Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1) Page 12

  Michael raises an eyebrow. “Cyborg?” he says.

  “Yeah. Forty percent metal. He’s very motivated. Name’s Domino Destovan, but they’re already calling him The Destroyer. Trust me, the name fits. Today he almost singlehandedly took down the UnBee Shack. You should have seen it.”

  Michael’s attempt to swallow fails. He’s seen enough dead babies for ten lifetimes. “Where’d he come from?”

  Corr’s eyes sparkle at the question. “Get this—he’s the brother of the last Slip.”

  “What?” Michael squints, trying to remember the brother of the five-year-old Slip.

  “Yeah. That’s what I said,” Corr says. “After we took down his mother, father, and the Slip, Domino was transferred to military prep school. His file says he was in the top two percent of his class, both physically and intelligence-wise. As soon as he turned sixteen, he volunteered and was sent on his first mission. When he came home he was half metal.”

  Remembering the piles of bodies, Michael says, “Keep an eye on him.”

  “Will do,” Corr says.

  “Is that all?” Michael asks.

  Corr smiles, and the ice in Michael’s bones begins to crack. Something is up. Something big. Despite his smile, Corr’s eyes are dark, black marbles gleaming with the screen-glow. “There’s something else,” Corr says.

  Michael trembles. “Oh?” he says.

  “Yes. After all these years, we’re in for another wild ride.”

  No. Please, no. “Meaning…”

  “Our analysts are hot on the trail of a potential Slip.”

  The walls seem to close in, squeezing the air out of the Pop Con Head’s lungs. He can’t speak. He can’t breathe. He can’t think, his mind a blaze of fiery memories from a past he can’t bring himself to erase.

  “And we don’t think it’s some five-year-old girl,” Corr continues. “This one’s the real deal. The biggest Slip of either of our careers…”

  His lungs are bursting, his heart slamming with uneven, wild beats, his head a tornado of beautiful, horrid thoughts.

  “We think it might be a teenager,” Corr finishes, patting him on the shoulder and exiting the room. Over his shoulder, as if an afterthought, he says, “I’ll let you know when we have enough information to plan a mission.”

  The door closes and a breath explodes from his lungs. He drops his head between his knees and gasps for air as if he’s sprinted a kilometer. This is it. This is why he’s made no effort to leave Pop Con. Why he’s remained loyal to a murderous machine in which he’s the largest cogwheel.

