<< | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | >>
A shout, one Mercyman to the other. The thief was discovered. He crawled out from his hiding place, cowering before his hunters, hands raised half in warding, half in supplication. The first Mercyman reached into the bolthole and withdrew the two food packets, he held them up for his partner to see, the red colour code a guilty verdict.
"Steal food, you are food." said the Mercyman. The thief panicked and struggled but the Mercyman put him down quickly with his needler.
From where he lay Stock could see the thief's dead eyes, open and staring, frozen in fear.
"Call Reclaim." said the Mercyman to his partner. "I'll get his GenID for Records."
"Records show you have a talent for biomechanics, Philip." said a new voice in the dark. A change of scene, a seamless transition, young-man-Stock standing in small office. "Perhaps you would better serve the community in Air Processing?" The voice was a tutor from a time long past. Mister...something...forgotten.
"Yes, sir." said young-man-Stock, and opened the door to his future…
Now stood up to his armpits in green slime and loving it. He moved his hand slowly through the tiny plantlife suspended in nutrient-rich solution. He let the fluid drain through his fingers until only a few of the oxygenating plants remained in the palm of his hand. His creation. His own tiny children.
“Stock!” Supervisor Adams barked at him from the walkway surrounding the tank. Stock looked up at him, shaken from his momentary pride. “Well?” asked Adams.
Stock double-checked the readout on his hand monitor.
“Conversion efficiency is up five percent on the previous generation, Supervisor.” he reported.
“Good, Stock. Good work. You have a talent for this, I’ve always said it. Get dried off and see me in my office.”
Stock changed quickly out of his wetsuit and hurried along the corridor to Adams’ office. He knocked politely on the door.
“Enter!” the Supervisor called sharply. Stock pushed the door open and walked hesitantly into Adams’ cramped office. The walls were painted in a clinical green wash. Among Adams’ personal touches, pictures, certificates, were a variety of gauges monitoring the environment of the Atmospheric Processing facility.
“Sit down, Stock.” Adams gestured to the seat opposite his cluttered desk. He finished writing something on the desk tablet and laid the stylus carefully to one side.