Tracks

by K. M. Tolan

  Laughing like favorite cousins, the two girls shot down to the shop floor and separated, each drifting among the shops to exchange words with the workers at each station. Vincent spied more than idle conversation. Gossamer threads of mist flowed from speaker to steam child, Freedom and Glory becoming more substantial with each visitation. Soon the two, now fully formed, walked between shops, the only thing separating them from the other frilled-and-laced women being a spectral gray hue.

  The Berkshire groaned and creaked under the ministrations of an engineer and fireman who labored to bring the virgin boiler up to pressure. Each sound of tested steel turned heads and arrested breaths, until all faces were on the awakening machine.

  A single clear peal from the Berkshire’s brass bell called out in supplication.

  Hands joined, Freedom and Glory answered, losing their human guises in a rush of billowing steam. Serpentine white coils enveloped the locomotive, pouring themselves through vent and aperture until both steam children disappeared inside.

  The Berkshire abruptly shook, emitting a mighty woof from iron cylinders as the pistons jerked to life. Vincent swore he heard a melodic humming similar to the sound coming from living tracks, save that this song seemed more sonorous and mighty. A new awareness spread itself across the shop as if everyone reflected the wonder of newly born eyes. The engine inched forward under its own power along the brief set of tracks before stopping with exultant blasts from its whistle. The Berkshire settled down, its thunder replaced by the cheers of its makers.

  Craft masters from each shop stepped forward and splashed the contents of shot glasses against the engine’s tall driver wheels. Freedom and Glory re-appeared atop the boiler, darting and looping over the workers’ heads. A machine shop’s band struck up a celebratory tune, coaxing the steam children back into full human shapes.

  Freedom, now adorned in Victorian finery, flew up before Vincent. Her hand, soft and warm as any real woman’s, tugged at his wrist. “Join me!” she cried.

  “Now that’s an honor to be sure,” Timepiece commented before Glory provided the conductor with a similar invite.

  Not wanting to disappoint the many cheers and slaps on the back, Vincent headed for an empty spot of floor. He rummaged through his head for any memories of knowing how to dance, and fell short.

  His sister didn’t give him a chance to think further. She seized him by his wrists, twirling them across the floor. Glory and Timepiece followed, the workers clapping and shouting encouragement to the foursome. Vincent threw self-consciousness aside, deciding to have the time of his life with a long-lost sister and damn what anyone thought of his two left feet. For this moment, she was genuinely a real person and not some puffy cloud.

  Others joined the dance, and soon his partners changed at a whim and a wink, helped along by the blessings of Saint Guinness. There were food, toasting, and more dizzying turns on the floor. He swore he heard a low contented rumble coming from the Berkshire’s boiler. Shop rivalries spiced the festivities with a quick brawl or two, and Vincent knew it was time to go when Timepiece starting rattling on about his Hudson again. Waving goodbye, he collected the conductor, figuring if he found the exit, he’d find the inn again.

  The fresh air did neither of them much service, Vincent vainly blinking the blur from his eyes while trying to keep them both on a reeling sidewalk beneath sallow streetlamps. Odd fortune came to their assistance when he recognized a familiar figure leaning against brick wall. “Jake. Little help here?”

  Grinning, the big fireman came over and clapped Vincent on the shoulders. “Figured you might need a hand get’n back.”

  “Much obliged.” His shoulder ached from keeping Timepiece and himself more or less on their feet.

  “Think nothing of it, kid.” Jake looked over Vincent’s shoulder. “Nothing at all.”

  Pain exploded from a blow to the base of Vincent’s skull.

  Nine

  Vincent cracked open an eye. No, this wasn’t some boozy dream following him into a hangover. Chains lashed him up against the tattered insulation of an old heating pipe. Timepiece slumped beside him in a good imitation of a puppet cut from its strings.

  “Welcome back to the world of the living, bub,” Jake greeted him, straddling a stool in front of them. “Between the Guinness and a little tap on the skull, I wouldn’t want your noggin. His lordship’s on the way now that you’re sobered up, so you’d best keep a civil tongue in your yap.”

