Grip (The Slip Trilogy Book 2) (6 page)

Time seems to stop as her eyes meet his, a knowing look crossing her face. The knowledge that he’s too high and she can’t jump high enough and that it’s over.

Harrison feels a jerk and then he’s falling, his legs slipping away as his stretched body rips him off of the beam. There’s a strange pressure on his legs as the girl’s hands grab his arms, her forward momentum knocking him back, into the waiting jaws of the AttackDog, which will rip them both to shreds without remorse, as programmed by some egghead in a laboratory.

He waits for the collision but it never comes. Instead, his fall stops suddenly and he swings away, the girl trailing beneath him, like a streamer. Her skates glance off one dog’s head while the other one flies past, its relentless jaws snapping and missing them.

Wind slaps Harrison’s face as he swings forward, releasing the girl at the top of the arc, tossing her onto the junk mountain. Just before he swings back the other way, he sees her land roughly but safely, her hoverskates at the wrong angle to break her fall.

Like a pendulum, Harrison whips back in the other direction, but he also feels his body being pulled upward. Somehow. Like magic. But slowly. As if gravity has reversed but become a lesser version of itself. Less powerful.

He hears a grunt and a curse and someone say, “A little help would be appreciated.”

Clenching his abdomen, he curls himself forward to look up. Minda, her bare arms tight, stares down at him, gripping his legs, straining at his weight.

He almost wants to laugh, but he doesn’t dare, for fear that any unexpected movement might cause her to lose her grip. Instead, he does an inverted crunch, just like at the gym, and reaches all the way up to grab the beam, releasing his weight from Minda’s arms. He pulls himself up and breathes a sigh of relief.

Minda glowers at him. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she says.

“Neither should you,” he says, glancing down at the AttackDogs, which are prowling beneath them, growling.

“What’s done is done,” she says, pointing her laser at him. No, not at him—she continues moving it in an arc, until it’s pointed at the dogs.

She pulls the trigger and there’s a sound like a food-maker cooking chicken. A few moments later both AttackDogs are headless, wires protruding from their severed necks, sparking and smoking.

