Flip (The Slip Trilogy Book 3) (15 page)

Simon is back on his feet and diving off the platform and onto the tracks, scrabbling for his weapon. The bot’s arm is spitting sparks and dangling by thick wires. “Resisting arrest is punishable by termination,” the bot informs him in monotone, as if it’s nothing more than a holo-librarian providing information on The War of Nations for some history report he’s working on.

Harrison gropes at his pocket, trying to find the spare magazine for the gun, but he knows it’s too late. The bot is standing over him, its good arm preparing to bash his skull into a million bony shards.

As it rockets down toward him, he rolls hard to the right, feeling the whoosh of air and the spine-numbing crash of metal crushing the stone platform, which cracks under the onslaught. He tries to get to his feet, but trips, his rubbery legs failing him in the penultimate moment. The fist rises above him once more, and although he knows the bot’s termination program won’t be fooled twice, he knows he has to try. Scrambling on elbows and knees, he attempts to dive away, catching a glimpse of a blur of movement just behind the bot. A white blur. Lola!

She clambers up the patrol bot’s back, more like a cat than a dog, and bites down hard on its neck, growling and shaking her head from side to side, like she’s trying to tear the stuffing from a chew toy. The bot lets out a hollow bellow—not of pain but of surprise and anger—and spins around, trying to dislodge its attacker, but Lola hangs on like a champ, continuing to rip at the metallic panel at the base of its neck.

Harrison finally manages to find his extra ammo—in his
other
pocket—and snaps it into place, but now the bot has managed to grab Lola, wrenching her out in front. Its eyes have gone from blue to red, and seem to be spinning in their sockets. “Termination, ter-min-a-tion, ter…min…a…tion,” it drones, each time saying the word a bit slower, as if its battery is gradually dying.

As the bot raises its arm to sling Lola to the hard ground below, Harrison raises his gun and begins firing into its face, aiming slightly lower than necessary, to avoid hitting the BotDog. At the same time, he spots Simon pulling himself back onto the platform, his stun gun pointed at the enemy. When he fires, a burst of blue electric light sizzles through the air and slams into the robot’s chest, the energy spreading across its metal frame to its extremities in an instant.

“TER. MIN. A. TION.” The final word is spoken with such fervor it’s like a prophecy. But not for them, for the bot itself, which finally releases Lola—who’s also coursing with blue electricity—and topples over with a raucous clang.

Lola lands hard and slides across the platform, her furry body coming to rest a few centimeters from Harrison. Her eyes are closed and she’s not moving, not even her tail. Streaks of black singe-marks look like tiger stripes on her fur. Occasional blue bolts continue to appear on her skin, almost randomly, snapping at the air like tiny, sizzling whips.

His attention focused on the BotDog, Harrison doesn’t notice when Simon hoists himself to his feet, strides over to the patrol bot, and rips a nest of wires from the back of its neck, where the control panel had been torn open by Lola’s teeth.

“Hey girl? Hey Lola?” Harrison says, scared to touch the electrified robot.

Simon stumbles toward him, his forehead leaking blood into his eye. “Is she okay?”

Harrison’s head snaps up, surprised to hear him call her by anything other than “it.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Your gun packs quite a wallop.”

“I’m…sorry,” Simon says, and if it wasn’t for the heavy sincerity in his tone, Harrison would think he was making fun of him.

“Not your fault,” Harrison says. “You did what you had to do.”

“So did she,” Simon says.

“Yeah,” Harrison says. “She saved us.”

“I saw.”

As Harrison gazes sadly at Lola’s devastated frame, he sees her tail twitch. He waits, knowing it’s probably just a glitch in her fried system, which will likely cause random spasms for hours before finally shutting down completely. But then her tail moves again, more fluidly, from side to side. Next her eyes open and her ears perk up and then she’s on her feet and licking wildly at Harrison’s face. He laughs, scratching her under the chin and behind the ears and everywhere he can get his hands on. “Good girl,” he says.

When Harrison looks at Simon, the big man is smiling. “I’m glad she’s okay,” he says.

Big softy
, Harrison thinks to himself. “Let’s go,” Simon says. “They’ll be on this location like flies on dog crap.”

