Titans (23 page)

Padlock and I are positioned inside the starting gate. If I have one chance before the Titan Derby to prove myself capable of winning, this is the race to do it. A long race. Thirty-two furlongs. Four miles of track stretching deep into the forest, looping through the trees, and returning. I can spot the finish line from my place inside the gate, but it’s what lies between here and there that has me worried.

My confrontation with Dani and Zara zips through my head over and over, like a circuit board, lighting up different areas of my brain: frustration, sadness, understanding. But most of all—determination. I’ve never wanted a win so badly, after seeing Zara’s sense of abandonment, Dani’s desperate need for stability. Our family car is gone. We don’t know anyone who can afford to take us in. And my father still hasn’t found work.

I am our last hope of staying off the streets.

I must win.

But before I do that, I have to prove myself capable.

The light flashes outside the gate, turning from the safety of red to stomach-churning yellow. I trigger Padlock’s racing capability and his eyes illuminate our small space. It’s like he senses my resolve, quieting beneath me instead of thrashing about like our competitors.

Outside, the crowd rumbles. I imagine I hear Magnolia’s voice among the others, reminding me there’s one more thing I’m racing for. I imagine Rags and Barney too, and how they deserve this win. It’s no longer enough for me to finish better than I have before.

Tonight, I must be the best.

The yellow lights continue to flash, teasing us, throwing our Titans into a state of chaos. All except for one.

Before the gate slides away, I listen for the sound Hart told me about. And right before the light changes to red, when my heart feels as though it will burst inside my chest, I hear it—a slight hissing sound.

My hand twitches over the turbo button. But I don’t push it. I don’t. Instead, I wait until the gate rattles open and the light screams green.

When I win, I don’t want any doubts as to how I took first.

Hart barrels ahead of us all, and Padlock and I take our place in the back. This time, the gate surrounding Cyclone Track doesn’t fall away. A piece of it is already open, giving way to a smooth pebbled track, providing a false sense of security. But I don’t buy it for a second. This second circuit race—
River Runner
—has me on high alert.

My instincts prove correct when I hear the first of the jockeys scream. A Titan in the distance falls, disappearing beneath the ground. I think I must be seeing things until Padlock and I grow closer. Squinting, I notice patches of the track that appear slightly different. They’re darker, though they seem to be made of the same pebbled material. It isn’t until another Titan crosses a shadowy patch and splashes downward that I realize what it is.

The track engineers have dug holes into the ground, lined them, and filled them with water. Floating on the surface is a substance that looks identical to the orange-and-white pebbles we race upon. Already, the Titans have slowed as their jockeys navigate around the dark places.

My eyes scan the area, and I count. Try to find a pattern to the madness. There’s always a pattern. Whether it’s intentional or not, people thrive on order, and nothing is as ordered as a numerical system. Excitement rushes through me when I notice the holes are three feet apart, laid in two tracks so that each one is diagonal to the next. The tracks are four feet apart, and there’s a deviation to the system of maybe three to four inches. If I run Padlock on the outside, and then zigzag through the holes at a swift canter, we should be able to keep moving at all times.

I lead Padlock to the right, pull back on the gas bar, and push up on the brake bar. When we reach the far edge, I bite down and jerk the joysticks to the left. Padlock dodges the first water hole before I navigate him, hard, to the right. We repeat that over and over—left, right, left, right—until we’ve passed all the dark places, and two Titans in the process.

Hart is still in the lead, having hurdled over the holes, stopping only twice to find the next safe landing spot. Batter and Penelope are ahead of me as well, as is Skeet, her Titan’s eye repaired after the last race.

The crowd cheers as we race forward, our first jam completed. Even the two horses that fell have climbed out of their watery graves to resume their flight to the finish line. Padlock and I wind through the forest, taking tight turns when we can to gain an advantage, and running as fast as I can push him without compromising his engine during the straightaways.

The second jam arrives after what feels like a mile and a half.

A ditch has been dug into the ground, and churning water whirls beneath the surface. I don’t know how deep the water is, but it’s obvious there are two options: One, cross the ditch by wading through the water, or two, take one of two narrow bridges that arch over the crevice. The obvious choice seems to be the bridges, but there are risers every few feet, and you’d have to jump your Titan over them, slowing you down.

There’s little time to choose as we barrel forward. Over or under? Over or under?

