Grip (The Slip Trilogy Book 2) (11 page)

~~~

Article from the Saint Louis Times:

Pop Con to Refocus on Illegal Immigrants

In an announcement from the Department of Population Control, we’ve received our first major glimpse into the changes promised by new boss, Corrigan Mars. Although previously the major focus has been on unauthorized births and Slips, Mars believes not enough attention has been given to “the sieve that is our borders.” According to Mars, there are thousands of illegal immigrants residing in the RUSA, putting us all at risk of resource shortages. In his announcement, he promised to refocus on three goals:

1) Updating our border protection technology to better detect Jumpers and Diggers
before
they cross the border;

2) Retraining our border guard; and

3) Diverting significant Pop Con resources to hunting and terminating illegals already residing in the RUSA.

The third point has caused considerable controversy, given that current laws only permit Jumpers and Diggers caught in the act of crossing the border to be terminated. Illegals discovered already living in the country are immediately reported to their home nation and deported. When questioned, Mars said, “We are confident our lobbying efforts will result in a change in the law. Illegal immigrants are as much a threat to our authorized citizens as Slips, and should be treated as such. Anything else would be foolish.”

According to sources close to the matter, a meeting is scheduled between Corrigan Mars, Mayor Strombaugh of Saint Louis, and might even include the President of the RUSA. More to come as the situation develops.

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

Comments:

FriendlyBuzz21: Who will clean my house if all the illegals are killed? Jumpers and Diggers are far cheaper than buying and maintaining a CleanerBot.

CorriganMars: Thank you for expressing your concern, FriendlyBuzz21. Our discussions will include consideration of subsidizing certain bot industries related to the completion of remedial tasks. But the more important question is: Are you willing to eat less food and drink less water in order for your illegal to continue cleaning your house?

FriendlyBuzz21: Wow! Thanks for your response! I feel like I just met a celebrity. Honestly, I never thought of it like that. The next time she comes to clean my house I’ll be sure to call Pop Con.

CorriganMars: Thank you! You’re a hero to your country.

E
veryone is gone except Benson and Luce. The decorations have been turned off. What was left of the cake—only crumbs—has been removed.

Check and the others asked if they wanted to come back with them, but they said no, promising they’d be along shortly.

Jarrod escorted Janice back to her room a little while later. Benson’s not sure how he feels about that, but it was hard to object after seeing the huge smile painted on his mother’s face when Jarrod offered.

“This was a really nice thing your mom did,” Luce says.

“I know,” he says. “This was the happiest I’ve seen her.”

“You looked happy too.”

“Did I?” Even as he asks the question, he knows it’s true. For a few moments it was as if he and Harrison were real brothers with a real mother and a real life. But already the feeling is fading away into the desolate walls.

Luce seems to realize his question doesn’t require an answer. “Do you think we can stay here?” she asks, slipping her hand into his.

Although the warmth of her skin against his gives him chills, he can’t lie to her. Not about this. “I don’t think so,” he says.

“But we’re safe here. Geoffrey is happy.”

“I don’t know if I can be Jarrod’s poster child.”

“Would it really be that bad? At least they’re fighting against something that is wrong.” Luce’s nose is scrunched up, her eyebrows raised. It’s an expression of pure earnestness.

“Maybe not,” he says. “I don’t know. It’s hard to come to terms with all the violence. It’s like everyone just wants to kill each other.”

Luce laughs, although he’s not sure what’s funny. “Says the guy that destroyed the Destroyer,” she says.

Oh
.
That.
“That was more you than me,” he points out.

“Let’s call it a team effort.”

“We should seal it in some way,” he says, running his thumb over her forefinger.

He senses only the slightest moment of hesitation, and then it’s gone as she leans in, her breath smelling faintly of cake. Her lips are moist and rich, moving against his with a persistent fervor that’s never been quite there before. Her fingers weave through his hair to the back of his head, pulling him even closer. When she pulls back, she takes his breath with her.

“Does that work?” she says.

Fighting not to gasp, Benson says, “Pretty much.”

She laughs and the sound is so beautiful to his ears that he thinks maybe he could stay here with her, even if it means partnering with a man whose motivations he doesn’t fully understand. Maybe they could create their own version of normal in this place.

