One of my goals for 2018 was to try to write a story that was only 2 chapters long, and this is the result. Special thanks to HopperUK and TuEx for being my beta-readers for this! :D
Chapter One: The Life of a Shunter
"C'mon, Rusty! C'mon, Rusty!" barked Bogey the balding shunting engine from up the grassy hill. Rusty heard him clap his metal palms to hurry the taller locomotive along. "We get these rocks clean, and we're almost halfway done with this side of the race track!"
"Hang on!" called Rusty, practically juggling the high stack of crates in his corroded arms which blocked his view of most of the green countryside around him. The tank engine did his best to navigate his sooty wheels blindly along the rails, trying not to think too hard on the fact that the waist high latticed guardrail on his left was the only thing that kept him from plummeting to the rocky valley below. For the briefest of moments, the steamer wished he had taken two trips, but he knew the shunters would have muttered under their breaths again about a "mainliner" locomotive not being up to their kind of work. After all, Control called on shunters to do anything and everything in the yard (and to act cheery about it).
To be fair, he wasn't strictly designed for shunting, Rusty told himself yet again as he puffed his way up the hill. He had been built to transport trains across the country, not to hitch and switch them on a siding, but a rusted steamer could not very well roll up to Control and demand to pull a streamlined passenger train as if it were a condition in the Magna Carta. So, if Control offered said rusted steamer a job among the shunting engines for a few pounds an hour, said rusted steamer had to decide between performing work his parents had not built him for or starving on an overgrown track.
Despite his limited vision, Rusty could tell he was now about three quarters up the grassy hill. He could hear the diesel shunters up ahead chatting with each other, but only a handful of the twenty seemed to be scrubbing the rock fixtures Control had ordered them to clean. That morning Control had discovered that some vehicles had broken into the fenced off race area and had spray painted several rude train sized messages on the rocks of either side of the large valley the tracks looped around. Although race night was still months away, trains and humans all over the world watched the televised event, and Control had ordered a deep clean of his property.
Rusty adjusted his grip on the wooden crates of cleaning detergents which Bogey had sent him to fetch. He could feel the top one beginning to slip, and he switched from skating to shuffling his wheels in a sideways step. Suddenly he got a fresh whiff of diesel fumes, and he heard a muffled strand of a Frank Sinatra song and the crunching sounds of wheel-steps on ballast, as if some vehicle close at hand were grooving to a Walkman as he worked - and then Rusty remembered which of his coworkers had recently started listening to the Rat Pack.
Rusty hurriedly pressed himself against the latticed guardrail, silently willing the shunter to stay on his side long enough for the steamer to get by, but he could not prevent the collision.
"Whoop!" said the diesel shunter as the wooden crates toppled onto the concrete sleepers beneath the rails, and Rusty saw the tan face of Pilot, the green engine.
"Great," Rusty exhaled, dropping to his tarnished knees to start grabbing them again. However, the motion caused coals to tumble from the tender which protruded from his back, and he was obliged to snatch them up first.
"C'mon, mainliner! Can't you keep up?" laughed one of the shunters up ahead, and a few of the others snickered. Rusty saw Bogey check his wristwatch, tapping his wheels against the track.
"Sorry, mate," said Pilot, shifting the broom in his hand so that he could tuck a few crates under his own arm. The black haired engine did not even remove his headphones.
"S'okay," Rusty lied even though Pilot probably could not hear him.
The green shunter just gave him a thumbs up and carried his share of the crates up the hill, humming something about up where the air is rarefied and gliding starry eyed.
Rusty rolled his eyes. He did not exactly dislike Pilot; the younger machine had always been easygoing and did not tease Rusty about his mainliner heritage, but at the same time the pilot locomotive did not take a lot of things seriously. While Rusty had to pull double shifts just to keep Control from making insinuations about how much of the budget allowed for coal, Pilot seemed to take little luxuries for granted, like being able to clock out on the dot and having the money to enjoy a Friday night at the cinema car's theater. The other shunters found his goofiness endearing, but Rusty would have been lying if he said he had been thrilled to know Pilot was working with the cleaning crew that day.
"Why didn't you take two trips?" snapped Bogey when Rusty finally joined him, and the steamer saw that the man's exposed scalp was turning pink in the sun, matching the ring of ginger fibers and thinning mustache that remained of Bogey's original synthetic hair. The shunter's diesel tank rumbled in a way that told Rusty to bite his tongue, and the tank engine set about helping his supervisor open the crates and pass out the cleaning supplies and the last of the jugs of water to the twenty tiny locomotives on the hill.
