Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1)

by David Estes

  He waits patiently for the Grunk to approach the blind spot, where the city’s dark purple Eyes don’t reach. Give the signal too early or too late, and they’ll be spotted. Within minutes, or even seconds, every last Hawk drone will be scanning eyes and faces for them.

  Wait for it…wait for it…

  Now!

  He runs his hand through his messy blond hair and then darts into the crowd, slipping between pedestrians like water between protruding rocks. He doesn’t have to look to see that Check is on the move, too—they’re like two moving parts in the same machine.

  As planned, Check reaches the Grunk a split-second before Benson.

  And, also as planned, he trips.

  A perfect fall, he lands face-first in front of the target, who’s unable to stop, his feet tangling with Checker’s. Benson’s hand is in and out of the Grunk’s pocket before the man hits the ground. Using his other hand, Benson even has time to reach out and grab the portable holo-screen, catching it just before it would’ve likely shattered on the ground.

  “Damn you kids,” the man mutters, pushing off of Check to regain his feet. “Watch where you’re going.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Check says, allowing Benson to haul him to his feet.

  “At least I managed to save this,” Benson says, wearing a wide smile. He hands him the holo-screen, feeling the slightest tug of regret at having to give back something worth tens of thousands of dollars. But he knows returning the screen is the key to the whole operation. Who would suspect someone of being a Picker if they save your stuff?

  The man grabs the screen without offering any thanks.

  “Can we help you find something?” Check asks.

  “I’m already late,” the man—who doesn’t have the slightest clue that he’s just become a Grunk, a pickpocket’s target—says, “and this city’s like a maze.” Yep, he’s not from around here, Benson thinks, satisfied to hear confirmation of his earlier assessment.

  People angle around the trio without looking at them. No one has time to stop and see if the man’s all right.

  “First time, huh?” Benson says. “We know Saint Louis inside and out. We’ll get you there in no time.”

  The traveler frowns skeptically, but then says, “I work for U-Bank. I’m trying to find their headquarters.”

  Neither boy can hide the large smiles that blanket their faces. U-Bank is the most profitable bank in the country, started only after each and every other U.S. bank failed, learning from their mistakes. Could this be the biggest haul of their careers?

  Benson comes to his senses before Check, who seems to have dollar signs in his eyes. “Easy. Follow the blue Tube three hundred meters”—he motions straight ahead—“and take the first right into the yellow Tube. The U-Building is at the very end. Can’t miss it.”

  To Benson’s surprise, the man offers a half-smile. “Thanks,” he says. “And sorry I was so grumpy. I hate being late. You two seem like good kids.”

  As a sharp pang of guilt hits Benson in the chest, Check snaps out of his money-fog and helps the man smooth out the wrinkles on his shirt caused by the fall. “No problem, sir,” he says. “Good luck with your meeting.”

  The man nods and eases back into the foot-traffic, disappearing. “Hope you had a nice trip!” Check hollers after him, laughing.

  Benson shakes his head. “C’mon,” he says. “We’ve got to get out of here before he realizes his LifeCard is missing.”

  Check rubs his hands together greedily as they push through the crowd. “How much do you think he’s worth?” he whispers in Benson’s ear.

  Benson looks around sharply, making sure no one overheard, and hisses back, “Shh, not here.” Sometimes it feels like he’s the older of the two Pickers, despite being two years younger than his partner in crime, who’s nearly eighteen. But he can’t help adding, “A lot.”

  Checker’s smile lights up his whole face.

  No one’s waiting for the lifter to the Tunnels, which isn’t that surprising. Those with money and jobs prefer to travel aboveground, using the Tube, where they can be seen. Where they can feel important.

  But being seen is the exact opposite of what the two boys want now. Check says “Tuh” inside the lifter, and they begin their descent. For the longest time it’s been a game where they see how little of a word they can speak and still have the city’s many voice-activated machines obey them appropriately. In this case, the lifter seems to understand “Tuh” for “Tunnels.” However, in other instances, the results have been comically disastrous, like when Benson used the exact same command in a clothing store. Except in that case “Tuh” was for “The underwear.” And indeed the robot clerk brought them underwear to try on—several lacey red bras.

