Titans

by Victoria Scott

  The horse snorts once, loudly, but keeps his eyes steady on the track. Steady. So eerily steady with his red, apocalyptic eyes and his black-as-death coat. It’s like he’s waited for this moment for years, gathering dust in a work shed instead of fulfilling his purpose.

  My blood burns. My eyes sting. I feel like my body will spontaneously combust.

  But Padlock is calm, stoic.

  Until the starting gate slides away, that is.

  Until the gun fires through the magnetic air.

  Until I push that magic black button and grab on to the handlebars and scream into the night.

  That’s when my Titan explodes beneath me like a volcano.

  Dormant for too long.

  Awake at last.

  The ground quakes as forty-two steel horses lurch from the starting gates onto the dirt track. They run close together, a school of fish swarming in the presence of a great white. But that’s not accurate. Because we are the shark. We are the thing with teeth and jaws and the instinct to eat everything in our path.

  And what’s in our path is a straightaway of possibility.

  The first chance to gain a lead.

  Padlock thunders beneath me, his neck jerking up and down, my left hand pushing the gas bar higher, feeling the clicks between my heels when my horse changes gears. For a moment, we are caught in the center of the storm, a swirling, tumultuous tornado of steel wrapping around our bodies.

  I flirt with the gas yet again, and expect us to break ahead of the pack. It doesn’t seem possible that we wouldn’t pull ahead while going this fast. But the other jockeys are taking advantage of the straight stretch of dirt too. And though my Titan feels invincible, he doesn’t seem to have the engine they do.

  In a matter of seconds, the horses barrel past on either side. The last one’s thigh grazes Padlock’s front legs and sparks fly. When the jockey glances back, I realize it wasn’t a mistake. Even if the jockey’s eyes weren’t shaded by the helmet, I know that backward look was a metaphorical middle finger waving in the wind.

  My chest aches when I realize that we’re in last place. It happened so quickly. The very first stretch. But what did I expect, really?

  To win, I’ll admit now.

  Against all odds and reasoning, I expected to win because I needed it so badly.

  Remembering that need now, I grit my teeth and latch on to the gas handle. The first turn is rapidly approaching, and the other Titans are already easing off the throttle for a graceful, smooth transition. But I can’t do graceful. And I can’t slow down. Not if I want a chance at finishing any place but last.

  “Ready, Padlock?” I yell. “Ready?”

  My Titan’s eyes burn brighter against the dirt, and I swear his speed accelerates a fraction though I’ve yet to push the accelerator. When I do, though—the turn finally on us—Padlock is ready. He heaves forward as I gauge the space between the inner gate and my Titan, between the track and the leaning body of my steel horse. A fraction more, and we’ll still make it through.

  I nudge the bar and turn the joysticks and lean away from the turn until I feel it through my entire body. An equilibrium. Like skating on a frozen pond, wearing your mother’s hand-me-down skates, and knowing without knowing exactly how far to protrude your hip and how fast to cut your blades so that you glide around that wintery arc without spilling. But skaters fall all the time, don’t they?

  They do.

  But we don’t.

  My Titan’s steel hooves swallow the ground as we take our turn. And then we’re pulling up and away—an airliner lifting into the sky, wheels tucking neatly beneath its belly. When I glance back, I notice four Titans have fallen behind. We are far away from where we need to be, yet there are not one but four Titans racing to catch up with us.

  If we can pass part of the competition in one turn, we can pass even more in the next.

  I lean forward in the saddle with renewed determination, the sound of the crowd dying in the distance. Cyclone Track winds away from the mass of bodies and encircles the stables, but it doesn’t lead into the woods. That’s later in the season—the hastily built tracks with perilous jams along every furlong. That’s the unknown.

  But this track I do know. I’ve studied the turns and twists until I could draw them with my eyes closed, a stubby length of chalk in my palm.

  Twelve furlongs. A mile and a half. So much time to gain ground.

  But will it be enough?

  Checking the stopwatch, I see only ten seconds have passed.

