Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories (33 page)

Small price for progress, right? I was one of the courageous few who had accepted the challenge of the (apparently) slimy, sticky and smelly space beings.

None of these revelations were going to help with my discussion with Elwood. Alas, he was the one with the astonishingly advanced bean-counting abilities. If I had dropped .00015% below some arbitrary performance criteria, I’m sure that chrome-dome here would know all the math behind it.

“We’re going to have to terminate, Stephen.”

Could be worse, I thought. With all my brainpower and creative genius, I could go freelance. Become an amazingly irritating and rich consultant.

Then it was my turn to get a piece of paper. It was something that I’d signed back when I was a lot dumber.

“You do understand that because we paid the costs for your intellectual improvements, we can’t allow anyone else to profit from them.”

It just got worse.

Here’s an interesting historical factoid: do you know that they will use the same substance to burn out my mutagenic agents that they used to treat venereal disease? I mean before they discovered penicillin.

Mercury.

That’s right. They’re going to inject me with heavy doses of brain-killing, blood poisoning mercury. It will definitely sharply reduce my intelligence, it might make me go blind, but at least it won’t kill me. Which, by the way, was the other option that Elwood mentioned.

I can even go home eventually. I wonder if there’ll be anybody there waiting for me.

Maybe they’ve already started with doses in my food. I feel stupider these days. I’m watching a lot more sports on TV.

They say that eventually I’ll get to come visit you at Fort Fuck-Up. Did you know that’s what they call the containment facility for Unplanned Evolutionary Manifestations? Okay, at least my vocabulary isn’t shot yet. And do you notice that we definitely capitalize those words?

We’ll make quite a pair on visiting day. I’ll never be so far gone that I won’t be happy to see my baby brother.

You can tell me about the wonders of the universe and how you dreamt of visiting all those fantastic civilizations that drift beyond the stars.

And I’ll just be wondering what stars are.

Love,

Originally published in On Spec
Fall 2006 Vol 18 No 3 #66

Hugh A.D. Spencer
has written for magazines, anthologies and radio.
On Spec
was instrumental in Hugh’s writing career by publishing “Why I Hunt Flying Saucers” (which was nominated for an Aurora Award), “The Triage Conference” and “Sticky Wonder Tales”. His first novel
Extreme Dentistry
was released in April 2014.

Al Onia

The secluded little shop looked too inviting, and customers came in no matter how hard the lone proprietor tried to discourage them. This morning, the California sun gleamed through the windows. Silhouetted onto the rear wall, fuzzy letters read
Sandy’s Sickles – Your Classic British Restoration Specialist.
A short man balanced on a ladder leaning against the wall. Alex “Sandy” McGuigan fussed with a screwdriver, installing a small sign.

Finished, he backed down the ladder. On a shelf eight feet above the shop floor rested a black and chrome Black Shadow. Sandy wiped his hands on the ever-present rag hanging from his overalls. The “Not For Sale” notice would save him from the constant offers to buy the bike. He looked at the larger sign he’d taken down.
If You Value Your Life Like I Value My Shop — Don’t Touch Anything.
He turned it to face the wall then heard the mail drop.

“Ach, more bloody bills, nae doubt.” Sandy squinted into the sunlight and went through the letters. One was heavier. He lifted his cheaters to his veined nose and saw the return address was the Department of Motor Vehicles. He dropped the rest of the mail on his counter and quickly opened it.

“Ah, there it is.” He held the vanity license plate and traced the five-letter name with his finger. Sighing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of mounting bolts. Sandy climbed up the ladder again and installed the plate onto the motorcycle. “Emily,” he whispered. Sandy gave the fender and the new plate a quick wipe of his rag. Had it been nearly two years since he’d met her?

“Hello? Mr. McGuigan?”

Sandy had not heard her come in. He continued the task at hand. He torqued the last head bolt to his preferred spec, then rolled his stool from behind the BSA single. A woman, much younger than he, but still at least thirty, stood cradling a cardboard box. She glanced in the direction of the noise. “Hi. Are you Mr. McGuigan?”

“Aye, I’m Sandy.”

“What a great place you have here.” She came over to him. “A Shooting Star, right?” She peered under the gas tank and walked around the machine, still clutching the box.

Sandy nodded and watched her, ready to scold. Many lookers wanted to touch before anything else. She was different. Someone had taught her well.

She completed her circuit. “I’ve heard you’re the best. At tuning and stuff. And restorations.”

“I enjoy a challenge.”

She set the box down on a vacant bike lift. “My name’s Emily. I’ve brought something I’d like you to see, if you can spare a few minutes.”

Sandy nodded. “It will take much of the afternoon to get this one running smooth, judging by the wee difficulties I’ve had wi’ her so far.” His special touch with machinery worked best when he was alone. And the rest after to rejuvenate needed solitude as well. He’d humour her, then lock the doors after she left.

Emily said, “It looks brand new.”

“Oh, that it does. There’s looks, and there’s what’s underneath. Ye never know until you run it in.” He pointed at the bins of plastic-wrapped engine parts lining the wall behind him. “I can assemble any two engines with the same parts and to identical tolerances. One will tick over first kick, but its twin could take me a week to fettle.”

