Race Final Part

You want to know what I'm wondering Kohran? When the hell is that Stratos going to land for fuel?

I don't know Tom, by all projections it should've run out ten laps ago but it's still cruising around. They can only carry so much fuel in that thing's tanks and at the rate of consumption those engines guzzle at, it just can't have gone this far. But she's running clean...

Well, I guess they've been keeping something in reserve. That begs the question. Can they go all the way to the end of the race?

That must be what they're trying to do. They sure as hell wouldn't be trying it if they couldn't.

You think they can do it?

Well, if Abriel keeps lapping at the pace she's been achieving, factoring in an average of fifteen minutes for a refuel, and Haur in the Stratos maintains hers, then the Stratos wins by six minutes.

Win the race. Win the Championship. Of course, that's relying on Haur to keep her mental discipline for the rest of the race and not get drawn in to a fuel-sapping race. That's the thing with good race strategy - it's about realising it's not about setting single lap records and being the fastest over one lap - it's about being the fastest over a whole race distance.

If y' fly slower Tom, y' use less fuel, but y' take more time to complete the lap. The less fuel y' use, the less refuelling you go to do, the less time spent stationary. In theory, every craft out there could finish the race on just their internal fuel, but they'd have to fly so slow and lose so much time that it's simply faster to go faster, drain the tanks and then stop to fill 'em up again. You also have to factor in the time penalty of carrying fuel because it adds mass to different parts of the craft which can really affect the handling, also costing valuable time. So sometimes it works out better to take two shorter refuels...  It's all about finding the right balance between sheer speed and time lost tanking fuel. And that changes for each track, and for each craft.

True that is Kohran. So far, that's the big advantage the Kulbit has had over the VF-4 - it seems to be less affected by the extra mass of carrying full tanks - it's tankage is all closer to the centre of mass of the spacecraft. Haur's taking it slow on the straightaways but her cornering speeds aren't that far off her qualifying speeds. That's what's making a no-stop strategy workable - that ability to maintain momentum, not slowing down and not wasting fuel getting back up to speed again.

I'm bettin' if we look at that Kulbit after the race is over, we'd find a pair a' drop tanks in its belly too. They've probably been in there all weekend since we never saw them open the weapons bay.

Speaking of fuel Kohran, we have activity down in the Bellcom hangar. Could be that they've finally decided to land Abriel to refuel? They seem to be readying a set of drop-tanks. That's something we've never seen before. Fitting drop tanks in the middle of a race? Can they do that?

I don't know Tom. I can't think of any rule specifically against doing that. A' course, there're reasons not to do it The extra weight of the droppers and their location on the wing slows everything down. It's extra wavedrag, for a start. Also, adding all that mass to the wings changes the polar moment of inertia of the spacecraft, making it harder to maneuver through corners and placing extra stress on the wings. But at the same time, it's a faster stop - and at this late stage in the race those few minutes will make a big difference.

How much, Kohran?

It could halve the time taken to make the stop - an' even factrin' in the lost time per lap that puts 'em within a minute of the lead on the final lap, making Haur's life so much harder.

Well that just eats right in to any margin of error Haur might've had. She's still on course to win, but if they start getting into any sort of fuel troubles they won't have that margin of safety to throttle back and coast, she's got to hit her pace exactly or she'll either run out fuel, or get caught and gobbled up. She's got nothing in reserve.

Well y'see, that's the thing with strategy. Each of these teams has got to continuously re-evaluate their plans based on what their competitors are doing and how circumstances change. Sometimes you gotta have the nerve to see your strategy through - or sometimes you got to have the flexibility to change on a dime like the Bellcom team are doing - maybe even coming up with something new. And being able to make that call whether to stick or switch is the art of race strategy and I ain't sure that Asagiri's got that level of skill yet...

I'm going to have to interrupt you there Kohran - we've got yellow signals in the debris field - someone's emergency beacon just went off.  Unless I'm very much mistaken.... I am very much mistaken, That's A VF-1! That's A Nemmelworths VF-1, spinning out of control, coming apart. The Pilot's already ejected I can see the flare but....

