In which there is a new management philosophy
A
t STOP headquarters, the three directors, Ferguson Poordraw, Pietro Fairway and May Welby, were now receiving Mycroft Vermicelli, leader of the new manufacturing unions. At the side of the room, on an inferior chair, was a small, dark-haired man with a notepad and pencil.
Mycroft was standing in front of the table, twisting a cloth cap between his hands.
“Don’t twist it too much,” said Poordraw. “The peak is made of prime doku-leather, imported at enormous cost, especially to the doku. The burgers were delicious, by the way.”
“I don’t see why I have to twist it,” said Vermicelli.
“Cap twisting is an expression of humility,” said Fairway. “We like to feel superior to our employees. That’s why it was issued to you on the way in. ‘Twisting Corbett Caps’ don’t grow on trees, you know.”
“I’ll admit it does feel good,” said Vermicelli, “and if it belonged to Saint Corbett, then I am honoured to twist the headgear of the man who single-handedly destroyed the old capitalist rule and got the young people to vote (for him), whilst running up incredible debts, that the only way we could repay was by burning down the finance district, and making the cryptocurrency, BitKhan, illegal. This of course led to us re-adopting the Drachma, as the only coinage nobody had lost faith in, mainly because it hadn’t been used for millennia. What a guy… but that’s not why I’m here.”
“And why are you here?” said Welby, more kindly. “You know we always like to listen to our people.”
“Working conditions, redundancies, and shortage of burgers.”
“Conditions are as good as they ever were,” said Poordraw. “You were happy with SCT when the previous lax regime was in control. It was a wonder anything was ever achieved during those laidback times.”
“We worked because we enjoyed it,” said Vermicelli, “and we were given freedom to do our own developments and variations. You would never have had the ‘P’ units without the advances Pete and the lads did to communication drones.”
“You have produced them and they are in use,” said Poordraw.
“As weapons. We never planned them to be used as weapons, especially to track down our former CEO.”
“All advanced technology finds a use in the armaments industry,” said Poordraw. “It’s the way we get rid of this blight that is money, as decreed by Saint Corbett. We use any spare cash to finance weapon development, and of course, the health service, which really is needed after we use the weapons. It’s a perpetual system... perfect.”
“That is not how we planned it. We designed them for the good of everyone, to bring the various planets together by communication, transparency and common goals.”
“What are you trying to say?” May Welby rested her chin on her hands and regarded the man with apparent concern.
“The lads have worked solidly for the last month on the latest designs, and they need a rest. The control drone, P17, was the best of the bunch. We didn’t intend you to have it loaded with explosive.”
“I can see you are distressed,” said Poordraw. “I will organise a short break for you all. How does a holiday in Guacamole Cove sound?”
“The decommissioned SCT detention and interrogation centre?”
“Conditions are wonderful there, and since all the security measures were removed and most of the mines deactivated, it is a very pleasant environment; very relaxing.”
“I suppose I could put it to my members.”
“One thing, before you do,” said Poordraw. “We seem to have lost touch with P17, despite all that advanced technology you fitted.”
“I can switch on the remote tracking beacon. P17 was fitted with an adaptive neuromorphic processor, so it may have got distracted by a flower show or something. It won’t take long to recall.”
“Perhaps you can show Mr Singpurvitch here. He is visiting from Nishant, who provide all the material for you to convert into space vehicles. He is interested in seeing how you use his technology.”
The man at the side of the room stood and bowed. “My pleasure,” he said in a slightly stilted accent. “Pleased I am Singpurvitch, head of development and office dividers at unpretentious Nishant Corporation.”
Vermicelli held out his hand in greeting but Singpurvitch bowed more deeply. The union leader bowed awkwardly in return and his head hit the now extended hand of the Nishant man. He took it and shook uncomfortably.
“I here in observation mode, only. Please to ignore.” Singpurvitch sat down again.
“Is that all?” said Poordraw, standing and shuffling a sheaf of papers on the desk.
“We haven’t talked about working conditions at all,” said Vermicelli.
“I thought they were some of the best,” said Welby.
“And a new leader we have.”
“Mr Errorcode is doing splendidly. He is always telling us so.”
“He has appointed a ‘Chief Misery Officer’. We are really confused. Motivation was never a problem at SCT.”
“The CMO was my idea,” said Poordraw. “I saw that productivity was dropping, and came up with that new post. Mr Errorcode seemed glad to employ a helper. Mr Dullman, originally from the Greedy Universal Taxation System, seems to be doing splendidly.”
“But people are miserable now. He keeps introducing new rules, and new targets.”
“With promises of big rewards,” said Poordraw.
“We have never managed to claim any prize, however hard we try. It is very demoralising.”
Poordraw stood up, so that he could look down on the union man. “It is a psychological fact, that if you are dejected, seeing other people comfortable makes you even more miserable. Therefore, having a CMO to make the happy people miserable serves to actually lift the average level of morale. You can all be miserable together and therefore take communal comfort in that feeling. It is a superb team-building technique, exclusive to the STOP Corporation. It works perfectly for our car park attendants...”
“Vehicle Storage Consultants,” put in Welby. “The new title gave them that essential bit of self-importance to ensure they perform their roles to the correct level of pomposity.”
“It was a good move,” said Fairway.
There was a sound of furious scribbling from the Nishant man.
“Is that all?” said Poordraw.
“No, sir. We now have external contract supervisors, who blame us for any problems, but always claim our successes were entirely down to their great leadership.”
“And you still do your work? Most commendable. Good staff, great work ethics.” Fairway smiled benevolently.
“What keeps you going then?” said Welby.
Vermicelli gave her a sad smile. “It’s the rewards: promotion, vacations, company cars and the key to the executive washroom. Trouble is, whenever we achieve those extended targets, there is always something not quite right, and we get nothing.”
