"Hancock. Take a seat."

Dec lowered himself onto the desk chair opposite Stanley, startling when it swivelled beneath him. Stanley, keeping one eye on his gantt chart, rolled his chair to the side so he could see Dec around the fifty-inch screen.

Stanley's glasses slid down his nose, going in the direction everything else seemed to be going on his face. His ponytail, streaked with grey, hung limp. His hairline had crept backwards, exposing the eggshell white of his forehead. His expression, which rarely wavered from anything past menial boredom, had drooped around the edges, giving him the look of a man defeated by the elements, as though life had stamped on the leather of his face one too many times, softened it past supple and into limp obscurity.

"Hancock," Stanley said, leaning on the diamond press of his fingers under his chin. There was a long pause while he rolled his lips around his teeth, as though rolling words around his mouth, mutely testing them out. "I have some unfortunate news for you."

Dec heard Stanley's next words before they came, as though the impression of them had been branded in his mind since Tim had pulled him aside.

"We're going to have to let you go."

Stillness followed his words. And in that stillness, Dec could feel his heart pushing against his ribcage. He took three deep breaths. This isn't happening, he told himself. It's not happening.

Stanley went on, turning his computer screen so his gantt chart was facing Dec. A dizzying grid of numbers blurred into one big muddle of black on white.

"Take a look at our inventory management system," Stanley said and Dec forced himself to keep his eyes on the screen, though the glare of it made his head hurt. "This is where we optimise our transport selection to decrease costs for our company and for consumers."

He touched the screen a few times, bringing up a series of brightly coloured pie graphs. "This is where we consolidate load availability and optimisation. Each load has its own graph, each graph is then collated into hourly, daily, weekly and yearly configurations."

The pie charts flashed and blinked, disappearing into line graphs.

"And this is where I work out our scheduling. How many people we need on the floor, how many trucks, how many sorters, pick and packers, drivers to move each load efficiency and to minimise the risk of occupational health and safety issues."

Stanley was flicking through charts faster than Dec could absorb them. The charts flicked past Dec's eyes, a blur of lines and numbers. It could've been a child's first scribble on a blank sheet of paper for all it meant to him. Stanley went on rambling, but Dec heard nothing but the pounding of blood in his ears.

Just as he began to wonder if Stanley had forgotten he was there, his voice changed pitch, slowed to stress importance. "Here, in red, is where we fall short. My charts tell me we're overstaffed on the floor. In order to maximise efficiency, and make money across the board, we must severely decrease our workshop numbers."

Dec shook his head, could feel his shock slowly turning to anger. "I get it," he said. "I cost too much. You're going to replace me with some young tyke like Grubber. It's not going to work. Grubber breaks everything he touches." He leaned forward. "Is that on your fancy chart? How many boxes each picker breaks?"

Stanley's finger hovered over the screen, stilling for the first time since he'd begun his convoluted explanation. Dec could tell his outburst was unexpected. He guessed Stanley wasn't used to dealing with the faces behind the numbers.

"We're not replacing you with some 'young tyke', Hancock." He swivelled the screen back around, so that it was no longer facing Dec. "We're rolling out an automated system."

Dec stared. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"We've acquired new machines that are going to sort and pack our goods for us, meaning we can optimise efficiency and reduce human error. We'll be running the factory twenty-four seven and increasing our cross-docking threshold."

"You mean robots. You're replacing me with a robot." Dec's mind travelled to the load he'd unpacked earlier that morning. The picking slip that said, Machine 17: Base plate, frame, steel mesh, fan. He'd assumed they were computer parts, but maybe they weren't. Maybe they were the parts needed to build the robots that would take over his job. He may as well have been digging his own grave.

"You're a good worker," Stanley said. "When you're here." He lowered his gaze. "You work at a higher than average efficiency, according to my chart. But your attendance is ... unreliable to say the least. According to my figures, you've missed four days in the last month."

"Three," Dec corrected. "Two were family emergencies. The third I was sick. The forth one was when I swapped my shift with one of the other pickers." Clearly your chart isn't as accurate as you think. "I gave more than 48 hours notice each time."

Stanley blew out a breath. "The thing is, Hancock, the machines don't need sick days. They don't have family emergencies."

Dec balled his fists. "They malfunction. Their parts wear out. They need to be repaired."

"Those factors have been taken into account." Stanley said. "And the machines come out more efficient. According to the num—"

"Screw your numbers." Dec was shaking now and his voice cracked with his next words. "How many people are you putting out of a job? Where do you think they're going to go?" He paused to take a deep breath. "You may as well run a bulldozer over us and get it over with."

Stanley leaned back. "This decision goes above me." He wiped sweat into his receding hairline. "You have permission to finish your shift. Or you may clock off immediately."

"It's the Northerners, isn't it," Dec said. "You've got your dick out for the Northerners." The words spilled from his mouth. He sounded like Tommy.

"That's enough from you, Derrick," Stanley said, fixing him with a look of steel—so adverse to his usual placid mask that it almost tampered Dec's rage. Then, Dec was standing, hands shaking as he reached for the door handle.

"Better watch your back, Stanley. Soon they'll be replacing you with a robot too." He pulled the door open with such force, it smashed against the wall. "And it's Declan. Not Derrick."

Dec descended the long set of stairs from Stanley's lofty office to the factory floor, imagining the pity-filled eyes of the other pickers following him down. He knew what he looked like—a man that had just been sacked. Little did they know the same fate awaited them too.

Reality and implication set in at once, twisting his stomach and leaving him in a daze. He'd just been fired. He had no job. And no job meant no money. What was he going to tell Mel? How were they going to pay the electricity bill that was coming up at the end of the week?

