Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1)

  He’s already much further from shore than he expected to be. The current has swept him a fair bit downstream, too, but he can still see his father in the moonlight, just a thin smudge on the riverbank, standing still as a statue, watching him.

  The boy raises a hand to wave, hoping for any kind of sign that he can return now. Hoping his father is no longer the lion—that he’s done with the rocks.

  His father turns and walks back up the path.

  ~~~

  The boy treads water for a long time, letting the Mississippi carry him downstream. He considers going back. He could show up at the back fence, refusing to leave until his father answers the hundreds of questions he’s withheld for so long.

  But he already knows the door will be locked.

  He could go around to the front, pound on the door, force his father to talk to him, to explain what’s going on.

  But somehow, inexplicably, the boy knows his father won’t be there. That he’s left their little house for good.

  Still fighting off tears and fear, the boy does the only thing he’s ever felt good at: he swims. First upstream, fighting the current, until he’s past the moonlit path that leads to what used to be his home. Giving it one final fleeting glance, he turns away and swims for the lights, which seem even further away than usual—unreachable. The pack bobs behind him, tugging at his waist with each stroke.

  He reaches the approximate middle of the river, and has the urge to stop and turn back. But he doesn’t. He can’t. The uncertainty of what lies ahead seems less scary than the certainty of what’s behind him. He’s further from home than he’s ever been. The thought steals his breath for a stroke or two, but his lungs quickly adjust, like a well-built machine.

  The lights grow closer with each passing moment, until he can see them clinging to monstrous fingers that reach for the stars, spotted with eye-like windows that reflect the moonlight. He sees other lights, too, floating in the air like fireflies.

  And then he hears it: the slosh of water against rock. A familiar sound, one no different than he’s heard a million times on the opposite shore. He’s reached land. It almost seems too easy, and yet it shouldn’t. This is what he’s been training for. Abruptly, the boy realizes that from the moment his father pushed him into the cold water so many years ago, this became his destiny.

  Grabbing a slippery rock with two hands, his webbed feet find purchase on a flat stone that extends from the shore. He reaches higher, climbing the bank with clumsy steps, regretting not removing the swimming shoes before he left the water. The pack tied to his waist feels like a bag full of bricks again. His feet slip and he loses his balance, his heart leaping in his chest, a gasp of air rushing from his mouth—he’s going down and he knows it, already anticipating the pounding the hard stones will give his body.

  Something grabs him under the arm, stops his fall, holds him up. His eyes lock on a boy with shadow-black hair, cut short, who’s wearing a devilish smile. “Need a hand?” the boy says. There’s something wrong with his eyes, like they’re too narrow to fit his eyeballs. He’s seen characters like that coming out of the holo-screen, but he never thought anyone real could look like that.

  He stares at him, forgetting that he’s still hanging precariously.

  “What are you waiting for—an invitation?” the black-haired boy says, pulling him up. Shadows cast by the giant light-speckled buildings fall over them.

  He doesn’t know how to answer the boy’s question, so he says nothing. A real, live boy, he thinks. Never in a million years did he think he’d be face to face with one.

  “Nice digs,” the boy says.

  It’s like he’s speaking another language, but then he notices the boy’s looking him up and down, checking out his rubber suit and floppy feet.

  “My fath—” He catches himself. He was about to say his father gave them to him, but his father’s words echo in his ears, stopping him. Don’t tell anyone where you came from. Who you really are.

  Saying the first thing that pops into his head, he blurts out, “I stole them.”

  “Really?” the boy says, strutting a circle around him, as if inspecting him. “Impressive. I didn’t peg you for a Picker. If I’m being honest, I was thinking you were more of a Grunk.” More strange words from this strange-looking boy. If he asks the boy what he means, he’ll know he’s nothing more than a fraud. “I couldn’t sleep so I came down to the river to watch the stars and make up stories about a life I’ll never live. I do that a lot. Watch the stars. Make up stories. Dream with my eyes open. Do you ever do that, kid?”

  It’s the first thing he’s said that the boy understands. “Yes,” he says.

  The narrow-eyed boy has a few centimeters of height on him, and is likely at least a year older, if not two. The boy’s skin is pale, like his, but without the freckles.

  “Name’s Checker,” the boy says, extending a hand, palm down. “But most of my friends call me Check.”

  He stares at Check’s hand, wondering if he’s supposed to do something with it. Clearly now would be the time to tell his own name…if he had one. He reaches out a tentative hand.

  “I won’t bite,” Check says, withdrawing his hand before the boy can touch it. “Well, unless you steal a Grunk I got my eye on.” He laughs to himself, and the boy wishes Janice had covered Grunks in her lessons.

  “I—I’m feeling a bit cold,” the boy says, which is half-true. The suit continues to keep him relatively warm—warmer than he’s used to being when he’s just come out of the water, anyway—but the wind has an edge to it, sending icicles through his exposed skin.

  “I should say so,” Check says. “I’ve got a place you can flop for the night. You got a name, kid?” It’s weird hearing Check call him ‘kid’ when he’s a kid, too. Everything about this boy is weird. He remembers the question, straightening up, fumbling for the right words in his mouth, how to explain that no, he doesn’t have a name. Unless you count ‘Son’ or ‘Child’.

  “Okay,” Check says. “I get it. Names are dangerous things these days, and it’s best not to give them away to just anybody. But it’s not like I’m some head-crackin’ Crow, am I? I’m not your enemy, kid, okay?”

  The boy nods, but he doesn’t really get anything. Why would the boy be a bird? And what kind of bird cracks heads? But wait…his father said something about a Crow. That a Crow would pick him up if he walked the city streets. That a Crow would take him somewhere safe. Could he have lied? Emotion bubbles up inside him and he slams his eyes shut, trying to stem the sudden rush of memories that race through his mind: three years old and riding on his father’s back, like Zoran on his trusty steed, Fangor; four years old and feeling Janice’s fingers tickling him from head to toe; five and reading his first ever book without pictures to his father before bed; turning six and eating the devil’s cake with his fingers; seven and drawing a picture of Janice while she drew a picture of him; eight and hearing his father tell him what an excellent swimmer he is.

  “Aw, don’t cry, kid,” Check says. “I only need your name to check”—he grins toothily at his own joke—“that you’re okay. Would that be alright?”

  The boy nods because he doesn’t know what else to do. He wipes angrily at the tears he feels on his face. They shouldn’t be there. And he shouldn’t be here. All he wants is to go back to his house, even if it means he can never leave the yard again, only able to watch the other kids through the hole in the fence.

  Check pulls something from his back pocket. It’s small, no bigger than the size of his thumb, rectangular and black. When he turns it over, the other side is clear with red dots on it. “I’ll just scan you and make sure you’re not working with the Crows, and we’ll be done with it. We can’t be too careful these days; Pop Con is recruiting younger and younger.”

  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.

  PART 2: THE SLIP

  Eight years later

  Chapter Thirteen

  She 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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  Chapter Fourteen

  When 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.