Titans (10 page)

Barney holds a black pair of breeches, black riding boots, and a bold yellow silk. He turns the silk around and I nearly lose control of myself when I see my last name,
SULLIVAN
, across the top.

“From all of us,” Barney explains. “They’re used, and Magnolia had to iron on the lettering, but it’ll work for today.”

“There’s this too.” Magnolia reaches into her right pocket again. This time she produces a black-and-yellow headpiece I can’t quite figure out. She walks around behind me and pulls my dark hair into a ponytail. “The bumblebee covers your hair band, with its wings at the top, and then this gold tail wraps around your actual pony, down to the very tip.” I feel her secure the bumblebee around the base, and then use the flexible gold wire to wrap my pony. “It’s like my pin, only a hundred times better.”

I touch a hand to my hair, amazed by friend’s talent. “I can’t believe you made this for me.”

“Uh, you’re a jockey in the sponsor race. This is publicity for my work at its finest.” She bites her lip. “Besides, my best friend training to race has been the most exciting thing to happen to me. Not to mention the best distraction, ever.”

I want to ask Magnolia what she needs distracting from, but Barney is motioning me to get dressed, and shoving a heavily scuffed helmet into my hands. The two of them start to leave, but Magnolia stops before rushing off. “You could have won this race when you were thirteen years old,” she says evenly. “Those other jokers don’t know what it means to hunger.”

Her words ring through the stall, snaking around my rib cage in a firm embrace. Then it’s only Padlock, who’s been saddled, and me, whose knees are shaking. All around is the sound of unfamiliar voices. Some call for equipment, others whisper strategies with their managers. The smells of fuel and wax and sweat mingle in the air, and though it’s not a pleasant scent, I breathe it in, exhilarated to be inside this stable for the first time.

When I notice that Padlock is hovering near the back of the stall, I’m struck by guilt. All this time I’ve thought of only my fears, my doubts. But Padlock was programmed to have these emotions through his EvoBox, wasn’t he? And whether they’re real or not, they must feel real enough to him. Ensuring no one is watching, I slip on my riding gear and approach Padlock. I hold my hand out, and he sniffs the pink of my palm.

Stepping closer, I bring my lips to his steel ear. “Did you hear what Magnolia said? We should just have fun.”

Padlock snorts, and I smile.

“I know what you mean,” I say. “I want to win too. It’s our only chance of continuing. No one will want to sponsor a poor girl from Warren County and a late edition Titan. Even though … even though I think you look pretty legit.”

Padlock pushes his muzzle into my hair tentatively, like he’s afraid of how I may react. Taken aback, I suck in air from between my teeth, and then slide my hand through his steel-threaded hair. The horse releases a funny neigh as I give him a good scratch.

My Titan is really getting into my affection when Rags jogs up to the stall, red-faced and out of breath. “Hey, listen.” He glances over his shoulder as if someone might be watching. “They’re going to have the horses line up soon for parts check. If they try and stop you from proceeding, steer Padlock by them, okay? Don’t stop. Just get to the starting gate.”

“What are you talking about? Why would they stop me?” Understanding dawns on me. “They don’t want a Titan 1.0 running. Did the registration papers not get approved? They listed my name last night.”

Rags clutches a roll of papers in his hand. He smiles and slaps them against the side of the stall door. “Just get to that starting gate.” He turns to leave, but then glances back, admiring the used silks he, Barney, and Magnolia surprised me with. “You look good, kid. Like a real Titan rider.”

Then he’s gone.

Just as he predicted, a few moments later I hear the booming voice of a woman with authority. When I peek my head out, I notice she has a clipboard in her right hand and a walkie-talkie buzzing on her belt. My blood pounds in my ears as I turn and pull myself into Padlock’s saddle.

Bending toward his ear, I say, “Listen, horse, we might have to run earlier than the rest of the Titans, but don’t panic.”

Padlock stomps his foot.

After kicking the stall door open, I return my boot to the stirrup and watch as the other jockeys lead their Titans into a neat line. The woman at the front, who has purple-framed glasses balanced on the tip of her nose, searches intently inside a Titan’s engine flap, then checks something off before the horse is allowed to leave the stable.

I ensure Padlock and I are in the very back, and by the time our turn comes, I have a dozen half-fleshed-out excuses for whatever argument she may provide. Or maybe I’ll go with Rags’s plan. Just bypass her and act like I can’t hear what she’s saying.

When we’re two steps away, I can hardly pull in a breath. The woman looks up like my being there is a surprise. When her eyes fall on Padlock, I know my earlier suspicion was accurate.

Rags never got full approval for me to race a Titan 1.0 model.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but Padlock beats me to the punch. Kicking out with his back legs, he neighs and whines. The woman spreads herself against the wall, and as Padlock throws his head, I yell, “Sorry, I think there’s something wrong with him.”

She points her clipboard at us. “That’s not a 3.0!”

