The Skids

by Ian Donald Keeling

  “I’ll go put on the dress,” Torg grinned, following the ladies.

  Albert swung a second eye towards Johnny. “Well? You brought us here. What’s the plan, squid?”

  “We are the program,” Johnny whispered.

  He wasn’t really looking at Albert. He wasn’t even watching the fight that was breaking out at all points, explosions beginning to rock the imaginary Spike.

  Because it was imaginary: this wasn’t really the Spike, they weren’t really here—they were still somewhere in the black, clutching hands while their skin was vaped.

  Of course, if Betty was right, the real Spike wasn’t really there, either. The entire Skidsphere was just part of the Thread—all information, created by something out there that probably wasn’t there anymore.

  “We are the program,” Johnny whispered again, the world around him a blur of darkness and light.

  He couldn’t cure the Skidsphere like he cured Shabaz—like we cured Shabaz; don’t be a jackhole. The Skidsphere was too big and, more importantly, it had no heart. It had seventy thousand hearts—he wouldn’t know where to begin. And the sphere wasn’t just sick, parts of it were broken down, the same way the entire Thread was breaking down . . . “We are the program,” Johnny whispered a third time.

  “You know,” Albert growled, “I may need a little more than that.”

  Johnny’s vision snapped back into focus. To his right, the woods were on fire, Torg laying round after round into the trees. Behind him, Bian was roaring like a bear. Swinging a second eye towards Albert, he said: “Wait here a minute.”

  Albert’s eyes flared with contempt. “Crisp Betty, don’t you ever learn? We—”

  “I’m not going solo,” Johnny spat, unable to keep the old resentment completely from his voice. Snakes, he was a pain. “I need something here to tie me to the group, jackhole.”

  Albert glared at him, then bobbed his eyes. “All right. What am I doing?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Johnny admitted. “But hopefully you’ll figure it out when I need you to.” Before Albert could make a snide reply, Johnny gathered himself and moved . . . up.

  Instantly, he was back above the Skidsphere, floating in space above a sea of highlights. Not far away, Wobble was battling wave after wave of Vies and Antis, pouring through a reopened gap into the Core. Johnny tried not to think about what that meant about Betty.

  He considered helping Wobble—the machine seemed in constant danger of being overwhelmed—but then again, there was plenty of constant danger going around. Somewhere, Johnny heard the sound of gunfire; somewhere else, his skin was being eaten . . .

  The race you’re in, Johnny thought, turning from Wobble and looking down on his home.

  From the inside, he couldn’t imagine healing it, he wasn’t big enough. But from up here, looking down on his world flickering like a jewel in the night . . . here, he could take it all in, see the entire sphere, love every holla, every skid.

  Here, he could imagine it whole.

  He didn’t try to wipe out the black—he didn’t even think about the black. Instead, he concentrated on the light, the images filling his soul. He knew the Skidsphere like the back of his treads. He could picture the whole thing . . .

  For a moment, he thought he was doing just that. In his mind, the Rainbow Road unfurled like a wave, every centimetre of track, every line of colour—the exact spot where Betty had started the Leap, the exact spot where she landed. The Slope dropped two hundred dusty kilometers across his vision and Johnny plotted each pebble, popper, and tree with mathematical precision. He knew how far the final ledges lay beneath the finish line down to the millimetre; he knew how far below them lay the eviscerating sea. He knew the popper shaped like a cone of sugar two-thirds of the way down that was death for even the most accomplished skid.

  He could see every one: The Pipe; Tilt; The Spinners; Up and Down; Tunnel; The Skates . . .

  And that’s when he realized he couldn’t see every one after all. Because he might have thought he knew the Skidsphere like the back of his stripes, but the truth was no skid could. Each seasoned skid might have played every game a hundred times, but they didn’t love every game. Hole, Johnny usually went out of his way to get vaped early in The Spinners—he hated that game. And while he might have been the king of the Slope, it was Albert who was murder on the Skates.

  Then why don’t you let me do this one, a sardonic voice said. I get it: good plan. Jackhole.

