Chapter Two: The Glory of a Mainliner

Special thanks to mystifyre for her help with this chapter.


The next morning Rusty left his leaky shed early to head to Control's tower, planning to request a spot in the race. Although the still rising sun could not chase away the chill which hung in the air and made him glad for his firebox, and although butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he approached the yard owner's residence, he had a grin on his hastily washed face - at least until he passed the coach yard and saw Buffy emerging from her shed, rolling toward him with an awkwardly cheerful smile and a plate of what looked like a hot breakfast.

"Uh-oh," he said, braking harder than he meant to and causing his toe stop to squeak on the rail.

Buffy frowned as she stopped beside him, stepping onto the grass. "I made your favourite, and that's your response?"

Rusty looked down at the plate, which had the full monty of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, and buttered muffins, just to name a few. It smelled wonderful and caused his mechanical stomach to rumble in anticipation - and it also made him suspicious. "The last time you made me breakfast was when you broke all the disco records I loaned you," he reminded her, giving the yellow and white carriage a sweeping glance. "What did you do?"

"Russell McCoy, is that the way to talk to your friends?" she sniffed, putting her free hand on her riveted hip - but she did not exactly meet his eye as she said it. When Rusty made no response, she finally cleared her throat and said, "Control gave me a job for race night."

There it was. "Oh?"

"Refreshment committee for the racers," she explained, extending the breakfast plate for him to grab. "Guess I won't be able to race even if you did get the time off."

Rusty's face fell. "Did you tell him about being my partner?"

Buffy still did not meet his eye. "You know how Control is." She extended the plate again, but he did not take it.

"But if you do get the time off, you won't race with anybody else, will ya?" he pressed.

Buffy gave him a sad smile. "Race night is too far off for me to make that kinda promise, sweetie." She then quickly turned, plate still in hand, and returned to the coach yard before Rusty could utter a response.

"Back to track one," Rusty muttered, spinning toward the freight marshalling yard. Without a partner, he did not dare approach Control about the race. His employer would just tell him "Very funny" and send him back to work.

Maybe Poppa will know who I can ask, Rusty thought.

His grandfather had been over the moon the previous night when Rusty had told him his plans. "I'll teach you everything I know, my boy," Poppa had promised. "This is an answer to prayer!"

Rusty privately doubted that an invisible train rolling around the stars cared one way or another about racing, but he had given his grandfather a kind grin and soaked in all the advise the elderly engine started to share, from proper stretching to what kinds of fuel helped with the first month of training.

'Course, I'm still gonna have less time to train than Sandy had, he thought ruefully, but he tried to focus on the positive. Poppa had agreed to train him, and that was more than he had yesterday. There has to be ONE carriage interested in the race. ...Right?

Rusty passed beneath the gantry straddling the entrance of the marshalling yard, and he then heard someone call his name. He looked up to see Bogey maneuvering around some tank cars in work mode, and the blue shunter skated toward him.

The steamer nodded as Bogey neared. "Hey, boss."

His supervisor slowed, and his red eyebrows furrowed. Bogey was taller than most shunters and stocky. Although he had risen through the ranks to be a supervisor over the shunters, his receding red hairline and thinning mustache spoke volumes of his worth to Control. "I heard about yesterday," Bogey said, sounding concerned. Bogey was often more calm and conscientious in the brief hours before the onslaught of passengers showed up for their morning commute, dividing his attention from his other duties. "Ballast said the binliners gave you trouble."

Rusty jerked a nod, and he felt the steam pressure rise inside him. "Yeah, 'Last and I were just minding our own business, and they wanted to start a row."

Bogey's lips thinned, making it look like his red mustache had replaced his mouth. "Control has promised to talk to them."

Rusty snorted. "Lotta good that'll do," he drawled. "Shunters would get sacked if we went around tormenting other vehicles, but the binliners get a slap on the wrist."

Bogey's brown eyes darkened, but when he spoke, he obviously tried to keep his voice even: "The binliners make money for Control. Shunters are non-revenue. Simple as that."

Rusty clenched his jaw. Simple indeed. "One of these days there's gonna be a strong somebody who will get sick of them and teach them a lesson."

"It won't be a shunter." Bogey shook his balding head. "If a mainliner gets damaged, Control fixes him up so that he can keep making money. A shunter gets damaged, and Control makes the rest of us shoulder the workload and lets the poor fool rot away."

Rusty winced.

"That's been the life of a shunter the world over for years, Rusty," Bogey said. "My mam's grandfather had burned coal just like the mainline steamers, but his company still treated him like dirt."

"Doesn't mean it should be like that," said Rusty.

Bogey exhaled, sending a whiff of diesel fumes into Rusty's face. "We all have to live with the lot we're given. No shunter's gonna change that - nor a mainliner turned shunter. Best to smile and say 'three bags full, sir' if you want to survive." Bogey cleared his throat, and it was clear the conversation was over. "Right, once you punch in, head over to the cleaning machines and restock the carpet shampoo," he instructed. "After everyone is done with their lunch breaks, we'll try to tackle cleaning the rest of the race track."

Bogey left then, and Rusty stepped onto the track that led to the station where the punch cards were stored. Since he wasn't speaking to Control now, there was little to do but hang out and wait for his shift to start.

