The Skids Page 2

  His speedometer crept towards a thousand kilometers per hour. He was pretty sure he was now moving faster than any skid had ever moved before.

  A magenta-gold blur flashed by on his left—what might have been a call of surprise. Then silver and white, dangerously close. This time there was a definite curse.

  Johnny was in the lead. He was also in serious trouble.

  An ugly burning came from his treads, even though he’d moulded them near frictionless. He didn’t know what kind of shape he was in, but it sure the hole wasn’t round anymore. No longer able to see, not even pretending he was still in control, Johnny banged off another tree and increased speed again, plummeting towards the finish line less than a kilometer away.

  The finish line was going to be a major problem.

  Two hundred metres above the killing sea, a thick red line marked the end of the Slope. One hundred and fifty metres below that—a mere fifty metres above the waves that would eviscerate a skid’s skin—were a series of wide, flat ledges. If a Slope was finished at speed, any skids that survived used the ledges as a final safety barrier. Even after a fast race, landing on a ledge was relatively easy. A panzer could do it. During a Drop, it was trickier. There was a reason why only experienced skids did the Drop. Even Torg had died once. As he often said: “Hitting anything at terminal velocity is just wrong, son.”

  Johnny hit the finish line a few kilometers per hour shy of the sound barrier.

  A millisecond later he plowed into a ledge and was instantly crushed flat. Agony ripped through his body; he struggled to hold onto consciousness. Onto his molecules. If he evaporated from impacting with a ledge—which he was certain had never been done—then it was the same as dying: he’d lose and it would all mean nothing.

  It was close. The first thing that told Johnny he was still alive was a strange wafting sensation. He realised it was his third eyeball, pounded flat: hanging over the ledge and flapping in the wind. Eewww, he thought, and wondered how long before he had the strength to pull himself back into a ball.

  The second thing that told Johnny he was still alive was the sound of cheering. All around him, thousands upon thousands of skids he didn’t know, losing their freaking minds. The sound of cheering, so loud it reached into the sky and maybe—just maybe—into somewhere beyond the sky.

  Out There.

  Johnny’s flattened teeth worked themselves into a grin. He was thinking about his second name.

  Chapter Two

  “No more!” Johnny cried, as another skid approached with a tray of swizz. “If I have any more sugar, I’m gonna hurl.”

  The Level Three flashed a grin and deposited the tray at Johnny’s tongue. “I said the same thing when I got my name and it didn’t stop you from getting me vaped. Suffer, squid.”

  In fact, it’d been only a few weeks since Johnny and a couple of the older skids had taken the two new Threes—Tosh and Shi—pit-hopping and left them absolutely twisted. It was a tradition he and Albert had started when they were Fours. Now it was coming back to haunt Johnny.

  The Slope pit was packed. Slide Rock thrummed through the room, pulsing in time with the morass of colour on the dance floor. Johnny’s booth overflowed with skids whose only intention was to leave the newest Nine choking on his own tongue.

  Which he might have done even if he wasn’t so twisted. Only a few hours had passed since the Slope and Johnny’s body still ached. They’d had to carry him to the podium after the race, as he slowly rounded back into something resembling normal. Then he was carried straight from the podium to the bar by an entourage that seemed to number every skid with a name. He was already half-vaped when a holla from GameCorps flashed to inform the vibrating pit that the hero of the day had been upgraded to Level Nine for his historic performance. And that wasn’t all GameCorps had announced.

  “So the squid got another stripe.” Torg’s voice cut through the din and a space was made. “What does flat feel like, Johnny?” The booth roared its approval.

  “Like your mother on a good day, you old panzer. Tongue some of this, for the love of Crisp.” Johnny bobbed an eye towards the massive pile of sugar. “Any more and I’m going to evaporate.”

  “And here I thought the squid could hold his sweet.” The older skid stuck out his tongue and took a taste. “Now this is fine,” he said appreciatively.

  “Refined,” Johnny intoned. “Leticia brought out the good stuff.”

  “Crisp, nobody treated me like this when I made Nine.”

  “That’s because they didn’t have sugar back then. And you’re full of grease, because I remember leaving you singing war songs on the Spike.”

