Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1)

by David Estes

  If there was a Hawk, it might still be tracking her progress, sending her changing location back to the Hunters. She has to get under cover. But where?

  The houses that flash by could offer a place to hide, but the likelihood of picking one that’s unoccupied is slim. Plus the Hawk would know exactly which house she entered, so she’d need to find a way to sneak from house to house, each time magnifying her chance of getting caught. She could keep running, but eventually they’d catch her. Running is only one half of the equation of her life. Hiding is the other half.

  Then Destiny sees it. An open manhole. There are barriers around it, warning pedestrians to steer clear. She hears laughter, and a moment later spots men wearing orange vests eating lunch nearby. The manhole is unguarded, save for the waist-high barriers.

  She charges for the opening, gauging the height as she approaches. Her skates are hovering too low—she’ll have to jump. At the last possible second, she springs upward, watching the barrier disappear beneath her, replaced by a gaping black circle of emptiness. With a deft turn of both ankles, the hoverskates skid across the air to a stop, and she uses her heels to switch off the hoverpower.

  Although Destiny expects it, she gasps when she drops, her stomach flying through her chest and into her throat. As darkness closes around her with wet, icy hands, she reengages the hoverpower and her skates stop her fall before she crash lands in whatever muck occupies the bottom of the sewer drain.

  She waits…one beat, two. No shouts. No protests. The men were too engaged in whatever story or joke was being told to see her slick maneuver into the hole. The Hawk wouldn’t be so easily fooled. It would’ve seen her, its cameras capturing her every move in stunningly clear three-dimensional holographs beamed back to some Pop Con command center. But now she’s off the grid, and although the Hunters will arrive soon, she has a chance to get far away before they do.

  Flicking on a powerful white light built into her stolen watch—the kid she snatched it from probably didn’t realize it was gone for hours—Destiny races through the cement tube. She has to duck to avoid scraping her head on the rough ceiling, but it’s no problem for her. Brackish water meanders beneath her, bound for some body of water or treatment facility.

  Soon side passages begin to open up on either side and she makes it a rule to take every turn she possibly can. She knows she’ll get hopelessly lost, but that means her pursuers will, too.

  Time seems to stand still in the dank sewer system, and she begins checking her watch regularly to measure her progress. Five minutes, ten, a half hour; still she soldiers onward, her stooped back and neck growing sore as she cuts a zigzagging path through the town underworld.

  After an hour has passed, she starts looking for a place to hole up for a while. Everything looks the same, however—gray and wet and miserable—so she searches for another thirty minutes. She’s just about to stop anywhere and do her best to find a dry spot to sit, when a random turn brings her into a small, square space. She slews to a stop, checks the floor—which is surprisingly dry beneath her—and drops. Her hoverskates clack mildly on the cement, the sound echoing further than she expected.

  The skates also have wheels, a sort of throwback to when people used to skate on the ground rather than in the air, and Destiny tentatively rolls around the space, feeling awkward and clumsy. Her watch light shows three walls constructed of concrete blocks, solid except for the gap in which she entered, a sort of door. The fourth wall, however, is much more interesting. It’s a panel with flashing lights and colorful gauges and levers and buttons. A control panel, likely used to change the flow of sewage and storm runoff throughout the town. She doesn’t touch it for fear that she’ll break something and draw attention to her location. Someone might come down eventually, but for now it’s as good a place as any to rest.

  Destiny lowers herself to the floor, resting her back against one of the walls, and slips off her backpack. Placing it beside her, she ignores it for a moment as she removes the hoverskates. It would be smarter to leave them on, in case she needs to take off again quickly, but she can already feel the blisters forming on the sides of her toes. She pushes off her shoes, too, letting her sockless feet breathe. The cool air hits the sweat on her skin and she sighs with relief.

  Her comfort is negated when she feels a sharp sting in her back. The shrapnel from the gunshot, she remembers, reaching back to feel for the wound. She sucks in a breath when she touches her lower back, her nerves firing. Her fingers come away moist with blood. But it’s dark red and thick, already congealing. Clotting. The injury might be painful, but it’s not serious. She’ll live. It could’ve been so much worse, like a real bullet in the back, not just a metal shard or splintered rock or whatever penetrated her flesh.

  Wiping the blood on her pants, she adjusts her position so her back doesn’t touch the wall.

  Next she rummages through her pack, trying to find her last food pill. Ah! There! She pinches the pill between her thumb and forefinger and shoves it in her mouth. Destiny barely tastes the chicken parmesan, swallowing quickly to get the nutrients to her body, which is starting to shake with desire. The food pill will do little to quell the void in her stomach, but at least she’ll have energy again.

  She shouldn’t linger, but the thought of donning the hoverskates on her sore feet make her cringe. Just a few minutes more, she thinks. Once again, she reaches a hand inside her pack, hoping to find another food pill she missed, or forgot about. As if. She never makes mistakes when she inventories her meager supplies.

