They’re flying in parallel, mirrored reflections, safety bars nearly close enough to touch. If Clarke’s neck brace allowed themovement, she could tilt her head back and see him. But it doesn’t, and Clarke wouldn’t take her eyes off the track even if it did, so she’s looking ahead as they come out of the loop onto the straightaway.
The checkered flag is waving. Thierry is crossing the line.
Clarke levels out and gives it everything. Everything she has, everything the ship has, she gives, and Julian—
—the lag from taking the inside edge is too much for him to overcome. If this section of the track were even a second longer, he’d be able to catch up and try to overtake again, but it’s not. Clarke crosses the line, and Julian crosses twenty-eight hundredths of a second behind her.
—
Clarke parks inthe slot reserved for P2, right in front of the podium. Thierry’s already out of his ship, standing on it, arms spread, howling his victory at the sky. He tackles Clarke when she climbs out, too, and together they run to the cheering mass of Enclave staff waiting just behind the railing.
P1 and P2. Theydidit. They’ll take home third in the team bracket, the highest Enclave’s ever placed, and get all the increased funding and support that comes with that level of success. Next season’s ship is mostly locked in, but they’ve got variance to play with, and the seasonafterthey’ll be true challengers for the crown, and that—
Months ago, Val asked Clarke what she wanted to do in Formula Zero, and Clarke didn’t have an answer. She’d lost sight of what she was trying to accomplish, so accustomed to having to make herself small that she’d made her dreams small, too.
No fucking more.
Clarke is flooded with elation, hope, and pride as Lennox claps her hands on Clarke’s and Thierry’s helmets and pulls all of their foreheads together. Clarke is crying, smiling, shaking, and laughing as Julian rolls into the P3 slot and has a similar celebration with Graham and the rest of his team, because even though Julian didn’t win, Chronicle did. Engel managed to get around Raff in the last lap. By 5 points, Chronicle has won the team championship. Clarke is her own personal zero-gravity generator, floating high off the ground, and it lasts until a harried-looking marshal gathers her, Thierry, and Julian together behind their ships.
They should be going up to the podium, not staying down here. What’s going on?
The marshal motions to take off their helmets and uses a holoscreen to bring their earpieces onto a merged radio channel so they can hear over the roar of the crowd. He talks mostly to Julian. “Sorry for the delay. We’re waiting on confirmation of Engel’s, Delphine’s, and Oliver’s placements.”
Julian runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, breathing hard. He looks incandescently happy, although there’s a tightness in the corners of his mouth from missing out on the individual trophy. “Why? Chronicle won.”
“It’s not about the team championship,” the marshal says, and Julian’s face goes bloodless as Clarke’s heart lurches. If it’s not about theteam, then it’s about—
“Delphine came in tenth,” she says. “She has 332 points. Julian has 330. Right?”
She’s been thinking about it since crossing the finish line. Two points. It came down totwo points. If Clarke’d let Julian through, he’d have won. How is she supposed to feel about that?
“Delphine incurred a time penalty during her dip in the harbor,” the marshal says, casually opening the door for F0 history to be altered. “It’s under review.”
Graham hops the railing and jogs toward them. A series of hand motions later, he’s added to the channel. “What’s happening?”
Julian doesn’t seem capable of speech anymore, eyes on the giant holoscreen hanging overhead with the pilot leaderboard displayed. Delphine is listed in first, he’s in second. Both names are blinking.
The marshal’s right earpiece must be tuned to a different channel, because his mouth is moving but they can’t hear him. Clarke takes it upon herself to explain. “Delphine’s got an unresolved time penalty. They’re not sure how far it knocks her back.”
Graham’s eyes get big. He brings up a holoscreen and taps at it rapidly. “By our count she was off for four seconds, maybe five. The grouping was tight when she dropped back in.”
Engel runs up the lane to join the festivities. He slows when he sees their huddle standing around, staring at the marshal and watching the leaderboard. Everyone else in the stands and at the railing is starting to realize something’s happening, too; the overall noise level is going down. It’s quiet enough for Engel to be heard without radio assistance when he asks, “Uh, guys? Why aren’t we celebrating?”
Before anyone can start filling him in, the marshal says, “And that’s the absolute final answer? Unanimous decision?”
The man’s shoulders are tense. Delphine, Atreus, and the rest of the Provenance contingent are nowhere in sight. Lennox clambers over the railing, pouches of water in hand, and distributes them to the pilots. Julian grips his so hard Clarke’s amazed it doesn’t pop.
Thierry stretches his arms overhead. “Is this going to take much longer? Because if I miss my cooldown bike—”
When the marshal speaks again, his voice is amplified through the paddock’s sound system. “After review, Delphine Hart’s adjusted final position for today’s Grand Prix is P13.”
A wall of sound comes from the crowd. The marshal grimaces and holds up his hands, asking for quiet with minimal effect.
P13. You only get one point for P13. Delphine had 329 points coming into today, so she’s at 330 now. Julian’s at 330, too.
“Theytied?” Graham asks, his voice coming loud and clear over the radio. “How is—does the normal tiebreaker rule apply?”
The normal tiebreaker rule: your teammate’s points. Everyone’s familiar with it, because Delphine and Julian have been tied before this season, but Delphine was still ranked first because Oliver had more points than Engel. But now?
