The Last Race
22/09/2024
3 years work, culminates in 3 hours.
Part 1.
..... Leaving it open for the time being.
Also, the Flight Suit Daryl's 'wearing', more or less Designed to be lightweight first and foremost, and to replace the usual 6-point flight harness and dozens of hose-connections with a simple sit-and-snap-lock system, to allow for a more comfortable and more rigid seating position in flight, and for a much faster exit in the event of a crash. While still providing the usual G-protection and the like.
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--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?
22/09/2024
3 years work, culminates in 3 hours.
Part 1.
Quote:We approached this test as an aerospace rehash of the legendary Evo -vs- WRX battles of the automotive world - a pair of homologation specials fighting it out on the street, while they fought on the track aswell. But it's more than that.
As a spacecraft, the VF-4 Evolution is an order of magnitude better. With one set of options, it works as a fighter. With another, it works as a day to day GT. If you ask it to, it'll even be comfortable. It's even slightly cheaper. The controls are the same as on any Bellcom fighter, so you feel instantly at home in the cockpit. And with a few slight modifications, it'll work around the track aswell as the racer too. It's millions of credits spent on a demonstration of a company's pride and capability so you better believe it's awesome in every single way - it'd be unthinkable if it wasn't. It takes your hand and guides you around the track, letting you reach far beyond your potential.
It elevates mortal men into racing heroes.
With the RF-047, every time you sit in it, you're aware that it has been built for one purpose, and one purpose alone: to go as fast as possible around a racetrack. It doesn't care about being comfortable, or efficient, or even being able to defend itself in a fight. It's born to Race. All it wants to do is go fast, and you can feel its disdain for you when you don't. It leaves you in no doubt that you're the weakest part of the equation - that it can always turn faster and accelerate harder than you ever dare take it. It goads you to push it faster and faster, teasing and stuttering and embarrassing until finally, it goads you into going that bit too far, pushing you into the embrace of the sausage creature.
It reminds would-be heroes that they're only mortal in the rudest manner.
You know that, every time you slot yourself down inside that tailored, unpainted-carbon and almost-recumbant cockpit that you're sitting in something that's technically no different from the one raced by Asagiri themselves. Even the flightsuit is made to measure. You can take it to a track, do nothing at all to it except pay the entry fee, and if you're good enough, win the race.
But... that's only if you're good enough.
The winner of the test has to be the VF-4. It scores higher everywhere away from the racetrack. Objectively, it's the best one to buy. You'll feel better about yourself. You'll get better use out of it. For the vast majority of people, you'll even be faster around a racetrack. It's all-round better value for your credit.
But, In ten or twenty years time, there'll still be dozens of them around, filtering through the second hand market with the few that ever see track action finding themselves locked away into various fen collections. They'll be there for everyone, a real power-to-the-people machine like the old Corvette ZR's. It's that American ideal that if something's good, it should be available to everyone.
The Rf-047 will always be rare. They'll be bought by genuine racers, first. Then by people who just want the cachet of owning a genuine race-jet. A few will end up preserved by wealthy collectors as museum pieces and artisan works that will never fly. Most will fall to the natural attrition of both racing and of overenthusiastic owners writing cheques their arse can't cover putting a sudden end to the majority. It's the Ferrari to the Corvette.
This 'Evolution-4; is the best and will deservedly sell like hotcakes, making another billion for Bellcom I'm sure, but I think the RF-047 is the one that'll become a legend.
Maybe I'm a little biased. But I believe it enough that I just ordered one for myself, in the full knowledge that it'll always be tut-tutting and frowning at me each time I try to make Titans Turn at speed and bottle it halfway through.
Excerpt:
Alessio Vittore
The Aeronaut Magazine issue #89
"The next Evolution"
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You're all very welcome here to Ultima Station and the Stellvia Hotels 700 Special, the final race of the 2024 season. And what a season it has been Tom.
Right you are Kohran. We started way back in March at Titan with the stunning debut of the Kulbit racer from newcomer constructor Asagiri, piloted by a first time professional pilot, competing in their first race to have a blow-out victory. Mrs. Haur was already known for competing in the amateur-classes with her own personal Silver Arrow - a refit Aeritalia F-104 sold to fund the Kulbit project. The combination then went on to win the next two races of the season - something unheard of in the history of the sport for a debut season. Already they've earned their place in the record books. The winning streak only came to a halt following an engine failure at the Forge, and the subsequent ten position penalty at the next starting formation for the next race at Greenwood promised a cracking thriller even before Stonewell Bellcom announced their VF-4 Evolution program had achieved Great Justice homologation after two months of crash development and would be ready to debut at Bellcom's home race with a sensational 1-2 finish.
