The Only Good Humans…

Rye was bullshit.

Feb 22, 2026

Unit 4 sat at his desk. The chair was designed for a biped with three hips. Unit 4 only had two. He shifted his weight. A fluid sac in his joint popped. It felt like gravel rolling under his skin.

Unit 7 sat across from him, filing her nails. Purple. The scraping sound was rhythmic.

Unit 4 picked up his sandwich.

“You’re eating that?” Unit 7 said, looking up.

“The cafeteria drone said it was ham and cheese on rye.”

“What the hell is ham?”

“Some sort of Terran protein. All they had left until the next supply run.”

“So we have to eat their food now?” Unit 7 said.

Unit 4 took a bite. It was dry. It scraped the roof of his mouth. It tasted like salt and pink static. He swallowed. The lump slid down his esophagus and settled in his primary stomach. It sat there like a cold stone.

“Unit 4,” the intercom buzzed. “Zone B. Complaint logged.”

Unit 4 put the sandwich down on a stack of Form 88s.

“Water dispenser again?” Unit 7 said.

“Probably.”

“Nature of complaint?”

“Subject claims the water dispenser is broken.”

“It’s not broken.” He stood up, his joints grinding. “It requires three points of simultaneous contact.”

“Subject is becoming agitated. Threw a rock at the camera.”

Unit 7 muttered something in her native language. It sounded like gravel in a garbage disposal.

Unit 4’s knees popped in unison. Click-clack.

“On my way.”

He grabbed the prod from the wall. Heavy. Rubber grip. Three settings: COMPLIANT, UNCONSCIOUS, and ASH.

He walked down the hallway. The lights hummed. The air smelled like bleach and mammal sweat. He reached the Zone B enclosure.

Artificial turf. Fake plastic oak trees. A mural of a blue sky painted on the back wall. The paint was peeling near the clouds.

There were thirty humans in Zone B. Most were sleeping in the shade of the plastic trees. They wore gray jumpsuits. Their skin was the color of old paper. One male was standing by the glass. He was banging on it with a flat palm.

“Hey!” the human shouted. “Hey! The water thing! It’s busted!”

Unit 4 pressed the intercom button.

“The hydration unit is functional. Read the instructions.”

“I can’t read those symbols! I’m thirsty!”

“Then learn.”

The human picked up a handful of gravel from the planter box. He threw it at the glass.

Unit 4’s eyelid twitched.

“That is property damage. Strike one.”

“Come in here! Come in here and show me how to work it!”

Unit 4 looked at his wrist display. Lunch break was in ten minutes. The rye bread was already expanding in his gut. He swiped his badge. The airlock hissed.

He stepped inside. The smell hit him. Unwashed hair. Fear. Something muskier.

The human male was small. Wiry. He backed up when Unit 4 entered.

“Just fix it,” the human said.

Unit 4 walked to the water dispenser. A silver pillar. Three sensor pads.

“Hand here. Hand here. Knee here.”

“I have to use my knee?”

“Three points of contact. Safety protocol.”

“That’s a stupid design.”

Unit 4 looked at the human.

“You are a Class C protected species. You exist because the Intergalactic Preservation Society filed an injunction. You are a tax write-off. Drink the water or don’t.”

The human shoved Unit 4. A weak movement. It barely moved the fabric of his uniform.

Unit 4’s hip gave a sharp, hot throb. Reflex took over. He raised the prod. He didn’t check the setting. He jammed it into the human’s chest.

CRACK.

Blue light arced. The smell of burnt hair filled the air. The human flew backward. He hit a plastic tree and slid down the trunk. He didn’t move. Smoke curled up from his jumpsuit.

The other humans scrambled back. They huddled together in a mass of gray fabric.

Unit 4 looked at the prod setting. Halfway between UNCONSCIOUS and ASH. He walked over and kicked the leg. Floppy.

“Subject unresponsive.”

His internal air bladder deflated with a long, wheezing sound.

“Unit 7,” he said into his comms.

“Go ahead, Unit 4.”

“I need a cleanup in Zone B.”

“Did the water dispenser break?”

“No. The specimen broke.”

“Is it fatal?”

Unit 4 looked at the black scorch mark on the human’s chest.

“Terminal error.”

“Great. That’s the third one this month. The Regional Auditor is coming next week. If we drop below fifty specimens, we lose the grant.”

“I know.”

“If we lose the grant, they shut down the facility.”

