Chapter 8
Their joint tactics work. On lap twenty-six, as Clarke and David bank into the second straightaway, Amira says, “All right, Clarke. Go hunting.”
Finally.
She feels electric. She feels unstoppable. She feels like she understands this godsforsaken ship for the first time all year.
And then, the moment she’s been waiting for: Everyone else starts to pit.
Almost everyone. Julian’s been in already; he’s always liked pitting earlier than most. But everyone else in front of her—Delphine, Engel, Belette, Oliver—turns off at the blue beacons. Julian was P2 behind Delphine, but he’s P1 now.
“Gap to Julian?” she asks Amira.
“Seven-point-two.”
Seven seconds. That’s a big lead, but not insurmountable.
She’s not just up against Julian, of course. This is not a two-person race. But for the span of a few heartbeats, before the other race leaders come back onto the track, it’s like Juniors all over again. Julian’s in front of her, and Clarke’s going to catch him.
She’s P4 when everyone’s out of the pit. Engel is P3. He’s Chronicle’s other pilot, Julian’s teammate, and he’s very good. It takes Clarke until lap forty-seven to catch him, and then he blocks her until lap fifty-one, when there’s an opening to pass during a turn.
Amira doesn’t let Clarke take it. She wants to scream, not understanding why, but then they barrel into the next corner and Amira barks, “Now, Clarke, now now now” and she goes and she’s P3, with eleven laps remaining.
“Good,” Amira says as Clarke corkscrews for the fifty-second time. “But you’re on warning from the medics, and your shells are showing early signs of fatigue.”
Clarke probably could’ve told the medics that she should be on warning (official notification that if her vitals get any worse, they’re slowing her down) herself.
They’re over an hour into this race, and her vision’s starting to go fuzzy during the tightest turns as her blood pressure drops and her body fights to stay conscious. “Gap to Delphine?”
“Three-point-six.”
“Can I push?”
She wants to, desperately, but she has to ask.
She’s one overenthusiastic corner away from medical interference and her ship’s handling could degrade at any second.
Securing the 15 points she’ll get if she finishes third rather than risking them if she goes harder to try to catch Delphine is logical, and what a more conservative strategist like Yves will want her to do.
Amira again takes long enough to respond that Clarke knows another tense conversation is happening off-radio. “Yes. You’re pushing.”
Clarke confirms, shaking off her disbelief. She’s not going to question an order that gives her what she wants, it’s just not what she was expecting. Maybe things really are looking up for her at Elemental?
It’s a thought for later. For now, she’s going to go get Delphine, since she has explicit permission to do so. She’s going to chase down the current interplanetary champion, with her ping-ponging blood pressure and her tired ship.
Good thing she likes a challenge.
—
On lap fifty-eight, a new section of chicane appears.
Clarke’s been checking off possible variables in her head and cross-referencing with Amira, so she knew this was coming.
It’s on a section of track that’s inverted above a spectator platform.
The course used to turn at one end of the platform, speed along it at a gentle slope, then turn again at the far end.
Now that gentle slope is a back-and-forth weave.
Julian flubs it.
Not badly. He doesn’t go off the track, and he doesn’t hit the protective barrier that keeps wayward ships from ramming into the platform, but his back end whips out too far and he has to reverse thrust fast. Delphine passes him.
A second later, so does Clarke. Julian recovers quickly, falling into P3.
It’s about hanging on, at this point. Her shells haven’t failed, but she’s on borrowed time against both Delphine’s and Julian’s fresher (and just higher quality in general) machinery.
As if to prove her right, Julian zips by her again before they’ve even finished the lap.
He gets Delphine, too, with two laps to go, and then takes the checkered flag as P1 for the third time this season.
Clarke puts everything she has into those last few laps, but can’t catch Delphine. Her ship simply doesn’t have enough left. She crosses the line third.
She shouldn’t be disappointed. P3 is—P3’s amazing. With how the rest of this season has gone, P3’s unbelievable. It’s a podium, her second ever in Formula Zero. It’s significant points.
But she thought she might win.
“Thanks, everyone,” she pants into her radio as she cruises toward the podium ceremony stage. It’s through the veil, just like the pit lane and garages, so she drops wheels and lands. “Sorry I couldn’t do—”
“Hang on,” Amira interrupts. “We’re still waiting for word. Delphine had that three-second penalty in the first lap, and we don’t think they served it in her pit stop, and you were only two-point-five behind her there at the end, so—yes? Yes, I—okay, Clarke, that’s confirmed. You’re P2.”
P2.
It’s not first place, and gaining a spot on someone due to a time penalty doesn’t grant quite the same satisfaction as beating them across the line, but—
P-fucking-2.
—
“Lion’s Head never disappoints, but wow! What a race,” says a reporter. “Julian, congratulations on your third win of the season. How’s it feel?”
“Incredible,” Julian says, looking like he means it from the marrow of his bones.
He’s usually fairly contained for the press, putting only the serious side of himself on display, but today he’s got a wide grin and isn’t bothering to hide it.
“There was a lot of fantastic flying out there today from a lot of people. Winning in a race where everyone’s competing on a high level is—it says a lot. ”
“What does it say?”
Julian shoots a smirk at Delphine, who’s sitting on the couch with Clarke. “It says that I just closed our points gap.”
