The Skids Page 11

  The Anti rotated, the tip of its point pointed at Bian.

  “No!” Albert and Johnny both yelled, accelerating towards the Anti. Albert hit it first, near the back. The Anti spun and surged forward. Johnny caught it and sent it into another spin, but not before it clipped Albert.

  Johnny had never heard Albert scream before.

  A cold bolt of terror sped through his stripes as the Anti turned his way. “That’s right,” Johnny snarled with a bravado he no longer felt. “Come get me.” He waited a heartbeat to make sure the Anti was focused on him . . . then he fled.

  “Get to that door,” he yelled into the com. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “Where the hole do you think you’re going?” Torg snapped back.

  Johnny sliced around the first corner he found, the Anti right behind. Crisp Betty, these things are fast. “I’ve got a plan. Get through the door, Torg!”

  He banged off a wall, gaining speed. He was already topping out and the vaping thing was still faster. “You think you can catch me, you grease-sucking spare!” he cackled, banging around another corner. His treads were burning. “I’m Johnny Drop, jackhole!”

  The Anti didn’t seem impressed. It clipped him going around the fourth corner, barely cutting his skin. Johnny thought he was being vaped. His whole body felt like it was being sliced apart by a scalpel.

  “Vape you!” Johnny screamed, holding it together and gaining more speed. The ground beneath him bucked, hurling him into the air. Johnny used the force to bang around another corner. “Is that all you got?! You got nothing, squid! Nothing!”

  “Johnny, we can see the end of the street,” Bian said over the com. “Get back here, you idiot!”

  “Working on it.” His skin where the Anti clipped him felt like it was on fire—Albert had taken a direct hit. How the hole did he hold it together? “Where’s Wobble?” he demanded.

  “He’s coming now.”

  “Any Vies or Antis?”

  “No, I think he took care of them.”

  “Right. Uh . . . hold on.” Screaming into an intersection, he scanned and turned in the direction of the pack. The tip of the Anti’s point feathered his skin. Crisp, that was close. “Get through the door. Trust Wobble: I’ll be right behind. Can he close the door behind us?”

  A heartbeat of silence, then Bian said, “He says he can.”

  “All right, I’ve got you guys on scan. Get through the door and tell Wobble to get ready to slam it shut behind me. I’m coming in hot.”

  The ground bucked him into the air again. Five metres back, the Anti gleamed glossy white in the flickering light of the hollas. “I don’t care how pretty you are, you’re still a jackhole,” Johnny spat, banging around a final corner.

  Up ahead, he could see the last of the skids funnel through a doorway framed by solid gold lines. Bian was last, looking back. “Go!” Johnny screamed. “I’m coming.” She ducked through the door.

  Now only Wobble waited. The machine looked absolutely battered. Johnny wondered why he didn’t blast the Anti; maybe he was out of ammunition. Didn’t matter. He had half-a-dozen lengths on the Anti. It would be enough.

  On that thought, a Vie dropped into his path.

  You have got to be kidding.

  The Vie began to turn his way. Vape it, Johnny thought. I-We bring the end.

  He plowed into the Vie, agony lancing through his body, this time tearing instead of slicing. Not a chance, he thought, burying the pain and holding together. I did this once, I’ll do it a million times if I have to.

  The Anti became a blur in his trail-eye, but he didn’t have time to think about it as Wobble went through the door. Johnny followed, his skin on fire as the doorway flared shut behind him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Are you all right?” Bian said, rolling up as Johnny came through the door.

  He popped the Hasty-Arm without thinking, the hand travelling twice as far as he intended. He almost punched her in the face. “Just . . . wait,” he hissed. The tone shocked him, so he took a deep breath. “Just wait,” he said again, more gently this time.

  His body felt like it was filled with hornets. The focus off in at least two of his eyes. There were black sunbursts on his skin—on his stripes! He retched but nothing came out. No surprise there. It was, what—hours? days?—since he’d had any sugar. Even though he was at rest, his left tread kept hitching forward.

  Just like Wobble. He took a shuddering breath. Then, because it had worked before, he got mad.

