The Line

by K J Southworth

  I scan the area until I spot a drainage grate a few meters to my right. Casually wandering toward,s it I grab hold of the bars and heave it to one side. It makes a loud, aggravating noise as it scrapes along the pavement, making my hair stand on end. I slip into the sewers and pull it back into place before anyone comes to investigate the sounds.

  Relieved to be off the streets, I stare into the darkness. I’m fairly certain the hard part is over.

  21

  There are a few people that Luck favours with a natural ability to sense which direction is which. I wish I had someone like that with me now.

  Unless you’re a Mole, all sewers look the same. It’s easy to lose your way down here. One moment you might think north is east, and the next you’re convinced that west is south. As it is, I am relying on my psychic talent to guide me through the tunnels; I can’t be sure I’m getting anywhere.

  In most cases, whenever I have to journey through the sewers, I hire someone who knows where they’re going. Trouble with this little adventure is that nobody outside of A knows these tunnels. Moles are handpicked early in life and disappear into places like A and F Sector. They’re never heard from again. They form special sewer crews that tend specifically to that sectors water supply.

  Without being able to see the sun, I have no idea how long I’ve been down here. Judging from my exhaustion, I’d say at least a couple of hours. Every so often, I see rays of light peeking into the gloom. Then I consider going back to the surface, but if anyone got too close they’d smell the sewer on me. I can’t pass myself off as an A Sector Mole.

  Using my flashlight, I look behind me and then up ahead once more. There hasn’t been a bend in this particular tunnel for a while and I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. Exhausted, I lean up against the wall. It feels great taking a little stress off of my feet. While resting, I examine the walls and wonder if Moles find any enjoyment in their work. As I imagine what it must be like to work in dark places like this, day in and day out, my flashlight begins to flicker. I glare at it, willing it to keep working. Finally, after it’s dimmed to a useless glow, it dies.

  Furious, I curse into the darkness. I charged this piece of crap! It should have lasted a few days. I could use my psychic talent to see in the dark, but the headache would severely hinder my progress. Angrily jamming my flashlight into my pocket, I start feeling my way down the tunnel. I can’t see any rays of light in either direction. Grumbling at my helplessness, I continue the way I was originally going. I’ve never liked backtracking. Stumbling along, doing my best not to imagine rats gnawing on my corpse, I glimpse a faint light up ahead.

  Maybe Luck hasn’t abandoned me.

  A few minutes later, I step up into a dimly lit section of the sewers. There’s no water running along the floors and it feels warmer. Scanning the walls, I note small bulbs hanging from a wire that’s been nailed into the cement. Curious—why provide light in one section of the sewer and not another?

  Up ahead, I see rays of sunlight pouring into the sewers from above.

  And then it hits me.

  My body goes numb with fear. Stepping into the warm sun, I bite down on my lip, taste blood, and look up. My hand shields my eyes from the bright light. There isn’t much to see from here, the bright blue-sky looks just like it always should. But I know what I’ll find if I reach out with my psychic talent.

  The Prison has a large, paved, square courtyard. In the middle of that courtyard, in plain sight and completely unguarded, is an iron grate that leads directly into the sewers. I would pass by it whenever I was allowed to go outside. The light let you see straight into the tunnels and prisoners would stare longingly towards freedom, day-dreaming of escape. And that’s exactly what that place wanted. Some prisoners would suddenly snap and start clawing on the iron bars. They’d break their nails off and smear the pavement with their blood. But an energy field also protects the grate. If someone touches it for too long they lose their first few layers of skin.

  I step out of the light. It wasn’t long ago that I jumped off a cliff to avoid coming back here—Luck has an ugly sense of humour. I want to walk by, forget I was ever here, but I can’t move. I don’t even know if I’m breathing anymore. Staring into the dimly lit sewers, I wait until I can process what I’ve found; I wait until I understand that my psychic vibe deliberately brought me back here.

