Page 14 of Agor the Merciless
Zoe’s attention was on the engine. The sound was a diagnosis to her: the hesitation between cylinders, the uneven firing sequence, the distinctive knock before the backfire. A timing issue.
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her father’s voice echoed in her head.
“Let the men handle it, Zoe. Nobody wants your opinion.”
Mark’s patronizing smile.
“Cars aren’t really a woman’s thing, babe.”
But this wasn’t her father’s garage. This wasn’t Mark’s world. The rules were different here.
“Your timing is off,” she said.
Both orcs turned to stare at her. The older one snorted.
“I am Grol. This is my son, Tarn. The timing is fine.” He pointed to a spot near the carburetor. “The fuel line is clogged. Human vehicles are primitive, but the principles are simple.”
Zoe bit the inside of her cheek. She realized this was Pira’s husband. Also, he was wrong.
“How can you tell?” Tarn asked, leaning over the engine again. “About the timing?”
At least Pira’s son was willing to listen to her. Zoe moved closer, pointing to the engine.
“It’s the sound. When an engine misfires like that, it’s usually timing. The spark is firing either too early or too late relative to the piston position. In this case, too late. The fuel isn’t ignitingat the right moment, so it builds up in the cylinder, then ignites when it shouldn’t.”
Grol crossed his massive arms over his chest. His tattoos identified him as a grunt.
“You know engines?” His tone remained skeptical, but something in his eyes shifted.
“I was a mechanic. Before.” Zoe couldn’t keep the pride from her voice. “In my father’s garage.”
“A female mechanic?” Tarn’s eyes widened, earning him another elbow from his father.
“Humans have strange ways,” Grol muttered. He studied Zoe for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Finally, he reached behind him to a cluttered workbench and grabbed a socket wrench. Without warning, he thrust the tool toward her.
“Show us, then.”
Chapter Eight
The wrench felt good in Zoe’s hand as she worked on the engine. Grease smudged her borrowed shirt, but she didn’t care. The timing belt had slipped two teeth. A rookie mistake, but understandable when working with salvaged parts. She reset the camshaft position, tightened the tensioner, and adjusted the distributor cap.
Grol hovered at her shoulder, his massive frame blocking the light. His grunt of surprise when she correctly identified the worn rotor arm brought a smile to her lips. She replaced it with a salvaged part from a pile; the orcs had organized their scavenged treasures into neat, logical stacks.
“Hand me that socket.” She pointed without looking up.
Tarn scrambled to comply, placing the tool in her outstretched hand. His eyes never left her fingers as they twisted, adjusted, and realigned.
She tightened a final bolt, giving it an extra quarter-turn for good measure. She wiped her hands on a rag Tarn provided and stepped back from the engine.
“Try it now.”
Tarn leapt into the driver’s seat. His hand trembled slightly as he turned the ignition key. The engine sputtered once, caught, then roared to life. The sound rolled through the workshop, clean and strong, without a hint of the previous misfiring. It settled into a smooth, even idle.
Tarn’s jaw dropped. He stared at the dashboard, then at Zoe, then back at the engine. His small tusks gleamed in the workshop’s dim light.
“By the gods of the homeland! It’s perfect! Father, listen to it!” He revved the engine, and it responded instantly, rising to a controlled roar before settling back. “No knocking! No hesitation!”
