Tracks

by K. M. Tolan

  Vincent tried to spit, but his stomach was too busy knotting up. “Building blocks like Samantha?”

  “Absolutely. Her children will be forerunners of a new dynasty, leading equally transformed employees rising from today’s malformed ranks. When I talk about hybrids, Mister Maloney, I’m not confining myself to diesels and steam children. You may have thought you had come here to save your sister, but today she will be saving you, and ushering in this new age along with Samantha. They were once close friends. They will be again.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “I’m glad to see you’ve still some spirit left. Let’s see it put to good use, shall we?” He motioned to his henchman waiting at the door.

  “Welcome to the family,” Jake grunted, hauling Vincent from the bed with all the care afforded a sack of flour. The foreman’s remark earned a dark look from the baron. However, the burly Yegg shrugged off his master’s glare and dragged Vincent upstairs and along a hall segmented by limestone archways.

  Sunlight streamed through windows and across flowerpots with startling substance as if poured in a thick syrup onto the tiled floor. The pounding in his head mixed with strange sensations, no doubt thanks to the concoction he still fought to keep down.

  Jimson helps you not notice you’re dying, Samantha whispered among his memories.

  Maple doors swung open, and suddenly he was outside and staring across a crowd of workers and railroad police gathered on the broad courtyard before the gazebo under an afternoon sun. Bordering the plaza to his right, green roofing shaded a gray block of machinery, the diesel’s panels removed to expose the full extent of heavy piping snaking around and through its innards. A section of the conduit, fashioned from heavy glass, contained gray swirls forming a compressed simile of an anguished face.

  Vincent shook his head toward her, not wanting Freedom to cave in and agree to a life shackling them both. Catching the Westbound would be a whole lot easier.

  Jake shoved Vincent up the gazebo steps like a prize steer.

  “Son, you’re going to be okay.” The assurance came from a mustached man in a blue conductor’s uniform who leaned over the railing to doff his cap.

  “Good to see you, Timepiece,” Vincent half-mumbled, catching Samantha’s concerned look beside the man. His body felt like he could float over to them at any time. Or drift ahead of the gazebo toward what appeared to be a plywood gallows without the gallows. A row of stacked gray iron bricks sat at the bottom of a steep incline.

  The baron walked briskly to the platform’s top and thumped at a microphone. His voice crackled over loudspeakers. “Science!”

  “Not rule of thumb,” the crowd intoned.

  Bram Van Erie stomped his foot. “Harmony!”

  “Not discord,” the many voices replied.

  The baron pulled out a pocket-sized black book. “Cooperation!”

  “Not individualism.”

  Erie Railroad’s leader stretched out his arm as if in benediction toward the pig iron. “Maximum output in the place of restricted output. The development of each man to his greatest efficiency and prosperity. These are the Five Golden Tenants by which we prosper.” The baron slapped at the book in his hand. “To quote the great Frederick Taylor, ‘it is difficult for two people whose interests are the same, and who work side by side in accomplishing the same objective, all day long, to keep up a quarrel’.”

  Vincent expected an introduction as the second party to this “quarrel”, but instead watched the baron turn his attention to Freedom who pressed against the aquamarine distortion of the locomotive’s glass steam pipe.

  “I trust you have a good view, young lady,” Bram said, eliciting dark laughter from the crowd. He held up a white ceramic jar. “Two blasts of the horn are all that I require from you. Two blasts and I will administer this antidote to your brother and pardon him of his crimes. You will usher in an age of unprecedented cooperation and commerce until the day comes when we no longer need to see girls like yourself taken away to serve the needs of a bankrupt system.”

  Vincent gave a start, having not registered Jake sliding work gloves over his hands until the deed was done. The man led him on unsure feet to where the row of pig iron waited. “Make my daughter proud,” the foreman whispered.

  “Forty-eight tons moved to the top of the ramp in only eight hours,” the baron’s voice sang out over the ringing in Vincent’s ears. “The mark of a High-Priced Man. It begins. Now.”

