Slavery 2050 Pt. 03: The Offer

Six years of inflation and war had proved brutal, but the Economy is bouncing back to thrive in the summer of 2063. Slick new automotive factories are opening worldwide to keep up with demand for tax-free Mercedes, Bonettis and other single seater remotes. For eligible adults, one overseas holiday a year is now permitted. Life is good. So much so that the upcoming mid-August three-day break was granted for the first time in seven years. In line with the Economy rhetoric that the Spending Needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, the Uppers never extend such concessions to the likes of Alpha 375698/2052 Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2) chained to Machine 35P in slave factory BAe3 since 2052, but he's about to be made an offer he really can't refuse.

Alpha 375698/2052 Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2)

Tuesday 13 August 2063

2pm

Seven weeks ago it appeared on the main holoscreen.

Machine slaves chained in the following rows:

33P/S, 34P, 34S (Heavy broaching only), 35P/S, 36P/S, 37P

(Large presses only), 38P/S, 39P/S and 40P/S

HER ROYAL MAJESTY TAN SRI LADY AZIZ AZURA NOOR

will honour you with a

MOTIVATIONAL VISIT AND INSPECTION

Tuesday 13TH August 2063

WORK HARD. KEEP BRITAIN GREAT.

Above those words, the same smiling 3D holo seen looking down on us on each machine was now a three-metre high holo with those dark eyes watching over us night and day. And that's how it was for the next seven weeks.

I'm the only slave in my EViva/12A section, six of us chained to heavy press machines, to have ever seen Tan Sri Lady Noor, during her previous motivational visit a decade ago. Despite the glossies we saw in school of Uppers chatting to smiling conscripts on regular visits, only one other Upper, Lady Portia, a junior member of the Bowen-Barnes Family, has ever graced this factory with a motivational visit, and that was at least five years ago. Even that was a whistlestop buggy tour during what was obviously a rendezvous with a young Army Officer. Bowen-Barnes own around twenty rows of machine slaves here, but the seated Lady Portia and friend both in sunglasses never even glanced sideways at us stood rigidly to attention as her buggy and protection team sped down the centre aisle. I caught the briefest glance of a pert succulent breast in profile and shapely leg in no doubt the finest sheer silk as the buggy passed, but that was the extent of my evening fun before we were shouted back to work and double speeded in front of an empty viewing area. Good evening to you too, Lady Portia, Ma'am. We weren't ordered to attention and just worked on as they departed looking very satisfied around 11pm, so much for the rehearsals, but I did notice she'd changed into a white climasuit. I suspect this wasn't an official visit, with full respect, Lady Portia Ma'am.

Two motivational visits in eleven years! In that time, I've worked on BAe/6G54a, AeroSing V217A, KAI KU-3 Woongbi and now EViva/12A. Everyone else has served their time, chains cut free with new freshly-tattooed, eager and, unfortunately for me, ever fitter and faster slaves taking their place. I look at, secretly of course, the same secretaries and PR ladies walking past Monday to Thursday for years before they get pregnant or promoted and move on.

In 2059, our section's machines were replaced by fast new telemetry models to track our earnings remotely, but us same old slaves stood to attention in our welded chains as huge new machines were winched and manhandled into position. The centre aisle carpet was also changed into a posh underheated/undercooled version, and the glass offices looking down on to the factory floor were upgraded to include a swanky dining and chill area, but they don't deliver unfortunately. Along with the monthly injections, my daily ProCarb® with added vitamins, modafinil and bromide served in a cold and congealed blob at 7am sharp, after we're ordered to attention for the Upper Anthem, has kept me going strong.

One change is that my heavy press is now stage 1 of 6 in EViva/12A. We make titanium brackets for the Navajo helicopter gunship weapon system, hundreds of thousands of fucking brackets. Each part weighs 0.94kg and there are 40 in each box. The logistical slaves stack the never-ending supply of boxes eight high in a block of four. Twenty hours a day those fucking boxes appear. We were watched, filmed, cattle prodded and whipped for weeks by the now-promoted Miss Kendall and her production planners to get this right. I load each part into the lower dye, press the foot pedal, remove, deburr, check quickly for debris, pass right to 2F and repeat, all within 21.4 seconds as per Miss Kendall's precise programming. That photo of her kneeing me squarely in the groin at the award presentation was apparently used in a recruitment brochure. Fame at last. Presentation cheque signed by Lady Noor for €$250000 to a smiling ballgowned Miss Kendall; powerful knee in the balls for a grimacing naked Alpha 375698/2052. But the real soul destroyer is lifting those 38kg boxes from the stack and onto this shelf on my machine. The veins and tendons in my arms started to protrude within weeks of starting EViva/12A, but the lack of protein and calories in my ProCarb® meant the muscles had no fuel to develop, and the skin on my arms now sags like one of those posh dogs an Upper might have. At least twice a day, these shitty wrist chains snag or get caught under a box. The overseers and cameras don't miss production snags like that anymore. Imagine picking forty parts off the floor whilst a Chinese overseer's toecap smashes repeatedly into your ribcage and your balls. Only I don't have to imagine.

