TURBO Racers Page 6

  The last components came apart in his hands. “Done taking it apart!” His announcement caused a bit of panic among the others.

  Quasar’s voice chimed in. “Confirmed. You may proceed with reassembly.”

  For one horrific moment, Mace scanned the table and had no idea where to begin.

  What would Mr. Hernandez tell me? he asked himself. “All right, let’s start with the main input shaft.” He took a deep breath. He talked himself through each successive piece, building a rhythm and increasing speed.

  Aya announced her progress next, and then Dex, and finally Henryk. Frustration was building in Henryk’s voice.

  Mace hit a snag. The remaining gears he had to insert wouldn’t fit anywhere. It took him several minutes to realize he’d previously slid something into place upside down.

  He backtracked, taking pieces apart again.

  “Done!” Aya called out. She hoisted her assembled module up onto the submersible and inserted it, pumping her fists and breathing a sigh of relief.

  Henryk growled with pain, yanking his hand back from a cog that had pinched his finger. The socket wrench jumped from his hand and skidded to a halt on the floor.

  Mace stared at it.

  Using only what you have directly in front of you . . .

  The tool lying directly ahead seemed like fair game to Mace.

  He darted forward and snatched it up. While Henryk protested, Mace tightened a half dozen final bolts. “Done!” he declared.

  “Hey! That’s cheating. Give my wrench back. That’s mine,” argued Henryk.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Mace. “Thor missing his hammer?”

  “Not funny. Give it back.”

  Mace tossed the wrench to the floor in front of him. “It became mine. It was directly in front of my station. But now it’s yours again.”

  “Doesn’t count,” Henryk sneered. “You’re disqualified.”

  Mace ignored him, pivoted toward the aircraft, sprang up on the wing, and reinserted the module.

  “I’ve got all the time in the world to finish now,” Henryk announced, squaring his shoulders and making a big show of getting back to work.

  Mace stayed sitting on the wing. Worry gnawed at him. What if Henryk was right, and Quasar considered his use of the extra tool to be cheating?

  The two remaining boys pushed through to the end, neck and neck. Dex squawked excitedly when he completed his module and raced to install it.

  Henryk saw that he was last but stood dignified as he tightened his final bolts. He shrugged at one point and cast Mace a dark grin. “All the time in the world,” he mouthed. He walked over to the roadster and inserted the gearbox into place.

  Quasar entered the hangar, hidden behind the polished helmet with the quasar insignia. The figure pointed for the youths to come together and stood in front of them.

  “Aya finished first, followed by Mace, then Dex, then Henryk.”

  “Mace cheated!” Henryk protested. “He stole my wrench.”

  “He didn’t cheat,” Quasar replied. “I heard his explanation. He improvised. He made the rules work for him. And that’s my Golden Rule. This is your first lesson, everyone. Hear it well: Rules are strange, bendy things. Make every advantage your advantage.”

  Mace felt uneasy. He was pretty sure the Golden Rule was about treating others the way you’d like to be treated, but he laughed. Nothing had ever come easily to him, yet he always found a way to manage. “I’m your guy.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?” Quasar replied.

  Aya and Dex wore frowns. Henryk looked thoughtful.

  “You’re all twelve,” Quasar told them. “Currently, the rules are that TURBOnauts have to be at least sixteen. All of you already exist outside the box. I want my ’naut to thrive there.”

  The hangar grew silent. Quasar waited before continuing. “Aya, board your submersible and morph from water to air to ground on your mount.”

  Aya lifted the canopy of the sub and climbed aboard. She fired it up, and Mace felt a thrill in his chest as the turbine began to turn and build speed. He saw the same joy awaken in Aya’s eyes. Wind and rattling filled the bay. Without warning, and only a whisper of signature noise, the trimorpher transformed atop its pedestal into an aircraft.

  “Sweet,” Aya exclaimed through the glass. Mace read her lips. He realized: this was probably her first time inside a non-virtual cockpit during a real morph.

  “Very good,” said Quasar. “Again.”

  The aircraft morphed without a hitch into a roadster. Mace exhaled. Good for her.

