TURBO Racers

by Austin Aslan

  “Seriously? That changes everything!” Mace exclaimed.

  Just then, he felt a muffled shockwave pass through his bones.

  Iron Dragon was plummeting, billowing smoke as it went. Talon had deployed a chute. He guided himself toward the jungle floor.

  Henryk must have used debris to shred Iron Dragon’s engine, a move he had perfected on Mace.

  “Iron Dragon’s out of the Prix!” he reported to Dex.

  “What? What happened?”

  Continuum was a dot in the distance, gaining speed.

  “Henryk,” Mace said. “It’s starting. Tempest has ordered him to start clearing out the competition.”

  Just like Mace had known she would.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The TURBOnauts raced over the jungle canopy, doubling back for an aerial flyby of Cancún. The white beach and azure blue of the shallow Caribbean coast came back into view. The city of Cancún interrupted the emerald treetops. Beyond that, the rainforest expanse of the ancient Mayan empire stretched off to the south, and the deep ocean churned ahead.

  “You can’t let him break away, Mace.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Can you see the storm on the horizon?” Dex asked.

  Dark clouds masked the east. “That’s a big fat affirmative,” Mace answered.

  “Everyone’s adjusting their tactics,” Dex told him. “It’s gonna get frantic. If you’re right about Tempest, she’ll be scrambling.”

  The race continued, and soon Continuum was in Mace’s sights.

  If he could force Henryk to make an error now, there’d be no time for him—or for Tempest—to try shady tactics later. Be as aggressive as you can, Mace told himself. Shake him up.

  He moved in.

  Mace rolled and lifted, only increasing speed, closing the distance to Continuum so that the tip of Trailblazer turned red with heat against Henryk’s exhaust.

  Dex was panicky. “You’re too close, Mace! Drop back! What’re you doing?”

  Mace didn’t slow down. He dropped low instead, hugging his opponent’s wake. He resisted the temptation to overtake Henryk. The point here was to annoy him.

  A large piece of metal came at Mace’s windshield like a missile. “Not this time!” Mace cried. He rolled away, dodging the debris. He roared, victorious. Henryk had spent his move. Audiences would grow suspicious if that happened again. But Mace would have to stay vigilant. Henryk had to have other tricks up his sleeve.

  They turned as if interlocked in a graceful ballet move. Another hoop neared. Henryk dipped, forcing Mace to drop. If he missed entering the hoop, he’d be docked precious time at the finish! But Mace was in control. He flipped around, shot up and tried to mount Continuum. Henryk expected this and rose to match the countermaneuver. Mace ducked instead, won back his low ground—and pushed Henryk upward at the last second so that Continuum nearly overshot the hoop from above!

  It was a close call, but they both made it through the halo.

  The Cancún audiences were rearview history. The wave-wracked ocean filled Mace’s view.

  “Water entry in T minus fifteen seconds,” warned Dex. “Drop back! You’ll tear to pieces if you enter in his wake.”

  Yes, but . . . Mace couldn’t give up ground. He thought quickly. I’ll draw parallel, enter at the same time, maybe just ahead of him. “Let’s see if he likes feeling my wake!”

  Incredibly, Mace punched the throttle as the ocean surface neared. He swung to the side and drew level with Continuum. This was going to work!

  “Mace! Don’t forget to—”

  Morph! His chest exploded with sudden fear. He extended his thumb over the air-to-water switch. The sea was a concrete wall at these speeds.

  He entered the water, saw the ocean floor screaming up at him—

  He hit the shallow seabed violently. Freezing water entered the cockpit, but he was prepared for it. This feels familiar. He knew right where to find the pressure compensator and pounded it.

  The cockpit drained. He glanced around himself, peered out the canopy. A tiger shark drifted past, considered him briefly, and disappeared back into the blue. He restarted the turbine and got into gear.

  Lotus arrived, a muffled whoomf marking Aya’s smooth entrance into the Caribbean. Another TURBO craft punctured the water, jostling Trailblazer. It was Untouchable.

  The gamble to force Henryk into a costly error had backfired. “No, no, no!” Mace barked. “Henryk will pick you off, one at a time!”

