by Austin Aslan
Dedication
To my trailblazing son, Everest,
whose boundless enthusiasm,
natural wit, and utter self-confidence
have brought Mace Blazer to life.
By land, by air, and by sea,
may you soar always beyond your horizons,
and may you savor every adventure
you forge along the way.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Two Weeks Later
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Mace was tense in his seat, his palms sweaty. The checkered flag was on the horizon, growing large. Larger. He stole a glance to either side. No one near him. Just the gray blur of grandstands and stadium walls. But there was no time to lose. His foot fused to the gas pedal. The steering wheel rattled. Mace tightened his grip. The flag filled the windshield . . . then it was gone. Yes! Nailed it! Another first-place finish. No surprise there. But . . . his time? How fast? Had he beaten his previous record? Had he beaten it by enough?
The video screen cut to black. Mace held his breath as the scores loaded. His foot hurt. He gave his leg a shake, feeling blood flow back into his clenched muscles.
It had been a flawless run, for sure. A virtual reenactment of the 2002 Nova Scotia Gauntlet Prix Qualifier. Mace had effortlessly transformed his vehicle into a roadster, an aircraft, and a torpedo-fast submarine. Unrelenting high speeds over ice, under sea. From the lineup he’d picked Triassic, an antique craft once piloted by famed TURBOnaut Rex Danger. Mace liked the older models. They felt less fragile. More stable. Less . . . whiny.
But his time? Had he pulled it off? If he’d shaved two seconds from his previous best score, he would retake the number-one slot on the global leaderboard.
That’s right: global. As in: the world’s best TURBOnaut.
Virtually speaking, at least.
The simulator’s dashboard flashed. The hatch hissed. Fluorescent lighting from the arcade flooded the cockpit, and the sounds of other video games chimed in his ears. Somewhere beyond the clacking of a frantic air-hockey match, Pac-Man was dying. Dig Dug was digging. Q*bert was cursing. A wooden Skee-Ball ricocheted into a hole, and reward tickets belched from a printer.
A stab of joy took hold of Mace’s chest. He loved the chaotic noises of the arcade.
The TURBO simulator finished opening. Its screens filled with names and numbers.
“Yes!”
MBlaze07 appeared at the very top of the list, right above a dude named Caballero.
“Take that, cowboy! And everyone else . . . In. The. World!”
As a prize, his stomach growled. He’d missed lunch entirely, but it had been worth it. The TURBO simulator was more than a game. The arcade was more than a hangout. He loved the crowds, the lights, but more than anything, he knew, he craved the lack of silence. He’d run out of allowance last week and had stayed away from the arcade. A rotten situation. He’d lost his first-place slot because of it.
But one good showing would put him back on top.
And he’d done it.
MBLAZE07 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .#1
His time was lightning fast. It was almost unfair. Poor rest of the world. Just look at that time . . . Mace glanced at his watch. Holy cow! Look at the time!
Sixth period would start in eight minutes, and school was at least fifteen minutes away from the mall.
Mace jumped up, banging his head on the underside of the simulator’s plastic canopy. “Ow!” He tumbled from the cockpit to the arcade’s linoleum floor, snatched up his backpack, and sprinted for the exit.
“Hey, Mace. Where’ve you been?”
Someone stepped in front of him before he could escape. One of the arcade employees. The guy was always tinkering with the TURBO simulator. The thing had about a million moving parts and was always in need of repair.
Mace dodged the guy. “I’ve got to get to class!”
“Hold on. Take this!” The man laughed, holding out a booklet. “There’s a classic, first-gen TURBO racer in town. Today’s the last day to see it at the museum. You should go check it out.” The man’s gaze was insistent, his eyebrows thick and black. “Seriously. Don’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” Mace said, snatching up the pamphlet and tearing through the mall.
Cool, he thought as he ran. But if Mace didn’t hightail it back to class, the only thing he’d be missing this afternoon would be his freedom. As in: detention.
School was uphill from the mall. Mace knew he didn’t have a prayer.
He huffed and puffed his way up the mountain, through the tall pines. So much for being the fastest kid alive.
Five minutes too late, Mace barreled into sixth-period English class and skidded to a stop right at his seat.
Mrs. Arbuckle, writing on the whiteboard, never turned around. “Mace Blazer, that’s your fifth lunch tardy this month. There’s a detention referral waiting for you on the edge of my desk.”
“Oh, but I’m not late,” Mace said, catching his breath. “I was at the front desk. They were trying to get a hold of my mom. And, well, you know how that can be tricky sometimes.”
Mace bit his lip. This was a new low for him. But detention was not an option.
“Ah.” Mrs. Arbuckle turned, lowering her gaze as if she was trying to scan him for the truth. “Understandable, but bring an excuse slip with you next time that happens.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mace said, his heart pounding in his chest. That was a risky move, but he’d come out ahead. All in a day’s work.
“Yes, ma’am,” parroted the boy behind Mace. “What a gentleman!” Carson Gerber. “Been down at the arcade again?”