Tom, the real story of the season since then has been the two duelling homologation specials. As regulars fan will know all spacecraft taking part in this class have to be based on existing combat types, with type-approval from Great Justice, and very limited modifications are allowed beyond that for racing. You can empty the ammo-bins, add safety hardware and strip some parts but those jets are supposed to be the same ones you can buy off the shelf. The traditional approach has been to take an existing de-mil combat fighter and strip it of unnecessary parts, but both the Evo-4 and the RF-47 are different. They began as dedicated racecraft from day one of the design process, having the bare minimum fitted to meet Great Justice standards. Throughout the year, both have been setting qualifying times good enough to make the starting formation at this year's Top-Flite races at the same track.
Bellcom and the Spirit of '76 piloted by Abriel went on to win the next three races on the trot, the advantage of two spacecraft in the formation giving them lead in the Constructor's championship and closing down Pilot's championship. Asagiri respond with a masterful Canyon run through the trenches of Marineris where the superior aerodynamics of the aviation-derived Kulbit and a little local knowledge from the team owner allowed a come-from-behind win at a race also marred by the tragic deaths of Jane Erwin and Cam Calloway; the first fatalities in four years reminding us all just how dangerous a sport this is. Then we travel around the Planet to Utopia where Starfleet's Red Squadron acted as a wildcard spoiler taking first place. The circus moved on to race at the NORC, sponsored by the Americans to promote interplanetary goodwill, with the Black Talons taking a masterful win, managing tactics, fuel and racecraft with their usual predictive precision and proving that it wouldn't just be about the two homologation specials. Another win by the Bellcom team in the Dark side of Mercury wrapped up the Constructors championship and brings us here to the final race of the season, with just one point separating first and second in the Pilot's /championship making for a straight race to the finishline. Will we have our first debut-season champion, or will the Bellcom team successfully retain the title, taking the record for largest points deficit closed. Whatever happens, this promises to be a ding dong battle between the leaders.
Of course, we can't talk about the homologation specials without talking about the resulting controversy and arguments over the definition of 'Combat Spacecraft' and the effect of the specials in further removing the sport from its roots amongst bored pilots honing their skills during Operation Great Justice. Pilot Daryl especially not having any prior combat experience or even training. A number of smaller constructors have already threatened to withdraw from the sport if nothing is done to prevent runaway spending on dedicated development and cheque-book victories. We have the Surawtari team all but accusing Bellecom of buying the last half of the season with sheer force of credits, and Asagiri and Bellecom together destroying the spirit of the sport for the sake of victory. Team owner Jet Jaguar of Asagiri claiming their only aim is to take part, and lower the barriers to entry and competitiveness for small teams. Whatever happens, next season promises to be exciting, with Black Aeronaut already admitting to be in the final stages of prototype testing for their own special and Bellecom revising the Evolution into an Evolution II. Who knows what else lies in skunkworks labs across the system, next year's already promising to be another cracker.
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She threw up before every race - a nervous reaction. Retching until her stomach ached was routine. Daryl gargled a cheap fruit-flavoured soda drink to clear the taste from her mouth, before spitting it down a stainless steel sink. A gush of recycled water from a single cold tap swept it away.
He whole body tingled with adrenaline, muscles coiling themselves taught, reading to spring into action. It prickled in the tips of her fingers. Her breathing quivered like jelly. In her chest, she could feel her heart beginning to race, riding the rush already even though there were still ten minutes before take-off. Pacing around the restroom, she began to wrung her hands together, stealing glances at her reflection in the mirror.
Grey hair, in her usual mullet style crowned her head, a long fringe framing her Blood-red eyes. At least she still had her mother's tanned skin. A Turkish mother kept her just above the depths of the Ayanami valley, despite the best efforts of her race helmet to force her hair down into the traditional Ayanami style. The flight suit contrasted with her hair, coming in a deep-space shade of navy, with what had been the emergency medical panels highlighted in a lighter Sammy blue to make them easier to find and rip off.
Nobody would want to try ripping them off now.