“Ready to head back?” Luce asks.

He so desperately wants to keep holding her hand, to walk back with her, to sneak a kiss goodnight, but he knows he can’t.

He’s waiting for Jarrod to return. After all, tonight’s the night Jarrod promised he would show him what’s behind the door leading to level minus-twenty-six. Although he wants to know, he realizes he hasn’t thought about it at all in the last two days. Too much has happened. The new Slip showing up. Discovering his father’s elaborate plan to secure him a birth authorization. Harrison’s promise to kill his Death Match. Their birthday party.

Two very long days. And this one’s not over yet.

“I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes,” he says. When he sees a disappointed look cross Luce’s face, he adds, “I just need to think about things for a while.” It’s not technically a lie.

Her expression morphs into one of understanding. “Okay.” She pecks him on the lips and he can’t believe he’s letting her go without him. “Even if I’m asleep, make sure you say goodnight. You can wake me up.”

“I will,” he promises.
Although it might be a lot later than you think.

When she leaves, the silence that falls on the room is deafening. He taps his toe impatiently, trying not to wonder why it’s taking Jarrod so long to return. The walls seem to get closer with every minute that passes without the Lifer leader’s appearance.

When he feels like he’s about ready to scream, the door swings open and a very different Jarrod enters. Not the warm-smiling man who wished him a happy birthday and winked and led Janice back to her room. A man with an expression chiseled from stone, dark and shadowy eyes, and lines cut so deep into his forehead that they could be old scars. A hard man who’s willing to do hard things, like blowing up buildings and holding a knife to Benson’s throat.

Behind him is Destiny, her skates hovering just off the floor. She offers him a nervous smile.
What is she doing here?
he wonders.

Noticing his puzzled expression, Jarrod says, “You should both see this.” As far as Benson knows, the only thing the two of them have in common is that they’re Slips. So what does being a Slip have to do with whatever’s behind those doors? Benson asks himself. Nothing comes to him, which only strengthens his desire to know.

Jarrod leads them down halls that are more and more familiar, to a lifter that feels too small for the three of them. Benson’s never had an issue with claustrophobia, but the Lifer leader seems to grow within the tiny box, filling it from top to bottom and side to side, smashing him into the corner.

He holds his breath until the doors open and he spills out.

Level minus-twenty-five is murky with dim night security lighting. As they make their way down the corridor, each overhead panel brightens, illuminating them in a halo of fluorescent white light. For Benson, it gives the illusion that the hallway is leading them, not the other way around.

“Where is he taking us?” Destiny asks Benson.

“To level minus-twenty-six,” Benson says.

“Why?”

“Because I asked him to.” It’s not a very good answer, but she takes it in stride, the way she seems to take everything, her brown eyes shining brightly with curiosity.

Jarrod glances back at their conversation. “That’s not why I brought you here,” he says.

The heavy iron door looms like a robot-sentry before them, steadfast and immovable.

Without hesitation, Jarrod stands in front of the retina scanner, which reads his eyes and reports, “Signature accepted,” in an electronic voice that Benson thinks is meant to be soothing but which sounds decidedly creepy.

With a monstrous groan, the door cracks open, easing inward. The machinery hums as it works, revealing a short but wide corridor with small, circular, orange lights.

Jarrod strides forward without looking back, as if there’s no question as to whether they’ll follow. He’s a man used to being obeyed.

After the barest of glances at each other, they follow the Lifer leader, who’s already starting down a flight of stairs flanked by the same circular, orange lights. Benson hears the door close automatically behind them a few moments after they pass through, sealing them inside.

At the base of the staircase is another impenetrable door. This one requires a retinal signature
and
all five fingerprints from Jarrod’s right hand. Benson feels a shudder run through him as he considers the thought process the designer must’ve had:
Just in case someone cuts out Jarrod’s eye and remove four of his fingers, they’ll still be missing his thumb. Mwahaha!

But who would go to such lengths to get into this bunker? And why?

Destiny seems to be thinking the same thing, raising her eyebrows, but doesn’t comment.

This time there’s no creepy-soothing computer voice, and the door opens from top to bottom with a
swish
.

Benson’s jaw drops to the floor when he sees what’s inside.

