Titans

by Victoria Scott

  I shuffle toward the pond, stop at the edge. “I thought you should know why I can’t trust you to save my family. This time, I have to do it myself.”

  I stand like that, my lungs pulling in jerking breaths, the tears continuing to flow, though I’m feeling lighter. Like releasing the story into the thick summer air somehow helped. Eventually, I feel a nudge on my back. Spinning around, I find a looming Padlock.

  “Hey,” I say, avoiding eye contact, feeling embarrassed about what I revealed, even though that’s nuts.

  Padlock nudges me again and I smile, relieved to have the tension broken. When he lowers his head again, I wrap my arms around his neck, bury my face in his steel-threaded mane. We stay like that for some time, the loons wailing to one another, my shoulders aching from how tightly I’m holding Padlock. My heart opens to this horse that lay dormant and dusty in Rags’s basement, but has done so much for me since. What will happen to him after the races end? Somehow, already, I can’t imagine him not being around.

  My Titan takes a step closer, and I smile at how comforting this steel horse is behaving. It’s almost as if he’s a real, live animal with …

  Padlock takes another step and I stumble backward.

  “Hey, be careful. You’re going to accidentally—”

  Padlock dips his head lower until his nose nuzzles my belly button. Then he tosses his head upward and my arms flail. At the last minute, I grab on to his neck. But now Padlock is walking toward me with gusto, and I have no choice but to fumble backward or fall under his hooves.

  “What are you doing?” My shoes splash into the pond as I attempt to stay upright. Now the water is up to my ankles. “Padlock, stop. Stop!”

  Padlock pauses and looks at me with what can only be described as a robotic grin.

  “You think this is funny?”

  Padlock head-butts me.

  I fly backward and land on my rear in the pond. The water soaks through my jeans and shirt and dampens the ends of my hair. My mouth gapes open. I tell my horse my worst nightmare, and this is his response? I consider turning him off. I consider marching miles to the closest town, calling Rags, and screaming through the phone. Instead, here’s what I do—

  I splash my Titan in the face.

  His head jerks up and he blinks long lashes to clear the water from his eyes.

  “How’s it feel?” I ask.

  Padlock blows hard through his nostrils, and a fine mist sprays across my face.

  “Oh, dude. Gross!”

  Those are the last words I utter before my Titan backs up and then barrels toward me. My eyes nearly explode out of my skull watching him advance so quickly. I cover my head and scream, terrified he’s about to pummel me. At the last second, I uncover my face and watch, mystified, as Padlock soars over my body. The underside of his black, shiny belly reflects my awe as he arches toward the water.

  There’s a loud splash, and a second later a wave curls over my head and slams down on my shoulders. Water no human on earth should touch rushes into my mouth and ears and nose. I spin around, my rear still stuck firmly in mud, and prepare to give my Titan a tongue-lashing.

  But when I glimpse him swimming in circles, head bobbing above the surface, I can’t help but laugh. Because he looks absolutely absurd. And though this pond is filthier than Dani’s boyfriend, the cool water is invigorating.

  Since I’m already drenched, and infected by whatever waterborne bacteria calls this pond home, I stand up, take three powerful steps, and leap toward my Titan. When my head breaks the surface, I swim toward Padlock, splashing him and laughing when he snorts more water.

  I reach my horse at last and climb onto his back. He remains still as I curl my legs around his sides and grab on to his mane. Then we’re off, wading through lily pads and cattails.

  Padlock eventually tires of swimming and arises from the water like a mythological creature. I ride bareback as he trots through swarms of grasshoppers and startled robins. Though it’s useless at this point, I wipe my hand over Padlock’s control panel, hoping his dashboard is water resistant. After cleaning it off as best I can, I find myself wondering about this mechanical horse, and how exactly he does what he does.

  “How’d you jump over me without being commanded to, Padlock?” I ask softly. “How do you do anything without my working your panel?”

