Flip (The Slip Trilogy Book 3)

by David Estes

  “I was going for James Bond from that new 007 holo-film that just came out,” Benson says, wishing he could pull off a look the way his brother does.

  “Hmm, I’m not sure you have the cojones to be Bond,” his brother says, tapping his front teeth. “Perhaps something more…current. Have you seen all the aut-cycles cruising around lately? Leather is most definitely back in.”

  Always helpful, the bot says, “We have a large assortment of leather for all shapes and sizes.”

  “White tank, black leather jacket, black leather pants—boot cut,” Harrison rattles off, almost without thinking. “Croc-skin belt and boots, in red if you have it in stock.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The holo changes and Benson is no longer floating in the air. Some tattooed, aut-cycle-riding, trouble-making badass with a blue-tipped Mohawk and multiple piercings appears, throwing evils stares around the store. “Son of a bot,” Benson breathes. “Is that how I’ll look?”

  “Hell yeah,” Harrison says. “My work here is done.”

  “Thank you for your business,” the bot says politely. “Your total will be four-thousand-and-ninety-four dollars and forty-nine cents.”

  “Uh, put it on our tab,” Benson says hurriedly, suddenly feeling as if he’s doing something wrong. This whole world…of stores, of fashion, of legal citizens with legal jobs living a legal life…it feels wrong. Not for everyone else, but for him. Like this world is not really his. And if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel comfortable in it, even if he gets the chance to try someday.

  “Nicely done,” Minda says, snapping Benson away from his thoughts.

  She slides a LifeCard through a slot in the machine and the racks start moving as the bot says, “Payment accepted. Please remove your items as they appear.”

  “Thanks,” Benson mumbles, grabbing the pants and other articles of clothing each time the rack stops.

  “Compliments of the consortium,” she says, slipping away to pay for Simon’s purchases.

  The red croc-skin boots are last, and are far lighter than he expected them to be. “Are these made of air?” he says to himself, balancing them on his palm.”

  “Synthetic polymer,” his brother says. “The latest technology.”

  Benson imagines it will feel like walking on a cloud. “Thanks for your help,” he says.

  “No problem. I have to admit, for having such a non-relationship with Dad I did enjoy spending his money for him.”

  “He bought you things?” Benson asks, interested in what his father was like after he knew him.

  Harrison laughs without mirth. “Hardly. I was an authorized user on his LifeCard. It was guilt money. He thought it would make up for the fact that he was a pathetic father.”

  “I—I’m sorry,” Benson says. “I knew things weren’t great with you and him, but I guess I never thought it was that bad.” How could it have been? Benson wonders. He would’ve given anything just to have seen his father in person again, even if they hardly spoke, hardly interacted.

  “It was,” Harrison says. “When he was still taking care of you, he was always gone, leaving me with Mom. I was hard on her. Too hard. I didn’t know.”

  “You were just a kid.”

  “We both were. And they were just our parents. But that doesn’t make any of what happened right.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Benson agrees.

  “Even though Dad never did, Mom went to all my hoverboard games, up until…she couldn’t. I loved Mom,” Harrison says. “I mean, I love her. For a while I thought I didn’t. I was embarrassed, I guess. Everyone knew she’d been committed to the asylum. I didn’t want to be the laughingstock of the school, so I pretended it was funny, that I thought she was a big joke. I’m a terrible person, aren’t I, little bro?”

  The sadness and regret are heavy in his brother’s tone. “You made mistakes. We all did,” is all he can think of to say.

  “Ha! I bet you would’ve been more loyal to Mom. I bet you would’ve defended her. It should’ve been you. You should’ve been the legal one. You’re a million times more deserving of it than me.” Harrison’s words are brought on by more than sadness and regret, Benson realizes. There’s self-loathing, too. The most confident guy in the world doesn’t even like himself.

  Isn’t that the way it always is? Benson asks himself. We hide who we are until the truth spews forth with the power of an erupting geyser. It’s almost exactly what happened to him, except in a different way.

  “Shut up,” Benson says, forcing as much command into his tone as he can.

  Harrison takes a step back, surprised. “What?”

  “You heard me. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. So you screwed up a few times, who cares? You’re making up for it. You’ve made up for it. A hundred times over. A thousand. A botdamned million times, Harrison. Can’t you see that? We’re in this together. No more running off and doing crazy things. If there are crazy things to be done, we’ll do them together. Our normal childhood may have been stolen, but from now on we’re taking it back.”