  The system he once believed in has become his prison, without walls, without bars, his own conscience the only guard. And now the time has finally come to break out.

  ~~~

  The Destroyer—after their latest mission even Dom is starting to think of himself by that name—uses a white cloth to clean the blood spatter from his arms and legs. The plunger of excitement continues to shoot adrenaline through his veins and he can’t seem to wipe the smile off his face.

  His other team members don’t seem nearly as excited, but he couldn’t care less because today’s performance will surely get him noticed at the top levels of Pop Con. And once Michael Kelly knows his name, he’ll never forget it.

  “You should have waited for us,” Hodge says, for the third time. Someone from the morgue—they’re called “Cs” or “corpse carriers” by those in the business—walks past carrying two tiny body bags, one in each hand. The Destroyer’s handiwork: a couple of UnBees that should’ve never been born, trying to embark on an illegal life.

  The Destroyer’s gun is at his feet, the dark metal polka-dotted with drops of blood. He could so easily grab it, raise it, pull the trigger…

  “Sorry,” he says, apologizing for the third time. “I guess I got overexcited.” After all, who can blame him? The UnBee Shack was exactly the type of place that could destroy their country. Left alone, the center for unauthorized births could’ve produced hundreds of UnBees, which would eventually grow to become Slips, which could destroy everything the government is working so hard to achieve. Someone had to tear the Shack down and it might as well have been him.

  Just beyond Hodge, Dana gives him a strange look. The Destroyer laughs on the inside. That’ll teach you to call me Frosty, he thinks. He’d already finished the job before Dana knew what was happening. The inadequate little Hunter hadn’t even fired a single shot.

  “We’re meant to be a team,” Hodge says.

  The Destroyer knows his team leader’s just pissed because his kill count was two, while his own was nineteen. Fifteen UnBees, two traitorous doctors, and two pathetically undertrained guards. A blood bath. A massacre. Complete and utter destruction with zero survivors.

  “Next time try and keep up,” the Destroyer says, unable to take another reprimand from his team leader. One of his arms feels hot, like his blood is literally boiling, while the other arm—the one made of metal—is cold and in control. They’re the perfect complement for each other, a blend of calm and fury.

  The look on Hodge’s face is priceless, a mix of disbelief, anger, and envy. The envy is the Destroyer’s favorite. “You’ve given me no choice but to file a report,” Hodge says. The words come out weak and shaky.

  “You do that,” he says, beginning to clean his gun. “And then you can come back and apologize to me.”

  Hodge’s face turns red, but before he can respond, there’s an incoming message through their earpieces. “This is Pop Con Command,” the voice says. Dana looks at Hodge. Hodge looks at the Destroyer. The Destroyer watches as a pair of Cs carry an adult body bag through the door. “Domino Destovan, please report to level ninety-nine immediately. Corrigan Mars would like to see you.”

  “Yessir,” the Destroyer says, a flash of annoying uncertainty burning in his brain. Had he gone too far?

  The call cuts off, and Hodge says, “Have fun, hotshot. Maybe Corr can teach you some manners.” Dana just grins stupidly.

  Dom—no longer the Destroyer—grits his teeth and follows a couple of corpse carriers out into the city.

  ~~~

  As the hoverball shoots toward the corner of the net, Harrison Kelly’s feet move without thought, guiding his hoverboard effortlessly. I’m not going to make it, he realizes even as he steps quickly to the end of his board, which struggles to stay upright.

  The ball rockets toward the inside of the goalpost, just out of reach.

  Screw it, Harrison thinks, leaping from his board, straining every last muscle forward. The ball glances off his fingertips, changes direction slightly, and rings off the outside of the goalpost, careening harmlessly away and out of bounds.

  The roar of the crowd morphs into a collective gasp as he falls, trying to twist his body in midair, hoping his hoverboard will catch him. His eyes lock on his board, which is whizzing toward him, searching for the homing signal under his shoes.

  The net comes up faster, roughly catching him, cutting sharply into his skin. His body bounces once, twice, and then comes to rest, stinging all over.

  Late in the game, tied zero-zero, the pain is well worth it to save their undefeated season. Harrison licks the blood that wells up from a laceration on his lips and raises a fist.

  The crowd goes nuts, sold out for the eleventh consecutive game.

  His hoverboard lands beside him and he steps onto its rubbery treads. As he steers back into position, several of his teammates soar past, slapping him on the back and congratulating him on yet another highlight-reel save. It will surely make the local news.

  He looks to the crowd for the hundredth time, trying to find his father. He promised Harrison he’d be there for his last game. Why Harrison believed him when his father had said the exact same thing for all the other games, he doesn’t know. Maybe broken promises have become such a way of life for him that they roll off his back as easily as water from a post-game shower. Maybe he’s just a hopeless optimist. Maybe he’s a freaking idiot.

  Whatever th
e case, his eyes come up empty once more, his father’s dark suit noticeably absent from the home crowd.

  Nadine, however, is there, wearing her team’s shirt, which fits tightly across her chest, accentuating her curves. She’s smiling and cheering, her dark eyes sparkling under the bright stadium lights. And like he’s done so many times before, Harrison puts on a mask of invincibility and forgets about his father, looking forward to the reward he’s sure to get from his latest girlfriend.

  When Chuck Boggs scores the winning goal—a deft toss of the hoverball past the opposing goalkeeper’s hands—Harrison coolly poses for a snapshot from a school newspaper cameraman before heading straight to the locker room.

