Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1) (10 page)

The screen continues. “A system was implemented in which each birth had to be authorized, and duly matched off with a death, which was later called a Death Match. Initially there were two options for potential parents. Would you like to hear them?”

“Please,” Harrison says.

“Since you asked so nicely,” the holo-screen says, “the first option is a standard Death Match, wherein the potential parents are matched with a terminally ill patient, usually someone expected to die in the near future. Only once their Death Match has passed away are the parents permitted to initiate pregnancy.”
Initiate pregnancy?
Harrison rolls his eyes. Who comes up with this stuff? Only a holo-screen could make the “activities” required to create a baby seem so sterile and boring.

“And if the Death Match doesn’t die soon?” Harrison asks. This part is what interests him. Chuck’s parents have been trying to have a second child for years, but their Death Match turned out to be a dud, someone who recovers from their illness and lives significantly longer than expected.

“The couple must wait to initiate pregnancy until he or she dies.”

“Can’t they apply for a new Death Match?”

“No. Only one Death Match is permitted for each pregnancy. Or, a dual Death Match may be applied for initially if the couple has the means to do so, thereby speeding up the approval process.”

“You said there are two options. What’s the second option?” Harrison asks.

“A generic Death Match. If you take this option, you’re placed on a list. When someone not expected to die dies, typically due to a tragic accident or a violent crime, the next couple on the list receives authorization to initiate pregnancy. This form of Death Match is much cheaper to apply for, and contains a high degree of uncertainty. Under normal circumstances, it may take a couple years to move to the top of the list; however, in the event of a natural disaster, war, or act of terrorism, thousands on the list may receive authorization within a short duration.”

Death breeds life
, Harrison thinks, the words his father once spoke to him springing up like weeds between cracks.

“Are there any other options?” Harrison asks.

“I’m so glad you asked,” the screen says. “Five years ago a new option was created, called the Prisoner Overflow Match. As crime rates have increased, our prisons have become overcrowded with undesirables. Now, those with sentences greater than ten years are terminated to make way for a new generation. Those couples who receive a Prisoner Overflow Match must wait on a list for enough inmates to be terminated before they can initiate pregnancy.”

This is all interesting, but the holo-screen still hasn’t mentioned his father. But he knows how to remedy that.

“What are Slips?” Harrison asks innocently, as if he’s forgotten.

“Slips are those children born illegally, where either their parents didn’t apply for any type of match, or where the match hadn’t yet died before they were born.”

“But they’re only a Slip once they’ve turned two years old, right?”

“Correct,” the screen answers. “Initially they’re called UnBees—Unauthorized Beings—which are not considered a high risk due to their insignificant size and lack of mobility. However, regardless of age, unauthorized births are a serious criminal offense, punishable by death, both for the UnBee and its parents.”

Since when is a baby an ‘it’? Harrison wonders. But he doesn’t ask. Instead he says, “Why is the”—he considers saying
baby
, but thinks better of it—“UnBee a greater risk when”—he pauses, the words ‘he or she’ rolling around on his tongue—“
it
turns two years old?”

“Size is the first consideration. As the UnBee grows, it consumes more of the scarce food and resources available to legal citizens. Also, mobility is a major factor. With the UnBee able to walk, its ability to escape apprehension by Pop Con greatly increases.” Harrison narrows his eyes skeptically. He finds a two-year-old escaping from Pop Con very hard to swallow.

As if sensing his disbelief, the screen goes on. “It’s also the age where the government has determined the child”—Harrison can hardly believe the system just referred to an Unauthorized Being as a child—“to have slipped through the cracks in the system. To restore population equilibrium, Pop Con is authorized to substantially increase the resources used to catch and terminate the Slip. Would you like some history on previous Slips?”

Now Harrison really wants to shout ‘hell yeah!’ but he manages to keep his voice even and calm when he says, “Please.”

“The last Slip in recent history was nine years ago, a five-year-old Slip hiding with only her father, as the mother had been caught three years earlier. Although authorities attempted to question her to locate the Slip, she unfortunately died during the interrogation. The investigation continued for three long years, fear rising amongst the general population with each passing day as our citizens wondered whether there were flaws in the system. Questions were being raised about the effectiveness of the Head of Pop Con, Micha—” Heavy static interferes with the speakers as the holo-screen says the rest of his father’s name. It’s the same thing that happens every time he takes his learning down this path. He wonders why it matters. Whether the screen says his father’s name or not, he knows who it’s referring to.

“And then?” he says.

