Titans by Victoria Scott
Narrowing my eyes, I make out more fire, flickering orange and red against the darkness. A narrow wedge cuts a path between the flames, more like a bridge than anything. Three horses race behind me, and nine lie ahead. If I can pass two more between here and the end, I’ll finish in fifth, my best place yet. It’s not good enough for the final Titan Derby, but it’s good enough for a circuit race.
I set my sights on the closest jockey, Penelope. She’s fallen from her first-place spot into ninth, and though Lottie believes she has a chance at winning this whole thing, tonight I want her watching Padlock’s tail.
The problem is, I don’t know how to pass her.
The bridge is coming up faster than I’d anticipated, and already I see Titans clashing against each other to get onto the bridge before their competition. This is the moment Rags would have me use Padlock’s autopilot. But how could a machine utilize this jam better than a human brain? It couldn’t. And so I toggle between two ideas to pass Penelope.
One, thrust farther into the performance gauge and cut her off at the last moment. Two, use the hurdle button to leap over her Titan and land on the bridge.
My brain buzzes between the two options until I have no time left to contemplate my next move. Releasing a scream, I push the hurdle button. The problem is, I also slam the gas bar and turn the joysticks as if I’m going to bypass Penelope. I had two options, and in my panic, I tried to do both.
Padlock takes two more accelerated steps, veering to the left, and then soars into the air. I hold my breath as my Titan arches up and over the jockey. Midair, I glance down and see the whites of Penelope’s widened eyes. I’d smile at her if I wasn’t worried about our landing.
Padlock lands hard in front of Penelope, his back legs kicking her Titan in the muzzle. Because we took off at an angle, my horse fumbles to regain solid footing, the momentum we built threatening to send us over the side. I shouldn’t have pulled to the left. I’m an idiot and now we’re both going to burn.
Heat travels up my leg and flares close to my breeches. We’re terrifyingly close to spilling over the edge, one footstep away from being engulfed. The jams all have an off switch in case jockeys’ lives became endangered. But would the engineers be quick enough this time? Would the medics be close enough to help if I fall?
They aren’t always.
At last, Padlock finds his balance, and with Penelope firmly behind us, my Titan races forward. I ease off the gas bar as we gallop across the bridge, giving my horse a chance to recover. Then as we reach the other side, it’s full steam ahead.
Padlock’s eyes cut through the fog as we chase the remaining eight horses. The cries of the crowd grow louder, telling me the finish line is close. I can’t see it, though, which can only mean one thing …
A single steel Titan races just ahead of us, and one beautiful turn lies between us and the end. Numbers flash through my head as the jockey guides his horse toward the curve. He’s close enough to use the bend to his advantage, to shave precious seconds off his time, but there’s still space for Padlock and me if I’m right.
I nudge the gas bar, check our stopwatch, and steer the joysticks to the right. Then I lean with my Titan and bite down. Sparks fly as we sail past our rival. No one I know well, but they must know me, because I hear them curse my name as Padlock and I zip toward the finish line. A gun fires, and I ease off the gas, say hello to my old pal the brake bar.
Eighth place, our best yet. And at 0:03:27, we’re well within the allotted time.
Outside the gates, people shout my name with glee. Only a few of them, but it’s enough. I raise my arm and wave to my supporters, and when Magnolia, Rags, Barney, and Lottie meet me on the track, my heart swells with pride. It isn’t until I slide down from my saddle, and throw my arms around Padlock, that I can breathe again.
“You did well,” I tell my Titan.
I don’t miss the way Rags grins, as if he’s calling me on the fact that I’ve fallen for this piece of metal he calls a horse.
Suppose it’s true.
Suppose I have.
The Circuit Gala is everything Magnolia and I could have hoped for, with a side of mini raspberry tortes. To our amusement, we find that no matter how many times we swipe food from the servers’ trays, they return with more. It almost seems as if they’re happy to have two girls enthusiastic about their food.
