Thread War Read online

  Johnny focused on the open end, straining to see a splash of skid colour somewhere in its enclosure. But even if he’d had his eyes to scope, there was no way.

  Shabaz was gone.

  As the sheer overwhelming panic receded, Johnny became aware that the ghostyard wasn’t the only thing in the pin-pricked expanse.

  Behind the ’yard, a surface, also receding. It took Johnny a minute to realize he was looking at a globe like the Skidsphere, except on an astounding scale. The ghostyard was a speck against it.

  And unlike the Skidsphere, it didn’t glow with a million hollas shouting life into the space around it. This sphere was almost completely dark, though here and there a light could be seen, some steady, some blinking in and out with a regular pulse, some with a broken flicker that reminded Johnny of the fractured lines of the Thread.

  The face of the planet appeared entirely mechanical in nature—Johnny didn’t see anything that wasn’t machined. It was clearly damaged, although what was broken and what might be part of the intended contours was hard to tell.

  Is that the Thread? Onna whispered.

  I don’t know, Johnny thought to himself. But he pictured the Skidsphere, his whole world, hanging in space, flickering with thousands of lives, and all of it just one small part of a far grander pattern. What if this sphere was the same? How were they going to fix something so massive?

  How could anyone abandon something like this?

  As they gained distance, the ghostyard grew smaller and smaller, until it became indiscernible from the mass behind it. Johnny caught sight of other structures above the sphere’s surface, some the same shape as the yard, others different, all in orbit around the globe the same way shapes had orbited the yard.

  But that can’t be a star, Torres said suddenly. It would have to be glowing, right?

  Johnny had no idea, he was just trying to get a grip on his senses.

  Out of nowhere a range popped up in his vision like an eyes-up display, along with a speedometer. Whoa, he thought, I got a range. Snakes, they were going fast.

  How—oh, there we go, Onna said.

  If we can get an altimeter, Torres said, shouldn’t we be able to access all our scans? This thing has got to have them, too.

  No sooner had she said the words than Johnny felt his senses expand, as a full set of sensors kicked into gear. They were still accelerating, even faster than Johnny had estimated. The ghostyard was already hundreds of kilometres away, with the surface behind it two hundred kilometres more.

  Which meant they’d just done the equivalent of the Rainbow Road in less than five minutes.

  I think I found the sun, Onna thought. That’s what Krugar said, right? That all these stars are suns? Using the ’yard as your fix, go right forty degrees and up fifteen. That sucker’s a lot brighter than anything else.

  It was easy to spot once you knew where to look. This sun was much dimmer and smaller than the sun that hung above the Skidsphere—even if it was obvious now that the Skidsphere’s sun was just a construct of the sim—but it was bright with enough of a vague warmth to allow them to make the connection between sun and stars.

  The distance stunned Johnny. Because while all the other stars felt instinctively far, with this one he got a reading. The Rainbow Road was the longest game the skids played, two and a half times the length of the Slope, five hundred kilometres long. The star he was looking at was over twenty billion kilometres away.

  Snakes, this place is big, Torres muttered.

  Hey, Onna thought, check this out. Uhh . . . try looking inside.

  Inside what?

  The ship. Don’t focus out, focus in. This is sweet.

  It took Johnny a second. He was used to changing or even splitting his focus, but he didn’t tend to look inside his own body much. Then he thought of all the times he’d expunged Vies from his body, pushing from the inside out, and his focus shifted again—another impression of nausea, not nearly so fierce this time—and the infinity of stars was replaced by a jumble of rooms.

  It’s a little like having a hundred eyes, so pick three or less, Onna said, although he instinctively grasped the concept before she finished speaking. Now that the views were finite—he counted seventy-eight—it wasn’t that different from balancing multiple eyes.

  The interior of the ship resembled the sim where they’d tried to rescue Albert, although it was much smaller. Two levels, one central corridor in each. The back third of the ship was occupied by what Johnny assumed was the mechanism to move it. Two rooms on each side of the corridors, then one large room towards the front. He cycled through multiple views and angles of each place, settling on the main front room. It had two stations near a front wall that held a giant holla of space—presumably in the direction they faced—then one station in the centre of the room, along with one on each side.

  The ship was empty.

