TURBO Racers

by Austin Aslan

  The pack of hounds continued shouting questions. “Tempest Hollande, you’re a telecommunications giant. Why are you suddenly so involved in TURBO racing?”

  Tempest turned back to the reporters. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. The name Hollande will soon be synonymous with this sport. Mark my words. You’re seeing history in the making. Thank you.”

  Mace followed Tempest into the sloping tunnel leading beneath the stadium. When Aya branched off toward her locker room, Tempest kept marching forward. Mace made his move.

  “Don’t drag Aya into this,” he said.

  “Aya’s not your concern. She’s only here to jack up dicer stock. It’s called diversification.” Tempest and Mace locked stares. “Who’s helping you?” she demanded in a low growl.

  Mace blinked. “No one here but me.”

  “And I’m the Queen of England,” she spat. “Last chance. Who put you up to this?”

  “Mickey Mouse,” Mace told her.

  “Enjoy your third-place finish in a Pro-Am dog and pony show,” she spat. “I’m more confident now than ever that letting you go was smart.”

  Mace looked after her, flabbergasted.

  “I offered you everything. Everything. Fame, fortune, a completely reinvented life. You threw it all away.” Tempest leaned in on him. “I was going to feed you to my lawyers. I could really twist the dagger, take everything from you. But I’ve changed my mind. Keep your secret. Don’t tell me who’s backing you. I’m used to having enemies. It’s the cost of doing business when you get to my level. We’ll settle this on the track. You’ll learn then that you’re nothing without me.”

  “Maybe,” Mace said. He shook his head. “And maybe it’s the other way around—and you’re just afraid that even with all your gadgets and money and cheats, you’re the one who’s really nothing.”

  Tempest turned her back on him. “This is precious. I can’t wait to see you at the Prix. We’ll see just how far you get on your own.”

  Mace’s knees suddenly felt wobbly, but he smiled confidently. “I guess we will,” he told her as she stormed away. “I guess we will.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Mace stepped out onto the giant plaza feeling small and humbled, surrounded on all sides by towering stone buildings, government headquarters and old hotels. The Zócalo—the ancient Aztec square where the Gauntlet Prix would begin—was perhaps the very heart of Mexico. At the center of the plaza, a green-white-and-red Mexican flag—the largest flag Mace had ever laid eyes upon—rolled on the breeze like an ocean wave.

  A hurricane was gathering strength somewhere out in the Caribbean, but Mace would never guess it by the calm blue skies and cartoon clouds overhead.

  Around the square, all sixteen Prix-qualifying trimorphers were on display in roadster form. Under heavy surveillance, VIP Pit Access badge holders strolled about. Team jerseys and memorabilia were for sale at every turn. Curbside street vendors sold tacos, tostadas, chicharrónes, tortas, and licuados. In his street clothes, Mace mingled with the crowds. He wandered unnoticed even by the fans decked out in orange-and-blue Trailblazer gear. Renegade signs and emblems were everywhere.

  He found his way to Trailblazer, showed the security crew his team-access badge, and slipped into the tall tent to focus on his final race preparations.

  Inside, Dex handed him a tablet. “They’re making a couple changes around the Keys to account for the choppy weather tomorrow.”

  “Is your family safe?” Mace asked.

  “I’m not worried for them. Most of these storms lose their steam before they kick into high gear. I’m guessing there will be updates to the route as we go.”

  Dex turned back to the pile of paperwork he was filling out as Mace took a seat in a folding chair and lost himself studying the Gauntlet Prix routes.

  They’d begin in the square, here, in just a few hours, then dart out toward the Gulf of Mexico and the Yucatán Peninsula. For most of the day they’d morph from air to ground to water and back again as they pierced the jungle depths. Then after reaching Cancún, the competition would transition to open ocean, where they’d fly and dive their way to Cuba. That was only day one! They’d overnight in Havana. Stage two would wrap up the following day with a wide swing through the Bahamas and Florida Keys, with a ground race finish along Miami’s South Beach.

  The tent flap opened wide, flooding the interior with daylight. Mace shielded his eyes. A man in a pushed-down ball cap stood in front of him like a shadow.

  “Ahmed!” Mace shot up.

  “She knows it’s me,” he said. “I don’t have much time.”