  “Henryk, you’re next,” Quasar told him. The boy nodded confidently, strode over to his roadster, and morphed it twice. Mace felt a stab of disappointment.

  “Dex,” said Quasar.

  He climbed aboard. The aircraft transformed into a sub just fine. But when he toggled to a roadster, a grinding cry belched from inside the hull. Back wheels extended, but the craft dangled off the ground from atop its podium like a speared fish.

  Mace’s heart lurched.

  Henryk let loose a long whistle. “Whew!” he said. “Glad I’m not you.”

  “Mace, go ahead and take the original Event Horizon for a spin,” said Quasar.

  Everyone waited as he scrambled aboard. I should have double-checked my work! Mace scolded himself. He punched the ignition with his eyes closed. The old-timer fired up like a well-practiced symphony orchestra. He winced each time he morphed, but the sounds that emanated from the vehicle were pitch-perfect. No smoke.

  “Mace’s transformer module works,” Quasar announced. “Dex, your reassembly was flawed. That puts you in last place, behind Henryk. Strike one.”

  Henryk crowed, “Knew it!”

  “I get one more strike, right?” Dex loosened a pretend tie around his neck.

  “That was your freebie. Next time you’re last, you’re out. But I reserve the right to boot anyone at any time for any reason.”

  Mace felt relieved. Caballero had bested Mace in simulator runs countless times. Getting Dex out of the way early might be best for Mace’s chances.

  The helmeted figure turned to all of them. “You’ve each shown me qualities about yourselves. It’s time I show you who I am.”

  “Now we’re talking,” approved Aya.

  “Drumroll, please,” added Dex.

  Quasar lifted the helmet. Mace drew in a sharp breath.

  The injured eye—it was hidden behind a patch. But that’s not what made Mace gasp.

  Standing opposite him was a gray-haired woman.

  Chapter Eleven

  Her one green eye shone with such confidence that it distracted from the black eye patch and gnarly burn scars on her neck.

  Aya spoke Mace’s thoughts. “I thought you were . . . um, a—”

  “A man?” Quasar finished for her. “Why does everyone assume Quasar was a man?”

  “Man, woman? Who cares?” said Dex. “I’m just glad you don’t sound like a stalker anymore, with your helmet off.”

  “My name is Tempest Hollande,” the woman said.

  Mace searched his brain. He’d heard the name before. “Hollande Industries,” he said. “The TURBO sim company!”

  “You’re right!” agreed Aya.

  “The very least of our products, I assure you. My father was Prescott Hollande. He owned TK Telecommunications.”

  “Yeah,” said Aya. “My parents do business with you. We manufacture medical devices for your health-care companies.”

  “I know that. I’ve toured your Osaka factories. I made my fortune with inventions and new technologies. I designed Event Horizon all those years ago, and I would own this sport today, if it weren’t for . . .” She tugged on her collar, revealing more of the scar on her neck. Mace remembered the famous crash that ended her career. “But we’ll have our reckoning yet.”

  “Show us your eye,” suggested Henryk.

  To Mace’s surprise, she did. She turned her patch up to reveal terrible scarring and a cloudy,
white pupil shot through with forked, red veins.

  “What we’re doing comes with risk,” said Tempest. She dropped the patch back into place. Mace felt relieved. “You’ll be pitted against each other in real machines, traveling at incredible speeds. Things happen out on the track. And I’m asking you to go faster, turn tighter, morph with more precision. You’re here to push the envelope of what’s possible. If my scars make you queasy, quit now.”

  “The scars are one thing,” Aya muttered. “You lost an eye!”

  “And you’re lucky I did,” Tempest retorted. “Or I’d be out there reclaiming my Glove without your help.”

  Henryk grinned. “I’ll go faster than these—how do you say—yahoos, any day.”

  “Talk is cheap where I’m from,” Dex warned.

  “Whatever. Just go back to Jamaica now,” Henryk suggested. “Save yourself the embarrassment of having to eat your words.”

  “What?” laughed Dex. “Dude. I’m Dominican. Should I tell you to go back to Sweden?”

