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

A
s much as Harrison tries to force deep breaths into his lungs, he can’t stop panic from setting in, making it hard to breathe.

The first fifty people he talked to hadn’t seen Destiny. Which is nearly impossible, considering the size of her frizzy hair. She’s the opposite of forgettable.

Then he found a guard who said she went down the lifter for some fresh air shortly after he left her in bed. They let a Slip
outside
for some
fresh air
in
the middle of the night
. Idiots. Another guard corroborated the unlikely story. It was all Harrison could do not to smash their heads together in frustration.

What’s her plan?
he wonders. He’d thought they’d made strides together by escaping from the Destroyer. That perhaps her will to live was back. That perhaps she didn’t blame herself for what happened at Refuge anymore. He was blinded by the unexpected connection they’d formed. He should’ve seen this coming, shouldn’t have left her side last night.

A familiar-looking guy is walking toward Harrison, sporting a Mohawk tinged with blue. His eyes are every bit as blue—almost glowing. Tats run up his neck, curling under his chin. A leopard. A crashing wave. Small hoop earrings adorn his nose and eyebrow. Harrison can’t remember where he’s met the guy, but he’s not in the mood for small talk. He needs to find his brother. They need to come up with a plan for going after Destiny. He doesn’t slow his stride as the guy approaches.

“Harrison—hey,” the guy says, reaching for his arm.

The growing fire inside him plumes out, an uncontrollable rage fueled by fear and panic. He grabs the guy’s arm, twists it hard behind his back, and whispers in his ear. “I don’t have time for this, whoever you are.”

To his surprise, the guy laughs. “What’s so funny, jerkwad?” Harrison growls.

“It’s me,” the voice says, sounding more and more familiar.

He spins the guy around and says, “Benson?” His own face smiles back at him. He hadn’t really looked at his brother’s features, only seeing the outlandish body art, piercings and hairdo.

“How do I look?”

“Uh, different.”

“That’s the point,” Benson says. “You’re up next.”

“Look, Bense, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to—”

“You can’t go anywhere without a disguise,” Benson interrupts. “We’re all wanted criminals. At the very least you have to change your retinas. If I had to, so do you.”

“Destiny’s gone,” Harrison blurts out.

Benson stares at him. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

Harrison takes a deep breath. “I’m not overreacting here,” he says, which he immediately realizes is what someone who
is
overreacting would say. “I confirmed it with two separate guards. She left last night while we were with Mom.”

“I don’t understand.”

Harrison says nothing, waiting for his brother to catch up, which he always does.

After a moment wearing a puzzled frown, comprehension dawns on his face. “This is because of…” His voice trails away, and Harrison can almost see the unspoken name echoing in his brother’s skull.
Luce
Luce
Luce
.

“Her,” Harrison finishes, sparing his brother the torment of speaking Luce’s name out loud. “Yes, she blames herself. Before we went to sleep last night, she told me she can’t even look at you.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Benson says, much to Harrison’s relief. His brother may not be perfect, but he’s a good guy.
Oh, the irony
, he thinks grimly.
The most wanted criminal in the country is one of the best of us.

“I tried to tell her that, but she’s not thinking clearly. She tried to kill herself when we were camped in the woods, you know.” The words tumble out before he can stop them. Crap. He knows it wasn’t his secret to tell, but he needs Benson to understand the gravity of the situation.

“But I thought—”

“I lied,” Harrison says quickly. “The Lifers were pissed enough at her as it was. If Jarrod knew she was suicidal, he would’ve tried to use that to his advantage, turn her into a bomber or something.”

“What do you think she’s going to do?” Benson’s brow is intensely furrowed once more, as if trying to work out a complex equation.

“In her mind, there are only two options for her: punishment or redemption. I tried to help her find redemption when we went to save you.”

Benson rolls his eyes. “By killing my Death Match? How’d that work out for you?”

“I know you’re still angry about that,” Harrison says.

“More like frustrated,” Benson says. “You should’ve listened to me.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I thought I was helping you.”

“Because you’re my two-minutes-older big brother?”

“No,” Harrison says. “Because you’re family, and I haven’t had one in a while.”

Benson looks away, absently raising a hand to his typically wavy hair. Instead he finds only the sharp, gelled edge of his Mohawk. He raises an eyebrow. “Would you have killed Boris Decker if you’d had the chance?”

Harrison’s heart beats too fast in his chest as he considers the question. “I—” He shakes his head, but not in response to the question. In confusion. “I don’t know,” he finishes lamely. Ever since he ditched school that day with the crazy thought that he would break his mother out of the asylum, he’s been so certain of himself—of every action he’s taken. But now, he just doesn’t know.