The Gerb’s anger had been simmering since third-period Spanish. He and Mace had been paired as partners, but Carson had stumbled over reading his script. “¿Donde está el banjo?”
“Uh, there’s no j. I think you mean baño,” Mace had offered. “But if it’s so urgent, you could use a tuba in the music room.”
“Gross!” a girl in the front row had protested.
Carson had turned lava red and promised to pound that extra j out of Mace.
Now, Carson whispered, “Well, I hope you enjoyed your playtime. You know, my dad’s a real ’naut. While your eyes bleed at the mall all summer, we’ll be racing for reals—all over the globe.”
Mace si
ghed. “Dude. Your dad’s not a real TURBOnaut. He’s hobby league.”
“Are you making fun of your mom’s boss now?”
Carson’s dad owned the business where Mace’s mom worked. She packaged and shipped the outdoor clothing his company sold online. Unlike Carson, Mr. Gerber was a nice guy—at least as far as Mace knew. “No, I’m making fun of you, Gerbs!”
“That’s it, Blazer. You’re toast!”
“Boys,” Mrs. Arbuckle warned.
While his English teacher analyzed the results of the class Black Stallion test, Mace focused on a very different kind of racehorse. His eyes flew over the brochure from the arcade. The TURBO racer on the cover was pure black, shaped vaguely like a cross between a Frisbee and a football. The announcement made his heart rattle.
THE
EVENT HORIZON
FULLY RESTORED! • ON DISPLAY NOW!
An exhibition at the Colorado Museum of Aeronautics and Aerospace Engineering.
See the first-generation trimorpher. One of the first vehicles of its kind, tackling land, air, and sea all in the same race—the Event Horizon was destined for greatness, but crashed and burned ahead of its time.
The legendary TURBO craft was in Boulder. Today was the exhibit’s last day.
Mace had to see a real TURBO vehicle up close. No way he’d be able to focus on anything else until he did.
“What do you think, Mace?”
“Huh?” His neck snapped up. Mrs. Arbuckle was staring at him from the front of the classroom, her expression impatient. “You don’t have one selected, do you? I can pick a topic for you.”
Mace cleared his throat, gave his teacher a charming smile. “Um, what were you saying?”
“What’re you reading there?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he tried.
But this wasn’t nothing, he thought. The Event Horizon! In Boulder! An old classic, for sure. Much older than Triassic. A dream ride, no doubt.
“Hand it over, Mace.” Mrs. Arbuckle’s tone soured.
“Yes, ma’am.” Mace lifted the brochure.
“What I’m interested in”—Mrs. Arbuckle held out her hand, waiting for the booklet—“is finding out what you’re reporting on for your research essay due tomorrow.”
Mace drew a blank. “Um,” he said, stalling. TOMORROW? We still have assignments due? Wasn’t the last week of school supposed to be for in-class pizza parties and movies and yearbook signings?
Seventh grade had been a year-long disappointment. He’d skated through, bored out of his wits. Why should it end any better? But he turned defeat into victory. “Funny you should ask,” he said, completing the handoff to the teacher. “I’m doing a report on TURBO racing.”
A scowl gathered on Mrs. Arbuckle’s face. “Carson already took that subject.”
Mace deflated, glancing at Carson. There he was, decked out in one of his rotating Gauntlet League TURBO jerseys. Today was maroon-and-gold day—Pitchfork’s colors, piloted by Australian Taz Nazaryan.
“And I actually go to races,” Carson scoffed under his breath.
“No, Mrs. A.,” Mace scrambled, pretending not to hear Carson. “I meant . . . I wanted to report on the early days of TURBO.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Arbuckle studied the brochure. “What do you mean?”
“You know”—Mace thought quickly—“how it all started as a result of the Space Race? Back in the 1960s, when President Kennedy was paralyzed during that assassination attempt? The country started spending ten times more money on science and technology, and doctors healed his broken spine, and—”
“Save it for the report, Mace.” The teacher handed the brochure back to him. “I suppose that’s different enough. Go ahead.”
“I was hoping for an extension.” Mace wasn’t lying. He was just being a little . . . artful . . . with the truth. “Time for a bit of—um, hands-on research?”
“Hands-on?”
“Yeah, like, no internet?” Mace explained.
“I like that idea,” Mrs. Arbuckle said. She screwed up her face, deep in thought. “Actually, everyone gets an extra few days to turn in their essay. It’ll be due Friday now. But that’s the last day, so no late assignments.”
The class cheered. Mace fielded a high five from Emily Turnbull in the next row.
“BUT,” the teacher continued, “All of you need to provide a source that doesn’t come from online.”
“Not online? I don’t get it,” said a kid in the back, panic rising in her voice. “What does that even mean?”
Mrs. Arbuckle beamed with delight. “Go and interview somebody. Visit the place or historical site you’re reporting on. Log off. Be creative.”
“Give me back my high five,” grumbled Emily.
