by Estes, David
While they’re distracted, he should just tell Check what happened. I held hands with Luce. Luce held hands with me. We…like each other. I’m sorry, Check. So sorry. It’s not like I planned it.
His mouth opens, he licks his lips, says, “I—”
The volume jumps sharply, booming from the speakers. “Although an official Pop Con statement released earlier this morning claims their analysts haven’t made further progress on identifying the Slip, we have just received contradicting information from an anonymous source.”
“Stupid malfunctioning holo-screen,” Check mutters. “Volume, ten percent.” Benson and Check are on the edge of their seats, waiting to hear what the anonymous source says about the Slip investigation. Even Rod and Gonzo stop their pushup battle to watch and listen.
The reporter, a silver-haired man with a bronze tan and artificially smooth skin, pauses for effect and then says, “Our source claims the Slip is a teenager.”
“Crap,” Check says.
“No way,” Rod says.
Gonzo drops, does another pushup, and says, “Victoria!”
Benson just gapes at the screen, wondering how this could’ve happened on his father’s watch. His heart skips a beat. A teenager? Wait, it couldn’t mean…could it?
“Although Pop Con analysts are still trying to determine the exact age of the Slip, they’re fairly certain it’s a male between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. Our source has promised us exclusive information as the investigation progresses.”
As the news returns to the unexpected firing of Corrigan Mars and Domino Destovan, Gonzo and Rod continue arguing, and Benson and Check look at each other. “Heads are gonna roll,” Check says.
“What do you mean?” Benson says. A grotesque image of his father holding his own head in his hands pops into his head. He cringes and blinks it away.
Check gawks at him like he’s the one holding his own head. “A teenage Slip? Letting an Unauthorized Being get this far is a disaster. Not only will it encourage others to risk unauthorized births with the hope that they’ll slip through the cracks in the system, but it undermines the authority of the government. It also proves that the delicate population balance isn’t so delicate after all. I mean, no one starved because of one lousy Slip. In fact, it’s more likely that the Slip has been struggling to feed himself all these years.”
Benson chews on his friend’s words. Does one illegal kid really mean that much? And how did his father manage to miss this one? Unless… The memory of the first time he saw his father get drunk rises to the surface of his mind. It was just after they caught the last Slip, the five-year-old girl. A burst of loneliness explodes in his chest. How could he have kept so many secrets from the five people he trusts more than anything? He has the desire to spill his guts, to tell them everything, including his suspicions about what he really is, starting with how he and Luce held hands.
The door opens and Luce walks in, trailed closely by Geoffrey. Their eyes meet and his lips quiver as he tries—and fails—to suppress his grin. She smiles, too, her eyes sparkling like blue diamonds.
“Hey, Luce,” Check says. She flinches, as if only just noticing that Benson’s not the only one in the room.
Benson understands exactly. The thrill of seeing her for the first time since the previous night fizzles in Benson’s chest, because he realizes that when she walked in, the entire room disappeared and it was just them. He made his friends disappear.
He looks at his hands, ashamed.
“Uh, hey,” she says.
“Any luck?” Check asks. There’s a thud as Rod and Gonzo’s argument transitions into a full-on wrestling match.
Benson feels her eyes boring into the side of his head, but he can’t bring himself to meet her gaze.
There’s an awkward silence, but then Geoffrey says, “Aw man, you should’ve seen it! We Picked one rich old woman when she was screaming at her valet, then a guy the second he stepped from his aut-car, and finished by pulling the old trip-’n-Pick on a businessman in a twenty-thousand-dollar suit. Total take was eight hundred.”
Gonzo manages to squeeze from the headlock Rod’s got him in for long enough to say, “Rock on, pequeno amigo.”
Check says, “Beautiful and talented.” Everyone in the room knows he’s not talking about Geoffrey. Benson’s cheeks feel like they’re about to spontaneously combust. He finds a hangnail that’s particularly interesting and tries to focus on that.
