The CEO hears how bad it is for their workers, but refuses to believe it. So they sneak into the factories in disguise and learn the truth, much to their horror and disgust. Time to make some changes before everyone dies. -- Anon Guest
[AN: Guaranteed no Deregger CEO would do this if they hadn't lost a bet]
"Those shiftless layabouts don't know what's good for them," complained CEO Bes Koppel for the umpty billionth time. "If they want heat, they should work faster"
Trader Cal had had enough. They had heard this song too many times and could not put up with another rendition of it. "I bet you the entire worth of your financial empire - in Time[1] - that you can't live like one of them for six months."
Since one Hour of GalStand trading fiduciary units was worth several billion of Koppel's grinbaks, it was a bet he couldn't refuse. "Holy shit, you are going to be in debt for the rest of your life."
"And I mean really live like them. Bank account and all. You live in one of their houses, eat their food, work their hours, and so on. Hell, I'll even help you out by doing all the research and setting up an alias for you."
"I'll be running the company all over again before the time is up," Koppel boasted. "You just watch."
"Oh I will be," smirked Cal.
It took a week, something that would have been alarming if Koppel wasn't fixated on his imagined wins. He had papers and a name that would pass without comment. He had a home rented via the company store, and a philosophy he planned to live by.
Say yes to everything. Work more than anyone else. Live frugally. He was bound to be Noticed and Elevated in hours.
How little he did know.
Day One.
The only thing that singled him out was that his outfit was new. He gave the excuse that he bought it with the death benefits from a distant uncle. This instantly earned him the nickname 'Swish' and 'Fancy' amongst the others.
Not that they were allowed to talk once they reached the factory floor.
"This is your safety vest, this is your safety hat. Don't lose them, you won't get another."
"They don't fit."
"Make 'em fit. We don't have any spare. You gotta wear them or the bots will maim you. Fastest one on the floor wins an hour in the Green Garden. Unpaid. Non-transferrable. Your quota's a thousand units. Do. Not. Leave. Before you get quota. This is your station one. That's your station two. Over there's your station three. You run between stations, you got that, Swish?"
"Sir, yes sir!"
"We'll be watching you. Just do what the buttons say and you'll be fine."
It was, in essence, a cross between whack-a-mole and the pacer fitness test. Bes was winded before five rounds were up and he did cross fit during his five-hour lunch breaks. There was no chance to catch his breath. No chance to slow down. He had to do it or get docked for being slow.
He did not win the hour in the Green Garden. He had to work through his lunch break and do overtime just to meet his quota. And he had a three-hour commute to his residence. Which meant barely enough time to throw his one set of clothes into the cleansing machines, eat a hasty meal, and collapse into bed.
Four hours' sleep later, the alarm blasted him out of bed and into his new morning routine. Two minutes in the private cleansing booth, ten minutes to ablute or else. The dryer part of his cleansing machines hadn't, so he was forced to wear a damp outfit to work and smell vaguely mildew-y. He filed a repair request to the landlord during the three hours he was travelling back to work.
Day Two.
"Where were you before? You're pretty soft, Fancy."
"I've... recently fallen on bad times."
"Ah. I hear you. My mom got cancer and now I'm here. With cancer, and no medical cover."
People defraud the system all the time, he remembered. I'm not here for sob stories. He repeated his mantra, "Work hard, get rewarded, rise up."
Somebody mumbled, "Bootlicker."
Another day of scrambling, and he wasn't good at it. Working through lunch. Working overtime. Cat-napping on the public transit, this time, because exhaustion was already biting him. The landlord had removed the cleansers. All of them. They'd left a note, Be grateful for what you got, STINKY!
He tried to wash his things with the residence water. It was brown and smelled weird. He did not run the taps again.
On the third day, he injured himself. The ill-fitting safety helmet fell off mid-dash. He didn't have time to scoop it up and the security drones attacked him before he could fetch it on the way back to station one.
He woke up in a Galactic hospital, and thanked his lucky stars. His current alias could not afford the company ones. Not with the debt he had already racked up.
"Give up?" said Cal.
His employees weren't lazy. He could see that now. Overworked, underpaid, in terror of the next accident, and with not enough time to be careful. He couldn't even hack it a week. "...'es please," he croaked.
[1] The Galactic Alliance trade unit of choice is time, you can only invest it, once it's spent, you can't get it back, and so on. A further system of rights and responsibilities ensures that nobody suffers for their lifestyle choices.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / alphaspirit]
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