The Skids

by Ian Donald Keeling

  “You never know,” Betty said. “Or, more importantly, SecCore can’t. One skid and a beat-up Anti caused it plenty of headaches. Plus . . . attacking the sphere outright counters its programming. SecCore is supposed to protect all of the Thread. It might be corrupt, but that core program holds.”

  “So why turn the stasis off?” Bian asked. “Can’t you turn it back on?”

  “There’s no point, he’d just turn it off again.” Betty’s stripes tilted. “It can probably justify this as returning the sphere to its normal state. And if the sphere gets destroyed because SecCore was focusing its energy somewhere else . . .”

  “You know,” Johnny said, “seems to me the Thread needs a new caretaker.”

  “You bet your gears,” Betty agreed, her voice hard with hate. “But that . . . that’s a battle for another day. For now, we need to take care of home. Which means . . .” She sighed. “I think we need to change the plan.”

  “Shouldn’t be hard,” Bian said. “We didn’t know it in the first place.”

  “Fair enough,” Betty said. One of her eyes kept staring at the hollas as if she hoped something would change. Apparently, nothing did. “Okay . . . the safehouse wasn’t going to keep you permanently safe anyway. But you probably could have held it long enough for the rest of us to do what we have to do.”

  “Which is?” Johnny said dryly.

  “We’re going to go into the Skidsphere’s programming, wipe out any sign of Vies, and then rebuild what’s broken.”

  Johnny laughed. “You make it sound easy. And just how are we going to do it?”

  “For the first part, we’re going to fight our way in with Wobble. For the second part, we fight anything we find inside. As for the third part . . . I haven’t nailed that down yet.”

  They stared at her. “Uh . . .” Shabaz said. “Isn’t fixing the broken stuff kind of important?”

  “Yes, Shabaz. Still, I have a few theories which are starting to look more promising. Because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re healthy. You look as good as new. Feeling hungry?”

  Shabaz blinked. “Hey, not really.”

  “Exactly.” Betty looked at Albert and Johnny. “The two of you not only wiped out the virus inside Shabaz, you restored her to complete health. I don’t know how you did it—do you?”

  “Not really.” Johnny glanced at Albert. “You?”

  “Me?” Albert said bitterly. “I was just along for the ride.”

  Johnny rolled his eyes. “Are we really going to go back to this?”

  “Stop it,” Betty snapped. “Both of you. Whatever issues you had just lost their grace period. The clock’s running and I need you both. And as for the rest of you . . . well, I guess you’re coming with us now.”

  Bian scoffed. “I thought—”

  “We don’t have time to get you to the safehouse; the sphere could fail at any moment. We need to get to the Core as quickly as we can. We can’t leave you here. So you all come with us as far as you can. That way, if we have to leave you, it’s for the shortest possible time.”

  “Can I ask a question?” Torres said hesitantly.

  “Sure you can, Torres.”

  “You said there was going to be fighting. You can do that, you got that crazy gun. Wobble can do that. Albert and Johnny . . .” She blinked several times. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Betty grinned at her. “Well . . . I guess we better find you a crazy gun.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Betty led them a few hundred metres until the ground folded up into a long corridor lit by familiar golden lines. Johnny stared at the spot where the corridor ended and the break began: the solid lines of light abruptly torn, sparks flying from each mangled stump.

  “That . . . is just not right,” Torg said, following Johnny’s gaze.

  “No,” Johnny murmured, eyeing the stumps for a moment longer before catching up with the group.

  They rolled in silence, five metres behind the pack. Bian and Shabaz huddled together; nearby, Betty spoke softly with Torres. Wobble came next, humming to himself. Albert rolled out in front, alone.

  After a few minutes, Torg said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Hmm,” Johnny said absently, two of his eyes following a thick line that ran midway up the wall. “Sorry, talk about what?”

  Torg chuckled. “Take your pick. Weight of the world, Albert, the Out There, Bian . . . Albert . . .”

  “Oh,” Johnny said. “Actually, I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I was thinking about what happens if we win.”

