TURBO Racers

by Austin Aslan

  Mace hadn’t been able to resist picking up every tool, feeling every display tire.

  As he heard the students file back to their workbenches, Mace threw a greasy shop cloth over his new invention and began repairing the boiler valve.

  Mace shut off the pipe threader, and when he strode back to the metal shop, it felt almost too quiet.

  “You know,” Mr. Hernandez whispered to him after pacing the room to inspect everyone’s progress, “not much of a looker, but that’s a sweet ride you have there. You could make those for a living. Good money in bikes.”

  Mace bit his tongue before saying what he really thought: There’s better money in TURBO racing.

  The bell rang. Everyone scurried outside. Mace half ran toward the main gate.

  As he got to the edge of the parking lot, Carson emerged from the trees, gripping his handlebars. Two of his buddies flanked him. “I knew you’d skip our interview appointment.” They dropped their bikes and circled in on Mace. “Don’t even think about wiggling out here,” Carson warned.

  Three on one. Hmm. “Oh, I’m way past thinking about it.” Mace pushed his bike forward and leaped onto the seat. One of the boys swiped at him but missed. Mace pierced through the blockade as the others closed in. He turned onto the dirt path leading into the forest.

  “Get him!” Carson yelled, but too late.

  Mace was already gathering speed.

  Chapter Three

  A hiking path wove through the dense lodgepole pines. Mace stuck to it, leaning in to each turn, staying off his brakes as much as possible.

  “Move!” he shouted at two girls building a sad little snowman along the trail. They dove out of the way just as Mace sailed by.

  He came to a meadow and spared a quick glance behind him. The Gerb and his minions were still on his tail, just entering the edge of the clearing.

  Though they were pretty far back, Mace knew from watching TURBO races that no lead could ever be taken for granted.

  He gritted his teeth as he entered a heavy canopy of pine branches, dodging jagged tree roots and plowing through patches of snow. The terrain grew steep and treacherous, but he had no choice. He couldn’t slow down. The Gerb was within taunting distance—and closing. “You’re toast!”

  You’re probably right, Mace thought, and then the slope before him dove dramatically. He launched off the hillside and into the air.

  He imagined he was piloting a TURBO trimorpher into the sky. He wished for wings, but . . .

  . . . instead he landed hard, wheels pounding, teeth rattling, skidding to avoid a sharp-faced granite outcropping. He nearly lost control. But he didn’t! He rumbled over a softer bed of fallen pine needles.

  Time for the rocket booster?

  He shot a look over his shoulder. Carson had chosen to navigate the boulder slope cautiously. The yellow-haired kid behind Carson had been more daring and wound up pitching forward. He sailed off his bike, landing with a thud among the graying snow banks. Mace pulled his eyes away.

  His pain, my gain. He didn’t need the booster now, not yet.

  He descended through the pines toward Boulder. The lodgepoles gave way to fatter ponderosas and leafless oaks. A trunk came at him like a blur. He nearly collided with it, but swerved in the nick of time.

  The hillside leveled off. Streets were visible through the evergreens. A city park opened up. Like a TURBO terrain transition, Mace thought. Air-to-ground. Make every morph matter. He broke through the trees and swerved through a playground, dodging toddlers and their protesting mothers, and hopped a curb.

  “Watch it, hotshot!” one mom barked. “Other people live here, too!”

  Don’t mind me, Mace thought. I’m just passing through. Fast.

  Carson and his remaining henchman emerged from the park. Like a cave bat, Mace didn’t need to see them. He could hear the pulse of them, feel their presence. He knew they were closing in fast. Mace stood on his pedals and gave it all he had.

  He saw a tall building with a red, tiled roof up ahead. The city’s urban trail system ended at the edge of the university campus. Home of the Colorado Museum of Aeronautics and Aerospace Engineering—and a perfect place to disappear into a crowd.

  Mace gunned it across the quad, through a maze of buildings, toward the nearest bike path.