“C’mon,” she says. “Let’s get the girl inside.”

~~~

Article from the Saint Louis Times:

New Head of Population Control Announced

The highly anticipated appointment of the next Head of Population Control is now official, confirming the rumors that have been circulating since the discovery that Michael Kelly was, in fact, protecting a Slip—a Slip who turned out to be his own son. Mayor Strombaugh made the official appointment at a press conference in Saint Louis today, stating that “Corrigan Mars was the easiest appointment I’ve made in my career” and “I have the utmost confidence in the man who has shown his dedication to protecting our great city and country for almost two decades.”

Corrigan Mars gave a brief speech after his appointment, promising that his first order of business would be to “bring the Saint Louis Slip, Benson Kelly, to justice.” When asked about the unconfirmed Slip sanctuary known simply as Refuge, Mars said, “If there is such a place, we will find it and destroy it.”

Population Control pundits were abuzz with predictions as to how long it would take the new Pop Con chief to catch the Saint Louis Slip, with guesses ranging from a couple of days to several 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:

JasonWhat?: Kick some ass and take some names, Mars! We’re all rooting for you!

AuthorizeMyChild: Comment removed and disciplinary action taken.

CorriganMars: I want to thank Mayor Strombaugh, the city of Saint Louis, and all the citizens of RUSA for putting your faith in me. I won’t let you down.

T
he Destroyer had expected to be standing next to Corrigan Mars as he gave his speech. He’d expected to be officially recognized as his second-in-command. He’d expected to be asked questions, to have the spotlight shined on him.

Instead, he was squirreled away in the hidden underground facility that created him, asked to rest his body and relax his mind and to prepare for his first mission.

He didn’t rest his body.

He didn’t relax his mind.

He used his body to methodically smash a ring of holes in each of the four walls.

He used his mind to curse Benson Kelly and his girlfriend for making him look like a fool and causing Corrigan Mars to lose faith in him.

Because obviously that’s what happened. It’s the only explanation for Mars not including him in today’s announcement. He watched it all on the giant holo-screen. Saw himself standing beside Mars in spirit, invisible to the rest of the world.

When it was over he punched a hole in the holo-screen so big he could almost have crawled into it.

And then he sat in a corner and fumed.

In fact, he’s still fuming, even when the door opens and Mars walks in, a triumphant smile on his face. A smile that disappears the moment he sees Domino Destovan bent in the corner. The Destroyer watches as his boss’s eyes roam the walls, taking in first the crumbling walls and then the destroyed holo-screen.

“You’ve been busy,” he says.

The Destroyer says nothing.

Corrigan Mars crosses the room and stands before him. “Better now?”

“Not really,” the Destroyer says. “You’re ashamed of me.”

“I’m not,” Mars says.

“Then why?”
Why was I destroying this room while you were mugging for the cameras and shaking the mayor’s hand?
is what he means by the question.

Mars’s bland expression gives nothing away. “You didn’t want to be there,” he says.

Dom stares at him. Blinks. “Yes I did.”

“You
think
you did,” Mars says. “But trust me, you didn’t. Being the face of Pop Con is my job. It’s not a fun one. I have to be…political. Or dishonest, which is basically the same thing. I can’t say the things I really want to say. I can’t be the man I really want to be. I always have to be thinking about what
the people
want me to be. We don’t need two people wasting time on that stuff. So I’ll handle that part of our job. I want you to handle the important parts. The real parts. The mission to catch the Slip. After all, you’re my secret weapon, and if you were on every holo-screen in RUSA, you wouldn’t be very secret, would you?”

Dom has to admit, he’s surprised. He read things completely wrong. He thought he was being hidden away out of shame. Embarrassment. But it’s the opposite. He’s being kept secret because he’s important. Crucial to the mission.

He says nothing, chewing on the revelation.

Corr extends a hand, says, “I tell you what, you catch Benson Kelly and if you still want to get some press time, you can have as much as you want.”

Dom stares at the hand. Takes it and lets his boss pull him to his feet. As usual, he’s surprised by how strong Corr is. Stronger than he looks. “I’ll catch the Slip and then decide,” he says.

“Good.”

“Where do we start?”

“I’ve been running a mission, off the books. I wasn’t officially appointed, so it had to be covert.”

“What kind of mission?” Dom asks, cracking his metal knuckles.

“The kind that could very well lead us to the Slip.”

A thrill fires through the Destroyer’s human nerves. Even his machine parts seem to tremble with excitement, even though he knows that’s not possible. “When do I get involved in this mission?”

“Immediately,” Corr says.

“Where am I going?”

“South of the city. But first you have an operation to plan.”

A smile curls the Destroyer’s human lips.

B
enson doesn’t know exactly why he’s been asked to meet with Jarrod, the Lifer leader, again, except he’s been told it involves his brother. The way Simon said Harrison’s name—almost spitting it out—combined with the way the guard’s face looks—purple bruises, a crooked nose, puffs of white tissue paper sticking from each nostril, smeared with blood—he knows it can’t be good news.

Simon opens the door for him and pushes him inside rather roughly, almost like he’s a prisoner. Benson blinks at the bright white lights that hit him from the overhead panels. He’s been in this room once before, when he first met Jarrod. When he was first told that the Lifers wanted him to join their cause. He’d brushed the offer aside, promising to think about it and talk later.

The first person he sees is Harrison, leaning casually against a wall. Not bound and gagged, like he expected. Whatever happened, his brother doesn’t seem that perturbed by it. But then again, sometimes it feels like his brother has a unique mixture of fire and ice running through his veins, something Benson obviously didn’t inherit.

Sitting in a chair near his brother is a dark-skinned girl with frizzy hair sprouting from beneath a boyish hat that doesn’t fit quite right. She’s wearing a huge smile and hoverskates, which are kicked out in front of her. She looks so happy she might’ve just won a prestigious award. Benson’s never seen her before.

On the other side of the room is Minda, one of the guards, looking angry, her eyebrows plunging toward her nose and one edge of her lip turned up. So basically, she looks the way she always looks.

In the middle of the room, standing behind a chair, is Jarrod, his calm, collected self. Benson’s mind tries to connect the man who stuck a knife to his throat with the man standing before him now, but he can’t seem to do it. They don’t fit together.

Simon closes the door and Benson says, “What happened?”

“Your brother happened,” Simon mutters.

“He hit you?”

“Head butted me,” he says. “A real cheap shot, right in the nose. Then he went outside.”

Benson gawks at the heavyset guard. “Like
outside
outside?”

Minda says, “He tried to save this girl’s life.” She motions to the girl in the chair, who keeps on grinning.

“I
saved
her life,” Harrison says. He doesn’t sound like he’s bragging, just correcting.

“No,” Minda counters. “I saved both your lives.”

Harrison stares at her but doesn’t contradict her.

“What does any of this have to do with me?” Benson says. “Is Harrison in trouble?”

“Yes,” Simon says.

“No,” Jarrod says, finally speaking, resting his hands on the back of the chair. “Well, not really. He injured one of my people and compromised our security, but his heart was in the right place.” It seems impossible there would be no repercussions for Harrison. Unless…Jarrod is worried that Benson won’t cooperate if he punishes his brother. That’s the only thing that makes sense.

“So let him go,” Benson says.

“He’s not a prisoner,” Jarrod says.

“Tell that to Simon over here,” Harrison mutters.

“Sleep with one eye open, kid,” Simon says.

“Silence!” Jarrod shouts. The amount of authority in that one word and the tone of his voice is enough to snap everyone’s mouths closed.

Except Benson’s. “I still don’t understand. Who is she?” He looks at the girl, who meets his gaze without fear. In fact, her expression is the complete opposite. Like she’s more at ease than she’s ever been in her entire life. Like she’s among friends. Friends who all look like they want to kill each other.

“I’m Destiny,” she says.

At first Benson thinks she’s purposely being elusive, but then he realizes she’s just told him her name. He steps forward and extends a hand. “Benson Kelly,” he says.

Her smile vanishes and she stares at his hand, her expression one of awe. “The Saint Louis Slip,” she whispers.

“I’m just a kid who got lucky,” Benson says.

“Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it,” Harrison notes.

Benson drops his hand because Destiny seems too shocked to shake it. “You found Refuge,” she says.

“More like Refuge found me,” Benson says. “Well, actually my friends found the Lifers, who happen to live in Refuge, who loaned them their Hawk drone, and then they came—”

“Mr. Kelly,” Jarrod says, cutting him off. Benson purses his lips, realizing he’s been rambling. “There’s something you need to know about this girl.”

He raises an eyebrow, waits for the Lifer leader to finish his thought.

“Destiny is like you,” he says. “Destiny is a Slip.”

