Titans (20 page)

The Titans rumble from their chutes, and once again Hart is the first to appear, with everyone else a heartbeat behind. One five-minute mile lies against us, and the horses drink up the distance. This time, when I cross over a red line painted faintly in the dirt, I’m ready.

Funny how I never spotted the lines as a kid
.

That’s what’s on my mind as the fence arching around the first turn falls away. Just as it did two races ago, the ground collapses and the fence vanishes. This time though, no spears appear. Instead, something much more dangerous does.

Fire roars from the pit, licking upward, huffing smoke into the air.

The first jockey to reach it, Skeet, navigates her Titan up and over without missing a beat. It’s almost enough to make me wonder whether Arvin filled the others in on the jams this time too. But I know better. He may have tried to get me disqualified, but he also wants a fair race among the leading jockeys since the journalist is watching.

Another two Titans blast toward the fire. The first one soars over it with ease, but the second one stumbles when it reaches the other side. The horse seems dazed, and the jockey running it quickly punches orders into the control panel. The fire must have overheated the Titan’s engine. The horse recovers quickly, but I make a mental note to treat this jam with caution as Padlock and I near its border.

Hart leads his Titan to the outer edge of the fire and hits the hurdle button. The flames burn lower on the perimeter of the jam, and he’s able to clear them with ease. As the other jockeys continue to take their Titans straight over the top, I follow Hart’s lead and line Padlock up near the left side. I punch the gas bar and my horse rages forward. I wait until we’re close. Then I wait even longer. Only when I feel the heat of the flames tingle against my skin do I slam the hurdle button.

Padlock flies over like he’s Neil Armstrong, his hooves hitting the dirt the first steps on a terrestrial moon. I eye our competitors and set my gaze on the Titan whose engine has overheated. Though the horse still runs, it’s slower than before. As trees whip by, and men cheer from behind temporary gates, I drive Padlock faster. There’s a turn ahead, and I have to use it to bypass the others. With the race only a mile long, there’s no telling how many turns there will be.

I press down into the saddle, and when I navigate Padlock toward the turn side, he charges toward it as if in agreement.

Way ahead of you!

Batter and Penelope reach the turn first, and when they do, a brightness flashes through the fog. I touch the brake bar, and as we grow closer, I understand what slows the horses.

Flaming arrows shoot across the track, stemming from the same turn I need to hug. While the other horses don’t display anxiety, my own Titan raises up on his back legs. I’m nearly thrown from the saddle, and I have to yell words of comfort to encourage Padlock to keep galloping.

We’re five yards from the turn when I spot a second injured Titan, a steel spear protruding from its glowing red eye. The horse bucks wildly, its computer system sending errors throughout the Titan’s body. The man driving the machine gets it under control, and soon they’re off again, but much slower than before, and with whirls of black smoke curling from the Titan’s eye.

I slow Padlock and watch as the remaining Titans race past the flaming arrows. Numbers fill my head as they always do. This time, it’s the number of seconds between each arrow.

One, two, three, four—
shoot
.

One, two, three, four—
shoot
.

After the next arrow releases, I ease off the brake bar and slam on the gas instead. Padlock races past the place where the danger lies, and we’re off again.

After a powerful dash, two horses fall behind, both injured from jams. Ahead lies a second turn, and after Padlock and I take it, we pass another Titan. Electric energy courses through my veins, believing I’ve tackled another race. After all, we can’t be that far from the finish line, and already I’ve passed three Titans.

I scan the track as the crowd roars from either side, and try and make out who’s in the lead. It’s Skeet, her blue-streaked hair whipping behind her head. No sooner do I have her in my sights than her Titan is thrown onto its side. I don’t understand what’s happened until I spot cannonballs of fire dropping from the sky. I look up once, try to decipher the source of the jam, but my eyes are no match against the low-hanging clouds.

Skeet’s Titan struggles to its feet while the rest of us charge our Titans past. This time, there’s no pattern to the jam. The cannonballs land in different places, and there isn’t a set time between the moment one hits and when the next will fall. I grit my teeth and shove my fear deep into my belly, remember that both my family and Magnolia’s family is at stake. But mostly, I push the fear down because it threatens to overwhelm me. Treacherous thoughts slip into my mind as we blaze past the cannonballs.

