The Slip: The Complete First Season

by Herschel K. Stroganoff

  He shook his head. “Where do you think they're going?”

  “Who knows? Lunar probably. It'll be the transporters that have bought up all the fuel.” Ifan leaned against the fuel booth as the woman inside scowled through her window.

  “Can they do that? You told me they had to keep some aside for Affiliates and emergencies.”

  Ifan sighed. “When all the Yaos are killed and no one knows who did it — that's your emergency.”

  “Oh,” Garrett said.

  “We know we're stuck here for the foreseeable, so we may as well enjoy V5.”

  Garrett smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

  Garrett strode with Ifan along an avenue of carefully curated oaks and poplars, turning right onto the market square. .

  “It’s so quiet,” said Garrett as they passed by the row of locked-up food stalls. Only a few weeks prior, the square's atmosphere would have been heavy with the drifting smells of chicken, pork and spices; the sounds of idle chatter and laughter; the swirls of colourful dresses. But now, he could smell nothing.

  “This what happenes when you’ve got no ships coming in,” Ifan said.

  “Have you heard anything from the guild yet?”

  They turned a corner, passing closed cafes and empty shops.

  “I’ve sent a few urgent messages to Lunar. Wynn says United Solar is working on something.”

  “So, what are you saying? We’re going to be stuck here, doing nothing?”

  “We’re got enough stores on the ship to last us, but I’m more worried about how quickly things have deteriorated here. They're consumers, not producers. Think about how precarious their position must be. If trade is completely cut-off, there’s nothing on here to sustain its residents — no farms, no industry. They’ll have water and power for as long as the orbiter’s in operation, but food?”

  Garrett signed. “At least a lot them saw sense and left as soon as things started looking shaky—”

  “Hold it right there you two.”

  Garrett looked down as a boy, no older than twelve, appeared from an alleyway, wielding a knife. “Hand over everything — food, money — now!” The boy was short and skinny, his eyes dark circles. His clothes were fashionably cut from leathers and silks, though grubby from wear.

  Ifan pointed to the boy’s blade and laughed. “What are you going to with that little thing? Give me a boo-boo?”

  Garrett laughed as the boy lunged forward and drove the blade into Ifan’s groin. Ifan sagged to the ground screaming in pain.

  “You little fucker,” called Garrett, striking the boy hard on the back of the head with a fist. The boy scrambled to his feet and ran back into the alleyway.

  “Shit. How bad is it?” Garrett asked as he crouched down to examine the wound.

  “I’m okay,” Ifan croaked, blood seeping from the wound at the top of his thigh.

  “We’re not too far from a Muedin centre.” Garrett strained as he lifted Ifan to his feet. “We can do this. Please, push down on where he stabbed you.”

  Garrett walked slowly to the end of the street, making a left turn to another row of closed shops, a trail of Ifan’s blood marking the path behind them.

  “Nearly there,” Garrett said, gesturing to the Muedin centre ahead as he strained against the old man's weight. “Please help!”

  He smiled with relief when a medic leaned out of the door and ushered them inside. She was lean with sharp features and cropped blonde hair.

  “Can you pay?” she asked abruptly.

  “We’re Affiliates. Boeki. We were ambushed. Ifan’s been stabbed.” Garrett lay Ifan down on the floor. He moved Ifan’s coveralls to the side to reveal a deep hole in his inner thigh, gushing with blood. “You need to help him.”

  “Can you pay?” the medic repeated, not looking at Ifan.

  “Yes. Yes, we can pay. Of course we can pay.”

  “Treatment is four thousand Sols to be paid prior to treatment.”

  “Four—” Garrett paused, “We can’t afford that. Look, we’re Boeki, we’re good for credit. You know that.”

  The medic shook her head. “I’m sorry you’ll have to leave if you can’t pay up-front.”

  “I don't have that kind of money.”

  “Then you'll have to leave.”

  “But Ifan’s dying. Ifan’s fucking dying,” he pleaded, his eyes wide with desperation.