It looks like he's moving Tom. He's in radio contact with the marshals. It seems Kim is OK for the time being. He's off course so we won't be needing a safety period for a recovery this time.

Let's see if we can get an action replay..... Oh Man, you can just see what happened there. Just cut it too close and clipped a wing and then bang, it's all over. That's always the risk going through the debris and now all that wreckage is going to make it extra challenging.

A little bit of fatigue. A moment's lapse a' concentration and then your whole race is over. Just goes to show that at the end of the day, it's not the numbers that matter but the pilot in the cockpit. Even in the

Team Radio: Bellcom:
"Box, Box, Box, this lap. Box this lap and switch to mode 5. Mode 5."

And there we go Kohran. Things are about to get interesting.

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It all just sort of blurred together. Lap after lap after lap until she found it hard to keep track of her position or time without glancing at that display. Other craft flashed past, running at their own individual pace. Her conscious mind took a step back from it all, only occasionally called on by short instructions from the hangar to adjust a setting, or switch an engine igniter to the backup position. In a strange way, she wasn't even aware of the passage of the race at all - she sat apart from it in this quiet zone, watching herself fly as a spectator inside her own body.

The TSR's would blast past as soon as they had a chance to spool their engines, but she'd just slip by the moment one of them had to actually take a turn. She took a moment between maneuvers to check her gauges.

All was well.

Engines were running cool and safe. Hydraulic pressures were bang on. RCS tanks were more than half full. Fuel consumption was right were it was expected to be.

She was cruising.

As close as it was possible to be cruising when she was also pulling 12 and 13 G through full-speed, sweeping corners. Her body compressed itself, biopolymer skin contracting in sympathy, squeezing blood to her brain until she began to feel like she would burst from the top. A grey haze crept in to the edges of her vision as the life support system forcibly inflated her chest with oxygen. Her heart squeezed and her feet numbed on the pedals. She could feel the skin on her fingers compress to the bone, compressing her arms and pulling every single muscle in her body taught.

Then release.

All that pressure gone in an instant.

For a few moments to think, to let her mind clear and comprehend enough to adjust a trim setting before the next crush squeezed the awareness out of her mind once more.

Another release, another crush. Push on the throttles to accelerate around and onto the straight, taking care to toe the fuel flow line. Both engines spooled sluggishly, running lean to save every drop of fuel.

There was a rhytym to it all, a predictable flow from corner, to straight, to corner that made it feel far less hectic than it seemed from the outside. For a heartbeat, she wondered if this was what cybers felt like. A sort of fusion of human and machine - the Stratos becoming more and more an extension of her mind than a separate machine. A heartbeat later, she dismissed it as something for the birds to worry about.

The timing beacons at Ultima flashed by, station a bright streak receding away in her mirrors. Another lap.

She glanced down at her timing displays and saw - to her surprise - that she'd less than two laps remaining.

Hearing her thoughts, on orange light came on strong beside the master systems desplay. It switched from a wireframe diagram of the main engines and fuel flow to one of the fuel tanks, showing all of them at their true levels. Four of the six main tanks were registering empty as expected. The two remaining centre tanks showed thin slivers of blue fuel along the bottom of the graph.

Tank 1; 101KG
Tank 2; 97KG

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And he's getting out of the cockpit. Landvik's Viper retiring with hydraulic troubles with just two laps to go - after running as high as Third position. Of course, Kohran as he's completed more than ninety-five percent of race distance, Landvik will still be classified as a finisher...

Team Radio: Asagiri: "I've got a Fuel warning light. Number 2 tank. Number two fuel warning! 95 kilos."
Team Radio: Asagiri: "I've got that on my end. There should be at least double that."


Thats... not good. Fuel warning call from Haur there, it sounds like she's running out.

Coming around on the penultimate lap the question has to be asked Kohran, do they have enough fuel to finish? They've gone for so long without stopping, what are the chances of them running out before the end of the race?

They've a one minute lead, they can afford to back off a little an' try 'n' coast it over the line if they have to, but nearly two full laps with the fuel light on is asking a lot. That's nearly a million kilometres an' if one tank's going the other tank's not far behind.

