Chapter 7
Chris starts a round of excited applause as Sonny screws the last armor plate in place. Joel appears out of nowhere, like a genie summoned by work already done.
“Hey! You’re done!” He claps his hands. “Let’s get out to the test arena. Everyone else has already done their driving.”
I wish I felt the same enthusiasm, but I’m worried.
Chris spent the morning running to hardware stores for the correct parts we didn’t have or couldn’t get made at the in-house fabricators, the team with special machinery to make parts on the spot.
Sonny is sure our off-brand lithium polymer batteries will start on fire if we even look at them the wrong way.
Fatimah and Travis spent two hours arguing about the top armor and whether we should double-layer or try to convince Joel to pay for a different housing altogether because, as Fatimah put it, “It has the durability of a damp paper towel.” I agree with everyone besides Travis, who keeps insisting the bot is perfect.
I hesitate before leaving my cane at our workstation. My overworked body needs some extra support today, but I can make it to the test box without it. I know how many eyes are about to be on us. If it’s a disaster, I don’t want more eyes on me in particular.
We load up the bot and our two weapons, a vertical disk and a horizontal blade, and trudge to the test arena in the back lot of the hotel. More than a few of the other teams follow us.
“Mari, do you have experience with either of these weapons?” Travis sneers as we unload and bolt the toothed vertical disk into place.
I know he knows this. I know because he’s made several snide comments about past battles I’ve lost. Especially losses I’ve contested.
I answer flatly, trying not to give in to the bait.
“My twelve-pound bot Double Jinx is a vertical disk spinner. I have a retired bot that’s an undercutter like our horizontal blade, so yes. ”
“I thought we should go with someone else, you know. Someone with heavyweight bot experience,” he says. The words slither out of his mouth and find the cracks in my resolve. They brush against my fears, cold and sharp.
Maybe I’m not good enough to be here. Everyone will see me fail and realize it, too.
“Well, it’s a good thing no one listens to you, Travis,” Fatimah says as she hands me the controller. “Ready?”
I take it, but nerves steal my words. There’s a small crowd around us now.
We’re the only robot that hasn’t been out here—and the only team with an untested bot.
I’m sure Joel bought our spot in the competition based on that fact alone.
While there are no specific entry criteria to get in, it’s decided by a panel of officials.
This is the first robot I’ve ever heard of coming in like this.
I grab a nearby stool and sit in front of the reinforced plastic wall of the arena. The crew bolts the door to the test arena shut. I flick the power switch.
The motors of the bot whir to life. I sigh in relief. That’s a good sign. There’s a small round of applause, once again led by Chris. At least someone is excited, not just relieved.
Tires, microwaves, and washing machines are scattered around the test arena to try out the weapon on, but I take my time swerving through the obstacles, getting used to driving it.
It’s much slower than it should be. The test arena is twenty-feet-by-twenty-feet, less than half the size of the Circuit Smack arena, and it’s taking twice as long as it should for me to drive in a straight line.
I try to make a sharp turn, and the bot struggles, two wheels momentarily leaving the ground.
Shit. I’ll have to check if that’s made worse by the weapon.
I might only be able to do large turns. We’re under maximum weight, so if we can figure out the slowness, maybe we can add some weight for stability.
“Spinning up the weapon,” I call to whoever’s bothering to listen. The weapon toggle switches easily, and the vertical disk spins to life. At least that’s working.
“Mari, hold still for a second so we can clock the speed of the weapon,” Fatimah tells me. “180 miles per hour,” she says after it’s clear it’s not going any faster.
“Eight seconds to get to full speed,” Chris says over my shoulder, and I can hear the nail-biting worry in his voice.
They all devolve into arguments behind me, but I know what they’re saying.
It’s too slow. The speed is capped at 250 miles per hour for safety, and most teams try to get up to right around that. We’re way, way under.
The bot doesn’t control as easily with the weapon on. A sharp turn tips us even further. A hit to a washing machine sends the bot tilting to the side, rocking on its wheels. I need to slow the weapon down to correct and get back on all four wheels.
Joel cheers beside me. “That was AWESOME!”
I’m less than impressed. The washer weighs less than a bot, and it only made it a couple feet in the air from our hit. I try to ignore the whispers from the other builders, but the words are impossible to miss. Embarrassing. Unprepared. Slow.
“The motors are overheating,” Sonny says when we swap out the weapons.
“We also need better batteries. These aren’t pulling enough power, even brand new, and they’ll hold less after recharges—”
“Oh, they’re not rechargeable,” Travis chimes in as they bolt the door to the test arena, and I roll into the center of the box.
I ignore the arguing going on behind me as I test the horizontal weapon. It rips the door off a microwave with ease and leaves deep gouges in a tire.
“Hey, guys? Do you see that shimmy?” The bot rattles in the test box. The blade wobbles precariously. “We have to shut it down.”
“It’s not that bad,” Travis says as I hit the power switch. The bolt holding the blade shears, and it goes flying. The thick metal blade embeds itself in the side of a washing machine.
“Did you just break my robot?” Joel yells as we all look on in horror.
If the power had been on, it could have been a lot worse.
The arenas are built to take shrapnel, but a twenty-pound hunk of sharp metal flying at them at well over 100 miles an hour, and up to the limit of 250 miles per hour, is never good.
It’s downright dangerous. It could get us kicked out of the competition.
There are more murmurs behind me as I drive it back.
This is bad. This is worse than bad. This is dangerous.
All robots are dangerous, technically. That’s why they’re only run in controlled environments.