Benson nods in understanding. “The answers aren’t so black and white anymore.”

For some reason that makes Harrison laugh. “Tell me about it. My straight-laced brother’s got tats and a pierced eyebrow.”

“I’m a wanted criminal,” Benson says. “I thought I should look the part.”

“Temporary tats and clip-ons?” Harrison guesses.

“The piercings are real,” Benson says. “Couldn’t risk them falling out and giving me away. They’ll close up after I take them out.”

“When will that be?”

“When this is over.”

“So never?”

“Don’t be so optimistic,” Benson says, but he manages a grin.

Harrison smiles wryly, and then says, “I have to go after her.”

“Yes,” Benson agrees. “But not alone. And not until you’ve received Minda’s famous punk-rocker makeover.”

“There’s a theme?”

“Sort of. It’s all part of the plan to end this.”

End this
. Those two words seem to melt the final icicles of panic in his chest. It’s something he and his hoverball teammates used to say during a timeout when they were in the midst of a particularly close game.
Let’s end this.
And then they always did. They fought harder, they wanted to win more, they refused to lose. He likes hearing the same determination on his brother’s lips.

“Okay,” Harrison says. “Whatever the plan is—I’m in. But
after
I find Destiny.”

~~~

The Reorganized United States of America- Most Wanted List

1. Benson Kelly- known as the Saint Louis Slip.

2. Jarrod- suspected alias, real name unknown- founder and leader of the terrorist organization, the Lifers.

3. Harrison Kelly, brother of Benson Kelly.

4. Janice Kelly, mother of Benson Kelly.

5. Simon Marchant- Digger from Canada with suspected ties to the Lifers.

6. Minda Kapoor- ex-Pop Con Hunter with suspected ties to the Lifers.

7. Chet Phillips- alias ‘Wire’, suspected of malicious hacking and cyber-warfare.

8. Checker Ogiso- ties to the Kelly family and Lifers.

9. Guillermo Rodriguez (nickname ‘Rod’) and Gonzo Garcia- Jumpers from Mexico with ties to the Kelly family and Lifers.

10. Geoffrey Harris- brother of previous member of Most Wanted List, Lucy Harris (deceased), with ties to the Kelly family and Lifers.

***If you have any information on the whereabouts or activities of the individuals on the above list, please speak ‘Most Wanted Tips’ into your holo-screen to be connected to a law enforcement agent. Substantial rewards apply for verified information leading to an arrest or termination. False claims, especially those determined to purposely mislead law enforcement, are punishable by up to ten years in prison.

A
lthough he only showered a few hours earlier, Benson feels as if it’s been days. Looking at himself in the mirror, he barely recognizes himself. It’s not just because of the extreme changes wrought by Minda’s design; no, the boy looking back at him is barely a shade of his former self. Despite their vivid blueness, his eyes carry a shadowy darkness that only one who’s suffered a great loss can carry. His lips are pressed tighter, his jaw perpetually tightened, his teeth grinding against each other.

He sees a stranger.

“Who are you?” he says to himself. He raises a hand to his face, just to make sure he actually feels his own touch—that he’s not too numb. His cheek twitches.

He knows change is necessary, more for him than anyone else. Although he can feel unshed tears behind his eyes, his ever-present companion, he no longer needs to release them. The grief is there, yeah, but he’s managed to wall it in, hold it at bay. For now. Hopefully for long enough for him to do what he has to do.

“I can’t waste it. I can’t waste her sacrifice. It has to mean something.”

He’s dimly aware that he’s talking to himself again, and he wonders whether this is the first stage of going crazy. Is this what happened to his mother all those years ago when she thought she’d lost him? Did she have these same thoughts? Did she
realize
she was going crazy, but didn’t have the strength or will or desire to stop it? Is it even possible to stop it, and if so, would he?

None of that matters, he realizes. All that matters is that he honors Luce by making a difference in this world. The change in his appearance seems to help. Seems to make him stronger, less vulnerable. He always wondered why teenagers made such drastic changes to their hair, to their skin, tattooing and punching holes in it. That type of stuff never interested him. But now he gets it. Sometimes you need to try to be someone else so you can live with who you are and the past that haunts you. Sometimes it’s okay, even if eventually you have to face your demons and kill them dead.

~~~

It’s time to put his disguise to the test. Benson feels weird stepping out onto the street, where an aut-car awaits them. It’s like he’s naked, but no one seems to notice him. A few passersby glance his way, but their gazes swiftly move past, seeing just another teenage boy making a statement with his rebellious appearance.