Another change is the fucking NeckPro we all got in 2060. I so nearly had a meltdown at this latest and cruellest addition. The heavy steel welded around my neck isn't the problem; it's the god-awful hand grip at the rear. Unveiled as a self-defence or restraining device, when anyone grabs the hand grip and twists it half a turn clockwise, the mechanism pushes hard against my windpipe and locks for five seconds. But it's far from a last resort device. Now, when anyone wants me to report, they no longer have to shout over the factory noise to get my attention. Far easier to yank on my NeckPro. In NeckPro's first few weeks, during the Woongbi project, Ms Dawes from PR was conducting yet another Conscription Readiness tour with a large group of year 11 schoolkids. I'd had a massive blockage just before 5am when a misshapen part caused my upper dye to jam. I'd not seen that before, and with the production staff still tucked up in bed, I had to take the initiative and manually loosen the dye. 2F had no choice but to press BLOCKAGE, and you can guess the rest. By the time these annoying schoolkids, predictably split into two groups, boys and girls, arrived, I was still feeling the effects of the beatings. I probably felt the leaded whip forty times that stoppage, and one blow had somehow caught my right ear. Hours later and still in pain and shock, I had to explain the stoppage to Mrs Finch, our production manager, when she came along at 0930 to pull on my NeckPro. I'd worked like a maniac and recovered the lost Lady Noor earnings by 8am but still earned a slap around the face and an angry knee in the balls. The last thing I needed that day was to be laughed at, poked and have my bruised testicles photographed and kicked from behind by bullying schoolgirls so I looked up at Lady Noor for motivation and blocked out the gawping crowd around my machine. I always earn more in that mode, but Ms Dawes decided one of her group's questions was more important, and once again I felt my shitty NeckPro lock.

"Stop work, machine slave!" I bolted to attention albeit gasping in oxygen. "This young lady has a question."

The young lady, who had been responsible for at least two of the kicks, was presumably sixteen but looked maybe eighteen. In an instant, I knew her aura set her classes above the PR ladies or secretaries I see every day. With the smug wealth of a VIP, she looked like an Olympic equestrian with tied-back blonde hair and that healthy tan only the higher classes get to have.

"Slave." She stood squarely in front of me, exuding confidence. "My father is a brigadier in the New Royal Cavalry."

I stifled a cough as NeckPro released. That figures, young Ma'am, with that accent, and I was dead right about the horses. My gut feelings were spot on too. Despite her tender age, this was a fully-fledged VIP, and I instinctively adjusted my posture at attention.

"My brothers and I boarded at prep school in Singers." She frowned, and already bored, looked beyond me along the row of slaves still working. "That's Singapore. You won't have been. I mean, do you even know where it is, slave?"

The word slave coincided with her eyes giving me a once over, first down at my balls and then up to my wiry and saggy arms. Not impressed. Her arrogance was scary, through the roof, as she sneered with contempt at the untravelled loser. Of course, I knew, but as ever, a safe answer works.

"I think so, Ma'am."

"My brothers are back there now." She didn't care less if I knew where Singapore was. "They're commissioned in the New Royals, of course."

Of course, young Ma'am. I can't imagine anyone she knew ending up in a factory, or at least not on this end of the whip.

"It's just when I was vacing there last autumn, the factories that received me had some female slaves, from the lower classes naturally."

Naturally. I didn't know that, though. Now I was curious, but asking if they were naked was hardly a question you ask a senior Army officer's spoilt brat daughter.

"So, question for you, boy, before you get back to work." I had to laugh. I was coming up to twice her age. "Any reason why a female slave can't do your job? I mean, it's dead boring." She looked into my machine and sniggered, "but not as if it's hard, right?"

