Young Writers Society

Verona sat back in her seat, arms folded, watching a clock count out the seconds in her holovision. The last three seconds seemed to take an age, then the hour number changed and class was over. Verona’s heart leapt. Now maybe she could actually practice Shaping.

She stood up and pushed her seat harder than was strictly necessary. The seats here weren’t nearly as comfortable as the ones back home. They were crudely-Shaped and looked mass-produced, but she supposed she couldn’t expect quality while they were out in the middle of nowhere.

Apparently I can’t expect quality teaching, either.

She scolded herself for being unfair. It wasn’t Shaper Mila’s fault – they had to teach the basics. Verona had just been looking forward to learning more about the Library Room, and instead they spent the whole lesson on Shaping. Beginner’s Shaping. Verona had spent most of the lesson trying to think of a way to slip into her Library without Shaper Mila noticing, but since her physical body was completely immobile while in there, she was forced to admit defeat.

To occupy herself, she had explored the depressingly limited features of her new timepiece. It didn’t amount to much more than a calendar and a mail system; even its database was very limited, and much of it seemed to be buried behind security protocols. There was no off-planet connection, of course.

Now, with a few quick gestures, she pulled up the map and told it to take her to the Shaping Room, where her job was. It hovered in the corner of her eye, the path outlined in bright red. Only the rookie section of the base was shown – that was another of the security protocols she had no idea how to get past.

She hung back for a moment, her eye on Kyle and Merea, who were walking a few steps behind her. They had been talking quietly, but looked up when Analia fell into step with them. Merea smiled at her.

“So, did you get your assignment?” Kyle asked.

“My job’s Shaping, if that’s what you mean.”

Kyle nodded. “That’s Merea’s job too. I’m in propaganda.”

“Propaganda? Why would they need propaganda?” Verona asked, curious.

“Well, it’s more the political side of things,” said Kyle. “They don’t call it propaganda, but that’s what it is. We basically run HoloWeb campaigns, write articles, things like that. To get the word out there about the changes that need to be made.”

“It’s not propaganda if it’s true,” Verona argued.

“Sure it is,” Kyle said. “It’s all in how you present it. It’s pretty fascinating as a topic, public opinion.”

Verona decided not to press the point. She supposed any persuasive argument was propaganda, to some extent. “So, what’s the Shaping job like, Merea?” she said, proud of herself for remembering the slight girl’s name.

“Oh, you’ll see when we get there. We make new equipment or repair old stuff. It’s not that exciting.”

“But it’s important work,” Kyle said, nudging her gently. “Without it, we wouldn’t have anywhere to sit.”

“We can’t ship much in from other planets,” Merea said, answering Verona’s puzzled look. “We Shape a lot of our simple furniture out of wood from the surface. And supposedly there’s bots growing food on the surface, though they won’t let us up there. Sometimes I miss the sun.”

“Wait,” said Verona, forced to rearrange her entire mental picture of their situation. “This planet is habitable?”

“Yeah,” said Kyle. “They couldn’t feed us all otherwise.”

“But – they can’t have terraformed it. That takes decades!”

“I know. That’s another thing they don’t tell us rookies. But I figure it’s one of two things – either this planet was already habitable when they found it, or it’s not nearly as ‘undiscovered’ as they say it is.”

Considering there were a handful of worlds discovered with any form of life, Verona found the first option highly unlikely. They reached the next junction, and Kyle paused. Their paths split here.

He smiled at Merea and gave her a quick hug. “Have fun,” he said. In a moment, his lanky figure was receding down the hallway.

“Does he act like this a lot?” Verona asked, watching him go.

“What do you mean?” Merea asked.

“Well, he says he agrees with the Absolute’s goals, but then he goes and points out everything that’s even the slightest bit odd. It’s like he doesn’t trust them.”

“He’s just like that,” Merea defended him. “He really does care about the cause. That’s why he’s so good at propaganda. He’s just cynical sometimes.”

They fell into silence, Verona letting Merea take the lead. Merea, a full head shorter than Verona, somehow held herself in a way that made her look even smaller than she really was.

“How old are you, Merea?” she asked quietly.

They were approaching a crowd of a couple dozen people who were waiting beside a large double door. Merea stopped beside them and looked up at Verona. “Thirteen, why?”