“I am pleased that Monty’s management choices are being so effective,” said Poordraw. “I wondered if I was right to let him use former senior traffic-wardens—”
“Transport Advancement Specialists...” put in Welby.
“—in middle management. It’s all reverse psychology. The idea is to traumatise the workers so they do a great job in defiance.”
“It’s not working,” said Vermicelli, sweating now. “The engineers are talking about going on strike.”
“Strike?” Poordraw illustrated the point by bringing his fist down on the table. “Strike? How dare they strike? This company pays over the odds for high quality work.”
“I’m only saying what the guys feel,” said Vermicelli, twisting the cap nervously. “And what about the redundancies?”
“There will be no redundancies,” said Poordraw, “and you can all have the holiday you deserve. Once P17 returns, you can reprogram it and start on the next batch of drones. The new batch will be for communication only, I promise. Do you think you can get the guys to show Mx. Singpurvitch around before you go on your break? Goodbye.” He turned away to talk to Fairway.
Vermicelli smiled and placed the cap back on the bronze bust of Saint Corbett at the door. “I’ll get right on to it, Mx. Poordraw. Come along, Mx. Singpurvitch. Oh, and the burgers, Mx. Welby?”
“I will ensure new supplies are provided right away. We do seem to have a small infestation of the beasts at the moment, which will need to be removed.”
After the door closed behind the union man, Poordraw rubbed his hands together. “I omitted to tell whatever his name was, that the Guacamole Cove holiday facility has not been totally decommissioned. Once they are inside, the Nishant staff can take over the plant. When Singpurvitch has all the command codes, we will be fully prepared to outsource all production.”
Welby stood up, knocking her champagne mug over. “You didn’t tell me you were outsourcing the work. I thought you said there would be no redundancies.”
“It was Errorcode’s idea,” said Poordraw, “but I am totally in agreement. Nishant can do the work for half the price, and if we can stand the scheduled, embarrassingly fatal, systems failures, we will be manage reasonably, with no effort at all on our part. We don’t have to worry about loss of face, because we have no competition to lose face to, the punters don’t matter anyway, and we can blame it all on Nishant if there are any legal issues."
“But do we have to outsource?” said Welby. “We already make enough profit from the parking systems.”
“We do, but if we want to maintain our income, we need to continue to expand. Hence, we require the extra capital to make something more useful than a drone. We need to move into the rest of the galaxy with long range warships and carpark-forming machines. There are many worlds out there desperate for some order in their vehicle management, and we, the experts, can bring it.”
“And of course, we can implement traffic restrictions, penalties and fewer holes in the road,” said Fairway. “We already control all the government ministers here. We need to extend that grip to other locations... Is it a problem for you, May Welby?”
“It may well be.” Welby was scowling. “Have you no consideration for your staff, or your planet?”
“What benefit would that bring?” Poordraw glared at her. “Have you any complaints about your salary? Do you need a bit more finance for your... fourth yacht, is it?”
“Fifth, if I was going to buy one. Already I’ve run out of things to add to my collection. The only things I haven’t got, belong to you two.”
“All’s correct,” said Poordraw. “As minority shareholder, you will have to follow our decisions. I ask again, is it a problem?”
“No... no problem. Ionly wish you’d listen to my thoughts on treatment of the workforce.”
“We don’t need to treat them at all, apart from a spell in the Cove. We have outsourced and that’s final. Be grateful we haven’t deported them all to Nishant too.”
“We wanted to,” said Fairway, “but Nishi refused to take them. He said they took up too much space with their, and I quote, ‘lardy pizza-and-pie bloated arses, pleased to take no offence’. He said he could physically get three of his workers into every gap needed by one of the former SCT people. Talking about SCT, now that you have effectively disbanded the workforce, what do we do with the old facility?”
Poordraw smiled. “I’m sure we have some biological weapons we can store, or perhaps we can let the military use it for target practise.”
“Or maybe convert it into an exclusive holiday resort?” said Welby hopefully. “Perhaps expand Guacamole Cove to cover the whole island and redeploy the SCT people as waiters and cleaning staff?”
“A good idea about the waiters,” said Fairway, “but we already have a regular supply from Bonigalia. They come over, hidden in container trucks, you know. Very cheap to employ them, and they don’t carry too many lethal diseases.”
“You may be right,” said Welby, “but we should still offer jobs to our loyal ex-staff... perhaps in vehicle repair and refitting. After the punters use our economy parking facilities, their vehicles are usually in need of some maintenance. We will have our staff on standby to do repairs while they do their shopping. We could even have the car ready for them in exactly the same state as it was when it arrived.”
“Brilliant,” said Fairway. “And we can get the spares off the people who have wrecked the cars in the first place. A self-perpetuating system. So without the incumbents of the Cove, you are suggesting we turn SCT into a holiday island?”
“We really do need one,” said Welby. “Since we paved over the mainland and built new roads and affordable housing, that nobody can afford without selling their organs to the health service, we need somewhere for people to get away to, apart from the lower classes of course; we don’t want those sort of people hooting and roaring while decent folks try to drink enough to make themselves sick. We could use holidays to improve motivation in the workforce by running monthly competitions, and awarding breaks to whoever brings in the most revenue from traffic fines.”
“And of course, the winning operatives will be allowed to nominate their supervisors to come with them,” said Poordraw thoughtfully, “and those supervisors can nominate their leaders, right up to the top of the tree, us. That way at least one of us would be guaranteed a holiday every month. What better motivation? A great idea. May, please start the building work on the island, and make sure there is a large car park, and perhaps even a nice bridge from the mainland, if you can find some material to build it that doesn’t dissolve in the floating toxic waste.”