I don’t respond. Instead, I hang on as my demon horse races away and heads toward the starting gate, like he already knows where it is. The woman shouts from behind us, but her complaints are soon drowned out by the crowd. The crowd that knows this is it. We are all here. Not all of us will secure a sponsor and race in the circuit, but that doesn’t matter just now. What matters is these are the contenders.

Among this group of forty-two Titans is this year’s champion. And everyone is waiting to see if they can pinpoint that champion after the first run.

The stalls are open from the back, but within seconds someone is sliding the gate closed, locking us in. I glance around, attempting to see through the bars to the other jockeys. But I can’t make them out in detail. Only that they are staring forward, studying the track, as I am studying them.

The Titans stamp the dry dirt, and already my mouth and tongue feel gritty. With trembling fingers, I reach down and push the smaller of the two black buttons. A small click, and then Padlock’s eyes blaze red across the front of our stall. His sides grow warm beneath my legs as his engine prepares to race.

Nerves fire through my body, making every sense sharp as a blade. Sharp enough to cut through the night sky and cause the stars to rain down. The crowd roars, feverish, as the digital scoreboard flickers to life. Our last names ping across the top, and I see my own name appear.

SULLIVAN.

My heart thunders at the sight, and I wonder if Magnolia feels the same way I do in this moment. Terrified. Exhilarated. Hopeful, though it’s ludicrous.

I lean forward, keeping one hand firm against Padlock’s side, and watch the
RACE LENGTH
output. It flickers on and off, on and off. And then a zero. And then, finally, the actual length—

TWELVE FURLONGS
.

Padlock rocks inside the stall with impatience as my mind reels. A mile and a half. A half mile less than I need to have any confidence at winning. We can’t beat the others this way. I know this. I’m the girl who spent every spare second she had studying cyclonetrack.com. Many of the previous jockeys I understand better than my own family. Their successors will beat me here today, and I’ll lose my shot at entering the summer circuit.

So here’s what I do.

I let go of the dream and remember what Magnolia said.

I lean forward, wrap my arms around my steel horse, and whisper, “Let’s do this, Padlock. Not to win. Not to place. But to remember this moment as the time we ran with the Titans. Because you
are
a Titan. And tonight, I am a rider.”

Padlock kicks the front of the stall with aggravation, eager to put my words into action, or so I’d like to believe. I breathe evenly, letting my fear slip away. In its place is wonder for this machine I’ve mounted. I gather his hair between my fingers, and rub the place behind his ears. Then I grab the left joystick and place my right hand above the turbo button.

A man runs toward the starting gate and the crowd cheers. He motions to another man, who has a gun pointed at the moon. They share a hand signal, and I fill my lungs.

The starting light flicks on.

Red
.

The stalls shake from the steel horses, but my own horse, Padlock, settles.

Yellow.

Yellow.

Yellow
.

The first man approaches the starting gate and places his hands on something I can’t see. A mile and a half. Not long enough to win. But long enough to be remembered.

“You ready, Padlock?” I yell, the moment working me into a state of madness.

The horse snorts once, loudly, but keeps his eyes steady on the track. Steady. So eerily steady with his red, apocalyptic eyes and his black-as-death coat. It’s like he’s waited for this moment for years, gathering dust in a work shed instead of fulfilling his purpose.

My blood burns. My eyes sting. I feel like my body will spontaneously combust.

But Padlock is calm, stoic.

Until the starting gate slides away, that is.

Until the gun fires through the magnetic air.

Until I push that magic black button and grab on to the handlebars and scream into the night.

That’s when my Titan explodes beneath me like a volcano.

Dormant for too long.

Awake at last.

The ground quakes as forty-two steel horses lurch from the starting gates onto the dirt track. They run close together, a school of fish swarming in the presence of a great white. But that’s not accurate. Because we
are
the shark. We are the thing with teeth and jaws and the instinct to eat everything in our path.

And what’s in our path is a straightaway of possibility.

The first chance to gain a lead.

Padlock thunders beneath me, his neck jerking up and down, my left hand pushing the gas bar higher, feeling the clicks between my heels when my horse changes gears. For a moment, we are caught in the center of the storm, a swirling, tumultuous tornado of steel wrapping around our bodies.

I flirt with the gas yet again, and expect us to break ahead of the pack. It doesn’t seem possible that we wouldn’t pull ahead while going this fast. But the other jockeys are taking advantage of the straight stretch of dirt too. And though my Titan feels invincible, he doesn’t seem to have the engine they do.

In a matter of seconds, the horses barrel past on either side. The last one’s thigh grazes Padlock’s front legs and sparks fly. When the jockey glances back, I realize it wasn’t a mistake. Even if the jockey’s eyes weren’t shaded by the helmet, I know that backward look was a metaphorical middle finger waving in the wind.

My chest aches when I realize that we’re in last place. It happened so quickly. The very first stretch. But what did I expect, really?

To win, I’ll admit now.

Against all odds and reasoning, I expected to win because I needed it so badly.

Remembering that need now, I grit my teeth and latch on to the gas handle. The first turn is rapidly approaching, and the other Titans are already easing off the throttle for a graceful, smooth transition. But I can’t do graceful. And I can’t slow down. Not if I want a chance at finishing any place but last.

