by K. M. Tolan
Bram folded his hands together. “But she cares about you. I will pay you well, Mr. Maloney. Follow in your father’s footsteps and help me find a way to lay living rails without requiring hybrid diesels or steam children.”
Vincent’s voice chilled as he spoke. “Your deal didn’t work out so great for Dad.”
“I didn’t realize he was Freedom’s father, and that he was obviously trying to protect her. This put him at cross-purposes with me, due to your sister’s…activism. Had I known, we could have arrived at a similar agreement. Your father was a valuable member of my team before he was taken advantage of by my brother.” The baron leaned forward, his voice softening. “Young man, your father made the miracle of Taylorism possible here. Did he tell you that? It was he who opened the line to Detroit.”
“So I’ve heard,” Vincent muttered, wishing for even a hint of deception in the baron’s eyes.
“You should be proud of him. He led us to a place where mass production was already a way of life. Common men built the diesel pulling this train in a matter of days using Fredrick Taylor’s principles of scientific management.”
“A diesel with my sister locked inside,” Vincent interjected with enough venom to stir Jake and his partner in the back seat.
“Until we arrive at a better arrangement,” the baron reminded him with a dismissing wave of his hand. “The Erie Railroad is not a corporation as much as a fraternity.” He drew a small dog-eared book from within his coat. “Hobohemia has its beliefs. We have ours. Nevertheless, our belief results from direct observation rather than faith or whimsy. I want you to witness this for yourself through what we call the Trial of the High-Priced Man. See firsthand what you can accomplish using this book’s teachings. The results will astound you.”
Incredulity ran a crooked grin across Vincent’s face. “So you want me to become a Taylorist too?”
Bram sat back. “No, Mister Maloney. You’ll want it.”
His faced flushed from the man’s sheer audacity. Not only had he killed Dad, this piece of shit expected him to sell out his sister like a common whore. “Let me explain what I want.”
Vincent’s right hand launched from its resting place on the table, slamming full into the bastard’s jaw. His common sense caught up a moment afterward, too late to undo what his temper had wrought. He vaulted from his seat. A hard kick sent the chair into Jake’s path. Howling, the yegg tumbled to the floor. Knowing he only had seconds, Vincent dashed for the door leading out to the diesel.
Claws dug into him as he swung open the access door. Powerful arms threw him into the face of the second yegg, knocking them both to the floor beside the bar. Vincent scrambled to his feet and smashed the whiskey decanter against a brass rail. An instant later, he pressed a shard against the recovering baron’s neck. “Back off!”
Jake and the other whirling shadow hesitated.
“Where do you think you’re going to go?” Bram hissed as Vincent consolidated his hold. “Did you forget what happens the moment your sister escapes? You’ll kill us all, including your friend in the back.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Vincent grated, dragging him toward the rear access leading into the second car. Damn it, but the baron had a point. Having survived a previous derailment at the hands of a suicidal steamer, he wasn’t anxious to go through the same experience at twice the speed. Freedom would have to be the last one out or Timepiece wouldn’t stand a chance.
He fixed his eyes on the two nightmares darkening the car. “Follow me across and I open your boss’s throat like a pillow case. Got it?”
He edged across the junction between the two cars, keeping a tight hold on his hostage as the grating rocked and tilted beneath them. He shoved the baron into the second car, exacting a gasp from the man when the glass drew blood. “Everyone get to the back.”
The baron’s executives ran to the rear like gray geese, leaving Timepiece and Samantha sitting alone in the front seats.
“About time,” Samantha said, seeming to take her father’s dilemma in stride. “Timepiece says we’re almost there. Good to see you taking some initiative on your own.”
He stared at her. Gone were the feminine dressings and lace. Samantha was dressed for trouble. She was even wearing the same green vest and denim traveling clothes he first met her in. And I thought your father had all the audacity. He didn’t know whether to leave her behind or hug the girl for her pluck. In any case, he needed her to find this other gandy dancer. Without training, he couldn’t hope to get Dad off the Westbound. One thing at a time, though. “Let’s go. We’re heading back up front to uncork Freedom before we jump.”