  Already smiling, Check says, “Remember when—”

  “Yeah,” Benson says. “The lingerie incident.”

  Check snorts. “We’ve had some good times, haven’t we?”

  “Yup.” He’s not feeling that talkative. Something about the way the man apologized, how he seemed so stressed out, makes Benson wish they’d picked another target. Am I getting soft? he wonders to himself.

  An advertising screen on the back of the lifter door lights up. “Not ready for kids yet?” a young blond woman says, throwing a baby bottle off screen. An equally young guy looks right at Benson and says, “Now available, reserve a Death Match up to ten years in advance! Simply speak ‘early Death Match’ into your holo-screen, and prepare for your future.” The ad ends with the couple kissing and the lights going out.

  Benson grits his teeth.

  “This whole city is a bunch of Grunks,” Check says. “Things will never change, eh, bud?”

  He can’t argue with that.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” Check mutters. “These things seem to get slower every day.” As if it heard him—and maybe it did—the lifter eases to a stop and the doors open to a dimly lit concrete tunnel. Well, two tunnels really, mashed right up next to each other. They almost look like a giant version of some of the new double-barreled stun guns used by the Crows. The Tunnels.

  On the far side, a rocket train pulls into the station, so full that the people getting on have to fight their way inside. No one gets off. This is the main business district, and anyone forced to ride the rocket train is unlikely to work here.

  “Let’s walk,” Benson says, loathing the thought of having his face stuffed into someone’s armpit. Normally a crowded train would excite him—like a buffet for Pickers—but one of the first rules of Picking is not to eat where you crap. These are his people, and he won’t take advantage of them.

  The train pulls out, hundreds of people staring out with dead eyes. The exterior of each car is littered with graffiti, most of it obscene and pointless, but with the occasional political statement that makes Benson remember that he’s not alone in his hatred for the system.

  Let Slips Live! one shouts in electric-yellow glow-in-the-dark paint.

  Pop Con = Communism, another artist declares, with Pop Con sprayed in black and Communism written in bright red.

  “Here, here,” Benson whispers.

  “We should start the hack,” Check says, a gleam in his eyes. “That douchebag could check his pocket any second. It won’t take him long to report that he’s been Picked.”

  Benson doesn’t necessarily agree with the ‘douchebag’ part, but now’s not the time to split hairs. Thinking ahead, he’d stuffed the Grunk’s LifeCard in the same pocket as his highly illegal, highly expensive hacking device.

  They pass an Eye, which tracks their progress for a few seconds before snapping back to the next pedestrian. One of the yellow overhead lights flickers twice and then winks out. “Give way, repair required,” a maintenance bot drones as it whizzes past them. It’s an older model, dinged up and rusty around the seams. It’s surprising the city provides any service to the Tunnels. The machine breaks apart at the midsection, its upper body telescoping to the tunnel ceiling, where it removes the burnt out light, replacin
g it with a fresh one.

  “Repair complete,” the bot says, in the robot version of talking to oneself. It scurries away to find something else to do.

  Benson lowers his chin, his eyes cast down, and Check does the same, lifting a hand to fiddle with his dark ponytail. It’s probably an unnecessary precaution, but they’re professionals, and they avoid risks at all costs, including having their faces spotted by an Eye the moment they’re stealing funds from a LifeCard.

  Shoving his hand in his pocket, Benson operates the device by touch alone, sliding the card into a thin slot and initiating the hack. Less than ten seconds later, he feels it vibrate, signaling job completion.

  “Sphincter,” Benson says.