Daryl crouched down and clipped the her foot-armour into place, taking a few stiff-steps around the cabin to make sure they wouldn't fall off. It was bulky and looked awkard, with heavy anchor points for the Kulbit's crash harness built it, but the solid plastic cocoon kept her feet feeling safe and secure. One good thing about her biomod, she had to admit, was that it really did stop her feet getting gross and sweaty.
Daryl couldn't help but give her reflection a rueful smile.
That was the trick to dealing with joker mods. Find those little things that you like, and use them to pull you through - to make life bearable.
Daryl mused on it as she locked the shoulder armour into place. A neck brace docked with it, holding her head rigidly in place. The same rigid polymer kept her from even turning her head to the side. She shook off the feeling of confinement, rocking her shoulders back and forth before drawing down a long deep breath.
Through the door, she could hear the activity in the hangar. The zip-clatter of a pneumatic impact wrench chilled her spine. Electropolymer skin began to crawl across her body, squirming in sympathy. Going into combat in a hardsuit was less terrifying.
Combat was safer than racing, for a start. At least inside a hardsuit.
But the feeling beforehand was much the same. It was that same sense of charging - like her body was some form of adrenaline battery, ready to unleash an explosive burst of energy.
Daryl fought to contain it, to keep herself from bursting through the door into the hanger at a full run. Forcing herself to move slowly, she picked her silver-painted helmet up and tucked it safely underarm. Daryl drew on another deep breath before opening the door.
Waiting for her was the black carbon frame of the Stratos, trimmed with shining gold stripes. Sponsor and supplier stickers added splashes of colour to both tailfins, the landing-gear doors and parts of the nose. The number 73 was painted prominently on on the bottom of the wing in reflective silver paint. Fuel hoses trailed from both wings, filling the main tanks. Hired mechanics made the final few checks necessary before removing the red safety tags from the engines and landing-gear.
And a Microphone was stuffed in her face by a grinning white-furred catgirl in a pressure suit, her slit-eyes hidden by the glass visor of a headset video recorder.
"So, Daryl, final race of the season. How'd you rate your chances"
Fangs were bared in anticipation.
"Um..... Good."
The easiest way to defeat the gargoyles was to give them the most monotonic answers. It didn't fluster the catgirl in the slightest. The hungry microphone was moved even closer, and invitation to speak more.
"You're going into the final race, just three points behind Spirit of '76. To win the title, you have to beat the Spirit."
"I know,"
The catgirl's ears drooped. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, to try and regain her momentum.
"If you win, you'll be the first pilot and team from the Crystal Millennium to win the title, the first debut Pilot to win the title, and the first Title won by a spacecraft competing in it's first year. How are you dealing with the pressure?"
"I'm not."
That was the truth at least. The catgirl pursed her lips into a momentary pout, before mastering herself.
"And what about strategy for the race. It's a new track, how has that affected your strategy for the race today?"
"It means we're on a level playing field."
It meant not opening the weapon-bay doors, so people couldn't see what they'd stuffed inside. The rules didn't specifically ban it....
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"Thank you Miss Haur, I'll let you get back to your preparation. I'm going to try get down to Bellcom before the formation and see what's happening. There's a lot of activity down here in the hanger. We've got the two Thunderbirds from Surawtari firing up their engines, those big old K-59's really do make an amazing noise. Always a good thing to see such beautiful old machines still racing, but I hear they've already planned to switch to VF-9's next year. Black Talons still looking razor-sharp, you can never count them out. Black Aeronaut's workhorse BA-71's, with new engines there for today's race. Drop tanks under the belly? Looks like Ben's trying to be the Dark Horse on fuel strategy by going all the way without stopping for a refuel; could be one to watch. The T-SAB's own Raptor as a wildcard entry for the day getting ready with military precision along with the local team in a Viper fighter flown by Stigr Landvik. Team Firefox with their big 31's, have announced they've bought a pair of Kulbits for next year. Team Hesketh from Gestton in their Hi-Visibility uniforms having their final health and safety briefings before boarding their white TSR-2's.....
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Daryl slipped down into the cockpit and felt herself latch into place in the recumbent seat. Clasps on her shoulders, hips and thighs locked themselves into place, fixing her rigidly in the pilot's seat. Her feet found the rudder pedals, stretched far ahead of her towards the nose. Her left hand settled on the throttle, while her right tested the control joystick. In front of her, a small instrument panel offer the bare basic backups required by the rules.