That can't be helping the ozone, Rusty thought with an inward sardonic chuckle as he maneuvered around his oil burning coworkers, greeted once again by the strong smell of their combined fumes. The shunters wore an odd spectrum of liveries, carrying the paint schemes of the company they had worked on before Control bought them; the younger ones displayed the blue of British Rail, but a few of the older ones dotted the group like black, green, or red isles in an azure sea. Ballast, the engine with round glasses and a blonde ponytail poking out from under her blue cap, gave him a friendly smile before she returned to her scrubbing, but most of the others did not even grunt their thanks. Pilot, Rusty noted, had gone back to sweeping up the bottles the vandals had left, but he alternated with his habitual tic of strumming the broom as if it were a guitar.
Rusty grabbed his own scrub brush and knelt beside one rock with three misspelled vulgarities. He was the lone steamer of the group: shorter than mainline diesels but half a head taller than the other shunters. A metal cap rested upon his reddish-brown hair, and his chimney continually puffed out black smoke wherever he went. His iron plates resembled dungarees, which his mother had once painted a cheery red, but nearly two decades of hard work in all weathers had chipped away his original livery, and his iron body had rusted save for a few spots, like the split firebox door on his chest. Many newcomers mistook him for vagabond until he had to explain that, yes, he belonged in Control's famous yard and, no, he was not at all in line for the scrapheap.
After several moments of scrubbing, Rusty wiped his forehead and took a moment to look round at the race track. The shunters had managed to get a lot done on this side of the valley since that morning, but the other side would require its own day's work. Rusty did not mind cleaning: it was definitely a nice change of pace compared to getting bossed around in the marshalling yard by trucks, coaching stock, and mainliners. It was also when he was more or less on equal footing with the shunters, who had little to say about his work performance when he was not using his wheels.
Next to him, Ballast had covered a large red F in now pinkish suds, and she turned to Rusty. "It's just typical that they'd pick this part of the yard to graffiti," she exhaled, rolling her gray eyes. "I'm pulling the camera crew this year, and the zoom on the lenses can pick up a lot."
"You'll be right where the action is, 'Last," said Rusty, half-admiring, half-envious.
"Just one small section of the race track," Ballast said modestly, her cleaner hand fidgeting with her metal torso which resembled a blue boilersuit. "I'll probably only see a few seconds of the racers passing - unless a fight breaks out."
"It probably will if Greaseball is involved," Rusty pointed out.
"Sounds like cushy work," the brown haired Chainlink commented on the woman's other side. "You just handle one area all night. I'm with crowd control."
Ballast raised a blonde eyebrow. "Didn't you apply to be a track marshall?"
Chainlink's green eyes narrowed, and he returned to his scrubbing. "Control is just using mainliners this year."
The other nearby shunters made sounds of sympathy and annoyance, and Rusty made sure to join in. "It's not Tank and his mates, is it?" the steamer asked, wincing as he thought of the thuggish diesels who pulled the binliner trains in a position of authority over the elimination heats. Their lot would probably encourage an illegal brawl or two.
"How should I know?" snapped Chainlink, turning away.
"They'll probably favour the diesel racers," said Ballast with a shake of her head which caused her blonde ponytail to dance. "Diesel mainliners always favour their own kind."
"Mainliners always favour their own kind," one of the nearby shunters cracked, and a few shot knowing looks at Rusty, who lowered his gaze.
Just then the sounds of sweeping, the tinkling of broken bottles, and a baritone voice drew near, moving the attention off the steam engine. "Come fly with me. Come fly away…"
Chainlink turned and gave the singing shunter a friendly smack on the leg. "Oi, Pie Man! Stop listening to that aeroplane propaganda," he pretended to snarl. "Have you got plans for race night with your own kind?"
Pilot finally slipped off his headphones, and once Chainlink had repeated the question, the shunter's green lips formed a satisfied smile. "Requested the night off eight months ago," he replied as he strummed his imaginary guitar. "I plan to put it to good use."
"With a blonde probably," snickered Chainlink.
"I'm not saying it is; I'm not saying it ain't," Pilot said with a mysterious tap on his yellow striped nose.
Ballast rolled her eyes. "Grow up, boys."
Pilot chuckled, giving her a wink, before he suddenly turned to Rusty. "What about you, Steam Man?" he asked companionably. "What's Control got you doing this year?"
Rusty looked down at his soapy rock. "I'll be running errands for the racers, same as last year." He winced, remembering all the tasks he had to do the previous year from fetching food to delivering complex messages he would have gotten in trouble for messing up. The worst had always been the American locomotive, Greaseball, who was the reigning champion of the races for the past seven years. Greaseball had once sent Rusty five stations down the line just to find a pack of chewing gum he preferred only then to lie to Control about the steamer acting insubordinate. "So much fun," Rusty exhaled.
Pilot nodded. "Is your cousin gonna race again?" he then asked. Immediately, Ballast and a few of the other shunters looked up with interest.
Rusty rolled his shoulders, embarrassed at the sudden spotlight (but not too embarrassed). "Dunno," he admitted. "Sandy's been busy with his heritage line."
"He was a good racer," said Pilot, admiration in his voice. "I almost bet money on him to win the final."