~~~

Benson’s mind is blown. He feels like each and every carefully placed piece in the puzzle of his life has been clawed apart, scattered, stomped on, and lit on fire. He can almost see the motes of ash swirling around his feet.

His back is to the wall, his legs tucked underneath him. His eyes are closed. People are talking around him but he’s barely listening, because he’s still trying to wrap his mind around one thing and one thing alone:

The girl calling herself Destiny is a Slip.

Like him.

A wanted fugitive.

Gonzo is saying something, his voice high and excited. Some kind of a joke. The others are laughing. How are they laughing? Benson wonders.

According to Jarrod, the Department of Population Control has been lying about how many Slips there are. Or at least some of them have been. After dropping that bomb, Jarrod sent them all back to their sleeping quarters to “get acquainted.”

Benson’s dimly aware of Luce’s body heat close by on one side. He wants to push closer to her, to twine his fingers with hers, to feel her heart beat against his chest. It’s like he needs her to feel normal.

But he can’t. Because he hasn’t told Check about them yet.

What is he even thinking about? he asks himself. Who cares about any of that when there’s a Slip sitting in the same room with him?

Finally, he opens his eyes, while the conversation continues to swirl around him but unable to touch him. Voices and laughs and ideas and questions and maybe answers. All without meaning.

The Slip is looking at him.

“How are you even possible?” Benson asks. He meant for the question to be a silent one, asked within the safety of his shattered mind. Not dangerous. But when the room goes silent, he realizes he’s asked it out loud.

“You mean that I’m not dead?” the girl, Destiny, asks.

Is that what he meant? He thinks he meant about a dozen things, but that’s probably one of them. He nods slowly.

“Because she’s a damn hoverskating superstar,” Harrison says, his eyes meeting Benson’s from across the room. He’s sitting on his bed in the corner, his legs draped out in front of him, one flat, one bent, an arm slung casually over one knee. Like it dropped from the sky and just happened to land in that incredibly cool-looking position. Benson wonders if his brother was born with the ability to look awesome, while he got the full share of awkwardness.

“Thanks,” Destiny says, glancing Harrison’s way. “You learn fast when one mistake means you die. But still, I was toast if you and”—she searches for the name—“Minda hadn’t showed up.”

Harrison offers a single, cool bob of his head in acknowledgment. “I wasn’t going to just watch you get devoured by those AttackDogs.”

“I’m glad you made it,” Benson says. “But that’s not what I meant. I meant how you’re
possible
?” He’s still not sure he’s making himself clear, but he doesn’t know how else to ask the question that’s trying to hammer its way out from inside his brain.

He flinches when she laughs, a husky chuckle. “You’re the one that seems impossible,” she says. She pulls off the cap resting precariously on her head and a mountain of dark, frizzy hair explodes out, some of it falling over her eyes. She blows upward and it flies away, revealing big brown eyes aimed his way again. “The Slips in the big cities usually don’t last very long.”

