TURBO Racers

by Austin Aslan

  Mace felt a sudden, hot wave of electricity course through his nerves. “I did what you wanted!” he yelled.

  Aya frowned when she heard that. But it was only a brief flicker of confusion, and it vanished.

  “All three of you pack your bags.” Tempest smiled. “You’re going to the Philippines.”

  “Seriously?” shouted Henryk. “Even Mace?”

  Relief washed over Mace. But something else tightened in his stomach. He could have killed Aya. Nothing was worth that risk.

  Aya wrenched her arm back from Ahmed. “This is nuts. I’m quitting.”

  “No.” Tempest told her. “Hold on. I’ll get you a new dicer. You were amazing out there. We’re going to prove dicers are competitive, you and I.”

  Aya’s eyes narrowed, but she stayed silent.

  Tempest turned to Henryk. “You were pathetic tonight. You’re timid behind a real wheel. It’s a good thing you knew how to neutralize Dex, isn’t it?”

  Henryk’s face turned red to match his tousled hair. Mace wasn’t sure whether it was fury rising into his cheeks or utter embarrassment.

  “I was off tonight,” Henryk admitted. “It won’t happen again.” He looked up. Mace saw a dark, ravenous resolve come over the Norwegian’s face. “I’m better than that. I’ll win in the Philippines—or die trying.”

  The scary thing was—Mace believed him.

  The others exited the bay. “Aya! Hey, wait. I can explain,” Mace called out.

  “Explain it to the mountain,” she snapped. “You fooled me once, but never again.”

  What a nightmare. Event Horizon was history. He’d totaled a priceless legend. Dex was gone. Aya hated him—and Henryk was clearly out for blood.

  And then he wondered: When is this going to start being fun?

  Chapter Eighteen

  The week leading up to the Philippines Cross-Country TURBO Amateur Showcase was a serious drag. Mace wasn’t looking forward to saying goodbye to Dex, who remained at the facility for several days, waiting to catch a bus. Tempest had offered him a ticket home, but Dex wanted to visit relatives in Tucson while he was out west.

  Mace wasn’t feeling well. The tightness in his gut varied constantly from queasy to run-for-the-bathroom. He’d beaten Aya to the finish line, but his stunt had cost her nine stitches. The way she had clipped the rock face replayed in his mind over and over again. He easily could have ended her life.

  Only Dex would talk to him, but they only saw each other during morning meals. Dex’s schedule had transitioned back to daytime.

  “Got a good feel for her yet?” Dex asked Mace when they were the only two left in the dining room. His suitcase was propped beside him. Soon after Mace went to bed for the day, Dex would depart for the nearest bus station, in the town of Kayenta.

  He was referring to Mace’s new TURBO racer. It used to be Aya’s vehicle, before she switched to the dicer. Mace’s new ride was a copy of the original Event Horizon, but the differences were real. It was too streamlined, too smooth. It had extra compartments, and Mace suspected their purpose was to hide traps. He could pilot it well enough. But like a jockey on a stranger’s horse, they often didn’t get along. “I miss my old beast,” Mace answered. “I knew her every twitch. I should have gone easier on her.”

  “Did Tempest send it to the scrap yard yet?” said Dex.

  “She said so, but I hope not. I’ll convince her to fix it. Could make the difference when it comes to winning the Glove.”

  “Maybe I’ll use my payout to buy it,” Dex warned. “Show up in the Philippines, anyway. Caballero, pilot of Wild Stallion.”

  It was clear he was joking, but Mace had to ask, “Did she really pay you enough cash for something like that?”

  Dex winked at him. “Just about.”

  “Wow. Well, I’m not so sad for you anymore.”

  “Hey, Tempest bought my silence. It’s enough money that I’d be stupid to lose it. But I’d rather be in your shoes.”

  “What’re you going to spend it on?” Mace asked.

  Dex shrugged. “Cool boots and a cowboy hat. I’m still Caballero, after all. I ought to dress the part. I’ll figure the rest out with my sister when I get back to New York. Maybe we’ll go back to the D.R.”

  “You never told me much about your sister,” Mace said.

  “You never asked. Not much to say. She’s a twerp. We’re different. But she’s still my sis. What about you?” asked Dex. “You don’t say much about home, either.”

