by Austin Aslan
Mace had to think about that one. He played a few measures of each tune in his head. A, B, C, D, E, F, G . . . “Holy cow, you’re right!”
Quasar leaned forward. “Your youth is the key, Mace. The sport’s been trending younger for years. It’s no secret that younger ’nauts are more fearless, have quicker reflexes. The oldest pilot on the circuit these days is thirty, and he’s clearly washed up. My hope is that you are Mozart, in your own way.”
“Me? Mozart?” His cheeks flushed with sudden pride. “Okay, I like it.” He motioned for the praise to continue. “Keep talking.”
The famous tune to Mozart’s “Requiem” began to rise in volume somewhere from the back of Mace’s imagination . . . but scratched to a halt when the mysterious figure spoke up.
“But you’re going to have to prove it.”
“Huh? I thought I just did.”
“There are three other contenders. Over the next several weeks you’ll compete against each other for the right to race in the Gauntlet Prix. Only one of you will proceed.”
“Hold on.” Mace squeezed his temples, grasping for meaning. He felt a stab of fear. He blurted the first excuse that materialized. “How does this . . . ? I have school, and parents, and stuff.”
“So do the other three. We’ll start when summer break begins.”
“And my parents . . . ?” Mace was drowning in sudden doubts.
“What about them?”
“They’ll never allow this. They’ll think it’s dangerous.”
Quasar rapped gloved fingertips on the leather armrest. “If I can construct a secret facility under Monument Valley without tipping off the authorities, I think I can handle your mom and dad.”
Quasar seemed so certain, but Mace knew TURBO racing was dangerous for an adult—forget about a twelve-year-old. TURBO vehicles crashed in practically every race. And some of those crashes were fatal. Plus, there was something shady about this. He was talking to a masked figure operating out of a secret lair.
“I’m pretty sure I’d have better luck convincing them that Batman wants me to join the Justice League,” he said.
“No one says no to me, Mace. My offer will be . . . persuasive. Plus fifty percent of your winnings.”
Mace thought hard before answering. The silence stretched out. The fire in the hearth was fed by gas, but he almost imagined he could hear the crackle of real logs. Or maybe he was hearing the sound of his brain overheating. Winnings?
He knew: TURBOnauts earned serious coin. No more double shifts for Mom and Dad.
A knock came at one of the doors. “Enter,” Quasar called. The door slid into the wall with a hiss, and a finely dressed man with olive skin tone and dark, thick eyebrows nodded to them both. Mace thought he knew this man, but couldn’t place him. He turned to the figure in black. “Apologies for the interruption. Your phone calls to select . . . individuals . . . in the Colorado governor’s office and the Pentagon . . . have worked. Denver news is reporting the search has been called off. There’s no indication whatsoever that Mace is being tracked.”
“Thank you, Ahmed.” Quasar drew Mace’s attention to the man in the doorway. “Meet Ahmed Habadani, Mace. He’s my chief mechanic, and he’ll be your crew leader.”
“’Sup,” Mace said, waving, feeling a bit awkward.
“I’m glad you finally made it over to the exhibit.” Ahmed winked. “Down to the wire with you.”
Mace shot up. The guy who had given him the Event Horizon pamphlet on his way out of the mall . . . “You’re . . . him! I thought you worked at the arcade.”
Ahmed shrugged. “In a manner of speaking, I do. I ‘work’ at lots of arcades.”
“Get him home,” Quasar instructed to Ahmed, then turned to Mace. “Ahmed will speak with your parents, arrange everything.”
“Wait. Slow down.” Mace thought of something.
“No one says ‘slow down’ to a TURBOnaut,” Quasar cautioned.
“Sorry. Just—you need to know something. My parents are deaf,” he said.
“So?” Quasar demanded.
Mace was relieved. The news landed like a big nothing burger. Sometimes people could be so weird about it, though. The worst was when they felt sorry for him. He didn’t need anyone’s pity. That’s why he hadn’t been in the mood to explain his situation to the girl at the university.
