Joule promptly burst into laughter at the sight of them, and the red truck was obliged to hang onto Ruhrgold's broad shoulders for support.
"Don't lose a lung," Wrench said coolly as the dynamite truck's electronic guffaws echoed through the tunnel, causing the racers in front of Joule, including her German partner, to cover their ears.
Rusty shifted uncomfortably and turned his attention to the tunnel wall, seeming to be absorbed with the cracks in the cinder blocks.
Finally, Joule raised her red-and-blonde head. Her blue eyes had a hint of tears as she gave Wrench a smirk. "Did you lose a bet?"
Wrench ignored her and readjusted her grip to make sure she did not touch the rust on her partner's couplers.
Joule clung to her partner's thick arm, still amused, and laid a hand against her exposed hip. She had been an animal truck on a circus train before Electra had seen how well she had handled the lions and tigers. He had hired her to oversee his own menagerie of exotic pets — at least until Electra had grown bored with his collection and had refurbished her into a dynamite truck. Joule still wore the tight red leotard and red-and-white wig from her old life, even though she was a computerized car now.
"If you wanted Electra's attention, you're gonna get it, girlfriend," she snickered. Beside her, the blond ICE car gave the steamer a contemptuous glance.
"Schwächling," was all Ruhrgold said before he examined his green helmet.
Ahead of Ruhrgold, Turnov and Kasha turned to look at the newcomers. Both glared at the steam engine yet said nothing — though Wrench was sure she saw the engine flex his large fist.
At the front the brown smoking car uncoupled from Bobo and stepped closer to the newcomers. "Rusty, go home before you hurt yourself," she pleaded.
In response Rusty focused on polishing the tarnished chimney of his helmet.
"Let him make his own mistakes, mon chouchoute," Bobo told his carriage, taking her by the hand and drawing her close.
"Real popular, aren't you?" Wrench said out the corner of her mouth.
"Nothing I'm not used to," he muttered back.
Then again, Wrench reflected, all of these men were the champions of their countries, and Bobo had broken a few speed records. Who was a steam-powered switcher next to them?
Soon Control began to call them out, and Rusty moved forward after the rest.
"Point of no return," he said wryly over his shoulder. "Thanks for not bailing."
"Just keep your eyes ahead, steam train," Wrench advised. Not that it would help him much.
Rusty pulled Wrench around the loop after the others, acknowledging the audience with an embarrassed wave, though few of the cheers seemed to be for him.
As they rolled along the tracks, Wrench thought of what Joule had said. No doubt Electra would be watching somewhere, checking out the competition, and he would see her trailing behind an old, crumbling engine.
But I'm doing this FOR him, she told the inward cringe that arose. Electra was worth every humiliation.
Finally, they reached the start line and took their place on Ruhrgold's left. As the racers strapped on their helmets, Wrench met Joule's eyes and promptly jerked her head toward the Russian dining car on the dynamite truck's other side. Joule quirked a riveted eyebrow — and then understanding appeared on her painted face. Followed by a smirk.
Control began the countdown. "Three... Two... One! Trains go-o-one!"
Rusty shot forward just as Wrench heard the clash of metal. As they rounded the first bend, Wrench looked back to see Kasha on her knees on the start line, clutching her face, while Joule shrieked with laughter, already off with the speeding Ruhrgold.
Wrench saw Rusty reach over his shoulder, pawing for a piece of coal, and she quickly pushed a lump into his fingers. His hand disappeared, and she heard his firebox open. Suddenly, the smoke from his racing helmet increased, as did his speed.
He's doing this. He's actually doing this, she thought in disbelief as they sailed down the rails, weaving around the other racers. Instead of dragging leagues behind at the back, the corroded locomotive was holding his own: sometimes taking the lead, sometimes swerving to the side to avoid blows from the more muscular racers, but he somehow managed not to stray even once into fourth place.
Of course, it helped that Wrench had struck a few blows at the other three racers and the two coaches. She had felt a deep satisfaction when she had managed to send Kasha into a lamppost.
Wrench kept her head low to avoid the dark smoke spewing from Rusty's chimney, but even with her head practically using his dirty tender as a pillow, she had a good idea of where the other racers were. Joule had already caused Bobo the TGV to backtrack after she uncoupled the smoking car from his belt. Ruhrgold had the lead now with Turnov chasing him — but Rusty was quickly gaining. His arms pumped harder as the force of his pistons increased, and within moments Rusty was next to Joule. Then Ruhrgold.
— And suddenly, a familiar striped arm came up and knocked Rusty into the guardrail Turnov immediately pulled the staggering switcher toward him, and — still rolling — the electric engine began to slam his fist into the corroded helmet.
"That's for Kasha, durak!"
"Borya, nyet!" Kasha cried, tugging at his shoulder.
Wrench did not stop to think. She grabbed Kasha's couplings, yanking the coach backwards — Kasha gave a sharp squeal — and Wrench sent a kick at Turnov's striped leg.
The electric engine stumbled and fell to his knees, releasing Rusty — and within moments Turnov's bulky form was far behind the speeding steamer.
"BORIS!" Kasha's shriek echoed above the rush of wind in Wrench's ears, and as Rusty turned the bend, she caught sight of the dining car dropping beside her engine.
