‘Good morning citizens, are you alive this morning?,’ came the feverish cry through Waltham’s cochlear receiver. One by one, the machines sputtered and grumbled to life. He felt the familiar vibrations intensify through the thin soles of his protective rubber boots. The conveyor belt began its slow, relentless march towards processor number 341 with a low metallic groan.
‘I said Are. You. ALIVE?’
Waltham was alive. He was no longer sure this was a good thing.
‘Because right now on BritSound 107.9, your patriot power station for the next flag waving, chest thumping eight hours, we are not just alive, we are INCANDESCENT with the joys of life in the northern sectors.’
Waltham lifted his cleaver. The first block of slab was dropped from an overhead trapdoor onto the belt. The hackers further up the line had already begun listlessly thumping away, spurred into life by the motivational sting of the foremen’s batons. The rhythmic thuds drew closer.
‘It is a beautiful day out there, it’s almost like mother nature is giving every citizen a big hug for doing our utmost to minimise our carbon emissions and reverse the effects of climate change.’
The presenter’s voice was now barely audible above the roar of 500 processors fed by 500 belts in People’s Slab Plant 4.
‘Today is Thursday. Today’s slab ration will be 600 grams per citizen. Tonight’s curfew is 9pm. Be warned that for your safety, the Civic Peace Patrol’s stop and search protocols remain suspended in favour of lethal force under public order directive 67.C.’
Waltham brought his cleaver down on the black, gelatinous chunks on the conveyor belt, breaking them up into smaller pieces.
‘So sit back, relax, smoke some Rapture and enjoy this BRIT BANGER from the Southern Sectors’ home grown rap god Bostick Sniffah, and don’t forget to tweak us on Eyeball with your requests and shoutouts.’
The thud of the cleavers and rattle of the belt continued implacably for another four hours, punctuated only by the occasional commotion of a clogged processor and resulting punishment beating.
Around the sterile, stainless steel tables of the plant recreation hall at lunch time, the majority of Waltham’s fellow hackers slowly chewed their slab bars, scrolling blankly through ten second video after ten second video on Eyeball, silent under the wordless observation of the foremen.
Fifteen minutes later it was time to line up for head count, drop hand tablets into the secure box and file back to the belt for another four hours of hacking, accompanied by the mandatory soundtrack of BritSound 107.9 beamed directly into a compulsory implant.
There were never any good afternoons at the plant. But this one had passed without processor number 341 entering automatic shutdown mode. That was one small mercy. There were no deafening klaxons, no manic flashing alarm lights, no risk of being forcibly appointed ‘manual unclogger’ and fumbling blindly amongst heavy cogs and gears, no sustained beating to the calf muscles with metal batons.
Then in line for exit headcount, before silently filing past the night time wiper crew taking their last hits of Rapture in the courtyard before suiting up and pressure washing every inch of the place with bleach. The familiar ping of the hand tablet notification showed five EuroPlus coins had been credited to Waltham for an honest day’s work. About enough for the tram ride home.
But nobody took the tram. Only community guardians, high credit Eyeball influencers and wealthy Rapture manufacturers were seen riding the tram. Not that Waltham cared much. Northern Sector 12 was not a big place, only 15 minutes on foot from safety wall to safety wall. He zipped up his flimsy BritGov-issue cagoule and followed the throng of fellow slab hackers down the street between plant facilities and into the retail zone.
There was no way of avoiding it. All plant workers were deliberately funnelled straight out into a maze of automated booths, vending machines, pay-per-minute virtual reality booths, Rapture dispensers and countless other means by which to fritter away their wages. Screens flashed clips of hysterical Eyeball influencers waving the new Hand Tab 18 XL. ‘Eight inch HD screen, perfect video-to-VR-massage-tool sync with ZERO lag, FREE six month Eyeball premium subscription. Only 80 EuroPlus coins per month (subject to credit rating).’