  Drawing all his attention inward, he hit the tearing sensation with what he could only describe as a mental fist. Ruthlessly, he crushed every ounce of Vie he could feel, then he pulled himself together, cell-by-cell. He focused on his stripes and willed them white.

  When he turned his attention back to Bian, this time she was clear.

  “Uhh . . . wow,” she said.

  “Better?” Johnny asked, exhausted.

  “Yeah,” she breathed. “That was . . . I don’t know what that was.” Her eyes bobbed and weaved, examining him. They focused on his trail-eye. “This looks almost perfect. If I didn’t know you were injured, I wouldn’t see anything.”

  It was true. The eye wasn’t completely healed, but it was closer, much closer than when he’d fixed it at the storm-house. “Let’s hope it stays that way. How’re we doing?”

  “Not so good.” She swallowed. “Brolin got hit again. So did Shabaz.”

  Black spores flared all over Brolin’s skin. Johnny shuddered. Daytona had looked worse than that, but not a lot worse. Shabaz had a single bloom near her upper eye and looked as if she was going to blow chunks at any moment. Johnny actually felt sorry for the lippy Six.

  “And then there’s Albert.”

  They all surrounded the silver-white skid. A long razor-thin scar, perfectly straight, marred the left side of his body. Betty Crisp, Johnny thought, staring at the scar.

  Albert’s whole body vibrated with pain. “Back . . . up!” he snapped when Aaliyah got too close.

  “I’m just trying to help,” she said, her eyes wide.

  “Give him some space,” Torres demanded, her eyes as wide as Aaliyah’s, all three on the skid that had saved her life. “Let him breathe.”

  “I don’t need you to speak for me,” Albert snarled, and Torres jumped back like she’d been slapped.

  “Sorry, I . . . I . . .”

  A sound like a mine collapsing escaped Albert’s lips. “No . . .” he gasped. “I’m sorry. Just . . . just give me some space.”

  Johnny couldn’t take his eyes off the scar. It took a lot to permanently mark a skid, he knew that intimately.

  Albert looked like he’d been cut in half.

  He caught Johnny looking. “What are you staring at?” he snarled. “Happy?” An eye swung at Bian. “Got out just in time didn’t you, sweetheart?” A violent shudder snapped through his body.

  Johnny’s stripes twitched. Albert might be a jackhole, but this . . . the skin on Johnny’s back still burned where the Anti had nicked him. “All right folks,” he murmured, backing up. “Give him all the space he needs.”

  “Thank you,” Albert rasped. His body continued to spasm as they backed away.

  “That’s not the same as what happened to you,” Bian whispered.

  “The Antis are different. The Vies feel like they’re eating you. It’s horrible. But for straight up pain, the Anti was far worse. It’s like getting stabbed in the eye with a thousand knives. Getting vaped doesn’t hurt that much.”

  Bian glanced back at Albert and shivered. “It left a scar. How is that even possible?”

  Johnny’s stripes tilted. “I have no idea.”

  “And I thought Wobble had it bad.”

  Wobble was a mess. Scorch marks covered his body. One lens had been knocked out of alignment and both the mac
hine’s shoulder flares were bent.

  But he was getting better.

  Amazed, Johnny watched as the shoulder flares straightened out with the sound of metal-on-metal. “No need to link-link the nurse, old fellow,” Wobble grinned. One of his metallic teeth dangled and then reset. “I-We will be-be fully-op soon. Wobble.”

  “Thank goodness we have him,” Bian said. “I have no idea how many Vies and Antis he took down.”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty crazy-impressive.”

  “Not to mention crazy,” Torg said, rolling up. “You guys should see this.”

  It finally hit Johnny that they weren’t in the city of hollas anymore. Instead, they sat inside in a small room, the black walls glowing with a familiar golden light.

  Torg took them over to a window. “Looks like we found some company.”

  The street outside was filled with . . . he wasn’t sure what it was filled with. Hundreds of box-shaped creatures, floating like the Vies and Antis, zipped by in every colour of the rainbow, all bathed in gold. Something with eight Hasty-Arms tickered past; another had six. Many resembled the creatures they’d seen in the corridor of hollas: four Hasty-Arms, striding around on two of them, although everything had a box-like quality.

