The Skids

by Ian Donald Keeling

  Unbelievably, Brolin was worse than Daytona. A million pinpricks of pain surrounded Johnny; instinctively, he lashed out at each one. That seemed to work, he felt the virus retreat, there was still so much—where the hole was Albert?

  A wave of sandy brown that didn’t come from him. About time. He sent the name Brolin out and felt Albert there. And then . . . and then . . . from somewhere even deeper, he had a fleeting image: a dusty brown core with black stripes—healthy black stripes—circling the core.

  Johnny and Albert dove for the core like they were repeating the Drop, each screaming: Brolin! There wasn’t much left, but the core surged as Johnny and Albert arrived; washing it with waves and waves of sandy brown. They attacked the black—it was amazing how clearly the difference between the virus and the healthy black stripes stood out. Johnny could feel Brolin trying to fight too, weakly at first, then stronger. This was going to work . . .

  A spore bloomed on the core and Albert and Johnny both fell on it instantly. But instead of supporting each other, it was as if they’d crashed together on the Skates, both of them careening away. You’re getting in my way, Johnny thought. And it was true—suddenly, they were stumbling, tripping over each other. They each shouted Brolin’s name so often and out of sync that they cancelled the other out.

  From outside, someone screamed: “No!” More blooms appeared on the core. One of the black stripes unravelled. Vape it, Brolin, hold on! But he wasn’t holding on. Johnny and Albert stumbled again—this time it felt like they drove through each other—and another stripe unravelled, then another, then another . . .

  Someone said, “No,” again; this time like a dying prayer.

  The remaining stripes broke apart as the core turned black and imploded. A spike of pain tore through Johnny and he drove his concentration away from Brolin so hard that his body flew back. He opened his eyes just in time to see Brolin shrivel away into nothing.

  “Ah, snakes,” he whispered. Closing his eyes, a wave of drained sorrow washed over him.

  “Ohnoohnonononononono,” Shabaz wailed, her voice keening with fear as she backed away from the spot where Brolin had been. Her battleship skin was the colour of ash, her stripes so tight they looked like one.

  Johnny heard a deflated sound and swung an eye. Bian was weeping. Torg stared at an empty space, his face filled with despair. At least they looked healthier. And Torres seemed . . .

  “Wait,” Johnny breathed, surging up on his treads. “Where’s Aaliyah?”

  Bian made a guttural noise like a wounded animal. Her whole body shook.

  “Where’s Aaliyah?” Johnny said again, his voice rising.

  “She took on a Vie,” Torg said, stunned and raw. “By herself. One dropped from the sky—Bian and I attacked that together—but another dropped just as we finished, right by Torres. Aaliyah attacked it, wiped it out completely. Saved Torres. But she . . . she was just a squid . . .” Torg’s voice broke and his gaze ripped away.

  The battle above their head continued. Torres sat huddled nearby, her face a mask of guilt and sorrow. Shabaz continued to keen.

  Something began to burn deep inside Johnny. “No one else,” he spat softly. She’d been right . . . here. He’d winked at her . . .

  “No one else,” he said again, his eyes coming up. “Shabaz!” he snapped, rolling over to the Six who was collapsing more and more with every second, blooms bursting all over her body. “Shabaz, hold on,” he said in a voice that was calm and certain and true. “You’re going to make it.”

  “No, no, no,” the terrified skid wailed. “You couldn’t save Brolin, there were two of you and you couldn’t—”

  “Shabaz,” Johnny said, amazed at how calm he felt, although there was something burning . . . “No one else dies today.”

  “Johnny,” Torg said, “you can’t, you and Albert look like you’ve been hit with—”

  Three eyes swung. “No . . . One . . . Else.” He held Torg’s gaze for a heartbeat, then said, “You and Bian keep Torres alive.”

  His eyes swung again, settling on Albert. “We got in each other’s way. That can’t happen. One of us needs to lead and one needs to follow and support, make sure nothing gets in behind. Couldn’t care less who does what. Pick. Now.”

  Albert stared at him for a second. Then . . . “Go.”

