According to Shabaz, they were doing better in the games too, a significant percentage of the recent Combine grads jumping from Three to Four in less than three months.
Of course, not everything was roses, Johnny thought, catching an image on the hollas of a red-brown Two he recognized getting shredded on a spike-pit in Tunnel. A pain shot through him and he swallowed the grief. That was the worst aspect of helping at the Combine: he cared. Every day he helped dozens, if not hundreds, of Ones and Twos, and every day most of them didn’t make it back to the Combine. He hated watching the highlights now; not because he was no longer in them, but because he’d see some panzer or squid he recognized getting vaped. Constantly. Most of the time it was only a vague feeling—like he’d passed them on the ramp—but even that was horrible. It was like every squid and panzer in the Combine had become as important as Shabaz.
At least that one made it, Johnny thought, watching the newest Three make his way out of the Combine. He was Shabaz’s to work on now.
That had been Shabaz’s solution to their situation: she worked on the skids in the games. It was great, because she took over where Johnny left off, spotting the skids who might have real potential to advance—the future Johnnies and Shabazes—and working on them in the games and the sugarbars and more. Johnny had a feeling she was the reason why Onna and Shev had returned to the Combine.
And maybe there was more help on the way, Johnny thought, as Akash passed a group of skids huddled at the bottom of the ramp, staring into the Combine. There were half a dozen, most of them Level Five or Six from the looks of things, although the yellow-black skid in front was a Seven.
Or maybe not help, Johnny thought, catching the expression on the Seven’s face. He did not look happy. Trist—the skid’s name was Trist.
The Seven briefly made eye contact with Johnny. Yeah, definitely not pleased. He muttered something to the teal-plum Six beside him, who bobbed an angry eye in agreement. Then the whole group turned and rolled back up the ramp.
Wonder what that’s about.
He watched the group leave. Then, with a tilt of his stripe, he turned back to the crash pads.
“Again.”
CHAPTER TWO
Shabaz had never liked Tunnel.
Perhaps it was because she’d never been great at racing games; although, until recently, she’d never thought of herself as great at anything. Maybe it was the enclosed nature of the game; other races like the Rainbow Road, Up and Down, or the Slope were open to the sky, whereas Tunnel was an enclosed one hundred kilometres of suffocation.
But mostly it was because Tunnel tried to vape you.
There were other games where the game itself was deadly: Tag Box, Tilt, the Gauntlet. But those games were honest. You knew going in: watch everything.
Tunnel was a deathtrap that pretended it was a race. Side tunnels that led nowhere and would close up behind you. Serrated walls, pits of acid, pressure pads that would crush you between them. In some places the floor would just disappear. In others, the ceiling would collapse. The skids trying to kill you were the least of your problems.
Running up the side of a corner, she saw a trailing red-brown Level Two get caught in the spike-pit she’d just dodged. Avoiding the pit was easy if you knew about it. But how were the panzers and squids supposed to remember every trap—there were hundreds of them. She felt a brief flash of grief and hoped Johnny hadn’t seen it. It would bother him more than it bothered her.
The death did bother her—she cared about the panzers and squids, particularly those Twos that were close but would never make it to Three—but she couldn’t grieve for them all. There were so many Level Ones and Twos; she’d never realized how many until she’d come back from the Thread with a whole new perspective on the sphere in which she lived.
Panzers and squids died. Constantly. Another got vaped in front of her, checked into a wall of blades. A minute later, two sped right into a laser mine. She just couldn’t weep for them all. Although, Johnny would worry.
It was fine. He probably hadn’t seen it.
She turned her attention back to the reason why she was there.
Spotting Tarindu up ahead, she bounced off a clear spot and accelerated. She caught him near a set of pressure pads, got in front, then slowed down. Just enough that if he didn’t get out from behind her he’d get caught before he cleared the pads.