“But not Lola’s,” Harrison says. “That’s one of the benefits of a BotDog, didn’t you know? No messy cleanup.”

The threesome take off at a trot, putting as much distance between themselves and the destroyed patrol bot as they can. Ten minutes later, Simon says, “This way,” and leads them through a door, up a set of stairs, and through another door, back aboveground.

The way the streets look to Harrison, the city could be long-dead and abandoned, with no signs of life except wind pushing debris against walls and sun glistening on dirty snowbanks.

The place is across the street, a rundown old warehouse that looks ready for demolition. The windows are broken out and holo-graffiti moves along the walls. “Nice place,” Simon comments.

Despite the sarcasm in his partner’s voice, Harrison can see why the Lifers would choose it. A reasonable law enforcement official would see the dump as no more than a place to catch out homeless bums and squatters, which are the least of Pop Con’s worries at this point; it certainly doesn’t have the look of a place harboring the city’s most notorious rebel organization.

They’re extremely careful crossing the street, checking for activity several times before making their move. They would hate to get caught when they’re this close to finding Check and the others. Also, they have to be cautious about Lifer guards. They’re not exactly welcome guests, having abandoned the Lifers and their cause. For all they know, Jarrod may have ordered his people to shoot them on sight.

The door creaks ominously when Simon pushes it open, leading with the barrel of his gun. No one shouts, no one shoots—silence greets them. Although they take a long, slow ten minutes to search it, the ground floor is empty. There are signs that the space once had occupants—a ratty old sleeping bag, discarded fizzer bottles, empty cartons of food pills—but they appear to be long gone. Once more, that makes the place perfect for the Lifers to have moved in.

However, when they search the second floor, and the third, even more slowly than the first, the situation is similar. Lola noses around the place, sniffing everything in sight, but she never gives any indication of danger like she did back in the Tunnels. If someone is hiding out in the three or four floors above them, they’re doing a good job of masking their presence. Even still, they methodically search each floor, looking for signs that a large group of rebels were here recently, perhaps having left in a hurry.

When they reach the top floor without having found a damn thing, Harrison says, “What the hell?”

Simon’s face is impassive. “You said you could trust this friend?” It’s not an accusation, just a question.

“I thought I could. He’s helped me dozens of times.”

“Contact him.”

Harrison nods once and extracts the burner holo-screen from his pocket. Using a secure connection, he sends the same signal he used before, one Wire set up for him a long time ago. A moment later, Wire’s acne-speckled face bursts from the screen. “Heya pal,” he says. “What took you so long?”

“What?” Harrison says. “We’re here. Where you told us to go.”

“Yeah, sorry, Harry.”

“Don’t call me Harry you little sh—”

“Temper, temper,” Wire says. “Sorry, Harry, but Jarrod told me to tell you nothing and he pays me a helluva lot better than you do.” The image dissolves and the connection breaks. Despite repeated attempts to reconnect, the holo-screen remains dark.

Harrison slams his fist into the wall. “Botdammit!” he shouts.

~~~

Article from the Saint Louis Times:

Cyber-threats on the rise. Citizens are warned to cease and desist

or face arrest.

With Saint Louis in lockdown, cyber-threats are on the rise, clogging up the holo-sphere and causing even more panic in an already fearful city. Although Pop Con analysts believe the majority of the threats being spread on holo forums are fake, they’re taking each and every one seriously, in the event that any are linked to real terrorist activity.

Interim Head of Pop Con and longtime Crow boss, Charles Boggs, cautions, “In the current environment, even a simple statement of disagreement with the RUSA government could be viewed as an act of treason, punishable by termination. Do NOT get caught up in the frenzy. Let us do our jobs and keep you safe.”

According to sources close to the situation, dozens of arrests have already been made, and more are expected before the crisis is over. Although Pop Con and the Mayor’s office were silent on the nature of the threats, it’s pretty clear that they were primarily in response to the recent decrease in the Ideal Population, which will significantly lower the number of Birth Authorizations issued over the next few years.

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:

Lifer44: Comment removed and disciplinary action taken.

SarayaM: They took my husband because he made some comment on his holo this morning. They won’t tell me anything. I, for one, am going to keep my mouth shut. You should, too, if you know what’s good for you.

5,491 other comments removed and disciplinary action taken.

