The Skids Page 3

  “It’s all meaningless,” he’d whispered, shocked. “There isn’t a single thing here that would help you in a game.”

  He remembered catching Albert’s gaze. He remembered exactly—Snakes, it was vivid—how quick Al had got it.

  They weren’t going to buy anything. That’s how they’d stand out.

  Even though years had passed and the friendship was dust, Johnny and Albert were still the only two skids with more than one stripe who played without any fanfare, any fireworks, any glam.

  Amazing how clear that showed on the ’lights.

  A spark popped in front of Johnny’s eyes and he blinked. He shook himself, blinking again. Fond memories of Albert, he thought with a smirk. Torg’s right, I gotta cut back on the sugar. He stared through the window a moment longer, then he grunted and rolled away.

  As he rounded the corner of the Mart, he saw a smudge of black near the bottom of the wall and shuddered.

  Skids called it ‘black moss.’ It came and went, mostly near the Spike. Sometimes in a race there’d be a spot on the course. Johnny hated the stuff. He didn’t know why, he just knew it made him nervous. The one time he’d seen it on the Rainbow Road he’d been so rattled he almost sailed off the edge.

  Never seen it on a Mart, he thought, glaring at the black blotch. His stripes twitched. Sometimes GameCorps had a gear jammed up their stripes.

  Leaving the Mart behind, he headed for the Spike.

  The Spike sat near the edge of the Skidsphere, beyond the other games. If a skid tread out past Tag Box and the Slope, past the Combine where the panzers and squids tried to figure it out, down a long tree-lined path, eventually they’d come to a clearing. And in the centre of that clearing . . . sat the Spike. Twenty-one metres tall, a metre wide at the base. Tapering ever-so-slightly as it rose from a circular clearing fifty metres in diameter.

  It was the biggest mystery the skids had.

  Some thought it was a communications tower. Many believed that this was where the Skidsphere began—that the Spike was part of an ancient game, created by the Out There, long since abandoned. Indeed, even though it sat at the edge of the Skidsphere, most skids considered the Spike its heart.

  Of course, a lot of skids thought GameCorps created it just so skids would have a place to make-out.

  Johnny tread down the path towards the Spike, the leaves in the oak trees to either side rustling in the wind. They look better that way, he mused.

  He was in a very strange mood.

  Yesterday, he’d been given a second name. Only the second skid ever to have one. Unless there was some forgotten skid somewhere in the bowels of time.

  “See,” he muttered, grinding his teeth. “Where the hole did that thought come from?”

  He should have been filled with joy. Transcendent. He was Johnny Drop, now and for the rest of time. He would be remembered. So few skids could say that.

  He didn’t feel transcendent.

  Stopping a few metres inside the clearing, he looked up. He’d always found the Spike comforting, ever since he’d discovered it alongside Albert in their first year, not long after they’d sworn off the Mart. Almost a lifetime ago. There was something about its permanence that settled Johnny. When he looked up at it, it was like he could hear it whispering to him: It’s all right kid, some things last.

  “Not all things,” he murmured, turning away from the Spike. There were dozens of nooks and crannies tucked into the woods where skids might come to fool around. Johnny tread for one. He knew it would be empty.

  At the back of the clearing, with the glade’s entrance blocked by the Spike to lend the illusion of privacy, there was a hollow, smaller than the rest. And inside that space, there was a stone.

  New things appeared from time-to-time on the Skidsphere, the odd touch here and there to splash things up for the viewers. The black moss was only one example. So when a new stone had appeared six months ago—about one third of a skid’s size, polished on one side and rough on the other—it wasn’t that surprising.

  That it had appeared a few days after a skid had gone missing struck some as peculiar. That the stone had her name, clear and distinct, etched in its surface. . . .

  “Hey, Peg,” Johnny said, rolling up to the stone.