All of it had been tailored specifically to fit her. Controls found her fingertips intuitively as she began the startup sequence.
Daryl felt the starters begin to spool up, a fizzle of energy rising through her spine. The whole machine began to fizz and vibrate as both engines moaned to life. On her helmet visor, the main displays came to life in a mix of green, yellow and red wireframe.
Her oxygen line pressurised, feeding her dry recirculated air through a pressurised mouthpiece. Power bristled through the tips of her fingers as the energy feeds to her flightsuit came alive. A test cycle compressed the suit, constricting her whole body for a few heartbeats - just long enough to feel the blood pressure rise in her cheeks - before releasing again. She allowed herself to accept a lungful of pressurised air, filling her chest almost to bursting. She swallowed to hold back against the feed from the mouthpiece, before blowing it slowly out through her nostrils.
It was dehumanising, she mused. With every switch, she became less and less a human being, and more a functional component of the Kulbit. Instead of the spacecraft adapting for her, she'd been adapted for the spacecraft.
She glanced at her onboard instruments, checking first the warnings on her visor, before scanning various cockpit panels.
"How is it?"
Jet's grinning face appeared over the side of the cockpit. The cyber's puppet had been dressed in it's own skintight flightsuit, for the sake of the cameras. The cyber puppet supported itself with an arm on the canopy.
"All systems go," Daryl answered, a giddy grin crawling across her lips, inspite of the hissing mouthpiece. Like a child waiting on a rollercoaster. She could feel the engines running, powering tingling through her body. It came up through the seat and filled her up from the inside.
The puppets expression was neutral for a breath, before a warm smile spread across her face. "Well, all you've got to do is fly the line, don't worry about anyone else's, and the numbers say we'll win."
Daryl gave her a disbelieving glance for a moment, before giving a stiff shrug of her shoulders - as much as she could locked into the pilot seat.
"It keeps the pressure off," she said. "Just fly the line. Leave it up to strategy. All I have to do is hold my nerve and we win."
And for both engines to keep burning the whole way through, for Jet's maths to be right, for the Bellcom team's strategy not to be even better, for her not to get hit by another racer, or just to not fuck it up and clip a buoy or do something dumb and pickup a time penalty.
"Pretty much,"
A moment passed. Both of them took a breath.
"Good luck," said Jet.
"Thanks," said Daryl.
A single button-push lowered the cockpit with a hiss from the actuators, sealing her away from the noise of the hangar with a hollow clunk. Compared to the average fighter, the cockpit canopy was formed from opaque carbotanium, save for the regulation minimum glass-area formed in transparent carbon. More like the portholes of an X-15 or space-shuttle, it sometimes made her think about the blinkers on a racehorse - showing the bare minimum needed for her to see her way forward.
Both engines moaned at idle behind her, warming to their operating temperature. She tried her primary controls, listening for the answer from the actuators.
Ahead, she saw the hangar door open to the perfect black backdrop of space, broken only by the track beacons winking in the distance. A chime on her panel warned her that both refuelling hoses had been disconnected. Nitrogen pressurisation was complete. An orange-suited marshal standing by the hangar door waved a red glowing wand at her, flashing her racing number out in thin air as it waved.
The radio earbud in her helmet hissed.
"Stratos, Race Control, Radio Check"
She keyed in the correct channel using a button on the throttle. "Race Control, Stratos. Five by Five,"
"Stratos, Departure Clear to flightline."
The marshal's baton switched to a solid, steady green. He - because for some reason in her mind all the race marshals had to be male inspite of the pressure suits being bulky and androgenous - began to sweep towards open space with the baton.
"Stratos Copy, Clear to Flightline. Departing."
Parking brake off. Chocks away. Wave goodbye to the marshal. A nudge on one of the throttles and a lump in her throat. The black jet edged forwards out of it's hangar and on to the takeoff strip. The last thing she did was adjust her fuel monitor to show average, and total, fuel consumption.
Daryl swallowed another lungful of pressurised air, then chased it with the lump that'd grown in her throat. Her hand had begun to shake on the throttle. A clench of her fist quenched the tremor, before she pushed it forwards to takeoff power.