  Well, this isn’t creepy at all, Torres said dryly. No one flying, no one home. Who’s moving this thing?

  Maybe we are, Onna murmured.

  No, Johnny said. That didn’t feel right. It must be automated. The ship had been designed for someone, but it certainly wasn’t skids. He could imagine Krugar sitting in one of those banks.

  Wonder where we’re going? Onna said.

  Hold that thought, Johnny replied and swung part of his awareness out. Now that he wasn’t dealing with the infinite, he could handle splitting his focus. In his mind, the forward view appeared. He took a second to let the juxtaposition between that and the internal view of the bridge he still saw settle down—he might not actually have three eyes right now, but his brain could still compartmentalize visual information. The front view was the easiest view. Out front there was nothing but stars which didn’t seem to move or grow bigger, despite their continued acceleration.

  No sign of where they were headed. He checked the rear—it was getting easier—and saw they were traveling away from the planet at a greater rate than they were moving away from the nearby star, moving at an angle adjacent to the star, although at those distances it was tough to judge for certain.

  Not a lot else to go on.

  We need to see better, he thought at the others. We obviously can access some cameras. Let’s see what else we can find.

  It took some time, but step-by-step they discovered a profound volume of information. The ship was able to read itself and its surroundings in far greater detail than they’d ever been able to read themselves, its scanning methods both greater in number and deeper in depth.

  The sphere behind them appeared almost dead. There were odd spots of energy—they were able to locate the ghostyard they’d left, but only with a very focused scan. On the other tread, some of the readings seemed to indicate activity, protected from deeper scans by layers of protection. From a certain perspective, the sphere felt like a fortress.

  A shattered fortress. With each new scan they discovered, it became apparent that whether the globe housed the whole Thread or not, this part of it was as physically damaged as its virtual aspect.

  I got something, Torres said, and, as Johnny felt her mind touch his in guidance, the scans gained long range definition. The entire system appeared: the star, two billion kilometres distant; a single massive planet much further in, hundreds of times larger than the nearby sphere; then nothing for one and a half billion kilometres. Then the sphere with the ghostyard. Then . . .

  What are these, now? Onna said.

  Opposite from the direction they were moving—a few million kilometres on the other side of the nearby globe—multiple small signals moved on their scans, over a hundred, heading towards the globe.

  Johnny knew an attack posture when he saw it. The games might pretend to be games, but they were all, with the exception of a few like the Pipe, vessels for violence. Certain patterns carried bigger threats than others, and this one carried plenty.

  They’re coming. . . .

  The phrase had been said, to him and others, multiple times. Wobble had said it, P
eg had said it, even Bian back in that first horrible experience with the grey. They’d always thought those words referred to something inside the Thread.

  Apparently, they’d been wrong.

  We need to turn this thing around, Johnny said. He experienced a ghost-feeling of turning, an action he’d done a thousand times or more, reacting to danger, to himself, to anyone he cared for, reacting without thought because that’s how he rolled. But it was only the ghost of a feeling . . . the ship didn’t turn.

  I don’t think we can, Torres said. There’s a lock on the controls.

  I don’t care, Johnny said, throwing his consciousness at the place where he felt the controls were. It was like throwing himself at a wall in the Combine. He didn’t care. Shabaz was back there. He threw himself at the wall again.

  Johnny . . .

  Again.

  Johnny.

  Again.

  Johnny! Onna yelled at him in his mind, and he actually felt her bump him away. You’re not getting anywhere and even if you do, we don’t know what to do. We don’t know those things are threatening.

  They look threatening, Torres muttered.

  Whatever, we’re still not in control. Onna said.

  Don’t care, Johnny snarled. We have to let them know that something’s on the way.

  Then signal them, Onna said.

  There’s a lot of defensive-screens, Torres countered. I don’t think that’s going to be any more successful than turning.

  We have to try, Johnny snapped. Shabaz. He found the communications array, they seemed to work in multiple ways. He tried everything.

  ATTENTION THREAD, ATTENTION THREAD . . .

  Even as he said it, it sounded stupid in his head. But he didn’t know what to say, he just had to warn them, to do something. YOU HAVE ONE HUNDRED INCOMING SIGNALS, POSSIBLY HOSTILE. REPEAT, ONE HUNDRED INCOMING SIGNALS, POSSIBLY HOSTILE. He narrowed the beam as tight as possible, trying to keep it from leaking beyond the sphere to whatever lay beyond, then set it to repeat.

