Jack and the Beanstalk [SF YA]

CHAPTER ONE - Vinegar and Brown Paper - Part II

"Frimley's Finest," the hand-painted sign read, "England's Oldest Handmade Gloves." As I had stepped off the speedwalk my glare should have blistered the paint off the sign and shattered the cut glass windows of the Boss' office. To my chagrin, the unbroken windows continued to stare back at me like dark eyes. The factory's "strictly for show" smokestacks rose high in the clear London skies. Built to reemphasize the antique aura of the ancient establishment they stuck out like a pair of fingers repudiating the world. With a slow, steady stride I approached the workers' entrance, checking my watch to make certain I'd not arrived overly early. I hated the place with a passion generally reserved for some of my fellow human beings. A nearby church bell tolled a quarter of eight as I opened the door.

"On time," I muttered to myself entering the windowless room lit only by unnaturally harsh, bare lights. "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

"Morning, Mr. Dante." The cheerful charming voice of Kate Delany, the secretary, sounded out of place.

"Then you must be my Beatrice, Kate." I dropped a haphazard bow in her direction as I punched my card in the obsolete time clock. "Is the dog's son in yet?"

"Mister Dodgson arrived early this morning, and is already, we may assume, hard at work." Her smile betrayed the slight hint of sarcasm. "He's only asked if you've arrived three, perhaps four, times."

"Off I go then, Madam, to brave the fires of Hell for your love," I said, taking up her hand and kissing it gently.

"Off with you, rogue."

I opened the door to the work area and entered. The burning smell of cauterized leather fusing with the rancid oil from the sewing machines blasted my nostrils.

(Someday, perhaps you'll treasure this atmosphere.)

--Right.

"Higley!" roared a voice in the distance.

--But not bloody soon.

"Where in Hell are you?" Dodgson's voice echoed.

"Exactly, I'm in Hell," I grumbled before responding in kind, "Over here!" I stood my ground awaiting the certain explosion that the son-of-a-bitch would level at me.

Dodgson, a big man nearly two full meters in height and at least a meter wide, puffed angrily toward me. His bald head shone with a sheen of sweat, barely broken by a few strands of hair slicked down across it. His mouth pulverized the stub of an unlit cigar as if in preparation for my chewing out.

"Jack, your people are three days behind in production," Dodgson accused, eyeing me expectantly, begging me to make up an excuse, any excuse. With no response forthcoming he continued his tirade. "I don't know how you can expect a bunch of immigrant carpet-riders to keep up. You wish to advance as a supervisor? You wish to make something of your life?"

What had the old bigot gotten into this morning to inspire such a hearty rage?

"Are you listening to me?!"

"Yes, sir," I replied meekly, thinking how nice it would be to see Dodgson roasting over a fire, an apple obstructing that obnoxious craw.

"You want to have any chance of promotion in this company, you will have your people up to proper production levels by Monday."

Two days? "I don't see how that's possible, sir."

"You've got the weekend," he growled, enjoying himself immensely. "Now, to work. The drones should start arriving in ten minutes." He spit a mass of masticated mess in the general direction of a rubbish pile, spun on his heel, too gracefully for a man of his size, and sauntered off to do something of seemingly great import.

Morning, noon, and night, I screamed silently, I've given this company for five years with nothing to show for it but a million holes bored into my dreams. Wasted. A waste of time. A waste of mind. I got to work with a vengeance. Let the old fool be unreasonable. Anything to put me down a peg.

My crew arrived as precisely on time as I. Hassam, my assistant, led the pack. Once behind the machine, his hands knew the exact motions required for production, he looked up baring his teeth in his standard back-at-work "grin."

The day drifted by with its usual alacrity--that is, none whatsoever. By lunch I'd finished a day's work. Knowing I'd need to come in over the weekend to finish, I decided to take the afternoon off.

"Kate, you'll cover for me?"

"What happened to Beatrice? Where are you off to?"

"Errands. I need to check into some business."

She stared me down until I elaborated.

"A way out of here."

She grinned. "Take me with you?"

"You've the same chance I have. University waivers or the Merchants."

"Off with you." Her gaze followed me to the door. "Good luck."

Temporarily escaping the gates of Hell, I vaulted onto the speedwalk with a long forgotten bounce in my step. My thoughts left pessimism behind and leapt ahead to possibilities. However slight, they offered hope, something I'd had little enough of recently. I'd applied every two years, since halting my studies due to lack of funds, but I had no political connections to leverage a waiver and no money to buy one. My monthly wages barely covered living expenses, and my savings fluctuated around 950 ICUs; enough for groceries and rent of my one room flat for a month. Although my rights included applying for educational waivers, no guarantees existed on the limited number granted, especially not to orphaned "troublemakers."

The application to the Space Merchant Guild remained an even longer shot than the educational waivers. With very few exceptions the SMG only admit people with family connections. I had none. I wanted to get into space and would indenture myself to get there, but even the slavers weren't hiring.

A sign in a window caught my eye: Closed Early - Government Holiday. Damn. No information on waivers today and no chance in Hell that I'd go back to work. Impulsively, I switched lanes on the speedwalk, and when my mind returned to my travels I realized that my feet led me back toward my old haunts, Docklands, the old warehouse district. Why not see if they still held any wonder? A near forgotten entrance to the Underground appeared in the distance--an electrical conduit crossing over the speedwalk.

Abandoned in favor of speedwalks in the '30s, London's Underground had become a true undergrounda haven for the less desirables and a thriving black market.

A hint of adrenaline built as I approached the entrance. I skipped to the fastest lane, spun around facing the direction I'd come and bent into a runner's crouch. Factory work and acceptance of the status quo had left me dull and drab. Would I be fit enough to make the jump? The corner approached. I started sprinting, the ten count beating steadily in my head. Three, two, one... jump. The conduit crossing the walk came toward me, agonizing in its slowness. My hands stretched out in front to meet the tube. Pain shot through my arms from the impact, but I held on and swung my legs up over the bar. Pulling myself up the support wires, I balanced precariously between two. Had I gone crazy, or sane? I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, concentrating on my center of gravity. My heart beat like an old combustion engine as I stepped out into the gap between support wires. Falling onto the speedwalk would be painful, but falling from the conduit onto the old Underground tracks running next to itten meters further downcould be deadly. Two steps and I could reach the next support. One. Two. Done. The body doesn't forget. I practically skipped across to the next wires. At the other end of the conduit stood a big brick building, a former station on the Underground. Now back in my own zone, my spirits rose. That is until the conduit broke. From here on it sounds more like a folk tale than a fairy tale. In folk tales the ending is not usually happy and the lesson you learn is often that life sucks.  

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