Dr. Aris Thorne had not spoken to his wife in eleven months. Not because of a fight, or a tragedy, but because of a choice. The Cline Panel had given him that choice, and he had taken it.
“Well,” she whispered. “It’s decided.”
He started to walk.
Marriages, friendships, business partnerships—all were now governed by the Panel. If your Cline with a colleague dropped below 300, you were reassigned. If your Cline with a spouse fell below 200 for six consecutive months, the Panel would issue a “Decoupling Directive.” No lawyers, no tears, no custody battles. Just a quiet, administrative severance.
He walked to the dead Panel. He placed his palm flat against its cold, smooth surface. cline panel
In the weeks after, Aris wanted to talk. He wanted to replay the day, to assign blame, to scream at God or the pool’s owner or himself. Lena went silent. She cleaned. She cooked. She stared at the garden. Their micro-expressions diverged. Aris’s perspiration spiked with cortisol; Lena’s flatlined into a gray numbness. The Panel watched.
The lights flickered. The grid hummed back to life. The Panel glowed a soft, searching blue. It began to recalculate. The Cline Panel had given him that choice,
Aris’s Cline with his wife, Lena, had been a solid 720 when they married. They laughed at the same jokes, finished each other’s sentences, and the Panel’s light had been a warm, celebratory blue. But then the accident happened. Their son, Leo, drowned in a friend’s pool. The Panel didn’t have a category for grief.