Titans by Victoria Scott Page B

rectangular autopilot cover. “This Titan can run on autopilot like today’s Titans can. But because it experiences emotions like fear, and even a sense of competitiveness, it can make the machine more …”
    “Unpredictable?” Magnolia’s voice is thick with anxiety.
    Rags furrows his brow and says too fiercely, “No, not unpredictable. Just different, that’s all.”
    I don’t believe him. Magnolia pegged it when she used that word. Even if today’s Titans run on autopilot, they’re following a set of programmed backup responses, and the way it would run would most likely be less risky than what a jockey would have the machine do. But autopilot is a last-resort scenario, and there’s no reason to believe the control panel would ever malfunction.
    Rags pats the horse on his back. “We’ll eventually need you to learn how to ride using both manual and autopilot in combination. Certain tracks will require your use of cognitive thinking, particularly that math you think you’re so good at. While other times, especially for off-track sprints, it’ll be best to let him go on his own.”
    Nope.
    There’s no way I’d ever trust this thing to run on its own, but I don’t need to tell him that.
    We then move on to the stopwatch, which looks archaic compared to the digital ones installed in Titan 3.0s. He shows me the gear sticks on either side—positioned above the handlebars—that navigate the horse from side to side, back and forth.
    Finally, he shows me the performance gauge.
    When I run my fingers over it, the hairs on the back of my neck rise. The gauge resembles a speedometer, but instead of numbers, it includes a length of green arching from the bottom left to the very top. After that is a stretch of yellow—the caution zone. And then there’s the slay zone; a small length of scarlet red that extends from the yellow strip to the bottom right-hand side of the glass circle. The slay zone, more than anything, is what takes down Titans. Jockeys get too greedy for the win, and forget about the permanent damage they can inflict on their machines.
    Running your horse in the slay zone is also dangerous to the rider, like racing a four-door family sedan down a major interstate at a hundred miles an hour. A standard vehicle isn’t built for such things, just as a Titan isn’t built to be pushed past its limits. A flash of the jockeys who have died crosses my mind once again. I can see their faces, all of them, in succession. So far, the Gambini brothers’ race has cost Detroit four of its citizens’ lives.
    At some point during my lesson, Barney and Magnolia come out of the house with iced tea, and cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches that I’m sure Magnolia made. We eat like champions, and after I wipe my mouth, I return my attention to Rags. Tired of listening versus doing, I ask him, “Can’t I please just ride it? I’ll learn a lot quicker that way.”
    “First, no, you can’t just ride it. Second, stop calling the Titan an it . It’s a he , and he’ll respect you a lot quicker if you treat him with respect.”
    I laugh. I can’t help it. “Okay, let’s get real. You may have designed the thing to include some sort of canned emotions, and maybe a computer programmer made it so the horse mimics human reactions with a prerecorded set of responses, but that thing”—I jab a thumb at the Titan—“is a machine. That’s it.”
    The Titan snorts.
    I give it a confused look as Rags grinds his teeth. “Call it a he .”
    “It,” I say.
    “Astrid,” he growls.
    “Iiiiit,” I respond, knowing I’m being childish.
    Rags turns toward his truck. “This is never going to work.”
    “Ah, come on, Rags,” Barney says. “It was hard for the Gambini brothers to believe at first too, remember?”
    Rags opens the door to his truck. “Get in.”
    My heart plummets. “What? That’s it?”
    The old man slams the door and stomps toward me. “Look, this isn’t your normal Titan. In order to ride him,