“Then the Slip and its father were caught and terminated. The official report stated that it was an anonymous tip that led to the capture. Micha”—more static—“has become a legend over the last nine years, which have been completely Slip-free.”

“And before?” Harrison asks. “How many other Slips have there been?”

“There have been many,” the screen says vaguely, as if it’s not programmed to provide the exact information. “Although the current Head has only had to deal with one Slip, previous Heads haven’t had such good luck.”

As usual, the information buzzes through Harrison’s head relentlessly. Slips and duds and terminations and Pop Con and UnBees. A headache begins to form in his temples. For he has a secret, one he’s never told anyone, not even his father. It’s one of the reasons he’s never gone back to visit his mother in the asylum.

He can still hear her voice in his head during his last visit, before the men in white coats slammed the door, shutting him out:

“You were lucky, Harrison,” she’d said. “Your Death Match died so you could live. But life isn’t always fair. Your brother got a dud.”

It was the last thing she ever said to him, and she didn’t seem the least bit crazy when she said it.

~~~

Past article from the
Saint Louis Times
:

Saint Louis Times Now Owned by the New Government

The Saint Louis Times is pleased to announce a change in ownership. The new city government has purchased the primary city newspaper with plans to “improve the quality and truth” of the articles within our pages. The city deserves to know the truth, and the government plans to “start fresh” with a new team of reporters and editors. Previous Editor-in-Chief, Thomas Wilcox, has been let go with a considerable payout package and a certificate of thanks for his years of service. Readers of the newspaper will now have a direct line into government policy debates, population control measures, and ongoing investigations into population control crimes. The truth is coming, and we hope you stick around to be a part of it.

Have a comment on this article? Speak them into your holo-screen now.
NOTE: All comments are now subject to government screening. Those comments deemed to be inappropriate or treasonous in nature will be removed immediately and appropriate punishment issued.

Comments:

Skeptic99: Comment has been removed and disciplinary action taken.

LauraB35: Comment has been removed and disciplinary action taken.

BryanLeftover: Comment has been removed and disciplinary action taken.

“U
nbelievable,” Check says. Benson can tell his friend is looking at him, but Benson’s eyes are locked on the screen, on the eyes of the man they just Picked, who BLEW UP A BUILDING not long after they parted ways. The Grunk was a suicide bomber? Numbly, Benson realizes they gave him directions to the U-Building. The same U-Building that’s half rubble, half on fire, spouting thick black smoke from the side.

“Crazy, right
hombre
?” Gonzo, a Jumper from Mexico, says, his twangy accent coming through as strong as ever. He’s sitting on a windowsill, one leg bent and the other dangling. He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair.

You don’t know the half of it
, Benson thinks.

Gonzo’s best friend, Rod, another Mexican Jumper, says, “You two
amigos
were in the city, right? Did you see anything?” His mouth stays slightly open, framed by a scraggly goatee, the extent of facial hair that he’s able to grow. His short ponytail is tied off with a green rubber band. Leaning against the wall, Rod raises an eyebrow.

Benson looks at Check. Check looks at Benson. They’re both shaking their heads, their expressions mirror images of each other. Benson has never seen his friend look so…
bewildered
…but that’s exactly the right word for how he looks now.

“What are the chances?” Check says.

Benson shrugs slowly. “A million to one,” he says, his voice coming out quieter than he intended.

“More like a billion to one,” Check says.

“What are you two going on about?” a third voice says. Benson flinches because he can’t believe he didn’t notice her. Lucy. He feels out of breath and like his feet have left the floor.

Trying to pretend his heart isn’t racing and sweat isn’t dribbling down his back, Benson turns to face her. She’s sitting cross-legged near the other window, a book opened and resting on her legs, which are bare to mid-thigh, where her favorite cut-off shorts take over. Her white tank-top reveals slim, delicate shoulders toasted brown by the sunlight streaming through the window. It also reveals the tiniest sliver of her tanned midriff, sending shivers up Benson’s spine. Her honey-blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail.

And her beautifully curving mouth is forming words that Benson can’t hear.

He blinks. “Benson?” Luce says. “You all right?” He can’t help noticing how cute she looks with her nose scrunched up in concern. Of course, he thinks she looks cute with pretty much any expression. Something he’s never really mentioned to Check.

“Uh, yeah. Hi, Luce,” Benson says. Smooth like melted butter. Riiight.

“Hi,” she says. “What’s going on with you two?”

