The Handmade Maglev Hybrid Pickup
Before dawn, Sing Sing stood in front of a car parked by the roadside, studying it with a hand on his chin.
"That BMW X5 has an old security system."
Polaris offered her professional advice. "I can use magnetism to short the ignition coil directly. We could drive it away in three seconds."
"No, no, no!" Sing Sing grabbed her wrist. "You spendthrift woman, trying to wreck things again! If you short out the BMW's electronic security system, how much will it cost to repair?"
"We're borrowing a car, not smashing one. Can you call it stealing when a scholar does it? It's different."
"Borrowing? Did you ask the owner?"
"We can leave a note afterward, thanking them for supporting our motherland's infrastructure projects. I'll sign it with my phone number."
Sing Sing spoke with perfect assurance as he walked toward an old pickup in the corner, its paint peeling and its front bumper tied on with wire. "This one. Syria battle-damage style. It's got character."
Polaris frowned.
"A piece of junk that's almost ready for the scrap heap? You sure it won't fall apart on the spot before we reach Chicago?"
"Pickups have high ground clearance, and the bed can carry cargo. If we come across cheap scrap rebar on the road, we can haul it back with us. It's called a thief never leaves empty-handed... no, wait, it's called recycling resources."
Polaris resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
She'd spent less than twenty-four hours with this man, and she'd already rolled her eyes more times than she had in the whole past year.
With a click, the lock popped open.
Sing Sing climbed into the cab, pulled out the wiring harness beneath the steering wheel, and stripped the insulation off two copper wires before rubbing them together to make sparks.
He deftly shifted gears, and the pickup chugged out of the parking space.
"Xiao Luo, buckle up. There are countless rules of the road, but safety comes first. Our workplace takes safety seriously. No seat belt in the passenger seat means a fifty-dollar fine and automatic disqualification from year-end honors."
"I haven't signed a contract yet."
"Prospective employees are still employees. Think big, don't be so narrow-minded."
The pickup sped along the interstate, its fuel gauge steadily dropping.
Sing Sing kept his eyes on the dashboard. "This thing burns fourteen liters per hundred kilometers. American imperialism's industrial products are energy black holes."
He turned to Lorna, who was catching up on sleep in the passenger seat. "Xiao Luo, wake up."
Lorna opened her eyes. "What is it? Someone after us?"
"I wanted to discuss something. You can control magnetism, right? Metal's all under your control."
"So?"
"Look, could you use your power to give the driveshaft a forward push? Or you could turn the wheel hubs directly."
Lorna stared in surprise for a moment, a question mark slowly appearing on her forehead.
Sing Sing, however, was full of anticipation. "That way the engine wouldn't have to inject so much fuel. We could make a handmade maglev hybrid and save more than half the gas money. With the savings, I'll treat you to Crazy Thursday when we get to Chicago."
"I'm a Mutant."
"Got it."
"I can tear an armored vehicle apart with my bare hands."
"I know that too, so pushing a pickup won't take much effort."
Lorna clenched her back teeth. "You want me to be a cruise-control motor?!"
"That's called green travel!" Sing Sing slapped his thigh.
"Do you know how bad global warming is right now? Burn one more liter of gas, and Arctic bears lose another chunk of ice!"
"No trade, no killing! Your nickname is Polaris, and you're all from the Arctic Circle. How can you not care whether polar bears live or die?"
Lorna turned her head and stared at the cornfields outside the window, deciding to go on mute for the next ten hours. The first one to speak was a dog.
Two stars~
At four in the afternoon, the pickup stopped on a commercial street in Chicago's South Side.
"This is America's third-largest city?" Sing Sing looked around and clicked his tongue twice. "Even our county town is cleaner than this. Back home, this place would've been ranked dead last for sanitation long ago."
The two pushed open the door to the Snowball Ice Cream Shop, setting the bell jingling.
The shop was quiet. A young Black man in headphones leaned behind the counter, playing a game.
Lorna stepped up and knocked on the glass. The young man lifted his eyes, let his gaze rake over her leather jacket, and whistled. "What'll it be? Vanilla or strawberry? Or how about my phone number? Satisfaction guaranteed, babe."
Lorna's expression didn't change. "I'm looking for someone. Is Soft Serve still here?"
"Nobody's called her that in ages. She quit last month."
"Where did she go?"
The young man shrugged. "Who knows? We're all working odd jobs. Who cares about anyone else? But there are rules in Chicago. If you want information, you've got to show some sincerity. Fifty bucks for an address, take it or leave it."
Lorna's gaze darkened. Green light had just begun to glow at her fingertips when a smacking sound suddenly came from behind her.
Sing Sing walked over holding an ice cream cone.
"Where did you get that ice cream?"
"They're giving out samples by the door. The person handing out flyers insisted on giving me one. I couldn't turn it down."
Sing Sing licked the chocolate scoop off the top, leaned toward the glass, and stared at the young man. "I could buy half a pig for fifty bucks, and you've got the nerve to charge that for one lousy address?"
The young man recoiled half a step under his imposing manner, then quickly pulled a baseball bat from beneath the counter:
"Looking for trouble, yellow monkey? This is the South Side! Pay up or get out, and don't think bringing a chick means you can throw your weight around here!"
Sing Sing sighed and shoved the cone into Lorna's hand. "Hold this. Don't let it melt."
The moment Lorna caught the cone, Sing Sing reached behind his waist. A flash of silver, and the baseball bat broke in two.
The flat of the butcher knife smacked the young man across the face with a sharp crack.
"Now, where does that Soft Soft Serve live?" Sing Sing asked cheerfully.
"S-sixth block, the abandoned red-brick apartment building, room 604," the young man stammered.
"You should've said so earlier."
Sing Sing sheathed his knife. "We're all civilized people. It's no good pulling knives and guns. Look how pale you are from the fright. Get some more sun when you go back."
He pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket and slapped it onto the counter. "For your baseball bat. Enough to buy two new ones. Keep the change as a tip."
He took the cone back from Lorna and headed out. At the door, he looked back again. "Next time, have more strawberry samples ready. The vanilla's too sweet."
The young man stood frozen behind the counter, holding half a baseball bat and staring blankly at the bill.
The pickup stopped at a corner on the sixth block.
Trash was piled on both sides of the street, and homeless people wrapped in ragged blankets huddled in the shadows at the base of the walls. Several young Black men in hoodies squatted at the mouth of an alley, watching the unfamiliar junker closely.
Sing Sing pushed open the door, got out, and slammed it shut behind him.
His white suit stood out especially sharply in this neighborhood.
"You sure she lives here?" Sing Sing crunched up the last bite of his cone and tossed the paper wrapper into a trash can.
"She has no money, and it's hard to find work with her power." Lorna looked toward the dilapidated, dim stairwell, covering her nose and mouth to block the foul smell coming from inside.
The two made their way up to the sixth floor.
"A tiny old dump like this would've been demolished back home long ago. If you fell down on your way home from work, would it count as a workplace injury? Labor law clearly states—"
"Can you shut up and climb the stairs?"
They stopped in front of room 604. Lorna stepped forward and was about to knock when Sing Sing reached out to stop her and pointed at the brass door lock.
Sing Sing gave her a meaningful look, his right hand sliding toward the knife hilt behind his waist. "I'll knock."