by John Scalzi
And my job was to look after them. That’s what Biological Systems Integration Manager meant: Pig farmer.
“Welcome to your new job, kid,” Nichols said to me. “You’re going to love it here.”
“I kind of doubt that,” I said.
“You’re stuck here,” Nichols said. “You might as well learn to enjoy it. Now come on. It’s time to get you set up, and to take you to meet the boss.”
Lou Barnes, my new boss, pointed at a carved plaque on his wall. “Do you know what means?” he asked me.
I looked at the sign, which read Utere nihil non extra quiritationem suis. “I don’t know Spanish,” I said.
“It’s Latin,” Barnes said. “It means ‘use everything but the squeal.’ People used to say about pigs that you could eat every part of them but the squeal.” He waved toward the plate glass window that overlooked an entire different floor of pigs than I saw earlier; Arnold Tower had twenty stories, and every story had thousands of pigs in it, or so Nichols told me on the way up to Barnes’ office. “The pigs you see here are a fundamental part of the zero-footprint ecological ethos of New St. Louis. When you toss your dinner leftovers into the food recycling chute, they’re sterilized, fortified and brought here as part of the pigs’ diet. In return, we get manure, which we send to the agricultural towers and to the test gardens on the top of the tower. We get methane, which we collect and use for fuel. We get urea from the pig’s urine, which we use to make plastics. We recycle the plastics when we’re done with them. Around and around it goes.”
“We make plastic from pig pee?” I said. I knew about manure and methane, but this was a new one on me.
“Urea’s a bulking agent,” Barnes said, and when I gave him a look that indicated I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about, changed tracks. “Yes. Plastic from pig pee. You got it.”
“I suppose we get pork chops from them as well,” I said.
Barnes made a face. “No,” he said. “Not these pigs.” He waved out at the floor again. “These pigs are genetically engineered to maximize output of end products.”
I tried not to go to the next logical place and just couldn’t avoid it. “You’ve produced prodigiously pooptastic pigs,” I said, with as straight a face as possible.
Barnes gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Laugh it up, Washington,” he said. “And while you’re laughing it up remember that all this pig shit and pig piss is part of the reason New St. Louis isn’t on the verge of economic collapse or starvation, like most of what’s left of our suburbs. And Missouri. And Illinois.”
I thought back on the protest I saw outside my pod window on the way in and sobered up a little.
Barnes seemed to approve. “Look, Washington, I know why you’re here,” he said. “You screwed around in school, got crappy Aptitude scores and this wound up being the only job you could get. Am I right about that?”
“Sort of,” I said.
“‘Sort of,’” Barnes repeated. “I know you think this is a dead-end job, below your dignity. But what you need to understand, Washington, is that if anything, it’s you who have to step up.” He jerked a thumb back to the pigs. “I don’t suppose you know that those pigs are part of the Technology Outreach program your mother and some others on the council are trying to push through.”
“Pigs count as technology?” I said.
“These pigs do,” Barnes said. “The same genetic improvements you are joking about are what make them valuable. They’re exceptionally efficient processors of urea and other valuable elements, and we’ve improved their already considerable intelligence enough that they actually know where to go to get rid of their waste.”
It took me a minute to process this. “You mean they’re potty trained?”
Barnes motioned to the window. “Look for yourself,” he said.
I walked over to the window and stared out at the pigs. At first I had no idea what I was looking at, except for lots of pigs wandering around. But then I started to see it: trickles of pigs flowing into marked-off areas with grated floors. When they got there, they would let fly, and then wander back out when they were done.
“Does someone have to teach them to do that?” I asked.
“At first someone did,” Barnes said. “But these days they teach each other.”
I looked back at him. “They’ve teaching each other things?” I looked back at the pigs. “And you’re not worried about a piggy revolution or anything.”
“It’s not Animal Farm,” Barnes said. “And it’s not like they’re teaching each other calculus. But now you understand why these pigs are valuable.”