His front eye widened and he cut left. She cut with him. He bumped her, but not hard enough. Come on Tarindu, put a little effort into it. The pads started to snap shut. . . .
Panicking, he slammed off one of the pads to accelerate and bumped Shabaz hard, much harder than he had before. She let it move her and he jumped forward, but not before the pads closed, catching his back half. For a moment, it looked like he’d still get vaped, panic flaring again across his face. Then the panic was replaced by anger and, screaming, the black-orange Level Six snapped free. He rammed her again, balled a glare that was half triumph, half confused rage—why was she hounding him?—and then sped ahead for the finish line, not far away.
He still had no idea she was helping.
Tarindu was one of half a dozen skids she’d spent the last few days hounding in various events. She couldn’t help another skid win an event; that was a line that she’d decided early on she would never cross. But she could help skids get better, especially those with some potential. She’d never seen Tarindu try the bounce-off-the-paddles trick—a trick most skids never even thought of doing. By pushing him, the Six got better without even realizing how.
Shabaz crossed the finish line, coming in twenty-sixth, respectable but nowhere near the top. That still got a few stares, skids struggling to understand why one of the best skids in the sphere never played to win anymore.
It was her way of keeping sane.
The first few weeks back had been bad. Nothing about the world she lived in for her whole life—the world she thought she’d understood—made sense anymore. Johnny had dropped out of the games fairly early, rediscovering the Combine. Shabaz had needed to do something. So she’d continued to play the games, trying to go back to something like a normal life, only to discover that normal was gone.
Upon returning from the Thread, Shabaz had been shocked to discover she was a Level Eight. And that was insane. Johnny had been made Ten, but at least he’d had a brief window of time at Nine. When they’d fallen into the Thread, Shabaz had been a Six. Now, she would never be a Seven.
And if that wasn’t enough, it became very clear once she started playing again that she wasn’t really an Eight, either.
She won seven of those first ten games back, and the only reason she didn’t win the other three is because, on a whim, she’d stopped trying. She hadn’t been vaped once. In fact, she was pretty sure she couldn’t get vaped in a game anymore unless she tried to make it happen. And Level Eights couldn’t do that; hole, she wasn’t sure if Level Tens could do that. Whatever she and Johnny were now, it had nothing to do with Levels.
She’d tried helping Johnny in the Combine as a way of dealing with the stress, but that had been a bad idea.
Given what they had gone through—were still going through—it was inevitable that they’d hook up. But spending all day together in the confines of the Combine was not a solution.
Plus, he was still Johnny. Johnny Drop. He was still that guy. The guy who’d smashed Betty Crisp’s record; the guy who’d done the Drop. Still the only skid with two names, still the only Level Ten.
Still the guy who, along with Albert, had saved her life.
So yeah, she needed to create a space for herself. Because she cared about Johnny—it was frightening to think how much—but she had no interest in living in his shadow.
So she’d gone back to the games, but with a different focus this time.
At first she’d wanted to help anyone who’d made it past Two, but even though the vast number of skids were panzers and squids, there were still hundreds of skids at Level Three or higher, a number
that got bigger every day. She couldn’t help them all. Maybe one day, but for now, she had to prioritize.
So she picked the ones with potential to be . . . more. Especially the ones like her.
Checking the boards, she noted who had finished where, saw that there were four skids who’d jumped a level. Then she checked out the ’lights, ignoring her own to scan for anything that popped. She spotted a peach-blue Level Five nearby and tread over.
“Congratulations, Bufoni,” she said, smiling inwardly as she saw the other skid flinch in surprise. “Fifth is a great score. You’ll be hitting the podium soon.”
“Oh,” the surprised skid said. “Uh . . . thanks.”
If she was honest with herself, Shabaz was appalled by the way she’d acted before the Thread. All her life living in—what? Self-loathing? Fear? Jealous of so many other skids, living in awe of skids like Johnny or Albert, watching her own highlights in shame. She’d never been great at anything, but she’d wanted to be, yearning with something huge and empty inside.
