by Estes, David
Every year, however, his analysts got smarter and he grew more paranoid. He felt like a net was closing in. His son was in danger. If they found him, they wouldn’t just terminate the boy, but he and Janice, too. His other son, Harrison, would be thrust into the system. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to protect his family—all of them.
That’s when the doctor began blackmailing him. A million dollars wasn’t enough for him, he’d said. So Michael gave him another hundred K. A month later, he came back for more. Michael lied and said he needed a few days to scrounge together the money. He knew the doctor would never stop—that the threat would be eternal. He had to snuff it out.
Michael was deaf to the doctor’s pleas as he begged for his life. It wasn’t the time for mercy, not for a man who he was convinced would one day ruin his family. As his hands closed around the doctor’s neck, he shut his eyes and thought of his son; not Harrison, but the one with no name. He squeezed harder and it was soon over.
From that point on, he knew there would always be another threat, so long as his son was squirreled away in his secret house. There had to be another way.
Unbeknownst to Janice, Michael created a new plan. To teach his son to swim, to give him a new identity and the chance to live a full life, one outside of the backyard fence. He almost didn’t go through with it. If it wasn’t for his son’s insistence on learning to swim, he might never have let him go.
His biggest regret was lying to Janice. If she’d known the truth, however, he knew she’d have gone after her son. She’d have put them all in mortal danger. So he ripped apart the house and told her the authorities—his people—had killed their son.
And the lie drove her mad, something he never expected.
There’s a knock on his door, ripping him back to reality. “Yeah,” he says, still agonizing over whether he really needed to send his son away. Would Benson have been safer with him? After all, he’s still the Head of Pop Con. No one’s arrested him or suspected a thing.
The door opens and a head pops in. “Is now a good time, sir?” It’s one of his investigators, Jonas something-or-other, an intelligent thirty-year-old with good instincts and the courage of a mouse.
He waves him in. “Did you check on my assistant?”
Jonas steps inside, frowning at the question. “I’m afraid she’s missing, sir,” he says. “Neither she or her boyfriend are at home. There were no signs of forced entry or a struggle. They’re simply…gone.”
Lacey running off with her boyfriend is the least of his worries. “Okay. Thanks for checking in,” he says.
Jonas doesn’t leave.
“Is that all?” Michael Kelly asks.
“Um, no, sir,” he says. “Have you checked your holo-alerts today?”
Holo-alerts? Why would his investigator care about his virtual mail? “Not yet. I’ve been slightly busy.” He can’t keep the edge out of his voice.
“I’d check them, sir. There will be an official one from your office to your Pop Con registered virtual mail address. I noticed it when I was running some analysis on, well, I guess you’ll see soon enough.”
Michael raises his eyebrows as Jonas scurries from his office. He’s not really in the mood to stare at a bunch of pointless interoffice messages, but now he’s curious. “Holo-alerts,” he says. The screen flashes to life, a 3-D image of a building being constructed brick by brick projecting from the screen. Ten seconds later, when the building is complete, a sphere appears, floating in front of him. One half shows black message headers on various parts of the sphere’s surface, like countries on a globe, while the other half’s messages are in bold red font, designating them as unread. There are dozens in red, so he says, “Filter by sender. Head of Population Control.”
The sphere spins, throwing off messages like drops of water being shaken from a wet dog’s fur. When it comes to a stop, there are no black messages and a single red message. Obviously, he didn’t send himself a holo-alert, so it must be one of the automatically generated messages as part of one of the many batch jobs they run on a daily basis.
The title freezes his blood.
Notice of Death Match Assignation
He knows the title could mean one of two things, which was because of some brilliant analyst who thought they could save a few lines of code by having the same title for messages going to two types of people on opposite sides of the same coin.
Someone receiving a Death Match or someone becoming a Death Match.
And he knows he hasn’t applied for a Death Match. The idea of he and Janice wanting to have another child is almost laughable. Which means that…
It’s a mistake, right? Has to be. But still…he has to be sure. “Open ‘Notice of Death Match Assignation.’”
A simple form message unravels before his eyes, like a scroll being opened.
Under Statute 7 of the Population Control Decree of the Reorganized United States of America, you are hereby notified of being assigned as the Death Match for Cindy and Grant Rogers (Control number withheld) of Saint Louis (address withheld).
Upon your Death (as defined below), the above named parties will receive one (1) Birth Authorization to be used within eighteen (18) months of Authorization Date.
IMPORTANT NOTE: This assignation is NOT an order for you to end your life. You have simply been matched with potential parents in preparation for your eventual Death, whenever that may be. The Department of Population Control wishes you the very best for a long and happy life. If you have any questions about this assignation, please contact the Pop Con Q&A operator by speaking “Death Match questions” into your holo-screen.
Definitions:
Death- the state whereby you are unable to function as a valuable member of society, including, but not limited to:
-actual medical death;
-prolonged coma;
-inability to move or speak;
-unawareness of the world around you;
-dementia or Alzheimer’s.
Death Match- the person who, whereupon their death, will allow a Birth Authorization to be issued.
