joezworld

[joezworld]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65869531/chapters/169676278

If you're more of an A03 person, the story is up there too!

[joezworld]

Express Engines

Jobey pre-read this, and when I got the first email from google docs saying there were new comments, it was just screaming. I call that a positive review!

A few weeks later - Crovan’s Gate Works

Gordon was in what seemed like a thousand pieces, but he still had the energy to have poke fun at her. “Aren’t you all dressed up,” he said weakly. “One could be mistaken for thinking that there was royalty coming ‘round.”

Caerphilly snorted, careful not to disturb the workmen clambering all over her with pots of touch-up paint and cans of polish. “Well, the Little Western has made the effort to keep up the old stylings, so it feels only fair that I do the same.” 

She paused as a workman applied a mascara-coated brush to her eyebrows. “And for your information, I was royalty on the Western. It would be inappropriate for me to look anything else for my first visit.”

Gordon raised a weary eyebrow. “And here I thought that polite society had put the Great Western Way behind it…”

“Like many other institutions, we have been led astray by our previous leaders,” she said, tone almost curt, as the men applied elegant pinstripes to her frame. “If I must don my vestments and lead the flock back into the light, then so be it.”

There was a long pause, long enough for Caerphilly to wonder if she’d accidentally offended Gordon’s eastern sensibilities. 

“You and Duck are to become the greatest of allies, or the worst of enemies,” Gordon said at last. “I do hope it’s the former.”

“I am… well aware of his positions on the matter,” Caerphilly murmured. 

“You two know each other?” Gordon’s laugh sounded more like a wheeze. “Goodness, what a sight that must have been. Did he grovel at your wheels or was this a more recent development? I wish I could have seen that.”

“He and I have a past, one that is behind us… for better or for worse.”

“A past you say..?” Gordon tried to get more information out of Caerphilly, but she steadfastly ignored him until the paint had dried, and she was allowed to leave the shed. 

-

She steamed outside in a regal cloud of steam, looking every bit the Western Queen she once had been. 

“Well,” there was a wolf whistle from somewhere inside the cloud, and the steam dissipated to reveal a very bemused looking Bear. “Don’t you look like sex on wheels. Who’s the lucky fellow? Or lady?”

“That is the most vulgar thing I think I’ve ever heard you say.” Caerphilly glared at him. Inside the cab, her crew bit back laughter. 

“What can I say? Green engines wearing mascara are a particular weakness of mine.” His eyebrows bounced up and down in an ungentlemanly fashion. “And on that note, there is only one Railcar on this island who wears mascara for fun, and the Queen of the Castle is not it.”

His eyes traced up and down her paintwork with a critic's eye. “And even Daisy would think that this much filigree isn’t worth the effort.”

“I must look the part-” Caerphilly’s voice cracked and she squeaked a little. “It’s an official visit-”

“The last time there was an “official visit” to the Western, a certain engine caused over thirty thousand pounds worth of damage just to me, killed five vans, and made an attempt on Oliver’s life,” Bear deadpanned. “I think everyone would prefer you not leaning into the pageantry.” 

Caerphilly’s mouth dropped open, and Bear continued before she could muster up a counter to his logic. “And furthermore, your “official visit” is to cover for Oliver while he gets his firebox re-lined. There’s six other engines on the island whose job that is, and you aren’t one of them. In fact, your cover duty is sitting inside like a broken Meccano set, so I’ll ask again: who’s the lucky engine?”

Caerphilly blew steam at him, and once her crew had finished laughing themselves sick, set off in a huff. “You have completely misread the situation. Good day to you!” 

“I haven’t misread shit” came a voice from inside the cloud. “But I’ll wish you luck on your “state visit” regardless. Have a good time! Say hello to, oh I don’t know… Donald, perhaps? for me!” 

Caerphilly did her best not to scream as she collected a line of freshly painted coaches and set off down the line towards Arlesburgh. 

----

1932 - Old Oak Commons Depot, London

The Queen’s Quarters were located in a private shed, tucked in between the communal roads for engines visiting from other terminals, and the “Factory” - the great repair shop that worked day in, day out. 

Banquo steamed in, a picture of hushed professionalism. Behind him trailed a larger, younger engine, fresh faced but not dewy-eyed. There was a sense of determined skill behind the engine’s gaze. 

The Queen regarded the pair. “Ah yes, Banquo, my faithful valet. Is this your chosen successor?” 

The 2721-class puffed up with repressed pride. “Yes ma’am. May I present to you 5741, better known among us as Montague. He has performed well above the norm in every duty we have given him. He is truly worthy of this position.” 

Montague seemed to snap to attention when his name was recited. “Ma’am. It will be a pleasure serving you.” 

Yes, she imagined it would be. The tank engines held her in such reverence that she often doubted they had the capacity to feel anything negative at all. “Very well. You shall begin immediately, Montague.”

This was something she’d learned at the Empire Exhibition, from Flying Scotsman; those who are unworthy - the glory seekers and the idle fops - will chafe at the lack of ceremony. Those who aspire to the duty will not. 

Bemusingly, Montague was almost relieved. Most interesting. 

-------- 

1933 

“Montague, a word.” She stopped him as he was readying her coaches for the outbound Cheltenham Flyer. 

“Yes Ma’am?” 

“Why do the other engines insist on making bird noises as you go by them?” 

The tank engine stopped, and for a brief moment his composure broke. Embarrassment spread across his face, and he turned a deep red. “Ah- well, you see Ma’am, the others… they, um, they have decided that I…” 

“Yes?” she said, keeping a regal demeanour no matter how much she wanted to burst out laughing. 

“Well Ma’am, you see… it appears that I waddle from side to side,” he said at last, thoroughly red in the face. 

“You’re a pannier tank,” she said, raising a single eyebrow. “It is a known occurrence.” 

“Yes, well, you see, I don’t know why, but they have decided that I do so more than the rest, and so they have - well to answer your question they make bird calls because they have given me the nickname of 'Duck,' Ma’am.” It was a garbled mess of a sentence, but the last words hit her like an express train. 

“Ah. Yes. I see. Schoolyard name-calling. I apologize for asking.” Her sentences were short, clipped, trying desperately to keep the laughter inside.

“Oh, no no no, Ma’am!” He almost fell over himself trying to apologize. She must. Not. Laugh. “It’s fine! It’s fine! We all have these nicknames - it’s just that… well I don’t know why they’re doing this to me but it must be something innocent.” 

“I see,” she said with short syllables. “Thank you, Montague.” 

“Of course Ma’am. Um, if you wish, you can call me Duck too.” He looked relieved that the conversation was ending. 

“I will not.” 

“Of course Ma’am.”

She managed to hold it in for almost twenty minutes, until the Flyer was well out of Paddington and streaking towards Swindon. Then, she let the laughter out in one continuous cackling howl that lasted a full mile. 

Duck. What a silly name. 

-------

1935 

“Duck?”

“Yes Ma’am?” 

“If I may ask, is there a specific reason why you sleep amongst your fellows, and not in the quarters you have been provided here?” 

The Queen’s Quarters had a second road specifically for the Valet, directly underneath a reproduction of her official portrait, enlarged to be thrice its original size. Banquo had used it frequently, as had Lear before him. Both found the picture comforting, a reminder of their service. Duck had slept here for the first few months, but had stopped at some point before the year’s end. Caerphilly wondered if he found the portrait as unsettling as she did - a cold, emotionless version of herself staring down from the wall at almost life size.

Duck didn’t even pause to think about it, and to her surprise the portrait never came up. “The other engines found it unfair that I get special treatment, Ma’am. I’m inclined to agree - if I hadn’t been selected, I’d be out there with them, and that’s not fair at all.” 

It actually was quite fair in her mind - he had a special job with special skills, and was awarded as such; but knowing the mind of the rank and file was something she always struggled with, and mayhaps they had a point. 

She dismissed him to shunt her next train, thoughts swirling in her smokebox. 

--

The next night, some of Duck’s fellows were chortling around the back of the coaling stage. Capulet, Mercutio, Tybalt - all 5700s, were laughing with each other at some great joke. Ignored on one side was a larger engine, a dirty 3000-Class 2-8-0 dating to the Great War. The filth clung to him like a cloak, covering his green paint and brass nameplates. A rag laid carelessly over the one facing outwards, and the engine’s name of “Celestine I” was completely obscured. He listened closely, making excellent mental notes of not only their words but their responses to those of others. After a short while, 5741 himself pulled up to the stage, heralded by a chorus of quacks and other bird calls. While appearing friendly, the big engine made a note of their facial expressions; none were jocular, and they all had unkind glints in their eyes. 

This went on for a while, until Benvolio arrived. Whistling gaily, he put himself between his brother and the rest of the engines and proceeded to make a spectacle of himself so ridiculous that the others could not help but turn their mockery on him. 

The 2-8-0 decided to take his leave at this time. He had other sources of information to find. 

--

The meeting occurred late the next morning, near the same coaling stage. The engine was cleaner, and looked far more respectable than he had last night. His paint had been polished and his nameplates shone. Tybalt, Mercutio, and the others chuffed right past him without a second look. 

“Well?” the Queen said simply. 

“It’s jealousy and idolatry,” said her spymaster. “There is such a separation between the nobles and the commoners that they view you as untouchable. Anyone granted entry to your private chambers is ipso facto better than the rest. To sleep in such quarters…?” He trailed off. “He would be barred from his life by his friends and his family. You recall Lear and Banquo? How they devoted their lives to you? It might have been by choice, but only at first. Tall poppies are the first to be cut down.”

“I had no idea…” The queen’s eye trembled, the mask slipping just so.

“Few do,” he consoled. “They talk often, but say little. One must hold an ear to the rails and keep both eyes open to learn what I have.”

“So how do I fix it?” she asked, with the hopeless optimism of an engine that hadn’t been subjected to the horrors of the western front. 

“Fix?” He bit back a chuckle. “There is no fix. This is a mania that stretches back to Brunel himself. The only way to fix this is to destroy our society, including us, and then start anew.”

“Then what do I do?” The hopeless optimism continued. 

“Well,” he said, keeping his voice level even as he wanted to talk some sense into her. “If you must have your valet by your side even as you sleep, then he must be chosen by a higher power. The others may not like it, but they shall respect it. It is, after all, a Queen’s duty to place him in this position of peril.” 

The Gilbert and Sullivan quote was not well received. “Peril, Celestine?” 

The 2-8-0 remained steadfast. “Some may claim that he was given a choice. They may appeal to him as an equal, despite his position. He will most likely chafe against the realization that he is not an equal. Even if you press-ganged him in broad daylight, some may claim that he still holds a favoured rank, and hate him for it.”

“You provided me with such good options.” She said in a flat tone. “One would almost think that the correct choice is to do nothing.”

“The only way to know is hindsight, and the only way to achieve hindsight is to act.” He said simply. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

She did not respond, and he took his leave. 

------

Her time came several nights later. That night’s performance of Utopia, Limited was particularly ennobled, with multiple Kings, Saints, Stars, Manors, and Halls performing alongside the usual assortment of Bulldogs, Dukes, Dukedogs, Birds, and of course, the Queen and her retinue of Castles. The merriment went long into evening, before the engines eventually broke away for the many night trains that befitted their stations in life. 

The Queen had no duties that evening, and stood in the center of the yard, waiting for the rush of engines and trains to pass around her. Royalty or otherwise, light engine moves were at the bottom of the signaller’s priority list. 

She moved slowly, on a winding route that circumnavigated the great shed with its four turntables. Even at the late hour, trains streamed by in all directions. A single stationary shape caught her eye. 

It was him, asleep on a siding, snoring away. His fellows were nearby, making rude comments to each other. 

She acted with as much speed as she could muster, given the circumstances. Slowly, she drew onto the road that went past him. Stopping before the switch, it was a matter of moments for her driver to change the points. 

The snickering and laughing from Capulet and the rest stopped the moment they saw her. They stayed silent as the Queen coupled up to him, and slowly pulled him away. 

---

Later, they were safely ensconced in the royal sheds. He was beside her, and she felt somewhat… at peace. Perhaps she liked having a second presence in the opulent quarters. 

“You didn’t have to do that Ma’am.” He said sleepily. 

“I did.” Caerphilly murmured. “They would have given you no peace any other way.”

“I hope you’re right, Ma’am.” he said, before falling back asleep. 

“I hope so too…” She whispered.

-------

1937

The workers had arranged the books in sequence, and then taken their leave. On one buffer, the Queen was most pleased - it would be most unbecoming for her weaknesses to be shown in public like this. On the other, Caerphilly Castle would really like to find whoever decided that spare milk vans needed to be stored behind the sheds and have a word with them. 

“Ma’am?” Duck bustled in, dripping wet from the washdown rack. “What are you looking at?”

“Shunting diagrams,” she said, letting the mask drop a little. “Ones I should already know.”

“Shunting diagrams? You’re not exactly one of us Paddies, now.” He said this with a familiarity that Lear and Banquo would never have allowed. 

“But I am the Queen,” she said, knowing that the stress would show regardless. “And so I must know all.” 

“Well,” he was pulled closer, his driver then setting the brakes and departing for a meal break. “What seems to be the issue?”

“Is it just me, or is this milk van storage chart unintuitive to a hopeless degree?”

“Oh goodness, that’s the June revision, isn’t it? Yes we store them differently because it keeps them out of the sun. The shadows are totally different in the summer than they are in the winter…”

For the next hour, he kept on like this, telling her about the incredible minutiae of the railway. Things that she didn’t even know were possible, he casually spoke of. It was fascinating, in a very unusual way. She found that his ability to summarize, to easily condense reams of documents into a short sentence or three, to make the unknowable easy… breathtaking.

---

A few days later, The Queen was assigned a fast milk train to Wootton Bassett. The train left from Mitre Bridge, nearly within sight of Old Oak Common, and while usually the tanks and Siphons would be ready for her, on this day there had been a points failure deep in the yard. The Paddie Shunters, ranging from Capulet, Benvolio, and Tybalt, down to younger engines like Petruchio and Bianca, were trapped inside the roads for the coaling stand while men with hammers and torches worked furiously to free them. 

The bigger engines, whose more prestigious lodgings were not affected, complained mightily. As the Queen surveyed the yard, it was an almost perfect mix of engines who held her favour, and those who didn’t. Those who did, complained from a place of legitimacy - a single truck could be buried several roads deep, and the delays would keep piling up - while those who didn’t… were complaining about having work at all. 

Pendennis Castle was particularly loud, whinging and complaining his way through the yard as he collected the rake of coaches for the Cornish Riviera Express. It grew so appalling that Olton Hall - who, as a visitor from another shed had no social standing to criticize - looked about ready to speak up. He certainly had no problems collecting a line of goods vans, and The Queen made a note of his work ethic and good spirit. 

“This is beneath me!” Pendennis shouted to everyone and nobody. 

“As are the rails,” she said, steaming past him into the goods yards. “And yet without them you would be nowhere.”

“Oh, what a pithy line, your majesty.” He scoffed, and there was an offended whistle from Olton’s direction. “Have you any other weak aphorisms to dispense from on high?”

“Oi!” The Hall-class yelped. “You will show her the respect she’s owed!”

“And I am doing exactly that…” Pendennis growled. 

“Gentlemen, please.” She wanted to shove Pendennis through a wall, but doing so with witnesses would be unbecoming. “We all have work to do…”

Without another word, she steamed away to find the milk vans. As she rounded the corner, she heard Pendennis and Olton begin arguing again. The specifics were muddled, but eventually there was an exasperated cry of “if you think she’s so infallible, wait until she tries to find the milk vans - those damn panniers will hide them in every dark hole between here and creation except for where they’ve been diagrammed to be parked!” 

There was no-one on this side of the goods sheds. The mask dropped, and a vicious smile spread across Caerphilly’s smokebox. 

Less than ten minutes later, she had the entire train of milk tanks rolling behind her. The mask went back up, a placid expression hiding the imp inside. Pendennis was flabbergasted; Olton was at once reverent and smug. 

-

The next night, Duck was most surprised to find himself being bundled off to The Factory for a repaint. His paint was in fine condition, he protested, but he was ignored - these orders came from a “higher power.”

The next night, he was in the Queen’s Quarters looking rather shy. “Th-thank you, Ma’am.” He said quietly. “This was very kind of you to arrange.”

He was now adorned in the same delicate filigree as she was - a sign that he was a member of the royal household, rather than a replaceable employee. Not even Lear had been given this honor, and Banquo had rejected the “ornamentation” as being well above his station. 

“It’s only right,” she said, mask firmly in place. “You are a member of my retinue, after all.”

Then, the mask dropped. “And, you bloody well earned it. I’m proud of you, Duckie.”

