Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1)

by David Estes

  He turns away and goes to his room. A few minutes later, Janice enters with a steaming hot cube of spaghetti. It even has three large, square meatballs—a special treat.

  But even as he eats his favorite food and plays with his favorite toys, he can’t ignore the harsh voices murmuring under his door and into his ears.

  He knows something terrible has happened.

  ~~~

  They don’t come for his plate. They don’t come to kiss him goodnight or tuck him in. They simply don’t come.

  When he opens his door and peeks out, they don’t hear him, just keep on talking in those whisper-soft voices. The boy is drawn to the conversation; he feels like the white-yellow moths with the papery wings that like to flutter around the lone bulb that lights the backyard in the evening. He creeps to the end of the hall and sits down with his back against the wall, listening.

  Despite their best attempts to cloak their words, the conversation arrives clear and distinct to the boy’s ears now that he’s just around the corner. His father and Janice are sitting on the couch, where he normally watches Zoran on the holo-screen.

  “You have to find a way out. This job will be the death of you.” Janice, her words emphatic.

  “No, Jan, that’s where you’re wrong.” The boy’s never heard his father call Janice ‘Jan.’ But he says the nickname so easily it’s like he’s spoken it a thousand times. “Leaving the job will be the death of me. But not just me. All of you. They’ll kill all of you.”

  The boy freezes on the word kill. Every muscle in his body is tight, rigid, like he’s stuck in place, glued to the wall and floor.

  “I’m scared, Michael,” Janice says. He remembers the last time she called him that, on his birthday more than a year ago. “When I go home I see Crows in the shadows; I can sense Hawks hovering overhead, watching me. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  A deep sigh. “No one’s watching you,” his father says. “It’s just your imagination playing tricks.”

  “My imagination feels like reality these days.”

  His father manages a brief laugh. “You’ve always had a creative and overactive mind. But now you should get home. I’ve already programmed the aut-car. It’s a different route than usual, just to be safe.”

  The boy hears the sigh of the couch cushions as they stand up. He knows he should start backtracking to his room, but he’s still frozen, his breaths coming in short bursts through his nose, the word killkillkillkill ringing in his ears.

  Janice and his father pass practically right by him, but they’re focused on the door, not the hallway. And anyway, the hall is dark, cast in shadows—he can see them better than they would be able to see him.

  His father opens the door and Janice lifts to her tiptoes to give him a final hug, squeezing him the way she usually only squeezes the boy. He’s never seen them this…touchy. The boy doesn’t like it, and a momentary snap of anger breaks him from the heavy chains clamping him to the floor.

  “He’s a smart kid,” Janice says. “I can’t hold off his questions forever. Every day I feel more and more unhinged by them.”

  They step back from their embrace, and his father says, “I know. I’ll explain as much as I can to him soon.”

  Janice nods and steps through the doorway, her undone shoelaces dragging around her feet. The door zips shut behind her. The boy begins to shuffle backwards, but stops when he realizes his father hasn’t moved. His forehead is resting against the closed door, his eyes shut. Has he fallen asleep standing up? No. At his sides, his father’s fingers are curling and uncurling, tightening into white-knuckled fists and then releasing.

  With swiftness so sudden and unexpected it makes the boy jump back, his father’s fist crashes against the door like a hammer blow. The boy stares, half-frightened, half-captivated, as his father continues pounding the door, each blow lessening in strength and sound, until his fingers remain against the door and he slides down to the floor, to his knees.

  And there, he weeps, the tears falling unabashedly onto the floorboards.

  The boy runs silently back to his room and dives under the covers, gasping for breath and wishing he’d never have to see his father cry again.

  ~~~

  Somehow the boy falls asleep. From sheer mental exhaustion, perhaps.

  But it doesn’t last long.

  He wakes with a start. It’s dark, but not quiet. Voices storm out from the expensive speaker system that the boy appreciates when he’s watching Bot Heroes on the holo-screen. The boy realizes that, in his haste to escape the broken view of his weeping father, he’d forgotten to close his door.

