The Skids

by Ian Donald Keeling

  That’s when Johnny saw the first hole. On the far side of the Core, an opening appeared in the wall. Inside, he glimpsed a waterfall of light and billions of box-shaped mems darting to and fro. Then another appeared off to their left, this one empty save for a glowing red dot, far in the distance. Then another, open for a second before closing again.

  “Be ready,” Betty said. “The Skidsphere’s going to be in one of those. Don’t know what it’ll look like, but hopefully we’ll get a signal. We’ll have to move fast.”

  Wobble fell tight against Shabaz, screaming destruction. Bian, one-armed and filled with fury, downed wave after wave of Antis and Vies. The air around them was a blur.

  How long has it been like this? Johnny thought. If the Out There really was gone—maybe even for thousands of years—then no wonder SecCore had an attitude. Johnny had been here for less than an hour and already his gears were twisted.

  “Warning!” Wobble chimed. “Gumballs and James Caan at four o’clock.”

  “Got it!” Betty said. “Okay folks, I see the Skidsphere, follow me. Right on my tail, this could get nasty.”

  “I SEE YOU, LITTLE SKID,” a familiar voice boomed.

  “Well, at least he’s got timing,” Betty muttered as she dropped back towards the group, even as she cut towards one of the walls.

  “I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING, BETTY CRISP.”

  “I’m fixing your mistakes, jackhole. Care to get out of my way?”

  “YOU WILL NOT BE ALLOWED TO DAMAGE THE THREAD, LITTLE SKID.”

  “I’m not going to damage anything. As for what I’m allowed to do . . . come get me.”

  They sliced through a whirling clot of black and white. Even though the Antis terrified Johnny more than the Vies, he found himself rooting for them. SecCore was mad, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t defending something worth defending.

  Then the storm parted, and through a hole in the wall Johnny saw what he knew was his home.

  “Grab Wobble, we need speed!” Betty commanded, bursting ahead, clearing as much space as possible. Behind her, Shabaz and Johnny latched onto Wobble with one hand and Bian and Torg with the other. Two jets emerged from the machine’s body and fired, yanking them forward with a colossal jolt. Like a rocket, they roared past Betty, then down and through the hole.

  Inside a glowing blue space, a flickering sphere with platforms scattered all around. Wobble threw them towards one of the platforms. They all swung an eye to watch Betty follow them in.

  Except she didn’t follow.

  Stopping in the centre in the hole, she focused all three eyes on Johnny. “Don’t screw this up.”

  “Wait!” Johnny yelled, “What are you . . . ?”

  “They’ll come through. We can’t fight and do what we need to do. I’ll seal the door, keep them busy.” Then she reached out, her Hasty-Arms spreading impossibly wide. Behind her, a hurricane of Antis and Vies.

  “Wait, Betty, wait—”

  “Run the race you’re running, Johnny Drop. Save the sphere. Torg, you’re kind of cute.”

  Then she pulled her arms together and sealed them in.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  They stared at the wall. Surely, any moment it would open and Betty would . . .

  “She’s not going to,” Torg said harshly.

  “Going to what?” Johnny said, staring at the wall. Surely. . . .

  “Come back,” Torg said, his voice like a bruise. “She’ll hold the line. Make sure nothing interferes with us. As long as she can.”

  “That’s probably pretty long,” Shabaz said, her body heaving as she sucked in air, slick with sweat. “Did you see her out there?”

  “Yeah,” Johnny said. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the spot where Betty had disappeared. “But she’s alone now . . .”

  “Her call,” Torg snapped. “Let’s get whatever we’re going to do done so we can help.”

  “Maybe one of us—”

  “And how are we going to do that?” Torg roared. “You know how to open one of those things? Didn’t think so. We’re here. We do what she wanted.” He took a deep breath and in a voice more resembling his usual patter he drawled, “It’s your show, Johnny. What are we going to do?”

  That’s a real good question. He glanced at Bian. “How are you?”

  “My arm’s somewhere on the other side of that,” she said, pointing her rifle at the wall. “Other than that, I’m sugar. Torg’s right: what’s next?”