“Breaking news,” the reporter says, pulling everyone’s attention to the screen. His Picking conquests momentarily forgotten, Geoffrey sits cross-legged on the floor. Luce flops down between Benson and Check, the hand on Benson’s side so close, easily within touching distance. In a perfect world, he’d reach out and grab it. But then he sees that her other hand is in her lap, almost reaching across to her other side, as if purposely keeping it as far away from Check as possible.
Benson tries to focus on the screen, where the same silver-haired reporter is reading notes that a mechanical arm has only just placed in front of him.
“A credible anonymous source claims to know the identity of the Slip, or at least the false identity illegally created in the Pop Con system. As I’m sure all of our viewers know, UnBees and Slips do not legally have names or identities.” The reporter lets that sink in, still scanning his notes. Benson feels Luce’s fingers graze his thigh. He jerks his head to see if Check noticed, but his full attention is on the reporter.
His eyes meet Luce’s and a thousand words seem to pass between them, sending Benson’s thoughts swirling like a tornado.
The reporter continues, drawing Benson away from his muddled mind. “There’s no real photo in the system for the Slip, although there’s a doctored image that’s clearly a fake. That’s one of the warning flags that were raised during a random auto-scan that specifically seeks to identify potential Slips.” Clearly the reporter is trying to draw out the story, withholding the name until the moment of maximum suspense.
“Out with it,” Check mutters. He glances at Benson, who pretends not to notice, thankful that Luce’s hand is safely away from his thigh.
“Authorities believe the Slip is sixteen years old, the oldest Slip ever identified,” the reporter continues, building up the facts like he’s constructing a tower out of toy blocks.
“Bot-lickers,” Geoffrey says. “He’s as old as you guys.”
“Language, Geoff,” Lucy warns.
Benson doesn’t admit he was thinking the exact same thing.
“The name was created eight years ago and pinned to a retina ID. According to our source, the retina ID is assumed to be fake, as well as the name.”
“I’m bored,” Gonzo says.
“You’re always bored,” Rod says. “Now silencio, we’re trying to listen.”
“The assumed name of the Slip is…”
The entire room—save for perhaps Gonzo, who’s in the process of tying his shoes together—seems to hold their collective breaths. At least Benson knows that because of his father it won’t be him—can never be him.
“…Benson Mack,” the reporter says.
~~~
Past article from the Saint Louis Times:
Street Punks Reign in Saint Louis
Recent statistics show that petty crime by ‘Pickers’ has increased significantly over the last year, forcing Pop Con to raise the sentence for offenders over age twelve to a minimum eight years in prison, which will potentially result in termination for repeat offenders under the new prison overflow laws. However, those accused will still be entitled to a trial and sentencing, unlike those who commit population control crimes, who will continue to be terminated upon capture.
“Our dedication to keeping our streets clean is one thousand percent,” Mayor Strombaugh was quoted as saying. “We believe harsher penalties for Picking will help protect the people of Saint Louis, as well as lead to a greater number of birth authorizations for our deserving, law-abiding citizens.
Michael Ke
lly, the Head of Pop Con, was not available for comment.
Have a comment on this article? Speak them into your holo-screen now. NOTE: All comments are subject to government screening. Those comments deemed to be inappropriate or treasonous in nature will be removed immediately and appropriate punishment issued.
Comments:
SandraWilson3: I had my LifeCard stolen while walking through the Tube. Thank you for taking this danger seriously.
TheodoreDawes11: Can’t wait for my wife and me to move up on the Prisoner Overflow List!
JasonHughes1: Comment removed and disciplinary action taken.
StarHeaven: Mayor Strommy is SO CUTE!
Chapter Twenty-Five
If the Destroyer wasn’t so pissed, he’d be confused as hell. In his current state, however, all he wants are some freaking answers.
“Why was I fired?” he says.
