Grip (The Slip Trilogy Book 2)

by David Estes

  He stops, clearly seeing something unexpected in Benson’s expression. Benson says nothing.

  “Wait—you’re going after him to stop him, aren’t you?” Check asks.

  Benson says nothing.

  “Benson, I won’t do it. I can’t help you do something that makes no sense, that I don’t believe in. Your Death Match was supposed to die a long time ago. He’s a hundred years old.”

  “A hundred and one,” Rod corrects.

  “Whatever,” Check says. “He’s lived a long life. His last two decades of life should’ve been yours. It’s time to take them back.”

  Benson cringes. “This is exactly what I mean. If we start thinking and acting like Pop Con then they’ve already won, don’t you see that? By killing my Death Match we’re playing by their rules, admitting that we have no choice in the matter. We have to be better than that. Better than them. The Lifers are just a different version of the same problem.”

  Check shakes his head angrily. “You’re wrong, Benson,” he says. “You’ll realize that eventually. But I won’t go with you to stop Harrison. I can’t. I’m joining the Lifers.”

  “Me, too,” Rod says.

  “Ditto,” Gonzo says.

  Benson nods once. He didn’t expect them to come. Didn’t want them to come. He almost laughs as he realizes the lie. Deep down, he desperately wanted them to come with him. He doesn’t want to be alone with his new friend. His new friend, Grief, isn’t comforting or friendly or warm. Grief doesn’t offer a shoulder to cry on. Grief is as cold as ice and as sharp as daggers. The prospect of travelling alone with Grief is almost enough to convince Benson to go against everything he believes in and join the Lifers, too. Almost enough.

  “I understand,” Benson says. “I need you to do something for me.”

  Check says, “Anything.”

  “Look after Geoffrey,” Benson says. “He’s young and angry and in need of some good friends right now. Luce trusted me with his life, which means I can’t bring him with me. He’s safer with the Lifers, for now at least.”

  “Of course,” Check says. “He’ll be safe with us. We’ll keep him well away from the action.”

  Benson puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he says. He embraces each of them, wondering whether he’ll ever see them again.

  ~~~

  Janice didn’t know that when Harrison told her to say sorry to Benson, that he was apologizing to her, too.

  Now she gets it.

  The thought makes her claw at her arms and pull at her hair.

  Her son is gone. Benson told her shortly after she delivered Harrison’s message. The message that meant Harrison was gone. Although Benson tried to explain it to her—about Michael’s plan for getting Benson a birth authorization and his dud Death Match—she still doesn’t really understand it. All she understands is that she no longer has her two sons together again.

  And that makes her want to launch Zoran across the room. She raises him, the watch clenched so tightly between her fingers that it hurts, picks a spot to aim for on the far wall, and—

  Stops.

  Zoran says, Tick?

  She says, “Shut up, my son is here.”

  Benson comes to her, his eyes red, like they always are lately. And she knows.

  She knows.

  He wants to leave her, too.

  “I’m not crazy,” she says, before he can say anything.

  He stops, surprised, his mouth falling open a little. “I—”

  “Okay, I am crazy,” Janice says. “But not for loving my boys. That’s not…” The word seems to get stuck in her mouth. “Not. Not. NOT. NOT!”

  “Not crazy,” Benson agrees.

  “You said it,” Janice agrees back. “You said it like a three-armed monkey in a tree. Like a stale peppercorn cracker. Like a—”

  “Mom,” Benson says, and hearing her son call her that again stops her, like a calming wind washing over her face. The single word spoken by her lost son seems to penetrate her ears, her eyes, her nose, and her mouth, rushing into her skull, smoothing out the parts of her brain that are tangled and knotted. “Mom, I’m going to find Harrison. I’ll bring him back. I promise.”

  “You can’t,” Janice says.

  “What?” Benson says. For a moment he’s her husband, wearing the same expression he used to when something didn’t make sense to him. An unintentional dimple in one cheek. Thick, down-turned eyebrows casting shadows across his turquoise eyes. His head, cocked at the slightest of angles, not quite bird-like but not far from it either. He doesn’t understand what she means, just like her husband never did.

  “Sorry,” she says. “My words sometimes find the wrong ears.” She remembers the way he called her Mom, letting the essence of the word flow over her brain. Some words come to her, but she discards them because they sound like something her husband would say. And he never said the right thing. New words appear and she decides to test them out, one at a time. “You. Can. Go. But. I. Will. Come. With. You.” They felt good on her tongue but she thinks it might be weird that she started and ended with the same word. She watches closely for Benson’s reaction.

  He shakes his head. Bad words, she thinks. Bad words make my son’s head shake. “Thank you, Mom,” he says, which makes her pause. Maybe the words weren’t bad after all. Maybe they were the best words she’s ever spoken. Maybe— “But I have to do this alone. I can’t put your life at risk. My life has already done too much damage.”

  “Damage?” she says. “Your life is the only thing left that heals.”

  Benson bites his lip and it’s another familiar expression. Something Michael did? Or Harrison, maybe? She can’t remember, which makes her want to pound her fist against her head. “Thank you for saying that, Mom,” Benson says. Something changes in his demeanor. His shoulders slump. He sighs. Sad but relieved at the same time. “We’ll leave in a few hours. Once we can get packed up.”

  “We’ll find Harrison?” she asks.

  “We’ll find him,” Benson says. “Let’s just hope we’re not too late.”