  Johnny didn’t even acknowledge it. He put his hands on Shabaz and drove his will into the black, his mind burning with rage. Without hesitating, he dove straight for her core. He found it immediately: a tiny sphere of battleship grey, six aquamarine stripes whipping around its surface. Surrounded by black.

  Shabaz! Johnny thought, screaming the name. Your name is Shabaz! He felt her respond, fighting for her life.

  Then he held himself as close to the core as he could, turned out . . . and pushed. He was tired of trying to fix things, he just wanted to get the virus out. Gathering the rage burning inside, he attacked the black in all directions, forcing it back. He felt Albert slipping in behind him, supporting the core, washing it with waves of battleship grey. Shabaz was fighting . . .

  It wasn’t enough. The searing black retreated, then surged inwards once more, a million pinpricks . . .

  Whatever had been building inside Johnny went off like a bomb. From his very centre he screamed: Get out of my friend! and like a star gone nova, a shockwave radiated out, plowing through the black. Some parts of the virus leaked through but Albert was there, catching each one. Shabaz was screeching her name. Johnny rode behind the shockwave, burning, burning, burn—

  Three skids screamed as one.

  Johnny’s consciousness ripped out from Shabaz like a tsunami. Again, he was thrown back from a skid he’d tried to save, but this time when he opened his eyes, he saw Shabaz whole and complete, grey and aqua and not a single shadow of black.

  “I . . . I’m alive,” Shabaz said, popping an arm and examining it in amazement. “I’m alive!” All three of her eyes went wide and stared at Johnny. “You saved me.”

  “You did it!” Bian cried, and suddenly her arms were around Johnny and she was laying a huge kiss on his stripes—kiss after kiss, crying in-between each one: “You did it, you did it, you did it!”

  “He wasn’t the only one,” someone said softly.

  Albert sat on his treads nearby, eyeing her and Johnny. A black spore ran along his scar and then disappeared.

  Bian’s expression flattened as she unwrapped her arms from Johnny. “I’m sorry. Not getting to your parade fast enough for you, Albert? I thought the important thing was that Shabaz got healthy.”

  Woah, Johnny thought.

  Albert’s gaze remained steady. “Of course it is. You know that’s not . . .” Two of his eyes swung away and then swung back. “What did I do, Bian? What did I do to deserve this?”

  “Oh, for Crisp’s sake, why don’t you wear your wounds a little louder?” Bian snapped. “Fine. You helped Johnny—”

  “Hey,” Johnny started to protest.

  “—save Shabaz,” Bian continued, relentless. “Congratulations. You’re a hero, Albert. Happy?” She started to turn away, then looked back. “And heal that vaping scar already—it makes you look ugly.”

  Johnny watched her roll away, stunned. He couldn’t believe it: he actually felt sorry for Albert. They’d both saved Shabaz. If anything, Albert had swallowed his pride and allowed Johnny to lead—Johnny couldn’t imagine how much he must have hated doing that. Albert had done it without thinking. If he was honest, Johnny wasn’t sure he could’ve done the reverse. Eyeing the silver skid, he said, “Listen . . .”

  “It’s never enough with you, is it?” Albert whispered.

  Johnny blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “You just take and take and take. You can’t let anyone else have anything.” He made a twisted sound: half-laugh, half-snarl. “And she said I’m the one looking for a parade.”

&
nbsp; “Look, Albert . . .”

  “Save it.” He rose on his treads. “I couldn’t care less.”

  He rolled past Shabaz—poor Shabaz, who’d been stuck there, her now healthy eyes filled with guilt and pain. “Hey, Albert . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  “It’s all right, Shabaz. Like Bian said: what matters is you’re healthy again. And I’m glad. Really. We’re good.” A wry smile. “Honestly, Shabaz, we’re good.” He rolled away.

  Shabaz turned to Johnny, looking miserable. “I don’t . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Johnny murmured, one eye watching Albert stop opposite from where Bian rested. He sighed. “I don’t know what’s going on and I’m in the middle of it.” When that didn’t seem to make the Six feel any better, Johnny added, “They both said it: you’re healthy, that’s what matters.”

  “I heard that,” Torg said, rolling over. “You look good, panzer.”

