Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1)

by David Estes

  “Care to elaborate?” Wire says, picking at a scab on his nose.

  “No more Slips can die,” his mother says, once more gazing at the panel of flashing lights. “No more sons and no more daughters.”

  “Harrison, what the crap is she talking about?”

  Harrison nods, more to confirm his thinking to himself than for any other reason. There’s no turning back once he says it out loud. “We need your help to save the Slip.”

  “Get out,” Wire says.

  ~~~

  It takes a whole lot of words and a whole lot of pride-swallowing for Harrison to convince Wire to help them.

  And more importantly, a whole lot of money, transferred from Harrison’s LifeCard through a device that Wire swears will remove the link to Harrison’s identity and make the transaction anonymous. If he’s lying, the authorities—and his father—will likely show up at their doorstep within minutes.

  “Transfer complete,” Wire’s holo-screen says. Wire removes Harrison’s LifeCard from the slot and hands it back to him. Every last dollar he’s been saving over the last four years. Gone in thirty seconds.

  “I better not regret this,” Harrison says, feeling slightly ill.

  “You won’t, man.” When Harrison frowns, Wire rushes on. “I’m in. Like I said, I’m a bird and—”

  “You’re headed on a one-way trip to the sun, I know.”

  “Ha ha. Funny. But really, I have no love for Pop Con. Hell, they’ve blown up some of my best programs over the years. But they’ve never caught the man. Not once. I look forward to sticking it to them, to screwing with their capture of the Slip. By the time we’re through with them, they’ll look like fools. Your father will look like a child wearing a turkey outfit. He’ll be flapping his wings and squawking and—”

  “I get it,” Harrison says, tiring of Wire’s rambling analogies. “Let’s get started.”

  Wire rubs his hands together. “Okay. But first, can you, like, turn off your cray-cray mom? I’m afraid she’s going to break something.”

  Harrison—barely—manages to ignore Wire’s reference to his mother’s insanity, turning to find her under a table, tapping on a metal box. “Hellooo!” she says.

  “She’ll be fine,” he says. “Trust me.”

  Wire looks skeptical, but he doesn’t push any further. “What first?” he asks.

  Harrison smiles. “First we screw with their tracking systems.”

  Wire returns Harrison’s smile with one of his own, full of crooked teeth and red gums. “Screwing with stuff happens to be my specialty,” he says, turning to the largest of several holo-screens he has positioned in front of him. “Luckily, I’ve been saving some of my best programs for just such an occasion. We could start with this nasty snake algorithm I’ve been perfecting since eighth grade. I call it Anaconda and I’ve been itching to take it for a spin. Or perhaps we could go with Iron Wall? If it does what I expect it to, Pop Con will be running in circles for days before they can break through all the lines of code. What do you think?”

  “Run them both,” Harrison says. “And run anything else you’ve been cooking up, too. I want to hit them with an itch so devilish they won’t know whether to scratch their asses or between their toes.”

  Wire’s red-rimmed eyes seem to water with excitement, reflecting the glow of the screens. His fingers fly between them, tapping buttons mixed in with voice commands that sound like nonsense to Harrison. In some ways his friend is a complete moron, and in others he’s a maniacal genius. Seeing the combination in action is scarier than watching his mother remove her shoes and talk into them like holo-screens.

  He tries to ignore her and focus on the screens, which are flashing with icons of dynamite and sharks and a fanged snake and, of course, a large iron wall. Wire’s life work.

  After ten minutes, Wire stops and turns to look at him. “You sure about this?”

  Harrison thinks about a brother he never had the chance to meet, of a mother who was pushed off the tracks of a good life, of a father who was never there for him. All because of the Department of Population Control. “Do it,” he says.

  Wire says, “Initiate all programs.”

