Flip (The Slip Trilogy Book 3)

by David Estes

  In her panic, she’s forgotten to breathe, her lungs burning. She gulps at the air, closing her eyes and focusing only on breathing, pretending that the press she feels all around her are blankets and pillows on some exquisitely enormous bed in her top floor penthouse. It’s something her mother always did with her when she was little and she’d woken up from a nightmare. Close your eyes. Pick a place, an amazing place, even an impossible one. Go there, if just for a minute. Dream of something better than where you are.

  It works, a sense of peace washing over her as her inhalations and exhalations even out and deepen. She focuses on remembering what happened. The mob. The big guy she was trying to hide behind when the Crows showed up. The big guy who is now staring endlessly, unable to blink, unable to direct his silent gaze elsewhere.

  An unexpected sob chokes out from her throat. She didn’t even know the guy, and yet she feels unbearably sad for him. For his family, if he has one.

  Get control, she urges herself. What else do you remember?

  The video of the Destroyer, the malice in his eyes, the saw he used to…

  She turns to the side and throws up, just between two of the bodies. One of them is a woman in a smart business suit, her holo-screen still clutched in her hand, its screen cracked but still displaying ongoing news coverage of the tragic events in Saint Louis. Her chest is rising and falling. She’s alive, like Destiny. The other body is much smaller, crumpled awkwardly, that of a young boy, caught in the same tumultuous stampede of bodies that she was.

  Although she feels weak and tingly all over, Destiny claws her way closer to him, pressing two fingers against his neck. Nothing. He’s dead. Like the big guy. How many others? she wonders, biting back the nausea that once more rises in her throat.

  “Get up,” she urges herself, hissing through her teeth.

  Her legs are wobbly, her knees like rubber, but she manages to force herself up, swaying slightly, surveying the street. The crowd control bots, including the one that shot her with a stunner, are spitting sparks, exposed wires jutting from their broken frames, literally ripped apart in the melee. Their Crow companions are down, too, and from the extent of their injuries Destiny suspects they’re dead. Besides them, there are civilian bodies everywhere, and it’s almost impossible to determine which are dead and which are alive. And anyway, what can she do to help them? She knows nothing about medical care, other than using simple bandages (which she doesn’t have) to cover wounds. Plus, she’s a wanted fugitive, she can’t linger here, not when reinforcements could arrive for the Crows at any moment. Other survivors, like her, are beginning to regain their feet, their dazed eyes scanning the scene with horrified expressions.

  Something is rumbling in the distance. Thunder? No, she realizes. It’s a roar, like from an angry crowd. The mob is spreading through the city, which explains why no one has yet arrived to clean up this mess and sort out the survivors. Law enforcement is too focused on containing the situation to worry about the aftermath.

  Her legs are beginning to recover their strength, and she attempts a step, carefully placing her foot between one person’s arm and another’s torso. She almost stumbles when her toe clips a man’s bent knee, but she manages to wave her arms enough to keep her balance.

  As she picks her way through the human debris, she feels lighter somehow. With a subtle flex of her heels, her hoverskates lift off the ground. Her aimless wandering is over. She has a direction. A purpose. She won’t let the Destroyer hurt anyone else. The thought of facing him again sends charges of fear up and down her spine, but she doesn’t listen to them.