~~~

Article from the Saint Louis Times:

Rumors circulating that Sonic Boom concert will be canceled

due to unrest in Saint Louis.

Although no official announcement has been made, the concert of the year, scheduled for two days from now, is likely to be canceled. With the city under lockdown, concertgoers will be unable to travel to the venue, the grand hall adjacent to Pop Con headquarters. An anonymous safety official informed us that while he’s confident security at the concert could be maintained, there’s no reason to take the risk.

Holo boards are buzzing with varying opinions on the topic, from outrage to applause and everything in between. Make sure your holos are set to receive ALERTS from the Saint Louis Times as we’ll be reporting the official announcement as soon as we have it.

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:

ShaneTheMan: I waited in a virtual line for twelve hours to get tickets! This sucks bots!

Mort99: It’s just a concert, you idiot! Do you really want to risk getting blown up by those crazy Lifers for a little music?

ShaneTheMan: Uh…yeah! What Sonic Boom does with holo-instruments is MORE than music. It’s magic!

A
ccording to Minda, the inner consortium had planned for a similar situation. Not treason, exactly, but for one of their members going off the grid. If such an event were to occur, like it had with BloodyMary, each of their real identities could be accessed securely through a protected database. Minda didn’t hesitate to log in and retrieve the information.

BloodyMary’s real name is Shay Dawes and she’s been working as liaison between the Saint Louis Mayor’s office and the president for more than five years. Not surprisingly, the address listed is near the main government offices in the heart of Saint Louis.

The distance is a problem, but not a major one. Going on foot would be too dangerous and time-consuming. Calling an aut-car would be stupid and reckless, sticking out like a sore thumb on the empty streets. That leaves the consortium’s only Hawk drone, an illegal dinosaur that uses technology outdated by at least a decade. While Hawks are generally meant to be remotely controlled, unmanned aircraft, they do allow for up to five passengers for emergency situations. Benson agrees with Minda that this is an emergency situation.

The Hawk lands three blocks away from the safe house to avoid drawing direct attention to a place they hope to return to eventually. Benson, Janice, and Minda pile inside the cramped cabin and the airlock zips shut behind them. Having already been programmed for their destination, the quiet drone ascends rapidly, automatically initiating stealth protocols to avoid detection by other Hawks. The speed of their ascent grabs Benson’s stomach and shoves it in his throat.

“Whee!” Janice says.

Having just read the article about the rumors regarding the concert cancellation, Benson feels like everything is falling apart. They’ve split up, Gonzo is dead, his father may or may not be alive…and now their one chance to get inside Pop Con and initiate the program has blown up in their faces. All because of the Destroyer’s damn video of Mars’s death and the subsequent announcement by Pop Con of the reduced Ideal Population. It was the perfect storm for fear and unrest, and now they are paying the price for the bad timing of it all.

As the Hawk levels out at its cruising altitude and his stomach settles with it, Benson says, “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Minda says, not looking at him. Her statement worries him more than anything else. She always seems to know what to do. “First we see what we can find out about Bloody—I mean, Shay Dawes—and then we consider the next step.

“My father is probably dead, isn’t he?” Benson says, feeling that familiar sinking feeling in his gut. “Otherwise the Destroyer would’ve released the video already. He’d have no reason to wait.”

Minda continues to stare straight ahead. “It’s pointless to speculate,” she says.

“He’s not dead,” Janice says, her statement so matter-of-fact it draws every bit of Benson’s attention. He tries to swallow, but it sticks in his throat.

“Mom, we can’t get our hopes—”

“Not. Dead,” Janice repeats, firmly but not angrily. She rests her hand on Benson’s. “If he was dead, I’d be dead.”

He’s not sure how that particular revelation makes any sense, and yet he finds himself believing it. From his childhood, he remembers how good his father and Janice—his mother—were together. So different and yet in rhythm, like two different instruments playing the same symphony. They were always better together, even when most of their time was spent apart. He wants to believe his mother, so he does. “Okay, Mom,” he says. “We’ll find him.”