-------

1938 

Lode Star was an older engine, feisty and impudent in a manner totally unbecoming of her age, but she rarely spoke falsehoods, and often had a keen eye for glory seekers and the unworthy. She was a valued member of the Queen’s counsel as a result. “So, I hear your footman has been given a promotion.”

“Yes, head of the carriage works shunters.” The Queen felt very proud. “He might make head of Paddington within the decade.”

“Provided that they don’t ship him off to the front, or something like that.” Celestine was one of the other trusted members of her counsel. “War is coming, you know. Management will never admit it, but just you wait.”

“Then we’ll get through it, just like we did the last one.” Star said primly. “You forget that I was here, dodging zeppelin bombs while you had a holiday in Paris.”

“I was behind the lines-!” 

“Please, you two.” The Queen spoke up, letting her mask slip slightly. Out came the slightest glint of Caerphilly underneath. “If you continue talking like that I will make you get a room.”

Celestine stuttered and Lode Star gawped, and the mask went back up. 

“Well how unfortunate for us that we are not graced with our own eternal lover’s nest!” Star sniped back. “It must be nice to have that privacy, even if all you do is pine over him endlessly.”

The mask fell off.  “How could you know about that?”

“Anyone with a brain could see it,” the other engine sniffed. “Which nobody else has. Tell me, has he noticed yet?”

The mask stayed off for a long time. Her face betrayed what her voice concealed.

“I thought not.” 

---------------

1940 

War had come to the world. London was under nightly siege from the skies above. 

The railway, and its social structures and organization that had been with them all for generations, was gone, subsumed into a massive government operation focused entirely towards national defence. Gone was the green that had clad them, replaced by flat black, and the letters GW. Troop trains ruled the rails, and even the Cheltenham Flyer had to lay over for them. 

Only the barest shreds of the lives they had lived in 1939 remained. They still sang Gilbert and Sullivan in the sheds at night, there were still crack expresses to the Cornish riviera, and everything was still Great Western in spirit, if not always in design. 

Inside the grounds of Old Oak Common, the world was slightly more normal than it was elsewhere. The huge shed was still a bastion of Western power, with only a few interlopers making their way from the LMS and LNER networks. If one stayed entirely within its confines, the war could almost be ignored. 

Inside the yard, buried deep within the walls of the shed, the Queen’s Quarters remained the same. A man from the government had made vulgar noises at the palatial state of the facilities, but Great Western men, citing the rich lineage of the tapestries and posters, dating back to Brunel himself, convinced them to spare the fineries from the cloth and metal drives that swept the country. 

Caerphilly would rather they have taken the lot of them. While the Queen may need her fineries, Engine No. 4073 could survive with far less. 

--

Darkness fell upon the land, lights snuffing out under blackout regulations. It took less than an hour for the air raid sirens to go off, and a keen ear could soon hear the drone of propellers in the sky. 

Inside her well-appointed room, Caerphilly kept an urgent watch on the door. She couldn’t do anything about the bombers but… 

“I’m here! I’m here!” Duck steamed in through the open door, shunting abandoned. His crew had scarcely the time to set his brakes before they slammed the shed doors shut and ran for a shelter. 

Caerphilly looked down on him in surprise. They hadn’t bothered to throw the switch for his road, and their buffers were now touching.

The bombs started falling like distant thunder, wave after wave destroying houses and industries in the middle distance. The fires soon cast an awful light through the windows. 

“They’re close tonight.” Duck said, panting hard from his mad dash across the yard. “Hopefully they don’t hit us.”

He spoke too soon. Within a quarter hour, the bombs began dropping into the tightly packed neighborhoods that surrounded the yard. Thunderclap followed earthquake as the world ended around them. The building shook, and the walls trembled. The tapestries and posters fell from their hooks, and the massive portrait split itself in half as a crack ran through the brick behind it. 

“We may not make it out of this one!” Duck shouted over the hellish din. “It’s been an honor serving you Ma’am! A real privilege!”

She looked at him, totally bowled over by the idea that his last thoughts would be of her. 

A massive crash outside shook the very air, and death seemed suddenly imminent. “I love you.” she said, so quiet it could scarcely be heard. 

“What?” 

There was a half-second of doubt, a voice that screamed “you don’t have to do this.” She silenced it. 

“I love you!” she yelled, over the bombs, over the sirens, over the sudden ringing in her hearing. “I’m not going to die without telling you that I love you!” 

He looked shocked, eyes wide, mouth half-open. Smoke rose from his funnel in sudden jagged bursts. A trickle of steam wheeshed out of his cylinders, pooling around their wheels. In the darkened room, the whites of his eyes stood out the most, and despite all of her training, all of her skill, all of her stature, she had no idea what was going on behind those eyes. 

A bomb hit somewhere close, possibly within the yard, and the entire world jumped. Even the engines’ hundred-ton-plus weight was not enough, and they rocked back and forth on their suspension. It was entirely possible that this could be “it” for them. Caerphilly - both the Queen and Not - decided that she had to do this. The time may never come again. 

She lurched forwards, leaning down on her suspension just enough to hook her buffers under his, and kissed him. 

She’d expected it to be a chaste kiss, a single action that fulfilled a task: show him how you feel about him. It was supposed to take a second, and last her for a lifetime. (which may not be much longer than that.)

She didn’t expect him to push back, to meet her kiss and keep going - to reciprocate, saying without words exactly what he felt about her admission. It was an exhilarating feeling, a relief, a joy. 

They kissed and they loved as the bombs fell around them, and all was well within their shed. 

------------

1944

A Southern Railway engine had been sent into their stronghold. Named Union Castle after the shipping line, it was immediately obvious why the government functionaries had made the error.  

She was a fine engine, sure footed and fairly swift, but even a short excursion into Western territory was too much for her, and she took the GWR’s ways as well as Pendennis did to shunting. Paperwork was being filed to send her home post haste, but until then, she cast an oddly shaped shadow over the proceedings at Old Oak Common. 

The Southern was evidently a most egalitarian railway, and many scandalous noises were made as the “air-smoothed” Pacific made equal small talk with the tank engines as she did with her express passenger contemporaries. 

The Queen was immediately beseeched by her followers to put a stop to this, but kept her tongue still. The stodgy class system of the Western was ideal to no-one, in her view, and any chance at changing it was welcome. 

Unfortunately, the one opportunity to bring about said change was about as rude as she was rectangular. “Oh, you store what back here?” she sniffed one evening, in the middle of a long conversation that seemed intent on offending every tank engine within earshot. “We wouldn’t keep cattle trucks back here. Not that we have many cattle trucks, seeing as we don’t need to rely on freight that much compared to you all, but my point still stands.”

Other evenings were spent going from one offended party to another yet-to-be-offended party, and soon even Duck had ill words about the “spamcan,” which he muttered to Caerphilly as they bedded down for the night. “I daren’t speak ill of anyone, but this one is an exception… she is very lucky that she has the skills to back up her mouth, otherwise someone might put her through a wall!”

-

Later, with the engine’s transfer still in the bureaucratic shuffle, Lode Star rolled up, unexpectedly grim. “She’s been cutting a swathe through the tank engines. I have it on good authority that Tre Pol and Pen is looking to start a riot. Nunney wants to see if we can paint a target on her boiler big enough for the V-2s to see.”

“Edging in on Celestine’s work I see? He’s rubbing off on you.” Caerphilly smirked before the mask went up. “Define 'swathe' for me.”

“What you do in the privacy of your own shed, she does behind the carriage sidings.”

“How obscene.”

“Too right.”

“How has she managed to convince anyone to…?”

“Apparently her refusal to kiss your ring has made her quite the rebellious beauty among those who view Hillingdon as a exotic locale.”

“Funny, considering I haven’t asked her to do any such thing.”

“Well there’s that too.” Lode Star rolled her eyes. “Your buffers-off handling of this has been well and good, but someone needs to lay down the law, lest the groundlings get uppity.”

“I was under the impression that the war was with Germany, not Waterloo.”

“Being soft is a peacetime ideal. You are not Chamberlain, and you know it.”

 “Ruling this railway with an iron fist is not my style either, Star, and you know that.”

“If I ever start advocating for that, feel free to ask for my resignation. I just want you to have some steel inside the velvet.”

This would have continued for some time, but there was a gentle cough, and Celestine melted out of the shadows. “Ma’am, I apologize for interrupting but, I feel your hand may be forced one way or the other.”

“And why would that occur, exactly?” 

The 2-8-0’s face was inscrutable. “It would appear that your ‘footman’ has attracted the attention of our Southern guest."

--

It was by one of the far water columns that the scene was set. Civil blood was moments away from staining multiple sets of civil buffers, as Union Castle leered at a number of tank engines while the bigger express engines looked on in displeasure. At the head of the group was Montague, the Queen’s footman. He was trying to act as a barrier between three sub-groups of his fellows. 

On one side, Tybalt and Mercutio took the side of the express engines, baying like hounds for the Bullied Pacific to go back from whence she came.

On the other, Juliet and a host of smaller pannier tanks from a variety of classes were cowering in the corner, trying to draw as little attention as possible. 

Between them, Claudio, Hero, Gregory, and Sampson were all trying to do the exact opposite, puffing themselves up to try and draw Union Castle’s wandering eye. 

Of course, the wandering eye was focused most intently on the intricate filigree of Montague’s bunker, and stayed that way until Caerphilly Castle, Queen of the Westerners, arrived. 

King George V, King of the Westerners, standing with a group of her fellows along with a sizable number of Halls and Manors, tried to elaborate on the circumstances, but the Queen called for silence. 

Naturally, the Southerner paid this no mind, and continued making lecherous remarks about the Footman until the Queen called for a private audience in a nearby shed. The Southerner agreed, mostly due to the Queen’s careful wording, making the request sound far more… erotic than it actually was. 

The two engines disappeared around a corner, and the King and the Footman set about dispersing the crowd. There was a war on still, and personal drama would not win it.

Minutes stretched into tens, and those who had legitimate business being at the water column wondered if maybe they had mis-interpreted the Queen’s words. 

Then there was a muffled shout, a whistle of anger, a whistle of fear, and a screech of metal. The Southerner was suddenly shoved through the wall of a nearby goods shed in a shower of bricks and a cloud of steam. The Queen had applied sufficient force for Union Castle to fully leave the building, smashing into gravel and sleepers piled behind. 

Minutes later, as steam continued to hiss from the dented Spamcan, the Queen emerged from around the building. The mask was not placid, and instead a sense of righteous anger covered her very being. 

She said nothing as she collected her Footman, and made to return to her shed. 

“None of you saw anything.” She growled to the remaining engines, her tone making it very clear that this statement was ex cathedra. 

A sea of terrified faces heartily agreed. 

-------

“Might I ask what brought you to such violence?” Duck asked, snuggled up against her later, during the few hours they had to each other each day.

“She was quite amenable, right until I suggested that she stop harassing your fellows.” Caerphilly murmured. “Then she became quite insistent. She demanded someone to ‘warm her berth’ each night, and suggested that maybe the 'cute little tank engine with all the filigree' could be sent her way in exchange for her compliance.”

“And so you put her through the wall?”

“Oh goodness no, not on purpose. I forgot which shed we were in. I assumed that it was the one that backed up to the canal.”

“Oh…” Duck said quietly. 

“What?”

“You really are fond of me, aren’t you?” 

“You are everything to me.”

-----------------------

1945

Glory, Glory, the war was over. Women cheered and men cried. Lights stayed on throughout the night for the first time since 1939, and the BBC played a celebratory tune across all civilian airwaves. Caerphilly Castle, Queen of the Westerners, ran a packed express service from Cornwall the next day. While there were still dozens of military trains carrying men and supplies, for the first time in six years they gave way to her.

It was a joy that was infectious, and it spread throughout the country at the speed of the wireless. Engines up and down the railway put aside their grievances and cheered together. At Old Oak, Pendennis even took the time to lead the tank engines in a rousing chorus of God Save the King. 

The world was headed towards a brighter future, and they would all be there for it. 

The train pulled into Paddington on time - not on time for 1945, but for the old 1938 timetable - and eased to a stop in a cloud of smoke and steam. Waiting all the way at the end of the platform was a young woman in a nurse’s uniform. The instant the train had come to a stop and the brakes were set, the driver flung himself out of the cab and into her arms. They hugged and they kissed like they hadn’t seen each other in years, and Caerphilly attempted to give them some privacy. Then there was a squeal of delight, and she looked to find the driver on one knee. 

------

She mentioned the occurrence to Duck that night. 

“Oh, that’s wonderful for them.” he said kindly. “They must be so happy.” 

Caerphilly said nothing in reply, and he looked at her. She was deep in thought. “I said they must be so happy..?”

“What would it be like to be married?” she said, looking for all the world like she hadn’t realized that she said it out loud. “Would it be any different from normal?”

“Well,” he said quietly. “I think it shows that two people love each other so much that they’re willing to tie themselves together. Kind of like the permanent coupling on the articulated coaches.”

“That would be nice,” she said, dream-like. “An endless and unbreakable thread connecting the hearts forever.”

He looked at her, once, twice, three times. “Putting aside the 'can' for right now, do you… want to get married?”

She blinked rapidly, expression turning owlish. He now realized that she hadn’t realized that she’d been saying anything at all!

-------

A few days later, a hushed and secret ceremony was held in the main shed. All of the big engines were barred on royal orders, save for Celestine, Lode Star, and King George V. A single tank engine - Juliet, a sibling of Duck’s who could be trusted with a secret - was also in attendance. Celestine officiated, and George gave her blessing on behalf of the Great Western. 

And then, just like that, it was over. The two newlyweds departed to their next jobs, feeling both the same, and permanently different. If they looked down, they could almost see the invisible thread that tied them together. 

--------

1948 

And just like that, the Great Western was gone. 

The government, the amorphous, faceless creation of man, had decided that all needed to run by its orders. Electricity, mining, shipping, buses, lorries, and yes, railways. The Great Western, which had an unbroken lineage going back to the days of Brunel some 113 years ago, was gone with a few strokes of a pen at Westminster. 

Those with sources on other lines reported that it was being viewed as a blessing as much as it was a curse. The North-Western and the LMS had taken a ruddy beating during the war, and the money to restore it all did not come cheap or easy. The LNER was too proud to admit if things were bad, but they remained notably silent in those early days. The Southern was apparently still somewhat flush with money, and complained mightily about the loss of their independence; the follow-up statement that the new Southern Region would be staffed almost entirely by former Southern Railway employees mollified them instantly. 

On the Western, however, it was the end. The end of so much more than could ever be said in words.

There was a weeklong period of mourning that went from the lowest Welsh shunter to the highest floor of the headquarters building in London. The Queen had to issue edicts just for work to be done, and her closest disciples were instrumental in spreading calm - Celestine in particular; he gave entire sermons to distraught sheds, preaching resignation and fortitude. 

It seemed to work, but “render to Westminster what is Westminster's, and to Brunel what is Brunel's” could only go so far. Engines threatened action of various kinds - the sort that only happens during the ultimate breakdown of society. Work stoppages were frequent during those first days, passenger and freight trains held up for interminable reasons for indefinite times. Engines from other roads - now their co-workers - were drafted in to help at certain sheds, although their efficacy was mixed; at Penzance, the sight of an LNER Pacific striding in was enough to throw everyone into a double-timed frenzy of resumed productivity; at Plymouth Laira, the arrival of a pair of Southern Q1s turned a simple strike into a violent industrial action that snarled services for three days. 

The men in suits were most displeased. They scurried around the network, Old Oak Common most especially, taking notes and in search of answers. Every time they found a clue, their frowns grew deeper. They eventually came to the Queen, flush with questions about her leadership, and how the engines “worshipped her.” 

The questions were insulting at a base level, and Celestine, Star, and Duck all bristled on her behalf, but she remained placid. Their questions were answered politely, fully, and with some vague semblance of accuracy. 

A few days later, they left, and the Queen gathered her council. “If this keeps up, they will try and break us. Our best course of option may be-”

“Don’t you say it.” Lode Star glared. “They’re only out here because Plymouth is rioting.”

“And it has already done so,” Celestine grumbled. “The cat is out of the bag, no putting it back in. We bend the knee now, and we give away everything for a gain of naught.”

They stared at her expectantly. The mask did not lift. “Do either of you have an alternative plan? It’s not as if we can raise a pirate flag and run trains as we see fit.”

Neither of them did. 

“Have a plan, but don’t do anything,” a fourth voice - Duck’s voice - said from beside her, and all attention turned to him. “It’s like dealing with the coach yards. Things could go wrong with the fussy things, and you’ve got to plan for it, but most of the time nothing goes wrong.”

“You think that is a better plan than mine?” Celestine said in his low grumble. “Or hers?”