“Makes sense, I suppose,” the retired pilot said. “You’ve been trained your whole life to listen to the world around you in different ways. No wonder you could speak to Event Horizon and hear what she had to say.”
This is really going to happen. . . . But then he frowned, remembering some advice his dad had shared with him when they were shopping for a used car: Never rush into a deal, M. If the seller’s in a hurry, then they’re probably trying to pull one over on you. And, really, had anyone ever bought a car from someone hiding behind a smoky visor and a black helmet?
“Who are you really, anyway?” he finally asked. “I feel like I’m talking to a Power Ranger.”
“First things first,” Quasar insisted. “Finish school. You and your parents will sign the paperwork and we’ll talk after that.”
“I’m supposed to attend a mechanical engineering camp this summer,” he revealed. “My parents already put down a deposit—”
“This is the opportunity of your lifetime,” Quasar said, cutting Mace off. “You can be a star.”
Mace released a deep sigh. What was the point of continuing to play twenty questions? “If you can convince my parents, I’m in.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” he stated.
They shook hands.
Mace felt lightheaded with excitement. But he wondered: What had he really just agreed to?
Chapter Nine
The next week was a blur. The Gerb had left school early. He turned in his report and went off with his dad on their family’s amateur TURBO fun-time scavenger hunt of blah. Yawn. Mace was glad he was gone. He never would have been able to keep his mouth shut with Carson constantly yammering about TURBO this and TURBO that.
I WAS THE GUY WHO STOLE EVENT HORIZON FROM THE AIRPORT! NOW I’M GOING TO BE IN THE GAUNTLET PRIX! Mace would’ve eventually blurted, giving away the secret and putting himself in boiling water with Quasar.
Somewhere in the midst of his end-of-the-year parties and tests, the unthinkable happened: Mace’s parents agreed to let him attend “TURBO Summer Academy.”
They had never found out that Mace had left the house that night. He’d snuck back to bed just before dawn, and aside from being a sleepless wreck that day in school, Mace had gotten away with everything. Later, he told his parents, well, a version of the truth: that he had won the grand prize in a contest put on by the TURBO simulator company. There would be a scholarship award. Also, he would compete for a chance to pilot a real TURBO craft in a junior circuit relay.
“You sure you want to skip the engineering camp at the U?” Dad had pressed him.
Mace had assured both parents that the TURBO Academy was his best bet for following his dreams. “I’ll learn a lot, too. Not just mechanics, but physics, aerodynamics, chemistry.”
Mom and Dad had nodded in agreement. “You never get to travel. It’ll be good for you to get away from home for part of the summer.”
“Is the junior circuit the same as what Robert Gerber competes in?” his mom had asked.
“No.” Mace had grinned. “Your boss’s league is lower down. Those guys mostly just race rich-guy vehicles that they’re afraid to get dirty.”
A sparkle had come to Mom’s eyes. Mace had stifled a laugh. She’d really seemed to enjoy that answer.
The morning of departure arrived. Mom made bacon for the occasion and kept pulling Mace close. Dad wore his nicest collared shirt and sat at the table without reading the newspaper.
Ahmed knocked on the door, ready to whisk the “sweepstakes winner” off to sleep-away camp. Mace’s parents pulled him into a final group hug on the porch. When they pee
led apart, Mom and Dad hurried inside.
“Did you remember your teddy bear?” Ahmed teased as he and Mace turned their backs on the house, hauling suitcases.
“Mr. Wiggle-kisses is packed and ready. So are my picture books. I hope you’re good at reading bedtime stories.”
Ahmed laughed. “We have people for that.”
“Robot skeleton army?” Mace asked.
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
They departed for Denver and caught a private jet to Monument Valley. Mace was half-mad with anticipation: Who would the other contenders be? If he couldn’t outrace all of them, Quasar would send him packing. He wouldn’t let that happen.
Ahmed showed him to his underground room. Nothing special, just a bed and a small desk and southwestern cowboy decor. Sleep would have to wait. Ahmed escorted him into the hangar bay, said, “Good luck,” and disappeared. The door hissed shut, and Mace heard a latch click.
