484: Facing Hell Head-On

Disinfectant dripped from Kailashim's fingertips as he silently changed into the standard orange worker's uniform, handed in his badge at the front desk, and clocked out.

The queue alone took him half an hour. He retrieved his tray and spoon from his locker, grabbed his meal card, and hurried toward the cafeteria.

The Artificial Sun on the surface cast false sunlight while the engineering mechs by the roadside found time amid their hectic work to spray-paint murals onto the walls.

At first, safety notices had been posted there. But the workers' implanted chips were already loaded with safety regulations, so to boost morale, the construction site put up portraits of President Dai Weilin alongside stirring slogans: "Heads may roll, but the project must not stop; blood may flow, but the night shift must stay." "Seize the time, save the world." "Correct your attitude, accelerate progress, increase speed, deepen commitment."

The workers had no interest in President Dai Weilin's slogans. They preferred crude, improvised drawings—little animals, or whatever they happened to be feeling that day.

Kailashim trudged along with drooping eyelids, blindly following the crowd. Everywhere he looked, everyone wore the same clothes and had the same hairstyle. Their expressions and genes might be wildly different, yet they all belonged to the same organization and shared the same destination.

When he thought about it carefully, it was terrifying.

No fathers, no mothers. Raised by corporations, brought up by society, serving the state. There were no familial or blood ties between people; they dealt with one another solely through credit credentials built on money and contracts.

Yes, Frostplate workers were indeed the highest-paid group in the world now, but what good did that do? He casually took half a crispy roast pigeon, two barbecued pork buns, a salad, and beef ball soup.