  Mace shrugged. “I don’t know.” He continued, though, sensing that Dex wouldn’t make fun of him. “My parents are both deaf.”

  Dex cast him a curious glance. “Deaf parents? You know sign language?”

  “Yup.” Please don’t ask me to demonstrate.

  “All right. Cool.”

  Mace frowned. “You think so?”

  “Well, I mean, not like, ‘Awesome about your parents!’ I bet it’s hard. But it’s neat that you guys got your own groove. And, you’re bilingual. Like the rest of us!”

  “I guess so.”

  “Of course you are.” Dex shrugged. “I heard there’s a difference, right, between being small-d deaf, or big-D Deaf? What’s that about?”

  “Yeah,” Mace answered. “Small-d deaf is a general term for defining hearing loss. Also, people who can’t hear but interact regularly with people who can usually go with the small-d label. Big-D Deaf is like my dad.” Mace’s dad never used his voice when he signed, and he wanted nothing to do with technology or devices that could give him hearing. “Being Deaf is who he is, not what he is. He’s proud of who he is. And my mom is pretty much the same, but she was born hearing, so she has one foot in each world. Sort of maybe like how Aya is both Japanese and American.”

  “I told her you want to apologize,” Dex said to Mace, like he could read his mind. “She’s still fuming, but she’ll come around. She knows Tempest put you up to it. She knows you’re a good guy.”

  Am I? he thought. I lied to Aya in order to win.

  I buried her.

  Made him wonder, Am I a small-c cheater, or a big-C Cheater?

  He asked Dex, “Did Henryk really do something to you in the water?”

  Dex’s eyes narrowed at the memory. “I think so. It was weird. I lost power right when he shot by me. But I can’t prove it, so, what can I do?”

  “I knew he was a skunk,” muttered Mace.

  “Yeah, well. You’re not exactly in a position to complain.”

  Mace slumped in his seat.

  Ahmed entered the dining room. “Time to head out,” he told Dex.

  The two boys rose and shared a buddy handshake. “Good luck, Mace,” Dex said. “I’m rooting for Aya, too. But just be sure one of you creams that guy, okay?”

  “You got it,” answered Mace. “Maybe someday you can show me the Dominican Republic.”

  “That’d be fun. And you can show me Colorado.”

  He watched Dex haul his suitcase out of the room, wondering if he’d ever see his friend again.

  On the day they were leaving for the Philippines, the knot in Mace’s belly went from a bad shoelace job to that thing that happens when you stuff your earbuds into a pocket.

  That morning, Tempest took Mace aside at the airport to give him a sneak peak at his new TURBO racer. His vehicle was folded into submersible form.

  The sub had a modified shape to it, including new fins and contours. A white 88 was painted on the nose.

  Mace pressed his palm into the metal hull, feeling, listening. He moved his hand upward, toward the cockpit, questing. Then he pinpointed it. The ridgeline, which was a couple inches higher than before, emanated a distinct thrum of energy.

  “We made a battery mod. Along the dorsal line.”

  “Battery? There?” he asked, discreetly glancing upward.

  “Why don’t you jump in the cockpit? There’s more to it you need to be aware of.”

  Mace nestled himself into his seat, and gave the steering wheel a tight
grab. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through his core, as if a race were minutes away. “You’re going to fix Event Horizon, right?” he asked Tempest.

  “No,” she told him. “It’s time to move this sport forward, Mace. My new models can carry more surprises—more ways to guarantee a win.”

  “I’m playing by the rules from here on out. Aya—that was too close . . .”

  Tempest took a deep breath. “Do you want to wear that Glove, or not?”

  Mace didn’t say anything.

  “You see this button?” She pointed to something under the dash.

  Mace crouched in the cockpit as well as he could. He found it. There was a new button beneath the steering column. “What is it? Something to do with the dorsal battery?”

  Tempest gave a single nod.

  “What does it do?”

  Tempest’s good eye studied him closely. “You should be smart enough by now to know when to stop asking questions.”

  Mace was silent for a long time. “I don’t need to cheat to win.”

  Tempest pursed her lips. “Who said anything about cheating? You know how the surface area of a tennis racket has more than doubled since tennis’s early days?”