  The look on his brother’s face seems to twist between shadowed amusement and disbelief. “Maybe you do have the cojones to pull off the Bond look, after all,” he says, roping an arm around Benson’s shoulder.

  ~~~

  Private Forum for Agriculturists, by invite only:

  Password required: **********

  Password accepted, access granted.

  BloodyMary: I think we should move the key.

  ShirleyTemple: I disagree. The Lab has proven to be an effective holding area.

  SamAdams: Is there a reason for your suggestion, BloodyMary?

  BloodyMary: The city is too hot right now, and the Lab is right in the thick of things. I’m hearing buzz over here about all sorts of aggressive ideas for stemming the riots.

  ShirleyTemple: Such as?

  BloodyMary: Calling in reserves from other cities, increasing foot patrols and random inspections on businesses, etc. Essentially they want to flush out any pockets of rebellion and stamp them out before things get even worse.

  JoseCuervo: Things are already worse and BloodyMary might have a point. We could keep moving the key around, make it harder to locate.

  ShirleyTemple: And providing more opportunities for Pop Con to catch her. And the STL Slip too. Sorry, I disagree. We only have four more days until we unlock the vault, now is not the time to mess around.

  SamAdams: I have to say that I agree with ShirleyTemple. Even a large-scale assault on the Lab would prove futile against the defenses we’ve put in place.

  JoseCuervo: Two votes on each side. We’ll stay with the status quo unless the situation changes. Can you live with that, BloodyMary?

  BloodyMary: Of course. We’re in this together.

  PART 2: FALLING

  Chapter Twelve

  PSYCHOLOGICAL EXAMINATION FOR SERVICE INTO

  THE REORGANIZED UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  MILITARY

  RECORD NO.: 560075614

  STATUS: ARCHIVED

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Name?

  Applicant: Domino Destovan

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Age

  Applicant: Sixteen

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Isn’t that a little young for someone to volunteer for military service?

  Applicant: They lowered the minimum age for a reason.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: You think you’re that reason?

  Applicant: Precisely. Among others.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Won’t your family miss you?

  Applicant: They’re deceased, but of course you already know that, Doctor.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: How do you feel about having criminals in your family history? Your sister was a Slip. Your parents tried to hide her. Covered it up.

  Applicant: I was embarrassed. Angry sometimes.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Not sad?

  Applicant: Not sad.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: But yo
u’re not embarrassed or angry anymore?

  Applicant: No.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Why not?

  Applicant: Because they don’t exist anymore. Only I exist.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Does that make you happy?

  Applicant: It makes me proud.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: That you outlived them?

  Applicant: No. That justice was served.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: You attended Saint Louis Military Preparatory School after your family died, did you not?

  Applicant: Again, I believe that’s what it says on that paper you’re holding.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Indeed it does, but I like to confirm. I’ll take that as a confirmation.

  Applicant: Is that a question?

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: No. My question is in regards to the six disciplinary hearings you’ve had in the last year and a half. Do you have anything to say about those?

  Applicant: No.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Nothing at all?

  Applicant: Just that I was only doing what I had to do.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Putting more than a dozen kids in the hospital was something you had to do?

  Applicant: I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to goad me into an outburst. To defend my honor. To make excuses. My actions weren’t a result of some kind of anger management issue. Those so-called “kids” deserved every broken bone and drop of spilled blood they got.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: You think you’re the judge, jury and executioner?

  Applicant: I didn’t kill anybody.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Did you want to?

  Applicant: Sometimes. Some of them deserved it.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Then why didn’t you?

  Applicant: Someone always stopped me before it got that far.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: You couldn’t have stopped yourself?

  Applicant: I didn’t want to.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: I see. Mr. Destovan, do you see anything morally wrong with killing?

  Applicant: That’s a pretty general question.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Let me rephrase. Do you see anything morally wrong with killing those that threaten the survival of the RUSA?

  Applicant: No.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: What about those that threaten you personally?

  Applicant: No.

  Dr. Colonel Roberts: Would you kill a complete stranger?

  Applicant: If it needed to be done.

  PSYCHOLOGICAL INTERVIEW COMPLETE

  INTERVIEW RESULT: CANDIDATE APPROVED FOR SERVICE

  ~~~

  Every movement sends spikes through his brain, or at least through whatever’s left of it. “What is happening to me?” the Destroyer growls, his question echoing off the deaf walls of the underground prison housing his secret weapon.

  He hasn’t been able to get up in hours, not even to torture Michael Kelly. Clearly something serious is wrong with him. Although he hates to admit it, he needs help. A robotics engineer, maybe a doctor.

  At least he was smart enough to reach out to his contact at the Saint Louis Times to tell them to hold the video. For now. His contact said he couldn’t make any promises, but once the Destroyer finished with his threats, the guy changed his mind and made all sorts of promises. In his current condition, Domino isn’t sure he’d actually be able to carry out any of his threats, but his contact doesn’t know that. No doubt he won’t be able to sleep much over the next few days, checking on his wife and child every ten minutes.

  The Destroyer almost wishes he could show up at the guy’s house, just to see his face. He’d eat a sandwich, watch his holo-screen, maybe kiss the guy’s kid goodnight, and then leave. Perhaps take a picture of the guy’s ghost-white face before he goes. Wouldn’t that be a hoot!

  “Urgh!” he roars as the thought is smashed away by another eruption in his skull. Spots dancing in front of his eye, he grabs his holo and makes a call to someone he knows he can trust, someone with a unique level of power.

  When he tells him what he needs, the guy promises help within the hour.

