Grip (The Slip Trilogy Book 2) Read online

Somewhere in the back of Dom’s mind, he registers the beep when Corr ends the call, but nothing can stop him now. He takes a quick step, then another, stalking her. The nurse’s eyes widen. She starts to run for the door, but he cuts her off with two long strides, grabbing her arm. The cowardly doctor shrinks further into the room, abandoning her nurse. She tries to squirm away but his fingers are like a vise on her skin. She screams.

  “Stop,” Corr commands.

  Dom’s heart is racing, a thrill rushing through every single one of his remaining human parts, but he stops. He stops, not because he wants to, but because he still feels a certain loyalty toward the man who believed in him from the start.

  “We don’t need her anymore,” the Destroyer says, hoping against hope that he’ll be able to finish her. She’s sobbing now, and he realizes he’s grabbed her by the neck and is holding her off the floor, her feet dangling, desperately scrabbling to find purchase.

  Corr says, “She helped save your life, and now you’re just going to kill her?” Twisting his neck to look back, the Destroyer tries to read his boss’s expression. It’s not disgust exactly—more like interest. Morbid curiosity, like a scientist who’s fascinated by a rat that eats its young.

  “I have to,” the Destroyer says, trying to explain the need that’s like breathing for him.

  “You don’t have to do anything,” Corr says. “You are my soldier and you’ll kill who I tell you to kill. Now drop her.”

  The rage rushes through him like a flood, tightening his human muscles against his machine parts, and he slings the nurse to the floor, her body thudding viciously on the cement. She cries out, loudly at first, and then whimpering, like a child, clutching an arm that isn’t hanging quite right.

  But the Destroyer’s not done. It’s not enough to satiate his need. For the first time in his life, he disobeys a direct order from a superior, leaping on the nurse and raising his fist, ready to smash her pretty little features to insignificant hunks of bloodied meat.

  The pain hits him like a shockwave, jolting him from head to toe and throwing him away from the nurse. His entire body goes rigid, bolts of lightning stabbing him in the brain, in the heart, in the eyes…

  As the horrendous sensation dies out, his vision dims and he’s vaguely aware of the nurse scrambling to her feet and rushing from the room. Corrigan Mars stands over him. He knows it was Mars that caused the pain. Somehow.

  “Listen to me, Domino,” Corr says, his words sheathed with ice. “You’re my psychopath and you’ll only kill those that I tell you to. And if you don’t, I’ll destroy you. Do you understand?”

  He tries to say yes, but his lips won’t move. Instead, he manages a nod.

  “Good. Because I’ve just been appointed the new Head of Population Control. And I want you to be my second-in-command. We’ve got a Slip to kill.”

  Chapter Four

  Her son is made of stone.

  As Janice watches him pull his chin over the bar, again and again and again, she wonders what she was doing when Harrison turned into a statue. Probably shouting at some orderly in the asylum. Or talking to Zoran—the character from Benson’s favorite childhood holo show, who adorns his old watch that Janice now wears.

  Her only friend.

  Waiting for her son to finish, her attention drifts to the room, which is filled with various equipment: dumbbells and machines and benches and bars. Like the rest of the facility, the walls are silver and thick and metal. She likes them. Compared to the stark white walls of the asylum, the gray is comforting. Consistent and comforting. She likes the way those two words sound in her head—Conssssissstent, Commmfortinggg—but she doesn’t dare to speak them aloud for fear they won’t sound nearly as good outside her head.

  After what seems like an eternity, Harrison drops from the bar, breathing hard, his bare back sheened with sweat and corded with muscles. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t see her. Doesn’t even take a break. He just drops to the hard floor and starts doing pushups. Janice counts for him in her mind. One, two, three, four… After ten he begins adding a clap at the top of each rep. Eleven, clap, twelve, clap, thirteen, clap… After fifty she stops counting, bored of this game.

  His muscles seem to get bigger before her very eyes. They’re bulging from his skin, like they might burst through, like they might—

  “POP!” Janice screams, unable to hold it in any longer.