Benson looks at Check again. Check’s stare is stuck somewhere above Lucy’s sock line and below the pages of her book. Brown, smooth, bare skin. Benson smacks his friend across the chest.

Check fires a glare at Benson, but says, “The bomber? He was our Grunk today.” There’s a hint of pride in his voice.

“What?” Lucy says. “Wait, you mean you Picked him?”

“Damn right,” Check says.

“Awesome!” the last boy says. He’s younger than the others, only twelve. His hair is so blond it’s almost white, a stark contrast to his tanned skin. Geoffrey. Luce’s brother.

“How is that ‘awesome’?” Lucy says, frowning. “A whole bunch of people are dead.”

Check says, “I think he meant it’s awesome”—Lucy repositions her frown on Check, and he stammers slightly—“that, um, we were so close, and um, saw the guy before he did, well,
what
he did.” Check finishes lamely, and Benson almost feels sorry for his friend. Like him, he tends to get rather tongue-tied around Lucy.

“How’d it go down?” Lucy asks, this time tossing her question directly at Benson. Their eyes meet and Benson locks his jaw, trying not to look away.

He tells their story, Check chiming in to brag about his role from time to time.

When he finishes, there’s silence for a moment as everyone watches the holo-images bursting from the screen. A witness with a black smudge on her cheek is talking about how “it all happened so fast.”

“
Dios mio!
Did you feel the explosives?” Gonzo finally asks.

“What?” Check says.

As if he can read his friend’s mind, Rod says, “
Sí
, you bumped into him, eh
amigo
? Did you feel anything under his suit?” Benson swears the two Jumpers share a brain.

Check looks at the ceiling, as if trying to recall. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “You know how Picking is. Everything happens like it’s on fast forward. I was concentrating on acting my part. Maybe I felt something. My ribs are a little sore where he bashed into me. It could’ve been the bomb.”

“Holy bot-lickers,” Geoffrey says. “You could’ve been blown up!”

A lump forms in Benson’s throat as he tries to swallow the words. He hadn’t thought of that. What if the fall had detonated the bomb? He forces a breath out, trying to steady his legs, which are suddenly shaking uncontrollably.

“Geoff,” Luce says, warning her brother with an icy stare. Turning back to Benson, she asks, “How much did he have?”

Benson takes a step toward Lucy, thinks better of it, and then stands awkwardly in mid-stride. “He was broke,” he says. “Or at least he was by the time we got to him.”

“But his financial records show all kinds of transactions before we got to him. Everything he was wearing and carrying was bought just before he became a human stick of dynamite,” Check says.

“
Es una locura
,” Gonzo says.

“Ridonkulous,” Rod agrees.

“You should get rid of his LifeCard
as soon as possible,” Luce says. “There’s going to be a massive investigation. The last thing we need is Crows snooping anywhere near us.”

“I’ll handle it,” Check says, extending a hand.

Benson hesitates, but only for a second, and then reaches in his pocket and extracts the card, passing it over to his Pick partner. “Thanks,” he says.

“I’ll go with him,” Geoffrey says, already standing up.

“No,” Luce says. “It’s too dangerous.”

“C’mon, I’ve been cooped up inside all day. And I’m almost thirteen, anyway,” he whines.

“You turned twelve three weeks ago,” Luce says.

“What ever happened to rounding up?” Geoffrey says.

Gonzo laughs. Rod laughs louder.

“I’ll watch out for him,” Check says. “And you can repay me with a date.” Luce targets Check with her death glare and he throws his hands above his head, ducking slightly.

But then, to everyone’s surprise, she says, “Fine, minus the date. But if he comes home with as much as a bump or a scrape…”

“You’ll rip every last hair from my head one at a time and all that,” Check says, already bolting for the door, waving Geoffrey after him.

“Oh, it’ll be much worse than that,” Luce hollers in his wake. She lifts the book, and for a moment Benson thinks she might chuck it at Check’s back, but then she lowers it. Books are hard to come by, and one as old as the one she’s reading, with a broken spine and tattered pages, is almost sacred.

Geoffrey scurries after Check, grinning from ear to ear. “Thanks,” he says before he ducks out.

Gonzo jumps up from his seat. “Game time,” he says, grabbing Rod in a headlock.

“Rock on,” Rod says, squirming loose. “
Vamos!
”

Gonzo bolts for the door. “There are Grunks to be Picked, and—”

“Fortunes to be made,” Rod finishes, chasing after him. “
Adios amigos!
”

When the door closes the silence is so swift and complete that Benson almost feels like a giant cleaner bot has sucked all sound from the room.

When he tries out his voice, he’s somewhat surprised when it still works. “What a weird day,” he says.

Luce gives him a half smile—also an exceptionally cute expression—and offers him a fizzer, a bubbly drink that usually costs $46, but which she and Geoffrey managed to nab for free out of the back of a delivery van a week ago. They got away with an entire case, leading to an epic party later that night.

