TURBO Racers

by Austin Aslan

Carson, who had been pacing in the shadows, had finally had enough and ducked out the back door of the workshop, letting it slam shut behind him. Mace winced. Taking all this in must’ve been tough for the Gerb.

  “Let’s get to work.” Dex hopped off the edge of a nearby counter.

  “We should start with a general inventory of what we’ll need,” Mr. Gerber agreed. “Tools and parts. I’ll make sure my computer diagnostics software is compatible with your interface. A lot of this craft’s innards look proprietary, but we’ll figure it out. I’m really curious: what did you have in mind for straightening the hull out?”

  At that moment, the answer arrived. Mom and Dad walked through the side door, escorting a guest. “Funny you should ask. Mr. Gerber, meet Mr. Hernandez, my metal-shop teacher.”

  Mr. Hernandez shook Robert’s hand, then turned to Mace. “What is this? What’s going on here?”

  Mace had tried to explain everything over the phone. His teacher knew the general basics, probably just wanted a bit of reassurance. Mace pointed to Event Horizon. “Can you unbend that for us?”

  The metal-shop teacher’s eyes lit up. He whistled, approaching the craft with reverence. “Mace,” he said incredulously. That was the only word he said. He lost himself for a few minutes inspecting the vehicle and its movable parts.

  Until finally: “I can make this work.” Mr. Hernandez smiled. “Some of these alloys don’t bend back so easily. But we can cut out the buckled bits. I can fashion replacements at the school shop, then bring them over and weld them in.”

  “That’s great!” exclaimed Dex. “We’re in business!”

  “Funny thing, though,”—Mr. Hernandez eyed Mace suspiciously—“my canister of welding gas went missing at the end of the school year.”

  Mace released a guilty, nervous chuckle. “Um. Tell you what. I’ll take care of that for you. I’ll get a, um, replacement canister out to you right away.”

  “How generous of you.” Mr. Hernandez winked at him.

  Dad tapped Mace. “Son. You were in that thing when it got all bent out of shape?”

  Uh-oh. His parents looked worried. They looked like they were having second thoughts about all of this. Mace thought through his next words carefully. “I was,” he admitted, signing. “I never felt a thing. I was perfectly safe. And I landed so hard on purpose. It was the only way I could win.”

  “But how did you not feel anything?” Mom asked.

  “Come here,” invited Mace. “Take a seat.” He popped open the canopy.

  Carson entered the garage, one hand in a hoodie pocket, the other holding a can of orange soda. The hoodie was one of his daily rotating Gauntlet League jerseys: the slate gray and crimson of Guillotine, the chopper-morpher piloted by the French phenom Leon “Napoleon” Dubois. Twenty-four years old. Weak on his left side. Especially during morphs. Mace laughed at himself. Tempest had drilled him so hard with stats that the details still came to him in an effortless wave.

  Carson’s expression was stiff and guarded, but he joined the circle of people and watched as Mace’s mom nervously climbed into the submersible’s cockpit.

  “What are you planning, Mace?” she said aloud, signing for Dad’s benefit. She laughed nervously. “I’m not sure about this.”

  “You’re fine. Just sit down all the way. I’m going to show you something,” Mace signed while he spoke. He glanced at Carson, whose expression was no longer guarded, but confused and uncertain.

  Dad signed, “Take her for a spin!”

  “Don’t you dare turn this thing on while I’m in it.” Mom was adamant.

  “Ready?” asked Mace. “Here we go.” He pushed a button on a light display. The smart cushioning took over. Mom sank into the bucket seat with a surprised yelp, and then yelped again when the seat hardened around her, encasing her in position.

  “This stuff absorbs all the blows,” Mace explained. “And plus, if the situation gets really bad, and I can’t eject, there’s emergency foam that’ll expand and fill the cockpit instantaneously.”

  “Okay, I get it.” Mom surrendered. “Just let me out!”

  Carson was watching Mace. Mace watched him right back. While the others were absorbed in discussing the trimorpher’s various features, Carson came up to him.

  “Hey, I, uh, I want to tell you something.” The Gerb squirmed for some reason.

  “Uh, what’s that?” Mace played along, a little nervous. He’d never seen Carson appear so . . . genuine.