  I utilize more gas and the gears click once again. The remaining thirty-seven Titans take advantage of the next stretch, a cloud of dust kicked up by ravenous heels. Padlock can’t catch them, not without me moving past the safety zone. I eye the performance gauge and see we’re already in the yellow.

  Caution, caution! the orange needle cries, outraged.

  But now’s not the time to be cautious, is it? These other jockeys have to worry about the rest of the season, but there won’t be a season for me unless I win this race. I can’t afford a loss. Not one. Not ever.

  I shove the gas bar with my left hand, and Padlock jerks forward as if he’s relieved to have the slack.

  But it’s not enough.

  The other Titans continue to gain a lead with their superior engines. No matter. I don’t lose faith, because there’s another turn ahead, and four Titans still watching Padlock’s backside.

  Hang on, ladies and gentlemen.

  Don’t look away.

  Don’t blink!

  I touch the gas with feather fingertips and lead Padlock to the inside. There doesn’t seem to be enough space for him to squeeze by the other Titans. But there is.

  A slice of an inch.

  “Go, Padlock, go!” I roar.

  There’s no way he can hear me. I can’t hear myself. I can only feel my heart thrumming in my ears. My blood pounding through my veins. Sound vanishes, followed by every other sense—smell, touch, taste. Wait, no. There’s one left.

  Sight.

  Watch the turn, Astrid. Watch the ground and the gate and the distance Padlock has to lean. Block everything else out and run the numbers.

  Could I push him? Do I have room?

  Yes.

  I nudge the gas handle, and I swear my left knee nearly touches the dirt. I press it against Padlock’s side and lean so far away from him that I have to grasp his opposite side to keep from falling. There’s a woman jockey racing nearby. She looks in my direction and sneers. Her left arm swipes out to slap me away like an annoying gnat.

  Before I’m taken out, I needle Padlock’s joystick to the right and he slams into the woman’s Titan. We lose precious seconds, but the woman is gone, fallen back amidst a glittering cloud of sparks. Soon after, I pull Padlock upright and we bolt after the remaining Titans. Once more, I glance back to inspect what damage we’ve done, if any.

  Twelve Titans are a safe distance away, and another is a neck behind. The one that’s closely trailing us begins to catch up on the straightaway, but I count it in our triumphs since I know we can take him out cleanly in the next turn.

  Thirteen Titans behind.

  Twenty-eight in front.

  Three solid turns and two half-turns remain. I want to believe we have a chance, but then I remember that the Titans before us are there for a reason. And that each horse will be harder to pass than the last.

  I check my performance gauge: halfway into the caution zone.

  With one hand on the gas lever and the other on my Titan’s right joystick, I lean forward.

  And I push my Titan faster.

  We race onward, and over the next several furlongs and three turns, we gain a lead over another ten Titans. Twenty-three behind. Eighteen in front. Only two turns and a quarter mile left to go. I erase every thought from my mind. I forget about the finish line rapidly approaching. The crowd roaring in the distance.

  This is my race.

  This is my time.

  Pushing Padlock faster than ev
er before, I take the next two turns and cry out as gray steel whips by. We pass trees and rabid fans and Titans. How many Titans? I don’t know. I don’t know.

  There’s the finish line.

  Padlock throws his head and I squeeze the handlebars and let him run. It’s all I can do now. Hang on. Hold tight. Suck in a breath as we breeze across the finish line and a gun is fired once, twice, three times.

  And once more for good measure.

  Sweat runs down my face as I bring Padlock to a stop, fall forward on him and gasp to fill my lungs because all my oxygen is gone. It’s been stolen by the race. By the people pressing against the gates and the photographers snapping photos of the winner.

  The person who will proceed to the Titan Summer Circuit, free of charge.

  His silk is blue, a color that is all wrong on him, according to Magnolia. He removes his helmet, and then a red handkerchief tied around his mouth. Anger swells inside me like a storm cloud threatening to burst open. He stole my win. The same boy who spat that I’d never sit upon a Titan. But I did, didn’t I?

  I raced today.

  And I lost.