  “Working on it,” Johnny murmured. He rolled over to the lip of the platform and got his first good look at his world from the outside.

  A planet of hollas. A million shots of life, all at once. It was like every highlight ever run bundled together, strung side-by-side-by-side and rounded into a massive ball. The Skidsphere was a sparkling orb of shifting colours and light; every race, every game, every skid radiating from its core.

  “Now that’s a sight to see,” Torg said softly, his eyes shining with the reflected brilliance of their home.

  In orbit, ring upon ring of small machines spun around the sphere, zooming in on the hollas. “Cameras,” Johnny murmured. “Someone’s watching.”

  “Or was,” Bian whispered.

  Suddenly, Torg chuckled. “Someone is: us.” He chuckled again. “Right now, we’re the Out There.”

  A wave of emotion swelled inside Johnny. Down below, someone was getting popped on the Slope. Another pounded off the paddles in Tilt; another survived the madness of Tag Box. A skid got vaped in a sugarbar. Panzers and squids were learning how to survive in the Combine. Panzers and squids were getting vaped.

  These were his people. This was his home.

  And it was dying. With his eyes overwhelmed by the flashing stream of images, it took him a moment before he saw it: a huge sprawl of black across the bottom hemisphere. Spikes and razor teeth sawed around its edges, devouring the hollas surrounding it. Johnny noticed a smaller sprawl around the sphere’s equator. Then another, near the upper pole. Then another and another; the entire sphere covered in sprawls of darkness, spreading . . .

  “Crisp Betty,” he swore softly. “It’s like Brolin.”

  “It’s like me,” Shabaz said firmly. “And I’m still here. Treat it like you treated me.”

  But it’s so big. He didn’t say the words out loud. Doubt wasn’t going to do anyone much good now. Run the race you’re in, he thought with ragged determination. Looking to Wobble, he said, “Are you coming with us?”

  “Negatory,” the machine grinned. “I-We will hold the station, in case Betty fails.” A dozen weapons sprouted from hidden compartments until Wobble resembled a demented tree. “You-We will not be bothered. Wobble.”

  “Guess we won’t,” Johnny said. He eyed the others. “Last chance to bail.”

  They all exchanged a look. Bian’s stripes tilted. “It’s a nice view, Johnny. Bet it’s even better up close.”

  “Let’s find out.” He tossed the rifle he carried to the ground. “Won’t need this.”

  The others followed suit, Torg gazing at his huge gun with affection. “Can you imagine how many Slopes you could win with one of these?”

  “Maybe GameCorps will come up with a new game.” Johnny took a deep breath. Another. “Okay, don’t know if it will help, but everyone grab hands.”

  “Guess that means I’m on the end,” Bian said dryly.

  “Oh, yeah,” Johnny said, wondering if her injury would make her vulnerable. Too late to worry about it now. If she wanted out, she’d have gotten out. “Guess no circle.”

  “I’ll take the other end,” Shabaz said calmly.

  They strung out. “We aim for the black,” Johnny said, squeezing Torg and Bian’s hands. “Hit it with names and colour. After that . . . Albert and I got in each other’s way with Brolin. Don’t know how that could happen in something the size o
f the sphere, but try to cover my back until I find the core.” He looked at Shabaz. “That’s how we saved you. That’s where we start.”

  As they edged towards the lip, perched over the sphere of glimmering hollas, they heard a familiar voice.

  “I SEE YOU, LITTLE SKIDS.”

  “Think it starts every conversation that way?” Shabaz mused.

  “We must be doing something right if we’re getting its attention,” Bian said.

  “YOU WILL NOT BE ALLOWED TO INTERFERE, LITTLE SKIDS.”

  “We’re trying to help, you panzer,” Johnny muttered, trying to judge how far they had to fall. Snakes, that’s a big scar.

  “WE DO NOT NEED HELP, JOHNNY DROP.”

  “No?” Suddenly, any fear Johnny had evaporated, replaced by anger. “That’s not what it looks like outside. You’re barely holding your own. And you’re wasting energy trying to vape your own allies.”

