The line to get food remained perpetually long. I took a tray and waited, ignoring the stares. Most scrubs changed from their work clothes to wear the drab green off-duty jumpers before eating, but I was scheduled to scour an air duct at hour twenty. So I remained in my formfitting uniform. The slippery dark blue fabric covered every inch of skin except for my hands, feet and head. The material helped me slide through the tight heating ducts when I cleaned them. And I didn’t care if I was the only person not wearing moccasins. My mocs were back at my bunk in Sector F1. With so many scrubs around to clean, the floor didn’t even have a chance to become dirty.

Pushing my tray along the metal shelf, I pointed to what I wanted from three different choices. The big containers held either green-, yellow-or brown-colored slop, and they all smelled like moldy vegetables. The food was easy to prepare, easy to cook and best of all easy to reuse. I didn’t even bother reading the names of the dishes. If the kitchen staff called it a casserole, a quiche, a stew or a soup, it all tasted the same. A pulpy, leafy spinach flavor dominated the other ingredients lurking in the recipe.

To be fair to the cooks, hydroponics didn’t offer much in the way of variety. Mass production of the hardier vegetables had replaced diversity, and there was only so much a person can do with mutton. I didn’t want to be fair, though. I just wanted something different to eat.

After being served, I found an empty seat, and let the discord of multiple conversations roll over me.

“Where’ve you been?” a voice asked over the din. I looked up at Cog’s broad face as he pressed into a seat next to mine.

“Working,” I said.

“You were supposed to be done at hour ten.”

I shrugged. “Got to make sure the pipes are squeaky clean for the uppers.”

“Yeah. Like it would take you that long,” Cog said. “You were sleeping in the pipes again.”

“Don’t start.”

“You’re going to get hurt—”

“Who’d care? One less scrub to feed.”

“Grumpy, aren’t we? What’s the matter, Trella? Get wet?” Cog smirked, but couldn’t hold the expression for more than a second. He was soon smiling, unaffected by my mood.

“Shouldn’t you be changing a fan belt or something?” I asked, trying to be nasty, but Cog ignored me, knowing it was all an act—although with any other scrub, I wouldn’t be acting.

He nodded to scrubs passing our table, calling out hellos and sharing his smile.

“How’s the shower head in washroom E2?” Cog asked one man.

“Much better,” the man replied.

I had no interest in mundane details so I tuned out their conversation. Instead, I contemplated my only friend. Too big to fit into the pipes, Cog worked with the maintenance crew and did odd jobs. Most of it busy work, just like scrubbing. Too many idle hands had been deemed dangerous by the upper workers.