“Well,” Duck slowly drawled. “Rolling over didn’t work for Chamberlain, but fighting back didn’t work for the Poles either. We’re going to have to handle this as it comes.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” Lode Star muttered. “All the fighting in the world won’t save you if you’re already in the ghetto.”

Celestine grumbled something about Warsaw and Llanelli but otherwise said nothing.

“So it’s settled then,” the Queen said, with firm aplomb. “We shall call for calm, and do nothing for the time being. But, we will have actionable plans in place for if or when they decide to come for us.”

-----------------------------

1950

Two years later, their plan was holding firm. Picking up the pieces from the long and grueling war seemed to be the top priority of the men in suits, and some even spoke of the “difficulties” of 1948 as merely “frustrations left over from the war.” 

True to their word - as told to the Southern region, among other places - few changes to leadership or operations were made, and if one ignored the “BRITISH RAILWAYS” lettered across freshly-shopped tenders, it was almost like nothing had happened. Even the prophesied horde of engines from other regions was proving false - aside from some through trains and the odd motive power shortage, (and the infamous locomotive trials) few non-Western engines trod upon Brunel’s kingdom in those early years. True, there was some rumbling of the new CME (a Midland man, the shame of it) designing new “Standard” classes, but the rumour mill provided equally swift news that Swindon would be producing them in large numbers, so they couldn’t be all bad. 

The Queen watched this all happen with wary eyes, but even Celestine’s numerous contacts could not figure out if a penny was indeed about to drop. 

----

On a more positive note,  the Queen’s footman was visited once again by tidings of his own competence, and was granted the ultimate promotion: Head Shunter, Paddington Station. 

The Queen was so overjoyed for him that the mask fell completely, and Caerphilly Castle gathered him up into a quite amorous kiss behind the coaling stage. 

There was a quiet cough as the two separated, and Pendennis Castle looked on with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. 

“Breathe a word of this and I’ll kill you.” She said it with such steel it may well have been ex cathedra, and the royal sibling scuttled away. 

-------------

1951

The end started sooner than anyone had anticipated. 

It came in waves over the course of the summer. New engines - almost all of LMS design - would be introduced to the railway network. Built at various works across the country, they could go anywhere and do anything. Those “in the know” believed that these new engines would not be taught the old ways, and would not have allegiances to their works, as thousands of Swindon, Crewe, Eastleigh, and Doncaster engines had before. 

Then, came the hammerblow that the long-awaited “unification” of the railway system would begin. While “old” engines would be kept within their existing depots for the most part, the “new” would be free to traipse across the country at their leisure. It did not take a genius-level intellect that “new” was standing in for “useful” in this phraseology. 

Speaking of the new engines, it was obvious that they would need roles to fill, and thus, some engines would have to be replaced. The especially geriatric classes were up on the chopping block: the LNER’s J17s dated back to the last century, the LMS had engines dating back to the Midland, and the Western… well the Stars were almost fifty years old, weren’t they?

The withdrawals had apparently been happening slowly, taking engines based at outlying depots one by one, almost as if to avoid notice. 

The council, even with Celestine’s spiderweb of intelligence, the Queen’s watchful eye, and Duck and Lode Star’s network of friends and enemies, never saw it coming. They had expected, planned on, anticipated, a sort of violent overthrow - one fell swoop, a single order issued from on high that declared them all unfit for use, something that could be rebelled against, but it never came. Instead, the assault was silent and bureaucratic, every decision couched in phrases of “economic viability” and “service life.” Nobody knew if this was merely a first step of a grander scheme, or simply the new normal. 

These silent methods meant it was never apparent when they should deploy their old war plans, or indeed what good they could do in the face of this silent, bureaucratic Revolution. Several times they planned a counter, but found that no single person could ever be named as the figurehead. There was no face to this opposition, just the amorphous cloud of “business.” 

Rebellion against a person was easy, but to do so against an uncaring spreadsheet was another matter. 

Eventually, the strikes began hitting home, hammering the very foundations of Old Oak and its Queen. Lode Star left one day on a limited bound for Reading, and never came back. Word eventually filtered back to London that she’d failed outside of Swindon with a cracked cylinder, and had been withdrawn on the spot. Another engine had hauled her into the works for what they thought would be a repair, and after that, she vanished, disposition unknown. 

The shed mourned her, and an empty road was left near the main turntable for many nights. When it eventually filled, it was by Celestine, who cried bitter tears whenever he thought he was alone. 

The Queen herself was in a state of shock that not even the mask could cover, and the yard soon realized that no one was truly safe. As the year went on, morale dropped, and subsequent visits from management were met with increasing levels of hostility. Withdrawals began to happen in the middle of the night, or after completing runs to far-off locales, and the anger and desperation grew tenfold by year’s end. 

Throughout this, The Queen’s footman remained steadfastly by her side. “I’m with you until the end,” he said, buffered up to her as she mourned the withdrawal of another sibling. 

“And what if the end is sooner than we think?” she sniffed. 

“Then I’ll be grateful for the time I had.”

------------

1954

London’s newest edict was the first time that everyone understood the true scale of the threat they were up against. It was the edict from on high that would have spurred a revolution three years ago; now, everyone was a little older, a little more tired. The mundanity of life under British Railways had dulled the sense of danger just enough that the rank and file did not clamor for revolt until it was far too late. 

The edict, inventively named “Modernisation and Re-Equipment of the British Railways,” called for the complete abolishment of Steam, and the replacement of all steam engines with Diesel and Electric as soon as possible.  

Nobody was entirely sure what to make of this at Old Oak. Diesel was a novelty, restricted to a few funny-looking shunters and lorries on the street. Electric was far more well known, but there was some confusion as to how the London Underground could replace fast goods trains. They kept their guard up nonetheless, and all ears were kept firmly against the rail. 

What they found worried them. On the Southern, huge numbers of suburban trains were operated by electric-powered coaches, and engines could apparently be run off of this system as well. On the Midland, test units built before the nationalization had shown the possibility of huge diesel powered express engines, easily capable of taking work from all but the strongest steam engines. 

Morale dropped further, and then took a menacing turn when it was revealed that the Southern’s steam engines had taken to this news poorly, and began revolting against their electric comrades. “We can fight them…” came the whisper, angry and cloying. “Maybe we can kill them.”

------------

1955

The whispers did not stay silent for long. “Troublemakers” were soon identified and excised, whether by scrap or by transfer, it was ultimately unclear and not relevant. Old Oak was rapidly turning into a gruellia camp, and those few men in suits walked around with swiveling heads. 

The Queen had given up on ever restoring order. Unless she could muster up an army capable of sacking London, this was not a war she could win, and so she let it rage. As Celestine said, “better to go angry into the cold night as a warrior than to stay warm as a servant.”

Eventually, even the regal mask could not contain her. After six of her most faithful confidants were transferred away in a single night, she lashed out, dousing a group of BR men in boiling steam, injuring them to the point of needing hospitalization. 

“That was a very stupid thing you did,” Duck said as they sat in the shed, dreading the dawn’s first light. 

“Burning them?” 

“Getting caught.”

“And what happened to the rule-follower I know and love?” 

“They withdrew Benvolio last night. And Juliet.” 

A sharp intake of breath. “I’m sorry, I-”

“I hadn’t had a chance to tell you.” 

A long, poignant pause followed. 

“What do you think will happen to us?”

“I don’t know. Til death do us part, I assume.”

“Til death it is, then.” 

-------------

As it turned out, it was worse than death. 

She ventured forth on a long trip to Cardiff, feeling the whole time like the world was about to collapse on top of her. Pulling into the station, she failed in a cloud of steam, a piston seal giving out after years of neglect.

A grim-faced shunter pulled her into the shed, and to everyone’s surprise, she was put on the repair docket for later in the week. Unlike Old Oak, which had been slowly turning into a den of vipers, Cardiff Canton was still much as the Western had left it. Spirits were higher than she’d seen in years, and even the now-prevalent Britannia-class engines were being treated warmly. 

Worry began to seep in after a day, as she discovered that many of Old Oak’s more mechanically sound “troublemakers” had not been withdrawn as she had thought, instead getting transferred to the Welsh capital. Lode Star was not among them, but many other familiar faces were, ranging from King George V to Raglan Castle. 

They all trod around her like she was made of glass, and a pit grew in her firebox until the men came to mend her. They brought with them all the appropriate tools needed to fix the seal… as well as a set of new depot plates. Gone was Old Oak’s 81A, replaced with the 86C of Cardiff Canton. 

“So this is it, then?” she asked dully. “A kingdom in exile? Pendennis left to rule the roost?”

-------

It took almost two months to get back to London. British Rail was quickly installing new management in the Western Region, and they were keen to keep the troublemakers as far away from the “capital” of the GWR locomotive fleet as possible. In the end she had to resort to threats and bribery, taking a long meat train into the goods platforms at Paddington, before making her way to Old Oak. 

She was expecting some sort of welcome, but the yard exploding into shock was not within the realm of possibility. 

“You’re here!” yelled a suburban tank, so loud she could almost see his boiler tubes through his gawping mouth. 

“It’s her!” said Paris, another of Duck’s siblings. 

King Edward II almost backed through a wall as he refused to take eyes off her. 

Caerphilly felt the mask come back on, and the Queen went in search of answers. 

-

She found them, and Pendennis, in an empty and bare Royal Shed. “They said that you’d been cut up…” he said, sounding legitimately horrified. “We held a funeral. Half of London thinks you dead.”

She didn’t say anything, eyes scanning the bare walls. 

“They-they came and took everything down a week after you die- left,” Pendennis stammered. “What were we supposed to think?”

She didn’t even care enough to answer. “Where’s Duck?” 

“I-I- I don’t know. He said something about ‘til death do you part’ and then… he left. Got transferred, something.”

She left Pendennis, stammering and terrified, and went in search of answers. 

------

“I don’t know where he went.” Celestine recovered from seeing her rise from the dead rather well. “He didn’t tell anyone and he didn’t ask for specifics. He took some coaching stock to Euston and told the Midlanders to take him North.”

The Queen didn’t say anything, and stared down her spymaster. 

“I don’t know,” he said with a hint of desperation and sadness. “I don’t think he knows. I can find out, but I don’t think it’ll help. He got a two month head start, and…” 

“And what?”

Celestine gulped, a moment of vulnerability she’d never seen before. “He- he left his nameplates. And his paint. Had them do him up in black like every other new engine they’ve got.” he looked her in the eyes, tears welling up. “Caerphilly, you died, and he parted.”

The world seemed a lot grayer, after that, and the queen left Old Oak Common, never to return. 

--------------

1957 

Celestine had followed in her wake, traveling to her exiled kingdom inside Cardiff Canton. He provided the same sage advice as always, but seemed oddly insistent on setting up his successor. “Anyone can die, at any time.” he said, as he pushed the Queen to accept his recommendation of a Britannia named Polar Star. The engine was fresh-faced but had aged, weathered eyes that looked suspiciously at everything and anything. 

In the end, she’d agreed, and her retinue briefly became four, with Polar Star joining Celestine and King George as her counsel. 

Then, one day. “My number has come up,” Celestine said quietly. 

“Just like that?” By 1957, nobody was shocked by a prediction of death. Many weren’t even saddened. 

“Not to worry, my Queen,” he said with a sly look. “I always have an exit strategy.”

He said nothing more on the subject, but was very insistent on saying goodbye the next morning when he took a short goods train down to the docks. She followed suit, and wished him goodbye as though she’d never see him again. 

His train vanished into the mist, and just like that, he was gone, the fog closing behind him like the veil of eternity. 

And now there remains only one… she thought later, as George V and Polar Star politely debated the merits of some important topic, so thoroughly inured to the death and disappearances that Celestine merited little more than a moment of silence. 

And soon there will be none at all…

-------------

1960

It was the end of one world, and the start of another. 

Cardiff Canton, the last true bastion of steam in Wales, accepted with great fanfare Swindon’s last hurrah. A hulking decapod named Evening Star, he arrived with a fresh face and innocent eyes. The other engines, worn down from tragedy after loss, attached themselves to him and his kind like drowning men to life rings, so taken were they by his innocence. 

Meanwhile, inbound trains from great depots like Swindon and Plymouth Laira became the heralds of a new age. Diesel locomotives - huge, soot-throwing things that made noises no-one had ever thought of before - began making appearances. The crews were wowed by them, by their ease of operation, their clean interiors, and their power. To those with an ounce of foresight, it was immediately obvious that the end was nigh. 

At the very least, the end would not be violent. Tales quickly spread from other regions, of diesels wrecking trains, bashing engines, spreading rumours, and generally acting as agents of destruction. The Eastern region was turning into an Orwellian dystopia by all accounts, and the Southern was experiencing three-way civil wars between steam, diesel, and electric traction. Even the piddling North-Western Region had suffered an upset, when a six-coupled diesel shunter had in short order: dethroned the station’s pilot, sowed discourse in the steam shed, and then caused a runaway train before being sent back to whence he had come. 

The western diesels - two classes named after warships, with more on the way from Swindon’s erecting shop - were nothing like the stories from afar. Most were built by Swindon - and those that weren’t hailed from North British Locomotive, a long-time contractor of the Western - and had been taught the old ways. They spoke earnestly of being the next step in Brunel’s lineage, and despite their imminent demise now made real, many steam engines found themselves relaxing, sure in the knowledge that their legacy would remain “within the family.” 

Evening Star, and his cohort of 9Fs both Swindon and Crewe built, were settling in just as easily, and it seemed as though the future may be bright after all. 

The Queen, however, felt a sense of ominous dread that she could not shake. Surely the Eastern region, if none other, would have maintained their sense of decorum and pride, just as the Western had? Why had it gone so wrong for them? 

---------

She tried to make inquiries, but Celestine could not be recreated, no matter how hard Polar Star tried. It seemed that, perhaps, the Great Western truly was “better” than all the rest, and conflict of that sort could never sully their shores. 

She doubted it, but tried to put a brave face on her uneasiness. In lieu of answers, she could at the very least ensure that her subjects went to the end with as much comfort as possible. 

This lasted until the tenth of May. Some tiny component deep within her workings was deemed failed, and instead of fixing her, they withdrew her on the spot. 

Surprisingly, this wasn’t done in some far-off corner of the yard, free from prying eyes, and so it took less than an hour for Cardiff Canton to become a frenzy. Engines raged and mourned in equal numbers. Some younger ones, like Evening Star and a shiny “Warship” named Centaur, looked utterly bewildered at the goings on. Bigger, older engines, grief coloring their eyes, had to pull them aside and explain exactly what was occurring. 

It was an odd thing to see a diesel cry. It almost seemed like they hadn’t been built to do so. 

In the end, there had been profound declarations made, tears shed, threats issued, and leadership changes discussed. The Queen felt as though her decision was obvious, and a terrified looking King George V issued her first teary-eyed speech to the rest of the shed shortly thereafter. 

After all of that, it was time for her to leave for the last time. Centaur had volunteered, and after the diesel and his cargo had been polished to a blinding finish, the funeral train departed Cardiff, up-bound for Swindon. 

As they left, whistles started to blow. First one, then another, then another, and so on until the air was split by the siren-like call of Cardiff Canton, and by extension, the Great Western, bidding farewell to their one true Queen. 

-------------------

Swindon

The great works, birthplace of almost every engine who trod GWR metals, was now a charnel house of mechanical destruction. Engines lined up in neat rows, waiting for the end. To either side, piles of metal that had once held life - smokeboxes, cylinders, frames by the dozen. 

In a macabre take on the circle of life, the far end of the works property glimmered with the freshly-painted sheet metal of new diesel locomotives, ready to supplant those steam engines that remained. 

To her surprise, the Queen was not shunted into the execution lines, but instead tucked away in a storage shed near the shop floor. 

The shed was not empty. 

“Star?” She goggled at the sight of Lode Star, dirty and rusted and far worse for wear but still very much alive, huddled in the back of the shed. 

“My Queen…” the fire was gone, the smile a ghost of its former self. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“The same as you…” she said, trying to smile. “Preservation. Eternal life within four walls.”

“Well.” The mask fell, and Caerphilly looked at her. “It beats dying, doesn’t it?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Lode Star looked haunted. “At least the screams would stop then…” 

--------

1961 

No matter how much she tried, and which face she used - her own or the mask - Caerphilly couldn’t bring Star out of her emotional cocoon. Whatever the poor engine had gone through during the time of her withdrawal, it was still happening behind her eyes.

Matters were not helped by the arrival of a third engine. 

“You…” City of Truro hissed as he was brusquely shoved into the shed by a snarling diesel of unclear lineage. “So they’ve seen fit to preserve you for all eternity?” 

