The Line

by K J Southworth

  But, knowing Lily’s mouth, it’s already everywhere. Frustrated and angry, I put my head on the table and groan. Unfortunately, there’s a big part of me that wants to laugh, but if I do it will only encourage Wulff. This is the first time I’ve seen him in over two years and we’re back to our old routine. That realization alone makes me chuckle.

  Lifting my head up, I raise an eyebrow at Wulff’s impish smile. “You know I’ve never slept with Locket.”

  Saluting me with his bottle, Wulff leans towards me over the table. “There’s no way you could have hidden something like that from me.”

  “Lily hasn’t been spreading this around?”

  “No one would believe her if she was.”

  “You’re a jerk,” I say without malice.

  “You love me,” he returns.

  “I missed you.”

  “Just don’t let Madman get hold of you,” he charges. Shifting uneasily he disguises his sorrow with conviction. “If anyone can find a line to A, Copper, it’s you.”

  “Maybe you two can tell me why Madman wants to get hold of me.” I fix them both with a serious stare. “Locket said something about my being some kind of threat. Who in their right mind is afraid of a Hack?”

  Wulff’s face falls. “I assumed you already knew.”

  Intrigued, I lean forward. “Assumed I knew what?”

  “About six months after you went in Lyons Emmett made his move on Madman. Heath had been expecting it, of course, but it took everyone else by surprise. The smartest thing he did when he took over was recruiting Locket.”

  “Recruit….” I repeat, trying not to sound too incredulous. “Locket was a respected independent when I went in. What could Madman possibly offer him?”

  “Absolute power,” Wulff answers. “Lyons has been a Criminal for what…twenty-five years? He hardly took a credit of payment that entire time. He helped people who had futures instead of funds.”

  “There aren’t many Criminals in the City that don’t owe him,” Frenzy puts in, “just like you do.”

  “So he starts calling in his favours, one by one,” Wulff continues. “Using the Cop Sector bullshit job, he starts absorbing the independents into his organization. The ones who go into hiding…”

  “…Locket is sent to find and kill,” I conclude.

  Wulff salutes me with him bottle once more. “You still catch on quick.”

  “Not one person has even tried to go into hiding,” Frenzy says.

  “No one, so far, has gotten out.” Wulff brings his bottle to his lips and drains it. “Locket is Madman’s trump card. As long as he’s a General there’s no stopping Lyons. He aims to take over the Criminal world. He’ll do it, too. When his organization is big enough, other Criminals won’t be able to work around him.”

  “That’s quite the ambition.” I shudder at the thought. “I still don’t see what it has to do with me.”

  “You may be a Hack, Copper, but you had a reputation before you left.” Wulff signals for another round. “People heard about you stealing that hover-board and they started talking…hoping. They started calling you a returning champion. There was no way Lyons was going to take the chance.”

  “A returning champion,” I echo. My guts churn with nausea. “The hero who arrives in the nick of time. Hyde called me that yesterday but I didn’t catch on. I thought he was making fun of me.”

  “Even the citizens are watching you, Copper,” Wulff says. “They need you to slip through Madman’s fingers.”

  “They want a hero?”

  “They need a hero,” Wulff corrects. “There aren’t many citizens who don’t use Criminals to work around the system. Legitimate business people are already being absorbed into Madman.”

  “McNally…?” I venture.

  “Croft, Wu, John, Busch…just to name a few others.”

  “But I’m not a returning champion,” I protest. “This…display isn’t real. I just didn’t want to choose between slavery and death, so I invented a third option. The smart people are betting on Lyons. You should bet on Lyons. This is the end of the line for me. One way or another, the Cops will catch me trying to get into their sector, and there’s no way I’m going back to the Prison. I’ll die first.”

  “Whatever you say, Copper.” Wulff can’t meet my gaze.

  Ominous silence dominates our conversation. Wulff stares aimlessly at people in the pub while Frenzy toys with a loose thread on his jacket. I’m too distressed to talk.

