The Skids Page 9

  “Good luck with that,” Shabaz muttered.

  Johnny chuckled. He actually thought the creature was succeeding, but he empathized with the Six.

  “Query,” said the creature. “May We-I enter? Holes in the system. Answers-answers are incomplete but with merit.”

  “What the hole does that mean?” Shabaz protested. “We’re not going to let that thing in here.”

  Johnny twisted a bemused eye at her. “And what makes you think we could stop it?”

  “At least it has manners,” Torg said. When Shabaz gaped at him, he added: “It did ask.”

  “Debate is understood but time-time is essence. Ticks in the tocks. Query: May We-I enter? Wobble.”

  “Everything but please,” Johnny said. His stripes tilted. “What the hole, live fast . . .” Raising his voice, he said, “Come in out of the rain.”

  “Kindness. Warm and fuzzy. Sometimes there are Teddy Bears. We-I will now come-come inside. Fear not. I-We have no harm intention.” It spread its working arms as if to show a lack of threat. Slowly, with the same hitch in its treads as when it floated, the creature approached the house.

  “Let’s meet the neighbours,” Torg said.

  The creature had to spread its treads and crouch to get under the doorframe, before straightening out with a mechanical whir. Water dripped from its frame as it stopped just inside the room.

  A long silence, as the creature and eight stunned skids stared at each other.

  It occurred to Johnny that, in the last week, he’d done the most famous Drop in skid history, been given a second name, heard whispers that sounded a hole of a lot like his dead girlfriend and come awfully close to giving Albert a compliment.

  Despite all that, Johnny was pretty sure that this was the weirdest moment of his life.

  Gears whirred and the creature said, “Business cards and claw-clacking. I-We am Wobble. Wobble.”

  Johnny couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. Wobble? No matter how battered it looked, the thing felt like it had power to burn the world. And it was called Wobble?

  “That, my friend, is an awesome name. Uh, claw-clack back at you.” He swept an arm across the room. “We’re the skids. I’m Johnny Drop.” He heard Albert make a derisive sound. Vape you too, gearbox.

  Mirroring Johnny, Wobble swept an undamaged arm across the skids. “Lights appearing in winter. Your world is going to die.”

  Johnny stopped grinning. “What did you say?”

  Gears whirred and the lids over Wobble’s lenses snapped open and shut. “Inappropriate,” the machine protested, but it seemed to berate itself. “Too soon, no port-of-call. There are-are no smoking pipes.” It paused. “Please accept apologies. There are loops in time. This conversation has happened-happened but not yet. You need not fear I-Me. We are the good guys. I am Wobble.”

  “You’re insane,” Shabaz whispered under her breath.

  Johnny thought she had a point. Though it did say please. Aloud, he said, “What do you mean: ‘Our world is going to die?’”

  “Spoken too soon. She got scared and never-never called again.” Somehow, the machine managed to look dejected. “There are scars-scars. Breaks in the system. Virus runs-runs-runs everywhere. You have seen them. Black scars. The system is breaking.” Without warning, Wobble focused its lenses on Johnny and moved forward a tread. “Not without hope. Clutch the flotsam. She yet lives.”

  Johnny’s heart dropped. Peg?

  Wobble’s head swiveled. Backing up, it said, “Anti are coming. We must leave. Wobble.”

  “Woah,” Johnny said, “wait a minute. Who lives? Who is ‘she?’”

  Wobble’s head continued to rotate as if he were searching. “We-You must leave. Anti are coming.”

  “Tell me who you meant by—”

  “Hold on, Johnny,” Torg said, sliding forward. “Wobble, who are the Anti? Those black shapes?”

  “Not virus-virus. Anti-virus. White. Clean. Perfect. Except for the damage.” Wobble’s head froze. “They are not Teddy Bears.”

  “Stop talking about Teddy Bears,” Johnny snapped. “Tell me who she is.”

  “Answers have been answered soon. Leave—”

  “No, answers will be answered now.”

  “Johnny,” Torg said in that calm, firm voice that could stop a bar-fight in the pits after a game. “If those white things are coming back, then Wobble’s right. We need to get some place safer. Answers can wait.”