  Before he leaves his room this time, he slips on socks to pad his footfalls.

  The hallway is no longer swamped with shadows; the glow of the holo-screen illuminates the narrow corridor with a glowing path, almost like the moonlight on the River. He can see part of the holo-screen jutting out, projecting one of his father’s boring news programs. But why is he still watching the holo so late? Doesn’t he have to get up for work tomorrow?

  The newswoman with the long, gold hair and red, painted-on smile is speaking. He can only see one of her dark-rimmed eyes and half of her smile, but even still, it’s as if she’s speaking directly to the boy.

  “Official reports are coming out from Pop Con, ladies and gentlemen; the latest Slip has been found and terminated. Since the Pop Con Decree was voted into law, this is the oldest Slip to evade security forces, lasting five years, three months, and seventeen days. The city can now breathe a sigh of relief, as our delicate population balance has been restored.”

  The boy finds himself drawn to the screen as he puzzles over the newswoman’s report. Many of the words are familiar—he saw ‘Slip’ and ‘Pop Con’ on his father’s portable holo-screen—but he still doesn’t fully understand them. Pop Con is where his father works and Slip is a criminal. So they caught the criminal—that’s a good thing, right?

  Abruptly, he realizes he’s wandered past the cover of the hallway. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees that his father is facing him. When he realizes his father’s eyes are closed, he almost laughs out loud, only just catching himself.

  Sleeping. He fell asleep watching the holo. An empty bottle is overturned on the table, a few final drops of clear liquid rolling from its mouth. It’s the drink his father usually only has on special occasions. The boy’s heart rate returns to normal, and he shifts his attention back to the wall screen, where the story about the Slip continues.

  His heart stops. His blood rushes between his ears. His mouth falls open.

  For there, on the screen, is his father’s face. It’s a head shot, just the tops of his shoulders and up, but it’s clear he’s wearing his typical dark outfit. He also wears a stern expression, unsmiling, a face he rarely makes at home, only when the boy has been particularly difficult. Below the photo is a name: Michael Kelly. Michael! Just like what he heard Janice call him. But why does he have two names? Janice only has one. Zoran, too. Is his father an important man, to get two names and his photo on the holo-screen? He must be, the boy thinks, closing his mouth. His heart is still racing and he almost feels like he’s watching the screen from above, hovering slightly, the way he sometimes feels when he’s sick and everything gets really hot one minute and freezing the next.

  His father is an important man.

  He knows it, has always known it, and for a moment—just a few seconds—his smile stretches from ear to ear.

  And then the newswoman begins speaking:

  “The successful operation was overseen by Pop Con boss, Michael Kelly, the recent subject of much criticism due to decreased Slip termination rates. However, after today’s performance, it’s likely his job is safe for the foreseeable future.”

  Pop Con boss. Slip termination. Criticism. Safe. Each word marches across the boy’s brain, which, thankfully, remains in his skull. He raises a hand to his chest and breathes deeply as his heart thuds against his palm.

  “Mich
ael Kelly.” The boy doesn’t realize he’s said the words out loud until his father stirs on the couch.

  “Son?” his father says, blinking the sleep away with reluctant eyelids. “What are you doing up?” He starts to stretch but stops with his arms raised above his head when he sees his face on the screen. “Dammit,” he mutters.

  His father marches him straight to bed, but the boy doesn’t sleep a wink. There are too many thoughts pushing for space in his mind. He has so many questions for his father that he’s afraid he might forget one. Although he tried to ask a few already, his father said, “Not now,” and closed the door.

  He waits and waits and waits for his father to get him up for swimming, but he never comes, even when the rising sun spills light through the window.

  Even when he hears Janice arrive, his father doesn’t come. Is he being punished for sneaking out of his room?