  I stare up, once again, at the blue sky. Two years of studying that grate and now I’m on the opposite side. Sweet sky! This is a sick joke. Seething with rage, I tear my flashlight out of my pocket and hurl the pathetic piece of junk at the grate.

  Burn, you fucker! I nearly cry out loud, but the broken light blazes ethereal green as it passes in between the steel bars. Stunned, I watch it fly into the air beyond the grate. It crashes to the ground somewhere out of sight. Cocking my head to one side, I study the iron bars.

  That wasn’t a mirage. My flashlight passed through the grate. The energy field should have blazed a maddeningly beautiful blue; the flashlight should have been destroyed and fallen back into the sewers. But it went through. Is the grate’s field semi-permeable?

  I can’t deny what I saw. Too curious not to find out, I slowly take off my bag. Placing it on the ground, I study the hole that leads up to the grate. It’s only a few meters long. There’s no ladder, but it’s narrow enough that I could shimmy up. I quickly calculate the difficulty and realize that I have nothing to lose.

  Closing my eyes I take a moment to scan the courtyard. It’s abandoned except for a few people huddled in a corner. One is doubled-over, clutching his head and muttering to himself. The others are staring at the sun, high overhead. No one is near the grate.

  It’s as good a time as any.

  I wedge myself into the tight space. A few uncomfortable minutes later my head is inches away from the grate. I warily reach towards it. If I’m wrong the field will glow bright blue and the tips of my fingers will start to burn. But if I’m right, the field will briefly shine green, my hand will pass right through. What’s a little burn compared to knowing?

  Gritting my teeth, I go for it.

  The field glitters green for a moment. My hand grasps the cold iron of the bars. This has to be a mistake. I just found a line into the Prison.

  My heart starts beating a million miles a minute. A semi-permeable energy field—it’s a semi-permeable energy field. They require less power and less maintenance, there’s less chance of a breakdown. Of course that’s what they would use.

  Jumping back down to solid ground, I look up at the grate. An SPEF has one flaw, one problem in its design that can always be exploited. If there’s someone on the permeable side they can reach out and pull you through. The field doesn’t distinguish between two bodies if they’re connected. All I have to do is grind down the cement holding the grate in place. I could reach in and pluck out a prisoner.

  A feeling of terrible dread seizes me; if Madman gets his line to A it won’t take him long to figure this out. Even the Prison will be under his control. That possibility horrifies me—absolute supremacy in the hands of one man. Everyone will live according to his whims. There’s no one I trust with that kind of power.

  Nauseated, I place my hand on the wall for support. My options are limited. I now know that I’ll create a line into A. If I give it to Lyons he’ll own everyone. Then again, I can pretend that I was never here. Instead of creating the line I can just walk through the SPEF.

  Then it’s the simple choice: Madman or Locket—slavery or death.

  I should already be dead. How the fuck did I get here? Having come this far, I know I want to live. I want my freedom.

  Wrestling with that weakness, I make a hard decision. I’ll give Madman his line into A. I’ll savour the shocked look on his face when he realizes that I’ve slipped through his fingers.

  The future is somebody else’s problem.

  22

  Tripping, stumbling and staggering, I slowly navigate the dank sewers. I’m moving from o
ne patch of sunlight to another. Without my flashlight it’s the only way I’m able to see. The lack of good lighting severely limits my movement. My belly starts to growl and I know I’ve been fumbling around for hours. Tired and angry, I growl in frustration. When is this going to end?

  A tunnel to my right suddenly gets my mind buzzing. Looking down, I see rays of light some forty meters away. I’ll have to be careful where I step. Trusting my instincts, I turn right and slowly make my way toward the light. I’m just about to reach it when something green flickers in front of me: the SPEF.

  My excitement mounts as I carefully reach towards it with my hand. The green field flicker once more.

  My search is over.