  Three guards emerged from a side-door and seized the pair by the arms, dragging them onto the street, locking the door behind them as they went back inside.

  “You bastards,” Garrett shouted as his friend fell lifeless in his arms.

  Garrett watched the riots from the second level of a trading house in the market district. Stores had been broken into and looted, their fittings strewn haphazardly along the boulevard. He’d watched as raiders went by on a path of aimless destruction, armed gangs following behind, searching buildings for anything of use — food, tools, clothing, people. Everything else, they smashed or burned.

  He’d barricaded himself into the room for more than a week and the stench of Ifan’s swollen corpse had made Garrett resolve that morning to leave. He knew that if he could just make it back to the ship and launch it into orbit, he would be safe. There were enough food supplies to last the journey for two back to Lunar, but he knew the ship’s fuel levels were too low to make the journey. He hoped the ship hadn't been damaged by the looters.

  Picking up his bag and jacket, he looked around the room. He ate the last of the food the previous evening, but had two litres of water remaining. He figured that he could probably make the water last for another two or three days.

  Dragging the chair aside from the door, Garrett listened for a moment and looked back at Ifan. “Goodbye,” he said in low voice.

  Garrett made his way down the stairwell to the ground floor on tiptoes and wrinkled his nose at the foul stench of burnt rubber and rotting food. He stepped through a doorway to find the main floor of the trading house had been ransacked. He shivered.

  Leaning out of the trading house's main entrance, he felt an uneasy sensation as he looked up at the flickering daylight lamps and realised the docking area was at least three-kilometres away.

  He kept his head down and jogged past the rows of smashed-up shops and offices, shielding his nose with his forearm from the stench of raw sewerage. It struck Garrett at that moment how quickly things can change. This boulevard was the most desirable and exclusive place across the Union — the culmination of ambition, the home of power, the flowers of greed — but now it was the site of destruction and degradation.

  Crouching, Garrett pocketed a makeshift blade he spotted next to a pile of refuse. He looked around for the ambush, but all was quiet.

  Keeping close to a wall as he jogged, he slowed as he heard echoes of a distant assault. Noticing an open door to the adjacent building, he snuck inside and made his way up a ladder to the roof.

  Prone, he crawled to the end of rooftop and surveyed the scene before him. He held his breath and watched a group of five adults, armed with clubs, standing over a beaten body. They were around two-hundred metres ahead, he estimated. Looking across the rooftops, he realised that he would have to drop down to the ground level at some point soon if he was going to make any more progress towards the docking area.

  Garrett waited and considered his next move. Peeking over the rooftop, he watched as the gang strip the body of clothes, shoes, a bottle of water, and a club. He shuffled along the rooftop, making his way closer and closer to the gang a the rough concrete tore at his elbows. He looked over the edge.

  The gang had moved. They were heading in the same direction as Garrett. They slowly increased their distance away from him, turning over anything they passed, flipping objects with their feet. He decided to follow the gang at a distance, so as not to be spotted.

  Raising the steel hatch at his feet, Garrett stepped down the stairwell of what would have been a shop or cafe. He paused, listening, then slowly pushed open a door to
a teahouse. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and realised the shop front was sealed from the outside by shutters.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” a wild-eyed man growled as he brandished a large knife.

  Garrett raised his hands. “I didn’t realise—”

  “What the fuck are you doing? How did you get in here?”

  “Please, I’m not here to harm you, I’m just trying to get back to my ship.”

  “You are a fucking liar. I will kill you.”

  As Garrett’s eyes adjusted, he recognised the man. “You own the teahouse. We sold tea to you.” The man considered him for a moment, knife still raised.

  “Please,” Garrett pleaded. “I’ve been avoiding the gangs by going over the rooftops. I didn’t think there was anyone—”

  “You’re Boeki. I remember you. Where is your friend?” The man glanced past Garrett’s shoulder.

