[ WP ] All people born have a number engraved on their skin , and for the past few centuries , the number has been gradually going down . You are number one

The markings on our arms appeared just after birth. They were a series of crosses and lines, near the top of the arm. We noticed that most of them were just one or two characters, but occasionally we came across someone with three or four. They were usually the outcasts, the people who were bullied at school and put upon at work. For centuries the people of Earth had been puzzling over what the marks could mean. By 2136 there were at least three different ways of reading the marks, plus the one invented by Kim Jong-so which indicated that everyone except him was a traitor. 
 
 Then the coffin-pod crash-landed. It was never known whether others had arrived before, but a pod containing four dead aliens that crashed into the Googleplex was pretty hard to cover up. After the usual bouts of blaming Hamas, ETA and whichever enemy was uppermost in the mind of the President, somebody thought to examine the pod. They found a plate engraved with many lines of markings like ours. 
 
 The cryptographers finally reckoned the plate was engraved with serial numbers; the repeated diagonal lines at the beginning of each were zeros. Gradually they worked out the meaning of each sign and the number system they worked with, and finally we were able to interpret our markings. Many people I knew had numbers like 11 or 16, and there were several 8s. But I was the only person with a 1. 
 
 Clearly the numbers were n't a countdown, but perhaps they were a ranking. It was known that people from history had had more elaborate markings, which were now revealed to be bigger numbers. The politicians were delighted to discover that people were getting better and closer to each other. 
 
 Being number 1 was a pretty good recommendation. Times were good for me after that; some girls, it would seem, find being on the arm of Number One very appealing. My demands gradually got greater, until at a bar in the seedier part of New Brinville on a sultry August night I met a girl who also had a 1. 
 
 `` That is so funny!'' she laughed, almost dropping her whiskey. `` We're number 1 - we're the best in the world - and look at us! I'm a drunk, you're a sh*t - what does that say about the rest of'em?'' 
 
 We were woken at 11pm by an awful screeching noise and a synthesised voice. 
 `` Greetings, good people of Earth! We are here again to collect our workers. I hope you are ready to leave!'' 
 After a quick check - yes, I heard it too, it's not the alcohol - we staggered out to the front porch. Aliens were everywhere, grabbing people and examining their marks. The 15s and 16s were released, but the 30s and 40s were taken off to the ships. 
 
 `` Many centuries ago,'' the voice continued, `` we made an agreement with the ruler of the world at that time. It stated that we can, from time to time, take people from Earth to provide us with labour or food. We installed a system that marked you at birth with an estimate of your worth, starting at 1 and working up.'' 
 
 Working *up*? We gazed at each other, horrified. 
 
 `` For example, the mathematician Alan Turing was rated at 4526. He is now the engineer for our entire world computing system. Time was we had no difficulty recruiting people with worth in the 200s - ah, they were the great days of your civilisation! Now the supply has run so short that the journey is not worthwhile. So we are defaulting on the agreement. You will not see us again.'' 
 
 The nerd from down the street with 76 on his arm was trying to hide in a dustbin. The alien trying to pull off the lid tried to reassure him. 
 
 `` Do not be afraid. We will not hurt you. There is a job as a level 5 sub-sub-junior clerk waiting for you.'' 
 
 This may have been intended to be reassuring for Mr. 76, but it inspired panic in the 30s and 40s who remained as they remembered what the voice had said about `` labour **or food**''. 
 
 As the chase continued around us, I wondered why the aliens were completely ignoring me and the girl - until I remembered we were wearing the shirts that had recently become fashionable, with very short sleeves to show off our low numbers. 
 
 In a few minutes the last of the high numbers were taken and the ships took off. We were left to rebuild our lives, to loot the homes of those who had gone, and to confront the question the raid had faced us with: what does it say about a race when most of its members are not even good enough to eat?