Caerphilly was bewildered and angered all at once. She had strong memories of the old engine, regal yet opinionated, strong yet caring. She’d tried to model much of her reign off of him, and did not recall ever doing anything to earn such ire. 

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” she snapped, worry for Lode Star flashing over into anger when given the correct spark. How dare he come in here like this? “Are we not in a state of crisis? Do we need to band together or stand alone? I seem to be of the understanding that the only thing we will do alone is die, so what has gotten into you?” She stared at the receding diesel, which looked relieved to be rid of Truro. “And what did you say to him?” 

“Him? Him?! That monstrosity has hauled me away from my life! Taken me away to be re-imprisoned by those who deem me unworthy of such things! It is an agent of evil and you call it him?!”

Unnoticed in the squabble, Lode Star whimpered silently, and fell silent. Later on, there would be nothing that Caerphilly or Truro could do to make her speak again. 

------------

It was only later, when they hauled her from the shed, towed her into the shop floor, and began taking her apart as though this were any normal overhaul, that she learned exactly what the next stage in her life would be. 

“The Science Museum? In Kensington? But there’s no rails there.” she said, voice weak from disassembly fatigue. 

“Not to worry!” The men in suits said grandly. “We’ve got it all under control!” 

----------

Swindon outshopped her to like-new condition, and she felt better than she had since 1938. The experience of moving without pain was a joyous one, but the happy feelings died soon after she left the works, up-bound to London. 

Gone was the easy camaraderie of just last year. Now, steam and diesel were at each other’s throats up and down the line. Her “royal train” passed Old Oak Common, and she saw it was packed with diesels. Many of them were not of the same designs that she saw in the yard at Swindon, and their smiles were cruel, their eyes harsh. 

She was officially handed over to the museum with a speech that seemed intent on calling her a relic from a bygone time - never mind that Clun Castle was standing a few roads away with a packed passenger train. 

Then it was back to the yard, where she sat overnight, privy to a host of conversations, arguments, threats, and whisper campaigns between steam and diesel that proved - to her at least - that the spirit of the Great Western was dead. 

The morning came along with a set of heavy haul lorries, and the mask went up over a few dried tears, and within a few hours, the Queen of the Great Western was gone, vanishing around a corner, Kensington bound. 

-------

Kensington 

The mask didn’t slip when she saw that there was a hole missing in the brick wall of the building. They meant to entomb her, and she couldn’t stop them if she wanted to. 

Did she want to?

-----------

A portly man with a balding head introduced himself as “Dr. Beeching, chairman of British Railways” as the workers began re-building the block wall of the museum. 

For some time, he went on and on about topics that she didn’t pay any attention to. He didn’t seem to notice, until he started asking questions. Somewhat miffed about the lack of response, he looked up at her for the first time. “Your controllers said you were a talkative sort. Were they mistaken? I feel that after all that I have done for you, saving you from scrap and whatnot, you could at least be a conversationalist.” 

Caerphilly didn’t look at him. She didn’t even look down, instead focusing her attention on the last rays of the sun, streaming in through the hole in the brick. The workers had maybe seven or eight tiers to go. “You’ve entombed me here, without even a cask of amontillado for company. Haven’t you done enough for me, Montresor?”

Dr. Beeching looked shaken, and left without saying another word. 

He watched from the outside as the workmen finished up the wall. 

As the last brick went into place, a great stillness went over London, for just a second. 

Then, from inside the building, through the wall. “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MONTRESOR!” 

Beeching, the workers, and some of the museum staff tumbled through the doorways, and into the grand hall of transportation. 

Caerphilly was gone. The Queen stared back. The mask was up, and within those walls it would never come back down. 

------------------------------------------------------------

Tidmouth, 2001

The train puffed through the station looking for all the world like it had steamed out of the 1930s. The coaches were painted in the traditional Western colours, and Caerphilly herself shone like the proverbial Lady of engine folk-tale. 

There was only one engine to witness her passage through the big station, and James’ jaw hit his bufferbeam and stayed there until the train was fully out of sight. 

As the train passed underneath the first GWR-style cantilever signal arm, Caerphilly felt a tickling in her cheeks, and around the edges of her mouth. The mask was trying to make a reappearance, and she forced it down. This was not the time or place. 

Passing through the tunnel under increasingly dark skies, she rolled into Haultraugh station in near total darkness. The sun was going down, and the skies had turned gloomy. A prickling sensation deep in her cylinders and her boiler - one that she’d forgotten almost entirely - told her rain was on the way. 

A deep whistle sounded in the other direction, and Douglas puffed through the station with a train of stone. He looked her up and down in surprise, but said nothing as he continued on to the big station. 

The mask almost came back out of instinct, as the GWR signals, on top of the GWR signal arm, outside of the GWR station, rose to a clear aspect. She tried to bite it back, but could feel the placid expression fall on her face out of habit. 

Arlesburgh was like entering a warp through time, and she had to purposefully look at the modern cars in the carpark to assure herself that she hadn’t just awoken from some horrible nightmare back in 1937. 

Stowing the coaches was a matter of moments - the shunting system was exactly as she remembered it, and the mask slipped enough for a single fond tear to roll down her cheek. 

The driver quickly turned her on the table, and she was backed into a twin road shed that brought back waves of memories of Old Oak Common. 

Donald was half asleep on the next road, and her spirits faded slightly, before she recalled that this was the only shed. He had to sleep here. 

---

Sure enough, some fifteen minutes later, as the first drops of rain began to pitter-patter off the roof, she could hear his whistle in the yard. 

A few minutes later, and the shed doors were opened, and he screeched to a stop just outside the threshold. Light from the inside spilled onto his rain-soaked form, and he looked exactly as she remembered.  

She hadn’t even realized that the mask was up, but it fell away regardless. Indescribable emotions flitted across her face, almost mirrored in his. 

Neither of them said anything as his driver took a firm hand on the throttle and the brake, moving him inside the building to the point where the doors could be shut.  

The driver - Siobhan (of course, it had to be) - dismounted from the cab, took one look between the two engines, and marched over to Donald. 

“Oi! Cannae ye see I’m sleepin?” 

“Get yer wheesht and get goin’, cannae sleep here tonigh’”

“Wah? Fuck ye! Is’ rainin’!”

“Fuck ye too. No’ in here ye be sleepin’, even if I left ye here.” 

“Aye? Wha? Wait, when did they ge’ here? Wah?” 

“OUT!” 

The squabbling continued as Donald was driven outside into what was now a downpour. The sounds of his increasingly damp complaints lessened until he was driven entirely out of earshot. 

The two looked at each other, words unable to span the distance of decades. 

“When did you find out?” he asked, after a minute and an eternity. 

“Sometime in the 70s,” she said, feeling a thousand miles away while touching his buffers. “One of the curators brought in his son’s books for me to fact check.”

He looked like he was ready to fade into the mist. “That must have been a shock.” 

“I would have dropped everything and run after you,” she said, not even thinking to come up with a segue. “If only I had known.”

“They told us you were dead,” he replied. “I suppose they wanted to break us, and it worked.”

“I wish that you could have come with me,” she said quietly. 

“I do too.” They were barely above a whisper, almost covered by the pounding rain. 

“What did you do, after…?” 

He chuckled, without any warmth. “I buried the pain, and went on with my life. I never told a soul.”

“I tried to forget,” she admitted, tears welling up. “It never worked.” 

There was a bright flash, and thunder roared outside. 

“Sounds like the bombs going off, back when.” He said, fairly transported to another place and time. 

“I remember…” She was starting to cry a little. 

He looked up at her, eyes piercing through her. “What are we, Caerphilly? After forty years, are we still anything?”

She looked at him. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, and the walls shook. In a moment, she was back in 1940. 

“We’re together,” she said, crying openly. “Until death do us part.”

And then she kissed him, as the thunder roared. 

--------------

End

[joezworld]

Express Engines

This one is very long, and has Formatting.™ Be aware of that.

The next week

“Oh, that reminds me,” Gordon said one night. “Samarkand, I have been meaning to commend you on your performance with the Northern Belle last week. Three minutes ahead of schedule, with a full train of Pullman coaches? Well done.”

Sam blushed, while James’s brows furrowed. “Three minutes? Her? She’s got wheels the size of pie tins!” 

“And look at how well she does with them!” Caerphilly exclaimed from the other side of the shed. “If we had ten more of her the rest of us could sleep until noon.”

Sam’s blush deepend. “Guys…”

“James,” Gordon said in a faux-whisper. “You are aware that you and Samarkand have identically-sized wheels, correct?”

Aghast spluttering met this, and was ignored with some bemusement. 

“I say,” Caerphilly raised an eyebrow. “How fast did you get, Sam?”

Sam now resembled a tomato, but a pleased expression worked its way across her smokebox. “Faster than I’ve ever been before, is all I’ll say.”   

“Oh that’s hardly scientific, don’t you think?” Caerphilly was all smiles, but there was a flicker of something behind her eyes that Gordon and Sam both caught. (James remained clueless) “Don’t you want to know?”

“Know what?” The conversation was interrupted by Delta rumbling into the shed. “And what’s with him?” She asked as the turntable swung past James.

“... My wheels are not small!” James squeaked, red in the face and thoroughly humiliated.

“Well they’re bigger than mine, so you’ve got that going for you. Who said they were small?”

“... I-I did.”

“What? Jamie… how?” 

----

The discussion waned for a while, as the other engines returned to the shed, but eventually it started back up again. 

For the engines on one side of the shed, it was a perfectly normal conversation about the high-speed capabilities of themselves and the other engines. 

For the engines on the other side of the shed, it was a terrifying and mind-bending experience as Gordon and Caerphilly continued to claim that the other was the better express engine. 

“And you’re sure?” Delta whispered to Bear as the clock swung past 11. 

“I’m not sure of anything. Am I even here? Am I real? Is this actually happening? Maybe I’m dead and this is all a test to decide if I go to heaven or not.”

“Oh don’t be dramatic.” Henry rolled his eyes, having been trying (and failing) to sleep for some time.

“Samarkand, I think you’re underselling yourself.” Gordon lectured across the room, voice echoing through the rafters. “With a minimal amount of instruction, you could substitute for Caerphilly and I with no issues.”

“Oh, without question.” Caerphilly chimed in. “And before you try and downplay that idea - just remember that this is not a two-way system. I doubt that either of us could do your work as well as you can. It’s a rare gift you have, being a jack of all trades.”

“You know Caerphilly,” Gordon pondered. “If you are that dead-set on evidence and data, we may have to take a goods turn or two, in order to see how our performance differs.”

Sam laughed out loud at that, and when the two protested, she started explaining exactly what they’d be in for. 

“Maybe we’re all dead.” Henry whispered. “Have we considered that? Maybe we all were killed in a tragic accident, and none of this is actually happening.”

---

The clock ticked past Midnight. 

“Didn’t Pendennis melt his firebars once? I seem to recall that anecdote floating around.”

“Oh yes, Scotsman told me all about it, once he returned from Australia. You weren’t there of course, but in those last years everyone’s state of repair was poor at best. I’m sure that with modern metallurgy there would be no issues.”

-------

1 in the morning came and went. Delta stopped being able to understand them, words blurring together into a mush of syllables.  

“Well, I had thought that it was King’s Cross, but then they sent me to St. Pancras! And goodness me there’s more of them still! Euston, Waterloo, Marylebone, Fenchurch Street…”

“And here I thought Paddington was enough. How many are there now?”

“Oh my, they’ve added so many commuter lines now - or so Pip and Emma tell me. I think there’s 17 or 20!”

----

At half past one, Henry’s eye started twitching again. Bear was asleep, but muttering something about Cannon Street station in between snores. 

“Speaking of Pip and Emma, I feel like they could shave a few minutes off their current timings, but at the cost of running afoul of the Limited, among other trains. Heh. As loath as I am to admit it, the express doesn’t run in a vacuum, and extra space in the pathings can work wonders for unnecessary delays.”

“You don’t think that it would be a better point to simply improve the on-time percentages of the other trains on the network?”

“Hah, wait until you take an all-stops service during the summer bank holidays. I swear the passengers will coordinate ways to delay you.”

“It was never that bad on the Great Western…”

“The Great Western was a service. We are an attraction, and the passengers act accordingly.”

---------

The two distant rings of a church bell bounced around James’s smokebox. 

“You don’t think the old loco tests matter?” 

“I think it’s a matter of mechanical fitness. I’ve been built and rebuilt by Crewe and Crovan’s Gate so many times that I may as well be an entirely different engine. We all are, except you - the one thing that museum did do is preserve you exactly as you had been after your last rebuild. It wouldn’t be so much a test of North Eastern versus Great Western as it would be of Crovan's Gate versus Swindon.”

“When did Crewe rebuild you?”

“Oh, Samarkand, did we wake you? I’m sorry.”

“Nah, I was only dozing, it’s fine.”

“Ah, well, I was rebuilt just before the second world war - what a boon that was for us. Sir Topham was close friends with Mr. Stanier from the LMS, and after he saw the work they did to Henry, he sent me over as well. Of course, I didn’t enjoy the process, being younger and even more prideful, but in hindsight it has served me well.”

“So hang on, wasn’t Stanier at the Great Western before?”

“He was. He was in charge of Swindon works when they built me. As a matter of fact, he was one of the first faces I ever saw.”

“So, he built you, then he re-built you, and then he taught Mr. Riddles everything he knew, and that led to… me.”

“It seems that greatness has a very distinct path through the railway system.”

“That’s a strong word for it.”

“Well, what would you call it?” 

“I couldn’t say. Good engineering? Longevity?”

“Immortality?”

“Now that is a strong word for it indeed…”

----------

Two Thirty. Henry was losing his mind. 

“I feel like it may come down to train composition. Any engine can make a speed record attempt with three coaches. It takes a real powerhouse to do so with six.”

“Route knowledge may also be required - after all, going fast on a downhill straight is something that anyone can do.”

“Well isn’t that sort of the-”

“OH FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!” Henry finally snapped. “You’ve been going on about this for almost five hours! I want to go to sleep! If you don’t know which one of you is faster then organize a time trial or something, but do it in the morning so I can go to bed!”

There was a period of shocked silence that lasted for a few minutes, just long enough for Henry’s eyes to slam shut. The rest of the engines followed suit soon after, and the sound of snoring filled the air. 

Gordon looked contemplative. “You know, a time trial might just work.”

“It could, but on what? The express and the limited change in length on a daily basis.”

“Have either of you taken the Boat Train recently..?”

---------------------

Part two: The Boat Train

The Island of Sodor was not only connected to the outside world by rail; befitting its status as an Island, Sodor was served by a plethora of ferry services, with sailings to locales as near as Barrow-In-Furness, and as far as France and Spain. The three largest ferry companies serving the island were P&O Stena Line, Irish Ferries, and the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company. The 1990s had been a very turbulent time for the ferry industry in Britain and Ireland as a whole, and ferry lines of varying sizes had been purchased and incorporated into the bigger companies. Many of these, like Sealink, B&I Line, European Ferries, and several smaller operators, had served Sodor through ferry terminals at Tidmouth, and their new owners soon found themselves having double or triple the amount of facilities they needed - even worse, not any one terminal was big enough to handle all of the consolidated traffic. As the 1990s wore on, and the new millennium dawned, competition from both the North Western Railway and the airport at Dryaw meant that the ferry companies had to move quickly. 

For some, this wasn’t an issue. Irish Ferries had bought B&I, and their terminals were next door, meaning that it took very little construction to combine the two facilities. Similarly, the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company hadn’t bought anyone, and their cozy but still usable terminal on Tidmouth’s waterfront remained unchanged.

However, P&O Stena was not as lucky. Created as a joint venture of the two largest ferry companies on the Dover-Calais route, both of whom had fallen on hard times after the opening of the Channel Tunnel, it was a massive tangle of international and domestic ferry services operating under five different brand names. Formed just three years ago in 1998, the union was troubled from the start, and there were already rumblings of yet another name change; supposedly P&O wanted to buy out Stena Lines and then rename everything so as to simplify its corporate structure. 