  She knows she’s still alive because the Destroyer is too. And when it’s over, only one of them will survive it.

  ~~~

  After a day passes with no sign of Destiny, Harrison is at his breaking point. Sitting around with his thumb up his rear doesn’t really work for him. The monotonous décor of steel counters, glass beakers and fake scientists make him want to charge through the lab breaking things, if only to prove that he’s still capable of doing something. Anything.

  Minda and the others have asked him to be patient. Running aimlessly around the city won’t help Destiny. Supposedly Minda’s got “assets” looking for her throughout Saint Louis. He’ll be the first to know if she’s spotted.

  If she’s even still in Saint Louis. For a lot of reasons, Harrison hopes she’s not, that she had enough sense to get out before the rioting began. The holo-news stations have resorted to 24/7 coverage of what they’re calling The Saint Louis Strike. Thousands have skipped work, taking to the streets to show their support, or disagreement with, the lowered Ideal Population mandated by the government. The big screen in the lounge room displays the mobs pushing and shoving each other and the Crows; it’s getting harder and harder to tell who’s who anymore. The city is truly divided. Harrison can only imagine the satisfaction Jarrod is probably getting from the chaos.

  Much to his surprise, the door opens, creaking slightly. He thought that he’d chased off the last of his visitors with his broody mood and inability to control his sharp tongue.

  Not everyone got the holo-memo, apparently. Refusing to tear his eyes from the screen, he promises to stick a Do Not Disturb For Any Reason sign on the door the moment the unwanted guest leaves. Which should be soon, if he plays his cards right.

  “I heard someone call this ‘the fun room’ so I thought I’d check it out,” a familiar voice says.

  Harrison turns, taken aback by both the unexpected voice and the even less expected comment. “I think they were being sarcastic,” he says.

  The gargantuan French-Canadian Digger is propped up on a cane which looks far too thin to hold his impressive weight. “That’s exactly why I came,” Simon says, smiling broadly. “Too much fun could kill a guy my size.”

  “Glad to see you on your feet,” Harrison says, scanning the ex-Lifer from head to toe. The fading shadow of a black eye (inflicted by Harrison) blankets one cheek, while his crooked nose provides evidence of a recently broken bone (also Harrison’s handiwork). His shoulder is heavily bandaged, as are his ribs, the strips of cloth wound tightly around his midsection. “Although you look like you’ve been mauled by a bear.”

  “You should see the other guy,” Simon says.

  “The bear?”

  “Last I checked, your face wasn’t so pretty either.”

  “That’s not what the ladies are saying,” Harrison says.

  “I didn’t know we had any pet dogs around.”

  Harrison snorts a laugh. “Funny.” He waves a hand. “Have a seat. You’re not nearly as annoying as you used to be.”

  “Thanks,” Simon says gruffly, easing into an armchair that creaks so loudly Harrison wonders if it will split apart.

  “You break it, you buy it,” he says.

  “I left my LifeCard in my other pants.”

  Harrison rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the holo-screen, where the image from the Hawk drone zooms in on a fresh wave of Crows and crowd control bots leaping from the back of an aut-truck.

  “Geez,” Simon says.

  “We have my old friend to thank,” Harrison says, cracking his knuckles. Dammit, he thinks. He should’ve made sure he’d finished off the Destroyer before he left. But how would he even know? The guy was a hunk of metal. He certainly looked dead.

  “I heard,” Simon says. “I also heard about your girl.”

  He says nothing, chewing his lip and regretting his decision to invite his visitor to take a seat.

  “We’ll find her,” Simon says.

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Harrison says.

  “I never do.” Silence falls as the violent images continue to plague the screen. Eventually, Simon shifts his position, grunting lightly, and then says, “Nice makeover.”

  “Are you hitting on me?” Harrison jokes.

  “All I want is to be your frienemy,” Simon jokes back.

  “I’m not ready for commitment,” Harrison s
ays. “Too young for that.”

  Simon ignores him. “My makeover is scheduled for later today.”

  “What?” Harrison says, shooting him a look. Simon continues to stare at the screen. “Why would you need one? You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Are you going to stop me?”

  It’s not a question—it’s a challenge. “You’re in no condition to help anyone. You’ll get yourself or one of us killed.”