He ripped off his high vis jacket with a velcro ksshht and threw it onto the factory floor. Changing his mind, he picked it up again. If he was going to be replaced by a robot, he might as well take everything that was rightfully his, including his spare pair of company-issued steel cap boots and hard hat. Screw it. It was the least they owed him.

He moved through the factory in a daze, taking everything that came free with the job—which amounted to a spare work shirt and a pair of tattered work gloves. He even poured some staff amenity granulated coffee into a napkin and stuffed it into his back pocket. Didn't matter that he'd never drunk the crap because it tasted like asphalt.

As he passed the aisles on his way out, an overwhelming pain behind his right eye made him stop clutch his forehead. The pain was like someone had taken the buzzing of his dung beetle sense and amplified it ten times over. The sensation intensified until he felt as though his head would split open.

Suddenly, as though the radio finally found a frequency, he heard the voice of Tim muttering to Grubber in a low, conspiratorial tone, somewhere on the other side of the factory. Their conversation might've have been strange in itself. But it was the fact that they were all the way down the back, where they should've been out of ear shot.

"Grubber mate, here's how it is. I won't tell Stanley about the broken box if you promise to do me a favour."

Dec strained to hear Grubber's reply, which was little more than a whined, "Yes, anything."

Tim's tone dropped another decibel. "When you unload that shipment, don't ask questions. Not about anything, you hear me?"

And Grubber's response, "I won't. I promise. I won't tell Stanley. T-thank you. Thank you, T-t—"

"Please shut up."

Just as the whispering voice in Montague's office had disappeared as abruptly as it had started, Tim and Grubber's argument cut off like a bad Palm Pod connection. Dec looked around, wondering if anyone else had heard what he'd heard. Heads bent over picking slips. Workers scrawled on clipboards. Nobody so much as looked up from what they were doing.

He released the breath he'd been holding and rubbed his temples. Something was surely wrong with him. Either he'd developed supersonic hearing, or he'd caught this Desert Sickness and was going mad. He wondered, briefly, if he should call an ambulance just in case he passed out or did something ... Adele like. Then, he was sobered by thoughts of his mum attached to the medical machines, the injections that made her glassy eyed and catatonic and thought better of it. He would not admit himself to hospital until he was sure.

It was probably nothing. He just badly needed sleep.

Forcing his feet into an onward shuffle, he approached the docking area in the carpark. The moon passed behind a cloud, cloaking the carpark in silvery grey. The breeze shifted, lifting the hairs on his arms. His eyes drifted to the damaged delivery van Grubber had pierced with the forklift. The door was ajar and swung ever so slightly on its hinge.

A reckless thought swerved Dec's feet in the direction of the van, an idea which he never would've dreamt up if he was being his usual, cautious, self. But now, desperate and foggy with sleep depravation, still reeling from Stanley's dismissal, it was a last grapple for a handhold against helplessness.

Tim had told Grubber the van contained valuable cargo—boxes worth enough to lie to Stanley and risk his golden boy reputation. Cargo like that could keep Dec and his sister out of trouble until he could find another job. Who knows, it might even go towards paying Adele's hospital bills.

His fingers twitched with the crazy, stupid impulse and before he could think what he was doing, he was at the tow bar to the van, hand hovering next to the half-open door.

Walk away, his mind warned. You have time. Nobody's seen you yet. But his body refused to obey and soon, he was pulling open the door even further, letting in a shard of light from the carpark lamplights. There, stacked from floor to ceiling in a perfect grid were hundreds of boxes. Small boxes. Small enough to ...

Heart pounding, breath coming out in short, panicked puffs, he hoisted himself onto the tow bar and reached for the nearest box. It was only slightly larger than the span of his palm, but a lot heavier than it looked—hard and compact like a slab of concrete.

Could be pharmaceuticals, Dec thought. They were usually delivered in small compact boxes like that. Although, pharmaceuticals were usually covered in quarantine labels and clearly marked so they would be stored in a separate vault and kept under lock and key.

No. This delivery was what they called a 'sleeper'—unmarked, unlabelled. Strange, considering the apparent value of its contents. This should've been cause enough to leave the sleeper alone before he got into trouble. Instead, he tucked the box under his high-vis jacket and used his hard hat to disguise the incriminating bulge.

Down the driveway and onto the main street, he fought to control the urge to run. As he approached the bus terminal, the eye of the security camera swivelled, sensing his approach.

'Shit.' He lunged behind the terminal out-of-sight, heart thundering. Had it seen him? If Tim noticed a box missing, he'd have no choice but to tell Stanley. They'd check the security footage. It wouldn't take much for them to put two-and-two together, seeing as Dec had just been fired.

His hands shook with the weight of the box, which had suddenly become crucifix heavy. His swayed with indecision. Should he turn back, return the box and hope for the best?

No. He was in too deep now. There was only one way left to go. Deeper.

Placing the hard hat on the ground and checking the street for unwanted company, he retrieved the box from under his jumper and stared at it, hard, as though by doing so, it would somehow reveal its secrets. But the box remained as unremarkable as ever and he felt his panic ebb. It was probably for nothing. What was the bet the box was filled with junk. More computer parts. Stuff they wouldn't miss. That he'd have no chance of selling ...

Gripping the box harder to steel his shaking hands, he peeled back a section of the packing tape.

And almost dropped the box.

Rows and rows of small snap lock bags, filled with the same chalky blue powder Lazar had swirled in his drink, seemed to glow through the crack in the cardboard. Luminite. Enough to supply a whole pharmacy. A load of a thousand sols worth or more.

His nausea returned in full force and he leaned against the terminal.

What had he done?