However, he had rolled over three meters worth of track when he braked, clenching his iron fists. Is this what I want it to be like for the rest of my life?

Rusty felt a slow burn course through him. "Fat chance," he said through his teeth. Even if he could only convince Control to give him one day off a month to train, he would take advantage of every second, and if he could find someone to replace Buffy, then he had a real chance.

If I can prove I'm fast enough, I can find some other railway who will take me. Then I can leave forever.


"You can't be serious," said the high pitched voice that emitted from the speaker attached to the control tower.

Rusty looked at the dark windows in lieu of meeting his employer's eyes. "But, Control - "

"This is a private race, Rusty," Control said briskly. "My gramps was the one to approve all entries when he held the first one in Nineteen-Forty-Seven, and forty-five years later I'm the one to do it. Nobody races unless I say so." The speaker emitted a sound like flipping paper, as if Control was shuffling through documents. "I've already turned down Sleipnir the Swedish champion and Weltschaft the German train. Although," he added, his tone becoming considerably lighter, "I'm thinking of sending an invitation to that Ruhrgold, the InterContinental Express. The one on the telly last Friday. Did you see that?" asked Control, excitement slipping into his high voice.

Rusty thought Ruhrgold was called an InterCity-Express, but he decided against mentioning it. Instead he said, "But haven't I proven I'm strong? Even with all this rust, I get all my work done everyday."

Control paused. "That is true." He sounded thoughtful.

Rusty took courage and straightened his shoulders. "And Poppa thinks I can do it - you saw how good he was at training Sandy."

"Sandy was good," agreed Control, and he fell silent for what felt like several torturous minutes. Just as Rusty started to cough into his hand, Control said, "Fine, you can do it."

Rusty beamed, pumping his pistons. "You mean it?"

"Yep," replied Control. "If you can get all your work done as usual. No slacking."

Rusty's face fell. Of course there would be a catch. "Would it be okay if I took a little time off? To train, you know?" he pleaded.

Control snorted, which sounded odd through the speaker. "We still have a business to run, and we're gonna have a lot of people and trains coming in to watch the championship. As long as the work gets done, you can race. Speaking of which," Control added, and Rusty could imagine his unseen employer frowning, "shouldn't you start your chores?"


Find a partner. Just find a partner, Rusty told himself as he chugged toward the cleaning machines with the armful of boxes containing carpet shampoo which he had retrieved from the supply shed. Worry about a schedule later.

His best plan was to try the heritage line first. The vehicles there had been alive during the golden age of steam, and most of them had steamers in their family trees. Out of all rolling stock, they might be more sympathetic to his goal. Most of the newer coaching stock normally turned their noses up at him while the ones who favoured him tended to treat him like an old man who they humoured. Let's call that Plan B - if I'm desperate.

He rounded the traction maintenance depot and neared the cleaning machines - the structures that resembled a car wash for rolling stock - and he noticed eight or nine carriages kneeling on a parallel track. He soon saw that they had coloured chalk and drew upon the concrete sleepers, so he deduced they were mostly children - except for the green shunter who stopped dead when he caught sight of the tank engine.

Rusty cleared his throat and kept rolling, but Pilot called to him, "Rusty, can you just wait for a spell?"

The steamer braked, trying to hide his grimace, and Pilot turned to one of the older carriages who had pink hair and smooth, tawny brown skin. "Pearly, can you keep an eye on the little ones for me real quick?"

The teenage looking carriage nodded. "Sure, Mr. Pilot."

Pilot got to his wheels and started toward Rusty, who tucked the shampoo boxes under one arm. "I really need to restock, Pilot, so - "

"I'll go with you," said Pilot quickly, and Rusty noticed then that his normally bright eyes now had dark rings under them.

Rusty headed to the soap cupboard of the cleaning station, shadowed by the green shunter. He glanced around for the attendant, that Australian shower car named April, but she did not seem to be about. Pity. Rusty quickly unlocked the door, and Pilot leaned against one of the pillars that shot water at bathing rolling stock.

"You left pretty quick yesterday," the younger shunter said, shuffling his wheels. "I took that mail car back to the yard for ya."

Rusty nodded, trying not to grimace. "Thanks."

"I tried talking to you last night," Pilot added, "but you weren't in the marshalling yard."

Rusty kept his eyes on the boxes, pretending to be absorbed in arranging them in neat stacks. "Control sent me down the line on an errand. Didn't get back until almost midnight."

Rusty could hear Pilot's diesel tank rumble, making a sound that was more likely to come from Bogey at the announcement of a delayed train than from the perpetually cheerful goofball. "Look, about what you saw - "

Rusty hurriedly shoved the last box into the shed and began to close the door. "Did I see something?"

He heard Pilot step toward him, and he finally looked up in time for Pilot to grab his arm. The younger man's hazel eyes brimmed with stress. "How much will it cost for you to stay quiet?" he asked, his voice tight.

Rusty shrugged him off, wincing as he rubbed the rusted patch Pilot had aggravated. "Nothing."

"Nothing at all?"

Rusty met his frantic eyes. "What do you take me for?"

The shunter hesitated. "If any of the mainliners find out, I'm dead," he whispered.

Rusty nodded grimly. He did not envy Pilot's position. "Then what were you doing out of doors with her?"