"He would have, mind you, if it weren't for Greaseball," Rusty insisted. Two years before, his second cousin, Sand Dome, had competed in the race with his sleeper fiancée and had won his elimination heat, which had sent him to the final. In the last leg of the race, Sand Dome had pulled ahead - until Greaseball had sent the faster tank engine flying into a tunnel.
"But he might not be training this year," said Rusty. "Leah wants a June wedding, so that takes up time - and Sandy's applied to be part of the steam reserve," he remembered.
Pilot raised an eyebrow. "Steam reserve?"
Rusty jerked a nod, feeling his flame flare with pride. "They are a group of steamers that the government keeps in case of a national emergency or war," he explained. "If electric lines are damaged or they can't fuel the diesel mainliners, these steamers can step in and help out."
"Good for Sand Dome," Ballast beamed. "He's definitely fast enough if an emergency happened."
Rusty felt a smile of his own form. The shunters might have regarded mainliners as a foreign species, but at least they did not hate a locomotive just for being steam powered (unlike some diesel engines he could name). "Well, my whole family have been racers," he could not help bragging. "Poppa raced with my gran when he was younger. My dad raced. My mum's engine brothers raced. Sandy and I both did some racing when we were kids. Won a few times too."
Ballast rested her chipped chin against her gloved hand. "Did you race with the coaches on the train you pulled?" she asked kindly.
Rusty shook his head. "I only pulled a train until I was six. Most of the coaches were older than me and didn't want to race with a kid," he explained. "My mate, Buffy, raced with me once, but she got grit in her eyes from the smoke and wouldn't do it again. Mostly I raced with my van cousins."
Ballast nodded, but Rusty noticed several shunters had looked away or returned to their scrubbings at the mention of his old passenger train. He cleared his throat. "But that was a long, long time ago."
"Well, tell Sandy I wish him luck," Pilot said, starting to slip his headphones back on, but he suddenly stopped, jerking his dark head in a greeting way. "Lo, chief."
Rusty turned and saw Bogey skating toward them, his two way radio in hand, and the shunters around him quickly started to make a greater effort to look busy. "That was Shortstop," Bogey told them. "The freight train is coming in, and they need a hand with uncoupling and unloading."
"Not it," Chainlink said under his breath, and a few others stifled their groans.
Bogey did not seem to hear them. The red haired man looked down at the steamer and the blue she-engine. "Rusty, Lassie, you go."
Ballast gave a fixed smile and started to stand, but Rusty's grip tightened a little on his scrub brush. Unloading the freight train was a chore on its own even without the usual hitching and switching involved. "I still got these rocks to finish up," he said, trying to sound reasonable. "Why not get Pilot to do it? He's just sweeping."
Pilot shook his head, setting the black fringe which hung over his green headband bouncing. "No can do, Steam Man," he said. "I'm leaving early just as soon as Smuts shows up to replace me. I'm helping the Wheel Guides on their field trip to learn about commuter trains at the airport terminal." Pilot often volunteered with the little trains from the toddlers to the teenagers, taking them to the cinema car's theatre or organising them into hockey teams or giving guitar lessons.
"Yeah, we've all gotta pull our own weight, mainliner," Chainlink chimed in.
Rusty bit his tongue. It did little good to argue when his coworkers started to gang up against him. He pushed himself to his wheels, taking a moment to rinse his soapy hands with a water jug and wiping them dry on his untarnished firebox door before stepping back onto the rails with Ballast. The blue shunter went down the track first, and Rusty grabbed the holdings of her black belt - he had learned long ago not to suggest that a shunter link themselves to him unless there was an emergency - and as they started down the hill, Rusty heard strands of Pilot's current song.
"Fly me to the moon. Let me play among the stars…"
Ballast gave a soft chuckle. "Remember when he would only listen to They Might Be Giants?" she asked cheerfully. "Wonder how he got into that old stuff."
"Who knows when it comes to Pilot?" Rusty returned, doing his best to tune the goofball out.
The two shunters reached the freight station just as the train pulled in, all vehicles still in work mode - that phase when rolling stock were cuboid shaped with no hands, face, or feet visible. At the front, Miles the diesel locomotive shifted to racing mode once his human engineer hopped out of his cabin. The locomotive got to his wheeled feet with barely a glance at the shunters, took off his work helmet, and headed toward the fuelling station located in the distance at the traction maintenance depot. At the back Gardner the guard van switched next, but he stayed with the train, pulling out a clipboard to monitor the unloading process.
Shortstop, the muscular blue shunter with the baseball cap covering his black hair, put them on boxcar duty and gave them a (quite unnecessary) reminder not to step on any human truckers who waited by the station for the goods.
Ballast pushed her glasses up her nose and turned to Rusty. "I can shunt while you unload. I can move easier than, well…" Her gray eyes shot to his rusted limbs.
Rusty looked away. "Yeah, I get it."