  How could anyone place their hopes on a Hack? Furious at being given this responsibility, I curse their desperation. But the magnitude and brilliance of Lyons’ plan is staggering. By controlling the Criminal underworld, Madman will control a greater portion of the City. Even the Hacks will belong to him. And what if, by some miracle, I do create the line into A? With a path into the heart of Cop Sector, Lyons won’t fear the law. How long after that until he absorbs Heathcliff Jackson’s crew? Jack is the smartest person I know. I have to believe that he already has a plan to keep his crew safe from Madman.

  I finally break the silence. “I need to talk to Jack.”

  “He’s been gone for about a week,” Wulff answers.

  “Gone?”

  “You know him,” Frenzy shrugs. “He’ll be back.”

  “He still takes off for weeks?” I ask, exasperated.

  Wulff nods, a humorous twinkle in his eyes. “He picked a hell of an exciting time to disappear, didn’t he?”

  17

  Hyde rolls me from B Sector to the Bank for free. His play is simple but effective. For years he’s been collecting crates of all shapes and sizes. These are top of the line parcels, designed for safety and durability. They don’t come cheap. Every few months, he hires manipulators to give each crate round-trip clearance from B Sector to whichever sectors a client requests. Luck blessed Hyde with powerful foresight. He’s been investing in his business for over ten years and he’s the only one with anything like it. According to Carlos, one of his delivery boys, the scope of his operation is starting to catch people’s attention. The Criminal bosses have started giving him major contracts.

  I’m in a deluxe package, with soft foam interior to keep me cozy. Hyde was really happy that Frenzy made the identity card for free. It hasn’t been a short ride, so I’m grateful for the comfort. There are lots of ways to travel from one sector to another, but without my credit balance, and with my doom extremely fucking imminent, I took what Luck gave me. Cramped spaces don’t bug me, but two hours in this crate is a little much.

  I sigh in relief when Carlos finally pops open the lid. A wide grin is splitting his face.

  “Welcome back to the Bank, Daryl!” he says.

  “Are you paid to be this happy, Carlos?”

  “Nah, I just love it here. Amanda is going to flip when I tell her I got to roll you through. We’re betting that you make it into A. Her sister thinks we’re wasting our credits, but I think it’s a sound investment. Safe journey, Daryl!”

  “Safe journey,” I call back.

  Rolling my head from side to side, I stretch out my neck. Despite the foam, my body is stiff from the ride. Luckily, my box is a hop, skip and a jump from where I’ve been delivered. I toss my bag over one shoulder and exit the building.

  As I walk towards my box, I start to understand why Carlos is a fan of the Bank. E Sector is cleaner and brighter than B Sector because Accountants pay more taxes to their administration. With the added funds, the Bank Government hires Collectors to keep the streets free of garbage, Fix-its to keep communal devices working, and the Gentry to keep streetlights on all night. B Sector citizens hire Collectors independently to remove unwanted garbage. There are no communal devices, like swings in parks, and they don’t care about communal light. As a result, B taxes are more manageable, but the public areas tend to fall apart.

  But even though it’s cleaner, I miss the messy B streets. There’s a sense of community there that you don’t get here in the Bank. Accountants have an unofficial
hierarchy based on the success of its citizens. Wulff and his childhood friends were swept into it soon after they matriculated. When Wulff decided to become a Criminal so that he could stay in B Sector, his friends slowly stopped meeting him for drinks. They were all higher-ups so they couldn’t associate with him anymore. Wulff never talks about it, which is how I know it still bugs him.

  The only reason I sometimes root here is because Accountants mind their own business. No matter what I look like, they keep their eyes forward and ignore me. That means I don’t have to sneak through back alleys to get home. The Bank workday has just ended, I’m not alone on the streets, but even though I am obviously not one of them, they don’t question my presence. Successful Accountants are heading off to bars and restaurants to socialize and unwind from the days work. The less successful ones are running home to enjoy a tasteless nutrient bar and a tepid glass of water; exactly what I’ll be doing after I take a shower.