  “I’ll be fine in a week.”

  “We only have five days.”

  “I was rounding up.”

  Harrison shakes his head. “This is stupid.”

  Simon turns to face him, running a hand over the dark three-day stubble on his chin. “Let me ask you this: If you were in my position—”

  “I’m not.”

  “—but if you were, would you go? Or would you lie in a sick bed like some old geezer?”

  Harrison turns away, stewing. Because he can’t argue with Simon’s logic. Although they’ve had their differences in the past, in a lot of ways they’re cut from the same cloth, as grudging as he is to admit it. “Point taken,” he says. “But if your injuries put my brother or mother in danger for one second, I’ll—”

  “I know, I know, you’ll beat my face in, et cetera, et cetera,” Simon finishes, smiling.

  Harrison grins back. “Damn right.”

  There’s a knock at the door, and Simon says, “Should I get that or will you?”

  “You need to rest. I’ll get it.” He picks up one of the shoes he kicked off hours ago and throws it at the door, which shudders from the impact. “Come in!” he hollers.

  Someone he doesn’t recognize pops his head around the door cautiously, as if expecting another projectile to be launched at his face. “Uh, Minda asked me to get you both for wardrobe,” he says timidly.

  He and Simon exchange a look. “This must be what it feels like to be a holo-star,” Harrison says.

  Chapter Eleven

  Twelve-year-old Geoffrey Harris remembers something he read one time on a stolen holo-screen. It was a story about sinkholes. Apparently they sometimes form so suddenly that entire houses can fall into them. One second you’re eating breakfast and the next you’re in the bottom of a chasm, your whole world gone in an instant. That’s how his stomach feels now—like it’s in a sinkhole. Or maybe his stomach is the sinkhole, dragging his heart and soul into it. He’s had the sinkhole ever since Luce died, taking his entire world with her.

  At first he felt angry at her, which was stupid. It’s not like she shot herself. It’s not like she wanted to leave him, to die in that underground bunker. Then he was angry with Benson Kelly. He knows his sister loved Benson, which is why they were even there in the first place. Geoffrey blamed the Saint Louis Slip for a time, but then realized that he loved Benson Kelly, too. He was his friend, just like Check and Rod and Gonzo. So, no, despite what he told Check, he isn’t angry with Benson, and he doesn’t blame him. That was just a lie to get out of having to go see him. He knew he couldn’t see him. If he did, his resolve would falter and he would go wherever Benson told him to go. The pain and the loss would come back faster than ever, like the crack of a whip, and he wouldn’t be able to do what he knows he has to do.

  What Jarrod promised him he could do.

  No one knows about his friendship with Jarrod, because that’s the way the Lifer leader wants it. Back at Refuge, when he’d go out to “play” with his “friends”, most times he’d hang with Jarrod, learning the ropes of how he managed the rebellion. They studied maps of Saint Louis together, picking the perfect targets for their next attacks. He got to sit with Jarrod and his top generals as they coordinated the bombings, communicating through their vast network of allies. He was able to do something to help his illegal friends, Benson and Rod and Gonzo, participating in a noble cause. It was cool watching the explosions. He couldn’t always look at the bodies, but then again, neither did Jarrod. The leader said their work was sometimes dirty, and he hated that part, but it was necessary for the greater good. Geoffrey has to believe that’s true, or else what did Luce’s death mean?

  When his sister died, he wanted to curl up into a ball and let the sinkhole take him, but Jarrod wouldn’t let him. He spoke to him in secret, promised him a chance to make things right. Gave him options, something no one else would do. Everyone just wanted to “protect him.” But he doesn’t need protection. He needs to see those who caused his sister’s death suffer as he has.

  What he needs is revenge. And Jarrod’s willing to give him that.

  So when Check and the others asked him what he did when they were out, he lied and said, “Not much,” when really he was learning how to arm a bomb. How to hide it under his clothes. How to detonate it. And, more importantly, where to detonate it for maximum damage.

  He knows his name was thrown at the end of the RUSA Most Wanted List simply because he was Luce’s brother, and she’d proven to be a dangerous adversary to Pop Con, but soon he’ll show them exactly why he belongs there.