“Thanks,” Benson says, accepting the tall, thin metal can. “I’m surprised there’s any left from the party.” He flips a switch and the can cracks open with a satisfying yawn. A reedy straw extends upward automatically.

“I hid some,” Luce says, patting a spot beside her.

“Smart,” Benson says. He’s feeling more at ease already, the way he always does when it’s just him and Luce and no one else. He’s seen plenty of good looking girls around the city, most of them from the local high schools, but it’s the feeling he gets when he talks to Luce that sets her apart from them. When her sharp edges fall away and she seems almost vulnerable—that’s when he likes her best. And when she’s like this, it’s as if everything else is all an act, and Benson should never have been intimidated in the first place. “Was that before or after Check took his shirt off and started dancing with his underwear on his head?”

Luce laughs, sending a blast of giddiness through Benson’s chest. He eases down beside her, feeling tingly all over. It’s not the drink—he hasn’t taken a sip yet.

Although he pretends he’s not, Benson takes in every detail of the girl sitting beside him, from the way she tucks a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear to the way her freckles seem to dance when she laughs. But her looks were only what attracted him to her in the first place. It’s everything else that makes him want to spend every second with her. While Check has been pining for her attention from the moment they met her, it’s only been the last year or so since Benson has found the courage to talk to her one on one. Now he wonders why he waited so long, their friendship seeming to grow stronger by the day.

“Way before,” Luce says. “It was just after Gonzo tried to pick up Rod and they ended up in a pile on the floor.”

“They tripped on Geoffrey, didn’t they?” Benson asks, feeling his face flood with heat when his nonchalant attempt at a sip makes a thick slurping sound.

Luce doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah. He was pretending to make snow angels on the floor.”

Benson wipes his mouth and laughs. But his face doesn’t cool down; the hive of bees in his stomach doesn’t quiet either. Not when all he can remember is how that night ended:

Gonzo and Rod slumped against each other, snoring lightly. Geoffrey using Check as a pillow, the two of them passed out from all the dancing and carrying on. And Benson sitting next to Luce, much like they are now, talking and laughing until the sun came up. It was the best night of his life by a longshot.

And yet it was a night of lies. The warmth in his chest and cheeks fades, as Benson regrets the made-up stories he told Luce, about his parents both dying when he was just a baby, making him an instant orphan. How he escaped the abusive man who found him and took him in. How he ran and ran, taught himself to swim and fend for himself, until he washed up on the banks of the city of Saint Louis, where Check was counting his loot from a day of Picking. It’s a well-rehearsed story that almost feels real at times. Almost. “Fate brought us all together,” he’d told Luce, which was perhaps the only true thing about the story.

“I’m glad it did,” she’d said, and he had a sudden urge to reach out and rest his hand on hers, which was positioned between them, fingers open and palm up.

He’d chickened out and they’d gone to sleep on opposite sides of the room. Of course, he’d never told Check any of this, something he feels bad about every time his friend talks about how much he likes Luce.

“That was a good night,” Benson says now, flicking a glance at Luce.

She smiles at him, her eyes holding his for a moment, before slipping back to her book. She runs her fingers over the page she’s on, slides a thread in to hold her place, and closes it gently. After setting the book on the floor, she drops her arm between them once more. Hand open. Palm up. An invitation?

He stares straight ahead, where the holo-screen is showing a bot-truck removing charred corpses from the wreckage of the explosion. A new headline flashes beneath the images. “Anti-Pop Con organization known as the Lifers claim responsibility for attack.”

“I wonder why they targeted a bank,” Luce says. Benson thinks about it. The Lifers are getting more notorious by the day. They’ve hit several government buildings already, not including a failed attack on Pop Con’s headquarters.

“U-Bank is owned by the government, right?” Benson says.

“Everything’s owned by the government. Even this abandoned building. Are they going to bomb us next?”

“Nothing would surprise me anymore,” Benson says. And then: “Holo—off.” The screen goes dark. “Hey! Want some devil’s food cake?”

Luce laughs, and it sends a bubble of satisfaction through Benson. “You’ve got cake?” she says.

It wasn’t a formal Pick, but as he and Check were heading to the Tube to find their next Grunk, he’d managed to swipe the contents of a bag from a random woman who’d just exited a sweet shop. Although they weren’t real cakes, they were the next best thing.