Corrigan Mars stares straight ahead. “Mr. Kelly isn’t thinking clearly.”
“Was this because of last night?”
Corr’s head snaps toward him. “What happened last night?”
Stupid mouth. The Destroyer tries to get control of his temper, which will only cause him to make stupid decisions, say stupid things. “Uh, nothing. Just a disagreement with Michael Kelly. I thought it was resolved.” Obviously if any of this was about what happened with the cruel but gorgeous assistant and her dumbass boyfriend he would’ve been arrested instead of fired. And after what he did with their bodies, the world may never know what really happened to them.
He almost smiles at the thought. It was the first time he’d killed anyone he wasn’t ordered to kill. And yet, they were just as deserving of death as the others.
Corr holds his stare for a moment, as if trying to read his mind. Finally, he looks away and says, “Yeah, me too.” He folds his hands together. God, that man’s eyebrows are bushy, the Destroyer thinks, wondering how he didn’t notice it until now. Then again, until yesterday and today, he’d never been in such close proximity.
“Why am I here then?” he asks. He braces himself with his metal arm as the car takes a corner with heart-pumping speed. The aut-car seems to be breaking every single traffic law ever created. It gives him a pointless blaze of satisfaction being a part of it.
“You may be officially ‘fired,’”—Corr makes air quotes with his fingers, as if the word is something a child would say—“but unofficially your employment begins now.”
“I don’t understand. Why would I want to work unofficially?” Whatever that even means.
“Because you’ll be working directly for me. No more small-minded imbeciles like Hodge. No more having to answer for every little decision you make. You get the job done, and I won’t ask how. You see, Destroyer”—he can’t help but smile at the nickname—“you’ll be free, completely off the books.”
He mulls it over, wondering how he could possibly be this lucky. Because I’m a freaking rock star, he thinks to himself. “What do you want me to do?” he asks.
“Kill the damn Slip.”
He doesn’t flinch, savoring the moment, which feels as if he’s standing on a mountain peak. “What are the rules?” he asks.
“I want this done quickly and outside of official channels. There are no rules.”
“When do I start?”
“Immediately. My own private Hawk has already located a potential match for the target, the name Benson Mack coming up numerous times from holo-ad eye-scans near a known hideout for undesirables, well-hidden from thermal sensors. The Crows have been watching it for a few weeks, hoping it would lead to a larger group.”
“Won’t Pop Con move on it first?” He’s having trouble grasping the fact that he no longer works for Pop Con.
“Michael Kelly is spineless. He screwed up the last Slip hunt, and he’ll screw up this one, too. We’re the only hope for the city. You in?” Corrigan Mars smiles.
The Destroyer smiles back.
~~~
Her face is so gaunt and pale that Harrison wonders whether he’s got the wrong room. Wearing all red and sitting on the bed with her shoes on, the woman’s lips are parted slightly, in what he thinks is meant to be a smile. A smile by someone who has forgotten how to smile.
But then he sees her eyes and all is remembered. Staring into those crystal-blue orbs, slightly wet with moisture, he finds the woman who raised him, who sang him soft lullabies when he was just a stupid kid afraid of the dark, who cut his hair and tucked him in, and never missed one of his hoverball games, even when he was only six and could barely balance on his board.
She blinks and that woman disappears, the brilliant color of her eyes faded with madness, the whites a web of red veins. He wonders whether he’s made a huge mistake in coming here.
“Son, is that really you?” she asks. Her voice is scratchy, kilometers away from her singing voice, which was always soothing to his ears.
“Hi, Mom,” he says.
She reaches for him, as if her gesture might draw him closer, but when he closes the door and stands stock-still, her hand drops lifelessly to her lap.
He realizes why she’s forced to wear all red: So she’s easy to spot amongst the white walls and fluorescent lights.
This is going to be impossible.