The two parted. Rusty knelt beside the station platform while Ballast moved to the back and started to push the long line of boxcars, flat cars, and hoppers - longer than usual, Rusty noted with an inward groan. The steamer had to uncoupled the hoppers and send them down the line toward Shortstop to be emptied. The flat cars were the easiest to manage, but the boxcars had to be opened gently, and their goods were to be pulled out and placed on the concrete platform so that the tiny truckers could started moving them into the artics attached to the waiting lorries.
As Rusty opened his sixth boxcar and pulled out what looked like paper products in crates, he found his mind slipping back to the conversation about race night and his sports lineage.
He could remember his own elation as he had watched Sandy and Leah train under Poppa's expert eye. His grandfather might not have stepped onto a race track in decades, but Sandy had improved his natural talent into sheer excellence under the great Ramblin' McCoy's regime. Rusty for his part had done whatever he could to aid Sandy, and he remembered how proud he had felt as he got the honor of being a member of Sandy's crew, not forced to wait on any National engine - and he remembered the thrill of watching Sandy duck and dodge and turn sharp corners that the larger engines struggled with - and how he had screamed himself hoarse as Sandy placed first in his elimination heat, right ahead of the Japanese electric train.
As he unloaded yet another boxcar, Rusty started to think back to his own childhood when he, Sandy, and their boxcar cousins had competed in the youth league. Back then they only raced against other steamer children. He had placed third or second in some events and had actually won a few, and he remembered the pride on his parents' faces as the judges draped a medal around his neck.
If he were honest with himself, he would give anything for the chance to race again - not that he had many opportunities, despite living in the yard where the world championship was held each year. He would be laughed off the rails if he asked Control if he could participate.
Without meaning to, his gaze shifted back toward the rails which led to the race area, and he felt his mechanical heart twist a little.
If only…
"Wake up, mainliner!" a man's voice cut into his thoughts.
Rusty blinked and saw Shortstop glaring at him, arms akimbo, and it took the steamer a moment to realize he had yet to uncouple the large hopper in front of him. He quickly disconnected the holdings and pushed the truck down the line toward the impatient blue shunter, feeling his face heat. "Sorry, Dustin," he mumbled.
Finally free of their cargo, one by one the goods vans stood, resuming their humanoid forms, and began to leave. A few boxcars stopped and thanked the shunters, but most wagons were too busy heading for the food booths after their long journey.
"That didn't take too long," Ballast said companionably once she joined Rusty.
"Hmm," replied Rusty, wiggling his back so that he could hear the water sloshing in his tank. He could do with a refill. He turned his wheels toward the buildings in the distance, where the fuelling station sat next to the food booths; although that area of the traction motor depot had been remodelled to service diesel engines, the old wooden water tower still stood just beyond it.
As he started forward, Ballast rolled beside him, still grinning. "Hey, did you hear that the queen might be sending her Royal Train to compete this year?" she asked excitedly. "She has all those racehorses, you know. I bet her racing engine's gonna be brilliant - she was a mechanic, you know," she added.
Rusty nodded. "Gonna be a lot more security too," he observed, already imagining how frenzied the yard would be in preparation. Wouldn't it be something to race against the Royal Train? His heart quickened a little.
They at last reached the water tower, and Rusty connected the hose to his tank. As the water flowed into him, suddenly he heard a rumbling above their heads which drowned out the surrounding noises of the yard. Rusty looked up to see an aeroplane begin its descent toward the nearby airfield.
Ballast wrinkled her nose. "Noisy things. We'll be hearing a lot from them as humans come flying in for race night."
"They're not all bad," Rusty countered, shielding his eyes against the sun so that he could watch the plane descend. He had sometimes been sent down the commuter line on errands to the airport terminal. The larger aircraft gave the train tracks a clear area, but a few of the planes used by tourists and skydivers would sit by the fence that separated the commuter line from the airfield and chat with the passing rolling stock. "One of the tiny ones gave me a fiver for delivering a letter to the mail train," Rusty told Ballast.
Ballast opened her mouth to reply - and promptly froze.
That was when Rusty realised there was a much stronger smell of diesel in the air than what Ballast's exhaust could produce - along with traces of what could only be bin stench. Rusty tensed and slowly looked over his shoulder. Three engines in black liveries and work helmets stood behind him: the resident binliners who took the waste trains to the landfill.
Tank, the tallest and worst of the three, rolled forward, his small eyes baleful. "You a plane lover, steam train?"
Rusty moved a step back, disconnecting from the hose. The streams of water poured onto the track beneath, but he made no move to turn it off. "Er…"
At his side, Ballast backed away, but Lube, the bulky one, grabbed her blue arm. "What about you, four eyes?" he leered. "You like planes?"
Ballast gave her head a furious shake, setting her ponytail on a frenzied dance, but the stronger locomotive hung onto her.