  “Yeah, between Albert and then you, I’d say I got treated right that night.”

  On cue, a voice said, “I’m glad you think so. It cost me a few points.”

  The crowd parted and Albert tread up to the table. The group tensed as Johnny’s eyes stopped drifting and narrowed into slits, but Albert was grinning and had two eyes on Torg. “I thought skids who tongued that much sugar ended up in rehab.”

  “I wish,” Torg snorted. “I could’ve used the publicity.”

  Albert swung an eye towards the hero of the hour. “Johnny.”

  “Albert,” Johnny said coolly.

  Albert caught the tone, hesitated, then said, “That was a pretty stupid stunt you pulled today, panzer.”

  Johnny looked directly into Albert’s damaged eye. “Glad you were there to see it, Albert.”

  That definitely brought a hush to the table.

  Torg broke it with a bark of laughter. “Crisp Betty,” the older skid swore, “why don’t you two just snug and get on with it.”

  The corner of Albert’s mouth twitched. “I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.” His damaged eye remained centred on Johnny. “I just came by to congratulate the newest Nine. I’d buy you some sugar, but I can see you’ve had enough.” He turned and bobbed an eye. “Torg.” Then he disappeared back into the throng.

  “Come back soon,” Johnny muttered, sniffing sugar.

  “He did offer congratulations, Johnny,” Torg said softly.

  “Only ’cause he’d look like a jackhole if he didn’t.”

  “Well,” Torg drawled, “we wouldn’t want to do that now, would we?”

  The music shifted and the crowd at Johnny’s table poured onto the dance floor. Bian, a Level Seven, drifted by the booth before following the crowd.

  “You’ve got an admirer,” Torg growled, watching the blood-red skid glide away. She had glit all over her seven yellow stripes and sparkles trailed in her wake. “Funny, I thought she was with Albert.”

  “She’s a Level jumper,” Johnny sniffed. “And that Eight just got jumped.”

  “That is true,” Torg agreed.

  “Hold up,” Johnny said, leaning forward. “They’re running the ’lights.”

  At the far side of the bar, a massive holla showed scenes from the Slope. The more spectacular moments flashed by—Albert had popped three skids in one shot; even Johnny had to admit that was sweet. The number of competitors dwindled; a shot of Torg, Albert and Johnny hanging out . . . and then the Drop.

  He’d already seen it twice, but Johnny wasn’t watching the race. He was waiting for the announcement at the end.

  “Say it,” he whispered, his stripes pulsing once.

  The rest of the bar had gone silent. Which never happened. Skids scanned their own highlights, but rarely paid attention to even the most extraordinary events more than once. Too little time between games, too much sugar to inhale. Living fast. . . .

  In the holla, Johnny crossed the finish line. He watched as his body was crushed flat, unaware that he winced a little at the impact.

  “Say it,” he whispered.

  The frantic play-by-play faded out, replaced by the formal GameCorps announcement that the win
ner of that day’s Slope—who had tied Betty Crisp’s record for consecutive wins—was now the youngest Nine in the history of the Skidsphere. And the name of that skid . . .

  “Say it.”

  . . . was Johnny Drop.

  “TWO NAMES!” Johnny screamed, and the entire bar, save one, screamed with him. “MY NAME IS JOHNNY DROP!” All three of his eyes swung towards Albert. “That’s right, you panzer-squid! How many names you got?”

  The cheering began to die as the bar stared at him in shock. To his side, someone murmured, “Snakes, Johnny. . . .”

  Johnny’s stripes flared, filling half his body as they pulsed hot-white. Up on his treads, two Hasty-Arms popped out as if to envelope the pit.

  “How many names, Albert?” he sneered, spitting Albert’s name like it was rotten. “How’s Level Eight feel, you grease sucking squid!”

  Across the bar, the silver-white skid looked back, his eyes flat. Very slowly, he extended his own Hasty-Arms—hands spread except for a single tucked thumb—and deliberately tapped the air twice.

  Nine, nine.

  “Vape me!” Johnny screamed, lunging forward. “You think anyone’s going to remember you, you—”

  “And . . . that’s enough.”

