Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1) (12 page)

“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.

B
enson’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.

People 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.

~~~

Benson lingers for only a moment on the street before entering the cracked and crumbling building that he calls home. Waiting any longer would be a surefire way to attract unwanted attention.

When he pushes through the door, he feels the familiar chill maintained to mask their presence from the random infrared scans performed by Hawks from time to time. Once again, his friends are huddled around the holo-screen watching the news.

“Where’ve you been?” Check asks, looking up from the screen. Gonzo, Rod, and Geoffrey keep watching. Benson wishes Luce would keep watching, too, but her eyes dart to his, and then settle on her feet, which are tucked cross-legged in front of her.

So this is the way it’s going to be—awkwardness and staring at feet.

“Out,” Benson says. He closes the door and sits next to Check. Luce is on the other side of his friend. A buffer. That’s what he needs right now.

Check shrugs disinterestedly. “I got rid of the bomber’s card,” he says.

“Thanks.” Not looking at the screen, Benson busies himself with the two stolen LifeCards. He connects the first card—the one from the woman’s purse—to his hacker and waits. A number pops up. $356. Not bad for an unplanned Pick.

“How come you went solo on me?” Check asks, the slightest bit of irritation in his voice. He’s reading the number over Benson’s shoulder. By unwritten Picker rules, the spoils from a solo job don’t have to be shared with one’s partner.

Benson doesn’t look up from the device, just calmly removes the first card and replaces it with the second, from the man’s brown cardholder. “It wasn’t planned,” Benson says. “Anyway, we’ll go halves on it.” The second number appears. $1,249.

Check’s eyes practically bug out. “Damn, man, you did all right.” The iciness is gone now that he knows Benson will be sharing.

“It was a dual-Pick,” Benson says.

Both Rod and Gonzo finally look up. “
Impresionante
,” Rod says.

“Sick,” Gonzo says.

Geoffrey beams at Benson. “Later, can you show me how you pulled it off?” The kid’s always eager to learn, Benson’s got to give him that.

Luce leans forward and peeks around Check. “Congratulations,” she says. Her eyes are puffy and red, something Benson should have noticed earlier. It’s clear she’s been crying. Benson’s never seen her cry—not once. He can’t imagine it.

Now it’s Benson’s turn to stare at his feet. The hardness inside him cracks a little. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Bro, have you seen the news?” Check asks.

What now? Benson thinks, looking up. The holo-screen is muted, one of their rules at night. This part of the city can get particularly quiet and regular Crow patrols pass by frequently. When he sees the headline, he sucks in a sharp breath:

HIGH-LEVEL POP CON OFFICIAL CONFIRMS SLIP RUMOR

“When?” Benson asks, feeling a swell of fear in his chest.

“The
rumor
surfaced about two hours ago,” Luce says.

“They only just confirmed it,” Check says.

“I wonder who the high-level official is,” Rod says.

“
Un bastardo
,” Gonzo says.

“I meant which one,” Rod says.

“I know what you meant,
idiota
,” Gonzo says.

Geoffrey snickers and Luce frowns at him. There’s a knot in Benson’s gut. A tide of memories washes up on the shore of Benson’s mind. Seeing his father’s face on the holo-screen for the first time, when he snuck out of bed. The story about the terminated Slip, a five-year-old girl. Everything he told Benson before pushing him into the river; everything he
implied
. As much as Benson prefers living in denial, deep inside his suspicions abound.

“I bet it’s that douchebag. Michael Kelly,” Check says.

Benson bites his lip.

“I’d put a million
pesos
on Corrigan Mars,” Rod says. “Every time he makes an announcement, I throw up a little in my mouth.”

“The same happens to me when I look at your ugly face,
amigo
,” Gonzo says.

“I just laugh when I see your face,
amigo
,” Rod says.

“Doesn’t matter who it is,” Luce interjects. “What matters is what happens next.”

“They find the poor kid and put him or her down,” Check says.

“Freaking screwed up,” Rod says.

“You’re freaking screwed up,” Gonzo says. “
Loco en la cabeza
.” He points at his head, moving his index finger in a tight spiral. Rod pushes him and he falls over.

“What do you think, Benson?” Luce asks.

The truth is he feels sick. Because he knows Check was right. They’ll find the kid. He doesn’t like to think about the rest. Here he’s been obsessing over his sad little hurt feelings when there’s a Slip out there who’s worrying every second about whether Hunters will break down their door and put a bullet in their head.

Not him. Because of his dad it will never be him.

“I hope they never find the Slip,” Benson says.

“Me too,” Geoffrey says.

“Me
tres
,” Rod says.

“Dork,” Gonzo says, pushing him.

~~~

Past article from the
Saint Louis Times
:

Food Shortages Linked to Unauthorized Births