“There’s our team player!”

Laviere gave Tazriel a jovial handshake as he finished climbing the stairs to Nuerade City Space Station.

“You didn’t have to see me off like this,” Tazriel said breathlessly with a grimace in the shape of smile. He would have taken the elevator, but wasn’t quite fragile enough to qualify for disability permissions.

“Nonsense! Don’t discount the value you add to our Company,” Laviere advised. “You deserve a proper send-off! You were the only one in our department willing to travel all the way to planet Kaong-Dai to work abroad. Do you know why that is?”

Tazriel formed an honest guess. “Because everyone else has family and friends here on Vrosalia? And things to live for?”

“We’ll miss that humor,” said Laviere, giving him a pat on the back as he escorted him to the passenger loading area, empty except for armed guards. “No, it’s because you understand the meaning of sacrifice.”

Tazriel stared blankly at the platform screen doors.

“You see, Civilization,“ Laviere gestured to the security camera overhead, “rests on a very simple principle: that we sacrifice of ourselves, expecting nothing in return. Humanity would make no progress whatsoever if everyone simply did as they pleased. We’d descend into violence, hedonism, all sorts of horrible things. Our Company puts stakeholders before profits, and that’s what puts us at the very top of the market.”

Tazriel raised an eyebrow. “Numbers for Humanity is the only accounting firm in the solar system.”

“Exactly!” said Laviere. “Now, I know I’ve asked before, but I don’t want you to feel pressured to do something you’re uncomfortable with. So, are you sure you want to make this trip?”

“Yes,” said Tazriel. “It doesn’t feel like a sacrifice to me. Kaong-Dai has an interesting history.” He cast a sideways glance at the station’s fully armored security guards and their plasma rifles. “And nice weather,” he added. “The Vrosalian sunshine irritates my eyes.”

Laviere gave a hearty laugh, gripping Tazriel by the shoulders. “Keep up that positive attitude. You’ll need it when the smell hits you. Oh, that reminds me, the last return you sent me, it stinks. Drakia Mining Company is a Month Four fiscal year-end, so that distorted the depreciation schedules, among other things. We really have to work on those small details, don’t we? Please redo it today so we can submit it in the morning. Lucky for you, Kaong-Dai is half a day behind us, so that gives you plenty of time.”

We, Tazriel thought to himself, meditating on the unfinished tax return as he stepped onto the ship, the doors closing behind him.

An elderly gray-haired man crept up the stairs and waved his cane for Laviere to hold the doors. Laviere raised his hands in feigned helplessness as the ship left the station, then walked away hastily and tapped his wrist to open the elevator doors.

The ship was nauseatingly rickety for its speed. Tazriel watched through the ship window as the Numbers for Humanity building, a simple but gigantic matte-teal rectangle overlooking smaller, equally plain, blueish-gray rectangles, shrank to a pixel in the distance, and the cracked concrete holding up the city gave way to vast open plains.

A marquee overhead announced in alternating Tavrechian and Kaongese that the gateway leading to Kaong-Dai was ten minutes away. The cabin doors opened, and an android shuffled through with a catering trolley, stopping to greet several empty seat sections before it finally reached Tazriel.

“Vodka tonic?” he asked.

“I.D.P. please,” said the android.

“Please tell me you’re not a Vrosalian model,” said Tazriel under his breath as he rolled up his sleeve to reveal the Identification Patch grafted into his wrist.

“Beep,” said the android, scanning. Her eyes blinked from green to red. “We’re sorry, your Credits are not spendable on this item. Would you like to know more?”

Tazriel groaned.

“Person’s suicide risk is above permitted threshold for selected item (alcoholic beverage).” the android continued. “Risk factors: Male, Tavrechian ancestry, below average height-“

“Height? Seriously?!”

“Religious affiliation (none). Occupation (financial services), one previous attempt-”

“That shouldn’t even count,” Tazriel mumbled. “I was a teenager.”

“Relationship status (single-prolonged). Sexual orientation (questioning).”

Tazriel glanced at the android’s nametag. “Lazra, my search history is not my sexual orientation.”

“Remember, suicide is punishable by up to ten thousand Credits levied on your closest identifiable family or friends. You matter!”

“You only say that because you don’t know me.”

“Would you like to order a different item?”

Tazriel stared listlessly at the catering tray. “Cherry Zoom-Sizzle please.”