  Arriving before any of his teammates, who will likely be celebrating on the field for a while, he steps into the locker room. As usual, the holo-screen is on, and he’s surprised to see that it’s not covering the game. Instead, a breaking news bulletin is flashing.

  The projected screen is split in two. One side displays an old photo of his father, the famous one taken years ago when he announced the capture of the one and only Slip faced during his tenure as Head of Pop Con. The other side shows a more recent photo, Michael Kelly’s face etched with lines, dark circles under his eyes, his thick hair shorter and grayer. And across the photo, a single headline:

  Saint Louis Pop Con announces discovery of the oldest Slip ever faced.

  Harrison touches one of the long, thin scabs forming on his cheek, his finger coming away covered in red ooze. A blaze of frustration burns through him, finding an outlet when he slams his fist into one of the lockers, which, made from stainless steel, sends a shockwave through his knuckles and hand.

  “Argh!” he yells. There’s no way his father will make it to the State Championships, no way he’ll see Harrison lead his team to victory.

  Harrison watches as his last chance to earn his father’s love and pride slips through his trembling fingertips and to the floor. He leaves the locker room, not bothering to change or shower, gone before the reporters can even position themselves at the exit.

  ~~~

  Know of someone planning an illegal birth?

  Speak ‘Pop Con Tips’ into your holo-screen to anonymously provide information that could save our future.

  Only YOU can prevent overpopulation.

  This advertisement paid for by the Department of Population Control.

  Chapter Twenty

  Benson’s been alone for an hour, for which he’s glad. He turned off the holo-screen after ten minutes of staring at the smoke-filled wreckage of the bombed U-building.

  How could he have been so stupid? Obviously, he’d badly misread the situation. Things felt so right, at least to him. But Luce had closed her fingers over his, hadn’t she? Was that something a friend would do? If so, did he just ruin their friendship? He never should’ve assumed she could like him in that way. He never should’ve gotten so emotionally involved. Everyone he’s ever cared about has left him.

  And when she tells Check what happened, what will he say? Benson hasn’t so much as whispered about his feelings for Luce, while Check practically shouts his to the sky. Will he lose his best friend, too?

  Hating his own emotional self-mutilation, Benson pushes to his feet and makes his way outside, breaking his own rule that they should never leave their hideout unoccupied.

  Striding down the sidewalk, he realizes he’s still holding the empty fizzer can Luce gave him. He has the urge to crush it in his palm and kick it onto the road, but instead he wisely places it in one of the tidy metal waste receptacles that are in place all over the city. Littering is a major offense.

  Reaching in his pocket, he shoves all four of the remaining food pills in his mouth, feeling slightly guilty as he relishes the rush of sugar and flavor on his tongue. Almost immediately, he feels sick to his stomach. But even that doesn’t distract him from his thoughts.

  Will Luce ever speak to him again? Does he even want her to?

  How could everything fall apart the moment they seemed to be more right than ever before?

  But wait. A sprig of optimism springs up inside him, sprouting a green leaf of hope. If she never tells anyone, and he never tells anyone, then no one has to know. They can both forget about it and continue on as if nothing ever happened. Nothing has to change.

  Right?

  He chews on the food pills and the hopeful thought as his feet pull him toward the city center. He’s the only one on the sidewalk, although he can see the masses above him, traversing the city through the Tubes. And although he can’t see them, he knows there are thousands more beneath his feet, using the Tunnels, either on foot or by train.

  A floating holo-ad for men’s perfume scans his eyes as he passes by. “Benson Mack, want to smell at least ten times better?”

  “Shut up,” Benson says.

  “Our new scientifically engineered pheromone formula will have women throwing themselves at you.” A full-lipped woman projects from the screen, blowing a kiss at him.

  “Not Luce,” Benson says, moving on.

  Another holo-screen ad, this one fixed to a wall, scans him and says, “Benson Mack, our patented double-thick protection will allow you all the pleasure with none of the risk of an unauthorized pregnancy.” A half-naked couple gropes each other on the sidewalk.

  He stomps past, fighting off the urge to kick the crap out of the holo-ad. These are just the sort of seedy ads that he and Check would normally laugh at and stop to mess with, feigning interest. Not today.

  A lone aut-car zooms past, throwing wind around him. The windows are tinted, so he can’t see inside, but the flashing lights identify it as a Crow. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t duck, or try to hide, or even cover his face. He just keeps on walking, an unexpected bubble of excitement popping inside his gut. What is that feeling?

  Freedom, he realizes. Freedom to walk down the street without fear of capture, without thinking about the last words his father uttered to him.

  A massive holo-screen on the side of a building catches his attention and it’s as if all the excitement is sucked from him in an instant.

  His father’s face, so serious and determined, stares at him. It’s his father’s real face, the one he hid from Benson for so long, until he wasn’t able to anymore. Protecting Our City, the screen reads.

  There’s no such thing as freedom, Benson thinks. Not in this city. Maybe not anywhere.

  Although he remembers each and every word his father spoke to him during that final frantic hour, he never thinks about them anymore. They’re locked away in his mind, in a mental safe without a key. The truth he realized years ago—what he might be—must never see the light of day. As much as he hates to admit it, his father was right, in a way. He would’ve probably been safer not knowing, and so he must pretend he does not.

  Anger bubbles up inside him, hot and fierce—a welcome distraction from his embarrassment from earlier. Even though he knows his father did what he did because he thought it would keep Benson safe, he still can’t bring himself to forgive him. Which is why he avoids anything having to do with his father and Pop Con whenever he can: the news, the billboards, the holo-ads.

  Making a rash decision, he spits in the direction of the billboard, immediately wishing he hadn’t. They say the Hawk drones can catch a ruffian spitting in a city fountain from an altitude of ten thousand feet.

  He stalks off, trying to blink away the image of his father, which stubbornly remains stained in his mind.

