The Line
K J Southworth
© 2017 K J Southworth
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1548001813
ISBN 13: 9781548001810
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017909358
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
To Kelsey Miller, who has stuck with me through this ostensibly maddening journey;
and,
to Christine Southworth, who reads everything with unabashed enthusiasm.
Acknowledgements
Christine Southworth, Kelsey Miller, Karolina Kowalski, Maya Jarvis, Heather Smith, Ali Cook, Andrew Roth, Farrah Khan-Mousawi, Donna C. Swogger, Annaliese Plowright, Alan Reed, Andrej Culen, Jesse Melnyck, Julie-Ann Miller, Evan Miller, Ashley Grayson, Gerry Jarvis, Kassidy Duncan, Alex Rushmer, Teresa Roth, Michael Rains, Pat and Tom Hjorleifson, Sunny Go-Byers, Lisa Nadj, Daniel Ufuoma, Nate_L, Jacklyn Reynolds, Mac Southworth, John Langdon, Brookie and Owen Brown, the serving staff of the Royal Alexandra Hospital; and all the people who didn’t know me, but took time to read this book.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
1
The desert’s mid-day heat plays mind-games—dead things start to move if you stare at them too long. For over an hour I’ve been watching the City, a monstrous tomb of sand and metal, and it’s starting to writhe against the horizon.
Thick walls encircle this last hint of human civilization; millions of people call it home. They grumble and complain about their lives—the walls within that divide the City into sectors, preventing freedom of travel and communication—but no one publicly questions the system. With nowhere else to go, most of them are afraid of what’s outside of its towering walls.
In all honesty, I don’t blame them. Only the desperate or the crazy come out here.
I’m not sure which category I fall under. Maybe both. Not that it matters. For now, I just need to remember a few simple facts. I am a Criminal: twenty-eight years old, more bite than bark, and addicted to the rush.
That’s why I’m out here. I’ve been testing out my newly acquired hover-board. Purring contentedly as it soaks in the sun’s energy, the sturdy machine’s scratched, dust-covered outer shock shell tells of a morning spent amongst the bright red rocks of the Desert Mountains. These are the most dangerous roads for riding. Not only do they twist and turn, making it nearly impossible to perform the simplest tricks, an eight hundred foot drop on one side and an unforgiving rock wall on the other make most mistakes fatal. Amateurs’ charred remains are scraped off the rock wall regularly. Those riders who disappear…well, everybody knows they chose to fly instead of burn.
Flying isn’t an option for me. I’ve had bad experiences with heights. Going quick in the crash suits me way better than the agonizing eternity it would take to fall. Whenever I come out here I strap a glider to my back, just in case. Other riders used to give me shit for it. A couple of times I took the glider off, just to shut them up, and they weren’t wrong. The juice surges when your life is on the line, taking you higher than you ever thought possible. I rode that high for days afterwards. Today, however, I’m only partly here for the rush. I chose these roads because they’re well out of Cop range. Unless they’re doing a sweep, I should have complete privacy.
After two years in lock-up, you’d think that the last thing I’d want is to be alone. It’s the exact opposite. I crave solitude. Seeing people I knew before…it’s too disorienting. There were a few times I sought them out, watched them from a distance, even took a few steps forward. For a glorious moment, I would feel myself resurfacing. My heart lifted, my feet flew and that place—the Prison—faded from memory. It was like I had never been there.
But I faltered every time. The fear would invade again, roaring at me that I was a Hack, someone who had survived the Prison but would never find a way back. I was terrified of seeing the horror on their faces, of being a stranger to the people who were once my family.
Something within me has changed, forever, and I don’t fit the way I once did.
I gave myself three months of hiding, three months of keeping to my building and my street, three months of living like a citizen. Did I say living? It was more like sleepwalking. Roll out of bed, piss, eat a nutrient bar, stare out my window, convince myself that I wouldn’t be arrested for stepping outside, take a walk, avoid eye contact, go back home, piss again, get back in bed, try to sleep. Truth is, when you’re broken, routine saves your life.
But then, one day—today, actually—three months was up. I wasn’t dreading the moment I had to keep the bargain I’d made with myself. In fact, I’d almost forgotten I’d made it. It turns out that, little by little, the years in the Prison had just become another part of me. How I knew it would take me three months to filter that shit is beyond me. Just another happy coincidence, I suppose. When I woke up this morning I was consumed with the desire to get back on a hover-board. Stealing the ride came naturally. Suddenly, I was ready to feel alive, ready to ride the hardest roads, ready to burn with the rush.
I feel Jules approach rather than hear her. Ever since childhood I’ve had the ability to sense where people are before I see them. It’s a rare gift, but the freaks in K Sector have proven it exists. Maury in Y Sector can tell you your future, step by step; pay him enough and he’ll tell you how to avoid disaster. I’m an amateur in comparison, but my psychic talent has never failed me. Over the years, I’ve developed the ability to tell when others are lying. With a little concentration, I can even look through walls.