He frowned. Good luck with what? He turned, soaking up what he could see in the hangar.
Four black and gleaming copies of Event Horizon were parked front and center. Wow. A fleet of clone trimorphers! Four workbenches had been placed in a line beside the vehicles, each with a tool chest. Mace approached the morphers. His footsteps echoed.
An aircraft morph and a submersible morph were bookended by two roadster morphs. He brushed a hand along the nearest roadster hood, and then he moved to the aircraft. Finally he patted the submersible and the far roadster. He could tell which of the four craft he had piloted here. The feel of each machine was unmistakable and unique.
“Hey there,” he spoke to the middle vehicle in aircraft form, stroking her bullet nose affectionately, like the noble steed she was. “I know it’s you. Sorry about that hard landing the other night. Ahmed fixed you up perfect, didn’t he?”
A door opened, closed. Footsteps. Mace craned around, catching sight of . . . a girl.
“Hello,” she said.
He froze.
“You must be . . . one of the others?” she guessed.
“You, too?” said Mace, his throat dry. Her silky black hair was back in a ponytail. She had high cheekbones and an oval face. She wore blue jeans with a fancy woven belt and a button-up shirt with short sleeves. Mace couldn’t take his eyes away from her.
“Yes. I’m Aya. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand. “And you are?”
He shook out of his trance. “Hi. I’m . . . Mace.”
“Cool,” she nodded. “These are nice machines. Perfect copies of the original?”
“Yes, they are,” Mace agreed. “But the aircraft morph is the original Event Horizon.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“Feel right here on all the machines.”
Aya moved from the aircraft to the roadsters to the sub, doing what he suggested. She shrugged. “I can’t really tell a difference. You sure?”
Mace glanced at his feet. He was sure. But how could he explain it to her?
“Where are you from?” she asked, but before he could even answer, she blurted, “I live in Tokyo and San Francisco. My parents are Japanese, but I’m mostly here in the US.”
“I’m from Colorado,” Mace admitted, feeling ever-so-ordinary all of a sudden.
“How did you, you know, get caught up in all this?” Mace asked.
“I’ve been a simulator junkie for years. When Event Horizon was on tour in the Bay Area, I couldn’t resist a peek. I was so surprised when the canopy closed on me at the museum. Ahmed rescued me from being trapped inside and told me to stay in touch.”
“Wait,” said Mace. “You didn’t have to escape the museum, then fly here?”
Aya laughed. “No. That would’ve been awesome, though. Can you imagine?”
Yeah, I can. Mace cracked a grin.
“Wait!” she said. “The news last week. The cop chase in Denver. That was you?”
Mace answered her with a guilty smile.
“I saw the footage. That was some great driving.” Aya looked a little shaken.
“I had to dodge a missile,” he said.
The door hissed open again.
They both whipped around. Two boys entered the hangar on either side of Ahmed. One of them had curly jet-black hair trimmed in a tapered fade. The other was a redhead, freckly and pale. The chief engineer nodded to all of them before leaving.
The newcomers stared at Aya and Mace with suspicion. But Aya either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She marched over to them, her hand held out. “Hi, I’m—”
“I’m not here to make friends.” The redhead cut her off, brushed passed her, and went to stand at one of the four workshop tables. He spoke with an accent that Mace couldn’t peg. He was trying to grow a goatee. Red whiskers, more like it. Sparse and scraggly.
“What’s this about?” Whiskers asked, popping open a toolbox and peering inside.
The other boy extended his hand out to Aya’s waiting arm. “Hi. I’m Not As Rude As Him.”
“Nice to meet you, Not As Rude As Him,” Aya replied.
“Ha. Real name’s Dex,” he added. He also had an accent. “I’m coming from New York, where my uncle has me in school. But I’m originally from the D.R.”
“Don’t we all come from the doctor?” Mace asked, trying to make a joke. “Originally, I mean?” Everyone stared at him blankly. “Never mind.”
“Oh, I get it.” Dex laughed. “No, I meant I’m from the Dominican Republic. Next to Haiti. In the Caribbean. You might also know me as Caballero, on the simulator boards.”
