Good Intentions

The Embassy of Singapore

London

Reunited Kingdom

Trade Summary Notes (AeroSing Inc.) 4th September 2055

Early 21st century Reunited Kingdom saw a generation struggling to come to terms with conscription, but removing the old puppet government system proved who had always been in charge. The world's Upper Families now ruled openly, and it worked. Uppers keep the Economy vibrant with their Spending Targets, distributing wealth in a careful and coordinated way. As the saying goes, the needs of the many far outweigh those of the few. The few, still the male conscripts chained in the Uppers' factories, refineries or hotels, know they too will one day enjoy the benefits of One Britain One Economy. But until that day comes, the years spent as slaves at an Upper's pleasure will be hard and brutal as production, Spending Targets and the Economy are paramount.

Be mindful of the Reunited Kingdom's policies throughout any trade visit.

Ministry of Economic Affairs

Alpha 375698/2052 Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2)

Machine 1F Row 35P

BAe Factory 3 (Oxford)

Tuesday 15 September 2055

4.15am

CLANG.

Slaves say they remember the sounds. Many will say the whoosh and sonic crack of the whip before impact. For others, it's heels approaching, male or female doesn't matter. If they're wearing shoes, they're higher than you.

Two sounds I'll never forget. First is the rattling of chains. No, not during the day. Machine noise drowns that out. At night. Most nights I collapse on my cardboard at midnight and sleep through. The few times I've woken, though, I heard distant rattling of chains from far off machines. It took me a year to realise it was the wrist chains of slaves masturbating. My mind's full of wank material being chained by the centre aisle with secretaries and PR ladies wandering past five days a week, but those poor bastards in welded chains thirty or forty machines along the rows must have great eyesight, or long memories.

Daniella Peterson

Public Relations Executive

BAe Factory 3 (Oxford)

Tuesday 15 September 2055

9.45am

One Britain One Economy. Citizens of the Reunited Kingdom still need constant reminders from our Uppers. With one the highest standards of living anywhere in the world, we retire at 55, and our world-class free healthcare now sees us living into our 90s. You might be forgiven for thinking my job is redundant.

Not yet. Many other countries, whilst keen to invest and work with us, don't share the One Economy concept. They express concerns about conscript labour saying it's cruel. Look:

1. Conscripts believe in One Britain One Economy.

2. Conscripts serve a term before doing normal civilian jobs and retiring at 55.

3. The Reunited Kingdom's manufacturing base is the finest in the world.

4. No other nation can match our quality or cost.

These countries can feign disapproval as long as they like. They're investing billions into our Economy.

People like me ensure that continues.

Jennifer Lim

Director of Public Relations

AeroSing Inc (Singapore)

Tuesday 15 September 2055

1.15pm

Fab to be back. Mummy's from Oxfordshire, and my boarding school was Headington, hated lots, but loved Anthropology at Magdalen, taking a London pent and racing my 18th birthday pres Eagle 4WD (thank you, Daddy) to lectures. Daddy then had a job for me at LimCorp, so after a year or two of travelling (thank you again, Daddy), I started as PR Manager. But, daddy's daughter syndrome was the elephant in every conference room. Fuck them. MBA at Imperial and waltzed into my PR Exec role at AeroSing.

I know zilch about planes, but AeroSing manufacture luxury interiors for passenger helicopters and biz jets. How ironic. Luxury biz jet photos adorn my Singapore office wall, but even now I still have to slum it for four hours in regular First from SIN to London City, just like student days.

Clearly my presentation, social skills and Eurasian looks are perfect for AeroSing. I have the long thick black hair of a Southeast Asian but rounder eyes and fairer skin. My parents are tall, so I'm about three inches taller than your average Singapore twenty something.

No appointments today. Sleeping off this damn jet lag and watching CBN in bed. I wouldn't have chosen the Mandarin Oriental myself, though. My first appointment tomorrow is BAe Factory 3 in good old Oxford. AeroSing have been a customer since ages. We're including a short film clip from BAe3 in our 2058 campaign. Murmurings from customers say BAe3 takes work away from Singapore and is cruel. The former is easy, but ethics is where I earn my money. Knowing the RuK as well as anyone, I can show their One Economy model is both ethical and beneficial to AeroSing.

Alpha 375698/2052 Conscript (Hard Labour Level 2)

Machine 1F Row 35P

BAe Factory 3 (Oxford)

Tuesday 15 September 2055

4.20am

CLANG.