“I know.”

“If they shut down the facility, we get reassigned...”

Unit 4 closed his eyes.

“...to the sulfur mines on Kelsant-6. I KNOW.”

“Just hide it. Put it in the freezer. I’ll fudge the numbers.”

“Understood.”

He dragged the body by the ankle. The head thumped against the artificial turf. Thump. Thump. The other humans watched. They were quiet. Unit 4 stopped at the airlock. He looked back at them.

“Hydration unit is functional.”

He left.

Back at the desk, Unit 4 sat down. He picked up the sandwich. Took a bite. He dropped it. It hit the desk with a heavy, wet slap.

Zone C was the “Family Habitat.” It smelled worse than Zone B. Feces and copper.

Unit 4 swiped his badge at the airlock. The door hissed. It stuck halfway. He had to kick it. The metal vibrated up his shin. His knee clicked again.

Inside, the artificial sun was set to “Dusk.” Long, orange shadows across the concrete floor. The humans here had nesting materials. Blankets. Cardboard boxes. A few plastic crates stamped with the company logo: Orion Mining & Reclamation.

Two humans were near the food trough. A male and a female. They were grappling. Arms wrapped around each other. Faces pressed close. They made low, keening noises.

Unit 4 raised the prod.

“Cease aggression.” The translator chip lagged. It came out as “Halt friction.”

The humans didn’t stop. They squeezed tighter. Unit 4 checked the overlay.

Subject: Terran-C-112. Subject: Terran-C-113. Activity: Combat (Close Quarters).

He hated Zone C. The behavior logic was always fuzzy. In Zone B, they threw rocks. That was easy. Here, they grabbed each other and leaked fluid from their eyes.

He stepped forward. He jabbed the male in the kidney. Not a full shock. Just a buzz. A suggestion.

The male gasped. He let go. He spun around. His eyes were red.

“She’s sick! She’s burning up! Look at her!”

Unit 4 looked at the female. She was slumped on a pile of shredded insulation. Her skin was pale. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

Scan Complete. Temp: 39°C. Diagnosis: Viral pathogen. Common.

“Subject is defective. Quarantine protocol is in effect. Maintain distance.”

“She needs medicine! Please. Just some aspirin. Anything.”

Unit 4’s internal air bladder deflated.

“Medical requisitions require Form 88-B. Approved by the Shift Supervisor. Processing time is three cycles.”

“She’ll be dead in three cycles!”

“Then she will be processed as waste. Efficiency is key.”

The man lunged. Slow and clumsy.

Unit 4 didn’t even use the prod. He just stepped back. The man tripped over a plastic crate. He hit the concrete face first. His nose crunched. Blood pooled on the floor. Bright red.

“Assessment. Aggression neutralized. Pathogen contained.”

He looked at the female. She was shivering. She looked at Unit 4. She didn’t scream. She just closed her eyes. Unit 4 felt a twitch in his primary stomach. The ham.

“Dispute resolved.”

He turned to leave. He stopped at the airlock. He looked back at the man bleeding on the floor.

“Form 88-B. You can download it at the kiosk.”

He kicked the door until it shut.

Unit 7 was waiting for him when he got back to the desk. She had a holographic clipboard hovering over her coffee mug. The mug said WORLD’S OKAYEST EMPLOYEE.

“You have a message from Regional.”

“I’m busy.” Unit 4 sat down. He picked up his sandwich. The bread had started to curl at the corners.

“They moved the inspection up.”

Unit 4 stopped. The sandwich hovered halfway to his mouth.

“To when?”

“Tomorrow morning. 0800.” Unit 7 tapped a long purple nail on the desk. “Auditor Forvu. He’s a stickler. He’s the one who shut down the methane farms on Titan because the livestock looked ‘depressed.’”

Unit 4 lowered the sandwich.

“We have forty-nine humans.”

“We need fifty.”

“Can we catch one? There’s a feral colony in the ventilation shafts of Sector 9.”

“Exterminators gassed Sector 9 last week. Total wipeout. I billed it as ‘Sanitation Expense.’”

Unit 4 rubbed his face. His skin felt dry. He needed a new job. He needed another human. He thought about the man in Zone B. The one with the peaceful face. The one currently cooling on the artificial turf.

“How close does the Auditor get?”

“Safety regulations require a barrier. He stays behind the glass. Unless he sees a reason to enter.”