“And the Slips in the small towns?” Benson asks.

“They can’t catch us all,” she says, in such a way that it sounds like the most obvious statement in the world.

“But…they have to,” Benson says, frowning.

“Why?” Check says, jumping into the conversation. His gaze seems to dance between Benson and Luce, narrowing, as if only just noticing their closeness.

“Because…” The answer falls off Benson’s lips like an empty promise. Because it’s not the
right
answer, it’s the answer on holo-ads. The answer every citizen in the RUSA is supposed to have.

Harrison finishes the thought for him. “Because if there are too many unauthorized citizens then the authorized ones won’t have enough resources to survive.”

Gonzo glares at Harrison. His cheek is bruised where Harrison punched him earlier. But Benson suspects his friend’s pride might be even more bruised. Between Gonzo’s and Simon’s faces, Harrison’s been busy today. Or maybe this is just a typical day in his life, carving out a wide path of destruction wherever he goes. Benson has no clue what his brother usually does. His brother’s life is an impenetrable box, its contents shrouded in speculation and mystery. “Sorry to breathe your air, pretty boy,” Gonzo says.

“And eat your food,” Rod adds.

“And drink your water.” Gonzo again.

“And—”

Harrison cuts Rod off. “And this is BS,” he says. “I didn’t say that’s what
I
thought, not that you’d listen to me if I did. I was just saying why
people
want the Slips caught.” He slides off the bed, his feet stomping to the floor. He strides to the door, stopping and turning back at the exit. A half-turn, just far enough to make eye contact with Destiny, but no one else. “Good skating today,” he says.

By the time she says, “Thanks,” he’s already gone.

“Charming,” Gonzo mutters.

“He puts the ‘harm’ in ‘charming,’” Rod says. When nobody says anything, Rod says, “You know, because, like, how he hurt Gonzo and Simon? Get it?”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

Benson’s head snaps away from the Mexican Jumpers. The question came from Destiny, who’s staring at them in puzzlement.

“He’s not one of us,” Gonzo says, motioning around the room with his head.

“I’m authorized,” Luce says. “Check and Geoffrey, too. Does that make us outsiders?”

“No, that’s not what he meant,” Rod answers for him. “You’re street rats, like us. Harrison is privileged. Food on the table every night, the best schools, a normal life. He thinks he’s better than us.”

“He saved my life,” Destiny says. “He could’ve been killed. He would’ve been if not for Minda.”

“That was before he knew you were a Slip,” Gonzo says, unconvinced.

Benson’s head bounces back and forth between them, like he’s watching a hovertennis match. Finally, he interjects. “I don’t think it would’ve changed anything. I don’t know my brother that well, but he’s not the type to sit back and watch something bad happen without getting involved.”

“You’re defending him?” Gonzo says. There’s an accusation in his voice. “He’s the one who stole your life. He took your authorization from you.”

“He was just a newborn baby. He didn’t take anything.”

“How can you be so laid back about it?” Rod says, jumping in again, the second half of a one-two punch. “How can you not be angry?”

“Because I’m the one who’s sad that my father is dead!” Benson shouts, feeling heat coursing through his veins. His face is as hot as the sidewalk on a sunny day, and he knows he’s gone bright red.

Silence. Rod’s mouth is half-open. Gonzo is picking at his fingernail. Check is staring at Benson, one eyebrow raised. Benson refuses to look at Luce, for fear of the horror he knows he’ll see on her face. Even Harrison hates their father. Why doesn’t he?

“Your father would’ve had us killed if he ever discovered us,” Rod says. “Would you have cried for us?”

“Of course,” Benson says, all fight leaving him. “I’d die to protect you.”

“Then why do you care what happened to him?”

“I—I don’t know,” Benson says. “I—” He trails off, his words escaping like water through a sieve.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Rod says. “This place, this situation, everything…it’s confusing. For all of us.” He nudges Gonzo, who looks up from his hands.

“Me, too,” he says. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long week.”

“It’s okay,” Benson says. “I understand.”

“So no more fights, yeah?” Check says.

Gonzo and Rod look at each other and manage a shared laugh. “Sorry, no promises,” Rod says.

“But we’ll do our best,” Gonzo adds.

Luce clears her throat, nods back toward Destiny, and says, “So there are more like you and Benson? More Slips?”

Destiny shrugs. “I’ve met a few Slips. I’ve heard of more, but they’re usually hard to find, and they don’t stick around in one place for too long. Pop Con is a decentralized organization. The various units don’t really talk to each other, especially the smaller ones. So if things get too hot in one area, you move on and start all over again.”