  A hand snapped forward and wrapped around all three of Johnny’s eye-stalks. Which hurt. “Hey!” Johnny cried. He tried to shake free, but froze when a spike shot through his eyes like the pain he’d felt on the Slope.

  “Come with me, champ,” Torg said calmly, twisting out of the booth. Skids cleared out of the way, staring. All three of Johnny’s eyes teared up. He tried to bring down a thinlid but it got stuck halfway.

  “Snakes,” Johnny swore. “Leggo, Torg, that kills.”

  “Once we’re outside.”

  His fellow Nine dragged him out the back door and hurled him by the eye-stalks—Crisp Betty, that hurt—into a pile of sugar.

  “Oww, oww, oww,” Johnny spat, waving his eyes apart and blinking furiously. “Don’t ever do that again, Torg.”

  “Don’t earn it,” Torg growled. “Honestly, what the hole was that? You just got a second name, squid. How about a little magnanimous joy?”

  “That was joy,” Johnny muttered, massaging his eye-stalks.

  “Really? ’Cause that looked a lot like rage to me, Johnny.”

  “He deserves it.”

  “Does he?”

  Torg’s second eye swung in Johnny’s direction. That wasn’t something a skid could ignore for long. “What?” Johnny said sullenly.

  “You know what I saw in there? I saw a skid that hates your treads but came over to congratulate you anyway. And then I saw you treat him like tread-grease in front of the whole bar.”

  “Don’t care,” Johnny mumbled, although his second eye dropped away, unable to hold Torg’s gaze.

  Torg looked up into the night sky. “You know, Johnny, you’re the one who’s always talking about getting remembered. We all think about it from time to time, but you . . . you’re obsessed. And now that you got yourself a second name . . .”—the older skid’s eyes widened as he said it—“I’d say you have a pretty good shot.” His gaze fell back from the sky. Held Johnny’s for a beat. “You might want to think about what kind of skid you want them to remember, son.”

  Johnny felt like he was deflating. His stripes dimmed. After a moment, he whispered, “He killed her, Torg.”

  “Aww, snakes,” Torg sighed. “Johnny, I think you’re great, and I know for some reason this is hard for you, but you don’t know that. Hole, even if you did, you gotta let it go.”

  “I can’t.” Johnny’s voice grew hard, his stripes pulsing.

  “You have to. No skid—”

  “I can’t!” Johnny screamed. “What do you think happened, Torg? You believe his story? She just disappeared? Is that it? You think she just vaped herself—poof—and that’s it?”

  Torg sat on his treads like he was embedded in the ground. His first and second eyes closed a little. “And just what do you think Albert could have done to her?” he said gently.

  There was a great hole in Johnny’s heart. He’d won his second name today. He’d come from behind during a Drop. From this moment on, he was probably immortal.

  Why didn’t it feel like it mattered?

  “I don’t know,” he whispered, and this time he did deflate, his body visibly shrinking. “But he . . . she couldn’t just . . .”

  Torg rolled forward and nudged Johnny’s tread. “Hey, I get it. I liked her too. Not like you, but Peg was grand. But you got to let it . . .” He stopped. “You feel that?”

  All three of Johnny’s eyes had already swung outwards, his whole body on alert. “Yeah.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the ground beneath their treads was trembling.

  Four eyes swung and met. “Corpsquake,” Torg and Johnny said together.

  No skid knew why GameCorps sent them corpsquakes; most assumed it was to mix up the highlight shows every once in a while. Most quakes were harmless, causing the ground to tremble a bit every few months. Quakes that did any real damage were rare.

  But they weren’t unknown.

  “Probably just a shaker,” Torg said. “Nothing to . . .”

  The ground beneath their feet pulsed once, like a speaker cranked to full. A tearing sound filled the air.

  “Or not,” Torg sighed.

  Behind them, the sugarbar was pulsing to its own vibe, the music pounding. No way anyone would sense the quake until it was too late.

  Johnny and Torg gunned their treads. Bursting through the doors, they screamed: “CORPSQUAKE!”

  Too late.