  Every skid knew the story. It was etched into the current skidlore like some mythic tragedy. Half a year ago, a Level Six named Peg was seen rolling into the glade near the relic called the Spike. A few minutes later, a Seven named Albert had been seen doing the same.

  Peg was never seen again.

  The incident occurred in a blindspot. Holla coverage was spotty at best near the Spike; that was why so many skids used it to get a little privacy. So no one saw what happened.

  Had Peg been a One or a Two, it might have been an easy call; at least then she could’ve somehow been vaped. But Peg had been a Six—bordering on Seven—she knew how to control her molecules.

  Still . . . getting vaped was more plausible than what Albert had claimed.

  Albert never told anyone why he was out there with Peg, who was seeing Johnny at the time. Most made the self-evident guess—skids were notorious for jumping from skid to skid. Johnny and Albert’s feud was already old news: Albert had thrown the first ‘Nine-Nine’ at Johnny’s treads a couple of months before, getting a damaged eye in return. Trying to score time with Johnny’s girl was an obvious play.

  Whatever the reason, Albert claimed they hadn’t been there long when the ground opened up and swallowed Peg whole.

  Even skids sympathetic to Albert found that a stretch. There’d been no corpsquake that day, and a couple of Fives who’d been making a little time on the other side of the Spike claimed they’d heard and seen nothing: no ripping sounds, no flashes of light. Granted, they might have been distracted.

  At a sugarbar a few days after Peg died, Johnny went a step beyond skepticism: he accused Albert of murder. Most skids had already moved on. Skids died everyday—yeah, it was weird she was a Six, but who had time, there were games to play. . . .

  Johnny had screamed the accusation across a shocked sugarbar. That no one could even begin to imagine how a single Seven could have wiped a Six off the board permanently didn’t stop Johnny.

  And when a stone with her name had appeared out of nowhere the next day, near the spot where she’d apparently disappeared, Johnny took it as a sign that the Out There was confirming his hate.

  “So . . .” Johnny said to the stone. “I got a second name. Johnny Drop.” His third eye swung around until all three pointed at the stone. Abruptly, they filled with tears, his stripes growing jagged at the edges.

  “You should’ve been there.” His voice broke. “You should’ve seen all those skids, you . . . you should’ve been there.” He and the stone remained silent for a while, then he sniffed and blinked away the tears. His stripes reformed.

  “I think this is what Torg was talking about,” he chuckled, sniffing again. “Me, talking to a rock. Pretty sure that counts as holding on. Everyone thinks I slipped a tread.” He sighed and swung an eye to the sky. “Wonder what they think?”

  He stared into the blue, then his whole body twitched. “There,” he complained to the stone. “That’s what I’m talking about. ‘Wonder what they think?’ What the hole does that mean? We both know what they think. I got a second name. Made Nine. That didn’t happen by accident. They think I’m the best.” He wasn’t boasting, there wasn’t a skid alive who’d dispute it now: Albert might hate him for it, but he wouldn’t deny the claim.

  “So why do I keep thinking stuff like that? I should be happy, I shouldn’t be . . .” He stopped, staring at the stone. “Torg said something last night. He said if I want be remembered, I might want to think about what kind of skid I want them to remember. So . . . I’ve been thinking about that . . . and I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Thinking. I guess since you died, but lately .
. .” He bit his lip. “Lately more. I—”

  Johnny. . . .

  His whole body went still. Then all three eyes swung up, focused on the woods. What the hole?

  The crunch of treads behind him. Normally, his third eye would have been looking that way; every skid over Level Three trailed an eye. But with Peg, in the privacy of the moment . . . two of his eyes swung, a deep part of his stripes expecting to see . . .

  It was Bian, the Level Seven. Her stripes muted beneath her glam, eyes hung out of respect. “Johnny, I’m . . . I’m really sorry to intrude.”

  What was she doing here? Johnny timed his moments with Peg when most skids would be at another game, during one he wasn’t scheduled to play. Today, it was the Skates.