  Escaped T Sector slaves always speak of holes they found in T’s SPEF. I’m fairly certain those don’t exist here. Holes only occur if the field isn’t getting enough power. Cops wouldn’t risk Criminals being able to sneak in and out of A. If I knew how to make a hole I would do it, but I’m not that talented. All I know is that a hole has to be made from the permeable side. Even if I had the training, I never would have been able to get the equipment through the Perimeter. All I have is what’s in my bag and whatever else I can scrounge up from these sewers.

  Still, this is the easy part. Once I place an object through the field, I can use it to get me back in. The field will think that the object and I are part of the same body. If I’m wrong, I’ll only get a few burns. Despite my nonchalance, however, I know that burns are the worst. I’ve broken limbs, had my teeth knocked out, been dragged over broken glass, and been beaten to a bloody pulp. None of that pain compares to when I caught fire.

  I was still sleeping in the streets back then. Even in the City the desert nights are cold. A gang of kids had started a fire in a collection bin. I remember it was just after I’d killed for a shred of nutrient bar; the others gave me a seat without a fight. I sat there watching the flames and a spark shot out of the fire, landing on my shirt. There’s a reason why buildings in the City can’t be made from flammable materials. My clothes went up in a matter of moments.

  No one came to my rescue. I put myself out. I lost a good portion of my hair and sustained second-degree burns on my torso. When you’re an orphan, there aren’t many places you can go for medical treatment. Doctors can be expensive. Poorer citizens tend to make home remedies. A compassionate woman gave me some kind of oil to prevent an infection, but there was nothing for the agony Even if I could have afforded drugs I don’t know if I would have taken them. Anything you get on the streets is highly addictive.

  The pain from all my other injuries has faded from memory. I remember they hurt but, once they’d healed, they were easy to forget. My burns, however, have stuck with me.

  Enthralled by my work, I forget all about the grim consequences of success. I reach into my bag, pull out a shirt, and hold it out in front of me. The sewers are full of debris and discarded items. It doesn’t take me long to find an old pipe, about double the length of my arm, and slip the shirt over it. Carefully wrapping the cloth securely around the metal, I place the pipe underneath the water. It slides easily through the green energy. The field grabs it and tries to whisk it out of my hands, but I keep a firm grip and refuse to let go.

  Securing the end of the pipe with a discarded cinderblock, I make sure it won’t slip out when I’m not holding it. Satisfied, I quickly step through the SPEF. It doesn’t feel like much. Mostly it just makes the inside of my ears itch. Fortifying myself against my guilt, I turn around, bend down, and grab the swaddled pipe. I take it out from the cinderblock holding it in place.

  Everything has been building to this one moment.

  Despite the chill in the water the shirt is warm. I may not have the training to make a hole in the SPEF, but I do know that if metal is in contact with an energy field it heats up. The shirt is a precaution against burns. The water should be enough to keep the metal from getting too hot, but you can never be too careful. Anxious to get this over with, I close my eyes and step towards the field.

  My ears itch—I’m through.

  I’ve done the impossible; I found a line into A. But I’m too conflicted for excitement. The cost is higher than I should have to pay. And yet, what’s done is done. Sickened by my cowardice, I step back through the SPEF. The blue sky on the other side of the grate beckons to me from this damp tomb.

  Beating back my guilt I jump, grab the bottom rung of the hanging ladder, and pull myself up. It’s common knowledge that F, Y, K, W and N surround A Sector; my only question is which one I’m currently under. My first choice would be Y. The Gaffers are a friendly bunch who wouldn’t think twice about my smelling like the sewers. In Y, no one ever mentions funny odours. The whole sector smells strange from the factories. It’s considered rude to mention it.

  Also, in Y Sector the people work but aren’t paid. All credits are put into a public fund and then politicians choose where to distribute them. For instance, the door of a box won’t close and a citizen wants it to be fixed. When they’re not working, they go to the Y Sector Application Centre. An official checks the complaint and arranges to have it fixed. It’s an efficient system that Gaffers seem to enjoy. Their neighbourhoods are absolutely beautiful: buildings with courtyards that have green community parks. They don’t worry about losing their box or getting hurt. Y Sector pays their rent and their medical bills. I think it’s the security that keeps them happy.