Birth Authorization- authorization to conceive a child, to be issued upon Death of the Death Match. Expires eighteen (18) months from issuance.
Authorization Date- date upon which Death is achieved and a Birth Authorization may be issued.
“Close message,” Michael Kelly says, looking at his hands in disbelief. He’s been assigned as a Death Match? He’s in his forties, in good health, with little chance of kicking the bucket anytime in the next thirty years. By the time he dies, the potential parents will likely be too old to conceive a child. Which means he’s not a Death Match for medical reasons. He’s just a standard Death Match, the number of birth authorization applicants stretching enormously long, the backlog endless.
The system is broken, always was. But who is he to fix it? He’s the poster boy for the system. And anyway, he can’t even manage to fix his own fragmented family. All he can do is try to find Benson before Corr and his psychotic cyborg do.
He says, “Get me Hodge,” and the holo-screen chirps.
Moments later, Hodge’s acne-scarred face fills the screen. “Yessir,” he says.
“New orders. Find Domino Destovan.”
Hodge does a poor job of hiding his smile. “Yessir. And when I do?”
“You have authority to terminate him for crimes against the city.”
“Yessir. And what about the Slip?”
“You’ll find the Slip when you find Destovan.”
“Terminate the Slip on sight?”
It’s a risk he has to take. “No.”
“Sir? That’s highly unusual.”
Pushing as much command into his tone as possible, Michael Kelly says, “We have to be sure there aren’t others like him. Take the Slip into custody for questioning. We need to know how he avoided detection for so long. We must learn from our mistakes. Understood?”
“Yessir.”
“Out,” Michael Kelly says,
and Hodge’s face disappears.
He leans back in his chair, satisfied with his plan. If he can get to Benson before Corr, maybe he can help his son disappear once more.
This time forever.
~~~
When the Destroyer finds the Slip, he’s going to kill him slowly. A bullet to the head will be too good for the kid that made him look like a fool in front of his new boss. Corrigan Mars spent an hour chewing him out for his failure to terminate the Slip when he had the chance.
Perhaps he underestimated this Benson Mack kid, but he won’t make the same mistake twice.
But now he needs to unwind, take his mind off of a day he’d rather forget forever. He’s back at the makeshift “base”—the three middle floors in a nine-floor office building—that Corrigan Mars managed to procure on almost a moment’s notice. Even estranged from Pop Con, he has to admit that Corr’s got clout. The Destroyer even has his own office, although with its fake wood-paneled walls and dinged-up filing cabinet it’s in desperate need of some redecorating. “Right hook, left uppercut, kick to the knee,” he rattles off, watching his virtual fighter pummel a completely unworthy opponent. A woman. Why are women even allowed in law enforcement? He thought being on Mars’s clandestine squad he’d be rid of them from a professional standpoint, and yet two of his core team members are of the female variety. Easy on the eyes, but useless otherwise. No wonder the mission failed. He has half a mind to tell Mars exactly what he thinks, but smartly knows now is not the time to make excuses.
Since Mars insists on including them, however, he might as well put them to good use.
It starts with a knock on the door.
“Off,” he says, and the screen goes blank. He’s mildly disappointed that he didn’t get to see his warrior finish bludgeoning his opponent to death with an iron bar. “Enter.”
The door eases open and Davis, the exotic beauty, walks through, her strides rigid. Thankfully, she’s no longer wearing her armor or helmet. Instead, she’s garbed in tight black leggings and a black tank top. Although personally the Destroyer thinks she’s wearing far too much eye makeup, he admits to himself that she probably needs it. At least fifteen years older than him, she’s probably lost at least half of her beauty. And yet, she’s still a real looker. Her dark hair is pulled into a tight bun.
“Shut the door,” he says.
She obeys and he gawks at her from behind.
When she turns back, he pretends to be studying something on the portable holo-screen on his desk. He looks up and right away notices how severe her stance is. “At ease,” he says. “Consider this meeting…informal.”
“Thank you, sir,” she says. “May I?” She motions to the chair opposite him.
“Of course.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, why am I here?” she asks.
The nerve of this girl! He can tell by the look in her dark eyes that she has zero respect for him; that, like Long Legs Lacey, she thinks he’s just some stupid teenager fighting way above his weight level. All the Sirs and posturing in the world can’t hide the contempt on her face.
“Because I said so,” he says, immediately exerting his authority.
“Okay,” she says. She doesn’t even bother to add Sir this time.
“I just want to know my team members better. I’m having meetings with each of you.”
His explanation seems to put her at ease, her body slumping slightly. “Oh,” she says. “What do you want to know?” Stupid girl.
“Why you’re not at Pop Con anymore, for starters.”
She blinks. “Like you, I was terminated.”
“For?” He doesn’t really care, but she needs to think otherwise.
“Who the hell knows?” Her expression tightens, her words coming out sharp and frustrated. “I accidentally shot a civilian,” she admits. “But it wasn’t my fault. The fool tried to jump in front of the UnBee I was terminating.”