They have kill switches to stop them immediately; they have limited battery life; the weapons are locked until they get into the arena.
The arenas themselves are incredibly durable.
These are dangerous machines, even when made as safe as possible.
Issues like weapons flying off can happen, but they are to be avoided at all costs.
This is the kind of thing that gets people disqualified—and rightfully so.
“You morons broke my fucking robot!” Joel rants. “We have our first fight tomorrow, and it’s broken.”
“We’ll fix it,” Travis tries to reassure him. “It’s a minor error.”
When I turn to look at the spectators, my eyes lock on Jacob, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching with the sort of contempt usually only reserved for people who’ve murdered a loved one.
Neil talks to him in hushed tones, but Jacob is laser-focused on me.
I’m a bug under a magnifying glass, burning with the scrutiny and hypocrisy.
“I’ll find better bolts in the morning,” Chris sighs. I tear my eyes away from my nemesis to watch the arena managers pry our blade out of its newfound home.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him and slide off my stool. We need a whole different setup, a new part machined. We need an entirely new bot if we want to win anything. The odds of walking home with a prize are further away than ever. My chest aches like there’s a hunk of metal lodged in it, too.
Sonny sighs. “Maybe we can modify the mount. If we use titanium, it’ll be stronger.”
Fatimah comes over and hands me a clipboard filled with notes in tiny, precise handwriting. “I made Sonny record your driving and took some notes of my own.”
“Great, thank you,” I huff. It is helpful, but this is like reviewing the water pressure of the bathroom faucet while we watch the house burn down. I adjust my tone and try again. “That will be helpful. I appreciate it.” She smiles warmly, not at all fazed.
Fatimah turns to the group. “We should be able to fix and make adjustments to the bot tomorrow before the first round if we start a few hours early.” The whole crew lets out a collective groan as we put ZetaMax back on the dolly.
As we trudge back to the Builder Bay, I repeat $10,000 in my head as many times as I can. Even if we lose, I get $10,000 minimum.
While the team packs up for the night and heads off to dinner, I head to the bathroom to hyperventilate in peace about being at my dream competition with my nightmare bot, about to fight my childhood-crush-turned-rival.
I’m still calculating how much $10,000 will fix and trying to convince air back into my lungs when a commotion makes its muffled way through the door.
“He’s making a mockery of this competition.” Jacob’s voice becomes clear as day when I reenter the Bay. Jacob, Joel, Travis, and several of the competition officials and show producers stand in a group, arguing. “That bot isn’t safe to operate, let alone compete.”
“That’s bullshit,” Joel scoffs.
“It’s an untested bot. You finished assembling it this morning.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s unsafe,” Travis butts in. To his credit, he doesn’t cower when Jacob, much taller, stronger, and overall more intimidating, scowls at him. Joel shrinks back.
“I watched a deadly weapon fly off at almost full speed. If that had hit the arena wall, it would have gone through it or, at minimum, cracked it,” Jacob argues.
Joel throws his hands up. “Weapons fly off all the time.” Suddenly, he’s not mad at us for breaking his bot.
“It was under the safety speed limit!” Travis says.
“So, it sucks, and it’s dangerous.” Jacob’s eyes settle on me as I approach.
Anger twists through my veins, as does concern.
He’s not wrong. It’s dangerous as-is if we try to run the horizontal weapon again, but it’s a fixable issue.
Hopefully. We can safely operate with the vertical disk spinner.
I’d never put anyone in danger. I’ve actively fought for better safety standards.
Besides, he’s the one to talk about dangerous bots. Hypocrite.
“ZetaMax technically meets the safety criteria.” One official finally steps in. His wire frame glasses have thick lenses that magnify his steely stare. “However, we have the ability to pull bots we think are unfit to compete. ZetaMax poses some serious safety concerns.”
“We’ll run the vertical disk,” I say. Jacob glares at me while the others finally register I’m here.
“Until we can fix the safety issue with the horizontal blade, we’ll only run the vertical weapon.
” If we get kicked out, I lose my paycheck.
Everything, the money I spent getting here, the extra classes I didn’t take on, the lost hours, and the risk to my day job, would be all for nothing.
Not to mention that being sent home before competition would essentially destroy any future prospects I hoped this stint would open up for me.
“Hold on now,” Travis says. “That might not be the best move for our fights.”
It’s the best move for our fight against Kilowatt, at least. It also buys us more time.
Another official nods, though, light reflecting off his balding scalp. “Your vertical weapon passed all safety tests and inspections, unlike the horizontal.”
Jacob’s frown does not respond to this news. “He bought his way in.”
“Technically, everyone pays an entry fee,” Joel says. If he wasn’t my team owner, I’d ask him how large his “fee” was compared to normal.
“If we only run the vertical weapon, we can stay in the competition, right?” I appeal to Glasses. “That weapon is safe. Zeta is designed for it more than the horizontal weapon.”
After a moment, he purses his lips. “Yes, you can fight tomorrow.” I sigh in relief, and Joel’s fists pump in the air. “However, you must fix the safety issues before the second fight, or Team Jaxon will be disqualified.”
I’m entirely sure that if they hadn’t already lost a team this season, we would be out. Guilt and relief war in my mind.
“No problem,” Joel says smoothly. I’m less confident, but I’ll take it. That gives us three days. Well. Two and a half after our fight tomorrow, if we get to work right away.
“Have a good night, gentlemen—and lady,” a producer says as the group disburses.
Jacob’s eyes follow me, silver irises flashing in anger as I walk away.