Is saving my family’s home worth risking my life?

And another thought too—

What about Padlock, my partner? Is it worth risking him?

My hands shake as I steer Padlock through the use of the joysticks. Sweat coats my face from the heat of the flames, and from the panic rising up my spine. I realize I’m failing at controlling my emotions, that I’m losing my grip and my place in this race. My mind reels and my arms quake and Padlock veers recklessly, confused by the mixed signals I’m sending through the control panel.

Run faster. Faster!

No, slow down or we’ll die!

A voice rings out louder than the others. I’m not sure where it stems from, my left or right, but it’s sure and strong and it calls out my name.

“Let’s go, Sullivan! Go, go, go!”

Just as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. Already a distant sound. But I heard it. Someone at this race was calling my name. Someone has placed a bet on me. Renewed confidence blazes through my veins. My name is Astrid Sullivan, and I am the same as the people outside those gates. If one person believes I can win, then maybe another one does too. There’s no telling how many fans hold my name in their hand, how many hold Padlock’s name too.

I lean forward and push Padlock past the remaining cannonballs. Checking my performance gauge and ensuring we’re safe, I set my attention on the last remaining jam. There’s no way more than one stands between here and the finish line. There’s too little time remaining.

Narrowing my eyes, I make out more fire, flickering orange and red against the darkness. A narrow wedge cuts a path between the flames, more like a bridge than anything. Three horses race behind me, and nine lie ahead. If I can pass two more between here and the end, I’ll finish in fifth, my best place yet. It’s not good enough for the final Titan Derby, but it’s good enough for a circuit race.

I set my sights on the closest jockey, Penelope. She’s fallen from her first-place spot into ninth, and though Lottie believes she has a chance at winning this whole thing, tonight I want her watching Padlock’s tail.

The problem is, I don’t know how to pass her.

The bridge is coming up faster than I’d anticipated, and already I see Titans clashing against each other to get onto the bridge before their competition. This is the moment Rags would have me use Padlock’s autopilot. But how could a machine utilize this jam better than a human brain? It couldn’t. And so I toggle between two ideas to pass Penelope.

One, thrust farther into the performance gauge and cut her off at the last moment. Two, use the hurdle button to leap over her Titan and land on the bridge.

My brain buzzes between the two options until I have no time left to contemplate my next move. Releasing a scream, I push the hurdle button. The problem is, I also slam the gas bar and turn the joysticks as if I’m going to bypass Penelope. I had two options, and in my panic, I tried to do both.

Padlock takes two more accelerated steps, veering to the left, and then soars into the air. I hold my breath as my Titan arches up and over the jockey. Midair, I glance down and see the whites of Penelope’s widened eyes. I’d smile at her if I wasn’t worried about our landing.

Padlock lands hard in front of Penelope, his back legs kicking her Titan in the muzzle. Because we took off at an angle, my horse fumbles to regain solid footing, the momentum we built threatening to send us over the side. I shouldn’t have pulled to the left. I’m an idiot and now we’re both going to burn.

Heat travels up my leg and flares close to my breeches. We’re terrifyingly close to spilling over the edge, one footstep away from being engulfed. The jams all have an off switch in case jockeys’ lives became endangered. But would the engineers be quick enough this time? Would the medics be close enough to help if I fall?

They aren’t always.

At last, Padlock finds his balance, and with Penelope firmly behind us, my Titan races forward. I ease off the gas bar as we gallop across the bridge, giving my horse a chance to recover. Then as we reach the other side, it’s full steam ahead.

Padlock’s eyes cut through the fog as we chase the remaining eight horses. The cries of the crowd grow louder, telling me the finish line is close. I can’t see it, though, which can only mean one thing …

A single steel Titan races just ahead of us, and one beautiful turn lies between us and the end. Numbers flash through my head as the jockey guides his horse toward the curve. He’s close enough to use the bend to his advantage, to shave precious seconds off his time, but there’s still space for Padlock and me if I’m right.

I nudge the gas bar, check our stopwatch, and steer the joysticks to the right. Then I lean with my Titan and bite down. Sparks fly as we sail past our rival. No one I know well, but they must know me, because I hear them curse my name as Padlock and I zip toward the finish line. A gun fires, and I ease off the gas, say hello to my old pal the brake bar.

