Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

He shows Luce the haul. Half a dozen food pills, each labelled in tiny white print. Two devil’s food, two triple chocolate, and two vanilla-strawberry. Brand names, too—the good stuff.

“You choose,” he says, holding his palm flat.

Still smiling, she inspects the capsules, her forefinger and thumb pinched together, hovering over his hand. She bites the side of her mouth, and with her attention on her decision, Benson openly admires her face. He feels like he’s falling as the sudden desire to cup his hand against her cheek strikes him. They’ve known each other for how long? Five years? Yes. It was about three years after he met Check. They were in the midst of a risky Pick, attempting to hit two Grunks simultaneously, when Benson saw her walk by. She had flashed him a stunning smile and turned away, her golden hair swirling behind her. And then she and her brother had stolen both their Grunks in an incredible display of Picking prowess. Even then she was so much more than just a pretty face.

Luce and Geoffrey had introduced them to Gonzo and Rod shortly after.

She selects one of the food pills—devil’s food cake—and Benson can barely contain himself as her fingers brush against his palm. “Good choice,” he says. “It’s my favorite.” He selects the other devil’s food cake pill and pockets the remaining four, which he’ll share with the others when they return.

“At the same time,” Luce says, grinning.

Benson grins back, hoping he doesn’t look too stupid. “One,” he says.

“Two.”

“Three!” they say at the same time, popping the pills into their mouths and crunching down.

The effect is instantaneous, the flavor exploding in Benson’s mouth, sending his taste buds into a frenzy. Luce is clearly experiencing the same thing, her eyes closing as she rolls the mangled pill around in her mouth. “Mmm,” she murmurs.

Although the devil’s food cake is delicious, he’s more interested in watching Luce experience it. Eyes still closed, she licks some of the sugary, chocolaty flavor off her lips and he wonders what they would taste like. On a dare from Check he kissed a girl from STL Prep once, about a year back. She was pretty, too, with smooth, chocolatey skin and big, brown eyes. She tasted like strawberries—not bad at all—but Benson has a feeling kissing Luce would be a whole new experience.

Luce’s eyes open slowly as the pill dissolves on her tongue. “Good?” Benson says.

“Best ever,” she says. “I’ve never had devil’s food cake before.”

“Really?” Benson says.

“Yeah, I was a real devil’s food virgin,” she says.

“Not anymore,” Benson says. Is she flirting with him? The very thought sends his mind into a tailspin.

Narrowing her eyes, she says, “You know, Benson, I’m glad my first time was with you.”

His heart does a flip.

“Me, too,” he says. It could be the heat of the moment, or the lingering taste of chocolate in his mouth, but he wants to come clean, to tell her the truth about his past. “I remember the first time I tried it,” he says, the words coming out easily. “It was my sixth birthday.”

“You were with that jerkwad that used to hit you, right?” Luce asks.

No more lies
, Benson thinks. Not. One. More.

“Yeah,” Benson lies. “For once he was sober and he gave me a cake. I fell in love with devil’s food cake that night.” Benson’s stomach is hurting, as if he ate too much of the real thing, not some stupid pill.

“I’m not surprised,” she says. Her hand drops between them for the third time in recent history.

Angry at himself, at his life, at things he’s never had any control over, Benson feels bolder than ever before. This is his life and he’s in control of it. And if he wants to hold Luce’s hand, he’ll do it. He’ll do it!

He drops his hand quickly, settling his palm on top of Luce’s. Her fingers twitch and she stares at him with wide eyes.

Tingles run up his arm as she closes her fingers over his, the touch of her skin so warm and real.

He’s bold. He’s waited too long for this moment, and he won’t waste it. He leans in, his lips parting slightly, his eyes already starting to close. They’re so close, so close, and her hot breaths are like a drug, scented with chocolate.

Luce makes a strange noise and his eyes flash open, but she’s already pulling away, scrambling to her feet, her eyes wide with shock and her nose wrinkled in disgust.

Horrified, Benson raises a hand to his face, his skin still tingling from holding her hand. The tears are welling up faster than he can blink them away. “I—I thought…” When did his mouth get so dry?

