The area the vats were being wheeled to was heavily guarded by Technicians. Each new arrival was received with a series of menacing gestures, the Android Employees dismissed with a level of condescension beyond even what I experienced.

  The Technicians were clearly angry.

  Having become unwittingly conversant in their strange pantomime, I was able to get the gist of the issue. This revolting substance, despite its appearance, was precious.

  A Supervisory Unit was attempting to talk the Technicians down, insisting that the team was doing their best and that plenty of the paste had been salvaged. However, this kind of equivocation from middle management, true to classic workplace dynamics, only incensed the reptilian overseers.

  The back-and-forth escalated to absurd levels, with each party appealing to a higher Supervisory Authority on org charts detailing hierarchies that didn’t seem to be written with even the same understanding of grammar or three-dimensional space.

  No one was at fault, everyone was at fault; the fundamental rules of physics that governed what it meant to “report to” another entity were not settled scientific fact.

  The argument had almost reached a crescendo when, with uncannily bad timing, one of the workers approached, trailing behind him an unmistakable series of paste-gray footprints.

  The time for discussion was over.

  A Technician turned and, in one stunning motion, hissed and struck.

  The blow was so vicious, so sudden, it sent the worker flying — straight through the doors of the sealed-off area.

  They flew open with a mechanized wheeze. The worker tumbled out of sight.

  And for a single, barely perceptible moment, the top-secret interior was visible.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  A cavernous space stretched out beyond comprehension. Hospital Pods lined the walls — dozens, maybe hundreds. The room was cold and sterile, filled with antiseptic white light and beeping medical equipment.

  Between the rows, Technicians in ridiculous medical getups custom-made for their peculiar bodies consulted charts and muttered jargon as they fidgeted with tubes.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  And in the pods, I swore I could see, if only from a distance and for the briefest of moments — human faces.

  **

  The Technicians quickly scrambled to contain the commotion. The Supervisor was whisked away along with the offending employee, who, I was glad to see, was largely unharmed aside from the Self-Flagellating Mechanism that had kicked in.

  The doors were slammed shut behind them. Work, it was made clear, was to continue as usual.

  The workers got the message.

  I, on the other hand, had other ideas.

  I couldn’t say for sure if the Screaming Man was in that room. I couldn’t even be sure I had seen anything. My headspace was strange in those days.

  The truth was, I was so starved for human contact that the idea of hundreds of people lying in pods felt somehow comforting. If there was any chance that they were in there, that he was in there, I needed to get to them. Just to know I wasn’t the only person in this place being poked and prodded and shoved into machines.

  But I wouldn’t be able to do it without help.

  I dragged my bucket and mop closer to the kitchen, continuing to pretend to clean with a blank, happy-to-be-of-service expression on my face. A Technician threw a quick glance in my direction, but soon returned to what he was doing, apparently pleased with the depth of my subservience.

  I called out just above a whisper.

  “Otie. Otie, it’s me! Come on, I know you hear me!”

  He continued what he was doing, his expressionless gaze fixed on the task at hand with familiar Otie diligence.

  “Otie, come on, it’s me, Ludo. I know you remember me, buddy!”

  The mention of my name seemed to trigger something in his Social Receptors. I didn’t have my handbook with me, but I was pretty sure sirens and flashing red lights could only be an objectively good sign.

  I took this as an indication it was safe to get vulnerable. I put my cards on the table.

  “I need your help.”

  He buzzed and whirred, struggling to compute this information. His head snapped up from his task.

  He blurted back a response with evident difficulty.

  “If help is needed, then my Reciprocity Engine demands I provide it.”

  I looked at him, puzzled. He was used to this.

  This conversational barrier, as well as my utter lack of willingness to educate myself or be at all curious about the complicated mechanisms that defined him, were a classic part of what made our dynamic so great.

  “You helped me, Ludo. So I have to help you.”

  My heart almost leapt out of my chest. Otie, my old pal, going out on a limb for me.

  “Otie, I don’t know what to say. You’re a real friend.”

  He leaned in as close as he could without drawing suspicion.

  “You seem to have misunderstood. This action is not voluntary and causes significant issues in my programming. On the one hand, I am designed to continue carrying out MegaTech? functions. On the other, it is my duty to respond to gestures of aid with statistically equivalent gestures.”

  I clapped him on the back with such force he might’ve tipped over, had he not been made of dense titanium alloy and had I not been malnourished as a tactic of control.

  “Say no more, pal! I knew you cared about me. The old duo, back together. Sticking it to the System.”

  He, despite his oft-bragged-about lack of lungs, took a deep, pained, centering breath.

  “It is the System that animates my very existence.”

  I let out a chortle, knowing even as I did it how discouraged chortling was in this building.

  “Otie, now’s no time for biting workplace satire. We have work to do.”