Team Radio: Bellcom: "Push to ten. Push to ten. Push it all the way to the finish, we can make it. Asagiri's running out"

Bellcom team principal there hearing that Asagiri radio call and he's telling Abriel to push and push hard. It's a sixty second deficit on track but if that Kulbit starts running out of fuel or hits traffic it can dissapear in seconds. Haur there has to just keep her cool, be careful with the throttle, and not get caught up behind anyone going through the corners. It's a big ask but she might be able to just grease it across the line.

Of course it must not be forgotten Tom, both a' these pilots are racing for the Championship. If they finish as they are now, Haur wins the Championship by a single point, with Abriel coming in second. If she runs out of fuel, that hands the race win and the championship to Abriel elevates the BA-71 of Fawcet to second position in the race.

Team Radio: Asagiri: "Warning light on number 1."
Team Radio: Asagiri: "If this thing runs out on the last lap I'm going to F**cking kill you."

A little frustration from Pilot Haur?

Team Radio: Asagiri: "Daryl, Our fuel burn-rate's ahead of what it should be. There should be an extra lap at least, I don't know where the f**k it's gone. "

Tension's starting to get to both of them, Kohran.

Mmm-hmm, and this is a family-rated stream.

Team Radio: Asagiri: "Aw f**k..."
"All crossfeeds to 1 and 2. Every last dreg from the tanks. The gauge is accurate. Do what you have to to finish..."

That didn't sound to hopeful, did it Tom?

No it didn't Kohran. The expression on that face says it all.  I think Jaguar's figured it out and she does not look pleased.

Already in that first sector Abriel's taken a five second bite out of that lead. She's going hell for leather an' I think she thinks she might just do it if Haur backs off too much. If Haur doesn't back off an' she runs out of fuel, there's a good chance she'll be classified in third behind Fawcett but that just ain't enough to win the championship. She's gotta beat Abriel to the finish line.

Coming around again Kohran and you can see just how carefully she's accelerating out of those slow corners.

Well, she's playing it smart. You don't save fuel by going slow. You try maintain as constant a speed as possible. I mean she's not backing off on her corner speeds whatsoever - she's still carrying monster speed around those bends but she's just trying to keep from accelerating or decelerating too hard. It's the change in speed that costs you fuel...

Still coming around the track, but there you can see her rocking the

Team Radio: Asagiri: "Number 2 at 40. Red lights on both tanks."

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It was a bad sign when you could hear the fuel pumps scream.

The zone was long gone. Her mind had been dragged into the here and now, forced to take responsibility for the entire craft once more. The easy rhythm had be shaken apart, replaced by tense, jerking control inputs and the sick thought that the next time she advanced the throttles, the engines might not respond. Her mind dwelled on an strange shudder coming up through her seat, wondering if it was the first warning sign of an engine beginning to starve, for just long enough for her to miss the turn in point at Charybdis.

Daryl didn't want to know how close the wingtip came to clipping the rock, but it had to be a distance measured in centimetres.

Both gauges now read in single digits, flashing a brilliant red, clamouring for her attention.

Yes, I know, she growled to herself. It was impossible not to. On another level, she was aware that she was cornering faster than she had for the entire race. One way to save fuel was to just not slow down.

She glanced back at the fuel gauge, and felt physically ill for a moment.

Tank 1: 0kg.
Tank 2: 0kg.

So close to empty, the fuel gauge couldn't register what was left.

Tank 3: 0kg
Tank 4: 0kg
Tank A: 0Kg
Tank B: 0Kg

Not a single dreg left aboard. Even the tank in the missile bay was bone dry.

Both engines kept burning, sucking on what vapours were left. If her sheer bloody mind could keep them lit, it would. She'd glare it over the line if she had to, then give Jet a solid piece of her mind for cutting things so stupidly, dangerously close

In the back of her mind, she was aware of Abriel's VF-4 charging up from behind. It took every ounce of nerve to keep her consciously focused on the track ahead, and not compulsively glance in the cockpit mirrors. They'd show nothing more than a flash of metal as it went past anyway - all they were good for was verifying both engines still ran.