  We should still look for some way to get back, he said. If we don’t even know where we’re going—

  I think we’re going here, Torres said.

  A single blip on the long range scans, directly in their path, millions of kilometres distant. Johnny had missed it, distracted by the mass of signals in the opposite direction.

  We should still try to get back, we can check that out later. Besides, even at the rate we’re accelerating, we’re still not getting there for over a daaaaayyyyyyyyy . . .

  The word/thought stretched out as, suddenly, the universe folded in on itself. In Johnny’s vision, the stars seemed to narrow and then fall through space.

  Far behind the now empty void where there had once been a ship, one hundred shapes continued towards a sphere billions of kilometres from the nearest sun.

  Not long after, one hundred shapes became many, many more.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A great deal of what I said in the acknowledgements section of The Skids still holds true, so I’ll summarize and then mention some new folks who’ve supported me throughout this past year.

  A huge Woot! to the Sunburst Awards and their support for The Skids, which was shortlisted for the Sunburst Award for Excellence in Canadian Literature of the Fantastic and won the Copper Cylinder Award from their membership. The Sunburst jury compared The Skids to The Princess Bride, which might just be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me about anything.

  So many organizations that have supported me over the years. The Second City in Toronto, Mysteriously Yours, Theatresports Toronto, and The Bad Dog Theatre, my thanks. To my friends Simon Donner, David and Reagan White, Al and Laura Smith (and Samara-Tiger!); Cary West and Mimi Whalen; Mary Haynes and all her family, my thanks and great love. I’m not here without you.

  To TorKidLit in Toronto and the many people who have supported me there. To Adrienne Kress, Lesley Livingston, Megan Crewe, Derek Molata and all the YA crew in Toronto, you’re amazing. Special props to Leah Bobet, who beta-reads for me and gives unwavering support. The Stop Watch Gang: Suzanne Church, Richard Baldwin, Brad Carson, Karen Danylak, Costi Gurgu, Stephen Kotowych, Tony Pi, Mike Rimar, Pippa Wysong. When I need a kick in the pants, they do it; when I need a hug, they say, “Dude, you should shower first.” Suzanne and Costi both put out books this year, you should check them out.

  Special shout-out to Julie Czerneda who has been supportive of The Skids since its existence as a short story and wrote an absolutely lovely blurb for this book. She is such a positive force in the Canadian speculative fiction community. If you’re Canadian and write genre, Julie has probably said a kind word to you and I don’t think there are enough kind words to say about her.

  An ongoing shout-out to the most awesome Chris Szego, manager of Bakka Phoenix Books and patient saviour of loud men who complain about their first drafts. Thanks to all the staff at Bakka for their support and patience.

  All the folks at ChiZine: what a great company with whom to work. Sandra and Brett who create these little gems and tirelessly support the Canadian community. Sam who helped to keep Torg from drawling too much. Jared, for his beautiful layout. Erik, whose covers just make us all happy. To the whole ChiZine family, my thanks and love.

  To my family: My mother, who, as I said in the dedication, has been my biggest supporter in more ways than I could possibly lay out in a section such as this. I’d need a book. My father, my brother David, my sister-in-law Kat, and my nephew Bruce, who fills us all with delight and will one day rule the world.

  Then there’s you fine folks . . . my readers. I don’t know where to start. So many people have said so many kind things about The Skids since it came out last October, it’s overwhelming at times. Thank you so much. As always, I hope you liked this book and I hope I write you a better one in the future.

  And finally, to Jess, who almost made it into the last book and should have. Somehow, you made my first novel coming out—a struggle that took over thirty years—the second best thing that happened to me last year. You are my trillion suns. Kiss in a book.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ian Donald Keeling is an odd, loud little man who acts a little, writes a little, and occasionally grows a beard. His short fiction and poetry have previously appeared in Realms of Fantasy, On Spec, and Grain. He’s on the faculty for sketch and improv at The Second City in Toronto. His first novel, The Skids, was released in October 2016 by ChiTeen and won the Copper Cylinder Award. He likes all forms of tag and cheese.

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