Elena Archer – Melbourne, Four Days After the Race
The coffee shop was one of those places that thought exposed brick and Edison bulbs could make up for weak espresso. The scent of coffee and steamed milk clung to the surfaces as well as the air. I’d chosen it because it was crowded, loud enough to bury a conversation but not so loud that we’d have to raise our voices.
The man across from me looked like he’d rolled straight out of a server room and into yesterday’s hoodie. His laptop was covered in stickers—half of them open-source projects, the other half racing logos.
He stirred his coffee absent-mindedly and turned the USB drive over in his fingers. “You said you got this from an Obsidian engineer?”
“I didn’t say that,” I replied, keeping my voice even.
He gave me a look over the rim of his glasses that said ‘right, and I’m the tooth fairy’. Then he slid the drive into his laptop.
The screen filled with code, lines of it streaming faster than I could blink. He scrolled, muttering under his breath.
“Jesus. This isn’t just telemetry. This is their full engine management environment.” He glanced up at me. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’d be in if anyone knew you had this?”
“Less than they’ll be in if it’s what I think it is.”
He smirked. “I like your optimism.”
He clicked and scrolled again, the glow of the code reflecting in his glasses. “Alright. So, here’s what we’ve got. Two directories—identical on the surface. Same version number, same metadata, same checksums. That’s clever. They’re mirrored, but one of them…” He tapped the screen. “One of them isn’t what it says it is.”
My pulse quickened. “How can you tell?”
“Because this one,” he turned the laptop so I could see the screen and pointed to a set of highlighted lines, “has an extra mapping layer buried about two hundred lines down. A conditional subroutine. See this?”
I leaned closer. To me, it was just symbols and strings. But his tone said everything.
He highlighted another section. “This code changes how the fuel flow and ignition timing behave under certain load conditions. Theoretically, it would let them pull more power without exceeding FIA sensor limits. The software self-corrects telemetry output so it looks legal.”
“In English?”
“It cheats, but smartly.” He sat back, rubbing his temples. “Whoever wrote this knew exactly where the FIA’s blind spots are. It’s not a rookie job.”
A chill ran through me. “Can you prove when it’s being used?”
He turned the screen back to face him and leaned close, scrolling for a minute, tutting and shaking his head.
“That’s the problem,” he said at last. “The data here doesn’t include activation logs. All I can tell you is that both versions exist in the same system, but one’s hidden behind a switch.”
“Could they toggle it between qualifying and race day?”
He hesitated. “In theory. But they’d need a hardline, and in parc fermé the only connection is via a sealed FIA-approved laptop under scrutineer supervision. The difference in the engine note you described fits. But there’s nothing here that shows when it happens. No smoking gun.”
I pressed my fingers to my temple. “So I have proof they’ve got two different programs, but not that they’re using both?”
“Exactly. It’s enough to raise eyebrows, but not enough to survive an FIA inquiry. They’d bury it under jargon and NDAs before it reached daylight. If you can get a fuel log for race day, my money’s on them starting the race light.”
“Not a full tank? How would that help?”
“The mapping runs the engine extra lean, so they need less fuel. Less fuel equals a lighter car. Hence the speed that guy gets. His team mate doesn’t get the same results, right?”
“No.” I shook my head.
“So their cars might not be running the same software.” He paused, closing the laptop. “You shouldn’t have had this conversation in a café.”
“Relax,” I said, though my stomach was tight. “No one here cares.”
He gave a low laugh. “That’s the problem with people like you—you think the truth keeps you safe. It doesn’t. It just makes you visible.”