  ~~~

  Private Forum for Agriculturists, by invite only:

  Password required: **********

  Password accepted, access granted.

  JoseCuervo: Hello?

  SamAdams: I’m here.

  BloodyMary: Me too.

  JoseCuervo: Where’s ShirleyTemple?

  SamAdams: Haven’t heard from her.

  BloodyMary: She’s always late.

  JoseCuervo: Yeah, but we were all late. She’s never this late.

  BloodyMary: You don’t think that with Refuge being taken out that…

  JoseCuervo: No. No way. But that could be why she’s late. She’s probably dealing with a lot right now. SamAdams, how did all this happen?

  SamAdams: I’ve got access to a lot, but Corrigan Mars has an inner circle now. He’s always sneaking off and I’ve been unable to follow him. The attack on Refuge was all planned from outside of Pop Con. I didn’t even know it was happening until it was already over.

  BloodyMary: When will you know if ShirleyTemple was amongst the dead?

  SamAdams: By tomorrow at the latest.

  BloodyMary: But what if…

  JoseCuervo: There’s no point in speculating.

  SamAdams: Let’s start and maybe she’ll log on later. Do you have any more info on where the excess food is going?

  JoseCuervo: It’s not going into the domestic system, I can tell you that much.

  BloodyMary: What? But that means…international?

  JoseCuervo: Exactly. We’re selling it.

  SamAdams: To whom?

  JoseCuervo: I’m still working on it. I almost got caught just getting this info. Security clearance for this project is at the highest levels.

  BloodyMary: I should say so considering the RUSA is supposed to have an isolationist policy across the board. No exports. No exceptions.

  Sam Adams: Especially food. We’re not even supposed to have
enough food to feed our own citizens, much less other countries.

  JoseCuervo: But we do. And we are.

  SamAdams: BloodyMary, what’s the real story behind the nuclear testing in the Pacific?

  BloodyMary: I’m not sure, but something’s not right. The official line from the government is that no one is claiming responsibility. But you know what they say about something that gets repeated more times than is necessary…

  SamAdams: Yeah, it’s usually a lie.

  BloodyMary: Exactly.

  JoseCuervo: OK. See what you can find out. And SamAdams, see if ShirleyTemple is on the list of those killed in Refuge.

  SamAdams: I will. Tomorrow same time?

  JoseCuervo: Affirmative.

