“You were so angry at them for invading your sanctuary that you literally stood toe to toe with the first officer that stepped forward with the cuffs to take your father away from you. That’s when I knew how special you were. And how much we both loved you for even doing that.”
“I barely remember that day, mom. I don’t know what it is that I did in the space of that moment–except for the blazing pain I felt in my arm. And my body after the other Guardsman stepped forward and tagged me good with his rifle.”
My mother nodded with grave sympathy on her part. “You went down hard. I thought they had killed you. But you were crying and screaming obscenities at them while writhing on the floor. That’s when I jumped into action to shield your body from them. I did not want to make matters worse–even though I was still pregnant with your brother at the time.”
Hearing that from her made me almost cry again–but for a completely different reason.
“I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him. Save dad.”
My mother held me again. “It’s okay, Isis. You did what you thought was right. Like you always believed was right in your heart. I couldn’t have asked for anything less on that day. That’s why I wanted you to toughen up a little–so you wouldn’t have to go through that again.”
“I’m pretty sure that my street smarts will come in handy the next time I’m asked to go nose to nose with a squad of turtleheads.” I blithely insulted.
My mom laughed at my choice of words. “That’s what you called them on that fateful day: ‘Stupid, stupid, turtleheads’.”
“Well, they are. And not too bright at times either. But that’s why we beat them at their own game at Caldera Base, right?” I argued lightly.
My mom nodded slightly. “I just hope that you won’t have to do that ever again.” She said with fresh worry. “Once in a family’s lifetime like ours is good enough for me.”
I hugged my mom then in return. “Me too. Me too.”
~12~
The weather was a bit colder than I could have remembered–as I finished stepping out onto the porch with a piece of bread still in my mouth.
Breakfast was a lot easier to swallow this time around because my stomach was aching a lot less than before I ate.
Of course, I think it had to do with the fact that I woke up this morning looking like a white and green burrito than anything else–which had me rethinking my current sleeping arrangements.
I swallowed abruptly while brushing some of the hair out of my face and thought of my next plan of action. Last night’s excitement had done some damage to my bike and I had to spend some quality time in the shed making repairs.
But a quick look around the old homestead and I could see that last night’s big storm event did far less damage than previously anticipated.
And seeing this with my own two eyes made me realize that my job would be made all that much easier in the long run.
Heading out with a determined step, I crossed the yard and the wind blown sand–marching myself across the intricate patterns and other whorls which were added by the storm, the elements, and Mother Nature herself. Then I stopped in front of the work shed again like I did yesterday–carrying both my pack in one hand and the key nestled securely in my pant’s pocket.
Pulling that out, I undid the length of chain which had secured it, opened the door just a little bit to allow the sun to peek through and went inside the building itself.
The parking cradle hadn’t been secured properly because I was in too much of a hurry to get into the house at the height of the storm, so the chains wrapping around the gate were a bit looser than I would have normally allowed.
Or mom for that matter.
But a check on things with an experienced eye didn’t reveal anything out of the ordinary, so I got down to work.
Going back, I closed the door shut and headed for the maintenance shed where my tools were kept and picked the one box that had a bunch of decals and stickers still on them.
Things like: “TOUCH THIS AND FRY”, ‘BAD GIRLS LIKE ME RULE THE PLANET’, ‘ASS-KICKING IN PROGRESS’, ‘ZERO TO BITCH IN 60 SECONDS’, ‘I’M THE GIRL YOUR NEIGHBOR WAS WARNED ABOUT’ and ’BOYS LIKE ME, GIRLS FEAR ME’.
In case you didn’t know by now, I was kind of partial to the last one as a hopeless romantic–thinking and believing that my spirited self would be able to have no problems getting a boy’s attention.
Or a guy for that matter–now that I was older and a little bit wiser. (Not as dumb as I felt yesterday for not cleaning out the holding tank once again.)
Taking the tool box off its Velcro mounting, I carried it back with both hands and went around the parking cradle to the next empty stall–which was a diagnostic and repair station that both my father and Calis spent a month building and installing for the hover bike.
Setting the took box down next to the dais platform, I went back around to the parking cradle and began undoing the knots holding the tarp down once more like I did the other day.
Once that was finished, I pulled the tarp off, folding it into a neat and tidy square and set it on top of the driver’s seat.
Afterwards, I got down on one knee and accessed the emergency release lock under the small access plate beneath the machine itself.
Normally, I would do it while the bike was running, but because it had been shut down, the normal release protocols wouldn’t be active.
I flipped the small switch and closed the cover plate. The bike sighed once and released itself from its previously held locked position.
Taking it by hand, I pushed it out of the parking cradle and around the support column and set it on the dais’s own locking rack.
Then I went for the portable mini computer which was laid up on its own wheeled table and gently pulled the thing out so that it would line up with the diagnostic platform.