“
After
we complete our mission. Otherwise he’ll try to do everything himself. And that will kill him. Then it will kill me.”

Benson doesn’t know if there is still a mission to complete, but he agrees anyway. “Yes. Of course.”

For the next few minutes, the only sound is the wind beating against the sides of the Hawk, as if trying to batter its way inside. Even the elements seem in league against them. Benson closes his eyes and fights off the swell of hopelessness that tries to pull him under a dark ocean of despair. He’s been fighting the tide for a while now, ever since he lost Luce.

“She was a good girl,” Janice says, prying his lids open with her words.

She’s reading his mind again. She may have lost an entire shelf of her faculties when she thought he’d been killed, but not the whole cupboard. Her motherly instincts are still there, unbreakable, and even after all this time she seems to know Benson better than he knows himself.

“She was,” Benson says. “She liked you.”

“I know,” Janice says without arrogance. “We had you in common.”

For some reason that simple statement opens up a crack in the shell Benson’s built up around him to cope with Luce’s death, allowing emotion to bubble through. His mother ropes an arm around him and holds him as he blinks back tears and chokes down sobs. How can he have lost so much so soon after gaining her back? Why must the universe torment him so?

Even as the Hawk’s forward progress slows and the powerful machine starts to descend, the answer fills him, from heart to mind to soul. It’s not the power of the universe rallying against him, but humans. Just men and women full of hate and evil and ignorance. Nothing more, nothing less. And humans can be defeated, no matter the odds. In the end, good has a chance to prevail if those who wield its mighty sword do not lose hope.

He will not lose hope
, he decides as the Hawk lands on a rooftop overlooking the city.

They spill out from the drone, which immediately takes flight. It will settle into a surveillance pattern over the building, alerting Minda of danger via her holo.

Below them Benson can see numerous Crow cars patrolling the streets. If any of them registered their Hawk’s rapid approach and departure, they don’t show it, likely used to seeing Hawks in the sky.

Minda guides them inside the building, leading them from the roof to the floor below, the staircase constructed of black marble steps and metal hand railings, the perfect combination of simplicity and sleekness expected from a government official. According to Minda’s information, Shay Dawes owns the entire three floors, another example of government excess that would surely help her blend in with her peers. The third floor branches off into two hallways, but before they have the chance to explore either, something catches Benson’s attention over a balcony that overlooks the first two floors.

A gold chandelier dangles from the roof by a thick golden chain, its crystal ornaments clinking off of each other like wind chimes. They’ve let in a draft when they entered. The chain creaks with each sway, as if the weight of the chandelier is too much for it to hold.

Benson chokes when he sees someone’s feet, barely visible past the immensity of the gaudy fixture. The feet are bare, and yet not pink like they should be. Instead, they’re a pale shade of blue, a faint echo of the lifeless veins beneath the skin. Benson’s head is spinning and he has to put a hand on the wall to steady himself. “Minda,” he croaks. “Oh god, Minda.”

She’s halfway down the hall with Janice in tow. When she looks back, her eyes register a moment of fear as she takes in Benson’s sickly appearance. “What happened? Are you okay?”

It’s all he can do to point over the balcony as he sinks to his knees. Although he doesn’t want to look, he watches through the banister as Minda descends all the way to the first floor, looking up at the hanging body with revulsion. A kicked over stepladder lies at an odd angle to a sitting room full of pristine white furniture.

Reluctantly, Benson holds Janice’s hand and takes the steps one at a time to the bottom. Her neck still craned back, Minda says, “It’s her. It’s Shay Dawes.”

He doesn’t look up, studying the rest of the room, trying to make sense of what happened. The situation appears to be a cut and dry suicide. She climbed the ladder, attached her neck to the chandelier, and kicked the ladder away, letting gravity do the rest. A distraught woman. A traitor to her government having realized the error of her ways. Or perhaps she was so disgusted that she betrayed the other consortium members that she could no longer live with herself.

Benson retrieves a note from a glass side table, swallowing twice to clear the tightness in his throat before reading aloud:

“I’m sorry. I’ve failed my fellow citizens, the government of the RUSA, and my family. I’ve consorted with rebels, spied on upper level government officials, and stolen confidential information. I find myself guilty of treason and hereby carry out my own punishment. God forgive me. I counsel those who still care for me to look above, to Him, for the answers you seek.”