Now, they were charging down the slope. Bobo had caught up to them at last, and he pushed past Ruhrgold. Joule swung another fist toward the smoking car, but the coach ducked out of reach — unfortunately, the TGV could not escape the blow from the ICE. The two men began to punch each other, allowing Rusty to maneuver around them and pull to the lead.
With her face next to the tender, Wrench saw Joule twist her head toward them. She immediately yanked at Ruhrgold to pull back, but as Rusty neared the bottom of the hill, Wrench saw the blue arm of Bobo shoot out, connecting with Ruhrgold's chin, and the TGV was on the move after them.
The last tunnel loomed ahead, and Rusty increased his power.
They zoomed through the opening — a brief bit of darkness — and now the figure of a track marshal waved the checkered flag and—
Control's astonished voice exploded above them: "Winner of Heat Two: Rusty the steamer! With Bobo in second place! Rusty and Bobo have a place in the final!"
He actually won.
Completely thunderstruck, Wrench straightened and stared at the back of her partner's head as they coasted along the track. Rusty removed his helmet to reveal brown hair drenched in sweat. Though he was panting, Rusty picked up speed again and punched the air, practically bouncing on his wheels as he made a wide loop in front of the crowd — ahead of a record-holding TGV.
Her mechanics professor would never believe this.
The cheers of the gathered rolling stock brought her back to reality. Wrench quickly raised a hand to the crowd as cameras began to flash — though she noted that most of the applause seemed to be for Bobo rolling behind her.
And that means less competition for Electra.
The shock immediately abated, and a small smirk tugged on her red lips. That was right. She had personally taken out Turnov, and Ruhrgold would not be going into the final. Electra only had to worry about Greaseball and Bobo now — and one steam engine, of course.
But Rusty wouldn't have won if the others hadn't gotten into a fight, she told herself. Still, if she could take out Bobo in the final — or better yet Greaseball — it would go a long way toward getting back into Electra's good graces. Going with Rusty was looking more and more like the best thing she had done that night.
The two finalists and their partners completed their loop before going in opposite directions. Rusty pulled Wrench off to the side, out of sight of the audience. They rolled past several marshals, and Wrench could see that beneath their switcher helmets they wore expressions of pure astonishment. Rusty just waved to his gaping coworkers, laughing good-naturedly.
"Not bad for a switch engine!" he called. He handed his helmet to a marshal for safekeeping and retrieved the cap which he had stuffed inside his tender.
They soon reached a bridge, and finally Rusty twisted out of Wrench's grip, jerking so fast that his coal rattled. He spun to face her, beaming with a smile brighter than his firebox.
"That was awesome!" he whooped, throwing up his arms.
"Congratulations, partner," Wrench said, letting camaraderie seep into her electronic voice.
His boyish grin widened, causing his hazel eyes to twinkle. He looked like he wanted to hug her — fortunately, he did not. Instead he held out his fist to bump wheels.
"Thanks for going with me, Wrench. I couldn't have done it without you."
For some reason that made a ghost of a smile appear on the repair truck's face, and she coupled her knuckle to his.
"No, you couldn't," she replied, causing him to chuckle. It was strangely pleasant to hear, she could not help noticing — and brushed that thought aside.
"You were awesome back there," he added, giving her an admiring look. "I never seen a girl take down an engine like that before. I thought Turnov was gonna punch clear through the helmet!" he declared, gesturing in the air.
"Yeah, not bad for a woman, steam train," she corrected, holding her silver-and-red arms akimbo — but her annoyance flickered away just as soon as it had come. After all, she recognized a sincere compliment when she heard it, and it worked for her mission to stay on Rusty's good side.
"You were amazing too," she returned. "I don't think even Greaseball could handle those turns the way you did."
"Nope!" he chirped.
The crane car shook her head in amazement.
"You trained all year for this, and you didn't plan for a partner?" she asked, incredulous. "You didn't honestly wait until the last minute, did you?"
The twinkle vanished before she had even finished speaking — as did his smile. He looked away.
"I did have a partner," he replied uncomfortably. "She just… didn't want to race with me no more."
Wrench snorted, folding her arms.
"Bet she wishes now that she could be with a finalist," she cracked.
He grimaced.
"She is with a finalist," he said quietly.
Wrench frowned.
"The smoking car?" she guessed, remembering how the brown coach had pleaded for him to leave the race. She certainly looked old enough to be from the steamer's generation.
Rusty, however, shook his head, still not meeting her gaze.
Wrench furrowed her brow — and then she looked at him sharply. Besides Greaseball's dining car, there was only one other coach in the final.
"Pearl."
Rusty nodded.
An image of that wobbly bimbo on Electra's holdings flashed across her mind — the same glittery coach who had forced the superstar into second place.
"Barbie was supposed to go with you?"
He turned his head, narrowing his eyes. "Don't call her that."
Wrench gaped at him.
"How did you ever land a first-class carriage?" she asked, trying to imagine Pearl's gold paint and silver trim behind such a crusty museum piece.
"I asked nicely," he replied with a wry smile — which then vanished with a sigh. "Guess she just thought electricity is faster now."
Well, it is, she wanted to point out, but something about his somber expression held her tongue — not that she cared a thing for some stranger's broken heart, she told herself.
"I guess you showed her then," she said finally.
However, he shook his head.
"I don't want to 'show' her anything. Once I win, she'll—" He stopped short, growing pink.