  “Positive thinking, well done. That’s the Johnny I know.”

  A smirk crawled across Johnny’s face. “I’m not sure if positive’s the right word. I was wondering if it mattered.”

  “I’m sorry?” Torg blinked. “We are talking about saving the Skidsphere, right?”

  “And then what? I mean yeah, obviously, saving the sphere matters. But what happens after that?” Beneath their treads, line after golden line went by, all the same. “Go back to running down the Slope? Banging off things in Tilt until what . . . we die?”

  “Wow. The nobody’s Out There really messed with your treads.”

  “Maybe,” Johnny said. “I mean sure . . . that sucks large. But even if Betty’s wrong, even if someone is still watching . . .” His stripes tilted. “So what?”

  Torg’s second eye swung. “What have you done with my friend Johnny Drop? Who cares? Even if someone is watching? Are you serious?”

  “I know it’s . . . okay, I don’t know what it is. But I know I was feeling weird even before we got here. You saw me the night I tied Betty—I was off my tread. Why was I so angry? I mean sure, it was Albert, but I think I was just . . . mad.”

  “No argument here,” Torg murmured.

  “Yeah,” Johnny said. “You ever feel this way? Just kind of: what are we doing?”

  Torg’s eyes reflected the walls, lines of light against the black. “Ever since I made Nine.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I was happy for about a week. Topped out. Made Nine. Maybe one in a hundred do it. For a relatively normal skid who isn’t pursuing ghosts—”

  “Hey!”

  “Squid, you pursued two of them. You aren’t normal. For most of us, Nine’s the summit.” Torg took a deep breath. “Like I said, for a week it felt good. Then I thought . . . what now? I made Nine pretty early. I was like: okay, I got ten months ’til I die, what do I aim for now?” His face seemed to tighten. “Then I started thinking about dying. A lot. Five years seems like a long time when you’re running the race. Hasn’t seemed that long lately.”

  “No,” Johnny said. “I guess not.” Then again, it’s more than some get. His gaze wandered over the group—six skids left from the dozens that had fallen from the Pipe. “Hey,” he said. “How’d you get Torres so clear? She looks great.”

  Torg’s stripes tilted. “Mostly it was Albert, he’s been talking her up pretty much the entire time here. She’s seen both you and Albert do it several times. Plus, Torres might be a panzer, but she’s a tough one. You can see it already. I liked Brolin as much as the next skid, but he was going to die an Eight at best.” He tapped an eye towards the group. “But this lot? We might not be you or Al, but you’re still looking at the best the sphere has to offer. Amazing really. Even Shabaz.”

  “Yeah,” Johnny said, eyeing the grey-aqua Six. “How about that?”

  “Skids surprise you sometimes.” Torg pursed his lips. “That’s what I realized when I was trying to figure things out: I like skids. Not the games . . . skids. We ain’t perfect: we’re shallow and self-absorbed and cocky and . . . we’re great. Maybe if we had more than five years we’d be even better. Maybe if we helped each other . . . so that’s what I decided to do. I decided to help someone.”

 
“Really?” Johnny said. “You went to the Combine too?”

  “No.”

  “Then who’d you help?”

  Torg held the look, blinking in that innocent way he had.

  Johnny stared. “You did not.”

  “It’s not like I ran interference for you on the Slope. But everyone for the last six months has been talking about Betty’s record. I didn’t know how much pressure you were under, but I knew it wasn’t the only thing you were dealing with. So I decided to just . . . be there. If you needed me.” He grinned. “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. Sure, we partied a few times before, but recently . . .”

  “You’ve been there,” Johnny said, bemused. “Huh. So you were like, what, my own guardian angel?”

  “Something like that. Tried to do it with Albert, too. To a certain extent I did, but . . . he’s a little more self-contained than you.”

  “He’s a little something,” Johnny said ruefully.

  “Now that sounds like the Johnny I know.” Torg glanced at Albert, then over to Bian and Shabaz. “Can I ask you something? Is there anything going on between you and Bian?”

