It was morning, and the bioreactor tanks were waiting for Ryan. Thousands of them filled the facility’s dimly lit floors. He walked among them, monitoring their readouts. Sometimes a quiet bump would sound from inside one. A few had gone sour: he activated the purge mechanism, and robotic waldos took the whole thing out of its berth and carried it to the recycling center. At the end of the day, he went there himself to clean up. He emptied the contents of the first one into the grinder’s receptacle. A mewling, naked man slid out of the tank and was torn to shreds by the blades, leaving nothing but blood on the metal behind. Ryan almost vomited at the sight, but it also triggered his suppressed memory: the dying Earth, the desperate need for clone parts, the alternatives to having this job. He swallowed the bile and did what kept him, and the remaining thousands of other survivors, alive. At night, he took the pills that made it a little more bearable. His memories of the day’s details disappeared. He slept well, and was ready for tomorrow.