Titans

by Victoria Scott

  I peel myself off the worn vinyl seat and head toward the barn. Inside, I find the gray mare leaning her head out of the stall. I spot another horse too, a black stallion with one white ear, but he’s not all that interested in what I’m doing there so early, and soon disappears into his feed trough. The mare, however, whinnies for attention, and so I rub her soft nose while keeping my eyes on the back of the barn.

  Why hasn’t Padlock poked his head out yet? As a Titan, his hearing is heightened above flesh-and-blood horses. I give the mare one last scratch and then make my way to Padlock’s stall. When I see him huddled in the corner—a black tarp thrown across his back, his head buried in a mound of straw—frustration boils through my limbs. His eyes are unseeing, his body unmoving.

  He’s turned off.

  I throw open the stall door and search the wall until I find his key. Then I slip it into his ignition and turn, ensuring the autopilot switch isn’t engaged. Almost immediately, heat warms his cold steel body, and in another couple of seconds, the Titan draws up his weary head. It’s a much different reaction than the one he had the day we first woke him. He seems off-kilter now, as if he didn’t expect to have fallen asleep, and is now disoriented.

  “Padlock?” I say, kneeling beside him. “Are you okay?”

  His steel ears turn in my direction like mini satellites, and he moves his head so that it lies across my lap. I drop down into the straw—the morning light now slipping through the barn slats—and run my hand tentatively across Padlock’s smooth neck.

  “I don’t know why they turned you off, but I won’t let it happen again.” I think about Lottie, and how she agreed to pay for any expenses we incur. Well, one of them is going to be enough diesel fuel so that Padlock doesn’t ever have to be disengaged. If he’s to help us win this thing, he deserves to be cognizant at all times. “Guess what, horse. We got a sponsor. She’s going to pay our entrance fee so we can race in the circuit.”

  Padlock flicks his tail, which I take as a sign of enthusiasm.

  I glance at the stall door and listen to hear if anyone is coming. All is still, so I lift Padlock’s head and lie down in the straw beside him. Maybe he’s not groggy at all. Maybe it’s just this place, this certain time of day. When all is quiet and colors are muted and you can think clearly about what lies ahead. Or what happened in the past.

  My thoughts fall instantly to my father.

  You disappoint me.

  “Padlock, I want to tell you something.” My voice is barely a whisper, and already my throat is thick with lingering emotion. “I’d never be disappointed in you. No matter what happens this season, I’m proud to call you my Titan.”

  And then I lose it. Because right now, I need someone. It can’t be Magnolia, because she has her own problems. And it can’t be Rags, because he’s so much like the man I let down when I went in search of my colored chalks. But this here—this hunk of metal that’s burrowing his nose into my neck and looking at me with large, thoughtful eyes—this is perfect.

  I lie next to Padlock and ugly cry for several minutes, and not once does the Titan pull away. He only keeps his head close and nuzzles my side, and my belly, and sniffs at my hair. Only when I’ve exhausted myself does the horse climb to his feet. Leaning down, he nudges me to do the same. I shake my head because I don’t trust myself to stand on my own. But that’s okay, because Padlock is there, offering his strong neck for me to wrap my arms around.

  When we’re both upright, I wipe my face and snort real lady-like. Padlock stares at me dead on, almost as if asking whether I’m okay, and I grow ashamed. It’s ridiculous how much I’m letting my father affect me. And it’s ridiculous that I care whether a machine sees me crying. Rubbing away the rest of my tears, I say to Padlock, “This never happened.”

  Padlock snorts louder than I did.

  “I’m serious, horse. Tell anyone and I’ll spill the secret about your raging crush on Miss Gray down the aisle.”

  Padlock glances down the way as if looking for the mare, and then ducks his head.

  “Oh, boy. You know, you gotta do more than sniff at her if you want a chance over that white-eared stallion.”