  The bastard was right about the pounding in his skull. “You’re a Hamilton.”

  Jake’s laugh sounded more like a ripsaw. “Hell no, I’m an Erie man. The baron’s left hand, you might say. Told you not to go around asking questions, remember? So you wanted to find the diesel shop, did ya? Well here you are, kid. Happy to oblige. Don’t you go running off, now.” He pushed the chair aside and left them alone in the dimly lit bay.

  Glowering, Vincent spat on the floor. Of course, he wasn’t going anywhere. The scrape of rusted links across his wrists attested to that fact. Timepiece stirred beside him and tugged uselessly at his own bindings.

  “Uh, think we found that rogue diesel shop,” Vincent remarked. “Or what’s left of it. I’d say everyone’s in a hurry to leave.”

  Wincing, Timepiece straightened his legs with a wince. “Yep. Fine job, there, Brass. Any other good news?”

  “Baron Van Erie’s fixing to gloat over us in a few minutes. Don’t look at me like I’m the only one that got us into this mess. We might as well’ve rolled into Lima blowing trumpets.”

  “Hell of a situation for a sober man.” Timepiece sighed, glancing around. “Any chance Freedom knows we’re here?”

  Vincent shrugged. “She ran off with Glory right after the dance.” He joined Timepiece in studying their surroundings. Naked bulbs hung from high rafters. The place stank of hot metal and old oil. Tables lined the floor in cookie-cutter precision, outlines on the dingy concrete suggesting the kind of machines necessary to support heavy industry. Overhead cranes hovered above empty tracks.

  Shadows shifted among abandoned equipment, a distinct patch of darkness separating itself from the rest.

  “Well,” Vincent remarked with relief, observing a furtive figure revealing herself beneath the lights, “at least we managed to find who we came for.”

  Samantha Van Erie ran low to the ground, showing little more than sweeps of raven hair over a forest-green dress and high boots. Upon reaching them she straightened, her wiry body tightly buttoned into a ruffled white shirt.

  She glanced over her shoulder before speaking, her attention centering on Timepiece. “Wake up, conductor. It’s time to for you to get to work. Father’s hybrid diesel is outside. We’ll be riding the line that’ll take us to the gandy dancer who’s going to train Vincent. Your job’s to tell us when we’re near Red Sticks, Ohio. That’s where we jump off. Red Sticks, understand?”

  Vincent hardly believed what he was hearing. “Why do I think getting us grabbed was your idea?”

  She flashed a row of even teeth. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Why would your father take us aboard?”

  Her narrow face fell. “Leverage. I’m sorry.” Turning, she disappeared within the factory’s dim interior.

  “You’re sorry,” Vincent muttered, his elation at seeing her in one piece dampened by the girl’s machinations.

  The side door swung open, Jake and other swarthy types trailing a knot of bureaucrats in gray suits. Erie Railroad’s baron set a brisk pace in front of his entourage, his black traveling coat parted to reveal a pinstriped ash vest. A bowtie complemented his high collar, adding severity to the trimmed angles of Bram Van Erie’s muttonchops.

  He pivoted around the corner of a vacated tool crib and bore down on Vincent and Timepiece with a determined grimace. “I understand the union sent you two gentlemen to look for this shop,” Bram spoke, his boardroom voice echoing across the vacant room. He snapped a finger.

  Jake shouldered aside the executives and
planted a silver coin in the baron’s outstretched hand. “Kid had it.”

  Vincent’s heart sank at the sight of the hobo nickel. Now he understood Samantha’s apologetic retreat. She’d just handed over his sister—her supposed childhood friend.

  “Figure he’s the one Freedom’s sweet on,” Jake continued. “Sammy said the little steam puff likes ’em both.”

  The baron stiffened. “My daughter has a proper name, Mister Baker.”

  “’Scuse,” Jake returned with a brief bob of his head. “Miss Samantha.”

  Bram fingered the nickel before regarding Vincent. “My brother’s behind this, isn’t he? Sent you on a fool’s errand, I bet. Thanks to your contribution, we’ll be in Cleveland before Shannon’s gang is any the wiser. Samantha told me you are Jack Maloney’s son. Is this true?”

