‘The quad feels horrible in the twisty section through the trucks. I barely scraped into the third qualifying round. My best lap was two-point-three seconds off that Van Hooten bloke.’

‘The Dutchman?’ John said, laughing. ‘He’s a former European champion. Just won the $100,000 prize in the Abu Dhabi Drone Prix. The only reason he’s not an automatic entry for tomorrow’s final is his team lost all their ranking points for using illegal battery packs.’

‘I know I don’t practise any more,’ Georgia said, feeling some of the passion of her younger self, who’d sob the whole drive home if she didn’t win, ‘but I’m not two-point-three seconds slower than anyone.’

John cracked a huge smile. ‘Cookie, since you’re so sure, I’ll get him to make the change.’

Georgia smirked. It was ages since her dad had called her Cookie and she found it adorable.

‘I know we usually fly with more tilt,’ Georgia explained, ‘but the motors are zippier than they used to be and the coloured lights we’ve had to fit for TV coverage alter forward balance.’

Georgia hoped she hadn’t shown too much enthusiasm as she watched her dad cross to Steve and the drone, which was surrounded by tools at a folding table a few metres away. She checked the time on her phone and decided she had time to stroll to the ladies’.

Seventy teams and two hundred and fifty-six hopeful pilots had entered the qualifying tournament that morning. Georgia was one of thirty-two who’d survived two qualifying rounds. Only eight would get to join some of the best pilots in the world for the following day’s final, where there was a £10,000 prize pool and places in the million-dollar Rage World Classic, held in San Francisco at the end of the year.

There was a lot of empty space and litter around the team concourse, since teams with no pilots left in the competition had already headed home. As she crossed the warehouse, Georgia noticed that most of the remaining teams had fancy rolling tool cabinets, better uniforms and swankier laptops than Drone Pack.

John, Steve and Georgia’s Uncle Phil were still arguing over the trim changes when she got back.

‘She’s two seconds off the top runners,’ Phil – a younger version of Georgia’s dad – was saying. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

‘I say we chance it,’ John agreed, not seeing his daughter approach.

‘Why is this a debate?’ Georgia asked sharply, making her dad jump. ‘I bet the best pilots on the other teams get their drones set up how they want.’

Georgia forced herself between Steve and her uncle, then grabbed a laptop, wired to the drone she was due to fly in less than six minutes. She expertly opened a window for the drone’s operating software, clicked on a box and started typing numbers into a series of trim-setting boxes.