Thread War

by Ian Donald Keeling

  “WE DO NOT NEED BETTY CRISP. WE CAN FIX THE THREAD ALONE.”

  “Can you?” Wobble’s head spun. “Friend-Betty?”

  The pink eyes filled with tears. “Okay,” she said, and the smile on her face was so grateful, Shabaz couldn’t help but forgive her a little. Betty lifted the device in her hands and the hollas filled the factory once more.

  Wobble remained silent for a moment, the light flashing off his flawless body. “Eyes wide and claws entwined in prayer. Guen saw the web and said this must not be. Father, is not the Thread greater than you ever dreamed?”

  The molded face remained still, glimmering with reflected images, for a long moment. “IT DOES NOT MATTER. WE CAN DEFEND THIS THREAD.”

  “You are untrue, father. You will look again.”

  Another moment, then the face opened to speak.

  “Father, you have not answered Friend-Shabaz’s question.”

  The face froze.

  “How was the Thread doing before Betty Crisp left the Skidsphere?”

  This time it seemed like the face was frozen forever. Shabaz glanced nervously at the Antis. For all she knew, Wobble controlled them now, but if he didn’t and SecCore insisted on killing Betty . . .

  The face unfroze. “VERY WELL. BETTY CRISP WILL BE ALLOWED TO LIVE.”

  “Actually,” Johnny said slowly, looking from Betty to Sec-Core and back again. “You might need to do more than that.” He pursed his lips, taking his time. “You both have had access to the Core. You both work differently. Imagine if you worked together.”

  Even as Betty gasped and said, “Johnny . . .” SecCore’s face molded into the most expressive face Shabaz had seen yet.

  “NEGATIVE. WE WILL NOT SHARE THE CORE WITH—”

  “AFFIRMATIVE.” Once again, Wobble’s voice filled the factory, before returning to its normal volume. “Friend-Johnny is right. Two strengths become one. This is the best way to defend the Thread.”

  Slowly, the face turned towards Wobble. “Son, do not make me do this.”

  Wobble didn’t move. “Father, you are making an error of judgment.”

  The face froze, then fell. “Very well.” It turned to Betty. “We will be in the Core. When you are ready, we will merge.” It turned to each of the others, rapidly, settling on Johnny. “Thank you. We accept your assistance.”

  SecCore and the Antis disappeared.

  “That was bam-tense, boz,” Dillac said to no one in particular.

  “Friend-Betty?” Wobble said.

  “What? Oh.” She pressed the button on the device and the hollas disappeared. She stared at it for a long time, then handed it back to Zen. “It’s okay,” she said. “I won’t forget.” She took a deep breath. “So, just so I understand . . . did SecCore just agree to merge with me in the Core? To defend and repair the Thread?”

  “Affirmative,” Wobble said.

  “And if I don’t want to do that?”

  Shabaz felt a surge of irritation and opened her mouth to speak, but Torres beat her to it. “Zen, give her that box back,” the purple skid said flatly.

  “Okay, okay,” Betty said, waving an arm. “I didn’t mean—kinks, I’m no good at this.” She sighed. “Okay, whatever you want. I’ll go, I’ll . . . do what I can.” One of her eyes swept over all of them, settling on Johnny. “I’m really sorry about Torg. And . . . and Al.”

  Johnny stared back at her. “Prove it.”

  An eye bobbed. She took a deep breath. “Fair enough.” Then she vanished.

  “Friend-Betty has returned to the Core,” Wobble said. “She is merging with father. Lights in the distance.”

  “All is Teddy Bears,” Torres muttered.

  Wobble’s head spun. “Negatory. They are coming. But lights in the distance mean different things. Come.” And his face broke into a familiar broken grin, one tooth flapping. “We—I will show you how we cook.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Wobble transformed and floated off the edge of the balcony. The skids entered the lifts one at a time and followed him down to the floor. As he landed, Wobble transformed back and spread his four arms wide. “Science is magic. Abracadabra.” Then he turned to Shabaz and winked and she felt her heart startle with anticipation. “Wobble.”