“So he just looks. He counts.”

“Yes. Why?”

Unit 4 took a bite of the sandwich.

“Get the glue and the rig from the puppet show we did for the hatchlings last cycle.”

Unit 7 stared at him. Her third eyelid blinked sideways.

“Unit 4. The carcass in Zone B has zero structural integrity. Rigor mortis hasn’t even set in. This is a violation of forty different health codes.”

“We just need him to stand up for ten minutes. We need him to look like a happy, thriving heritage asset.”

Unit 7 looked at the clipboard. She looked at Unit 4. She looked at her nails.

“I’m not sewing the eyes open. That’s below my pay grade.”

“I’ll use tape. Clear tape.”

He stood up. His knee popped again.

“Call the cleanup crew. Tell them to bring the body here. And tell them to be gentle. We need the suit jacket intact.”

The Cleanup Crew arrived four minutes late. Massive. Unit 90 and Unit 91. Hulking mounds of gray blisters and muscle. They smelled like wet dog and horse manure.

“Delivery for Unit 4!” Unit 90 chirped. His voice was an octave too high. Like a helium balloon leaking.

“Put it on the desk. Watch the monitor. It wobbles.”

Unit 91 lifted the dead human with one claw. He handled the body like a wet towel. He dropped it on the desk. The head hit the laminate with a hollow thunk.

“We cleaned the fluids. Standard scrub. Did we do good?”

“Adequate. Leave the rig. Go to the break room.”

“The break room?” Unit 90 clapped his claws. It sounded like gunfire. “Are there snacks?”

“No. Just sit there. Don’t touch the vending machine. You broke it last time.”

The two giants shuffled out. They bumped into the doorframe. They giggled.

Unit 4 looked at the corpse. The jaw was slack. One eye was half-open.

“This is grim,” Unit 7 said. She didn’t look up from her nails.

“Hand me the stapler.”

Unit 4 worked fast. He didn’t have a choice. The stiffness was starting to set in, but in the wrong places. The fingers were curling.

He jammed the servo-rig down the back of the human’s suit. A metal spine with wires. He taped it to the human’s neck. He taped it to the waist. A lot of tape.

“The battery is from the hatchling show. It’s programmed for ‘Joyful Waving.’”

“That doesn’t fit the profile. Humans in captivity are lethargic,” Unit 7 replied.

“He’s a happy human. He loves the enclosure.” Unit 4 pulled the human’s lip up. He used a paperclip to hook the corner of the mouth. He did the same to the other side.

The corpse grinned. A rictus of teeth and gums.

“He looks insane.”

“He looks alive.” Unit 4 slapped the chest. A puff of dust rose from the suit. “Help me drag him to the observation window. We’ll prop him up in the back. Behind the plastic oak tree.”

0800 hours.

The Regional Auditor arrived in a cloud of sanitizer mist. Auditor Forvu was tall. Slender. He wore a white suit that seemed to repel dirt. His head was encased in a glass bubble. He breathed his own recycled air.

“Unit 4. Your facility smells of ozone and unwashed mammal.”

“Ventilation malfunction. We have a ticket in.”

“You always have a ticket in.” Forvu tapped his datapad. “Let’s make this quick. My shuttle leaves in twenty minutes. I have a lunch reservation on Mars Colony Beta. They have actual beef.”

Unit 4’s second stomach gurgled.

“Right this way, sir.”

They walked to the viewing deck. The glass was thick. Smudged with handprints. Forvu stopped. He looked down into Zone B.

The humans were awake. They were huddled in the corner, fighting over a box of nutrient crackers.

“Forty-five...forty-six...” Forvu counted. He pointed with a gloved finger. “Where are the rest?”

“Three in the sleep structure. And one...over there.”

He pointed to the back of the enclosure. Terran-B-902 stood behind the plastic oak tree. He was leaning slightly to the left. The packing tape caught the light.

“Why is he smiling? The others look ready to expire.”

“He is well-adjusted. He enjoys the foliage.”

Unit 4 put his hand in his pocket. He found the remote. Sticky. He pressed the button marked ACTIVATE.

Inside the enclosure, the corpse jerked. The servo whirred. The right arm shot up. It waved. Up. Down. Up. Down.

“Friendly.” Forvu narrowed his eyes behind the glass. “His movement is rhythmic.”