  Harrison’s at the top of one of his reps and, startled by her scream, when he claps he forgets to put his hands down. He falls, crushing his hands between his chest and the floor, and then rolls over to look at her. “Mom, you scared the crap out of me,” he says. Although his body looks more man than boy, his expression is still so reminiscent of her baby that she can only think of him as the eight-year-old boy she lost when she was committed to the mental hospital.

  She doesn’t apologize because she remembers that apologies are meaningless. Apologies are like holey socks, pretending to cover your skin but providing no real warmth. And they can’t change the past. Nope. Not one bit. She should know. Her husband apologized a million times and it never changed anything.

  “I found you,” Janice says instead.

  “I wasn’t hiding,” Harrison says, pushing to his feet and walking toward her. He grabs a gray t-shirt and pulls it over his head to hide his stone body.

  She giggles. She giggles a lot around her son because he says funny things like that. Harrison, not Benson. Benson doesn’t say funny things around her. He almost seems scared of her. That makes her giggle even more. She’s the last person he should be scared of.

  “Why were you looking for me?” Harrison says, putting both hands on Janice’s shoulders. When he does that it seems to draw her gaze to his eyes, like a magnet. All the enticing sights around her seem to fade away and she can focus on just him. The others can tell her twins apart because Harrison’s hair is shorter, cut with military precision, whereas Benson’s is long and wild. But even if they had identical hairstyles, she’d be able to tell them apart in a heartbeat, not only because she knows Harrison has a slightly narrower set to his eyes or a teardrop birthmark just under his left ear. Also because of the way they carry themselves. When she looks at Harrison she sees someone who will not be defeated, who will charge into battle without thought for his own life—and he will win. She feels as if she can see into his chest, prying back the skin and bones and muscles, and look into his heart. It turns red with anger, blue with sadness, and green with jealousy. But never purple with fear. Never. Benson, on the other hand, is still a mystery to Janice, just like he was when he was a young boy. She could always see the wheels turning in his head, but not have any idea what he’s thinking. Mystery. Mystical. Mr. Ear E. Us.

  She giggles at the name. Instead of Benson she should have named him that. It fits her son perfectly.

  “Mom?” Harrison says, and she peels away from her thoughts and look back inside her other son’s chest. His heart beats strong. It’s slightly orange and curious. “Why were you looking for me?” he asks again.

  Why was she looking for him? Zoran and stone and giggles and mysteries and clapping—none of the thoughts that stream through her mind seem like the right answer, but—

  Oh…yes! She remembers. “Tomorrow,” she says.

  Harrison raises an eyebrow. “What’s tomorrow?” her first-born son asks.

  “You know,” she says. His eyebrow stays raised, like a rainbow, or a crescent moon, or an umbrella, or a—

  “I don’t,” Harrison says, interrupting her rambling thoughts.

  She blinks, trying not to look at his raised eyebrow. Focus, Janice. Important. This is important. You have to ask him a question. “Can you come back here tomorrow?” she asks. “At dinnertime. I want to show you something. Bring Benson or it won’t work. Without him it’ll be just like the old days, and I don’t want the old days ever again.”

  Harrison stares at her for a moment, the corner of his lips twitching upward. “Neither do I,” he says. “At least we
have that in common.”

  Janice doesn’t think that’s an answer. “Sooooo…” she says.

  “I’ll be here,” he says, giving her his full smile, which makes her want to smile. But she doesn’t, because he’s not done answering her yet.

  “Sooooo…” she says.

  Harrison laughs and it makes her want to laugh, but she doesn’t. “And I’ll bring Benson,” he says.