  ~~~

  Article from the Saint Louis Times:

  Rise in Death Match murders believed to be linked to matched would-be parents growing desperate

  Despite the new Instant Death Match program, Prisoner Overflow List, and other creative measures undertaken by the Department of Population Control, the line for birth authorizations continues to grow longer and longer. This has led to a rise in the murders of Death Matches by prospective parents, who believe that simply killing their assigned Death Match will provide them with immediate birth authorization. However, in many of these cases, the investigation led straight to the matched parents and they were immediately brought to justice, the murderers terminated in accordance with the law.

  In a brief response from Michael Kelly, the Head of Pop Con said, “While an unfortunate trend, this is not a Pop Con matter. We are simply responsible for managing the population, while crimes such as these fall under federal jurisdiction. It should be noted that in most of these cases the perpetrators were terminated, leading to the issuance of three new birth authorizations. One for the Death Match that was murdered; one for the would-be father; and one for the would-be mother.”

  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:

  FredLuck13: It annoys me that people would try to beat the system when other, honest people are following all the rules and waiting patiently for birth authorization. My wife and I have been waiting thirteen long years for our Instant Death Match to come through. You don’t see us out murdering people!

  GinaLove84: Even though Michael Kelly sounds like a robot when he talks, I’d still take him home with me in a second. Gor-geous!

  HenryRasmus100: Comment removed and disciplinary action taken.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Benson doesn’t know what he should be feeling. Joy and satisfaction because they killed the cyborg? Relief at having dodged yet another bullet? Fear that they’re still being hunted? Exhilaration at having kissed Luce for the first time, even if it was nothing more than an act to save their lives?

  But he doesn’t feel any of those emotions. All he feels is deep and profound sadness. Luce was almost killed because of him. She shouldn’t even be here. She shouldn’t even be associated with him. As if aware of what he’s feeling, she refuses to leave his side, even after they’ve managed to sneak through the Tunnels and enter the old warehouse, as if he might disappear at any second.

  “Luce, you need to go find Geoffrey.” Benson hates the fact that his heart doesn’t want her to go, even if he knows it could save her life.

  “Geoffrey is safe—you said it yourself. I’m not going anywhere,” Luce says. “I can’t go anywhere.”

  It’s the last part that hurts the most, because he knows it’s true. Despite his best efforts, she’s in as deep as he is now. The holo-ads read both their eyes together. His name is only just above hers on Pop Con’s most wanted list. If they find her, regardless of whether she’s alone or with him, they’ll…

  Benson looks away from her, fighting his emotions. An apology runs through his head, on an endless loop. I’msorrysosorryI’msorrysosorryI’m—

  “Buck up, Benson,” she says. “We’re still alive. They don’t have us yet.” She pinches him on the arm and the sting, along with the directness of her words, help to clear his head.

  “I don’t want this to be the end,” he says, adding “of us” in his head.

  “It’s not. Let’s stick to the plan, okay? Don’t go getting all hopeless-romantic on me. This isn’t Romeo and Juliet. We’re not going to shoot each other in the head and do Pop Con’s job for them.”


  “I don’t think that’s what happens in Romeo and Juliet,” Benson says.

  “You get what I mean though, don’t you? We’re going to fight all the way…” She trails off, clearly not wanting to say “to the end.”

  “Until we win,” Benson finishes for her, feeling the slightest bubble of hope in his chest. Can Pop Con be defeated? Is that even a possibility? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe with his father’s help.

  “That’s the spirit. Now where do you think we go? This place is like a maze.”

  They enter a large, dark room, lit only by dim security lighting. Stacks of cardboard boxes line the floor, creating a path across that really could be a maze. “I’m not sure, only that Rod told me this is the place and that this guy, Eyeball they call him, will find you once you’re inside.”

  Luce stops short. “Eyeball? Seriously? What kind of name is that?”

  Benson shrugs. “He’s all about eyes apparently. Running this warehouse is just a cover for his real talents.”

  They start walking again and she says, “So we just traipse around this place until he shows his face? Why not just sit and wait for him? My legs are like lead and I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  “That’s fine,” Benson says, stopping. “We should clean up your cut first, though.”

