Flip (The Slip Trilogy Book 3) (24 page)

The racket continues for five awful minutes, but then the sound changes, adding a creak and a groan to the THUD-rattle. One more kick and the metal vent shoots forward, clanking off the wall and banging raucously against the ground.

All three of them seem to hold their collective breaths at the same time, but no one comes. Darkness and silence greet them on the other side.

“Phase two,” Minda says. “Control room.”

~~~

Michael Kelly is taking a lot of risks, but not on getting inside. His former friend is arrogant to a fault, and Michael knows President Ford will jump at any chance to lord his success over him. So he’s not surprised when the guard says, “You’re in luck. Follow me.”

His two guns are gone, confiscated immediately, as he knew they would be. He had to give them something to allay their suspicions. They make Lola wait outside the gate, and this time she listens when he says, “Sit. Stay.” She eases onto her haunches like an obedient little BotDog. One of the guards even says “Cute pup. Too bad you’ll never see her again.”

The sharp-edged cap of the device in his mouth is cutting into his cheek, but he ignores the twinge of pain, giving away nothing.

To his surprise, they handle him gently, leading him inside the gate without tying his hands or roughing him up. Everyone knows he’s a traitor to the government, and yet these government employees are handling him with velvet gloves.
Following orders
, Michael realizes, unable to stop a wry grin from spreading across his lips. Again, his former friend’s arrogance is to his advantage. He doesn’t see Michael as a threat.

Inside the gate, they load him into an aut-car, which whisks them away without any instruction; it seems its only purpose is to transport the guards to and from the gate. Michael stares out the window as spotlight after spotlight flashes past, illuminating the snow-covered grounds.

“Saw your video,” one of the guys says.

“Yeah?” Michael says. “How’d I look?”

“Like hell.”

“I knew the Destroyer should’ve filmed from the other side,” Michael says wryly.

The guard doesn’t laugh. “I also saw the vid of your escape. How the mob killed that cyborg. President Ford almost had a heart attack.”

Michael continues to stare outside. “Why?” he asks, genuinely curious about what the president has told his employees.

“No idea. But he’s matching the faces of the mob to the Pop Con database. Anyone involved will be prosecuted. Probably terminated.”

Michael’s jaw tenses. The president is way out of control. Although such rash actions will only continue to turn public opinion against him, Michael doesn’t want to see more people die for him. He runs his tongue over the dispersal device tucked firmly in the side of his mouth. The cold metal is literally the line between life and death, agonizingly close. The only question is whether the line is for him, or for the president.

Maybe for both of them
, he thinks. Even if he’s successful, there’s a more-likely-than-not chance that he’ll be killed before he can escape, mowed down by one of the very guards sitting on either side of him now. Internally, he reminds himself to focus. This isn’t about him—was never about him. If he dies so his family can live, then he’s won the greatest victory there is.

The aut-car slows, pulling up to a grand entrance, marble columns standing like noble sentries. Supposedly, the president’s residence is a smaller replica of the old White House, which is now under water.

The doors open and the guards wait for him to exit under his own power. They’re on their best behavior, fading into the background, not speaking, merely guiding him up the stairs and through a waiting door. A tall, thin man with a petite mustache greets him inside. “Please, come with me. Can I take your coat?” he asks, as if Michael’s an invited guest.

“I’ll keep it, thanks,” Michael says.

They pass through an atrium with a massive crystal chandelier providing amber ambience overhead. Michael remembers the gala he and Janice attended here shortly after they were married. They were in awe of the elegance of the president’s home, but also shocked at the excess. Although he’d never been truly hungry in his life, he’d seen the impoverished on the streets, begging for scraps or a single food pill.
Why would one man need so much?
he'd wondered at the time. Of course, then it was a different president.

As they make their way down a long red-carpeted hallway, Michael sees a familiar banister leading up a flight of stairs to the right. Another memory steps forward: Janice had gone to the restroom. He was drinking a glass of vintage wine from the presidential cellar, leaning casually on the banister. He was speaking with Jeremy Ford Jr., Corrigan Mars, Jeremy’s brother Terrence, and Charles Boggs. Having recently completed their degrees at Saint Louis University, they were in high spirits, already plugged into the government scene, working their way up the respective ladders in their areas of interest. Corrigan and Michael were dead set on Population Control, both of them idealists who wanted to ensure the survival of the country through effective resource management. They’d already landed entry level jobs at Pop Con. Charles Boggs was law enforcement all the way, like his old man had been. He was currently a beat Crow working on the south side of the city, but he had aspirations of placement in central Saint Louis. Jeremy and Terrence had big shoes to fill. Their father, Jeremy Ford Sr. had been the President of the RUSA only eight years earlier, which was how they were able to land invites to this particular event. Yeah, they were going to be rock stars, all of them. It was a total ego-fest, each braggart’s claims getting bigger and bigger until Jeremy announced, “I’m going to live here one day.” They had laughed and said
Yeah right
and
Good luck with that
and gave him a pretty good ribbing, even though they all knew he had a fair shot, considering who his father was. Terrence had joked that Jeremy would have to beat him first. It was all in good fun, typical brother competition stuff.

The memory fades and Michael realizes he’s stopped and is just staring at the banister. How did they get to this place? Two of the five boys are now dead, Corrigan Mars at the hands of Terrence’s disturbed son, and Terrence himself gone because of Michael’s own cold-blooded order. When did they cross the line between the innocence of youth and the reality and cynicism of adulthood?