“Ready, Padlock?” I yell. “Ready?”

My Titan’s eyes burn brighter against the dirt, and I swear his speed accelerates a fraction though I’ve yet to push the accelerator. When I do, though—the turn finally on us—Padlock is ready. He heaves forward as I gauge the space between the inner gate and my Titan, between the track and the leaning body of my steel horse. A fraction more, and we’ll still make it through.

I nudge the bar and turn the joysticks and lean away from the turn until I feel it through my entire body. An equilibrium. Like skating on a frozen pond, wearing your mother’s hand-me-down skates, and knowing without knowing exactly how far to protrude your hip and how fast to cut your blades so that you glide around that wintery arc without spilling. But skaters fall all the time, don’t they?

They do.

But we don’t.

My Titan’s steel hooves swallow the ground as we take our turn. And then we’re pulling up and away—an airliner lifting into the sky, wheels tucking neatly beneath its belly. When I glance back, I notice four Titans have fallen behind. We are far away from where we need to be, yet there are not one but
four
Titans racing to catch up with us.

If we can pass part of the competition in one turn, we can pass even more in the next.

I lean forward in the saddle with renewed determination, the sound of the crowd dying in the distance. Cyclone Track winds away from the mass of bodies and encircles the stables, but it doesn’t lead into the woods. That’s later in the season—the hastily built tracks with perilous jams along every furlong. That’s the unknown.

But this track I do know. I’ve studied the turns and twists until I could draw them with my eyes closed, a stubby length of chalk in my palm.

Twelve furlongs. A mile and a half. So much time to gain ground.

But will it be enough?

Checking the stopwatch, I see only ten seconds have passed.

I utilize more gas and the gears click once again. The remaining thirty-seven Titans take advantage of the next stretch, a cloud of dust kicked up by ravenous heels. Padlock can’t catch them, not without me moving past the safety zone. I eye the performance gauge and see we’re already in the yellow.

Caution, caution!
the orange needle cries, outraged.

But now’s not the time to be cautious, is it? These other jockeys have to worry about the rest of the season, but there won’t be a season for me unless I win this race. I can’t afford a loss. Not one. Not ever.

I shove the gas bar with my left hand, and Padlock jerks forward as if he’s relieved to have the slack.

But it’s not enough.

The other Titans continue to gain a lead with their superior engines. No matter. I don’t lose faith, because there’s another turn ahead, and four Titans still watching Padlock’s backside.

Hang on, ladies and gentlemen.

Don’t look away.

Don’t blink!

I touch the gas with feather fingertips and lead Padlock to the inside. There doesn’t seem to be enough space for him to squeeze by the other Titans. But there is.

A slice of an inch.

“Go, Padlock, go!” I roar.

There’s no way he can hear me. I can’t hear myself. I can only feel my heart thrumming in my ears. My blood pounding through my veins. Sound vanishes, followed by every other sense—smell, touch, taste. Wait, no. There’s one left.

Sight.

Watch the turn, Astrid. Watch the ground and the gate and the distance Padlock has to lean. Block everything else out and run the numbers
.

Could I push him? Do I have room?

Yes.

I nudge the gas handle, and I swear my left knee nearly touches the dirt. I press it against Padlock’s side and lean so far away from him that I have to grasp his opposite side to keep from falling. There’s a woman jockey racing nearby. She looks in my direction and sneers. Her left arm swipes out to slap me away like an annoying gnat.

Before I’m taken out, I needle Padlock’s joystick to the right and he slams into the woman’s Titan. We lose precious seconds, but the woman is gone, fallen back amidst a glittering cloud of sparks. Soon after, I pull Padlock upright and we bolt after the remaining Titans. Once more, I glance back to inspect what damage we’ve done, if any.

Twelve Titans are a safe distance away, and another is a neck behind. The one that’s closely trailing us begins to catch up on the straightaway, but I count it in our triumphs since I know we can take him out cleanly in the next turn.

Thirteen Titans behind.

Twenty-eight in front.

Three solid turns and two half-turns remain. I want to believe we have a chance, but then I remember that the Titans before us are there for a reason. And that each horse will be harder to pass than the last.

I check my performance gauge: halfway into the caution zone.

With one hand on the gas lever and the other on my Titan’s right joystick, I lean forward.

And I push my Titan faster.

We race onward, and over the next several furlongs and three turns, we gain a lead over another ten Titans. Twenty-three behind. Eighteen in front. Only two turns and a quarter mile left to go. I erase every thought from my mind. I forget about the finish line rapidly approaching. The crowd roaring in the distance.

This is my race.

This is my time.

Pushing Padlock faster than ever before, I take the next two turns and cry out as gray steel whips by. We pass trees and rabid fans and Titans. How many Titans? I don’t know. I don’t know.

There’s the finish line.

Padlock throws his head and I squeeze the handlebars and let him run. It’s all I can do now. Hang on. Hold tight. Suck in a breath as we breeze across the finish line and a gun is fired once, twice, three times.

And once more for good measure.