“What do you think of my mom’s Technology Outreach thing?” I asked Barnes. I know you’re not supposed to talk politics with your boss, much less on your first day on the job, but I was curious.
Barnes shrugged. “I’m sympathetic,” he said. “People out there aren’t starving yet, but they’re getting close. No one’s going to eat these pigs—they shouldn’t, at least—but they can help with crop production and the production of biodegradable plastics. But,” And here Barnes looked at me significantly, “the reason it works here in NSL is that we actively manage it. It’s a closed loop. Zero-footprint. Everything gets recycled, nothing gets wasted.”
“We use everything but the squeal,” I said.
“That’s right,” Barnes said, approvingly. “Not just here but all over New St. Louis. Now, you give the same technology to people who aren’t managing their system—who don’t believe in that sort of zero-footprint philosophy—and all you’re going to do is make things worse.” He nodded out to the pigs again. “These guys are great for us, but they’re like any crop or animal that humans have messed with, either by old-fashioned domestication or modern genetic-engineering. They have to be managed. Put a bunch of pigs designed for high outputs of urea and nitrates into an open system, with their waste flowing into streams and seeping into groundwater, and you’ll have a goddamn mess on your hands. Your mother is right, Washington: We need to help the people outside of the city. But we have to do it right, because they’ve already messed things up badly enough that they can’t afford another screw-up. And neither can we. That’s why we haven’t given the technology to anyone else yet. The genetics of these pigs is still a state secret. Which is another thing you need to know.”
“And here I thought I was just going to be a high-tech pig farmer,” I said.
“Well, you are,” Barnes said. “Make no mistake about that, Washington. It’s just that pig farming is a lot more important than you thought it was. And that’s why I’m hoping your shitty Aptitude scores are more of a reflection of you farting around than you actually being stupid. If you’re an idiot, I can find jobs for you to do. But if you’re not an idiot, I can actually use you.”
“I’m not an idiot,” I said.
“I’d like to believe that,” Barnes said. “We’ll see. In the meantime, we’ll start you on vacuum detail.”
“It’s simple,” said Lucius Jeffers, who was the head of the four man work detail I was assigned to, on the fifth floor of Arnold Tower. “Whenever you see some shit or piss on the floor, you suck it up with this.” He waved the business end of a vacuum tube at me. “The mess goes into the tub here, and when the tub is full, you drag it over to a waste port at either end of the floor.” He motioned to one of the waste ports, which looked a little like the fire hydrants I saw in old children’s books. “Attach the tube to the waste port, switch the unit from the ‘vacuum’ to the ‘expel’ setting and let it empty out. Lather, rinse, repeat.”
I looked at the vacuum unit doubtfully. “I thought these pigs were toilet-trained,” I said.
“They are,” Jeffers said. “But they’re also pigs, you know? Sometimes they just let fly. We’ve tried training them to use the vacuum to pick up after themselves. It didn’t work.”
“You really tried that?” I said.
Jeffers smiled. “You’re going to be a lot of fun, Washington. I can tell that a
lready. All right, off to work with you. You can start with that pile of crap over there.” He pointed to a fresh leaving on the floor. “Try to get to them before the other pigs start walking through them,” he said, and left. And then off I went, sucking up crap.
After an hour or so of doing this, I noticed that one of the pigs was following me around, usually about five feet behind me wherever I went. The porker was on the smallish side, and seemed to be grinning at me whenever I looked at it. I asked Jeffers about it at lunch time.
“Yeah, they do that sometimes,” Jeffers said. “The biologists made them smarter than the average pig, so now they’re a little curious about us. Pinter here,” Jeffers pointed at one of the other guys on the crew, “he had a sow follow him around for months. I think she was in love.”
“It wasn’t love,” Pinter said, between sandwich bites. “We were just good friends.”