The sound I hate is that fucking CLANG. It's the next incoming component from machine 1B Row 36P. These heavy titanium brackets take five press machines to be fully formed. My machine is the third stage, and the component from the second (1B Row 36P) slides down a long ramp to a metal tray on the floor.

CLANG.

For obvious reasons, I've never looked behind, but as far as I can tell, all production lines work from left to right. Our line AeroSing V/217A is different as we're split on two rows: Row 35P, where I am, and row 36P in front. V/217A starts at Machine 2B Row 36P. Components then slide down a small ramp to 1B Row 36P, i.e. opposite me. They then slide down this much longer ramp into this metal basket by my left foot.

CLANG.

I bend down, and using my left hand pick up the component. As shown in training, my right hand keeps grip on the mesh safety guard so I can pull myself upright quicker, saving fractions of a second. My right hand then lifts up the safety guard, left hand carefully (but quickly obviously) places the component in the press. I then use both hands to close the safety guard and my right foot to operate the pedal. Left hand then raises the safety guard, right hand removes the component and pushes it onto the ramp to 2F Row 36P. Repeat. 2F 36P then completes his pressing before the final stage at 3F 36P.

The slave at 3F looks a few years older with his greying pubic hairs, and I think I heard a PR lady address him as "volunteer slave" during a customer visit last year. I heard about this at school, but I often wonder if he planned on being a chained machine slave when he volunteered however many years ago. He has the extra burden of stacking the heavy boxes of components ready for the logistical slaves.

Production Planning, the posh uni grads you can see sitting in one of those nice glass offices up there, calculated if I use my hands correctly as trained I should be pressing a component every 9.73 seconds.

Progress Leader Miss Stevens, the prim blonde in the pin stripe short skirt suits, worn not for our benefit obviously but to charm her overseer boyfriend's eyes away from the PR team, was too busy being photographed kneeing one of us in the balls or sat with her hand cupped around lover boy's crotch to ever notice my hard work. She's long gone home and no doubt full of lover boy's cock to know I start seeing double after 9pm and close my right eye so I can concentrate on my work. She's satisfied and asleep in a warm bed whilst my ankles swell from standing so long, so my welded ankle shackles chafe the already raw skin as I operate the pedal. And it's not unreasonable to assume we get tired and work slower, hence Miss Stevens' finishing touch, the extra overseers after 10pm.

CLANG.

Miss Stevens earned her six-figure bonus well. I should never have more than two parts from 1B in my tray. If I stop and clean debris from my machine, 1B will still continue production, and I'll get what's known as a "backlog". If the overseers notice more than 3 or 4 components in my basket, I'm in trouble until I clear the backlog.

It would be nice if we helped each other, e.g. if 1B noticed me clearing debris, he'd slow down. Not a chance thanks to Miss Stevens' and her BLOCKAGE button, on every machine just above eye level. If I press my BLOCKAGE, a light flashes overhead above 1B and a five-second bell rings. It means I've stopped work because 1B has stopped or slowed. Likewise if 2F to my right presses BLOCKAGE, it's my turn for lights, bells and approaching heels.

I would demonstrate, but it's fucking painful as is pressing BLOCKAGE without reason. Getting an irate overseer out of his or her chair always ends in tears, mine. Better to show you with 2F.

2F's machine is full of debris. He'll have to clean soon or the debris will start damaging his components (serious punishment). Right on cue. Now I'll speed up and press BLOCKAGE. It only takes a second for 1B to speed up and a few seconds more for 2B. That fat redhead Scottish overseer was out of her chair the moment I pressed.

I'm enjoying this now. Maybe Tan Sri Lady Noor, our owner, is sitting watching through cameras from Villa Seri Perdana, her mansion in Malaya, as were shown on one of the monthly motivational videos. I'm making you even more money today, Ma'am. Poor 2F now has five (yes FIVE!) components in his tray. And he's still cleaning.

CLANG.

Six. Steel heels incoming.

"Clear that fucking backlog, slave!"

But 2F had at least thirty seconds of cleaning left, and as he leant into his machine, his back was too easy a target.

CLANG.

"Are you deaf? Your backlog, fucking idiot slave!"

Crack! The sonic boom of the leaded whip's tip came milliseconds before the splat of leather tearing the bare flesh on 2F's back. His head whiplashed back, his lips receding in shock. We've all been there and would finish cleaning much quicker without a leaded whip across our back or a steel toe cap smashed into our balls. Another skin-ripping whiplash. 2F was cleaning systematically before but was now brushing anywhere in panic. Finally, he bent down to pick up the first of seven, no, eight components, and I glimpsed his eyes curse me as redhead's steel toe cap crunched into his balls from behind. Don't blame me, mate. Blame our rising star, Miss Stevens, who I can see sat in her glass carpeted office up there on her DenWa no doubt asking lover boy to ready his cock for tonight's epic.

