Grip (The Slip Trilogy Book 2) Page 2

  In other news, it’s rumored that Michael Kelly, who was shot trying to protect his unauthorized son, is now dead. The couple who will receive a birth authorization as a result of his death will likely be contacted shortly with the good news.

  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:

  GregSmith8: Corrigan Mars for president!

  Slips4Life: Comment removed and disciplinary action taken.

  CorriganMars: Thank you, GregSmith8. I’m honored you’d say that, but our president is doing a fine job. However, I will continue to do my duty and protect our citizens from the unauthorized illegals that threaten to destroy us.

  Chapter Two

  It’s only been three days and Benson Kelly’s already sick and tired of being holed up underground. He misses the freedom of going anywhere and doing anything, something he’s relished since the day his father gave him a fake identity and forced him to swim across the Mississippi. Now, like when he was confined to the indoors for the first eight years of his life, he feels safe but stuck. Not living life the way it’s meant to be lived. Not free.

  He’s never been free, not really.

  He and Check and the others have already explored every part of the Lifers’ facility, the place called Refuge, and now all he wants to do is go outside.

  “Not possible,” a surly Lifer from Montreal had said when Benson asked if they could leave. He’s a Digger from Montreal, having entered the RUSA illegally five years earlier when he and nine others managed to burrow beneath the Border Wall along the Canadian border. His name’s Simon (pronounced See-mone) and the rumor is that the other nine were killed by Border guards, with only Simon surviving, giving him a reputation as a real badass. Apparently he joined the Lifers not long after that.

  The Lifers are the radical anti-government group who’ve been blowing up various parts of the nation’s capital as a protest against Population Control. Just thinking about the aftermath of the Lifers’ handiwork—the burned and charred bodies; the destroyed buildings; the fear and panic and mobs—makes it hard for Benson to breathe.

  “The air is so thick down here,” Benson says, bouncing a ball against the metal wall next to his small, metal-framed bed. Check sits next to him, his legs crossed. He squints at the ball as Benson throws it, which makes his already narrow Asian eyes appear closed.

  “Like cold pea soup,” Check says, grabbing the ball and chucking it at Harrison Kelly’s head.

  Harrison’s hand flicks up and he snatches the ball just before it hits him in the face.

  “Amazing,” Check says. “I’ve never seen anyone with hand/eye coordination like that.”

  Harrison shrugs. “I was born with it,” he says. Although it sounds like a cocky comment, Benson suspects it’s not. More like a fact. His twin brother might have identical features to him—sparkling turquoise eyes and golden blond hair—but that’s where the similarities end. Harrison is confident to a fault, prone to periods of brooding, and far more outgoing than Benson. Not to mention his superior hand/eye coordination and athletic ability.

  Already he finds himself looking up to Harrison like a big brother. A big brother who was born a mere two minutes before him. Two minutes that changed both their lives, making Harrison a legal citizen of the RUSA and Benson a wanted fugitive, even as a helpless baby.

  “Have you ever even seen pea soup, amigo?” Gonzo asks. Gonzo is standing in front of his own bed, repeatedly trying to rest his arm on Rod’s shoulder. Rod repeatedly pushes him off. The pair are Jumpers from Mexico, having successfully crossed the Border Wall by flinging themselves from a homemade drone. And both are a little crazy.

  Check glowers. “It’s an expression, genius.” Although it’s typical for Rod and Gonzo to argue with each other, Check usually stays out of it. After three days without sunlight, everyone’s tempers are high.

  Rod pushes Gonzo. Gonzo pushes Rod.

  “Do you two ever stop?” Harrison says. “What, are you in third grade?”

  “Nah, hombre, we never even made it that far,” Rod says. “School is for spoiled douche bags with rich douche bag parents. Comprende?”

  Harrison is off his bed in a second, throwing himself at the two Jumpers. His fist connects with Rod’s cheek, knocking him back. Gonzo throws a punch of his own, but Harrison dodges it and shoves him hard.

  Benson and Check give each other a “Why me?” look and join the fray. While Benson grabs his brother from behind, Check tries to get in front of the Jumpers, who are charging forward. Rod trips on Check’s leg and goes sprawling while Gonzo runs smack into Check, who crushes him in a bear hug. While Harrison struggles to break free of Benson’s grip, Gonzo’s legs keep churning, forcing Check back and into the twin brothers. Rod regains his feet and tackles everyone around the ankles, throwing them down in a tangle of arms and legs.

  Benson’s got someone’s stinky armpit in his face and at least two bodies on top of him when the door opens. He swivels his head and loses whatever breath he had left.

  Luce stands in the doorway. Her hands go to her hips, but Benson barely notices, because his gaze starts at her feet and slowly travels up her long, lean, brown legs. It’s not until he’s taken in her curves and reached her smirking lips that he remembers to take another forced breath.

  “I can’t leave you animals alone for ten minutes, can I?” she says.

  “Benson’s brother started it,” Rod says, unwilling to even say Harrison’s name.