  Now she smiles and she laughs and she walks away. And Zoran laughs with her.

  ~~~

  Have an unused birth authorization?

  Don’t let it go to waste. Give it to a worthy couple through our

  Life Giving program.

  Give someone the gift of life today.

  Speak ‘I want to share a life’ into your holo-screen today.

  This advertisement paid for by the Department of Population Control. Compensation up to the birth authorization fee may be provided in exchange for valid birth authorization. Donations are not tax deductible.

  Chapter Five

  Luce decides to take a nap, and for a while Benson lies next to her, close but not touching. He’s afraid to touch her while she’s sleeping, for fear of what might happen if she wakes up in a confused daze. The last thing he wants to do is rekindle bad memories.

  He hasn’t seen her sleep this deeply in a while. He suspects it has something to do with her finally feeling like her brother is protected in this place. They rarely even see Geoffrey any more. He made friends with other kids his age almost right away, children of the Lifers, and he’s been off with them from morning to night. So Luce can rest easy.

  Eventually, however, Benson realizes he’s not in the least bit tired, so he slides carefully away from her and tiptoes out of the room.

  In the long hallway just outside the door to their sleeping quarters, he stops. He feels confused as to where to go. Before he was identified as a Slip, he would’ve grabbed Check and they’d have gone out and Picked some rich person’s pocket, and then used the funds to buy some cake or pie, which they’d eat down by the river, laughing and telling stories, dreaming of a better life. But now there are only endless gray, metal walls and narrow corridors. The entire Lifer facility is underground, beneath a junkyard, hidden away from the prying eyes of the Hawk drones.

  No sunshine. No fresh air. No life.

  Benson hates it down here, but poking his head aboveground would be suicide, regardless of how much he wants to. By denying his request to go up, the Digger, Simon, was really saving his life.

  As he stands there, uncertain as to what to do or where to go, Benson remembers one place he hasn’t been able to explore yet. He promised Check he’d go back there with him later today, but he’s not really in the mood for company.

  Feeling better now that he has a destination, he starts through the maze of tunnels and walkways and Lifters. Dim yellow overhead bulbs provide the only light. Every corridor looks the same. He doesn’t even know if he can find his way back to the door that he and Check stumbled on yesterday, but that only makes him more determined to find it. A left turn. A right turn. A staircase down two floors, to minus-ten. Isn’t that where Check said the party would be later tonight? Doesn’t matter. He finds a Lifter, which transports him down another five levels. He takes four left turns, which should bring him around in a full circle, but somehow it doesn’t. He reaches another Lifter, which carries him all the way down to what he’s been told is the bottom level, minus-twenty-five. Twenty-five stories underground. Deep below the earth’s surface. And although the passageways look the same—silvery and dimly lit—the thought makes him feel claustrophobic. He takes a few deep breaths and follows the same path he and Check took yesterday.

  The massive door looms ahead. Thick, heavy steel. A retinal scanner on the side. A warning: Authorized entry only. Stairway access to level minus-twenty-six.

  Everyone he’s asked has told him there are only twenty-five levels. And yet he’s staring at the door to another level. A door he can’t open. He goes through the motions one more time. Pulls on the handle—won’t budge, as sturdy as a bank vault. Allows the red beam from the scanner to sweep over each eye—blinks red for no access. Knocks on the door, a dull, echoing thud—no answer.

  A voice startles him from behind. “Why are you so interested in this door?”

  He spins around to find a familiar man who he’s seen once before, on his first day at Refuge. A middle-aged guy, with silvery hair, stern brown eyes and the kind of deep-lined wrinkles that only come from experience in stressful situations. Benson thinks he’s smiling, but it’s hard to tell because the man’s thin lips have a tendency to curl downwards.

  The Lifer leader, Jarrod.

  Charred bodies, crumbling buildings, and clouds of thick, black smoke fill Benson’s mind. All a result of this man’s actions. The man who seems to think Benson could make a difference in the fight against Population Control, as a sort of symbol for their cause.

  But standing in front of Jarrod, Benson only feels angry.

  “I’m not ready to talk yet,” Benson says.

  “I didn’t ask you to,” Jarrod says.

  Benson breathes the dense air through his nose. Pushes out a sigh. “Then why are you here?”

  “I’ll answer your question when you answer mine.”

  Benson glances at the door and then back at Jarrod. “I’m bored. I’ve seen every bot-licking room and hallway in this place. Your people won’t let me go up, so I’m going down. All the way to level minus-twenty-six, which, by the way, isn’t even supposed to exist.”

  The Lifer leader raises his eyebrows. “I’ll take you down there. Tomorrow night. After everyone’s asleep.”

  “Why not tonight?”

  “You’re not quite ready. Neither am I. Tomorrow, okay?”

  Benson chews his lip. He can hang in there one more day. “Okay. Why did you follow me down here?”

  Jarrod doesn’t even blink as he says, “To find out why you were so interested in this door.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Well it’s the truth.”

  “I don’t trust you,” Benson says.

  “Why not?” Jarrod seems sincerely interested in the answer, his head cocked slightly to the side.

  “Because you blow innocent people up.”

  “They’re not innocent,” Jarrod insists. “Like I told you before, we only target government facilities supporting Pop Con. They deserve exactly what they get.”

  “If you say so.”

  “How can I get you to trust me?”

  “You can’t,” Benson says.

  Jarrod takes a step forward, closer than Benson is comfortable with. “Um, personal space?” he says.

  The next two steps are much faster, the gap between them disappearing in an instant. Benson tries to duck away, but the larger man grabs him, whirls him around, and jams a knife to his throat. “What the hell?” Benson says, freezing, not daring to move. This guy is crazy, he thinks. He’s going to kill him because Benson doesn’t trust him?

  Jarrod’s voice is a hoarse whisper in his ear. “If I was the monster you think I am, I’d kill you right now, or I’d force you to do what I say, to be the symbol of our cause. I’d shove a tracker in your skin and I’d have you guarded night and day. I’d use your friends, your mother, and your brother as leverage, threatening their lives to bend you to my will.” Benson feels the edge of cold steel against his skin, the pulse of his blood beating erratically against it. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, wishing he’d kissed Luce one more time before he left her to sleep.

  And then the pressure is gone as Jarrod pushes away, slipping the knife casually back into a sheath on his belt. He strides off, not bothering to look back. “But I won’t do any of that, Benson, which means you can trust me,” he says before disappearing into the gloom.

