Writers of the Future 32 Science Fiction & Fantasy Anthology (L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future)

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “She not old enough to earn something herself, yet?” asked Anna.

  “My Charlotte? Oh no, not yet. Well, I mean, she’s five now, and I hear they’re using kids that young down the lead mines ’cos they scare easier at that age. They send them down to get all frit up by the dark, and then they sit them in a bucket with a load of mined lead, and them kids look up and see a bit of light at the top of the shaft and they start lifting the bucket with their Squalor ’cos of how they’re so frantic to get out.”

  “No!” Anna covered her mouth in shock. “That’s awful, the poor buggers!” The image of her brothers down a pit, terrified and sobbing, flashed into her mind, and Anna gave a shudder that had nowt to do with the factory’s winter chill.

  “I know, terrible how people’ll take advantage of them that need the pay. If they tried to take my little Charlotte away from me and scare her like that, I’d tell them what for. They’d be jumping down that mineshaft themselves to hide from me, I tell you. The things they do to us desperate folk are awful. I’m not surprised them Luddites are making progress like they are.” Sally sat down again, feet in the water bucket and hands on the handles, and started her loom up.

  Anna peered around, making sure no one was close enough to overhear, then leaned in closer to Sally. “I keep hearing about these Luddites, since I started, but who are they?”

  Sally checked around herself before answering, her voice barely audible over the sound of her loom. Her shuttle never slowed: she had the knack of focusing her Squalor without thinking about it. “I hear they started off wrecking machines, right? Supposed to be this one woman called Nelly Ludd who didn’t agree with engines, said they were instruments of cruelty and shackles round the poor. No one’s ever seen her, but there’s this whole following now, and they aren’t just wrecking the odd machine anymore. I hear they’re threatening to shut factories down, if Shuttleworth won’t listen to their demands.”

  “What they asking for?”

  “Saying they’re the voice of the people, right? That everyone’s getting worked too hard and paid too little, and it ain’t fair to take advantage of people’s suffering to drive machinery. Squalor’s a gift from God to help them what need it most, and twisting it like this is the Devil’s work.”

  “Sir John ain’t that bad as they go, though, is he? He don’t hurt no one to coax their Squalor, not like some I’ve heard of.”

  “Anna Williams,” boomed a voice. Anna startled in shock, and saw Sir John Shuttleworth on his balcony. He stood with a speaking trumpet, reading a sheet of paper—probably a list of names against looms so he could pick her out from the floor. She glanced back at her shuttle, stationary on the weave.

  Sir John lifted the trumpet to his mouth again. “Come up to my office please, Anna Williams.”

  Anna picked her way across the factory floor, rough stone hard on her bare feet. The clattering and clacking of the shuttles beat against her ears as her heart beat against her chest. She passed row upon row of grim-faced women, all with their feet in water buckets, all gripping lead handles tight. The cold made ’em needy for the warm cotton coming out the looms, wishing they could wrap themselves in it. That need drove their Squalor, and their Squalor drove the machines.

  Sir John Shuttleworth stood at the top of the iron stairs, awaiting her. His swept-back silver hair was stark against the black cloak he wore; his back was straight and his hands were clasped behind him. He stared down his hawkish nose at Anna as she climbed, and indicated his open door.

  She hadn’t been in the office before. It was rich and warm, all mahogany and gilt, but the smell was what stood out. Where the factory floor was the single sharp note of sweet cotton, the office was earthy and musky and full of subtle scents, as complex as a summer forest at dusk.

  She was about to step onto the plush rug before the desk, eager to feel its softness between her toes, when the noise of the factory cut out and Sir John’s voice said, quiet and dismissive, “Please remain on the floorboards. The water from your feet would damage the carpet.”

  Anna set her foot down again and lowered her eyes as Sir John brushed past.

  He seated himself and studied her over steepled fingers. “Miss Williams, pray tell: do I employ you to stand around conversing?”

  “No, Sir John.” Be a meek little mouse, that’s what he wants.