Another scan of her instruments - the third in as many seconds - confirmed that everything was still normal otherwise.

A push on the throttles, and the engines answered as they always had, driving the Stratos down the course.

One lap was taking her as long as the entire race had. She could feel the lack of weight in the spaceframe around her - how empty the big jet now felt. It snapped harder when she commanded it to roll, biting into the corners.

Again, a compulsive glance at the fuel gauge.

Tank 1: 0kg.
Tank 2: 0kg.

Fuel pressure and flowrate still followed her throttle setting. But for how long?

Long enough to clear the second sector. Thirty-two long seconds later, the VF-1 followed. Her finger began to tap nervously on the throttle, even as the engines continued to burn. Each jerk and shudder that the spaceframe made morphed into the first coughs and splutters of a dying engine. How stupid would it look to run out of fuel in the final sector? Of the final race? From the bloody lead of all places.

But still, the engines refused to quit.

Third sector played to her advantage. High speed cornering. Good, fast cruising. No need to slow down or speed up

Another orange light, answered by a screaming Master Caution alarm.

>Fuel Pressure: Engine 2.

A push of a button cancelled the alarm.

"Empty! Tank 2" she broadcast.

A heartbeat later, Jet answered, cybernetic tones artificially flattened.

"Copy. We're almost there."

Only the Katase Curve to go. Taken at top speed. As close to top speed as she could manage. Thirty seconds, maybe, from the finish line. The VF-4 was what, at a guess 20 seconds behind her. Maybe it might happen

The Stratos banked in, spaceframe creaking as it took the loads. It swept around, g-meters nudging 13 once more.

Daryl pushed both throttles forward, pressing the craft through force of will towards the finish.

Even as she pulled it back straight, the Stratos kept turning, pulling towards the right. The answer to the question she hadn't yet had time to ask came from the Master Alarm. It filled the entire cockpit with a harsh, angry red light and a shrill tone that was impossible to ignore. More lights came on, yellows, oranges and reds as oil and coolant pressures began to drop. A full christmas-tree of warning lights announced her worst fears.

She firewalled the throttle for the right engine.

It coughed once, shuddered twice, before finally dying silently.

"It's gone!" she said, not sure whether she'd actually transmitted it or not. Daryl didn't care, her mind had already moved on to the next task; trimming the Stratos to keep it flying straight on one engine. With an instant to spare a thought, she switched crossfeeds from all tanks to tank 1, hoping whatever last dregs were left in the crossfeed lines were enough to keep it running. All it needed was another ten, maybe fifteen seconds.

The last thing she did was cancel the screaming alarms.

Already, she was aware of how painfully slow she was flying. A glance at her timing data told her she should've finished the lap ten seconds ago. Which meant Abriel had to be within ten seconds of passing her. She was - barely - within ten seconds of the finish line.

And all that was guesswork.

Her polymer skin stretched itself taught in response. Her attention was focused on the mirrors. One engine clearly down - the other still burning strong. She could see the rudders fixed in position to counter the assymetric thrust. She could see the sparks lining the rest of the course as the rest of the fleet followed her around. One, harsh and blue, tracked around the Katase Curve.

Abriel.

The hardest thing for her to do, was not firewall the throttle for the remaining engine. It took every ounce of self control to keep her hand away from it. Pushing now would just kill it dead. So long as it kept pushing, she'd leave it be.

Five seconds.

The Master Alarm screamed at her once more, sending a solid shock through her frame.

>Fuel Pressure: Engine 1.

How long had it taken for 2 to die after losing pressure? Five seconds? Ten?

Through the cockpit glass, she could clearly see the timing beacons that marked the finish line. Ultima station shone bright, ready to welcome.

Four seconds.

Still, the engine ran. All parameters normal.

Three seconds.

Just two more needed.

Two seconds.

Daryl held her breath.

One.

A flash of lightning sparked harsh on both cockpit mirrors, collision alarm warning her of something accelerating fast up from behind. Her hand clenched on the controls, expecting the worst. Her attention focused on both mirrors, hoping to see which direction it was coming from and avoid hitting it by accident.

She looked up in time to see the VF-4's underbelly streak overhead, meters from the top of the cockpit, and felt her heart stop.