  I allow my imagination to run wild and envision Padlock a year from now, long-legged gray colts fumbling after their father—half-flesh, half-steel. How awesome would that be? Pretty sure it’s entirely impossible too. But then again, I wouldn’t have thought architects and engineers could create a horse with human-like emotions, and yet Padlock surprises me more every day.

  When the sun has appeared enough so that I can see the stable in all its run-down glory, Rags makes his way outside. He has two paper plates in his hands, and frustration masked across his face. When he sees me, he lifts one in offering. “I was right. Barney’s kitchen is useless. But I got a couple of eggs from the coop, and found a ripe tomato in his garden that somehow survived his neglect.”

  I leave Padlock’s stall and stride toward him.

  He clears his throat. “You, uh … you get done whatever it is you needed to get done out here?”

  I take the plate and dig the fork into the scrambled eggs, kicking my leg back onto the stall behind me. “Yeah. Thanks for this, Rags.”

  My manager leans back and shovels food into his mouth.

  “I don’t want Padlock being turned off anymore,” I say between bites.

  The old man studies me for a moment, and then looks at Padlock’s outstretched head. “He’s programmed to experience fatigue after enough physical exertion, so resting shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “So he can stay on?”

  Rags finishes off the rest of his eggs. “Yeah, fine.” After tossing our plates into the aluminum trash can, he says, “You ready to train, kid?”

  “I’ve been ready all morning.”

  “That’s good,” he replies. “Because we’re going to try something new today.”

  For the next two days following Travesty Ball, I train with Rags. Magnolia comes along on Friday, so she’s there when I attempt—for the hundredth time—to race Padlock off-track. The lesson is simple: learn to trust my Titan enough to use autopilot. But I can’t get the image of that first day out of my head; the one where Padlock ran like a feral animal. He seemed faster then, sure, but he also seemed volatile, and I’m not sure I could have reined him in the way Rags did.

  So I tell my manager, when Padlock and I dive into the mouth of the forest, that I engage the autopilot for a few seconds longer each time. He drives to the other side of the dense crop of trees and waits with a stopwatch while Magnolia cheers me on. But I never get faster. Not that I’m slow. Far from it, Rags says. But of course the constant turns Padlock and I make to avoid tree trunks and thick, claustrophobic foliage work to our advantage. Still, according to Rags we should be gaining speed with each run, at least a fraction. Padlock is programmed to learn patterns and anticipate almost any challenge when operating on his own.

  “Plus,” Rags says, pulling on his stubbled chin, “the horse should want to improve. It should want to win.”

  Yeah, sure, maybe computers can want things, I think to myself. But not the way I do.

  “Maybe it’s because it lacks competition,” Magnolia suggests. “When Astrid switches him to autopilot, maybe he’s not running at his fullest potential because there aren’t other Titans around.”

  Barney quirks an eyebrow. “Not a bad theory.”

  Rags considers this. “Astrid, you sure you’re using autopilot?”

  “Yep.”

  Nope.

  “And you’re keeping it on longer each time?”

  “Yep.”

  Nope.

  He shoves his hands into his hunting vest. “Maybe we should have you start on autopilot and see what happens.”

  Tension forms a tight ball between my shoulder blades, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to actually attempt this autopilot business. Rags glances at me sideways, as if he’s had me figured out this whole time and is just now calling me out on my lying.


  Barney is mumbling his agreement that this is a good idea when I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching. I turn in Padlock’s saddle and spot a pearl-pink luxury sedan cruising down Barney’s drive. The Jaguar emblem on the front has been replaced with a shiny L set with giant rhinestones.

  Rags curses under his breath as the Jag pulls off the gravel drive and heads straight toward us, slicing a path through the tall grass. I see Lottie smiling through the windshield as bright as that sparkling L announcing her arrival. She’s still grinning when she steps out of the car.

  “I don’t know who you are,” Magnolia breathes as my sponsor climbs out of the car. “But I know I like you.”

  Lottie laughs easily. “You must be Astrid’s friend. I’m glad I’m met with approval.”