  “Are you singularly possessed of the unique ability to drive your loom without actually being sat at it?”

  “No, Sir John.”

  “Then kindly explain why you waste my time and factory space on conversations with your neighbor!”

  “I was helping her unstick her shuttle,” Anna said, lifting her face to look at Sir John. “It’s getting awful worn, and it ain’t fair to make her pay for—”

  “Is your shuttle in full working order, Miss Williams?”

  “Well yes, but—”

  “Then no one else’s shuttle is any of your concern.”

  “But if you’d just—”

  “Enough!” Sir John slammed his palm on the desk, cutting Anna off. “This insubordination will be noted on your file.”

  She lowered her eyes again. So much for meek little mouse. Can’t help but get involved, can you?

  Sir John shuffled through papers till he arrived at her file. “Your address is Mrs. Hobble’s orphanage in town?” His voice was no longer angry, but curious. Anna didn’t trust the change.

  “Yes, Sir John. I been raised there these last six years, and Mrs. Hobble lets me rent a room still.”

  “And, in your opinion, are the boys there healthy, well-fed and strong?”

  Anna stumbled for a moment. Boys? It was all women on the factory floor. Sally said men didn’t have the common sense to make a loom work, they were stupid brutes that could only use fear and anger for their Squalor. What could he want boys for? Children? There’s no work for kids except—oh no, the mines! What if he sends my brothers down a pit? Daniel’d choke down there, he hates being cooped up. Even Charlie’d struggle, and Jacob’s so young—

  “You seem to be having some trouble, Miss Williams.”

  Anna said nothing.

  “Perhaps it is that you do not trust me. No, do not trouble to deny it—I fully expect you have heard mutterings on the floor . . . especially of late.” His face darkened for a moment; he dispelled it with a soft shake. “The truth is, I do not expect you to understand. I work for the betterment of the Empire and to the glory of Queen Victoria, a goal too lofty for your concerns. Thanks to Parkes’ new lead alloy, Britain alone possesses the secret to channeling Squalor for industrial purposes. The Prussians may think to challenge us, fueled as they are by the coal reserves we so sorely lack, but we are lifted anew by a fresh spirit of invention built on the Squalor of the working class. The prize we compete for is the world itself, and all Britain would prosper from its riches; and if the price seems heavy now, the reward will be worth it. You may not trust me, but I assure you that, ultimately, I work with your best interests at heart. So I ask again: are the boys at the orphanage healthy and robust?”

  Anna searched for something, anything to say, but what could she do? Sir John donated to the orphanage, and if he thought Mrs. Hobble wasn’t running the place right . . . “Yes, Sir John. Proper fed and raised well.”

  “Good. Do tell Mrs. Hobble that I shall be enquiring with her forthwith, and she is to ensure that the boys are ready for presentation at all times. That will be all, thank you.” Sir John indicated the door behind Anna and turned to his papers, his earlier tirade apparently forgotten.

  Pale faces followed her back to her loom, but Anna paid them no mind. What have I done? If he takes my boys . . . but what else could I have said? Oh, if only I’d not stood around nattering.

  She stopped, her path blocked. Maud Farlin, gruff, broad, and imposing, stood in her way.

  “You all right, girl?” asked Maud.r />
  “Yes, thank you.” It hadn’t taken Anna long to clock Maud. She was the mother of the factory floor, but not soft and caring. No, she was a mother fox, watching over everyone and fighting for ’em tooth and claw. Properly speaking, she was just another worker, but all the women looked to her.

  “Shuttleworth didn’t give you no grief now, did he?”

  “No.”

  Maud stared intently, but Anna kept quiet. She’d let her mouth run away with her too much already today.

  Maud grunted. “All right then. But you let me know if ever he does, right?”

  Anna nodded and went back to her loom. In a few moments her feet were back in the water bucket, her hands were clasped around the lead grips, and the shuttle was running back and forth across the weave and filling Anna’s ears and mind with noise.