Casting him a final look of pure pity and embarrassment, Luce says, “I’m sorry,” and rushes from the room, throwing the door shut behind her.

~~~

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T
ick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Each second that passes sends a thump through Janice’s skull. And yet she continues to stare at the face of the wristwatch clutched in her hand. It’s the last memory she has of her lost son. She found the watch when she was clearing out his room, taking all his toys out to the backyard where she would later burn them. Michael wanted to give his things to charity, but she couldn’t bear the thought of any other child playing with them, smiling happily, wearing his clothes. Not when her son was dead.

But when she came upon the Zoran wristwatch gathering dust in a drawer, she stuffed it in her pocket. For the rest of the day she could feel it burning a hole in the cloth, until she finally took it out and let it burn her hand.

Was that where the madness began? If she had destroyed the watch along with everything else, would she have been able to move on, have a normal life, avoided the solitary misery of the asylum?

TICK, TOCK!

The ticking hits her harder now, and she thumps a fist into her forehead, trying to mask the pain.

TICK, TOCK!

She feels like screaming, like throwing the watch against the wall. But what’s the point? The padded walls and floor will protect Zoran’s grizzled face and preserve the memories she desperately wants to forget.

And the last time she launched the watch at the wall they threatened to take it from her.

So she continues to stare at the watch, letting its incessant ticking crush her brain.

TICK, TOCK!

The door eases open and she tries to remember how long it’s been since Michael visited her. She strains her mind, but can’t figure out if it was today, yesterday, or a month ago. Time means nothing in this place.

It’s not Michael. She hates that she feels a puff of disappointment in her gut at the same time as she breathes a sigh of relief.

Instead, it’s the only friend she has left. A kindly nurse who’s the only one who talks to her like she’s not crazy. Even Michael doesn’t talk to her like that.

TICK, TOCK!

Unfortunately the nurse’s presence doesn’t stop the ticking; nothing can stop the ticking.

“How are you today, Janice?” the nurse says. Alice. That’s her name. She’s the only one willing to obey Janice’s request to call her Janice and not Mrs. Kelly.

“This damn watch won’t stop ticking,” Janice says. “But thank you for asking,” she adds, about two seconds too late to be normal.

Alice doesn’t seem to notice, just glances at the watch. Janice’s hand is splotched with red and white blobs because of the tightness of her grip. “Shall I take it away?” Alice asks. “I can tell you the time whenever you want to know.”

Janice’s eyes flash with anger and she has the sudden urge to hit this woman. To hit her only friend. “No!” she growls.

“Okay, okay, no problem,” Alice says. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Alice’s voice has a way of calming Janice. “S-Sorry, A-Alice,” she says. “My nerves are lightning and thunder and sparks lately. It was my husband’s visit.” She’s asking a question without really asking it. Will Alice suspect?

“But that was a week ago,” Alice says.

A week! God. That means he’ll be back again soon. Sometimes it’s a week, sometimes it’s a month, but he always comes back. She wishes he wouldn’t.

“Any news?” Janice asks.

That’s her standard question, one that only Alice will answer, a secret agreement between them.

“No,” Alice says, and that’s the right answer. If she says
Yes
, then that means they’ve found another Slip. Another child to hunt. It doesn’t matter that it won’t be her child—the thought will destroy her. Because it will be her husband doing the hunting. She knows that his people hunt children all the time, but she’s managed to trick herself into believing that UnBees aren’t real children. They’re only dolls, pretend children who don’t have fears or sadness or pain. And their parents are doll-parents, as real as cloth and stuffing and nano-chips that make them talk and comfort their doll-children.

“Let me know if there is,” Janice says.

“I will,” Alice promises. “Anything else I can do for you?”

TICK, TOCK!
Zoran says.

“Shut up,” she says.

“What?” Alice says.

“Sorry. Not you. Him.” She motions to the wristwatch.

Alice smiles in the way that Janice hates. “Call if you need anything,” she says, reminding her that they’re always watching and listening. Even when she’s sleeping, someone is watching and listening. Can they hear the ticking, too?

When Alice leaves, the watch says
TICK, TOCK!

“Shut up.”

TICK, TOCK!

“I said, ‘Shut up!’”

TICK, TOCK! TICK, TOCK! TICK-TICK-TICK! TOCK-TOCK-TOCK!

Her head is thumping with pain, each thud of her heart an explosion in her skull. She squeezes the watch tighter, until the metal clasp cuts into her hand, drawing blood. For a moment, the pain grounds her.

It allows her to think clearly, to realize something:

The watch hands aren’t moving. Not the second hand. Not the minute hand. Not the hour hand. Stuck on 3:02.

The watch is broken.

Tick, Tock!
it says.