  “How mature,” Harrison says, pushing off Benson’s chest to regain his feet. “I don’t have the energy for you morons. I’m going to go check on my douche bag mother.”

  When Luce doesn’t move, he pushes past her. Douche bag? Luce mouths to Benson, rubbing her shoulder.

  He shakes his head. There’s nothing to explain really. Sometimes people from different worlds don’t mix too well.

  “Benson, I’m sorry,” Rod says, gingerly touching his cheek, which is red and puffy. “I didn’t mean Janice.”

  “I know,” he says. He meant my dad, he adds in his head. He knows they all hate Michael Kelly, regardless of whether he’s dead or alive. Regardless of whether he died to save Benson and Luce. He can’t really blame them, can he? His father was Head of Pop Con for many years. Many years during which countless unauthorized children were killed in cold blood on his father’s orders. He knows he should hate his father too, but—

  He can’t.

  He’s tried. The last three nights when he’s supposed to be sleeping he’s gritted his teeth and clenched his fists and whispered “I hate you I hate you I hate you,” again and again, like a prayer. But instead of seeing his father as a baby-killing monster, he always pictures him at the end, as the protector who ushered them to safety while blocking the bullets aimed their way.

  “I think we all need a break from this boredom,” Check says. “Listen, I’ve been talking to some of the guys and they told me about this Lifer club that’s supposed to be insane. We could go tonight. It’ll take our minds off of—well, everything. Whaddya say, Luce? I’d save at least one dance for you.”

  Benson groans inwardly. While he’s continued to delay telling his best friend about he and Luce’s budding relationship, his friend has been more aggressive than ever in pining for her affections. He feels like a complete jerk, as he knows he should.

  “I’m in,” Gonzo says.

  “Sí,” Rod agrees.

  “Thanks, but I don’t know if I’m up for it,” Benson says.

  “Me either,” Luce agrees quickly, trying to hide the smile she flashes Benson under her hand.

  “Suit yourselves,” Check says. “But if you change your minds, the place is called Dark and it’s on level minus-ten. Now I’m going to get some grub, who’s in?”

  “Me,” Rod and Gonzo say at
the same time. Now that they’ve got a ready supply of food at their disposal, Benson is only just beginning to learn how much his friends can eat. He, on the other hand, hasn’t had much of an appetite lately.

  “See you later,” he says as his friends leave. He tries to ignore the wink that Check offers Luce when he passes her.

  When they’re gone, Luce flops down on the bed next to him, leaving a bit of empty space between them. He used to agonize over Luce’s every move, reading into the way she would to avoid his touch, but now that he knows about Luce’s horrific past—her attempted rape by an orphanage headmaster—he understands it. Sometimes it’s like there’s an invisible force field holding them apart. And when they touch it’s like an electric shock that hurts so much they have to pull away. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to close the gap, to draw her close, to kiss her; rather, he’ll let her decide when and where. Even though it’s hard. Like really hard. Especially because they’ve kissed a few times now, and it’s all he can seem to think about when he’s with her.

  Even now, he jerks his head when he realizes he’s staring at her pink lips. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “We should tell Check about us,” Luce says.

  He likes the way “us” sounds on her lips. On her tongue. “I know,” Benson says. “I will.”

  “When?”

  “Soon?”

  Luce lets out a frustrated laugh, but drops her hand into the space between them, palm up. The signal that she’s ready to be touched by him. He doesn’t hesitate, slowly lowering his hand to rest atop hers. He feels the tremble in her fingers, hears her quick sharp breaths, can almost see the flashes of terrible memories cycling through her head as she tries to separate the nightmares of the past from his harmless touch.

  She squeezes his hand and he squeezes back.

  “I’ll tell him tonight,” he promises. Why did I promise that? he thinks, instantly regretting it. A bulge of anxiety fills his stomach. Now he really doesn’t feel hungry.

  “Thanks,” Luce says, leaning in, her eyes already closed. He takes advantage of the opportunity to study her thick, arching eyebrows, her long lashes, her button nose, and her moist lips, puckered slightly. All that in a split-second, the longest he can wait before ducking his head to let his lips meet hers. The kiss sends tingles through his whole body and his hands seem to move on their own, without command from his brain. One cups her chin and then slides around to the back of her head, tangling in her silky hair. The other drops to her hip and he feels her shudder and freeze at his touch. Not long ago he would’ve taken it as a rejection, but now he knows to simply wait. Wait for her mind to catch up to reality, to chase away her demons. And she does, because her hands move, too, painting his chest and arms with delicate strokes.

  When they finally pull apart they’re both laughing.

  He remembers something Janice once told him growing up, before his father faked Benson’s death and she lost her mind. Happy moments are like stars. They seem so close you think you can touch them, but really they’re fleeting and a million miles away. Enjoy them from afar and don’t come to expect them. In your life there will be more cloudy nights than clear ones. At the time they were sitting side by side and craning their necks to gaze at the star-strewn sky, and it was one of the best moments of his short life.

  There’s a star-like twinkle in Luce’s eyes now and he can’t help the thrill he feels knowing that he put it there, like a happy, untouchable memory. “So tonight?” she says.