Some skids you could tell had it, right away. Onna was like that, attacking the games like she was going to break them—snakes, she was going to end up as cocky as Johnny in her own way. But in some, like Bufoni, you could only see it if you bothered to look.
“Keep it up,” Shabaz said, smiling as she rolled away.
“Okay, I . . . I will,” Bufoni replied, looking confused. But there was a hint of pride behind the confusion.
It was amazing what a little encouragement could do. And sad that it was so rare that it would confuse any skid who received it.
It wasn’t the only way skids ignored each other.
On a whim, she poked her head into the Tunnel sugarbar and spotted a tomato red skid with flat red stripes sitting quietly in a corner, watching highlights. Shabaz tread over. “Hey, we still on?”
Once skids made Level Three, they no longer died in the games. Getting vaped sucked, but skids couldn’t die in a game.
But they still died. All of them. At five years old.
Seven stripes flinched as a guilty eye swung Shabaz’s way. “Oh, hey. Uh, listen, we don’t have to . . . to . . . if you don’t want . . .”
“Hey,” she said gently, popping a Hasty-Arm. She placed it on the tomato red skin, ignoring the flinch as she did. “It’s okay, Makaha. I don’t mind. If you still want me to be there, I will.”
The skid sat still for a time, one eye on the hollas. After a moment, he asked, “Did you let Tarindu get by you?”
She smiled. Skids almost never watched other skid’s highlights, but she discovered that a skid nearing their fifth birthday began acting a little different. “He did most of the work.”
Makaha continued to stare at the highlights, then said in a quiet voice, “If you want to come later today . . . I’d like that.”
“That’s fine. Where would you like to go?”
“I was thinking . . . maybe the woods?”
Shabaz smiled. “That sounds like a fine idea. How about I meet you out by the Spike, later on?”
“Okay,” the skid whispered. Giving his stripes a gentle squeeze, she turned to leave.
“Shabaz?”
He was looking at her with two eyes, the other on the hollas. “I don’t really understand what you and Johnny . . . I don’t really understand what you guys are doing . . . but I think it’s a good thing. Some people don’t think so, but I think it is.”
She smiled again. “Thank you, Makaha. I’ll see you later.”
She left Tunnel behind, happy to be out in the sun. She tread over towards the Combine, eager to see Johnny.
A group of seven higher level skids were coming out the main ramp. Several she recognized and knew well from the games. At least three were on her radar, although none had appeared to be interested in her help when she’d approached them individually. Blinking in surprise, she was about to say hello, when the ground began to shake.
It was a minor quake. Most skids ignored them, but most skids didn’t know what they indicated. Corpsquakes had nothing to do with GameCorps. They weren’t part of the Skidsphere; they were part of the Thread, a symptom of it breaking down. And they were happening more frequently. A chill went along Shabaz’s stripes.
The group didn’t even slow down, although the yellow-black Seven out front glared at her. Changing direction slightly, he tread up to her and snarled, “It ain’t right.” Then he spun on his treads and rolled back to the group.
Shabaz stared after them. She’d never really talked to Trist, but she had approached Kesi, the teal-plum Six who was with him. Now she was glaring at Shabaz as they rolled away.
“I bet that’s a good sign,” she murmured. She rolled down the ramp and into the Combine. Catching sight of Johnny by the crash pads, she felt her skin flush.
Until falling into the Thread, Shabaz had never loved anything. Not the games, certainly not other skids. Sure, she’d had her share of snugs in the woods, but she’d been too self-absorbed to really care about anything else except her own fears and inner demons.
The way she felt about Johnny terrified and exhilarated her. She was certain that when they’d first gotten together it was half survival mechanism, the only two skids who shared a past that no one else remembered, with skills that no one else could comprehend. But, very quickly—at least for Shabaz—it had become something more, something much more. She thought about him constantly. She was pretty sure he felt the same, but sometimes she would have fits of terror at the thought of a life without him. He drove her crazy sometimes, but she cared for him more than she’d ever cared for anything.
