Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1) Page 13

  ~~~

  Benson lingers for only a moment on the street before entering the cracked and crumbling building that he calls home. Waiting any longer would be a surefire way to attract unwanted attention.

  When he pushes through the door, he feels the familiar chill maintained to mask their presence from the random infrared scans performed by Hawks from time to time. Once again, his friends are huddled around the holo-screen watching the news.

  “Where’ve you been?” Check asks, looking up from the screen. Gonzo, Rod, and Geoffrey keep watching. Benson wishes Luce would keep watching, too, but her eyes dart to his, and then settle on her feet, which are tucked cross-legged in front of her.

  So this is the way it’s going to be—awkwardness and staring at feet.

  “Out,” Benson says. He closes the door and sits next to Check. Luce is on the other side of his friend. A buffer. That’s what he needs right now.

  Check shrugs disinterestedly. “I got rid of the bomber’s card,” he says.

  “Thanks.” Not looking at the screen, Benson busies himself with the two stolen LifeCards. He connects the first card—the one from the woman’s purse—to his hacker and waits. A number pops up. $356. Not bad for an unplanned Pick.

  “How come you went solo on me?” Check asks, the slightest bit of irritation in his voice. He’s reading the number over Benson’s shoulder. By unwritten Picker rules, the spoils from a solo job don’t have to be shared with one’s partner.

  Benson doesn’t look up from the device, just calmly removes the first card and replaces it with the second, from the man’s brown cardholder. “It wasn’t planned,” Benson says. “Anyway, we’ll go halves on it.” The second number appears. $1,249.

  Check’s eyes practically bug out. “Damn, man, you did all right.” The iciness is gone now that he knows Benson will be sharing.

  “It was a dual-Pick,” Benson says.

  Both Rod and Gonzo finally look up. “Impresionante,” Rod says.

  “Sick,” Gonzo says.

  Geoffrey beams at Benson. “Later, can you show me how you pulled it off?” The kid’s always eager to learn, Benson’s got to give him that.

  Luce leans forward and peeks around Check. “Congratulations,” she says. Her eyes are puffy and red, something Benson should have noticed earlier. It’s clear she’s been crying. Benson’s never seen her cry—not once. He can’t imagine it.

  Now it’s Benson’s turn to stare at his feet. The hardness inside him cracks a little. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

  “Bro, have you seen the news?” Check asks.

  What now? Benson thinks, looking up. The holo-screen is muted, one of their rules at night. This part of the city can get particularly quiet and regular Crow patrols pass by frequently. When he sees the headline, he sucks in a sharp breath:

  HIGH-LEVEL POP CON OFFICIAL CONFIRMS SLIP RUMOR

  “When?” Benson asks, feeling a swell of fear in his chest.

  “The rumor surfaced about two hours ago,” Luce says.

  “They only just confirmed it,” Check says.

  “I wonder who the high-level official is,” Rod says.

  “Un bastardo,” Gonzo says.

  “I meant which one,” Rod says.

  “I know what you meant, idiota,” Gonzo says.

  Geoffrey snickers and Luce frowns at him. There’s a knot in Benson’s gut. A tide of memories washes up on the shore of Benson’s mind. Seeing his father’s face on the holo-screen for the first time, when he snuck out of bed. The story about the terminated Slip, a five-year-old girl. Everything he told Benson before pushing him into the river; everything he implied. As much as Benson prefers living in denial, deep inside his suspicions abound.

  “I bet it’s that douchebag. Michael Kelly,” Check says.

  Benson bites his lip.

  “I’d put a million pesos on Corrigan Mars,” Rod says. “Every time he makes an announcement, I throw up a little in my mouth.”

  “The same happens to me when I look at your ugly face, amigo,” Gonzo says.

  “I just laugh when I see your face, amigo,” Rod says.

  “Doesn’t matter who it is,” Luce interjects. “What matters is what happens next.”

  “They find the poor kid and put him or her down,” Check says.

  “Freaking screwed up,” Rod says.

  “You’re freaking screwed up,” Gonzo says. “Loco en la cabeza.” He points at his head, moving his index finger in a tight spiral. Rod pushes him and he falls over.

  “What do you think, Benson?” Luce asks.

  The truth is he feels sick. Because he knows Check was right. They’ll find the kid. He doesn’t like to think about the rest. Here he’s been obsessing over his sad little hurt feelings when there’s a Slip out there who’s worrying every second about whether Hunters will break down their door and put a bullet in their head.

  Not him. Because of his dad it will never be him.

  “I hope they never find the Slip,” Benson says.

  “Me too,” Geoffrey says.

  “Me tres,” Rod says.

  “Dork,” Gonzo says, pushing him.

