As winter sailing had not fully taken effect, the race was not held on Deadwake. Instead, it was held on two small islands that had been towed into an eddy where circular currents allowed for racing.
Drew rode with Isabela and Rafael on a small Golden Ledger craft while a culverin of Thren’s trailed behind. The X-2 hung below the ship, wrapped in canvas, its sails stowed in a cocoon.
Rafael stood obstinately, refusing to wear the improvised flight goggles Drew had fashioned from a leather mask with two pieces of glass shielding the wearer’s eyes.
“They don’t match my outfit.” Rafael gestured to his over-the-top attire. His… vest? Shirt? Drew had no idea what the garment was actually called. It was a crimson red doublet tightly fitted to the torso. The garment was heavily decorated with goldwork embroidery and had deep blue sleeves. He wore matching scarlet padded trunk hose, and atop his head was a tall, theatrical pointed hat.
“You don’t want the wind in your eyes when sailing. That is more of a problem at eight to nine knots than six,” Drew responded, frustrated.
“For the last time, I won’t wear them!” Rafael roared.
Isabela chimed in, “And I suppose the hat will remain on in flight?”
Rafael straightened his doublet. “A man who fears the wind should stay on the dock.”
Isabela sighed.
Their craft approached the small island that served as the starting point. The landmass had a temporary dock made from dried vines anchored to it. Around the island, several small ships floated, lashed to the rock.
A canvas canopy was stretched just inland from the temporary dock, and beneath it the instructors and mentees mingled. The small craft Drew was on descended and gently bumped against the dock. A gangplank was extended, and the trio strolled down the plank. Rafael swaggered ahead, hand resting on his sword pommel, Drew and Isabela calmly walking behind him.
As they approached the canopy, neither students nor instructors paid them any attention. All eyes were on a single craft tied off at the edge of the dock.
Drew slowed as he took it in.
At first glance, it looked like wood. The hull was a paler green than the traditional Arawinaya canoe moored nearby, its surface smoother, its lines more deliberate.
But it was not wood.
Up close, he could see the truth in the seams. Thin laminated vine planks, pressed and aligned, their grain running long and clean along the hull. The layered construction reminded Drew of a bamboo baseball bat he had once owned.
The canoe was subtly sleeker, longer, and thinner than the standard pattern. Not radically different. Just enough to matter.
Claire’s blond hanger-on spoke up as the trio walked up to the craft. “She didn’t mean to draw a crowd. It just… happens when something works.”
Rafael laughed. “Crowds form for fires too.”
Isabela lightly slapped Rafael’s shoulder. He brushed it off.
All the other mentees stiffened and looked with hostility at Rafael and the rest of the keel. Even the Skyfoul keel and several instructors grouped around the canoe protectively.
Drew found that odd.
He stepped forward to take a closer look. The material of the vine laminated planks was novel, but the rest of the design was iterative. The seams between the planks would act as load concentrators. The stiffer hull would grant better flight characteristics, but the canoe would weigh more than a wicker one.
Looking through the crowd, he found Claire in a formal green gown. It had a high waist with a ridged, structured bodice. The muted green matched the woman’s eyes and her craft. It was a very formal piece of clothing in sharp contrast to the other women’s attire.
“Nice job,” Drew offered, attempting to de-escalate the situation.
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He studied the hull a moment longer. “It flies the same,” he said. “Just cleaner.”
Claire’s eyes flicked briefly to the hull before returning to Drew. A faint smile touched her lips, restrained and precise, the look of someone logging information rather than enjoying praise.
Claire curtsied. “Thank you.”
The students’ eyes glanced behind Drew to where Thren’s caravel was delivering the X-2 to the dock. Drew turned, his excitement rising. He could not wait to see the other mentees’ faces when they saw the X-2.
A neon aquamarine message appeared in his vision that immediately ruined his mood.
SYSTEM UPDATE: DIRECTIVE FAILURE RECORDED
Target: Claire Montreval
Status: ACTIVE
Directive: Neutralization
Result: FAILED
Cause of Failure:
- Operator restraint
- Ethical override
- Strategic noncompliance
Reclassification in Progress.
SYSTEM PROJECTION: CONVERGENT DESTABILIZATION
Participants:
- Drew Wilson
- Claire Montreval
Assessment:
Independent innovation paths remain non hostile.
Combined downstream effects exceed stability thresholds.
SYSTEM NOTICE
This conflict will not be resolved by confrontation.
This conflict will not be resolved by restraint.