  Bian rolled to a stop. “I could wait, if you want,” she said. Her eyes swung, taking in the area as if embarrassed.

  “No, that’s . . . that’s fine,” he said reflexively. It wasn’t, he wanted his privacy, but . . . “Did you just call my name?”

  The Seven blinked. “No,” she stammered. “Should I’ve done that? I wasn’t sure how . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He popped a hand and waved it dismissively. “What are you doing here, Bian? I would have thought you’d be at the Skates.”

  Her stripes brightened and diffused a little. “I . . . I skipped it.”

  “You skipped it? You were scheduled to play?”

  “Yeah.”

  Johnny stared at her. Most skids spent their down time attending games; they were their own live crowd, gambling like lunatics. He’d opted out from sitting in the stands, watching Albert in his best event, dealing with the hundreds of skids who would’ve wanted a piece of the newest Nine. It wasn’t unheard of for Eights and Nines to do this, he’d done it before . . . so he’d opted out of the crowd.

  Bian had opted out of a game.

  Johnny couldn’t remember the last time a skid had done that. Certainly, he never had. In addition to gaining nothing in the game they should’ve played, they were penalized points on the season. They could be suspended, which was worse than dying for a skid. Theoretically, Bian might even be demoted a level.

  “Why would you do that?” Johnny said.

  Her stripes flushed an even deeper shade of yellow. “I . . . I wanted to talk about Albert.”

  Johnny’s third eye twitched in her direction before settling back on the woods. “You want to talk about . . .” He glanced at Peg’s stone. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Bian. You can go.”

  “Johnny, wait,” she begged, treading forward. “I skipped a game to come out here.”

  “Yeah, that was silly.”

  “Johnny. . . .”

  “Don’t Johnny me!” he snarled. “This is my time. This is Peg’s time. How dare you interrupt me, here, in this place. And . . . for Albert?”

  “I had to.” Her eyes hung so low they almost dragged the ground. “You’re hurting him.”

  She kept saying stupid things. “Good! Tell me exactly what I’m doing so the jackhole can—”

  Suddenly, an image of Torg, last night, outside the pit. Saying the words he’d just repeated to Peg: You might want to think about what kind of skid you want them to remember.

  He bit his lip, hard, and glanced upwards.

  Bian sat there, treads trembling, her stripes and sparks a mess, eyes dragging. She’d skipped a game to come talk to him. In this place. He knew she knew about Peg. Every skid knew about Peg. They might think he was weird for holding on, but they knew he did. And he was Johnny—Johnny Drop now. Nobody would waltz in here without a good reason.

  Johnny sucked air. Exhaled. “All right,” he said. “You want to talk about Albert. Fine. Talk.” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice.

  An eye came up and her stripes straightened out a little. “I know you don’t like him, maybe even hate him . . .” She glanced at the stone behind him. “And I respect that. Everyone does. It’s not really any of my business, but . . .”

  But you like him, Johnny thought. He didn’t get it: Bian was known to get around. A lot, even for a skid. He sighed again. “All right, Bian. I’m sorry if I was rude earlier. I’ve been a little edgy recently.” If the other skid thought this was strange behaviour out of the most celebrated skid since Betty Crisp, she gave no sign. “Any mention of Albert doesn’t help. But you came out here, so . . . say your piece.”

  After she hesitated, he softened his stripes. “Really, Bian, it’s okay. I’m sorry if I was rude. Albert?”

  “When you attack him . . . in public like you did the other day . . . it’s tearing him up.”

  “I think Albert’s a little tougher than that.”

  Bian’s second eye came up. “You don’t have any idea how he feels about you, do you?”

  “I know he hates my guts.” He might have added—As much as I hate his—but he was trying to be nice.

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  Johnny rolled an eye. “Bian. . . .”

  “Okay, maybe he does, but he doesn’t just hate you. He also . . . I mean . . .” Her stripes shrank abruptly. “I shouldn’t be saying this—it isn’t fair to him. I should go.” She spun and started back the way she came.