Hart takes the bridge. He performs two perfect jumps and then his horse stumbles and nearly slips over the edge. It’s only when I’ve gotten closer that I see the bridge is coated in a thick, black tar-like substance. The risers force the horses to jump, and the tar is there to ensure they fall.

There’s a Titan on each bridge, and because I don’t want to get stuck behind anyone, I release a guttural cry and charge forward. Right before we hit the water, I push the hurdle button. The two of us fly through the air and splash into the small churning river. Several other Titans have chosen the same option, and we all seem to realize our obstacle at once. The bridge threatens to spill your Titan over the side, but the river has sticky mud at the bottom, trapping our horses’ hooves.

Padlock whines, and though I try everything to get him to move faster, nothing works. We trudge through the water, every leg lift an eternity. I’m halfway to the other side when a sharp crack sounds over my head. I glance up, and a chill rushes down my back. A Titan has slipped. It struggles to regain its balance, but it’s no use.

The horse and jockey fall.

I throw my body over Padlock as if he’s the one who needs protecting. As if when this eight-hundred-pound machine and its owner crash into us, it’s
his
fragile bones that will break. As the twosome plummets downward, I recall in detail the four jockeys who lost their lives racing in the Titan Circuits.

Water explodes to my right, and every muscle in my body twitches. They’ve missed me by inches, but the horse’s legs kick into Padlock’s neck.

“Padlock!” I scream, frantically feeling along his side for damage. But my horse only pushes onward, either ignorant to what happened or too manic to care. When I clear my eyes, I spot a jockey thrashing in the bubbling, swirling water. I slow Padlock and reach an arm out to the fallen jockey.

“Grab my hand!” I yell. The jockey is an older man, sturdy, with long limbs and a broad chest. Even still, I can’t leave him in the water when I’m not sure he can swim. I grab ahold of his wrist and yank him toward Padlock as the other Titans charge ahead.

“Get off me,” he roars, ripping his wrist away.

I watch, jaw agape, as his Titan surfaces and stills while the jockey remounts. The horse seems dazed, and I wonder if being submerged in the water damaged the Titan’s control panel. Padlock never did lower his head beneath the water when we were at the pond.

Gritting my teeth, I push Padlock through the muck, using as much gas as I think he can tolerate without damaging his interior. After what feels like an eternity, we’re out of the water and racing again. We tear down the track, chasing Titans, watching as a fine mist of water balloons behind them. The race-goers love it, and I even spot a grown man holding a boy on his shoulders, his small face getting sprayed. There are now three horses behind me, six ahead. If I finish in the top seven, I’ll move on to the final circuit race. But that isn’t enough. I refuse to just scrape by.

After a tight turn around a cluster of photographers, I gain a lead on yet another Titan. I need to pass five more horses for the win, and there’s almost half the race left to go. As a rush of adrenaline courses through my veins, I realize I have a shot.

Hart, Batter, Skeet, and two others blaze down the track, while Penelope has fallen back. Taking tight turns may not be enough to win the
River Runner
race. I’ll need a jam I can excel at in order to pass the others. And as it so happens, another one is coming right up.

A blue light shines down from above, accentuating a thin curtain of rain. The water crosses the entire track, but every few seconds, it lets up. Then it falls again, splashing the ground. I notice clear plastic barriers protect the crowd from coming in contact with the water, which must mean it’s dangerous.

My mind works through the possibilities. I can’t go around it. I can’t go over or under it. That means I have to go through the curtain of water. This could be good. I can calculate how often the curtain falls and see if there’s a pattern.

I’m thinking this through—already counting the beats between when the rain starts and stops—when Hart rushes through the water. He isn’t trying to find a system. He hasn’t solved a riddle or figured out a way to navigate through it unharmed.

He simply doesn’t care.

The sound of him screaming reaches my ears, and I remember at once the words he spoke while sitting aside the campfire.

I won’t end up like my father
.

Hart screams, and the sound is deep and nerve-rattling. But here’s what I notice: It doesn’t last long. In a matter of seconds, his screams fall away and I glimpse his Titan resuming its quick pace. Batter does the same thing I do—stops to create a plan. No way is he chancing harming himself. My concern is for Padlock, though, because if the waterfall damages me in some way, surely it’ll have consequences for him as well.

