TURBO Racers Page 3

  He began to write his report, citing facts from memory.

  The sport of TURBO racing is undoubtedly the most popular racing sport in the world today. But this wasn’t always true. TURBO racing has come a long way since the early days when pioneering engineers worked in strict secrecy to develop transforming vehicles for a wide variety of military purposes.

  Mace stopped typing. He couldn’t concentrate. That pulse—the “breathing” of the Event Horizon. Mace couldn’t shake it. He tapped the rhythm on the desk, imagining tighter corners on all three terrains. He could shave off seconds of track time by nailing that beat.

  He returned to studying film clips. They were decades old, but Event Horizon performed almost like a present-day trimorpher. It was waaay ahead of the competition. It wasn’t even close. Until it flamed out in the Prix, racing Event Horizon was like pitting a brand-new Ferrari against Model T Fords. Event Horizon had won every race it entered.

  Still, even today’s trimorphers didn’t breathe the way Event Horizon had.

  Mace caught himself whispering instructions aloud as he watched old footage. “No. You should have waited another half second there. . . . Pull up, pull up. . . . You should have passed him on the left that time.

  “I could win with that machine,” he told the air.

  The simulator at the mall offered a near-real piloting experience. Mace knew where every button and switch was. He’d risen in the global leaderboards with each virtual run. But his body knew the pod’s movements were fake. If he could slip into a real trimorpher, feel the road, the water, the air—he knew his times would be even better. Watching vids of a pilot who wasn’t taking maximum advantage of Event Horizon’s full power was driving him nuts.

  He couldn’t shake the thought that if he had been driving her in that fateful Prix, he would’ve won.

  “When are you going to realize that your choices affect others?”

  Here it was. The Lecture. Mace had known it was coming. He’d heard it before. His father signed with intensity. His fingers were blunt-nailed and rough with old scars.

  Dad had just gotten home from his day shift at the bottling plant, where he worked the assembly line. His beige, button-up uniform had sticky stains all over the chest. Mace guessed a bottle of soda had exploded on him again.

  Dad sat forward at the dinner table, arms crossed over his growing paunch. His gray hair was cut short, and a five-o’clock shadow crept down his thick neck. He had been Deaf since birth, and unlike Mace’s mom, who’d lost her hearing when she was six, he had never learned to speak and so never tried.

  Mom sat at the table with them, nodding along.

  “I’m sorry,” Mace told them, “but I went to the TURBO exhibit for a homework assignment. Not to pick a fight. Those boys would have attacked me anywhere.”

  “Why?” Mom asked. “Was it Mr. Gerber’s son? Should I complain again?”

  “No!” Mace blurted. “No. It wasn’t—I can take care of myself.”

  “By stealing a welding canister to make your bike race faster?” Dad signed.

  This caught Mace by surprise. “How’d you know that?” he asked.

  “I’ve got two eyes, don’t I?” Mom signed. “I saw your bike.”

  Mace hated that she had figured that out. “It’s the end of the school year. I’m just borrowing it,” he tried.

  “I’m not interested in your excuses, Mace. What if Mr. H. needs that over the summer? You only think about yourself. And the rest of us pick up the pieces. I have to pull a double shift tonight to cover for Mom’s lost hours,” Dad told him. “No allowance this week. No mall.”

  Mace finished his food without looking up. No mall would mean losing his number-one slot on the simulator rankings again. He stood in a huff and marched to his room. He could still sneak to the mall, he figured. And he knew where his parents kept their change in their bedroom closet.

  He wouldn’t swipe much money. Just enough to stay on the leaderboard.

  On his computer screen was a repeating GIF of Event Horizon cruising to an easy win at the Tokyo 200. That pulse. Mace could almost feel it.

  His unfinished report gnawed at him. He sat down to continue writing.

  But something else gnawed at him more.

  Event Horizon—it breathed. Like a racehorse, it knew how to win. Quasar was just a jockey.

  Mace was a better jockey.

  He shut the computer down. It was late, and he still had a few days to finish his work.

  He couldn’t shake the thought. He wanted to see it for himself, feel if he was right. But Event Horizon was at the airport, about to be shipped to Albuquerque.