  “You never told me your parents were deaf.”

  “You seriously had no idea?” Mace shook his head and laughed.

  “I—I’m sorry,” stammered Carson. “About . . . making fun of that . . . around you, last year. I get now why you slugged me.”

  Mace stared, frozen, at the strange alien talking to him. “Oh,” he said. “Well, thank you. Apology accepted. And I’m . . . I’m sorry, too.”

  Carson raised an eyebrow. “So, um. Can I help?”

  Mace smiled. “Yeah, sure! Of course! Come on. Dive right in.” They joined the rest of the team, deep in a conversation about the game plan.

  “That’s all well and good,” Mr. Hernandez was pointing out. “But we’re missing an engine! Other replacement parts, too. That’s the final piece of the puzzle. I mean, I’m happy to chip in with time and tools, but, uh, I’m a public-school teacher. Who’s gonna pay for everything we need?”

  Dad tapped on Mace’s shoulder. “I can raid the airport boneyard,” he offered. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll see what I can find.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Mace signed. “Thank you.”

  “And, M.,” Mom added. “That money you got paid? Dad and I discussed this.” They shared a tacit nod. “That money is yours. Use it if you need to.”

  “But, Dad, you just quit your job.”

  “I can go back to the bottling plant. That’s just a job. This is your dream. Whatever it takes. Win that Glove. Then we’ll all retire.”

  “I can’t take it anymore!” Mr. Gerber had been pacing the room, stroking his mustache, when he stopped and shouted. All eyes were on him. “Sometimes in life you just gotta go all in. This is our moment. Let’s show them what we’re made of!”

  “Dad,” Carson said, embarrassed. “Spit it out. What are you talking about?”

  Robert strode over to Brown Trout. He whipped the tarpaulin off.

  That yellow! So. Yellow. Someone gasped. Mace held back a laugh.

  “Uh, Dad?” Carson asked. “Tell me you’re not entering the Pro-Am.”

  “No!” Mr. Gerber waved the idea away. “You think I’m crazy?”

  The Gerb was more than happy to reply. “We’ve already established this: yes.”

  “No,” Mr. Gerber smiled. He turned to Mace. “You need an engine? I’ve got an engine. It’s all yours. To borrow, I mean.”

  He reached a hand into Brown Trout’s cockpit and popped open the rear side panels, revealing an elegant, spotless, silver-plated Rolls-Royce Pegasus X-90. Class D.

  The most powerful rocket engine ever approved for nonmilitary use. Now at Mace’s disposal.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dex escorted Mace into the garage, his hands cupped over Mace’s eyes. “You ready?”

  Mace took a deep breath. Ready? He’d waited his entire life for this moment. The past week had been ten times more exhausting than Tempest’s “academy.” Very little sleep. Very little food. The days and nights had blended together, unnoticed. But the combined effort of his friends had paid off. Event Horizon was restored.

  At least in theory.

  When he’d last seen it, the new-and-improved Event Horizon had reminded Mace of his Frankenstein bike. A jumble of mismatched parts and shades of gray, blotched with chips of leftover black paint and patches of sanded-down fiberglass. Mr. Gerber had plugged the central processor into his diagnostic mainframe to let a series of comprehensive tests run their course for twenty-four hours.

  Now Mace was back, ready to review the results of
the tests, which would tell him whether the vehicle was safe enough to take out for a test drive.

  “Three, two, one,” said Dex, and he uncovered Mace’s eyes.

  “Surprise!” a room full of people shouted.

  Mace couldn’t take it all in at once. He saw the people first. His team. Mr. Gerber and Carson. Mr. Hernandez. Mace’s parents. Dex. They had all worked so hard for this, given so much of themselves to the effort. Mace hadn’t expected everyone to be here tonight. His heart swelled.

  He saw the banner next, tied off at either end and draped from the ceiling. Dark orange words on a midnight-blue background, with cream and silver highlighting.

  Go, Renegade!

  Tempest’s own words echoed in his inner ear: I want you to come at this whole sport sideways. The cops, over Denver. Remember? They called you a . . .

  “Renegade,” he said.

  “Do you like it?” asked Dex hopefully. “Your racing name.”

  You have to earn it.