  The winter winds chilled Anna something terrible as she walked the two miles back through Burnley, and she was grateful for the kitchen fire when she stepped in through the side door of the orphanage.

  “Anna! Oh love, you look frozen.” Mrs. Hobble looked up from the tall kitchen table where she stood slicing bread. Her clothes were faded, layered on her round frame, but there was still enough color in them to clash. “Come in, quick, and shut that door. Here, have yourself a slice. You need something in you to ward off a chill.”

  Anna sat on a kitchen stool and unwound her scarf as Mrs. Hobble spread a thin layer of watery butter on a slice of bread. Anna took it without argument and began to eat.

  “I’ve brought my rent,” she said between slow mouthfuls, putting a mixed handful of shillings and pennies on the table.

  “Oh, you daft sod. I keep telling you, we don’t need your charity. You can stay here for nowt for as long as there’s room.”

  “The house is riddled with holes, there ain’t never enough to go around, and you’re always taking more orphans in, so don’t tell me you don’t need charity.”

  “We need charity, love, but we don’t need yours. You’ve got yourself to look after.”

  “You looked after me for long enough, so if I can help in any way, I will.”

  “Oh love, you don’t half say some daft things. Seeing you all grown up and standing on your own two feet is repayment enough, especially seeing you grown to care for others. You’re not that feral girl looking out for her own that I first met. So don’t you worry. You owe us nothing.”

  “Even so, I ain’t taking it back. It’s yours.”

  Mrs. Hobble put the bread knife down with a sigh. She’d sliced off a dozen or more slices of bread in the time they’d been talking, but the loaf hadn’t gotten any smaller.

  Anna frowned. “Are you going hungry again so as you can stretch the food for the kids?”

  “Needs must, love. Using my Squalor’s the only way I can get enough food to get them through this winter.”

  “And what good is it to them if you can’t get through the winter? Take the money to buy some more and have yourself something to eat now. There soup left in that pot?” Anna nodded toward the kitchen fire.

  “Aye, love, some chicken broth. It’s been on for three days though, so it’s getting a bit thin. I don’t know as it’s worth stretching out any longer.”

  “You’ve gone hungry for three days? I’m not having that! Get that money put away in your desk and I’ll sort us both some bread and broth. Three days, you daft bint!”

  Mrs. Hobble smiled, an exhausted smile between cheeks cracked red by winter, but Anna thought she could see some pride there, too. “All right then, I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She went back into the house, skirts rustling as she left the warmth of the kitchen.

  Anna sliced the last of the bread up, taking care with the knife against the tough, stale crust, and then took two bowls over to the pot and ladled some chicken broth out. Three days! I can’t hardly remember hunger like that. It must be bruising her insides to be so empty. Anna’s stomach clenched in sympathy, an oddly warm sensation. She filled both bowls: it hadn’t looked like there was much left, but somehow it stretched. It was surprising how much these old iron pots could hold.

  The door burst open and her three younger brothers rushed in, tumbling into Anna’s legs with shouts of excitement.

  Anna laughed, put the bowls down, and crouched to hug them each in turn. “And what are you little buggers doing up still, eh? I expect Mrs. Hobble here put you to bed an hour or more ago, yet here you are!”

  Jacob, the youngest at seven, pulled Anna down into another hug and whispered in her ear, “We love you.”

  A tide of love and gratitude swept through Anna while Jacob’s small hands tangled in her dark hair. “I love you too,” she said through a choked throat.

  ADRIAN MASSARO

  “We miss you when you’re not here,” said Charlie, the oldest of the three boys. He was taller now at twelve than Anna at seventeen, and just as serious as her too. He’d been old enough when they’d arrived at the orphanage six years before to know what was going on, and he’d needed to grow up near as fast as Anna; Daniel had been only two at the time, Jacob not even walking yet.

  Anna would do anything for them to keep their innocence.

  “Well I’ll still be here in the morning,” she said, smiling, “so you can get yourselves to bed now, aye? Go on with you, up the wooden hill you go!”