The note is signed Shay Dawes. Minda, finally drawing her attention away from the hanging body, takes the paper from Benson, studying it.

“Do you think it’s real?” Benson asks.

“I’m sure an expert would prove it’s her handwriting. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t coerced into writing it.”

Benson silently reads the note one more time. While the tone is stiffly repentant, something jabs at his mind. “The last two lines feel different,” he says. “They’re still in the same tone, but something feels…off.”

Minda reads them, her dark eyes dancing across the page. “Hmm…,” she murmurs.

“What is it?”

“Just something I remember. The consortium has been at this for a long time, carefully planning, biding our time. There was a lot of downtime involved, but we maintained regular communication through the Agriculturist’s Forum, even if there were no updates to report. Sometimes our conversations became casual. We talked about ourselves. I remember JoseCuervo and BloodyMary getting into an argument about religion one time. Jose was a devout believer and Mary…well, she was an atheist.”

A bubble of surprise pops inside Benson’s stomach. “But she specifically mentioned God, almost as if she’s trying to get the attention of those who know her best.”

“Yeah, that’s weird,” Minda agrees. “And she told those she loves to seek His help for answers. Why would she say that if she doesn’t even believe in Him?”

“Look above,” Janice says, jumping in, pointing at the body. Benson finally looks, immediately wishing he hadn’t. But he doesn’t pull his stare away, because his mother seems excited by something. “She said
look above
.”

The truth of his mother’s statement hits him in the chest, and he can tell Minda figures it out at the same time, steely focus returning to her eyes. “The ladder,” she says. “We’ve got to get the body down.”

The process takes a grueling few minutes, as both Benson and Minda refuse to let the body drop from such a height. Regardless of the mistakes this woman made, neither of them want to desecrate her body. She deserves better, as they all do.

Benson’s thankful for Minda in the moments after they lie her on the floor. His hands are shaking, his stomach roiling, but she takes on the job of searching the body for a clue. Although he can hear her gagging several times, she doesn’t stop until she says, “There’s nothing. Whoever killed her would’ve searched her body. And she couldn’t have known they’d hang her from the chandelier anyway.”

Benson knows she’s right, but that doesn’t mean the note wasn’t a clue. He clambers up the ladder, ignoring Minda’s shouts to wait. Up close, the chandelier is far less beautiful. The gold is tarnished, covered in a thin layer of dust. The crystals look fake, like plastic.

“Benson,” Minda says from below.

“Hold on.”

He runs his hands along one of the long gold pipes that form the base of the fixture. The metal is smooth and cold against his skin. His fingertips graze past a raised edge, and then backtracks. An imperfection? Only one way to find out.

He pulls at the metal, as if trying to wrench apart a wishbone. At first the metal sticks, but then it gives way, the crystals clinking against each other wildly. Something shoots from the piping and drifts to the floor.

“What is it?” Benson hollers down.

“Paper,” Minda says.

While she unfolds the note, Benson descends to meet her. They read the second message together, silently:

To the Consortium, may this message find you alive and well, despite what I’ve been forced to do. I had a feeling they were onto me, but I managed to barricade myself in my office long enough to write this note. When I give myself up, all communication with me will cease. I will hide this somewhere on my person in the hopes that you might find it after I’m gone. They have my family—that much is clear. I’ve tried contacting them multiple times today, but have received no response. Unfortunately, their abduction is what alerted me to my precarious situation. I fear I may have left a virtual footprint by accident this morning when I was searching through confidential files in the system. They will threaten to torture and kill my family, and I will spill my guts to save them. It won’t save me, but I hope their innocence will spare the lives of my husband and child. I can only hope I don’t get the rest of you killed, and that the mission can go forward as planned. I will give them enough information to save my family, but no more. I will not give up the key. That is the very least I can do. Please forgive me for my stupidity and failings.

I have mere minutes before they get to me, but I have one more piece of information, that I discovered before they found me out. The excess food DOES EXIST. But it’s gone. It was shipped overseas somewhere, the trail is unclear where. Someone is trying to hide it fr