  “Don’t you think it makes me look tougher?”

  He shakes his head, but not in disagreement. “You’re plenty intimidating even without a jagged scar on your face.”

  “Is that why you used to always become such a stu-stu-stutterer when you were around me?” She laughs and Benson blushes.

  “No, that was just because you’re hot.”

  “Benson Kelly, I never realized you were so shallow.” She slaps her palms on her cheeks, feigning shock.

  “Maybe I’ve been hanging around Check too long,” he says. Immediately he wishes the words back. Check might have a thing for pretty girls, but he’s anything but shallow.

  Luce only laughs, not noticing Benson’s flash of regret. “He’s harmless. I’m sure the lines he uses on me have been used on many other girls, too.”

  Not really, Benson thinks. “Make yourself at home,” Benson says, waving at the floor. “Choose any seat that’s open.”

  Luce slides to the floor, her back to a wall of boxes. “I picked up some food pills today while I was out,” she says. “Want one?”

  His stomach feels as empty as a robot’s chest, so he accepts a pill and pops it in his mouth, crunching down hard. A hamburger and fries. Lucy chews one, too.

  “We’ve got to take care of your eye,” Benson says. Trying to concentrate on the wound, rather than her bright blue eyes, Benson inspects the damage. The slice is just above and to the right of her left eye, her skin ripped open when she hit face first on the street after Benson landed on her. Dried blood surrounds the cut, but the coppery liquid continues to leak from the center where the gash is the deepest.

  “How’s it look?” Luce asks.

  “Pretty rough. I’m not sure it will heal well without stitches.”

  “Better than a bullet to the head,” she says.

  He can’t argue with that, so he pulls at one of the sleeves of his t-shirt, stretching the material until it starts to tear.

  “Let me guess, you’re picturing your shirt as the cyborg’s face?” Luce says.

  “Something like that,” Benson says, although really he was hoping he’d be strong enough to rip off a strip so he wouldn’t look like a pathetic wimp. Thankfully, the material tears away easily. It’s not a perfect strip, but it’ll do.

  “Show off those guns,” Luce says, gesturing to his now-exposed bicep.

  Benson wonders whether his face will stay warm for the rest of his life, however short that may be. Trying to hide his embarrassment, he goes to work wiping away the dried blood around the wound and on her cheek. He licks his finger and wipes away the bits that won’t come off with the dry cloth.

  “It’s almost like you spat on me,” Luce jokes.

  “Janice used to do that to get dirt off my face,” Benson says. “I never really thought about it, but I guess it’s kind of gross.”

  “Blood on my face is also kind of gross,” she says. Her eyes are closed, which makes it easier for him to inspect his handiwork.

  “We’ll need to properly clean it soon,” he says. “So it doesn’t get infected. But this’ll do for now.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Benson’s mind wanders back to the Tunnel, to the kiss. “Hey,” he says.

  Luce raises an eyebrow, and for a moment he loses his confidence. “Yeah?”

  He gathers his frayed nerves, bundling them together. “Back in the tunnel…I’m sorry you were forced to…get so close to me.” Like really close. Like lips-against-lips close.

  Luce’s cheeks flush a soft shade of pink, an unexpected reversal. “Benson Mack…Kelly, whatever your name is, just because I’ve been traumatized doesn’t mean I don’t want to kiss you. It just means I have to try not to think about it too much.”

  “But you were just acting, right? To hide?”

  “Yes,” she says, making Benson’s heart drop into his stomach. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it.” She flashes a dazzling smile. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while now.”

  He returns her blush, trying to force ice into his cheeks. “Since when?” Benson asks.

  “Do you remember that day they had the food rally in the city?”

  Benson nods, remembering. The place was ripe for Picking, plenty of wealthy humanitarians donating supplies for the city food bank. Why not spread the wealth a little? “Yeah, but that was like two years ago,” he says, his eyes widening when he realizes what she’s saying. “You’ve liked me that long?”