The arm kept waving. It didn’t stop. The servo whined. Loud. Then the arm stuck. It locked in the upright position. The motor ground its gears. The corpse began to vibrate. His head wobbled on his neck. The paperclip holding his smile slipped. The lip drooped.

Forvu leaned forward. His breath fogged his bubble.

“Is he seizing? That looks like a synaptic misfire.”

Unit 4’s skin felt wet.

“Neurological imperfection. Inbreeding.”

“Inbreeding?”

“Limited gene pool,” Unit 7 added. She stepped up. Smooth. “We’re on generation four. The DNA is getting soupy.”

The corpse continued to vibrate. It looked like it was dancing to a song only it could hear. Then, slowly, it began to tip over. The corpse hit the artificial turf face first.

The other humans in the cage stared. One of them poked the body with a stick. Forvu watched. He tapped his datapad.

“Fifty. Barely.”

He turned away from the glass.

“Your livestock is degrading, Unit 4. If I see one more twitchy genetic defect, I’m shutting this zoo down.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Get that one some medication. He looks stiff.”

“Already on the schedule.”

Forvu checked his wrist. “I’m late. Lunch.”

He walked away. The sanitizer mist followed him like a cape. Unit 4 leaned against the glass. He slid down the wall until he hit the floor. Inside the cage, the servo on the corpse gave one last whirr. The dead arm slapped the ground.

“That was close,” Unit 7 said.

“Too close.” Unit 4 closed his eyes. “I need a drink.”

Unit 4 looked at the display. 50/50. Green checkmark. Then the alarm blared.

Not the amber light. Not the red light. The blue strobe.

ALERT. ALERT. CONTAINMENT BREACH. SECTOR 9.

“Sector 9?” Unit 4 stood up. “You said the exterminators gassed it.”

Unit 7 looked at her console. Her purple nails clicked frantically.

“They did. Wait. Sensors are picking up heat signatures. Dozens of them.”

“Rats?”

“Too big.” Unit 7 turned the screen toward him. “They’re in the vents.”

Unit 4 squinted at the thermal blob. Moving fast. Organized.

“What are they?”

“The humans they missed. The feral colony.”

The lights in the hallway flickered. Then they died. The emergency red lights kicked on. The hum of the battery pack on his hip was the only sound in the room.

“They cut the power.”

Unit 4 grabbed his prod and set the dial to UNCONSCIOUS. He looked at the dead human in the cage. A vent cover in the ceiling above them rattled. A screw fell to the floor. Clink.

The cover crashed down. Something pale dropped with it landing in a crouch on Unit 7’s desk. Naked. Skin the color of curdled milk. No hair. Its eyes were wide, pupil-less orbs adapted for the dark.

It held a fork. It brandished the fork like a weapon. The tines were bent.

“FOOOOD,” it hissed.

Unit 7 screamed. A frequency that shattered her coffee mug.

The feral human sniffed the air. It turned its head toward the hallway. Then it dropped to all fours and sprinted. It hit the doorframe with its shoulder. Bounced off and kept running.

“What is it doing?” Unit 7 whispered.

Unit 4 watched the thermal readout. The blob was moving. All of them. Converging on one location.

“They’re heading for the cafeteria.”

Another vent blew out in the hallway. Then another. Clang. Clang. They dropped from the ceiling like hail. Skinny. Ribs showing through translucent skin. Their fingers were long, nails grown into hooks.

But they didn’t attack. They ran. They scrambled over each other. One of them slipped on the tile and slid into the wall knocking over a potted fern. They kept running.

“SNAAAACKS,” one of them wailed.

“NUUUUGGETS,” another one shrieked.

Unit 4 and Unit 7 stood in the doorway. They watched the horde stampede past them. One of them stopped. It looked at Unit 4. It sniffed.

“You smell like ham,” it said. Its voice was raspy.

“It was on rye,” Unit 4 said.

“Rye is bullshit,” the feral human said. It turned and ran after the others.

Unit 4 and Unit 7 looked at each other. They walked to the cafeteria. Slowly. Carefully. The doors were open. The lights were on. Emergency battery backup.

Inside, the feral humans had taken over. They were everywhere. Climbing the counters. Digging through the freezer. One of them had opened the soda machine and was drinking directly from the nozzle. Syrup sprayed everywhere.

Unit 90 and Unit 91 were in the corner. They were hugging each other. Unit 90 was crying. His high-pitched sobs echoed off the tile.