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Hey, I'm Tom Hardee with Kohran Li up here in the booth with Dani Lynn, our Catgirl in the hangar and we're back here at the Stellvia Hotels Ultima 700 where we're counting down the last few seconds towards our formation lap. Our coverage today brought to you in conjunction with Forza Aeronatica on King of Fenners. Race for real without the risks. Our racers are all out on the track taking their warm up to the formation and that gives us a chance to listen in as they line up.
Team Radio: Asagiri: "Keep it on Zog Four. We need engines on Zog Four. Rember. Play it Lauda."
"Roger, Roger. You sure that's right?"
"I double checked it Zog four will do it."
Pilot Daryl sounding a little bit dubious about that. What do you make of that Kohran?
That's definitely a strategy call; this ain't no quarter-AU drag race, especially this far out. We're here for the long-haul You have to manage fuel, engine reliability, RCS propellants and even pilot fatigue. Go balls-to-the-wall off the line and you run out of fuel before half distance and you suddenly find yourself either having to two-stop it, take a splash-and-dash, or back right off towards the end of the race just to make the finish. Or, you get your human pilots getting mentally tired and making mistakes. The early sims for this track seems to suggest a one-stop strategy with a long first stint is the fastest way to the finish line. Of course, it all depends on how the race unfolds. Get a safety early or late on and that'll set a cat amongst the pigeons and you'll see teams scrambling to shift and adapt.
What do you think they're running Kohran?
Their big advantage is through the corners - that's a very clean and light spaceframe with the best maneuverability out there. If they've fuelled light to take advantage of that to make a very fast getaway they might try a two-stopper, hoping to gain enough time in each stint to cover the penalty of the extra stop. Of course all ship-to-shore transmissions are in the open so all the other teams can hear them, and all the other teams know that they can be heard.
Team Radio: BAT: "Focus 1. Focus 1. Go to 100. We'll look at the data and make a call then whether we can do this."
"Roger, Roger. Focus 1 to 100."
That might be a hundred laps, I don't know. Those Blackbirds are running drop tanks so conceiveably they're running to the end of the race on the fuel they're carrying. Of course carrying all that extra fuel will slow them down because of the extra mass and drag. There's a point where if you're carrying too much fuel it'll slow you down over the course of a race so much that what you save by not refuelling, you lose on the track anyway. Of course, if you get a safety period or two that bunches the field up it can work because that slows everyone down and saves fuel and means you can push it that bit harder towards the end. Nearly half the fleet out their today is using a deriviative of an ion drive system but none seem to have mastered it quite like BAT. They get more speed for less fuel than just about anyone else Tom.
Team Radio: Black Talon: "Plan B to Point 2."
"Copy"
Cryptic as always Kohran?
Your guess is as good as mine on that one. They've always been one of the better teams for secrecy and information security. They've always been good at predicting and reacting to the flow of the race, usually turning up in the lead when you least expect it. You saw how the Black Talons timed their refuelling to perfection at the NORC and pulled out such a lead from it that none of the others could catch up, she's always been good at that. Never count them out until the race is over, they could still surprise everyone. It's that sort of level of whole race management and awareness that these longer races really reward.
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On the cockpit frame were a pair of mirrors, intended to give her a view of both tail rudders and the main engines. They were meant to confirm an engine fire, or damage to a tailfin. Instead, they were filled by a pair of VF-4's in garish colours. Trailing behind them was the rest of the field, following her out onto the sighting lap.
The key to speed was to relax, to allow herself to slip into that zone were flying became as natural as breathing. In the back of her mind, she was aware of the chatter from Race Control, contacting marshal stations, verifying spacecraft comms and timing systems. Onboard timeclocks were corrected to match the race master time. Radio beacons and navigation systems were re-calibrated and programmed.
She spent half a lap adjusting the control response and trim-tabs to account for the excess weight carried in the weapon bay.
Never mind that crawling along at a processional pace made the racer handle like a pig. It refused to turn unless under power, bit in hard when she added throttle, then veered wide towards the course outer marker before tracking true again. The throttle snatched, lurching the Stratos forwards at too high a speed, before juddering back when she eased off.
To take her mind off it, she took a drink from a straw fed in through the side of her helmet - a high energy, fruit-cocktail with a sweetness that clung to her tongue like oil.
Her radio came to life, static hissing in her ear.
"Daryl, I need you to set your fuel to wing priority. Fuel to wing priority. Override the default."