  The lift in my low-end building takes me up eight stories. I am tired: the last day and a half has been more fun than I can handle. With a flick of my key card, the door to my box slides open. I don’t bother turning on the lights, my box isn’t hard to navigate. Straight ahead, directly under the only window, is my single bed; to my right is the closet where I hastily stow my jacket, boots, and bag; to my left is an open door that leads to my toilet and shower. Everything else is irrelevant right now.

  I’m about to slide off my shirt and pants when the sight of the City outside my window catches my eye. The sun has set and night has enveloped the buildings. Bright lights are filtering into my room, making it easy to make out my few pieces of furniture.

  Hushed and peaceful, the world turns without me.

  For weeks after I was released I stared hard out the window, willing myself to move beyond my fear. There were days I didn’t believe I was out. I thought it was some psychological game the Prison was playing with me. It was going to pull me back in as soon as I allowed myself to believe it was over. Eventually, I stopped waiting, but that place is still stalking me. It’s nipping at my heels, breathing down my neck. It’s crawling around in my brain. When I close my eyes, it finds me again.

  An unexpected knock on my door saves me from my memories. Portia, her stunning black hair flowing down to her shoulders, smiles from the hallway.

  Accountants are what hold the Criminal world together. Without them our financial trails would lead the Cops right to us. They hide the credits for us, creating reasons for the transfers so that they go unnoticed. Portia was the Accountant I left my stash with. Technically, she isn’t a Criminal. She handles my account numbers. There’s no law against that.

  Usually, she has her hair pulled out of her face. She must be meeting her lover later. When women can’t afford new clothes they use their hair to catch a lover’s eye. Portia is wearing a faded blue shirt tucked into a worn skirt, but her long, glossy hair will be enough to let him know she wants to be noticed. Greeting her with a small nod, I step to the side to let her in. She declines my invitation by putting up her hand.

  “I heard about the line to A. What’s going on?” She obviously isn’t happy. When I don’t reply right away, she keeps going. “There must be some way out of this. Everyone’s laying bets. They keep talking about the returning champion. Sweet sky, Daryl! What happened?”

  “I went out,” I explain lamely.

  “You went out…? That’s it? I didn’t think you would ever…” She puts a hand over her eyes and takes a deep breath. “They didn’t see you when you got out. They don’t know the shape that you’re in. But, it’ll be OK. I’m going to bet on you.”

  I’m about to protest but she throws her arms around my neck, squeezing me tightly. Performing an old blessing, she places her hand on her heart and then touches my chest.

  “Luck,” she mutters before turning away.

  She races down the cramped hallway. Bewildered, I watch her as she impatiently waits for the elevator. When it arrives, she steps into it with an anxious backward glance.

  Dazed from her whirlwind visit, I retreat into my box. Wulff wasn’t wrong—the citizens are watching me. Lyons has turned the Madman organization into a monster, and the people think I’m going to save them from his terrible hunger.

  18

  I’m back on my board, flirting with the cliffs. The freedom is addictive. I can go over if I want. I can crash into the wall if I want. It’s all about me—me and my board, me and the curving road ahead.

  There’s no danger here. If I go over I can fly; if I crash I won’t break. I’m free. Blissfully free. I can do anything.

  Enraptured, I tilt my head to the sunless sky. I’m following the road that curves forever. My curiosity keeps me moving, keeps me on the path. Eventually, the road narrows. It narrows until it’s barely the width of a spider’s web. Still, I keep on the gas, moving faster and faster, hoping to catch a glimpse of what’s beyond the bend.

  The board disappears and I’m coasting through the desert. My feet are attached to rails that move into a blistering sun. Afraid of burning my retinas, I hastily cover my eyes. Directly ahead, sparkling water laps against dark sand. There’s a tall, masculine figure up ahead, looking directly into the blinding light. He’s waiting for me. I can’t tell who it is, I just know it’s someone I trust.

