Floyd woke up feeling rested, brewed himself a coffee, and stepped out onto the back veranda.
There it was again—a neat stack of cardboard boxes, unmarked, waiting like quiet sentinels on the wooden boards.
He blinked, sipped his coffee, and shook his head.
“This is becoming bloody routine,” he muttered. “But what the hell is this lot for?”
He finished his drink, then set to work opening the boxes.
Inside: two electric motors with gearboxes, neatly coiled cables, a control panel—and an envelope.
The envelope held $10,000 in crisp bills and a single note: “Thank you.”
Floyd grinned. “Thank you,” he said aloud. “And I was wondering what I’d be doing this week.”
It was a full automatic control system for the turbine.
------------------------------
Half a world away, in Western Australia, trouble had landed.
Two serious-looking men had arrived quietly and started poking around. The stretch of road seen in the viral motorcycle test video had been pinpointed by an AI-assisted geolocation scan. The region matched: long and remote, dusty and sun-bleached.
The men matched the height estimates from the footage—between 6 feet and 6'3". The bike? A white Honda Click.
But it wasn’t their curiosity that drew attention—it was their attitude. Pushy. Dismissive. Wrong kind of questions.
Locals got nervous. And when outback folk get nervous, word travels fast.
Soon the local police were involved. Something didn’t smell right. They called the state police.
Background checks turned up more than red flags—they rang sirens. The men matched suspects wanted in connection with multiple murders in the U.S. Their passports? Dodgy.
And then came the clincher: the whispered $10 million bounty from a well-known dictator.
“These bastards are after the reward,” said one officer.
The decision was swift: Deport them. Notify the Americans.
The pair were escorted—firmly—to Sydney Airport and put on a direct flight to Los Angeles, where a far less sunny welcome awaited.
Within a day, newspapers broke the story of a “rumoured international bounty” tied to a brutal regime. General Rashid’s tantrum had gone global.
--------------------------------------------------------------
In Derby, England, engineers at Rolls-Royce Aero Engines were hard at work.
Their testbed: the Trent series engine.
The challenge? Keeping water fuel from freezing at high altitude.
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A preheat system was under development. It would be tested first in the static chamber, then in flight. If it worked, the RB211 engine was next.
Across the Atlantic, Pratt & Whitney and General Electric were already deep into similar research.
Every engine manufacturer on Earth was suddenly scrambling.
The first to mass-produce a reliable water-fueled engine would dominate the future of transport.
Meanwhile, DIY conversion kits for motorcycles were popping up online. From now on, every new bike off the line would carry a water engine.
--------------------------------------------------------
The oil barons, reeling from blow after blow, were hit again.
In India, Ajay Chander received a visitor. Just like Floyd, he went through the same process.
And yes—he too got to go to bed with the woman of his dreams: the film star Samira Shukla.
He started working the next day.
Then came the breakthrough.
A new engine lubricant formula was posted online. It had to be changed more frequently—but it was cheap, effective, and biodegradable.
The formula was emailed to every university, every technical institute, every news outlet on Earth.
No one knew where it came from.
In France, a woman named Shimay Tremblay had a visitor of her own.
No sample required—but she did get to spend the night with the man of her dreams: singer Elias Beaufoy.
The next day, she got to work.
Soon after, a formula for a biodegradable plastic appeared online.
Exposed to UV light, it broke down in months.
It too was emailed across the world—no source, no credit, just freely given.
General Rashid was incandescent.
“FIND THEM AND KILL THEM ALL!” he roared. “BRING ME THEIR HEADS!”
The pressure was getting to him.
--------------------------------------------------------
Floyd sat at his kitchen table, reading the reports—lubricants, plastics, untraceable leaks of solutions to long-standing problems.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the implications settle.
“I can’t be the only one the Umbrigol are talking to,” he murmured.
Then he smiled.
“It’s nice to know I’m not alone.”
By the time Oddball next came out to visit, Floyd had finished installing the automatic control system on the turbine. It ran like a dream.
Oddball stood back, arms folded, watching it hum.
“That engine lubricant and that plastic formula—was that you too?” he asked.
Floyd shook his head. “No sir. That was someone else’s handiwork.”
“Still,” Oddball muttered, “I hope that tin pot tyrant gets what he deserves. A long drop on the end of a short rope.”
“No argument here, brother,” Floyd said, tapping the neck of his beer against Oddball’s.
They sat outside on the back veranda. It was a cool evening, the kind where you need sleeves but not yet gloves. Oddball got up twice to use the toilet, and each time he took longer than the last.
On his return, Floyd seized the moment.
“You’re pissing a lot tonight. Everything okay?”
Oddball shrugged. “Must be the cooler weather. Shrinks the bladder.”
Floyd gave him a look. “Maybe see a doctor. Get it checked out.”
“I don’t much care for doctors.”
“You really should go, Oddball. Could be an enlarged prostate. That can turn into real problems.”
Oddball waved him off. “Nah. I’m fine.”
“I had it. So did a couple others I know. Trust me—it’s worth a look.”
“I said I’m fine. I don’t do hospitals. Never liked the smell.”
Floyd could see his friend was getting defensive. He backed off.
“Fair enough,” he said, changing the subject. “The turbine’s running sweet now. Fully automated.”
He handed Oddball an envelope. Inside was $5,000 in crisp bills.
“From them. A thank you. Don’t spend it all in one place—we don’t want to attract attention.”
Oddball’s eyes widened. “Cheers, Floyd. I’ll drink to that,” he said, raising his glass with a grin.
He took a long sip, then added, “By the way—I’m getting enquiries about engine conversions. Folks are keen. Most of the kits online are for little engines, though. I told them to wait until bigger kits hit the market. Could be a real good year for the business.”
Floyd, meanwhile, had been thinking about his own windfall.
It was early August now, and rather than splurge on anything flashy, he decided to get ahead of winter. He could’ve driven to the big box stores where things were cheaper, but that meant spending $50 or more on fuel.
“Support the local economy,” he told himself. “And cut down on pollution.”
At the general store in Pine Bluff, Henry raised an eyebrow as Floyd loaded supplies onto the counter.
“Expecting an early winter, Floyd? You’re stocking up like it’s already snowing.”
“Nah, just taking advantage of your sale signs,” Floyd said with a wink. “Figure I’ve got a little cash to spare—might as well save a bigger bill later.”
“Well, a few things are cheaper than last year. Coffee’s a real bargain. Canned peaches too. Might be worth doubling up.”
“Good to know. Thanks, Henry. You have a good one.”
As he had the year before, Floyd planned to buy more each month—food, fuel, whatever he could stash.
He even decided to treat himself, finally, to a new telescopic sight for his rifle. Something decent but not flashy.
He still couldn’t bring himself to shoot deer, though. They were too graceful. Too peaceful.
If he ever wanted venison, he’d stick to hog hunting and swap meat with someone else.