  In all fairness, I guess I wouldn’t have won anyway. Sixteen other horses finished before me in addition to Blondie Who I Want to Punch. I secured sixteenth place out of forty-two. On a better day, maybe I’d be thrilled. I rode a Titan against more experienced jockeys and I wasn’t in last place. But I’m not thrilled. Because now I have to go home and hope my father finds a job and hope that the bank will hold off long enough for him to get his first paycheck and hand it over. Everything I was racing for rushes back over me. Even the anger at Blondie fades under the pressure that threatens to crush my whole family.

  I slide out of the saddle and remove my helmet, ready to lead Padlock back to the stables, when the cameras turn away from the winner and start snapping photos of me and my Titan. Dirt is smeared across my face and forearms, and my entire body shakes from exertion, but the flashes don’t stop. A female reporter leans across the gate, calling out, “Hey, Sullivan, what kind of horse is that? Is it the next edition? A Titan 4.0?” A second reporter elbows the woman out of the way and calls out, “Who are you? You’re listed on the board but aren’t in the program. Are you a late addition? Who’s your manager?”

  Padlock shies away from the flashes, stepping back until his rear bumps into something solid. Almost immediately, my Titan is shoved forward. I turn away from the reporters and see that a Titan 3.0 has head-butted my horse. Padlock lowers his own head, seemingly embarrassed. I jog over, but before I can console him, Padlock incurs a second hit from a different Titan.

  “Hey,” I yell, facing the Titan’s owner.

  A jockey dressed in orange merely laughs. She finished in second place, has the smug smile to prove it, and is giggling with another jockey and pointing at my Titan. I glance around and notice several other jockeys have dismounted and are gawking at Padlock, some laughing, some giving looks of disgust.

  “Way to spaz out on those turns,” a jockey hollers, his cheeks scarlet. “Flailing idiots. Almost got the rest of us hurt.”

  “We weren’t flailing. We’d done turns like that—” I try to explain myself, stupidly, but now managers are joining their jockeys and scrutinizing Padlock.

  “That horse shouldn’t be here,” a burly man accuses, his thick arm around a jockey’s shoulders. “It’s not a 3.0.”

  “If it isn’t a 3.0, it should be disqualified,” someone yells.

  “Poseur horse,” a jockey coughs under his breath, making a bystander laugh.

  I turn in a circle, realizing jockeys and managers alike are taking the opportunity to turn their loss into background noise. The real spectacle is this faux Titan. And if they can peg me and him as freaks, then maybe the sponsors won’t think too hard about who won and who didn’t. After all, don’t they see how that one Titan messed things up for everybody?

  As more reporters close in, lured by the frenzy and bloodlust, I feel a slight brush on my back. When I spin around, I find Padlock trying to hide his head between my shoulder blades. He raises his muzzle for a moment, takes in the flashes and accusatory fingers and loud words, and cowers once again.

  That’s when I see it for the first time.

  The fear and shame in his eyes.

  The emotion.

  It isn’t a programmed response. The Titan is actually afraid, and sadness crinkles the corners of his heavily lashed eyelids. Fury builds in the pit of my stomach until it feels as though steam will shoot from my ears like every cartoon character I’ve ever seen. I spin around, my hands forming fists, and I face the first reporter I see.

  “Are you seeking a sponsor?” a man in a white starched shirt calls out.

  “Yes,” I answer. “My Titan and I are looking into our options now.”

  “Are you saying you’ve already been approached?” another one asks.

  “Several times. What I’m riding is a Titan 1.0, the first edition ever built. The best edition ever built. I’ve trained for less than a week, and this horse still beat out twenty-six others tonight. I have no doubt a better-prepared jockey would have won.”

  My eyes find the blond boy, and he scowls.

  “So you’ll be at Travesty Ball?” This question comes from a woman without a microphone.

  “If I don’t sign with a sponsor before then, yes.”

  Rags reaches me before I can dig myself in any deeper. “Get in the saddle,” he hisses. “Go back to the stables and wait for Barney.”

  “Where’s Magnolia?” I whisper beneath the shout of the reporters.

