Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1) (8 page)

The boy shrinks away from the device, but it’s too late. There’s a flash of light and then all he can see are bright red spots dancing and bouncing and flashing. “Can’t see,” he says, beginning to panic.

“Blink, kid. Haven’t you ever been scanned? Where did you say you were from again?” The boy blinks a dozen times, feeling a swell of relief as the red dots fade and Check’s face comes back into view. The pale-skinned boy is looking at the device, mumbling. “Not much here. Orphaned practically from birth, mum dead in childbirth, pops dead from some freak accident, sent to some crap facility—Sunrise Care—when you were six, then they lost you a few months back. You’ve been missing ever since. Sounds like you’ll fit right in with the gang.”

The boy’s mouth hangs open. None of that makes any sense, and how would this device be able to get all that from his eyes?

Then the boy remembers one of the last things his father told him:
Who you are is in your eyes.
The icky, curved things his father stuck in his eyes! The ones that changed their color. In a flash, the boy understands:

His father has given him a new identity, just like he said. Made him an orphan. Erased his past. He doesn’t know how or why, but for some reason it must be important to keep him safe.
You have to trust me.
And…despite the way his father threw the rocks, the way he glared at him, the way he turned and walked away as if the boy never existed at all…he knows he
does
trust him.

“Come with me, Benson Mack,” Check says, waving him forward before moving further into the shadows.

It takes a moment for the boy to realize Check’s talking to him. Because for the first time in his life, he has a name.

Eight years later

S
he likes the way the pretty colors shoot from the angel’s wings.

White light bursts through Janice’s window and hits the angel, which twists and turns and dangles from a string—it’s an invisible string, but she knows it’s there because she once stood on a chair and felt it—attached to the ceiling, with reds and yellows and blues and greens that sparkle.

So pretty. So mesmerizing. Sometimes she stares at it for hours. It helps her forget about the things she wishes she didn’t know. The things that make her want to claw at her arms, to pull out her hair, to scream and scream and scream.

All the things she’s not allowed to do anymore. They keep her nails short—her hair, too. She feels like a boy. Screams are allowed, but they always make someone run in, strap her to the hard bed, and stick a needle in her arm. She hates the needles, even if they make her feel better for a while.

The stained-glass angel was a gift from her son, Harrison. He gave it to Janice years ago, back when she was first committed—has it been seven years or eight?—back when he used to visit. But he hasn’t visited in a long time, something she’s glad for. A son shouldn’t have to see his mother like this. So broken, so incomplete, like a box of scattered puzzle pieces missing half the shapes. So—she hates the word but knows it’s the right one—
crazy
.

The funny thing about that word is it describes most of the people on the outside, too. The thought makes her laugh, which she knows only makes her appear even crazier. But no one’s watching her. Well, not in person. The dark purple Eye is always there, silently observing, and she knows there are real people on the other side, wearing their white coats and scribbling notes on clipboards. Making sure she doesn’t scratch, doesn’t tear, doesn’t scream. Staring vacantly at the twirling angel is okay, even if she makes funny noises, like
ooh
and
ahh
and
heeheehee
, which she does only to amuse herself. Janice knows all the tricks.

The padded door opens without a knock. They never knock. Knocking suggests she has a choice in who enters her room, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

The man who enters looks familiar, but at the same time, he’s not. She’s known him for twenty-five years, and yet doesn’t know him at all. He visits all the time.

She wishes he wouldn’t.

His dark blue eyes are jagged with red veins around the edges and he looks five years older than the last time he visited, which was only a week ago. Work must be stressing him out. “Hi, angel,” he says. She hates when he calls her that. She’s not an angel; the spinning, color-spouting glass figurine hanging from the ceiling is an angel. Her son was an angel.

“Go away,” she says.

“Harrison says hello,” her husband says.

“No he doesn’t,” she says, returning her gaze to the angel, which is still spinning, as if they’re not even there.

He doesn’t reply to that, because he knows it’s true. As he steps closer, she resists the urge to scream, to run to the window and shake the metal bars, to bang her head against the padded walls.

When he crouches down next to her, she resists the urge to fall into his arms, to let him hold her like he used to, before her whole world fell apart.

“Why don’t we sit on the bed?” he asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

“I like the floor,” she says, her bottom lip trembling. No, not just her lip, her entire body. She’s shaking from head to toe. And then his arms are around her and he’s saying,
It’s okay, shhh, it’s okay
—but it’s not okay, is it? Nothing will ever be okay, regardless of whether she’s in this padded cell or on the outside and free.

