The Line

Call them off!

A minuscule part of Juan still wanted to know what a plugged person saw. That part awaited this revelation--and the eventual needle--with something akin to eagerness.

A larger part of him was knee-shaking terrified.

His heart became a weight, pumping poison, rather than blood, through his veins. Furiously, he tried to think, find some way out of this. He couldn't swim his way to safety, not without risking drowning. He had to finish this quickly, too, if he wanted to make it back to the dock--and to shelter--before the storm--

What do I do?

A rush of heat flooded his cheeks, swirled in his head, and he thought of something.

///

"Call them off!"

The cry was loud and dry.

Flynn had pounced up. Trembling, but not because of the cold, his arms forgotten, he stepped toward the Weather Man.

"You have to call them off! And don't say you can't! If Weiss could program the pluggers to protect me, you can call them off!"

The Weather Man's face was a mass of clumped lines. "Don't you think you should calm down? Look there..."

But it was hard to see. Pink fog was rolling in, a curtain of fuzz and blindness, so thick you could part it with a knife. The idea that anyone might see anything seemed absurd.

"I don't--" Flynn began.

The Weather Man squinted and pointed, interrupting, "Do you see there? We've almost reached the shore."

The boat was slowing and turning, that much was clear.

"That doesn't matter!" Flynn started to wave his arms. "What matters is that Juan doesn't understand why Angelle's gone." He spluttered, "He doesn't understand why I-- He didn't mean to push me-- You have to-- Call them off!" The air was so subtly charged Flynn felt it might smother him to death. "You have to call them off," he whispered, out of breath. "You have to. Please. You have to."

"Talk to Weiss," the Weather Man answered, eyes on the shore only he could see. "He's the one who can help you."

///

At least the water was still, though thunder still threatened, and fog blinded. They would be fast, he knew that, a sudden hail of needles breaking the light strawberry-coloured wall, but they weren't attacking him yet.

Yet.

Slick fingers jittery, Juan went through Flynn's black bag (which lay in a wet heap on the deck), granting the pluggers intermittent glances. Flynn had to have something. Flynn always had the solution. There had to be something.

Or not.

Juan nearly screamed when his nail scraped the thick canvas bottom of the bag. He'd rejected the hard folded papers and metal frame he'd first groped, deeming them worthless, and now what?

Now there was nothing left?

No.

No.

Stifling panic, he moved his hand, sweeping another corner of the bag--and felt something that felt plastic. Something shaped like a weapon.