“Yeah, right,” Jeffers laughed, and turned back to me. “The sow was probably just looking for a little action. They don’t let these pigs breed normally.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You’ll find out after lunch,” Jeffers said.
After lunch I was taken to the Love Lounge, filled with silicone pig-sized objects.
I looked at Pinter, who had taken me to the Lounge. “Tell me these aren’t what I think they are.”
“They are exactly what you think they are,” Pinter said. “We bring in a bunch of male pigs, fill the air with Scent of a Sow—” he pointed at what looked like a fire sprinkler on the ceiling “—and then the boys go to town. After they’re done we suck out the leavings, send them down to cryo for storage, and then clean out the love toys with an injection of soap and hot water.”
“You have got to be kidding,” I said. “I just ate.”
“It’s not so bad,” Pinter said. “Come on, get into the control booth. You don’t want to be in here when the boys come in. Once they get the sow scent into their nose, they’re not exactly discriminating.”
I got into the control booth as quickly as I could. “Okay,” Pinter said. “Ready?” He pressed a button, and the sprinkler fizzed to life, coating the love dolls. Then the far door slid open, and a small pack of randy pigs trotted in.
“Oh, God,” I said, a minute later. “That is so not right.”
“Makin’ bacon,” Pinter said, and looked at me. “Well, half of it, anyway. What would that be? ‘Bac’? Or ‘con’?”
“I think there’s something wrong with you,” I said.
Pinter shrugged. “You get used this place after a while. And it’s not so bad working here once you do. I listen to my husband complain about his work day every single damn night. He complains about work, about his co-workers, and about his boss. I’m about ready to strangle him.” Pinter pointed out to the pigs, who were now winding down; they were not the long-lasting sort, apparently. “I wouldn’t say this job is glamorous—”
“That’s a good thing,” I said.
“—But on the other hand I don’t have to go home and whine to him about my day at work, either. Pigs are easy. People are hard. You learn to appreciate it after a while.”
“I’m not entirely sure about that,” I said.
“Well, if you don’t like it, you can always take your Aptitudes again and do something else with your time,” Pinter said, as the door to the Love Lounge opened and the pigs trotted out. “I like it fine. Now come on. We’ve got to collect this stuff while it’s still hot.”
I swear to you, I never thought I would be so glad to get back to vacuuming up pig crap. And sure enough, once I started up again, there was the little pig again, trotting behind me.
“Hello,” I said, finally, when I stopped to drain the vacuum, and the pig parked itself to watch. “I think I’ll call you Hammy. Or how about Pork Chop? Or maybe Mr. Bacon. Or just plain Lunch. What do you think about that?”
The pig snorted at me, as if acknowledging my choices.
“Great,” I said. “The first day on the job and I’m already talking to the pigs. Shoot me now.”
Lunch snorted again.
The vacuum suddenly chugged to a stop.
“What the hell?” I said. The vacuum was still half full. I pulled my phone from my coverall pocket and called the Arnold Tower number for Jeffers. “Something’s wrong with my vacuum unit,” I said. “It stopped working and it’s half full.”
“Let me check on this end,” Jeffers said. “It’s not your vacuum unit,” he said after a minute. “You’ve got an embargo situation.”
“What the hell is an embargo situation?” I said.
“It means there’s some sort of clog in the piping,” Jeffers said. “Your vacuum unit shut down because if it didn’t, you’d be spilling pig shit all over yourself right about now.”
“What do I do now?” I asked.
“I’m going to need you to do a diagnostic on that particular drainage tube,” Jeffers said. “There’s a diagnostic panel for the tube hardwired into its terminus, which is in the Tower sub-basement C.”
“Why can’t I access the panel on my phone?” I said. “Why can’t you?”
“This is an old building, kid,” Jeffers said. “One of the first built in New St. Louis. The diagnostic system is a legacy system from back in the day. Just go down there and check it out, okay? Go to the lobby and switch elevators. You have to take a special elevator down to the sublevels.”