Failure to act earlier has altered outcome space.
PASSIVE EFFECT APPLIED
- Unintended Consequences
(Designs you create will reshape systems beyond your control.)
STATUS
Observation mode engaged.
Drew stood, stomach and psyche in turmoil. It seemed like his opportunity to simplify the future through violence had closed.
A collective gasp rose from the people around him, bringing Drew back to the moment. The canvas wrappings around the forward sails and body of the X-2 were removed.
It did not float above the deck like the other craft.
It rested on the dock.
Not settled. Not at ease. The hull pressed down lightly against the planks, as if choosing restraint rather than relying on buoyancy.
Someone laughed, sharp and uneasy. Another voice hissed, “That’s not safe.”
“It’s cheating,” someone else said.
A dockhand took an involuntary step back as the forward sails unfurled, their rigid frames catching the light. The craft looked less like a boat and more like a weapon being armed.
“That thing shouldn’t be allowed,” a man muttered.
Drew turned. It had been one of the instructors.
He felt the mood shift. Awe bled into fear, and fear into resentment.
This was not a crowd witnessing a race.
It was a crowd realizing it had been left behind.
Mentees and instructors drifted closer, whispering as they studied the X-2, committing each detail to memory. The way they circled the craft felt invasive, almost possessive.
Rafael clapped a hand on Drew’s shoulder. “They’ve just realized the race is already over,” he said, grinning.
Isabela did not smile. She watched the other mentees carefully. “Not the reception we had hoped for.”
Claire did not join the murmur. Her gaze lingered on the forward sails, then dropped to where the hull rested against the dock. Her brow furrowed, not in confusion, but in assessment.
Silvia Calderón, the headmaster, approached. “Does it fly?” she asked. “It does not appear buoyant.”
Drew bowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
A member of the skyborne keel hurried to her side. “That is not a canoe. It cannot compete.”
Silvia exhaled slowly. “Does it fly, and does it fit two occupants?”
“Yes,” Drew said.
“Can it be sailed by one person?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The headmaster sighed again, deeper this time. “Then it is allowed.”
At that statement, the crowd lost all composure.
Shouting erupted along the dock, protests overlapping as tempers flared. In the end, none of it mattered.
All three canoes were lined up for the race.
Rafael settled into the lead seat of the X-2, beaming. His goggles and hat were both notably absent.
The headmaster stood at the edge of the dock holding up a large hourglass. “Complete three full laps and be the first to land and tie your canoe off to be the winner.” She swiftly rotated the hourglass. “Begin!”
The other two pilots scrambled to untie from the dock, sails snapping open as their craft lifted free and drifted into the breeze.
Drew and Isabela hauled the collapsed forward sail over the edge. They jumped clear as Rafael began pedaling, the drum winch whining as the sail frame spread.
The wind caught.
The canoe lurched off the dock and dropped.
Just like María’s body, Drew thought.
Then the sail bit hard. The nose pitched up as the stubby wings found lift, and the X-2 surged forward, skimming low before climbing cleanly.
Despite the delayed launch, it knifed through the air, closing the gap with alarming speed.
Rafael dipped into a lower current, then cut sharply beneath the other canoes. The maneuver drew a ripple of startled shouts from the dock as he surged past them.
By the time the others reached the far island, the X-2 was already rounding the marker.
Drew watched Claire’s canoe strain after it, refined and clean and hopelessly outpaced.
Rafael completed a full lap and a half before second place crossed the line.
Claire’s canoe crossed well behind, its pilot landing harder than necessary. The hull bounced once, flexing against the dock before settling.
The blonde girl rushed forward. “They never should have allowed that thing!”
Claire did not look at her.
“Enough.”
The single word cut cleanly through the noise.
She stepped toward her pilot first.
“Were you within tolerance?” she asked quietly.
The girl swallowed. “Yes.”
“Any instability in flight?”
“No.”
Claire nodded once. “Good.”
Only then did she turn to the dock, to the murmuring crowd, to the X-2 still bleeding speed in the distance.
“We lost on velocity,” she said calmly. “Not control.”
Her gaze lingered on the forward sails, then on the crowd of mentees and instructors circling the dock. “Record it,” she said to her keel. “Every pass. Every configuration.”
The blonde hesitated. “Claire…”
“We do not complain about the wind,” Claire replied evenly. “We learn its shape.”
Then, finally, her gaze found Drew.
There was no anger in it.
Only resolve.
Drew found he could not enjoy it.
He had the sinking sense that this victory would cost more than it gave.