  Padlock swivels his head partway, and one glittering eye stares back. Then he picks up his pace, his trot morphing into a gallop. My heart reacts, but this time it’s not for the grandfather I lost. It’s for the horse that’s reassuringly solid. No matter how far he travels, I don’t grow anxious. No matter how fast he runs, I’m not afraid. And when the sun washes over our backs, I gaze up and let the warmth spill across my face. It seems the sky has finally made up its mind.

  It’s going to be a good day.

  Lottie’s lessons are beginning to sink in, and that’s good, because the woman tells me she’s set up my first large-scale interview to take place after the first circuit race. Rags is irritated, of course, because he’d prefer that I focus on the track. But I’m starting to enjoy learning Lottie’s secret language. I love my parents, but they haven’t been exposed to the things Lottie has.

  She teaches Magnolia and me about grace, about holding your tongue when you’d rather bash in someone’s face. She shows us how to walk like a lady, reminds us to cross our legs while sitting, and tells us we must always have sympathy for those experiencing hardships, regardless of who they are.

  She also talks about aspirations. How a lady worth knowing is one who pursues her desires. Rub your goals into a stone, she says. Keep the stone close, and each morning when you put it in your pocket, and each night when you remove it, repeat them to yourself. Look in a mirror. Tell yourself you are all the things needed to accomplish this goal. Lottie actually had us spend ten minutes alone in Barney’s bathroom, staring into the mirror. For the first eight, I purposely ignored my reflection. That or I made faces, curling my lips back and opening my mouth as wide as I could. When Lottie knocked on the door and announced that I had a few seconds left, I glanced back at the mirror and said, in a rush, in a whisper—

  “I am brave. And strong. And intelligent. And anything else that’ll help me with the Titan Derby.” I grimaced. “But not graceful. Never graceful unless Lottie’s watching.”

  Lottie yelled through the door then. Guess I’d said the last part too loudly.

  Now, as I swing Padlock’s saddle onto his back, I remember Lottie’s words, feel the smooth stone heavy in my new breeches. I run my hands over my new boots and silks, the ones Lottie bought. My colors are the same—yellow and black—but whereas my old silk had simple stripes, this one has an alpha symbol.

  Padlock was the beginning is all she said.

  Lottie bought a secondhand trailer too, had it painted black, and put that same symbol on its side. I look like one of them now, can walk and talk like them. But I am not them. I’m me. I’m a girl from Warren County who’s here to save my family.

  “You’re going to do great.” Magnolia makes me sit down and hold still while she braids a piece of my hair across my head and twists the rest into a bun, securing it with a yellow shimmering net. “About what you said before. About your racing being the same as what our dads do.”

  I hold my breath.

  “It’s not,” she says firmly. “Our dads gamble for the rush. They hold cards in their hands and toss money on the table, but that’s it. They’re not working for anything when it comes to those bets. They’re not putting in the effort.” Magnolia tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “It’s one thing to gamble away money you don’t have. It’s another to bet on yourself.”

  My chest tightens with gratitude as I mumble an inadequate “Thank you, Magnolia.” And then, because I know she needs to hear it, I say, “I’ll be fine out there.”

  She shrugs. “We’ve seen a lot of jams over the years. How many new tricks could they come up with?”

  Her voice is small w
hen she says this, though, because over the last five years we’ve never seen a jam repeated twice. Magnolia continues fussing with my hair, and I know why.

  “Mag, I won’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  Lie.

  “You promise?”

  “Swear.”

  Fingers crossed behind my back.

  I hug my friend close, for everything she’s done for me over the last five years. She sees the best in me, and having her around makes me a better person.

  “What was that for?” she asks.

  “Because you’re fan-freaking-tastic.”

  She bobs her head. “You speak the truth.”

  Rags and Barney come in a moment later, and while Barney checks my saddle, Rags gives me a pep talk. It goes something like this: “Do good. Don’t get hurt or we won’t make it to the next race.”

  Then he does something extraordinary: Rags pats me on the back. Three pats, quick succession. I grin as he clears his throat and avoids eye contact.

