Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

He’s going to die.

A strange and unexpected calm settles over him as he watches the glowing surface of the water stretch away from him.

He stops struggling, releasing his breath in a steady stream of bubbles.

Closes his eyes.

His body jolts when something grabs him under the arms, his eyes shooting open. His father, shirtless, muscles bulging, pulls him toward the surface. His movements are effortless, as if he was born in the water, as if swimming is as easy as walking. In awe, the boy is oblivious to the cold seeping into his bones.

When they break the surface, the boy sucks in a deep breath, wondering why he never realized how sweet air tastes. As his father drags him toward the shore, he cranes his head back and the stars seem brighter, the moon bigger in the night sky. And when he lowers his gaze, he sees them again:

Innumerable lights shining in the distance, attached to giant, rectangular shadows.

F
or six days, they don’t speak of what happened. As if following some unspoken agreement, the boy and his father act normal, each going about their business like that night never happened. If Janice notices that something is amiss, she remains silent.

On the seventh day, a weekend, the boy spends three hours watching the other kids through the hole in the fence. They’re running and laughing and tapping each other on the shoulders. A game, where one kid has to touch one of the others. “You’re it!” they keep shouting. Why is he different? Why can’t he join them? Why is it unsafe for him to leave the bounds of the fence and house?

He startles when his father touches him on the shoulder.

“I—I was just looking,” he says, a lame excuse that surely won’t prevent punishment.

To his surprise, his father says, “I know. Son, I’ve been thinking.”

The boy waits, his father’s hand heavy on his shoulder.

“The life you’ve been given isn’t fair. But at least I’ve kept you safe. From the beginning, that’s all I’ve wanted for you.”

“I don’t understand,” the boy admits. He starts to wave at the hole in the fence, to finally explain his confusion to the one person he doesn’t want to disappoint.

“That’s because I’ve never explained anything to you,” his father says. “You were too young, still are, and I don’t want to scare you.”

The boy thinks about this for a minute. He knows he’s scared sometimes. If he was braver, more like Zoran, would his father tell him his secrets?

“I want to learn to swim,” he says.

“I know,” his father says.

“I’ll sneak out again,” he says, trying to calm the quaver in his hands.

“I know,” his father repeats.

The boy says nothing.

“I’ll teach you,” his father says.

The boy’s smile is a giant gaping crevice in his face.

~~~

The boy no longer hates the cold. In some ways, he looks forward to it. Although the wind bites his skin and the stones pierce his feet, he doesn’t feel it as much. A year of enduring something will do that, making you less sensitive to it. Growing up has strengthened him, too. At seven years old, the boy feels strong enough to fight dragons, to save princesses, to leave the backyard.

When he asked why he can’t wear shoes, why he can’t wear warmer clothes, at least until they get to the water, his father told him it was important he learn to handle harsh environments. The boy didn’t question it further, for fear his father would end his lessons.

Today the boy swims farther than he’s ever swum, so far that the shadows in the distance form very real shapes, structures rising up into the clouds. He treads water for a moment, relishing how close the lights look, like if he were to reach out he could almost touch them.

And then he turns back.

By the time he reaches his father—who’s hunched over his portable holo-screen—the sky has turned pink, a glowing warning of the approaching dangers of daylight. His father barely notices when he pulls himself on shore, raining drips all around him. His father’s eyebrows are scrunched and his eyes narrowed into tiny, black beads.

“Father?” the boy says.

His father’s head jerks around, startled. The boy’s never seen him this focused on something. Peeking over his shoulder, the boy’s thankful for all of Janice’s reading lessons, as he easily makes out the projected news headline:
Search for Slip Passes Two Year Mark. Head of Pop Con Losing Support.

Before he can read further, his father angles the holo-screen away from him, switching it off with a tap on the screen. He looks at the sky and flinches, as if only now realizing the time. When he grabs the boy’s hand, the boy is shocked at how cold his father’s hands are, as if he’s been the one in the water.

They reach the gate and slip inside just as the edge of the sun clears the horizon and the sounds of people waking up spill from the houses on either side of theirs.

~~~

“What’s a Slip?” the boy asks Janice that morning. He’s meant to be reading aloud to her, but he can’t concentrate when the words from his father’s holo-screen are burrowed so deeply in his brain that they feel like sharp-clawed mice.

