“Trust me,” she murmurs quietly. “I’ve studied the race. You’ll get your chance soon.”
I let out a blistering string of curses, but return my thumb to the wheel. If she’s wrong, and if I don’t do any better in this simulation than I did during the race, I’ll know I need to find someone else to help me.
On lap 4, her directive comes. “Attack Cartwright the next straight. Wait for my word.” My heart speeds, and I focus on the car hovering just under a second in front of me.
Under a second…the next straight is an activation zone. I know her directive before it comes, but it still thrills me when she says the word. “X-mode. Go.”
I flick the switch, smash my foot on the pedal withwaymore force than necessary. Cartwright’s car swivels to defend, but I overtake him. Excitement shoots up my spine, and a tingle of elation prickles at my lips. Ialmostsmile.
Twenty laps later, I’ve moved from P22 to P18 when Victoria tells me to box for a tyre change. In other words,lose my progressand risk my position for fresh rubber when mine still feel fine.
“No,” I hiss.
Again, she says in that calm voice, “Trust me.”
It might make me a complete moron, but I do. When I get back out, I’m back to P20.
Fifteen laps, several attacks, and countless defenses later, I’mP15. Which is one of my best finishes in years.
I drop to P17 by lap 42, and back to P15 by lap 50.
On the final lap, 53, Victoria’s directives are so rapid-fire they’re hard to keep up with. I don’t agree with all of them, but I execute them anyway.
I overtake a car in the final corner—an extremely risky maneuver—and rocket up to P14.
P14 in itself isn’t a fantastic result. It’s midfield, nowhereneara points finish, but compared to fucking P22, it’s an astronomical difference.
I know it’s just a simulation and has no bearing on my real-life standing, but it represents the first morsel of hope that Icanadapt to all of F1’s constantly evolving rules, and I can still do reasonably well in spite of them.
There’s no guarantee this is a replicable success. Victoria and I both studied the race extensively—we knewwhat was coming, and she employed the exact strategies to help me. At the Bahrain Grand Prix, she won’t know the actions of other drivers. I’m not sure how her model works, but I’m pretty sure it can’t predict other cars’ behaviors—yet.
Still. If I can implement the strategies and maneuvers I practiced today, I’ll certainly do better than P22.
I’m just not sure if my success was due to what I was doing… orwhowas telling me to do it. My knee-jerk reaction to the engineers who speak to me during races is to tell them to back the fuck off. Listening to them hasn’t gone well for me in the past.
I’ll figure it out. My success isn’t just dictated by an intern; it’s dictated byme.
Though it wouldn’t hurt to have her in my ear during the race, I don’t want her to think she’s special.
Isn’t she?
Ignoring the voice in my head, I stretch out my cramped body and neck, and head out into the sim control.
There, I don’t just find Victoria, like I’m expecting to.Severalpeople are gathered. Declan, Thomas, Ethan—the idiot engineer whose directives I pointedly ignore during races—and worst of all,Elio.
He’stalking tomyintern. She’s sitting at her desk, laptop half-closed, and leaned back in her chair. He’s hovering over her, one hip propped on the desk, arms folded.
A fine red haze covers my vision. What the fuck is he doing here?
“Asher.” Ilya swivels to face me. His face is scrunched in concentration, and his eyes are narrowed. “What the fuck happened in there?”
I glower at him. “You make it sound like I killedsomeone.”
“No, you did something worse.” He walks up to me. “You just gave mehope.” His expression is furious. “If you’re capable of driving like that, what thehellhave you been doing the last two years?”
Ah. That’s his point of anger. I should probably deescalate, but seeing Elio leaning closer to Victoria in my periphery doesn’t help my mood. “Ignoring the baseless bullshit you and the others spew in my ear.”
“Baseless bullshit?” Ilya repeats. Some people get very loud when they’re angry; Ilya is the type whose voice lowers to a chilling whisper. “The orders we give you are informed onyearsof experience, and they’re tailored to your perceived skillset. If you had shown us that you had even amoleculeof your previous skill, our order would’ve been vastly different—but it wouldn’t matter, because you never botherlisteningto them.” He shakes his head, flicking a glance to the ceiling. “Explain to me why you ignored me for two years but listen to an intern you profess to hate after two months.”