Pilot looked down at his wheels. "Her roommate was using their hangar." He swallowed. "I didn't mean to kiss her in broad daylight, but I can't help myself around her - have you ever been in love?" he asked suddenly, looking up.

Rusty coughed into his sooty hand. "Er, no."

"Well, if you had been, you'd understand," Pilot said quietly.

Rusty bit his cheek, trying not to feel too insulted. "What's her name?" he asked.

A small smile suddenly appeared on Pilot's green mouth. "Amelia."

"Fitting," said Rusty.

The rumbling diesel tank quieted, and Pilot's hands cheerfully strummed an air guitar in his signature tic. "You'd like her. She's a right athlete," he bragged, affection and pride warming his voice. "She performed in the air tattoo last year with the aerobatic flyers. Maybe you saw her."

"Doubt it," said Rusty a little flatly. "I was working that day."

Pilot did not seem to hear him. "She's got so much spirit. I've dated some cars that want to be princesses and get waited on hand and wheel, but Amelia knows what she wants and goes after it. She'd fly halfway around the world for a cuppa if the thought entered her head." His hazel eyes then grew serious. "I know what machines think about couples like us, but I can't help how I feel."

Rusty rolled his shoulders. This was far from his area of expertise. "If you think it'll work out, then go for it," he said and, thinking he ought to give more than just a stale cliche from a poorly written romance novel, added, "I want to be a racer, and I already had one friend tell me I shouldn't do it, but I'm gonna try anyway."

Pilot's dark eyebrows shot up. "You're gonna race?"

Rusty nodded. "Control approved my entry this morning."

The shunter beamed. "Brilliant! He must have a lot of faith in you."

"I think 'faith' is too strong a word," Rusty said sardonically.

Pilot shook his head, still grinning. "Sand Dome was a great racer. If you're even half as good, you'll do great."

Rusty smiled. "Thanks." Maybe Pilot was not so bad.

Suddenly, there came a childish shriek, causing Rusty to jump. Pilot rushed toward the corner of the supply cupboard, but his grin soon returned as he pulled back. "They're just playing," he told Rusty. "They started racing together. Pearly's even pretending to be an engine for baby Opal and moving her arms like a steam train." He chuckled. "That one is growing up so fast. Her birthday is in two weeks, you know."

Rusty had rarely been around the children of the yard since most mothers did not want their precious babes getting rust stains, so he did not share Pilot's enthusiasm over a game of make believe. However, this did remind him of his present problem, and he softly exhaled steam through his whistle. "Even a kid is better at getting a partner than me."

Pilot turned his head. "What do you mean?"

Rusty heaved his shoulders. "Not much good getting into the race without somebody to race with."

Pilot's dark brow furrowed in thought. "Newcastle the coal train ought to be bringing in a shipment next month," he mused, tapping his tan chin. "He might introduce you to one of his trucks if you ask. Or..." He suddenly snapped his fingers. "Hey, doesn't Greaseball always bring that caboose with him?"

Rusty recalled the red truck with a brown mustache, cheerful smile, and a tendency to speak in radio slang. "C.B.?"

Pilot nodded. "Yeah, he's an all right chap. He's raced with other engines before when their partners get sick, remember? If he comes back this year, you could always ask him if you ain't found a partner by then."

Rusty appreciated another train offering help instead of criticism, but he had to shake his head. "I'd rather race with a coach, I think," he told Pilot. "The audience always snickers at the racers who bring in freight trucks, like they couldn't do any better. Mind you, I got some cousins who are wagons, but if I'm gonna do this, I wanna do it right."

Pilot gave him a thumbs up. "You'll probably find somebody, mate. After all, who wouldn't wanna be a part of race night?" Pilot then turned back toward the children around the corner. "I should probably get back. They can get right wild if there isn't an adult nearby," he chuckled.

"And I got my chores to do," replied Rusty, glancing at the cleaning station. It looked like it could use a sweep, and he might as well score some approval for getting it done without being ordered first.

"Yeah," Pilot said, and he suddenly gave Rusty a sheepish grin. "You know, I was starting to think you didn't like me, but you're all right, Steam Man." He then turned and hurried off to join his young charges.


"So much for steam loyalty," grumbled Rusty with an annoyed pump of his arms, heading away from the heritage line. There's a tea break I won't get back.

He glanced toward Poppa's spot beside the heritage station, and he was glad to see that his grandfather rested in work mode, too busy allowing visiting human children to climb into his cab and ring his bell. Rusty did not feel like talking to him right then, and he already knew what Poppa would say: "Have faith, son."

A lotta good faith would do for his problem. Not one antique car had agreed to help him. The first class carriages had claimed his soot would spoil their lace and frills. That second class sleeper and her third class cousin had both told him that Greaseball would beat him to a pulp before he left the starting gate. Diana the funeral car had said her uncle had been a steamer, and she had hated it when he pulled the family on outings because his smoke made her eyes red. The refurbished pigeon van had said her birds trusted no one else to feed them. The old wooden coaches had been afraid of damage. He had even tried to ask the male carriages, such as Obed the sleeper and Bakewell the diner, but they had shaken their heads and told him to forget racing.

At long last he had decided to ask Ashley the smoking car. He had held off approaching her since her health could turn poor on race night if her mechanical lungs decided they could not handle any more tar, but necessity had brought him to her tobacco enriched flat inside the old roundhouse.