  He may not know this, but his touch means everything. He’s nervous I’ll get injured, and for good reason. But he also believes in me the same way Magnolia does.

  “Thank you, Rags,” I say.

  Rags coughs. “You already thanked me before. Now you’re just being irritating.”

  I laugh and pull myself up into the saddle. “Away with you, old man. I’ve got a race to win.”

  This time, a smile graces his face, and when he meets my gaze, he nods. My manager leads Barney and Magnolia outside the stables, and I lean down onto Padlock’s neck.

  “There are thirteen horses left, Padlock. All we have to do is finish in tenth place or better.” I swallow, and my heart picks up. “This race won’t be like the others. It’ll go off-course, and we’ll need to be ready for anything.” I sit up and stroke my Titan’s mane, nervous energy coursing through me.

  There’s no time left to worry, because the woman with the clipboard is checking off our names and inspecting our horses for illegal parts. And soon we’re corralled into the starting gate. I don’t miss the way the jockeys glare as I lead Padlock into our stall, but I block it out. They don’t exist anymore. Nothing does except this race.

  The crowd is thinner tonight, but not for lack of attendance. The men weave through the forest, past Cyclone Track and into the trees beyond. The circuit tracks are lined by temporary fences, illuminated by miniature glowing lights. The first race of three will be a short one, and the crowd will get an intimate look at every moment, cheering from the sidelines or throwing beer bottles and cigarette butts and cursing the horses that run against their own.

  If the first three races were chaotic, the next three will be sheer insanity.

  I set my gaze ahead and try to see where the track ventures. What jams lie ahead. But there’s nothing. I only have one piece of information. The name of the race: Fire Walker.

  I do as Rags instructed. Envision myself finishing in the top ten. Envision attending the Circuit Gala in three days’ time with my head held high. Magnolia will be my radiant date, and my team will be proud to call me their jockey.

  Yellow.

  Yellow.

  Padlock throws himself against the starting gate, a wild, manic thing who matches my mood like he can feel it. It seems we both remember our first preliminary race. The one where the other jockeys told us in no uncertain terms where we stood in their pecking order.

  Yellow.

  Tonight, we have something to prove.

  Tonight, I must remember why I’m racing.

  And just like that, I find myself searching the crowd for my father. I’m not sure why it’s his face I want to see. And I have no idea why I believe for one second that I’ll spot him. But I look anyway, and my heart breaks all the same.

  Thank goodness for distractions.

  Thank goodness for the starting gate pulling away.

  Green.

  The Titans rumble from their chutes, and once again Hart is the first to appear, with everyone else a heartbeat behind. One five-minute mile lies against us, and the horses drink up the distance. This time, when I cross over a red line painted faintly in the dirt, I’m ready.

  Funny how I never spotted the lines as a kid.

  That’s what’s on my mind as the fence arching around the first turn falls away. Just as it did two races ago, the ground collapses and the fence vanishes. This time though, no spears appear. Instead, something much more dangerous does.

  Fire roars from the pit, licking upward, huffing smoke into the air.

  The first jockey to reach it, Skeet, navigates her Titan up and over without missing a beat. It’s almost enough to make me wonder whether Arvin filled the others in on the jams this time too. But I know better. He may have tried to get me disqualified, but he also wants a fair race among the leading jockeys since the journalist is watching.

  Another two Titans blast toward the fire. The first one soars over it with ease, but the second one stumbles when it reaches the other side. The horse seems dazed, and the jockey running it quickly punches orders into the control panel. The fire must have overheated the Titan’s engine. The horse recovers quickly, but I make a mental note to treat this jam with caution as Padlock and I near its border.

  Hart leads his Titan to the outer edge of the fire and hits the hurdle button. The flames burn lower on the perimeter of the jam, and he’s able to clear them with ease. As the other jockeys continue to take their Titans straight over the top, I follow Hart’s lead and line Padlock up near the left side. I punch the gas bar and my horse rages forward. I wait until we’re close. Then I wait even longer. Only when I feel the heat of the flames tingle against my skin do I slam the hurdle button.