  And if the street was busy, the sky . . .

  It’s like Tag Box, Johnny thought, picturing the Skidsphere’s most chaotic game. Layers upon layers of traffic—all boxes, all travelling in perfectly straight lines—starting ten metres above the street and rising into the distance.

  “At least we know this world isn’t empty,” Johnny murmured.

  “Nice to see some colours other than black, white, and gold,” Torg said. “I wonder if they’re friendly.”

  “Everyone is Teddy Bears,” Wobble said from directly behind them, making them jump. I have to stop looking at things with all three eyes, Johnny thought as Wobble added, “We-You have arrived. She is waiting-waiting. Come. Time is diamonds.”

  The door nearby faded out. Johnny glanced at the others. “I guess we’re leaving. Albert, are you good to travel?”

  “I’m fine,” came the rasping reply.

  “Fair enough.” Johnny followed Wobble out the door.

  He expected a reaction from the traffic. After all, the eight skids didn’t resemble anything else on the streets. But three boxes whizzed by his head without pausing.

  “No one seems too worried about Vies or Antis,” Torg said, his eyes swinging around cautiously.

  “No Vies,” Wobble whirred, spinning his head. “No Antis. The parent-parent’s never found out. Everyone is Teddy Bears. Wobble.”

  Something crossed in front of Torg and Johnny that blocked out most of the block. The ground shuddered as they watched the massive box with four arms stomp through traffic. “I sure hope that’s a Teddy Bear,” Torg murmured.

  Johnny glanced at him. “Do you know what a Teddy Bear is?”

  “No idea. But I believe they’re on our side.”

  “Who’s on our side?” Bian asked, rolling up.

  “The Teddy Bears,” Johnny grinned.

  “I thought we were all Teddy Bears.” She swung an eye towards Wobble. “Do you think he’s completely sane?”

  “I have no idea what he is,” Johnny admitted. “But I’m pretty sure that he, at least, is definitely on our side.”

  “He’s certainly taking the punishment,” Bian agreed.

  “He’s not the only one. How’s Brolin?”

  Bian’s stripes paled. “I’m . . . I think he’s pretty bad. We need to get him help.”

  “Yeah. Hopefully we’re on our way there now.”

  Her expression changed. “You know, I haven’t thanked you for saving us, for saving me. Again.” She smiled. “Careful, it’s getting to be a habit.”

  Something about the way she looked at him made Johnny’s stripes flush. “Yeah, well . . . it was Albert who took the big hit.”

  She swung an eye in Albert’s direction then sniffed. “Good for him. Besides, he seems more interested in the panzer than me.”

  No matter how much he hated Albert, even Johnny thought that was just a little frosty, given the scar the other skid was sporting. Just a few days ago, Bian had asked him to cut Albert some slack—now she was treating him like tread-grease. What gave?

  “I’ll go check on Brolin,” she said, leaving an eye on Johnny as she rolled away.

  Beside him, Torg sighed.

  “What?”

  Torg blinked emphatically. “Just what we need. More drama.”

  Wobble came to a halt. “We-You are here. Ticker-tape and everyone dance. Gurg made it through the Antaries in one piece. Wobble.” His head whirled in a full three-sixty, obviously pleased. “In we go. She is waiting.”

  Johnny’s heart skipped a beat. Peg, he thought to himself like a promise.

  They entered a long, narrow room cluttered with debris, workstations and hollas. Lines of muted gold traced the contours and the floor, flickering softly. Opposite the door, resting in a booth just like a sugarbar, surrounded by hollas, was a female skid.

  It wasn’t Peg.

  “Crisp Betty,” Johnny swore softly as he took in the flat-black body with the shining pink stripe.

  “Well,” said the skid, rolling out from behind the booth. “It’s nice to be recognized.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Sweet Snakes,” someone swore.

  “Vape me,” said someone else.

  “Watch your mouth,” Torg said, his voice soft and reverent.

  Betty Crisp, the greatest skid who’d ever lived, popped two Hasty-Arms and spread them wide. “Wobble. It’s good to see you. You did a wonderful job.”

