Free Titans by Victoria Scott Page B

that I’m seeing laughter in a steel horse’s eyes. But something tells me I’m not imagining this.
    The threesome is still running toward me when the Titan takes a step in my direction. Then another. My heart hammers in my chest seeing it venture so close. I’m laid out on the ground, my hip singing with pain, and here is this metal monster looming over me.
    Maybe it does have a mind of its own.
    Maybe that mind is telling it to stomp on my skull.
    The red light fades from the creature’s eyes, and it lowers its muzzle. I flinch when warmed steel touches the outside of my arm. The horse nudges me. Then it nudges me again. When it pushes its head under my arm and lifts, I realize what it wants me to do. I grab hold of the silky steel threads that serve as hair, and swing the opposite arm around its neck. Slowly, the Titan lifts me to my feet.
    As soon as I’m upright, the Titan jerks its head away and pins its ears back. The machine’s message is crystal clear.
    I helped you up, but you’re still an idiot.
    And that’s the first moment—with my chest still aching from adrenaline and fear, and Rags hollering who knows what—that I smile at the Titan.

I’ve had three days of practice since my first epic fail. And I’m getting better. Even Rags will admit as much. He says I take the turns too quickly, that only a madman would accelerate through them. He also scolds me about never utilizing the autopilot function. If you’d only used it that first day, the horse would have turned on his own and kept running at the same speed you’d set on manual. No near collisions with trees. No worries . Stop being so hardheaded, Astrid .
    But I relish the control, knowing I’m setting the pace, calculating the angles, letting up only after I’ve pushed the two of us past the safe limits and into the caution zone. Barney warns me about the slay zone. Don’t get too cocky . And Magnolia tells me on the way home from Rags’s house each night how she worries about my getting hurt.
    What no one says, though, is that I have to push the Titan. And I have to push myself. Because the sponsor race is tomorrow. Will the other jocks keep their Titans in the safe zone when the clock strikes midnight? Will they shy away from the caution zone?
    No. Not when every sponsor is there watching. Those company representatives seeking to invest in a jockey and Titan 3.0 as part of their annual marketing plan. The races may only last the summer season, but having a winning jockey adds celebrity value to a brand, and it moves products off shelves in Detroit retailers. Sparklet Root Beer isn’t that glamorous. But when the face of the 2015 Titan Derby winner is smiling at you from the bottle, suddenly it is. There will be a few individuals looking to sponsor horses too, of course, but there may be only one or two of those a year, if any. Those few seek an ultimate gamble, front-row seats, and a way to impress their friends.
    Only one jockey will win a free place in the circuit.
    So, yeah, what no one mentions is my being reckless is our only shot. No sponsor will want an old, discontinued Titan model or a seventeen-year-old spokesmodel who can’t compensate with stunning good looks unless I push farther than the other jockeys are willing to go.
    They have experience; months and months of training, if not years.
    I have everything to lose.
    I finish another lap and slow the Titan to a stop in front of Barney, who’s holding a tin bucket. Rags and Magnolia are out of sight. Barney lifts the bucket. “Time to clean him up.”
    “Seriously?” I ask, but I’m already reaching for the handle, because a break from racing sounds glorious. It’s early June in Detroit, and as fiery as my father’s temper. The skin on my forearms is red from the sun, and even the Titan has perspiration across its coat from the engine’s cooling fluid. So when Barney tells me there’s a water hose at the back of the stable, in the shade , I practically sprint toward