She had received him at first with a friendly smile and had offered him a cuppa and a smoke, the latter of which he had politely refused. Though she was nearly four decades older than him, Ashley had been one of the first smoking cars that had allowed women passengers. The heritage railway put considerable effort into preserving her as a piece of history, so she looked and sounded like a human woman in her late twenties. If she could have kicked her smoking habit, only the Starlight knew how spritely she could become.

After they had chatted a few minutes, Rusty had finally made his request, and her cheery smile had been replaced with a look of skepticism. "You can't be serious."

"As I've told twenty other cars today, I actually am," Rusty had replied flatly. "C'mon, Ash, maybe if the railroads give steamers a chance, they'll give smokers a chance. If we win, I bet you wouldn't be the last one in the land anymore."

"Tempting, but I have to say no," Ashley had replied, and she had pulled out a letter from her desk. "Actually, I have plans. Remember Bobo the TGV? He wrote and asked if I wanted to sit with his crew." A smile had spread over her preserved face. "He'll be racing with his sister, Roulette, but he wants to spend his free time with me. I can't race with his competition now, can I?"

Rusty had bitten back the comment he would have liked to make about the blue electric peacock who had sent him on more frivolous errands than he cared to remember. "What is he? Fifteen?"

"Eleven," the wooden coach had answered, casting an affectionate glance at the envelope. Rusty had started to excuse himself then, seeing that he might as well leave, but then Ashley's brown eyes had focused on him. "Rusty, don't try to race. You've spent too long as a shunter now. You won't be able to do it."

"But I can train. No one can move the way I move," he had insisted. "You saw how Sandy turned corners in the races. I can do the same!"

"A lot of champion racers get hurt in these races," she had countered. "If you got so damaged that you couldn't work anymore, do you think Control will repair you?"

Rusty had looked away.

"That's what I thought," Ashley had said.

He had exited her shed then, not even finishing his tea.

Now Rusty let out a puff of smoke. "Looks like I go to Plan B," he said under his breath, following the rails that led to the race arena which still needed cleaning. As soon as he got off his first shift, he would head to the coach yard and try to find a partner before supper.

At the thought of food, his stomach rumbled, and he remembered he had skipped breakfast to talk with Control. Now he wished he had been able to taste the bacon and black pudding Buffy had cooked for him.

He glanced toward the nearby clock that perched on the roof of the passenger station, and he saw he still had five minutes left of his break. Rusty checked the compartment on his leg which he used as a pocket and pulled out a few crumpled monetary cards. Since human money was too small for machines to use, trains traded cards that equaled specific amounts of pounds. Rusty counted his cards, and his flame flared happily when he saw he had just enough money on him for a bag of crisps from the food booths.

The tank engine started on his way in the direction of the traction maintenance depot when a loud voice called out: "Oi, steam train!"

Rusty flinched and looked over his shoulder as Lube, the bulky binliner, rolled toward him, one arm linked with a pretty carriage with brown hair and a red jumper. Rusty recognised her as one of the Poppy sisters from the pair of shoulder pieces bearing the commuter rail colours. Behind Lube a stone faced male wagon with blue paint and greasy blond hair trailed along, one hand linked to the black clad engine's belt loop.

As much as Rusty wanted to bolt away, his common sense kept him rooted to the track as Lube braked in front of him, causing the brunette carriage to giggle. Rusty noticed that Lube now reeked of cologne, no doubt to drown out the stench of rotting rubbish that usually clung to him.

"Just the man I need for an important job," smirked Lube as he swung his arm around the coaches shoulders. "See, my mate, Benny the bin truck, has to collect the rubbish from the skips at the aerodrome because the little bin lorries are too scared to bring the rubbish to us in the yard. But I can't pull him over to the birdhouses because I promised Poppy Six here a lovely evening. So, I need you to do it for me."

Rusty forced a smile and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward the race arena. "I really have to go clean some tracks that Control wants us to do today - "

Lube's eyes narrowed. "And that concerns me, how?"

Poppy VI giggled as if Lube had said a jolly good joke and gave her engine a playful swat. "Oh, Lubey, leave him alone." She then tapped his nose. "I know! You can get Pilot to do it. He's always popping over to the airport anyway."

Lube raised an eyebrow. "What business does he have with the airport?"

"Er, no, I can do it," said Rusty quickly. "No worries." He gestured for Benny to hitch onto him, and the smelly truck left his engine without a backwards glance. "Enjoy your evening," Rusty said, pulling Benny away.

Lube smiled at Poppy VI. "Will do," he murmured, Pilot seemingly now forgotten, and the red coach giggled again.


I really should have punched back in before doing this, Rusty groaned as he headed toward the airport for free for the second time in two days. Rusty could not move too fast without causing the blue bin wagon to duck to avoid his smoke. Although they headed into a pleasant zephyr, Rusty was still obliged to breathe through his mouth to avoid a whiff of Benny's odour.

To think that yesterday he would have cheerfully gone the rest of his life without seeing Pilot's simpering face, and here he was now hauling a bin wagon on an empty stomach to keep that dimwit out of trouble.

Mercifully, he reached the hangars at last, and Benny directed him toward the first one. Rusty obeyed, and the blue wagon briskly opened the lid of the skip. A fresh stench greeted them both, and Rusty's hunger pangs promptly turned to nausea.