Delphine and Julian are tied now. Delphine’s still listed first in the pilot bracket, because her teammate Oliver has more points than Julian’s teammate Engel.
If the season ended today, she’d be declared the individual champion.
But the season’s not over, and Julian looks like he has plans for what happens when they come back from break.
Delphine, undoubtedly, has plans of her own. She smiles back at Julian, calm and confident, twirling her microphone idly. Unruffled. Daring him to keep talking.
Clarke wants to be like Delphine when she grows up.
“Should we be expecting more of this in the second half of the season?” the reporter prods. “More of Delphine and Julian, neck and neck, vying for the trophy?”
“I guess we’ll have to see,” Julian says.
“I guess we will,” Delphine echoes.
“Thrilling stuff, guys, thanks,” the reporter says dryly, to a smattering of laughter. “Clarke, can we expect to see more performances like this out of you, too?”
Clarke’s been given talking points for this press conference, reviewed with Naomi through the bathroom door while Clarke took a rapid post-podium shower.
She arranges her face into what’s hopefully the right blend of happiness and humility.
“I hope so! The team’s been working so hard this whole year, but that effort hasn’t really been reflected on the scoreboard until today.
It’s great to be able to bring home the points they deserve. ”
Julian makes that same disgruntled sound from last week. The acoustics are different around the winner’s armchair, though, and the whole room hears it this time. Silver Sight—Clarke should really learn his name at some point—tips forward in his chair, eager. “Julian? You disagree?”
Julian looks at Val, and the whole room notices.
Pilots check with their principals or PR people before answering questions that might be controversial all the time, but Julian doesn’t, because Julian doesn’t answer those questions.
If Julian doesn’t like what he’s being asked, he’ll just stare at the asker until they get uncomfortable and walk it back.
It was hilarious to watch the first dozen or so times, before the press wised up and stopped trying to bait him.
Silver Sight is relatively new to the F0 scene, though.
And stupid, besides, to have followed up on a noise Julian obviously didn’t mean for anyone to hear.
But Julian’s checking in with Val and the guy standing next to her, who must be Chronicle’s equivalent to Naomi, like he’s asking for permission to answer.
Val and the guy confer, quickly and quietly. Val looks back to Julian and shrugs. Up to you.
There is a very specific way Julian holds himself when he’s about to do something that blurs the line between reckless and calculated, like he’s readying for a fight.
He does it now, as he picks up his mic and says, clearly, “I just think it’s interesting that Clarke’s talking about how hard her team’s been working when anyone with eyes can tell Elemental’s incapable of building a ship that can keep up with her. ”
Clarke drops from a peak of happiness into a fiery pit of anger and confusion so rapidly that she gets dizzy. Why is he doing this? What does he get out of criticizing Elemental so bluntly?
The reporters are all talking over one another as soon as Julian’s done speaking. Naomi makes a vicious hand movement at Clarke, who rushes to salvage this. “That’s not true.”
Julian fixes her with that stare, the one that makes journalists back off.
“You’re saying you’re not outperforming your ship?
We’re twelve races in and you’ve DNF’d five times, all due to mechanical failures.
And even when you’re not DNF’ing, your ship’s falling apart.
What was it at Rio, again, that made you lose pace? Or at Gale Crater?”
Clarke takes a slow breath, tries to get a grip on her rage. “We’re making improvements. Today showed that—”
“Today was a fluke. A miracle, really, that you managed to keep that brick in the air long enough to get across the finish line. You’re one of the best pilots of our generation, but you’re wasted at Elemental.”
Pride hits Clarke’s veins at the compliment, comes into contact with her barely restrained anger, and sets her blood churning.
“Sounds like you’re spending an awful lot of time thinking about me.
I’d say we should take this outside and settle it on the track, but I think we both know what would happen. ”
Julian’s eyes are still locked on her. “Yeah. I’d win.”
“Because you’re in a ship that’s got—what was it, again?
” She lands the phrasing deliberately, borrowing his words from a moment ago.
“A thirty percent higher development budget than any of the mid-pack teams? You’re right, Julian, your ship’s better than mine.
Congratulations on having deep enough pockets to buy victories. ”
Julian does the thing with the set of his shoulders again. “Fine. You and me, same machinery, any track you like. We can use last year’s Chronicle ships.”
“Fine,” Clarke snaps, already hungry for it.
“Great,” Julian seethes. “Val?”
It throws Clarke, because she’d gotten so caught up in Julian that she’d all but forgotten they aren’t alone in the room.
The reporters are watching gleefully. Delphine has pressed herself back into the couch cushions to get out of the way.
Naomi looks like she’s trying to set Clarke on fire with her mind.
“Absolutely not,” Val says, and the adrenaline rushes out of Clarke’s body.
A few reporters boo. “Yes, yes, I’m the wettest of blankets.
The list of reasons we will not be endorsing an unsanctioned duel using retired Chronicle hardware is so long that we’re going to run out of time in this press conference before we get through them all. Next question.”
Someone lobs Delphine an easy ask about Provenance’s plans for mid-season break. When Clarke’s gotten herself pieced back together, she chances a glance at Julian. He looks completely unaffected. Unbothered. Engrossed in Delphine’s answer.
He sees her looking. He winks.
Clarke’s gonna kill him.