  Pleasure rushed across Shabaz’s face. “I feel like one.” Her stripes were glowing. “Seriously, Johnny, you and Albert—I owe you guys.”

  “We get home, you can buy the sugar,” Johnny grinned. “Panzer.”

  A high pitched whine split the air. Betty and Wobble descended from the darkness above—a darkness no longer swirling with Vies. Every centimetre of Wobble’s body was battered and scarred, although he sported a huge, mangled grin. One of Betty’s Hasty-Arms was twisted at an awkward angle, but her grin matched Wobble’s. The massive gun she held in the other hand trailed tendrils of smoke.

  “Where the hole did you get that bad boy?” Torg said, eyeing the gun.

  “We aren’t the only entertainment sim out there,” Betty said, tucking the weapon—twice her size—inside her body. “Some are a little more . . . nasty than the Skidsphere. I borrowed their BFG.”

  Johnny frowned. “What’s the ‘F’ stand for?”

  Betty’s stripes tilted. “Vape if I know.” Two eyes swept the sky as her third swept the group. “Wobble and I took out every Vie in the area. We’ve sealed off the space as best we could, so we should have a little time . . .” Her voice trailed off and one of the upward eyes came down to join the third. “Where’s Brolin and Aaliyah?” she said in a soft voice that already knew the answer.

  “Brolin . . . Brolin couldn’t hold on,” Johnny said. “And Aaliyah . . . she saved Torres when Albert and I were working on Brolin.”

  “Are you all right, Torres?” Betty asked. Suddenly, she looked tired.

  The cocky skid was sitting near Albert, unsure what to do, where to look. “Yeah,” she said in a little voice. “Aaliyah . . . she was amazing . . .”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re all right. I’m sure you’d have done the same for her.”

  “Johnny and Albert got Shabaz clean too,” Torg added.

  “Together,” Johnny said quickly, glancing at Albert, who sat with his back to the group.

  “You healed her completely?” Betty said, brightening once more. “Shabaz, come here.” The grey skid rolled over. Examining the Six’s entire surface, a wide smile split Betty’s face. “This is wonderful. There isn’t a cell of Vie left.”

  “Yeah, I feel good,” Shabaz said, embarrassed.

  “This is truly wonderful,” Betty said to Johnny. “Both of you have done something . . .” Her voice trailed off as she finally registered Albert’s posture. A calculating look fell across her face as she took in the group: Albert, ten metres away, his back turned, his scar stark against his skin; Bian, ten metres in the other direction, her back turned as well. Torres, huddled near Albert, uncertainly glaring at Bian; Shabaz, unsure whether to feel joy or shame.

  Betty glanced at Torg. “Do I need to ask?” she sighed.

  “Probably not,” Torg drawled.

  Chapter Twenty

  Betty studied Bian. She studied Albert. She looked like she might say something to either one or both, but then she laughed. “You know,” she said to Johnny and Torg, “I never thought fighting the Vies was going to be the easy part.”

  Torg chuckled as Betty popped her hollas and worked on where they were. Johnny excused himself and rolled over to Bian. He wasn’t sure if this was a good idea; in fact, he was pretty sure it was a bad one. Albert sat on the other side of the group, staring out, but that wouldn’t last. Johnny was surprised by how much he wanted to avoid antagonizing the silver skid.

  “Hey,” Johnny said softly. “You all right?”

  When Bian turned, her eyes were red. “No. No, I’m not all right,” she said, her voice scraping the back of her throat. “I’m tired of being so vaping useless.”

  “You’re not useless,” Johnny protested. “You kept the group together when we first got here. You took care of Brolin and Shabaz . . .”

  “I said a bunch of meaningless words that didn’t change anything,” she said, her voice a snarl of self-loathing. “And Brolin died anyway.”

  “Shabaz didn’t.”

  “Because of you.”

  And Albert, Johnny thought, but this probably wasn’t the time to make that particular point again.

  “You told me to keep Torres and Aaliyah safe and I couldn’t even do that. At least Aaliyah saved Torres. And as for her . . .” Her gaze flickered towards where Betty sat with hollas of data swirling around her like a halo.

  Johnny laughed. “Bian, I don’t think any of us can really compare to Betty.”