  Team Trailblazer’s security guard burst into the tent and reached for Ahmed. “Hey, buddy, credentials only!”

  “It’s okay!” Dex came to Ahmed’s side. “¡Está bien! He’s got clearance. We’re cool. We’re good.”

  The security guy backed off. “Just doing my job.”

  “We know. ¡Gracias!” Dex said as he ushered the guard back out the door. He tied the loose tent flap shut.

  Ahmed wasted no time. “Tempest must have paid off someone at the Association. She’s knows I’m helping you. She’s absolutely furious. She fired me.”

  “So come work for us,” Mace suggested, growing excited.

  He shook his head. “I would love to, but you’d be disqualified for partnering with a rival crew. But I have to give you this.” He spoke hurriedly. “It’s a radio decryption key, set to our team’s frequency. Put it on board Trailblazer. Use it only for safety. You may need to listen in on them, or comm directly with Aya, in case she runs into life-threatening trouble.”

  “No.” Mace crossed his arms. “No cheats.”

  “This isn’t your call,” Ahmed told him. “And this isn’t for you. It’s for Aya and Henryk. For their safety.”

  Mace frowned, thinking. He shook his head.

  “Aya’s aware of the risks. But the Prix often takes ’nauts far from immediate help. And that’s exactly when Tempest will instruct Henryk to strike. This will be the only way to reach out to Aya if she needs help. I don’t want you to use it to gain an advantage. It’s only for emergencies.”

  “Okay,” Mace reluctantly agreed. “But I’ll only use it if I have to.”

  “Good.” Ahmed sighed. “She’s planning something, Mace. I just can’t figure out exactly what it is. She wants Henryk to build a huge lead coming into Miami on day two, at any cost. I mean, huge.”

  “She wants a sensational win,” Dex interpreted.

  Ahmed waved his finger at that. “No. There’s more to it. She had me build a second Continuum. A perfect copy. It’s hidden on the Cuban coast.”

  “Another cheat? Having a backup on hand in case Henryk wrecks?”

  “She couldn’t pull that off,” Dex scoffed. “Cameras will be everywhere. The race is televised by remote drones!”

  “Not the ocean runs,” Mace noted. “Especially underwater. Those drones only appear every half mile or so.”

  Ahmed paced the room. “Yes. But to take advantage of those gaps, she’d have to be planning something specific. You can’t just dispatch a back-up vehicle anywhere and hope for a crash there.”

  Continuum. Mace racked his brain. Tempest didn’t do coincidences. She’d chosen that name for Henryk’s trimorpher even though he’d had something else picked out. Why?

  “Continuum,” he said. “And Infinity.” They were intense names. Heavy on physics. Kind of reminded Mace of Event Horizon, and Quasar.

  He gasped. “Oh, no. No way.”

  “What is it?” Dex waited with bated breath.

  “I know what she’s planning,” Mace said. He clenched his jaw, hard. “And we’re not going to let her get away with it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It was official: the hurricane had veered north, projected to shoot far to the east of the Bahamas by tomorrow afternoon. The Gauntlet Prix would proceed as planned. Mace had never doubted this. There was simpl
y too much money on the line to dare let a silly tropical storm interfere with the world’s most-watched sporting extravaganza.

  Mace was secure in his smart cushioning, going over his countdown checklist while Carson and Mr. Gerber conducted final inspections. The roadsters were lined up in pairs along José María Pino Suárez Boulevard, parked parallel beside the steep bleachers erected in front of the Palacio Nacional. Trailblazer occupied slot number fourteen in row seven. To his left was Katana, and to his right, the stands. Beyond Lotus was the expanse of the Zócalo, empty save for the giant Mexican flag erect at its center. Two TURBOnauts were behind Mace in positions fifteen and sixteen: Apocalypse’s Randall Horseman, wearing his old Golden Glove, and Leon “Napoleon” Dubois, piloting the crimson-and-slate-gray Guillotine, who had qualified for six of the last seven Prix without ever placing.

  Mace eyed the beautiful gold-and-silver Continuum directly in front of him. Henryk was visible as a silhouette behind the canopy, making his final vehicle checks.

  Mace glanced at his radio display. One push of a button and he could toggle over to Henryk and Aya, listen in to their comms with Tempest. But only if he had to—and only toward the end, tomorrow, approaching Miami.