~~~

Past article from the
Saint Louis Times
:

Pop Con Head Steps Down Amidst Controversy. Michael Kelly Promoted.

The tenure of John Davis, eight year Head of Saint Louis Population Control, has finally come to a bitter end. Amidst allegations of ‘going soft’ on Pop Con criminals, Mr. Davis was dismissed quietly. Neither government officials nor Davis were available for comment. In a surprising and unexpected move, the government promoted Michael Kelly, a Pop Con analyst, to the post. The city will likely be holding its collective breath until Kelly proves his worth. Although Mr. Kelly was unavailable for questions, Mayor Strombaugh said ‘We couldn’t be more pleased to have Michael Kelly as the new Head of Pop Con. He’s a levelheaded guy with an eye for detail. The city can rest easy with him at the helm.’

Have a comment on this article? Speak them into your holo-screen now.
NOTE: All comments are now subject to government screening. Those comments deemed to be inappropriate or treasonous in nature will be removed immediately and appropriate punishment issued.

Comments:

NewsAddict4: Slips beware! Michael Kelly’s got you in his sights!

SammieJ: Who is this mysterious Michael Kelly guy? I haven’t seen a single holo-ad with a photo. I’m hoping he’s as handsome as he is mysterious. John Davis was uggggly!

HarryKnox33: Comment removed and disciplinary action taken.

M
ichael Kelly stares at the holo-screen, remembering the day Mayor Strombaugh came to him with the job offer. He was excited—no, ecstatic—incredulous that he’d managed to rise so far so fast. He and the mayor went back a few years, when they studied at university together. At some point they separated, Strommy—as all his friends used to call him—going into politics, while Michael set his sights on population control studies. He liked the logicality of the field, how simply maintaining the status quo could have a significant effect on the social and economic strength of an entire nation.

Now, if he could get his hands on his old textbooks, he’d burn them to ash and scatter them in the Mississippi.

A three-rap knock on his door brings his focus back to the screen, which is projecting a series of floating statistics. Numbers and percentages and dollar signs.

“Yes,” Michael says, loud enough for the knocker to hear.

The door opens and he can see Corr’s reflection on the screen. Like everyone else at Pop Con, he’s wearing all black.

Corrigan Mars enters. Michael Kelly’s fists tighten, as they usually do when he sees his second in command. He wonders how they were ever friends.

“Sir,” Corr says.

“What is it?”

Corr steps to his side, his eyes flicking over the screen in that snake-like way of his. The room is dark, save for the light from the panel of holo-screens, which catch the silvery edge of Corr’s sideburns. “I think we’ve got something.”

Michael tries to breathe. Can’t. Subconsciously, one of his hands squeezes the edge of the chair.

He forces out a sharp breath. “The UnBee Shack?” he says. Hoping. Praying.

“Well, yes. The takedown went off without a hitch. Thank you for trusting me with overseeing it.” Corr’s voice is as cold as an ice cube, as if they haven’t just murdered dozens of children.

“Of course,” Michael says. He should be burning with anger, but instead the iciness in Corr’s voice seems to have seeped into his bones, leaving him with an impenetrable chill.

“And to top it all off, I think we’ve got a rising star in one of our new Hunters.”

“Really?” Michael says, pretending interest. He still hasn’t looked at his second in command, his eyes glued to the floating numbers. Although cold to the point of needing to shiver, he feels a burst of warmth in his chest. Is Corr really only here to talk about a successful mission?

“Yeah,” Corr says absently. He seems to be as interested in the numbers on the screen as Michael is pretending to be. “God, the last two years have been special, haven’t they?”

Special
isn’t the word Michael would use, but he says, “They’ve been something, all right.”

“One hundred percent mission success, a steady population with a standard deviation of less than a thousand, outperforming every other Pop Con department across the RUSA, setting a good example in the nation’s capital. We’re rock stars, my friend.”

Don’t call me your friend
, Michael thinks bitterly.

“We make a great team, don’t you think?” Corr adds.

Finally, Michael looks at Corr and says, “The best,” trying to hide his disgust. They’re the greatest team of murderers the world has ever seen. “You said something about a rising star?” he says, trying to change the subject.

