“To remind you that—”
He puts his hand on her ship.
He puts. His hand. On. Her ship.
Rage consumes Clarke for half a second, then she takes a quick step forward and knocks his arm away. “There arerulesabout touching another pilot’s—”
“We’re on the same team. The rule doesn’t apply.”
“I say it does.”
He clicks his tongue. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, sweetheart, but your word isn’t good for much at Elemental these days. I did try to warn you about the consequences of that pride of yours. There’s no support for a girl who can’t bear to ask for help.”
Thesweetheartvery nearly tips Clarke into violence, but thepridebrings her back, because Raff is so fucking wrong that it’s laughable. Maybe it was pride at one point, when Clarke wasnew to F0 and desperate to prove herself and keeping the people she now knows she can depend on at arm’s length. Maybe Yves and Anders were able to isolate her further by playing on that insecurity.
But that’s not who Clarke is anymore. She might be standing here staring Raff down by herself, but she is by no means alone.
“You did warn me,” Clarke says. “And you helped me realize something important. So, as a thank-you, I’ll give you one chance. When Yves came to you with an offer, how much did he tell you about what’s really going on at Elemental? How complicit are you?”
The self-satisfied arrogance on his face flickers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Not confusion, or a request for clarification. A blanket denial, as good as an admission.
A loud voice calls from the other side of the room; an event coordinator, giving them a five-minute warning. Raff shoots Clarke an unsettled look and returns to his ship.
Clarke takes a breath. Holds it. Lets it out. Puts what Maki just told her out of her head. Compartmentalizes.
Showtime.
43
When the first wave ofsponsors arrives, Clarke’s armor is in place. She puts on her best smile and her most charming personality. She laughs at the same jokes over and over. When prompted, she fires up the zero G generators, gets in the cockpit, and does tricks. She doesn’t have much room to work with, but she uses the tip of a wing to knock a slice of citrus off the rim of someone’s drink, rolls around her own y-axis, lifts her nose to the ceiling and bounces on her shells.
The sponsors aren’t all terrible. Some of them work for cool companies, or ask intelligent questions, or don’t let their eyes linger on Clarke’s ass when she hauls herself in and out of the ship. But a lot of them applaud and exclaim like she’s a well-trained pet, and Clarke’s feeling fractious by the time everyone’s summoned to the Temple of Zeus for the banquet. Her mood does not improve when she has to climb back up all those grand outdoor stairs.
The banquet starts with speeches while appetizers are served. Clarke, seated at a table with Elemental’s second- and third-biggest sponsors, forces herself to eat a few bites and at least look like she’s paying attention while the FIC chairman ofthe board speaks about sportsmanship and the galvanizing spirit of competition.
This whole night is scheduled down to the minute. There are three speakers, each allotted five minutes at the microphone with one minute of transition time between for applause and introductions. When the chairman is three and a half minutes into her remarks, Clarke runs her thumb over her cuff and sends a short, simple message.
I know about the sale. Unless you want everyone else to find out tonight, follow me. Now.
She whispers to the closest sponsor that she needs to use the restroom and stands, moving swiftly toward the nearest door. The room is huge, larger than Clarke was anticipating. It takes almost a minute for Clarke to weave her way between tables and make it to the door. That’s thirty seconds longer than she had planned, and Clarke’s night depends on a tight schedule, too.
She hikes up her dress and runs.
It’s not easy to run quietly in heels across a stone floor, but applause starts up almost immediately. The first speaker is done. Clarke sprints until the noise trickles off, halfway down the same giant stairs. She slows and throws her shoulders back, straightening her dress. As she turns onto the footbridge to Ares, there’s a second, shorter burst of applause: the next speaker being introduced.
Across the bridge, past Julian’s ship sitting dark and quiet, up two flights of spiral stairs. She positions herself halfway between her ship and Raff’s, checks that everything is ready, and waits.
Night is falling on Mars. If Clarke peers between columnsand strains her eyes, she can just make out the lights of the city far below, but all other signs of life beyond this castle in the sky are lost in the dusk and artificial clouds.
Yves and Anders emerge from the stairwell, about a minute into the second speaker’s speech. Right on time.
Clarke has spent her whole life shunting emotions to the side so she can get the job done. It serves her well now as she takes her apprehension, nerves, and loathing by the throat and flings them into the abyss. “Anders. Yves. Allow me to be the first to offer congratulations on being the new owners of Elemental Machines.”
“How’d you find out?” Yves asks.
“Naomi,” Clarke says, because it’s true if you squint and also because she figures she owes Naomi a migraine. “Interesting situation for all of us, isn’t it?”