“Yes! I’ve raced you!” blurted Mace. “I’m MBlaze07.”
“Ah, man! Yeah, I know you. You knocked me off the top spot last week.”
“Barely,” Mace said. “You’re good.”
“Wow,” said goatee boy, inspecting a torque wrench he’d pulled out of the toolbox on one of the four work tables. “You gonna ask each other for autographs?”
Mace immediately felt like a moron.
“What’s your problem?” Dex demanded.
“Listen, kiddos.” The redhead addressed all of them. “I’ve got nothing against any of you. I just happen to think my time is better spent staying ahead of the game than doing icebreakers with kids who are going to be sent packing soon.”
“Icebreakers?” muttered Aya. “It’s called being polite. You might try it sometime.”
The boy shook his head disapprovingly, dropping the torque wrench back in the toolbox. “Wake up. This show’s already begun.” He pointed upward. Mace followed his gaze. He noted with a stab of anxiety that cameras were set along the ceiling. “If you can’t recognize that Quasar’s already judging our every move, then you’ve already lost.”
A loud voice rifled through the hangar, startling them all. “Thank you, Henryk, for that introduction.”
The disembodied voice of Quasar. Henryk had been right—they were being studied. Mace stiffened. He felt his palms grow clammy. The voice from above continued. “A warm welcome to all four of you. As you know, only one of you will be selected to race professionally.”
The four contestants exchanged guarded looks. Mace thought for a moment he might throw up from nerves, but he forced himself to put on a confident face.
Quasar continued. “You will each work alone at one of the four stations. Using only what you have directly in front of you, extract a principal transformer module from any of the trimorpher copies, disassemble it, then reassemble it, and reinstall it. The last of you to correctly reinstall the module will earn a strike. Anyone who earns two strikes goes home.”
“Hold on, there,” Henryk argued. “I flew all the way out here from Oslo to race. What does putting machine parts together have to do with that?”
Ah, Mace noted. So he’s Norwegian.
Quasar’s muffled voice responded. “A professional TURBOnaut knows their vehicle inside and out. You can’t react on the course if you don’t understand how your machine operates. I realize you may know nothing of engineering, b
ut your performance today will demonstrate to me that you’re a fast learner, and that you’re nimble enough and logical enough to adapt. You may begin . . . now.”
Chapter Ten
The speaker system cut out, and silence fell over the hangar like a fog. While the others stood by, gathering their thoughts, Mace pounced. He darted over to the aircraft, the original Event Horizon. This was his trimorpher. They’d been through a lot together. He climbed onto the shoulder of the port-side wing, eyeing an alloy panel he guessed would be hiding the principal transformer module.
Modules were basically fancy gearboxes. They came in two types: principal and auxiliary. Each vehicle housed many auxiliary units, for all the smaller adjustments during morphs. The two principal modules quickly extended and retracted wings. They took a beating during races and were replaced along with tires during pit stops.
Mace sprang open the panel. He’d been right! The unit was a nest of gadgetry, almost a perfect cube. He gave it a pull. It was heavy but glided out of its shell like a sword drawn from a sheath. He slid down the wing and hit the ground running. He dropped the module on his workbench and fished through the toolbox before the others had even worked out where the units were housed.
Dex hopped up on one roadster, Henryk the other. That left Aya with the sub.
Mace took mental photographs of each component as he removed it from the whole. This was precision machinery at its finest. Turning a car into an airplane in less than two seconds required amazing leverage and a surge of incredible power. Some of the parts had names he knew. Gears, clutches, shafts, governors, hubs, cogs, drivers. Power cells. Microchips. Nuts, bolts, washers, grommets. He didn’t know what to call a lot of things, though: doohickeys, thingamajigs, whatchamacallits. The cube of interlocking components dissolved into piles of greasy, isolated innards.
He checked on the others now and then, staying a few steps ahead. Henryk was using a socket wrench. Mace hadn’t found one in his own tool chest. Each workstation must have different tools. Bad luck for Mace. A socket wrench would’ve sped things up.