  “Renegade. It’s perfect.” Mace beamed.

  And then he saw the roadster—polished and gleaming, painted in just-before-dawn blue, with a burnt-orange, fading glow silhouetting a Rocky Mountain horizon all along the mid hull. The differences went beyond the paint job. This trimorpher had new fins and contours and other details trimmed in silver and cream.

  “She’s gorgeous,” he finally managed. “I can’t wait to get behind the wheel.”

  “Go ahead,” Mr. Gerber invited. He opened the canopy. “Hop in.”

  “Wait,” said Mace. “I thought we needed to review the diagnostics.”

  Mr. Hernandez smiled. “Those tests only took eight hours. We’ve been here all day, painting and fine-tuning. We wanted to surprise you. She’s ready.”

  “Really?” Mace asked. His feet carried him, one step at a time, forward.

  Mace reached out to the blue-and-orange trimorpher and placed his hands on her.

  Somewhere deep inside, she purred. Yes. This was her. Only better.

  “Hey, gal,” he said. The others backed away to give him room. He walked all the way around her.

  He didn’t need eight hours of diagnostics to confirm that she was shipshape.

  “Let’s take her for a spin,” he told everyone.

  “Don’t forget this,” Carson said. He thrust something out at Mace.

  A polished, dark-blue helmet and a flight suit with burnt orange trim.

  Mace took the offering, incredulous. It was exactly like the one he’d worn during training. “Where’d you get this?” he asked.

  Dex fessed up. “It’s mine. But we know they’re all the same size. I, um, kept it when I left. And now it’s yours.”

  “I put my star tailor in charge of the redesign,” Mr. Gerber added. “The original flexibility of the fabric should be intact.”

  “Thank you. Why don’t you wear it, Dex?” Mace asked. “You can fly ’er just as well as—”

  “Nope, nope, nope.” Dex shook his head. “I’m not as fast as you. I always knew that. Besides, this isn’t just a copy of Event Horizon. This is Event Horizon. No way I could ride this bull the way you can.”

  Mace gave Dex a fist bump. He offered one to Carson as well.

  “Dex and I will be your comm,” Carson told him. “No one else knows the ropes the way we do. We’ll have your back every second of every race.”

  Mace nodded, too choked up to try to speak. They all watched as he slipped on his flight suit and fastened his helmet.

  He crawled inside the cockpit.

  “All right, Renegade,” Dex said. “She needs a name, too.”

  “She’s always been Event Horizon to me.” Mace shrugged. “Let me get a feel for her. I’m sure the right name will come.”

  “Great,” Dex agreed. “There are a few mods you’ll want to get a handle on. They’re mostly for looks but might tighten the handling. We didn’t want her to be recognizable as Event Horizon. Better have a name picked out by the time you get back.”

  Mace sank into the smart cushioning and closed the canopy.

  The garage door opened. Mace fired the beast up, and immediately felt the familiarity of an old friend’s embrace. “It’s you, all right,” he said. “Let’s see what you got.”

  He rolled over the gravel driveway and gunned it down the street.

  From the inside, the craft was the same. Mace’s hands blindly sought out dozens of levers and switches and light displays with innate precision. The craft operated as she had before. She was every bit as powerful, still a generation ahead of her time. The machinery beneath the hood and beneath Mace’s seat breathed and hummed the same as ever. But Mace detected a new edge.

  The Pegasus X-90 was hungry to show off what it could do.

  He took a tight curve on the dark road and found he could give it a little more fuel than before. The vehicle hugged the curve like Velcro. No fishtailing. Over the course of hundreds of ground laps, that could mean minutes shaved off his time.

  Maybe that was her name—Razor? Shaver? Blade?

  No, no, no. All terrible.

  How was he supposed to name her? It was too big of a decision.

  We’re in this together. The name has something to do with both of us.

  Kindred Spirit? No. Way too sentimental.

  Mace zoomed past a sign for a trailhead leading to a prairie with rolling hills. On a whim, he morphed to air and doubled back to tackle the grassland using a trail of his own.

  Dark blue and burnt orange. Day glow against the stratosphere. Skywalker?

  Nope. Taken.

  The moonlit trail switchbacked along the silvery hills. It came to him, courtesy of his mom.

