Remote control units

Originally the mine had been mothballed for years as metal prices languished at unprofitable levels. When Turner Minerals purchased it, management planned for operations to be as automated as possible. Annoyingly, it was found that even with the best machines, basic unskilled human labour was still going to be needed. Management immediately outsourced human recruitment to Dillon Consulting, it did so with an unstated policy of ‘find the staff, we don’t want to know how’.

With minimum cost set as the main aim, the corrupt employment contractor profiled what physically capable, powerless, General Hands he would look for. The workers had to be male, eighteen to twenty-six years, heterosexual, lower than average in IQ with smaller to medium body frames.

Investigations into operational costs then found that the remoteness of the mine, harsh conditions and constant hard work were going to mean continual turn-over of staff leaving and having to be replaced. An endless problem and a hit to profits. As an unacceptable possibility, Turner Minerals decided they would ‘hire’ but with no intention to send back. Workers would ultimately remain marooned for the life of the mine.

The recruitment decision meant that candidates had to be absolutely healthy and free of major social connections, family or otherwise. Orphans, loners or runaways easily translated into no one noticing their exit or absence.

As part of the same cost focus, Turner identified footwear, socks and gloves as critical for worker productivity. A cheap thin fabric boiler suit would be needed to give comfort for recruits to get on the plane but any replacement of it, other clothing or luxuries would be a waste of profit.

*

With the target profile set, recruitment began through Dillon. The slightly above average pay sparked interest across the unskilled and under educated segment. Turner ignored cost concerns relating to wages, it had no intention to pay.

With six-months to assemble the first team of a dozen workers, Charles Dillon took his time to carefully check the applications. He spread the interviews across the eastern seaboard and made sure not to meet people known to each other. At the five-month mark, he emailed his Turner contacts to confirm he had the men needed.

As a closeted gay with the luxury of choice, he reviewed all the medical appointment videos recorded via the hidden cameras. For no other reason than it pleased him, he always picked candidates endowed with larger than average cocks. He copied the videos as private wank off material.

With names in hand, Dillon Consulting made employment offers and coordinated transport to the central departure point. The initial dozen strong team spent two weeks in isolated basic training. The isolation was to confirm there were no ‘hidden’ external contacts, not a single phone call was made from the facility.

The plane touched down on the mine’s private runway, unloaded and began its departure prep. One by one the new recruits immediately attended the nearby sick bay for an arrival medical check. As each worker was called in, the white coated doc checked their blood pressure, heart rate and a few vitals. As he finished each, he locked an individually coded metal collar low around their throats. When the inevitable complaints were raised, he dismissed them as trivial.

“It’s a temporary GPS link, so no one gets lost in the desert. It’s for safety, that’s why you can’t remove it,” the medico explained before exiting each to a secured but dusty courtyard, and calling ‘next’ towards the waiting room.

The medicals took just twenty-five minutes to complete. When the courtyard held a dozen faces the new team were directed a hundred meters north, towards their sleeping and eating accommodation. As the group trudged off, the doc walked back to the plane.

While the recruits inspected their shockingly sparse dormitories, they heard the plane depart. Their luggage hadn’t been unloaded?

*

Tom and Blondie worked naked but for their boots in the truck service bay’s store house. They had been at the mine for three years and eighteen months respectively. Their original ill-fitting, paper thin orange boiler suits were long gone.

As a rule, new Hands stretched seven to ten months from their clothing issue, despite being deliberately designed to be uncomfortable to wear. Eventually the fabric degenerated to ‘rags’, which was where the Team’s collective nickname had been earned.

The storage department’s TCF32 Unit activated and sprung to life as Ted, finding his targets, remote logged into its central processor. His avatar’s face appeared on the humanoid machine’s chest mounted flat screen.

“Rags” said Ted over the machine’s synthesised audio system.

“Ted” came the unenthusiastic but unified reply.

“You here to mess with us?” asked Tom bluntly.

“Be nice” cautioned Ted, “Not going to mess. Maybe have some fun that’s all. You know, finish off where you got to with Jim.”

“That’s mess’in!” added Blondie with a note of stress.

“Maybe, but it’s what I feel like.”

“I just came for Jim, I can’t cum again so quick” whined Tom.

“That’s OK, lie down and let me watch Blondie here blow across your face.” The boys didn’t move. Ted reached to his pod panel and hit a virtual button for half a second. Instantly both Hand’s grabbed at their metal collars and shrieked in pain.

“On your back Tom, not going to ask again.” Reluctantly the guy lowered himself to the dust covered concrete floor and resigned himself to his fate. It was the third time this week he been forced to do this gay shit.