  I reach out to touch him; my fingers are a hair’s breadth away. But then someone is touching my shoulder. Confused, I look to the mysterious figure and find that he’s gone. He’s standing behind me now. I don’t look back. Whoever he is, his touch is giving renewing my strength. I look directly into the sun and watch the Oasis spring up from the dusty earth.

  “They believe,” he whispers into my ear.

  “They’re crazy,” I answer.

  “The essence of faith….”

  I turn to look at him. Even though his hand is still on my shoulder I see him, standing with his back facing me.

  My heart beats heavily in my ears. Gasping, I sit up on the bed and grab my shoulder. I can still feel the pressure of his hand.

  You were dreaming. Remember it!

  I was on a hover-board. I see the cliffs—what was the rest? Straining my memory, I try to grab the tendrils of the fading dream. The harder I concentrate the more it slips away. I’ve lost it. But I still feel the comforting hand on my shoulder.

  The morning sun streams into my room. Staring at the small clock on my wall I watch the seconds tick away.

  0435. Time to get ready.

  This is my last job. It makes no sense, but I’m nervous. There’s nothing to fear when you already know what’s going to happen. Pulling on my clothes, I retrieve my credit balance and identity card from the bathroom. I left these bastards on the counter by the sink the other day.

  Everything I need is in my bag, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m forgetting something. Before leaving, I turn to examine my box. The stillness saddens me. This miserable little space was my refuge. Leaving like this feels anti-climatic.

  Forget it. It’s time to go.

  19

  In theory, the plan is simple—get to a Cop Sector gate and go through it before time runs out. But no job is easy. There are no exposed main gates. A two-story building called the Perimeter surrounds Cop Sector. The gates are inside of it and they look like normal doors. Only trained people can tell the difference between a gate and a door; I’m not one of them.

  Citizens go to the Perimeter to register complaints. For instance, maybe your vehicle was stolen or your neighbour is harassing you. Just register a complaint with one of the clerks and a Cop will look into it. The best part is that you don’t have to pay for the service: Cops never charge for volunteered information.

  The only time the victim pays a fee is if they press a panic button. Companies inside of A hire and train patrollers. These Cops make big pay if they’re first on a panic scene. There are panic buttons in every Sector and citizens knows where they are. They always keep a certain amount of credits on their balance so they can
use one. If you’re in trouble, you run straight to the button. Within minutes, seconds depending on how far the nearest patroller is, a Cop shows up.

  It’s actually illegal for a Cop to stand by and watch someone being attacked. It’s also illegal for them to join in. Once they show up they have to restrain the perpetrator or risk paying a hefty fine. Fellow Cops have no trouble asking for it. However, if the victim doesn’t have the credits then he or she is hauled off with their attacker. The attacker goes straight to the Prison but Cops will usually keep the victim until a loved one pays the panic fee. Sometimes they end up hauling the victim to the Prison too. A Cop has to be a real asshole to do that. I’ve noticed that the City is full of assholes—too many of them are Cops.

  Getting to the Perimeter is incredibly easy. Cops want citizens to be able to register complaints so there are tunnels running from every sector straight into the building. All I have to do is take E Tunnel and I’ll be right where I need to be. It’s a long walk, but it gives me time to finalize my plans.

  Before my mom died, she worked guard duty. She was one of the Cops responsible for protecting the Perimeter. When I turned five, she started bringing me to work to begin my training. Cop-lings, as Madman appropriately called them, are trained in a variety of ways. The most common is parent’s bringing them to their work place. I had an exclusive view of how the Perimeter operates. I know the building. Its depth is divided into three distinct layers: the foyer, the workspace and the garage. In the foyer, citizens register complaints with clerks; the workspace is a common area, designed for both business and pleasure; the garage is attached to the Cop sector wall. Outside of the buildings design, however, I also know that the first two layers don’t have video surveillance.

  Why not? Because this is the building that Cops pass through in order to get to work. There are never less than a few thousand of them swarming around inside of it. Other than me, who would be stupid enough to infiltrate it?