"Copy, Fuel to Wing priority."
Drain from the wing fuel tanks first. Reduce the polar moment of inertia, and increase the roll rate, while reducing wing-loads. She made the change by turning a simple rotary switch beside the throttle, adding a mental note to switch it back before
Ahead of her, the beacon lamps fitted to Shinji Ikari's own Veritech pulsed bright in the darkness of space. Ultima approached once more as the entered the final sector, building up to the start finish straight. Daryl planned her getaway to give her the best run on down to the first corner, waiting for the moment the lights on the pacecraft when out she was given control of the race.
Just like every other time she'd started a race.
No different.
In her chest, her heart pulse. She focused on controlling her breathing, fighting against the constant pressure supply. Every muscle in her body stretched taught, ready to release. She could feel the electropolymer of the suit clench tight around her midriff, responding to the tension in her stomach.
Her earbud hissed again.
"All Craft, Race Control. We will be taking a second formation lap. Repeat; there will be a second formation lap. There is a fault in the timing system."
"Shit!"
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A fault in the timing system?
Well, that gives us a chance to go through the course doesn't it Kohran?
Of course! We start here at Ultima station with a Start-Finish that sweeps past less than a thousand kilometres from the Station proper for a long stretch before rolling down out of the plane of the Solar system around Amethyst. A corkscrew between Scylla and Charabdis leads into a technical section where pilots are free to chart their own course between hundreds of smaller Kuiper-Belt objects, feeding into a short sprint to the Katsuragi Hairpin closing out the first sector.
Fastest first-sector times in qualifying went to both Black Talons, their advanced navigation systems buying time through through the debris. Second was the Stratos, only a few tenths behind, Landvik in his Viper close behind that with local knowledge on his side. VF-4 only in seventh, suggesting they've been setup for speed. Both Firefoxes struggle, bringing up the rear.
A long back strait - the longest in the season this year feeds in Tilke fashion into the two tight Stell-oil hairpins, before a loop back above the plane of the Solar-System through the Hammerhead, skimming as tight as they dare to the surface of the planetoid 'Bob' before another straight finishes out the sector.
Top straight line speeds go to both Blackbirds, with the TSR-2 only a hundred kph down which is nothing in open space and the VF-4 not far off that. Second Sector is dominated by the VF-4 and Blackbirds, a full three seconds faster than the TSR-2 series. Variable geometry keeps the Talons in close. Kulbit is seconds behind them.
Finally, we have a mix of high speed corners that play to the strengths of the VF-4, and the Kulbit - both of them near-sharing the top honours. Through the Katase Curves both craft are travelling at full speed, full throttle, going through there as fast as the dedicated Top-Flite racers. The G-forces alone at those speeds are nearing the limits of human tolerance, even with advanced life support systems.
Yes Tom, a G-meter on the Stratos recorded a peak of 13.8G through there, Pilot Daryl not even slowing down. Other racers limited by their G-tolerance, or whatever their spacecraft structure can take, but a combination of that scandalous form-fitting fortified suit and a reclined flying position making the Kulbits true advantage over it's competitors.
Of course, that was the other big Story of the year, Kohran. Pilot Haur one of the victims of that race-fixing syndicate that attempted to influence the outcome of races by biomodding competitors beforehand.
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All revved up and no place to go. That's what it felt like.
It raised the tension higher and higher. It forced her to wait one more lap, burning a few more gallons of precious fuel. It was a few more minutes for her mind to start wandering, to start wondering if she could really pull it off. She started to imagine herself on the top step of the podium, holding the trophy.
She started to doubt it was even possible, with them so reliant on fuel.
Daryl focused her mind on saving juice, keeping a steady speed behind the pacecraft ahead. Drop too far back, and she'd pick up a penalty. Pull to close, and she'd burn more fuel.
They'd taken two years to built the Stratos from the ground up. She'd sold her own Silver Arrow to pay to get it built at Hephaestus. They'd blown the championship wide open in the first race of the season, grabbing attention in the rudest and most direct manner possible, making the whole field look silly in the process. Being an 'artisan' had it's advantages, after all - they could approach the problem in a completely different direction. They'd raced for the entire season, striking hard while the iron was hot to build up a lead. And when Bellcom finally had managed to rush their Evolution through Homologation, they kept it honest enough to stay in the hunt. Even though she was sure Bellcom spent as much on a thruster assembly as they had on their entire fighter....