  “Vape me—you too?” Johnny snapped. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on in her mind and, yeah, it seems like she’s playing me off Albert, but me . . .” He waved an arm as if it could encompass the entire Thread. “I gotta few other things to worry about than bumping Albert’s ride.”

  Torg was grinning. “All right, squid. Had to ask—ain’t that long ago that you’d have done anything to twist his gears.”

  “I would not . . .” Johnny started to protest. Torg simply gazed back, the corner of his mouth twitching.

  There had been two times when Johnny had hated Albert the most. Right after Peg disappeared—all right, he wouldn’t have been with another skid then, under any circumstances. But a few months before, just after Albert dropped the first Nine-Point-Nine?

  Yeah, he thought, I’d have jumped on that. He sighed. You’re all class, Johnny. Aloud, he said: “Fine. Maybe I would. But now . . . I’m not interested. Besides, Betty says we need Albert, so we need him. At his best.” He shook his stripes. “I can’t believe I’m saying that.”

  “Gotta run the race you’re in,” Torg drawled, as up ahead Betty gave Torres a pat on her stripe and dropped back. “Wouldn’t worry about it too much. Al’s tough. He’ll get over it.”

  “Maybe not,” Betty said. “Bian?”

  “It’s not nice to eavesdrop, young lady,” Torg grinned.

  “Kind of hard not to,” Betty said, winking at him. “I spent the last five decades trying to pick up everything. Not used to tuning stuff out.”

  “What do you mean, maybe not?” Johnny said.

  “Torg was right: you and Albert are different. There have been other Level Tens in the past—”

  “What? Really?”

  “From what I can tell, there’s one every fifty to seventy years.” Betty’s stripe flared down toward red. “Then they flush the records. Every fifty to seventy years.”

  “They what?”

  “Yeah,” Betty sniffed. “We’re not even allowed to learn our own history.” She stared forward, her stripe dark against her skin. “Anyway, once I was outside the sphere, I learned to access a lot of stuff, a long way back. Not all the way, but . . . long enough. There have been Tens before: dozens if not hundreds. But I’ve never seen any record of two Ten potentials born in the same generation. You and Albert are unique.”

  “Huh,” Johnny said, looking towards the front, where Torres had rejoined Albert. Bian and Shabaz were still locked in conversation.

  “And because of that,” Betty continued, “well, you both act a little different. Like Torg said, most skids that make Nine get a little reflective before they die.” Her stripe darkened even more, almost invisible against her skin. “Makes you wonder what they might be like if they got a few more years than five.”

  “Yeah,” Johnny murmured, glancing at Torg. He’d just said almost the very same thing.

  “Granted,” Betty said, “most skids don’t run that deep. But you and Albert, you started another level of thinking by the time you hit your third birthday. Both of you have shown an interest in helping other skids. And both of you hold on.” Her third eye swung. “Don’t you?”

  “Uhh . . .” Johnny flushed. Torg took that moment to let his eyes wander.

  “Peg,” Betty said. “It’s been six months since she died. Most skids wouldn’t have mourned for six days. We’re not designed to.”

  Popping an arm, Johnny ran his fingers along a line of gold. “And if she’s not dead?”

  “Let me guess: you keep hearing her voice? Maybe even seen her a few times?”

  Johnny looked up, his heart pounding. “Yeah.”

  Betty’s gaze saddened. “Talk to her yet?”

  He swallowed. “No.”

  “No,” Betty said gently. “And I’m afraid you’re not going to. That wasn’t Peg. It was you.”

  “Sorry?”

  Betty took a deep breath. Exhaled roughly. “A couple of years after I landed in the Thread, I started seeing skids. Everywhere. It was ridiculous: I’d see them disappearing around every corner; I heard conversations coming from buildings I passed by. It took me years to realize I wasn’t seeing or hearing other skids. I was creating them.”

  “Creating them?” Torg said. “Nice.”