  Rags gives me a look like he’s going to strangle me for stalling, so I pull myself up onto a frightened Padlock. I’d like to give them one more piece of me. One more false smile and wave.

  Look how confident I am! Put that on your front page.

  But when I see Arvin Gambini, his brother, Theo, and the tall man from our church stomping toward Rags, I know it’s time to skedaddle. Rags unrolls the papers still clutched in his fist like he’s ready to go to war, and heads toward the brothers.

  I ride past the other Titans as more bulbs flash and jockeys yell for my horse to be disqualified. Even the crowd outside the gates seems uncertain. Do they want me to stay so they can bet on me? Or should they join the mob and cast me out?

  Also, who is this girl they’ve never seen before?

  No one special, I want to tell them. A moron who ran her mouth without thinking.

  When I get Padlock back into our unmarked stall, I dismount and watch as he cowers in the corner. “No way,” I tell him, stepping close and meeting his eyes so he knows I’m serious. “Don’t you dare let them make you feel bad. Did you see what we did out there? We passed more than half the Titans on that track. Titans with newer engines, being steered by jockeys much more qualified than I’ll ever be. You were amazing, Padlock.” I smile at him, run my eyes over his sleek exterior and steel-threaded mane. My heart clenches. “You are amazing.”

  “You’re amazing too,” someone says.

  Magnolia stands outside the stall with a look of awe on her face. “You really did it.”

  I pat Padlock on the side. “Actually, I didn’t. This horse could have won. But I didn’t know what I was doing out there.”

  “Coulda fooled me.”

  “Me too,” Barney adds, coming into view and opening the stall door. “And what you said to those reporters. Oh, man. The Gambini brothers are going to have a hard time kicking you out now. On one hand, we made Arvin look like an idiot. On the other, he needs all the publicity he can get.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Expansion.”

  “What do you mean, expansion?” I ask, but before Barney can answer, Rags rushes into the stall.

  “I did it,” he says, his orange vest glowing beneath the buzzing stable lights. “Er, maybe you did it. Either way, they’re going to let us stay.”

  “Stay?” My brow furrows. “What do you mean? It’s over. I lost.”

&nbs
p; Rags raises his eyebrows, and I grasp what he’s implying.

  “You can’t seriously think we should try for a sponsor,” I say. “I was upset out there. I acted like a cocky brat, and no one is going to want to work with me or an old, outdated Titan.”

  Padlock huffs, and I rub between his eyes. “You know what I mean,” I mutter to the horse.

  “A cocky brat is exactly what we needed. If we’re lucky, we might actually get an interview at the ball. All we need is one chance. Heck, if we could get a partial sponsorship, maybe we could come up with a way to get the rest.”

  “I could make you a hair accessory to end all hair accessories,” Magnolia breathes.

  I look back and forth between Barney, who is grinning, Magnolia, who is rubbing her hands together, and Rags, who looks in every way like a certified madman.

  “If we don’t get a sponsor at the ball, we’ll look like idiots,” I say.

  “Complete and total idiots,” Rags agrees.

  I bite my upper lip. “But you think there’s a chance?”

  The architect shrugs. “Sometimes sponsors fight for the jockey that makes the most noise over one slated to win. Not always, but it happens.”

  I scratch behind Padlock’s ear, and think how crazy it is that we’d even try for a sponsor. But we’ve come this far, and though we didn’t win today, I’m not sure we really expected to either. Why not push this further? “We did make a little noise today, didn’t we?” I say. My steel horse leans into my touch, and with my family’s future thick in my chest, I turn so that Rags can’t see my face.

  “I don’t even own a gown,” I mumble.

  “I can dig up an outfit for you,” Magnolia offers. “It won’t be ball-worthy, but it’ll be eye-catching.”

  I look at Rags to measure his reaction.

  “Might go along with the whole noise angle,” he suggests.

  I smile down at my hands, and crack my fingers one by one. Something I’ve seen my dad do a thousand times when he’s lost in his head. “Okay,” I say, “if we’re vying for four idiot awards, we may as well go all out.”