“Sit on his chest Blondie,” instructed the menacing seven-foot android. The small framed guy moved as directed and instantly started to work six inches to harden. “Make it look good.” He did.

* * *

A week later, somewhere in cyberspace, the Dark Crew’s overdue avatar blinked and buzzed into existence. It was Tony who had been getting his truck set up in the wash bay.

“Sorry I’m late” he apologised to the five avatars standing in what resembled an English gentleman’s club. It was David’s virtual creation and the luxurious illusion had become Delta Net’s meeting cavern for the Dark Crew.

“How long do you have?” asked David.

“It’s a full wash cycle,” replied Tony, “twenty minutes.”

“Good, let’s get to it.” Said David, the electronic figures nodded.

“I wanted to update you guys on the stuff we spoke of last meeting.” The leader continued. “These will be showing up on site next week,” a gleaming silver cylindrical object appeared and hovered mid-air at the centre of the circle. It was twenty centimeters long, fifteen centimeters in circumference and had a veiny, uneven surface. A virtual metallic cock.

“Shit!” exclaimed Jim, “it’s fucking thick! We’ll have to be careful we don’t rip their arses to shreds.”

“It’s the size we agreed,” defended David, “but you’re right, we’ll have to be careful.”

“They’ll stretch,” offered Alex, “not like they have a choice.” He smiled broadly.

“That maybe the case, but I think for the first month we should agree to go easy. Agreed?” Asked Tony.

“Whatever.” Replied Alex before realising the five were scowling at him. “Agreed,” He added quickly.

“We best not get them all sent to the same place,” advised David. “I’ve spread deliveries across the site. I’ll let you know individually where to pick yours up from. Make sure it’s kept absolutely out of the way. It’s stamped as a conveyor roller but we don’t want any to become a topic of curiosity.”

“We’ll keep ours in forty-seven, I suppose?” Jim quizzed Ted. Ted’s electronic form shrugged.

“Best place, although somewhere near where the Rags get drunk might be more fun.”

“Work that out later,” cut in Tony, abruptly. “Thirteen minutes.”

“Right, next item,” said David, pausing for dramatic purposes, “as I’m Turner’s nominated avatar assistant for ‘Rag Health’, I wanted to let you guys know what ‘Meat Bag’ management have planned.” He added, using the slang term for the Desert Team Human Resources unit.  “As usual, annual medicals start next month, I’m rostered on to help.”

“A shift at a time?” Asked Stuart. David nodded.

“As usual, the doc is going to log in as his robot, but his unit’s upgrades mean it doesn’t have the strength it once did. I’ll be there as muscle in case any of the Rags get cute.”

“In a full security droid?” Asked Jim. Another nod. “Cool! They’re sweet machines to drive.”

“Doc confirmed?” Asked Alex.

“Tennyson, thank god.” answered David.

“Nice!” interjected Ted.

“Yeah, real nice,” repeated David. “He’s a pretty ordinary doc, doesn’t mind if I get rough with the Rags, and gets off on me occasionally feeling them up in front of him.”

“He’s a true find,” offered Jim, “how many incompetent, gay doctors are there? And, we luck on to one.”

“The company keeps him because he’s cheap and because he ignores Rags who complain. They could lose a leg and he’d say it was a scratch.” Replied David as the group laughed.

“You arrange his bribe?” asked Ted.

“Delivered by courier last week.” Said David. “For insurance we filmed him signing for it, but seriously, $500 from each of us is bribery at its cheapest.”

“Six minutes” advised Tony watching the clock.

“OK, so the medicals.” Hurried David. “Each Rag will get a ball chip after being hair stripped. By the way, stripping will be on-going from then on. Management are pissed that the dickheads won’t cut their hair.”

“Nice for us.” Observed Alex.

“Yes.” Agreed the leader. “After the chips are activated the Rags are going to start getting seriously horny. There’s going to be a lot of hard-ons, the other Drivers are definitely going to notice.”

“We all laugh about seeing them with hard-ons now?” replied Stuart.

“True,” acknowledged David, “but it’s going to be constant across the whole team. We need Tennyson to get us a believable excuse. It won’t be an issue in six months, but we have to manage the behaviour change the other Drivers will notice.”

“Let’s meet in two weeks,” called David. “We can sync our dick cylinders to our pod urine sheafs at the same time.”

“Fuck I’m hard already” declared Jim.

“We all are!” Smiled David, they were done.

With the meeting over the avatars vanished one by one. Tony’s vision instantly shifted back to the cab of Truck Twenty-Six. The last of the rinse cycle was dripping away. He logged back into real time without creating so much as a ripple in the mines eco system. Ninety seconds to spare, fuck they were good!