  Finally, what seems like hours later, Janice taps twice on his door and pushes inside. The boy’s eyes are burning from lack of sleep and his throat is dry, his water glass empty many hours earlier.

  “Hi, child,” she says. She scratches her arm absently, her nails painting white lines on her skin.

  “Hi,” he says.

  Neither of them smile, as if it’s too much work.

  “Your father...he had to rush to work. Some emergency. He said he’s sorry for not saying goodbye.” Her voice sounds strange, distant, like she’s talking to him through a long tube.

  The boy says nothing. He can’t feel the parts of his body below the blanket, so he wiggles his toes just to make sure they’re still there.

  “You want breakfast?” Janice asks. The white scratch-lines on her skin have turned pink.

  The boy nods, pretending not to notice.

  “Your father told me what you saw,” she says.

  The boy says nothing, although hundreds of questions push against the inside of his closed lips, fighting to get out. He knows she won’t answer them anyway. No one cares if he knows anything.

  “I’ll bring you breakfast in bed,” Janice says, smiling. “A special treat. And double holo-screen time for you today. And no lessons. I need to sleep anyway.”

  The boy swallows the questions he really wants to ask. “Can I play with the other kids today?” he asks instead. He can’t hide the edge in his voice.

  Janice’s smile fades. “It’s not saf—”

  “Stop!” the boy cries. “I see the kids playing outside. Why are they safe but I’m not? Why am I stuck in here and they get to run around? Why does Father only take me out at night when everyone’s sleeping?” He sees her flinch at the last question. Evidently she didn’t know about that, but he doesn’t care, and it doesn’t stop the questions from pouring from his mouth—an endless stream. “Why do they terminate the Slips? What is Pop Con and why does Father work there? Why was Father’s face on the holo-screen last night and why was he drinking his special drink and why does he have two names when I have none and why did he cry twice?”

  He can’t speak can’t speak can’t speak, his throat as dry as sand and closing up, his vision blurry, his body trembling beneath the covers.

