Flip (The Slip Trilogy Book 3) (6 page)

“You break it, you buy it,” he says.

“I left my LifeCard in my other pants.”

Harrison rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the holo-screen, where the image from the Hawk drone zooms in on a fresh wave of Crows and crowd control bots leaping from the back of an aut-truck.

“Geez,” Simon says.

“We have my old friend to thank,” Harrison says, cracking his knuckles.
Dammit
, he thinks.
He should’ve made sure he’d finished off the Destroyer before he left. But how would he even know? The guy was a hunk of metal. He certainly looked dead.

“I heard,” Simon says. “I also heard about your girl.”

He says nothing, chewing his lip and regretting his decision to invite his visitor to take a seat.

“We’ll find her,” Simon says.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Harrison says.

“I never do.” Silence falls as the violent images continue to plague the screen. Eventually, Simon shifts his position, grunting lightly, and then says, “Nice makeover.”

“Are you hitting on me?” Harrison jokes.

“All I want is to be your frienemy,” Simon jokes back.

“I’m not ready for commitment,” Harrison says. “Too young for that.”

Simon ignores him. “My makeover is scheduled for later today.”

“What?” Harrison says, shooting him a look. Simon continues to stare at the screen. “Why would you need one? You’re not going anywhere.”

“Are you going to stop me?”

It’s not a question—it’s a challenge. “You’re in no condition to help anyone. You’ll get yourself or one of us killed.”

“I’ll be fine in a week.”

“We only have five days.”

“I was rounding up.”

Harrison shakes his head. “This is stupid.”

Simon turns to face him, running a hand over the dark three-day stubble on his chin. “Let me ask you this: If you were in my position—”

“I’m not.”

“—but if you were, would you go? Or would you lie in a sick bed like some old geezer?”

Harrison turns away, stewing. Because he can’t argue with Simon’s logic. Although they’ve had their differences in the past, in a lot of ways they’re cut from the same cloth, as grudging as he is to admit it. “Point taken,” he says. “But if your injuries put my brother or mother in danger for one second, I’ll—”

“I know, I know, you’ll beat my face in, et cetera, et cetera,” Simon finishes, smiling.

Harrison grins back. “Damn right.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Simon says, “Should I get that or will you?”

“You need to rest. I’ll get it.” He picks up one of the shoes he kicked off hours ago and throws it at the door, which shudders from the impact. “Come in!” he hollers.

Someone he doesn’t recognize pops his head around the door cautiously, as if expecting another projectile to be launched at his face. “Uh, Minda asked me to get you both for wardrobe,” he says timidly.

He and Simon exchange a look. “This must be what it feels like to be a holo-star,” Harrison says.

T
welve-year-old Geoffrey Harris remembers something he read one time on a stolen holo-screen. It was a story about sinkholes. Apparently they sometimes form so suddenly that entire houses can fall into them. One second you’re eating breakfast and the next you’re in the bottom of a chasm, your whole world gone in an instant. That’s how his stomach feels now—like it’s in a sinkhole. Or maybe his stomach
is
the sinkhole, dragging his heart and soul into it. He’s had the sinkhole ever since Luce died, taking his entire world with her.

At first he felt angry at her, which was stupid. It’s not like she shot herself. It’s not like she wanted to leave him, to die in that underground bunker. Then he was angry with Benson Kelly. He knows his sister loved Benson, which is why they were even there in the first place. Geoffrey blamed the Saint Louis Slip for a time, but then realized that he loved Benson Kelly, too. He was his friend, just like Check and Rod and Gonzo. So, no, despite what he told Check, he isn’t angry with Benson, and he doesn’t blame him. That was just a lie to get out of having to go see him. He knew he couldn’t see him. If he did, his resolve would falter and he would go wherever Benson told him to go. The pain and the loss would come back faster than ever, like the crack of a whip, and he wouldn’t be able to do what he knows he has to do.

What Jarrod promised him he could do.

No one knows about his friendship with Jarrod, because that’s the way the Lifer leader wants it. Back at Refuge, when he’d go out to “play” with his “friends”, most times he’d hang with Jarrod, learning the ropes of how he managed the rebellion. They studied maps of Saint Louis together, picking the perfect targets for their next attacks. He got to sit with Jarrod and his top generals as they coordinated the bombings, communicating through their vast network of allies. He was able to do something to help his illegal friends, Benson and Rod and Gonzo, participating in a noble cause. It was cool watching the explosions. He couldn’t always look at the bodies, but then again, neither did Jarrod. The leader said their work was sometimes dirty, and he hated that part, but it was necessary for the greater good. Geoffrey has to believe that’s true, or else what did Luce’s death mean?