  Vincent glanced over toward the diesel’s exposed pipes and shook his head. Grimacing, he staggered over and lifted an ingot from the stack. The damn thing was heavy. Trying not to lose his balance, he headed up the ramp, surprised to hear cheers. It felt more as if he was soaring elsewhere, his heart racing ahead of a dream he couldn’t catch. Funny how he could see himself lurching up the boards like some drunk. Not breathing wasn’t so bad when you flew above yourself and watched. Was he falling?

  The best part about being a spectator was seeing everything unfold in the manner of a Saturday night movie. Screaming, Samantha exploded into a tornadic nightmare of black vapors. Trailing blue tatters, she made the top of the platform in two leaps, knocking her father down before turning to Vincent.

  Samantha’s howl was lost in a single sustained blast of the diesel’s air horns. A trio of gray billowing contrails came from behind the locomotive to lay a scalding wall of steam between the platform and stunned spectators.

  Black talons dug into Vincent’s shoulders. His own cry mixed with the general cacophony as Samantha hauled him down the ramp and across the plaza toward the gardens. Banged about like a ragdoll, he welcomed an odd sort of darkness closing around him.

  Seventeen

  The cool fog rolling across the tracks felt nothing like the muggy vapors steam children produced. Vincent kicked at the glistening rails and glanced around the hazy evening’s lack of detail. There was the bridge off to his left with its bone-white arches. Same bridge he last remembered when the Westbound rolled up. Wondering where his pounding headache had gone, he went to rub his brow and realized he had his cane back again after his earlier capture. The still air stood reminded him of a country night bereft of clawing yegg or howling mobs. He could get to liking it here, even if it did mean he was probably dead. Damn them all, anyway.

  He didn’t have to wait long before his cleared vision caught a wavering pale blob approaching alongside the tracks. The glow firmed up into a swinging railroad lantern. Vincent eyed the apparition in a neatly pressed blue uniform. “Never got your name before, friend.”

  “Hugh,” the specter replied in a surprisingly solid voice, setting the lamp down. He flipped open a gold watch. “Two o’clock. On time, Mister Maloney.”

  “On time,” Vincent repeated under his breath, trying to recall the pain and confusion he endured only a few moments ago. Dying wasn’t so bad when you barely remembered it.

  There was no mistaking the long questing wail reaching through the fog. Calling my name, he realized, stepping back from the rails. A bright ball of yellow light chuffed its way down the tracks with the glory of an early dawn. He heard air brakes screech, the old locomotive wheezing to a stop with deep steamy breaths.

  The conductor waved up at the unseen engineer and walked past the coal tender to where the first antiquated coach waited. He gestured toward Vincent. “All aboard.”

  Vincent nodded, feeling flush with an odd sense of freedom, or was it finality? No, he wasn’t done, yet. Not with his sister to save. That thought alone made him pause, until he reminded himself he had a job to do here as well.

  The car he stepped into possessed the warm welcome of an oft-frequented pub with its forest-green carpets and stained cherry wood furniture. Plush seats arranged themselves in casual disregard for space afforded to First Class accommodations. Those details Vincent took in at a glance, his attention and breath snagged on the solitary passenger lounging at a table. A familiar brown leather duster draped shoulders hunched over a steaming coffee. The pas
senger wore a lean working man’s face Vincent recalled from early memories—a clean-shaven countenance belonging to the one who used to tell him and Katy stories about rail barons and train yard knights.

  Vincent swallowed, recalling a bristled and blood-matted visage staring up at him in a back alley. “Dad.”

  Narrow brown eyes studied him a moment before the other rose heavily to his feet. Sun and rail yard grit etched extra depth to the furrows drawn across cheeks by a sorrowful smile. “I didn’t hope to see you again so soon, son.”

  It was hard to say anything when words fled from the guilt welling up to a leaden tongue. “Chicago. I didn’t know that was you. I could’ve done something.”

  “You still stood by me, and that’s what matters.”

  A bear hug squeezed away Vincent’s anguish, bringing back memories of far better times before everything went to hell. “What are you still doing here, Dad? I found Katy. I’m going to take her back home to Mom.”