  That’s when Tempest would spring into action, executing her grand conspiracy. Mace knew it. He would be ready.

  Dex spoke to him over one of his displays. Dex was already in Havana at their team headquarters. “I just got a text from your parents,” he said. “They’ve landed in Miami.”

  “Good to hear.” Mace’s mom and dad had never had passports before and were unable to get them rushed in time for the Gauntlet. But the finish line in Florida was the best place for him to meet up with them anyway. “Tell them I’ll be there faster than anyone else.”

  Dex grinned. “That’s the spirit. Will do.”

  “How’s the weather holding up?”

  “The storm has stalled out way east, beyond Puerto Rico. You’re going to have pretty rough seas coming into Cuba today, but the final word is we’re still a go.”

  Mace felt a familiar prerace flutter of nerves punch his stomach. In five minutes, he’d be airborne, the eyes of the world on him, the safety of his mates and the integrity of this whole sport in the balance.

  “This is good news for us, Mace. The skimmers are in for rough stretches. And you’re a quick thinker. You can roll with the changing conditions better than these old dogs.”

  An announcement went out over the loudspeakers, echoing throughout the Zócalo. “Ladies and gentlemen, damas y caballeros, start your engines!” The trimorphers fired up, and the roar of each roadster filled the ancient Aztec square like a volcanic eruption. Mr. Gerber scurried off the starting line clutching his clipboards.

  Carson lingered. He signed to Mace. “Good luck.” He looked so proud. “Make all M-O-R-P-H-S matter.”

  Mace’s jaw dropped. He laughed. “Thank you,” he signed back.

  “Hey,” barked Dex. “You’re doing it again. Ignition. Now.”

  Mace flicked the roadster on as the grand marshal waved the green flag. Peeling tires screeched over the roar of the engines. The air filled with smoke, and roadsters in front of Trailblazer pulled away. Carson bolted for shelter. Mace watched, in a trance, as Lotus, Guillotine, and then Radioactive disappeared around his left flank! The Gauntlet Prix had begun.

  “Ouch,” Mace said. He’d already been passed! He touched the gas, and Trailblazer came to life. Her joyful growl beneath his seat, emanating up through him to rattle his rib cage, filled him with fire.

  The sixteen racers made a wide lap around the Zócalo, then spiraled inward for another, tighter lap. Tire smoke filled the square like steam in a boiling vat. After a winding sprint to the center flagpole, the only exit would be straight up, giving expensive-ticket holders an unforgettable show before the trimorphers lifted skyward and bolted from Mexico City on their marathon dash toward Cuba, the Bahamas, the Florida Keys, and ultimately Miami.

  Mace was in last place, but he was inches away from Randall Horseman’s bumper. He watched the leading racers spiral inward while sharply drifting, as if being drawn into a vortex. Iron Dragon was first to reach the flagpole and hit the launch ramp. Untouchable, Pterodactyl, and Carpe Diem sprouted helicopter blades, enjoying the best maneuverability for their tight, upward climb. The effect was a metal tornado as the vehicles swarmed upward, dodging the luffing Mexican flag before slingshotting east toward the Gulf of Mexico.

  Mace veered inward, reached the launch ramp, and morphed to air.

  As he did, barely yet airborne, Guillotine and Apocalypse collided in front of him! They fell out of the sky, out of the Prix. Mace shot forward, up, circling wide of the explosion and the ejected pilots. The flag had shifted direction suddenly, snapping Guillotine’s rotors like a whip, sending Dubois caroming into the next vehicle. Mace exhaled. He was supposed to be in Horseman’s position, had he started on time, and he would have crashed instead.

  His late jump off the line had saved him.

  Thanks, Gerbs! he thought.

  The drama of the opening was forgotten in the slog toward the Yucatán. For an hour, Mace patiently gained on the rest of the pack. When he reached the Gulf of Mexico, he was exactly where he wanted to be, in eighth place behind hometown hero Darwín Maldonado of Evolución, and South African juggernaut Trevor Bosha, piloting Midnight Sun. Beyond them, Iron Dragon, Pitchfork and the all-woman cast of leaders piloting Untouchable, Blacksmith, Pterodactyl, and Castle.