  “With a car like that, you’re met with my deepest respect and servitude.”

  “Would you like to drive it?”

  Magnolia’s eyeballs nearly burst from her head. “I don’t … I don’t have a license. I got my permit, but I never took the test.”

  “How’d you find this place, Lottie?” Rags asks, interrupting their conversation.

  “I’ve been here before, remember?” Lottie glances back at Magnolia. “You can drive it around Barney’s property, if he doesn’t mind. Just don’t take it on the main roads.”

  Magnolia looks at Barney, and Barney looks at the Jaguar.

  “I ain’t gonna be seen driving a pink car,” Barney says gruffly, but he’s already walking toward the vehicle, running his fingers lightly over the hood and licking his lips.

  Lottie tosses Magnolia the keys, and just like that I’m abandoned by my best friend. Barney slips in the passenger seat, pointing to the gauges excitedly, his mouth moving silently behind the windshield.

  The woman chuckles. “How are you, Astrid?”

  Deciding I’m being rude, I dismount and come to stand beside Rags. “I’m good. Thanks.”

  For the first time, I see Lottie is holding a large envelope in her left hand. When she sees I’ve noticed it, she brings it to her chest as if she’s afraid I’ll steal it away. “I brought the season schedule,” she says, her eyes running over Rags’s face. “They’ll announce it tonight along with the jockey-sponsor lineup, but I wanted to show it to you as soon as possible.”

  This time, Rags can’t hide his enthusiasm. He rushes toward Lottie and snatches the envelope. Lottie steps in closer as he studies the schedule, stopping occasionally to look at her as if she were giving off a manure-esque smell.

  “There was a separate packet that included information on the Circuit Gala, and interview opportunities. The Gambinis are really putting on the works this year.”

  Rags hands me the schedule.

  “I guess the preliminary races will be harder than the sponsor race, huh?” I ask.

  “Bet your bottom they will be. A lot of those jockeys don’t put in much effort during the sponsor race because they’ve already aligned with someone beforehand. Don’t want to push their horse too hard before they have to.” My manager shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve proven you can run with the best of them.”

  “Why is that?” Lottie asks sincerely.

  Rags glances at her like he’s seriously considering feeding her to an alligator, if only he could locate a handy swamp. “The kid’s got a gift. What are you trying to say?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean anything—” Lottie begins, but I cut her off.

  “It’s fine. Honestly, I think we were all surprised my Titan did as well as it did last Sunday. I like the turns because I can calculate how to lean into them, I suppose. But really, it’s the horse. It was well-designed and well-built.”

  Rags’s face brightens from my compliment. “Baloney. The kid races well because she has more to lose, and more to gain. Simple as that.”

  “So she’s a fighter,” Lottie chances. “She’s fighting for what she wants.”

  Oh, man. That look. Rags glares at Lottie, his jaw working back and forth. Whatever she said struck a serious nerve. After an uncomfortable moment, he takes the schedule back. “First prelim is next week. We need to start training harder, and get you prepped for the circuit races at the same time.”

  “Those are the ones with the jams, right?” I ask.

  Rags meets my gaze. “Don’t be afraid of those.”

  “I’m not.” I square my shoulders, and Padlock nudges me from behind, reminding me he’s there, and that he’s also unafraid. Or so I like to believe.

  “You’ve got a lot of training to do,” Lottie agrees. “But don’t forget I need her from time to time.”

  “What the heck for?” Rags challenges.

  “For publicity training,” she responds. “And to learn about her competition. She can’t effectively outrace the other jockeys until she understands them.”

  Rags looks at me like I had a hand in what this woman’s proposing, but actually, what she’s saying makes sense. So I shrug and utter, “It’s in the contract.”

  My manager grumbles about the “blasted contract” and something about a “devil woman,” and eventually waves his fingers at Lottie’s face, excusing her from our space. Then he all but shoves me into the saddle and instructs me to run the same path, and that he’ll meet me on the other side.