On Sodor, simplifying things was rather complicated. To start, Stena Line had previously bought most of SeaLink - the ferry division of British Rail - and so served four ex-BR routes from Wales and Ireland to the island, none of which terminated in Tidmouth:

Knapford-Dublin (Ireland)

Knapford-Belfast (N. Ireland)

Knapford-Fishguard (Wales) 

Kirk Ronan-Holyhead (Wales)

Additionally, Stena Line had its own services from before it bought Sealink, which all left from Tidmouth:

Tidmouth-Cairnryan (Scotland)

Tidmouth-Cherbourg (France)

Tidmouth-Santander (Spain)

Then, on top of all of this, P&O had its own set of pre-merger services, which left mostly from Tidmouth: 

Tidmouth-Troon (Scotland)

Tidmouth-Holyhead (Wales)

Tidmouth-Belfast (N. Ireland)

Tidmouth-Dublin (Ireland)

Kirk Ronan-Larne (N. Ireland)

Kirk Ronan-Fishguard (Wales)

As one might be able to tell, this web of ferry services was complex and resource intensive. Unlike Irish Ferries/B&I, the P&O and Stena terminals were nowhere near each other in Tidmouth, and even if they had been, Stena’s ex-Sealink facilities had been built cheaply in the 1970s, and were falling apart at the seams. Furthermore, having half the Stena routes in Knapford was undesirable, as P&O wanted to issue connecting tickets, allowing Scottish and Irish travelers a more direct route to France and Spain. If a new terminal was to be built, it would have to involve either the construction of an entire new ferry port, or the total closure and reconstruction of one of the existing ones. Surprisingly, P&O Stena was more than willing to spend money on an entirely new terminal if it meant everything going smoothly, but with the expansion of Tidmouth Docks well underway, no such space was available. They would have to build a new “super terminal” on the spot of one of the existing terminals, big enough to hold all the passengers for all the Tidmouth/Knapford routes under one roof. 

More problems followed. The Stena Terminal was huge, but falling to bits, while the P&O terminal was scarcely big enough for the routes it already had, and was hemmed in on all sides by new industrial developments surrounding the harbour. Worse still, the extra space in Stena’s Knapford terminal was being rented by cruise ship companies, and the local council had made it very clear that this lucrative source of local income was not to be meddled with. It was therefore decided that the Stena terminal at Tidmouth would be demolished, and the new Super Terminal built in its place. 

The complication then became how they would fit all of the Stena traffic into the waterfront shoebox that was the P&O terminal. 

The short answer was that they didn’t. 

The long answer was that the North Western Railway made a lot of money off of P&O Stena between 2000 and 2002. 

The even longer answer was that while there were significant space constraints at Tidmouth, no such thing existed at the ex-Sealink Terminal in Kirk Ronan. Sealink had purposely overbuilt the place in the late 1970s, assuming that the aborted M590 motorway project would bring a six-lane superhighway right to Sodor’s eastern coast, and allow for a much smoother connection to the Irish ferry services. Of course, that never happened, and the only ferries that serve the massive facility are small ones that primarily benefit Sodor’s eastern communities. 

But, in 2000, P&O Stena had an idea. They would re-route most of the Stena sailings to Kirk Ronan, and offer connection tickets to Ireland and Scotland from that point. However, due to ticketing agreements between Stena and The Isle of Man Steam Packet Company, along with some passenger’s rather fervent desire to go to the biggest city on Sodor instead of a sleepy fishing town where seagulls outnumbered people 4 to 1, there would be a connection service between the two ports using the North Western Railway. 

Each morning, a seven-car train would leave Tidmouth Docks after the inbound Irish and Scottish ferries had docked, and run as an express to Kirk Ronan station, before continuing to the coach yards in Barrow as an empty stock working. Later in the day a different engine would then collect the empty coaches from Barrow, and return the train under a similar express working, now carrying passengers from the Spanish, French, and Welsh ferries. 

Known on timetables as “The Kirk Ronan Boat Train”, and on advertising material as “THE P&O STENA EXPLORER”, it was technically a charter train, and stayed at the same fixed length and timing every day for the duration of the service, as P&O Stena’s internal research showed that this would be well-suited for “all but the worst-case scenarios.” 

What this fixed-length, identically timed, charter train was also well suited for… was a time trial.

----  

It took surprisingly little effort to convince the Fat Controller to allow this - since nobody was attempting to break a record (or act unsafely while attempting to break a record), he felt it would be little different from the normal runs, except for the inclusion of very precise timing and speed measurement equipment in the baggage compartment of the lead coach. In order for everything to be done exactly the same, the down-bound service from Kirk Ronan to Tidmouth Docks would be the only one used for the trial. 

The engines were fairly excited for this - Sam was chomping at the bit for her turn, James was trying very hard (and failing) to pretend like he wasn’t interested, Delta outright said that she wanted a go, and Caerphilly was ecstatic that this was proceeding without any major fuss. 

Gordon and Henry were the sole outliers - Henry thought this was idiotic, and wanted no part of it, while Gordon was mercurial about his actual feelings on the subject, saying little but being supportive of everyone. 

James attempted to needle Gordon about being “worried that he’d lose his title,” and the subsequent dressing-down could have stripped the paint off a wall. Those with more than a single brain cell bouncing around their smokebox like an errant bumblebee took it to mean that Gordon was, if nothing else, willing to be a gracious loser no matter how unlikely the chances may be. 

----

A few days later

The timing equipment was placed inside the baggage coach and calibrated just in time for the Thursday run of the Boat Train.  

First to be rostered on the “time trial” trains was Henry, and once he remembered that this was technically his idea, he went from “annoyed” to “incensed.” “I don’t want to do this!” he complained to Caerphilly, as he collected the empty coaches from the yard in Barrow. “This is entirely for your benefit, not mine!”

“Oh, but that’s the thing!” The science museum had really rubbed off on Caerphilly. “You’re the control subject!”

“Control subject? What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re the marker that we measure against. An unmotivated subject, acting without any-”

“UNMOTIVATED?!”

“Not like that!” 

But it was too late. 

“Unmotivated! Is that what this is about? I’m not some layabout! Is that what you think of me?! Just you wait and see, Castle! I’ll put you and Gordon into the dirt!” 

And Henry stormed away, “I’ll show them! I’ll show them!” trailing in his wake. 

“... that is not at all what I meant.” Caerphilly said lamely as the coaches vanished over the bridge. “Well, there goes our control sample.”

-------

Maron Station

🎼 Raucous guitar solo 🎼 

Gordon was not enjoying the stopping train duties today. The passengers seemed to be conspiring with each other today, and there was a massive group of foolish tourists standing on the platform, attempting to make sure that nobody was left on the train. 

🎼 Like the last of the good ol' puffer trains 🎼

“I swear, if they do not know how to disembark from a train at the correct station, they deserve to be sent to Barrow.” The big engine grumbled, but didn’t urge the guard to hurry the process up - he knew from experience this would do the opposite. 

🎼I'm the last of the soot and scum brigade🎼

The only positive to this situation was that the station’s tannoy system was playing Radio 2. Fortunately it wasn’t any of that modern nonsense with the young men singing in harmony, and while Gordon wasn’t entirely fond of groups like the Kinks, this song was perhaps best viewed as a guilty pleasure. 

🎼And all this peaceful living is drivin' me insane 🎼

As the song entered the last few lines, a whistle sounded in the distance, and Henry came into view. His face was red, his cloud of steam was laid flat against his boiler, and he rocked from side to side under force of his own connecting rods. 

With seven coaches behind him, he roared through the station at what seemed to be just under the speed of sound, whistling like a banshee as he went. 

🎼 I'm the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains 🎼 

And then, as quickly as he’d appeared, he’d gone. The song hadn’t even ended, and the marker lamps were already disappearing into the distance. All that was left of its passage was a few windblown newspapers flying off the platform. 

“What was that?” Yelped Gordon’s driver. 

“That,” Gordon remarked. “Is Caerphilly not getting her control sample for the time trial.”

🎼 I'm the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains… 🎼 

---

The timetable put the boat train’s run at 1 hour and 2 minutes. Due to traffic on the Kirk Ronan branch line, Kellsthorpe Road station, and the junction leading to the harbour, the time trials only covered the section of the route on the main line - that is, from the junction at Kellsthorpe Road station to the tunnel between Tidmouth and Knapford. This portion of the journey was timetabled at 41 minutes, and Gordon and Caerphilly thought that it would be possible to shave up to five minutes off that time while still obeying the speed limits. 

Henry’s run was actually over the timetable, at 1 hour and 5 minutes. However, this was due to meeting another train on the Kirk Ronan branch, and his time between Kellsthorpe and Knapford was a much more impressive 38 minutes. The train recorded an average speed of 83 miles an hour down the main line, and the top speed was recorded near Cronk station - a whopping 101.34 miles per hour.

“And you thought this was idiotic…” Gordon teased that night in the sheds, as the other engines raised a fuss. 

“I still think it’s idiotic.” Henry said with a hidden smile. “I just happen to be an idiot.”

------------------

Henry’s run sent shockwaves up and down the main line. Aside from scientific-minded passengers with stopwatches (and the odd railway inspector who needed a specific result), nobody had ever bothered to collect detailed data on train speeds before. Gordon had always been “the fastest and the best” based purely off of his ability to, well, be faster, even if nobody knew what faster was. Learning that Henry, who was slightly smaller and ever-so less powerful than Gordon, cracked 100 miles an hour in a fit of pique suddenly made everyone else on the Island wonder exactly what they were capable of.

The Barrow stationmaster was the official “keeper” of the sign-up sheet for the time trials, and over the next few days he watched in amazement as the list of engines got longer and longer…

----

The next day

Up next was… well, it was supposed to be Gordon, but James had kicked up such a fuss that the big engine eventually relented - it was far easier to let James have this small victory than deal with a week’s worth of whinging, pleading, and wheedling. 

Of course, karma was not willing to let James off easy. Leaving the yard in Barrow with the coaches, he was delayed - ironically enough - by a different ferry boat sailing into Barrow harbour. The bridge had some difficulty locking into place afterwards, and Henry saw (and heard) James impatiently yelling at the fitters as they banged on the locking mechanism with sledgehammers.

“It only took twenty minutes to fix it,” he said to Gordon when they met at Knapford some time later. “But you’d think they’d held him three hours!” 

“Yes, well, I suppose better him than me.” Gordon’s amusement was confined to a slight upturn of his lips. “I do hope that his tardiness doesn’t interfere with the results, though. I would hate for him to have to do this again.”

“I didn’t think he’d be that late?” Henry said. “The train sits there for an hour before leaving.” 

“Yes, I am aware,” Gordon said. “But I must note that there are more than a few ferries at the harbour waiting somewhat impatiently for their guaranteed connection.”

“So he hasn’t come through then?” Henry was aghast and on the verge of laughter at the same time. “How?” 

“I’ll tell you how!” Bear rolled into the station with a container train, a smile stretching across his face. “Simon’s train came off in the Rolf’s Castle passing loop. James was there for an hour! I could hear him yelling from the junction!” 

Henry and Gordon were big engines, but not big enough that they were above laughing at James’ misfortune. “Oh heavens,” Gordon chuckled. “Perhaps next time he should take the schedule as intended!” 

“Oh, I feel bad for Delta, she’s going to have to calm him down all night!” Henry chortled, sending misshapen smoke rings into the sky. 

Just then, the signal for the down fast line dropped to clear. “Oh goodness, I bet this is him. Should we be supportive?”

The three engines looked at each other for a second, and then burst out laughing again. The guffaws continued as James rattled through the station, face as red as his boiler. 

-

That night, James refused to talk about it with anyone, and as predicted, Delta was up half the night soothing his ego. Gordon and Henry (and to a lesser extent, Bear) were predictably unhelpful. 

The next morning, Delta was entirely too tired to do anything, and proved this by accidentally backing through a set of buffers and ending up in the station car park. She wasn’t badly damaged, but she still needed to be looked over by the mechanical staff (and spoken to by the Fat Controller), and so didn’t take the Boat Train that day. 

Nobody was quite sure who would end up taking the train, and so it was quite a surprise when a triumphant Wendell rolled into the coach yards a few hours later. “I think I’ve done it!” he crowed. “Certainly the fastest I’ve ever gone, but I think I may have beaten the class record!” 

And he had. 

That night the shed foreman put up a corkboard, and pinned up all the times so far. 

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH  HENRY   | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH JAMES   | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH |  97.29 MPH

--------

The next day, Delta was up for the train. (The Fat Controller had been surprisingly understanding about the whole situation - after all, her driver could have stopped her well before the buffers.)

“Doesn’t your class have a speed limiter?” the lead coach asked as the train pulled out of the yard. 

“I did!” Delta said brightly as the train clattered across the bridge.

“Whatever does that mean?” the coach said quietly, before she was bumped by one of her fellows. 

“You nit!” The coach behind her sniffed. “You think the works is going to care about a speed limiter?”

-

There was a work crew on the lineside by Killdane, clearing weeds and vegetation, and they took a number of steps back to be clear of passing trains. 

Even at that distance, the wind from Delta’s passage was so great that two men fell over and tumbled down the embankment. The foreman turned to look, and felt a thock! against his hard hat as a rock kicked up by the train’s passage bounced off his head! 

--

The train flew down the line towards Maron. A swarm of insects was hovering over the warm rails, and the train plowed through them at speed. 

“It sounds like we’re being shot at!” the second man yelped, as pings and clacks echoed through the cab. 

“It’s only bees!” the driver said, activating the windscreen wipers to clear the gunk. 

“If those are bees then I need to tell my exterminator to get an anti-aircraft gun!”

---

At Wellsworth Station, the train was so early that the signalman had assumed he’d have a few minutes to use the loo. He had to run back to his box and set the signals with his trousers undone and his belt flying in the breeze!

----

Marina recoiled as the train pulled into the docks. “Do I even want to know what happened to you?”

Delta, who was covered from buffers to roof with bug splats, dust, and dirt, didn’t say anything. The fact that she was smiling like an idiot was more than enough.

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ DELTA   | 1:03 | 34:01 | 90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH  HENRY   | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH JAMES   | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH |  97.29 MPH

------------

The next day 

“Shall I wish you the best of Western Luck?” Caerphilly ventured hesitantly. She really hadn’t spent any time with Bear alone, and the ramifications of what Truro had done to him loomed large even still. 

“I think you’re about sixteen years too late for that,” the Hymek chuckled. “But I’ll take it in spirit.”

“Ah, yes, well… it’s only-”

He continued to laugh, cutting her off. “I understand completely. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and all. You should talk to Duck about that sometime… he’d understand.”

“Ah, yes, well… he and I have-” Caerphilly continued to trip over her own words. 

“Oh please don’t be awkward around me.” Unlike Caerphilly, Bear was relaxing more and more as the conversation went. “You’re a co-worker now, we have to work together, so consider everything that’s done as done.” 

His gaze became conspiratorial. “And, any engine that threatens to feed City of Truro his own boiler tubes is a friend of mine.”

“You heard about that?!” Caerphilly let out a shocked bark of laughter. 

“I hear many things about him. For example, did you know that he was deported from the Netherlands for being a miserable toerag?”

“No!” 

“Oh yes! He’ll never talk about it, but that’s why he came back so quickly from that continental excursion tour…”

They kept talking until it was time for the two engines to collect their coaches. Despite Bear’s… complicated history with the Great Western, the two engines’ shared upbringing soon led to an impenetrable string of “Western-isms” that was capable of repelling even Bloomer, who eyed them with suspicion from the other side of the shed. 

“So, any thoughts on this before you head off? Any crucial information I should know about?” Now that she was thinking about the speed trials, Caerphilly really, really, really could not turn off Science Museum Docent Voice even if she wanted to. (She didn’t)

“Yes, actually,” Bear smiled as something occurred to him. “You went into the museum before I was built, didn’t you?”

“Yes?” This was worrying from a data-collection standpoint. Don’t let the books on diesels be wrong again… Just let him be mechanically normal!

“The works tried a lot of things to get my engine to work the way they wanted it to. Eventually they just replaced it with one that was better. One from a Western.” He looked simultaneously smug and predatory at that. It was a good look on him. 

“A Western… like Fusilier at the museum?” 

The predatory smile was incredibly good-natured, but it was still distressing to watch it grow even larger. “Exactly like Fuse. He’s certainly not using them.”

Whatever Caerphilly was going to say next was stopped in its tracks by Bear’s signal raising to a clear aspect. With a loud mechanical rumble, Bear’s engine revved to the redline, and the empty train powered out of the station and over the bridge faster than Caerphilly ever would have expected. 

“I don’t know why I’m even bothering with this anymore,” Caerphilly said to nobody in particular. “The data will be so corrupted that I’m going to be the control sample.”

There was a distant horn blast, as Bear cleared the crossings near Vicarstown station. For him to have gone that far that quickly… I hope Henry knows how lucky he is.

--------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ DELTA   | 1:03 | 34:01 | 90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR    | 1:01 | 36:12 | 86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL | 1:01 | 36:42 | 86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH  HENRY   | 1:05 | 38:00 | 83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH JAMES   | 2:17 | 40:09 | 78.60 MPH |  97.29 MPH

------------

The next day was Sunday, and the express didn’t run to the mainland. Usually, Pip and Emma spent the downtime getting essential work done, but a power outage in Crovan’s Gate town meant that the facility was running mostly off of backup generators. This left Pip and Emma at somewhat of a loose end. 