Wrench snorted.
"...Come rushing into your arms to declare her undying love?" she guessed.
The pink morphed into red.
"Oh, shut up," he mumbled. He started forward with a sharp pump of his pistons.
Wrench grabbed his couplers, and they started toward what resembled the classification yard in the distance, no doubt to head to Rusty's own shed. He must not have gotten a reserved track like the other racers.
Wrench shook her head in amazement as she studied the back of his brown head. A switcher who was not a switcher that was also fast and had attracted a first-class coach. This guy was just full of surprises.
No wonder he had looked like someone had dumped motor oil in his breakfast, she thought, remembering the conflicted expression on his sunkissed face when he had caught sight of her earlier — and how it had taken an eleventh-hour frenzy to make him ask the repair truck who worked for his romantic rival to replace the woman he lost.
Then an image flashed across her mind, and once again she saw the dreamy expression of Pearl's pretty visage when Electra had pulled her to the starting line. She had loathed the sight then, but now — for some unfathomable reason — a twinge of sympathy for the steam engine rose up inside the repair truck.
She promptly banished it. Electra had needed a coach for the first heat, and if he had not gotten Pearl, then he would have fired Purse. It was tough luck for Rusty, but it was not her problem.
Of course, she brooded, the irony of this situation was that if Electra had not taken Pearl, the electric would have won his heat while Rusty would have been lucky to place second with his inexperienced carriage slowing him down.
Their path now ran between the truss supports of the bridge which held the tracks that led into the hills. However, they had not gone even six feet past when there came a medley of voices from the rails above them.
Rusty jerked around, uncoupling Wrench with that motion. A look of panic crossed his face. "Oh, no..."
Wrench spun, tensing as she looked up — and immediately felt confused.
Five or six diesel engines, faces hidden by their illuminated helmets, zipped down the upper levels, hooting and slapping each other. Right in the front — her heart skipped a beat — rolled Greaseball. The polished E9 locomotive stood out among the plainer engines like a light in the darkness. From his greased hair to the leather-like design of his black paint and eye-catching yellow metal, he looked like a living time capsule from days gone by. His massive frame was endowed with muscles which had obviously been developed above and beyond factory standards.
Suddenly, Rusty's tarnished hands were on her shoulders, pushing her back toward the bridge.
"Hide," he hissed.
Wrench jerked away. "What—"
"Just do it!" he ordered and spun on his wheels, pumping his arms wildly as he sped in the opposite direction.
Wrench did not move — but she saw, as if in one synchronized movement, the helmeted heads of Greaseball's companions turn toward the speeding steamer. A whoop of wicked glee erupted from the pack, and they pointed oily hands toward him, hissing among themselves.
Greaseball turned as well. Though his sunglasses blocked his expression, he gave his friends a thumbs up, and he led the way down the slope.
Rusty did not even get as far as the next semaphore. The diesels surrounded him in moments — and none of them had a kind look for the steamer.
Without knowing that she was doing it, Wrench started toward them.
As she neared, she saw that Greaseball had removed his sunglasses, revealing a pair of blue orbs which had been voted Sexiest Eyes in many coaches' magazine — only now they had none of the warmth seen in the publicity photos.
"Well, looky-looky what we got here," he snickered, slapping Rusty on the shoulder — right on a damaged patch. "Rust Bucket did alright for himself, didn't he, Tank?"
"Sure did, Grease," the engine next to him replied, giving the gang's prey a shove. "Widdle Wusty beat big bad Bobo all by himself. No Poppa to hold his hand."
Rusty staggered, and he got too close to another locomotive, who shoved him into another diesel.
"You didn't go so fast back at the Christmas race. Think he's gonna choke, big bro?" the one who pushed him mocked, and through the pilot of his helmet, he flashed the steamer a smile that revealed missing teeth.
"I think so, Gook," the one named Tank replied, and he pushed Rusty away as the steamer was passed back to him.
"How come you ain't never outrun us, steam train?" another asked.
"Lube's got a point there, Slow Man," Greaseball agreed, grabbing Rusty by the collar and yanking him near, almost causing him to lose his balance. "Why you never put up much fight around us?"
"Maybe he likes it," Gook mocked, smacking Rusty's other side. "We're probably the closest he gots to any friends."
Greaseball yanked Rusty's collar again, and the steamer made a strangled sound.
"Is that true, Slow Man?" he taunted. "You want us to be your friends?"
Rusty clenched his jaw, but his hazel eyes darted from side to side — and landed on Wrench. A look of horror crossed his sooty face. Suddenly, he turned to Greaseball.
"Why?" he asked in a loud, awkward voice that had an obnoxious bite which did not quite match his expression. "Is your ma too busy to play?"
Greaseball's stunning blue eyes became like daggers.
"Why, you little — " He drew back his fist.
Everything inside Wrench told her to leave and go back to Electra; she did not know what was happening, but it clearly was none of her business.
So, she did not understand why she sauntered closer, adopting an easy gait which belied her thundering circuits, and took on a sultry voice: "My, my, the great Greaseball himself! Where is a camera when you need one?"
The diesel engine whirled around. "Uh, hey."
He slung a muscular arm around Rusty's shoulders.
"Just messing with my buddy here. Ain't that right, Rusty?" he asked, giving the steamer a glare that dared him to deny it.