  Padlock flies over like he’s Neil Armstrong, his hooves hitting the dirt the first steps on a terrestrial moon. I eye our competitors and set my gaze on the Titan whose engine has overheated. Though the horse still runs, it’s slower than before. As trees whip by, and men cheer from behind temporary gates, I drive Padlock faster. There’s a turn ahead, and I have to use it to bypass the others. With the race only a mile long, there’s no telling how many turns there will be.

  I press down into the saddle, and when I navigate Padlock toward the turn side, he charges toward it as if in agreement.

  Way ahead of you!

  Batter and Penelope reach the turn first, and when they do, a brightness flashes through the fog. I touch the brake bar, and as we grow closer, I understand what slows the horses.

  Flaming arrows shoot across the track, stemming from the same turn I need to hug. While the other horses don’t display anxiety, my own Titan raises up on his back legs. I’m nearly thrown from the saddle, and I have to yell words of comfort to encourage Padlock to keep galloping.

  We’re five yards from the turn when I spot a second injured Titan, a steel spear protruding from its glowing red eye. The horse bucks wildly, its computer system sending errors throughout the Titan’s body. The man driving the machine gets it under control, and soon they’re off again, but much slower than before, and with whirls of black smoke curling from the Titan’s eye.

  I slow Padlock and watch as the remaining Titans race past the flaming arrows. Numbers fill my head as they always do. This time, it’s the number of seconds between each arrow.

  One, two, three, four—shoot.

  One, two, three, four—shoot.

  After the next arrow releases, I ease off the brake bar and slam on the gas instead. Padlock races past the place where the danger lies, and we’re off again.

  After a powerful dash, two horses fall behind, both injured from jams. Ahead lies a second turn, and after Padlock and I take it, we pass another Titan. Electric energy courses through my veins, believing I’ve tackled another race. After all, we can’t be that far from the finish line, and already I’ve passed three Titans.

  I scan the track as the crowd roars from either side, and try and make out who’s in the lead. It’s Skeet, her blue-streaked hair whipping behind her head. No soon
er do I have her in my sights than her Titan is thrown onto its side. I don’t understand what’s happened until I spot cannonballs of fire dropping from the sky. I look up once, try to decipher the source of the jam, but my eyes are no match against the low-hanging clouds.

  Skeet’s Titan struggles to its feet while the rest of us charge our Titans past. This time, there’s no pattern to the jam. The cannonballs land in different places, and there isn’t a set time between the moment one hits and when the next will fall. I grit my teeth and shove my fear deep into my belly, remember that both my family and Magnolia’s family is at stake. But mostly, I push the fear down because it threatens to overwhelm me. Treacherous thoughts slip into my mind as we blaze past the cannonballs.

  Is saving my family’s home worth risking my life?

  And another thought too—

  What about Padlock, my partner? Is it worth risking him?

  My hands shake as I steer Padlock through the use of the joysticks. Sweat coats my face from the heat of the flames, and from the panic rising up my spine. I realize I’m failing at controlling my emotions, that I’m losing my grip and my place in this race. My mind reels and my arms quake and Padlock veers recklessly, confused by the mixed signals I’m sending through the control panel.

  Run faster. Faster!

  No, slow down or we’ll die!

  A voice rings out louder than the others. I’m not sure where it stems from, my left or right, but it’s sure and strong and it calls out my name.

  “Let’s go, Sullivan! Go, go, go!”

  Just as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. Already a distant sound. But I heard it. Someone at this race was calling my name. Someone has placed a bet on me. Renewed confidence blazes through my veins. My name is Astrid Sullivan, and I am the same as the people outside those gates. If one person believes I can win, then maybe another one does too. There’s no telling how many fans hold my name in their hand, how many hold Padlock’s name too.

  I lean forward and push Padlock past the remaining cannonballs. Checking my performance gauge and ensuring we’re safe, I set my attention on the last remaining jam. There’s no way more than one stands between here and the finish line. There’s too little time remaining.