When it comes time to sit down at round tables covered with white cloths and orange overlays, Magnolia and I use every trick Lottie taught us. The four other guests seated at our table aren’t pleased to be there, but when we take tiny bites, and make polite conversation, and place our utensils down at all the right moments, the tension leaves their shoulders.
Lottie sits at a nearby table with Rags, and though she checks on us often, she has her hands full trying to get my manager to behave. The invites were for jockeys, sponsors, managers, and one guest, but I have no doubt that Rags will sneak Barney in once the dancing begins.
“I read the interview you gave after the first circuit race,” an older woman says between tastes of her steak tartare. “You made some rather intuitive remarks about the upcoming races.”
… for a girl from Warren County is what she doesn’t add.
I swallow a fingerling potato, wipe my mouth, and place my fork down. “Thank you. I’m doing my best to represent my county.” I note that she’s the mother of a jockey who’s seated across the room with her manager. It’s like they’re trying to intentionally create gossip fodder for the Titan Enquirer by separating us. I rack my brain, and recall her daughter’s name. “You’re Janelle’s mother, right? You must be very proud. She interviewed with several publications after the race as well, all far more esteemed than Warren County Morning.”
The woman smiles, pleased that I’ve acknowledged her daughter and my societal place beneath her. “She did well,” she agrees. “But you held your own.”
The last part is difficult for her to admit, but Lottie swears it’s true. She says race-goers are starting to think of me as their representative. If I can ride a Titan in the circuit, acquire a sponsor, and have a chance at winning two million dollars, why can’t they?
If I can follow my dream, why not them?
You’re relatable, she says. And yet you give them something to aspire to.
If they only knew I spent every waking moment terrified that I’ll fail my family, afraid I have no chance of winning, they wouldn’t think so highly of me. Of course, we’re probably only talking about a dozen or so people.
“They really made this place beautiful.” Magnolia admires what the Gambini brothers did to the community center. Ribbons of gold and orange dangle from the ceiling, and the walls are splashed in similar colors with the help of party lights. A parquet dance floor is assembled in the center of the room, and a string quartet plays softly on a stage. The Titan Derby logo glows on the dance floor, and horse ice sculptures decorate the room. When I find one that looks like Padlock, I make Lottie take a picture of Magnolia and me standing before it.
Padlock is outside with the rest of the Titans, proudly displayed for the gala attendees. Two boys dressed in black washed and polished our horses when we arrived, and gave them as many oil sticks as they desired, a treat Rags introduced to me.
“What’s that waiter giving the jockeys?” Magnolia asks.
I follow her gaze and see what she’s referring to. A coiffed man dressed in a tux is walking up to each table hosting a jockey and lowering a silver serving tray. One by one, the jockeys pluck a cream-colored envelope. They tear into them with eagerness, but I can’t see what the letters say from here.
I shake my head, telling Magnolia I’m not sure. Penelope saunters by, and I can tell by the look in her eyes that she wants to tell me about the envelope in her hand. She lingers close by, taunting me, until I can’t stand it a second longer.
“What is that?” I ask, my face warming.
“This?” She slaps the envelope against her open palm. “An invite to
Magnolia searches the table, and then answers for me. “There’s an after-party?”
Penelope’s eyebrows rise. “Yep. From what I hear, the real fun starts tonight. This is just a formality. A pretty tiresome one at that, don’t you think?”
Penelope is pretending to be friendly, but I know what she’s doing. Magnolia was having the time of her life before this jockey told her she shouldn’t be. That this is nothing to get excited about.
Seeing the interest in Magnolia’s eyes, and noting how the waiter is returning to the kitchen empty-handed, I say to my best friend, “I’ll talk to the waiter. He probably forgot to come by.”
A grin sweeps across Magnolia’s face, and my chest tightens. Has she forgotten how the jockeys teased us? I’m betting she hasn’t, but she’s pushed it from her mind. That’s one thing, among many, that I love about my friend—her ability to concentrate on the positive, and dismiss the negative.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure he has your tickets,” Penelope says. “They’re addressed to all the jockeys with Titan 3.0s.”