Verona stared at her. She had thought Merea looked young, but figured she was just small for her age. “How does a twelve-year-old wind up in this place, with no parents, no twin?”

“I’ve got Kyle,” Merea rebutted. “He takes care of me just fine.”

But what happened? Verona wondered.

Merea must have seen the mixture of curiosity and pity on Verona’s face. “Look, Verona,” she said, and her tone aged her beyond her years. “Everyone is here because they’re running from something. The Absolutes would prefer we stay on the outside, where we can actually be useful, spying or campaigning. If someone is here, they have no other place to go. So please don’t ask. With most people here, you probably don’t want to know.”

Verona swallowed, remembering all the times she’d felt sorry for herself over the last few months. Of course most of the people here would have had it worse than her. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be,” Merea said firmly. “Feel sorry for the government. After all, it’s their fault. And we’re going to stop them.”

Verona took heart from her simple conviction, smiling. “Today we conquer Shaping, tomorrow, the Hundred Worlds.”

Merea laughed along with Verona. A moment later, the heavy doors opened and the crowd poured in. Verona peered over the heads in front of her and her eyes went wide.

The room was huge, nearly the size of entrance hallway back at school. Scattered bins of wood, scrap metal, and other building materials covered the floor around the multitude of benches that lined the hall. Stacks of bins were being wheeled precariously around the tables by other green-shirted rookies. At each bench lounged one person, body limp in the attitude of a shaper. It was a sight all too familiar. Hundreds of people labored in assembly lines like this every day back home for nearly minimum wage.

Despite her plans for a degree in Shaping, Verona had always worried that she would end up as a factory worker. Sure, you could open your own private business to specially Shape things, but it was hard to compete with the production speed and prices of larger companies. Now, just when Verona was sure she’d never have another job again, she wound up helping out in an assembly line anyway.

As Verona watched, one by one the shapers awoke from their trance, their completed pieces of work changing in an instant from lumps of metal to screws, spoons, and other small items. In real time, it had taken less than a minute, but for them, they had probably been working for half an hour. They stumbled to their feet, stretching stiff limbs – an odd side effect of using Rooms – and moved out of the way for the others to take their place.

“This is it, really,” said Merea. “There’s Shapers on duty nearly all the time, especially recently with all the new arrivals. Those clothes you’re wearing? They were Shaped by someone here. Not me, though – I do the technical stuff. Mechanical things.”

“I guess I’ll start off making simpler things?”

“Yeah, since you’re at the lowest level. But you’re so good they’ll probably promote you pretty fast. They need more people Shaping complicated things. Anyway, I’ve got to get to my spot. Yours is probably over by the wood supplies. If you can’t find it, ask someone.” She hurried away.

Sure enough, there was an empty bench among the woodworkers. Verona sat down, looking around at the others to figure out what they were shaping. A moment later, the supervisor, marked by his red shirt, noticed her. “Are you Verona?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Good, good,” he said, staring at a holoscreen Verona couldn’t see. He gestured briefly with his fingers, than swiped the holoscreen away. “You’ll be assembling small tables and chairs. Assistants will bring you the pieces – you just need to fuse them together. Can you do that?”

“Of course.” Fusing things of the same material was easy.

“Good. And just a safety tip – don’t overdo it. Once you start getting tired, take a break. We don’t want to you to get burned out. It’s not a huge rush.”

That, at least, was different from the factories. Not that Verona needed the advice – she was sure she had more stamina than most of her fellow workers.

Verona settled in and began her work. Each shaping took her about ten minutes in the Room, barely a minute real time. The helpers could hardly get her the wood fast enough. She knew the work would be monotonous later, but for now, she basked in the high Shaping brought.

Twenty minutes later, she came out of the Room and found that everyone was standing up and stretching. A break had been called. Verona tried to stand up, but a wave of dizziness washed over her and her legs shook.

Alarm shot through her. She clutched the workbench for support, fingers white against the rough wood. A headache pressed behind her eyes. She took a few deep, steadying breaths. She hadn’t overdone it like this in a long time, and had nearly forgotten the symptoms.

Lowering herself back into her seat, she cursed herself for being so careless. At least nobody noticed that embarrassment. She’d have to take it easy this next cycle.