When his sister died, he wanted to curl up into a ball and let the sinkhole take him, but Jarrod wouldn’t let him. He spoke to him in secret, promised him a chance to make things right. Gave him options, something no one else would do. Everyone just wanted to “protect him.” But he doesn’t need protection. He needs to see those who caused his sister’s death suffer as he has.

What he needs is revenge. And Jarrod’s willing to give him that.

So when Check and the others asked him what he did when they were out, he lied and said, “Not much,” when really he was learning how to arm a bomb. How to hide it under his clothes. How to detonate it. And, more importantly, where to detonate it for maximum damage.

He knows his name was thrown at the end of the RUSA Most Wanted List simply because he was Luce’s brother, and she’d proven to be a dangerous adversary to Pop Con, but soon he’ll show them exactly why he belongs there.

~~~

Benson’s never been inside a store this nice. It was always too risky, as a street rat. Stealing something from a place like this was near impossible, the security systems far advanced beyond his skills as a Picker. So any clothes he bought with the meager funds he and Check managed to steal were from secondhand shops or street vendors.

The night field trip was arranged by Minda, whose organization has some sort of arrangement with the store, allowing them to shop after closing hours. Not even the employees are there, and apparently they’re allowed to take whatever they want. Benson can only guess at how much they must pay for this privilege. He’s quickly realizing that not only is the consortium broader than he realized, but extremely well-funded.

The racks of clothes are endless, stretching from mirrored wall to mirrored wall, and climbing up huge rectangular columns like creeping vines. By pushing any of the buttons at the ends of the racks or the bases of the columns, the racks shift, bringing the clothes right to the customer without them having to move. The apparel is illuminated by bright white spotlights, making the colors appear more vivid than Benson suspects they are, as if donning one of the shirts will make the wearer more distinct. Set amongst the racks are tall holo-images of faceless people.

Minda is giving them instructions on the types of clothing they should be looking for in order to complete their “punk” disguises, but Benson doesn’t really hear her, watching as Janice approaches one of the giant holos. She stands on a black panel on the floor, and
oohs
as green crisscrossing lasers shoot from the holo, painting her body with a checkerboard of light.

Instantly, the generic holo transforms into his mom, her features and proportions exceptionally true to life, except for the startlingly amusing fact that it’s twice the size of her real self. She giggles uncontrollably at this fact, trying to pinch and prod her own huge leg, her hand passing innocently through the 3D image. “Would you like to try something on?” a bot voice asks. “Our catalogue has thousands of items, many of which can be picked up today.”

“Something yellow!” she practically screeches. A long yellow dress appears on holo-Janice and her virtual-self places her hands on her hips confidently. Benson is surprised at how pretty she looks in it—he’s so used to seeing her in borrowed clothing way too big for her slight frame.

“Nice look!” the bot says exuberantly.

“No, no, something orange!” Janice commands. The dress morphs to orange and shortens, falling just above her knees. The scooped neck sharpens into a V.

“Hot stuff!” the bot exclaims.

“No! No! I’ve got it!” Janice squeals. “Something yellow AND orange.”

Benson finds himself cracking up at his mom’s antics, and when his eyes find Harrison, he’s sniggering too. Even Minda stops her instructions to watch the spectacle. The dress changes from elegant and pretty to an outfit that’s quite funky with orange and yellow tiger stripes running diagonally. It shortens further, revealing far too much leg on his mother’s holo. The top of the dress disappears as it becomes a halter, leaving her shoulders bare. Combined with her new jet-dark hair and makeup, she literally looks like a different woman, almost like the Janice he remembers from his childhood.

Minda says, “Yeah. Just do what Janice does and you’ll be fine.”

“You want us to all wear tiger-striped dresses?” Harrison asks.

“Sure. So long as you laser your legs first,” Minda says.

“Now
that
I would pay to see,” Simon, who’s now got racing stripes shaved into his head, comments, pointing his cane at Harrison’s legs.

Following Janice’s lead, they each claim their own holo-manikin. Benson stares at the larger-than-life version of himself, trying to decide what to say.

“May I help you?” the bot asks.

He’s never had to do something like this. Clothing was just something you put on to stay warm, to cover your body. Now it’s a crucial element of the façade the group will have to effectively convey in order to succeed in their mission.

“Uhh,” he says. “Black?”

“Fantastic choice, sir.” The Benson-holo ends up in a black tuxedo.

“I’m not sure the penguin look is what we’re going for,” Harrison says, approaching from the side. Apparently he made short work of the task and, Benson has to admit, did an awesome job. His sleeveless muscle-accentuating tank is black, lined with silver edges that shimmer when he walks. Some holo-band logo is imprinted on the front in such a way that it looks old and grungy despite the shirt being brand new. His pants are constructed of some kind of material that seems to change color with each step, and are intentionally ripped around the knees. The ensemble is completed with a silver skull belt and heavy black boots.