  At the airport . . . he thought. And then he remembered Dad signing, I have to pull a double shift tonight . . .

  It was a long shot, but what if Event Horizon wasn’t in Albuquerque yet? What if it was still in town—at the airport?

  Where his dad worked.

  Chapter Six

  Sneaking out of the house past Deaf parents was more of a ninja move than one might think. Mom and Dad had a sixth sense when it came to Mace. The softest vibration would wake them. But Mace had learned the hard way which routes to take, and he congratulated himself as he wiggled beneath a blanket in the back of his dad’s sedan unnoticed. All he had to do now was wait for Dad to come out and then remain stock-still until they were inside the airport.

  He fell asleep waiting, and his eyes startled open when the car rocked and the driver’s-side door slammed shut. The engine churned, gasped, tried to turn over, and died. It had always been cranky in the cold. Dad tried the ignition again, pumping the gas furiously, and finally the car started with a backfire. Mace risked a glance up front as they reversed out of the driveway. His father was bundled up in his overalls and a thick jacket. His breath plumed in the cold, like smoke.

  At the curb, Dad got out to close the gate, and Mace shifted his weight, looking for a comfortable position. There’s no turning back now, he realized with a terrified thrill.

  Twenty minutes later, the car slowed to a stop, and his dad rolled down his window. We’re here! Mace’s heart was in his throat. He held his breath as his dad flashed his security credentials to the gatehouse guard, then pulled forward and around the corner into his spot. With jarring speed, Dad was out of the car and gone.

  And like that, Mace was alone. He knew this was a bad idea. He shouldn’t have come, and yet . . . Event Horizon might very well be sitting nearby. A private viewing all his own.

  Sliding soundlessly out the back door, Mace stuck to the shadows and stayed low as he snuck away from the employee parking lot and onto the airport’s high-security tarmac. He hustled over to an idling fuel truck and scanned for any sign he’d been spotted. The airport was quiet enough that it felt abandoned.

  “Don’t be fooled,” he whispered to himself. “They’re out there.” He was referring, of course, to the guards. And the dogs. And the security cameras. And the all-seeing control tower. And anyone waiting for a flight. All they’d have to do is peer out the terminal windows to catch a glimpse of a twelve-year-old cat burglar.

  Patches of darkness between cones of lamplight formed his surest path to the hangars across the runway, where Mace assumed an invaluable TURBO racer like Event Horizon would be kept. He checked again to make sure the coast was clear and made a run for it. The rushing midnight air came in hard off the lake at the runway’s far end. Mace slipped behind a parked plane to catch his breath. He strained to hear whether anyone had spotted him and was moving his way, but all he could detect was his own thundering heartbeat. He darted off again, not daring to come out of his crouch.

  Nearly at the first hangar, his ears caught the roar of a plane coming in to land. The runway. He realized he’d sprinted out into the middle of the runway.

  This was an airport after all. He had forgotten to factor in landing planes!

  The ground rumbled. Mace threw himself into a dive-roll as the plane’s wheels touched down. He brushed the dirt from his pant
legs as he watched a small ground crew hustle over to taxi the plane onto the airport apron. Mace sprinted quick as he could toward the hangar.

  A security officer came around the corner, walkie-talkie in hand. Mace plastered himself up against the dark side of the hangar and held his breath. The officer gazed out at the runway and spoke into his radio. “Must’a been an animal.”

  “I don’t know,” came the reply. “Pilot seemed pretty certain it was big and on two legs.”

  The guard mumbled a reply and headed back to his normal rounds. Mace slid his back along the hangar wall until he came to a door. The handle turned, but the door was latched along an iron plate with a thick combination padlock.

  Mace grinned. He rested the lock in his hand, allowed its weight to nest into his palm. He closed his eyes and turned the combination dial. Somewhere inside the padlock’s belly, a tiny pin slipped into a groove.

  To Mace, it felt like a sledgehammer dropping. One hundred notches to choose from, but he felt the next pin jerk when he spun it back to the right spot, as if it called out to him: stop here. Mace yanked on the lock. The door swung open with a faint creak.