  Johnny glared at Torg, but his trail eye saw a room of frightened skids. Bian, striving to sooth the wounded Brolin; Shabaz, by the window, trying to fake cocky and looking like a panzer on her first Slope instead; Aaliyah, not far from Shabaz and even more scared; Albert and Torres, the only ones who didn’t reek of fear. Squid might live up to her name after all, Johnny thought, lingering on Torres for a heartbeat before his gaze came back to Bian.

  She gazed back, glanced at Torg, then bobbed an eye.

  “Fine,” Johnny growled, “let’s go. But we’re not done with this conversation, Wobble.”

  “Stored and filed,” the machine said. “Conference in the corner, hands on chin. Now we leave.” He began to roll, one tread creaking with the sound of metal on metal.

  “There’s no back door,” Bian called. “I checked.”

  “Always back doors. Side doors too. Sometimes ceiling will open.” Wobble’s head spun and its face twisted into a metallic smile. “I write the wardrobe. Wobble.”

  Bian blinked as he rolled into the back room. Abruptly, she laughed. “I think I like him. He’s not going to find a door,” she added to Johnny, “but he’s cute.”

  “If he keeps us alive I’ll take him into the woods,” Shabaz muttered.

  The back room had almost no furnishings at all, just a sliver of a cupboard and some kind of metallic device that Johnny suspected was visible through the drapes in the front room.

  Facing a blank wall, Wobble went still. “See?” Bian said, “No . . .” Her eyes widened. “Crisp Betty.”

  You can say that again.

  One second, a blank wall; the next, a door. Wobble’s head spun, still grinning. “See? Pulling sand from the black-black hole. Thunderous applause. Spin the conductor.”

  “Where’s it go?” Johnny demanded, grimacing. He was starting to sound like Shabaz.

  “Safety? No.” The self-berating tone came back. “Nowhere is safe.” Wobble’s lenses focused on Johnny and the shutters tilted to one side. “Sometimes it hurts. Hurts.” The damaged left arm jerked once. The machine suddenly looked so full of sorrow that Johnny wanted to comfort it.

  Instead, it was Bian who spoke. “Wobble, if it’s not safe through that door, is it safer? For now?”

  Instantly, the smile whirred back into place. “Context! One clock runs faster if we stand on the train.” The lenses zoomed in on Bian. “Safer. You have given I-We context. Warm and fuzzy.”

  “Glad I could help,” Bian murmured, looking pleased.

  Wobble’s lenses adjusted to take in all the skids. “I-We go first. Trust the light. All is warm-warm and fuzzy. Wobble.” He opened the door.

  Behind it, a black void.

  “Oh, vape me,” Brolin groaned.

  Johnny was about to agree . . . when he saw that the darkness was different from the one on the Pipe. In that darkness, there’d been broken strings of light, parallel threads twisted and abruptly shorn, sparking like uncapped electrical wires. Inside Wobble’s door, the lines weren’t cut. And there were more lines. A lot more. As Johnny’s eyes adjusted, the dark seemed alive with bands of warm golden light, each perfectly straight, cornering at precisely ninety or forty-five degrees.

  “It’s beautiful,” Bian whispered.

  “Some parts hold,” Wobble agreed. “Clutching the flotsam.” The grin was back. “Drop the fuel cells and set-set them on fire. I-We-We-We’re goi
ng for a ride.” Then he rolled through the doorway and vanished into a flicker of golden light.

  Johnny glanced at Torg. “Take the rear. I’ll go next.”

  “If you see any flotsam you might want to grab it,” the Nine drawled.

  “Right.”

  Johnny rolled forward. For some reason, right before he crossed the threshold, he glanced at Bian, only to find her looking back. Then he crossed a line and the world streaked into darkness and light.

  Chapter Eleven

  Okay, that sucked less.

  The trip through the door was near instantaneous. One second, Johnny rolled across the threshold; his vision filling with light and a slight plucking at his skin, as if his front was being pulled forward faster than his back. Then his back caught up—like rebounding off something in reverse—and his treads found solid ground.