  “Um . . . sure.”

  “It’s because someone realized that there was no rule saying you couldn’t use a bigger racket. And they won with it. Was that cheating? Or vision? What we’re doing is engineering bigger, better tennis rackets. We’re ushering the sport into a new—and more lucrative—age.”

  “Well, let’s go all the way, then,” Mace joked. “Laser cannons. That would guarantee a win.”

  “Yes, true.” She laughed. “But that’s clearly against the rules, and you’d never get away with it.”

  Mace stared at her. “So this is about what we can get away with?”

  “When is it not?”

  Mace laughed but stopped abruptly when he realized she wasn’t joking.

  “The winners in this crazy world are the ones who see the holes in the rules. And I’m going to make a fortune setting the trend. Just think about it. After we win this year, teams will buy up my vehicles, my innovations. They’ll get ahead. I’ll sell even more innovations. Then before we know it, audiences will be screaming for the excitement of new ways to duel on the track. Suddenly, pulse beams and deflector shields will be normal. And the name Hollande will have cornered the market! My logo will be on every TURBO racer.”

  “We’re trailblazers, eh?”

  “If no one’s blazing trails, Mace, the world has nowhere to go.”

  Mace wasn’t buying it, though. Blazing trails? Success through any means necessary didn’t feel like breaking new ground. It didn’t feel like an exciting business opportunity, either. If he was being honest with himself, it felt like cheating. And as far as big ideas go, cheating to win wasn’t only a well-worn path, it was older than dirt.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mace always knew traveling outside the United States would feel exotic. But when he glanced around Manila, he felt overwhelmed by the congested, brightly lit city. Wide boulevards lined with glass skyscrapers intermixed with small brick buildings. New skyscrapers were under construction everywhere, crowned with swinging cranes. Walking down a crowded alleyway, Mace marveled at road signs and storefront banners in English and Tagalog. He had to duck sagging power lines, he nearly tripped over a live chicken that had escaped a roadside vendor, and he snagged his shirt on rebar sticking straight out the side of a concrete building.

  Henryk’s red hair was matted down and damp. Dirty sweat streaked down his face. He was hanging close to Tempest and Ahmed as their group tried to catch a ride. Henryk’s eyes darted this way and that, like cliff swallows hunting bugs. When a street vendor jumped out to offer him a hat that was also an umbrella, Henryk yelped.

  Aya and Mace laughed at the same time. Then Aya seemed to remember that she was supposed to hate Mace. She frowned. He looked down at her forearm, wrapped from wrist to elbow with a long, rectangular bandage. Nine stitches there. A gnarly scar would remain on her arm for the rest of her life. A TURBO souvenir, courtesy of Mace Blazer.

  “Get a good look,” Tempest told them. “Next time you see this street, you’ll be zooming by at triple-digit speeds. Here’s our ride. Hop on.”

  They piled into a waiting jeepney. Half mini school bus, half jeep, this was public transportation in the Philippines. They were off to grab a peek at tomorrow morning’s starting line. Mace watched Henryk carefully. He seemed to snap out of a trance when Tempest mentioned the word “speed.” Mace could see that Henryk was suddenly focused.

  Henryk was going to be fierce tomorrow. Win or die trying. Mace would have to match that attitude. This was the last competition. Only one of them would go on from here.

  The jeepney carrying their group was airbrushed every color of the rainbow. Wooden banners hung on its sides: GOD KNOWS HUDAS NOT PAY, BOODLE FIGHT!, DRIVER NOT LIABLE FOR ANYTHING. A plastic Jesus blinked like a Christmas light above the driver’s bald head. The driver kept looking up at Mace, flashing him a thumbs-up every few seconds, then jerking the wheel to the left or right to correct his steering. He honked his horn at random intervals, waving to passersby lining the streets.

  The group reached the starting-line plaza. Already, several trimorphers were parked, waiting. Security patrols marched about, setting up a wide perimeter. Construction teams were setting up bleachers along the sidewalks.

  “You’re starting in the last three slots tomorrow. Take a quick look around; make good notes,” Tempest announced on board the jeepney. She sported large, dark sunglasses and wore a headscarf. She clearly didn’t want anyone to recognize her.