“You must love your work. Your tools are spotless. I’ll bet you have a tough time finding mechanics to work with you.” She gave him a smile and a wink.

“I work alone,” he said, then was sorry he snapped at her. She seemed to take no offense.

She nodded. “I understand. Another person would be in the way of you putting a bit of yourself into each project.”

Sandy doubted she knew how close that was to the truth, but not in the sense she intended. He changed the subject. “So what is it I can do for you, Miss, uh, Emily?”

She opened the box she had brought in and began removing balls of crumpled paper. “This is what I have to show you.” She lifted out a black and gold petrol tank with the letters H.R.D. stencilled on each side. Like an enchanted sword or hallowed talisman, it gained presence in the light of day. It glowed, befitting the untarnished aura of the legendary marque.

“A Vincent,” Sandy breathed. He cleaned his hands on a fresh towel. “May I?”

“Of course.” She handed it to him.

Sandy felt the energy leap to his fingertips before he touched it. In his hands, it smoldered. This would tax his ability and his stamina to a limit he’d never dared.

He cleared his throat to speak. “Excellent respray.” He carried it over to the window and turned it in his hands. “Done a while ago, I’d guess. Most chaps use lacquer now. This was done in enamel.” He handed it back to her, letting his fingers rest against the metal as long as he dared. “A lovely piece, nae doubt, but I still don’t know what I can do for you. I don’t buy pieces that I dinna have a customer for. They’re quite rare.”

“I know. I have the rest of it in my truck. I brought it all.” She glanced around his shop. “I want you to help me put it together.”

Sandy felt the air rush from his lungs. The rest of it? A Vincent Black Shadow, the
ne plus ultra
of post-war British motorcycles. He hadn’t worked on one since his apprenticeship in Scotland as a teenager, nearly forty years before. His tuning magic was undisciplined then. He could now sense and exploit the natural energy in a bike, where it was efficient and where it was lost.
This would test how far he had progressed. “I don’t tolerate people ‘helping’ in my shop. I work alone.” His eyes went back to the tank.

“Let me show you, Mr. McGuigan.” Emily placed the tank back in its box. She grabbed his arm and escorted him outside. Her intense vitality surprised him. In the space of a few heartbeats, he felt Emily wax and wane like a building storm. Like the Vincent, she was a rare find.

She lifted the topper door on her truck and opened more boxes. Like the tank, pieces were carefully wrapped and organized. The frame bits gleamed black at him. Polished timing-covers sat atop a box marked “Engine.” It was beautiful. The opportunity of an ever-shrinking lifetime had just walked through his front door. He said, “Where did you get this?”

A small frown appeared on the girl’s face. “My ex-husband. He brought it back from Scotland ten years ago. He was a roughneck on the North Sea rigs. One of his co-workers needed cash, and Gerald bought it. We were going to build it together, a project to share.” She opened another box and cleared away the paper. She pulled out the headlight nacelle. “I love the dials. They’re like faces.”

Sandy admonished, “Gauges, not dials.”

“Gauges, got it. Thank you.” She handed it to him and continued, “He tired of it and me. I let it sit in my mother’s garage for the last three years.” She blew dust from another box. “More than anything, I want to get it on the road. I need to have part of me in this motorcycle, to prove to myself I can do it.”

She levelled her green eyes on him. In that moment, he could forgive her anything, even if she turned out to be Irish.

She said, “I’ll follow whatever rules you demand. I came to you because everyone I talked to said you were the only person who could make this bike live. I had to meet you first, though.” She touched his arm again. “I can’t take it to anyone else. Please?”

The passion in her voice tightened his gut. He could not bear to see this machine leave here except under its own power. He said, “First of all, I don’t build trophies. Do you ride?”

“I have begun to.” She drew out the handlebars and turned to face him. She placed her hands where the grips would go and sat on a make-believe saddle, shoulders forward in a racer’s crouch. “I will ride this motorcycle, Mr. McGuigan.”

“Good. If you’re going to be in the way, you’d better call me Sandy. Come, lass, let’s get it inside and start inventorying what we’ve got. I’ll need that to give you a price.”

Emily said, “I saw your sign about
Delinquent Accounts Will Be Sold
. I can assure you I have the funds.”

He said, “Ach, that’s just for the ruffian trade, don’t you worry about it.”

She said, “Thank you, Sandy.”

She passed him a box from the truck. Their hands touched. She and the Vincent shared a contagion. And he had just been infected.

Sandy shouted over the roar of the engine. “D’ya remember how we smoothed the inlet castings? Now, I’ll have to change the air screw settings a wee bit from factory spec.” He hunched over and performed the operation in sequence, front to back. His ear was more exact than any mechanical synchronizer. The girl, as always, watched him, ready to follow his next order. She tilted her head, listening, then turned away. There was something different about her today.

He took advantage of her momentary inattention to comb the Black Shadow’s corona in a uniform direction. Sandy passed his hand up the forks, across the frame, then made a second pass from the cylinder heads to the crankcase and back over the chain to the rear hub. Nary a rough spot, he thought. Not on the bike anyway. Emily didn’t notice. He wondered if she was reaching the stage every customer experienced during a project: anxious to complete, yet bored with the endless detail. He called it “the restoration wall.” Sandy shut off the ignition.