  “It’s different for you. It’s . . .” She sniffed. “Snakes, I’m such a bitch.” She cast a guilty glance at Albert, then her stripes twitched violently. “Never mind. It’s not important.” She sniffed again and looked around. “Any idea where we are?”

  “Betty’s working on it.”

  “Right,” Bian said. “And then you and Albert and her get to save the world while the rest of us . . . hide.”

  “Bian,” Johnny said firmly. “Bian. You haven’t been useless thus far and you won’t be useless in the future. Let’s just all get home, okay?”

  Her gaze changed, settling on his. “You’ve really been amazing though all this, you know.” She tread a little closer.

  “Uhhh . . . listen . . .” Johnny said, treading back. “I came over to check on you ’cause I was worried. You’ve been acting a little . . . strange lately.”

  “Am I acting strange now?” she said, her stripes tilting to one side as she tread closer still.

  “Bian.” He said it firmly enough that she stopped. “Look, I don’t know exactly what’s going on with . . . with you and Albert. If you broke up . . . if he did something to piss you off . . . well, all right. But I’m not really comfortable with you using me to hurt him.” He found that a remarkable thing to say. He was pretty sure a week ago he wouldn’t have given a spot of grease about being used to hurt Albert.

  If anything, her stripes tilted even more. The corner of her lips twitched with amusement. “Is that all you think I’m doing? Really?”

  “Uhh . . . yeah.” Or at least, he hoped that was it.

  The twitch curled into a smirk. She rolled close, paused . . . then kissed him lightly on the corner of his mouth. “Thanks for the pep-talk, Johnny. Let’s see if the queen knows where we are.”

  I’m pretty sure I used to understand girls, Johnny thought as he followed her.

  “Well?” Bian said, rolling up to Betty with a hint of a challenge. “Bad news or good news?”

  An eye flickered in her direction as Betty filed through her hollas. “We’re not going to get attacked for a while, so that counts as good news.” She smiled a wry smile. “That might be it for the good column.”

  “Where are we?” Torg asked.

  “I’m not sure yet. When you shunt through a break, any data gets messed up. You can come out anywhere. There are landmarks throughout the Thread, but I can’t find any. Which can only mean . . .” A hand reached out and swiped at the hollas. Several flew by, then
she reached out again and flicked one back.

  “Yep,” she said shortly, staring at the holla. “We’re in a bad place.”

  “How bad?” Johnny asked.

  “Nowhere near where we were going bad. We’re not lost, but we may as well be.” That struck them into silence, save the odd creak or crackle as Wobble slowly built himself back into shape.

  “Wait a minute,” Bian said suddenly. “We can still get there, right? Your safehouse?”

  “I can find a route,” Betty sighed, “but it’s going to take too long.”

  “Too long for what?” Bian said. “We’re not in the same situation anymore. Brolin . . . Brolin is dead. And Shabaz . . . you said you were feeling better.”

  “I feel great,” Shabaz said, then her face flushed with guilt. “I mean, you know . . .”

  “It’s okay, Shabaz, you don’t need to feel bad for surviving,” Betty said slowly, one eye on the grey skid and another on Bian. “And Bian’s right. The clock has changed. As long as . . .” Almost absent-mindedly, the hollas swung once more. Then one settled in front of Betty and all the colour drained from her stripe. “Oh kinks,” she swore softly. “That gearbox.”

  “What?” Johnny said.

  The most powerful skid in the universe stared at her hollas as if she could will them to change. “He turned off the stasis,” Betty said, stunned. “SecCore. He took the Skidsphere out of stasis.”

  “What?” Johnny lurched forward, staring at the hollas.

  “Why would it do that?” Torg said. “Why would it try to destroy the Skidsphere?”

  “It wouldn’t. Not directly,” Betty murmured. “But I’m sure it wouldn’t be disappointed if the Skidsphere vanished. SecCore’s scared of any part of the Thread that can function independently. It hates me. Same with Wobble.”

  “I-We be terrifying,” Wobble said, grinning. One of his teeth flapped with a tiny creak, creak, creak.

  “So why doesn’t SecCore just wipe it out?” Torg asked. “We wouldn’t stand a chance against an army of Antis.”