  “Claw-clacks and rub-rub-rubbing tens,” the dilapidated machine beamed. “Farsi got ’em home, Sarge.”

  “He certainly did,” Betty said. “You can rest now, my friend. Repair what you can, we’ll need you soon.”

  The broken smile dropped from the machine’s face. “It hurt-hurts still.”

  “I know. Rest now. Make it better if you can.” As the machine rolled away, hitching to one side as he did, Betty turned her eyes toward Johnny.

  “Betty Crisp,” he said. It took everything he had to stop his third eye from swinging in her direction. “You’re Betty Crisp.”

  The only Level Ten in skid history laughed with delight. “Didn’t you just have this conversation a few days ago, Johnny Drop?”

  “What? Oh, the Combine. Right.” He grinned sheepishly. “I guess I kind of . . .” He stopped. “Wait, you know about that?”

  Betty waved an arm at the sea of hollas surrounding her banquette. “I know about a lot of things.” Her eyes narrowed. “Let’s start with your wounded.”

  She rolled over to Shabaz and Brolin, Bian hovering nearby like a protective mother. Shabaz’s grey skin looked pallid and dull and the bloom under her upper eye had grown, but she was holding on. The same couldn’t be said for Brolin. Two of his eyes hung limp as black spores flared all over his skin.

  Betty examined him, her gaze filled with sorrow. “See those cells along that wall?” She pointed to three compartments outlined with thick gold lines. “Put them in there. They should . . . help.” Bian bobbed an eye and gently led Brolin away, with Shabaz following behind.

  “Help?” Torg said. “How much?”

  “Not enough,” Betty said grimly. “Not here.”

  “Then you have a place,” Johnny asked. “A place that will . . .” he glanced towards Wobble, repairing himself in a corner, “. . . cure them?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then let’s go there.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Betty said, watching as Bian guided Shabaz into the cell beside Brolin. The lines surrounding the cells took on a hint of each skid’s hue.

  “It is if it saves their lives,” Johnny i
nsisted. He’d made a promise to Brolin, he didn’t intend to break it.

  Betty’s gaze came away from the far side of the room. “No, Johnny,” she said, “it’s not.” Seeing his expression, she added more gently, “Those cells will help. If nothing else, they’ll kill most of the pain. Given time, they could heal Brolin and Shabaz completely.” Glancing at the hollas surrounding her booth, she sighed. “Unfortunately, time is not something we have in abundance.”

  She swung an eye. “I’d offer you the third cell, Albert, but I’m afraid they can’t ease your pain.” She examined his scar, a strange expression on her face. “I wish they could.”

  “That’s all right,” Albert rasped, his voice tight. “I’m sorry to be a nuisance.”

  “You’re not a nuisance, Albert. I’m very glad you’re here.”

  The injured Eight winced, then bobbed an eye. “Thanks.” Behind him, Torres stared at Betty with very un-Torres-like awe.

  “Speaking of here,” Torg drawled, “where exactly would that be?”

  “You’re in a lost node,” Betty said, rolling back towards her hollas.

  “Ahh,” Torg said. “Well . . . that explains that.”

  Betty stopped, her second eye swinging around. Torg gazed back at her innocently. A single bright pink stripe cocked to one side. “You’re Torg, right?”

  “Most of the time, yes, ma’am.”

  Betty held the gaze for a minute, then the corner of her lips twitched. “Kinks, I’ve missed talking to skids. Okay, Torg, wrap your eye-stalks around this: you’re in a place called the Thread, which is made up of information. A node is a place through which a great deal of information tends to pass, in one way or another. But here’s the catch: the Thread is broken. So a lost node is a node that, to the system, no longer exists. Better?” Now she was the one wearing the innocent look.

  Torg blinked. “I think I just sprained something.” And grinned when Betty laughed with delight.

  The laughter died as Bian rolled up. “How are they?” Betty asked.

  “They said they feel better,” Bian sighed. “But Brolin still looks terrible. They need . . .” Her eyes flinched. “I don’t know what they need.” She took a deep breath. Exhaled loudly. “So . . . where are we?”