He caught her gaze and smiled and her stripes flushed again. Snakes, she thought, settle down, you’re acting like a squid.
She rubbed up against his treads as they kissed. Then she pulled back and said, “Happy birthday.”
CHAPTER THREE
The quake was barely there. A second or two at most, then gone.
Johnny waited, hyperaware of the ground beneath his treads. Could just be a rumble, but it was the second time today, maybe the third. Around him, panzers and squids continued to train as if nothing had happened.
“They’re getting used to it,” Johnny muttered, unable to relax.
Rumbles used to happen maybe once a month. Big quakes, like the one that had destroyed a sugarbar on the night Johnny had gotten his second name, were very rare. But about a month after returning from the Thread, Johnny had noticed the quakes becoming more frequent. Most were still harmless, like the rumble they’d just experienced, but just last week, a quake had rocked the Combine, taking out an entire wall and killing dozens of panzers and squids. It had even vaped Onna.
Of course, the Combine had been rebuilt by the next day. And when Johnny had tried to arrange some kind of emergency procedures in case a severe shock happened again, all the panzers and squids—even the ones he was coaching—had looked at him like he was nuts. He might get some to let him help them individually, but to get them to work together, even if it saved lives . . .
Give it time. That’s what Shabaz had said. Bit by bit, they were coming around, small changes were getting made, skid by skid. First an Onna, then a Shev, then maybe a group. Given enough time, they’d get better.
Provided they had time. Because the rumbles weren’t just a part of the game. The Thread was breaking and if the rumbles were coming more often, then it was breaking faster.
Johnny’s eye wandered to the sky, even though he could have picked any direction. He wished he knew where Albert and the others were, if Betty had survived. Something was happening out in the Thread; it felt like something new had happened a month ago and he had no idea what it was. Neither he nor Shabaz had heard anything since they’d come back. Johnny hadn’t expected to, but if things had changed, or something had gone wrong . . . maybe the reason why they hadn’t heard anything was there was no one to send the message.
His eye-stalks twitched. No use in negative thoughts; the Thread hadn’t fallen yet and if B
etty was right, it had lasted for thousands of years. It wasn’t going to fall apart today, or probably in his life.
And, anyway, he thought as he saw a familiar grey-aqua skid roll down the ramp, not all new things are bad.
He smiled and gave Shabaz a kiss. “Happy birthday,” she said, and watched his expression change.
Normally, birthdays didn’t mean much to a skid. It was the Levels that mattered, birthdays were just an excuse to get particularly vaped in the pits, maybe con someone into a little birthday snug. Even fourth birthdays, theoretically the last a skid could have while still having something to look forward to, tended to be just another sugar-fest. Skids were still living too fast to care.
Johnny had a whole year left. That was a crazy amount of time.
But it no longer felt like it.
Betty had had fifty-five years, most of them in the Thread. Where, despite losing decades to madness and just trying to survive, she’d done things, things that mattered. She’d explored the Thread, collected data, learned new skills to the point where she could put the sphere into stasis; hole, she’d survived beyond her fifth birthday.
But she hadn’t figured out how to help other skids do the same.
If they were going to change anything, they were going to need decades, not years. Johnny had accomplished a lot in three months inside the Combine, but it was a drop in a wave pool of the change he could make if he just . . . had . . . more . . . time. Certainly more than a year.
“Hey,” Shabaz said, nudging him. “It’s a beautiful day. Let it go for now.”
They’d been seeing each other less than three months, but already she had a way of seeing right into his heart, deeper than any skid had before. Even with Peg, it hadn’t been like this. It terrified and exhilarated him at the same time. Trying to hide that wave of emotion, he said, “Thanks, sweetlips.”
Thread War Page 2