Because her baby is gone forever. They took him and they killed him and it’s all this man’s fault. This man who claims to love her. The memory hits her like a burst from a pulse gun:

She opened the door, like always, already smiling. Felt her body go numb and the smile fade from her face. The room was torn apart, the couch tipped over, the holo-screen shattered, glass shards littering the floor. “Michael!” she shouted, panic rising like bile in her throat. She found him on the floor, his face covered in a mixture of sweat and tears. He was staring at a picture of him—of their baby. The boy with no name. She could only get three words out of him, three words that changed her life forever. “They took him,” he said.

She leaps up like a cat, her husband’s teeth clacking together when her shoulder bashes into his chin. He falls backwards, grimacing. Sitting atop him like a roosting pigeon, she says, “Why is he dead and us alive? Why didn’t they hunt us and find us and kill us like they did my baby?”

She hates how calm Michael remains, even when she’s practically spitting the words in his face. “Janice, I’m sorry for everything that’s happened, but we’ve been over this before. I was out for a night swim. I was notified of the Slip on my portable holo-screen. I snuck around the neighborhood and pretended to arrive at the crime scene, just like they expected me to. A few Hunters hung around for a couple of hours and then I ordered them away, said I’d watch the place in case the Slip’s guardians returned. Then you showed up.”

“But they never found me. They never realized your tricks.” The words somehow slip past Janice’s gritted teeth, more growls than human speech.

“I pushed the investigation in the wrong direction to protect us. I controlled everything back then.”

“Not everything,” she says, pushing off of his chest.

She stumbles into a corner, anger and sadness and self-loathing rolling off of her in waves.

She opens her mouth—

—and she screams.

Michael scrambles to his feet, holding his hands in the air. “Okay, okay, I’m going now,” he says, reaching for the door.

She keeps screaming, feeling her face turn red with warmth and exertion.

