Ninth City Burning by J. Patrick Black Page A

I’ll let one of the cardboard storage boxes get a little wet so the bottom falls out when I try to pick it up. Little things like that. I’ll bust one or two at my station, too, but only so no one gets suspicious. On my performance reports my error rate is listed as “good,” and you only have to be “acceptable” to avoid getting stuck with demerits.
    I keep playing up the clumsiness a bit, fumbling with my gloves and apron as I rush to join everyone else filing off the floor. Hardly anyone even looks at me; they’re all just this huge, exhausted herd. We lumber out the big doors and over this bridge where you can see half the factory complex, just this mammoth stack of boxy buildings and domes and steam spewing everywhere from big tangles of pipes and whatnot.
    Somehow, Hexi finds me in the crowd, which is like a feat because I look about the same as everyone else. I mean, I’m a little taller than average, but I have the same short haircut most factory workers choose, my straight black hair cut down to a bristly fuzz, and in my brown floor uniform, I’m not very remarkable. That doesn’t keep Hexi from picking me out right away, though.
    â€œHey, Torro!” Hexi calls in her high little voice. My full name is Troshosho, so you can see why Torro is easier.
    Hexi is friendly as anything. Like she could make friends with a rock,and the rock would send her birthday cards. “How do you always find me right away?” I ask her.
    â€œThe smell, boyo. What was it today, tuna?”
    I was afraid it would be something like that. “Herring.”
    â€œI’m only kidding you, don’t be so
sen
sitive. Half the people here smell like fish, or didn’t you notice? Anyway, at least you can wash the fishiness off with a shower or two. I’m going to be red for a week!” She holds up her hands so I can see the stains she got from canning red beets.
    â€œA shower or
two
? What do you think I do all day?”
    â€œBasically the same thing I do all day. You going to eat? The kiddos are probably waiting for us.”
    Everyone working at the factories gets two meals here per day plus one credit for the eateries in town. You can use your extra credit here, too, if you happen to be insane. The factory caf is a huge room in the middle of the complex, with rows of tables and servers spooning different colors of slop onto segmented plates. Some of the slop is seasonal, like when we’re harvesting potatoes, the starchy slop is slightly better. Fortunately, we’re behind our quotas on both red beets and fish, so Hexi and me won’t have to eat what we’ve been canning since like 1600 yesterday.
    Today’s slop comes in three colors: orange, brown, and green. The orange is like sliced carrots or something, and the brown is mystery meat with mystery gravy. The green could be broccoli or peas, but I’m not going to think too much about it. When Hexi holds out her plate for her serving of slop, I notice her looking at the red splotches on her arms with a lot less like jolliness than before.
    â€œIt really doesn’t look that bad,” I say. “Two more weeks, and we’re done anyway. Just twenty more days. Maybe you’ll rotate somewhere better.” Where I really want to go is the fishing fleet. I guess that’s sort of strange given my present feelings on fish. But I just imagine myself out there with nothing but the ocean for a hundred kilometers in every direction, old S-225 nowhere in sight, and I think, that’s for me. It’s tough work to get, though, fishing. There’s a lot to learn, so if you don’t get into it early, you probably never will. My chances would have been better if I’d left school a few years ago, which is sort of a dumb way of doing things if you think about it.
    â€œWith my luck, I’ll probably end up in textiles,” Hexi says, sighing.“At least then I can get dyed a few