Eighth place, our best yet. And at 0:03:27, we’re well within the allotted time.

Outside the gates, people shout my name with glee. Only a few of them, but it’s enough. I raise my arm and wave to my supporters, and when Magnolia, Rags, Barney, and Lottie meet me on the track, my heart swells with pride. It isn’t until I slide down from my saddle, and throw my arms around Padlock, that I can breathe again.

“You did well,” I tell my Titan.

I don’t miss the way Rags grins, as if he’s calling me on the fact that I’ve fallen for this piece of metal he calls a horse.

Suppose it’s true.

Suppose I have.

The Circuit Gala is everything Magnolia and I could have hoped for, with a side of mini raspberry tortes. To our amusement, we find that no matter how many times we swipe food from the servers’ trays, they return with more. It almost seems as if they’re happy to have two girls enthusiastic about their food.

When it comes time to sit down at round tables covered with white cloths and orange overlays, Magnolia and I use every trick Lottie taught us. The four other guests seated at our table aren’t pleased to be there, but when we take tiny bites, and make polite conversation, and place our utensils down at all the right moments, the tension leaves their shoulders.

Lottie sits at a nearby table with Rags, and though she checks on us often, she has her hands full trying to get my manager to behave. The invites were for jockeys, sponsors, managers, and one guest, but I have no doubt that Rags will sneak Barney in once the dancing begins.

“I read the interview you gave after the first circuit race,” an older woman says between tastes of her steak tartare. “You made some rather intuitive remarks about the upcoming races.”

… for a girl from Warren County
is what she doesn’t add.

I swallow a fingerling potato, wipe my mouth, and place my fork down. “Thank you. I’m doing my best to represent my county.” I note that she’s the mother of a jockey who’s seated across the room with her manager. It’s like they’re trying to intentionally create gossip fodder for the
Titan Enquirer
by separating us. I rack my brain, and recall her daughter’s name. “You’re Janelle’s mother, right? You must be very proud. She interviewed with several publications after the race as well, all far more esteemed than
Warren County Morning
.”

The woman smiles, pleased that I’ve acknowledged her daughter and my societal place beneath her. “She did well,” she agrees. “But you held your own.”

The last part is difficult for her to admit, but Lottie swears it’s true. She says race-goers are starting to think of me as their representative. If I can ride a Titan in the circuit, acquire a sponsor, and have a chance at winning two million dollars, why can’t they?

If I can follow my dream, why not them?

You’re relatable
, she says.
And yet you give them something to aspire to
.

If they only knew I spent every waking moment terrified that I’ll fail my family, afraid I have no chance of winning, they wouldn’t think so highly of me. Of course, we’re probably only talking about a dozen or so people.

“They really made this place beautiful.” Magnolia admires what the Gambini brothers did to the community center. Ribbons of gold and orange dangle from the ceiling, and the walls are splashed in similar colors with the help of party lights. A parquet dance floor is assembled in the center of the room, and a string quartet plays softly on a stage. The Titan Derby logo glows on the dance floor, and horse ice sculptures decorate the room. When I find one that looks like Padlock, I make Lottie take a picture of Magnolia and me standing before it.

Padlock is outside with the rest of the Titans, proudly displayed for the gala attendees. Two boys dressed in black washed and polished our horses when we arrived, and gave them as many oil sticks as they desired, a treat Rags introduced to me.

“What’s that waiter giving the jockeys?” Magnolia asks.

I follow her gaze and see what she’s referring to. A coiffed man dressed in a tux is walking up to each table hosting a jockey and lowering a silver serving tray. One by one, the jockeys pluck a cream-colored envelope. They tear into them with eagerness, but I can’t see what the letters say from here.

I shake my head, telling Magnolia I’m not sure. Penelope saunters by, and I can tell by the look in her eyes that she wants to tell me about the envelope in her hand. She lingers close by, taunting me, until I can’t stand it a second longer.

“What is that?” I ask, my face warming.

“This?” She slaps the envelope against her open palm. “An invite to the after-party. You going?”

Magnolia searches the table, and then answers for me. “There’s an after-party?”

