Chapter 45
The Formula Melee pilots require on-site medics anytime they fly their ships, even for exhibitions like tonight.
Clarke and Julian are tended to by these medics as low-level FIC staff try to get the night back on track.
Actual FIC leadership are sequestered somewhere, reviewing footage and figuring out what to do.
Judging by the shouting Clarke can hear from two directions, neither attempt is going well.
“Did they honestly think everyone was just going to sit back down and listen to the third speaker after this?” Maki asks around a cheekful of food.
He and Amira are with Clarke, Julian, and the medics in the Temple of Hera, one building over from Zeus.
Their dinners were delivered by an intern who politely asked them to stay the hell out of sight until everything calmed down.
Graham has been pulled into an emergency meeting with Chronicle’s owner and directors. Sara, similarly, is talking with what remains of Elemental’s management. Val and Yves are in custody. Anders is being chased down.
What a fucking night.
“F0’s just one of the eight circuits,” Julian says, lisping around his swollen tongue. “And only our two teams were involved. No need for everyone else’s night to be ruined.”
“Ruined isn’t the word anyone’s using.” Amira’s the only one of them brave enough to have her holoscreen out, scrolling through media. “This was, quote, ‘the most entertaining event of the year, full stop.’ ”
“Third metatarsal’s definitely broken,” the medic working on Clarke’s foot confirms. “It’s a quick fix with a healing pod. We’ve got one on our ship, if you want to go now?”
Clarke is sitting on the floor, back against the pedestal of a huge statue of Hera. Her butt is cold from the stone. Her foot hurts. Her head hurts. She needs to talk to her mom and Rhynn, preferably in that order, and shower, and sleep for a week. She doesn’t want to move.
She holds up her container of food. “Can I finish eating first?”
“This one needs to go to the healing pod, too,” Julian’s medic announces. He has Julian’s chin pinched between his fingers and a scanner over Julian’s eye. “Hairline fracture to the zygomatic.”
“We can fix that on our ship,” Clarke’s medic says pointedly.
Julian gives her a flat look. “Clarke said she wants to finish eating first.”
The medic makes an exasperated sound and starts packing her gear away. “I thought F0 pilots would have more sense, but you’re just as bad as the Melee guys.”
“They’re going to take that as a compliment,” Amira says, eyes still on her screen. “Oh, interesting. Looks like the sale of Elemental already went through.”
Clarke chokes on a bit of squash. “What?”
“The terms were just released. The deal doesn’t go into effect until the end of this season, but it’s already done.
Signed, sealed, money transferred. As of two weeks ago.
‘Current owner says they have no intention of requesting that the sale be voided, says recent events only further confirm their desire to get out of business with Elemental.’ ”
Maki’s eyes are wide. “Can Anders and Yves run the team from prison?”
“They won’t go to prison.” Clarke folds her noninjured foot in toward her body, rearranging Julian’s jacket over her lap so she doesn’t flash the room with how high the rip in her dress is.
What she wouldn’t give for a pair of sweatpants.
“Most of what they did was only morally reprehensible or in violation of FIC regulations, not actually illegal.”
“Manipulating stock price so they wouldn’t have to pay as much in the sale is against the law,” Julian says.
The medics have retreated to one corner of the room, commiserating over noncompliant patients.
Julian scoots closer to Clarke across the floor, so their arms are pressed together.
“But whether that’ll stick? Who knows. I wouldn’t be surprised if all that ends up happening is probation and a heavy fine. ”
Clarke slumps and rests her head on Julian’s shoulder. “They’ll be back on the grid next season.”
“Think any of us will be?” Maki wonders aloud.
Clarke’s been avoiding the thought. She knew there would be repercussions for tonight, and she’s accepted the ones that impact her directly, but it’s harder not to feel guilty about the negative effects on the people who helped her.
She straightens up. “Maki, Amira—you weren’t as involved as Sara. I don’t think Yves knows you helped. You could probably keep your jobs.”
Maki groans. Amira holds out her arm and taps her cuff against his. “Pay up.”
Julian’s quiet laugh gently jostles Clarke as she looks back and forth between them. “You made a bet on this?”
“On you trying to rationalize us being willing to keep working for Elemental? Sure did,” Amira says.
“Unbelievable,” Maki grumbles. “You’ve got no faith in us, Clarke? After all of this?”