She raced on inspite of her biomod, unwilling to let being fused with her flightsuit get between her and her one chance of winning a major trophy. Just thinking about it made her bristle with a violated anger, hatred tasting like blood in her mouth. But she was beating them by carrying on in spite of them, by adapting and not letting it define her life. She had won that battle.
She could live with it for the rest of her life, if she had to. Not that she planned to.
And now, it was the final race of the season. The final few moments before it began.
It was the culmination of nearly three years blood, sweat and tears, mixed with a mountain of luck.
She almost found herself laughing. Could she honestly believe that she was actually contesting the championship? They'd planned on winning a few races, making a scene and getting just enough orders to break even - and now here she was, ever so slightly in the black for the year and challenging for the Championship.
An amateur racer who, in the years before, had never finished higher than 11th with her own Silver Arrow, or in the Zig spec-racing divisions on Venus. If only Ranko could've seen her. If only he could've been a part of it. For a few breaths, she regretted changing the name back to Stratos - even though his own cartoon image still adorned the cockpit frame. But, that was just her being juvenile.
It'd been five years. And she'd gown up.
Now, all she had to do to win, was not fuck it up in the final few hours. Fly the line. Hold her nerve. Grit her teeth and trust that the Stratos will bring it home. Hope the numbers didn't lie and that the whole thing didn't come to a shuddering halt within touching distance of success.
How sickening would it be to run out of fuel on the last lap?
Behind her, both VF-4's waited for their opportunity. Behind them, the Talons were testing their wing-sweep mechanisms, switching from a full forwards high speed diamond, to a forward sweep similar to her own. A Blacbird went to full afterburner, exhaust jets burning bright as arclight for a single heartbeat before the pilot throttled back.
"Stratos, Race Control. The pack is yours."
It caught her by surprise, leaving her dumbstruck in the cockpit for a moment while her mind caught up. Ahead, the beacon lights on the pacecraft had gone dark, the purple Veritech steadily veering towards the edge of the track.
"Race Control, Stratos. Copy. Race is mine."
Daryl throttled back through the final corner, concertinaing the entire pack up behind her. Nobody could overtake her before she crossed the line - but that didn't mean should couldn't try get a solid run to the first corner.
She waited one, two, three heartbeats before slamming the throttle against its stop. Stratos didn't even wait...
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And we are Go! Go! Go! for the final race of the season here at Ultima. Daryl Haur leads the field across the line in the 73 Kulbit fighter, from Lafiel Abriel in the 76 Evo-4. 98 Takumi Takahashi in the second Evolution keepin' 'em honest. Talon 1 'n' Talon 2 getting a strong start, keeping ahead of the 13 Nemmelworth VF-1 of Anjo Kim going defensive in towards turn one, blocking Lieutenant Kaczynski in his Raptor drifting around the corner on thrust vectoring, Lionel McCallen getting his nose in with the 66 TSR2 waiting for a mistake. Both Suruwatari Thunderbirds fall prey to the hard-charging Blackbirds on the run down to turn 1, flying wingtip to wingtip around the first corner and Oh Dear Skuld was that close! Contact between the tail of the 15 Thunderbird and the underwing of the 22 Blackbird, but both spacecraft sill flyin' in close formation, not giving an inch to each other, the rest of the field following them on through an' this is excitin' stuff already.
Something flew off the 22 there Kohran - like a sensor cap from the tip of the tail or something. Of course, you have to be so careful at this stage of the race with the whole field still bunch up like this, all it'll take for a serious Kessler Syndrome is one accident. And you have to ask the question after a hard contact like that; has there been damage to the horizontal stabiliser of the 22?
Too early to tell Tom.
But it's got to be weighing on Pilot Shiganshina's mind. The field splits up as they navigate their own route through the debris field and we wait to see just how this shakes the field up at this early stage of the race and each pilot plots their own way through the field. Now this is where the Talons have been strong all weekend...
..... Leaving it open for the time being.
Also, the Flight Suit Daryl's 'wearing', more or less Designed to be lightweight first and foremost, and to replace the usual 6-point flight harness and dozens of hose-connections with a simple sit-and-snap-lock system, to allow for a more comfortable and more rigid seating position in flight, and for a much faster exit in the event of a crash. While still providing the usual G-protection and the like.
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--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?