Without turning around, I close my eyes and watch Jules come up the road behind me. When she’s a few metres away, she brings her board to a slow stop.
She’s wearing her red leather suit with the black stripe down the side. The black helmet with the visor down hides her face, but I have no interest in seeing her expression. Her presence tells me more than her bright amber gaze ever could.
Being out here with a group of riders is one thing, being out here alone is quite another. No sane person rides these roads without a buddy. We’re out of Cop range, miles from the safety checks. Normally, if someone’s vehicle dies, they can get to the check and pay a Cop to take them back to the City. But there’s no chance of making it to one from here. Night will fall well before you get close; darkness brings the Deadeyes, blind predators who will tear you to shreds in seconds.
It makes perfect sense for me to be here. I survived two years of torture, humiliation and horror—I’m a crazy, desperate Hack stripped of all ability to make rational decisions. Jules, however, is still the Criminal who’s never had to earn her keep. Sure, I haven’t seen her since before I went into lock-up, but there are some things that can’t be hidden. It’s in the way she looks down her nose at my ride, the scuff marks from years of use and the bulky
, out-dated design. I bristle with anger as she shakes her head in disapproval.
Jules’ board is painted the same colour as her suit, complete with a black stripe, and it gleams in the sun. Even the dust can’t mar its gorgeous outer shock shell. It’s a striking model that can’t be found outside of F Sector. Also known as the Court, F Sector is the hardest sector to break into. Populated with the rich and useless, the Court is heavily guarded and only one crew has the ability to get in and out. Naturally, they charge exorbitant prices for the items that they acquire. Jules’ mother, a highly respected and wealthy Criminal, must have paid a fortune for that board.
I already know Jules isn’t crazy. That can mean only one thing—she’s desperate. The question is, do I care?
Not even a little bit. I didn’t care for her before I went into loc-up and I don’t care for her now. There’s no denying she’s a flawless rider, which wins her my grudging respect, but she lives off her mother’s reputation. She’s never had to bleed for a job or fight for survival. That makes her soft in my eyes. And it’s always the softies who manage to get other people killed.
As I get to my feet and face her I don’t bother taking off my helmet. I’m sending a clear message that I’m indifferent to her presence. In fact, I’m pissed that she’s interrupted my solitude.
The tall cliff behind us casts a long shadow over us. Standing in my worn and faded brown leather suit, I power down the sunglass feature in my visor so she can see my uncaring expression. She does the same and I see her startling beauty perfectly. Meeting my gaze with her familiar defiance, she hides her inadequacies behind flimsy bravado. Suddenly, she drops her eyes, points to her board and then to mine; she wants a road battle.
My psychic talent immediately starts to scream at me that something isn’t right. There’s something beyond her challenge, something counterfeit that I need to consider before accepting.
Maybe she’s here to murder me.
I laugh outright at the thought. Of the few things that Jules is good at, killing isn’t one of them. Besides, if someone wanted me dead they’d send someone that they knew could take me down, like Jace Locket.
Thinking about him makes me shiver with dread. Locket is an assassin, a different breed of Criminal than Jules and me. People who kill for credits are cold and inhuman, part of a world that I’ve only glanced at a couple of times. Locket is one of the best. He knows the City backwards and forwards, upside-down and right side up. No one can hide from him. And he doesn’t discriminate. Old or young, male or female, sick or healthy…everyone is equal in his eyes.
The first time I saw him he killed a friend of mine.
Ivana and I were twelve at the time, orphans who lived on the streets together, and we’d just started working as Criminals. She was the closest thing I had to family. As we were celebrating our latest payday, Locket walked up and casually broke her neck. Death wasn’t new to me back then but I was too shocked to move, too terrified to make a sound. I’ll never forget the way his icy blue eyes swept over me as her lifeless body slumped to the ground. My heart stopped beating. I met his gaze, my horrified expression asking him if I was next. But he brushed by me without a word.
I found out later that Ivana had stolen from our last employer. She never could resist anything that glittered.
This all happened before Locket was well known. Years later, he became that whispered name that could turn most Criminals a ghastly shade of white. I don’t claim to be in the same league as him, not even close, but before the Prison I was a warrior. No one would send a novice to kill me.
Despite my prejudice, Jules can be fierce when she wants to be. I wouldn’t underestimate her in a fight. Still, there are those who can kill without conscience and there are those who carry it forever. It would be written all over her face if she were here to take me down.
Jules is still waiting for my answer. I’ve proven that I’m a Hack by not accepting right away. A challenge is more of a status check than anything else. If you decline, you’re deferring to their superior skills, if you accept, you think you can give them a good run. Two years ago I would have jumped onto my board without hesitation. Those days are over. A road battle next to these cliffs is a recipe for death for me right now. I don’t know why Jules has challenged me and I’m not sure I care about her motives.
Stepping onto my board, I consider turning my back on her and returning to the City. Then I remember that there isn’t much waiting for me back there.
Fuck it.
