The only notable perk of returning to headquarters is that I get one-on-one time with the data analysts and systems experts, who hold court at the far side of the building, right next to the simulation rooms. Their tech center looks like it belongs in the CIA rather than an F1 headquarters building. Rows upon rows of manned computer monitors stand before a wall of screens that show replays of races, test runs, simulations, and anything else used to gather data on the vehicles, teams, and personnel. The space is an F1 nerd’s personal heaven.
I manage to get some time with the head of performance analysis, Oliver. He’s in his thirties, lean, and has the permanently distracted look of someone always running models in his head. I got a tip from Thomas that Oliver has a weakness for chocolate-chip cookies, so I bring him a homemade batch.
He devours six cookies over three cups of coffee while I explain to him the overview of the algorithm I’m building and the data I need for it.
“I can get you data from the race this weekend,” he finally says. “Maybe a few races from last season, too.”
I place another cookie from my Tupperware onto his paper plate, then adjust the tablet tucked under my arm. It seems that as long as I keep Oliver hyped up on sugar, he’ll give me the time of day. “I need years’ worth of usable data to properly set up my program and train it. At least three.”
“That’ll take time I don’t have.” He shakes his head. “All data older than six months gets serialized, compressed, and archived. It’s sitting in cold storage in a format our current systems can’t read. The best I can do is get you access to the archived files, but you’ll need to decompress and convert all of it yourself.”
Fuck.“Alright. What’ll it take for you to get me access before the Shanghai race?” If I have everything I need, then I might be able to get my algorithm functioning in a couple weeks.Maybe.
“Twelve cups of coffee and five dozen cookies,” he says. I start to chuckle, but seal my lips when I realize he’s being serious.
Getting my prehistoric, demon-possessed oven to produce the batch of cookies he’s eating right now took several hours; it’ll be a nightmare to get himfive dozenon short notice. I’ll need to bake for at least twelve hours straight and throw away countless batches of burned cookies to get it done. That’s time I don’t have.
But he has data I need. “Six dozen cookies, but you make your own coffee. I’m not a barista.”
He takes a huge bite and nods. “Done. When?”
I mentally calculate when I can leave HQ today. “Tomorrow morning?”
He heaves a long sigh. “You’re only giving me one night to get you three years’ worth of data?”
“I’m the one who’s going to have to process it. Speaking of, what format is the archived data in? I’ll need the schema documentation so I know how it was structured before it was packed down.” Without the schema documentation, which is the blueprint on how the data was originally documented, I’ll be deserializing everything blind.
“The old telemetry platform we used back then has been through three overhauls since. I’ll dig up whatever documentation I can find on the previous system and send it your way.” He pauses. “For an extra dozen.”
Asshole. I willliterallybe baking all night in order to do my job. “And you can’t do this yourself or put someone else on it?”
“You’re the intern,” he reminds me drily. “And rumor has it you won’t be one for long. You want the data or not?”
“You have a deal. As long as I get all the easily available data emailed to me in the next five minutes.” Oliver grunts his agreement; I turn and walk out of the room before I call him every synonym forassholeI can think of. He’s doing me a favor, but a backhanded one.
“Heeeey.” A platinum-blonde stops in front of me. She looks more plastic than human, andfartoo glamorous for a normal day at HQ. She’s gnawing on some bubblegum, and staring at me with a curious gaze. I don’t recognize her as a member of the team, but then, I haven’t met every single employee.
She also happens to be the first person starting a conversation with me since everyone returned from the race. “Hey?” I say uncertainly.
“You’re the intern, right?” she twirls a lock of hair around her finger. “The one Ilya yelled at?”
I’m never going to live that down. “That’s me,” I say tersely. “What’s up?”
“Oh, I was just running out for a cup of coffee. Wanna join?” she gives a shrill giggle. “Us girls should really stick together, you know?”
My tablet buzzes in my hands. I glance down at it, lips quirking as I see the email from Oliver come through. I should be able to record all the variables I’ll need to make my program functional through this initial data set—then, I’ll train my model on three years’ worth of relevant data.
Only when I look up do I realize that the girl’s been talking this entire time. “So, I figured you might be cooler than everyone else. I mean, you can’t dress for shit, but you’re pretty beneath that getup.”
I blink and look down at my perfectly serviceable jeans and T-shirt. Are insults a conduit to bonding? Neurotypical people are so weird. “Actually, I have a lot of work to get through—”
“You can work in the cafeteria, silly!” she says, sounding far too bubbly.
My brows furrow. “Remind me who you are?”
“Oh, I’m Amanda. Elio’s personal assistant.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m willing to bet my shitty apartment that she’s only his personal assistant because she lets him dowhatever he wants. “And why do you want to get coffee with the team outcast?”
