Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1) Page 2

  It’s the best taste he’s ever tasted. Better than spaghetti—the red and white and brown squares that are usually his favorite food.

  Unexpectedly, his father laughs. “Son, it’s all over your face. Let me help you.” He reaches for him with a cloth, but Janice’s hand shoots out faster, grabbing a handful of cake and smashing it into his father’s mouth.

  “Janice!” Michael screams. At first his tone is one of protest, but as he licks his lips it morphs into one of delight. “God Almighty, this is…heavenly,” he says. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  Then, quick as a beam of light, he grabs a clump of chocolate and pushes it into Janice’s face. The boy stares, astonished, trying to hold back the laugh that rises up in his chest. Janice’s face looks as if she’s been playing in the mud.

  To the boy’s utter shock, she laughs, her signature high squeal. It’s the truest laugh he’s ever heard, borne by a grown woman with a chocolatey smile.

  For the next half hour they eat cake with their hands, oblivious to how silly they must look with chocolate all over their mouths.

  Spent with his father and Janice, it’s the best day of the nameless boy’s short life.

  Chapter Three

  Young Harrison doesn’t understand.

  No matter how many times his mother, Janice, tells him that his father is too busy to see him, he just can’t seem to wrap his small mind around why. None of the fathers of his friends at school are too busy to see them, so why his father?

  “I’ll be here after school,” she says.

  “You mean after sports, right?” Harrison asks. His favorite part of every day is hoverball practice. He figures if he can get good enough his dad will have to come see him play.

  “Yes. After sports. Be good. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  She says that a lot, so he doesn’t give it much thought as he opens the door, accepting his portable food-maker, which will cook his lunch, from his mom. “Bye, Mom,” he says, shutting the door without looking back. He hustles away from the aut-car, hoping she’ll program it to pull away without making a scene. For some reason, she can’t always seem to help herself, like when she directed the car to honk its horn a half-dozen times, or when she made it blare some kind of old lady music through the open window. His friends still make fun of him for that.

  When he hears the engine whir and the vehicle drive off, he lets out a sigh of relief, glad she was normal today.

  “Incoming!” someone yells.

  At the edge of his vision, Harrison sees the hoverball zipping toward him. Without thinking, he jerks to the right, thrusting the hand carrying his portable food-maker upwards to protect his head. With a heavy thump, the hoverball slams into the food-maker and ricochets away.

  Horrified, he inspects the dented frame of his food-maker.

  His best friend, Chuck Boggs, jogs up to him and slaps him on the back, laughing hysterically. “That. Was. Awesome!” he exclaims between fits of laughter.

  Despite the damage to his food-maker, Harrison can’t hold back a smile. “How fast was I?”

  Chuck brushes a wild tuft of reddish hair out of his eyes. “Like a speeding aut-car. No, like lightning. Or a rocket. Yeah, you were as fast as a rocket!”

  Harrison keeps on grinning. “Do you think Coach will put me at keeper on Saturday?” he asks.

  “Duh,” Chuck says. “You’ve got the quickest hands of any kid on the team. And you never fall off your hoverboard.”

  Although he gets a thrill from his friend’s compliments, the food-maker weighs heavy in his arms. “My mom is going to kill me,” he mutters, displaying the massive dent.

  “Nah. She’ll get over it and just buy you a new one. How’s your weird mom today anyway?”

  He feels a pang of anger in his stomach, but he clenches his gut and it goes away. “As weird as ever,” he says, which, as usual, makes Chuck laugh. Making fun of his mom seems to be a sure-fire way to make and keep his friends. He may not ever see his father, but at least he has a lot of friends.

  “Come on. Let’s go,” Chuck says, pushing him in the direction of the school, where dozens of kids are filing inside. As they push into the flow, Chuck says, “I heard they’re closing in on the Slip.”

  Harrison shrugs. All Chuck ever seems to want to talk about is the Slip. Chuck’s father works for the cops, so he guesses it makes sense, but at the same time, just because Harrison’s father works for Pop Con doesn’t mean he follows the Slip news.

  “So you don’t know if the rumors are true?” Chuck asks, nudging him with an elbow when Harrison doesn’t respond.

  Harrison wishes he could be honest with his friend, could tell him that he barely sees his father, much less talks to him. “It’s top secret,” Harrison says instead.

  “Oh, come on! You’re killing me!” Chuck says.

  “Sorry.”

  As they enter the building through the body scanners, Harrison wonders whether finding the Slip would mean his dad wouldn’t have to work so much.

  Chapter Four

  On the first morning after the nameless boy’s birthday, his father wakes him before the sun peeks even the littlest bit of his orange-yellow head over the horizon.

  Gone is his smile. Gone is his laugh.

  Without speaking, he pulls the boy—who’s still wearing his nightclothes—out into the backyard. The cold bites at his fingers, at his nose. He doesn’t even have shoes on, and the cool grass sends shivers up his legs.

  “Where are we going?” the boy asks.

  “You’re old enough to prepare,” his father says.

  “Prepare for what?”

  “For a hard life,” he says.