I suppose not, Ma'am. I looked down. She was wearing crisp white jodhpurs with polished brown riding boots and carrying an uncoiled leaded whip, hopefully not intended for her horses. Maybe she'd care to strip off that elegant gear and spend the next eleven Christmases chained at one of Lady Noor's machines instead. Despite my ice thin mental state at that time, I was sensible enough to refrain from voicing such flippancy.

"I do not know, Ma'am."

She wasn't listening and was looking down at her painted nails. She turned to a friend, another equestrian clone but nowhere near as rich. "Like I said, fucking boring."

Ms Dawes was as bemused as I was by the huge class divide, but she was also as concerned with Spending Needs as the rest of us and stepped in.

"Any more questions for this machine slave, ladies?"

Miss Cavalry was now talking to her friend, but turned to me and looked down at my balls with a smirk.

"Just order this economic conscript back to work."

I was awaiting Ms Dawes's order when Miss Cavalry turned round again.

"Oh, and slave?"

I instinctively straightened by back. A VIP is a VIP.

"Work harder, conscript scum!"

"Yes Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am."

And off they went striding confidently and giggling to enjoy the rest of their privileged lives. I so nearly shouted after Miss Cavalry, who was just itching to be let loose in a place like this, to go fuck herself and her pampered brothers. That would have been a costly mistake. To talk back at a VIP would easily add fifteen years if not life, but I really was inches from breaking point that day. I looked up at Lady Noor for any sign or guidance on how to move on from this despair, but those dark eyes looked on willing me to work ever harder.

I've seen breakdowns with the younger conscripts, and it's the most horror I've had the misfortune to witness in here. The kid at 4F 37, for example, had to be carried in during his induction. Two overseers sat astride him as he kicked and struggled when his shackles were being welded. He was defiant from day one shouting that he shouldn't be here. You and me both, mate. When he started shouting Lady Noor's name, things moved up a gear, and it was obviously only going to end one way. He still has blow torch and red hot poker scars on his back. I've noticed he no longer has nipples. They were burned off. I'm surprised he didn't lose a testicle after another Chinese overseer used cruel-looking clamps on him one night, long after the PR ladies and secretaries had gone home needless to say. They did that every single evening until he knuckled down and then continued for weeks after to make their point. I can't see clearly from here, but I believe his release date is 2079. Lady Noor clearly wanted any dissent brutally suppressed. He's just like the rest of us now, another anonymous machine slave working hard. Ironically the way I coped back then was to look up at Lady Noor more and focus solely on her Spending Needs. The system sucks and is unfair, but 4F 37 and his scarred back show it works.

The only constants in eleven years have been my now looser and chafing wrist and ankle chains and the smiling holo of Lady Noor re-attached to this new machine with this wording and flashing red display:

Alpha 375698/2052 Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2)

EARLIEST RELEASE 10:09:2064

Machine slave,

My Spending Needs per slave this month are €$12767

You are making me a monthly average of €$8702

You are currently making me an estimated €$9704

Work hard. Achieve my Spending Needs.

Tan Sri Lady Noor

I'm sure Lady Noor would give her famous nod of approval to know I noticed my release date was also a flashing red digital. I of all people know this can change. Thanks again, Ma'am. My average earnings hardly ever go above €$9000, but if I work flat out, the estimate shoots up to €$14000. Of course, if I'm slow or have a BLOCKAGE, it may even drop to €$0. Your balls don't want to be anywhere near an overseer on €$0.

The monthly motivation videos have continued although more elaborate and extravagant in line with Lady Noor's ever increasing Spending Needs and travels. The first seven months of 2061 saw her most ambitious BAe3 project to date. The target of her BAe3 machine slaves was to fund three new Gulfstream 8 private supersonics which we achieved a month ahead of schedule. Gulfstream sent their top brass and shortest skirts who all beamed into cameras with flutes of champagne whilst blissfully unaware of the 21-hour days and beatings we'd endured to smash that target. At least two older life slaves in row 40 were beaten to death, and a new conscript in 39 managed to commit suicide by hanging from his own chains. The photograph of Lady Noor and her British Army Major friend being served something called a Yakiniku somewhere between Sydney and California (in under three hours apparently) is still flashed up now and then on the motivational videos. Bon Appetit, Ma'am, and bon voyage, or lots of voyages according to the videos.