  He knew Carson was hot on his tail. Mace veered to miss two lovebirds holding hands. The Gerb came around a corner from an unknown shortcut and caught up to him, clipping his back tire, forcing Mace to wobble and then dodge a skate rat who was somehow boarding while texting.

  Now or never, he thought, and punched the makeshift lever on his handlebars.

  The hammer fired against the nozzle of the gas canister, popping open the valve. A sickening swell of inertia yanked at Mace’s gut. He accelerated faster than he’d expected—it felt awesome. He let out a “whoop” without even meaning to.

  His pursuers fell behind. Mace’s chest filled with relief as he snuck a peek over his shoulder and realized he could barely see them anymore.

  It worked! I won!

  Mace squeezed the brakes, once and then again. But he didn’t slow down! The booster was just too powerful.

  It was then he realized: he’d forgotten an off switch.

  The path ended up ahead at the foot of a building. He swerved onto the grass. His trajectory took him careening through hedges. There was no stopping. He screamed as he slammed into a chain-link fence at full speed.

  The links caught his force and then sprang, flinging him backward on to the ground.

  His lungs were flat. He gaped like a landlocked fish. Carson was on top of him before he could catch his breath. Mace tried desperately to wiggle free and escape, but the Gerb grabbed hold of Mace’s shirt and twisted the collar into handles. “Sweet-talk your way out of this one,” he growled. He pulled Mace off the ground and then slammed him down. The back of Mace’s head smacked the earth.

  A sickening ringing came to his ears, and then—nothing. Silence. All the sounds of the world were gone. He yelled but couldn’t hear his own voice.

  Deafness. A wave of panic overtook him.

  He thrashed wildly, finally bucking Carson off. His attacker stood and stepped away, leaving Mace keeled over and panting.

  His hearing came back to him. He snapped his fingers in front of his ears to confirm it and released a sob of relief. “Leave me alone!” he growled at Carson, who had taken another step back in confusion. “Just leave me alone, will you?”

  The Gerb brushed grass clippings off his sleeves. “Why are you always so weird?”

  Mace coughed and grimaced. The pain in his head grew from the back forward. He had slammed his cheeks and nose into that fence awfully hard. He tried to hold Carson’s stare, but he had to look away to hold back the tears.

  At least he could hear. The Gerb grabbed his bike and sped away, hooting and hollering.

  Mace sat up and hugged his knees against the fence, staring at his Frankenstein bike. So much for his clever mods. And world’s number-one TURBOnaut? Yeah, right.

  Two bent rims. One flat tire. Handlebars pretzel-shaped. A perfect metaphor for his Frankenstein life.

  Chapter Four

  He might have sat there all afternoon, growing more and more depressed, except that the building in front of him finally caught his attention. A sign on the lawn read:

  College of Engineering and Applied Science

  Home of the Colorado Museum of Aeronautics

  and Aerospace Engineering

  Mace looked up and saw giant banners running down either side of the main entrance. The old-school Event Horizon was pictured below a headline that read, The History of TURBO Racing.

  I made it! Mace rose, rubbing his hip to push away the pain.

  He locked his busted bike to the nearby rack and took the steps two at a time. He followed the TURBO banners through the corridors, past occasional college students. He stopped for a minute to gaze at a glass case displaying an early NASA spacesuit worn by a Boulde
r graduate. He paused to skim the graduate poster presentations—biotechnology advancements, nanotech research, materials science breakthroughs . . .

  College looked awesome. But . . . universities were expensive. He knew his parents didn’t have that kind of money. They worked four jobs between them, just to pay rent. He’d only get to college with scholarships, and that’s why he’d be spending his summer in a mechanical engineering camp put on by the U. While the Gerb traveled the world, he would be here, building battle bots and model rockets.

  He put his hands in the pockets of his grass-stained hoodie. Heavy feet carried him forward through the labyrinth of hallways.

  When he finally arrived at the lobby to the exhibition hall, his spirits rose. An early-model rocket booster, polished and gleaming, hung suspended by cables from the dome ceiling, dangling over the admission desk. Mace felt a smile cross his face.

  Look at those external nozzle flaps! How many blades per turbine? And the vanes . . . looks like an early Morton-Brown T4 series. Carbon polymer, or alloy?