  You’re just . . . out in front of everybody. It’s where you belong.

  He and the craft, they both carved their own path. They were each a . . .

  “Pathfinder.”

  No. That wasn’t quite right, either. Mace wasn’t finding something that was already there. He was making this up from scratch.

  What was it Tempest had said to him, early on? If no one’s blazing trails, Mace, the world has nowhere to go.

  “Trailblazer.”

  Mace said the word several times aloud. Yes, he thought. That’s it.

  “Trailblazer,” he said. “Let’s go blaze a trail.”

  He leaned into the throttle and gunned it for the snow-capped Rockies on the starry horizon.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Inside Team Trailblazer’s hospitality tent, Dex secured the straps on Mace’s midnight-blue helmet. He stood back to examine his friend. “Renegade. Look at you.”

  Mace was unable to summon his voice. Dex’s jumpsuit fit him perfectly. The silky, honeycomb texture wicked away his sweat and kept him cool. He felt taller in the boots and was grateful for that, too.

  Beyond the flapping white canvas walls, the Bay Area crowds roared. What Mace knew about San Francisco, he’d learned from his afternoon tour of the course yesterday. The streets ran straight up and down super-steep hills. The Golden Gate Bridge, always draped in fog, was breathtaking. Alcatraz, the prison island of old, sat right in the bay for all to see, its stone facades rising up out of rock of the same color. Skybox blimps were tethered in place by red cables that mimicked the suspension cables on the Golden Gate Bridge. Cool touch, Mace had thought.

  The crowd roared again, bringing him back to now. Introductions of each TURBOnaut were underway. “Hey, is that Talon?” Carson nudged Mace to ask.

  Mace peeked out of his tent and laughed. “Yeah, it is.” Talon! Only a few feet away. He stood relaxed next to his racer. One of the biggest stars of them all, he looked totally at ease in his shiny red-and-black racing suit. Blue-tinted aviator glasses contrasted strikingly with his spiky blond hair.

  “Let’s go say hi,” Carson said. “There’s time. C’mon . . .”

  Mace wanted to, but something held him back. “I better keep a low profile.” But he saw the excitement in Carson’s eyes. He couldn’t help cracking a grin.
“You go.”

  “You sure?”

  “Get him to sign something for me too,” Mace suggested. “See you in the pit.”

  Carson was embarrassed about it for a beat, but then he ran off toward the famous TURBOnaut.

  A moment later, Mace heard a familiar name from the announcer. “And now please give a warm welcome to Katana, the rising-star pilot of Lotus.”

  “Katana,” Mace said to Dex. “Lotus. Tempest let her choose those names. I wonder why she didn’t let Henryk choose Mjölnir.”

  “Don’t worry about her,” Dex told him. “Worry about the wind around Sears Point. Not so much over the bay. Be cautious with your launch to air. Pay attention to the wind socks. A third-place finish or better, and you advance to the Prix.”

  “Third place or better,” repeated Mace.

  A horn honked in front of the luffing tent door. The truck that would transport Mace to the start line had arrived. Mace took a deep breath. This was it. The time had come for him to turn and stand and face the world alone.

  “Go show them what you’re made of,” said Dex. “Make every morph matter.”

  “Thank you for everything,” Mace told him. “You’re a true friend.”

  “We’re family, bro.”

  Mace exited the tent and climbed into the back of the truck. The vehicle was an advertisement for a local car dealership—all part of the theatrics of the starting line. He and the driver shot each other mock salutes, and they paraded forward onto the track.

  “And without further ado, we’re pleased to announce a new personality to the sport, making their debut appearance right here in San Francisco. Ladies and gentlemen, fans of all ages, please give a big welcome to Renegade, piloting Trailblazer.”

  Mace wore foam earpieces. Additionally, the padding built into the helmet deafened him, but he could still hear the stadium crowds. They answered the announcer with equal parts cheering, hissing, booing, and polite applause.

  The Pro-Am would begin and end on the two-mile ground track of the Sonoma Raceway. The grandstands and terraces hosted over sixty thousand spectators, and the hospitality tents, stages, and overhead skyboxes were full of additional fans, every one of them staring at Mace Blazer as he approached the lineup of other TURBOnauts.