Titans

by Victoria Scott

  Magnolia smiles.

  “You sure we can use your track?” Rags asks.

  “I said you could,” Barney responds, already reaching for a second muffin though he hasn’t eaten the first. When he finishes his breakfast, he helps Rags unload the giant crate and rolls it a good distance from the truck. Rags reaches down and messes with a padlock. It takes him several minutes before it unlocks. So long that Magnolia makes a joke about him packing an atomic bomb in there instead of a Titan.

  “That thing is an atomic bomb,” Barney says.

  “You built him,” Rags says as the lock pops open. “Don’t judge too harshly.”

  Barney belly laughs. “That’s why I judge so harshly.”

  “You built this thing?” Magnolia asks the portly man.

  Barney salutes her. “Titan 1.0 Senior Engineer at your service.”

  My eyes dart to the box, a chill rushing over my skin. A Titan 1.0, he said. The very first model ever designed. They never even made it to the track, and there’s no mention of the machines on cyclonetrack.com. The only thing I ever found about them was a single blog post by a Titan enthusiast, who said the first model was quickly discontinued because of jockey/Titan misalignment.

  “This is a first edition?” I ask, my voice breaking.

  “The most advanced version created,” Barney responds. “It was all downhill from there.”

  I doubt that’s true. Otherwise, why wouldn’t Hanover Steel still make them? Before I can think more on this, Rags lifts the lid. I stare in wonderment at the machine—the steel a shade too dark, its hooves a touch too bright. Other than the color difference, I can’t see what makes this model a 1.0, and the others I’ve seen 3.0s. What am I missing?

  Rags slips off a key from his ring and inserts it into the horse’s control panel. At first, nothing happens, but after Rags pushes a few buttons, and eventually slams his open palm against the machine’s side, a soft whirring sound begins.

  “Holy cow,” Magnolia whispers.

  “After all this time,” Barney says at the same time.

  As for me, I stay quiet. But a spark of electricity shoots from my feet, up my torso, and down into my fingers. And when the Titan stirs in its black and yellow coffin for the first time—a simple twitch of its head—my heart jackhammers in my chest.

  I lean forward, my pulse thrumming in my ears, and inspect the Titan.

  “Careful,” Rags says.

  I stretch out a shaking hand, my mouth painfully dry, and lay it ever so gently on the machine’s neck. Cool metal rumbles beneath my fingers for only a fraction of a moment.

  And then its eyes flash open.

  The entire coffin rocks and the machine thrashes from side to side. Magnolia releases a small scream, and Rags grabs me and yanks me backward. As the four of us look on, the horse continues to flail until finally, finally—

  The Titan rises to its feet.

  I can’t think past anything besides the Titan stepping out of the crate and moving toward me. Rags tries to block the machine’s path, but I won’t budge. I’m too busy studying the creature’s nostrils flaring, and its eyes fluttering. I’m too preoccupied with the sleek black steel that’s in desperate need of a good polishing, and the screeching sound its body makes as it moves. I can’t stop staring, and so when the horse is just a hand width away, I forget to be afraid. Until it stops. It’s a machine, after all, weighing in at eight hundred pounds. And the way it’s looking at me isn’t comforting.

  The Titan bends its head and sniffs my tank top. Then it blows out through its nose like it’s not at all pleased with what it smelled. Realizing we’ve got to get things moving, I lift my hand a second time so it can get a good whiff of my scent. Don’t animals like that? Smelling things and such? Only when I do this, the Titan throws its head back in irritation.

  And then it bolts for the woods.

  “He’s on auto!” Barney yells, running for Rags’s truck. Rags sprints after him, telling Magnolia and me to stay put. But there’s no way I’m leaving my only chance at a new life running through the woods without following it. Magnolia and I jump in the bed of the truck, and though Rags yells something vulgar over the growling engine, he doesn’t take the time to toss us out.

  The truck kicks up dirt and barrels toward the fleeing Titan. Magnolia and I hang on as we fly over large rocks and hit dips in the field surrounding Barney’s house. Before long, we’re blazing between trees, and I catch sight of the horse dashing ahead. A thick branch flies toward our heads and I tackle Magnolia moments before it would have hit her.