  “Someone stabbed him, he’s—”

  Garrett felt a rush of relief as the man lowered his knife. “They’re fuckers. This place has gone completely to shit. All my customers fled on the first shuttle to Lunar. Could I afford to leave? Could anyone who works on this piece of shit?” He spat on the floor. “Of course not.”

  “You’re welcome to join me on my ship. I don’t have much fuel, but we can stay in orbit until we’re picked up.”

  The man sat down at a table and gestured to Garrett. “Please, sit with me.”

  Garrett pulled up a chair and sat across from the man, one eye on the knife.

  “This is all I have — this is my life. I have no money, no family and nowhere to go.” The man sighed, gently fingering his blade.

  “I’m Garrett Priddy.”

  The man looked up. “Dilly La’La.”

  “Where’s that name from originally? It’s very unusual.”

  “My grandfather made it up,” Dilly shrugged. “He opened this teahouse. He thought it sounded aristocratic. It’s fucking ridiculous.”

  “You know, your knowledge of tea would be really usefully to the Boeki.”

  “And spend my life on a fucking ship? Thank you, but no. I’d sooner slice my wrists and die here than live that sort of life.”

  “It’s not as bad as all that.”

  “Would you like a tea?”

  “Thank you, but I really must get moving. Is there anyone next door?”

  “I don’t know. I heard a gang trying to smash up the place a few days ago. They tried to get in here too, but the security has held so far.”

  Garrett stood and held out his hand. “Dilly. Good luck and thanks for not stabbing me.”

  Dilly laughed. “And thank you for not raiding my shop.”

  Garrett smiled and climbed back up the stairwell and onto the roof. Lying down on his belly, he crawled to the edge again. The gang were out of sight. “Damn it.”

  He felt a cold sweat spread over him as his heart-rate slowed. He needed to be more careful — he was lucky to still be alive.

  With care, he crawled along the roof to the next stairwell and the hatch opened without resistance. Quietly, he edged down the steps, his blade drawn in readiness. A scuttling cockroach startled him. He jerked back as his heart pounded in his chest.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, he tapped open a door. A leather goods shop lay ransacked, with the contents baskets and shelves spread along the tiled floor. He waited as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, his breath deep, his fingers shaking. Blinking against the the swirls of eddying dust, he scanned the debris, but the gangs had already taken anything he could use.

  He stepped to the outer door to find it jammed. Pushing against it with his shoulder, he shoved against it until the door moved just enough to squeeze through. A plume of billowing smoke rose from the end of the opposite row of shops. He felt the silence.

  Moving to a jog, he took a left turn to a field of scorched grass and fallen trees, ancient oaks and poplars twisted to broken charcoal. He passed torn-up shrubs and clumps of grass as the daylight lamps sparked and crackled above. The distant smell of roasted meat brought out a rumble in his belly. He struggled to recall when he had last eaten.

  Garrett could feel the dirt in his fingers as he ducked behind a tree stump and heard a loud snap behind him. The gang came into view.

  Shivering from the cold and fresh surge of adrenaline, he struggled against his body to suppress a cough. Covering his mouth, his chest convulsed as a deep choking cough erupted and echoed around the garden. He closed his eyes.

  Whispers from the gang were all around him as five members spread out as they hunted their prey. They were about a hundred or so metres away.

  Garrett coughed again, this time, louder. He bolted to his feet and ran. He did not look back.

  Shouts boomed behind him as the gang gave chase. He stumbled over fallen limbs and cried out in pain as a small tree stump caught him on the shin.

  A row of bushes curved to a point leading to an obscured door. He burst through to a one of the orbiter’s main stairwells. Vaulting over the banister, he jarred his knee as he landed. But kept running through the pain.

  Limping, he heard the gang gaining ground. He pushed through a black door to the food storage. Holding his hand over his nose to block the stench of rotting food, he darted past rows of dead refrigerators, their glass doors shattered and hanging off their hinges.

  “There he is,” a voice called behind him.

  “Fuck,” Garrett grunted, his face etched with the pain in his right leg as he pushed through a second door.