I do some quick calculations, and find the sequence. The time between the curtain falling doubles three times—two seconds, four seconds, eight seconds—then the last time is the average of the last two numbers—six seconds.

The ticker goes back to two seconds. And so after the water pauses, I count four beats and then charge through. Batter’s tactic is a simpler one—he goes when I do.

Once on the other side, I nudge Padlock’s gas bar, almost relishing the fact that I’m racing next to Batter, neither of us leading the other. Batter glances at me and sneers, flashing way too much gum beneath thin lips. I return my attention to the track before being slammed from the side, sparks flying between our two Titans. The crowd cheers and boos and waves their white tickets.

Because I’m taken by surprise, Padlock careens wildly to the right, and it takes maneuvering on my part to keep us from slamming into the temporary gates. Batter charges on, but I’m right on his tail.

I’ve almost caught up to him, almost secured my third-place position, when I hear a sharp yell and a splash of water. Batter and I look away from each other and gaze ahead, our heads snapping up, spines at attention.

I make out a single dark spot in the track, and while Skeet neatly dodges it, another jockey wasn’t so lucky. It was an easy mistake to make. Who’d expect another jam so soon after the curtain of burning water? Who’d expect the track engineers to repeat one, single water hole along a seemingly safe stretch of track?

We wouldn’t, which is why they did it.

It takes me a few moments to wrap my head around who it was that fell—two seconds, four, eight.

And then I know.

Hart Riley II crawls out of the watery ditch screaming and clutching his arm. His Titan, Ace, bobs beside him, useless without his jockey inputting commands. I pull back on my gas bar, slam on my brake, and dismount. Batter rushes past, but I don’t care. Hart is moaning and rolling onto his side, blond hair matted against his head.

“Hart!” I yell. “Is it your arm? Did you break it?”

Hart’s eyes pop open and he seems utterly confused to find me crouched beside him. “What are you doing, you idiot? Get back on your Titan!”

“Like hell. I’m not leaving you here.”

Hart bites down, groaning through his teeth. His head falls back, but he manages to maintain eye contact. “The medics will come. Get back in the race!”

As if to emphasize his point, Penelope gallops past, throwing us a smiling salute. The look on her face is almost enough to make me follow Hart’s instructions, but I don’t see the medics anywhere, and Hart’s beginning to lose consciousness. What if it’s not just an injured arm? What if he hit his head too?

I drag him a few inches from the water in case he passes out and rolls back in. Hart’s eyes slip closed and he sucks in a labored breath. Then his lids blink open and he grabs my jersey in one hand.

“Don’t let those pricks win, Sullivan. Get on your Titan. There’s no way in hell I would have stopped if you’d fallen.”

I hesitate, but not for long. Not long enough for another horse to pass me by.

“Go!” Hart screams. “Go now!”

And because I finally spot the medics trotting toward Hart, and because I’ll fail my entire family if I don’t make it to the final circuit race, I remount Padlock and slam the turbo button and gas bar.

It doesn’t matter that three horses race behind me—never mind, make that two—what matters is I only have two minutes left to finish this race, and I have no idea what jams lie ahead. Dismissing the autopilot button, I race Padlock faster. I skirt the line between yellow and red on the performance gauge, and knowing I have few seconds to spare, I race with an exactness I can feel down to my core. It’s like taking a test and knowing you aced it before it’s even graded.

I fly through two more jams with ease, and when I cross the finish line, it takes a long time before I’m myself again. Astrid Sullivan, the girl who overthinks things. The girl who trusts no one but herself. Hart Riley is being taken on a stretcher toward a waiting ambulance. Right before the doors close, I see Hart waving his good arm, making some sort of demand. A medic jogs over to me with a look of frustration smeared across his face.

“The jockey wants to see you,” the medic says.

I’m surprised to hear it, but I follow the medic as we race toward the ambulance. Hart pulls at the straps securing him to the stretcher and sits up. He waves me over like he’s having trouble speaking loud enough to be heard. With more concern than I care to admit, I approach his side.

He utters something quietly. So quietly I can’t make out what he’s said.

I press against him, lower my face to his. “What did you say?”

“Smile for the cameras, sugarplum,” he says clearly. Then he kisses me hard on the mouth, wrapping his arm around my waist.

Hart Riley tastes like grape juice. Grape juice and mud and aggravation.

He falls back on the stretcher and grips my hand.

He moans loudly.

The cameramen capture every moment.