“Goodbye, Janice,” he says, slipping out and slamming the door.

~~~

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W
hen he sees the man, Benson knows he’s the perfect Grunk.

The way the man keeps craning his neck to look at the Tube signs makes it clear he’s a visitor. He’s not a Crow—his suit is brown and his tie blue—but he’s likely in the city on business. The silver portable holo-screen he’s carrying in his left hand has the sleek lines and rounded edges of the newer models, which means he has money.

The perfect target.

Grunk. Even after Picking as many Grunks as he has over the last eight years, the label still makes him laugh. Check says they used to be called Elephants, a comparison to the expected enormity of their bank accounts, but that was too long, so the term was cut to two syllables—Gray Trunks—and later the two words were smashed together into the punchy one-syllable nickname. Gonzo says someone sneezed and it sounded like “Grunk!” and the name stuck. Benson doesn’t know which of his friends is right, but he likes the word.

As crowded as the Tube is today—thousands of people crossing the streets, going from building to building via the horizontal glass cylinders hundreds of feet above the ground, heading to meetings or to lunch or to run errands—the Pick should be easy enough to pull off.

Benson’s wearing a simple school uniform: pleated gray slacks and a white collared shirt, buttoned up most of the way to the top, just another kid meeting friends in the city.

Before giving the signal, he sweeps his eyes across the crowd, as if he’s looking for a friend. In reality, he’s checking for Crows, the law enforcement agents responsible for maintaining order and generally keeping the streets clean of riffraff like him and his friends. His eyes don’t miss a single detail, trained to be excruciatingly observant. To miss a detail means getting caught. The world seems to slow down:

A man scratches his nose as he hurries past; a woman jabbers excitedly into her portable holo-screen; a bead of sweat trickles from another guy’s brow.

Nothing exciting. Nothing important. Nothing dangerous. Just normal people doing normal things. Unless there’s a Crow with a particularly effective disguise, they’re okay.

He waits patiently for the Grunk to approach the blind spot, where the city’s dark purple Eyes don’t reach. Give the signal too early or too late, and they’ll be spotted. Within minutes, or even seconds, every last Hawk drone will be scanning eyes and faces for them.

Wait for it…wait for it…

Now!

He runs his hand through his messy blond hair and then darts into the crowd, slipping between pedestrians like water between protruding rocks. He doesn’t have to look to see that Check is on the move, too—they’re like two moving parts in the same machine.

As planned, Check reaches the Grunk a split-second before Benson.

And, also as planned, he trips.

A perfect fall, he lands face-first in front of the target, who’s unable to stop, his feet tangling with Checker’s. Benson’s hand is in and out of the Grunk’s pocket before the man hits the ground. Using his other hand, Benson even has time to reach out and grab the portable holo-screen, catching it just before it would’ve likely shattered on the ground.

“Damn you kids,” the man mutters, pushing off of Check to regain his feet. “Watch where you’re going.”

“Sorry, sir,” Check says, allowing Benson to haul him to his feet.

“At least I managed to save this,” Benson says, wearing a wide smile. He hands him the holo-screen, feeling the slightest tug of regret at having to give back something worth tens of thousands of dollars. But he knows returning the screen is the key to the whole operation. Who would suspect someone of being a Picker if they save your stuff?

The man grabs the screen without offering any thanks.

“Can we help you find something?” Check asks.

“I’m already late,” the man—who doesn’t have the slightest clue that he’s just become a Grunk, a pickpocket’s target—says, “and this city’s like a maze.” Yep, he’s not from around here, Benson thinks, satisfied to hear confirmation of his earlier assessment.

People angle around the trio without looking at them. No one has time to stop and see if the man’s all right.

“First time, huh?” Benson says. “We know Saint Louis inside and out. We’ll get you there in no time.”

The traveler frowns skeptically, but then says, “I work for U-Bank. I’m trying to find their headquarters.”

Neither boy can hide the large smiles that blanket their faces. U-Bank is the most profitable bank in the country, started only after each and every other U.S. bank failed, learning from their mistakes. Could this be the biggest haul of their careers?

Benson comes to his senses before Check, who seems to have dollar signs in his eyes. “Easy. Follow the blue Tube three hundred meters”—he motions straight ahead—“and take the first right into the yellow Tube. The U-Building is at the very end. Can’t miss it.”

To Benson’s surprise, the man offers a half-smile. “Thanks,” he says. “And sorry I was so grumpy. I hate being late. You two seem like good kids.”

As a sharp pang of guilt hits Benson in the chest, Check snaps out of his money-fog and helps the man smooth out the wrinkles on his shirt caused by the fall. “No problem, sir,” he says. “Good luck with your meeting.”

The man nods and eases back into the foot-traffic, disappearing. “Hope you had a nice trip!” Check hollers after him, laughing.

Benson shakes his head. “C’mon,” he says. “We’ve got to get out of here before he realizes his LifeCard is missing.”

Check rubs his hands together greedily as they push through the crowd. “How much do you think he’s worth?” he whispers in Benson’s ear.

Benson looks around sharply, making sure no one overheard, and hisses back, “Shh, not here.” Sometimes it feels like he’s the older of the two Pickers, despite being two years younger than his partner in crime, who’s nearly eighteen. But he can’t help adding, “A lot.”

Checker’s smile lights up his whole face.

No one’s waiting for the lifter to the Tunnels, which isn’t that surprising. Those with money and jobs prefer to travel aboveground, using the Tube, where they can be seen. Where they can feel important.

But being seen is the exact opposite of what the two boys want now. Check says “Tuh” inside the lifter, and they begin their descent. For the longest time it’s been a game where they see how little of a word they can speak and still have the city’s many voice-activated machines obey them appropriately. In this case, the lifter seems to understand “Tuh” for “Tunnels.” However, in other instances, the results have been comically disastrous, like when Benson used the exact same command in a clothing store. Except in that case “Tuh” was for “The underwear.” And indeed the robot clerk brought them underwear to try on—several lacey red bras.

