No Longer Feedstock

Krell Andersen stared at the holo-display hovering above his desk, the blue glow casting ghastly shadows across his face. The Anmara Logistics logo—a stylized asteroid with trailing rocket flames—rotated slowly in the corner of the screen.

“Voluntary redundancy package,” he muttered, reading the words for the twelfth time. “Competitive compensation and benefits.”

Competitive. That’s what they always said. Krell had been at Anmara for fifteen years, loading shipments onto interplanetary freighters bound for the outer colonies. Fifteen years of breathing recycled air and pissing in zero-g toilets. Fifteen years of watching management get fatter while worker rations got thinner.

The cubicle walls seemed to be closing in. He could hear Jenna in the next cell over, sobbing quietly. She’d received the same offer. So had Timmons and Chen and probably half the station staff.

Krell’s eyes drifted to the bottom of the document, where his compensation package was outlined in cold, corporate language:

“Full retirement benefits, immediate pension activation, and a one-time transition package of 500,000 credits, tax-free. Housing allocation on New Mars with priority status.”

It was the kind of money Krell could only dream about. It was enough to live comfortably on New Mars. Krell might even settle in one of those domed communities with real soil and engineered trees. His finger hovered over the “Accept” button.

But something felt wrong. Too generous. Anmara had never given workers anything they didn’t have to. There had to be a catch.

He scrolled down to the fine print, buried beneath layers of legalese:

“Final severance procedure to be conducted at the Philanthropic Exchange Laboratory. Procedure is painless and contributes to galactic harmony initiatives under the Zevon-Gant Treaty.”

Galactic harmony initiatives? What the hell did that mean?

Krell pulled up his neural interface and searched for “Zevon-Gant Treaty.” The results were sparse, heavily redacted. But one phrase kept appearing: “biological resource allocation.”

A chill ran through him. Two weeks ago, rumors circulated through the station. They were about the strange visitors who had arrived via the executive docking bay. Tall, silent figures with translucent skin and too many joints, escorted by Anmara’s CEO herself. They’d disappeared into the restricted section of the station, the one that had been hastily constructed last month.

He slipped on his jacket and headed to Maintenance Level 6, where his friend Veera worked surveillance. If anyone knew what was happening, it would be her.

The maintenance level hummed with the dull roar of life support systems. Veera’s office was little more than a closet crammed with monitors.

“You got the package too?” she asked without looking up.

“Yeah. Seems too good to be true.”

Veera’s fingers danced across her console. “It is. Look at this.”

She pulled up security footage from the executive level. The timestamp showed it was from three days ago. The CEO, Miranda Holtz, stood with two of the strange visitors. Their movements were fluid, almost liquid.

“We’ve fulfilled our quota for this cycle,” Holtz was saying. “Fifty units, as agreed.”

The taller alien made a sound like water being poured over hot glass. “Insufficient. The colony requires more sustenance. Your species reproduces quickly. You can spare more.”

“These aren’t just workers,” Holtz protested. “They’re skilled technicians. Training replacements—”

“Your profit margins will increase by 14% with automation. The redundancy packages cost less than maintaining your workforce for even two more quarters.” The alien’s voice was eerily reasonable. “And our bioconversion technology ensures nothing is wasted. They become part of something greater.”

Krell felt the bile rise in his throat. “They’re feeding us to them.”

Veera nodded. “The Philanthropic Exchange Laboratory. They’re not laying people off. They’re harvesting them.”

“But who would agree to this?”

“Anyone who doesn’t read the fine print. Or who’s desperate enough for the money to send back home.” Veera’s eyes were hollow. “The worst part? It’s all legal. The Zevon-Gant Treaty classified these beings as a protected species. Endangered. And apparently, they only digest living tissue.”

Krell’s mind raced. He thought of his sister on Earth. She was struggling to pay for her kids’ oxygen supplements. The atmosphere continued to deteriorate. The money would change their lives.

His hand moved to his pocket, feeling the hard rectangle of his acceptance card. He hadn’t submitted it yet.

“How many have already accepted?” he asked.

“Twenty-three as of an hour ago.” Veera’s voice cracked. “Including Jenna. She’s scheduled for ‘processing’ tomorrow.”

Krell stood. “We need to warn people.”

“And then what? Where do we go? Every corporation out here has similar arrangements. It’s just business.” Veera laughed bitterly. “Cutting the fat. Streamlining operations. Feeding the beast.”

Krell stared at the footage again. The aliens were nodding in satisfaction as Holtz showed them charts of projected “donations.”

He thought of his cubicle, his bunk in the workers’ dormitory, the recycled meals in the commissary. Fifteen years of his life given to a company that now saw him as nothing more than feed stock.

“I have an idea,” he said slowly. “But I’ll need access to the executive level.”

Veera looked at him sharply. “What are you thinking?”

“If Holtz wants to feed someone to her new friends…” Krell’s face hardened. “Maybe she should lead by example.”

The acceptance card in his pocket felt heavy as lead. Outside the viewport, the stars were cold and distant, indifferent to the fates of those who traveled among them. In the darkness between those stars, invisible ships carried cargo, supplies, and now, perhaps, human offerings to hungry new gods.

Krell made his decision. He wouldn’t be on the menu. And with any luck, neither would anyone else. At least not before the management had taken their turn at the table.

He slid his acceptance card back into his pocket. He had work to do.