Magnolia’s face falls. Now she gets it.
“Go away, Penelope,” I say.
Her nose wrinkles like she’s shocked by my curtness, but she does leave, her business here complete.
Only because I know my friend wants to attend the party do I contemplate how to get those tickets. If I ask the empty-handed waiter, he’ll surely direct me to Arvin Gambini, and that’ll cause a scene. This is another obvious measure to put Padlock and me in our place. My eyes scan the room, taking in the jockeys and their excitement over this newest development.
My gaze falls on Hart Riley II. He plucks the invite from the table, says something to someone across from him, and then flicks the envelope away like he could care less. Well, if he doesn’t want those tickets …
I look at my friend. “Magnolia, do you really want to go to that party?”
She shrugs. “I did. Kind of. But I don’t want to go anywhere we’re not welcome.”
“We should be welcome at anything that’s centered around the races, because I am a jockey, and Padlock is my Titan. And you”—I bump her shoulder—“are my fabulously dressed friend who will turn into a pumpkin if she returns home before midnight.”
Magnolia beams. “Maybe we could crash for a minute or two. See what the big deal is. Because you’re right, this mermaid dress has waited for this night its entire chiffon-inspired life. Amen.”
I laugh and admire the dress Lottie bought Magnolia, which she most certainly wasn’t required to do as my sponsor. The dress is a greenish-blue that lives up to its mermaid style. With that silk ribbon the color of sea foam tied around her waist, it looks like Magnolia strolled out from the waves, blond hair wet on her shoulders—and in a magical moment—her fins became legs. My friend is right. That dress needs more than a few hours of glory. It needs all night.
I rise from the table, excuse myself, and beeline for Hart. “Hey,” I say when I reach him. “You going to the party?”
Hart barely registers my existence, what with the lack of cameramen present.
I raise my voice loud enough to embarrass him to his tablemates. “I’m talking to you, pretty boy.”
He glances up lazily. “Nah, I ain’t going.”
“Then you won’t mind if I take these.” I reach for his envelope and pull an invitation and two tickets from within. Perfect.
Hart snatches them from my hand. “Just because I’m not going doesn’t mean I’ll give my tickets to you.” He studies me, his eyes lingering on the skin color my mother gave me set against the white sequined dress. Specifically, the sweetheart neckline region. His voice softens a touch. “Why do you wanna go anyway? You know what they’re doing.”
“My friend wants to go,” I reply.
His gaze darts past me. “The hot one?”
“My smart, funny, talented friend, yes.”
“The hot one.”
I roll my eyes. “Just give me the tickets. Please?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not in the habit of doing people favors. What’s in it for me?”
Frustrated, I search my brain. What do I have that Hart Riley does not?
Jack squat, that’s what.
Glancing over my shoulder, I spot Magnolia. She’s using her fork and knife to make a point to the woman at our table. It seems the knife is a Titan, and the fork is … me? I think about her parents at the bank, begging for an extension, and my friend giving up every dime she’s earned on her own to help keep their house. I want to give her this, and anything else that’ll put a smile on her face.
The answer comes to me simply.
“I’ll race you for them. A two-minute race, outside through the woods, winner gets the tickets.”
Hart Riley II takes a long pull on his iced tea, sets down his glass, and grins.
“You’re on.”
Ten minutes later, Magnolia, Hart, and I are outside. Before I left, I noticed Rags and Lottie on the dance floor. They were one of the first couples to grace it, and though Rags looked put out to be there, I noticed he held Lottie close as they shuffled across the open space.
“Two minutes, you said?” Hart confirms, already leading his horse away from the community center.
“Would you like your saddle, sir?” one of the cleaning boys asks.
When Hart doesn’t respond, nerves tingle in my feet. Have I thought this through?
“I want to ride too,” Magnolia says.
