“If my mom’d had her way, yeah.” Thierry sulks. “Next question?”
—
Clarke and Julianagree not to see each other outside all-F0 events during race weekends, but they still trade messages during spare moments. Clarke wakes up to one on race day, sent long after Julian should’ve been asleep.
What if Val was right about me? What if I’m only good enough to win if I’m flying for someone else?
Clarke responds while her mom, who’d insisted on attending Clarke’s first Enclave race in person, puts her hair in the customary tight braids she wears for piloting.Remember when we were kids talking about making it in F0, and I didn’t want to go to Elemental because of Anders?
Julian writes back immediately.In hindsight, that was a good instinct. This ‘moderated hearing’ stuff is bullshit.
Clarke agrees. Anders, Yves, and Naomi are, as predicted, getting off with minimal consequences. The FIC’s launching a formal investigation, and Yves is suspended until that clears, but everyone knows it’s going to. It’s complete and utter crap, but that’s the business. Val, at least, is being charged with actual crimes. There will be a court case at some point during the off-season.
Fair, but not what I was getting at, she writes as Imogen ties offone braid and moves to the other. Clarke can braid her own hair, but there’s something centering about her mom doing it.You told me that if I didn’t want to follow in Anders’s footsteps, I should eclipse them. You were right. I was closing the door on an opportunity because I was afraid of living in someone’s shadow, and you reminded me that the sun doesn’t revolve around Anders Dalsing. It doesn’t revolve around Val, either, so don’t stay in her shadow. Eclipse it.
She quickly follows it up with,Also, you’ve been on nine podiums this season. Six of those were P1’s, and I was only almost-dead for one of them. Val was wrong. Get your head straight and win this damn race.
“All set,” Imogen announces, setting her hands on Clarke’s shoulders and meeting her eyes in the mirror. “Ready?”
Clarke says, “Ready.”
—
Clarke finishes P10.It’s acceptable, for her first race in a new ship. Thierry gets P5. Raff, flying under an acting team principal and with a lot of hastily-shuffled-around support staff, finishes P14. The reserve pilot Elemental puts in Clarke’s ship DNF’s.
Delphine had mechanical troubles during qualifying. She starts in the middle of the grid. Engel pulls out another of his impressive defensive showings to tangle up the whole midfield. Delphine finishes P11; Engel takes fourth. Julian wins, easily fending off Oliver in second.
Two races to go.
48
Las Vegas is wild.
It always is. It’s a chaotic track, weaving tightly to and through the city’s ridiculous architecture with only enough room to overtake if you’re borderline reckless, and it’s fast and loud and bright despite being a night race. Vegas is always dramatic, messy, and one of the most heavily attended races of the year, even though the final leaderboard is typically already set.
This season, the leaderboard isn’t set. Delphine and Provenance areprobablygoing to win, and Martian Motors willprobablytake home third, but nothing’s guaranteed. The points spread is close enough that any combination of outcomes is still possible. Instead of the typical lighthearted, low-stakes atmosphere, the Vegas paddock is brutally tense right up until the marquee goes dark and the Grand Prix begins.
Clarke starts P13 (a deliberate choice, on her and Hodge’s and Lennox’s part, not to push too hard during qualifying with a still-unfamiliar ship and on a track that Clarke’d be happy just to come out of unscathed), and the beginning of the race is uneventful in her immediate vicinity. She and the other P11–20 pilots fall into an orderly line. She lets some of her adrenaline bleed off. She’s buzzing along, getting ready to lean in for thefirst turn, and then P12 in front of her is jerking hard to the left. Clarke reflexively follows, gritting her teeth, harness straps digging in as she swerves wide and veers past the—multi-ship pileup?
“Big crash,” Hodge says in her ear. “Good job avoiding it. Yellow flags are coming out, but it’s probably going to be a full reset.”
Clarke slows down, heart pounding. “Who was involved? Is everyone okay?”
“No official word yet, but it looks like P1 through P7,” Hodge says. “So both Chronicles, both Provenances, both Martian Motors, and Thierry.”
The chasm Clarke always gets in her gut when there are possible injuries opens up. “Thierry?”
“He’s talking,” Hodge says promptly. “He says it doesn’t seem like anyone’s too badly damaged. Oliver made contact with Julian, which set off the whole cascade. Okay, there’s the reset decision. Finish the lap and bring it back to the grid. Current order is reset order.”
Clarke loops up and through a building that has a big hole cut out of it. She can’t have heard that right. “Say again? Current order is—”
“—reset order, yes, and no red flag,” Hodge confirms. “This is going to be interesting.”
No fucking kidding. With the original P1–7 stuck extricating themselves, all the people who’d normally lead the race will be at the back of the grid when it starts up again. And without a red flag to suspend the session, no one can pit during this lap, so any of those pilots needing repairs will have to pit immediately after the restart instead. They’ll fall even farther behind, then have to battle their way forward.
Theso-and-so’s okay, will not be retiringupdates roll in over the rest of the lap. Clarke glides into P6 on the grid. Hodge talks her through an abbreviated restart checklist as the other ships fall into place behind her. And in front of her…
“So, that’s Raff in P1,” says Hodge, who was Raff’s race engineer until a few months ago. “You feel like hunting, Clarke?”