“Figured you’d say that,” she groused, sliding from her seat. Samantha squeezed past him and her father, regarding the latter with a frigidity having no place on a daughter’s face. “Kill him.”
Dumbfounded, Vincent refused. “You out of your mind?”
Her answer, if any, was lost in a rush of wind, followed by Timepiece’s warning shout. Talons sunk deep into his arms, wrenching him away from the baron. A black whirlwind hurled him out the opened passenger door.
Ten
“Can I have one, Daddy? Please, please, please!” Katy’s eyes shone with excitement as the little girl bounced up and down in front of the candy counter.
Vincent’s father grinned, and pulled one of the clear sugar crystals from the jar. “You know where these come from, honey? A big rock candy mountain.”
“What about me, Dad?” Vincent asked after his sister caught her prize.
“Not yet, son.”
Vincent stood rooted and speechless as his father stared down at him from the ghost train’s passenger car.
“Not yet.”
A sharp jab opened Vincent’s eyes to opalescent skies framed by evergreen boughs. Mentally batting away the disturbing dream or delirium, he focused on more physical concerns—like being tossed from a speeding train. Groaning, he rolled off a pinecone and sat upright next to a tree whose girth easily exceeded two grown men. How long have I been lying here? Vincent closed his brown coat against the early morning’s crispness and glanced around. His shoulders stung from where claws had dug in for purchase.
The train was nowhere in sight. Neither were the tracks for that matter. The roadbed itself was little more than a brief overgrown slash across encroaching forest. Feeling a familiar hollowness in his guts, Vincent struggled to his feet, his ribs announcing more bruises where most likely he had hit the embankment. So damn close to freeing his sister, only to lose both her and the tracks. Again.
He scrutinized the tree line to either side of where he lay. No sign of his intended guide, either. Samantha probably ended up tossed back into the baron’s car when the yegg sent him flying. Too bad. She deserved worse after handing Freedom over just to get him and Timepiece on the train. Had he not needed her to find this gandy dancer meant to instruct him, the treacherous little snake could’ve broken her neck for all he cared. He needed Samantha’s mysterious mentor now more than ever. He was off the tracks, and therefore marooned. Vincent heaved a long sigh and kicked at tufts of grass where rails ought to be. If ever he needed to call up a track, it was now. What was that guy’s name, again? Damn.
Alerted by a soft whir, he followed the sound over to a crest of crumbled rock and stared down over heavily wooded lowlands. Thick mists drifted around a dirigible from which hung a clutch of logs secured by thick cables fore and aft. The airship, gray as the sky around it, settled toward a distant swath of green adjacent to a small town. Tall metal towers extended from the community into the forest, but Vincent’s first thought of power lines vanished upon seeing what looked like trolleys coursing along beneath the cables.
“Where the hell am I?” he wondered, looking up.
No twin moons, at least not yet. No Freedom to guide him back to the tracks again, either. He turned and stumbled uselessly through high weeds, soaking his pants in dew while searching in vain for even a vague sign of rails. Ten years ago, according to
Freedom, he had no problem making a line appear out of thin air. What changed? Fists clenched, he tried remembering what thoughts and emotions were running through a twelve-year old’s head. Vincent shut his eyes, willing himself to conjure the roadbed. Imagined the hardness of steel and the smell of sunbaked creosote rising from the ties.
He opened his eyes to grass and milkweeds edged by mature ash. There was only the hint of an embankment. Now what? Vincent came up with a single answer. One way or another he would get to Cleveland and rescue Freedom and Timepiece, even if he had to walk the whole damn distance.
Following the rise, he came upon less of a creek and more of a runoff through loamy rock. He scooped up water where it gurgled its way through a patch of smoothed rocks, his mind still working on how to magically pull an entire railroad spur out of his pocket. Things looked hopeless, but there was always… Vincent sighed. His pockets were empty of anything useful—including food and money. Things looked very hopeless.