  “You’re kidding me,” Check says. “Finished already?” One of his hands curls into a fist and Benson can tell his hot-tempered friend wants to pound it into something, anything, but with dozens of Eyes patrolling the Tunnels, he wisely loosens his fingers. With a deft tug, his hair falls free, swishing against his shoulders. “I thought this was the big one.”

  “There will be another,” Benson says.

  “That’s what you always say. I was hoping to have a little cash to buy a gift for Luce.”

  Benson says nothing, fingering the stolen LifeCard in his pocket.

  They’re silent for the remainder of the walk through the Tunnels, each mulling over their recent dry spell and what it might mean for their careers as Pickers. More importantly, what it might mean for their survival.

  Benson also thinks about how lucky he was to meet Check all those years ago on the banks of the Mississippi. Things could’ve turned out so different. Check taught him how things worked in the city, a place so foreign to Benson it was like an alien planet. He showed him the ropes and gave him a crash course on being a Picker. Check had been Picking solo for a while and just happened to be in the market for a partner. They lived together, Picked together, were inseparable.

  Benson shakes his head at how well it turned out for him, considering the alternative path he might’ve taken on his own. Could his father have known any of it? Does his father know what he is now?

  He only stops thinking about his unanswerable questions when they finally arrive home, a burnt out warehouse in a seedy part of town where the silence seems louder than thunder. “Let’s see it,” Check says, stepping inside, beyond the reach of both Eyes and Hawks.

  In the shadows, Benson removes the device and holds it face up between them. The screen displays the harsh truth: $64.41.

  Check hammers the wall with the heel of his fist. “Freaking…” he growls. “He must’ve called it in before we could hack it. U-Bank was probably withdrawing the funds and we just got the scraps.”

  “We can get two days’ worth of food tablets,” Benson says brightly, feigning excitement, pumping his fist.

  “Yeah, for one person,” Check says. “What are we going to do—cut them in half? My stomach’s already growling.”

  “Your stomach growls even after a full meal,” Benson jokes. “Details,” he adds, speaking into the device. The hacker cycles through a few different screens, settling on one with several numbers.

  Check hits the wall one more time, and then peers into the screen. “I’ll be pinched,” he says. “That dude didn’t have a hundred bucks to his name.”

  Benson sees his friend is right. It wasn’t that he reported the theft—it was that the guy was broke. Miniscule transactions formed the bulk of the recent activity on the account. Ten bucks for a coffee. Seventeen for a rocket train to the city. The log shows no funds coming in, the account dwindling down to almost nothing. “A rocket train?” Benson says incredulously.

  “One of us,” Check says. “We Picked one of our own.”

  Massaging his forehead, Benson wonders how he could’ve been so blind. As they climb the first of three sets of metal stairs, he tries to work through what went wrong. The guy had seemed like the perfect Grunk to both of them. He had on nice clothes, was carrying an expensive holo-screen, seemed unfamiliar with the city. None of it makes any sense.

  They reach the fourth floor landing and Check kicks open the door, letting it smash against the inside wall. None of the four teenagers inside so much as look at them—they’re focused intensely on a small old-model holo-screen, which is projecting the news.

  Wait, Benson thinks, stopping in the doorway. He pulls out the hacker and cycles back to the transaction details once more. Coffee. Rocket train ticket. Socks. Shoes. The shoes are the last transaction shown on the first page. $1,579!

  “Holy stinkballs,” Check says in the background, but Benson is too focused on the screen to look up.

  To buy shoes that expensive, the guy must’ve had some kind of money at one point. “More,” he says to the device. The second screen appears, listing more transactions, all of them in the thousands. Shirt. Tie. Suit. The suit was $6,599! Then the portable holo-screen at $18,999. The last transaction listed isn’t a payment, but a deposit.

  A deposit for $30,000 from ‘Unlisted,’ bringing the total account from $56 to $30,056. Within a few hours, the man had managed to spend all of it but the measly 64 bucks and change stolen by him and Check.

  What the hell? he thinks.