Wrench moved closer, and the gang of diesels drew back to allow her access to the celebrity. She laid a hand on his free arm.
"I'm a huge fan," she cooed, mimicking the tone Joule often used on her conquests, and ran her fingers against his rivets. "Talk about a diesel engine," she quipped, pretending to admire his muscles — which suddenly were not as appealing as they had been an hour ago. "And I thought Krupp was the one who had all the guns."
Greaseball's chest inflated. He released Rusty, who scooted away, and ran a hand through his well-groomed hair.
"You sure got taste, toots," he grinned, lowering his eyelids in a smoldering stare. "How did a pretty wagon like you wind up hanging around a spark plug and a tea kettle?"
Wrench ignored the insult aimed at Electra and slid her hands over the exposed metal of his bulging pecs, burying her fingers beneath his black vest.
"Not much variety in the race, is there?" she returned, meeting his blue eyes. "You're the only diesel tonight. At least, the only diesel that matters."
His smile widened.
Her gaze shifted to Rusty. She gave the smallest jerk of her head, indicating for him to move, but the engine seemed to be rooted in one spot, staring at her in disbelief. Wrench smoothly turned back to Greaseball.
"I have never seen an E9 engine in person," she purred, pretending to ogle his broad shoulders now. "I just love seeing the bulldog nose on your racing helmet when I watch you on television. To think I might get to see it up close tonight!"
His hand found her waist. "Well, I can let you see a whole lot more after the race if you want."
A hoot went through the nearby diesels, but they made an effort to smother it, not wanting to encroach upon the champion's flirting. Wrench's red mouth widened.
"It's just so nice to see retired rolling stock still chugging away on the railroads," she said, batting her eyes. "You're an inspiration to all us youngsters."
The rolling stock went silent. Rusty's jaw dropped.
Greaseball's hand twitched against her side, and he slowly removed it.
Wrench patted his arm.
"It's so generous of the Union Pacific to allow their older pieces of rolling stock to enter the race year after year," she said sweetly. "Most companies would just send the newest engine, but don't mess with the classics, right?"
She squinted at his famous face. "Why, you must be just a year or two younger than Rust Bucket over there. Do you ever race against the other museum pieces in the off season? I'm sure the world would love to see you race against one of those Big Boys. Geezer versus geezer."
Greaseball's smile became decidedly tight. "Best mind what you say, toots."
Wrench gave him a sugar-coated smile. "Ever see a woman wire a man's jaw shut in under three minutes, pumpkin?"
There came a clank of metal, and Rusty was immediately by the repair truck's side.
"Leave her alone, Greaseball," he ordered, putting a rusted arm between them as if he could hope to shield the car from the muscular engine.
Greaseball snorted. "Yeah, right."
One hand pushed against the shorter man's forehead, and Rusty stumbled, almost knocking into Wrench. Greaseball drew back a few steps, replacing his sunglasses.
"Since I like the look of your face, babe, I'm gonna give you a piece of advice," he said. "Just remember that I know which corners of the race track don't have cameras."
Wrench did not even blink. "And I know the phone numbers of a lot of newspapers, doll."
However, before anyone could do anything else, a deep steam whistle sounded out.
"You step away from them right now!" a booming voice hollered.
Wrench whirled around to see an old steam engine decked in brown paint charging toward them. Hitched behind him were three boxcars with the distinct build and garbs of professional pugilists.
Greaseball gave the newcomer a sneer. "We ain't doing nothing, Pops."
The steamer braked in front of the tall locomotive, and the boxcars uncoupled. The three trucks stood nose-to-nose with the other diesels, daring them to cross their makeshift line to get to the two steamers.
"You go and get, boy," the old man barked. "Or I'll tell Control. He'll listen to me, just watch!"
Greaseball's expression did not change, but he turned away, snapping his fingers, and his gang moved away from the boxcars.
"Remember what I said, babe," he said over his shoulder before he headed down the open line.
Only when the gang disappeared into a tunnel did Rusty finally let out a breath, slumping his shoulders. "That was close."
"We showed them," one of the boxcars smirked, and his identical brothers pumped the air, grunting in agreement.
The elderly steamer turned to the younger. "You okay, son?"
"Yeah, Poppa," he replied, and his shaking hand popped a piece of coal into his firebox.
The other man wagged a finger at him. "You just ran a race, boy. Refill your water tank before you boil up anymore."
The old man glanced at Wrench — and did a double take. A wide smile just as cheerful as Rusty's appeared on his wrinkled features.
"And who's this?" he asked, touching the brim of his cap.
"Wrench," she replied, giving the old man a quick glance. He was dressed in overalls like Rusty, but that was where the similarities ended. His brown face was lined with the shadow of a white beard, and he was clearly in better condition, though his brown paint had faded. Wrench caught sight of a decal for the Kansas City Central on the front of his cap.
"Poppa McCoy," the steamer replied, not even blinking at her electronic voice. "How do you know Rusty?" he asked, and he gave the younger steamer a knowing smile.
Wrench promptly stepped away from the rusted switcher.
"I went with him in the race," she said briskly.
"She was great," Rusty put in, and she heard a note of pride. "Totally took down Turnov like a pro." He punched the air for emphasis.
A look of concern, mingled with confusion, crossed Poppa's weathered face. "Where's Pearl?"