This Royal visit has been planned in intricate detail for seven weeks. We've been drilled in what to do and say, slapped and prodded. As if an Upper or member of her entourage would talk to a machine slave anyway. Crested red carpets have been laid in the rows too. I dared look around after the daily Anthem to confirm at least four rows behind too had been carpeted. That's eight rows of slaves, over 600 of us, chained in service to Lady Noor. Nice work if you can get it, and we're just one of her factories out of many worldwide.

Until today, I'd no clue who owned the slaves in the six or seven rows directly beyond Lady Noor's, but I've noticed with a hint of envy that they actually wear a flimsy red garment over their manhood. Their owners obviously don't want to show guests bruised and swollen testicles through their cameras, and who can blame them? I'm still very self-conscious of my swollen purple plums as I call them and can feel the eyes of visitors, male and female, on my battered genitals. I use that term loosely as the dangling parts between my legs have never been used as nature intended, just as balls of pain or moving targets as our overseers like to remind us. So, I often wondered why I still had to bare all. That question was about to be answered.

"LimCo slaves!" The very loud and annoying Chinese female voice over the PA was scary and full of urgency. "Stop work!"

"Pay attention all LimCo slaves! Remove your garments now! Throw them on the ground behind you for collection. Do it now! Now!"

I think they get the message, Ma'am. Do it now, OK! The hammering and welding machine noise noticeably lessened from behind as an untold number of slaves stopped working to unbutton and yank off their only item of clothing.

"Three!"

LimCo had rows and rows of slaves judging by all the wrist chain rattling from behind. How do they get such briefs on and off over ankle chains? Whether there are buttons or Velcro, it was proving awkward. They clearly didn't rehearse this one.

"Two!"

Already some hammering sounds and a damn angle grinder were starting again from the faster undressers.

"One! Continue working hard, LimCo slaves! Work!"

A distant male overseer roared, "Faster, you worthless life cunt!" We all know that such venom is always accompanied by pain, and I pictured an unlucky LimCo life slave having his newly-exposed testicles squeezed and twisted as he struggled back to work.

"On your feet, life cunt!"

Garments or not, being a LimCo slave, especially a life slave, sounds pretty brutal from here. Some poor fuckers for whatever reason are enslaved for life. No one told us that at school. Different owners have different tastes it seems when it comes to sentencing and their slaves' genitals. In the unlikely event any Lim Upper Family member ever honours us with a motivational visit, we'll probably all wear nice red briefs as that stern voice just called them, but Lady Noor clearly wants to see all 5000 pairs of testicles clean shaven, exposed and swinging as we work hard. I hope my clean-shaven plums are to your satisfaction today, Ma'am.

A huge shadow passed over the factory, and through the bird shit-ridden skylights I sneakily glimpsed the silhouette of a helicopter gunship hovering menacingly overhead. Deep rumbling engines sent vibrations right through me before roaring out of sight. Next came three or maybe four massive twin rotor helicopters which rattled the factory roof on their way past. A whole plague of pigeons who'd actually chosen to nest above the one place none of us wanted to be, well those of us with testicles anyway, now scattered in all directions. At least they had that option. How they must look through that glass and down at the neat rows of skinnier pale humans imprisoned inside and wonder where the well-fed clothed ones go every afternoon in shiny metal boxes. Maybe it's to find food for the skinny ones they must think. My neighbour, the young slave chained at 2F, looked up and across to me, terrified. When he was first dragged in, literally screaming in fear but not to the extent of 4F 37, and chained, I think he saw me as some sort of mentor, but he quickly learned that I was just as beaten by the system and scared as he was. I wouldn't worry about the helicopters, mate. Worry about the passenger. He was barely 19 and had been chained less than a year.

"Tan Sri Lady Noor's helicopters approaching!"

The teenage Chinese overseer shouts in broken English "EViva/12A slaves. Lady Noor is here. Work faster, slaves!" 2F's face creased in pain as her whip struck his lower back.

I get the drift, Ma'am, but Lady Noor needs no introduction. Two very mini-skirted and stunning Southeast Asian PR ladies strode by both clutching whips, but I no longer need to ogle, just work.

"Slaves, stop the work!"

More and more Chinese overseers were here now. The English wasn't always great, but we all understand each other with the lingua franca of whips and steel toecaps.