“Ah, yes. A new Hunter. Young, only seventeen. One of the first to enlist when they lowered the minimum age. He came back from the war with serious injuries, but they managed to patch him back together.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Cyborg?” he says.

“Yeah. Forty percent metal. He’s very motivated. Name’s Domino Destovan, but they’re already calling him The Destroyer. Trust me, the name fits. Today he almost singlehandedly took down the UnBee Shack. You should have seen it.”

Michael’s attempt to swallow fails. He’s seen enough dead babies for ten lifetimes. “Where’d he come from?”

Corr’s eyes sparkle at the question. “Get this—he’s the brother of the last Slip.”

“What?” Michael squints, trying to remember the brother of the five-year-old Slip.

“Yeah. That’s what I said,” Corr says. “After we took down his mother, father, and the Slip, Domino was transferred to military prep school. His file says he was in the top two percent of his class, both physically and intelligence-wise. As soon as he turned sixteen, he volunteered and was sent on his first mission. When he came home he was half metal.”

Remembering the piles of bodies, Michael says, “Keep an eye on him.”

“Will do,” Corr says.

“Is that all?” Michael asks.

Corr smiles, and the ice in Michael’s bones begins to crack. Something is up. Something big. Despite his smile, Corr’s eyes are dark, black marbles gleaming with the screen-glow. “There’s something else,” Corr says.

Michael trembles. “Oh?” he says.

“Yes. After all these years, we’re in for another wild ride.”

No. Please, no. “Meaning…”

“Our analysts are hot on the trail of a potential Slip.”

The walls seem to close in, squeezing the air out of the Pop Con Head’s lungs. He can’t speak. He can’t breathe. He can’t think, his mind a blaze of fiery memories from a past he can’t bring himself to erase.

“And we don’t think it’s some five-year-old girl,” Corr continues. “This one’s the real deal. The biggest Slip of either of our careers…”

His lungs are bursting, his heart slamming with uneven, wild beats, his head a tornado of beautiful, horrid thoughts.

“We think it might be a teenager,” Corr finishes, patting him on the shoulder and exiting the room. Over his shoulder, as if an afterthought, he says, “I’ll let you know when we have enough information to plan a mission.”

The door closes and a breath explodes from his lungs. He drops his head between his knees and gasps for air as if he’s sprinted a kilometer. This is it. This is why he’s made no effort to leave Pop Con. Why he’s remained loyal to a murderous machine in which he’s the largest cogwheel.

The system he once believed in has become his prison, without walls, without bars, his own conscience the only guard. And now the time has finally come to break out.

~~~

The Destroyer—after their latest mission even Dom is starting to think of himself by that name—uses a white cloth to clean the blood spatter from his arms and legs. The plunger of excitement continues to shoot adrenaline through his veins and he can’t seem to wipe the smile off his face.

His other team members don’t seem nearly as excited, but he couldn’t care less because today’s performance will surely get him noticed at the top levels of Pop Con. And once Michael Kelly knows his name, he’ll never forget it.

“You should have waited for us,” Hodge says, for the third time. Someone from the morgue—they’re called “Cs” or “corpse carriers” by those in the business—walks past carrying two tiny body bags, one in each hand. The Destroyer’s handiwork: a couple of UnBees that should’ve never been born, trying to embark on an illegal life.

The Destroyer’s gun is at his feet, the dark metal polka-dotted with drops of blood. He could so easily grab it, raise it, pull the trigger…

“Sorry,” he says, apologizing for the third time. “I guess I got overexcited.” After all, who can blame him? The UnBee Shack was exactly the type of place that could destroy their country. Left alone, the center for unauthorized births could’ve produced hundreds of UnBees, which would eventually grow to become Slips, which could destroy everything the government is working so hard to achieve. Someone had to tear the Shack down and it might as well have been him.

Just beyond Hodge, Dana gives him a strange look. The Destroyer laughs on the inside.
That’ll teach you to call me Frosty
, he thinks. He’d already finished the job before Dana knew what was happening. The inadequate little Hunter hadn’t even fired a single shot.

“We’re meant to be a team,” Hodge says.

The Destroyer knows his team leader’s just pissed because his kill count was two, while his own was nineteen. Fifteen UnBees, two traitorous doctors, and two pathetically undertrained guards. A blood bath. A massacre. Complete and utter destruction with zero survivors.

“Next time try and keep up,” the Destroyer says, unable to take another reprimand from his team leader. One of his arms feels hot, like his blood is literally boiling, while the other arm—the one made of metal—is cold and in control. They’re the perfect complement for each other, a blend of calm and fury.

The look on Hodge’s face is priceless, a mix of disbelief, anger, and envy. The envy is the Destroyer’s favorite. “You’ve given me no choice but to file a report,” Hodge says. The words come out weak and shaky.

“You do that,” he says, beginning to clean his gun. “And then you can come back and apologize to
me
.”

Hodge’s face turns red, but before he can respond, there’s an incoming message through their earpieces. “This is Pop Con Command,” the voice says. Dana looks at Hodge. Hodge looks at the Destroyer. The Destroyer watches as a pair of Cs carry an adult body bag through the door. “Domino Destovan, please report to level ninety-nine immediately. Corrigan Mars would like to see you.”

“Yessir,” the Destroyer says, a flash of annoying uncertainty burning in his brain. Had he gone too far?

The call cuts off, and Hodge says, “Have fun, hotshot. Maybe Corr can teach you some manners.” Dana just grins stupidly.

Dom—no longer the Destroyer—grits his teeth and follows a couple of corpse carriers out into the city.