Janice’s blue eyes flash with surprise for a moment, before settling into a frown. “We learned that word a long time ago, child. Don’t you remember? A slip is a bad fall, or a woman’s undergarment. It can also mean narrowly making it through something, like a door. I’m probably forgetting a few other meanings, too.”

“No,” the boy says. “What if it has a big S? A
capital
S.” He corrects himself before Janice can.

He’s glad Janice is so bad at hiding her emotions, because now he’s able to read her as well as the book he’s ignoring. She’s gone pale, her lips dry even when she quickly licks them. She looks…scared. But why?

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she says, her voice dropping so much it’s almost a whisper.

“I saw it on Father’s holo-screen,” the boy says. “They’re searching for a Slip. What does that mean?”

Janice’s eyes soften and she throws back her head, laughing. It’s even higher than usual, and shakes a little. Not her normal laugh. Not real. “Oh that. It just means someone that’s hard to catch, someone who’s slippery. There’s a criminal out there and they’re trying to find him.”

“The Head of Pop Con is trying to find the Slip?”

This time there’s a visible twitch of her cheek and half of her mouth. Her eyes bore into him and then through him, drifting off into oblivion. “Janice?” he says quickly, hoping he won’t lose her again.

She blinks and she’s back. “You have nothing to worry about, child. They’ll catch the criminal soon, and it will all be over.”

“What did he do wrong?” the boy asks.

“It’s not important,” Janice says, waving the question away like a pesky fly. But when her hand drifts back down he notices the way her fingers grip her other hand.

“Did he
kill
someone?” The boy’s eyes gleam mischievously.

Janice frowns, looking more like herself again. “No—No. And I don’t want to hear that kind of talk. You’ve been watching too many violent shows on the holo-screen. No Zoran for a week.”

The boy doesn’t even mind the punishment.

Because this is the most interesting day he’s had in his entire life.

M
ichael Kelly knows he’s out of time. He’s had the information for months, but has kept it hidden. Even the Head of Population Control—or Pop Con as most people call it—can’t protect the Slip forever. And if he loses his job it will be worse for everyone. Sacrifice one to save a lot more, right? He knows he’s in denial, that he’s not sacrificing one—that it’s already been hundreds, on his watch alone. And thousands during his predecessor’s reign, when this all started.

He stares at the three-dimensional images projected from the holo-screen like the scene before him isn’t real. Like he’s watching a program. Like he’s not the mastermind of its creation. Emotional detachment is the only way he ever gets through operations like the one currently underway. The operation that was triggered when he finally allowed the anonymous tip to move through his own organization’s network.

The abandoned building sits on the outskirts of the city, crumbling around the edges, its broken windows growling like a hundred angry mouths full of glass-shard teeth. No human could possibly live in such a place. No human
should
live in such a place.

As planned, the Blue Team makes the first move, kicking in the doors of all four entrances at once, perfectly coordinated. They don’t try to be stealthy—that’s not the point. They want their target to know they’re coming, to scare her from hiding.

Dozens of dark-clothed men and women pour into the building, carrying black-steel weapons.

“We’ve got movement!” someone shouts from beside Michael. It’s Corrigan Mars, Pop Con’s second in command. He’s looking at a different holo-screen, a schematic of the building, glowing blue. But not all blue. Not anymore. A red circle has emerged from one of the rooms on the fifth floor. A second red circle follows immediately after, chasing the first red blip down the hall toward the stairwell.

“They were in a cold room,” Corr says. “That’s why the heat sensors couldn’t pick them up. What a way to live, huh? Always in the cold. They’re no better than animals, eh Boss?” Corr’s eyes are on fire, and it’s all Michael can do not to put them out.

“Animals,” Michael manages to murmur, forcing his gaze back to the first holo-screen, which is showing the view from the Blue Team Leader’s helmet as he charges up the stairs and past the third floor landing. The images are so realistic it almost feels as if they’re there.

“They’re already on the seventh floor,” Corr announces into his headset.

“Copy that,” the Blue Team Leader says, his voice breathy from climbing three flights of stairs.

“Fifth floor makes sense,” Corr comments. When Michael looks at him, he explains. “With no working lifter, the targets wouldn’t have wanted to climb more than five levels. Enough to be safe though, well away from the ground.”

Michael hates how analytically indifferent Corr sounds. Like the targets really are animals, not fellow humans. “Right,” Michael says, only because he feels as if he has to say something. “It makes perfect sense.”