“Sir?” the tall, thin man says, noticing him stopped. Michael shakes his head and forces his legs to carry him forward once more, his mistakes like half-ton anchors strapped to his ankles. Former presidents stare at him from the walls, their eyes seeming to follow him with each step. It’s beginning to feel like a death march, and he almost expects to find a doctor with a syringe at the end, ready to stab him with a lethal dose. But no, the only lethal dose is pressing against the inside of his cheek.

A door to the left is open, and the—butler?—guide waves him inside. “The president is waiting for you,” he says, and then strides away, as if he has much more important tasks to complete.

“Ah, Michael,” the president says when he enters. He’s sitting in a high-backed leather chair, his back to him. Vapor from an electronic cigarette wafts toward the ceiling. A half-empty glass of amber liquid rests in a multi-faceted tumbler on a large oak desk. Aside from the drink, there’s a holo-screen resting face up, a single photo facing away, and a ceramic figurine—a woman dancing with two children, both boys.

Michael wonders if he could cross the space fast enough to stab him with the pin. While he mulls it over, the moment passes as Jeremy Ford Jr. spins his chair around and points a gun at his chest.

“Is that any way to say hello to an old friend?” Michael says. He doesn’t fear this man—only that he won’t be able to kill him in time to help his family.

“You have a funny way of defining friend.” Although the president’s face is clean-shaven, he looks old, at least as old as Michael feels. His dark hair is lined with silver, and his eyes have a wariness they didn’t used to. Michael wonders if his do, too.

The president uses his other hand to brush a fleck of dust off the shoulder of his freshly pressed black suit. An immaculate red tie is knotted around his collar. Michael says nothing, waiting.

“Do you expect me to do all the talking? You came to me, remember?”

Michael relishes the confidence in Jeremy’s tone. No, his former friend hasn’t changed at all. What he used to find somewhat endearing and slightly humorous now grates on his every nerve. “I only wanted to give you the chance to see how badly your nephew failed. Even you couldn’t save him in the end. The people have spoken.”

Michael thinks he sees the slightest flash of surprise cross Jeremy’s face, but then it’s gone, replaced with a smile. “So you figured it out? Took you longer than I thought it would, but then you always did score lower than me.”

“The thing I’ve been trying to work out, is why you would protect your nephew, but not your brother. You used me to kill Terrence.” Michael doesn’t really care, but he knows he has to keep him talking so he doesn’t decide to shoot him just yet.

The president laughs. “You
have
been busy. Where did you find the time to do so much research? In between Domino’s torture sessions? You face isn’t healing so well. I fear your good looks may be gone forever.”

Michael takes a step forward and the president’s gun dances higher. “Mind if I sit?” Michael says.

Jeremy takes a moment longer than usual to answer. He’s smart to fear Michael, even if he’s pretending not to. “Of course, of course.” He waves to the chair across from him.

Despite the president’s nonchalance, his gun never leaves Michael as he methodically steps to the chair and lowers himself down. Although Michael’s doing his best to hide the pain he’s still in from his injuries, he can’t hold back the grimace.

“Someone looks like they should be confined to bed rest,” Jeremy says.

“I’m fine.”

Seemingly at ease with the entire conversation, the president comes back to Michael’s original question. “Domino was an experiment,” he says. “I’m surprised you didn’t figure that much out. My brother, on the other hand, was a pesky gnat who needed to be swatted. I couldn’t have my immediate family committing capital crimes like Unauthorized Births. How do you think that would make me look?”

Instead of answering the question, Michael says, “An experiment? What kind of experiment?”

“Could you at least try to catch up?” the president says in his typical haughty tone. “We’re not only defending ourselves from nature here. While the seas rise and close in, our enemies are circling like vultures. No, more like sharks, sensing blood in the water. We’re weaker than we’ve ever been, and there are those who want the resources we have left. Strengthening our military is priority number one.”

“Cyborg soldiers?”

“Now you’re getting there. In the last World War, we proved how ineffective our robots were against enemies who are quickly gaining on us in technology. We were lucky to get out with a tenuous truce. If there’s a next time, we might not find victory so easily.” He pauses, letting Michael consider things. “We need soldiers that are as strong, fast and as tenacious as bots, but with the human creativity that computers lack. Cyborgs are the future of warfare, and my nephew, Domino Destovan-Ford, the Destroyer, or whatever you want to call him, was the first. I think he proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the program has potential.”

“Potential for what? Creating an army of serial killers? He was psychotic.”

The president shakes his head. “That wasn’t a function of the machines we built into him. Domino was a troubled youth. He would’ve turned out that way regardless of what we did.”

“So you took a monster and gave him super strength and speed, and then set him loose? You’re as crazy as he is.”

“As crazy as your wife?”

Michael bites down hard, holding back a snap retort. He’s losing control of the conversation. “She has nothing to do with any of this.”

“No? Isn’t she your backup plan? Isn’t she ‘the key’?”

His heart stutters.
Oh no.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? What about your plan for the concert tonight? Janice has some code you gave her, right? Something that will detonate a bomb you built into the new mainframe?”

It’s all Michael can do to keep his breathing even. BloodyMary. In the end, she managed to protect them in the only way she knew how. She gave him enough of the plan to make it sound like the truth, but managed to lie about the most important aspect—the endgame.
He doesn’t know about the complete destruction of data they’re planning.

Michael bites his lip, closes his eyes, and stares at his lap, defeated.

“Nothing to say? Did you really think blowing up the new system would matter? We have dozens of latencies in-built for just such an occurrence. We’ll be back on our feet in days, not years. You were the Head of Pop Con, you should know that as well as anyone.”

“The people will rally up around us,” Michael whispers.

“The people are sheep. They will rally around whoever I tell them to.”

“You should include that in your next speech.”