~~~

As the hoverball shoots toward the corner of the net, Harrison Kelly’s feet move without thought, guiding his hoverboard effortlessly.
I’m not going to make it
, he realizes even as he steps quickly to the end of his board, which struggles to stay upright.

The ball rockets toward the inside of the goalpost, just out of reach.

Screw it
, Harrison thinks, leaping from his board, straining every last muscle forward. The ball glances off his fingertips, changes direction slightly, and rings off the outside of the goalpost, careening harmlessly away and out of bounds.

The roar of the crowd morphs into a collective gasp as he falls, trying to twist his body in midair, hoping his hoverboard will catch him. His eyes lock on his board, which is whizzing toward him, searching for the homing signal under his shoes.

The net comes up faster, roughly catching him, cutting sharply into his skin. His body bounces once, twice, and then comes to rest, stinging all over.

Late in the game, tied zero-zero, the pain is well worth it to save their undefeated season. Harrison licks the blood that wells up from a laceration on his lips and raises a fist.

The crowd goes nuts, sold out for the eleventh consecutive game.

His hoverboard lands beside him and he steps onto its rubbery treads. As he steers back into position, several of his teammates soar past, slapping him on the back and congratulating him on yet another highlight-reel save. It will surely make the local news.

He looks to the crowd for the hundredth time, trying to find his father. He promised Harrison he’d be there for his last game. Why Harrison believed him when his father had said the exact same thing for all the other games, he doesn’t know. Maybe broken promises have become such a way of life for him that they roll off his back as easily as water from a post-game shower. Maybe he’s just a hopeless optimist. Maybe he’s a freaking idiot.

Whatever the case, his eyes come up empty once more, his father’s dark suit noticeably absent from the home crowd.

Nadine, however, is there, wearing her team’s shirt, which fits tightly across her chest, accentuating her curves. She’s smiling and cheering, her dark eyes sparkling under the bright stadium lights. And like he’s done so many times before, Harrison puts on a mask of invincibility and forgets about his father, looking forward to the reward he’s sure to get from his latest girlfriend.

When Chuck Boggs scores the winning goal—a deft toss of the hoverball past the opposing goalkeeper’s hands—Harrison coolly poses for a snapshot from a school newspaper cameraman before heading straight to the locker room.

Arriving before any of his teammates, who will likely be celebrating on the field for a while, he steps into the locker room. As usual, the holo-screen is on, and he’s surprised to see that it’s not covering the game. Instead, a breaking news bulletin is flashing.

The projected screen is split in two. One side displays an old photo of his father, the famous one taken years ago when he announced the capture of the one and only Slip faced during his tenure as Head of Pop Con. The other side shows a more recent photo, Michael Kelly’s face etched with lines, dark circles under his eyes, his thick hair shorter and grayer. And across the photo, a single headline:

Saint Louis Pop Con announces discovery of the oldest Slip ever faced.

Harrison touches one of the long, thin scabs forming on his cheek, his finger coming away covered in red ooze. A blaze of frustration burns through him, finding an outlet when he slams his fist into one of the lockers, which, made from stainless steel, sends a shockwave through his knuckles and hand.