Just preparing myself to go away for the weekend, but before I went I thought I'd pop up our latest FREEBIE FRIDAY - last week we treated you to the full story Five an Hour, which serves as a great introduction to the collection.
Today's extract is from the closing story of the collection, DOWNSIZE by Allen Ashley. I've long been a fan of Allen's work, and consider him one of the most original authors working within the genre today. And Downsize is typical of this, being a story that is highly topical - namely, just how far will an employee go to keep their job...
So enjoy, and we'll be back next week with another fab freebie friday...
Thanks
Alex
Downsize (extract)
By Allen Ashley
My first time in the loyalty chair was characterised by a sudden sharp pain gradually followed by dreaming bliss. This was essentially how I imagined the injection of a Class A drug might feel. I had no personal experience to draw on, however, and, indeed, suffer from a generalised aversion to needles.
The
vision lasted for about fifteen minutes in real time though my
somnolent mind perceived a much longer duration. I was transported
back to a recollection of younger years: fairly accurate but mended,
rose-tinted and golden rather than grey, dreary and urban. I was a
little loath to leave this better version behind.
I
felt hardly changed afterwards, although I undoubtedly was. Maybe the
effect would be stronger in the cumulative rather than the singular.
With the way the global economy was shrinking, I felt sure I’d have
another turn in the loyalty chair again quite soon.
The
gents’ toilet of Hirojima Financial was, as usual, a repository of
rumours.
“I
heard there’s restructuring going on. Serious downsizing.”
“Can’t
be worse than Jones And Co. They sacked all the cleaners there last
month so everybody left has to get in half an hour earlier every day
to hoover the floors and shine the taps and stuff. And
they
have to take the hand towels home and launder them.”
“That’s
nothing. The DG’s secretary at Platt Systems has had to start going
down on him twice a week just to stay on the payroll!”
“You’re
having me on!”
“No,
I’m not. Good job she’s not a bloke, I s’pose.”
“Who
told you this?”
“Just
the old fashioned grapevine, mate. No smoke without fire, if you know
what I mean. Anyway, gotta get back to my desk. Don’t want to be in
the firing line.”
I
washed my own hands quickly and held them under the foetid hot air
drier till I could see no more coagulating drops. I walked rather
than use the lift. Got to get some sort of exercise apart from RSI
and eye strain. At the far wall of the department the dollar sign
glowed large and red, the lower case e representing the Euro remained
strong and white but the blue pound sign seemed fainter, smaller. The
fluctuating market had changed even during my brief nature call.
Sometimes matters moved with remarkable haste, other times the
illuminations glowed with constant static precision for days and
nights on end.
On
the way back to my screen, I passed the lovely Christine, who
continued to resist my polite but definite amorous overtures. She was
wearing a short-sleeved white blouse and her downy arms moved over
the keyboard with the grace of a pianist. She threw back her bobbed
blonde hair but ignored me as I passed. Steve was at my desk,
cribbing some export figures for the last quarter.
“Have
you heard?” I began.
“Yeah.
Big time downsizing. We’ll be all right, though, mate. You been in
that loyalty chair yet?”
“Just
the once. You?”
He
unbuttoned his cuff and showed me his small blue implant. “Any day
now, I hope,” he smiled. “I tell you what, Dave, I think me and
you’ll be OK. I reckon we’ve got jobs here for life if we want
them.”
That’s
a big if, I thought but didn’t say.
Beyond
the window, the staff of Salt Mine Securities buzzed as busily as
ever and in the street below the shoppers and skiving commuters
crawled like worker ants. Life as normal.
In
the constant shadow of the sword of Damocles.
The
Divisional Chairman, Mr St John, called a general staff meeting at
six-thirty on Friday. I could see that several of my colleagues were
itching to let off steam down the pub or catch commuter trains back
to long-suffering families but aside from a few stifled yawns, nobody
let on at the inconvenience of the forced, unpaid overtime.
“I
just wanted to reassure all of you that we are maintaining a
continued commitment to our current workforce,” he began. “Yes,
you will undoubtedly experience some hardship during this period of
shrinkage but, as I’m sure you’re aware, in the current climate
we must look at and indeed grasp
every
opportunity to cut our costs. I believe we will be able to emerge
from this with a slimmed-down but more efficient and indeed healthier
workforce.
Any questions?”
Caroline
cleared her throat and nervously asked, “Are you saying in effect
that everyone is going to be forced to undergo the ordeal of the
loyalty chair?”
“Well,
I wouldn’t exactly describe it as an ordeal, my dear.”
“I’ve
heard it will interfere with my ability to bear children.”
“The
old conundrum, I’m afraid: family or career. But to answer your
question, it’s likely that we may make further use of the loyalty
chair. With suitable modifications. It’s really nothing to be
afraid of,” he smiled.
The
pregnant silence was only punctuated by an embarrassed rustling of
papers and slight shuffling of feet.
“Well,
if there’s no further questions... Good. I trust you will all have
an enjoyable and relaxing weekend.”
Allen Ashley is an author, an award-winning editor, a prize-winning poet and a writing tutor. He won the British Fantasy Society Award for Best Anthology in 2006 as editor of The Elastic Book Of Numbers (Elastic Press, 2005). He leads the advanced writing group Clockhouse London Writers. He is the judge for the BFS Short Story Competition 2013.
Copyright
© Allen Ashley 2004
No comments:
Post a Comment