  He struggled as he climbed a thin set of stairs. Reaching the top step, a hand clasped around his ankle. Kicking wildly, he caught the young woman in the face with his boot and watched she fell back.

  “Leave me the fuck alone,” Garrett growled, as he drew his blade and backed through a door.

  Slamming the door behind him, he breathed heavily as he raced across the loading dock. His ship came into view and fell to his knees. The ship had been gutted, its hull broken down to a burnt-out shell of bare wires and supporting metal struts and beams. The bare concrete of the loading floor was scattered with glittering debris and the splinters of overturned crates. Twisting his body, he looked around in panic as the gang circled him. Curling into a ball, he cringed and writhed as the first blow struck hard against the back of his head.

  Confused, Garrett emerged from unconsciousness and looked across the docking area, his eyes widening at the carnage all around him. Scores of bodies peppered with holes and soaked in blood lay lifeless around him.

  With bruised ribs and a shattered right hand, he grunted as he was helped to his feet by a pair of bulky men in unfamiliar black uniforms.

  “What happened?” he asked, his voice scratching through the pain in his chest. He regarded the pair for a long moment. “Who are you people?”

  The first man stared at him coldly.

  Garrett rotated his shoulders and breathed deeply. He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I'm confused. What happened?”

  “There's no confusion. We answered a call from a United Solar Affiliate for urgent assistance. We are only sorry that it took so long.”

  Garrett reached up to his chin but scowled as he was hit by a stab of pain in his hand. “The gang?” Hee looked down and recognised one of the bodies of his attackers. “I'm sorry. This is all a bit—”

  “If there is anything you need to collect, we are taking any Affiliates left on V5 to Lunar.”

  “My partner.”

  “Where is your partner?”

  “He— He died.”

  The officers looked at each other and back at Garrett.

  “We only have room for live Affiliates.”

  Garrett nodded. “I understand.” He looked around the loading dock —at the bodies, his gutted ship, the bodies.”Was all this really necessary?”

  “Absolutely,” said the first officer flatly.

  “Could you not have imprisoned them?”

  “And fed them, clothed them, processed them — for how long an
d where?” The officer shook his head. “No. Our actions were absolutely necessary and ordered directly by Secretary Ozu himself.”

  “But all this death—”

  “All of our actions were perfectly legal under United Solar law,” the officer said. “As an Affiliate, we have orders to offer you safe passage to Lunar.”

  Garrett nodded slowly. “My hand's in a pretty bad way.”

  “We have rescued some Muedin officers who are on board our ship — I'm sure they'll help you.”

  “Hmm, I'm sure they will.”

  Molotok, en route to Lunar

  Garrett was naked with his arms at his side, gritting his teeth as the drill entered his chest. Although the surgery drone had numbed his ribs with anaesthetic, its manipulators tugged at his flesh. The drone filled in his broken bones with a warm gel that set solid within seconds. The drone pulled out and sealed the wound on Garrett's chest with a laser. He winced at the smell of burning flesh.

  The medical room had white walls and a grey floor. He turned and frowned at the queue of other patients waiting along the wall and into the corridor. A Fune engineer with blue coveralls coughed and spluttered something thick and green onto the floor, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve and gave an apologetic shrug.

  The drone was as tall as Garrett and reminded him of a headless torso. It had four mechanical arms mounted with various drills, lasers, clamps and blades. Its surface was a dull cream criss-crossed by rubber tubes. It hissed and gurgled as it wiped the blood from Garrett's chest.

  With a smooth, fluid motion, the drone's manipulator picked up Garrett's right hand. A shot of pain ran up his arm, so the drone pumped more meds into his upper-arm with a quick pin-prick.

  “Careful,” he muttered.

  The drone worked quickly, it made subtle adjustments to Garrett's finger bones and sealed the fractures with gel. He sighed when the drone pulled away, relieved.

  He turned his right hand, flexing his fingers, curling them into a fist. He pulled on his dirty coveralls — the pain was gone.