Rusty held up his hands. "Nobody wants any trouble, Tank," he said carefully, but the pipes in his brains hissed as he weighed his options. Fighting back was out, but maybe if he could make a grab for Ballast, he could start down the line toward Control's tower and safety - but would he be able to run fast enough with Ballast's weight while three unhindered diesels chased them? Well, he would soon find out. "Let's just take it easy, mate."
Tank's lip curled - and in a flash he grabbed the steamer's corroded arm. Rusty bit his cheek as pain shot through his pipes, and he managed not to cry out. "Don't have to be any trouble, mate," Tank answered, "but us real engines don't take to no trains turning on their kind."
Rusty shook his head. "I ain't turnin' on anybody, Tank."
"That's good. 'Cause anything that don't ride on rails ain't our friends, steamer." The binliner's small eyes narrowed further. "Those pipsqueak cars already take away money from passenger trains and freight trains alike. Planes do too. You want planes to put us diesels out of work?"
Rusty forced a disarming smile. "C'mon, aeroplanes ain't ever gonna replace trains in Britain, Tank."
Tank's grip tightened on his arm, and his thumb dug right into his rust. "Maybe, but any pound that doesn't go to the railway is a pound you can't feed yourself with." With his free hand he rapped upon Rusty's forehead. "Think about it, dimwit. Planes have ruined business for trains in other countries, and if that happened here, you'd be the first sent to the scrapyard, Rusty."
"I get it, I get it," Rusty insisted, but his eyes slid to Ballast. If he could just knock away the diesels, maybe they could run...
Tank suddenly looked at the wooden tower's hose with its water still cascading onto the tracks, and a smirk appeared, revealing his stained teeth. "Now, how can we make sure the steam train remembers that?"
"Hey!" came a familiar deep voice, radiating authority.
The diesels paused, and Tank released Rusty. The steamer turned to see Poppa, his wrinkled grandfather, skating toward them, pumping his ageing pistons.
"Leave them alone," Poppa barked, making a sharp brake that would have caused another old train to topple over. "You lads get back to your own work."
Tank scoffed. "We don't have to listen to you, old man," he retorted, but he did not try to grab Rusty again.
Gook, the youngest, punched one fist into his own palm. "Best watch your step, Pops."
Poppa gave Gook a stern glance. "You dent a display train, and Control will take the pounds out of your own pocket to fix me." He then turned, and with a single gyration of his old legs, he stood next to Rusty and Tank. He firmly grabbed his grandson's elbow, pulling him away from the diesel. He then gestured for Ballast to grab his holdings - the shaking shunter did not protest - and with a tug to turn off the tower's hose, he guided the two engines away from the binliners.
Rusty allowed Poppa to push him back toward the freight station, and he heard Tank called after them nastily, "See you around, Rusty!"
"Later, Rusty!" said the other binliners with wicked laughs, which was (thankfully) followed by the sounds of departing wheels.
Once a safe distance stood between the two shunters and the binliners, Poppa braked and gave Rusty's hair a reassuring pat. He then looked over his shoulder at Ballast, who still clung to his couplings like a cat with its claws caught in curtains. "You okay, Lassie?"
Ballast gave a brief nod, but Rusty saw that her gray eyes still stared wildly around.
Rusty moved closer to his coworker. "Do you need to sit down, 'Last?"
"I'm f-f-fine. Just n-need a cuppa oil..." she stammered, pushing away from the two steamers to stagger toward the diesel fuelling area, where Rusty spotted Shortstop and a few other shunters standing, gaping at the scene. As Rusty's gaze fell upon them, they awkwardly went back to their own business, keeping their heads down.
Rusty could not entirely blame them.
"You okay, son?" asked Poppa, touching Rusty's shoulder.
"Yeah, Poppa," Rusty said, rolling in place to puff his pistons in an effort to work off the built up steam pressure. He pursed his lips and allowed some of the steam to escape through his whistle, emitting a low sound. "Whoooo..."
Poppa looked over his shoulder toward where Tank and the other binliners had disappeared, and his brown eyes narrowed. "Takes a real coward to go after women and rusting machines," he muttered.
"They've gone after Walkers who can't outrun them," Rusty pointed out flatly, referring to the rolling stock who had lost their wheels but could not convince Control to spend the money to repair them. "Ain't much the binliners won't do."
A fresh puff of black smoke erupted from Poppa's green hat. "Starlight forgive me, but it's a struggle to like some trains," he said softly, seeming more to speak to himself. He shook his head, sending his smoke in a zigzag.
"What were you doing out this way, Poppa?" Rusty asked, changing the subject. Poppa lived as a display engine in the small area of the yard which served as the heritage railway. The green locomotive had been a racing celebrity in his youth, and that guaranteed him a modest paycheck as tourists and trainspotters came for miles to visit his track.
Poppa turned, and his wrinkled brown face transformed into a glowing beam as he smiled. "On my lunch break and lookin' for you. I got some news you're gonna like, son." He reached behind his shoulder and rummaged in his coal before he withdrew a blackened envelope. "Cousin Sandy's been accepted into the strategic steam reserve."
