I live on a planet where the galaxy’s junk goes to be reborn, or die. We’re the Trashyard Folks, or trashies. Flattering, I know.
Something people throw away ceases to exist in their minds when it ends up here. The cliche, out of sight, out of mind, couldn’t be more apt.
Life is more interesting than the journalistic exposes would tell you. If you don’t let the monotonous tasks bring you down.
The automatic trash sorters and compactors do the heavy lifting. When the Corporation expanded to the fifth new system in three years, they installed these tools.
The small crew of a hundred couldn’t keep up with the sheer volume, and never will, not with the Corporation’s relentless expansion and population growth.
They’re all about supercharging the economy, which means more work for us.
The not so great thing is we aren’t paid much. Space travel is expensive, so getting off-world for a vacation is out of the question. Most have never seen another planet.
If we’re promising in our studies, we might get shipped off on a scholarship to study, but only if it benefits the Corporation.
They have little use for my skills of juggling and reciting the ancient epic poems from the Conquering Age.
Most employees were born here. It’s cheaper than transporting people from off-world. I was the first kid, something which I’m not proud of. Who wants that as their claim to fame?
Besides, they have a good reason for keeping us here. Among our many tasks is destroying people’s sensitive documents.
You learn through skimming through old government files. The secrets I could tell.