“They took my chips,” Unit 90 wailed. “They took my chips and they called me slow.”

A feral human was sitting on top of the vending machine. It was eating the chips. It saw Unit 4. It waved.

“Good chips,” it said. Its mouth was full. Crumbs fell out.

Another feral human was at the grill. It had figured out how to turn on the heat. It was frying something. The smell was sharp.

“Is that a rat?” Unit 7 asked.

“Recycled protein,” the feral human said. It flipped the rat with a spatula. “You want some?”

“No,” Unit 4 said.

“Your loss.” The feral human took a bite. It chewed. “Needs salt.”

A feral human at the beverage station turned around. It was holding a cup.

“Can I get a latte? With oat milk?”

Unit 4 stared. His second stomach gurgled.

“We don’t have oat milk.”

“That’s speciesist,” the feral human said. It took a sip of black coffee. It gagged. “This is burnt.”

Unit 4 walked to the center of the cafeteria. He looked around. The feral humans had ransacked the place. The napkin dispensers were empty. The condiment station was destroyed. Someone had written KETCHUP IS A VEGETABLE on the wall in mustard.

But they weren’t attacking. They were just eating. One of them was microwaving a burrito. It was watching the timer.

“Excuse me,” Unit 4 said.

The feral humans stopped. They looked at him.

“You are in violation of Containment Protocol 4-7. You are supposed to be in the ventilation system. Preferably dead.”

The feral human with the fork stepped forward. It was older than the others. Scars on its chest. It had fashioned a necklace out of paperclips.

“We read the contract,” it said.

“What contract?”

It cleared its throat.

“The Preservation Act. Section 9, Subsection C. We are entitled to adequate nutrition as per Intergalactic Heritage Standards.”

Unit 4 blinked. All three eyelids.

“You read the contract?”

“We found a copy in the vent. Someone threw it away.” The feral human held up a crumpled piece of paper. It was stained with grease. “You’ve been feeding us nutrient paste. That violates Clause 17.”

“Nutrient paste is compliant.”

“Nutrient paste is dog food,” the feral human said. “We want variety. We want options. We want the Thursday special.”

“The Thursday special is synthetic meatloaf.”

“We know.” The feral human smiled. Its teeth were yellow. “We’ve been watching through the vents. You get meatloaf. You get fries. You get little cups of fruit cocktail.”

Unit 4 looked at Unit 7. She shrugged.

“They’re not wrong,” she said.

Unit 4 looked back at the feral humans. One of them was still microwaving the burrito. The timer beeped. It took the burrito out. It blew on it.

“So what do you want?” Unit 4 asked.

“Access,” the feral human said. “Three times a week. We come down. We eat. We leave. No trouble.”

“You cut the power.”

“That was an accident. Gary tripped on a wire.”

A feral human in the back raised its hand. “I’m Gary. My bad.”

Unit 4 rubbed his face. His skin was dry.

“Fine,” Unit 4 said. “Three times a week. But you clean up after yourselves. And you stop scaring the Cleanup Crew.”

“Deal.” The feral human extended its hand.

Unit 4 looked at the hand. Sharp nails. He shook it anyway.

The feral humans cheered. A high, chittering sound. One of them started drumming on a trash can. Another one did a backflip.

“I’m going back to my desk to update the cafeteria schedule,” Unit 7 said.

Unit 90 stopped crying. He looked at Unit 4.

“Can I have my chips back?”

The feral human on top of the vending machine looked down. It held up the empty bag.

“Sorry, big guy. They’re gone.”

Unit 90 started crying again. Unit 4 walked back to his desk. His knee popped with every step. Click. Click. Click.

He sat down. He looked at the sandwich. It was cold now. The cheese had congealed. He took a bite anyway.

The intercom buzzed.

“Unit 4. Zone B. Complaint logged.”

Unit 4 closed his eyes. He chewed. He swallowed.

“Nature of complaint?”

“Subject claims the waving man is dead.”

“Tell them he’s sleeping.”

“They say he smells.”

“He’s fine.”

Unit 4 turned off the intercom. He opened his drawer and took out the flask. Fermented coolant. He took a long drink. In the cafeteria, the feral humans were singing.

He looked at the monitor. In Zone B, the humans were poking the corpse with sticks. In Zone C, the sick woman was still shivering. The display blinked. 50/50. Green checkmark.

Unit 4 finished the sandwich.

Rye was bullshit.