  Tempest came between them. “That’s enough, boys. Sort it out on the track. For now, you’re dismissed to your quarters. Read the manuals you find on your desks. Memorize them front and back. There will be tests. I expect all of you to get one hundred percent on all of them. Or else.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The four prospective TURBOnauts gathered for the day’s first meal.

  Four days into training and cramming for tests—memorizing everything from Gauntlet Prix stats to jet-propulsion science—all the rivals complained of exhaustion. But Aya looked the part this evening. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her eyes were puffy. “I’m not sleeping well,” she admitted. She looked like she might cry. “At all, really.”

  “It’s okay,” said Henryk, chomping off the end of a breakfast burrito. “In a couple of days, you can catch up on all the sleep you want.”

  “Training all night, sleeping all day,” Aya snapped back. “I’m not an owl.”

  They were becoming nocturnal, training at night so they wouldn’t be seen. The fluorescent lights were their cue that it was time to rise and shine. Mace couldn’t ignore the faint electric crackle that came with the overhead lighting. It sounded to him like a dental drill was forever in the next room, probing someone’s teeth.

  Mace had made himself three burritos. He scarfed one down and continued with his mouth full. “You’re probably catching more z’s than you realize.”

  “I don’t know.” Aya saw that her hair was in her food. Or maybe it was her food in her hair. Mace couldn’t decide which; she picked at one or the other. “Even down here, my body knows the difference between night and day. Isn’t that happening to you?”

  Mace gulped down some OJ. “Of course! Remember how cranky I was yesterday? You lasted a day longer than I did!” Truth was, it took him a while to fall asleep each day, but he was finally getting used to it.

  Aya sighed explosively.

  “Try moving to northern Norway during the summer,” Henryk suggested unhelpfully. “Sun never sets.”

  “Have you seen the northern lights?” Mace asked him.

  Henryk nodded. “In the winter, when the sun never rises.”

  “That’s cool,” said Mace, trying to imagine such an exotic place as Norway. That country had TURBO courses; he’d get to go there someday.

  “Did you try sleeping different ways?” Dex asked Aya. “I have to find the right position, till it works. Sometimes I . . .” He climbed up onto an empty cafeteria table and demonstrated his method, bending his elbows backward and dangling a leg to the floor. He tucked a wrist behind his back. “Like this.”

  “You look like a grilled chicken.” Henryk laughed.

  “After living through four hypercanes, I can sleep anywhere,” Dex said.

  “What?” everyone asked at once.

  Hypercanes were a step above a hurricane. They could develop without warning, building winds as high as three hundred miles an hour. The Caribbean was getting blasted by them yearly these days. Something to do with the ozone layer falling apart—or something—but that’s all Mace knew about it.

  “I’ve been through four,” Dex said. “During one, my sister and I were the only kids in my neighborhood to make it.”

  “To make it?” gulped Mace. “As in, to survive?”

  Dex gave a grim nod. “We got lucky.”

  Mace dropped his second burrito. “And I thought snow storms in May were annoying.”

  “So sorry, man,” Aya offered.

  “After the last hyper, power was out across the island for four months. The laws got relaxed for travel. Uncle Ricky brought me and my sis to New York, put us in the school he teaches at.”

  “So, when I send you packing”—Henryk turned back to Dex, his mouth full of breakfast burrito—“are you going to use your loser money to live in New York or to go back to Natural Disaster Land?”

  Dex spit out the orange juice he was drinking.

  Aya glared at the Norwegian. “I could teach a university course on how obnoxious you are.”

  “Shame I won’t have time to take your class,” Henryk sneered. “I’ll be too busy winning.”

  Dex leaned forward. “The only contest you’ve won so far is the dumb goatee contest.”

  “I’m not here to be friends,” Henryk said. “Only one of us can win.”

  “You’re wrong,” Mace argued. “People can compete and still get along.”

  Dex agreed. “What’s the point of winning if you have no friends?”

  “Um . . . MONEY,” Henryk answered. “And fame. And glory. And the thrill of being worshipped. But you guys go be besties. I’ll go win the Glove. It’s fine with me.”

