“What bullshit data do you need today?” he snaps as soon as I’ve relocated to sim control.
“First, I need you to lose the attitude.”
“No. What else?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s another aero and X-mode day. Attack, defend, and free drive. Run it in dirty air, clean air, on straights and turns—”
“Jesus Christ,” he sighs. “You’re going to make me do the same thing for fifty laps in a row, aren’t you?”
“To accurately predict outcomes and give you actionable advice?” I nod. “Yup. I need at least ten laps for each iteration, so you’ll be in there for a while.”
“Fine,” he snaps. His gaze sweeps the room, and his typical frown deepens into a scowl. “We need headsets. Give me instructions as I go.”
A misplaced sense of giddy excitement lights up my chest. Being the engineer in a driver’s ear during a race has always been one of my dreams. Even though this isn’t a race, just a sim run, this fulfills one of my fantasies for F1.
I get Asher set up in the sim suite, put us both on headsets, and program today’s simulator to run Suzuka.
Once I’ve set up my laptop in front of the telemetry screens, which hang on the wall right next to the window into the sim suite, I flip on the headset. “First iteration. Free drive and clean air. Run ten laps without changes, please.”
For once, Asher doesn’t complain or talk back. He powers on the car, grips the wheel, andfinallylistens.
50 laps turn out to be too little—I have Asher in the sim for closer to 100. By the end, Asher’s decent mood has dissipated. He’s cursing at me with each new set of instructions I give him, but he doesn’t resort to calling me incompetent or dismissing me, which I take as a sign of progress.
“Hope you got what you needed,” he says the moment he steps out. He takes off his earpiece and tosses it next to my computer. “Thatsucked.”
“I did get what I needed,” I nod. “Other sim runs should be more enjoyable. But, I’ll remind you, this is technical stuff. I need a lot of data to make accurate projections.”
“Why can’t I justdrive?” Asher demands. There’s almost… boyish confusion on his features. As if he genuinely can’t comprehend the importance of a well thought out, data-backed strategy.
“You can,” I say simply. “But that won’t keep you in F1.”
“And what you’re doing will?”
Maybe.I fuckinghopeso. But if I express anything other than confidence, Asher’s confidence will falter—and I can’t afford that. “Yes.”
He examines me for several beats, then nods. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
For the next two weeks, that’s exactly what he does. Each day, he runs at least 100 laps, and he never fails to tell me howboringorridiculousit is. Despite his complaints, he shows up and gets work done—and I cautiously begin to gain hope.
If he can optimize and implement just a handful of strategies, he can improve his lap time by close to a second. That’ll be the difference between him placing last, and him potentially breaking the topten.
I’m not the only one who takes notice of Asher’s newfound motivation. After the first few days, other members of the team start dropping in to check Asher’s times.
Declan’s unimpressed with the progress, but when Ilya stops by just a few days before we’re set to head out and set up the next race, he pays much closer attention.
“Why is heonlypracticing attack maneuvers for the third day in a row?” he queries, standing between my desk and the monitors showing Asher’s progress.
“Because that’s what I’m gathering data for right now,” I respond, fidgeting in my seat. Ilya’s scrutiny is far more pointed than Declan’s, Thomas’s, or anyone else’s. Short of the technical director and team principal, he’s the big boss and calls most of the shots. If he doesn’t like what I’m doing, he can put a stop to it.
“And what purpose has this… data collection served so far?” he asks.
“It gives me the baseline information to build a list of strategies and their projected outcomes," I reply, trying to keep my tone even. “When his race engineer gives Asher instructions over his headset, I’ll be able to tell you approximately how those instructions will affect his position and lap time. You’ll be able to makedecisionsbased on what my model tells you. Eventually, it’ll be able to track races itself and generate suggestions.”
Ilya spins around to examine me. His eyes are narrowed; his lips pursed; his posture’s tense.
“I see,” he says after a long moment. “I’d like you to send the documentation to your model and what you have so far over to me. We’ll discuss it after the race.”
My heart leaps into my throat. This is the first time Ilya’s given me the time of day this season. “Okay.”