  ~~~

  An hour later, Benson turns a corner and realizes where his feet have taken him. A few lingering wisps of smoke curl around the black edges of the building, which are dripping wet. A fire bot continues to spray the rubble, presumably to douse any hidden coals still holding the potential for flames. A mixture of crowd control bots and Crows maintain a perimeter around the disaster zone, holding back rubberneckers and reporters, all trying to get a better view of the carnage.

  Peopl
e both love and hate destruction, his father once told him. His nose scrunches. He still hasn’t erased his father’s image from his head since seeing the billboard. He feels his father’s old words and warnings pushing against the walls of the metal safe in his mind. He firms up his jaw and pushes back until they are silent, until the words vanish like morning mist under the heat of the rising sun. Well, he thinks, at least it’s taken my mind off of Luce.

  Magnetically, he gravitates toward the crowd and the scene of the bomb blast, for which he was at least indirectly responsible. Every time someone asks him for directions he’s going to wonder whether they’re planning to blow up a building.

  No one is watching him. He’s invisible, just another street rat. The Crows are focused on the people at the front, threatening them with sticks crackling with energy. They’re wearing helmets that are scanning the eyes of anyone nearby. “Step back, Robert Maud. Step back, Elisa Garber.” A speaker attached to the top issues orders to the crowd. A cameraman gets too close and screams as electricity rips through him. His camera clatters to the ground and all hell breaks loose.

  People are yelling and pushing and trying to run; Crows are shouting commands—“Get back! Get back!”—and firing warning shots into the air; and Benson is staring at people’s pockets, a creature of habit. He sees a lady with a five thousand dollar purse, half open. Her LifeCard is practically screaming to be Picked. Another man’s cardholder is peeking out from his pocket, just a corner of brown.

  You made me what I am, Father, Benson thinks. His hands dart out and he Picks both Grunks at the same time—a rare double-Pick.

  He walks away, the stolen property seeming to burn his hands, which are shoved deep in his pockets. In his heart he knows his father has nothing to do with what he’s become.