Immediately Rusty felt the tension in the air evaporate. "I knew he would!" he beamed, pumping a triumphant fist. "He deserves it!"
"Mmm-hmm," agreed Poppa, passing the letter to Rusty. "That's something no diesel can take away from him."
Rusty scanned the page, feeling his smile widen. About time something good happened to someone in the family. "The extra money will make Leah happy too. They'll be able to build a baby a lot sooner."
Poppa nodded, and Rusty saw a new light appear in his brown eyes. "You know, that means there's an opening over on his heritage line now. Maybe you could apply."
Rusty's elation promptly deflated. "If the directors pick anyone, it's gonna be a better kept steamer or even a diesel," he said flatly, passing the letter back.
"You never know," his grandfather returned.
Rusty shook his head. "I'll have better luck winning the world championship race."
"No reason why you can't do that either," Poppa quipped, folding the letter and stuffing it back into the envelope. "Sandy made it to the final when he raced. You're not too different from him."
"I think I'm pretty different, Poppa," Rusty replied, casting a rueful glance at his rusted joints and limbs.
"But the potential is still there," said Poppa, giving his arm a gentle pat. "You're mighty fast, even with your rust. If we could set up a demonstration and show the heritage line how fast you are, they might take a gamble and spiff you right up."
"That's a big gamble."
"You're still a steamer, son. Have faith." He reached back and stuck the envelope back into his tender. "I'll pray about it."
"Sure, you do that, Poppa," Rusty muttered, trying his best to keep as much sarcasm as he could out of his voice.
Poppa then nodded toward the food booths. "I still got some minutes left for my break. You got time for a sandwich?"
Rusty felt his appetite awaken, and his nose suddenly took notice of the smells of cooking meat on the breeze, but he had to shake his head. "Nah, I still got some chores I gotta finish up."
"Maybe I'll get something for your supper before you start your night shift," Poppa suggested, giving a departing wave. As the elderly engine headed toward the queues of rolling stock waiting for food, Rusty heard his deep voice singing, "Nobody can do it like a steam train…"
Rusty spun away, heading toward the shed where cleaning supplies were kept, intending to knock off his daily task of checking the landscape for rubbish from his to do list. However, he could not completely push Poppa's words from his mind, although he knew they were foolish. He had sometimes daydreamed of entering the championship - who didn't? - but his racing days had died a long time ago. Unless Control lost his marbles and ordered full refurbishments for all his neglected vehicles, Rusty doubted he would be experiencing a grand comeback anytime soon.
No harm in dreaming, he thought wistfully. A dream was all it could ever be anyway.
Yet even as his mind kept listing all the reasons why he could never join a real race, a tiny part of him remembered again the competitions of his youth: the wind against his synthetic skin, the braggadocios banter Sandy and he had engaged in, and that delicious warmth, born of steam, coursing through his pipes as he charged ahead of the other young steamers.
The supply shed came into view, and he could see a few work trucks milling about, but his imagination soon took over, and all he could see was himself on Control's race track. He would run neck and neck against the record holders like the French TGV, the Japanese bullet train, and even that rotten diesel, Greaseball. Then at the last second, Rusty would pull ahead, leaving them all behind, and zoom across the finish line to cheers from an adoring crowd. The shunters would stare in awe and admiration. The binliners would be humbled. Control would offer to refurbish him and give him his own passenger train. Or maybe Sandy's heritage railway would take notice of him, and he could move to a new yard where steam trains were welcomed and where binliners couldn't bother him. Or maybe the strategic steam reserve would recruit him.
His flame grew a little at the thought.
If Sandy can do it, why can't I? Sandy might have had more experience, but they were the same model of tank engine with the same number of wheels. Rusty knew he was fast, and if he could just prove himself, surely he could apply for refurbishment, right?
Couldn't hurt just to ask somebody if they want to race, he told himself. If I can get a partner, then I could have a chance.
"Very funny," sniffed Buffy the buffet car, returning to her cutting board with a shake of her brunette head. "You really had me going there, sugar."
"I'm not joking, Buff," Rusty insisted, maneuvering around the counter to stand in front of his friend. He had waited three hours for his first shift to end to talk with her, and he was not about to back down. "Don't you want to be the partner of the next steam champion?"
The yellow carriage looked up again from the turkey sandwich she was slicing diagonally, and she pointed the tip of her knife at him. "If you're looking to flirt with death, steam boy, you can try jumping off a cliff. Would be a lot faster and involve less heartache for Poppa."
"I'm not gonna die, Buff," he said, rolling his eyes. "We just go from the start line to the finish line. No big deal. Even Poppa could do that."