  “WE DO NOT NEED—”

  “I don’t care!” Johnny yelled. Somewhere, Betty Crisp was fighting in a sea of black and white. “You don’t need help: fine. You want to stop us: fine. Then get to it. But if you aren’t going to—or you can’t—then shut up. We’ve got work to do.” He glanced at the others. “Ready?”

  “Drop Johnny Drop,” Torg said.

  “Right on,” Johnny said. And dropped.

  Immediately, he started having second thoughts. Not about what they were doing, but how they were doing it. The surface of flashing hollas began to grow: hundreds, thousands, millions of images filling his eyes. Maybe we should be aiming for that. Get a feel for what’s healthy, what isn’t broken.

  “Snakes,” Shabaz swore softly. Her eyes were wide with awe, glittering as they reflected the sphere.

  Maybe not, Johnny thought grimly. If we’re this overwhelmed up here . . .

  Not that the sprawl below wasn’t overwhelming. They’d fallen through the broken Thread enough times that its existence alone didn’t terrify him. They’d survived the black.

  But snakes that sprawl was big.

  As it grew, they could make out the edges. They looked fuzzy, but only because every knife and saw and row of teeth was lined with rows of knives and saws and teeth. Which were lined with rows . . .

  It doesn’t end, Johnny thought, a shiver passing around his stripes. It never . . .

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a single image: a squid in the Combine, white with red stripes, working on greasing her treads . . .

  The shiver in his stripes hardened into a bar of rage. It does end, he thought. It ends right here. Thinking of Wobble, a vicious grin split his face. “Hold tight,” he said over the wind. “The first shock will be the nastiest. Remember your name.” The black rose to greet them and they dove in: Johnny, Torg, Shabaz, and Bian.

  Instantly, Johnny was back in those first terrifying moments on the Pipe: his mind splintering and shattering into a hundred fragments. This isn’t . . . he tried to think. This isn’t . . .

  The last time they’d gone into the black, Betty and Wobble had been there, leading the way. But Betty and Wobble weren’t here: Wobble was guarding their back and Betty . . . Betty might be . . .

  I can’t . . .

  Of course he’d gone into Shabaz. He’d saved Shabaz. But this wasn’t some little Vie attacking a skid. This was the Skidsphere. And this black was so deep and sharp and hungry it was a wonder he hadn’t been vaped on contact. Inside the dark: faint fragments of gold, but they were broken, broken, broke—

  Johnny!

  Peg?

  His hand throbbed with pain even as he heard the following thought: Crisp Betty, you know how to make a girl feel special.

  Bian. His hand squeezed again and reflexively he squeezed his other and felt it squeeze in return. Bian was here. And Torg. And . . .

  Like I didn’t get enough of this already. Shabaz’s thought came through clear and fierce.

  They were all here. Of course. After all, they’d survived this before. The feeling of being eaten assailed them from every side, but they could feel each other now, solid and strong. If they could find the centre fast enough, maybe they could pull it off.

  We need to find the core, he thought at the others. When we healed Shabaz, we fought from the core. Centring his own mind, he aimed for what he felt was the middle of the black.

  And found nothing. Deeper and deeper he went, but still the darkness went on without end. The broken black ate at their thoughts, biting and cutting and scraping them away. Johnny, Bian thought. Soon would be good.

  But there was nothing. No signs, no images of light . . . no centre.

  There had to be. Shabaz had been a ball of black by the time Albert and Johnny had dived into her, and even then there’d been a core of health. Not nearly that much of the sphere was gone; they’d seen that from the outside. Where the hole was the heart? Why couldn’t they find the core?

  Because there isn’t one, a voice came floating out of the darkness. With it, a smear of silver and white.

  Jackhole.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Skidsphere doesn’t have a heart.

  Albert?!

  And friends, chirped a strained voice.

  And Torres? Where the hole did you come from?

  Out There, Albert said, his thoughts dripping sarcasm. I see you’ve brought the gang.

  I didn’t bring them, Johnny snapped, stunned and angry and confused. They brought themselves. Where the hole were you?