The day only seemed to get darker as he trudged down into the valley, intent on the town glimpsed from the ridge. This might be Red Sticks. The town was one name he did remember. People could tell him where he might find a rail yard, or at least point him in the baron’s general direction. There was also the matter of food. Tramps were not beyond living off the generosity of others. Provided the intended benefactors didn’t call the police. Who knew what he’d face here without even so much as a hobo sign warning him away from the wrong places.
Ohio never impressed him—at least his version of it. A collection of farms and fields serving no other purpose than to keep Kentucky from slamming into Michigan. His Ohio didn’t have narrow red cobblestone streets sprinkled with electric cars reminding him of dun-colored beetles. Green-tiled buildings looked straight out of some poster for a Bavarian ski resort. It was night by the time he arrived at the small town’s outskirts, clouds clearing to reveal stars and thankfully just a single moon.
Vincent fingered the emptiness in his pants pocket and regarded the swept sidewalks and sedate pedestrians strolling beneath faux gaslight. A hobo would know where the handouts were. What streets to avoid. But this place? You didn’t put a soup kitchen in the middle of someone’s idea of a German resort. Smoothing back tangles of hair into a semblance of civility, Vincent walked across a road circling the habitation like a cobblestone moat. Odd there weren’t any thoroughfares striking off into the woods.
He aimed toward a patch of bright lights suggesting a town plaza. The very idea of panhandling galled him, but he needed provisions and transportation in order to get to Cleveland. A couple days journey on an empty belly he could handle if necessary.
The sidewalks became more populated as he struck deeper into the village. Green and brown seemed the color of choice. The few accompanied women he saw were wearing bonnets and long-sleeved dresses with hems down to their ankles. The men wore beards, and a few sported stovepipe hats. So what was this? Some kind of Mennonite paradise? The pedestrians offered him more polite nods and smiles than a wayward tramp ought to expect.
The come-hither scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meat led him to a main street restaurant. Vincent paused on a porch and gazed through windows at a room horseshoed around a rock hearth. His stomach growled with envy at the laden buffet tables flanking the fireplace. His eyes found less attractive sights—such as two stern-faced types in brown slacks and shirts eyeing him from across the street. They held simple wooden staves much like the hobo Knights did and leaned on them with an air of nonchalant authority.
“Would you consider dining with us, traveler?” a wheezy voice inquired.
Vincent’s attention returned to the restaurant. As luck would have it, he had attracted the establishment’s elderly greeter who was dressed like some old-time banker, right down to a tall hat that would have made Freedom envious. The wrinkled eyes didn’t have that “Go away” look in them. At least not yet.
“Sorry, old timer. I’m a bit short on money these days.” He breathed out some escaped pride. “Wouldn’t mind a few bites if you could spare them. Long road ahead.”
“Always is for a traveler,” the other replied in neutral tones. “Where you headed?”
“Cleveland. I left Lima a while back.”
The fellow looked over his shoulder. “Cleveland? Can’t say I recognize the name. Riding the Sometimes Train, eh? Well, having one of your personage as our guest brings Her blessings, so please.” The man gestured inside.
“Much appreciated,” Vincent returned with a respectful nod, following the greeter into the warmth and tantalizing aromas. He never heard of Cleveland, but seemed comfortable with a sometimes train?
Vincent didn’t expect the man to stand in the middle of the polished oak floorboards and announce him with a flourish of his arm.
“Ladies and gentleman, the Three Saints have brought us the gift of a traveler fresh off the Sometimes Train. A true man of the open road, as free as the birds Arbor sends through Her branches.”
Oookay. Vincent acknowledged congenial nods with a smile while being shepherded to a table beside the hearth. Maybe the less he shot off his mouth around these parts, the better. It was a practical plan lasting all the way through thick slices of roast beef and steaming vegetables.
And not much further.
Chairs scraped, families settling around him with the earnestness of cold men huddling around a fire. He didn’t have to sing for his supper, but Vincent found himself having to talk as the questions came—furtive at first and then tumbling one over another. Who was he? Where did he come from? Where was he going? What were the rails like and how did they come and go?