Buffy pursed her lips. She was the only remaining friend he had from the old days. Although they had been built six months apart, Buffy had come from a factory and had been better maintained than the home built steamer, both in their old yard and now by Control. While decidedly more feminine than when she had gone through her tomboy phase, Buffy's appearance reflected a practicality that had never lent itself to the frills and polish of first class carriages: she resembled a car hop waitress from the 1950s with a tiny yellow hat with rivets upon her brown hair, yellow cabins lined with blue on her shoulders, a glass display case on her chest, and yellow short trousers above legs painted white. In their youth, Buffy had ridden behind him on their passenger train and had seen firsthand how fast he could go, but as her brown eyes traveled his rusted dungarees, she seemed to see only a slow shunter that time had forgotten.
"So, you think it'll be a piece of cake then?" she frowned. "Then do you remember Greaseball?"
"Vividly," he said through his teeth.
"That handsome hunk don't play around, you know," Buffy reminded him, tapping her knife against the cutting board. "Remember Dinah, the coach he brought last year? She might have looked cute and dainty, but she was able to give Espresso's brother what for when he tried to trip her in the final."
"I'm pretty good at ducking when I need to."
She shook her head, and her brown eyes softened a little. "Rusty, this isn't like when we were kids and you wore that blue costume because you wanted to be the TARDIS when you grew up," she said, and a plea slipped into her voice. "If you do this and lose, they'll laugh at you for the rest of your life."
Rusty planted both palms on the table. "But if I win, Buff, then I can finally make something of myself," he said. "I can leave this yard forever."
Buffy looked away and reached for a slice of bread.
He tried a different route. "We can at least try one training session, couldn't we? If I can't do it, then I'll… then you don't have to race with me after all."
Her lips thinned, and she continued to work on the sandwich in silence for what felt like several moments. "I'll think about it," she finally answered as she folded a slice of turkey in half.
"That's all I ask for, Buff."
Buffy rolled her yellow shoulders. "Get going now. I still have work to do." She topped the sandwich with the other piece of bread.
Rusty could not help the smirk that appeared on his face. "And you're worried about me getting hurt. What about your customers?" he cracked.
Buffy gave him a small grin in return. "Get going, or I'll give you the leftover egg salad for your dinner."
"I'm leaving! I'm leaving!" laughed Rusty, hurrying out of the food booth and into the bright sunshine.
Rusty gave his pistons a cheerful pump, chugging down the rails. "Nobody can do it like a steam train," he hummed. Buffy might have been hesitant, but once she got a chance to see him steaming at top speed, she would see things his ways.
He quickly tried to calculate how much time a week he could spare for training. He usually pulled double shifts with five hours to spare for sleeping plus meal breaks. Of course, he had not had a day off for either shift for almost a fortnight, but if he trained in that free hour between his shifts, that gave him a grand total of...
His face fell, and his pistons slowed. Even if he did get Buffy on board, he did not have near enough time to train before the race. He would look like a fool if he tried to go up against National champions who had whole months to prepare.
Am I finished before I even start?
He passed the edge of the coach yard. He could see carriages sunbathing, chatting, or even napping in work mode, and suddenly a movement caught his eye. He turned his head to see that a short male coach stood beside the nearest shed, shuffling through what looked like letters. A pair of square glasses sat upon his thin brown nose, and his metal body had been designed to resemble a postman's uniform, complete with a cap upon his dark hair which read MAIL and a stripe of paint which resembled a necktie. Rusty recognised him at once as Travis, that unpleasant car from the Travelling Post Office.
Rusty picked up his pace and covered his chimney to smother the warm smoke in attempt to remain inconspicuous. Don't make eye contact. Don't make eye contact -
"You, steam train!" barked a nasal voice.
Rusty braked with reluctance. "Yeah?"
Travis rolled toward him. "I require a shunter to the airport terminus. Care to assist me?" he asked in a tone that said this was not a request.
"Well, I'm not on the clock right now - " Rusty started to say, but Travis cut him off.
"Every time I need a shunter, they're always vanishing. I have a schedule to keep too, you know," the male coach said impatiently.
"I'm not on the clock right now," Rusty tried again, "but you can just leave the post here, and we can deliver it for you. Then you can be on your way." Far, far away.
Travis adjusted his square glasses, and his brown eyes grew sterner. "Tell me, shunter, are you a registered piece of rolling stock for the Rail Express Systems Travelling Post Office?"
Rusty exhaled. "No, I'm not."
"Then you're scarcely qualified, m'lad." Travis pointed toward the airport's commuter line. "Right, let's be off. Or I shall file a complaint with the management."
Rusty unwillingly turned and allowed the postal car to hitch behind him.
"Of course I would get the one shunter with a chimney," Travis coughed. "Not that diesel fumes wouldn't hurt the brain cells if machines had them. Have you tried burning wood?"
Rusty cast a glance toward the nearby field and paved areas. Any tree that had not been cleared to make room for rail tracks, road, or buildings was too small and scarce for proper fuelling. "No, it never occurred to me. Thank you for the suggestion."
He heard Travis make a scoff. "Don't get smart, lad. I'm ready, willing, and able to pass my comments onto your superior."