  Immediately, the image of the Skates grew clearer in Johnny’s head: a layer of fragile blue, deep within the ice that he had never realized was there; the violence of the collisions and the elegance of a collision avoided; the nick in one corner on which you could grind a squid.

  Nice, Johnny thought, rolling his eyes.

  Not everyone could skate like Peg. A surge of anger spun through Johnny before he caught the reverence in Albert’s thought. Of course, this was his game; he would admire anyone who played it with grace.

  No, Johnny thought, picturing Peg. No, they couldn’t.

  Bit by bit, Albert filled in Johnny’s vision: the way the flags furled on the Rainbow Road; the way the pits in Up and Down were crenulated at the edges. The way the bumpers in Tilt got slick, a ring on the Pipe Johnny had forgotten . . .

  We don’t have it, Albert thought abruptly. We’ve got a lot but we don’t know nearly enough. Neither of us was ever that great at the Pipe.

  Good thing someone was, Torg drawled and a fresh new wave of sights, sounds and smells washed over Johnny and Albert. This ain’t bad gentlemen, but you forgot a few things . . .

  A few seconds later, even as the sugarbars gained a clarity that he’d rarely experienced inside their confines, Shabaz joined them. Remarkably, she’d spent almost as much time near the Spike as Johnny. Then Torres chimed in and the Combine exploded with detail: the sheer number of squids and panzers; the overwhelming sound of grunts and curses and flesh on plastic, wood, and stone; the fear, the fear, the fear.

  Whatever you’re doing, came a strained thought, keep it up, I think it’s working.

  Bian? Johnny thought. Where the hole are you?

  She stayed behind to cover. Like Wobble did. Shabaz’s thought was tinged with guilt, even as she painted the saw-blades in Tunnel.

  Stayed behind? Johnny’s concentration wavered. In his mind, his eyes swung towards the woods, imagining the flood of Vies pouring out from the trees. We’ve got to help—

  Somewhere, something squeezed his hand so hard the pain shot through his eyes and a voice roared: RUN THE VAPING RACE YOU’RE IN OR BY CRISP I’LL RIP THE GREASE-SUCKING STRIPES FROM YOUR SKIN!

  Which focused the concentration quite nicely. Although Johnny did drop a thought Torg’s way: Where’d she find that voice?

  Same place she found the gun.

  Together, Johnny, Albert, Torg, Shabaz and Torres envisioned the Skidsphere, piece-by-piece, until . . .

  It’s still not enough, Johnny thought. I can’t—we can’t hold it all.

  We all could, Albert thought.

  No, we can’t. Even with Torg, Shabaz and—

  No, Albert thought, hard and clear. I mean: we all could. All of us. All the skids.

  How . . . ? Johnny thought even as a jolt went through his stripes. He could almost hear Albert’s stripes tilt. We’re here. They’re all here somewhere.

  Uh . . . Bian’s thoughts, rimmed with pain, came crawling through the ether. Remember when I said it was getting better?

  Time’s up, Johnny thought. Either do it or don’t. He reached out for the skids, trying to touch every one that still lived and breathed and played somewhere in the Skidsphere.

  He failed.

  Not like that, Albert thought. Don’t be so specific. You’ve got to feel it. Like this. And an image came to Johnny of Albert: his Hasty-Arms spread wide, spread so much wider than t
hey should’ve been able to go.

  At least this time the silver skid had the grace not to call him a panzer. You’ve got to feel it—hadn’t Johnny said that somewhere in the last week?

  Seriously, gentlemen, Bian cried, whatever the vape you’re going to do . . .

  Looking down on the sphere he called his home, Johnny reached out his arms.

  A thousand, two thousand, seventy thousand minds and memories hit him like a hammer. He might have faltered, but Albert was there—somewhere—helping to guide the storm, then Torg, then Shabaz . . . then Torres. Seventy thousand minds, from the newest panzer, staring off the edge of the Slope as if he could already feel the eviscerating sea far below, to the seasoned Fives and Sixes and Sevens that made up the meat of the games, with all their knowledge and love of the sphere. Every single millimetre of space; the taste of every single grain of sugar; the feel of each pica of dust, ice and rain; the feel, the feel, the feel of the world in which they played.