He knows he can walk out right now and never look back, go back to his life as one of the most popular kids in school, win the State Championships, make out with Nadine on a daily basis. All that is waiting for him—and it’s not a bad life, right? Most kids would kill for his life. And yet, the temptation has lost its luster, maybe forever.
All that’s left is the truth, which, of course, gives him another option. He could demand that she tell him what she meant by her last words, and then he could leave, guilty of nothing but ditching school, a first-time offense that would get him a slap on the wrist and perhaps a shred of attention from his absent father.
“I’ve missed you, Harrison,” she says, and by the soft surrender in her voice he knows he’ll go through with his crazy plan no matter what the risks.
“I—” He doesn’t know what to say. His feet are stuck to the floor. Focus, he thinks to himself. He scans the room, which doesn’t have much to it. White walls, padded. White floor and ceiling, also padded. White sheets on the bed. His mother in all red—except for her white shoes—like a massive bloodstain. A large dark-purple half-sphere, attached to the high ceiling. An Eye, watching everything they do, maybe listening to everything they say.
He steps forward pretending not to notice it. Is the nice lady, Alice, watching his every move?
His mother’s arms are open, trembling slightly, as if anticipating an embrace. When he stops with his back to the camera, she stiffens and seems to hold her breath. He’s not here to comfort her, to tell her he’s sorry and that everything’s going to be okay. Maybe all that will come later, but he hasn’t thought that far ahead. No, he’s here for one reason and one reason alone.
Positioning his hand just in front of his chest, where the Eye won’t be able to see it, he uses the secret language his mother taught him when he was little: sign language. In slow, precise hand movements, he asks Do you want to leave? To anyone watching through the Eye, he’ll look like nothing more than an emotionally distraught teenager seeing his mother for the first time in years, unsure of how to approach her.
His mother raises a hand to her mouth and her eyes pool with tears. Fortunately for him, it’s the perfect response for anyone who might be watching. A mother, overcome with emotion at being reunited with her son. Then another perfect response: she nods.
Can I bring Zoran? she signs back.
The Eye will have seen that, but he’s guessing her strange hand movements will be laughed off as just another mark of her insanity. He shrugs, not understanding the question. Who’s Zoran except a character from a silly children’s holo-screen program? He didn’t have time for such mindless crap growing up. His days were full of friends and sports and school.
She holds up a watch. Zo
ran’s strong, stern expression stares at him from the glass face, behind the clock’s hands, which aren’t moving. Oh. Is he really ready for this? He wonders whether breaking her out is the easy part; looking after a crazy woman who treats a watch like a person may be the real challenge.
He nods and she cradles the watch like it’s a baby, rubbing its glass face with a single finger. God. He snaps his fingers to get her attention. “Mom, I’ve missed you,” he says, intending it only for the Eye and whoever’s behind it.
She straightens up, her eyes still glistening. “Harrison, I—you’re so grown up,” she says.
“No thanks to you,” he says coldly, so that anyone watching will think the reunion’s about to go awry. It doesn’t hurt that the emotions behind his words are real.
She flinches, as if he’s slapped her. “I—I—”
“You left me.”
“They took us.” She motions to Zoran, as if he’s as much a victim as her.
“You gave them no other choice,” Harrison says loudly, gritting his teeth. He starts pacing, which is meant to be all for show, but the movement helps to calm his racing heart. He stops suddenly, running his hands through his hair for effect. “I—I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t come here for this.” I came here to get you out, he signs. Follow my lead. We need a diversion.
Her eyes lock on his, and she starts to scream.
~~~
Although Harrison was the one who asked for a diversion, his eyes widen and stare at her the same way all the other’s do: As if she’s the largest nut on the nut farm.
But Janice doesn’t stop screaming, even when he backs away, stopping only when his back bounces off the padded wall. Don’t be scared of your mother, she wants to say. Instead, she signs, A diversion.
He looks confused, but then seems to realize what she’s getting at. A look of appreciation flashes across his face, but then, when the door opens, he reverts back to a horrified expression.