  He passed through a hallway to a vast warehouse interior. He set his jaw stubbornly and kept going until he caught sight of a vaguely disc-shaped mass, covered with cloth, alone in the middle of the warehouse, where the red light of the Exit sign was dimmest.

  He stepped forward and touched the cloth, running a trembling hand along its shape. He could feel the cloaked object shudder a little under his touch.

  What he had guessed from the videos—he could now feel in person: a pulse. It was like a hibernating grizzly bear. He knew he was detecting one of its many pumps, probably circulating antifreeze through the machine’s veins—but still. She’s alive, all right.

  Mace walked around the beast, touching the covered hull, running his fingertips over what he was sure was her glass canopy. He turned and retraced his steps, his opposite hand now in the lead.

  This had to be it. He curled his fingers into the cloth and wrenched it backward.

  Event Horizon.

  It was on a mount in aircraft form, its wings half-extended—tucked back but at the ready. The pale-red light reflected off her flawless black surface. The engine rose torpedo-shaped beneath the dorsal fin. The nose narrowed to needle sharpness.

  He laid both hands flat on the top of the craft, just below the tear-shaped glass hatch. Detecting a hair’s-width seam, he ran his finger along it and stumbled upon a delicate latch. The canopy hissed open, and panels inside awoke with faint lighting.

  Heart thudding, he leaned forward and peered inside. The ejector seat beckoned him. He glanced around the dark room. “Research,” he said aloud. “My teacher told me to do this.” His words echoed. The hangar was so quiet. A silence of permission.

  He dragged over a wooden crate and used it to climb inside.

  “Oh, man.” He whistled.

  Event Horizon’s interior was exactly the same as the simulator pod at the mall. Cool. He felt at home. Every surface was covered in buttons and switches, controls and panels, displays and lighting. He simply couldn’t resist. He ran his fingers along the interfaces, felt something deeper—that clicking pump—but also an internal hum. A pulse.

  This was no fancy video game. This was real.

  He felt like the controls were an extension of his own body. He allowed himself to imagine it: Mace Blazer, TURBOnaut of Event Horizon. He laughed at the thought. If only . . .

  A dark display screen lit, reading:

  FINGERPRINTS VERIFIED

  WEIGHT/HEIGHT PARAMETERS CONFIRMED

  The cockpit hatch closed. Mace laughed nervously, then realized his danger with a sudden jolt. He clocked his head on the glass above him. As he fell back down, the seat softened, enveloping him, then hardened again. Smart foam. His arms were free but otherwise he was immobilized.

  Mace was trapped.

  “Hey!” he yelled, to no one in particular. “Let me out of here! I’m sorry! I—”

  Text appeared on the display screen.

  WELCOME MBLAZE07

  AUTHORIZATION GRANTED

  He gaped, dumbfounded. A single laugh coughed out of him. “What the—?!”

  The humming he’d only barely detected was now everywhere—and loud—even through the headrest wrapped snugly around his ears. The beast had awoken. “No. No,” Mace said. His heart was in his throat. “Don’t do that.”

  INITIALIZING

  Event Horizon lowered. He heard the wooden crate crush into splinters. The exterior shell folded and shifted around him, revealing tires, a fatter nose. The wings disappeared. When the craft touched the ground, Mace was behind the wheel of a roadster.

  The hangar bay door opened. Blue-and-red flashing lights flooded the warehouse interior. A cold, terrified yelp of alarm escaped his lips.

  Cops were everywhere. “Get out of the . . . vehicle . . . with your hands up!” demanded a man with a bullhorn.

  “I can’t!” Mace screamed. “I don’t know what—” He fell silent, realizing they’d never hear—and that he was in major trouble. He’d broken into an airport. He’d nearly caused a landing plane to crash. He looked like he was stealing a freakin’ TURBO craft. “I’m going to jail for the rest of my life,” he said aloud, and knew it was true.

  The steering mechanism rose and extended toward Mace’s hands. The display suddenly flashed:

  YOU’RE NOT GOING TO JAIL TODAY

  He released a bark of laughter. “Is this for real? Who is this?” he asked the screen.