  He urged Trailblazer to gather speed. I’ve got to get back in the mix!

  “Get in there! This is the final stretch. One hundred and fifty miles before landfall. It’s still possible for you to win this thing, Mace. Just work your way up to Aya and Akshara and stay a step ahead of Henryk.”

  I can do this. Mace closed his eyes, throttled up, and reentered the fray.

  The race across the ocean was a series of glorified dolphin leaps—water, air, water, air—and the gathering storm was forcing course changes all the time. Mace took advantage of the rough conditions, closing the gap with the leaders. He stayed ahead of—and broadened his lead over—Taz, who was having trouble with all the rerouting. Drone-powered hoops were repositioned by Prix technicians, making flight paths longer and contact with the water shorter.

  Mace was flexible. He adapted quickly and continued gaining.

  Finally, he clawed his way to within striking distance of Untouchable. He gained on her, coming in from the left, then the right, then the left again. He overtook Akshara Brahma, entering the next water segment with no one but Lotus and Continuum in front of him. And soon enough, Trailblazer muscled up behind Aya, riding her wake and finding even more speed. The water was downright choppy. Mace realized he could ride Aya’s eddies indefinitely, save fuel, bank power for an eventual slingshot at the right moment. He could keep an eye on her this way. This was his ticket to Cuba, and ultimately, the Prix checkered flag.

  Mace and Aya both shot past Pterodactyl, leaving her far behind. Continuum was all that remained. The morph to ground on Cuba’s choppy shore was approaching, and the three youngest ’nauts in the sport were dueling for first with no one else in the rearview.

  Mace and Aya caught up to Henryk but stayed just far enough away to avoid any dirty tricks he might try to pull. Mace decided he would make his move on the surface, where cameras could record any of Henryk’s attempts to cheat.

  All three of them. First, second, and third! Iron Dragon would probably still be in the mix if there hadn’t been foul play, but still, Mace realized something. It made him kind of sad. Tempest had done a really good job of finding them, equipping them, and training them. If she had groomed all of them to their full potential, she would have been remembered as a legend. She would have ushered in a new era for the sport, proving that younger racers had what it took to go the distance.

  Instead, she had only wanted to take credit for a cheap win.

  Mace figured out that it was no coincidence that he—and Tempest’s other three finalists—were all nearly the same size as her.

  Tempest had been planning her treachery from the very beginning.

  He was sure he had discovered the truth. Her scheme seemed obvious to him now. So where was she? The finish line had been changed. Tempest would need to make her move soon, or—

  A sudden vibration snapped him out of his angry realization. “Um, wow,” he said nervously. That feels like a . . .

  PROJECTILE DETECTED

  TAKE EVASIVE ACTION

  Trailblazer’s displays flashed red.

  Mace watched in horror as a torpedo barreled through the water toward him and Henryk and Aya.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The warnings alone wouldn’t have saved him, but it turned out that dodging the police missile over Denver had been all the training he’d needed. Mace initiated a lateral roll. He pulled up and back, over Continuum’s canopy.

  The missile sailed below him . . . and detonated on Continuum’s nose.
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  Mace was fine, but Henryk’s turbine seized, grinding to a halt. The craft went askew, pitching forward, sinking. Strangely, there was no evidence of damage to Continuum’s hull.

  EMP! Mace thought. An electromagnetic pulse—not a missile but a blast of electric noise.

  Concerned, he and Aya both slowed.

  Then, he felt, more than he could see, Pitchfork skim overhead. Untouchable bulleted by in a wide arc, steering clear of this whole mess. Both would touch down on the Cuban coast and duke it out into Havana with a clear advantage.

  “No!” Mace ground his teeth.

  Ahead in the murky distance, a second Continuum pulled into action, turning in a wide arc to join the chase.

  “I knew it!” Mace cried.

  “What’s going on?” Dex asked. “The live broadcast lost you all. It’s really rough up top.”

  “She’s here,” Mace said. “She’s already disabled Henryk.”

  “Tempest?!” said Dex. “You were right about her!”