“What? No,” I respond, guiding Padlock after Hart’s Titan.
“Why not?” Hart asks. “You want two tickets, right? The girl should ride for her spot at the party.”
Magnolia points at him as if he’s making her point better than she ever could.
I shake my head. “No way, it’s too dangerous.”
Magnolia grabs my hand, stopping me. She lowers her voice. “Come on, Astrid. Between a party and a chance to ride Padlock, you know which I’d choose.”
I purse my lips, hating the position she’s putting me in. If I were her, I’d hate being on the sidelines, never in the saddle. So I want to say yes. But even though I’ve told her otherwise, riding a Titan is dangerous, and I don’t want to risk her safety.
“If you’re not considerate enough to give her a ride, I will.” Hart winks at Magnolia and pats his Titan. “Want to give Ace a shot?”
I grind my teeth. “Don’t even think about it.”
“So you’ll take me?” Magnolia asks.
I groan, returning to the cleaning boys to retrieve my saddle. Magnolia cheers triumphantly. There’s no chance I’m winning now, but giving Mag a chance to ride has been a long time coming.
I align myself behind Magnolia in the saddle in case she falls, and instruct her to hang on to the horn with everything she has. Hart guides us across the street, far away from the community center’s lights, and references the shadows born by trees.
“Two minutes, head to head. Whoever is farther into the forest when our stopwatches call it, wins.”
“Easy enough.” I slam my hand on Padlock’s turbo button and we’re off.
“Cheater!” Hart cries, but I hear the delight in his voice.
Magnolia screams happily as we charge through the woods. The seconds tick off as trees roll past in a blur, and though we’re going faster than I’m comfortable with while Magnolia’s in the saddle, it isn’t nearly fast enough to beat Hart. But that’s okay. Magnolia’s laughter is sufficient.
Even so, when I notice Hart is a fraction behind, competitiveness twinges in my belly. If I only played with the gas bar a little …
“Magnolia, nudge this bar,” I tell her, though I’m perfectly able to do it myself.
She does as I instruct, and when Padlock thrusts forward, she squeals. Magnolia goes to push it again and I slap her hand.
Padlock and Hart’s Titan, Ace, are neck and neck as we barrel through the darkness, the bloated moon our only source of light. Though Padlock i
I can hear leaves crunching underfoot, twigs breaking off as we whip past. I hear the sound of my lungs working, and if I concentrate, I can feel Magnolia’s heartbeat through her back. Padlock grunts as he runs, but even he seems happier, as if he’ll always remember this run above all others.
I glance at the stopwatch and note there’s only a minute remaining.
“Let’s go faster,” Magnolia yells over her shoulder. “We’ve got to beat him.”
She doesn’t mention the tickets. It’s not about that anymore. She wants to experience a win. To have the exhilaration of being first rush beneath her skin. And truthfully, so do I. But not at Magnolia’s expense.
“Is this the autopilot thing?” Magnolia asks a second before her hand comes down on the control panel. A second before she flips up that clear casing and engages the silver switch.
Padlock’s heels dig into the ground, and we are nearly thrown forward from the abrupt stop. Hart charges into the distance, leaving us behind as he races toward his win.
“No, you’re not supposed to push—” I’m a hair away from clicking the switch to the off position when Padlock’s head jerks up. I stop talking, jostled in the saddle as he tears his muzzle from side to side. Fear shoots through my body, sizzles in my fingertips.
It takes only a second, maybe two, for Padlock to realize he’s on autopilot.
He lifts his head. Snorts once.
And he’s flying.
My hands find Magnolia’s and I cover them with my own. Now we’re both hanging on to the horn, our knuckles white as Padlock charges forward like a volcano throwing ashes to the wind. He’s been released, and there’s no stopping him now. If I remove my hands from Magnolia, I may fall. And if I fall, Magnolia may do the same. My only option is to hang on as Padlock runs faster, and faster, the performance gauge moving rapidly from green to yellow to that precarious place between caution and danger.