The Lister is the SI unit of discipline, as defined by the amount of effort needed to make Third Technician David Lister do his duties, clean his quarters and generally not be such a shame to the Space Corps. A single Lister of discipline is therefore often more than is needed for the entire crew of a (Star Wars) Star Destroyer (47,000-odd). – RecklessPrudence
It was hard not to look down on the faceless drones. They weren’t literally faceless. Or drones, for that matter. It was just… every day, she saw a hundred of them.
It was difficult to remember faces, names, or even their numbers after the first hour. She completely gave up on it after the first month, referring to the paperwork that Administration shoved at her.
But that never, ever, stopped her from feeling bad about it.
“Mister Probin,” she said to the newest faceless cog. One of the few who didn’t hunker and shrivel in the supplicants’ chair. “There are some disturbing anomalies in your personal assessments.”
“Yeah?” said Mr Probin. “Like what?”
“Well… it’s normal for a low-level employee of your… status…” or lack thereof… “To have a motivational level of less than one thousand NanoListers. Do you know what a NanoLister is, Mister Probin?”
“A very small mouthwash[1]?”
She frowned in confusion and hoped that it came across as benevolent fury rather than kicked puppy. “It’s a unit of motivation, Mister Probin. An entire Lister unit is the amount of effort required to make the laziest known human being to do their job. Thus… the smaller the number, the less concern we have for your future. And, as a senior officer in this establishment, it’s my sad duty to inform you that you can range between ten thousand to almost a million NanoListers on any given day.”
“So?”
“Can you really afford to be unemployed, Mister Probin?”
“Reckon I might have it figured out,” said Mr Probin. “Got some stuff set by. Might join the Hitchhikers. It’s gotta be better than cleaning out vending machines, right?”
And it was always, always the vending machine technicians who scored highly on the Lister scale. “I understand that cleaning a vending machine doesn’t seem to be a very important task…”
“Damn right it isn’t,” said Mr Probin. “And what does a promotion get you? The chance to boss around the people who clean out vending machines. Most of those stress out before they get another promotion, the poor bastards.”
And those who didn’t stress out became the administrators of the people who bossed around the people who cleaned out the vending machines. Nevertheless, she had to tow the company line. “All employees have an equal opportunity for advancement in this establishment, Mr Probin. If you applied yourself–”
“I might become a stock boy for vending machine parts, or even a stock handler!” The sarcasm was strong with this one. “Sorry, miss. But compared to this? Hanging around in filthy spaceports and swapping stories for a lift sounds like heaven.”
“And you have enough stories to suffice?”
Mr Probin grinned. “I make Scheherazade look like a tweenage fanficcer with a thousand and one high school AU’s.”
She upped his motivational score to the MilliLister range[2]. “Well. I shall file your resignation for you. Just to make certain the paperwork is properly done. I wish you every good fortune in your future… career.”
He gave her a lazy -of course- salute and sauntered out of the interview room.
She sighed and reached for the next file. They lost more vending machine technicians this way than she cared to count.
[1] Listerine is the mouthwash.
[2] That’s millions of NanoListers, for those doing the math.
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