  “Is it true you had my father killed?” Vincent shot back.

  Bram pocketed the coin. “No. There are precious few gandy dancers in this world, and at one time, your father was my most valued employee. He was to be returned to me unharmed, not murdered. If you feel the need to blame someone, then I suggest you start with my brother who filled his head with nonsense.”

  Vincent thrashed uselessly against his bonds. “It’s not your brother planning to enslave my sister.”

  The baron’s brow creased. “Sister?” He retrieved the nickel and regarded it with a slow intake of breath. “So this is why your father felt it necessary to…” Bram turned to Jake. “Bring him.”

  The baron’s man pointed at Timepiece. “And this one?”

  “I don’t need someone pointing the way for Boss Shannon. Besides, my daughter considers him useful, so we’ll have two guests. Bring Jack’s son to the diesel. I want to assure him as to his sister’s well-being when we use the injector.”

  Vincent bit back a scathing retort, not wanting to risk a final chance at preventing Freedom’s capture. Unchained, he offered no resistance when pulled up on cramped legs. Jake grabbed his arm, the henchman’s wolfish grin inviting trouble as he and his fellows half-dragged Vincent and Timepiece after the baron.

  The baron’s men led them outside and onto a busy dock where workers loaded equipment into waiting freight cars. Vincent took note of distant smoke stacks and guessed they were outside the Locomotive Works on some half-forgotten spur. In front of him, a gray rectangular engine rumbled impatiently ahead of two stainless steel coaches, the outlawed diesel locomotive capped by a squat crew cabin. Vincent saw no caboose.

  The baron wrapped a ringed hand around the rung of a ladder leading up to the diesel’s catwalk. He fixed Vincent with the intensity of a Sunday preacher, his voice rising above the engine’s noise. “Taylorism is not about slavery, Mister Maloney. Set aside William’s hobo rubbish and witness your sister pioneering in a new age.”

  Jake cuffed Vincent up the ladder. “Don’t give me an excuse, kid.”

  One look at the dark fog swirling behind Jake’s eyes was enough for Vincent. Yegg. Of course.

  Bram Van Erie’s eyes wrinkled. “Best hold him, Mister Baker.”

  “You can’t do this.” Vincent seethed, twisting away from Jake’s grip.

  Bram shook his head. “Had you not involved yourself with the unions, such rough expediency would have been avoided.”

  Jake regained his hold on Vincent’s arm, the second thug coming up from behind to seize the other. Jake added a swift jab to Vincent’s kidneys, doubling him over.

  “A little self-restraint, gentlemen,” the baron snapped. “I lost one good man due to over-zealousness. I’m not about to risk his son to the same ill tempers.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake returned, though his crooked grin thinned out any inferred apology.

  Oblivious to Jake’s remark, the baron pulled open a locker door to reveal pipes curled inside like metallic intestines. “Young man, I am fighting a war of commerce, and quite frankly I’m losing. That means jobs, people’s livelihoods. All because the transportation system we depend on is held captive by a belief designed to stifle innovation and progress in the name of sentimentality.”

  Bram held up the hobo nickel. “This is a mark of servitude far crueler than any I could devise. Each of these represents a little girl torn from her body for no other reason than to ensure that only antiquated steam engines ply these so-called living tracks. Anything else derails. And yet my brother William considers me the monster.”

  The baron pushed up a red lever, sliding a pipe casing aside to reveal a slot into which he slid the nickel. The twist of a small valve sent a jet of steam hissing across the coin. “Granted your sister deserves the fate of an indentured servant—just compensation for the costs she has run up. However, I owe both of you for the injustice of your father’s death. Fertile ground for a business agreement amicable to all parties.”

  “Then don’t do this,” Vincent pleaded, unable to get close enough to even kick the bastard. He prayed his sister was too busy carousing with other steam children to heed the coin’s call.

  The baron’s answer was to gesture toward the diesel’s engineers. The engine throbbed with building power.

  To Vincent’s dismay, the roiling cloud of steam around the pipe took on a familiar pixyish form, confusion crossing Freedom’s face as he screamed his warning too late.