About three hours later, the staff in the diesel shed had decided that a pair of diesels looking at them like lost puppies had gone on for long enough, and went to find them something to do. 

An hour after that, and they were being coupled up to the coaches for the Boat Train.  Caerphilly saw them go by as she stopped at Crovan’s Gate station. “I’m getting so much data that I don’t need,” she said to no-one in particular. “What on earth am I going to do with it?”

---------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH DELTA    | 1:03 | 34:01 |  90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR     | 1:01 | 36:12 |  86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL  | 1:01 | 36:42 |  86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH  HENRY    | 1:05 | 38:00 |  83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH JAMES    | 2:17 | 40:09 |  78.60 MPH |  97.29 MPH

-------

Monday morning rolled around, and no-one was more surprised than Gordon to find BoCo heading a stopper train into Barrow station around noon. “BoCo? Has someone failed?”

“Not at all,” BoCo replied. “I’m just doing someone a favour.” 

“And who might that be?” The only one lazy enough to suggest such a thing was James, and considering that going to Barrow meant an opportunity to wheedle his way onto another Boat Train turn, it seemed highly unlikely that he’d pass on the chance.

“Me,” BoCo said firmly. “I’m doing this for me.” He said it with such firm resolution that Gordon found that he had no response to give. 

BoCo spent the next half hour in the shed, deep in thought, or perhaps meditation. Gordon had an inkling of what was going on, and did his best to shoo Bloomer away. 

Sure enough, when the time came, BoCo was on the point of the Boat Train, and was staring at the signal with deep intensity. 

“Are you sure that this is… a favour?” Gordon asked hesitantly, backing down onto the Limited. 

“It’s something like that.” BoCo never took his eyes off the signal. 

“Do you think that you’re… ready for this?” 

“I don’t care if I’m not.”

“BoCo… what is this about?”

The diesel finally looked away from the signal bridge, and Gordon was struck by the expression on his face. It was both one of youthful determination, and aged resignation. Vitality and fragility. Contentment and loss. Fear and calm. It was like looking back into the late 1960s, as the world fell apart. 

“I’m the last Condor, and I need to know if I can still fly.” 

The signal rose, and BoCo was bathed in the green light as he departed. Gordon sounded his whistle as the coaches rolled out of sight. “Good luck, my friend…”

-------------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH DELTA    | 1:03 | 34:01 |  90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR     | 1:01 | 36:12 |  86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL  | 1:01 | 36:42 |  86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH  HENRY    | 1:05 | 38:00 |  83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO     | 1:02 | 36:22 |  86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH  JAMES    | 2:17 | 40:09 |  78.60 MPH |  97.29 MPH

---------

The next morning, Gordon took the up-bound Boat Train to Kirk Ronan. While the passengers boarded at the docks in Tidmouth, he noticed a strange sight and sound - James was cursing and yelling like an engine twice his size as he bashed and bumped lines of container cars and fish vans around. “You don’t get Marina today! You get me! You know what that means? ORDER!” 

Gordon wisely decided not to get involved, but wondered where Marina was all the way to Kirk Ronan, and then wondered some more as he took the empty coaches to Barrow. 

When he got to the yard, everything became clear. Marina was asleep in the middle of the yard, still connected to the now-empty fish vans from the Flying Kipper. She slowly woke up as he shunted the coaches next to her. “G’morning.” 

“Afternoon, more like it.” Gordon raised an eyebrow. 

“Has it been that long?” She yawned. “Don’t think I’ve slept in like that in years.”

“James seems set on waging war with the trucks down at the harbor.” Gordon held the eyebrow where it was. 

“It’s fine, he and Delta both owe me favors.”

“Whatever for?” 

“... I don’t think you want to know. I barely want to know.”

“...” Gordon didn’t know how to respond to that, and elected to change the subject. “I don’t recall you showing any interest in these trials.” 

“Well,” she said, engine kicking over as she began to wake up fully. “I remember when BoCo’s class was new, and while I never met any of them at the time, I remember hearing all the reasons why I was better than them, not least of which was that they were type 2s, and I was a type 3.” 

She paused for a moment, remembering something. “Then, thirty years later, I came here and I met him, and that odd-looking type 2 proceeded to best me in every conceivable way there was. And I asked him how, and all he did was laugh and say that the works here were just that good. At first I thought that maybe they had fixed him, made him whole, but later, I began to realize that they made him… more.” 

Her eyes sparkled in the midday sun. Gordon began to wonder if he needed to have longer and more regular conversations with the diesels.

She continued. “And then, a few years later, the works called for me, and they called for him at the same time. They told me that they were going to “improve me.” And while I was being taken apart, I saw them take him apart.” Her eyes flashed, and Gordon began to wonder if maybe this trial was having effects on engines in ways he didn’t know about. 

“He’s not a type 2, not anymore,” She said with reverence. “Just like I’m not a type 3. Now I’m more, and I need to know how much more I am.”

With a fine-tuned roar of exhaust, she powered away to the diesel pumps, leaving Gordon feeling overwhelmed, yet contemplative.

-------------------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH DELTA    | 1:03 | 34:01 |  90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR     | 1:01 | 36:12 |  86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL  | 1:01 | 36:42 |  86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH  MARINA   | 1:06 | 37:11 |  85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY    | 1:05 | 38:00 |  83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO     | 1:02 | 36:22 |  86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH  JAMES    | 2:17 | 40:09 |  78.60 MPH |  97.29 MPH

-----------

The next day, everything was quiet. Gordon and Caerphilly had both assumed that Sam would be taking her turn at the boat train today, and had strategically placed themselves on the line to offer encouragement. For Caerphilly, this meant moving a line of empty china clay trucks from the works to the clay pits at Brendam, a job that would involve spending lots of time in sidings letting more important trains go by. For Gordon…

“Have you ever done this before?” In a complete reversal of his demeanour just a few days ago, BoCo was chipper and all smiles, although this may have had something to do with watching Gordon shunt the pick-up goods. 

“Yes, rarely, and I would like to keep it that way,” Gordon huffed. The trucks had known exactly  how uncommon of an occurrence this was, and were reveling in the opportunity to cause trouble for “the big cheese,” as they’d taken to calling him. Even worse, there had been some sort of dispute between the usual express crews and the crews from Cargo Operations, and the end result meant that he had three men far more used to express passenger trains making an absolute hash of things on his footplate. They were twenty minutes late and they hadn’t even reached the hill yet.

“Well, think of it as a way to broaden your horizons!” 

“Yes, Caerphilly said something very similar.”

“Oh good! Great minds think alike!” 

“Let me tell you the same thing I told her.” Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “It would be in your best interest to broaden the number of ways you can keep your mouth shut.”

“Uh huh.”

Gordon’s eyes narrowed further, and he grumbled something about bilgewater drinking Westerners and their diesel-swilling compatriots…

--

Later 

Caerphilly was in yet another passing loop near Killdane station, and was waiting patiently for the boat train to come by. 

Presently, she heard Sam’s whistle in the distance, and perked up. She looked towards the signals, and found them all at Danger. “What?” she said to no-one. “Where is she?”

A moment later, she found out when Sam came steaming into the station from the other direction with a container train. Confusion writ large across Caerphilly’s face, and it was quickly mirrored by the big decapod. “Why do you and Gordon look so surprised to see me?”

“Weren’t you taking the boat train today?” 

“No? I’m taking it over the weekend. I’ve been out on the Little Western, shifting ballast all morning.” She took notice of the line of clay “hoods” behind Caerphilly. “And Gordon had to take the pick-up goods because of that… were you two waiting for me?”

“Merely to offer support-”

“Oh my god!” Sam’s whistle was shrill, and she blushed deeply. “That’s so kind of both of you. You didn’t need to do that!”

“Yes, I did,” Caerphilly started, and then caught herself. “But apparently I didn’t. If you didn’t take the express, then who did?”

As if by divine provenance, a whistle sounded in the distance, just as the signal above - one of the newest color-light models that the P-Way gang were very excited to have - changed to green. 

Both engines turned all of their attention to the east. “He can’t be.” Sam said, voice full of disbelief. 

“He’s an antique.” Caerphilly wished she was facing the other direction. She needed to see what sort of mania was gripping this fool. 

“The works here are good, but they can’t be that good, can they?” 

“We’ll see when they have to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.” 

 The whistle sounded again, and a great cacophony of chuffing and puffing made further conversation impossible. The train appeared over the horizon trailing a huge plume of smoke and steam, engine whistling fit to burst. It stormed over the high-speed turnouts connecting the down slow and the down fast lines, and vanished into the distance as quickly as it had come. 

“I stand corrected.” Caerphilly said as the smoke wafted away. “He’s suicidal.”

----------

“Don’t you have to be inside the box?” Gordon sniffed at the Wellsworth signalman. 

“Eh, the points are set,” the man said, taking a long slow drag on a cigarette. “Won’t take a second to bell them through once they’ve gone.”

“I hope to one day live my life with the lackadaisical grace that you live yours,” Gordon said pointedly. 

The signalman took no notice. “Besides, this train, I have to see up close.”

“It’s only Samarkand,” Gordon harrumphed. “Wait until I go in for overhaul and you’ll be seeing her on the express somewhat frequently.” 

The signalman turned and raised an eyebrow in Gordon’s direction. He said nothing, but Gordon felt like he was missing something deeply important. “What? What is it?”

There was a distant whistle, and his confusion turned to annoyance. “That’s not the boat train, you buffoon! That’s Edward! What kind of a signalman are you?”

The signalman didn’t say anything, and pulled a small camera out of his pocket. 

Edward’s whistle sounded again less than two minutes later, presumably for the distant signal, and it took Gordon several all-too-short seconds to realize that any train stopping at Wellsworth wouldn’t have been able to go from Maron to the Wellsworth distant in that short of a time.

“No…” 

From behind him, deep in the yard, there was a tidal wave of swearing as BoCo did the same math and came to the same conclusion. 

Edward’s whistle sounded a third time, for the foot crossing near the station, and then the train was hurtling past. Edward was red in the face and working hard enough to turn his smoke sooty black, but his wheels were turning so fast that his con-rods were a blur. The coaches stretched behind him, seeming impossibly large against his small tender. The train streaked through the station at lightning speed, and roared away towards Crosby with all the noise and circumstance of a proper express. 

Dead silence fell over the station as the lamps of the train receded around the corner. Gordon and BoCo were in shock. The passengers waiting for the next train (most of whom knew Edward personally) were clutching their pearls, their chests, their heads, each other, or the nearest lamp post. The stationmaster had been in the middle of a phone call, and the handset fell from his limp grasp, dangling on the cord. In the signal box, the signalman had clearly not been expecting Edward to be going that fast, and was a little rattled by it; he tried to throw open the door to the box, and the handle came off in his hand as he did. In the deafening silence, Gordon had a thought. I think that Caerphilly should really be studying what the time trials are doing to us, rather than what we are actually accomplishing.

-----------------------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH DELTA    | 1:03 | 34:01 |  90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR     | 1:01 | 36:12 |  86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL  | 1:01 | 36:42 |  86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH  MARINA   | 1:06 | 37:11 |  85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY    | 1:05 | 38:00 |  83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO     | 1:02 | 36:22 |  86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH  EDWARD   | 1:05 | 38:55 |  80.52 MPH | 100.00 MPH JAMES    | 2:17 | 40:09 |  78.60 MPH |  97.29 MPH

----------- 

The Next Day

The noise that had started when Edward backed into the shed that evening didn’t stop until the morning, and everyone was slightly bleary come sunrise. As such, nobody really paid attention to the engines rostered on Barrow-bound trains until almost noon, when Henry (who had taken the morning boat train to Kirk Ronan) returned with empty fish vans from the Flying Kipper. 

“Well if it’s not you,” he said to a perplexed Gordon. “And if Caerphilly just left, who is it?”

----

“Lassie, I don’t know who you are, but I know that you definitely don’t belong here,” Bloomer said slowly, trying and failing to comprehend what was going on. 

The crowd of men in “CROVAN’S GATE TMD” jumpsuits on the platform glared at him. “Would you shush?” the foreman asked, before turning back to the thick bundle of cables connecting the engine to the first coach. “This is a perfectly legitimate maintenance procedure! We have to have a shakedown run.”

“On a train with passengers? While she’s hooked up to a load of AA batteries like a child’s toy?” 

“It’s not batteries!” The men snapped as one. 

“Well then what is it then? Magic? Because that’s an electric locomotive, and you’ve got no wires!” Bloomer scoffed. 

“Actually, it’s a diesel generator,” the electric engine said. Her name was Abbey, and she was looking around the mainland terminal like she’d never been there before. It was entirely possible she hadn’t been. “They’re very excited to see if this could work long term.” 

“Lassie,” Bloomer said slowly. “No disrespect, but I think an electric motor hooked up to a diesel generator has already been invented. They call it the diesel locomotive.”

Abbey laughed. “I know, but wouldn’t you agree to something daft if it meant getting the chance to do something incredible?”

“To be honest with ya, the last time I agreed to anything daft I got locked in a shed for what felt like a hundred years, so no.”

She laughed again, and kept lightly needling Bloomer over his lack of an “adventurer’s spirit” until the men declared her fit to move. The generator, which had been mounted inside an old baggage car, clattered to life, and Bloomer watched with no small amount of amazement as an electric train moved (not at all) silently out of the yard.

--

At Kirk Ronan, a few passengers boarding the train seemed to understand what was missing from their train, and the departure was delayed a few minutes as they got photos of Abbey with no wires above her, the diesel engine shoehorned into the baggage coach, or the thick bundles of wires that were attached to Abbey’s pantograph. 

Simon, one of the engines who worked the Kirk Ronan branch, looked on with bemusement. “I can’t blame them. That is the strangest looking diesel I have ever seen.”

----

At Killdane, James was stopped at the platforms with a passenger train, and tried to figure out why all the electric engines were lined up on electrified platforms. 

“You’ll see,” Dane, one of the electrics, said in a suspiciously calm tone. “Just wait until Abbey gets here.”

That had been several minutes ago, and James was now thoroughly worried about what was going to happen when Abbey got there. 

A horn sounded in the distance, and James was promptly deafened by all the engines honking theirs loudly in response. Worse yet, they didn’t stop honking, so he couldn’t ask them what in blazes they were doing. 

Then, a train appeared in the distance. It got bigger very quickly, and James suddenly had an out-of-body experience as he watched an electric engine zip past on the wrong side of the station from the electric line! 

------

Caerphilly was at Maron when the lights of the boat train appeared over the curve of the next hill. The engine honked gaily at her as it passed with a woosh and a roar, and then the train vanished over the crest of Gordon’s hill. 

“... Did I just get passed by an electric train??!”

-------

At Crosby station, Gordon was waiting for parcels to be unloaded from the mail train. He was distracted by the stationmaster asking him a question, and so only paid partial attention to the boat train passing by with a cheerful “Hi Gordon!” 

“Yes, hello Ab-bb-ab-Abbey…?” Gordon trailed to a stop mid-word as his mind caught up with what he’d just seen. 

-------

Sam and Marina were chatting idly at the docks as the boat train rolled in. Both engines trailed off to a stop and looked at Abbey as she pulled up next to the P&O terminal. 

“So, what you were saying about us being made… more?” Sam said slowly. “I get it now.”

“And this island does grant immortality.” Marina blinked quickly. “We’ve all drunk from the fountain of youth…”

--------

Later that evening, Abbey was at the big station being connected to a short goods train bound for the works. The trucks had no idea what was going on, and were too scared to cause trouble. Across the station, the Fat Controller exited his office. He made it about halfway down the platform before doing first a double, then a triple-take at the sight of an electric engine under the station canopy. He turned, as if to walk over and investigate the matter, made it about ten steps in that direction, and then seemingly thought better of it, and turned back the way he’d come. 

----------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH ABBEY??  | 0:59 | 30:59 | 102.98 MPH | 111.68 MPH DELTA    | 1:03 | 34:01 |  90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR     | 1:01 | 36:12 |  86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL  | 1:01 | 36:42 |  86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH  MARINA   | 1:06 | 37:11 |  85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY    | 1:05 | 38:00 |  83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO     | 1:02 | 36:22 |  86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH  EDWARD   | 1:05 | 38:55 |  80.52 MPH | 100.00 MPH JAMES    | 2:17 | 40:09 |  78.60 MPH |  97.29 MPH

----------------

The next day… again

Finally the weekend came, and it was Sam’s turn on the boat train. Gordon and Caerphilly were optimistic, and spent most of the night before giving her pointers on various parts of the route. Sam started out as somewhat “normal” about the whole affair, but as the time got closer, she started to feel a tickle of anxiety down in the bottom of her boiler. 