Five minutes and one elevator transfer later, I was in sub-basement C. Even after a full day of walking around pigs and their smell, the fumes down there were something special. On a shelf facing the elevator were a set of breathing masks. YOU NEED THIS, said a weathered sign, followed by another equally weathered sign with the fine print about why the masks were needed. I didn’t need the fine print; I was getting near woozy from the fumes even before I slipped the mask over my head.
After a couple of deep breaths my head cleared and I walked into the sub-basement, which seemed to be the top floor for several massive conduits, into which the drainage tubes from all the various floors of the Arnold Tower drained.
“You’re going to want to open the access port to conduit 2,” Jeffers said. “Don’t worry, it’s automatic. No heavy lifting. Just walk on top of the conduit and hit the ‘open’ switch.”
“There’s going to be a river of crap in there,” I said.
“No there’s not,” Jeffers said. “Whenever there’s an embargo situation all the other drainage tubes freeze and the conduit empties out, because they know someone has to go and check out the diagnostic panel. It’s going to smell like hell, but you have your mask on right?”
I got to the access port, and lugged the switch over to “open.” “I want to talk to whoever designed this system.”
“It’s been decades, kid,” Jeffers said. “The person who designed it is probably dead by now. Come on, Washington. Crap is piling up. We don’t have all day.”
I carefully put myself on the access ladder coming down from the port and stepped down. There was recessed, sealed-off lighting at the top of the conduit, so at least I could see. The conduit itself wasn’t exactly clean, but it was drained as promised. Despite that, the residue on the curved floor of the consuit made me be careful how I placed my steps.
“Where am I going?” I asked.
“You’re looking for the third…no, wait, fourth tube junction on your left,” Jeffers said.
I counted off the tube junctions and then stood in front of the fourth one on the left. “Where’s this diagnostic panel?” I asked.
“It should be there,” Jeffers said. “They’re small. It might be covered in gunk. Stand closer.”
“I am closer,” I said. “I’m standing right in front of the tube, and I’m not seeing anything.”
“You’re sure you’re in front of the right tube?” Jeffers asked.
“I can count,” I said.
“Hey, Washington,” Jeffers said.
“What?” I said.
“Embargo
lifted,” he said.
Then I heard the rumbling. And the laughter from the other end of the phone.
I looked at the tube and had just enough time to think oh, shit before what I thought became a reality.
Ten minutes later I was in the Arnold Tower locker room, standing under a shower head, fully clothed, glowering at Jeffers, Pinter, and the other members of my work detail, who were mostly on the floor, laughing so hard that they couldn’t breathe.
“I will remember this,” I said.
“We know!” Jeffers said, and hooted so long he fell off the locker room bench.
Around this time Lou Barnes strolled through the locker room and stopped to get a look at me.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “You fell for the embargo trick.”
“Oh, God, Oh, God,” Pinter said. “Please don’t make me laugh anymore. Please, God, no.” And then he laughed some more.
“You know they do this to everyone the first day,” Barnes said. “Think of it like a baptism.”
“Praise the Lord!” Jeffers said, from the floor.
“It just means you’re one of us now,” Barnes said.
“Great,” I said.
“It’s an honor, if you think about it,” Barnes said. “Really.” And then he busted out laughing, too. Which made all the rest of them laugh some more.
“I will remember this,” I said to Jeffers, once he finally managed to peel himself off the floor.
“Oh, kid,” Jeffers said, wiping a laugh tear from his eye. “We wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I noticed a funny thing on the pod ride back home, which was that someone would get in the pod I with me, and then get off a stop later. This happened three times before the door slid open and Leah popped her head in.
“Trust me, Leah, you want to take the next pod,” I said.
“What’s that smell?” she said.
“It’s my job,” I said. “It stinks.”
“Hey, you have a job!” she said, and came in to give me a hug. The door slid closed behind her.
