Why you're better off not procreating.

Sansmith came out of the iso-pod rubbing his forearm right below the inside of the elbow.

"How much love did you give her today?" asked Crowner as he swiped his card down the Credit-Meter outside of the Nutri-Booth Console. His clanktons were running short, but all the overtime he'd accumulated at Reactor Plant 17 lately would assure him some serious plastic in the next direct deposit cycle.

"As much as I could afford this week. Plasma's running low again. I blame it on those new hydro-tubes the Vend-Bots are selling down at the Reactor. Not enough potable content."

Crowner swiped his card again. The magnetic strip had been rubbed raw by the particles in his pocket. He knew that the Workman's Regulation Handbook strictly forbade pockets on the job, but it was a rule he chose to ignore. He had to keep some semblance of a normal life, even in the Post-Melt Days. It was getting harder to remember what it felt like to sleep next to another human being. Amendment 42 was the worst thing to happen to Americorp in decades. Most unizens agreed to that.

"Jezzie's a lucky woman, Sansy," Crowner said, trying to remain respectfully in tune with the Platonic Conduct Codes. It was crucial to avoid detection by the Censor-Cams oscillating overhead. "Don't you let her forget that when you see her next cycle."

"If I get to, you mean. That all depends on whether or not our work schedules correspond. I miss good old-fashioned Manual Transaction. My veins are shot from all these Sangui-Love Supplement sessions," Sansmith replied as he rolled down his sleeve to cover the bruises. A combination of his olive skin and derma-art hid the yellow phase well, but the purples and browns stuck out like sore thumbs. It was obvious that he'd missed Jezzie terribly-- no one else on his unit had spent as many credits in the Extractor Iso-Pod as he had. There were times when he chose that activity over nutritional replenishment. He knew his sacrifice meant a lot to her; or prayed she did, wherever she was. Love would be the end of him, just as the oracle had predicted when he was first deployed twenty-eight Revo-Cycles ago.

"Don't look so glum, Crowner. The State will pair you up someday."

"One can only hope."

"Hope? Not for long, if Amendment 43 is passed next Luna-Cycle," corrected Sansmith. "Doesn't look good, either. The Mono-Party is consistently unanimous."

Crowner stopped trying to swipe his card in the glowing slot of the agitated Credit-Meter. He wasn't hungry anymore.