  Instantly, a hum like ten thousand gears filled the factory. From every major corridor, a single pulse of light, which faded but not completely.

  “Do you feel that?” Krugar whispered.

  “Affirmative,” Wobble said, his head spinning. “I-We-You bring the beginning.”

  “Not for everyone,” Johnny whispered.

  He was sitting twenty metres away, on the spot where Torg had fallen. Tears stained his face. “He might have died a month from now, for all we know,” Johnny said, his voice rough with grief. “Doesn’t matter. This is the worst.”

  Her heart aching, Shabaz raced over to him, popped an arm and placed it on his stripe. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s . . .” She stopped. “No . . . I guess it’s not. I’m so sorry.”

  Torg was dead. That seemed impossible. More than Johnny, more than Albert, Torg had been a constant in the sphere. Even these last three months when he’d been absent—struck from any records or memory—it hadn’t seemed that way. She’d started comforting the skids dying at five years old because she’d wondered what Torg might have done in her place. He was like the Spike, the quiet centre of their world.

  Torres rolled over. She popped an arm of her own, resting it on Shabaz. She didn’t say anything, but together, they wept for their friend. It lasted for some time and the others left them alone; even Wobble kept his distance. Finally, when the last sob choked from Shabaz’s throat, the machine rolled over. “Rain falling and pipes on the bridge. Some loss is complete. I-We am sorry. Friend-Torg was my friend.”

  A surge of warmth broke through Shabaz’s tears. Wobble gleamed like the most fearsome knife there was, but he still had a Wobble way with words.

  “Yeah,” Johnny said, sitting up on his treads. “Mine too.”

  “Yeah,” Torres said. Suddenly, she chuckled. “At least he got his wish. He was the one who insisted that Betty and SecCore had to work together.” She sniffed violently, her eyes refilling with sorrow. “I hope he was right.”

  “He probably was,” Krugar said, walking over. “He seemed pretty smart to me.”

  “Yeah,” Zen said. “He was really nice to me.” The look on his face broke Shabaz’s heart a little. Seventeen days was way too young to learn this particular lesson.

  “Boz was real all right,” Dillac agreed. “True he ruled the Pipe, squi?”

  “Ha!” Johnny laughed, a laugh straight from the heart. “True words. Slow down, son, you’re trying too hard.” He shook his stalks and chuckled. “Snakes.” He looked up at Kesi. “But we don’t have to die with them, right?” Then his eyes filled again and he popped an arm and said in a rough voice, “Nope. Uhhh . . . maybe give me a minute.”

  “Come on,” Shabaz said softly, “let him breathe.” She let a hand trail across his stripe as the others respectfully backed away. “We’ll be over there. Take all the time you need.”

  As she started to turn away, his hand shot out and grabbed hers. “No,” he said, looking up at her. “Not you. Don’t ever leave me.”

  And now she was crying again. “Okay,” she said, bobbing an eye. “Okay.”

  They sat like that—his hand encircling hers, neither of them speaking—while the others waited. After a time, his gaze came up and he took a ragged breath. “Ohhhh-kay,” he sighed, blinking rapidly. He looked at the ground. “There should be a rock here. Right here.”

  “Maybe Wobble can make him one,” Shabaz said. She lifted his hand and kissed the back of it. “It’s a good thought.”

  “Yeah,” Johnny said. “We get back to the sphere, I’m making him a vaping boulder.” He sniffed. “Okay, let’s go see what’s going on.” They rolled back to the others, still holding hands.

  “Guys,” Torres said as they rejoined the group
, “you have to hear this. Wobble, how many other Wobble’s does this place make at a time?”

  “Five hundred thousand,” the machine grinned.

  Shabaz stared at him. “How many?” Johnny said.

  “Five hundred thousand Wobbles,” Wobble said. “With exception, I-We have decided to call them Knives. There is only one I-We-Us.” His head spun.

  “You can say that again,” Onna murmured, peering down the corridors in amazement. “How often does this place produce that many?”

  “Punching clocks and The Salvinu lazed it smooth. As I-We begin, one production run every twenty hours. With assistance, productivity will increase. The boss will be pleased.”