"I think I'll move upwind," the steamer gagged, stepping away.

"You do that," answered Benny without looking up.

Rusty rolled beneath the shade of a hangar a sizable distance away and sighed. You owe me, Pilot.

As a fresh breeze picked up, sending his smoke over his back, he scanned the area and saw that one of the bigger planes rested in work mode beside the airport building, no doubt prepared to board passengers. A few little planes of different colours seemed to be congregating in their bipedal forms on the green patch beside the runway - and Rusty tensed as he saw a tiny white monoplane rolling toward him. Although aeroplanes looked the same to Rusty, he was pretty sure he recognised this particular sun kissed face with white and blue stripes.

He took a step back as Amelia braked beside him, but the pretty plane gave him a sweet smile. He relaxed a little and returned the grin - right before her hand shot out and caught his wrist.

"Hey - !" Rusty started to protest, but Amelia's fingers dug right into his rusted metal as she yanked him toward her.

"Listen carefully, you Peeping Tom," the plane hissed through her bared teeth. "I know all about your standing in the railway yard. If you tell anyone about yesterday, I'll deny everything, and you will be buried by your own kind. Do I make myself clear?"

Rusty tried to pull his arm back, but the little machine was stronger than she looked. "I wasn't planning on it!" he insisted. "What you two do is your own business."

Amelia's glower deepened for a moment, and then she released him. "Then I apologise, Mr. Rusty," she said, taking a step back, but her blue eyes remained suspicious. "Though my point stands if you try to do something stupid." She folded her riveted white arms.

He rubbed his wrist. For a lightweight machine, she could probably do a lot of damage. "Pilot's right about you having spirit," he said wryly.

Her painted face morphed into an earnest look. "You've talked with him then?" At Rusty's nod, she laid a hand against her chest, relieved. "When he left yesterday, he was so worried. He hasn't been back and - well, then I am sorry," she said, giving him a remorseful look. "I guess you could say a plane is protective of her Pilot."

Rusty looked over his shoulder. He could hear Benny clanking behind another hangar now. He could see a few aircraft rolling in the distance, but none of them gave the steamer and the monoplane a second glance. He turned back to Amelia. "If you're afraid, why even risk it?" he asked softly.

Her blue formed a small sad smile. "Have you ever been in love?"

Rusty rolled his shoulders. "Can't say that I have," he replied, hoping he wouldn't be asked that question a third time that day. He rubbed his neck. "If you don't mind my asking, out of all trains - er, well, why Pilot?"

Her smile widened, and she looked as if she had never been so eager to answer a question. "He has the sweetest heart I've ever seen. Plane men always want to outdo each other - plane women too, mind you," she chuckled wryly. "We're all built to fly solo at some point. But Pilot likes being in a team. Guess it's a train thing," she then reflected, looking up at the blue sky. "Engines are useless without wagons to pull. Wagons are useless without engines to pull them. You have to work together, and I like that about Pilot. Like how he talks about the other shunters and how he plays with the little ones. He's gonna be a great dad someday."

A dad to WHAT though? Rusty wanted to say, but he restrained himself.

Amelia's gaze returned from the sky, and her smile transformed into a look of urgency. "Can I ask something of you, Mr. Rusty?"

"What?"

"Pilot speaks favourably of you," she began, fidgeting with the blue metal that covered her right elbow. "And you see him when I don't get to. Can you keep an eye on him for me? Make sure he stays safe?"

Rusty was taken aback - and that's when he realised he did not hear the banging skip bins anymore. He spun and saw Benny watching them, his stone face decidedly harder.

"Gotta go," he said in a rush and hurried over to the truck. He gave his best attempt at a casual grin. "Finished now?"

Benny shot him a cool look. "What were you and the bird whispering about?"

Rusty tensed, but he forced a disinterested shrug. "She wanted a favour, but I told her I don't do nothin' for no aeroplanes."

Benny face did not change, but his small eyes seemed to bore into Rusty. "Smart answer," he said at last and hitched onto the steamer's belt. "Why don't you help me with the rest of the skip bins, steam train?"

Rusty tried not to gag as he nodded.


"So much for Plan B," Rusty exhaled, trudging away from the last two chair cars, who he could still hear snickering behind him. What a waste of time.

Rusty looked up at the evening sky where he could see a few stars beginning to sprinkle the purplish canvas, and he scoffed. So much for Poppa's prayers, he thought. He pursed his lips and blew out a bit of excess steam through his whistle.

He continued on, picking up the pace to punch in for his night shift. He felt tired from working in the sun; Bogey had discovered more graffiti that they had missed, and two days later they were still not done. His throat felt dry, and his stomach complained of hunger with each chug of his pistons, but he had not been able to buy himself a bag of crisps or anything on his lunch break. By the time he had tried to grab a quick snack after getting rejected by the tenth piece of coaching stock that day, the food booths had run out of the items which he could afford, and the diner on duty said they would not get a new shipment for three days.

Maybe you would've had time to buy something if you hadn't gone to the coach yard on a fool's errand, a part of his mind scolded him, and he swallowed back the bile. He had spent the better part of two days' worth of free time asking every carriage that came in and out of the marshalling yard to partner with him, and each one had turned him down.