  “I wish I wasn’t,” grumbled Mace. “It’s time I listen in, just to make certain.”

  He hesitated for just a second, then punched a light display that would allow him to intercept all of Tempest Hollande’s comms.

  Sure enough, she sounded in his ear, unaware that she was being overheard. “Henryk was supposed to have a much larger lead at this point. I’ll adjust, though. We’re going to surface. Fall in line behind me; keep Mace off my tail. Is that clear?”

  Aya was beside herself with revulsion. “What? No!”

  “Hiya, Aya!” Mace interjected loudly.

  “Mace!” Tempest spat. “Get off our channel!”

  “My friends call me Mace. You can call me Renegade.”

  They all built speed, continuing to torpedo through the water on course for the Cuban shore. The storm surge on the surface rocked their hulls back and forth in unison.

  “Someone PLEASE explain!” Aya growled.

  “You want the short answer or the long answer?” Mace began.

  Tempest cut him off. “You stay out of this, you little brat. I made you. And I’m going to end you as well.”

  “I’ll keep it quick, then,” Mace decided.

  “Just . . . PLEASE,” Aya snapped. “What’s going on?”

  “Tempest has taken Henryk out with an electronic bomb. She’s planning to use his lead to cross the finish line in first place—as herself.”

  Aya growled, suddenly understanding. “She’ll take the podium, accept the Glove, remove her helmet . . . and reveal herself to the world . . .”

  Mace imitated a sportscaster. “Infinity is Quasar! Tempest Hollande! The oldest ’naut to ever claim the Glove! And she did it despite missing an eye! What a comeback story!”

  “Jax Anders and his cronies would gobble that story up!” Aya agreed.

  “She wants to ruin TURBO racing. Turn it into a demolition derby with all sorts of foul play and gimmicks. She’ll corner the market on all of it. Fit new TURBO racers with weaponry. Then fit another new generation with counterattacks. Make a billion dollars. Does that sound about right, Tempest?”

  “Mind your own business, Renegade.”

  “But more than that: she’s never stopped wanting that Glove . . . for herself,” Mace concluded. “Wearing the Glove would give her a winning message that only she could deliver. But she can’t pull off a win on her own. Not with one eye and no depth perception. So she hired us.”

  “But why us?” Aya demanded.

  “Because we all share the same height and weight,” Mace figured. “And because adults don’t use the sims, I bet.”

  “She thought we’d roll over and play along,” added Aya.

  “You’re all wrong!” cried Tempest, but she never offered a different explanation.

  “What about Henryk?” Aya asked. “He’s sinking!”

  “He’s not your concern,” Tempest told her. “After the storm passes through here, no one will ever know what happened to him.”

  “He’s going to die down there if we don’t do something,” said Mace. “He doesn’t deserve to end up as shark bait.”

  “I’ll rescue him,” Aya said coolly.

  She turned Lotus around.

  “AYA!” Tempest screamed. “What are you doing?!”

  “It’s over, Tempest. I didn’t sign up for this. I’m through listening to you.”

  “You have a second-place Gauntlet Prix finish locked up. In a dicer! You want to lose everything—to save Henryk?”

  Mace gritted his teeth. “I’ll fetch him, Aya. She’s right. You go.”

  “No, Mace,” she said, descending. “Beat her—but do it right! I know you can.”

  “I’m finished with all of you,” Tempest spat. “You’re leaving me no choice. You’ll all go down for this.”

  “But, Aya, what about—”

  “I can take care of myself.” Aya’s voice cut in and out, grew steady. “Go! Beat her! Win the Glove!”

  “Dream on,” Tempest sneered. “You never got any storm training. I’ll crush you between here and Havana.”

  Not this time, Mace thought. He manually overrode the limitation Mr. Gerber had put on his Pegasus X-90, Class D, and rammed the turbine throttle to max.

  “If you’re so sure, then what are you afraid of?” he dared Tempest.

  “I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life. That’s the difference between sitting at the table and being on the menu.”

  Mace laughed. “You’re on,” he said. “Let’s race.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Mace reached the sloping, shallow floor of the Cuban coast. Trailblazer and Continuum II rocked back and forth in the rip currents, their bellies scraping coral. The gathering storm’s wrath was waiting for them the moment they surfaced.