  Then Johnny added a final image to the chorus: a clearing, a spike and some woods, free from Vies, the leaves on each tree shimmering in the sun as it looked on the hollas. In a small hollow near the edge of the glade: a stone polished on one side, rough on the other—three letters etched onto its surface as crisp and clean as when they’d first appeared not so long ago.

  The last shred of black vanished and the Skidsphere returned to its original state: a million shots of life, living fast, glittering in a sea of blue.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  They reappeared on the platform in orbit, the unflawed Skidsphere glimmering below. Wobble stood nearby, the gap behind him closed once more. Listing to one side, with dozens of metal teeth missing from his smile, the machine appeared as battered as ever. Although, as ever, he was healing.

  The same couldn’t be said for Bian.

  “Oh, snakes,” Johnny breathed, rushing to where she lay collapsed. Her skin was black. No sign of her stripes. Pressed flat against the platform, one of her eyes hung over the edge. Johnny thought of the Drop, holding on to his molecules . . .

  “She took it all,” Shabaz whispered. “All of it.”

  “Hold on, Bian,” Johnny said. The Skidsphere flashed below without a trace of the black that covered Bian’s side as it rose in short, weak heaves. “Just stay with us, we’ll fix you up.”

  “Yeah, right,” she croaked and the eye hanging over the edge pulled itself up. “Not this time.”

  “Shut up, we can do this,” Johnny said, trying to pull himself together. After all they’d just done, his mind felt like mush. Even his skin felt exhausted.

  “You shut up,” she wheezed. “I haven’t got long and I think I’ll hold the spotlight while I can, Johnny Drop.” She had a point. Swinging the only eye she could, she said: “Albert?”

  “Right here,” Albert said, holding her hand in his own, all three eyes on her. “Right here, Sticks.”

  “You haven’t called me that in a bit,” Bian murmured. “I’ve missed it. I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t,” Albert said. “I knew the rules going in. You don’t have to—”

  “Anyone else want to interrupt the dying chick?” Bian snapped, and for just a second the ghost of her yellow stripes shone through the black. “You’re as bad as he is.” Albert sent a guilty glance at Johnny, then squeezed her hand and didn’t say anything else. “Better,” Bian murmured. “Where was I? Oh yes, I was apologizing for treating you like grease.” She chuckled. “It’s a wonder what you ever saw—”

  “I saw a star,” Albert interrupted, his voice tight with grief and pride.

  She studied him for a heartbeat. “Okay, that one was sweet. See Johnny, I told you he could be sweet.”

  Johnny didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t dare.

  “Now I know even a dying girl’s last wish isn’t going to make you two play nice—you’re both too ‘boys’ to do that—so how about this: remember what you did here together. I don’t care how you feel, what you did to each other in the past; you remember what you and Shabaz and Torres and Torg and . . . oh snakes . . . Betty!” Her eye went wide. “I treated her like crap—snakes, I can be a bitch when I’m nervous.”

  “I’m pretty sure she liked you,” Torg said, his voice as tight as Albert’s.

  “I’m pretty sure she liked you, Torg,” Bian said, and again her stripes flickered beneath the black. Then the stripes were buried once more and she fell silent, nothing but the agonizing rise of her breath. “Maybe I would have been better after this,” she whispered, her voice barely audible now. “We shouldn’t have to die so young. We’re just figuring it out. We should have a chance to . . .”

  Then her side went still and her eye dropped back over the edge. Oh, Johnny thought, unable to think of anything more. He started to reach forward . . .

  Bian’s body evaporated.

  Albert sat like he’d been carved there, staring at the space in his hand where Bian’s had disappeared. “See you later, Sticks,” he whispered.

  An urge to know why he called her that surged through Johnny so strongly that he had to fight it down. Beside him, Shabaz, Torg, and Torres hung their eyes, their stripes dim with grief. Trying to think of something to say, Johnny opened his mouth to speak.

  “No one will remember this,” Albert whispered harshly.

  Johnny blinked. “What?”