  “Hey!” Johnny spun after her, then geared it and zipped in front. “Hey, you can’t just come out here like that and then take off.”

  Her treads ground to a halt. She stared at him. Then: “He thinks you’re the greatest skid that ever lived.”

  What about Betty Crisp? The thought came so fast it didn’t have time to register before he was rolling both his eyes and his treads. “That’s nuts. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really?” Her stripes flared, as now she zipped in front of him. “Because you spent more time with him this year than me, Johnny?”

  “I think I know . . .”

  He stopped.

  She had a point.

  For the first three years of their lives, no one knew Albert better than Johnny. But in the last year? Johnny’s stripes twitched. Last night’s fight might have been the longest conversation they’d had outside a game in months.

  Bian slid forward. “He’s jealous of you. Fine, who isn’t? But he’s stupid about it and I’ve told him that. And the main reason it’s stupid is because he still loves you. I’ve never seen a skid care that much in any way about another skid. Every time you attack him it’s like you’re vaping his soul.”

  From behind the Spike, a couple of skids rolled into view, looking to get a snug on before the next game. They took one look at Bian and Johnny and rolled to the far side.

  “What do you want me to do?” Johnny said, sighing.

  “Ease off a little. I know you’re going to talk during a game, whatever, just, in the bar, after the game . . . maybe go a little easier on him.”

  Behind them, Peg’s stone sat in the shade at the edge of the woods. Looking into the trees, he wondered how far back they really went. His stripes twitched. Crisp Betty, he was having weird thoughts.

  “Just what do you think he did to her, anyway?”

  His gaze snapped back to hers. Almost the same question Torg had asked the night before, word-for-word.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said abruptly. “No promises, but I’ll try to . . . play a little nicer. Just remember this isn’t a one-way lane. Albert’s as bad as I am.” Worse, but he kept the thought to himself.

  “I know. Thank you.” She started to leave.

  “You really like him, don’t you?”

  Her treads paused. “I like a lot of people.” Then her trailing eye dipped and she rolled away.

  Now, what the hole does that mean?

  Checking his clock, he sighed. The Skates would be ending soon. In a few hours, he’d have to begin gearing up for Tilt. In two days, he’d race the next Slope. Which, if he won,
would break Betty Crisp’s record. Weird how that seemed like an afterthought. It was all he’d focused on for more than a year, nearly one-quarter of his life. He had his second name. Over a year to get to Level Ten. What else was there for him to accomplish?

  “Be nice to Albert,” he murmured, chuckling. “That’s a nice challenge.”

  He rolled towards the Spike. The other two skids had disappeared into an alcove somewhere, burning time. Another pair was coming up the path. Living fast. . . .

  Behind him, a stone sat sheltered in the shade. It wasn’t until Johnny disappeared up the path that black moss appeared on the stone’s surface and began to grow.

  Chapter Four

  Johnny wandered aimlessly for a while, lost in thought. Eventually, he ended up in front of the Combine, staring at the ramp that led inside.

  Though squids and panzers spent a lot of time at the Marts gawking at merch they couldn’t afford, they passed most of their waking hours at the Combine. Here, Ones and Twos honed their skills in a non-lethal environment without fear of getting vaped. The huge training facility extended towards the sky and deep into the earth; dozens of levels with hundreds of stations working every skill a skid might need. Including the most vital skill of all.

  How to stay alive.

  Johnny watched a squid zip by without giving him a second glance. Every skid pouring in and out of the Combine was like that, lost in their own little world. Squinting down the ramp, Johnny frowned.

  Now what was he doing here?

  There was no official rule that skids over Two couldn’t enter the Combine. But why would they? Skids played enough games to get better by playing, especially once they didn’t have the fear of death hanging over them. And no skid was going to help another skid get better, especially a panzer. Until the Ones and Twos got their molecules together, no one cared.