  DRIVE

  Mace could feel pedals rise to meet his feet. The engines revved, the reverberation hummed throughout the whole craft and up through Mace’s spine. His eyes widened. His heart pounded.

  The police officers were arriving in twos and fours. Flashing lights rushed in from the direction of the airport runway. The screen glowered at him:

  DRIVE

  Mace shook his head. “No. There’s a mistake. I can’t—who are you?” he asked again. He was certain this wasn’t AI. Event Horizon itself had no artificial intelligence. Someone was talking to him.

  DON’T WORRY ABOUT THAT NOW

  A SWAT van fishtailed to a stop. Its back doors sprang open. Officers emerged and fanned out along the tarmac in a large arc. Mace groaned. They wore heavy armor and carried what looked like machine guns, pointed downward but at the ready.

  YOU BETTER GO BEFORE THEY BLOW THE TIRES

  “Uh. But . . . where?” Mace laughed.

  I’LL TELL YOU WHERE TO GO

  This was so not a good idea, but he couldn’t see another choice. If he got caught, he’d go to jail. And he realized aloud with a flash of dread: “Dad will lose his job.”

  Mace gripped the wheel. He exhaled a long breath—and stomped the gas.

  The tires squealed. He lurched forward. The force of acceleration pushed him deep into the smart cushioning.

  The police scattered.

  Chapter Seven

  Mace was surprised by how light a touch the fuel pedal needed.

  He clutched the wheel and wove through the blockade of police cruisers. The light panels were blaring with proximity alerts. But Mace tuned it all out. He didn’t need a flashing light to tell him he was driving dangerously. He knew somehow he’d be fine if he just focused on what he could detect with his own senses. He felt out a path through the blockade. The steering was hair-trigger sensitive. The tires gripped the blacktop like glue. Mace felt the engines hum. He screamed, terrified . . . and blindingly happy.

  He shifted, cut through a line of parked airplanes toward open tarmac. When he felt he’d earned enough distance, he hit the brakes a bit too hard. The sudden stop was rough on his stomach, but the smart foam grabbed him and absorbed his body’s lost inertia.

  WHY ARE YOU STOPPING?

  “Just—give me a second. I just broke about a dozen laws and plowed through a police force, okay?”

  YOU STIRRED UP A HORNET’S NEST

/>   IT’S TIME TO SCRAM!

  Red-and-blue lights grew brighter from behind.

  He eyed the obvious exits and saw that he was surrounded by police. Vans were double- and triple-parked in front of gates. One gate was suspiciously unprotected and Mace glimpsed spikes glinting in the moonlight. They were trying to lure him into a trap.

  His heart jackhammered. “So, how the heck am I getting out of here?”

  LET’S SEE WHAT YOU’VE GOT

  “What does that mean? Is this some sort of insane test?”

  There was no answer.

  “Tell me where I need to go, at least!”

  START WITH DENVER

  “Denver! That’s more than forty miles away!”

  The screen paused, blank for several beats, then flashed.

  YOU DO REALIZE WHAT YOU’RE PILOTING, DON’T YOU?

  The comment snapped something loose within Mace. Call it reality.

  I’m piloting a TURBO racer.

  Mace peered down the long taxiway at the running blue landing lights that seemed to converge in the distance. The sky was the limit.

  Literally.

  “You want Denver? I’ll give you Denver,” he said, slamming his foot down on the pedal. He couldn’t help but shriek as he whipped through each gear and shot through a hole in the tightening net of security vehicles.

  The pulse. Remember how this thing breathes. You’re just a jockey. Let her do the work. He shifted, gave a half count, shifted again. A laugh extended into a yell. Mace hovered his hand over the light display. The fence beyond the end of the runway was growing large. The icon he was readying to punch said Air Morph.

  WHOA, TEX, MAYBE GET A FEEL FOR THE GROUND FIRST

  “Why? This is a runway, isn’t it?”

  THERE’S NO AUTOPILOT

  YOU MIGHT WANT TO EASE INTO HER

  There was a reservoir beyond the airport. His blood was pumping as he stared out at the water. He could read a sign in the bright headlights: Hayden Lake. Beyond that, the darkness of the Rocky Mountains, capped with silvery hoods of snow.