  I get on all fours as the wind whips by and breathe in the smell of soil and sugar maple trees. The truck jerks to the right, and though I’ve braced myself, I roll to the left and smash into the side. Almost immediately, the truck slams to a stop. At first I think it’s because Rags and Barney heard us rolling around in the back, but when I peer over the side, I see the real reason.

  The Titan is on the opposite side of a creek, tangled in vines and whining frantically. I’m struck dumb for a heartbeat, surprised to hear the animal produce such a sound. Then I’m flying over the side, Magnolia hollering at me to keep my distance. But she doesn’t understand that when I see the Titan, I see that eviction notice. I see my grandfather dying. My family falling apart.

  I see myself alone.

  Rags and Barney are out of the vehicle now too, but they won’t reach the Titan as fast as I will. I dive into the creek—frantic from the race through the woods—and trudge across the waist-deep water until I reach the machine. The vines are wrapped around its neck and back legs, and the horse is hysterical with fear. But that can’t be right. It’s a robot. An intricate system of parts and gears built for entertainment. How could it possibly be afraid?

  I approach slowly, my hands outstretched to show the beast I don’t mean any harm.

  “Leave him,” Rags yells. “Don’t touch him, Astrid.”

  But I’m afraid that if it continues jerking around, the animal will suffer irreparable damage. I can’t let that happen. So I grab the first vine and pull.

  The Titan goes ballistic.

  I almost fall beneath its stamping feet, and I swear on my sketchpad that the Titan nips me on the shoulder. Gritting my teeth, I lunge for the vines again. This time I’m able to tear one away, and then another.

  Rags reaches me as I rip the last of the vines away. When the Titan realizes it’s free, it raises up on its back legs and hooves the air. I fall back, transfixed by the machine’s size, glimpsing my reflection in the black steel. When it touches back down, it sniffs me again, but with interest this time instead of anxiety. I don’t move a muscle, just gaze into those two black eyes staring back at me.

  Rags tosses himself over the Titan’s side, pulling himself up with the faux horse hair falling down the machine’s neck. The second he lands on the horse’s back, the creature loses its mind. Bucking, the Titan takes off down the side of the creek. Rags hangs on with impressive agility, and after he runs his fingers over the control panel, the horse lurches to a halt. Breathing deeply, he turns the horse back toward us and leads it into the water. I wade after him as Magnolia and Barney cheer from the other side.

  “You still got it,” Barney crows.

  “Without a saddle and everything.” Magnolia claps her hands in appreciation of Rags’s performance. When I show up on the opposite side of the creek, dripping water, Magnolia clears her throat. “Oh, uh, you did well too, Astrid. Way to snap the vines like a champ.”

  The Titan remains in place as Rags reaches into his truck and withdraws a set of reins used on real horses. He threads it through the Titan’s mouth and pulls the thin leather straps over its neck. The horse heaves as he does this—a false animation I’ve never seen on a Titan 3.0.

  “What’s wrong with that thing?” I ask as Rags dismounts. “Why did it take off on its own like that?” I’m soaking wet and infuriated that this day isn’t going smoothly. The sponsor race is next weekend, and we’ve wasted preci
ous time chasing this psychotic thing through the woods instead of practicing.

  “I forgot to turn off the autopilot function,” Rags says gruffly. “I didn’t know he’d be so rambunctious after lying dormant this long.”

  “Rambunctious?” Magnolia says, voicing my exact thought. “Titans can’t be rambunctious. They can’t be anything. They’re machines.”

  “Oh, you didn’t tell her?” Barney slaps the outside of his thigh, belly shaking with laughter.

  “Tell me what?” I ask.

  Rags leads the Titan away.

  “Hey, Rags. What are you not—?” But I don’t finish the thought, because the answer comes at once. “Oh, man. No way. This is not happening.”

  “What?” Magnolia says.

  Rags guides the horse into the back of the truck, and turns back to us. When he doesn’t respond, I glance at Magnolia.