  Albert was still staring at his hands as if by keeping them open they might fill again. “No one will remember this.”

  Johnny had a lot of experience with Albert’s anger. Albert had a lot of experience with Johnny’s own rage. But Johnny had never heard that tone before. “Wait, what are you talking about? Of course she’ll be remembered.”

  “Really?” Albert’s eyes swung up and the hurt and venom in them was so vivid Johnny backed up a tread. “Just what do you think happens now, Johnny Drop?”

  “Now?” Johnny said, the word sounding idiotic even as it emerged from his mouth. He was exhausted: Bian was dead; Albert was so pissed it vibrated the air. “What are you—?”

  “There’s two possibilities,” Albert began.

  “Look, would you just slow down for a—”

  “There are two possibilities,” Albert spat. “One: you go back in there,” he stabbed a finger at the Skidsphere, “and they pick a hero to celebrate saving the world. Who do you think they’ll pick, Johnny Drop? Think it’ll be the girl who hopped from skid to skid or the jackhole with two names?”

  “Snakes, Albert, I won’t let that—”

  “The second possibility,” Albert said, his voice a hammer, “is the one I’d bet on. That the sphere we just recreated was based on the Skidsphere we knew before we got out here. Which means none of what happened out here happened. And the skids that . . . the skids that died—Brolin, Aaliyah, Bian, all the others—couldn’t have died out here because this . . . didn’t . . . happen. And what’s the easiest way for history to justify that?”

  “Do you want an answer?” Johnny snapped. “Do I get to say something?”

  “The next time the great Johnny Drop doesn’t have something to say will be the first.”

  “Oh would you just back the—”

  “You know,” Torg drawled, “I’m pretty sure Bian said something about wishing the two of you would get along. Pretty sure I heard that. Course, probably wasn’t important.” His voice took on a rare hardness. “Being her dying words, and all.”

  That stopped Johnny. And Torg may as well have slapped Albert. His entire body went still momentarily, then his eyes dropped. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She did say something like that.”

  Beneath them, the Skidsphere dappled like leaves shot with sunlight in the breeze. The only sound was the soft creak and whir of Wobble pulling himself back into shape.

  “Albert,” Johnny said. “Al,” he added, and it was the first time in a long time he’d called Albert tha
t. “Maybe those things happen. I can’t stop seventy thousand skids from celebrating . . . from doing whatever the hole they want to do. But we don’t have to let them forget Bian or anybody else. Hole, you won’t—”

  “I’m not going back.”

  Johnny started to snap something about not interrupting again but he caught himself, glancing at Torg who—having said his piece—now sat silently, watching them with a sombre expression. Behind him, Shabaz and Torres did the same, both overwhelmed by the speed and emotion of the events. They weren’t the only ones.

  “What do you mean, you’re not going back?”

  Albert took his time. When he finally spoke, it was like he was choosing each word. “I can’t. I can’t go back to playing the game. I can’t go back to . . . to playing Albert to your Johnny. Like nothing happened.” One eye dropped to his hands. “Even if Bian was there . . . I couldn’t do that. I can’t. I won’t.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “Go be the star, Johnny. It’s what you always wanted.” He chuckled. “Hole, it’s what we all wanted. Live fast, die fast. Play the games. But not me. Not after this.”

  Johnny got it. Had their positions been reversed, he’d probably have felt the same. For the first time he put himself in Albert’s treads, imagining what it would’ve been like to be good, even great . . . but not quite great enough. He shuddered. Yeah, that would have full on sucked.

  “So . . . uh . . . what are you going to do?”

  Albert swung an eye towards Wobble. “Betty didn’t make it through.” A statement, not a question.

  “Affirmative,” the machine whirred. “They had-had the entire Antaran army out there, sir.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “Unconfirmed. There was a loss of signal.”

  Albert appeared to consider this. Then . . . “Want to go see if we can find it?”

  Wobble’s entire body stopped in mid-whir. “Yes, sir,” the machine replied. “Yes, sir, I would.”

  “Then I guess that’s what I’m going to do,” Albert said, swinging his second eye back to Johnny.