  The strange storm-battered town was gone. In its place, something like the Skidsphere, except saturated in black and gold. In front of them, a black building rose into a black-gold sky. A narrow corridor stretched out in the distance—building after building, each outlined with the same threads that filled the doorway, some thick enough to wash the world with a golden glow.

  “Ain’t that something to see?” Torg said, rolling up.

  Johnny frowned. “I thought you were bringing up the rear.”

  “Albert told me to go ahead.”

  Johnny decided to let it slide. “Wonder where we are?”

  “Question of the day. Although when everything was white we were getting our gears kicked. So maybe this will work out.”

  “It was pretty black after the Pipe,” Johnny pointed out.

  Torg rolled his eyes. “That’s what I like about you, Johnny. You help.”

  Torres came through the door like she was waiting for it to fight back, followed by Albert. “That’s everyone,” he said, treading over to Bian. She sniffed and rolled away.

  Johnny stifled a grin as Shabaz rolled up, her aquamarine stripes appearing brighter than normal. “Now what?” she demanded. “Are we safe now?”

  Wobble’s gears whirred, the machine’s white surface shining dimly beneath his scars. They all glowed a little, Johnny realized. Not just from the golden lines: every skid’s stripes glowed like the light that diffused the air. Torg was right: it was something to see.

  “Safer,” Wobble said to Shabaz. “Nowhere is safe. Now You-We go find answers-answers. Follow.”

  “Hold on, Wobble,” Johnny said. “We get it, we’re still in danger. If we know something about the danger, maybe we can help. We’re treading blind here.”

  “Logic,” Wobble said. “Answer questions as we go. We are taking the long way home. Wobble.”

  “All right, but first tell us about the white and black things. You made it sound like they’re not the same.”

  “Black holes and toasters,” Wobble agreed. “Black are Vies. White are Anti. Hunters. Good guys wear white.”

  “What’s a vie?” Johnny asked.

  “Vie. Virus. Don’t touch the monkey.”

  “Virus?” Shabaz said. “What’s sick?”

  The shutters on all four of Wobble’s working eyes swung wide. “Everything,” he whirred, his head spinning. “Entropy calls. No one is watching.” His lenses focused on Albert, then Johnny. “It hurts,” Wobble whirred softly, his shutters twisting. “Can you-you make it stop? She said you could make it stop. Wobble.”

  “There!” Johnny said, shifting forward a tread. “You keep saying: she. Who is she?” His heart was pounding.

  Wobble’s head spun three hundred and sixty degrees. “Answer in the future. She said not to tell.” Then the machine actually winked at him.

  “Look—”

  “Johnny,” Torg said, “eyes on the line. Solve the threat first.” To Wobble, he added, “Albert said the whites—the Antis—hunt the Vies first, that they prioritize. Is that right?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Johnny very deliberately did not look around to see the smug expression on Albert’s face.

  “But we were getting attacked by the Vies,” Torg continued. “So why did the Antis hunt us? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “We are all Vies.”

  Torg frowned. “We’re all viruses? Is that what you mean?”

  “Systems fail. All are Vies. The cops are corrupt-corrupt. Nowhere is safe.” Wobble’s head spun and then rotated like a gyroscope. That’s new, Johnny thought as Wobble continued: “They appear anywhere. The Crocs dropped from the Fourth Wave.” The machine rolled down the street. “We-You travel now. Answer questions as we roll. Wobble.”

  “Just a sec.” Johnny said. To the group, he announced, “It looks like we can trust Wobble. But if we get attacked again, stay tight. No solo heroes. Let’s go.” He saw Albert drop to the back. Good. Johnny didn’t want to deal with him, but the silver skid could probably keep everyone together.

  The buildings all had long windows, glowing faintly from within. Inside, Johnny could make out vague outlines and shapes. They looked familiar.

  “What do you think those are?” Johnny asked Torg.

  “Music,” Wobble chirped. “Listen-listen to Marley wail. The Dregs sold out. Wobble.”

  “What?”

  “I think he’s right,” Torg murmured. “That one we just passed. Pretty sure I saw a drum set. They’re bands.”