  Undertows and riptides tore in every direction. But eventually Mace found the rhythm of the dance, building power until he shot out of the water and morphed into a roadster. Mace peeled out on the sand, speeding into a fierce rain and wind after Tempest.

  The coastal highway was a long stretch of racetrack, empty except for Renegade and Quasar. The sport’s oldest and youngest ’nauts dueled. Mace accelerated into the gale-force winds, heavy rain hammering his canopy, blotting out his vision. The howling gusts scrambled his ability to feel the road, so he was forced to keep his speed in check.

  Tempest stayed several lengths ahead of him—for now.

  Fortunately, his fresh tires from the Cancún pit stop were street-ready with deep treads. Still, Mace hydroplaned repeatedly—but he was a fast study in bad-weather racing. Quickly, he learned how to anticipate the rough patches, and to move with the wind instead of against it.

  Mace was far more worried about fuel than anything else. Tempest had a full tank, and he was one hundred and fifty miles past his last fill-up.

  In the blasting sand and rain, Mace lost sight of Continuum II—but he could still reach out to Quasar over the local comm.

  “The four of us kids would have dominated the finish line today,” said Mace. “Without your cheats. You would have been a legendary coach. Immortal. Now look at you.”

  No answer.

  Mace’s heartbeat quickened, his vision tunneled. Never had he felt so at one with his vehicle. There was no gap between thought and action. The blurry canopy was but a nuisance, and Mace accelerated through the storm as if he were out for a scenic drive.

  “As soon we pass the flag, I’ll have you locked away,” Tempest finally replied. “Mystery of the stolen Event Horizon solved. You’ll be finished.”

  Whatever. That moment was a million years away. All Mace cared about right now was winning the Glove.

  He remembered Dex and switched his radio over. “Yo! Caballero?”

  A crackle came to Mace’s ears. “Mace, what’s happening out there?”

  “Oh, you know, just racin’ . . . You hear from Aya?”

  “Yeah, she has Henryk in tow. Coast Guard’s closing in.”

  “Good.”
Mace sighed.

  Steering through the squall, Renegade watched Quasar try to morph to air, growing wings, lifting off the ground, only to be pummeled by the wind and rain, losing control, and slamming back down to earth in roadster form. He switched to her comm line. “You can’t just airlift your way out of this,” he said, watching her like a hawk.

  Mace waited for a chance to go airborne himself, but the storm owned the sky. He tried and was smacked down as if by a giant flyswatter. There was simply no way to get liftoff in this maelstrom.

  “A ground race it is.”

  He pumped the gas, drifted the curves like a pro, and found his own rhythm on the road despite the conditions.

  But Tempest wouldn’t give way. She answered his every move. He couldn’t squeeze by her.

  Then a tight bend came out of nowhere. Mace watched in horror as Tempest lost the roadway, dipped from view below a cliff. He thought he’d just seen her die—until she rose as an aircraft a moment later. He slowed, respected the turn without losing contact, and eased into a half drift. As he gathered back speed, Tempest settled on to the pavement, still ahead of him.

  She sped down a hill with Mace right on her. The bridge at the bottom had been washed away. The banks had crumbled into the brown water. Tempest bulleted over the water’s edge, morphing into a sub, taking the flash flood like a skipping stone in three successive bounces. She hit the far side of the highway as a roadster, her tires grabbing the asphalt and accelerating her up the next hill. Mace followed suit, flawlessly executing the same sequence of rapid morphs. A fallen tree bobbing in the water struck his hull, jostling him, but he recovered his grip on the wheel and corrected his steering in time to catch the pavement.

  Pitchfork and Untouchable materialized out of nowhere up ahead, racing up the middle of the road at a cautious pace through the pelting rain. Tempest swung to their left at full blast, showering them with a wall of water. Mace veered past to the right, nearly pushing them off the road.

  “You just passed the remaining leaders, Mace,” Dex confirmed. “The only thing between you and the finish line is Tempest Hollande.”