Hurridly, she glanced at her timing data.

>Race Complete:.... stby

That was it.

Ultima station was rapidly falling behind once more, and she became aware that she must have passed the finish line beacons while she was looking for the VF-4

The left engine finally starved to death moments later. Daryl stabbed the alarm moments later, before using what was left in the RCS to slink away out of the race track.

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As the Blackbird of Fawcett there makes it home in Third place, we're still waiting for final confirmation of results to come through. A few moments of celebration down at Bellcom cut short as maybe they're starting to wonder if maybe they didn't make it to the line in time. Jet Jaguar there staring at her monitors - keyboard looking a little worse for wear.

Both teams staring at their data. I've never seen a finish that close, Tom. There had to have been only moments between them. I mean, if the stewards are taking this long to be working it out then they have to be checking the calibrations on the timing beacons to be certain.

Haur there running out of gas right at the finish line. I mean, we saw it come out of the Katase curve on one engine an' we thought the other'd die before the line but it held for just long enough.

The Stewards still don't like people running out of fuel like that because of the risk it creates. But how sick would it be, to lose the Championship in the last few kilometres, of the last lap, of the last race, after the sort of season they've had, Kohran?

An' that's not to belittle what Abriel and the Bellcom team have achieved coming back the way they have and overturnin' such a massive points differential. They go away with the Constructor's championship whatever happens, despite the retirement of the second VF-4. Winnin' the pilot's championship is just icing on the cake.

Of course, we still have finishers to come. Kazami in the Talon takes a fine Fourth. McClellan in the TSR2 takes Fifth, Kacyznki's Raptor takes Sixth. Seventh....

I'm sorry Tom, I think we have a final result coming through for lead here. Less than five hundreths of a second seperating both spacecrat in the end, but they've awarded the win to...

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Getting towed back to the hanger was ignominious at best. Daryl didn't care. All she could do was rerun the last instant of the race in her mind.

She glanced in her mirrors.
The VF-4 passed overhead
She glanced at her timing data.
It showed that she had passed the beacon.

Which came first?
Passing the beacon? Or getting passed by the Valkyrie?

This was almost as bad as wondering if her fuel would run out before the line. At least that would've been final. Now, her fate was in the fickle hands of stewards who - if they were anything like the FIA, would be more inclined to move heaven and earth to keep the big money happy. That's how it always went. The universe seemed to have tha sort of attitude. It'd offer what she wanted on a plate, allowing her to get within touching distance - to even get her hands on it before ripping it away and spitting at her.

There were a dozen things she could've done differently - insisting on a quick touch'n'go for fuel, following orders and throttling back on a worn engine, or trying different strategies altogether. But that was all with the benefit of hindsight.

And if she did lose, it was that bloody cyber's fault for sticking to her guns and actually trying something so insane as going to full race, at race pace, without refuelling. Without the tank capacity of the Blackbirds either. Even the simulation they'd run had told them they'd little to no margin for error in it - a razor thin line between going too slow and getting caught, and just plain running out before the end. Trying to race the VF-4 headon would've had them almost certainly losing, so they gambled...

An early safety period had turned what should've been a thirty-second margin into several minutes by bunching the field up. That was the offer - a spark of good luck. Bellcom reacted by just refuelling with droptanks rather than refilling the onboards to cut that to the one minute. Even then, it looked good - it was sitting their on the plate, in her hands. All they had to do was not screw up, or blow an engine, or clip a rock. Or have another safety period bunch the field up.

It was in her hands.

And then she ran out of fuel right at the end of the final lap.

Rather than stick the boot in, the universe had decided to leave her in limbo - sitting, shaking with the tension of not knowing. Victory was still tantalisingly possible - just possible enough that she could hope.

Her comm's came to life, hissing in her ear.

"I'm sending the results down the datalink. You're not going to fucking believe this."

As usual, the cyber's internal comm tended to flatten her tone. Daryl couldn't tell if she was shaking with anger, or giggling with joy.