  They filed out the door past Mrs. Hobble. Jacob and Daniel chattered as they went, and even Charlie was smiling. Mrs. Hobble saw them up the stairs before she came back and sat at the counter for her broth and bread.

  “Eat up then,” said Mrs. Hobble, dipping a slice.

  “You’ll look out for them, won’t you?” asked Anna in a quiet voice.

  “Of course I will! I always have, haven’t I?”

  Anna smiled weakly, but she couldn’t shake the image of the boys down a mineshaft, frightened and alone in the closed-in dark.

  “What’s on your mind, love? Not like you to ask those sorts of questions.”

  “Sir John had me in his office today. Asked if there were many strong boys here.”

  “What’s he asking you that for?”

  “I wish I knew. He pulled me up for talking instead of working, but when he saw I lived here, he started asking about the boys. He’d never have known to ask if I’d not been idling for him to catch me. He said he’d be by any time to inspect them, and for you to have ’em ready at a moment’s notice.” Anna wiped round her bowl with the last of her bread, round and round, round and round. “Mrs. Hobble?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “Don’t let him take my boys, will you? When he comes, don’t let him take them. Please.”

  Anna’s eyes welled up, and Mrs. Hobble reached across the counter to squeeze her hands.

  “I just—” stumbled Anna. “I know it’s selfish of me, ’cos he’ll take other boys instead, but I want them to have their childhood as long as they can.”

  “You’re allowed a little selfishness, love. Everyone is. You think I run this place out of goodness? I’m as selfish as anyone. I only do this so as I don’t have to work in them mills. Everyone has to look out for themselves these days, ’cos no one else’ll do it for you anymore.”

  “I just don’t want anyone to take advantage of ’em. I want them to know how to stand up for themselves.”

  “Now that’s one lesson I don’t think they’ll have any trouble learning, not with you around to teach them.”

  Anna smiled again, but more genuinely this time. Still, it was tempered by sadness, like cold rain on warm skin. “I just hope they don’t have to learn it as hard as I did.”

  Anna clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering. They ached from hours of cold. Her bare feet were almost blue in the water bucket, though it was difficult to tell in the gloom. Another gust of winter wind blew through the factory, raw and biting.

  Shu
ttleworth had declared the doors remain open at the start of the shift, “to encourage motivation and boost production.” Everyone knew why: another of his factories outside of town was still burning this morning, a great plume of black smoke dropping ash all through Burnley. Nelly Ludd and her Luddites had been the awed rumor at first, Nelly Ludd and her Luddites the bitter recrimination after Shuttleworth’s announcement, Nelly Ludd and her Luddites a whisper lurking beneath the rattle of the looms, Luddites CHUDUNDUN Luddites CHUDUNDUN Luddites CHUDUNDUN.

  The whispering had died now, though. Only the looms clattered, lulling Anna into a chilled torpor. Even Sally, who chattered through every shift, had fallen silent.

  Which made her sudden scream all the more jarring.

  Anna’s heart dropped past her guts as she leaped up. A scream like that meant only one thing in a cotton mill. Sally was sobbing on her stool, cradling her hand, face paler than Anna had ever seen it. Inside the loom the shuttle was tangled in yarn and glistening bright red with blood.

  Sally’s good hand was half to frozen solid when Anna reached for it, muttering reassurances and gesturing for her to show her wounds. Bloody hell, ain’t no surprise her fingers got clumsy if they’re that cold.

  Anna’s breath caught when she saw the ruin of Sally’s fingers. They were splintered and twisted, bone and tendon showing white through the red ribbon of muscle. A shiver ran through Anna and her hands clenched involuntarily, itching with imagined agony.

  “Oh, Sally . . .” Tears blurred her vision as she wrapped a gentle hand around those broken, ragged fingers. All her sympathy welled up inside, near to choking her, building to a heat in her chest like coals glowing under breath. Sally couldn’t work the loom no more, and little Charlotte’d be crying with hunger every night. Charlotte! Sally wouldn’t ever stroke her angel’s face again, not tickle nor tease her.