  “But they’re not moving.”

  “Neither was that storm we hit. If you think about it, it was kind of like a holla on pause.”

  “Huh.” Peering through the windows, he had to agree with Torg. They did look like bands. He glanced at Wobble. “Think we could get him to explain what they’re doing here? In a way we understand?”

  Torg laughed. “I think we find out where we’re going, then try again.”

  “Right,” Johnny grunted, as Bian rolled up. “How’s Brolin?”

  “I think he’s stable. Terrified, but stable. If he’s getting worse, it’s a lot slower than what hit Daytona.” She studied him. “What about you? Shabaz said you ate one of those . . . Vies. Is that what happened to your eye?”

  “I’m fine,” Johnny said, although he noticed his focus had slipped again. Trying to ignore the nervous flutter in his guts, he fixed the eye. “Thanks for asking.”

  Her stripes flushed a little. “Speaking of Brolin, we might have something else to worry about. Are you getting hungry?”

  “Uhh . . . not really?”

  “You?” she asked Torg.

  Torg’s stripes tilted. “I could eat. Why?”

  “Because I’m starting to feel it. Most of the others are feeling the same. It’s more pronounced in the Sixes and under.”

  “Okay . . .” Johnny said slowly, not understanding.

  “Oh, snakes,” Torg said. “No sugar.”

  “That’s right.” Running a hand along the building beside her, Bian tapped a glowing gold line. “I don’t know where we are, but it isn’t the Skidsphere. Which means we’re nowhere near a sugarbar.”

  Johnny frowned. “So we all get a little hungry. So what?”

  “Johnny, we’ve been out here for what, half a day? What if we don’t get back home for a week? Or longer? Everybody here ran the equivalent of a Rainbow Road getting away from those black things. Plus half a Pipe before that. And that’s not counting the emotional strain. We’re not used to this. Everyone’s burning energy.”

  “That fast?”

  Bian glanced skeptically at Torg, who smirked. “How would he know? He’s Johnny Drop, remember? Squid’s practically a superhero.”

  “Hey!” Johnny protested, halfway between offended and pleased. “What the hole does that mean?”

  “It means no skid here works as efficiently as you,” Torg explained. “The higher the level, the more efficient a skid gets, right? So you and I might
run faster, longer, and harder than a Six, but we’ll burn far longer too. Don’t you remember how hungry you’d get after a game when you were a Three or Four? Crisp, I used to sprint for the swizz.”

  Johnny frowned. “Yeah, I guess I used to suck a lot of sugar. But I don’t remember starving.”

  “There’re other factors. Johnny, you’re different—we all know it. Hole, GameCorps knew it. You probably ran cleaner than I do now by the time you were a Six.” He hesitated, then swung an eye towards the back of the group. “Come to think of it, you’re not the only one. I wonder if Albert’s feeling anything.”

  “Why don’t you go ask your boyfriend if he’s feeling empty?” Johnny said.

  Bian’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Johnny and Torg stared at her.

  Her stripes flushed, then she clamped it down. “Anyway, I just wanted you guys to know what’s going on. I don’t know how Brolin might be affected, but we’re going to need sugar sometime soon, especially if we keep having to push it. See you, Torg. Johnny.”

  They watched her drop into the pack. “She dumped Albert?” Johnny chuckled. “When the hole did that happen?”

  “I’m not sure she’s told him yet,” Torg murmured, looking towards the back.

  “Really? Do you think I can tell him?”

  “You’re a jackhole,” Torg laughed. He looked from Bian . . . to Johnny . . . and back to Bian. “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Torg sighed. “And I thought getting killed was going to be our biggest problem. Hey, look at that.”

  Halfway up a building, one of the profile lines ended abruptly, glowing like a sparkler against the black surface.

  “Uh-oh,” Johnny said as Wobble slowed enough for them to catch up.

  “Yellow alert-alert,” Wobble whirred, his head spinning. “Prime the tubes. Rough sector of town.”

  “Then why’d we come this way?” Shabaz asked nervously.

  “Safest route. In through the outdoor. No Antis. Too few-few Vies. They thought this worm was dead.”