The results printed out in green text a heartbeat later. Daryl took another beat to work up the courage to confirm

>Provisional results:
#######################
>Position: 01
>Race Time: 04:27:32.255
>#73 RF-047 "Stratos".
>Pilot:  D Haur.
>Constructor: Asagiri.
########################
>Position: 02
>Race Time: 04:27:32.302
>#76 VF-4 "Spirit of '76"
>Pilot: L. Abriel
>Constructor: Stonewell-Bellcom

It took a few seconds to sink in, Daryl taking a second look at both race times to confirm what she was seeing..

"Motherfucker", she said. exhaling a deep sigh. She smiled at her reflection in the mirrors, then took a long deep breath

That was when she began to scream. It was catharsis. Every drop of tension releasing at once in one scream of joy that rang off the carbon-fibre crash frames. She punched the air inside the cockpit repeatedly, laughing rapturously.

She was so overcome, she had to be reminded to save and secure her flightlogs. Twice. Other housekeeping tasks were required - systems needing to be made safe before Stratos was landed in Parc-Ferme for a final stewards inspection. It'd be stupid to lose everything on a simple technicality that they could prevent. Daryl was laughing as she worked through the checklist.

The final few kilometres before Ultima were handled through gentle nudges on the RCS system, easing Stratos home for the last time. Already waiting were the Spirit' and Kelly Johnson, surrounded by hangar teams making the last few final checks. Both pilots were finishing up with the final few system clearances, purging fuel vapours and bleeding any pressurised systems down to a safe level.

She could see the observation gantries packed with the silhouettes of human bodies. Camera flashes sparkled like tinsel from amongst them as she dropped the black carbon racer onto it's landing gear with a jolt.

It sat there, resting, creaking as it cooled. For Stratos, retirement to pasture and exhibitions awaited. By next year, the field would've moved on.

Daryl sat within it, still shaking. In her mirrors, she could see the landing bay doors closing behind her. Already - in a spacesuit - was that catgirl reporter running across the bay towards her, ready for interview. If there was one person Daryl had come to hate, it was that irritating pit-lane catgirl.

After that, a rush to the podium for Noah Scott presenting the winner's trophies. Prim Snowlight with the Constructors. Then a rousing brass rendition of Moonlight Legend. Champagne. Press conferences with the same turgid questions and answers she really wasn't sure how to give. Fans. Autographs. The post-race all-night party. All of it chased by the overwhelming realisation that she may have just done something to legitimately join the ranks of the BNF...

Maybe, she thought wryly, it would've been easier to lose.

Abriel stood up in her cockpit, waving at the crowd - not bothering to wait for the green light. Fawcett was flaring the last of the TEB off from the Blackbirds engines - green flames licking around the engine nozzles.

Safe within her carbon cocoon for the time being, she was left with her own racing thoughts, trying to make sense of what was about to happen. One single thought kept coming around, over and again.

The landing bay light turned green, robbing her of the sole excuse she had left for keeping closed up. With a heavy sigh, she released the canopy locks and allowed it to slowly float up on its gas-struts. Her face mask dropped off when she popped her visor open, the constant pressure on her lungs dissipating with a hiss. It was replaced by the scent of hot oil, burnt sulphur and root beer.

The microphone was in her face before she had a chance to even acknowledge the grinning tabby catgirl forcing it on her. Those predatory fangs hungered for any tidbit of information. The smell of rootbeer, carried by her breath through an opened visor.

"So Daryl. You just won the Race and the Championship in one of the closest finishes in history. What are your thoughts on this as we wait for the all clear?"

Bright eyes begged for an answer.

"That..." Daryl stopped, turning her eyes away from the catgirl to her now darkened instrument panel. She wanted to give the catgirl some generic, vapid platitude. Only one thing came to mind, however.

"I wish Ranko had a chance to see this."

To most, Ranko was just a cartoon decal on the fuselage - a widely grinning over-muscled caricature of a really-quite lanky mechanic that'd had a place on all her racecraft, ever since he'd drawn it on the first Zig he'd prepared for her.

In a way, she thought ignoring the catgirl's followup, He had.

Daryl Haur was Fenspace Champion.

And that felt strange.

Good.

But strange. Like electricity running across her skin.
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