  Van Erie slammed the lever down; Freedom’s alarmed expression twisting into sheer horror as a vacuum tube’s shriek sucked her into its maw.

  A moment later, she was gone—drawn into the diesel’s innards. The baron turned to Jake with a brisk nod. “Take him to my car while I expedite the loading. Pour the gentleman a drink.”

  “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!” Vincent lunged forward, the men’s nails digging through his coat into his shoulder.

  “I’m getting ta see why Sammy likes you,” Jake snickered in a guttural snarl, his face nearly lost inside twists of black shadow.

  “And remember what I said about showing restraint,” the baron added while Vincent was dragged off the walkway.

  The yegg scowled, their dark auras withdrawing in serpentine wisps. Jake paused when they were alongside the first passenger car. Licking his lips, he looked around before slamming Vincent against the stainless steel siding. “Notice his lordship said noth’n ’bout yur friend, kid. Yeah, tough luck about your sister, but having that conductor’s guts stuffed into a mail bag ain’t gonna make things better, now is it? So the next time I hear ya giving the baron lip, the boys and me are gonna take it out on your buddy. Got it?

  “Yeah,” Vincent forced through his teeth. Too bad they’d taken his brass knuckles along with the coin.

  Jake eased his grip and slapped Vincent’s cheek. “Sammy said you were a smart kid. Let’s see about that drink.”

  The car’s interior was everything Vincent expected from a rail baron’s private conveyance—all polished mahogany and green velvet.

  Jake sat him none too gently at a table adjacent to a small bar and poured a generous glass of whiskey from a crystal decanter. The yegg took a swig directly from the bottle, gave Vincent a wink and returned the whiskey to its place on a glass shelf.

  He wiped his chin and leaned against the table. “Baron didn’t get your daddy killed.” Jake thumped a fist against his heart. “This did. His lordship’s working to breed the ugly out of us. Give us a shot at the good life. He’ll do the same for you and your sister if ya give him half a chance.”

  Vincent let the alcohol’s warmth melt the edge off his rage. “So he’s going to make you better monsters, is that it?”

  “Least he ain’t trying to crap us out like everyone else is.” Jake stabbed out a stubby finger. “Best you get on the winning side while you can.”

  “Sound advice,” Bram Van Erie’s voice broke in from the doorway. He stepped inside. “Mr. Baker shares my vision of a new paradigm where men like him can out-produce even the most talented craftsmen.”

  “Yur Honorship,” Jake half-muttered, edging past the baron to join the other yegg at the rear of the car.<
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  The baron sat across from Vincent and brushed aside the glass between them. “First things, first, Mr. Maloney. Your sister’s confinement does not put her in any physical discomfort. The engine’s design allows her a measure of freedom, and there are even pressure resistant glass panels she can look through. There are also vents to allow her open access to the outside whenever she wishes. Those passages are sealed, however, dependent upon the business arrangement the three of us can come up with.”

  The window beside them quivered. The cabin’s chandeliers tinkled as the train pulled away from the loading dock. Vincent closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the thought of his sister screaming while she frantically raced around her prison looking for a way out. He couldn’t think of anything to add to the conversation that wouldn’t have Jake and the other on him in a moment.

  Bram folded his arms as if understanding Vincent’s silence. “Samantha told me you weren’t born in Hobohemia. You have a valuable perspective from which to see things differently from my brother, William. Imagine this world without tramps and parasitic unions. A world where men like yourself wouldn’t have to worry about losing their daughters because there won’t be a need for steam children. I can bring this about through science instead of artistic whim.”

  “Free my sister,” Vincent ground out. “Now.”

  Bram pointed out the window at the countryside rushing by. “At this speed we would instantly be thrown from the roadbed if I were to be so foolish. As long as we travel on what is euphemistically called living track, your sister’s presence is required to keep this machine from derailing. I want Freedom working for the Erie Railroad of her own volition, just like her kind does with the steam engines. She can come and go as she likes, provided she meets our schedules. A generous bonus for every steam child she recruits.

  Vincent couldn’t help but laugh. “Her kind doesn’t give a damn about your money.”