  ~~~

  Past article from the Saint Louis Times:

  Food Shortages Linked to Unauthorized Births

  The Department of Population Control announced that food shortages are quickly becoming a problem in most of the forty-two states, and that the issue stems from a recent increase in the number of unauthorized births. Officials are asking all law-abiding citizens for continued vigilance in locating Unauthorized Beings. “At this point any population growth will lead to problems down the road,” said Mayor Strombaugh. To make it easier for citizens, Pop Con has implemented an anonymous tip line. Simply speak “Pop Con Tips” into your holo-screens to create an anonymous connection to an agent who will record and investigate any information you provide. Your country thanks you for your service.

  Have a comment on this article? Speak them into your holo-screen now. NOTE: All comments are subject to government screening. Those comments deemed to be inappropriate or treasonous in nature will be removed immediately and appropriate punishment issued.

  Comments:

  Prowler09: Comment removed and disciplinary action taken.

  SamSam12: Those UnBees really need to stop eating MY food.

  TheHam77: I’m so fat that I eat enough to feed at least ten UnBees.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Michael Kelly wants to ring Corrigan Mars’s neck. Not only did he clearly leak news of a potential Slip to the press, but he’s begun creating a task force.

  And all this before, as he’s just admitted to him, the Slip being confirmed. At least he didn’t give any clue as to the potential age of the Slip. If the broad public knew it might be a teenager, there’d be pandemonium. How could an Unauthorized Being avoid detection for so long? people will ask. Could there be more? Are we all at risk because of it? Those questions and many harder ones will surely be asked.

  And Michael Kelly is the only one who knows the truth.

  Although he’s built a wall of denial—the teenage Slip might not be him—deep down he knows it can be no other. The worst day of his life has finally arrived, a day he prayed would never come.

  The wall clock screams at him in bright blue three-dimensional digital numbers. He’s forgotten something. His son’s hoverball game, the last regular season game of the year. Although a pang of guilt hits him, he knows he’s got a good excuse, one that even Harrison might understand.

  “You went behind my back,” Michael growls at Corr.

  “I thought you’d want to move forward as swiftly as possible,” Corr says, his eyebrows lifting innocently. But Michael knows it’s an act. Corr knows exactly what he’s doing. Making a play for his job. Michael doesn’t give a crap about the job—he loathes it—but he knows he has to keep it for the sake of the country. Corrigan Mars as Head of Population Control would usher in the darkest storm the world has ever seen. And more importantly, he
has to keep his position to protect his son, now more than ever.

  “I do,” Michael says. He has to be very careful not to cross any lines. “But without press involvement.”

  “You want to hide the Slip from the people?” It’s not so much a question as an accusation.

  “No,” Michael says, annoyed that Corr is, as usual, getting under his skin. “I want to provide information as it becomes available. You’re spreading unconfirmed rumors.”

  “It’s as good as confirmed,” Corr says.

  “And yet…not.”

  Corr’s thick eyebrows come together. “Whose side are you on?”

  “The truth’s side,” he says. “Now get out and don’t make any more decisions related to the potential Slip without consulting with me first.”

  Corr’s face reddens, but he doesn’t argue further. After all, he’s not the boss. Michael is. At least for now.

  As Corr opens the door, he glances back over his shoulder. “I’d like to nominate someone to lead the Slip task force,” he says. “I’d hoped we could both interview him. He’s waiting outside. He’s the up-and-comer I mentioned earlier.”