The red blips reach the ninth floor, only one away from the roof. The dozens of red circles identifying the Blue Team on the stairs are gaining on the targets, but they won’t catch them before they get to the top. They were never intended to.

Flush them out like rats
, Corr had said when he came up with the plan.

Michael realizes his hands are balled into tight fists. He looks around slowly, but no one’s watching him, their eyes glued to the projected images, dancing back and forth like they’re spectators at a tennis match. He unknots his fists and tries to remain calm. Showing his true feelings about what they’re doing could get him and his family killed.

The Slip and her guardian reach the roof.

“On your command, Boss!” Corr barks with his usual vigor.

Michael takes a deep, shaky breath through his nose, but that’s all the hesitation he’ll allow. “Red Team go,” he says firmly.

The view on the first screen changes to a wide shot of the roof, where a young girl cowers behind a tall man, likely her father. She has blond hair—long, knotted and tangled.

Above them, a Hawk appears from thin air, the drone’s chameleon-like skin changing from its mimic of the blue sky to a standard black metallic sheen. The man shouts something, ushering his daughter back toward the door, where the Blue Team Leader is already emerging onto the roof.

The father doesn’t know where to stand now, as he desperately hugs his daughter, trying to protect her from all sides.

Ropes drop from the Hawk, and six Red Team members slide down gracefully, their heavy boots stomping on the rooftop. The view changes once more, to a close up of the man and his daughter from the eyes of the Red Team Leader.

Red because of blood
, Corr had said when he named the teams.

“Please,” the man says, still trying to keep his body between his daughter and the guns. Beads of sweat dot his forehead. “This is my fault. I screwed up. Punish me. Leave my daughter alone.”

Michael silently grits his teeth at the desperation in the man’s voice. In the same position, he wonders if he would sound exactly the same. He thinks he would.

Not for the first time, he wishes he was someone else. Anyone else.

The Red Team Leader approaches the man, whose hair is shaggy and unkempt, his beard brown and thick and streaked with gray. His eyes wild.

Through his facemask, the Red Team Leader’s voice sounds muffled and metallic. “For creating an unauthorized child and—”

“No!” the man screams, clutching his daughter. She’s crying, hanging around his waist.
She’s only five years old
, Michael remembers.

“—and harboring a fugitive…” the Red Team Leader continues. “You have made yourself an enemy of your own country. Your crimes are punishable by death without trial.”

Tears spill from the man’s eyes, streaking his cheeks. They glisten like diamonds in the sunlight. “Fine,” the man says. “Kill me. But leave her.”

“Daddy, no,” the girl whimpers, tightening her grip on his waist.

The Red Team Leader’s arm extends away from the holo-screen. Michael watches in horror as the sights lock on the man. On his head.

The shot sounds like nothing, like the error noise you get when you press the wrong spot on a holo-screen. Not a deadly sound. All Pop Con weapons are silenced, so as to prevent widespread panic as they carry out their gruesome work.

There’s a poof of pink mist and the man’s head snaps back. His daughter falls with him, crumpling to the roof, still clutching him, wailing and wailing and
screaming
.

Michael wants to clamp his hands over his ears, to close his eyes, to run from the room shouting obscenities and words of treason against Pop Con and the government.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. He watches with everyone else.

“One down,” Corr says casually, like he’s watching some kind of sporting event.

“For being born illegally and resisting arrest…”—the Red Team Leader’s voice can barely be heard over the girl’s wailing—“…you’ve been sentenced to death.”

The gun is aimed at the girl, who’s now sobbing into her dead father’s chest.
Look away, please look away
, Michael urges himself. He stares straight ahead, his lungs burning without oxygen.

There’s another nothing-noise and the girl’s sobs cease. Her little body stops shaking. A circle of scarlet spreads from beneath them.

“The
Blood
Team,” Corr says, a hint of reverence in his voice. He glances at Michael, who refuses to pull his gaze from the two people dead at his hands. “Boss?” Corr says. “You all right?”

Finally, Michael looks at his second in command, someone he once thought of as his friend, who’s looking at him with concern. He feels a sharp sting and realizes he’s biting his lip. He raises a numb hand to his mouth. When he pulls his fingers away, they’re glossy with warm blood.

“Too much excitement,” he says, managing a chuckle. “Well done, everyone. Another successful operation.” Before Corr can say another word, Michael strides from the room, his knees shaky, his mouth full of his own blood.