  Think we could save Q&A for after the show? Torg’s thoughts came, blithe and strained at the same time.

  There’s an idea, Bian said. He became aware of how hard she was squeezing his hand and remembered where they were: big trouble.

  Amazing the effect Albert could have, as Johnny again felt a thousand buzzsaws chewing his skin, his stripes, his mind. This was not something he should’ve been able to ignore.

  What do you mean there’s no heart? Johnny asked, dropping everything else.

  Isn’t it obvious? This isn’t a skid—it’s the Skidsphere. It’s everything. Even if it was just the skids, there’d be a thousand hearts. Seventy thousand. And then the rest of the sphere. Anyone looking at it from the outside should’ve been able to figure it out.

  Well, there were four of us and Wobble, Bian thought angrily, and none of us did. Anything else you want to explain to the idiots?

  Not the place, people, Shabaz thought.

  Shabaz’s right, Johnny agreed. All right Albert, you figured it out. What do we do?

  This time there was a clear rim of guilt surrounding the thought that came out of the darkness: I don’t know.

  WELL, SOMEONE . . . FIGURE SOMETHING . . . OUT . . . Bian screamed raggedly.

  They couldn’t stay here, they were getting vaped, cell-by-cell. If they didn’t find someplace safe and fast . . .

  Two ideas came on top of each other: his last thought before they plunged into the black, thinking they should aim for the healthy hollas instead of the broken dark; and the Spike, the oldest place in the Skidsphere. It might not be the heart, but it was the closest thing the sphere had to one, a place where every skid went to find some peace.

  Which would be nice right about now.

  With the thought, a spar of light flared in the darkness. Let’s go, people. Albert, Torres, grab hold if you can.

  Way ahead of you. A second later Johnny felt a connection, even as they roared towards the light.

  He had no idea how they arrived: if they fell from the sky, rose from the earth, tumbled out of the woods—hole, they might have come through the Spike itself. All Johnny knew was that the light grew into a star; he felt a twisting sensation as they crossed the threshold . . . and then they were there, in the clearing centred by the Spike.

  Except it wasn’t.

  Johnny realized it immediately on som
e instinctive level, even before he saw the signs. There was no clear path away from the clearing: nowhere to go, only trees, stretching back in every direction. Plus the sky was . . . well, it just wasn’t there.

  Nor was a stone, etched with a name . . .

  Still better then where we were. Which was good, because they were in bad shape. They all looked like Brolin before he died. Black splotches covered their skin. Torg’s arm hung at an odd angle; Shabaz’s stripes looked like a test pattern.

  And Bian . . . Bian looked old.

  Her skin hung loose around her body as if it were two sizes too big. She leaned awkwardly, trying to balance, her remaining arm hanging withered at her side. Most of her body was black.

  “Snakes, Bian,” Johnny whispered. “We need to get you—”

  “We need to solve the problem,” Bian whispered harshly. “This isn’t real. We’re still out there, getting eaten. We don’t have much time.”

  As if spoken by a prophet, the first Vies began to emerge from the woods.

  “Right,” Bian said, shifting on her treads, centring her weight. “Betty always said it was up to you and Albert. So I suggest you two geniuses figure something out while we hold down the fort.”

  “With what?” Torg said, staring at the Vies coming from every direction. There were hundreds of them. He glanced at Johnny. “Guess we should have kept the guns.”

  “Silly boys,” Bian drawled in a voice that sounded remarkably like Torg’s. “Didn’t you listen to Aunt Betty?” Her withered arm snapped up and down—Cha-Chack! —and a double-barrelled rifle appeared in her hand. “We are the program,” she growled, her grin feral as her skin smoothed a little and the rifle boomed. The first Vie exploded, replaced by another. “Ladies?” she said, looking at Shabaz and Torres as she tread for the woods. “Shall we?”

  “Damn straight,” Shabaz growled as a rifle appeared in her hands. Torres hesitated, glancing from Albert to Johnny and back.

  “Go on, Torres,” Albert assured her. “We’ll make it work.”

  Torres held his gaze, then her eyes bobbed once and she turned to face the trees.