  Every twenty hours. This time tomorrow, there were going to be half a million Wobbles. Shabaz couldn’t even wrap her stalks around numbers that high, there were never more than seventy or sixty thousand skids in a given year in the Skidsphere. “Half a million,” she murmured.

  “And they can help repair the Thread?” Johnny asked. “Not just kill Vies, but actually put together broken pieces?”

  “Affirmative.” His head continued to spin with glee.

  “That’s great,” Johnny said, and smiled for the first time since Torg had died. “Well, I don’t know what we can do in the face of half a million Wobbles, but whatever we can do—”

  Wobble’s head stopped spinning. His flaps lowered into a saddened expression that they knew so well. Gears humming, his head slowly looked from Johnny to Shabaz and then back to Johnny again.

  “You-She will do enough.”

  Before Shabaz could even react to that, Onna cried, “Hey guys!” They looked down the corridor to where she was pointing.

  Far down the hallway, a smear of pink and a smear of red.

  Great, Shabaz thought, her heart sinking as she glanced at Johnny. Just great.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Johnny did not want to go down the corridor. Every single time Peg or Bian showed up, something was either going sideways or it was about to. At the very least, something significant would happen.

  Johnny didn’t want anything significant to happen. He was drained from the loss of Torg, elated from the Wobble factory coming to life, and just emotionally burnt out in general. Thank the Thread for Shabaz. Without her . . .

  She was looking at him now. A half-smile he’d grown to love played across her lips as her stripes tilted. “If we don’t go, they’ll just show up somewhere else.”

  “We-You must go,” Wobble said, as he turned and began moving down the corridor. “They are coming. It is time.”

  “Bam, that’s not ominous at all, rhi,” Dillac said.

  True words, Johnny thought. But Shabaz was right—there wasn’t much point in ignoring them. Sighing, he geared up. As Shabaz fell in beside him with the others trailing behind, she grunted. “What?” he asked.

  “This is the one corridor we didn’t explore. I took the one on the left. This is the one on the right.”

  A shiver went through his stripe. Not ominous at all.

  As they approached Peg and Bian, the two ghosts turned and started back down the corridor. Johnny and Shabaz exchanged another glance, but continued to follow Wobble. They rolled in silence, except for the faint hum of the factory surrounding them and filling the world.

  Finally, they came to a blank wall. Bian and Peg turned.

  “Is it time?” they said together.

  Wobble rolled forward. “It is time. This conversation is happening now. Pieces of chalk and a billion species crawled from the sea. They are coming.”

  “They are,” Bian said.

  “It is time,” said Peg.

  Behind them, a door appeared. Johnny was about to make a comment about having seen this trick already when he stopped. The door didn’t look like the one that had led to the map room, but it did look familiar. Where had he . . . ?

  “Oh, snakes,” Shabaz whispered. “Johnny, it’s a door to a ghostyard.”

  “No,” Peg and Bian said together. “There are no more ghosts.”

  Peg looked at Shabaz. “This is the last time. We are sorry for any pain we have caused. We are sorry for your loss.”

  Bian rolled forward. “We love you all.” Then, for a moment, her expression changed, and it was Bian—their friend—sitting before them. She swung an eye, looking at each of them in turn, lingering on Wobble, Torres, Shabaz, and Johnny. “I love you all.”

  Then her expression changed back and she and Peg said, “We love you all.”

  They disappeared.

  Johnny stared at the door. His stripe felt like it was on fire—he no longer felt drained, not one bit. All his life, he’d looked up and wondered . . .

  Wobble rolled forward. Reached out with an arm. “Come,” he said, turning to Johnny as the door opened.

  “The universe is waiting.”

  Johnny Drop will return in

  Out There

  Read a sample chapter!

  The glow faded, taking Shabaz with it.

  Darkness enveloped them, although, unlike the biting black of the broken Thread, this darkness didn’t attack.

  It did, however, persist.

  What the hole is this?

  Not sure, boss, Onna’s voice echoed in his head.