Rusty coughed into his tarnished hand. "She's with someone else."
Poppa blinked.
"She wouldn't play?" he asked, as if he were talking of little children sharing toys instead of competing in the biggest night of the year. Then he seemed to dismiss the thought and smiled at Wrench again.
"Well, thanks for going with him on such short notice. I taught that boy everything he knows," he added proudly, giving Rusty's shoulder a light punch.
"Not that it's helped him much," one of the boxcars teased.
Poppa hushed the truck before he addressed the other engine. "Now, you go on and fill your water tank before the final, son. Can't make steam on an empty boiler."
"Yes, sir," Rusty deferred and turned to Wrench. He grinned. "Wanna come?"
"Might as well," Wrench replied, hitching on. No point in hanging around here.
Rusty gave the older man a wave and kicked off, leading Wrench down a line that seemed to be going far away from the direction which Greaseball had taken. They had not gone far when he suddenly said, reproachfully, "I told you to hide."
Wrench shrugged, even though he could not see it. Typical engine. Thinking a truck could not take care of herself, as if a lack of motor power equated a lack of muscles.
"I know plenty of electrics who are tougher than them," she replied, indifferent. "They don't scare me."
He shook his head. "And folks say I'm crazy."
"Didn't you just brag about how well I took down Turnov?" she reminded him.
"This is different." After a moment, he looked over his shoulder and asked, "Do you really know the numbers of newspapers?"
"No, but I can find out," she returned. "So can you."
He gave a hollow laugh. "Wouldn't solve much. Nobody would believe some rusted, steam-powered switcher over the reigning champion."
"You could still cause a stir," Wrench countered.
She had seen plenty of T.V. footage of Greaseball delivering punches during a race, and yet he had always seemed so charismatic and approachable in the sports interviews. She would have never guessed he was someone who went around tormenting weaker rolling stock for fun. Her hands tightened on Rusty's couplings. Suddenly, she hoped Electra's victory would be extra humiliating for the diesel engine.
"He can't get away with that kind of behavior," she insisted. "You should tell Control."
Rusty shook his head again and cracked, "You must be new."
The squat wooden water tower stood beside a weed-infested track, illuminated by a flickering yellow light. It had certainly seen better days, Wrench thought as Rusty braked beside it.
The steamer reached over his shoulder to touch his tender, and Wrench saw him open metal doors on what had to be his water tank. He then took hold of the long pipe at the base of the wooden tower and brought it down, and he fiddled with it to align the end with the gaping mouth of his tender.
Wrench reached up and grabbed the pipe, guiding it into place — more to see how it worked than anything else. She raised herself up to her front wheels to peer inside the tank, and she caught the hint of sloshing water reflecting the faintest rays of the artificial light. Rusty smiled his thanks and pulled the cord to start the flow of water.
"I've been working on the railroad each and every day," he hummed. "I've been working on the railroad, and I do it for low pay."
How could he be so calm after what he went through? Wrench regarded his happy grin. If it had been Electra, he would have called up his lawyer and made a fuss until the media picked it up and hounded Greaseball for a lifetime.
Wrench knitted her brow. She had often heard tales from the electric engines of the treatment they received at the hands of diesel engines. The rolling stock back home were only too happy to remind everyone how electric trains were now hounded on tracks that had once been their domain. However, tonight had been the first time she had seen it up close — and from a celebrity of all trains.
She stepped in front of Rusty.
"You know," she said, meeting his hazel eyes, "you can tell someone what Greaseball does to you. I'm sure there are some conservative rolling stock out there who will root for a steamer."
"Maybe. Maybe not," he replied, not convinced. "Not really my style."
"Doesn't mean you should be his punching bag," she countered, placing her hands on her silver hips. "I don't have much love for diesels myself, you know. Especially for one that beats on electric engines every year. Greaseball can't get away with this."
Rusty shook his head. "It's not that easy, Wrench." He exhaled, and for a moment the boyish features were replaced by a tired, jaded expression that made him seem much older.
"What's the saying? 'He's no hero to his valet'?" he asked dryly. "Let's just say that even the track marshals are afraid of him and his gang. That's why he gets away with so much in the race — that, and he's Control's favorite," he added darkly. His fingers creaked as his hands clenched. "I ain't afraid or nothin', but I ain't stupid enough to pick a losing fight. Greaseball only understands action. Once I win the race, that'll show him."
"But what if you don't win?" she returned as an image of her superstar flying over the finish line crossed her mind. "Are you gonna put up with it for the rest of your life?"
"Good thing I'm gonna win then," he replied. He shrugged. "Besides, Poppa would just say that the Starlight Express wants us to 'love our enemies' or something like that. Poppa always says to be the bigger train."
"Doesn't mean you have to be a doormat," Wrench argued.
He gave her a sad smile. "You're nice to worry, Wrench, but I'll be fine."
He turned his attention to the hose connected to his tender then, and Wrench stepped back, frowning at his words.
Why was she letting herself get so worked up over some old engine that nobody else cared about? She worked for the Engine of the Future, and Electra's victory would mean the end of all non-electric lines, including the ones in Control's yard. What did she care for anyone who did not fit in the future which the man she loved most would provide?
Meanwhile, Rusty wiggled his shoulders to make the water in his tank slosh about as if to check how much more he had to go.