  His father released a soft laugh. “Tried to take her back myself, but your sister wouldn’t have any of it. I didn’t see the truth back then as I do now. She’s a rider, Vincent. Making her human again would’ve gone against her nature. Best let her be.”

  Vincent stepped back in confusion. “Isn’t that why you’re still aboard? To see her returned to Mom?”

  His father shook his head and pointed at the cane in Vincent’s hand. “Got your own lining rod, I see.”

  “With help from an old acquaintance of yours.”

  “Red Socks?”

  “That would be the guy,” Vincent acknowledged, taking an offered seat across the table. Glasses rattled in their perches overtop a small bar. The Westbound was in motion.

  “Joe’s good, here. Have yourself some.”

  There was no railroad steward to provide a porcelain cup brimming with hot coffee, but the beverage appeared in front of him just the same. He enjoyed a sip, savoring the smooth richness. His father avoided his first question, so he tried another. “Why are you still here?”

  “Unfinished business.” His father took a drink from his own brew. “I know I put you and your mother through hell. I figured it only right that I wait on you both. I’ve some apologizing to do. I told nobody about Hobohemia because I didn’t want its troubles coming to my doorstep. You kids were happy enough with the tall tales, and your mother never believed me anyway. I kept us out in the country and far away from any railroad. Thought I had things beat until Katy saw her first locomotive and did what steam children do. I finally told your mother about what I was and about what Katy was born to be. Didn’t matter. Like I said. She didn’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t know I’d call up a train riding tracks from nowhere, either,” Vincent pointed out. “It would’ve been nice if you had warned me.”

  “I should’ve.” His dad delivered the admission with a choked voice and lowered eyes. “The last thing I wanted was Van Erie’s yegg sniffing my family out over a bunch of hearsay. I also wanted to forget things. I was wrong and selfish, and I would ask for your forgiveness.”

  Vincent slid aside both of their cups and grasped his father’s hands. “I’m the one needing to say I’m sorry, not you. What am I supposed to ask forgiveness for, Dad? Mistakes you made trying to protect us? Can’t say I’m too thrilled with how things turned out, but it’s a bit late to be holding grudges when you’re riding the Westbound. You’re forgiven, if you’ll do me the same courtesy.”

  His father reached across and clapped a hand on Vincent’s shoulder. “That’s what dads do. Thank you, son. Means a lot to me. So, what happened to you? What got you on this old rattler before your time?”

  Vincent laughed. “I trusted a really cute but nut case of a girl. I’m supposed to be picking up a piece of the Rock Candy Mountain for Katy, just like you did. Samantha Van Erie slipped me a poison to put me under, but she’s…”

  “Planning to take the rock herself,” his father finished, shaking his head. “Yeah, I figured as much. Jimson and oleander, right? Samantha tried getting me to do the same thing. I accepted the mixture she whipped up then went to get a rock for your sister instead.”

  “Then you knew her.”

  “More a case of her knowing a few tales about gandy dancers and offering me a lot of money for the rock back when I used to work for the Erie Railroad. I told her she was a crazy little girl. Was about to quit the job anyway with that Taylorist nonsense going on. I didn’t think she was so crazy after I lost Katy and came back to Hobohemia looking for her. I found Samantha and said I’d give it a try. Of course, I never went back to her. Still don’t know why the baron’s daughter’s so fired up to get a chunk of the mountain. Figured she sent those yegg after me.”

  “Her father sent them,” Vincent corrected. “She wanted the rock to clean the yegg out of her. Seems the baron was interested in some kind of hybrid worker.”

  Vincent’s father took another drink. “Yegg? Bram did that to her?”

  “To his wife, actually. The bastard’s insane. No wonder she hates him.”

  “How about you? Samantha’s going to hate you too?”

  Vincent shrugged his way out of the other’s penetrating gaze. “Hell, I don’t know. Don’t want her to. You really think it’s so wrong to take Katy back? Let Mom see her in human form again?”