Wary of alerting any hidden Taylorists to his plans, Vincent answered as best he could while dancing around subjects he would rather not broach among strangers. He gave them his moniker “Brass”, which they seemed to take in stride with his being a traveler. He tailored his tales to omit Freedom, Timepiece, and his intention to drag them from the baron’s clutches.
Still, these people appeared to regard him like a ghost offering glimpses of the other side. They knew almost nothing about yegg save for other traveler tales, and Cleveland was just a word to them. Everything was “by Arbor’s hand” or “Her Mystery”. He decided not to elaborate on steam children, not with his audience muttering about demons at his initial description. It wouldn’t do to say one of them was his sister.
Vincent managed to learn a little about his hosts. The same fellow whom he first mistook as the restaurant’s greeter showed him to a comfortable room upstairs. The wizened elder was both the mayor and head preacher, and confirmed the town’s name of Red Sticks. Not surprisingly, their main business was lumber.
The mayor, who introduced himself as Thomas Constance, took pains to assure him that his people culled only sick or fallen trees from the surrounding forests. “We’re not unbelievers,” the mayor added with his scratchy voice.
“And what am I?” The crass question slipped free from Vincent’s lips before he clamped his suspicious tongue.
Pausing on the teal hallway carpet, the man smiled. “You are a traveler, much like the one before you these many years back. The Saints spoke of your kind—harbingers, troubadours, and more importantly, kinsmen. Tomorrow we’ll see which of them you are, and help you on your way.”
“What of this other you spoke of?” Vincent pounced, hoping for even a cold trail leading toward Samantha’s gandy dancer over no trail at all.
“An older traveler who didn’t say much before disappearing north into heathen lands.”
“And you’ve never heard of Cleveland? Big city northeast of here. Erie Railroad?”
The mayor shrugged. “The Erie, well, that lake would be to the northeast, but no railroad up that way. Confederation wouldn’t allow it. Nearest is down south Kentucky way. Save, of course, for your Sometimes Train. May Arbor will it that you sleep well, Brass.”
The bed was lumpy but comfortable, with a quilted comforter to ward off the evening chill. A sma
ll radio convinced him he had not gone back in time as well, although the polished maple casing gave it an antique look. What few stations he found were religious in nature, though nothing any Baptist would recognize. These people were anything but Christian in faith, even if they did act like something south of the few bible thumpers he had met in his time. Vincent slept fitfully, his thoughts sticking on them “seeing which one he was” in the morning. At least he had some idea about where his would-be trainer might be. Northeast.
Ticking off his misfortunes, instead of counting sheep, allowed Vincent to catch the creak of his door as it slowly opened. He bunched up his quilts, ready to toss them on the intruder ahead of beating him senseless and diving out the window. Damn it, he knew this place was too good to be true. Maybe it was, because the outline against the hall’s dim light as someone squeezed through the door was decidedly female. This one didn’t come with a floor-length dress, either. Just jeans.
He quickly recognized that cute upturned nose. “Samantha?”
“Shhh.” The return whisper was definitely hers. “I don’t want to be caught in this town”. She turned and carefully eased the door shut behind her, a finger to her lips.
He kept his voice low, tempering his relief at seeing her not only alive, but up to her usual mischief. “How’d you end up here?”
“Same way you did, except I jumped instead of being thrown out. I’m here to get you to Red Socks. We just have to get past the Gardians.”
“What the hell do these people want with me?”
“Travelers such as yourself have a value here. Proof of Arbor’s will and all that nonsense keeping the mayor and his creeps in power. Either you play along or end up tied to a stake. Trust me on that.”
“Trust you? After what you did to my sister? I thought Freedom was your friend?”
Even in the shadows, he saw her eyes widen. “Sister. That little idiot told you who she was?”
That’s right; you didn’t know I found out. “She told me, and now she needs rescuing for real, thanks to you stabbing us in the back.”