Sue Casey the luggage van had broke into a fit of giggles. Andromeda the sleeping car had said her father was an electric passenger engine, and she would sooner see one of the electric Nationals win the racing crown from Greaseball than a steamer. Charity the chair car had said she had to wash her hair on race night. Carmen, the Wheel Guide leader, had been one of the few to wish him luck, but she and her husband had plans for their anniversary that weekend.

At every turn, he had been rejected. Now, that left him to try the freight yard, but as his eyes drifted toward the track that led to the wagon neighborhood, his heart clenched. What's even the point?

Even if some van agreed to partner with him, he had little time to train, and he would look like a fool as he dragged behind the real champions who had proper coaches.

It was a nice dream, but it's time to wake up, Rusty.

He reached the depot as the evening wind picked up, and the station lights flicked on, illuminating the tracks. He could see a few of the night shift shunters already at work, getting the sleeper trains ready for their runs. Rusty moved around the building to the clock machine and grabbed his punch card - and his nose twitched at a hint of a foul odour.

Suddenly a hand grabbed his wrist and spun him around. His tender slammed into the wall as Tank shoved his smelly arm against Rusty's throat. "Hey, steam train."

Rusty choked and pushed against Tank's thick arm with his free hand, but the diesel pressed harder his iron windpipe. On either side of Tank, Lube and Gook rolled up, glaring at Rusty.

"Gook came back to the yard today from pulling the rubbish train," said Tank, his baleful eyes glittering, "and guess what story Benny the bin truck told him."

Rusty shook his head, gurgling. "Not… true…"

Gook scoffed. "Sounds like a guilty conscience, Tank."

"I think so too," said Tank. He released Rusty neck, but the steamer was only able to draw in one shaking breath before Tank grabbed a fistful of his hair, swinging him around. Now the three diesels surrounded him.

Lube grabbed his right arm. "You like playing with metal birds more than coaches, steam train?" he growled.

Gook grabbed his other arm. "You like sleeping with the enemy?"

Tank flexed his fist, towering above the steamer. "Poppa ain't here to save your rusted bum this time." He pulled his arm back.

Rusty braced himself.

"Hey! Leave him alone," came a voice.

It was enough to make the diesels stop, but Rusty bit back a groan as he looked over his shoulder to see Pilot striding toward them. What was that idiot doing?

Tank pointed a warning finger at him. "This don't concern you, shunter."

Pilot braked a meter away. His green lip trembled for a brief moment, but he stayed put. "Leave him alone."

Tank leered. "Lube, teach the pipsqueak some manners while we finish with the steam traitor."

Pilot's eyes widened, and he visibly gulped as Lube released the rusted arm - and Rusty did the first stupid thing that popped into his head. He reached back into his tender, grabbed a coal, and hurled it right into Gook's face - whack!

Gook let out a yell and released Rusty to grab his now dented nose. Rusty did not pause a second. Tank made a grab for him, but Rusty spun away and charged toward Lube and Pilot. The binliner jumped back on obvious instinct, leaving the shunter open. Rusty did not slow but grabbed Pilot's arm and broke into a run, speeding into the night.

"Get them!" shouted Tank, and the scream of wheels followed.

Get to Control, get to Control, get to Control. Rusty charged for the horizon. Pilot grabbed his holdings, shunter pride forgotten, and Rusty ducked down a side line, putting all his mind and strength into moving forward.

He heard the binliners keeping up the chase. Pilot was not the heaviest vehicle Rusty had ever pulled, but his shunter wheels were not made for high speeds, and Rusty could feel the drag. It would only be a matter of time before the diesels caught up.

Rusty leaned forward, his untrained pistons screaming against rust he did not know he had - and suddenly, up ahead in the twilight, a low trestle neared, rested between two hills. A trio of hoppers napped in work mode on a siding beneath the bridge - which gave Rusty an idea. "Pilot, switch!"

He crouched down and made the change without waiting for a response. His arms disappeared as did his legs, and his wheels hit the rails with a clang. He felt Pilot morph behind him. Cuboid and relying on just pistons to move them forward, both shunters sailed beneath the bridge.

Only a few seconds, but it was enough. Rusty staggered back to his feet, regaining his racing form, and he was rewarded with a reverberating clank and a cry of pain. He felt Pilot change back as well, and Rusty risked looking over his shoulder. Lube and Gook swung themselves over the trestle, but Tank did not follow.

Rusty turned forward. Just a little further!

Up ahead he saw a junction where the track split. One line led into a faintly illuminated tunnel - and he pushed faster, acting as if he were heading toward it. The mouth of the tunnel soon loomed above him - and at the last moment he made a sharp left turn, heading down the other line.

A clattering crash rang out behind him, and a curse that sounded like it came from Gook, echoed in the tunnel.

One last set of wheels clamoured behind him, still following, but Rusty knew it wasn't far now. Within moments the light of the control tower emerged behind the dark hills.

His heart leapt.

All at once he felt a yank on his belt, and Pilot let out a yelp as Lube dragged him off the steamer's couplings.

Rusty did not pause. Instinctively, he spun and charged at Lube. He pursed his lips and blew steam through his whistle into Lube's face. "Whooo!"

Lube stood too tall for the blast to do much damage, but it hit his jaw. The diesel hissed with pain and lurched backward, releasing Pilot.

