The Line

Manufacturing memories

Flynn looked around for a moment, but he couldn't tell who'd just spoken. The other linespeople in the market were a boiling, nervous mass--they moved back and forth between stalls, slapping and chopping fish, collecting trading slips with slick fingers, yapping at the pluggers that blew past. Flynn stood a few feet away from the closest stall, just outside the ring of frenzy and stink.

He knew one thing, though: he hadn't recognized that voice.

"Flynn."

Again!

Was he imagining this?

"Flynn."

No. He wasn't.

The speaker had been moving around--now the voice came from behind him. Sensing another presence nearby, Flynn swivelled around abruptly, hoping to catch whoever'd been calling for him off-guard.

But he was the one who jerked back--fast, too.

The man--who'd only been standing at arm's length--sported a grey suit rather than the mandatory jumpsuit and a grin rather than the usual frown. He was a North Sider, judging by his tint; thick tufts of black hair made waves over his ears, and his eyes were as dull as old coins.

"I won't hurt you," the man said. There was no trace of North Sider accent in his unnervingly steady voice. "My name is Weiss."

"How do you know who I am?" Flynn asked, still backing away. "I mean, it's not like I know you." He glanced around to see if anyone in the market had noticed them. No one was doing anything but slapping, chopping, trading.

"You've made something of a name for yourself, volunteering to pick up flashies, asking all those questions." Weiss's grin was widening. "Word has been spreading throughout the islands, though something tells me you'll be forgotten as soon as next week--linespeople tend to be fickle that way."

Flynn swallowed. "How do you know who I am? Seriously? How?"

"I've been watching you," Weiss answered.

Flynn cast a suspicious glare. "Watching me?"

"Yes. I watched you through the pluggers."

"You--"

The suit.

The pluggers.

"You--" Flynn could no longer speak. The words he meant to say were lodged in his throat, chocking him.

This man--this Weiss--worked for the court.

Suddenly the words gushed out.

"You're from the court? The court? Seriously?" Flynn was instantly glad no one was paying them heed. Just like that, his face had taken on a childish excitement, and his voice was higher-pitched, almost strained; he even moved to try and block Weiss from the market goers' line of view. Weiss was too tall, though, easily towering over Flynn's shoulders.

"You seem pleased to see me," Weiss said.

"Duh. I want to ask you questions."

"So do I."

Then Weiss was moving and covering himself up with a raincoat, walking so quickly Flynn had to trot to keep up. A few minutes later, they were inside a dingy shop across from the factory, and Flynn's fish errand was long forgotten.

Air was thick; the shop was fuller than full. It made no difference. Like a rock parting water, Weiss easily weaved through the crowd and found a (strangely) empty table by a window; he sat there and gestured for Flynn to do the same. The outside world's red glow gave his grin an unsettling appearance, like his teeth were caked in blood.