Henry, of all engines, was the one to offer reassurances, and the two engines spent quite a while in Barrow yard talking amongst themselves. At the end of it, Sam was feeling rather upbeat and optimistic. 

On the flip side of this, Siobhan and Wilma were experiencing the dual sensations of “looming dread” and “deep regret.” They had assumed that, as Cargo Ops crew, they wouldn’t be anywhere near the speed trial runs; however, after several main line crew members called in sick (For once it was legitimate - there was a rather virulent strain of Norovirus running through Barrow at the moment) the crew assigned for Sam’s time trial were Rupert and Clancy. Once Sam found that out, she refused to go anywhere, and Will and Siobhan were rousted from the crew rest area with minimal explanation and less preparation. 

“How fast does she wanna go?” Will asked hesitantly, as the train rolled out of Barrow. 

“Well,” Siobhan muttered, looking down Sam’s long boiler towards the tracks ahead. “Passenger trains are allowed up to 110 on most of the line, sooooo…”

Will took a moment to be absolutely stunned, before she quickly crossed herself and resumed shoveling. “Father, son, holy spirit, what the fuck am I doing?!” 

---------

The train got off to a good start out of Kirk Ronan, and made excellent time to the junction at Kellsthorpe Road. A lot of the time trial trains had to wait here for cross traffic to clear, but fortunately for Sam (and unfortunately for Will and Siobhan) there was a green signal all the way to the down fast line, and Sam sprinted up the line with a 50 mile an hour running start. 

Will was stoking the fire constantly, pouring every last ounce of skill into feeding Sam’s fiery heart as the floor of the cab rocked underneath her. It was much smoother than she’d expected, the floor acting more like a ship rocking in the swells than the bucking bronco she’d been dreading. 

“This is a lot more normal,” she shouted across the cab to Siobhan as she took a break to check the water glasses. The cab may have been steady, but the wind was at near hurricane strength, and both women were wearing protective earplugs. “I was expecting worse. How fast’re we going?”

Siobhan didn’t bother responding, and instead pointed towards something on her side of the cab. Will made her way across, and found Siobhan’s gloved hand pointing at the digital speedometer tucked into a nest of pipes and wiring. 

What Will said next was lost in the roar of the wind as the train neared Killdane station, but the speedometer was clear: The train was doing 109 miles an hour on an uphill grade. 

-------

Once again, James was at the Killdane platforms as the boat train drew near. This time, he was with the Limited on the up fast line, and the engine on the boat train was mercifully a steam engine, not some bizarre electric. 

He blew his whistle in support as Samarkand drew closer, and was rewarded for this with a gale-force wind that buffeted him from seemingly all directions. Rocks and dirt thrown up by the train’s passage bounced off of him, scoring and marking his shiny red paint. On the platform, several passengers dove to the ground as Sam’s passage caused the concrete platforms to vibrate like a distant earthquake. Loose paper and rubbish swirled around the platforms like a tornado. 

Then, as suddenly as she’d arrived, Sam was gone, whistling into the distance. James and his passengers tried to adjust to the sudden quiet. 

They did not succeed.

-----

Gordon and Caerphilly had felt quite clever in timing their stopping services to meet at Cronk. 

“It is her turn today, isn’t it?” Gordon murmured. “And we won’t be witnessing Ivor the engine, or Skarloey, or something else equally improbable?” 

“Oh hush!” Caerphilly grinned. “I can hear her coming.”

They could hear her whistle sound, a long, delirious shout of joy as the train cleared Killdane. Gordon raised an eyebrow - he knew what an engine needed to be going through in order to produce that sound. 

“You’ll need to be quick if you wish to inspect her technique,” he said sagely. “She’s moving quickly.”

Caerphilly was facing the other direction, towards Killdane, and whistled softly. “You’re right. Bloody Nora, she’s coming on quick!” 

Before either of them could say anything else, the helicopter-like sound of a steam engine at full chat drowned out all other sound. Sam and the boat train screamed around the corner from Killdane in a flurry of noise, dust, and steam. Her whistle sounded again, shrill and barely coherent, as she saw the two of them. 

As the train passed, Gordon had the experience of being buzzed by a low-flying airliner; Caerphilly felt like she’d been hit by a bomb, complete with the dust and debris. 

The train was gone into the distance before either of them could speak again, and they stared slightly agog at the cloud it left in its wake. 

“Now,” Caerphilly said slowly, spitting dust and rocks as she spoke. “I know that this isn’t a competition, or at least we didn’t mean it as one, but… we are going to have to step up our game if we want to beat that.”

Gordon had to agree. 

-----

This time, the Wellsworth signalman was in his box when the train thundered through, but Will peered out of the cab window just long enough to see the man staring slack-jawed at the train as it whipped through the station at triple-digit speeds, a half-eaten sandwich falling from his mouth. 

-----

The train slowed slightly as it passed Crosby station. Knapford wasn’t far off, and after that was the restricting signals to let them into the dock. Its speed was now merely fast instead of the relativistic velocities it had been achieving earlier in the run. 

“Oi!” Will called across the cab. Now that the speed was firmly in the high double digits, speech was intelligible again. “We need water! I’m dropping the scoop!” 

“Now?” Siobhan called back. “We’re almost there!”

“We won’t get there unless we fill the tender! I don’t wanna get caught short!” Will was insistent, and dropped the scoop regardless of what Siobhan really wanted. 

---

On the slow line, Percy was making his way up the line towards Crosby with a short train of vans for the goods platform. He saw Samarkand - that new goods engine, who was absolutely gargantuan - racing towards him. Oh great, just what we need. Another big engine who wants to be some big important passenger engine because of course she fuc- wait what’s that. 

That was a plume of water appearing from underneath the big engine’s tender. 

Percy had just enough time to realize that he was puffing over the Crosby water troughs before: 

SPLASH “Acksbughifhsithtjighngthhtgtbbbthblughsaaachkkk!”

---------------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA  | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH ABBEY??   | 0:59 | 30:59 | 102.98 MPH | 111.68 MPH SAMARKAND | 0:59 | 33:11 |  95.61 MPH | 110.09 MPH DELTA     | 1:03 | 34:01 |  90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR      | 1:01 | 36:12 |  86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL   | 1:01 | 36:42 |  86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH  MARINA    | 1:06 | 37:11 |  85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY     | 1:05 | 38:00 |  83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO      | 1:02 | 36:22 |  86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH  EDWARD    | 1:05 | 38:55 |  80.52 MPH | 100.00 MPH JAMES     | 2:17 | 40:09 |  78.60 MPH |  97.29 MPH

----------------------

The next day - for the penultimate time.

Considering the lunatic heights this time trial had reached, everyone else was thrilled that Caerphilly was finally on the boat train. Among other things, it meant that the trials were almost at an end, but more importantly, it meant that the “big ones” were finally going up against the clock. 

The main line crews, who were scandalized to have been so so thoroughly trounced by Sam, Will, Siobhan, and by extension the rest of Cargo Ops, had fought amongst each other for the “honor” of manning Caerphilly’s footplate. The big engine thought it bemusing that they were so eager, and couldn’t quite keep a straight face when the two men (not Clancy and Rupert) who eventually emerged from the station bore scrapes, cuts, and a very noticeable black eye. 

“I didn’t think you actually meant fisticuffs!” she squeaked, trying to keep the cackling at bay. 

On the next platform, Siobhan was on James’ footplate with a van train, and didn’t even look up. “Ah tell ya,” she said to James. “Cargo Ops was the smartest fuckin’ decision Ah have made in years. Certainly is smarter than bashing someone’s face in to get a good driving spot on the express.”

“Didn’t you take the express last week? With Caerphilly?” James asked as Caerphilly’s crew scowled at her and then each other before sullenly clambering into the cab. 

“Like ah said.” Siobhan oozed smugness at near-Gordon levels. “Smartest thing ah have done in years.”

------

Despite a small, petty voice in the back of her mind suggesting that she should slow down the train to upset her crew, Caerphilly found the prospect of letting herself fly down the line to be exhilarating, and was straining against her own brakes as the passengers boarded in Kirk Ronan. 

“Easy there,” the driver said as the guard waved his flag. “We’ve got to wait for the signal!” 

“You’ll have to keep an eye on her,” the fireman said, attempting to sound knowledgeable. “She’s liable to run away from you.”

The driver nodded in agreement, and got a firm hold on the controls as the signal - a GNR style model that “somersaulted” to vertical - flipped upwards to a clear aspect. He was ready for whatever this engine could throw at him. 

Caerphilly proceeded to rip the throttle and reverser out of his hands anyways, and set off with a flurry of wheelslip and black smoke. 

Gwen, the small tank engine who worked in the Kirk Ronan dockyard, watched the train leave. “Those idiots have no idea what they’re up against, do they?” she said to herself as Caerphilly’s driver tried and mostly failed to reign in his engine. 

-------

Donald and Douglas were working on a slow goods train to the mainland. It wasn’t the pick up goods, but it still made a few stops between Arlesburgh and Barrow, one of which was Killdane. Douglas was working in the yard, collecting a line of aluminum trucks while Donald worked the motorail terminal.  Located a few hundred feet away from the station itself, the motorail terminal served the Sodor Motorail passenger services, as well as goods trains that dropped off shipments of new cars bound for dealers and customers across the island. 

The main line was elevated above the electric line and the yard on an embankment, and so Douglas didn’t see the boat train pass so much as he heard it - a shrill whistle sounding, followed by the deafening roar of a steam engine at full throttle, and then the coaches whooshing by. He paid it little mind, and once he’d collected the trucks he needed, he puffed up the embankment to the motorail terminal. 

“Ach, for land’s sake! Wha’s happened ‘ere!” he gasped. 

Donald’s tender was laying astride the rails, the cartic wagon behind him bent almost completely in half. Scattered around him were a half dozen Ford sedans, upside down or sideways, smashed half flat. As an explanation, Donald yelled something in Scots that was almost untranslatable to English. Roughly paraphrased, he said: “That stupid great cruise missile scared the living bejesus out of me!” 

---------

Caerphilly flew down the line, at speeds she was not properly able to comprehend. The experience of it though, that was something she understood just fine. Her motion was fluid, the individual cranks and rods whirring away at speeds faster than they had ever been designed for. The feeling of it was indescribable, and she found herself hoping against hope that every signal would be green from here to eternity - so that she could keep going on like this forever. 

Inside the cab, her crew were having a very different experience. The cab was noisy, bouncy, loud, and hotter than some furnaces. The draft from the firebox was so great that opening the firebox door would suck the coal off the shovel, and threatened to take the shovel with it. By the time they cleared Cronk station, the fireman had developed blisters on his hands from holding it tightly. His gloves were already starting to wear thin. At one point the firebox door stuck open, and the driver watched in morbid fascination as a loose lump of coal bounced out of the tender, onto the footplate, and was promptly sucked across the cab and into the inferno. Both men were sweating through their clothes, but they worried that removing them would only end with the garments being unintentionally fed into Caerphilly’s ravenous fire. 

Whistling for the Maron signal box was perhaps the greatest indication of the dichotomy between engine and crew. The driver pulled the whistle lever for a short blast - just long enough to acknowledge their presence. Caerphilly held the whistle open until they stormed over the crest of the hill. The sound was jubilant, triumphant, ecstatic - a sign that the engine was experiencing the closest thing to heaven one could on the mortal plane. 

To the crew, the sound of the whistle was a demonic howl that clawed away at their waning sanity. As the train crested the hill they went light in their boots, and for a moment both men would have sworn that the sound was not that of an engine, but that of Satan’s chariot. 

In a macabre bit of efficiency, her heaven was their hell. Both were ongoing as the train raced towards Wellsworth. 

--------

By this stage, BoCo was ready and willing to accept anything occurring when the boat train went through Wellsworth. Even still, it was somewhat embarrassing to see the signalman make a fool of himself yet again. This time, the daft idiot had fallen prey to the smell of freshly baked apple turnovers in the station cafe, and was trying to wave off a curious bee that was trying to inspect the man’s sticky, sugar-coated fingers. 

With a cry of frustration (or perhaps fear, maybe the man didn’t like bees), the bee was swatted from the air just as Caerphilly’s whistle shrieked for the crossing outside the station. The signalman hurried into the box, and would have managed to actually be in position for when the train passed by if he hadn’t caught his shirt tail on the edge of the lever frame. With a ripping sound and a thump, the shirt gave way and the man fell to the floor, just in time for the Boat Train to hurtle through at near-relativistic speeds. 

After the train had passed, BoCo had to bite back a bark of laughter as the now shirtless man peeled himself off the floor and belled the train through to the next signal box. 

-------

At Knapford, a very bored Thomas was attempting to needle Gordon in an attempt to amuse himself. “And so Percy smelled like the water trough the rest of the day, which I must say isn’t quite as bad as ditch water, but…”

He trailed off when Gordon failed to respond. The big engine wasn’t even paying attention, instead staring down the line towards the next station, and Thomas scowled at the perceived slight. He began thinking of something that might get under Gordon’s paintwork when a whistle sounded in the distance. 

In just a second, Caerphilly Castle thundered out of the tunnel that led to Crosby, wreathed in an angelic cloud of smoke and steam. Smiling broadly, she whistled long and loud as the train raced through the station and disappeared from sight. 

Thomas’ eye glinted at the sudden opportunity, and he whistled softly. “Wow, I can see why the Fat Controller chose her to be the new Express.”

Gordon didn’t respond, but in a way that made Thomas hopeful of a reaction. 

Finally, after a few seconds: “Indeed. There is only one other engine on this island I would choose to be my successor.” Gordon was calm and collected, and once the guard’s whistle blew, he steamed away in a regal cloud of steam. 

A bewildered Thomas watched him go. 

------------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA   | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH CAERPHILLY | 1:00 | 32:71 |  97.22 MPH | 115.16 MPH ABBEY??    | 0:59 | 30:59 | 102.98 MPH | 111.68 MPH SAMARKAND  | 0:59 | 33:11 |  95.61 MPH | 110.09 MPH DELTA      | 1:03 | 34:01 |  90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR       | 1:01 | 36:12 |  86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL    | 1:01 | 36:42 |  86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH  MARINA     | 1:06 | 37:11 |  85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY      | 1:05 | 38:00 |  83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO       | 1:02 | 36:22 |  86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH  EDWARD     | 1:05 | 38:55 |  80.52 MPH | 100.00 MPH JAMES      | 2:17 | 40:09 |  78.60 MPH |  97.29 MPH

----------

The next day - for the last time 

The morning brought an overcast gloom that worsened as the day went on. By the time Gordon backed down on the coaches at Barrow yard, stationmaster Burton was carrying around an umbrella. He strode down to the train, skillfully avoiding the damp patches of earth that threatened to soil his wingtip shoes, and handed a document up to Gordon’s driver. 

“Heads up, you two,” the driver said after donning his reading glasses. “There’s a change in schedule. We’re leaving 20 minutes early from Kirk Ronan.”

“Twenty minutes early?” Gordon was befuddled. “What on earth could they have done that for?”

“Track work on the main line, it looks like. They want to get us and the Express through before they close off anything.”

Gordon grumbled something about the passengers complaining, but said nothing else. Meanwhile, the driver turned to the fireman. “Any complaints from you, Rupert?” 

Rupert, still sporting a bruised cheek from yesterday, tried and failed to look imperious. “Not at all, Daniel.”

Daniel (please, his friends call him Dan) rolled his eyes. “Are we going to have a problem with anything else?” 

“I don’t see why we should,” Rupert scoffed. “After all, it wasn’t you who put Clancy in hos-”

“We’re not going to talk about that during work hours, alright?” Dan cut him off. “I believe the Fat Controller said much more to you lot yesterday.” 

Gordon heard all of this and rolled his eyes. I wonder if those funny automated trains on the Docklands Light Railway are interested in giving lessons on driving oneself…

----

The rain started about an hour later, as the train stood at Kirk Ronan. Inside the cab, Rupert and Dan looked upwards with dismay. “Just our luck,” Daniel muttered. “Wet rails and slick running in the middle of a damned time trial.”

Rupert snorted dismissively. 

“What? What’s that noise supposed to mean?”

“I suppose it means that you should use the skills you supposedly have, then?” Rupert sniffed. “Two children in a freight engine beat three quarters of the damned railway down the Killdane straight on dry rails, so two men of our calibre should be able to achieve the same in these conditions just fine.”

Dan glared. “I feel like discounting Siobhan like that is really a-”

“Children in a freight engine.” Rupert said with a serious look in his eye. “Nothing more. We are gods compared to them.”