  “Welcome!” a large poster read. “On tour: get up close with a legendary early TURBO craft.” A grainy photograph dominated the lower half of the sign: President Martin Luther King Jr. standing in front of Event Horizon following one of its numerous victories in the first year that TURBO racing officially became a sport. The president was shaking hands with its pilot, Quasar, whose mysterious identity remained hidden behind a black visor and all-black flight suit.

  Mace approached the young woman behind the desk. “Hi. Can I get a ticket, please?” He slapped his school ID badge on the counter.

  She looked up from a book, startled. “Ticket for what?” she said.

  “The Event Horizon exhibit.”

  “Oh,” she said, shaking her head. “No. That ended already, I’m afraid.”

  “What? Why?” Mace’s hood fell back.

  “Are you okay?” the girl asked, studying his face. “Were you in a fight?”

  Mace ran a hand through his short, dark-brown hair. There was a natural part at the front of his scalp, and he had a permanent tuft of hair that stuck straight up over his forehead. It sprang back into place as his hand passed over it. Bits of grass rained down onto his shoulders. He pulled his hood back on. “There’s no way I could get in and just take a quick peek?”

  “Sorry—no. Owner wasn’t happy with the turnout. Canceled in a hurry to get to a larger venue. Do you need some ice or something?” she asked, peering into his hood.

  “Please . . . ,” Mace begged, stuffing his hands into pockets to hide the fact that he was so upset he was starting to shake. “It’s for a school assignment. I promise I’ll be—”

  “I would if I could, but the machine’s already gone. Boxed up at the airport, ready to be shipped off to the next museum. You could go see it in Albuquerque this weekend.”

  “Albuquerque! That’s—” Mace’s hands balled into fists. He unclenched them. “Thank you anyway,” he told the college girl.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Can I at least give you some ibuprofen? Your eye is swelling shut. It’s gotta hurt. What’s that cross pattern? You insult a waffle iron?”

  “A chain-link fence,” Mace admitted.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “At work.” He sighed.

  “Well, give me their numbers.”

  “I’m fine,” Mace said.

  “Listen, I need to call someone. You’re a mess. It can either be your parents, or campus security. Up to you.”

  “I can take care of—” Mace paused, then ground his teeth. His bike had bent rims and a flat. He had no money for a bus. Walking home from here would take ages. He was stiff and miserable. He gave up and told the girl to text his mom.

  “You don’t have a phone?” she asked.

  Only kid at school who still doesn’t. Thanks for rubbing it in my face. He sighed and shook his head.

  She picked up the phone at the desk and punched in numbers.

  Mace rolled his eye that worked. He put his hand over hers. “I told you, you have to text her.”

  “Huh? I’m not supposed to use my personal phone at work.”

  Mace forced a smile. “Just—will you just text her, please? Or let me do it?” He wasn’t in the mood to explain his reasoning to a stranger right now.

  Her expression made it clear she thought he was being difficult, but she pulled a smartphone out of her pocket and slid it across the counter to him.

  “Thanks,” he replied.

  A few minutes later he shuffled out to the curb to wait for his mom. She would come. She always did. But she’d be furious with him for costing her a half a day’s pay.

  As he sat next to his broken bike on the cold sidewalk, watching the sunset, he thought about Event Horizon. In real life, the term meant the line beyond which light can’t escape a black hole. Figured. Like a law of physics, Mace was trapped on the ground, while the world of real TURBO racing happened beyond his reach.

  Chapter Five

  The car ride home was silent. A silence like peanut butter on the roof of Mace’s mouth. Sticky. Uncomfortable. He put on the radio. His mother stared forward with her hands gripping the steering wheel. She wouldn’t glance his way.

  Was it just his imagination, or was her long black hair flecked with more gray than before? Sunspots speckled her temples, and short pale lines radiated out from the corners of her eyes. She was small and thin, almost delicate, but she had a hard set to her jaw that made her seem all the more intimidating when she was mad.