  “About as wrong as it gets, son. Don’t make my mistake, or you’ll be sitting in this seat waiting to say you’re sorry too. Give Samantha her rock and take the money.”

  “The deal wasn’t about any money.”

  His father grinned. “Is that so? You like her?”

  Vincent let out a long breath. He resisted the urge to cover things up as he did too often with himself. Not here. Not with Dad. He faced his welling emotions head on. “Actually, I think I love her, though I can’t say I can trust the girl. She’s in this for herself. Always has been. Not sure I can blame her. Probably the only way she survived in that family of hers. We both know how rough that can be.”

  “She love you?”

  He couldn’t help the dark humor lacing his smile. Sure said as much, right before cold cocking me. ”Yeah, leastwise I hope so.”

  “Well, then we’d best get you a piece of the mountain and see you off.” He tapped at the darkened window. “Shouldn’t be long now.”

  “What about you, Dad?”

  “Going to wait for your mom to come aboard. You go clear things with your sister, now. Can you do that for me?”

  Vincent nodded, unashamed of the tears running down his face. “Damn, I miss you.”

  His father rubbed at his own eyes. “I miss you too. Never meant to drag my family into my problems, but it seems that’s what happened anyway. You do what’s right, Vincent. I don’t want you having to put your loved ones through the same mess. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Baron’s own daughter, eh?”

  Vincent could only roll his eyes and take another sip from the cup, not sure himself what to make of Samantha’s last move. Did she really promise to marry him? No doubt, that was just a ploy, but her choice of deception kept whirling in his head. Keep focused.

  He leaned toward the window, catching a glimpse of white pillars and trestles. It looked like daylight ahead. “We’re going over the bridge?”

  “It’s quite a sight, young man. Quite a sight.”

  The sun broke through once they reached the far end of the span, though the bright shafts of light seemed to come from everywhere. There was purity about the radiance as if something reached through and touched Vincent’s heart with the warmest welcome he had ever received. Glittering peaks caught the dawn, dropping Vincent’s jaw. “Damn.”

  “Said as much when I saw the mountain swing into view the first time. Like a rainbow of ice.”

  His father wasn’t kidding, either. The Westbound labored up an incline with the determination of a steel angel emerging from the abyss. Powdered snow laced escarpments adorned with pine and wild flowers. Rising above it all
was a magnificence of crystalline peaks ablaze beneath a crown of sunbeams. Vincent caught the distant cathedral arches of a marble trestle bridge vaulting over impossibly green meadows.

  Idyllic as any paradise ought to be. “This is hobo heaven, then?”

  “Suppose,” his father replied with a non-committal shrug. “To each their own, it’s said. Looks proper enough for me.”

  “You can get off, Dad. Mom would understand.”

  The man said nothing beyond another sip of coffee.

  His father wasn’t the only one with unfinished business. Staying on this train wasn’t going to free Katy, and Samantha would be in sore need of King Willy’s reinforcements about now. The engine was laboring up the incline, the car slowing as the chuffs grew in determination. Anguish churned in his guts.

  Ahead of him was the kind of peace and renewal anyone would gladly die for. “Dad, I’m not sure I want to get off this train.”

  His father stood, came around the table, and extended his hand. “I know. It was tough for me too. A man does what he has to far more than what he wants to.”

  Vincent found strength in his father’s grasp. Strength and enough willpower to grab the cane beside him and turn his back on the wondrous destination ahead. He imagined Katy trapped in that engine. Samantha sitting beside him somewhere with a gut full of fear. They were the only thing keeping his shuffling feet moving toward the exit door.

  It was too easy to turn around and lose himself in his father’s hug. Easier yet to just let the Westbound take him onward.

  “Take care, son.”

  The next moment he was flying out the door with a hard boot to his rump. Vincent rolled back into the soft grass beside the roadbed. He twisted around to see his father wave through the window with a big grin pasted on his face. The ghostly engine blasted an irritated whistle, the great wheels spinning and catching on the gleaming rails. Great gouts of steam and white smoke marked the Number 9’s resumption of its ascent up the Mountain.