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.

The hangar drills had fixed Elroy's hands. They had not fixed his nerves. Tomorrow a live clock would run, and Elroy had never flown under one. He kept seeing the race two years back, the gap he could have taken, the way his body locked. Tinker drilled him on sequences all afternoon. But sequences were not pressure. Elroy needed to feel the timer squeeze him before it happened for real. They walked to the garage after sundown. A buggy sat half-built under the lights, its cracked engine block useless on the bench. Tinker kicked a crate and sat. "I can teach you the launch. I can't fake a clock that matters." "Then I freeze tomorrow," Elroy said. The garage door scraped open. Bam Bam Rubble stood there with an armful of split logs, dirt on his hands. Elroy knew him only as the neighbor who cleared the old shed for Tinker, the caveman who fixed problems before anyone asked. Bam Bam dropped the logs by the wall. "Heard you two arguing," he said. "Doors carry sound." "We need a timer that scares him," Tinker said. "A real one." Bam Bam looked at Elroy a long moment. "Fear's just a thing in your chest. You stare at it enough, it shrinks." He crossed to the bench and picked up a stopwatch from the clutter. "Set a stake. Make it hurt to lose." Elroy frowned. "Hurt how?" Bam Bam pointed at the logs. "You run the launch sequence in ten seconds. Clean. Or you split my stumps for a week." He pressed the watch into Elroy's hand. "Lose, and your arms pay." Tinker grinned. "That's a clock that matters." Elroy's stomach dropped. The stakes were small and stupid. Somehow that made it worse. He set the chairs as a gate and climbed between them. Bam Bam raised the stopwatch. "Go." Elroy's hands flew to the sequence. Throttle prime. Vector lock. His mind stuttered on step three. The old gap flashed behind his eyes, and his hand froze above the switch. The watch ticked. His chest clamped shut. "Four seconds," Bam Bam said flat. Elroy slammed the switch. He rushed the last steps and fumbled the lock. The watch stopped. "Twelve," Bam Bam said. "You froze." "I know," Elroy snapped. His hands shook. "Again," Bam Bam said. "Same stakes." They ran it eleven times. Elroy froze on three. Then two. Then one. On the twelfth run his hands moved before his fear could speak. Vector lock snapped home. "Nine seconds," Bam Bam said. He almost smiled. "Clean." Elroy climbed out, soaked in sweat. The freeze had come and he had pushed through it. He could feel the clock now and still move. "I can hold it tomorrow," he said. "Good," Bam Bam said. "Because the real clock won't warn you." He nodded at the window. The trial field waited in the dark, and the first flag went up at dawn.

Elroy passed the dawn trial. His hands held under the clock. But the race course they posted that afternoon showed him a new problem. The gaps were tight. Tighter than anything he had flown. He walked the layout twice and knew the truth cold. His racer was tuned for open sky, not these narrow turns. Fly it as-is, and he would clip a gate and wreck before the finish. He found Tinker in the shed, wiping grease off his hands. Beside the half-built buggy, a stranger crouched over an engine, blonde hair catching the light. He held a meter to the wiring and read it without blinking. Tinker nodded at the man. "Axel. He keeps a dead ship flying on nothing. Figured he could look at your racer." Axel stood. He looked at Elroy, then past him, like part of him was somewhere else. "Tinker says your turns are too loose," he said. "Show me the suspension." Elroy pulled the panel. Axel ran a finger along the shocks. "Too soft. The nose dives in a hard turn. You clip." He said it flat, no cushion. "Stiffen the front springs. Shorten the throw. You lose comfort. You keep the gaps." "How long?" Elroy asked. "Few hours. If you help." They worked past dark. Axel handed Elroy a wrench and pointed, never softening a step. When Elroy over-tightened a bolt, Axel caught it at once. "Back it off. Quarter turn. Guessing wrecks ships." Tinker worked the throttle linkage, calling timing numbers Elroy trusted now. Halfway through, Axel paused, meter still in hand. "My brother never learned this part," he said. "The wiring. The careful part." He did not explain. He went back to the shock. Elroy did not ask. He saw the weight on the man and left it alone. Near midnight they rolled the racer out and locked the panels. Axel wiped his hands. "Test it slow first. Then push." Elroy climbed in and lit the engine. He took it low over the practice markers. The first tight turn came fast. He cut the nose in. The racer held. No dive. No slide. He threaded a gap he once would have feared, and the frame did not fight him. His reaction speed and the new springs moved as one. He set it down and cut the engine. His chest was steady. "It holds," he said. Axel nodded once. "It holds." Tinker grinned. "Now you can actually race." But as the engine ticked and cooled, Elroy saw the fuel gauge. The stiffer setup burned harder in the turns. He had tuned the racer to survive the gaps. He had not tuned it to finish on one tank. The qualifying heat ran the full course. At this rate, he would run dry before the final lap.