  “That’s him!” Check says, finally drawing Benson’s attention away from the hacking device. He looks from his friend to the 3D projection, where a man’s image is overlaid on a grisly background. A blackened building is smoking, red flames licking at its sides as fire bots shoot dozens of streams of water from their hand nozzles. Charred lumps are scattered amongst the rubble of the U-Building.

  Benson’s jaw drops open.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  The image is of the man they robbed. The floating headline beneath his face seems to burn itself into Benson’s eyes:

  AUTHORITIES REPORT THAT KEITH MADSEN HAS BEEN IDENTIFIED AS THE SUICIDE BOMBER

  ~~~

  Past article from the Saint Louis Times:

  Slaughter of Unauthorized Babies Complete

  The Department of Population Control has finally flexed its muscles, showing critics of the recently approved Population Control Decree that the government means business. Hundreds of ‘unauthorized beings’ were located and ‘terminated’ in what many are already referring to as Red Wednesday. Many believed the population watchdog would balk when it came time to enforce the new law that has been called ‘disgusting and inhumane’ by the Human Rights Association. Four hundred and sixty four dead babies in the first day have changed everything.

  When interviewed about the slaughter, the Head of Pop Con, Douglas Ross said, ‘We don’t make the laws, we just enforce them.’ He had no other comments.

  The tiny bodies were burned without funerals. The offending parents have been taken into custody, and will likely be sentenced to life in prison without parole. In the humble opinion of our newspaper, this marks the darkest day in the history of the Reorganized United States of America.

  Have a comment on this article? Speak them into your holo-screen now.

  Comments:

  HollyPop24: I’m speechless.

  JamalPorter1: We’ve become nothing more than animals.

  Marky41: Makes perfect sense to me. They weren’t ALLOWED to be born. Pop Con was only taking back what was rightfully theirs.

  Dr.Price9: I agree with Marky41. The projections don’t lie. If we don’t take drastic action to stem the population, none of us will survive.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Domino Destovan can’t believe how lucky he’s been in his life.

  Turning sixteen just two days before they lowered the minimum age for military participation from eighteen to sixteen; surviving a direct hit from a drone rocket on the bunker he was stationed in when piloting drones in World War V; losing only an arm, a leg, and part of his skull in the attack; returning home a hero, receiving six medals for bravery and valor and dedication to his country; getting a free procedure to repair his broken body, which is now str
onger than ever, made up of sixty percent human flesh and bones, and forty percent machine parts.

  All that in a year!

  None of it would’ve been possible if he hadn’t been a strong kid. He thought his anonymous tip to Pop Con about his Slip sister would be an easy solution to get his parents’ attention. His mother would be taken into custody and she’d tell them everything. They’d find and get rid of his younger sister, who NEVER SHOULD’VE BEEN BORN ANYWAY. Then his mother would come home, and his father could stop hiding out with his sister. They could be a real family, and he’d be their favorite kid again, no longer ignored.

  But that’s not the way it happened. Instead, his misguided mother tried to be a hero and died during the interrogations. Luckily, he was smart and strong and was able to convince the authorities to send him to the military academy rather than some state orphanage. From there, his anger at his parents boiled into hate.

  That’s when his father found him, on a cold and rainy night when he was out looking for trouble on the city streets. His father had apologized for everything and told Domino he missed him.

  Too little, too late.

  Although lava was running through Domino’s veins, he pretended he missed his father, too. He lied and told his father he was scared, that he wanted to be with him again. He wanted to be a family again. His father had told him it was too risky, and that Domino was better off in the military academy. Domino begged to at least know where they were staying, so he could visit from time to time. His father—the stupid, stupid man—told him.

  Later that night, he placed another anonymous tip to Pop Con with the location of the Slip they’d been hunting for over two years. He read the news the next day, shocked that there was still no new news on the Slip hunt. A month went by, then another. He didn’t know what to think, what to do. Had his father and sister moved? Did he realize his own son had tricked him?

  Another week passed and then it finally happened: