Chapter 1
So this is the first chapter of the rewrite for Furter Tech. I have a few questions and comments at the bottom of this chapter.
FYI, I have yet to decide if she is a reborn person or just really smart like Victor von Doom.
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"Many people appreciate the quote that says, 'There's a fine line between genius and insanity." They often use it to suggest that someone is pushing boundaries too far. While I understand the appeal of this quote, it's important to note that it is often misquoted. The full quote includes the part, "I have erased that line." That is precisely what I have done. You can call me mad or call me a genius; I believe I am both. After all, no sane person could have accomplished half of what I have. The world should be grateful that my grandfather was there to pull me back before I went too far. – There Are No Lines – by Isabel Cadval
-1963-
-Isabel Carter POV-
I love the sting of heat on my skin—the moisture of the sea, the smell of salt, oil, gas, and engine grease. To me, there is nothing better in the world, though I know how that might sound to others. As the taxi pulled up to an auto garage simply named Carter Automotive and Repair, I couldn't help but smile. After four long years away, I was finally home. True, I had come back for visits during the holidays, but for an 18-year-old girl, being away for so long was challenging.
Honestly, I had resented my pawpaw for making me go to college at such a young age. Who cared if I had an IQ over 200? Who cared that I built my first engine from scraps at the age of 12? I certainly didn't. But he was right. Once he explained his reasoning in a cold, pragmatic way, it became impossible for me to argue with him. After all, he was right, attending high school like the other girls my age was pointless, especially since I didn't like being around kids my age anyway. The only ones I could stand were those who worked in the garage. I had only intended to go to high school because I didn't want to be away from home.
He referred to it as a coward's move, and the Carters were anything but cowards. So after speaking with a female professor from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, I left home. All in order to pursue a PhD in Aerospace Engineering, Chemical Engineering, Electrical Engineering, and Physics, along with various Master's and Bachelor's degrees. You might call me an overachiever, but honestly, I was just bored. Being a 14-year-old in college was, after all, not fun. Because really, no one was going to invite me to any parties or let me join a fraternity. Hell no, no one ever wanted to be my friend, not that I didn't understand why. Seeing a 14-year-old in college taking the same classes you were taking and acing them with ease didn't exactly inspire confidence.
No, the only equals I had were the professors themselves. They were the only ones who could challenge me in any way whatsoever, and even then, only for a period of time. Sure, one or two were still my equals, but even then, the gap was closing before I decided I had enough of college and packed up to return home to Pawpaw.
Now, I'm sure some might wonder where my parents were during all of this. Well, let's just say they were out of the picture—and no, I don't mean deceased. The fact is, having a child as intelligent as I am was challenging for them. They didn't know how to handle me, especially when I started taking things apart to see how they worked. I always put them back together, of course, and even improved some of them, but when you set the house on fire one or two times, people tend to get scared.
They wanted to put me in a mental institution for that, but my grandfather wouldn't allow it. After a huge argument, they decided to send me to live with him, and kind of just disappeared from my life. Needless to say, my grandfather did a far better job handling me than they did. This was probably due to his military background; he correctly guessed that I needed a sense of structure. With a mind like mine, if I didn't have something to do, I would find something to do—often with negative results.
I tried to keep in touch with them for a while, but as the years went by, I gradually stopped. They had moved on with their lives and even had another daughter shortly after I left to live with my Pawpaw—a daughter who was nothing like me and, therefore, easier to handle. I had also moved on with my life. They became a part of my past and hardly mattered to me anymore.
Perhaps that could have changed with time. After all, the only thing that never changed was the fact that the world was constantly changing. However, I had closed that door permanently when I came out as gay to them in my last letter. Ya they didn't take that well at all, and after nearly 6 years in which they didn't even show up for my high school graduation at 14, nor my college admission, they finally showed up on Pawpaw's doorstep when I was on spring break when I was 16. We talked for about 5 minutes before I started tuning them out when they began talking about Bibie and God—something that always seemed to happen when people started talking about their make-believe friend in the sky.
Don't get me wrong, I can easily believe that there was some kind of divine creator. However, with no way of testing that outside of taking a gun and blowing my brains out, I would remain an Agnostic. Someone who neither believed in a God nor disbelieved in one, and would devote no time to thinking or talking about either. I had better things to do, but of course, once they noticed I wasn't paying them any attention, they grew even more upset or angry. I am not sure, as Pawpaw tossed them both out of the house once they started shouting.
Despite our last conversation, I won't say I don't love them, but the low opinion I held of them after they sent me away hasn't improved with their latest actions. They had long ago given up the right to judge me. Something they didn't seem to understand. On that note, my grandfather took my coming out as gay a lot better than they did. But then he was a veteran of both World Wars. He had seen worse and done worse things. In his own words, 'I have no right to judge you. Not after the things I have done and seen.' That said, we of course didn't discuss it either.
As I stepped out of the cab, I paid the driver and walked toward the garage. On my way, I paused to admire a vehicle on a small platform nearby and smiled. It was a Morgan Plus 4, the same model that secured 9th place at Sebring in 1952. However, that wasn't the reason it was displayed in front of my grandfather's garage or why it held special significance for me. This was the car that housed the engine I built when I was 12.
While I like to think of it as mine, it was really a collaborative effort between my grandfather, his friend Carroll, and me. At the time, I was much too small to use specific tools during its construction. Pawpaw and Carroll did all the heavy lifting while I focused on the designs. My interest in building the car initially stemmed from having free time during summer break. I was 11 and had nothing to do, while Carroll shared his racing dreams with Pawpaw, talking about the day he would win Le Mans.
To be honest, I wasn't particularly interested in racing, but I did like engines. So after overhearing them, I began sketching a design for the engine that I would later dub Little Soldier, using a box of colors I had on hand. After about three weeks, I completed the design and presented it to Pawpaw and Carroll. Of course, with me being just a child, they didn't think much of it at first. Thinking it was cute more than anything. That was until they actually started looking over the designs.
To get straight to the point, I took a V6 engine, stripped it to its core components, rebuilt it with a more fuel-efficient system, and maximized its top speed. In the end, we created an engine capable of going 180 miles on a straight track and lasting three laps longer than the next-best thing out there. Needless to say, we had built an impressive machine for its time.
Pawpaw and Carroll found a used Morgan Plus 4, took out a few loans, and modified it to fit the engine. We then took it to Sebring, where it outperformed the competition. While other cars may have been faster, our car's ability to stay on the track longer proved to be an insurmountable advantage. After that, we competed in the Mille Miglia and the 6 Hours of Nürburgring, where we achieved back-to-back victories. I don't need to emphasize that, as a child, this was the greatest time of my life. Pawpaw, Carroll, I, and a crew of passionate gearheads took on the world's best and came out on top.
Unfortunately, I was still a child, and while I had designed the engine, I failed to consider the wear and tear that back-to-back high-performance races would inflict on it. The cooling system was also inadequate for an actual endurance race. It barely made it through the Mille Miglia, held together by duct tape, hopes, dreams, and sheer determination. Well, not actual duct tape, but the point is that it took a beating. Despite this, after winning both the Mille Miglia and the Nürburgring, we all agreed to take it to Le Mans. However, that proved to be one step too far, as we didn't even last 10 hours before the engine blew during a pit stop.
I remember only two things from that day, aside from the engine failure. The first was crying. I wasn't just shedding a few tears; I was sobbing at the realization that we hadn't merely lost—we hadn't even finished the race. Never in my life up to that point had I felt so upset, nor had I ever cried that way before. Even when my parents sent me to live with Pawpaw, I didn't cry because I honestly didn't care. But this loss mattered to me; I felt as though I had let everyone down. My design failed; I failed them—those who believed in my work. I had let them down.
Sure, we had won three other major races, but what can anyone honestly say to a 12-year-old girl who felt like a failure? Apparently, you didn't need to say anything to make someone feel better because the second thing I remember was a flash of light followed by the sound of shattered glass and plastic, along with Carroll yelling at a newspaper guy who thought it would be a good idea to take a picture of a crying 12-year-old girl. In that moment, I realized I hadn't let anyone down. We lost, sure, but they were not disappointed in me. Pawpaw, Carroll, and the rest of the team were proud of what we had accomplished together; we had done something no independent team or manufacturer had ever achieved. We had won three of the world's biggest races.
If you look through the history books of racing, you'll find that Carter Automotive and Repair secured 2nd place in the 1957 World Sportscar Championship. Ferrari only surpassed us because we had to miss the 1000 km Buenos Aires race because our engine wasn't fully built yet. I convinced myself that if it had been ready, we would have claimed first place. Of course, I chose to overlook the likelihood that the engine might have failed before we even reached Le Mans.
Upon our return home, we quickly realized we were celebrities. I hadn't known that, outside NASCAR, the US held little influence in the international racing scene. In fact, while NASCAR is significant in the US, it is often considered a joke elsewhere. The fastest cars they had could only reach about 100 miles per hour, and no international teams participated in NASCAR because it simply didn't matter to them. Meanwhile, many US racing fans tended to ignore the fact that we weren't on the same level as the rest of the world. Taking a "if it's not America, it didn't matter" stance, but in truth, they all knew the truth. We were not as good as the rest of the world. That was why when we returned home, we were such a big deal.
If I'm being honest, it was kind of strange. Most 12-year-olds would have loved the attention I received, and in a way, I did too. After all, I was featured on nearly every racing magazine in the world alongside Pawpaw and Carroll. We even made the cover of People and appeared on "Tonight Starring Steve Allen." However, as a child, I didn't fully understand what was happening, and Pawpaw wanted to keep it that way. While I appeared on shows and in magazines with him, most of the credit for our accomplishments went to Pawpaw and Carroll. Still, Pawpaw made sure my name was on the patent so that those who mattered would recognize me as the engine's creator.
Ultimately, that's what really mattered. In fact, the highlight of that entire year, aside from spending time with Pawpaw and the rest of the team, was meeting Enzo Ferrari. At the time, I didn't know who he was—only that his team had beaten me. To show respect, I learned some Italian to speak with him. He was understandably surprised to learn that the actual designer of the Little Soldier engine that won three of the world's biggest races was a 12-year-old girl—maybe even a bit insulted. Nevertheless, he was genuinely interested in what I had created.
As a man who was passionately devoted to racing, Mr. Ferrari was eager to learn more about what I had created with Pawpaw. Since I held a US patent for it, I had no reservations about letting him examine the heavily damaged engine at that time. Needless to say, he was impressed by our creation, but he also pointed out several glaring issues. These included obvious problems, such as a significant oversight in the cooling system that was used to prevent the engine from overheating, as well as the use of substandard materials. He also noticed smaller issues, like cracks in the cylinder head. While the pistons were serviceable, they were ill-suited to the design, and the connecting rods were old and worn, among other concerns. In his own candid but accurate words, we were amateurs who had somehow created a masterpiece—something that was flawed, yet undeniably beautiful.
Perhaps his words were a bit too harsh for a 12-year-old, but I appreciated his honesty. To show that he didn't mean any harm, he offered to buy the patent for a substantial amount. Pawpaw sold it for $25,000, which at that time was equivalent to six years' salary. This amount was more than enough to cover college expenses, help Pawpaw expand his business, and leave us with a nest egg to invest.
Pawpaw genuinely wanted to sell it to an American car company. However, the reality was that these companies were lagging in racing, and none showed the same level of interest as manufacturers like Ferrari and Maserati. In fact, the best offer from the American car companies came from General Motors, which offered only five thousand dollars, which was ten thousand less than Maserati's offer.
They simply didn't understand what people like Enzo did. He may not have been a commercial seller like Ford or GM, but he knew that reverse-engineering the Little Soldier for commercial use, though challenging, was possible. So, after buying the patent, he licensed it to Fiat, which then used it to produce its unattractive but fuel-efficient cars. Regardless of opinions about their design, for low-income families around the world, a fuel-efficient vehicle was a great deal.
I didn't pay much attention at the time, but Pawpaw was upset later when he realized he could have earned much more by leasing rather than selling it outright. Looking back, I do remember seeing more Fiat Nuova 500 America models on the roads from 1958 to 1960. Once again, I didn't focus on it; by then, I was 14 and in college. I was way too busy studying to care about something I had built when I was 12.
On a more interesting note, I kept in touch with Enzo over the years, becoming pen pals of sorts. We mostly discussed our work, and I assisted him with certain designs for his race cars.
Needless to say, Ferrari remained the uncontested World Sportscar Champion until this year, when the FIA changed the rules to include three divisions instead of just one. I had no doubt they would still dominate Division III; there was simply no comparing their pure speed.
That said, Enzo and his engineers were about to learn something I had known since I was 14: while the Little Soldier was a masterpiece of an engine in its own right, it had limits. Ferrari had pushed it to its maximum potential. They might be able to squeeze out a bit more power, but the era of the Little Soldier was coming to an end. However, the technology that went into its design was still valuable. The only issue was that other manufacturers had started to catch up with Ferrari. As for the upcoming year, I had my own plans for 1964.
"Ruth?" I heard someone call my name. I looked over toward the voice and smiled.
"Pawpaw," I say with a big smile, running up to hug him.
-Ezekiel Carter-
I had failed as a father, and there was no other way to put it. I had let my son down just as my father had let me down, and his father before him. This cycle of failure was part of how we ended up in America. My father, John Carter, had fled from his own father in England, and I had done the same at the age of 16. In 1916, I left the farm to join the army in World War I, a full two years before I was legally old enough to enlist. I lied about my age because I believed that war couldn't be as bad as staying with a drunken man who spent more time hitting my mother and me than working. I was both right and very wrong at that.
During basic training, I excelled and was soon promoted to corporal. At just 17 years old, I believed I had found paradise. The discipline and order of military life appealed to me, something my father had always lacked. It truly felt like the right place for me—until it wasn't. That changed during the First Battle of Cambrai in World War I.
Witnessing so many of my friends—my brothers in all but blood—die in the mud, the blood, and shit of the trenches was a brutal awakening to the horrors of war. Those horrors would haunt me long after the fighting had ended. Despite all the terrible experiences I endured in World War I, I didn't leave the army when the war ended. I stayed because, frankly, I had nowhere else to go. My father had committed the unthinkable shortly after I left home. Killing my mother one night in a drunken rage before he took his own life. The coward most likely killed himself out of fear of going to jail, rather than any guilt.
With no home to return to, I remained in the army. Even after it was discovered that I had lied about my age, the authorities overlooked it. Two years later, I married the love of my life, and a year after that, our son was born. In 1932, I was commissioned as an officer, and everything seemed to be going well on the surface. However, as I mentioned, the horrors of war never left me. I fought against them—truly, I did—but night after night, I was plagued by terrible nightmares that seemed to only get worse as time passed by. It got so bad that, eventually, I succumbed to drinking, much like my father, as a way to cope with them.
Just to be clear, I never hit my wife or my son. I would never do that and couldn't live with myself if I did. But that hardly made me a good man, considering how I treated both of them. I often came home drunk, yelling and causing a scene, belittling my son for every little mistake he made. Then there was the cheating; I lost count of how many women I had cheated on my wife with because, honestly, I was too drunk to remember. Eventually, it got so bad that my wife left me and took our son in 1935. I did nothing to stop her. I didn't yell, scream, or threaten her. I just let her leave because, honestly, I didn't care anymore. I was just in a dark place where no light would enter.
It wasn't until World War II that I woke up to the truth. It would almost be funny if it weren't so sad that it took an event even more horrific than what I experienced in World War I to truly open my eyes. You see, I was there when we liberated Ohrdruf. At the time, I was a Lieutenant Colonel under George S. Patton. The things I witnessed there were beyond evil, and in that moment, I confronted the monster within me. While some might argue that what I put my ex-wife and son through was nothing compared to that, the truth is, I often thought—more often than I care to admit—about doing something just as cruel to them in my drunken rage.
I never understood why I didn't do it. Perhaps it was the grace of God that held me back. Maybe I simply didn't want to become like my father, or perhaps it was the discipline the army instilled in me. Regardless, when the war ended, I sought out my wife and son, trying to rebuild what I had destroyed. Sadly, I was only partially successful. Over time, I had to accept that there would always be a wall between my son and me, with only a small window—his mother—through which we could communicate. A connection that nearly came to an end when she died in a car accident, but not before Isabel was born. She became my light in the darkness.
When my ex-wife passed away, it was Isabel who kept me from spiraling out of control, simply by being herself. From the moment she was born, I could tell she was different from other children. There was something unique about her eyes; when she looked at you, it felt like she was studying you, trying to solve a puzzle she couldn't quite comprehend. She rarely cried and learned to walk and talk early. Remarkably, she even learned to read while most other children were still struggling to form complete sentences.
It was amazing to watch, and as her grandfather, I couldn't help but feel proud of her. Unfortunately, my son and his wife didn't share the same sentiment. They just couldn't understand how extraordinary she was, especially since their sons were two and three years older than she was and not even close to as smart as Isabel. They also failed to understand why, when Isabel got bored, she would run off to find something to do. This often led Isabel to take apart various electronics before putting them back together.
Something I learned in the army is that a lack of understanding often breeds fear and doubt. Because parents couldn't understand her, they tried to change her. They often bought her dolls and other girlish items, but Isabel had no interest in such things. For example, on her eighth birthday, they gave her an expensive dollhouse that she never played with. I, on the other hand, understood her and got her a tool set. When she saw her gift, her eyes lit up like the brightest star, and she immediately asked me to take her to my garage to use her new tools.
Isabel and I grew closer as her parents grew further apart. When she was 10 years old, they dropped her off at my house and asked me to take care of her. They claimed it was what was best for her, but the truth was they were abandoning her just as my father had abandoned me, and as I had abandoned my own son. I didn't stop them or confront them about their actions because, in reality, I was glad they were leaving her with me. I needed her.
Whenever we worked together in the garage, I felt at peace, and that night I slept soundly. There were no dreams of my friends and brothers dying in the trenches, no haunting images of the atrocities committed by the Nazis against innocent people. Just dreams of my granddaughter and me working on something together.
I honestly thought life couldn't get any better. I had found peace and the light of my life by my side. I was happy, she was happy, and all was well in the world. However, I was wrong; life only improved when she created Little Soldier. The racing engine she designed with crayons became our ticket to take on the world. Isabel had always been a quiet child, struggling to express herself. It was the price she paid for being a genius.
Yet when we went to Sebring, she came alive. She cheered, fussed, and worried in a way I had never seen before. And when we won, she jumped for joy while hugging Carroll. Even when we lost at Le Mans, she showed emotion, crying for the first time I could remember since she was a baby.
It was those memories that truly pushed back the darkness of the wars. Sure, the memories were still there in the back of my mind, but ever since we returned home, I had not suffered another nightmare. I was at peace, or at least I was until she reached her teenage years. God help me, I was not ready for those years.
"What are you wearing?" I ask my granddaughter as she hugs me.
Letting go of the hug, she looks at me with a puzzled expression, then glances down at her outfit before asking, "Is something wrong with it?"
I wasn't sure how to respond because, honestly, there was nothing wrong with what she was wearing. She wore mid-thigh-cut jeans and a crop top that revealed a lot of her midriff. It wasn't anything worse than what you typically see on girls these days. The only concern was that Isabel often forgot I was her grandfather, and she was a very attractive young woman whose idea of summer comfort tended to draw attention. Would it hurt her to dress a bit more modestly when she came to the shop?
"It's nothing, really. Welcome home," I reply with a shake of my head. After all, I had tried several times to explain the concept of modesty to her, but it never seemed to stick.
Shrugging her shoulders, she smiles and says, "It's good to be back home. God, I missed this place."
She leads me back into the shop, where she greets the guys, most of whom she knows well, since they were on the team in 1957. Only a few newcomers don't know her, but they've heard about her from the old-timers. I can't help but smile as she greets the veterans with such love and energy. They are her family, and I realized long ago that they feel the same way about her.
However, when she spots a new face she doesn't recognize, her expression turns cold. She remains polite, of course. I had taught her to be so, and it was one of the few lessons she took well, but even a blind guy could tell she didn't care for the new guys. They were there. Like some background characters in a movie. Unimportant to her, but little better than blobs. That would change with time, but for now, she ignores them in the most polite way she can.
It was a good thing I had already talked to the new guys about her; otherwise, someone might have taken offense. Though by the looks on their faces, they clearly didn't believe me when I told them about her emotional disposition. Well, they did now, I thought much to my own amusement.
Once she has greeted everyone, we head up to my office, where she takes a seat in front of my desk. I sit down briefly and smile as she picks up the picture from the day of our first race.
"This was a good day," Isabel says.
"That it was," I reply, allowing her a moment to reminisce about that day.
After a while, she places the picture down and says, "Pawpaw, now that I've finished college, I want to go back. I want to take on Le Mans."
I smile at that and respond, "I had a feeling you would. It was, after all, the only thing you had ever really lost at."
If looks could kill, I would be dead. I thought as she glared at me. She hated losing, and while time had healed that wound, she still wanted to go back and take it all.
"How is business?" Isabel asks. Ignoring my little comment about her losing.
Some might expect me to be upset with my grandfather for speaking bluntly to me about business matters, but only those who don't know her well would think so. Isabel has never been good at small talk and preferred bluntness to playing nice. I reply, "It's good, but the racing world has changed. Building something that can compete with Ferrari would require tens of thousands of dollars, if not more."
She doesn't frown or show any real emotion at the sound of that. Most likely, she is just thinking things over. It wouldn't be a lie to say that my granddaughter played a bigger role in the business than most people would think. Even while she was in college, she somehow found time to file the company's taxes and set up retirement funds for our employees. Yes, when I say "our," I mean she owns a stake in the company. It was only right that she did, especially since it was her design that let me expand my garage count from one to five over six years.
"That shouldn't be a problem. It should only cost $50,000 to build the engine I have in mind, as long as Uncle Carroll is willing to chip in and help us build it. Do you think he would be interested?" she asks me.
I laugh at this and respond, "Interested? Does a bear shit in the woods?
-Carroll Shelby POV-
"What the fuck?"
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So I'll make this clear from the start. This is not a racing story. I just watched Ford v. Ferrari and thought, why not start there? That said, I know very little about racing, technology when it comes to it, and so on. It's really just a start, and that's it. That said, it will remain part of the story as things move forward.
Now the real question is what type of technology to use. I am fine with things like rom games, movies, and so on. One such tech I plan to use is Blaze, the biofuel from Horizon Zero Dawn. But that may be a jump too far right away, so. I also thought Pip-Boy, but again, maybe too fast. Any ideas are welcome.
Also, does anyone know how much money racing teams made in the early 1960's? I can't find anything.