  ***Chat terminated by chat leader***

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Under the wan faux-light of dusk, Saint Louis, the city that once felt like home to Harrison, looks like the gray skeleton of a strange, long-dead beast. They’re only on the outskirts, but the buildings are so drab and crumbling that it’s hard to believe the center of the city is full of gloss and shine. It’s like digging through a mound of ash from a burned down building to find the five carat diamond that survived the fire, only to find the jewel is really nothing more than fake, cubic zirconia.

  It’s depressing. Harrison can’t imagine what it would be like to live in this part of town, like Benson had been since he was only eight years old. It’s a different world.

  “How did you do it?” Harrison asks Destiny, removing his night-vision goggles when they stop in an alleyway to rest their tired legs and rehydrate.

  “Do what?” she asks, pulling her own goggles away, her dark eyes hidden from him in the shadows.

  “Survive this long,” he says. “Not go crazy. Keep going.”

  Instead of answering, she asks, “Would you have given up?”

  The truth is, he doesn’t know. Her world is a mystery to him, and for all he knows, he would’ve curled up in a ball and sucked his thumb if he were in her shoes. He laughs at his absurd thoughts, because he never sucked his thumb as a kid, and he never slept curled up, always sticking to corpse-style, on his back, arms at his side. “I guess I would’ve fought back,” he says.

  “Then you’d be dead now,” she says.

  “Probably,” he says.

  “Definitely,” she says. “Running and hiding is the only way to survive as a Slip.”

  The thought makes him feel sick. If Benson had been the newborn to push and shove his way to the front of the line and been born two minutes before him, Harrison would be dead. Because he knows he wouldn’t have been able to run and hide. Even now, lurking in the shadows, he feels claustrophobic. The streetlights are calling to him, and he wants nothing more than to rush out of the alley, wave his hands over his head, and scream, “I’m here, I’m here! The champion hoverball player is here and ready to go back to being the most popular kid in school!”

  No, he would’ve fought back. Somehow. And Pop Con would’ve killed him for it.

  “Do you believe in fate?” he asks.

  He wishes he could see her expression, see the way her cute lips purse as she considers his question. Instead he settles for listening to her breathe in the dark, her flutter-soft exhalations full of secrets into her soul. “If fate decides who lives and dies, who’s legal and who’s not, then no, I don’t believe in fate.”

  “Good,” he says. “Neither do I.” Harrison knows he’s made his own fate his entire life, and he’s not about to stop now.

  They rest for a while, not speaking, sipping water and resting their backs against the hard wall. Just listening to the night. A Crow aut-car screams past, sirens blaring and blue lights flashing. A group of drunken merrymakers rustle by, laughing and clinking bottles. A few holo-ads creep past, hovering, and they hold their collective breaths, for fear of being discovered. According to Benson, even the holo-ads are on Pop Con’s payroll these days. If one of the ads were to scan either of their eyes, they’d be caught within minutes, or even seconds.

  But the ads move past without stopping, off to find a consumer to sell something to.

  Eventually they fall asleep, a slim barrier of nothingness between them. Two lost souls, separated by an entire world.

  When Harrison awakes, the thick blanket of night has given way to a fuzzy dawn, like the head of a baby chick, faint wispy yellow and carrying a subtle sort of natural beauty. Destiny’s cheek is on his shoulder and his arm is roped around her. He doesn’t remember that happening, but he certainly doesn’t mind it. Although there’s a chill in the air, her body feels warm against his side, preventing the cold from seeping into either of their bones. Even still, it’s only going to keep getting colder, and if they’re still alive tonight, they’ll have to find a warmer place to crash.

  When he runs his knuckles along her collarbone, she flinches and her eyes flash open. For a moment she registers fear, but then her expression softens. “Sorry,” she says, lifting her head from his shoulder.

  “It was for survival, remember? Body heat and all that.”

  She offers a wry smile. “Of course. And how many girls have you offered your body heat to? For survival?”

  “None as pretty as you,” he says.

  “The latest one is always the prettiest,” she says, but he can tell his compliment hits home because she can’t look him in the eyes, her eyelashes bashful.