“Of course I have faith in you,” Clarke says, because it’s true.
She chose to trust these people when she asked them for help with tonight, and she was right to do so.
“But be practical. Jobs don’t open up in Formula Zero every day, and you worked really hard to get here. If Yves will keep you, you—”
“—will tell him that I supplied three of the videos in Sara’s montage and have at least a dozen more, and he can stick his job offer up his ass?” Amira says.
“I’d probably just say no and then run away,” Maki says. “I don’t do well with confrontation.”
Clarke’s heart swells. If she gets emotional now, though, she’s not sure she’d be able to reel herself in, so she turns to Julian instead.
“You’ll definitely still have a job. Val won’t get off easily, not with the attempted manslaughter, and you come across as a hero in the footage.
There’s no way Chronicle’s going to let you go. ”
Julian makes a noncommittal noise. “It’s not up to them.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t just Yves at Elemental. Naomi was involved.
Your technical director, your chief engineer; they must’ve known how different your ship and Raff’s were.
I’m suspicious of everyone in your management structure at this point, and everyone on Raff’s support crew besides.
It could be the same at Chronicle. I’d like to think that Val was acting alone, that no one else knew what she was doing, but I can’t be sure.
And until I am sure, I don’t know if I can fly for them again. ”
Clarke carefully chews and swallows, nodding, then says, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Maki laughs. Amira snorts. Julian frowns.
“You could win this year, Julian,” Clarke says. “You could beat Delphine. Beat Atreus.”
Clarke knows how much it would mean to Julian to take home the individual championship, to stick it to the Provenance principal who looked down on him, but Julian’s shaking his head before she’s even done talking.
“The FIC will probably void my last few wins because of what Val did. I’ll be too far behind Delphine going into the last three races. ”
“It could happen!”
“The math says it’s not going to. The team championship still might be doable. Although we may not have a team principal anymore, so—”
“Oh, we have a team principal,” says a voice from the side of the room.
The medics square up, getting in Graham’s way, but he just gives them a tired smile.
“Hi. I’m Graham Grayson, acting team principal for Chronicle Racing.
I understand that the title might not exactly confer a lot of confidence on me in light of recent events, but I promise I’m on that guy’s side. ”
He points at Julian on that guy, and Julian waves to the medics when they follow the gesture. “He’s cool. Let him in.”
The medics let Graham pass. He crosses the room quickly and drops to the floor between Julian and Maki, sprawling out onto his back and covering his face with his hands. “I hope you’re happy, Casperi.”
Julian’s grinning. “I wasn’t sure they’d go for it, but congratulations on the promotion.”
“It wasn’t even a discussion,” Graham says into his palms before dropping them to his chest. “I told them what you said, that you’d only get back in the seat this season if you trusted the person in charge, and someone said, ‘Well, he trusts you,’ and then everyone else was agreeing, and oh my gods I am so not qualified for this. ”
Julian leans over enough to pat his hands while Maki and Amira cackle. “You’re gonna do great, kid.”
—
“That was quite a show.”
Clarke cracks an eye open. She’s in an individual room in the medics’ ship, foot in a healing pod, and Atreus Skordi is at the door. “Why are you here?”
He stays where he is, leaning against the jamb. “I think I may have been wrong about you. You have some potential after all.”
Clarke hates that there’s a part of her that lights up, but she hasn’t been able to fully reconcile her admiration of Atreus due to him being a powerful, successful leader in her sport with the jerk she’s come to realize he is on a personal level.
She keeps the reaction internal, at least. “Thank you.”
He’s unbothered by her flat affect. “I’d like to offer you the secondary seat at Provenance for next year.”
…Not where she thought he was going with this. Her brain shouts conflicting reactions, a gut instinct to take the job versus a strong desire to tell him to go to hell. Atreus may just be Yves in a different skin, but it’s Provenance. Clarke could win at Provenance. Clarke could—
Well, no. Clarke wouldn’t win. The team might, and Delphine might, but Clarke would be the secondary.
And she stands by what she said to Atreus at Hanoi press: Provenance’s engineering has plateaued.
They’re not pushing the limits for the joy of pushing them, they’re just trying to stay ahead of the competition.
She remembers a few other things: how Atreus looked at her when she dared to defy him in front of cameras, and Julian saying he all but admitted he thinks colony kids like Julian belong under his thumb.
