Elroy Jetson's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Elroy Jetson had signed up for the SkyRock junior rocket-racing championship, and the entry form asked for the name of his coach. He left the line blank. He wanted to beat the galaxy's best young pilots. He had no one to teach him how. The best rookies arrived with crews. Elroy arrived with a borrowed helmet and a stomach full of nerves. That morning the flight academy packed him into a classroom with forty other hopefuls. A veteran instructor stood at the front. She warned them that rookies crash on takeoff more than any other moment. She said most of the class would be disqualified in the first week. Elroy wrote down every word, but words were not a mentor. He could not practice a launch from a desk. The boy beside him was not writing anything. He had racing goggles shoved up on his head and dirt still crusted on his boots. He was sketching a rocket on his notebook, but the wings were wrong. They curved like a buggy's fenders. "You race dirt," Elroy said. "Speed buggy," the boy said. "Fastest thing on the ground. Now I want the air." He tapped his crooked drawing. "Sky's just a track with no bottom, right?" "Tinker?" the instructor called. "Name your launch sequence." Tinker froze. He guessed, and he guessed wrong. The class laughed. He sat down red-faced, and Elroy slid his notes across the desk. The correct sequence was written there, neat and underlined. Tinker read it, then grinned. "You know the book. I know speed." He leaned close. "I've launched off dirt ramps a hundred times. Takeoff's all throttle timing. You scared of the throttle?" "Terrified," Elroy admitted. "Then we fix that." Tinker drummed his fingers like a bowling roll. "I teach you the gut stuff. You teach me the book stuff. Neither of us gets cut week one." Elroy stared at him. He had looked for a coach with medals and a crew. Instead he had found another rookie with dirt on his boots and no fear of the throttle. But the boy was right. Elroy knew the sequences cold. Tinker knew the feel of speed in his hands. Apart, each would crash. Together, maybe not. "Deal," Elroy said, and shook his hand. After class they walked to the practice hangar. Tinker set two chairs as a launch gate. He made Elroy run the throttle timing until his hands stopped shaking. In return, Elroy drilled him on the launch sequence until Tinker recited it backward. By sundown Elroy had a partner, not a coach. The mentor problem was solved, just not the way he planned. But their first timed trial was tomorrow. Two rookies teaching each other had never beaten a real crew. Tomorrow the clock would show whether their trade was enough.