It took me a few minutes to plug it in and flip the power switch next to it, but the thing came alive with its own series of chirps and beeps.
“Okay…” I mused to myself, bringing down the two way x-ray monitor screen from above the dais itself and turned that thing on as well.
Yes, there was a few things which I needed to get done before any actual work could even get started. It paid to be prepared in the long run.
Especially if you live out in the desert like I do.
The monitor screen didn’t show anything at first since it was still warming up, so I got a pretty good view of my bike, just sitting there waiting to be fixed.
Then the resolution diagnostics flickered in and out for a few seconds in real time before giving way to a 3-D wire frame model of my ride in cold relief.
I tapped in a couple of requests from the mini-computer’s mainframe computer from here and the image expanded a brief bit with a fully detailed overlay complete with a modeled interface option.
I chose the simple version for the first round of diagnostic repairs and then activated the interface option soon after.
A smaller platform like the first rose up next to the bike itself and sighed into position. Then the holographic table sitting on top of it came alive in a flurry of sparks, white light, and pixilated images before a smaller real time image of my bike snapped into perfect focus.
This is what I will be using to conduct most of the repairs on–short of a problem with the diagnostic computer.
Raising the monitor screen a bit above my head, I ducked underneath it and grabbed my idle tool box and opened it–selecting the first thing that was an absolute necessity for a job like this: A smaller–portable–thin-tipped probe that had a header tool attached to the end of it.
I tugged on the end of it lightly to disconnect the tip from the main body and went over to my bike and attached it the tip to the face plate.
Then I stepped back a few feet–threading out as much of the fiber-optic cabling as it would allow before stopping.
I plugged the other end to the hand terminal on the other end of the diagnostic platform
and then went back to the monitor screen to feed the mini-computer’s mainframe more instructions.
The thing started beeping and chirping, but the image on the screen slowly changed over to a first level diagnostic of my bike’s external and internal workings.
I spent the next ten minutes going over the flowing data streams and getting a sixth sense about how things were going to proceed.
But the results weren’t going to be pretty no matter how you sliced it.
Problem areas of all kinds popped up on the monitor screen in the form of red triangles accompanied with small blocks of free flowing yellow text.
I sighed mostly to myself: I was right. This thing is a real piece of shit at times.
But you couldn’t tell just by looking at the machine. The resin metal shell covering the hover cycle was virtually indestructible from the outside. You could practically drop a five ton hover carrier on it and it wouldn’t get a fucking dent.
But tell that to the delicate internal systems which power and run things like a dream. One crack or split in the battery core casings and I get to spend the next few days cursing out the world in general and having Calis come and pick me up and take me into Shark’s Bay–with the bike in tow–and work on it from there.
But this is what I got for putting too much trust into one thing. Especially when technology came into play. I saw–even as I type in a request from the computer terminal for a printout of the problems that the system diagnostics had pinpointed earlier.
On the back table lining the wall, a small mobile printer started up on its own–spitting out several sheets worth of paper.
I went over and retrieved them from the dust covered holding tray and spent the next few minutes going over the list myself–while walking back towards my hover cycle.
But at a glance, the engines of my Strokov-623 didn’t appear damaged in the least bit. That was a piece of good news in itself–really.
That meant things weren’t as bad as the diagnostics suggested–which meant that any lingering problems that were shown on the monitor screen would require some creative thinking and a bit of elbow grease.
Tapping the next block of highlighted text on the first slip of paper, I said to myself with confidence: “That wouldn’t be a problem.”
Getting off the passenger side seat, I went over to the holographic table and brought the twin engine manifolds up for a closer look on the display model–checking on the dividing line which separated the two on an eve more delicate level.
The internal schematics on this side didn’t show anything of serious consequence with the wiring and electrical connections, so I moved on.
Thrust initiators, energy relays, power leads…I calmly mapped out silently–moving past the bigger problems that may have been a problem–before the monitor screen behind me and the holographic table both zeroed in on something that had me fucking pissed as you could get out.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…” I snarled softly–not believing my sudden turn of bad luck here.
It couldn’t have been that! Anything but that!
But the systems diagnostics weren’t in a daily habit of lying to me today either. And neither was the holographic table or monitor screen.
I let out a sigh of exasperation and went for my tool box again–knowing this was going to probably be an all day job with me.
So much for going to Weasel’s Ridge Maze today! I thought with lingering regret.
What the fuck…!
I pulled the connector probe free of its spot on the engine housing and laid it out as a marker–so it would mark the spot where I would need to remove the covering–and dug around in my already open tool box for a magnetic de-coupler and a second companion driver attachment.
That left the other pile of uniquely shaped tools lying in the box’s middle and lower trays specifically designed to fix the hover bike.