More to get her mind off her troubling thoughts than out of any pretense of courtesy, Wrench asked, "How much longer?"
He shrugged, gripping the straps of his tender.
"Not too long. My tank can hold up to about ten thousand gallons, or so I've been told." He squinted his eyes in thought. "The uphill bit of the race might've taken me... eight hundred? Give or take."
Almost one tenth of his contents, she quickly calculated. No wonder diesel engines were ruled more efficient than steamers.
But diesels were ruled better than electrics too.
That's different, she told herself, pushing that observation aside. The sun had set on the day of steam, and now it would rise on electricity once Electra won. Electric trains had been embraced throughout Europe and Asia for its better performances — as evidenced by the many electric National champions who came to the race year after year — but despite the US being one of the chiefest pioneers in electric technology, many railroads had clung stubbornly to diesel engines due to the lower costs. Some electric railroads had even converted to diesel. Electra was in the race tonight to change all that.
But even as she forced herself to think on this reality, one image flashed across her mind — the way Rusty had shoved her toward the bridge to hide before he had tried to lead the diesel gang off, voluntarily taking on Greaseball to give a stranger a chance to flee.
She glanced at him again, and a strange empathy rose up inside her — which she promptly tried to ignore, focusing instead of his dusty, out-of-date appearance in an effort to remind herself of what Electra would have to say if he knew she was entertaining such notions toward his competition.
Even so, she felt another emotion surface — her inner mechanic's sense of curiosity. She touched his shoulder without thinking.
"You are rusted, aren't you?" she observed. "It's a wonder you're still working."
His mouth twitched. "A guy's gotta eat."
"Indeed," she murmured.
It was like stumbling upon the last dodo in its natural habitat. She ran a hand along his chest, her brow knitting as she analyzed his firebox. While she had never worked with steam engines, she knew the general idea of how their system worked: the firebox heated the boiler, and the boiler sent steam to the rest of the body. Primitive, yes, but that inquisitiveness had stirred inside her, and she laid her fingers against the side of his rusted torso. She could feel the fire crackling in his chest while the boiler in his back bubbled.
He probably had been quite a sight before the corrosion had overtaken his body like leprosy.
Rusty cleared his throat, drawing her out of her observations, and she looked up. Even in the dim yellow light, it was easy to see the shade of red that had crept over his sunkissed synthetic skin, bright as a signal flare. She quickly removed her hand.
"Oh, please. I'm a mechanic," she snorted, more to cover up her own breach of social protocol.
"I knew that," he replied a little too quickly, stepping away from her. He began to fiddle with the pipe, but he pulled it up too soon, and water drench the wooden ties beneath his wheels.
"Meant to do that," he laughed weakly and cleared his throat. "L-Let's go."
Poor guy's probably never even held a girl's hand, she thought as she studied the blush that refused to abate. She tried not to smile.
"You're certainly not the worst case I've ever seen," she commented as she hitched behind him. "You could probably still reverse the corrosion at this point without major replacement work."
He rolled his eyes, gripping the straps on his shoulders.
"That takes money," Rusty said flatly. "Not exactly what you can do on a switcher's salary."
She furrowed her brow. "How come Control never refurbished you?"
He looked straight ahead, but Wrench saw him clenched his jaw. "Control doesn't think I'm worth it."
Makes sense. Railroads were businesses, and rolling stock who were deemed liabilities were left to rot on overgrown, disused lines.
"I bet you got his attention tonight," she offered.
He jerked a nod.
"He's gonna see what steam can really do," he added with a new heat. "When I win the race."
Don't hold your breath, pal.
Refueled and refilled, there was nothing left for them to do but head over to the strenuous uphill race track where the final would be held.
"Piece of cake," Rusty grinned at Wrench as he took the crane car down a switcher shortcut.
Within moments she saw the overhanging wires of the electric track. Rusty seemed to have no qualms stepping on rails that were not meant for him, and Wrench watched with sick fascination as the smoke from his cap mingled with the catenary lines. It was almost sacrilegious.
"This way's faster," Rusty explained with a kind laugh when he saw her look. He let out a friendly whistle, his wheeled hand tugging an invisible cord.
As if in response, a familiar air horn suddenly blared behind them.
"Clear my track, peasants!" came an echoing bark.
Wrench whirled around — her heart fluttered — and she quickly pulled Rusty to the side, staring in awe at the approaching electric engine and his train of four trucks and one pretty coach. Even when he was impatiently bolting down the line, something about his handsome face made Wrench's breath hitch.
The strength of his computer's wireless signal sent shivers through the repair truck as he approached, strengthened by the presence of the four computer pieces hitched behind. To Wrench's amazement, instead of zooming past, Electra suddenly unhitched from the catenary and brought his consist in a wide loop around the repair truck and her partner. Electra's painted lip curled into a sneer.
"Who's your new friend, Wrench?" he mocked. "Have you gone from chasing diesels to chasing scrapyard fodder?"
"He's nobody you need to worry your gorgeous head about, dearest," Wrench replied, smoothing her flame-like hair back even as she shuffled her wheels to follow her engine's movements.
She had tried to pass it off as a flirtatious joke, but Electra suddenly looked insulted.
"I know that," he growled, twitching as if he were still connected to the power lines. "As if this rusty rubbish has a chance against Pearl and me."