Carson whispered into Mace’s ear, “I’m changing my topic. Gonna do some hands-on research of TURBO wannabes. I’ll interview you, after school, with my fists.”
“Fists? Oh! Using sign language?” Mace fired back, sounding skeptical. “Okay. You’re on. I’ll meet you behind the cafeteria. Can’t wait to see how fluent you’ve gotten.”
The Gerb fumed. Whatever. Mace had no intention of tangling with Carson and his goons. He liked his nose just as it was, thank you very much. Besides, he was already booked this afternoon. He had a date with a legend: the Event Horizon!
Chapter Two
Mountain Secondary School was perched on the slopes of Boulder, Colorado, nestled in an evergreen grove that stretched down from the foothills of the Rockies. It was the end of May, but a few patches of snow, dumped during a late spring superstorm, remained in the shadows of the lodgepole pines.
The metal shop was across the open-air quad. During passing time, Mace broke away from his classmates and wound around shaded snowbanks to the bike racks.
While the other students were cutting sheet metal into garden ornaments, Mr. Hernandez often let Mace work on real problems: repairing the lawn mowers, upgrading sprinkler rotators, replacing engine parts for school vehicles. He got a kick out of upgrading whatever he was working on with refurbished aircraft components—his dad sometimes brought home interesting metal scraps from his airport job.
He took his bike lock and held it tight, closing his eyes. The bike’s lightweight frame was custom modified from Goodwin-McCall twin-engine A-9 exhaust-port couplings. It had the gears and braking system of a downhill racer, with an XC dual-suspension fork and rear. Built piece by piece from airport scraps, because his parents could never afford to get him a brand-new bike. It was crazy cool. Better than anything you could buy. People were always eyeballing it. So, as a measure of extra security, Mace had sandpapered the digits off the bike-lock’s dial. He didn’t need to see the numbers. Mace could feel the combination.
Click. Tap. Clack. The lock opened in his hands. Mace pulled his bike free from the jumble and propped it against the machine shop’s back door before looping around to the front to enter class with the other students. Mr. Hernandez stopped him as he arrived. “I have a lesson planned for the others, but you know it already. Can you finish threading that valve for the boiler system instead?”
Mace suppressed a grin. He’d been expecting this. “Be happy to, Mr. H.”
His classmates watched him leave. He caught sight of the Gerb, who mouthed at him through an evil grin: “See you after class.”
As soon as he was out of sight, Mace turned the corner and darted to the shop’s back door to retrieve his bike. He eyed the canister of shielding gas over by the welder, a mixture of argon and carbon dioxide, and Mace knew immediately how he was going to mount it above his back wheel, creating a homemade rocket booster.
I’m not stealing this, he convinced himself. It’s a library check-out. And I need it.
He jumped into action. He turned on the pipe threader, a machine loud enough to cover the tinkering he was about to begin.
First, he locked the aluminum canister of argon-carbon dioxide into place horizontally atop the back tire guard. Then he built a makeshift hammering pin,
cocked and spring-loaded, and mounted it at the canister’s neck. He ran a taut wire along the bike’s cross tube up to the handlebar.
Mace inspected his creation and smiled mischievously. If only he had a couple of auxiliary TURBO transformer modules—he could give his getaway bike wings and fly away from school. That would really give them something to talk about.
“The crowds are going wild!” he said, mimicking the voice of TURBO race announcer Jax Anders. His daydream took hold, the pipe threader serving as crowd roar. “Blazer bags another win on the road to the Golden Glove!”
He’d seen plenty of televised races, but Mace had only been to one live TURBO event. That was in Denver two years ago. A Gauntlet Prix qualifier, part of the lead-up to the sport’s epic championship sprint. His parents had taken him for his birthday. Mace appreciated it. He knew the tickets hadn’t been cheap. Still, he’d been frustrated that their view had been obscured by the blimps hosting high-dollar spectators—like Carson Gerber and his family.
His mother had sensed his disappointment. “Enjoy what you have, Mace,” she’d told him. “That’s the key to happiness in life.”
Mace disagreed. He thought the key to happiness was taking what you could, whenever you could get your hands on it. But once he’d settled in, Mace had to admit that it was a great day. It was amazing to see in person the blur of the vehicles as they entered the knot of stadium track in roadster form, roaring over the asphalt in front of the grandstands, and to hear the sound the water made as submersibles dove beneath the surface. Sure, he would have loved to be part of the underwater audience, who got to watch the race through special watertight viewports. But even now, years later, all Mace had to do was close his eyes to feel the roar of rocket engines as the submersibles morphed into jet mode and shot airborne.
Each passing aircraft had slapped Mace with a gust of wind. His parents had smiled along with him, hands to their chests, showing they understood the power of those machines.
He laughed remembering how his father had gotten angry with him for ruining their bucket of popcorn by diving a greasy hand into it. Mace hadn’t even noticed how gross his hands were. He hadn’t realized he’d been touching everything on their way into the stadium, which had funneled through an exhibition hall.