Heart pounding with adrenaline, I fire on my engine. I point towards the twists and turns of the road ahead and Jules nods her agreement. As always, we carefully check each other’s boards for loose wires and any other disasters waiting to happen. There’s no glory in winning from a board malfunction. Besides, the smallest problem with either of our rides can send either of us careening to our dooms. In a worst-case scenario we take the other rider with us. There’s definitely no glory if we both die.
When we confirm that the boards have no obvious defects, Jules points to the glider on my back. To my annoyance she makes a cutting motion across her throat. She wants me to disconnect what she’s always called my training wheels. It’s a fair demand. With this kind of safety strapped to my back I’ve got the advantage.
Grumbling under my breath, I grudgingly honour her request. To my surprise, she leans down and powers down her boards computerized auto-adjustments. She’s going to be riding rough. There aren’t many who can handle a road battle without leaning on their board’s computer for support. I should be outraged at the condescending gesture: she’s saying that I have no chance if she rides straight. But it really isn’t my place to be angry. Even in the old days, she would have been absolutely right.
We both crouch over our boards, waiting for my ride to complete it’s power up.
I’m always at my most tranquil before a battle begins. It’s my chance to study the road ahead, consider my opponent, and devise a strategy. If we were in a race, the winner would be who gets to the finish line the quickest, but a battle is about forcing your opponent to admit defeat.
We’ll be trying to outride each other.
There’s no denying that Jules is the better boarder but that doesn’t guarantee her the win. If I outperform her with a trick she isn’t willing to top, she has to stop. If she loses control of her board, she has to stop. If she can’t see, she definitely has to stop. I already know that I won’t be out-riding Jules. She’s too good. My only option is to lead her into a trap. All I have to do distract her long enough to ensnare her. Jules is great on the reflex but horrible at strategy. At a certain turn in the road, the sun will deliver my victory.
Before then, however, I have to consider the tricks that neither of us will be performing. With the twists and turns ahead there won’t be any flips. Flips are disorienting enough on a straight stretch of road. Trying them out here would be suicide. There might be enough room for spins and slips; a rise and fall would be the easiest but even I have some pride.
My engine beeps—it’s ready to play.
We both take off. I curse my faulty reflexes when I realize that Jules is a fraction of a moment ahead of me. She’ll be choosing which part of the road she wants. Knowing how much I hate heights, she hugs the sheer rock wall. A moment later she fires on the hover and shoots into a rise, blowing dust into my visor. Guts churning, I quickly dodge out of the way, missing the worst of the rocky spray. But I’ve moved too close to the cliff’s edge. The steep drop is yawning up at me, making my head spin with vertigo. Desperate to stay calm, I keep my eyes on Jules’ board. As my panic slowly recedes I inwardly applaud her boldness.
At these speeds, performing a rise that isn’t quickly followed by a fall will alert the level adjustment that the board is too high for the rider’s safety. It would power down the board immediately. But Jules is riding rough. There’s nothing to knock out so she can perform crazy moves like that. Her years of training and raw talent are keeping her board from going into
an out of control spin, which is a death sentence no matter where you’re riding. Awed yet nauseated by her flawless technique, I finally admit how horribly out-classed I really am.
When Jules finally comes back down she shrugs her shoulders in a gesture of boredom. It’s time for my retaliation.
I don’t have much to choose from. My primary concern is getting as far away from the cliff as possible. A slip will give me that comfort and keep my opponent busy. Pumping my break, I slip behind her board. The small engine shoots clear emissions straight up my leg and over my helmet. Gagging, I use my control pad on my jacket sleeve to tell my helmet to filter the air. When the order kicks in I concentrate on Jules’ movements.
Travelling straight behind her I don’t have to cut through the air. My ride is a lot smoother that way. Also, she has to crane her neck to get a good look at me. In a road battle, on a winding stretch, she has to have one eye on the road or risk crashing. If I get a chance to nudge her hard enough towards the drop or the wall she’ll be forced to stop and I’ll win. Unfortunately, while she’s riding rough, I can’t exploit her board’s adjustments. I would have to grab her around the waist and heave her towards one side. She knows that too, but not being able to see me is already driving her insane.
She moves frantically to the right and left, up and down, trying to shake me. I stay on her tail. Moving with her I never give her the chance to get a good look at me. A slip into a shadow is a delicate move. My instincts have to be perfect. But with me so close to her tail it will be impossible for her to perform another trick. If I can keep on her she’ll have to give me the win.
It isn’t until she brakes, spins around twice, the tip of her board fractions of a centimetre from hitting the rock wall, and ends up behind me that I know how good she really is. One millisecond hesitation in her brake and I would have ploughed straight into her. We’d have been a heap of twisted metal and burning flesh. There’s no way I can top that.
The moment I know that I’m beat a familiar composure enters my mind. It’s the stillness that I found in the Prison, a state of mind that made two years of torment go by in the blink of an eye. It made the last three months of recovery bearable. When I feel like this, all my decisions are made with absolute clarity. The cliff’s edge and the rock wall fade away. In between heartbeats, I choose my path.
The Line Page 1