He gave a nasty laugh, and he raised a gloved hand crackling with electricity, but he did not shoot. With one last sneer he started down the line again.
The other four components gave Wrench calculating glances as they passed. Joule shook her red-and-white head, and Krupp gave her a lingering look over his broad metallic shoulder as Electra pulled them away.
"Now, that's not fair, Electra," Wrench heard Pearl say as the long train disappeared around a bend.
Rusty glowered after them.
"We'll see who's laughing at the finish line," he said under his breath. "Let's see her stay with him then."
Wrench stared at him, her eyes widening with wonder. Ordinarily, Electra would not have wasted his breath on rolling stock he deemed beneath him, but he just had gone out of his way to taunt his competition. Clearly, he had witnessed Rusty's performance in the second heat — and he thought the steam engine was worth demoralizing.
"You certainly made an impression on him," she said slowly.
Rusty did not seem to share her astonishment.
"He wears a lot of paint for a dude," he grumbled.
Rusty got his wish soon after. Pearl left Electra's company not even fifteen minutes later, but Wrench saw he took no delight in the break-up. Probably because of whom the observation car picked instead.
When it happened, Wrench and Rusty had made it to the part of the yard just outside the starting gate, which was closed off to the general public. The boxcars from before (Rusty called them the Rockies) had started an impromptu rap session which attracted the other rolling stock, and within minutes it grew into a kind of party. Wrench saw Bobo the TGV weaving around the other trains, pulling his smoking carriage as well as Espresso's buffet car and Dinah, Greaseball's blonde-hair, blue-eyed, blue-painted dining car. Curiously, Greaseball did not seem to mind that his girlfriend was fraternizing with the competition. He rolled around with his gang of diesel engines (and one flat car laden with bricks who had joined their group). Also enjoying the festivities was Electra.
Wrench and Rusty had moved to the side, sitting on the trussed guardrail of a bridge stretching over a rocky ravine, and they surveyed the proceedings.
Electra put his arms around Pearl's skinny waist, moving with fluid, expert steps. That heart-warming smile played upon his beautiful blue lips, and his blue eyes focused on the gold coach with desire. As Wrench watched, Electra reached up to stroke Pearl's delicate face.
Wrench averted her gaze.
Rusty shifted against the guardrail, and Wrench turned to see him also staring at the pretty coach and his rival with a bitter heat in his hazel eyes. He noticed Wrench's knowing gaze, and his jaw tightened.
"You can go back to him now, Wrench," he said. "I told you I'd find someone else to go into the final."
Wrench quickly adopted a pleasant smile.
"Why would I do that, partner?" she asked, pretending to be surprised.
He gave her a look. "I'm 'nobody that Electra needs to worry about,' remember?"
She faked a laugh, running her fingers through her flame-like wig.
"He's my boss," she said carelessly. "He pays me to say stuff like that."
Rusty held her gaze. "You don't have to pretend with me. I see the way you look at him."
Wrench stiffened.
"It doesn't matter how I look at him," she said tightly, trying to keep her voice indifferent even as she bit back what she really wanted to say to him. "He isn't going to race with me either way. At least you need a partner."
(And I can do more to help Electra by being IN the race than on the sidelines, she added silently.)
She forced that comradely smile to return. "You can't get rid of me that easily, steam train."
Rusty looked down at his folded arms. "Guess we're both out in the cold," he said quietly.
Wrench felt her smile become tight.
Rusty drummed his fingers against his pistons. "Will he be nice to her?"
That caught her by surprise. Wrench hesitated. Electra was a free spirit and did not tie himself to any one piece of rolling stock. Volta was the closest thing he had to a long-term commitment, but he still preferred to keep their relationship open — as Joule was only too happy to remind everyone. It was just old-fashioned thinking to expect exclusivity these days, but something in Rusty's face kept her from saying it aloud.
"He'll definitely give her the time of her life," she answered at last.
Wrench saw him swallow hard. She was sure she heard his boiler increase its pressure.
If you only knew that Electra thinks you're a threat.
For some reason she could not fully explain — though perhaps it was just to make sure he did not try to get another race partner — Wrench stood and touched his arm.
"Hey, let's dance," she suggested.
Rusty grimaced. "No, thanks."
However, she grabbed his wrists and yanked him toward her.
"I wasn't asking," she told him as he stumbled to his wheels. "I can't stand seeing a grown man looking like a homesick puppy."
She moved his arms to her waist, and that shade of red returned to his face with a vengeance. She rolled her eyes and linked her hands behind his neck.
"It's just a dance, Wonder Boy. Not a marriage proposal."
He gulped. "Y-Yeah."
She pulled him to the middle of the trestle track, but he continued to stare at her like a deer caught in headlights. She pointed a stern finger at his sooty face.
"Women are more attracted to men who look like they're fun to be around."
He glanced toward the other rolling stock — and no doubt the golden coach in the superstar's arms — and jerked a nod. He reluctantly began to move with her, following her steps. After a few minutes of forced dancing, she felt him slowly unstiffen, and he seemed to get into the music. Even the blush began to fade. Soon he began to hum along with the boxcars.
Are you ready for the big one starting any minute?
We're in it. Ha! You gotta be in it to win it!
You gotta be in the frame
If you wanna win the game!
He actually was not a bad singer, Wrench noted.