  “I’ll interview him myself,” Michael says.

  Corrigan Mars slams the door.

  ~~~

  The Destroyer is the only one in the waiting room on level ninety-nine. Through the tinted window, the city is shrouded in the shadow of night, a sea of twinkling lights, like a reflection of the stars.

  After hearing the rumors during the drive over, he’s almost positive he’s not here to be reprimanded. Quite the opposite. He’s here to be used, put to work. And not to catch a bunch of helpless UnBees. To catch a Slip.

  He stares at the assistant, a long-legged woman with lustrous dark hair and cat-like green eyes. While he’s been openly admiring her short skirt and tight-fitting blouse, she’s been pretending not to look at him. But he sees it on her face each time she flicks a surreptitious glance his way. She wants him.

  And why not? He’s the perfect mix of man and machine, his human parts nearly as iron-clad as the rest of him. A shimmer of excitement glazes over him as he imagines her soft white hands running over his chest, his stomach.

  He’ll have her, he promises himself.

  The door opens and the man he’s here to see exits. The Destroyer is surprised how small Corrigan Mars looks in person. On screen he always seemed to command attention, but in the flesh he looks shriveled and aged. An old man. He could break him in two if he had the mind.

  Instead he stands and extends a hand. Surprisingly, the man’s handshake is firm. His dark eyes seem to convey a sense of great power. The kind of power the Destroyer wants. No, the power he needs.

  “Domino Destovan, I presume,” Mr. Mars says. “Or should I call you Destroyer?”

  He feels as giddy as he did the first time he piloted a bomb-strapped suicide drone into a nest of enemies. Corrigan Mars knows his nickname? “The Destroyer,” he corrects, instantly wishing the words back.

  To his surprise, Mr. Mars laughs. “Fair enough. The Destroyer,” he says.

  “I’m incredibly honored to meet you, Mr. Mars,” the Destroyer says.

  “Thank you, and call me Corr—everyone else does. Unfortunately, I’ve been called away to deal with important matters. I’m sure you’ve heard what’s going on?”

  “Only rumors, sir.”

  “Corr, please.”

  “Corr.” He tries out the nickname and finds he likes it.

  “The rumors will become facts soon enough,” Corr says.

  “Should I come back another time?”

  “No. I’ve got to attend to some business, but Michael Kelly is ready to speak with you.”

  No freaking way. He tries to control the elation that pumps through his veins. “Thank you. I’m most honored.” There’s a slight tremor in his voice, but he doesn’t think Corr notices.

  “Lacey—please show Domino into Mr. Kelly’s office.”

  Long Legs Lacey stands and says, “Right this way,” turning at just the right angle to give the two men a tantalizing view of her tight rear.

  The Destroyer tries not to stare, but fails miserably. “Welcome to the pros,” Corr says with a grin, catching him. “And good luck.”

  “Thanks,” the Destroyer says, resisting the urge to slap Lacey on the ass as he enters the office.

  She closes the door behind him. Michael Kelly stares at him from behind a wide black desk. A two-sided holo-screen rests between them. The side he can see is dark, while the soft glow from the opposite side casts a yellow sheen on the desk.

  The Head of Pop Con doesn’t say a word, his expression carrying none of the warmth of Corr’s. The Destroyer doesn’t move, his gaze resting on the dark holo-screen, the tension growing with each passing second.

  “Why are you here?” Michael Kelly finally says. His voice is firm and commands attention. There’s no doubt that he’s the leader here—the one to impress. Next to Mr. Kelly, Corr seems like a footstool.

  “I have no idea,” the Destroyer says. It’s not the full truth. He suspects it has something to do with the Slip rumors, but he can’t be sure; there could be a hundred reasons for this meeting.

  “Neither do I,” Mr. Kelly says.

  “Um…” the Destroyer says, but can’t think of what to say next.

  Thankfully, Mr. Kelly takes the next step. “Mr. Mars called you here for an interview, but unfortunately he’s much too busy now.”

  Yes. Right. An interview. “Corr—I mean, Mr. Mars—said I was to meet with you instead.”

  Mr. Kelly’s eyes narrow. “Unfortunately Mr. Mars doesn’t run things around here.”

  The Destroyer’s palms are sweaty. Well, his human palm anyway. His machine palm is as dry as an old bone. Nothing is going as expected. “No. Of course he doesn’t. I’m just confused, I guess. Should I go?”

  Mr. Kelly doesn’t answer. He looks at the holo-screen, ignoring his guest for the moment. The Destroyer lifts one foot, then the other, hating how awkward he must look standing there when there’s a chair sitting right in front of him. It’s even angled such that he could easily sit down. If only he’d get an invitation. He feels even more awkward and pathetic when his bladder decides it’s ready to overflow.

  “You have an impressive track record in the military,” Mr. Kelly says.

  Finally, a break. Something to be proud of. “Thank you, sir,” he says.

  “One hundred percent mission success rate; six medals of honor; honorable discharge due to grievous injury. A lesser man would’ve accepted the government pension and spent the rest of their days relaxing.”

  “That’s not me,” the Destroyer says.

  “Evidently not. You worked hard, got yourself some new body parts, and joined us, is that right?”

  “Yes.” Is this part of the interview?

  “How does it feel to murder innocent children?” Mr. Kelly asks.

  “What?” The snap response is out before he can stop it.

  “You heard me.”

  “Innocent children? With all due respect, they’re UnBees, sir. They should’ve never been born. As a Hunter, I restore the delicate balance required for our survival.”

  “With all due respect, you’re a hotshot who doesn’t take orders and almost seems to enjoy the killing part of your job. At least that’s what the reports say. And that’s after only a week.”

  What the hell is happening? he wonders. This is the man giving the orders and he’s questioning my motives? The calm he’s trying to maintain threatens to boil over. “The reports are wrong,” he says, even though he knows they’re not.

  “I guess that remains to be seen, Mr. Destovan. This interview is over until you show you can both lead and follow.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turns and heads for the door, his legs numb, all strength sapped from them. The door opens before he reaches it. Lacey and her legs are waiting for him. He hop
es she couldn’t hear anything through the door.

  He undresses her with his eyes and offers a quick wink, bouncing back quickly from his momentary embarrassment.

  Her eyes narrow, darkening to a deep, sexy green.

  Well, at least he knows he’ll get one thing he wants.