“I was going for James Bond from that new 007 holo-film that just came out,” Benson says, wishing he could pull off a look the way his brother does.

“Hmm, I’m not sure you have the cojones to be Bond,” his brother says, tapping his front teeth. “Perhaps something more…current. Have you seen all the aut-cycles cruising around lately? Leather is most definitely back in.”

Always helpful, the bot says, “We have a large assortment of leather for all shapes and sizes.”

“White tank, black leather jacket, black leather pants—boot cut,” Harrison rattles off, almost without thinking. “Croc-skin belt and boots, in red if you have it in stock.”

“Certainly, sir.”

The holo changes and Benson is no longer floating in the air. Some tattooed, aut-cycle-riding, trouble-making badass with a blue-tipped Mohawk and multiple piercings appears, throwing evils stares around the store. “Son of a bot,” Benson breathes. “Is that how I’ll look?”

“Hell yeah,” Harrison says. “My work here is done.”

“Thank you for your business,” the bot says politely. “Your total will be four-thousand-and-ninety-four dollars and forty-nine cents.”

“Uh, put it on our tab,” Benson says hurriedly, suddenly feeling as if he’s doing something wrong. This whole world…of stores, of fashion, of legal citizens with legal jobs living a legal life…it feels wrong. Not for everyone else, but for him. Like this world is not really his. And if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel comfortable in it, even if he gets the chance to try someday.

“Nicely done,” Minda says, snapping Benson away from his thoughts.

She slides a LifeCard through a slot in the machine and the racks start moving as the bot says, “Payment accepted. Please remove your items as they appear.”

“Thanks,” Benson mumbles, grabbing the pants and other articles of clothing each time the rack stops.

“Compliments of the consortium,” she says, slipping away to pay for Simon’s purchases.

The red croc-skin boots are last, and are far lighter than he expected them to be. “Are these made of air?” he says to himself, balancing them on his palm.”

“Synthetic polymer,” his brother says. “The latest technology.”

Benson imagines it will feel like walking on a cloud. “Thanks for your help,” he says.

“No problem. I have to admit, for having such a non-relationship with Dad I did enjoy spending his money for him.”

“He bought you things?” Benson asks, interested in what his father was like after he knew him.

Harrison laughs without mirth. “Hardly. I was an authorized user on his LifeCard. It was guilt money. He thought it would make up for the fact that he was a pathetic father.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Benson says. “I knew things weren’t great with you and him, but I guess I never thought it was that bad.”
How could it have been?
Benson wonders. He would’ve given anything just to have seen his father in person again, even if they hardly spoke, hardly interacted.

“It was,” Harrison says. “When he was still taking care of you, he was always gone, leaving me with Mom. I was hard on her. Too hard. I didn’t know.”

“You were just a kid.”

“We both were. And they were just our parents. But that doesn’t make any of what happened right.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Benson agrees.

“Even though Dad never did, Mom went to all my hoverboard games, up until…she couldn’t. I loved Mom,” Harrison says. “I mean, I love her. For a while I thought I didn’t. I was embarrassed, I guess. Everyone knew she’d been committed to the asylum. I didn’t want to be the laughingstock of the school, so I pretended it was funny, that I thought she was a big joke. I’m a terrible person, aren’t I, little bro?”

The sadness and regret are heavy in his brother’s tone. “You made mistakes. We all did,” is all he can think of to say.

“Ha! I bet you would’ve been more loyal to Mom. I bet you would’ve defended her. It should’ve been you. You should’ve been the legal one. You’re a million times more deserving of it than me.” Harrison’s words are brought on by more than sadness and regret, Benson realizes. There’s self-loathing, too. The most confident guy in the world doesn’t even like himself.

Isn’t that the way it always is? Benson asks himself. We hide who we are until the truth spews forth with the power of an erupting geyser. It’s almost exactly what happened to him, except in a different way.

“Shut up,” Benson says, forcing as much command into his tone as he can.

Harrison takes a step back, surprised. “What?”

“You heard me. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. So you screwed up a few times, who cares? You’re making up for it. You’ve
made up for it
. A hundred times over. A thousand. A botdamned million times, Harrison. Can’t you see that? We’re in this together. No more running off and doing crazy things. If there are crazy things to be done, we’ll do them together. Our normal childhood may have been stolen, but from now on we’re taking it back.”

The look on his brother’s face seems to twist between shadowed amusement and disbelief. “Maybe you do have the cojones to pull off the Bond look, after all,” he says, roping an arm around Benson’s shoulder.

~~~