  “Pretty much,” she says. “You and Check got in a big argument. He wanted to Pick all day, until we had enough to last us for years. You were opposed to it. Said you didn’t want to take money from people trying to do something good. I saw something different in you that day.”

  That was the moment? Benson thinks. In the end, they’d agreed to disagree and Check had gone solo until he realized that the rally-goers were smart enough not to carry significant funds on their LifeCards. “Wow,” Benson murmurs, wondering how he never realized she liked him in that way.

  “What about you?” Luce asks, turning the tables on him.

  “Oh, uh…” Benson considers how best to tell her the truth without sounding like a silly infatuated boy with a meaningless crush. “Almost right away.” Or completely right away. Was there an exact moment? He tries to remember. Yes! “We were only eleven, and you’d just stolen our Grunks, remember?”

  She nods slowly. “You liked me because I stole your Grunks?”

  “No. I liked you because you offered us part of the take after you realized what had happened. Pickers aren’t usually so generous. I said no and Check said yes and then you’d punched him when he said you were pretty. What can I say? I like a girl who’s strong.”

  “And now that you know it’s all an act?”

  “It’s not,” Benson says. “The real you is the strong one—the one made from your experiences and challenges, both good and bad. Maybe you’ll never be the same because of what happened to you, but maybe you’re not supposed to be. Maybe you’re better for having survived it.”

  She’s silent as he tears off another strip of cloth from his shirt, this time from the other sleeve. He wraps it around her head like a bandana, covering the gash without blocking her vision.

  Finished, he waits for her to open her eyes and make some of kind of clever joke, but she doesn’t. She breathes deeply, her chest expanding and contracting. She’s asleep.

  His stomach gurgles and he’s tempted to root around in her pockets to find the rest of the food pills she mentioned, but he doesn’t think that’s a position he’d like her to wake up to. So instead, he sits beside her, rests his head against the wall of cardboard boxes, and closes his eyes for just a mi
nute.

  ~~~

  When the horn goes off, Benson’s eyes flash open and he bangs his head against the cardboard boxes. Luce also startles awake, instinctively clutching his arm. Huddled together, they blink in tandem against the glare of the circle of bright light that hits them in the face.

  “What the freaking hell?” Luce yells. “Turn that thing off!”

  There’s gruff laughter but the light disappears, replaced by an explosion of spots that seem to only get worse as Benson continues to blink.

  “You mean, you dinnit order a wakeup call?” a husky voice says.

  “Stop jerking around,” Luce says, still shielding her eyes as if she expects him to hit her with another dose of the light. “Who are you?”

  Benson blinks some more and the spots begin to fade. A form materializes. A big, big form. A mixed-race man with a shaved cue-ball scalp, a face as wide as the ocean, eyes so green and sparkly they almost look like actual emeralds, and wearing the broadest red-lipped smile Benson’s ever seen in his life.

  “I’s Eyeball,” the guy says.

  Benson looks at Luce, whose jaw is clenched in anger. A circle of blood has seeped through the makeshift bandage while they slept. Overall, she looks pretty bad-ass. Stay cool, he thinks. We need this guy.

  “I’m, uh, Blondie, and this is Babyface,” Luce says. She flashes a crooked grin Benson’s way.

  Babyface? That’s the way she describes me? Benson thinks.

  “I know ezzactly who you are, Lucy Harris and Benson Mack,” Eyeball says. “Even lowlife fake retina dealers been checkin’ the holo-news.” His voice is so deep it’s like the rumble of an engine. He places his massive orange flashlight and blow horn on the floor and crosses his meaty, tattoo-covered arms over his chest.

  Benson’s final remaining thread of hope breaks, as he realizes Eyeball would have to be a thrill-seeking fool to help a Slip. He’s about to shift onto his knees and beg for help, when Lucy says, “Please, Eyeball. Please help us. We have nowhere else to go.” The pain and misery in her tone is so thick that Benson has the urge to wrap his arms around her.