As instructed by Minda before they left, he even allows a floating holo-ad to scan his retinas. He holds his breath, remembering the last time a bot scanned his eyes. He and Luce almost died shortly after. “Graham Stevens,” the bot says, and Benson pushes a breath out. “Try our new line of fragrances for men only. Guaranteed to have the girls lining up at your locker. Speak ‘yes’ for a sample.”

Why not? “Yes,” Benson says, holding out his wrist like any good law-abiding
legal
citizen of the RUSA. A nozzle arm emerges from a panel, spraying a mist onto his skin. Benson sniffs his arm. “Not bad,” he says. “I may order some later today.”

“Thank you for your business,” the bot drones. “Have a nice day.”

“You too.”

Freedom!
Benson wants to cry as the bot flies away, seeking its next potential customer. He knows it’s an illusion, but still, he can’t help the airiness that fills his chest. As reluctant as he was to get new retinas, he’s glad he did.

“We should go, Graham,” Minda says in his ear, ushering him forward with a gentle hand on his back. Two others flank him on either side, sliding into the aut-car ahead of and behind him, their movements smooth and professional. By the dark gleam in their eyes, they look deadly. Minda follows last, casting a wary glance outside before the door automatically closes from top to bottom. Benson’s still getting used to her appearance, as he is his own. Her bald head is now studded with sparkling gemstones, sewn into her skin. Her eyes are faintly yellow, almost cat-like, with more studs adorning her cheeks, like frozen teardrops. And although her body is garbed in a thick winter coat, earlier he saw the tattooed stripes running up and down her arms.

She swipes a LifeCard and lets the nav screen scan her new eyes. “Welcome Rosh Ari,” a voice soothes through the speakers. “Desired location?”

She looks at Benson as if to confirm he really wants to go through with the planned meeting. He meets her stare and nods once. It’s a risk he has to take. For his friends. For Luce and her brother.

“The Rise and the Fall Memorial,” she says.

“Which one?” the car asks. “There are six in Saint Louis. See holo-screen.”

A three-dimensional map appears in front of her, and Minda plucks at it, spinning it expertly with her fingers until the memorial Benson told her about is close to her. “This one,” she says, pressing a finger to a red dot hovering in the air. The dot glows.

“The Mississippi Memorial,” the car confirms as the vehicle pulls gently away from the curb, melting into the flow of traffic, which seems to part around them. “Did you know that this particular memorial was paid for by William G. Mettle, the city’s first post-Fall mayor? If you’re interested in making a donation to the William G. Mettle Foundation, which helps fund more than twenty charities per annum, please swipe your LifeCard now. Donations are tax-deductible with the appreciation of your government.”

Silence settles into the car as the city whizzes by. Various information appears in holographic form, providing details of the streets, buildings, and areas they pass, until Minda swipes it away with a lazy wave of her arm.

“I was watching that,” Benson jokes.

“Sorry,” Minda jokes back, not sounding sorry at all.

They pass an all-too-familiar structure. The asylum that held Benson’s mother for eight long years, until Harrison took matters into his own hands.
People can say what they want about Harrison’s cockiness and temper
, Benson muses internally,
but no one can say he doesn’t have guts.
Janice and Harrison are still in the Lab, their appearances being further altered, although he had to practically shove his brother back into his chair when he tried to follow Benson from the building. If Minda wasn’t going with him, he doesn’t think Harrison would’ve stayed.

He tries not to think about that now. Harrison’s actions are something he can’t control, and that bothers him. He’s spontaneous and so committed to saving Benson that he might get them both killed.

And yet Benson would trust his brother with his life. It’s a weird feeling, one he hasn’t felt in a long time.

His thoughts continue to wander aimlessly until Minda says, “How’s your mom?”

Benson avoids her eyes, staring distantly out the window. “To her this is all some game,” he says.

“I don’t think so.”

He feels a bolt of anger slash through him, but quickly tamps it down. Anger isn’t helpful right now. Logical thinking is. “She was in an
asylum
,” Benson says. “My father made her learn codes for a secret project to take down the Department of Population Control, just in case he died; need I remind you that this is a project you were involved in from the start? But to her, it was just something fun to pass the time. She didn’t even know what he was teaching her.”

Minda stretches out, sighing deeply. “It was our only chance to change things without violence. While Pop Con was working tirelessly to upgrade their data systems, Michael gave us an opportunity to embed a program in the new system that will permanently delete all of the population control data. They will have no way to recognize an authorized citizen from a Slip from an Unbee from an illegal immigrant. Everything will start at zero, which will give us time to use popular opinion and political lobbying to change things. But without your mother, our program won’t work. She’s the only one left who has the key,” Minda says.