"You dance pretty well for an old guy," Wrench smirked as they parted to take wider, more energetic steps.
Rusty raised a hand to his ear while the other linked with hers. "Ehh? What's that, Missy?"
She leaned closer. "I said you have rust in your ears."
Rusty just laughed — a genuine, boyish laugh.
Not a bad smile either, she thought as she met his gaze — and she suddenly noticed how round his eyes were. The hazel irises had flecks of gold in a pattern she had never seen before. No doubt some factory worker had taken special care to make them shine, and she wondered how the artist had made them emit such a peculiar warmth when he gave that goofy grin.
Before she could ponder this too much, Rusty finally felt comfortable enough to twirl her, and she detected — with a strange tightness in her throat — an undeniable strength in his arms. His creaky limbs had nothing close to the bulky biceps of Greaseball or the elegant muscle tone of Electra, but switcher work had put power in his pipes.
And when they rejoined, Wrench could not help noticing how warm his metal felt...
After a few more steps, he spun her again — and she caught sight of a gray figure watching her.
Wrench settled against Rusty's iron torso, and she discreetly looked down the line to see Krupp standing a little ways from Electra with his metal arms folded. His gray mouth had formed a line, and his painted eyebrows quirked above his dark sunglasses. Wrench returned the male coach's cold stare, degree for degree — though she took one step back to separate herself from the steam locomotive.
Without warning, the rapping boxcars fell silent. Both of them whirled around, and Wrench promptly saw the problem. Greaseball was over by Electra and Pearl.
The diesel was saying something to the electric's coach, giving her the same smile which had graced so many magazine pages. The dreamy expression on Pearl's face was back, but now it was directed toward the diesel locomotive and — without even a final acknowledgement toward the electric superstar — Pearl stepped away from Electra and hitched onto Greaseball's couplings.
Wrench had an instant impulse to fly to her engine — but even as she took one step toward the electric, who stared in shock at his ex-partner, her mind suddenly wondered how thrilled Electra would actually be to see the repair truck who was responsible for him picking Pearl in the first place.
She immediately braked, and her stomach sank deeper than the ravine beneath her wheels. She settled for glaring at the gold observation car as Greaseball zoomed along the perimeter of the area. He then headed into the hills, followed by his cheering gang.
Didn't Pearl know the honor it was to be the coach of the future champion who would literally change the way the railroads functioned in this country? Wrench would have given her right arm to go with the superstar into the final — and even more just to receive one of the smoldering looks Electra had given the observation car.
The other components, meanwhile, wordlessly guided Electra down a branch line, rubbing his shoulders and touching his arms while no doubt murmuring their adoration — which allowed the electric engine to regain some shred of dignity while the other rolling stock dispersed. The boxcars had snuck away as well, leaving the smoking car and buffet car to comfort Greaseball's abandoned blue partner.
"Poor Dinah," Rusty whispered.
Wrench spun around and grabbed his couplings, indicating that he should leave too — to where she did not care.
"What do you think of your princess now?"
He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably as he kicked off, rolling off the trestle toward the nearest tunnel.
"Pearl isn't usually like this."
"Could've fooled me," she returned dryly, thinking back to how the observation car had earlier been among the champion's swooning admirers. "Seems like she's been a longtime member of the Greaseball Fanclub."
Rusty did not reply; he just shook his head, slouching his tarnished shoulders. That annoyed Wrench even further.
"Don't worry. You still have a shot with the princess," she sneered, much more nastily than she had intended. "If she slows Greaseball down the way she did Electra, our diesel won't be too attracted to her."
Rusty slowed to a stop, mere feet from the gaping, illuminated tunnel, and turned.
"Pearl slowed Electra?" he frowned.
Wrench sneered. "Count yourself lucky she didn't go with you in the second heat, steamer. Joule would've painted the track with her. You saw what she did to the smoking car."
His brow furrowed, and his round eyes became troubled. "So... if Pearl didn't go with Electra, she might've been hurt?"
"And she wouldn't have taken down Turnov like yours truly," Wrench answered.
His mouth became a thin line.
It was then that an electronic voice boomed behind them: "Wrench!"
Both turned. Wrench frowned, releasing Rusty's couplings.
"Krupp?"
The gray car zoomed toward them like a missile. He braked effortlessly in front of her.
"Electra needs you," he said, his deep electronic voice gruffer than normal. "Something's wrong with his computer, and we can't get him up the hill to the electric lines."
"Is he okay?" Rusty asked behind the repair truck.
Krupp tilted his head, regarding the steamer from behind his dark shades, but he returned his attention to Wrench.
"Do your duty, repair truck," he ordered, jabbing a thumb back down the track even as he turned for her to hitch onto him.
Wrench started to obey, but Rusty grabbed her arm.
"Hey, hang on," he said hurriedly. "I can get you guys there real fast. I know all the shortcuts in the yard if you just tell me where he is."
Wrench blinked. "You'd do that?"
Krupp's gray lip curled. "We don't need your help, steam train."
Wrench, however, re-coupled to Rusty's corroded holdings.
"Do you want to keep Electra waiting?" she demanded, shooting the male coach a glare.
Krupp hesitated before he exhaled in exasperation and grabbed her couplings, barely managing to join their odd train before Rusty shot forward, sprinting hard down the line.