I was getting tired now, but I could smell redhead's scent so wasn't about to slow down. 2F was doing well, down to four components, but redhead still slashed an evil-sounding whip across his upper back, producing a cross between a shout and a yelp. 1F was slowing down too, and I looked up for my BLOCKAGE button only to see the overhead cameras were on and moving. Tan Sri Lady Noor really was sitting at home watching my orchestrated display. It must be almost 1pm in Malaya. Lunchtime. Bon appétit, Tan Sri Lady Noor Ma'am.

Two hard years chained to this machine, and I've only had the honour of being inspected by Tan Sri Lady Noor once, in 2035. Although the main factory Owners are Bowen-Barnes, Lady Noor owns the machine slaves in rows 35 to 40, which of course includes me and 479 other slaves if my maths is correct. Each machine, certainly in our section, has a smiling holo of Lady Noor placed just above the BLOCKAGE button.

The preparation for Lady Noor's 2054 Motivational Visit was a reminder of just how much power and influence our Uppers have. Red crested carpets were placed along her machine rows 35 to 40. We were all given an extra five minutes to shave nicely, and throughout the afternoon before, an immaculate (and headturningly stunning) Miss Tan, from Lady Noor's staff, briefed each of us on etiquette and made us rehearse what to do or say in the unlikely event of even being looked at, let alone spoken to.

"Again!" She said in an amazing American Asian accent. "Report, slave!"

"Good afternoon, Tan Sri Lady Noor Ma'am. I am a conscript slave level 2 and have the honour of serving you for five years."

"Ma'am!"

"Sorry, Miss Tan, Ma'am, of serving you for five years, Ma'am."

"Good. Next, she may say how much money are you making me, slave?"

I could have kissed those full red lips. Why can't she work here every day?

"I am making you a three-month average of €$7005, 91% efficiency, Lady Noor Ma'am."

The manicured red nails swiped at her DenWa, ticking me off her list.

"Good." She looked down at my erection and actually snapped a photo. "Apart from that, just work hard as normal. She probably won't talk to machine slaves. Clear?"

I didn't want her to go, but I wasn't about to ask questions, such as Ma'am, why did you just photograph my erect penis?

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And shave these closer." She cupped a hand around my balls and looked up with a frown.

"Lady Noor wants her slaves to always have nice clean-shaven testicles. You should know that after..." She glanced down at my 2053 tattoo. "After a year."

So that's why our section has to drag a disposable razor blade over our ball sacks at 4am every morning. Lady Noor wants to look at her cameras and see smooth testicles dangling and swaying and being kicked by her overseers.

"Now continue working hard, slave!"

She wasn't any less gorgeous from behind. My erection was even fuller now if she'd wanted a second photo. She obviously worked out with that tight body. The hair was jet black, long and perfect. The pleated red skirt finished above the knee to show off well-toned calves in sheer seamed silk. The black court shoes were either patent leather or someone had polished them for at least four hours. And wow, how stylish is that? A gold ankle bracelet.

"Work, slave!"

That was quick. She never even photographed 2F's penis. He got his lines right first time, unfortunately for me and my erection. When she reached 3F, she made a call on her DenWa, and a logistics slave took over his work before Miss Tan spoke to 3F. He was in for extra tuition obviously being a volunteer slave. Miss Tan was with him for over ten minutes. Lucky bastard.

From the moment we were ordered to switch on machines and shouted, kicked and whipped back to work at 4am, it was clearly not business as usual. Overseers in number one dress uniforms were everywhere. This was not the usual early/late shift. This was all hands on deck. The PR ladies were dolled up, and their photography team were out from 0930 with light meters, measuring equipment and a whole truck load of studio lights were placed at strategic locations. Forget production today. Who cares about Spending Targets? Just turn BAe3 into a fucking film set.

The shit cart finally came at 1107. We were ordered to clean up using the special occasion wet wipes provided. "Fucking hate this.", an obviously very junior overseer mumbled in a Bristol accent as she ran a rubber-gloved hand around my balls. "Turn around and bend over!"

Far more serious stuff followed. Four male army officers, three Lieutenants and a Major, checked our rows. One of the Lieutenants checked my cleaning brush and then picked up my three-inch metal file. "Why isn't this sort of shit restrained on a wire?" he asked his colleague. "Bag it. He can work without it for one day." Security of our Uppers was clearly tight.