Drawn-faced, credit negative beggars in ten-year-old BritGov detention camp tracksuits weaved between the booths, holding out contactless payment boxes. Some dragged skeletal, yellow-eyed children behind them. Waltham walked by, coldly ignoring every single one of them. It wasn’t out of a lack of sympathy. As a lowly slab hacker he barely hovered above them in societal status. He could not contemplate the risk of even a tiny transaction to a credit negative citizen being flagged during a digital spot check. The crippling EuroPlus fine and credit rating penalty would land him in the same rotten boat.
He walked on, leaving the bright lights and thumping music of the retail zone behind. Residential Pod Block 5 was only a few boarded up streets away, next to the 30 foot, barbed wire-topped wall bordering the neighbouring Islamic Peace Village. He nodded to familiar wizened faces hunched under blankets in doorways. The glow of a camp fire peeked through the boards nailed over the window of what had once been a newsagent.
He held his wrist to the sensor on the front door of Residential Pod Block 5. ‘Citizen 90847636. Waltham, P. Access Granted,’ came the cheery automated voice, having scrutinised his subdermal ID chip.
He held his wrist up to the ration machine in the entrance hall. A BritGov-issued 600 grams of slab wrapped in greaseproof paper flopped out. Despite spending his days chopping it into small chunks, Waltham tried his best not to think about what it really was. It came down the conveyor belt as dark, dense, tarry block of jelly. What came out of the machine was a slimy brick of urine yellow rubber. It felt as if it were diluted with oil, but it remained in a completely solid state if heated up. It tasted of nothing. Raw, fried, baked, minced, it made no difference. The official BritGov Eyeball channel said it was rendered from protein-rich grubs, farmed on an industrial scale in the Eastern Sectors and enhanced with a vitamin formula. ‘An efficient food for a healthier planet.’
Little George from the pod next door was sitting on the stairs kicking his heels.
‘Hi Georgie, mum working late again?’
‘Yeah, she’s busy making subscriber only content for Eyeball Premium.’
Waltham knew not to ask. She wasn’t in there filming a makeup tutorial.
‘How was school?’
George sighed. ‘It was okay. It was Marnie’s gender affirmation ceremony this afternoon. We all get half an apple each when there’s a gender affirmation ceremony.’
‘Sounds like a good day, ‘ said Waltham, glancing warily at the doorbell recording devices above him on the landing.
‘How was the plant?’
Waltham paused for a moment, lost in thought. Five years chopping away on the line. Five years of out-of-nowhere baton blows to the leg. Risking fingers and arms in a clogged processor. Masked foremen screaming in his face to hack faster. The dark, deafening hellscape of 500 whirring belts and 25,000 men thumping away with cleavers for eight hours every day. The dull silence of thousands of souls dumbly scrolling in the recreation hall during their only respite from the din. The cloying, deathly smell of raw slab in his hair and clothes and pores. The retail zone booths mockingly dangling shiny distractions he had neither the EuroPlus coins nor credit score to buy every single day on the way home. Home being a BritGov-issue sixteen foot by sixteen foot room with a mattress, a two channel television and a curtained off toilet. The constant ache in his arms and shoulders. Being shunned by everyone apart from fellow hackers and beggars.
And five more years ahead. That had been the sentence handed down back in ’46. A lenient sentence for pleading guilty. Good honest plant work to spare a man the indignity of credit negativity and destitution. The judge said he’d escaped the detention camp by the skin of his teeth. He said he believed Waltham could be reformed. But any more of that sort of extremist talk about BritGov and the Prime Minister and he’d be placed on the insurgency register and banged up indefinitely. He still occasionally suffered a panic attack when there was a knock on the door or noticed a BritPolice officer routinely scanning him with an AI contact lens. He could still feel the sickening sting of the kidney punches, the chill of the foot of cold water in the holding cell. Sleep deprivation. Tearful confession. A brief court hearing then straight to the plant for orientation. He kept a shard of glass he found in the street in the toilet cistern in case things ever got really bad.
‘It was really good, Georgie,’ he stated, loudly and deliberately towards the doorbell devices. ‘I get a lot of satisfaction out of my work.’
© DH 2025