  My instincts let me know that it’s safe to leave. Carefully sliding the grate up and to the side, I poke my head out. Sniffing the air I wrinkle my nose: I’m definitely in Y. With a grunt of satisfaction, I jump out of the sewers and quickly slide the grate back into place.

  The next thing I need to do is get a message to Locket. When I tell Madman I created a line I’m going to need proof. He’ll want to hear it from someone he trusts. Locket is the only General that I know and he can get anywhere in a hurry. Once he’s seen that I’m telling the truth he can escort me back to B. Running into a pub, I decide to do this quickly, before the guilt changes my mind.

  Getting a message to someone in another sector is tricky. It can also carry a high cost. When I mention Locket’s name to the bartender the large man nods happily.

  “Sure, sure, I know someone who can get a message through. They’ll want the credit up front.” He leans his red face towards me over the bar. “Anything to Locket won’t be cheap.”

  I appreciate his friendly warning. “This call is collect.”

  “Collect, you say?” The bartender eyes me over, a glimmer of respect in his bright gaze. “Well, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of Locket paying for someone else’s message. You must be important!”

  “Not me. My information.”

  “Ah, I see.” He wipes off a glass and sets in down in front of me. “You like dark or light beer?”

  “I’ll take red ale if you have it.”

  The bartender bursts into hefty guffaws. Alcohol is a way of life in Y. They’re the ones who make it. “If I have it…? It’s only the pride and joy of all Gaffers! What self-respecting Y bartender doesn’t have red ale?”

  Smiling at the jovial man’s dramatics, I accept the large tankard of alcohol. I don’t have to pay, food and drink is free in Y Sector. Gaffers have punch cards. They get to go out a certain number of times a week. Obviously, I don’t have one of those. The bartender is serving me because he likes me. I take a large gulp of ale and the melodious flavour helps dampen my shame.

  “Now, young lady, what’s your message?”

  “If you don’t want him here, pick a different place,” I say. “He just needs to know where I’ll be.”

  Intrigued, he leans further over the bar. “And you are?”

  “Sewer Rat.”

  “Sewer Rat.” He groans in disappointment. “Nothing else…?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “You figure he’ll come running when he hears that Sewer Rat is waiting for him.”

  “That’s right.”

&nbs
p; He looks me over once again, unsure if he should believe me. “Well, that’s something I have to see.”

  Shuffling away, I take the chance to study my surroundings. The gleaming bar, typical of a Y Sector bartender to keep everything pristine, is making me self-conscious of my appearance.

  “Is there a place to grab a shower around here?” I ask.

  “You can use the one here, if you want. It’s just upstairs. Clarice! Clarice!” He bellows the name into the kitchen. “There’s a woman who’s going upstairs to use the shower!”

  “Are her boots clean?” a sharp voice calls.

  I look down at my soggy black boots and curse inwardly. “I’ll take them off.”

  “She’s good, Clarice! She needs a shower.” He motions to the back of the bar. “Up the stairs, last door at the end of the hall.”

  “Thank you.”

  I lean over and slip off my boots. Tucking them under my arm, I charge myself to glue the brown leather around them again. It should take my message an hour or so to find Locket. First, it has to reach the right people to make its way past the walls. There are Criminals who make decent livings delivering messages. If they don’t know where Locket is, they’ll know how to find him.

  After my shower, I sit at a table in the bar. The red ale is delicious, but the warmth spreading through my limbs isn’t enough to help me forget what I’m about to do. The bartender hovers around, asking if I need anything else, but I wave him off. My mind is spinning. I keep thinking that there must be another way—a solution that doesn’t give Madman the line and somehow guarantees my freedom. Lost in thought and anxiety, I lose track of time.

  When a warm hand grasps my shoulder I barely take notice. “I’ll come to the bar if I want something,” I promise. I like the bartender but his hovering is unnerving. The hand leaves my shoulder.