Taking both back with me, I set them down on the driver’s seat for a second so I could go grab another tool to help me remove the faceplate housing to the bike’s rear engine compartment.
Once that was completed, I undid the instrument probe and attached the de-coupler on first and carefully threaded it through the sea of wires until I hit the problem spot in question: The connections holding the air intake valves and the built-in fuel components together.
Finding the first one was simple enough and I quickly detached all six connecting pins, putting them in my jacket pocket, then reached in and carefully plucked out a thick tube-like component which sported precision crafted connection pins on both ends.
I did the same to the other three, setting them aside. Looking inside, the engine core looked like a partially gutted fish after about twenty minutes of work, but I knew that would all change once she had taken apart and cleaned out every intake valve and filter.
Going ahead a bit further, I removed the housing plate for the two fuel regulator pumps, one for each engine. The left one looked fine (according to the heads-up diagnostic from the holographic table image), but it was the right one I held the most concern for.
The computer terminal informed me in no uncertain terms that the pump internal components had jammed–not fused–with excess sand buildup.
How bad it was, I wouldn’t know until I had a closer look at it.
And this is what me off from the beginning, only because the fuel pump in itself was a very delicate (and expensive as hell) piece of machinery that couldn’t be repaired with a simple twist of the cover. Nor could I just take out what was initially wrong with it, replace it, then put it back in either.
No, this kind of technology was more complex than it really looked and needed an extra ounce of babying. That in itself would take up some valuable time to correct.
Ever so carefully, I fished out the first pump and then the second, being mindful that too much jarring could upset its delicate nature. Setting both on the driver’s seat, I took the opportunity to grab one of the air intake manifolds which sat next to the tool chest, and began to go to work on whatever problem this thing was having.
~13~
Three hours later.
“Gods…” I breathed in open frustration as I looked at the fucking mess that had become my hover bike. At this point in time, I didn’t know whether to shoot the damned thing with my blaster or continue working until my fingers bled.
Either option was better than this fucking shit. That was for sure.
I managed to correct the problems with the intake valves and the filters (after taking them all apart, cleaning them, dumping out the sand collected and stored in the trap boxes, changing out the filters themselves and finally replacing them with new ones that I had fetched from the maintenance shed), but the fuel pumps were another problem entirely–and left me with the most troublesome repair job to date.
Incompetence wasn’t my forte, nor was it my inability to complete the task at hand.
No, that wasn’t it.
The problem centered on the tiny valve compressor and the drive piston inside the pump–two things that made the whole enchilada work.
At the moment, the piston was jammed solid with sand and no amount of gentle poking and prodding could make it go. Nothing I could do after this, would be able to save it; not with replacing the entire piece of delicate machinery. But in order to do that, I would have to go to Shark’s Bay for a replacement, or quite possibly, to Stratos City itself.
Either way, I was fucked royally. It was–after all–my only source of reliable transportation. There was no way in hell I could make the 500-mile journey on foot. Not with the desert bandits and marauders in the immediate vicinity–in conjunction with the sun out along with the freezing cold. This was like asking me to physically commit suicide or something.
I stared resolutely at the pump and the pieces that made it up for a moment in frustration. Could there be a way to fix this without resorting to drastic measures? I argued silently with myself. If so, what?
Somehow…I mused quietly,
giving this a lot of deep thought. There has to be some way to fix this. But how do I do that?
Oh, and then there was the pump’s lining mechanism. The fine sand had finally eaten away at the thing in record time…the reason why the pumps jammed in the first place.
Not a good thing at all, since I had always thought I had the fuel pumps properly shielded from any outside contact with the elements.
I pursed my lips in quiet frustration. Guess not.
So I sat there–not really caring how much time passed at this point. Not until I figured out a damned way to fix the pump–while mentally going through an endless list of possibilities. I backtracked to what I had done so far, hoping that by doing so, inspiration would strike out of the blue.
The compressor valve was the easiest thing to replace, I immediately saw. But the lining isn’t, being a one of a kind part I simply don’t have. Even Calis may not have one. I mean, I can put the thing back together. But without a new lining, all I’m asking is for the thing to jam even before I can get a mile out from the house. So if I don’t have a lining, I’ll just have to come up with a substitute.
But what the fuck could even do that kind of a job and still be able to hold up? I wondered to myself.
I sighed.
“I just…don’t know.” I muttered in frustration, panic, and defeat. “I just don’t fucking know…!”
My thought were still racing when I distinctly heard someone’s consistent knocking on the work shed’s front door. It took me a few moments to figure out that it wasn’t the wind that wasn’t playing mind games with me, but something else.
Or maybe someone.
Wiping my hands on my third rag in a matter of minutes, I got off my bike and went to answer the door.
It was my brother.
He stood there in his winter jacket, gloves, hat and pretty much everything else, while looking at me in complete surprise.
The Starchild Page 11
