Let's Get You A Red Shirt

Brain slugs do not process information in the same way that humans do, and human hosts often appear to struggle with communication and social cues. However, in some aggressive hives this is a deliberate tactic to deceive potential hosts as to their true intentions. Always remember that despite their size, the brain slug is but one node of a vast consciousness, and potentially has access to the accumulated knowledge and experience of the entire hive. Do not underestimate them.
—Brain Slug Infestation: Cause and Avoidance, Chapter 1

Mel dreamed he was back in the orphanage. Standing in line at the cafeteria. Soft, gelatinous lumps oozed on everyone's necks. No one talked. No one seemed to notice he didn't have one. He shuffled forward as the line progressed, to Mrs. McGillicuddy, who had been working there since before Mel had become a ward of the state. She placed a single uncooked egg on his tray. Mel stared at it. He could feel eyes on him. Watching. Expecting. On his neck, something pulsed, squirmed...like a huge pair of lips, locked onto his neck, sucking hard, ready to give him the biggest hickie of his life.

The sound of the shower woke Mel from a tangle of sheets. He fell onto the floor and into his first set of stretches, heart racing faster than it should have. He moved on to push-ups, crunches, toe touches. The shower ceased. Mel left his room swiftly, wanting to be ready when Jordan left.

Which meant he had time to see her from the side, naked, pale, freshly cleaned. A soft pink hint of nipple visible for the briefest of moments beneath her arm. Freckles on her shoulder. The brain slug, oddly semi-transparent, the pink insides visible. Then her door closed.

Hurriedly, Mel washed himself. Glad of the block of hard yellow soap. It wasn't much, but it would make him smell less like a bum. He emerged just as Jordan was discarding a pair of egg shells into the kitchen hamper. When she left for work, dressed in the same uniform, he was right behind her, application in hand.

It was about thirty city blocks to the Cosmic Fill-Up, a charging station for electric and hydrogen fuel-cell vehicles. Call it three kilometers. The station looked like it was dreamed up by a mad scientist in a 1940s movie serial. Ming the Merciless would have approved of the odd brushed-aluminum flanges and rings that seemed ready to crackle with some esoteric energy. Bold colors, smooth lines, weirdly artificial shapes that seemed out of place with the prosaic Mitsubishis and Toyotas that dominated the lot.

Jordan went in the front door, and Mel stepped into a clean, well-lit place that looked like a small supermarket had somehow plopped into existence next to an automat. Six stations offered different self-serve cuisines, two of them marked with an alien language that Mel didn't know how to read. With a blush of embarrassment, he realized one of them was actually Korean, in some kind of Art Deco-inspired script that made the characters unfamiliar.

There were three other people in uniforms, two behind the check-out counter, one pushing some of kind of motorized sanitizing device. All of them, Mel noted, had brain slugs.

"The fuck you want?" A voice that could peel paint said. He turned to stare at an Asian woman with tattoos around her eyes and neck. She was a head shorter than him, with dark skin and a pair of nicotine patches on her inner left wrist. Her uniform shirt was golden where the various brain slugs were blue, and a little pin said "Manager" on it. "You lookin' for a job or somethin'?"

"Um. Yeah, actually," Mel said, and handed the resume to her.

Her eyes widened with surprise. There were little gold five-pointed stars in the bloodshot whites that looked him up and down. Mel tried to stand a little straighter. She didn't even look at the application.

"Turn around. Full circuit. 360," she said.

Mel did so. Bullshit do-as-I-say exercises were one of the things he'd long ago gotten used to, both at school and in the orphanage. If he wasn't suddenly so tense, he'd enjoy actually having a grown-up use for that nonsense.

"You're human," she said.

"Yeah," he said.

"You're hired," she said. Then paused. Her eyes narrowed. "Any problem working with aliens?"

Mel didn't know if she meant immigrants or extraterrestrials. The answer was the same, anyway.

"No. I mean, I haven't really met many, but I don't have a problem," he said.

"Out-fucking-standing. I'm Ha-Yoon. Let's get you a red shirt and fill out some fucking paperwork."

Ha-Yoon's office was a cramped cubicle wedged between the family bathroom and trucker shower station. There was a small computer terminal where Mel re-entered all the information he'd filled out on the paper application, while Ha-Yoon gave him the basics. The Cosmic Fill-Up was a 24-hour operation, and the parent company's commitment to fair treatment and the most minimum fucking wage possible meant it mostly attracted extraterrestrial employees.

"You don't need to be able to do calculus to push a swifter across the floor. Even a lot of the cashier stuff could probably be automated, if they wanted to. The government has some money set aside to encourage diversity hires and prevent drones and shit from taking everybody's jobs," Ha-Yoon explained. "And brain slugs don't get bored and start watching porn at 3AM on their work terminals, or screw in the supply closet, or do **** in the bathroom, or steal product and try to tell me somebody shoplifted it when I can see the footage on camera of them stuffing it down their pants. They also don't get twitchy if some tweaker comes in at midnight and tries to rob the place, or if a pervert decides to take off all their clothes and run naked down the aisles, any of that."

"So why hire me?" Mel said, and instantly regretted it.

"Because they've got no initiative. Can't handle emergencies. Someone comes in bleeding, the only thing they know how to do is follow procedure, which usually means calling me first, then emergency services. We get a gang of teens come in, grab all the booze and high tail it out of here? They let 'em. Officially, corporate says its better than calling the cops. Unofficially, that sort of shit looks bad on my reports. So yes, having one genuine human who hasn't sold their soul away to the Giant Slug Mother or whatever the hell they worship means you get to troubleshoot any of the weird shit that happens. You're loss prevention. And maybe I can sleep more than four hours a night."

Mel nodded. He had zero idea how he would handle any of that. But it was a job. Minimum wage, with a free meal mid-shift. Perfect entry-level position.

Ha-Yoon sized him up as she explained about taxes, handed him two uniforms in clear plastic envelopes, and laid out his schedule, starting tomorrow.

"Mostly training for the first week," she said. "Mandatory corporate bullshit. But you'll learn how to run the cashier, the swifter, basics of every position, really. Welcome to the machine, kid. You're our newest, shiniest cog."

The manager sounded like life had paved over her dreams and left a spotless parking lot behind. Yet he felt almost happy. He had a job and an apartment. Enough credits so that he wouldn't starve. Maybe if he was lucky and worked hard, he could actually make something of his life.

Mel spent most of the next eight hours reading through the magazine rack or watching the in-store TV, waiting for Jordan's shift to end. She didn't even look at him as she left, but he fell into step next to her, clutching his uniform.

"Thanks," he said. "I really appreciate it."

Jordan didn't turn her head. But the slug slowly shifted color, from semi-translucent to an emerald green. Mel resolved to look up in the book what exactly that meant when they got home.