  He leaves Lottie standing alone in the tall grass as he beelines for his truck, and I shrug an apology, not sure what to say. Padlock prances beneath me, showing off for our new company.

  I check my Titan’s gauges and reposition my feet in the stirrups, readying myself to shoot through the forest. I even allow my finger to linger over the autopilot switch in case Rags is watching.

  “Faster this time,” Rags roars out the driver’s side window. “Eight days until the first prelim!”

  On Sunday afternoon, two days after she first arrived, Lottie demands her first hour-long block.

  Magnolia is beside herself with excitement.

  Barney has cleared a room in his colossal, albeit crumbling, farmhouse, and says we can use it to do our “girl stuff.”

  “How was church this morning?” Magnolia asks.

  “Awkwardness at its finest,” I respond. I’m not sure my family said more than ten words to one another.

  “Good times.” Magnolia cringes as we climb the burping stairs, eyeing the dusty black-and-white photographs of people we’ve never met, places we’ve never been. “Do you think Barney inherited this place?” she asks, changing the subject.

  “Without a doubt,” I respond. “He got his hands on this house because his daddy left it to him, and he does nothing to keep it maintained. But that’s Barney for you. He’d be just as happy living in the barn, and that’s why you can’t hate him for lucking into a place like this.”

  Magnolia runs her hand over damask wallpaper that peels at the corner. “It could be beautiful.”

  When Lottie hears us coming, she pokes her head out of the small room and grins. Her dark hair is pulled into a French braid, and she no longer wears the makeup she did at Travesty Ball. I can see her more clearly this way, though her features are less defined.

  “Magnolia, I’m thrilled you’ve decided to join us.”

  “Uh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Any woman who drives a pink Jaguar is someone I’d like to learn from.”

  Magnolia drops down in a chair, crosses her legs, and folds her hands on her knees. “Annnd … begin.”

  Lottie laughs and glances in my direction. “I take it you aren’t quite as enthusiastic.”

  “I need all the time I can get on Padlock,” I admit. “But you’re my sponsor, and we made a deal.”

  Lottie crosses the room to where oversized sheets of paper are pinned to the wall. She picks up a red Sharpie from a cleared table and writes these words:

  Etiquette

  Grace

  Aspirations

  Loyalty

  Strength

  She sets the pen down. “We’re going to learn about these five words every day, for an hour a day, exc
ept Sundays.”

  Magnolia raises her hand.

  “Yes, Magnolia?”

  “Today is Sunday.”

  “Today is an exception.”

  Magnolia nods like this is the most obvious thing in the world.

  Lottie sets her gaze on me. “The first thing we’ll go into detail on is etiquette. But because your first public race is in six days, we’ll briefly touch on the others as we go along. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Got it.”

  Lottie smiles. “Sit up, dear. And from here on out, you’ll call me ma’am. This falls under the umbrella of etiquette, which are societal rules set by the upper class.”

  “But I’m not upper class.”

  “No, you’re not. And don’t you ever be ashamed of that. But proper etiquette is a language in which you should be fluent. That way you can communicate with anyone, on any level, and gain their respect. You don’t always have to use this language, but you’ll have it in case you need it.”

  “Cool,” I say.

  Lottie stares at me until I modify my response.

  “Uh, that’s cool, ma’am.”

  Magnolia rubs her hands over her thighs. “I’m going to like this. I can tell.” She opens her arms. “I am but a piece of clay, madam. Make me into something more.”

  “Shut it, Mag,” I mutter.

  She sticks her tongue out. “Bite me.”

  Lottie returns to the board. She draws five lines from the word etiquette and attaches those lines to new words—meals, gifts, invitations, attire, language. “For the next hour, we’ll go into detail on how to eat a proper meal, and the utensils you should be familiar with. We’ll discuss what gifts are appropriate to give, at what times, to what people, and what amount is proper to spend. We’ll talk about invitations, and how it’s important to extend them to people of influence even if we don’t prefer those people, and how to respond to invitations we are granted.