  “Tempest, these are trophy toy cars. I could beat any one of them in my sleep,” Aya said, taking in the scene on the street. Of the dozen vehicles already set up in line for the start of tomorrow’s race, four of them had hoods up, revealing Allied or Mazagatti hybrid-electric engines without so much as a dust mote on them, or Olympus-Niner thermocouples still wrapped in factory plastic. Mace spotted numerous extra gadgets that looked cool and were clearly expensive but might actually hinder performance during flight. He had to squint to fight the spotless shine of their hulls.

  Tempest cautioned them. “Don’t get the wrong impression. Most of these blowhards are indulging a fantasy, yes. But a few of these guys could’ve been pros. A few of them used to be pros. They want their glory back. Take nothing for granted.”

  A stray dog paused at the wheel of a banana-yellow TURBO craft, lifted its leg, and offered its appreciation. A man wearing an unrelenting yellow polo shirt yelled at the mutt, shooing it away. He spun around and scolded the crew. A boy was among the pit crew, leaning against the door of the vehicle. He was laughing, which only made the man more angry.

  Mace choked.

  The boy was Carson Gerber.

  He gave the Gerb and the yellow vehicle behind him a double take. The man in the polo shirt must be Robert Gerber, Carson’s dad. Which also made him Mace’s mom’s boss. Mace watched the Gerbers, fascinated. That yellow, it was . . . Mace couldn’t stress this enough—it was the single most vivid color his eyes had ever absorbed. Mr. Gerber stroked his thick brown mustache, carrying himself with pride. He was taking race prep seriously. Carson, on the other hand, reminded Mace of Henryk: full of himself, but with nothing to show for it. The Gerb lifted his leg, mimicking the dog, and his dad became visibly red faced in response.

  Mace filed out of the jeepney. Tempest had an arm around Aya. They were looking at a rival dicer, discussing something. Henryk had drifted separately into the plaza, getting close-up looks at the competition. Sensing a window, Mace took a deep breath and marched over to the Gerbers.

  “Hey, Carson,” Mace said. “So, what do you call this thing? Please don’t say Banana Peel.”

  The Gerb stared, his jaw slowly unhinging. “Mace?” he finally stammered, slowly rising from the stool he had occupied. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”

  Mace soaked
up the Gerb’s display of early-stage heart failure with glee.

  Robert Gerber stepped forward. He was on the plump side, with short curly hair to match his mustache. The polo shirt was tight on him and soaked with sweat. His smile was genuine and friendly. “Hi, Mace!” he said. “I was wondering if we’d run into you. How’s the internship thing going?”

  Mace was caught off guard by the strange twist in the conversation, but not as much as Carson was.

  “Internship?” Carson asked his dad.

  “He’s a TURBO squire,” the old man explained to his son. “Got into a summer program.” He pivoted to Mace. “Very cool stuff. Who are you crewing for? One of the new teams they just announced? All in black?”

  Of course! His mom would have bragged to everyone she knew about her son’s “summer scholarship”—especially her boss, who was an obvious TURBO fan. “I’m actually not allowed to say,” Mace told Mr. Gerber.

  “Ha! Okay. No worries,” Mr. Gerber said. “Cloak and dagger. I understand.”

  “How’d you get an internship with TURBO?” Carson asked him.

  Mace grew tight-lipped. No one was supposed to know who he was. It had been a mistake to wander over here, no matter how satisfying it had been to see the Gerb’s face melt like a wax statue under a hot lamp. “Oh, you know. Good grades.”

  “Congratulations, Mace,” Mr. Gerber said. “I told your mom I wasn’t surprised. I’ve always been very impressed with you.”

  “What do you call your racer?” Mace asked, pointing at the otherworldly-yellow TURBO craft. It was respectable-looking if you weren’t blinded by its sheer, blinding . . . yellowness. Well cared for, but with enough dings and scratches to suggest Carson’s dad wasn’t afraid to elbow his way through the pack.

  “Brown Trout,” Robert answered. Mace laughed. But the man wasn’t joking. Carson slapped a palm to his forehead, but his father beamed with pride as he spoke. “It’s a fly-fishing thing. Brown trout are actually pretty yellow, if you catch the lighting just right. And, plus, my mustache is brown, so there’s that connection.”