~~~

His men are in position.

Domino Destovan, the Destroyer, is done taking what’s given to him. Mars may have the power to bring him to his knees, but he can’t stop him from speaking his mind. In this case, his request for a male-only squad of Hunters was met with approval.

There will be no screw-ups on this mission.

The beacon moved within a small area for a while, but then stopped, well within the area they’ve designated as “the target.” And the target is surrounded. There’s no way out, no escape. There will be no survivors.

It will be the greatest victory Pop Con has ever seen. And the Destroyer will lead his men to see it through.

He licks his lips, almost able to taste the coppery tang of the blood that will be spilt. Every muscle and bone and metal plate in his body reacts to the fantasy, urging him forward. But he doesn’t move, watching a little red dot projected from his holo. Haste could ruin everything. In this situation, patience means victory.

So he waits, his men listening for his command, as his scouts perform recon on the area to determine the best way to infiltrate the target. And once they find it…

Boom
, he says in his head.

~~~

There are hundreds of beds, set in rows. The soft susurrations of dozens of deep-breathing sleepers create a symphony of slumber.

But not all the bunker residents are sleeping. Beyond the beds are tables, where teenagers sit, eating, drinking, playing cards. Speaking in hushed tones, so as to not wake those sleeping. A few of them look up to stare, but quickly lose interest, as if they see newcomers pass through the thick, iron door all the time. Are they the children of the older Lifers? Are they runaways, come to join the Lifer cause? And if so, would any of them be used as suicide bombers, like Benson has seen Jarrod use before?

Benson’s about to ask all of these questions and many more that are already popping up on the tip of his tongue, but Destiny speaks first. “It’s all true,” she says. “All the rumors, all the stories. Refuge
does
exist. Not up there”—she motions above them, at a high ceiling—“but down here.”

Benson looks at her blankly. He doesn’t have the slightest clue what she’s talking about.

“Questions, Benson?” Jarrod says.

“What is this place?” he asks.

“Refuge,” Jarrod says, “but the place doesn’t matter. Refuge isn’t a single place. It’s an idea.”

“What idea?”

“That there’s a place for everyone, even those who don’t seem to belong anywhere.”

Isn’t that what Destiny was saying earlier? he thinks. How did she already know about this place? But more importantly, “Who are these people?”

“You don’t know?” Jarrod says, raising his eyebrows.

Should he? Benson blinks, watching as a young girl—no more than seven or eight—in a sleeping gown, gets up and walks to a tap to refill a tiny plastic water cup.

“Destiny?” Jarrod says, his eyebrows raised.

“Slips,” she says, awe in her voice. “They are all…Slips.”

Benson’s heart hammers in his chest and he can hear the blood flowing through the veins in his head. The coppery taste of blood fills his mouth and he realizes he’s bitten the tip of his tongue. “No,” he says. “No, they’re not. You’re lying. The both of you. It’s impossible.”

But his words sound empty and hollow even to his own ears. Destiny doesn’t strike him as a liar, so obviously she believes what she’s saying. So when no one answers his accusations, all he says is, “How?”

“There is so much to tell you, Benson. There’s a great big world out there, and you’ve been on an island your entire life.”

Intuitively, Benson knows he’s right. There’s so much more out there, places he’s only read about, from the swampy southeastern coastline where Florida used to be, to the Gulf of Texas, to the California Islands in the West. A great big world.

A big world that Benson’s hardly even thought about in his seventeen years of life, because it was completely and utterly unreachable.

And yet, looking out into this huge underground space filled with dozens of…

…Slips—even thinking the word sends bolts of excitement zinging through his chest—Benson realizes the world has come to him. These kids aren’t from Saint Louis, that much is certain. “You brought them here,” he says.

“In a manner of speaking,” Jarrod says.

The little girl, having finished filling her water cup, approaches. Her pink sleeping gown is too big for her, dragging around her feet, which are hidden by its cotton entrails. She has narrow eyes, powdery pale skin and long silky night-black hair. “I know who you are you,” she says to Benson, the slight airiness of awe evident in her voice. “Your face is on the holo-screen all the time.”

“I’m just a kid,” Benson says.

She shakes her head stubbornly and crosses her arms across her chest. “No you’re not. You’re the Saint Louis Slip. Everyone says you’re important.”

Jarrod gives Benson a hard look as if to say
See? I told you.

Benson takes a step forward, then another, close enough that when he crouches he’s able to reach out and pull the little girl’s hand out from where it’s tucked firmly and resolutely under her armpit. He holds it gingerly, like it’s a fragile crystal figurine. “I am skin and bone, just like you,” he says. The girl’s eyes are locked on his, and although it’s slightly unnerving, he knows he won’t look away. “I have blood running through my veins, just like you. And I’m a Slip, just like you. We’ve both survived. We’re the same, as deserving of life as anyone. We’re
real
. You know that, right?”