  “No,” Betty said sadly. “Just one lonely skid. Remember, we are the program: we have the potential to create what we need. Or what we think we need.” She looked at Johnny. “I call them ghosts. Because they’re like the ghostyards: they’re not real, they’re just a memory of something that isn’t there anymore. You’re not seeing Peg, Johnny; you’re creating her from memory. Because you’re holding on.” She swung an eye. “What’s the longest relationship you ever had, Torg?”

  “Couple months.” He grinned and winked at Betty. “I’m sure if I tried I could do better.”

  “I’m sure you could,” she said, looking pleased. “Johnny, you haven’t even had a fling since Peg died. And as for Albert . . . looks like he felt pretty close to that with Bian. Only one problem.”

  “Ain’t her code,” Torg said.

  “Ain’t her code. Nothing wrong with that; first four years of my life, I was the same, bumping from one guy to the next. But I don’t think Albert’s going to let go so easy.”

  “So what do you want me to do about it?” Johnny said. “It’s not like I’m encouraging her.”

  “I know,” Betty said. “Just keep trying to be sensitive. It’s tough on her, too. Right now, she and Shabaz are talking about how each of them feels useless.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Johnny protested. “I told her that.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Brolin and Aaliyah—especially Aaliyah—they’re both claiming part of that guilt. And skids do guilt about as well as we do team. So just try to keep a delicate touch. While I see if I can’t find something to make them both feel more proactive. Speaking of which, we’re here.”

  As Betty tread towards a glowing door, Johnny looked at Torg. His stripes twitched.

  “Delicate touch. Yeah . . . ’cause that’s my strong suit.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Okay,” Betty said. “This place is a little intense.”

  They faced a door with broad, thick outlines. Slashed into the centre of the door: a golden ‘A,’ throbbing in and out, softly thrumming at its brightest point.

  “It’s an entertainment sim. Like the Skidsphere, but . . . well, you’ll see. The key is quiet—we move real quiet. If something happens, Wobble or I will handle it. We’ve been here before and we’re good at stealth. From the looks of things,” her hollas zipped around her head, “it’s a good time. Not a lot of action. Albert, you still all right bringing up the rear?”

  “Where else
would I be?”

  “Good,” Betty grinned. “Wobble will ride with you.”

  “Shabaz and I will just hang out in the middle and swap stories, then?” Bian said wryly.

  “Not for long,” Betty assured her, ignoring the sarcasm. “In a few minutes, you can ride where you like.” She swept her gaze over the group, held it, then bobbed her eyes. “All right, let’s go.”

  They emerged from a sterile two-tone hallway into a world that hit them in all five senses. Trees and plants surrounded them, obscuring the door. Huge, thick, ridiculously green trees and plants. The heat was oppressive; Johnny had never felt anything that hot. And the humid air reeked of . . .

  “Sweet snakes,” Torg breathed. “You can taste it.”

  “Sure can,” Johnny murmured. Sunshine pierced the green canopy with spears of light.

  “It’s like the woods by the Spike,” Bian said, her eyes trying to cover all points on the compass at once. “But . . . more.”

  “This is the jungle,” Betty said. “And there are things in here that want to kill us. Unless we get hit with the heavy stuff, they probably can’t do it, but even the little things hurt like a jacked gear. And some of them can hit you from kilometers away.”

  “Really?” Torres said, staring at the plant life pressing in. “How would they see us?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Betty said. “Stay close. Wobble and I can jam a lot of signals and take care of just about anything that can track us. Trust me, they’re expecting us a lot less then we’re expecting them. Turn on your coms, I’ll explain as we go. Keep your voices low—if you speak at all—and we should be fine.”

  “How’re they going to hear us?” Torres said. The jungle was a symphony of hoots and trills and creaks.

  “Everything has ears,” Wobble said. Floating a few centimetres off the ground, his skin bristled with probes. “Takers got scan-scans like nobody’s seen. Wobble.”

  “Our target is about half a kilometer this way,” Betty said. “This is a combat sim. Imagine a game where everyone gets vaped. Unlike the sphere, I’m pretty sure the Out There participated in this. Some player-mems are independent but some the Out There could slip into. We won’t run into any of those.”