  He cringes, remembering his promise. “Uh, yeah,” he says.

  “Don’t sound so confident,” she jokes.

  “I’m not,” he says. “Check might kill me when I tell him.”

  “Want me to do it?” she asks.

  He sighs. “I’m his best friend—I should do it. And anyway, I think it would be much worse coming from you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’ll need someone to hit, and he can’t hit you.”

  “Maybe you should wear a helmet,” she says. Although it sounds like she is, he knows she’s not joking.

  ~~~

  Article from the Saint Louis Times:

  Is Refuge Real?

  With the disappearance of the Saint Louis Slip, talk has escalated about a place known simply as Refuge. If you believe the rumors, Refuge is a harbor for Slips who manage to escape from the authorities. But is it real or modern-day fiction, the equivalent of Oz or Wonderland? And if it is real, what is Pop Con doing to locate it?

  We posed those very questions to Mayor Strombaugh, of Saint Louis, and this was his response: “There is no evidence that suggests this ‘Refuge’ is a real place. The very idea that there are more than a handful of at-large Slips is ludicrous. However, there may be a few Slips out there, hiding together. It’s possible they aided Benson Kelly, and are even now protecting him. If so, we will take every measure possible to find and terminate them. We’re in the process of appointing a new Head of Population Control, whose first task will be to complete an ongoing mission to follow a current lead.”

  When questioned about who might be appointed as Head of Pop Con, the mayor had no comment. He also had no comment about the specific nature of the current investigation.

  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:

  CherryRipe4: Does anyone remember that young cyborg that was hunting the Slip? What ever happened to him? He was gorgeous!

  JohnBardo9: Oh yeah, I remember. His name was Domino I think. He was fired from Pop Con the same day Corrigan Mars was. It was all over the news.

  CherryRipe4: Domino…ooh, even his name is sexy. Are there any cyborgs out there that want to get a drink tonight?

  Chapter Three

  Fifteen percent human.

  At first it made Domino Destovan feel sick. At first he thought about how in school they learned how rounding works. Anything fifty percent and higher gets rounded up. Everything else is rounded down. Even as a cyborg, he considered himself human. Because of rounding.

  But now rounding would make him a robot. More machine than human. More metal than flesh and blood and organic tissue. When he smashes either of his metal fists into the wall, he doesn’t feel pain. When he walks he can’t feel his own feet on the ground. Because they’re not his feet, are they? They’re spare parts pieced together and wired to his brain.

  Ah, his brain! Although apparently they had to reconstruct parts of it using some kind of polymer tubing, it’s still “mostly human.” Those are the doctor’s words, not his. And he can still feel his heart knocking around in his metal chest. That makes him human, right?

  At least the parts that really make him a man are still intact.

  More than anything, he knows he’s part human because of the anger. Like a dragon made of fire it roils inside him, bursting through his veins and scorching his heart and pounding against his temples, which are still skin and bone. It’s the kind of complete anger that only a human could have. With each passing day his wrath seems to build—and he knows why.

  (The itch is there.)

  (To kill.)

  (To destroy.)

  Yes, the Destroyer knows he must destroy to satisfy his anger. It’s the only way. Killing is the only thing that’s given him any kind of satisfaction since he came back from the war, broken and helpless. But now he’s stronger. Invincible.

  And stifled.

  He smashes a hole in the rock wall, sending stones crumbling to the floor. “I’m ready!” he shouts. He’s been shouting a lot lately. After the extensive surgeries that made him more machine than man, he can’t seem to control the volume of his voice.

  The doctor and nurse back away until they hit the opposite wall. Corrigan Mars doesn’t even flinch. “I know,” Corr says. Compared to the Destroyer, his bo
ss looks old and weak. But he knows he’s not. After all, he’s the one who took down Michael Kelly. And the command in his voice is enough to freeze even the cyborg’s boiling hot blood.

  “Then let me find the punks who did this to me!”

  “Patience,” Corr says evenly, as if demonstrating the word with the calmness in his voice.

  The Destroyer is tired of being patient. The itch is becoming painful and he has to scratch it, one way or another. Corrigan Mars may want to kill the Slip, but the Destroyer doesn’t think his boss would understand his need to kill anything. The doctor or nurse would do just fine. He just needs to feel the power again—that fine line between life and death coursing through his fingertips.

  Corr’s holo-screen blares to life with an incoming vid-call and he says, “Yes?”

  His boss distracted, the Destroyer inches toward the nurse, who eyes him warily. He can almost smell the fear wafting off of her, as thick and heavy as perfume.

  “Mr. Mayor, what a pleasure,” Corr says. “The Times article? Yes, I read it. Sounds like you’re in need of someone with real Sliphunting experience.”

  The Destroyer’s human lips curl into a smile as he fantasizes about what kind of noise the nurse’s neck would make when snapped in half. When he takes another step forward, she glances at the door.

  Corr is still talking to the mayor, but the Destroyer can barely hear him now, his attention fully focused on his prey. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor, I’d be honored to do my duty for the city,” Corr says.