  They approach the sheet-metal fence—no, the door in the fence; the one that’s always locked with chains and a thick, metal cube with u-shaped prongs that hold everything together—and his father holds something out. Something strange. It’s gold and shiny and metallic and has sharp little teeth cut into the bottom of it. His father sticks it into the cube and twists. For a moment, just a brief and fleeting moment, the boy forgets how cold he is. He even forgets about what his father just said about preparing for a hard life.

  Because the cube and chains fall away and the door opens.

  The boy shrinks back, feeling too exposed, like anything could rush through the fence that’s protected him for so long.

  “It’s okay,” his father says in a voice the boy thinks is meant to be reassuring, but sounds firmer and colder than usual.

  “We’re not going out there,” the boy says, surprising even himself. He’s longed to escape the bounds of the fence from the moment he discovered the peephole and saw the kids laughing and playing and climbing trees. But all that has changed now that he sees the dusty brown path zigzagging away, choked with weeds, branches reaching across it as if trying to prevent passage. All the boy wants is to run back to the house, race into his room, and dive under the warmth of the covers.

  “We are,” his father says, and there’s no doubt as to the truth of his words.

  As his father steers him through the break in the fence, the boy’s heart pounds strangely in his ears, as if it’s switched places with his brain, which surely must now be in his chest.

  He bites his tongue as his bare feet trod on angry stones that bite and claw at his skin. His father clears a path through the branches, but from time to time they swing back and lash at his face, at his arms. The sharp pricks of pain are made worse by the chill in the nighttime air.

  “Where are we going?” the boy asks, after they’ve been walking for a few minutes.

  “It’s not far,” his father says. “Can you be strong?”

  He doesn’t think so, but he wants his father to be proud of him, so he says, “Yes, Father.”

  Just when he doesn’t think his feet can go another step on the rough ground, they emerge from the trees. His father stops, releasing his hand to wrap an arm around his shoulders. Under the subtle glow of the half-moon, the bo
y can barely make out a hill, descending to a field of utter blackness broken only by a glistening white strip down the middle, painted on by the moon glow.

  The blackness is moving.

  “Father?” he says, his skin tingling with cold and confusion. “What is it?”

  “The River,” his father says.

  “River,” the boy says, the word sounding both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Of course! From one of my holo-screen programs, he thinks. Didn’t Zoran the Adventurer cross a river to save Princess Magdalene from the dragon?

  “Is it the edge of the world?” the boy asks.

  His father looks at him as if he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. His face must be too cold for it. “The world has no edge, Son. It’s an eternal round, with good and evil in equal measure. It’s a delicate balance where even the slightest acts can change everything.”

  It’s a lot to take in, and he promises to think about his father’s words later, when he’s back inside and warm again. But why is he showing him this place?

  “Come,” his father says, striding down the hill and leaving him behind.

  After a moment of indecision, he follows after him, oblivious to his sore heels and toes as he watches the River move in the dark. It looks so…alive.

  His father stops again when he reaches the River. The boy wants to stand next to him, to show he’s not scared, but his feet won’t go that far, even when he commands them with the brain that’s now in his chest. Maybe his brain doesn’t work properly now that it’s left his head. Does his heart control his feet now?

  If so, his heart clearly wants him to stay away from the River.

  His father looks back and beckons him forward with a wave. The boy shakes his head, feeling unwanted tears well up. He can already see the disappointment in his father’s eyes, which is punctuated by his heavy eyebrows.

  “Every boy must learn to swim and you more than most,” his father says.

  Swim? Yes. That’s what Zoran the Adventurer did to cross the river. He moved his arms like angel wings and his feet like a propeller. The water was fierce and strong, but it couldn’t control him; instead, it bore him for a great distance until he could reach solid ground again.

  The boy steps forward, his heart taking courage from one of his heroes—Zoran.

  He barely has time to shout before his father grabs him and throws him in the River, shouting, “Swim, Son!”

  ~~~

  The shock is like a hundred slaps in the face, the water so cold the boy swears it must be made of ice. Everything is full of black, surrounding him like a never ending shadow. He thrashes and fights against the cold water, but every movement seems to pull him further under. Is something grabbing at his clothes?

  By some primal instinct, he knows to hold his breath, but for how long? Everything looks the same. Up is down, down is up—is that right? Or is up to the side? He doesn’t know, only that if he doesn’t figure it out, he’ll be forced to breathe the water, which surely can’t be good. Will his lungs turn to ice?

  Already he can’t feel his fingers or toes, but still he claws at the water, trying to remember how graceful Zoran looked as he swam, how easily he controlled the river’s pull.

  He gives up, his chest burning, his eyes roving across the darkness, taking in the last thing he’ll ever see.

  And then he sees it: a swathe of white moonlight shining through the water. “Up!” he tries to scream, but it comes out as a muffled groan and a burst of bubbles.

  Icy water fills his mouth and pours down his throat. His arms flail and he tries Zoran’s propeller-kick, but he knows it’s no use…

  Until it is.

  With an exhilarating rush of speed, he feels his body push through the water, the moonlight coming down to meet him. Water sprays around him as he splashes from the River, flying above it, weightless, his arms and legs propelling him up and up and—

  Slam!

  He lands hard on the ground, choking, throwing up water, trying to get a breath. When all of the swallowed water is dispelled, he heaves in a breath of air, loving every second of the burn in his lungs. His skin is being poked by millions of needles, but he doesn’t care, because breathing feels so so unbelievably good.

  His father’s hands are on him, and he realizes it was he who saved him, not his own desperate kicking.

  “Get up,” his father says. The voice scares him because it sounds even colder than the water felt. “Back in the water.”

  No. Please, Father, no. That’s what he wants to say, but instead he pushes his arms beneath him and tries to lift his exhausted body. He gets several centimeters off the ground before collapsing, his chest heaving, his heart racing in his head, his brain numb in his chest.

  Just before everything goes black, he sees lights twinkling across the River like a million glittering stars. He feels his father’s strong arms lift him up, the wind swirling around him as he carries him back up the hill.

