Chapter 1
“Mary!... uh, Marie!... Marci?”
Close enough.
I walk up to the counter and smile as I take the cup of sugary, caffeinated goodness from the tight-lipped barista.
“Really, your name isn’t even that hard,” Ava sighs. “Mari. Mar-ee. It’s correct on the cup.”
“It’s fine,” I sigh as I sip the scalding hot splurge purchase. A barista getting my name wrong is the least of my worries right now. “Did you mail the check for the electrical bill?” I ask my sister.
I click the rings stabilizing my hypermobile fingers against each other, a soothing fidget for my clockwork anxiety.
“Yep, this morning.”
My mind runs through the list of “due by” dates against the current date. “Okay, we have a few days before that hits the bank account. Dad’s next hospital bill payment can be pushed off a little longer.”
“Mari, focus on the fight,” she reminds me as we step into the cold, rainy afternoon. We both suppress a shiver as the wind hits us dead on. “Who’s this match against?”
How can I focus on the fight when I was awake until 2:00 a.m. grading papers?
How the hell am I supposed to focus when I’ve been mentally juggling the bills since 5:00 a.m.?
I’ve got a big project due at my day job this week.
Dad’s got a physical therapy appointment he needs a ride to.
Ava’s got a campus visit next weekend and—
“Mari!” Ava snaps her fingers in my face as we reach the warehouse. “Who is this match against?”
“Hot Potato.”
“Did you add the insulation tape around the motor housing?”
“Yes.”
I did not.
Hot Potato is an easy opponent, though. The three-pound “beetleweight” potato-shaped robot is hardly a match for my bot, Hijinks.
Hot Potato’s flamethrower isn’t very strong, and the connection points holding the fork and knife on the front frequently snap.
The weapon on Hijinks is a large spinning blade with an open center, like an eggbeater.
Its speed and catching power will send those utensils flying across the arena in one hit.
Our wet shoes squeak on the polished concrete as we walk to the builder workstations.
Chet, the event manager, appears out of nowhere.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he says. He wields his clipboard and walkie-talkie as if they were a shield and sword.
“Yeah, Marni is here,” he adds into his walkie-talkie.
“Mari,” I correct. It’s not like we’ve known each other for years or went to high school together or were on the same robotics team in said high school or anything. My lack of energy turns annoyance into apathy quickly.
He stares blankly at me. “Are you ready? Your fight is in nine minutes.”
“Yep.”
He notices my coffee. “Get to weigh-in. No drinks on the arena floor,” he says before turning on his heel, off to harass someone else.
I sigh and chug my expensive, delicious coffee. My biweekly splurge lasted thirty seconds. I was hoping to savor it, but it’ll be lukewarm after the fight. Ava does the same but somehow looks elegant doing it, and I’m sure I resemble a frat boy chugging a beer.
My sister’s goth-chic style is effortless and cool.
I look like a box of crayons threw up on a fat, aging alternative kid—not that I mind.
I love the way I look. Side by side, it feels impossible that we’re related.
She’s tall and lithe; I’m short and round.
She inherited Mom’s features: light hair and dark eyes.
I resemble my dad and his side of the family: blue-eyed and mousy-haired, though I’ve dyed mine purple and pink.
We’re both beautiful in our own way, but that’s where our aesthetic similarities end.
I grab my bot and head to the weigh station.
I’m absently present through the predictable weigh-in to make sure I’m fight-legal, while I shuffle numbers around in my head.
How will we make tuition work for Ava come fall?
She has already been approved for some scholarships, but not enough.
I don’t want her to end up with the amount of student loans I did.
Maybe I could teach another class at the community college.
They dropped my classes in spring for low enrollment, but maybe I can offer to teach a couple of the math courses. They never have enough professors.
Before I can clear my head, I’m standing in front of the flame-resistant, clear plastic-and-wood box that makes up the battle arena for beetleweight bots.
Fighting used to be something that brought me joy and pride.
Now, it’s something that brings me some extra cash when they hold exhibition match days like this.