“Thank you for choosing Fast-and-Far Transportation services,” said Lazra, retrieving the soda.

“Not my choice, Lazra. Nothing is.”

“Have a nice day!” Her eyes blinked back to green as she handed him the red can.

The ship passed through the gateway, and the clear blue skies of Vrosalia flashed instantly to a greenish haze. Below, Tazriel could see the teal office building where he would be working, but to his surprise, it was completely devoid of the blocky minimalism that typified the architecture of his home planet. The building had sharp-edged arches, twisting branches, and a diffused silhouette that blended with the smaller buildings surrounding it, all outlined in radiant platinum.

Later he would come to learn that Kaongese architects and engineers had clever methods of insisting on their own style in the face of whatever occupying empire that was trying to impose theirs, while still appealing to the empire’s chief concerns. “Of course straight lines are perfectly reasonable on a larger high gravity planet such as yours, but for a dwarf planet like Kaong-Dai, the long-term structural integrity demands a more rounded shape. We’ll need to build wide rather than tall to avoid the harsh atmosphere at the higher levels, these sloped roofs will better withstand rain damage, and we simply must have a metallic element throughout to aid with nearby ship navigation. Yes, it appears elaborate on the surface, but all of this serves a practical purpose. You’ll find that this way is much more efficient in the long run.” The cool hues were all that remained of Vrosalia’s corporate predilections.

Stepping off the ship, Tazriel was hit by a wall of odor, a pungent mix of cannabis and melted metal. He gave a sardonic wave to the security camera, when suddenly a group of masked, hooded young men clamored up the wall to smash the camera with blunt weapons, makeshift axes and clubs built from scrap metal. Tazriel breathed a sigh of relief and resolved to never return home. A flash of light and a clicking shutter from behind reminded him that Lazra would be reporting the incident.

He set out to find a hotel somewhere walking distance from the office building. He checked the balance on his I.D.P. His Company-sponsored Credits would have covered an upscale hotel room, but he wanted to avoid his conformist, logic-addled colleagues if possible. He settled on an expat-infested tavern with a green neon sign, “蛇窩” (Snake’s Nest).

He walked directly past the bar, assuming it would be no use to him, but slipped backwards, slamming his head onto the hard, marble flooring. Dazed, he crawled up the nearby stool, and noticed a small plaque on the bar that read, “sludge accepted here,” with a grey drop next to it containing an “$” symbol.

“Do you want a drink to go with your concussion?” the bartender asked, her platinum blonde hair reflecting the morning light from outside, and reminding Tazriel that it was still day, and that he was still behind on work.

“My Credits aren’t good for it,” he said.

The bartender shrugged. “We don’t care about that stuff here. I’ll report it as a soda. Or you can pay in sludge.”

“Oh, I picked the right place. In that case, I’ll have whatever that green one is,” said Tazriel, pointing to one of the tap handles. “What’s sludge?” he asked.

“You must be new here,” said the bartender, pouring the drink. “It’s that gray stuff you slipped on. It’s everywhere. It’s the reason snakes complain about that metallic smell.”

“Snakes?”

“Foreigners.”

“Why snakes?”

“Because you exported venomous snakes to our planet to farm their skins,” the bartender explained, passing him the drink. “They’re an invasive species. We killed a lot of them since then, but they’ve been a recurring pest issue ever since.”

“Ah,” said Tazriel. “Fair.” He picked up the gray goo from under his shoe and squished it, feeling out its resistance to the pressure. He thought for moment that it could be used as a fidget toy for an office desk, until it suddenly lost all stickiness and slipped out of his hands like water. “That’s odd. I’m here auditing a mining company. Silver, gold, copper. But they never mentioned a mineral like this.”

“It’s useless,” said the bartender. “No one wants it except the few crazies who convinced me to accept it.”

“And you took them up on it?”

The bartender shrugged. “It might make sense just to get some in case it catches on. Besides, I charge them hundreds of pounds at a time. It’s extremely dense if you have the equipment to compress it.”

“Ah,” said Tazriel, finishing the glass and requesting another. “Everything has a price.”

“Funny thing though,” the bartender continued as she poured him another drink, “they gave me the tools to use it, but most of the time, they prefer to pay in Credits. They really try to hoard as much sludge as possible.”

“Well, at least they put their money where their mouth is.”

“So do you.”

Tazriel raised his eyebrows in agreement as he chugged the next 20mg glass. “What kind of beer is this anyway?”