Lunchtime. An army of short-skirted PR ladies, film crew, hangers on and off-duty overseers drifted along the centre aisle towards the staff restaurant at noon. Lady Noor wasn't arriving just yet then. They could've fed us in that case, but no sign of the food carts.

It was now 1330. The short skirts and starched uniforms, now fed and watered, headed back to the admin areas. Not one machine slave had eaten in twenty-eight hours. No wonder I couldn't shit just now. I thought I caught an aroma of ProCarb when suddenly a young upper-middle class female voice shouted over the PA.

"Tan Sri Lady Noor's helicopters approaching!"

Through the dull frosted factory skylights I saw the silhouette of a huge twin rotor helicopter and another and then another! Even about the factory noise, I could hear the menacing rumble of jet engines and feel the vibrations. I was nervous but surprised to feel that, despite the shitty five years out of my young life, it felt hugely motivating to actually see the Upper you make money for. I knew we would soon be called to attention, but I actually speeded up until the PA shouted the orders.

"All slaves, stop work!"

"Machine slaves, switch off your machines!"

I'd forgotten about that part and almost tripped on my ankle chains as I ran in a panic around to switch off the power.

"All slaves, face the centre aisle!"

In the rare silence, I could hear doors opening and closing and the clipped voice of Mrs Peterson. They're on their way.

"Tan Sri Lady Noor approaching. Stand to attention, slaves!"

Can you imagine the grating sound of 10000 wrist chains moving in unison? I wanted to stick fingers in my ears, and I hoped Lady Noor was still in reception so her royal eardrums were spared that dreadful noise. I was only just in time and I wondered if my ankle chains had crossed as I spread my legs the regulation three feet apart, locked my fingers and touched thumb tips and placed hands on head with thumbs in the nape of the neck. Now was not the time to stand incorrectly. All the overseers in full uniform stood to military attention at the aisle too. On the left edge of my vision, I saw overseers saluting, and a PR lady curtsied. Nearly here.

And there she was, passing four feet in front of me, Tan Sri Lady Noor. Her chin was raised and it showed off her Asian features, high cheekbones, long shiny hair and pert breasts, the healthy confidence of the Upper Class. She was taller than I expected, but was probably wearing heels. I daren't look down obviously. Two Chinese-looking members of Lady Noor's entourage wearing red skirt suits followed respectfully behind, and I recognised one as the very "lookable" Miss Tan from yesterday. She looked me up and down on her way past, almost daring my eyes to follow, but my eyes were locked ahead. Next up, if anyone doubted the seniority of Lady Noor, the next member of her entourage kicked those doubts in the face, quite literally. A moustached face of pure hatred wearing the green beret of the Royal Marine Commandos, a sergeant or colour sergeant. This was no ex-soldier cum overseer, this was an in-service killing machine on attachment as a member of Lady Noor's Close Protection Squad. Miss Tan's eyes might have checked out the scenery, but his eyes focused only on his VVIP, the red face pure brimstone.

Lady Noor reached the end of the aisle and was presumably going to the glass viewing area. I still had eyes front. Big day.

"Get back to work, machine slaves! Continue working hard!"

That was now Lady Noor's Asian voice through the PA. I reached round to switch on my machine. Oh my fucking God! There was Lady Noor just five rows ahead sat in the plush viewing area just like in the motivation videos, with crossed legs, shiny silk pantyhose and, oh yes, heels. What an aura.

The only time I could see her was when I bent down to pick up, and I took full advantage. The fractions of a second wasted weren't going unnoticed by our row duty overseer. Bending down to pick up, I looked up and met Lady Noor's eyes. She showed no emotion when the inevitable leaded whip tore across my back. Sorry, Lady Noor Ma'am.

The sonic whip cracks and shouts intensified in front. Lady Noor was no longer in the viewing area. She was obviously in rows 39 or 40. Royalty or not, slaves can only be trained so far, and those breasts and legs will turn any male heads, even if it ends in leaded whips or steel toe caps. It's worth it.

She was crossing the centre aisle now, crossing row 38. Those silk pantyhose striding with confidence across the red carpet were either very shiny or sparkly, and that hair reached all the way down to a gold waist chain. The figure hugging red one-piece did my erection no favours, even the nipples showed through. I don't think her leaded brown whip was just for show, though, neither was Brimstone two steps behind wielding a pace stick under his left arm, so I worked on at high speed. Miss Tan's shiny heels glistened as she and the photographers jogged across the aisle to catch up.