I didn’t even bother entering any of the tournaments this year.
I can’t find it in me to care, nor have I had the time.
“Mari!” Dave greets me. The arena lights shine on his charmingly bald head. “Ready for the ol’ Hot Potato?” He gives me finger guns—classic Dave. I like Dave. He’s nice. His bots are silly, but he takes them seriously. He’s an enduring reminder of the fun I used to have.
“Sure am!”
“I made some upgrades!” He holds his faux spud up triumphantly. His wheels are gone, and in their place is a foil tray. He flips it over to reveal small, shuffling legs. “Probably shouldn’t be showing the competition, eh?” He laughs. “I’m so pleased about how it turned out!”
It is cool. It also makes it sturdier. What I thought would be an easy dinner might be hard to swallow. “Looks great, Dave.” I give him a thumbs up, suddenly worrying about my very un-upgraded bot.
Ava brings me the controller and a chair as Dave and I get our bots into the six-foot-by-six-foot arena.
Dave’s bot shuffles quickly to his corner, and mine rolls to the opposite as I sit down.
Dave stands, shimmying on his feet with excitement.
I used to revel in the excitement of combat robotics.
Each moment of a fight was exhilarating.
Battling for three minutes until the clock ran out—or one of us tapped out or couldn’t move—felt like freedom. Now it’s a task to complete.
“Ready?” the referee asks. “Three ... Two ... One ... Fight!”
The small crowd cheers as we take off. Hot Potato moves surprisingly fast, but he’s no match for my speed.
In an instant, I get behind him, shoving his fork and knife into the soft, battered wood lining the arena.
My wicked eggbeater drum catches on the foil tray and rips it off, sending it flying into the arena ceiling. Ava shouts triumphantly beside me.
I can only keep him pinned for ten seconds, and I release him as the referee bellows, "One!
" I back off, letting my weapon slow. I assume this fight is about to end in a typical fashion for Hot Potato. Dave unsticks himself, something I don’t see coming.
Those little legs must be more powerful than his old wheels.
His bot turns quickly and rushes me, flames spewing from between the fork and knife bolted to the front of the 3D-printed potato.
Before I can spin up, his fork and knife jam my weapon.
The smell of burning circuitry and melting plastic wafts out of the box.
Fuck.
I cringe as the ref counts down from ten until Dave has to release the pin.
I should have gone at him harder. As he pulls away, I manage to power up my weapon again, shearing off the silverware.
They hit the clear plastic walls with a “clink.” With only his flamethrower and no way to pin me again, he’s nearly defenseless.
We dance around the box before one last hit sends him careening into the ceiling and breaks his shuffling motor.
“Knockout!” calls the referee.
Ava cheers and hugs me before darting out of the warehouse, late for work, her long hair flowing behind her. Dave grins as we retrieve our battered bots from the arena. “Good match!”
“Great upgrades.” I attempt to smile at him.
They are great upgrades. But ever the fool, I was overconfident.
The 3D-printed plastic housing on my robot is squishy to the touch.
My weapon stopped working after the last hit, and since it looks fine, I can only assume it’s motor-related. I’ll have to order parts for it.
Chet approaches me with an envelope, handing it to me wordlessly. I peer inside at my winnings. Disappointment crashes through me as hard as the adrenaline rush of winning used to.
“Hey, Chet?”
“Yes?” he asks without looking up.
“I thought the prize for this match was $150. There’s only twenty-five in here.”
His eyes narrow with contempt. “Small crowd, probably because of the weather. Smaller pot. You know exhibition matches have a flexible prize pool.”
“Chet, this doesn’t even cover the damage to my robot. You should have told me.”
“Not my job,” he says over the edge of his clipboard before stalking off. I hate this guy. He was a prick in high school and never grew out of it. As much change as there’s been in my life, some things are always consistent, I guess.
I toss my broken bot onto the table and slump into my chair. I’ll have to drop out of the rest of the exhibition matches. I can’t afford to fix the bot at this rate like I can when the prizes are bigger. Coming out a couple hundred dollars ahead is worth it. Now I’m out a couple hundred.
