She opens the side doorto the last rays of artificial sunlight. Mars gets light and heat from the natural sun, but the manufactured atmosphere humanity introduced to make the air breathable when they moved here centuries ago blocks a lot of both. The solution was a retrofitted space station in permanent orbit, providing light and warmth and all those happy emotions humans get when they feel the sun on their faces.
Clarke’s not feeling happy emotions at the moment, even with the manufactured star she grew up under touching her skin with gentle fingers.
The paddock—the meticulously arranged rows of team garages/hospitality suites, FIC offices, and press corrals—is in the early stages of being broken down for transport to the next race site. Everywhere Clarke looks, staff are loading storage crates, strapping bits of equipment onto liftpads, and attaching tracking beacons to everything that moves. A Formula Zero season is a logistical nightmare, with millions of moving parts that get torn down, shipped, rebuilt, used, and torn down all over again three times a month. It’s a complicated but familiar dance.Clarke walks slowly down the center strip of the paddock, trying to let the routine nature of it soothe her.
“Madeline.”
There go Clarke’s wispy threads of calm. Only a handful of people call ClarkeMadeline. None of them are supposed to be here today, and only one of them actuallycouldbe here, inside the paddock.
She pastes a small, resigned smile on her face as he catches up. “Hi, Anders.”
Anders Dalsing turns heads anywhere he goes, but especially at an F0 event. He’s a former pilot for Elemental, and while he never won the individual championship, the team won twice during his tenure. He’s recognizable on sight for most of the people working here, and he waves and returns friendlyhellos until they’re farther down the paddock (it’s organized by ranking in the team championship bracket, and Elemental’s currently in seventh). Only then, when the crowd has thinned out, does he speak to his only child.
“You’ll come home with me tonight.”
Homefor Anders is half a hemisphere away, in Elysium Planitia. It’s where people with stupid amounts of wealth keep palatial estates. Clarke can count on one hand the number of good memories she has at Anders’s house.
She blows a lungful of air out through stiff lips. “I was planning to spend the night in the hotel and come out tomorrow with the media team. I’m supposed to check in with the doctor again in the morning.”
“There are better doctors in Elysium. I already cleared it with Yves.”
“Anders.” Clarke swallows the irritation coating her tongue. “I’m an adult. This is my job. You can’t—”
“It’s done,” Anders says, holding the door to Elemental Hospitality open and ushering Clarke inside, likeshe’sthe guest andhe’sthe one who belongs here.
He might have a point, she thinks, catching sight of their reflections in the glass door as they pass.
They look nothing alike, Anders Dalsing and Madeline Clarke. Anders has wavy blond hair, bright green eyes, and a golden undertone to his skin. Clarke, on the other hand, is a carbon copy of her mother: straight brown hair, dark blue eyes, pale skin that freckles if there’s a sun out anywhere in the same time zone. They have the same nose, maybe, but you’d never guess they’re father and daughter. And with Anders looking perfectly put together and Clarke looking like—well, like she got into a high-speed accident and almost died earlier today—Clarke knows which one of them she’d say appears more at home in Elemental’s sleek hospitality suite.
Yves Gagnon, Elemental’s team principal, is the only person in the lobby. He’s got two holoscreens pulled up out of the café table he’s sitting at, a third linked to the cuff on his wrist, and appears to be in three separate conference calls across the devices. He looks up when Clarke and Anders enter, says a brisk “Stepping away for a moment,” and pauses the video feeds, leaning back in his seat with a tired smile. “Anders. When you messaged earlier, I didn’t think that meant you were getting on a ship yourself.”
“She crashes that badly, I’m two hours away, and you don’t think I’ll show up?” Anders drops into the seat across from Yves. “Honestly, I’m hurt.”
Yves’s grin turns wry. “And how many members of the press just happened to get a glimpse of the concerned father on your way through the paddock?”
“If they did, who am I to stop them from sharing what theysaw? Madeline, go get your gear. I’d like to be back in the air within the hour.”
Clarke goes. She pushes back against this sometimes, against her father and Yves treating her like a child or talking about her like she’s not in the room, but she doesn’t have it in her tonight. The comedown from the crash was rough, yes, but the verbal spar with Julian is what’s really doing her in right now. Short though it was, every interaction with Julian unearths emotions she’s been trying to keep buried, and mentally shoveling the dirt back into place is exhausting.
The rest of the hospitality level is dark and empty. Clarke makes her way to the stairs and down to the garage, keeping her posture straight and her face blank until she closes the door to her prep room behind her.
There’s not much to a pilot’s prep room at the back of a paddock garage. There’s a couch, a small desk, enough floor space to do agility and reflex exercises, and a tiny bathroom. Her bag is sitting on the couch, packed and waiting. She sits down next to it, suddenly so tired that she considers tipping over and falling asleep until Anders remembers she exists again.
There’s a knock at the door. “Clarke?”
“Come in, Matthew.”
Matthew Agresta, Clarke’s fellow Elemental pilot. Thirty years old, solid in the seat, easygoing personality. He used to fly for Enclave, but Yves brought him over last year to be a “stabilizing, experienced influence” for Clarke. It doesn’t seem to be working out, if you ask Clarke. Not that anyone at Elemental asks Clarke about team strategy. Or for her input on the ship. Or much of anything, really.
Matthew leaves the door cracked open a sliver and leans against the desk. “How are you doing?”
He’s not the first person to ask, or even the first to ask like they genuinely care. She talked to her mom while in Medical. Her support crew were all clamoring to get eyes on her. Thierry, another pilot she’s true friends with, sent multiple demands for updates once the race was over. Matthew’s the only other person who understands the mental shitstorm that comes with being a pilot for Elemental Machines, though.
“I’m here,” Clarke says, after far too long of a pause. “That’s what I’ve got for right now.”
Matthew nods. He’s dressed in Elemental merch, hair tucked up under a light blue cap. He’s probably been ready to leave for hours, but he stuck around to check on Clarke. “Anything I can do?”
He’s a good guy. Nice. Too nice, sometimes, Clarke thinks. Not cutthroat enough for this sport. “No. Thanks, though.”