Rusty grabbed the shunter's wrist and charged forward again, wildly pumping his free piston.

The control tower was a lot closer now. Rusty felt his flare jump with determination - right before he stumbled, and his knees connected against the concrete sleepers, shooting pain through him. Pilot crashed beside him on the grass. Coal slipped out of Rusty's tender and tumbled about his head. He made a move to snatch one for a weapon, but all at once a hand grabbed his holdings and yanked him up. Before Rusty could do more than tense, Lube's knee slammed into his stomach.

"That'll teach you, you rotten - " Lube started to growl, but a high pitched voice blared from a nearby speaker.

"Hey - ! Break it up!" ordered Control. "Lube, Rusty, Pilot, you three report at my tower this instant!"

Lube immediately stepped away as if bitten, allowing Rusty to fall to the ground. Rusty quickly rolled to the side and looked up to see the diesel mouth the words, "You're dead," but Lube started toward the nearby control tower.

Rusty took a deep breath, rubbing his injured stomach, and forced himself up onto his smarting knees. He turned to Pilot, whose synthetic skin now seemed to match his green paint in the faint light.

"Don't like fast. Don't like fast," the shunter moaned, clutching his abdomen.

Rusty heaved a relieved sigh. "C'mon, Pie Man. We're safe now," he urged, helping the green shunter to his wheels, and together they limped toward the control tower.


"Well, it could have been a lot worse," said Pilot as he stuffed the bits of rubbish on the ground into his bin bag.

"Yeah, for Control, this is practically fair," cracked Rusty, trying not to get pop on his fingers as he picked up a crushed can that someone had thought belonged in the decorative bushes that lined the coach yard instead of the dustbin mere meters away.

The reprimanding that had followed yesterday's chase had not gone in their favour. The three binliners had claimed that Rusty had started the fight and provoked them into chasing the shunters. It did not matter that Pilot was a witness or that Rusty had only blew a tiny bit of steam at Lube in self-defense. Since the security cameras by the punch cards had been on the fritz for three weeks, Control had said that neither side could prove their claim, so all five engines would be disciplined.

"And if I ever hear about you fighting again," Control had told Rusty in private, "you can't race."

Rusty shook his head at the memory, biting his cheek. At least when he won, he could apply to another line and never have to see Control or the binliners again. Just keep your head down a little longer, Rusty.

Pilot stretched, rubbing his lower back. "How do you do all this everyday, Steam Man?" he asked, wincing.

"One piece of rubbish at a time," Rusty replied, flicking a torn Mars Bar wrapper in his bag.

The shunter made a face. "You're a better train than me, mate," he said before he bent to touch his toe stops with a stifled groan.

A few days ago Rusty might have gotten some satisfaction out of seeing the resident goofball getting a taste of the steamer's daily workload, but now he just felt sympathy for the shunter. Fleeing a thrashing from smelly diesel locomotives had that effect on an acquaintanceship, it seemed.

"Have you talked to Amelia at all?" he asked, rolling to pick up a piece of rubbish by the nearby guardrail that separated the coach yard from a rocky ledge.

The shunter straightened. "Yeah. She's happy about what you did and says she wishes you were able to give Lube a punch for her." His green lips spread. "Ain't she the best?"

"If she can handle you, she is," Rusty replied, and Pilot laughed.

Suddenly, the shunter leaned forward, and his eyes widened. "Can you keep a secret?" At Rusty's nod, the green shunter checked over both shoulders before he whispered, "I'm gonna ask her to marry me. On race night."

"That's a jolly big step," said Rusty, trying not to look impolite while his mind strove to imagine the green goofball in such a commitment.

Pilot grinned. "I know."

"What about the binliners?"

Pilot shrugged, sitting down upon the guardrail. "We could start over somewhere else that has an airfield and a station next to each other."

"In Britain?" Rusty said skeptically.

Pilot shook his head. "Jetson the private jet works for a rich bloke, and he says he knows couples like us in some of the countries he's visited. Some even have kids."

"What are you gonna build?" Rusty asked before he could stop himself.

Pilot's hazel eyes lit up. "I know Amelia has said that if she ever had a little plane boy, she'd want to call him Windsor after her grandfa - " he began, but he stopped, horror suddenly dawning on his painted face.

That was when Rusty noticed the smell of rotting rubbish, and he whirled around to see Tank, Lube, and Gook standing a few meters away - but they were not alone. Four other locomotives in black paint stood with them, and Rusty recognized them as some of the freight engines who worked in the yard.

Pilot sidled next to Rusty, looking ready to hitch on, but the diesels quickly moved to either side of them, cutting off their escape.

Tank rolled forward, cracking his knuckles. "Yesterday you two were lucky."

Rusty and Pilot backed up against the guardrail. For a wild moment, Rusty considered swinging himself over the bar and sliding down the rocky ledge - and then all at once an alarm bell sounded on his right, causing a few of the engines to jump.

Suddenly Rusty saw Bogey pushing his way through the barricade. Right behind him came Shortstop, Smuts, Ballast, Chainlink, and a few of the younger blue shunters.

Bogey braked right in front of Tank, and Tank's lip curled. "This ain't your business, bald man."

The shunter supervisor straightened his shoulders. "My workers are my business," he said bravely, although his voice cracked on the last syllable.