  Feeling back in control of things, he props his head on Corrigan Mars’s corpse and drifts into a heavy, unnatural sleep.

  ~~~

  Destiny’s quickly learning the ropes of being a Slip in a big city like Saint Louis. She’s also learning that it’s extremely difficult, which makes it all the more amazing that Benson Kelly lasted as long as he did without discovery.

  In the various small towns she travelled through, she would always determine exactly how many floating holo-ads there were, and what areas they traversed. She would locate the Crows’ headquarters, learning their patrol routes, shift changes, and level of motivation for catching illegals. Within days, she knew those towns backwards and forwards and could move through them like a ghost, virtually undetected.

  But Saint Louis literally has thousands of Crows, law enforcement bots, and floating holo-ads, not to mention the numerous other retinal scanners smattered throughout the city, sometimes in the most random places, like in an alleyway or on a rooftop. It’s a city built for identifying and tracking its citizens, which further explains why such a big deal was made when a teenage Slip was identified within the metropolis boundaries.

  Destiny has nearly been scanned on numerous occasions, barely escaping through raw hoverskating skill or sheer dumb luck several times. Although she’s getting the hang of things, she can’t last much longer. At least she’s not endangering anyone else anymore, she reminds herself. That’s the only comfort she can take when she hears the whir of a Hawk drone guarding the skies high overhead.

  And yet, she’s surviving, like she always has. Thankfully the icy chill has receded somewhat, the night cold but windless. Earlier she managed to steal a loaf of bread from the back of a delivery van—it was still warm and fresh—and found a relatively cozy nook to sleep in, beneath the streets in what she’s heard locals refer to as the Tunnels. Things could be worse.

  Out of necessity, she has developed a strong sense of direction over the last decade of her life, a talent that has helped her evade several Crows and more than one Hunter, a challenging feat she was once proud of. Her skill comes in handy now, as she has a very good idea as to the general vicinity of the Destroyer’s underground lair, which she and Harrison had the unfortunate displeasure of being guests in. Although logic tells her that Domino Destovan won’t be there anymore—not after two of his prisoners escaped, certainly!—the grainy video had a definite familiarity to it, like the gray walls and dim lighting were the same gray walls and dim lighting of her once-prison.

  In her mind there’s a glowing red dot on a map, and she’s determined to find it. However, the more she pictures that red dot, the more it starts to look like the burning-hot tip of a knife, sliding closer and closer to her eye. The more she blinks, the closer the knife gets, until she has to stop against the wall of a building to try to get control of her rising panic, the night seeming to press in on all sides.

  What is she doing to herself? she wonders, taking deep breaths. She could be back at the Lab with her friends, eating and talking and safe. With Harrison, she thinks, momentarily indulging in her last memory of him. He held her hand, and she let him. He touched her cheek, and she let him. He kissed her, just missing her lips, and she let him she let him she let him.

  She sees the smoke, hears the gunfire, trips on the bodies littering the ground around her, and she’s back at Refuge, and people are dying, her new friends are dying. Luce is dead. Because of her.

  Taking a deep breath, she opens her eyes and pushes steel into her bones, her fists knotting at her sides, so tightly they almost immediately begin to ache. She can’t go back to the Lab precisely because there are people she cares about there. Yes, they are rebels and they have other illegals with them, but she can’t be the reason they’re discovered. Not again. And anyway, she can do more out here. She can be useful, putting what’s left of her shredded life to work. Find the Destroyer before he finds them. Fin
ish what she started when she shoved the hot knife of her nightmares into his eye. End him for good. Or die trying.

  She pushes forward, more determined than ever. She has a reason to live, one of her own creation. It’s a step in the right direction, a clawing pull up and out of the chasm of despair she fell into when Refuge was destroyed. It might not save her, but it’s a start, which is more than she thought possible back when she held a gun to her own head.

  Pull it.

  Pull the trigger.

  And she did, either by accident—a reflexive twitch of her finger when Harrison crashed into her—or on purpose. She’ll never know which, and she’s not sure the answer matters anymore.

  Focus, focus.

  Focus, Destiny, she reminds herself. Now is not the time to dwell on the past or wallow in her mistakes, not while out in the open.

  Staying in the shadows, she skirts the edge of a storefront, which, according to the sign, closed many hours earlier. Things are looking more and more familiar, the streets quieter. The roads are soaked, the layer of snow melted by the heating system. She can still hear the trickle of water cascading through the gutters and into the sewers. Somewhere nearby, a baby wails, and a light flicks on in an upper-story residence. The high-pitched cry seems to cut her to the soul, and she redoubles her pace, moving quickly past the block, reaching another corner.

  Something twists inside her as she turns left, the familiar buildings coming into focus. It’s no surprise how clearly she remembers this place. With an unbelievable amount of clarity, she remembers all her rare moments of freedom, and this is no exception. Freedom seems to do that to Destiny, perhaps because such moments are fleeting for someone like her, their memories so vivid they seem to burst with color and life, their edges sharp, the images so true they’re almost reality.

  Harrison’s face: battered and bruised and yet so beautiful. The snow: cold and white and tickling her skin with the fingers of faeries. The touch: his arms around her, so painful on her bruises and aches, but so warm that she endured every wonderful second of it.