The Line

Retrials mean death

The rain coat "factory" disputed a stretch of the water's edge with the fish "market." Every morning, odd clusters of linespeople went by the Weather Man before they hauled out makeshift nets, using any one of the endless solar boats the Line was supplied with to fall into the ocean's waiting arms. They would come back with mutated fish: some two-headed, some three-headed, and all a sickly shade of green. These fish tasted just like the rain, if you were unfortunate enough to let a droplet into your mouth: acrid, warm, bitter, and sour--like urine. But no one was getting sick. So the trading survived and thrived.

Inside the tiny, half-lit room that was the factory, workers sat on tipsy stools and sowed raincoats together--there seemed to be an endless demand for them--by hand. It was terrible, sweaty work and it made Juan's brain melt, but the factory gave the trading slips, and that was that.

Juan spotted the boy, one of the few his age--most others were middle-aged or elderly and gave him leery smiles--half-hidden between a huge dark woman and man. The boy was sowing a raincoat with undeniable passion, tongue tucked outside a corner of his mouth.

But that wasn't the most striking thing.

The boy was Flynn.

A few hours earlier, they'd awkwardly parted at the dock. "This is the main island," Flynn had said. "This is where we go separate ways." He had given Juan his full, dull smile before melting away, too quick and lithe to be held back.

Alone and wary, Juan had wandered about some. He'd learned about the factory and the trading slips from a vendor who'd refused to give him free fish.

"Pluggers. They watch your every move. I think they work for the court, but who really knows anything, right? If you commit a crime within a plugger's range--anything from robbery to murder--they'll zap you up faster than you can say 'Mercy.'" Flynn addressed the woman, but she merely grunted in reply--a low, noncommittal sound.

"Zap you up?" Juan asked, stepping closer.

"Shoot you up. Inject you. Turn you into a little human plugger. Look outside, in the market. They're the ones who think the court is God and pluggers are angels--or something. They're the crazy ones." Flynn still hadn't looked up. It was almost as if he was talking to himself now.

"How long have you been here?" Juan asked.

Flynn thought for a moment. His red brows came together; his forehead became clumped and lined; another raincoat was completed. "I got here a week ago," he said finally.

"Just one week?"

Flynn nodded but didn't look up. If he'd recognized Juan's voice, he made no sign of it. "I've taken it upon myself to pick up the flashies--last guy got plugged. You know, whenever someone new arrives, there's a huge flash. And I go pick them up. But yeah, it's only been a week."

Flynn moved and talked like he'd been in the Line his whole life! Was he lying about the length of his stay? Or could Juan simply be trapped here forever?

"How do you... know all this stuff?"

"I talk a lot," Flynn answered. "So people talk to me a lot. So I meet a lot of people. I feel like I need to meet everyone I can. How else will I make it out?"

The man grunted this time.

"Make it out?" asked Juan, very carefully, as if the words were laced with explosives. And it truly felt like they were.

"Escape," Flynn explained. "Get away. How else will I get away?"

"I didn't know there was a way out."

Flynn's nimble fingers made Juan feel like he had two left thumbs.

"There has to be. There has to be." Flynn frowned. "There has to be. I heard some people talking, saying I ought to know. One year after you're sent to the Line, there's something called a Retrial."

Through a loop, through another.

Juan felt himself go rigid at the thought of facing the pale man again. "N--no." His tongue floundered, hitching the word on its way out. He stepped closer, closer still, kneeling in front of Flynn. His knees were shaky, like he'd aged a century in a second. Like he was weaker.

"Yes. I'll ask around some more, but Retrials don't seem good." Flynn looked up--finally--and leaned in, licking his stained teeth. His breath was woody and muggy, a rush of unpleasant heat through Juan's nostrils. "I think... No, I strongly think... Retrials mean death."

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