Hmm…maybe Davis won’t be as easy to hate as he first thought. But then he feels the familiar itch, the one he’s had ever since he felt the last throb of pulse in Lacey’s neck before her heart stopped. He knows if he doesn’t scratch it soon, he’ll grow crazy. After the day he had today, he deserves a release.
“Michael Kelly’s a douche,” he says.
“I know, right?” She’s nodding firmly, her entire demeanor toward him changing the moment the words left his lips. She’s as moldable as a block of children’s putty.
“I like you, Davis,” he says. “I want you to be my second-in-command on the team. The one I can count on. You interested?” He barely manages to keep a straight face.
The look of surprise on her face is classic. “Wow. I—I’m honored…sir. I didn’t really expect…I didn’t think…yes. The answer is yes. Of course.”
Dumb. As. Rocks. The bait is out and the silly mouse is scurrying toward it. Time to add the trap. “Excellent. I was hoping you’d say that. We have a lot to do tomorrow, and I’d really like your opinion on a few ideas I have. But, seriously, I can’t look at the walls of this office for one more second. What do you say we get out of here and grab a bite to eat? We can talk about your promotion, too.”
He holds his breath. Does she suspect the lie?
A faint smile crosses her face. “You sure this isn’t just a ploy to bag an older woman?” she says.
“Uh…”
“I’m just messing with you. Let’s just see where the night takes us.”
He realizes she’s flirting with him, probably thinking he’s just a dumb kid who will fall for that crap. Or perhaps she’s really into him. It wouldn’t be the first time.
She stands and opens the door, his eyes following every sway of her hips, every curve of her body. Davis really is gorgeous, he thinks.
But another conquest is the last thing on his mind. First he’ll take care of Davis and relieve his murderous itch, and then he’ll take down the Slip.
~~~
Want a career that’s challenging, fast-paced, and makes a difference?
Think you have what it takes to be a Hunter?
Speak ‘I’m a Hunter’ into your holo-screen.
You could be the reason our streets are safe.
This advertisement paid for by the Department of Population Control.
Application process includes medical and psychological exams.
Former military training preferred.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Harrison got an hour of sleep. An hour if he’s lucky. Every tiny sound sent his mother into a panicked frenzy, muttering under her breath. Zoran and Shut up and Go away, and a number of other nonsensical utterances.
Once, she screamed, and he thought for sure they’d be caught. It had been a rat, scurrying over her leg. Gross. Do people really live like this? He knows they do, because he once watched a holo-screen special about ‘People of the Tunnels,’ where homeless folks actually sleep in the Tunnels, set in rows, like fallen-over dominoes.
Sleeping on the hard concrete floor in an old building isn’t much better. They had no blankets, so they huddled under a dusty old carpet.
When he can’t take it any longer, he creeps up the steps to ensure night has fallen, even though his holo-screen says it’s nine in the evening. Due to his mother’s hospital-red clothes, staying hidden during daylight hours was the safest move, albeit an awfully boring day.
Sure enough, the streets are dark.
But before they venture out, Harrison knows they have to talk. He’s been dreading the conversation all day, especially because he doesn’t have the slightest idea as to his mother’s mental state.
Before he settles in beside her, he checks his hoverboard one more time. There are a few long, deep scratches along the bottom, from where it contacted the surface of the alley, but other than that it seems okay. With a bit of tinkering, he might even be able to amplify its hoverpower so it can hold two people, something he should’ve thought of before trying to bust his mom out of the asylum. Lesson learned.
“Mom,” Harrison says, sitting far enough away to give her some distance. “How are you?” He feels stupid asking such an inane question to someone who’s been confined to a mental institution for almost a decade.
“You look beautiful,” she says. “Beautiful like a wall-less house. Beautiful like bags of garbage and cracks on the streets. Beautiful like—”
“Thank you, Mom,” he says. He can’t let her get going too far in the wrong direction. “You look beautiful, too. Like a sunny day.”
She claws at her arm, but her fingernails are trimmed short, and they only leave faint white lines on her skin. “That’s what I should have said. Much better. Much much better.”
“It’s okay. It’s all okay. I was really impressed by the diversion you created to help get us out of that place,” Harrison says. He still can’t quite believe how well she performed. It’s like she was half-acting, if such a thing is possible.
“I’m crazy, not stupid,” she says, and then cackles to herself.
“Uh, yeah. Well, anyway, I came today because…” I’m so sorry. Now that the moment is here, he’s not sure whether he can have this conversation. He’s not sure he wants to know the truth. And what if there is no truth? What if what she said to him so long ago was just the ramblings of a woman whose mind was shattered beyond belief? Has he risked everything for a woman past the point of repair?
“Your father never did anything like this for me,” she says, interjecting. “He only brings bad memories and boiling blood.”
He sighs. Pointless. This whole thing is pointless. The mother he once knew is long gone, replaced by a vague shade of her former self.
“You don’t have to be sorry for not coming sooner,” she says. “I forgive you every moment of every day so there are no more sorrys. The sorrys have been kicked and punched and smashed. Your father’s sorrys are big and mean and take up the whole room.”