  Instead, her hand closes on two pieces of paper, connected by their folded-together top left corner. They feel weird and crinkly against her fingers. Paper isn’t used much anymore. Most authorized citizens use their portable holo-screens, or holos, to communicate, to get news, to entertain themselves. Many of the unauthorized people she’s met have them, too. Diggers and Jumpers. Even a Slip or two. They stole them or stole money to buy them. But not Destiny. If she manages to steal a holo, she finds a place to sell it as soon as possible. Holos can be tracked, and she doesn’t trust those who say they can remove the tracking devices.

  Smoothing out the paper in her lap, she reads what she’s already memorized. First, the top page. The article she found on the street, possibly printed by some news junkie who prefers reading on paper to reading on screen. It’s about a Slip in Saint Louis, which is the capital of the Reorganized United States of America, or RUSA. She’s lived near Saint Louis her entire unauthorized life, but she’s never been there. Like her, the Slip is sixteen, and he, also like her, has managed to evade Pop Con’s Hunters for many years. In fact, they only just discovered his existence at all.

  The media is making a big deal out of it, like they always do in the big cities. Slips are these scary criminals, and everyone freaks when they find one. What they don’t seem to realize is that there are dozens of Slips in small towns, most of whom go unreported. Long ago, Destiny found out why when she was hiding in a pile of garbage. The Hunters chasing her stopped not a meter away. She overheard their entire conversation:

  “Should we call it in, boss?” one of the Hunters said.

  “No. We never call it in,” the other Hunter, presumably the boss, said.

  “Why not?”

  “We don’t have the resources the city units have, kid. It’s not possible to catch every Slip the way they can. If the top dogs in Saint Louis knew how many Slips were really out there, they’d freak. We’d all lose our jobs and they’d take over. We just do our best to catch and terminate as many unauthorized kids as we can, and forget about the rest. Okay?”

  “Understood,” the new Hunter said.

  So although Destiny understands why the Slip in Saint Louis is such a big deal, it still makes her laugh every time she reads the article. At first they thought his name was Benson Mack, but then there was this huge breaking news story about how he’s really named Benson Kelly, and his father, Michael Kelly, was the Head of Pop Con. Not like a unit head, but like the
overall head. The top dog. Somehow Michael Kelly had managed to keep his unauthorized son secret for all these years. Something went down at Pop Con headquarters and Michael Kelly was shot and the Slip, Benson Kelly, escaped, along with his twin brother Harrison, mother Janice, and a street rat named Lucy Harris.

  Inwardly, Destiny always cheers when she reads the article. It’s a nice article, but she only became obsessed with it two days ago, when she received the second piece of paper. The note was shoved into her hand when she was “shopping” at the store where she stole the chicken parmesan food pill she’d just eaten. The kid was gone before she could even think about stopping him, his hat pulled so far over his eyes that she couldn’t make out any of his features. Like the Saint Louis Times article, she has the note memorized, and yet she can’t help but to flip the page and read it, relishing the hand writing and the knowledge that someone real wrote the hope-filled words.

  Tired of running?

  Come to REFUGE.

  Safe for Slips, Jumpers, Diggers.

  Safe for all.

  She’d come across other illegals before, some of whom mentioned Refuge, but to her it was always a load of crap. A myth. Stupid kids creating a stupid place that they could stupidly dream about. A fairy tale to give them hope until they were caught and killed.

  But now she’s not so sure she was right. The article, which explains how the Saint Louis Slip “disappeared into thin air,” combined with the cryptic note shoved into her hand, makes her wonder whether there is a safe place for people like her.

  So she’s been moving from small town to small town, talking to anyone she can about it. Gathering information. Everyone’s heard about it. Some laugh it off as some big joke, while others swear to the heavens that Refuge exists.

  But the one consistent message is that it’s somewhere near Saint Louis. A coincidence? Destiny has never believed in coincidences, and she’s not about to now. And although she continues to question the truth in her mind, in her heart she knows Benson Kelly found the place of myths and legends.

  And he disappeared.

  He found Refuge.

  ~~~

  Article from the Saint Louis Times:

  Hunt for Disappearing Slip Continues, Michael Kelly Rumored to be Dead

  Benson Kelly, the unauthorized teenager being referred to as the Saint Louis Slip, continues to evade Pop Con Hunters, in what is being referred to by authorities on population control as “the most important Sliphunt our proud nation has ever seen.” Rumors have been flying about the events that transpired three days ago at Pop Con headquarters, but only one thing is certain: Benson Kelly is still at large.

  Corrigan Mars, who was recently fired as Pop Con’s second-in-command by Michael Kelly, said, “Given the circumstances around my dismissal, I expect to be reinstated any day now. And if I am, I promise to dedicate my every waking moment to catching the Slip. Benson Kelly is still eating our food and breathing our air. Authorized citizens are suffering because of illegals like Michael Kelly’s son. Illegals who never should’ve been born and now threaten the survival of all law-abiding citizens.”

  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. 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 comments, 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 agrees, 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 Benson 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 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 chur
ning, 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 started at her feet and is slowly travelling 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,” Benson 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. Benson 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.