The truth is, I don’t know if I love this sport anymore, not the way I used to.
Combat robotics once centered me in a world of chaos.
It gave me freedom and power. But it’s an expensive, time-consuming, and often heartbreaking lover.
After years of giving it my all, I have nothing to show except a few local and regional trophies, a nemesis, and now another scrapped bot.
“Marley Williams?” There’s a man in a too-expensive polo shirt waiting for me. His teeth are too white, and his tan is too orange. It’s impossible not to recognize him. Joel Jaxon. CEO and founder of Jaxon Electronics.
Jaxon Electronics makes a little of everything and none of it particularly well.
He’s not the wealthiest man around, but he’s certainly trying to seem like he is.
Joel regularly makes the news with his mid-level celebrity scandals or his flashy new hobbies.
Last summer, he was becoming a pilot following a breakup with a B-list starlet.
“Mari,” I say warily.
“Right. Mari. Good fight,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“I assume you know who I am?”
I’m tempted to say I don’t, just to see what happens. “Joel Jaxon. I wrote the technical documentation for one of your aviation product releases a few years ago at my day job. Big fan.” His smug satisfaction is oblivious to my underwhelmed tone.
“Mari, I’m getting into the sport of combat robotics, and I’m putting together a team. You know Circuit Smack?”
Who in combat robotics doesn’t know Circuit Smack? The televised competition hosts heavyweight bots from around the world for exhibition matches regularly, but once a year hosts a qualifier and tournament with a $250,000 prize. The best combat robotics teams fight for the championship title.
The massive, 250-pound heavyweight bots, with their powerful weapons and technical excellence, have been my dream to work on and drive since I was a kid. All my roads to Circuit Smack have been closed for years, buried under the rubble of failed drama and failed connections.
“Yes, of course.”
“Great, well, the Circuit Smack annual championship qualifiers are in a couple of weeks. My assistants told me you’re one of the best robot drivers that isn’t on a heavyweight team, and I need a driver.”
Could this be an opening?
“Anyway,” he continues, “the pay is $10,000. $2,500 for each fight in the qualifiers. Plus $2,500 for each fight in the championship. And for the championship, I’ll be splitting the prize pot with the team. I get 50 percent, and each of the team members gets 10 percent.”
My eyes go blurry. Did he say $10,000 minimum?
The math adds up instantly. $10,000 for a couple of weeks of work.
We could pay off the rest of Dad’s hospital bill, finally, or at least his wheelchair, and it’d set Ava up for the first semester of college in the fall, maybe the year, if she qualifies for another scholarship.
Even cover some of her hormones. If we win the Circuit Smack World Championship, that’s another $25,000, plus another $10,000 for getting there.
$35,000 would solve so many problems. Maybe even pay for enough upgrades to Dad’s shop that he could start working again.
And that’s just this season. With heavyweight experience finally under my belt, I could keep driving for Joel or for another team.
“Would I only be driving, or is there building involved?”
He purses his lips, clearly not expecting me to say anything beyond agreeing. “You’ll be working on the robot, too.”
“The qualifiers start in a few weeks. Do you have a robot already?”
He laughs as if the answer is obvious. “And a team of four builders. I need a driver to do the fighting. You up for the gig, Mary?”
“What about the Last Shot Bot Trot? If we enter, what’s the pay?”
His nose bunches as if my question has a foul odor. “The loser’s tournament? No. We won’t be entering because we’re going to win a spot in the championship the respectable way.”
His regular electronics are garbage, but surely he wouldn’t enter with a subpar bot, right? This is the kind of team that does well and looks good, no matter what. It’s basically a fighting advertisement for his company.
I’ll have to make an excuse for my day job, and I won’t offer to teach those math courses. Ava and Dad will be fine for a few weeks without me. $10,000 minimum.
“Hand me the controller and point me towards the bot,” I tell him. “I’m in.”