  “Not always,” he says. “But in this case…”

  “Thank you,” she says, finally accepting the compliment and meeting his gaze. This time he’s the one forced to look away, her soft brown eyes seeming to suck the breath from his lungs. “What’s the plan?” she asks, after his gaze settles on a mess of innuendo-filled graffiti on the far wall of the alley.

  “We’re going to need help,” Harrison says.

  “I think we’ve burned all the bridges to Helpville,” Destiny says.

  “Just the new ones,” Harrison says slyly. “The old ones are still firmly intact.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Sometimes years of friendship trump everything else. Even fate. My best friend will help us.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At school,” Harrison says, meeting her eyes. It’s weird for him to think about school, a place that suddenly seems so far away from his life that it might be a fairytale place akin to Oz or Wonderland.

  She frowns and scrunches up her tiny nose, which only makes her cuter. “You’ll be seen,” she says. “We’ll be caught for sure.”

  “We’re not going to find him at school,” Harrison says, grinning. “It’s Friday night. We’ll catch him after the hoverball game.”

  ~~~

  He’s basically being kept in a dungeon. Domino feels like a beast that’s chained to the wall, released only when his master has someone for him to kill. His chains aren’t visible, but they’re there all the same, just the push of a button away.

  Corrigan Mars is so close the Destroyer could kill him in less than two seconds.

  If only he could get him away from that damn controller. But Mars seems to realize the threat the Destroyer represents, clutching the controller in his palm like his life depends on it. Which is exactly right.

  “I want to hunt the Slips solo,” Dom says.

  “You have a whole team,” Mars says. “Use them.”

  “They’re useless,” Dom says. They don’t respect me. He doesn’t say the second part out loud, but he knows it’s true. He heard the whispered cyborg jokes and it’s all he could do to grit his teeth and ignore them.

  “They’re our top Hunters,” Mars says. “You’re their leader. Use them.”

  The Destroyer’s metal fists clench and he takes a step forward. Mars holds the controller up and waves it casually. A warning. Back off.

  Domino sighs, a powerful exhalation that sounds like the whir of an aircraft preparing for flight. Even one of his lungs is artificial these days. “If you send me out solo, I promise you I’ll terminate them.”


  He waits for the rejection, but Mars just stares at him, his eyes cold black stones. Is he considering it?

  “You’ll wear a tracker and consent to the constant presence of a Hawk for aerial surveillance.”

  It’s not a question, but Domino feels compelled to nod. “Of course.”

  “Two days,” Mars says.

  “I won’t need that long,” Domino boasts.

  “Two days.”

  He nods.

  “Then you come straight back or I’ll tear you apart from the inside out.”

  “Yessir,” Domino says.

  “Get yourself prepped and outfitted, you’ll leave immediately. And remember, I’ll be watching your every move. Good luck.”

  “I won’t need luck,” the Destroyer says. But you will. The Destroyer knows that he will hunt down the Saint Louis Slip eventually. He’ll kill Benson Kelly just like he killed his girlfriend. But not yet.

  First he’s going to chew through his leash.

  Corrigan Mars is going to regret the day he decided to control Domino Destovan.

  ~~~

  Simon doesn’t try to stop Benson and his mother from leaving.

  “Will you get in trouble with Jarrod?” Benson asks. He plans to leave either way, but he’d rather not cause trouble for anyone else in the process.

  “Jarrod doesn’t own me,” Simon says. “And anyway, someone’s got to save your brother from himself.”

  Janice says, “Harrison’s ego is like quicksand.” Benson’s impressed by his mother’s comparison. Even Simon cocks an eyebrow in surprised appreciation.

  “I guess this is goodbye,” Benson says. “Thanks for not killing my brother when he probably deserved it.”

  “No problem,” Simon says. “But this isn’t goodbye. I’m coming with you.”

  “What?” Benson says sharply.

  “You might need some muscle along the way,” Simon says.

  “Muscle, bustle, hustle…mussel?” Janice says.

  “I can’t ask you to—” Benson starts to object.

  “You didn’t,” Simon says. “It’s my decision. Try to stop me.”