  The tearing sound accelerated into a roar and the entire bar shifted to the left. Hard.

  “Get out!” Johnny yelled, grabbing the first skid he saw—it was Bian—and hurling her through the door. The ceiling cracked and part of it collapsed. Johnny pushed a Five out from under the falling debris, flattening out to avoid getting squashed himself.

  On the dance floor, Albert gathered skids, one of the few helping out; most raced for the doors without a second thought for anyone else. Albert had been the first inside to react to the quake, which Johnny had to concede wasn’t that surprising. Albert was a gearbox, but no one said he was slow.

  A pillar behind Albert began to topple, but the silver skid had all three eyes pointed front. Johnny saw it and for a split second didn’t move. Then his conscience kicked in—Oh what the hole—and he dived for the Level Eight, pushing him away before the pillar crashed to the floor.

  An eye swung back, looked at the pillar, then looked at Johnny. “Thanks,” Albert said. “Now stop wasting time and protect the Ones and Twos.”

  Johnny felt like slapping himself in the eye. The panzers and squids were the only ones in any real danger. Dumb, dumb, dumb. That Albert had realized it first made Johnny cringe.

  Swinging around, he spotted a squid about to get crushed by a speaker. Gearing up, he shoved the Two out of harm’s way.

  “Outside, people,” he heard Torg yell. “Looks like this one’s going to—”

  As suddenly as it had begun, the trembling stopped.

  “. . . last,” Torg finished. He hesitated, then swung a sloppy grin towards Johnny. “You know, sometimes I take great pleasure in being mistaken.”

  “Anyone hurt bad?” Johnny asked, scanning the room.

  “Panzer got vaped,” a Six said, standing next to a jagged crack in the ground. “Floor just opened and shut. Yellow-maroon kid.”

  “Oh,” Johnny said, his eyes dipping. Squids and panzers got vaped all the time. But to have it happen outside a game . . . “Anyone . . . anyone know his name?”

  A silence.

  “Uh, Johnny?” Torg said. “He was a panzer. He didn’t have a name.”

  The silence hovered for a moment, then everyone began to m
ove. Sure it was sad, but skids died all the time. Across the room, Albert wore an expression that matched how Johnny felt: like he’d been the one permanently vaped. The silver skid caught Johnny’s gaze, held it, then left the bar without saying anything.

  Johnny stayed and began cleaning up the mess, even though GameCorps would have the pit rebuilt by morning. As he hauled rubble, Johnny found his gaze kept wandering towards the crack in the dance floor.

  He’d earned his second name today. Some skids never got the time to earn one.

  Chapter Three

  The next day, Johnny went to visit Peg.

  On the way, he passed the SlopeMart. Skids of every level—mostly Ones and Twos—poured in and out, beneath a blazing marquee that could be seen for kilometers.

  The Marts were where skids spent most of their points. A few points might get spent in the sugarbars, but the pits weren’t really that expensive. After all, too much swizz might get you twisted, but every skid needed a little daily sugar to survive, especially the panzers who didn’t have any points to spend yet.

  The merch inside the Marts wasn’t vital, but skids blew mass points on it anyway. Skids couldn’t change their basic colours or the number of their stripes, but they could glam them up with skins and tattgrams, glit and shim. Coloured thinlids of every shade and hue under the sphere, signature prints for your treads, bubbles or lightning or fire to trail in your wake. Skids bought the newest Slide Rock tunes to accompany their entrance at the start of a game and custom fireworks to go off at the finish. Johnny knew of a Seven who looked like a rug, and a Five who owned a soundbyte that cried Boo-yah! every time she popped someone. Every skid shopped at the Mart.

  Except two.

  Peering through the garish window displays, Johnny remembered the first and only time he’d stepped into a Mart. Barely a month old, a single stripe on his side. He and Albert had just won their first serious points: Johnny with a top thirty on the Slope, Albert with one on the Skates. Both way too young to have finished that high; cocky and looking to trumpet their score. They’d gone Mart-surfing, searching for hours to find just the right thing to make them stand out. Fittingly, they’d been in this very Mart when Johnny had abruptly pulled up, surrounded by glit, shims, and sheens.