  Aya wasn’t far behind Mace. Henryk was several slots farther back. Biding his time, Mace guessed. I know he’ll be coming.

  Underwater in the Gulf, he overtook Blacksmith. Bethany Ironsides had switched owners and sponsors three times in the last four years. Her homelessness in the sport was a drag on her.

  And when he reached the first jungle stretches west of the Yucatán, he finally caught Akshara Brahma. She was a study in perfect execution. Her morphs were flawless. Her pace was steady—but also predictable. Mace could read her like a book. She took an inside curve the way a top bot on the simulator would. And Mace drifted wide around her just as he used to back at the Boulder arcade.

  Bosha was Mace’s next focus. He inched up on Midnight Sun, eventually leaving him behind. And then, of course, there were Ariel Pterin, Talon, Taz Nazaryan, and Darwín Maldonado, visible ahead in Mace’s sights, but on the top of their game.

  “You’re right on track,” Dex praised him. “Keep it up.”

  Mace pushed the gas and drove on.

  The fifty-mile-long underwater stretch of Laguna de Términos west of the Yucatán was shallow and smooth. Mace held the line, doing everything right, letting the power beneath the hood of Trailblazer do the lion’s share of the work.

  “Storm’s building again,” Dex reported. His tone hinted at genuine trouble. “Turning west. They’re throwing the word ‘hypercane’ around.”

  Mace’s stomach sank, not out of fear, but disappointment. “Figures,” he said. “These things seem to follow you around.”

  “I wish that were funny,” said Dex.

  The TURBOnauts were a bit spread out from each other, but Mace wasn’t letting himself get complacent. The Yucatán jungle was next up. The race would tighten there.

  Iron Dragon grabbed the advantage off the next pit stop before the road race toward Cancún. In roadster mode, the rivals coalesced into a tighter line, blowing past crumbling Mayan pyramids buried under centuries of choking vines. This was anybody’s checkered flag. Mace cut Aya off, darting forward to overtake her on a downhill drift. She spun out and ran off the shoulder, then stopped, facing the wrong direction.

  The road transitioned from what seemed like a green trench into a tunnel—the overhead jungle canopy arched over the course. Trailblazer’s tires gripped the road but squealed their annoyance as g-forces spiked.

  Continuum unleashed a burst of sudden speed, disappearing around a distant bend. Mace’s eyes narrowed behind his visor. Was Henryk giving him the slip?r />
  “No, you don’t,” Mace growled through clenched teeth. He primed the compression coils and pressed his foot down on the pedal.

  He leaned into the curve, throttled to full power, and then tackled the straightaway through a marshy lowland rainforest.

  They curved, and curved again, flying blindly along the tight green slit between jungle walls. He passed Pterodactyl, Avalanche, and Carpe Diem.

  The race entered the city of Cancún. Spectators lined every roadway, shoulder to shoulder, several people deep. Mace nailed the mark at his pit stop, fueled up, replaced his tires and transformer modules, and blazed away down the beachside boulevard teeming with fans in bathing suits and bikinis. He maintained his slot in the standings, just behind Henryk.

  The path opened up. Finally, ahead of his rival, Mace could make out the launch ramp. My favorite part, he thought.

  “You’ve got Lotus on your tail, half a mile back,” said Dex.

  He hadn’t realized Aya was so close behind. Of course she would have recovered from his nudge a while ago.

  Iron Dragon was already airborne, visible as a shrinking red-black missile. Continuum launched into the sky and morphed, wings appearing. Henryk spiraled as he rose and, like that, was gone into the blue.

  Mace hovered his finger over the transformer toggle and closed his eyes. Trailblazer crossed onto the ramp and tipped upward. Mace felt the change of angle in his marrow. The front wheels passed beyond the ramp edge and came free of the ground. “Now!” he hollered to himself, opening his eyes and pounding the knob. His timing was flawless.

  Trailblazer folded up its tires, extended its wings and dorsal fin, and pierced forward into the sky without losing one microsecond of inertia.

  The jungle canopy was suddenly far below him, a disheveled green shag carpet. The afterburner roared, and Mace felt an unexpected joy as he drew closer to his rival.

  Dex came on. “Uh, crazy news, Mace.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Storm’s getting stronger—and fast. The Association is shortening the race. Checkered flag will be in Havana. Today.”