  “That thing has, like … thoughts or something.”

  “Emotions,” Rags corrects.

  “And thoughts,” Barney says. “Don’t cut yourself short, Rags.”

  I take a step toward Rags and stare him down, orange hunting vest and all. “Wait, you created this thing? This was your design?”

  “He was the senior architect on the project,” Barney answers for him. “Not as important as the senior engineer, but you wouldn’t know it with how those architects tout their own work.”

  Rags glowers at his feet as if I’ve caught him doing something deplorable. But it doesn’t matter, does it? In fact, it’s fantastic that we have these two guys on our side. If something goes wrong with our horse, he and Barney can make the repair. When Rags can’t avoid my gaze any longer, he mutters, “That’s how Barney and I met. We worked at Hanover.” Rags’s brow furrows and his expression changes to one of frustration. “What does this matter anyway? Let’s go back and get started.”

  I follow after Rags, and Magnolia and I squeeze into the backseat of the truck. During the entire return trip to Barney’s place, the two of us face the truck bed, watching the Titan. It lies down, four legs folded beneath its body. Even when Rags rolls over bumps and ditches, the creature doesn’t move.

  It’s a far cry from the savage machine I witnessed galloping through the forest.

  After we return to the outskirts of Barney’s track, Rags says it’s time to teach me the control panel. He punches some buttons and the Titan lies down, sniffing at the grass. Once Rags has my attention, he launches into an explanation of how everything works. First, he points to the handlebars situated on either side of the board. “If you’re ever riding, and something goes wrong, grab on to these and hang on. Understand?”

  I nod, and he points out the ignition slot that’s currently engaged and self-explanatory. The key turns the Titan on. Next is a black turbo button. It’s covered by a silver flap that I can flip up with my thumb, and Rags explains that it’s covered for a reason.

  “This button is what triggers the Titan’s racing capability,” he says. “Push it when the starting gates open and the horse will enter manual transmission.”

  There’s a smaller black button above the covered turbo one, so I ask, “This is what turns on the Titan’s eyes, right?”

  “You got it,” he replies. “That sends a signal to the Titan to ready itself to race. Then the turbo button is like a detonator.”

  “So many buttons, so little time.” Magnolia leans against Rags’s truck, chewing a lengthy blade of grass like she’s a prairie girl born and raised.

  Rags ignores her.

  “What’s this?” My eyes take in a small silver switch in the top right corner of the panel. Like the black button, it has a cover, but its cover is made of plastic instead of metal, so you can see through to the switch beneath.

  Barney gazes over Rags’s shoulder. “That’s what this old timer forgot to turn off before he started the Titan’s engine.”

  Rags chews the inside of his cheek like he’s not sure he’s ready to cover that part of today’s lesson. Eventually he shakes his head like, What does it matter? and says, “That’s perhaps the most important part of the Titan 1.0. This is what the Gambini brothers were afraid of.”

  “It’s what threw Arvin on his rear!” Barney chokes on laughter.

  “Arvin rode this model?”

  “Not for long.” Rags waves his hand as if dismissing the subject. “All Titans can be placed on autopilot if their dashboard blows.”

  “If the Titan is pushed too far past the slay zone,” I offer.

  “Exactly, but don’t worry too much about his control panel. The only thing that could take this baby down for good is a blown engine.” Rags runs his thumb across the clear, rectangular autopilot cover. “This Titan can run on autopilot like today’s Titans can. But because it experiences emotions like fear, and even a sense of competitiveness, it can make the machine more …”

  “Unpredictable?” Magnolia’s voice is thick with anxiety.

  Rags furrows his brow and says too fiercely, “No, not unpredictable. Just different, that’s all.”

  I don’t believe him. Magnolia pegged it when she used that word. Even if today’s Titans run on autopilot, they’re following a set of programmed backup responses, and the way it would run would most likely be less risky than what a jockey would have the machine do. But autopilot is a last-resort scenario, and there’s no reason to believe the control panel would ever malfunction.

