Here's an entry in a new, intermittent story series I'm calling, Glimpses of Opal City, set upon a space colony during the time period of the novels and other yarns. Hope you enjoy!
Thump and bang!
Then a long hiss, as pressure released from the sealing cuff.
Yes, there was definitely a leak.
"Okay, let off!"
Mayjy complied, and the old sport rollercar stopped shuddering. A wisp of smoke curled up from black case near the rear axle and vanished under the harsh lights. Now, where did that come from? It didn't smell like wires melting, but there had to be a short of some kind. They'd track it down later. It was getting late.
"What do you think, Dad?" Mayjy asked, scrambling over the front seat, to look down at him as he pulled himself from under the car.
"It's what we thought. Coolant line is bleeding when the pressure's up."
"What's that mean?"
"Well, could just be the cuff. Could be the line. Tough to tell without a full diag."
"What do we do, then?"
"Replace 'em both. They're cheap enough, and old enough to make it a good idea."
"Is that expensive?" she asked. "I can work extra hours at Sally's."
"New lines are cheap. What'll cost is the control unit, and that'll be more than a few hours at a dress shop can cover. Replacement units for a classic car...especially a Kelmann Priority G-9...will be hard to come by, without throwing a lot of Q at it. I've been keeping my eyes open for one at work, but I can't remember the last time anything for Priority G Series came through. Collectors gobble 'em up."
The girl sat back in the rear seat of the hulk, looking balked, her dark eyes shining in concentration. "And we really can't use one off a junk Kainer or Malbak?"
Her father shook his head, while rising to his feet with a grunt.
"You'd have to replace the entire drive train. It just doesn't use the same ratio. And a fabbed adapter gearbox won't cut it, unless you're willing to live with a power reduction, of, I don't know...forty percent? Fifty?"
"That much?" Mayjy wrinkled her forehead, frustration evident, her brown cheeks smeared with joint lubricant and grime. "How could that much inefficiency come from a gearbox that's been designed to fit?"
"Because if you go with newer parts you have to reduce everything: modern control units push power to a much higher ratio than G Series controllers did. This is a 417 model. Remember, there were no standards for this stuff back then; not until 432...and even then, it took a long time for the manufacs to get onboard. Oh, and with a new controller, you'd have to replace all the voltage lines and hardware to accommodate two-twenty. That was another standard that came later on. It's gonna be all about that money, honey."
The teen looked around at her old, dead dream car, a scraped and dented treasure, taking up half the garage space her father rented from the city, down in the Highway Level of Opal City Station. From outside, a constant hum of traffic filled the recycled air. They had music on in the garage, but so low it was hard to even make out the melody. Only a beat floated over. Dum-dum-DUM-dum...dum-dum-DUM-dum.
"You don't think it's worth it, do you?" she asked.
"To me? Naw, it's not. But it's also not my car. I'm helping you, because you're my kid, and I love being around you. I love that you want me to be."
His daughter smiled at that. As fifteen-year olds went, she knew a lot about cars, but this old heap needed more than enthusiasm and good intentions.
"Okay," he put in quickly, to skip over any awkwardness, "you bought a junker with your birthday money, because you saw an old vid of what a G-9 looked like fresh off the assembly line. They sure knew how to style 'em back then, no denying it. Bringing it back to life is the goal; that's not out of reach, but we're talking about a lot of time, effort, and money. A job that'll take years. Only you can say if it's worth it."
"Every rollercar today looks the same, just about," Mayjy stated, with just as much emphasis as she did the first hundred times he'd heard her complain.
"Matter of taste," her father replied, wiping his hands on a rag, and gesturing to the other car in the garage; this one was not a G-9, not a sport model, and not made in an age of high style. It was newer, bigger, simpler, fully automated and far more efficient: nearly five thousand kilometers on a single charge. "Your mother will be home soon. It's my turn to to make dinner."
Mayjy nodded, and they got in the enclosed cab of the other rollercar. Her dad told it to take them to their apartment building. Its doors closed easily and silently, folding in like flower petals at night, while the big garage door behind them opened. The car reversed out into the safety lane, and then eased forward as the big door closed once more behind.
What had been a mere buzz inside their work space, was now a roar of rollers and automated trucks zipping by on the Opal City highway network. Its wide lanes mostly followed the shape of the ring-shaped station, though with lots of transfer fold-overs and side exits leading to and from the elevators that gave cars access to the Residential Level above, and other places on the colony station.
Their car merged into the traffic, accelerating smoothly, finding itself a spot, and settling in. Their ride would only take a few minutes. The Highway Level was always in perpetual twilight, punctuated here and there by flashing hologram billboards, a few brightly-lit charging stations, and Deek's Diner, on an island in the middle, bathed as ever in neon.
Mayjy just watched it all slide by as they rode along the highway. Her father had tried not to be discouraging, but reality had a way of doing that all on its own. As if directly contradicting his thoughts, though, the girl spoke up in a firm — even final — tone of voice.
"You have to do something with your time and money. Otherwise, why have them at all?"
"Good point."
"I'm going to rebuild that car, Dad. I don't care how long it takes. But...I will need your help."
"I won't pay for parts, Mayje; that was a challenge you took on when you bought a wreck. I won't fix it for you, either; but I will teach you how to fix it. Classic car restorations can take years; if you lose interest, or let the work slide, I'm gonna have Jack, over at the Reclaim Center, haul it off. But if you stay with it, and take this seriously, you can keep your little G-9 in the garage however long it takes."
His daughter was watching him, considering his words with mature gravity.
"Thank you, Daddy."
"Thank you, Sweetie."
"For what?"
"Why, for being you. For being my kid. Making me proud. All that stuff."
"Oh..." she huffed, rolling her eyes, but looked back out the window with a smile.