  Janice steps forward and wraps him up in her arms and holds him as he cries and cries and cries until he falls asleep.

  ~~~

  When he awakes it’s getting dark, the afternoon lava shadows creeping along his bed.

  When he rolls over his pillow crinkles, crusty with dry tears. He wiggles his toes and he feels them move.

  A door slams as he kicks off the blanket. He plants his feet firmly on the floor. He’s done crying, done asking questions. It only makes him feel stupid and sad.

  Before he can move to open the door, it swings toward him, his father’s large frame filling the doorway. He feels the tears coming, but he squeezes his eyes and pushes them away.

  His father takes two strides and pulls him into a hug, lifting him off his feet, warming him from his head to his toes.

  And still the boy doesn’t cry.

  But he does hug his father back, as tight as he can. Because what do all his questions matter? His father loves him. Janice, too. What else does he need?

  Images of children playing, tagging each other, flying kites, and climbing trees cycle through his head, but he ignores them, pretends they don’t matter. “Nothing,” he whispers into his father’s neck, answering his own internal question with what he knows is a lie. A beautiful, perfect lie.

  “What, Son?” his father asks, finally setting him down.

  “Nothing,” he repeats, which his father thinks is an answer, rather than the word he spoke a moment ago.

  Chapter Ten

  Harrison jumps from the couch and does a little dance when the news story comes on.

  The Slip has been found!

  When he finishes celebrating and turns back to his mother, Janice, she’s staring at him, wearing a frown as deep as the overflowing oceans. “They caught the Slip,” he says, wishing his voice sounded stronger.

  “They killed her,” his mother says.

  Harrison had forgotten that that’s what they do to unauthorized children. But he doesn’t want to think about it right now. She wasn’t even supposed to be born so does it really matter? All he cares about is that… “Dad will be around more now, right? Maybe he could come to one of my hoverball games? We’re the best team in my age group. Coach says I may be able to move up to play with the older kids soon.” He realizes how fast he’s talking, how he’s forgotten to breathe. He stops to suck air into his lungs, waiting expectantly for his mom to answer.

  “Baby, I—I’m sorry.” She looks so old all of a sudden. Her eyes are puffy and red, with lines spider-webbing around them. She pats the spot on the couch next to her. Harrison clambers up beside her, tucking his legs beneath him and wondering what she has to be sorry about.

  “We’re not a normal family,” she says, putting her arm around him. Her eyes dart to the walls, to the ceiling, even to the holo-screen, as if someone might be listening. “Even now that the Slip is caught, your father still won’t be around much. There is always more work to be done.”

  Angers boils up inside him, his fists clenching in response. “That’s not fair,” he says. “I’m a good player. Why doesn’t he want to watch me?”

  “He does,” his mother says. “I swear it. He just has…a lot on his mind.”

  The boy is on his feet in an instant, not caring that he’s never seen his mother look so sad. “I hate him!” he shouts. “And I hate having a weird mom, too!” He runs to his room, throwing the door shut behind him with a floor-shaking slam.

  The tears flow hot and fast, soaking into his pillow. But for some reason, the more he cries the more determined he gets. Even if his family isn’t normal, he will be. He’ll have the most friends at school and be the best hoverball player in the world.

  And then it won’t matter that he never sees his father and that his mom is different than the other moms.

  Chapter Eleven

  When he’s eight years old, the nameless boy’s father tells him he’s an excellent swimmer. It’s a nice compliment, but the boy already knows it. He can swim for two straight hours, doing six there-and-back laps to the center of the River, his arms and legs in perfect coordination, strong and powerful. Although he’s grown out of watching Zoran, he thinks he might be as good a swimmer as his old hero. They have to get up earlier and earlier to give him the time he needs to practice.

  His father forbids him from swimming any further than halfway toward the lights in the distance.

  Although the boy has sworn off asking questions that only bring him pain, his father surprises him by sharing things sometimes. Interesting things. Things he’s always wondered about.

  “Those lights are the city,” he says today, when the boy muscles himself out of the water after another two hour swim. His father has already turned off his portable holo-screen, a habit he’s maintained since the last time the boy saw him cry.

  The boy suspe
cted as much, but he doesn’t say that, just gazes at the lights, which are growing harder and harder to see as the sky races toward morning. Soon they’ll blink out, useless until the sun finishes its arc across the sky.

  “It’s called Saint Louis,” his father continues. And the river is the Mississippi—try saying that five times fast.”

  The boy doesn’t try, as he doesn’t think his father really means him to. A question buzzes on his tongue—is that where you work?—but he holds it back easily, barely even thinking about it.

  “The river is two miles wide here. It used to be a sixth of that width, many, many years ago.” What happened? the boy’s brain says. His mouth says nothing. He has the sudden urge to get back in the water, to swim another lap.

  His father hands him a towel and the boy wraps it around himself, even though he’s now so used to the cold water that he barely notices how it raises bumps on his skin. They make eye contact and his father grips his shoulder. “Son, I’ve made so many mistakes. So many they’re uncountable.” This is not what he expected his father to say. The boy feels as if he should hold his breath, but his lungs are demanding air, so he continues taking deep breaths, his chest rising and falling. “All I wanted was to keep you safe, but I won’t be able to forever. I have enemies. You have enemies, even if you don’t know them and they don’t know you.”

  The boy wants to scream. He can’t ask questions, and when his father tells him things they only make him more confused. Nothing in his world makes sense. Nothing except the rush of the water over his skin and the powerful feeling of conquering the forces trying to drag him to the bottom of the river. The Mississippi.

  “I’m sorry, Son,” his father says, and the boy realizes he’s frowning so much it’s giving him a headache. “I couldn’t tell you everything before. Still can’t.”

  “For my own protection,” the boy says.

  His father misses the sarcasm in his voice, and says, “Exactly. One day maybe you’ll understand why I’ve made the choices I’ve made. One day maybe I’ll understand them, too.”