  Rags pats the horse on his back. “We’ll eventually need you to learn how to ride using both manual and autopilot in combination. Certain tracks will require your use of cognitive thinking, particularly that math you think you’re so good at. While other times, especially for off-track sprints, it’ll be best to let him go on his own.”

  Nope.

  There’s no way I’d ever trust this thing to run on its own, but I don’t need to tell him that.

  We then move on to the stopwatch, which looks archaic compared to the digital ones installed in Titan 3.0s. He shows me the gear sticks on either side—positioned above the handlebars—that navigate the horse from side to side, back and forth.

  Finally, he shows me the performance gauge.

  When I run my fingers over it, the hairs on the back of my neck rise. The gauge resembles a speedometer, but instead of numbers, it includes a length of green arching from the bottom left to the very top. After that is a stretch of yellow—the caution zone. And then there’s the slay zone; a small length of scarlet red that extends from the yellow strip to the bottom right-hand side of the glass circle. The slay zone, more than anything, is what takes down Titans. Jockeys get too greedy for the win, and forget about the permanent damage they can inflict on their machines.

  Running your horse in the slay zone is also dangerous to the rider, like racing a four-door family sedan down a major interstate at a hundred miles an hour. A standard vehicle isn’t built for such things, just as a Titan isn’t built to be pushed past its limits. A flash of the jockeys who have died crosses my mind once again. I can see their faces, all of them, in succession. So far, the Gambini brothers’ race has cost Detroit four of its citizens’ lives.

  At some point during my lesson, Barney and Magnolia come out of the house with iced tea, and cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches that I’m sure Magnolia made. We eat like champions, and after I wipe my mouth, I return my attention to Rags. Tired of listening versus doing, I ask him, “Can’t I please just ride it? I’ll learn a lot quicker that way.”

  “First, no, you can’t just ride it. Second, stop calling the Titan an it. It’s a he, and he’ll respect you a lot quicker if you treat him with respect.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “Okay, let’s get real. You may have designed the thing to include some sort of canned emotions, and maybe a computer programmer made it so the horse mimics human reactions with a prerecorded set of responses, but that thing”—I jab a thumb at the Titan—“is a machine. That’s it.”

  The Titan snorts.

  I give it a confused look as Rags grinds hi
s teeth. “Call it a he.”

  “It,” I say.

  “Astrid,” he growls.

  “Iiiiit,” I respond, knowing I’m being childish.

  Rags turns toward his truck. “This is never going to work.”

  “Ah, come on, Rags,” Barney says. “It was hard for the Gambini brothers to believe at first too, remember?”

  Rags opens the door to his truck. “Get in.”

  My heart plummets. “What? That’s it?”

  The old man slams the door and stomps toward me. “Look, this isn’t your normal Titan. In order to ride him, you’ll have to form a connection. And the first step in that process is acknowledging that he’s not simply parts and pieces and coded instructions. He has … he has understanding.”

  Because I don’t want to lose this opportunity, I keep my remarks to a minimum. Instead I say, “Can’t I just turn off the autopilot like you did today?”

  “That doesn’t shut off the Titan’s emotions. Nothing can do that. Not with the EvoBox Rags designed functioning inside him,” Barney chimes in. “Besides, only using manual transmission means he’s not operating at his full potential. It’s like a human on allergy medicine. The kind that makes you drowsy, ya know?”

  Rags straightens to his full height. “Can you learn to trust this creature, Astrid? I mean really trust him? Because if you can’t, this will never work.”

  I glance down at the hunk of metal and ask myself if I could. The answer comes swiftly—no. I trusted others once before, and it was the worst mistake I ever made. But I trust myself enough to know I can operate any piece of machinery if it means staying off the streets.

  “I can,” I reply softly.

  “Okay, then.” Rags puts his hands on his bony hips. “Then give him a name.”

  “Ooh, ooh!” Magnolia hops from one foot to the other. “Let me. I’ll name it. Prince! Or, no, how about Channing Tatum … Tatum for short? Or, oh, let’s call him Sparkle Foot.”

  All three of us look at Magnolia after hearing the last one.