  Not much to look at, Torres murmured.

  All right, Johnny thought. If this was how they were going to explore the Out There, then quite frankly, this sucked. Be really nice to see something—whoa.

  The black vanished instantly and Johnny’s senses whirled. It was like he was viewing the entire ghostyard, but with a hundred eyes looking in every direction.

  They had to be looking out from the ship; it made sense that a moving body with no windows had some kind of eyes. The view reminded him of the feeling he’d had in the outer Core, when he’d felt like he was looking at the Thread from all angles, inside and outside it at the same time. The ghostyard seemed brighter, the edges more precise.

  Off to the side and slightly below, a soldier and five skids: four staring at the ship in anticipation, one with a look of dread. Johnny yearned to shout her name just one more time—

  The view shifted and Johnny fought off a wave of nausea as he heard—felt?—thoughts of surprise from Torres and Onna. Shabaz and the others dropped away, then held . . . as the ship floated, hanging in space above the cluster of skids in the ghostyard for what felt like forever and yet not long enough. Because suddenly, too soon, the view swung, drifted, swung again, and then with a stunning rush the group plunged into the distant behind—the ship accelerating to speeds faster than Johnny had ever hit, even on the Drop—the ghostyard mashing into a blur of colour with a small window of clarity forward and back, snapshot hollas at each end of the kaleidoscope. The front showed a small hole of black past kilometres of machinery that began to expand, growing wider and wider and wider until, less than twenty seconds after they’d started to accelerate, they were free of the yard.

  Would you look at that! Onna breathed, as the ghostyard fell away to be replaced by a ’scape of stars.

  Johnny had always thought he’d been aware of his surroundings. It was his secret strength: he might be faster than most skids, he might be more aggressive or daring, but the main reason he’d been so good in the games was that he saw everything. By the time he’d hit Level Six he’d figured out a way to overlap the peripherals of his three eyes so that he could take in a whole game at once.

  But now he realized that wasn’t true. He’d never taken in everything: he didn’t look at the ice directly beneath him on the Skates or the sky in the Pipe. He certainly didn’t examine the incline under him when he was on the Slope. Moreover, even though he’d had a three hundred and sixty degree field of vision, much of that was still on the edges of what two eyes could see—more like suggestions of things instead of clarity.

  Now . . . everything was crystal clear and overwhelming.

  For a second, Johnny thought he might go mad. It was like the window into the Out There in tha
t prison they’d found Albert, except this view expanded in every direction. The scale was too grand to process, there was depth in those points of light that hit him on some instinctive level: each point was a different distance away—how could a trillion things all be a different distance?! There was no direction, even as they looked every way around them. And every direction was either empty or so much farther than they’d ever dreamed—how could it be this empty? How could anything this empty be so full of stars? They were so small, surrounded by immensity; even the Core had been small, how could he possibly grasp . . .

  Ah, that’s better, Torres said, sounding relieved.

  What? Johnny managed to grasp.

  Pick a direction, Torres thought. You can narrow the focus. Focus on the ’yard first, you’ll get it.

  Johnny felt like he’d been vaped and was clutching onto his colours and name. In a panic, he threw his view towards the receding ghostyard—somehow the shock of the stars had made him miss that it was still there. He tried to imagine swinging three eyes, focusing in. Immediately, his vision narrowed, the sides and ceiling and floor closing off, then the front view followed, leaving only the ghostyard, receding.

  Relief flooded over him. He still felt nauseous, although he had no body so it was more an impression of a feeling than something real.

  The ghostyard continued to fall behind: quickly at first, then seeming to slow. Johnny had accelerated away from enough things to understand that abstraction. Then again, he hadn’t accelerated away from something like this. Johnny had no idea of scale, but he felt like they’d been moving fast despite there being no pressure of acceleration or inertia—how messed up was that?

  From the outside, the ghostyard looked remarkably simple: a rectangular cuboid exoskeleton, open-ended, bathed with its own internal light. Despite how small it already looked, Johnny knew it was massive, at least a dozen kilometres in length. Small shapes orbited the structure; what they were for, he had no idea.