  Tempest’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Five minutes. Meet me in the bay. A lot to cover today before we finally get you behind the wheel.”

  “Five minutes?” griped Mace. “But I’m still so hungry.”

  “Eat up,” said Henryk. “It’s the only thing you’re really fast at.”

  Mace’s and Henryk’s eyes locked on each other. Without looking away, Mace picked up his burrito and took a huge bite. He chewed while staring down the Norwegian. Henryk lifted his own burrito and tore at it angrily with his teeth. He chewed, swallowed, and gulped down some OJ. His next bite was even more fierce. He grinned. Bits of egg, sausage, and potato stuck to his chin.

  Mace swallowed his mouthful, and then shoved the rest of his burrito in his mouth in one bite.

  Dex and Aya stopped eating and watched the two boys competing to see who could inhale their food fastest.

  Mace smacked Dex’s shoulder. “More burritos.” Food erupted from his mouth as he gave orders. “And juice.”

  “You’re on,” Henryk spat. He gave Aya a glance and gestured toward the burrito bar.

  Aya and Dex shared a brief look, then both of them bolted for the leftover food. Mace and Henryk scarfed what remained on their plates. Dex and Aya slammed new trays down in front of them, each with five more burritos.

  Feverishly chewing and swallowing, the rivals ate and ate. Faster and faster. Mace refused to let Henryk gain ground. He paced Henryk until something in his stomach churned sickly. He downed more OJ. Never stopping. Faster. More speed. They were both down to their last burrito, their shirts caked with egg and salsa and orange pulp.

  Tempest burst into the dining room, confused at first, then disgusted. The kids fell silent, though Mace and Henryk continued to chow down their final burritos.

  “What are you doing?” Tempest demanded.

  Mace couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to. He’d crammed the last bite of food into his mouth. He slammed back a cup of OJ. Swallowed.

  His plate was empty. His mouth was empty. Henryk was still chewing.

  “Checkered flag is all mine!” he shouted triumphantly, raising clenched fists into the air.

  Henryk reached over and smacked Mace in the stomach with an open palm.

  Orange juice and salsa rose into the back
of Mace’s throat and shot up his nose. The sting of it was too much.

  He puked all over the table.

  Everyone jumped back. Henryk swallowed his last bit, caught a breath, almost choked, held it back, and started laughing.

  “You didn’t hold it down,” Henryk declared. “That means I win!”

  Mace was coughing. His eyes watered and his throat stung. He looked at the table, and what he saw almost brought up another round of half-chewed breakfast.

  Tempest grabbed Henryk by the sleeve and pulled him away. She ushered everyone but Mace out of the dining room. “He’s right,” she told him as they all funneled out, leaving Mace bent over, alone, with his hands propped on his knees. “You lost. Clean it all up.”

  “Come on!” he managed, finally catching his breath. “He hit me!”

  “No. He took advantage. How many times do I have to point this out?” Tempest said. “Hitting your opponents hard is how you’re going to win.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rivals were finally facing off. They were already fifteen laps into the twenty-six-lap-long course that Tempest had staged above the Utah desert. Dawn was approaching, and the pink sky was filled with fiery red clouds. This aircraft battle counted. The loser would earn a strike. Dex was at risk of going home.

  “What happens if you lose speed on a sharp turn and the compressor blades don’t self-recover?” Ahmed asked in Mace’s helmet headset.

  Pop-quiz time, Mace thought. The point of these questions was twofold: Could Mace recall important basics of flight training while under high stress? And, could he walk and chew gum at the same time? Carrying on a conversation while rocketing through the atmosphere was a skill that took some practice.

  “I’d feel the airflow adjustment stagnate,” he answered through his mic. “Don’t wait. Just shut ’er down and reboot.”

  “That’s the textbook answer,” Ahmed replied.

  In the first twenty laps, Mace had never once dropped into last place. He’d been in first or second for most of the race. Aya and Dex were easy to handle, their attempts at passing him predictable and too by the book.

  Dex inched up behind him again, and—yup—tried to sneak by on the inside of the next hovering checkpoint. Mace cut him off.