Clarke turns her biometrics chip over in her fingers. She had the (appalled) medic remove it, sterilize it, and give it back to her. “Thank you for the consideration. My answer is no.”
Atreus can probably count the number of times he hasn’t gotten what he wanted on one hand. She sees him get two steps into processing the refusal and stall out, like the engine of a ship forced into a bad angle. “Are you sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
“Even if it means you’ll never race in Formula Zero again?”
“I don’t think that’s the case,” Clarke says honestly.
She’s still hopeful about Enclave, but if that doesn’t work out, there will be openings again someday.
Rhynn thinks that the back-of-the-pack teams who didn’t respond to their nudges were deterred by the drama of the past few months.
They don’t have the sponsor roster of the larger teams, can’t afford to scare money away.
But something new will eventually push Clarke’s story out of the spotlight, and someone may come calling.
Clarke can drop back to the semi-pro circuits until then, keep her skills sharp.
Atreus scoffs. “Yves was correct about one thing, at least. You’re nigh unhirable now. You won’t get another offer.”
“I’ll thank you not to speak for me, Atreus.” Lennox Redfoot appears, walking right past Atreus into Clarke’s room. She folds a stool out of the wall and sits. “We’ve had this conversation before.”
“Lennox,” Atreus greets. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Do I look like I’m here to talk to you?” Lennox unbuttons her blazer and looks at Clarke. “Were you done with him? I can come back.”
“We’re done,” Clarke says, excitement suddenly pounding through her. To Atreus, she adds, “Thanks. Good luck with the championship.”
She layers as much derision into the well-wishes as she can. Lennox smirks. Atreus says, “I see. Good night, Ms. Clarke, Lennox,” and melts away into the hall. The door slides shut behind him.
“Interesting choice in people to willfully antagonize,” Lennox comments. “I thought what you said to him at Hanoi might’ve been a slip of the tongue, but Thierry was right, wasn’t he? This is just how you are.”
“I hope that won’t be a problem for Enclave, when I fly for you next season.”
Lennox gives her an amused look. “Awfully confident.”
“You wouldn’t have come here to see me if you were just going to tell me you’re not interested anymore. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am.”
“You’re wrong about an aspect of it,” Lennox hedges.
“I do want you for next season. My team’s drafting an offer.
Your manager will have it by the end of the night.
But if you’re game, I don’t want to wait.
I’d love to get you in the ship for the last three races, buy out the remainder of your Elemental contract.
It’s a hell of a statement, and it’ll give us better information about how to be successful next year than the whole off-season put together. ”
It’s Friday night. Abu Dhabi’s practice sessions are a week from today. Clarke tries to rein herself in, tries to be reasonable. “That’s not a lot of time to lock in a contract. Or learn the ship. Or—”
“Tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen,” Lennox states. “Within some degree of reason, obviously. I can’t give you a moon.”
Rhynn keeps a list of the things that would make up Clarke’s perfect contract.
A seat at the table for design and strategy decisions, a competitive salary, some degree of bodily and social autonomy.
She’ll ask for those in negotiations, she will, but her priorities have evolved recently.
“I’ve got a couple people who are going to be out of a job for helping me tonight. Can you make room for them at Enclave?”
Lennox laughs. “I certainly don’t want the people who helped you pull this off working against me, now do I? I can’t promise endless hiring, but if we’re only talking a few, then—”
“Clarke!” Sara bursts into the room at a run, dashing up to the cot and flinging her arms around Clarke. “I was so worried!”
“Does everyone know where I am right now?” Clarke asks, returning the hug.
“I asked Amira,” Sara says, pulling back to look at Lennox. “You’re Lennox Redfoot, from Enclave Alpha.”
“I am,” Lennox says, looking entertained. “You’re the one with the videos.”
“Sara Cohen,” Sara introduces. “I could be way off base, but do you have ten minutes for me to fill you in on the plan for a post-season charity one-on-one between Clarke and Julian? Because I made sure all the contracts with the suppliers and venue are transferable, and I’d be willing to freelance to see it through because it’s probably my ticket to my next job, and—”
Lennox leans around Sara to look at Clarke. “This one of the people you want to bring with you?”
“Yep,” Clarke says. “And my race engineer. And a start crew engineer.”
Lennox says, “Done. What else?”