Already smiling, Check says, “Remember when—”

“Yeah,” Benson says. “The lingerie incident.”

Check snorts. “We’ve had some good times, haven’t we?”

“Yup.” He’s not feeling that talkative. Something about the way the man apologized, how he seemed so stressed out, makes Benson wish they’d picked another target.
Am I getting soft?
he wonders to himself.

An advertising screen on the back of the lifter door lights up. “Not ready for kids yet?” a young blond woman says, throwing a baby bottle off screen. An equally young guy looks right at Benson and says, “Now available, reserve a Death Match up to ten years in advance! Simply speak ‘early Death Match’ into your holo-screen, and prepare for your future.” The ad ends with the couple kissing and the lights going out.

Benson grits his teeth.

“This whole city is a bunch of Grunks,” Check says. “Things will never change, eh, bud?”

He can’t argue with that.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Check mutters. “These things seem to get slower every day.” As if it heard him—and maybe it did—the lifter eases to a stop and the doors open to a dimly lit concrete tunnel. Well, two tunnels really, mashed right up next to each other. They almost look like a giant version of some of the new double-barreled stun guns used by the Crows. The Tunnels.

On the far side, a rocket train pulls into the station, so full that the people getting on have to fight their way inside. No one gets off. This is the main business district, and anyone forced to ride the rocket train is unlikely to work here.

“Let’s walk,” Benson says, loathing the thought of having his face stuffed into someone’s armpit. Normally a crowded train would excite him—like a buffet for Pickers—but one of the first rules of Picking is not to eat where you crap. These are his people, and he won’t take advantage of them.

The train pulls out, hundreds of people staring out with dead eyes. The exterior of each car is littered with graffiti, most of it obscene and pointless, but with the occasional political statement that makes Benson remember that he’s not alone in his hatred for the system.

Let Slips Live!
one shouts in electric-yellow glow-in-the-dark paint.

Pop Con = Communism
, another artist declares, with Pop Con sprayed in black and Communism written in bright red.

“Here, here,” Benson whispers.

“We should start the hack,” Check says, a gleam in his eyes. “That douchebag could check his pocket any second. It won’t take him long to report that he’s been Picked.”

Benson doesn’t necessarily agree with the ‘douchebag’ part, but now’s not the time to split hairs. Thinking ahead, he’d stuffed the Grunk’s LifeCard in the same pocket as his highly illegal, highly expensive hacking device.

They pass an Eye, which tracks their progress for a few seconds before snapping back to the next pedestrian. One of the yellow overhead lights flickers twice and then winks out. “Give way, repair required,” a maintenance bot drones as it whizzes past them. It’s an older model, dinged up and rusty around the seams. It’s surprising the city provides any service to the Tunnels. The machine breaks apart at the midsection, its upper body telescoping to the tunnel ceiling, where it removes the burnt out light, replacing it with a fresh one.

“Repair complete,” the bot says, in the robot version of talking to oneself. It scurries away to find something else to do.

Benson lowers his chin, his eyes cast down, and Check does the same, lifting a hand to fiddle with his dark ponytail. It’s probably an unnecessary precaution, but they’re professionals, and they avoid risks at all costs, including having their faces spotted by an Eye the moment they’re stealing funds from a LifeCard.

Shoving his hand in his pocket, Benson operates the device by touch alone, sliding the card into a thin slot and initiating the hack. Less than ten seconds later, he feels it vibrate, signaling job completion.

“Sphincter,” Benson says.

“You’re kidding me,” Check says. “Finished already?” One of his hands curls into a fist and Benson can tell his hot-tempered friend wants to pound it into something, anything, but with dozens of Eyes patrolling the Tunnels, he wisely loosens his fingers. With a deft tug, his hair falls free, swishing against his shoulders. “I thought this was the big one.”

“There will be another,” Benson says.

“That’s what you always say. I was hoping to have a little cash to buy a gift for Luce.”

Benson says nothing, fingering the stolen LifeCard in his pocket.

They’re silent for the remainder of the walk through the Tunnels, each mulling over their recent dry spell and what it might mean for their careers as Pickers. More importantly, what it might mean for their survival.

Benson also thinks about how lucky he was to meet Check all those years ago on the banks of the Mississippi. Things could’ve turned out so different. Check taught him how things worked in the city, a place so foreign to Benson it was like an alien planet. He showed him the ropes and gave him a crash course on being a Picker. Check had been Picking solo for a while and just happened to be in the market for a partner. They lived together, Picked together, were inseparable.

Benson shakes his head at how well it turned out for him, considering the alternative path he might’ve taken on his own. Could his father have known any of it? Does his father know what he is now?

He only stops thinking about his unanswerable questions when they finally arrive home, a burnt out warehouse in a seedy part of town where the silence seems louder than thunder. “Let’s see it,” Check says, stepping inside, beyond the reach of both Eyes and Hawks.

In the shadows, Benson removes the device and holds it face up between them. The screen displays the harsh truth: $64.41.

Check hammers the wall with the heel of his fist. “Freaking…” he growls. “He must’ve called it in before we could hack it. U-Bank was probably withdrawing the funds and we just got the scraps.”

“We can get two days’ worth of food tablets,” Benson says brightly, feigning excitement, pumping his fist.

“Yeah, for one person,” Check says. “What are we going to do—cut them in half? My stomach’s already growling.”

“Your stomach growls even
after
a full meal,” Benson jokes. “Details,” he adds, speaking into the device. The hacker cycles through a few different screens, settling on one with several numbers.

Check hits the wall one more time, and then peers into the screen. “I’ll be pinched,” he says. “That dude didn’t have a hundred bucks to his name.”