Rusty gritted his teeth. Just grin and bear it, Rusty. He picked up the pace, and the smoke erupted from his chimney full force, causing Travis to sputter again.
"Watch it now!" the TPO car snapped.
The airfield steadily grew closer, and Rusty spotted a few of the tiny aeroplanes rolling among the hangars. They resembled trains in racing mode and had wheels on their feet, but they had wings protruding from their backs. A few stopped to give curious looks at the rusted steamer chugging past and whispered to each other.
As he neared the railway station, Rusty spotted the troop of Wheel Guides playing at the end of the line while the commuter train, the red Poppy sisters, supervised. While rolling stock had the physical appearance of adults their whole lives, one could always spot a train child from their puerile mannerisms and the innocent look in their artificial eyes - of course, in the case of the Wheel Guides, it helped that the girls sported neck scarves and sashes with badges over their normal railway attire.
Rusty braked, and the mail car uncoupled. "Don't go anywhere," Travis warned before he spun and started for the hangars where the aeroplanes lived.
Rusty settled against the fence which separated the tracks from the planes' domain, drumming his callused fingers. I'm not even getting paid for any of this.
However, before he could start to brood over his stolen free time, a cheerful voice called out, "Rusty!"
He turned to see Carmen the chair car, one of the leaders for Wheel Guides, rolling toward him with what looked like a bin bag. She had purple paint and cropped lavender hair which was mostly hidden by her troop leader hat. "Nice to see you, Rusty," she greeted, grinning.
He returned the smile. "What's new?"
She gestured toward the little trains. "Our tour of the airfield ran a little late, and we only just finished our picnic," she said. "I have to get the girls back to the yard, and the Poppy sisters offered to pull us home. Could you toss this for me?" She held up the bin bag.
"Sure," Rusty replied before he frowned. "Where's Pilot?" The shunter might have been a goofball, but he was pretty responsible when children were involved.
"One of the planes asked for his help," Carmen explained, giving a small shake of her lavender head. "I guess he must have lost track of the time, bless him." She pointed toward a nearby building. "I think I saw a skip bin over by that hangar."
Rusty nodded, and as the purple coach started back toward her energetic charges, he swung himself over the fence and placed an experimental step upon the pavement. So weird, he thought, wondering how aeroplane wheels managed without rails.
However, he got the hang of it quickly, and he soon reached the hangar. He rolled toward the back, now stepping on grass and gravel. As he reached the last window, he suddenly heard the familiar baritone of Sinatra. Rusty rolled his eyes. Well, there was one of life's mysteries solved.
He rounded the corner to see Pilot standing with a pretty female plane roughly his height. The two seemed to be having an animated conversation as Sinatra sang about fingers in his hair and sly come hither stares. The music streamed happily from a radio in the aeroplane's blue hand, which clearly belonged to her. Rusty noticed that the she-plane had two wings that protruded from a piece of metal that resembled a backpack - a monoplane, he told himself - and she had been painted white with blue stripes, and blue and white streaks decorated her tan face. A piece of white metal wrapped around her head in what looked an aviator's cap, and a pair of goggles sat atop it.
Rusty had no desire to draw attention to himself, and he moved toward the skip bin as quietly as his rusted limbs allowed, hoping they would not detect the smell of his coal smoke. He opened the lid of the bin and gently placed the bag inside - and suddenly Pilot ceased his habitual strumming and leaned forward, planting his green lips against the aeroplane's blue ones.
The skip bin lid fell from Rusty's hand and clattered.
The two machines instantly started and whirled around. The plane's eyes widened, and she clutched the shunter's green arm. Pilot opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The colour seemed to drain from his tan face.
Rusty took a step back. "Was just leaving," he managed to say before he spun on his wheels and sped off.
A/N:
The strategic steam reserve (SSR): During the Cold War, some European countries put aside some steam locomotives in case of national emergency. Regarding the UK, Wikipedia says, "The alleged British 'Strategic Reserve' is a potent and frequently recurring urban myth amongst railway enthusiasts... Following the complete withdrawal of mainline steam traction in 1968, the myth persisted for decades that a reserve of locomotives had been retained for such a strategic purpose. As no official reserve existed, nor was any reserve obviously visible, this encouraged many fanciful explanations for where the reserve might be hidden, usually in some tunnel or mine. One theory even claimed that the growing steam preservation movement was itself the Strategic Reserve." So, while the UK's SSR might be a myth, this is a fanfic with talking trains, so I think I can get away with some artistic license. ;)
Binliners: While there's little indication of what the diesel gang does for day jobs, with names like Tank, Lube, and Gook, they probably aren't pulling the Royal Train. As I was looking up information on British diesel engines, I came across binliner trains, and I knew I wanted to use it. (No, I'm not saying they are the binliner trains. I kinda imagine Control in a real-train AU "collecting" rolling stock, hence why the coaches wear different colors instead of a single livery.)