ALICE Ch 357

Glynda waits, full of dread. Fractions of a second become hours.

“OK,” Alice replies. In reality, she didn’t hesitate long. And more importantly, she sounds as relaxed as someone behind the wheel of a Formula One car can.

Alice is cooperating. Relief hits like a rush of morphine, and Glynda covers her mic so Alice doesn’t hear her let out her breath. “Thank you, Alice. Now, let’s think about—”

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Erica’s earpiece isn’t working properly. She takes it out and knocks it against her palm several times, then puts it back in and looks up at the screen. David Croft’s voice is clear again: “This could spell trouble for Verstappen—oh—oh dear!”

The feed cuts to flying debris and bouncing tires as one FUTA car strikes the other in the rear, a front right tire hitting a rear left sharply, with both vehicles pushing 200 miles per hour. The rear car spins out in a shower of sparks that would put a fireworks display to shame, while the front one hits the bumper and rolls, going airborne.

Her iced coffee slips from her fingers, and cold wet covers her lap. She doesn’t feel it as the car seems to spin lazily, then smashes down, only to roll again. There’s a lot of smoke.

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“Gah!” Alice’s head snaps back, and the hit leaves her seeing stars. She blinks rapidly and tries to think. Even at the best of times, she feels smothered by the straps, overly tight helmet, and unwieldy suit. Now, it all crushes her. The acrid stench of burning plastic is hot and painful. Speaking of pain, it’s difficult to sort it all out. Muttering curses and thinking grumpy, concussion-influenced thoughts about Mio, she struggles with her straps.

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“There’s fire,” Lora says tersely, pressing on her headphones as though that will help.

Glynda heard that as well. “Alice? Alice, can you get out of the car?” Something’s wrong with the comms; she can hear Alice, but Alice can’t seem to hear her.

She looks worriedly at her screen with the broadcast feed. It clearly shows black smoke pouring from the wreckage of Alice’s car.

“Alice, you—” She stops as Alice’s voice turns to a grunt.

“Oh, come on. Ah—ah!” That’s a cry of pain.

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The thick, muggy air makes everything gleam wetly. Singapore’s night lights create a blinding, multicolored glare on every surface, and the spinning lights of emergency vehicles make it worse. Tires slide and squeal as they reach the wreckage. One tiny figure already stumbles through the haze. The first van pulls up, and the responders are out at once, spraying fire extinguishers. A lanky form bursts out of the smoke and falls to its knees on the pavement, and the medics descend on Alice Wilde.