The black clad locomotives scoffed, and a few flexed their fists. Tank jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Clear off, and I'll let you and the other shrimps live for now."

Bogey's diesel tank rumbled, but he did not move away. "You leave my workers alone, binliner, or you'll have me to deal with."

Shortstop rolled up beside him. "And me."

"And me," chimed in Ballast and Chainlink, flanking the two, and Smuts sidled up next. One by one the other shunters joined the ranks, separating Rusty and Pilot from their attackers.

The seven mainliners seemed taken back, and Tank momentarily looked flustered, but then his eyes hardened. "Whatever," he sneered, turning away. "We have better things to do." He gestured, and his companions followed him down the line. A few made rude gestures.

Rusty released the breath he was holding. "That was close," he murmured, planting his hands upon his knees.

The brown haired Chainlink turned and, grinning, punched Pilot's arm. "Brilliant!"

Pilot seemed to recover and high fived his friend. "A shunter crew, a shunter crew, you'd better never bother with a shunter crew," he hummed.

"I'm happy you two found it a piece of cake," said Bogey dryly before he turned to Rusty. "You all right, steamer?"

Rusty nodded, and as he scanned the awkward concerned faces of the shunters, he felt a rush of warmth for all of them. "Thanks, chaps."

Ballast rolled up beside him, and her gray eyes looked troubled. "Are you really seeing an aeroplane, Rusty?"

Before Rusty could do more than shake his head, Pilot quickly cut in, "Not that there's anything wrong if two mature adults liked each other, right?" He looked at the others nervously.

"Nothing wrong," said Chainlink with a laugh. "I'd say it's about time our mainliner found himself a girlfriend - if it were true." He gave Rusty a wink, and a few other shunters laughed, not unkindly.

"Grow up, you lot," said Ballast, folding her blue arms.

Rusty held up his hands, feeling his artificial skin heat. "I'm happy to stay a bachelor, if it's all the same."

Pilot had visibly relaxed now, and he gave Rusty a knowing look, strumming his invisible guitar. "I dunno. Girls will be lined up and down the track once you win the race, you know."

"What race?" Bogey asked, quirking a red eyebrow.

Rusty cleared his throat, wishing Pilot had kept his gob shut. "I'm entering," he said nonchalantly and braced himself for the onslaught of ridicule.

The shunters exchanged glances, and Chainlink shook his head, amazed. "So, they were telling the truth."

Ballast nodded, staring at Rusty. "Some of the coaches said you were asking for partners, but I thought it was Sue Casey winding them up - like that time on Bonfire Night."

The others murmured in agreement.

Pilot stepped next to Rusty. "You shoulda seen him when we were running from the binliners," he told them, admiration in his voice. "If he could do that, imagine what he'll do on race night after he's trained up and all."

A few shunters looked at Rusty in wonder, but the tank engine grimaced. "Maybe not," he said darkly. "Control won't give me the time off to train."

Pilot turned, surprised. "Why not?"

Rusty rolled his eyes. "We still have a business to run," he said, mimicking Control's high voice. "As long as the work gets done, you can race."

Pilot's brow furrowed. "So, what do you need? A day or two each week?"

Rusty shrugged. "Dunno. Three, at least."

Pilot nodded slowly. "Yeah, I could do three."

Rusty raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

The green smile appeared. "I work a few nights a week, and you train."

For a moment Rusty was not sure he heard right. "You'd do that?"

Pilot gave a carefree shrug. "Us shunters gotta stick together, mate."

Ballast cleared her throat, fidgeting with her metal boilersuit. "I could probably handle every other Sunday afternoon," she offered, giving Rusty a shy look.

"Wednesdays are usually slow in the afternoon," Bogey said, stroking his thinning mustache. "I could let you off early."

Rusty stared at them in amazement. "Really?"

Bogey nodded, and his brown eyes had understanding in them. "You're meant to be a mainliner. You weren't made to do our work. That ain't your fault," he added at Rusty's expression. "Maybe racing is what you need most right now." He then wagged a finger, giving the steamer a mock frown. "Don't let me hear about you slacking in your training now."

Rusty grinned, his flame leaping in his chest - until he remembered. "Now, all I gotta do is find a partner," he sighed wearily.

Ballast turned a little pink, and she adjusted her glasses. "Wish I could help you there."

Chainlink rubbed his scratched chin. "Don't you have those boxcar cousins?"

Rusty looked heavenward. "The Rockies have gotten picky with who they race with ever since Rocky One lost that boxing match to Apollo the day car," he said. "They say they want to save face, but it's like they're expecting the Royal Train to roll up and ask for a partner."

Pilot suddenly snapped his fingers, his eyes lighting up. "I got it!" he beamed. "Pearl the observation car will come of age in a fortnight. She likes racing. You two can start training after her birthday and be ready by race night."

Rusty recalled that almost a year prior Control had bought three observation cars to alternate working on his excursion train, but the steamer rarely socialised with the younger trains and could not place the face. "Which one is she again?" he asked sheepishly.

"The carriage with the pink hair that wants to be a ballerina," Pilot replied. He waved a hand, green lips stretching further. "C'mon, mate, I'll introduce you."

"Cheers," Rusty replied, and the two started for the coach yard.

THE END