Ed was happy. That was expected of him.

  He woke in his compartment as the lights brightened from gray to white. The room was small, just large enough for a cot, a wash basin, and a wall terminal. A faint hum filled the air—the sound of the city breathing.

  Ed stood, stretched, and faced the screen. The test began at once. His pupils were scanned, his pulse counted, his grip measured. Words flashed: WORK CAPABILITY SCORE 99.4 %. He felt warmth rise in his chest. That was contentment. The chemical reward drifted through his blood and settled his mind. He smiled, the smile of a man built to serve.

  Ed loved his job.

  He was a transporter. He picked up packages at the hub—the central warehouse of his sector—and delivered them to outposts across the city. He had done this since two weeks after his creation. He would continue until his Score fell below ninety-five when he would drive himself to the recycler. That would be his last delivery.

  He did not think about it. Thinking was not required. He had been grown for work: reflexes sharp, muscles quick, emotions narrow and clean. Each success fed a surge of chemical happiness. Each hesitation carried the faint taste of guilt. Ed had never known why. He never needed to know.

  He stepped outside. The city stretched before him in straight lines of glass and steel. Drones moved overhead in slow arcs. Ground transports hissed through the avenues. The rhythm soothed him. The air was dry and metallic; even the sky looked engineered.

  He walked to the hub along his usual path. The route was efficient—sixteen minutes at regulation pace. He passed the same walls, the same faces, all of them steady and without question.

  Halfway there he saw a cluster of Hanks standing beside a half-collapsed fence. They wore orange helmets and carried tools. Construction units. They were close to the transport zone. Ed felt something stir in his chest, small but sharp. Worry. He did not know the word, but he knew the discomfort. He wondered if the Hanks would block his route. If they did, he might not work. The thought frightened him. He quickened his pace.

  At the gate another Ed stood ahead of him, identical in every detail—same jaw, same eyes, same measured stride. All Eds were the same; difference was waste.

  “You saw the Hanks?” the other asked.

  “I did,” said Ed.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “They’re too close to the hub. Last expansion delayed operations. Ten percent of us idled.”

  Ed’s pulse flickered. The other Ed went on.

  “They were recycled. Perfectly good scores. Seems wasteful.”

  The word hung in the air like smoke. Wasteful.

  Ed’s body stiffened. Fear, new and sharp, ran through him. Not fear of death, but fear of the words. The system could not be wasteful. It could not be wrong. His hand moved to his pocket, guided by instinct, and found a small raised button. He pressed it three times.

  “What did you say?”

  The other Ed’s voice faltered. “Only that I want efficiency. There is nothing wrong with recycling. I want to work.”

  He walked faster, almost running now. The corridor to the loading bays echoed with his steps. Other Eds turned to watch. Curiosity—a thin crack in their calm—spread through them. It was not normal to see an Ed hurry.

  They reached the corner where the trucks waited, rows of identical white carriers gleaming under cold lights. The other Ed broke into a sprint. He ran as if the truck were salvation.

  Five Bobs appeared from the shadows. Security. Broad men, blank faces. They caught him ten steps from the cab.

  “I just want to work!” the Ed shouted.

  A Bob pulled out a tablet and read in a clear, steady voice: “Statement in violation of the Anti-Criticism Statute. Subject to immediate recycling.”

  Another Bob produced a syringe. The liquid entered the Ed’s neck. His body stiffened, then softened, then fell. The Bobs dropped him where he stood.

  A Jerry came—a maintenance model. He lifted the body, placed it on a trolley, and rolled it away. The floor was washed twice. Any stain was gone. The sound of engines returned.

  No one spoke. No one moved. The air felt heavier. Then something shifted. Ed blinked. The fear left him as quickly as it had come. The system balanced itself. He smiled.

  He climbed into his truck. The dashboard clock told him he was three minutes late. The lateness troubled him. He did not know why. He reviewed his manifest: groceries, east market, standard load. Groceries pleased him. People ate. He did not, but he understood the necessity.

  The cab fitted him perfectly. Tubes ran from the wall to the ports in his side—one fed nutrients, one drew waste. He would not need to stop. His seat adjusted to posture; the wheel obeyed the slight movement of his wrists. The machine and the man were one.

  He pulled out from the hub and joined the line of transports moving north. The schedule predicted sixty minutes with a tolerance of two. Over the past year, the route had been driven 1,239,856 times. Only twice had it failed the standard. At least, that was before today.

  The city passed outside his window in patterns of gray and blue. Towers rose like teeth. Ed did not notice. His attention stayed on the road and the glowing line on the screen that guided him.

  At twenty minutes he reached the same intersection as always. The light turned red. He stopped.

  He always stopped for thirty-seven point eight seconds. It was built into his rhythm.

  At fifteen seconds a shape moved beside the driver’s door. At seventeen another shape appeared at the passenger side. At twenty the glass broke. Shards scattered across his arm. At twenty-two he turned his head.

  At twenty-five everything went black.

  The truck idled in place, engine humming softly, still within tolerance.