  ~~~

  Benson’s never been inside a store this nice. It was always too risky, as a street rat. Stealing something from a place like this was near impossible, the security systems far advanced beyond his skills as a Picker. So any clothes he bought with the meager funds he and Check managed to steal were from secondhand shops or street vendors.

  The night field trip was arranged by Minda, whose organization has some sort of arrangement with the store, allowing them to shop after closing hours. Not even the employees are there, and apparently they’re allowed to take whatever they want. Benson can only guess at how much they must pay for this privilege. He’s quickly realizing that not only is the consortium broader than he realized, but extremely well-funded.

  The racks of clothes are endless, stretching from mirrored wall to mirrored wall, and climbing up huge rectangular columns like creeping vines. By pushing any of the buttons at the ends of the racks or the bases of the columns, the racks shift, bringing the clothes right to the customer without them having to move. The apparel is illuminated by bright white spotlights, making the colors appear more vivid than Benson suspects they are, as if donning one of the shirts will make the wearer more distinct. Set amongst the racks are tall holo-images of faceless people.

  Minda is giving them instructions on the types of clothing they should be looking for in order to complete their “punk” disguises, but Benson doesn’t really hear her, watching as Janice approaches one of the giant holos. She stands on a black panel on the floor, and oohs as green crisscrossing lasers shoot from the holo, painting her body with a checkerboard of light.

  Instantly, the generic holo transforms into his mom, her features and proportions exceptionally true to life, except for the startlingly amusing fact that it’s twice the size of her real self. She giggles uncontrollably at this fact, trying to pinch and prod her own huge leg, her hand passing innocently through the 3D image. “Would you like to try something on?” a bot voice asks. “Our catalogue has thousands of items, many of which can be picked up today.”

  “Something yellow!” she practically screeches. A long yellow dress appears on holo-Janice and her virtual-self places her hands on her hips confidently. Benson is surprised at how pretty she looks in it—he’s so used to seeing her in borrowed clothing way too big for her slight frame.

  “Nice look!” the bot says exuberantly.

  “No, no, something orange!” Janice commands. The dress morphs to orange and shortens, falling just above her knees. The scooped neck sharpens into a V.

  “Hot stuff!” the bot exclaims.

  “No! No! I’ve got it!” Janice squeals. “Something yellow AND orange.”

  Benson finds himself cracking up at his mom’s antics, and when his eyes find Harrison, he’s sniggering too. Even Minda stops her instructions to watch the spectacle. The dress changes from elegant and pretty to an outfit that’s quite funky with orange and yellow tiger stripes running diagonally. It shortens further,
revealing far too much leg on his mother’s holo. The top of the dress disappears as it becomes a halter, leaving her shoulders bare. Combined with her new jet-dark hair and makeup, she literally looks like a different woman, almost like the Janice he remembers from his childhood.

  Minda says, “Yeah. Just do what Janice does and you’ll be fine.”

  “You want us to all wear tiger-striped dresses?” Harrison asks.

  “Sure. So long as you laser your legs first,” Minda says.

  “Now that I would pay to see,” Simon, who’s now got racing stripes shaved into his head, comments, pointing his cane at Harrison’s legs.

  Following Janice’s lead, they each claim their own holo-manikin. Benson stares at the larger-than-life version of himself, trying to decide what to say.

  “May I help you?” the bot asks.

  He’s never had to do something like this. Clothing was just something you put on to stay warm, to cover your body. Now it’s a crucial element of the façade the group will have to effectively convey in order to succeed in their mission.

  “Uhh,” he says. “Black?”

  “Fantastic choice, sir.” The Benson-holo ends up in a black tuxedo.

  “I’m not sure the penguin look is what we’re going for,” Harrison says, approaching from the side. Apparently he made short work of the task and, Benson has to admit, did an awesome job. His sleeveless muscle-accentuating tank is black, lined with silver edges that shimmer when he walks. Some holo-band logo is imprinted on the front in such a way that it looks old and grungy despite the shirt being brand new. His pants are constructed of some kind of material that seems to change color with each step, and are intentionally ripped around the knees. The ensemble is completed with a silver skull belt and heavy black boots.