  “Why are you getting into fights again?” She spoke the words aloud. She rarely used her voice. But she wouldn’t look at him, so it was pointless for him to offer an answer.

  They turned onto their street, dodging a mangy-looking cat that bounded beneath a rusty truck on cinder blocks. Mace stepped out of the car at their driveway to unlock and roll back the chain-link gate. His mom pulled forward, and Mace closed the gate.

  She got out of the car, and Mace ran up behind her and tapped her shoulder. Finally, she gave him her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he signed.

  “Fix your bike. Then go to your room,” she signed in reply. The veins on the backs of her hands stood out strongly.

  “I didn’t start the fight,” he signed.

  “You never do,” she answered, and marched into the house.

  “But it’s true,” he complained out loud, but her back was already turned, so she couldn’t read his lips.

  In the garage, he banged his bike rims back into shape and patched his flat tire as night fell. When he finally came back into the house, he found an ice-bundled cloth waiting for him on the counter. He pressed it to his swollen eye. The house was silent. Mom was on the couch, staring at the TV with the sound off but the closed captioning scrolling. Mace touched her shoulder. She turned to look at him. He pointed at the cloth and signed, “Thank you.”

  “Are you okay?” she signed back.

  He nodded.

  Her lips grew straight and firm. She signed, letting her frustration show: “Clocking out early will make us tight on money this month. It’s a big deal, M. It has to stop.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” His eyes smarted. He masked them with the ice wrap.

  “We’ll talk about it when your dad gets home.”

  Mace slouched to his room, kicked his legs up, and fell heavily onto his bed. He shifted the ice to the other eye.

  How could he make them understand? Fights kept finding him, because . . . well, maybe he was at fault. This rivalry with the Gerb, for example, had started last year. Carson had been mocking a deaf person, waving his arms around and making noises. And without thinking, Mace had slugged him, giving el Gerberino a bruise that had lasted a week. Mace had avoided suspension by offering to work in the mechanic’s shop on school vehicles. He was already doing that anyway, but the principal hadn’t known about it.

  Mace listened for his father’s car. The neighbor’s dog was barking. Other than that . . . noth
ing. Even Mom’s television show was silent. To Mace’s trained ears, silences were different from one another. This one was thick, chunky, like milk that had been left on the counter too long.

  How could he have missed an up-close encounter with a TURBO craft? Event Horizon had been in town all week! Free admission! But he’d missed out. And he still had to write a report on it. Typical.

  The report! He better get started on it.

  Mace fired up his old desktop computer, typed “Event Horizon TURBO” into the search bar, and lost himself in watching archive footage of the first-gen trimorpher.

  It went seamlessly from ground to water to air, the exhaust ports flapping open and closed as it throttled up and then throttled down. The wings cut the air so that vapor streamed off the tips of the fins. When Mace looked close enough, he could see that there was a pulse to the vehicle. Like a heartbeat. It rippled along the hull.

  The other vehicles didn’t display the same . . . poetry of movement. Sabrewing, Navigator, Patriot—that year’s top finishers—showed no hint of similar . . . grace.

  Event Horizon and her masked pilot had almost won the first Gauntlet Prix. But a crash had ended their bid for the Glove. The pilot, Quasar, whose true identity had never been revealed, had vanished after that fateful accident.

  Mace watched the crash from several available angles. Quasar had built a comfortable lead but had braked sharply coming into the final stretch. Sabrewing almost smashed into Event Horizon but veered at the last second, clipping Event Horizon’s wheels. There was a flash at that moment, washing out all camera angles. Probably an exploding coupler. Quasar lost control, snagged on the road shoulder. The vehicle flipped, hitting the track’s concrete safety barrier.

  The explosion had been massive.

  Why had Quasar braked when there was no need?

  Mace searched to learn more about the masked ’Naut in Black. Conspiracy theories were all over the map, with evidence pointing everywhere. Some believed the TURBO Association had covered up Quasar’s death. Some believed the pilot remained in a coma to this day. One site swore Quasar was now a pig farmer in Iowa. Mace couldn’t begin to guess which theories were true.