  ~~~

  Alice is back.

  Janice is pretty sure it’s still the same day, although it must be much later, because the window is dark. The room blazes to life when the nurse says, “Lights.”

  Janice squints, her eyes trying to wake up from her nap.

  “It’s happened, just like you said it would,” Alice says.

  “No,” she says. The padded walls scream and shout in her head, YESYESYESYESYESYES! “Shut up,” she says, slamming her hands over her ears.

  “I’m sorry,” Alice says. “Should I go?” She motions to the door.

  “No, please, tell me,” Janice says. Slowly, she eases her hands from her ears, holding her breath. The walls are silent and she pushes out a breath.

  “Pop Con has confirmed there’s a Slip. No name. No photo. Just that the records show an anomaly. An extended blip in the population, something that’s been there for years, undiscovered.”

  “How old?” Janice asks. First there was the five-year-old girl whose face was plastered all over the news. And then there was him, only eight years old. For whatever reason, Pop Con didn’t publicize the termination of her son. Presumably her husband had covered it up. And he had avoided any links to them. Had he hidden when they came for their son? Did he cower like a coward while they murdered her baby?

  “Not yet determined, but the latest says the Slip is at least nine.”

  God. Nine years old. Older than her angel had been. She can only imagine how many sleepless nights his or her parents have had. How many times they’ve flinched at shadows, jumped at loud noises, woke up screaming in the night, the memory of a blood-red nightmare fading into the dark.

  No, she wouldn’t wish that life on her worst enemy.

  “Freaking sick murdering filth,” she mutters under her breath.