  ~~~

  Benson is still touching his neck with shaky fingers when he spots Harrison, sweaty and dark-eyed, striding toward him.

&nb
sp; “Mom wants us to go to the gym together tomorrow night,” Harrison says.

  Mom? For a minute Benson can’t seem to grasp the meaning of the word. He’s never had a mother. Oh, right. Stupid. Janice. The woman who raised him but who was never exactly his mother. “She wants us to work out?” Benson suddenly feels inadequate standing next to his brother. Compared to Harrison, his arms are twigs, his chest puny, his legs thin and knob-kneed. Normally Benson wouldn’t consider himself weak, but next to Harrison’s extraordinary physique, he can’t help but feel less than a man.

  “No. She said she wants to show us something.”

  Oh. “What?”

  “She didn’t say. You know how she is.”

  Not really, Benson thinks. He’s barely spent two minutes with her since they arrived at Refuge. Not alone, anyway. When Harrison’s around, he’s like a buffer for her crazy. He’s good with her, knows how to handle her, always has the right things to say. A good son.

  “Okay,” Benson says. “I’ll go.”

  Benson starts to turn away, but hesitates, still feeling awkward around his brother. Particularly because it’s freaking weird seeing a much more athletic clone of himself everywhere he looks. “Uh, see you later?”

  “Where you headed? I’ll walk with you.”

  Where is he headed? he wonders. When he saw Harrison he was wandering aimlessly, still trying to shake the feeling of having a knife at his throat. “To the sleeping quarters?” he says.

  “Me, too,” Harrison says. “I gotta get a shower before the party tonight.” He falls into stride next to him. “You going? It’s at some Lifer club called Dark.”

  “Check told me.”

  “You don’t seem that excited.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to make it,” Benson says, staring straight ahead.

  “Why? Wait, don’t tell me, you’ve got a date with that hottie of yours.”

  Benson looks sharply at his brother, then behind them to make sure no one overheard. “Keep your voice down!” he hisses.