Penelope’s eyebrows rise. “Yep. From what I hear, the real fun starts tonight. This is just a formality. A pretty tiresome one at that, don’t you think?”

Penelope is pretending to be friendly, but I know what she’s doing. Magnolia was having the time of her life before this jockey told her she shouldn’t be. That this is nothing to get excited about.

Seeing the interest in Magnolia’s eyes, and noting how the waiter is returning to the kitchen empty-handed, I say to my best friend, “I’ll talk to the waiter. He probably forgot to come by.”

A grin sweeps across Magnolia’s face, and my chest tightens. Has she forgotten how the jockeys teased us? I’m betting she hasn’t, but she’s pushed it from her mind. That’s one thing, among many, that I love about my friend—her ability to concentrate on the positive, and dismiss the negative.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure he has your tickets,” Penelope says. “They’re addressed to all the jockeys with Titan 3.0s.”

Magnolia’s face falls. Now she gets it.

“Go away, Penelope,” I say.

Her nose wrinkles like she’s shocked by my curtness, but she does leave, her business here complete.

Only because I know my friend wants to attend the party do I contemplate how to get those tickets. If I ask the empty-handed waiter, he’ll surely direct me to Arvin Gambini, and that’ll cause a scene. This is another obvious measure to put Padlock and me in our place. My eyes scan the room, taking in the jockeys and their excitement over this newest development.

My gaze falls on Hart Riley II. He plucks the invite from the table, says something to someone across from him, and then flicks the envelope away like he could care less. Well, if he doesn’t want those tickets …

I look at my friend. “Magnolia, do you really want to go to that party?”

She shrugs. “I
did
. Kind of. But I don’t want to go anywhere we’re not welcome.”

“We should be welcome at anything that’s centered around the races, because I am a jockey, and Padlock is my Titan. And you”—I bump her shoulder—“are my fabulously dressed friend who will turn into a pumpkin if she returns home before midnight.”

Magnolia beams. “Maybe we could crash for a minute or two. See what the big deal is. Because you’re right, this mermaid dress has waited for this night its entire chiffon-inspired life. Amen.”

I laugh and admire the dress Lottie bought Magnolia, which she most certainly wasn’t required to do as my sponsor. The dress is a greenish-blue that lives up to its mermaid style. With that silk ribbon the color of sea foam tied around her waist, it looks like Magnolia strolled out from the waves, blond hair wet on her shoulders—and in a magical moment—her fins became legs. My friend is right. That dress needs more than a few hours of glory. It needs all night.

I rise from the table, excuse myself, and beeline for Hart. “Hey,” I say when I reach him. “You going to the party?”

Hart barely registers my existence, what with the lack of cameramen present.

I raise my voice loud enough to embarrass him to his tablemates. “I’m talking to you, pretty boy.”

He glances up lazily. “Nah, I ain’t going.”

“Then you won’t mind if I take these.” I reach for his envelope and pull an invitation and two tickets from within.
Perfect
.

Hart snatches them from my hand. “Just because I’m not going doesn’t mean I’ll give my tickets to you.” He studies me, his eyes lingering on the skin color my mother gave me set against the white sequined dress. Specifically, the sweetheart neckline region. His voice softens a touch. “Why do you wanna go anyway? You know what they’re doing.”

“My friend wants to go,” I reply.

His gaze darts past me. “The hot one?”

“My smart, funny, talented friend, yes.”

“The hot one.”

I roll my eyes. “Just give me the tickets. Please?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not in the habit of doing people favors. What’s in it for me?”

Frustrated, I search my brain. What do I have that Hart Riley does not?

Jack squat, that’s what.

Glancing over my shoulder, I spot Magnolia. She’s using her fork and knife to make a point to the woman at our table. It seems the knife is a Titan, and the fork is … me? I think about her parents at the bank, begging for an extension, and my friend giving up every dime she’s earned on her own to help keep their house. I want to give her this, and anything else that’ll put a smile on her face.

The answer comes to me simply.

“I’ll race you for them. A two-minute race, outside through the woods, winner gets the tickets.”

Hart Riley II takes a long pull on his iced tea, sets down his glass, and grins.

“You’re on.”