“Yeah, the bot-lickin’ key,” Benson says. “Which she can give us. There must be another way to get past the retinal scanner and fingerprinting.”

Minda shakes her head. “There’s not. If there was, don’t you think your father would’ve told us? Don’t you think your father would’ve wanted to avoid putting your mother in danger?”

Benson thinks about the questions for a moment. Grudgingly, he says, “Yes,” answering both. “I’m just saying that it’s a longshot to expect an emotionally troubled woman like my mother to carry out a secret mission to infiltrate Pop Con headquarters.”

“I think you underestimate her. This isn’t a game to her, like you think. In her own way, she understands exactly what she’s doing and the importance of it.”

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows Minda’s right. Whenever they talk about the mission or the key, Janice’s eyes stop wandering for a moment, taking on a steely quality. But that doesn’t mean she should be responsible for doing what they ask of her. “If she’s caught, they’ll kill her, regardless of her state of mind.” That’s when he realizes this was never about whether his mother
could
do what they ask, or about her sanity.

Minda says nothing.

“I’ve barely just got her back in my life,” Benson says, biting his lip and blinking rapidly.

Her eyes bore into his. “There won’t be a life for any of us if she doesn’t do what your father planned. We’re here.”

The aut-car eases to a stop and the door opens. Fighting off the emotion that seems to surround him like a dark cloud, Benson steps out into the cold.

~~~

The familiar memorial feels like a stack of old memories to Benson. Just to the south is the exact location he crawled up on shore after swimming across the Mississippi, where he first met Check. In the opposite direction is the large flat rock he and Check used to sit on for hours, talking and laughing about their escapades as relatively successful Pickers in a city that hated them. Dreaming about a world where they were equal to everyone else.

The giant holo-screen cycles through 3D videos of the Rise and the Fall. For the most part, he’s seen them all, but occasionally there’s a new one, likely added since the last time he visited this spot. A vertiginous aerial shot of a Hawk skimming the wreckage-filled flood zone, scooping up bedraggled survivors clinging to planks of wood and other debris. Not corpses, but survivors. The message is clearly meant to be one of hope and survival, rather than doom and gloom. The tsunamis beat us down, but they didn’t kill all of us. We’ll keep on fighting.

Benson tries to take strength from it, pretending to continue watching the video—just another sightseer—while watching the street.

To avoid looking suspicious, Minda and her bodyguards leave, directing the aut-car around the block. As agreed, they’ll continue to circle, staying close but not too close, keeping an eye on things and staying ready to grab Benson if necessary.

From the corner of his eye, he watches them pass six times without seeing another car. When they pass the seventh time and turn the corner to head around the block, he spots movement to the north.

“Ohcrapohcrapohcrap
,” he mutters under his breath as the blue-lighted law enforcement vehicle races toward the memorial.
Jarrod
, he immediately thinks. The Lifer leader did this. Set him up…again. Somehow he found out about the meeting and tipped off the Crows. If he can’t have Benson on his side, he’s determined to make a martyr out of him. His mind races, considering his options.

He takes a deep breath, forcing his breathing back to normal and his heart to stop racing. He has to be calm if he’s going to survive this. For all he knows, it might just be a random patrol. The aut-car is moving far too fast to be coming for him. They’ll blow right by him.

He forces his stare away from the vehicle and toward the holo-screen. He has to look natural, unconcerned,
innocent
.

When the vehicle passes the memorial, he allows himself to breathe again, a misty white cloud billowing from his lips as his hot breath meets the frigid air. He’s okay. He’s okay.

There’s the squeal of rubber on asphalt as the Crow car slams on the brakes, skidding to a stop just beyond the memorial. Benson’s mind is a blur, considering his alternatives. Minda and the others won’t be back around for another few minutes. There’s nowhere to hide—clearly he’s already been seen, his disguise either ineffective or too effective, drawing the attention of the Crows.

The river. The thought pops into his head in a moment of clarity, urging him to turn, to push off, to start running across the concrete strip between the memorial and the waters of the Mississippi. Waters that once welcomed him like an old friend.

He hears the
whoosh!
of the aut-car doors opening—

His feet barely touch the ground, his legs churning;

—the thump of feet on hard ground—

the rocky shore approaches, falling downward to the water, which stretches for over a mile to the far shore, to a house he once lived in, once called home;

—a shout carrying over the wind, punching his ears—

Fly! Fly!
he urges himself, building the momentum he hopes will carry him over the rocks and directly into the water;

—clarifying, the voice suddenly registering somewhere deep in his brain.