions. There had to have been some kind of mistake. “Here?” I asked the driver.
“Everybody out!” the driver repeated, a bit louder.
I looked around again. There was nothing and nobody around. I sighed and made my way to the exit, wondering if I were the target of one of the hazing rituals Chip had mentioned. “Thanks for all your help,” I said as I exited the vehicle. The driver didn’t respond except to slam the door. The transport spun around and returned the way it had come. The hum of the vehicle faded and soon I was completely alone in the eerie stillness of the field. There was no breeze and not even the buzzing of an insect or the rustling of a bird to break the silence. I was completely alone and abandoned, more so even than I’d been on Gobarrah, where I’d at least had BP-26’s yammering to distract me from my sad existence.
I’d been a fool to think Rex Nihilo and I were going to be a team. He obviously didn’t need me; he’d somehow survived up to this point despite his self-destructive streak and recklessness. After all, what did I have to offer in such a partnership? I was no good in a fight, couldn’t tell a lie to save my life, and shut down whenever I had a good idea. I had no doubt that without me to slow him down, Rex would have no trouble escaping Jorfu—and I was seriously deluded if I imagined he was going to come back for me. No, my partnership with Rex, such as it was, had come to an end. It was time to come to grips with the fact that I was going to spend the rest of my days here on a soylent plantation.
Out of the Soylent Planet (A Rex Nihilo Adventure) (Starship Grifters Book 0) Page 11