  ~~~

  It’s a strange sound, his father crying.

  He mistakes it for a child at first, wondering if his father has invited one of the other children inside. But no, he wouldn’t do that. He says the walls of their house protect them from those on the outside who would hurt them. Besides the two of them, only Janice is allowed inside. A thick lump forms in his throat, making it hard to get his breath.

  He feels his left breast and is relieved when his skin thuds against his hand in time with the beat of his heart. Hopefully that means his heart and brain have switched back to the right places. Hopefully that means he’ll be smart again today.

  He slips from beneath the covers, his body so warm it’s as if he never felt the icy wind and chilling waters of the River. But when his feet touch the wooden floorboards, he feels the sting left by the sharp rocks.

  There are bandages on his feet, but he doesn’t remember how they got there.

  Blinking away the pain, he tiptoes toward the sound of his father crying. He peeks in his father’s room, but he’s not there, the bed covers strewn in a bundle on the floor. It’s uncharacteristically messy for his father.

  Down the hall, past the bedroom that he uses as a playroom. Stuffed robots and Snap-’Ems war drones rest side by side in a line against the wall. His father’s rules: “If you get them out, you put them back where they belong.” Did he forget to put any of his toys back? Is that why his father threw him in the River? He can’t remember.

  Silently, he sneaks into the room with the one black and three white walls. The black wall is the holo-screen, which he’s allowed to use for one hour each day. Usually it’s Zoran’s three-dimensional holo-form that seems to climb from the screen, his strong, armored body reacting to mental commands sent through the boy’s electro-wave device.

  A large couch fills the side of the room opposite the screen, but his father’s not there.

  A cough, whispered words, heavy sobs. They’re coming from the kitchen.

  He slips inside, but doesn’t see anyone. The crying is louder.

  Ever so slowly, he lowers himself to the floor and slithers forward like a snake, around the edge of the island countertop. He freezes when he sees him.

  His father, already dressed in his all-black work clothes, is slumped on the floor. His back is against the cabinets, his face in his hands. Tears are dripping from cracks in his fingers, wetting his pants, which are already more creased and rumpled than he’s ever seen them.

  “What did I do? What have I done?” his father mutters to himself.

  For a second he thinks the question might be directed at him, but his father can’t realize he’s there. He’s been as quiet as the mouse he once found living under his bed.

  He reaches for his father’s shoulder, his hand trembling slightly, but just before he touches him his father coughs loudly and the boy withdraws as if he’s been stung. He slides back, regains his feet, and sneaks back to his room, returning to the protection of his bed.

  But despite the warmth of the covers—which he
wraps around himself like a cocoon—he can’t stop shaking, even when his father comes to wake him, his eyes dry and his suit freshly ironed.

  ~~~

  As usual, Janice is late. Her shoes are untied allowing her to easily slip them off as she enters. Her eyes have dark circles under them. She hasn’t even bothered to tie her tangled hair up, so it dangles in messy ribbons around her face. In other words, she looks like herself.

  The boy’s father kisses his forehead before leaving for work. They hardly spoke to each other this morning, as if last night never happened. But in his heart the boy knows it did.

  As soon as the door closes, he asks, “Is it important for a boy to know how to swim?”

  Janice, who’s busily placing the dirty breakfast dishes into the ion cleaner, stops and looks at him. “Swimming? Swimming is for otters and fish, but it’s not bad for a person to learn, too. Why do you ask, child?”

  “Is it best to learn when it’s really cold?” he asks, instead of answering her question.

  She frowns, the lines around her mouth and eyes deepening. But even with her eyebrows turned down and the wrinkles, her eyes are still clear and beautiful—the one thing nothing can seem to mess up. “Why are you asking all these questions?” she asks.

  He doesn’t know if he should say—especially after seeing his father cry—but what if she can help? What if she can teach him to swim so his father doesn’t have to and so he doesn’t have to be sad anymore?

  The boy tells Janice the whole story, stuttering over some of the words when her mouth falls open and her frown deepens. He doesn’t say how scared he was, or how his feet still hurt, but he notices her sharp glance at his bandages when he mentions the pointy stones. He also doesn’t tell her about his father’s crying.

  When he finishes, she mutters, “Devils and saints,” her lips continuing to move as if in silent prayer even after she’s done speaking aloud. Her eyes glaze over, a tell-tale sign that she’s left him again.