“Your speeches leave much to be desired, fireman.” Gordon rumbled. “If any of us is a god, it would be me, so perhaps you should allow someone else to take charge of this endeavour.” 

He waited a beat, just long enough for Rupert’s face to twist into an ugly scowl. “Unless you would like to inform both Daniel and myself that you happen to have over one hundred and seven years of experience working on express passenger trains, at which point we will happily cede control to you.”

To his credit, Rupert took the tongue lashing like a man, and didn’t throw a tantrum, but he also didn’t say a word for the rest of the time they spent in the station. 

Dan managed to keep his petty smile hidden throughout this time, although he gave Gordon’s throttle lever an affectionate pat when Rupert’s back was turned. 

-------

Like Caerphilly and Sam’s runs, the signal at the main line junction was clear, the four-aspect colour-light model going from two yellows to a single green as they approached it. The AWS gave a cheerful all-clear chime and Dan opened the throttle fully. Given free reign, Gordon responded with a will, charging forwards towards the down fast line. 

Before they’d even cleared the signal, still moving at a relatively slow pace, there was a shrill whistle from Kellsthorpe Road station, and Caerphilly streaked out of the rain-slicked gloom with the midday express. The train was already at a fast clip, and it roared past, running opposite-main on the up fast line. 

Gordon’s wheels spun for a moment as the last coaches of the express streaked by, before digging in. Like a greyhound out of the gate, Gordon powered forward, each turn of his 7-foot drivers adding speed at a fantastic rate. 

Despite the reduced visibility from the rain, the tail lamp of the express never faded away. Gordon was quickly catching up to the train, reaching over one hundred miles an hour within minutes of entering the main line. 

Caerphilly wasn’t lazing around, and the express coaches passed by slowly as Gordon’s acceleration began to trail off. The speedometer needle was practically dancing around in its housing, but Dan could just make out an indicated one hundred ten on the dial as the two trains leaned into the curve that marked the ⅜ point of the Kellsthorpe-Killdane section of the main line. 

Gordon was just about level with Caerphilly’s tender, and sounded a long blast of his whistle. Caerphilly’s drivers spun frantically for a half-second, while her crew almost jumped out of their skin at the noise. 

“Funny running into you here!” Gordon shouted. “Lovely weather we’re having!”

“What are you doing?!” Caerphilly yelped. “You’re not due for another 20 minutes!” 

“Perhaps I’m just that much faster than everyone else!” Gordon was full of mirth, and was only now starting to show that he was getting winded. 

“Including me?” Caerphilly was momentarily the picture of innocence. 

“Especially you!” Gordon was still accelerating, and was a few buffer-lengths ahead at this point. The speedometer needle was bouncing so much that Dan couldn’t read it. 

“Well then!” The innocence turned into a strange combination of sincerity and deviousness. “Let’s see how fast you can go!” 

Caerphilly whistled, long and loud, and began pulling ahead of Gordon, inch by inch.

Gordon responded with a burst of acceleration that would have made Nigel Gresley faint. 

“Oh god!” Rupert shouted over the wind and the noise from two sets of valve gear whirring away. “She’s goading him on!” 

------

The rain was an intense downpour across most of the island, and many passengers had retreated inside station waiting rooms. The rain had also delayed the planned track work, with many of the P-way gang retreating inside their warm vans and Land Rovers to wait out the storm. 

This meant that very few people were on the platforms at Killdane, Cronk, and Maron stations as the two trains roared by with the intensity of a hurricane. Some even mistook the noise as a thunderstorm. At Cronk station, a group of tourists from the American midwest made a spectacle of themselves as they started yelling about there being a tornado. 

-----

Possibly the best view of the two trains was the signalman at Maron. Sitting in his small brick signal box near the top of Gordon’s hill, he saw both trains emerge from the rain like spectres. They screamed towards him, trailing clouds of smoke and mist that stretched for hundreds of feet. His box’s territory was small - literally Maron station and nothing else - so by the time he’d sent the bells acknowledging that the trains were in section, he had to bell them out just as quickly. 

For once, the layabout running the Wellsworth box was on the ball and in his box, and the bells chimed with his acceptance of two down-bound fast trains into his section. 

The lamps of the express rocked and rolled over the hill, and then both trains were gone. 

The signalman wanted to ruminate on the sight he’d just witnessed, but the railway waits for no-one, and within seconds of him logging the two trains’ passage, the Cronk signalman was ringing him. Slow goods train, down-bound. 

He rang the bell to accept it. The railway kept on running, even as the express and the boat train remained fresh in his memory. 

---------------

Gordon and Caerphilly were having the times of their lives as the two trains screamed down the hill towards Wellsworth. 

“Feeling tired yet, old iron?” Caerphilly teased. 

“Tired? Never!” Gordon declared with some bombastic flair. “This is the standard pace for all express engines. Or did you not know that?” 

Caerphilly’s response was an enthusiastic whistle as the two trains passed the Wellsworth distant signals at speed. “This pace is perfect for me!” 

At the speeds they were going, a mile was flying by every 35-40 seconds, and a single casual tease could fill a signal block. Gordon opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat as the sudden feeling of something being very wrong filled him. 

“What? What’s the matter?” Caerphilly saw his face fall, and the teasing stopped in its tracks. 

“Something’s wrong-” Gordon started, before all the breath left him. 

-

The two trains were rounding the corner separating the hill and Wellsworth station. Time seemed to slow down, and Gordon could see multiple things happening in slow motion. 

First, he saw Edward at the platforms, colour draining from the old engine’s face. 

Next, he saw the Wellsworth home signal, located in the center of the platforms, dropping to red. 

Then, he heard the AWS alarm start to scream a signal warning. 

In the corner of his vision, he saw the Wellsworth signalman staring out of the windows of the signal box in abject horror. 

And finally, he saw BoCo, slowly pulling onto the down fast line with the midday Suddery-Tidmouth service. 

-

Time stopped, and became meaningless as Gordon, Dan, and the AWS all acted on their base instincts at the same time. The train brakes came on hard, and Gordon threw every ounce of steam he had into his pistons. The reverser - a massive steel screw that had to be turned a dozen times to change from forward to reverse - spun wildly in the opposite direction before Dan could even reach for it. It slammed into the stops in full reverse, and Gordon’s wheels began to spin wildly in the other direction, even as momentum and the wet rails continued to push him forwards, towards the rear coach of the train. The train screeched through the station, past the signals, and Dan heaved on the whistle, letting Gordon’s yell of terror be broadcast for thousands of feet. 

BoCo had no idea that anything was wrong until shouting and yelling broke out behind him. His driver began to advance the throttle slowly. Then, in a matter of seconds, Edward bellowed “RUN BOCO!” at the top of his voice, the coaches started screaming, and Caerphilly rocketed by with a shriek of “What are you doing!?!.  

The throttle was ripped from his driver’s hand and slammed into the forward stop, exhaust poured from his vents, and the train lurched forwards just as Gordon’s whistle began blowing behind them with all the urgency of the horns that heralded the apocalypse. 

Inside Gordon’s cab, there was a sudden shout of “save yourself!” as the speed dropped below forty miles an hour, and Dan turned to see Rupert fling himself out of the cab like a professional gymnast. He managed to clear the rails of the slow line, but landed hard and tumbled to a stop in a puddle, at least one arm pointing the wrong way. Dan didn’t have time to be shocked, and instead braced himself as best he could, holding on for dear life. 

Gordon shut his eyes. 

BoCo willed himself to go faster. 

The sounds of screeching metal got louder and louder. 

And then everything stopped. 

---

Gordon couldn’t hear anything but his own heaving breaths, and he opened one eye to see that he’d come to a stop on top of a level crossing some three thousand feet beyond the platforms at Wellsworth. BoCo’s train was racing away into the distance, and further beyond was the glinting lamps of Caerphilly’s express. 

Behind him, the coaches were babbling incoherently to each other, which presumably meant they were okay. 

“Daniel, Rupert? Are you all right?” 

“I’m fine, but Rupert jumped!” Dan was already clambering down the ladder. “He’s… oooh that’s not good. Stay right here!” he sprinted off down the line to check on the fallen fireman. 

“Are you alright?” a small, shaking voice said next to him. “What happened? That was so close…”

Gordon looked, and there at the gates was Bertie the bus, shaking on his suspension like a leaf. 

“I…” Gordon had to stop and think about the questions. “I don’t know.”

----------------

Later 

Gordon was shunted into the engine shed at Wellsworth for examination. A few hours later, a very pale BoCo joined him. 

“I’m telling you,” the diesel said in shaky tones. “The signal was green. It wasn’t even a semaphore - they replaced it last month. It was a colour light and it was green.”

“I believe you,” Gordon said quietly. “But the distant was up, and the AWS did not sound a warning.”

BoCo looked at him. “Then how did this happen?”

“I don’t know…” Gordon didn’t like how haunted he sounded. 

-----

A few hours after that, the Fat Controller came to see them, followed by a number of men in windbreakers and polo shirts marked with “HMRI” and “HSE”. They examined Gordon and BoCo closely, took a great many notes, asked a few questions, and took the AWS boxes from both engines. Occasionally a man from the railway would come in, escorted by one of the HMRI men, and examine something, or offer an opinion. It took several hours for them to be satisfied, and it was nearly midnight by the time the last of them left. 

The Fat Controller had stayed during the entire time, sitting quietly on a chair in the corner. Once the last polo-shirted man had departed, the Fat Controller stood up and faced the two engines.  

“Sir,” Gordon said immediately, all thoughts of propriety forgotten. “What happened?”

The Fat Controller looked exhausted. “We don’t have the specifics yet, but it appears that at some point after your train cleared the AWS magnet for the distant signal, the signalman was somehow able to change the points and signals, and allow BoCo access to the main line.” He took a deep breath, and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Whether this was due to incompetence, malfunction, mistake, or… malice, we don’t know. We likely won’t know for some time, maybe months, or even a year.”

BoCo made a noise. “I can’t… I mean, this is - I should have-”

“Absolutely not.” The Fat Controller thundered. “We may not know what did occur, but we certainly do know what did not, and that was any rule-breaking on either of your parts. The blame is entirely on the signaling system, and by extension, the railway.”

“Sir-” BoCo and Gordon both tried to say something, but the Fat Controller held up his hand. 

“No. Even if this was an act of pure malice on the part of the signalman, it should have been impossible for him to do so. Something failed today, whether it was our training regimen, a safety interlock, or some other thing, and we will find out what it was so it can never happen again.”

BoCo was cowed into silence, but Gordon still had one question. “Was… was anyone hurt, sir?”

The Fat Controller exhaled deeply, and relaxed his posture slightly. “Only a few passengers who happened to be standing up at the time. They mostly had cuts and bruises. One man has a concussion from falling down. The only substantial injuries were to your crew, Gordon; Rupert, your fireman, took quite a nasty fall when he jumped from the footplate. He’s in hospital in serious condition, but the doctors say he should make a full recovery by winter.”

“Very good, sir,” Gordon couldn’t help but feel guilty. 

“However, Gordon,” The Fat Controller kept going. “The most injured party in this whole affair… is you.”

“Me?” Gordon was shocked. He did hurt all over, but he had assumed it was normal wear and stress, not an actual injury…

“Oh yes,” The Fat Controller was serious. “I might not be the mechanical engineer my grandfather was, but even a lay person would agree that your connecting rods are not supposed to look like that.”

“My connecting rods..?” Gordon was suddenly very aware that maybe he wasn’t supposed to feel the way he was. 

“Oh yes,” The Fat Controller continued. “Not to mention the flat spots on every wheel you have, the damage to both your cylinders, and your motion - on both sides, may I add. I could go on, but I will summarize: You are going to the works in the morning, and your overhaul is starting early.”

“S-sir?”

“It makes no sense to fix all this for a few months of service before your boiler ticket expires.” The Fat Controller was becoming slightly more animated, walking back and forth, trying to stretch out his legs after the long sit in the chair. 

“O-of course, sir.” Gordon felt slightly overwhelmed. Not only did all of… this happen, but he was supposedly free of blame, and getting overhauled immediately? 

“I know that this may be a lot to deal with all at once, Gordon, but you prevented a ghastly accident from occurring.” The Fat Controller at once became still, and looked the big engine in the eyes. “People likely would have died if not for your quick action. This is the least that we can do for you.” 

“Yes sir,” Gordon said quietly, a lump forming in his throat. “Of course sir. Thank you, sir.”

The Fat Controller made his way to the door. “I have to leave you both now. Have a pleasant night.”

“You as well, sir.” BoCo and Gordon chorused out of habit as the door shut behind him.

The Fat Controller’s footsteps made it a few feet away, before stopping and returning to the building. “Ah yes, one other thing.” He said through the re-opened door. “I must congratulate you, Gordon.” 

“Sir? On what?” 

There was the barest hint of a smile on the Fat Controller’s lips. “Well, you obviously did not complete your time trial, but we were able to analyze the raw speed data.” A pause followed, with a small amount of glee coloring his face. “Aside from Pip and Emma, you remain the fastest engine on this Island. Well done.”

----------------------

ENGINE | TOTAL TIME | TIMED PORTION | AVG. SPEED | MAX SPEED ▼ PIP/EMMA   | 0:56 | 29:31 | 107.17 MPH | 127.23 MPH GORDON     | DNF  |  DNF  |     DNF    | 121.63 MPH  CAERPHILLY | 1:00 | 32:71 |  97.22 MPH | 115.16 MPH ABBEY??    | 0:59 | 30:59 | 102.98 MPH | 111.68 MPH SAMARKAND  | 0:59 | 33:11 |  95.61 MPH | 110.09 MPH DELTA      | 1:03 | 34:01 |  90.22 MPH | 107.85 MPH BEAR       | 1:01 | 36:12 |  86.74 MPH | 104.36 MPH WENDELL    | 1:01 | 36:42 |  86.11 MPH | 102.04 MPH  MARINA     | 1:06 | 37:11 |  85.00 MPH | 101.73 MPH HENRY      | 1:05 | 38:00 |  83.01 MPH | 101.34 MPH BOCO       | 1:02 | 36:22 |  86.64 MPH | 100.81 MPH  EDWARD     | 1:05 | 38:55 |  80.52 MPH | 100.00 MPH JAMES      | 2:17 | 40:09 |  78.60 MPH |  97.29 MPH

[joezworld]

Express Engines

New chapter dropping. The soundtrack album for this is gonna be strange.

Part 1: Caerphilly

Gordon and Caerphilly quickly formed an enduring friendship, something that did not go unnoticed by the other engines… 

---

“I don’t like this,” Henry confided in Percy at Knapford Junction. 

“You don’t like anything.” Percy retorted. “Be more specific if you want my sympathies.”

“Gordon and Caerphilly, as if there was anything else going on.”

“Oh please,” Percy rolled his eyes. “They’re smokebox over buffers for each other, simple as.”

“I don’t think he’d know what that phrase means.”

“Oh come on! Don’t be an idiot - he has to be.” Percy scoffed. “Otherwise he’d be scheming ways to shove her into the ocean by now.”

“Yes, but-” Henry tried and failed to find the words he needed. “I don’t think he knows how to feel that way. When would it have come up? And with who? Me? James?” 

“Henry, I’m going to politely ask you to never bring that up again. I don’t need that mental image.” 

Before Henry could say anything else, there was a distant poop poop, and Gordon came loping around the bend with a down-bound stopping train. He rolled to a stop at the far platform, giving Percy’s disgusted expression significant leeway. “Do I even want to know what you two are discussing?” he said at last. 

“Oh, just something James said earlier.” Henry lied quickly. 

“Ah, of course.” Gordon sounded like he was rolling his eyes. “He said much the same to me this morning. Can you imagine the absolute cheek of him, thinking that he would be a viable replacement to myself or Caerphilly on the express workings? It’s almost vulgar.” 

“Oh - oh yes.” Of course James actually would say something like that. “Uh, Gordon, on that subject: how… how is Caerphilly doing on the express runs? Everything up to your standards?” 

“As much as it pains me to admit it,” Gordon’s tone hovered somewhere between boastful and contemplative. “But she’s a credit to Swindon’s craftsmanship. Certainly the best engine for the job… other than myself of course. Certainly better than James, the little imp. He thinks that he’s just the dog’s bollocks, puh! More like the dog’s breakfast…”

Gordon continued muttering about James until the guard’s whistle blew, and he stormed away towards Tidmouth. 

“See?” Percy said as the coaches rolled out of sight.

“See what? Him being the exact same he always is?” Henry wheeshed. “He’d be in a much better mood if that was happening, let me tell you!” 

-------

The express receded into the distance, and Caerphilly huffed in displeasure. “I do hope he’s not trying for any record-breaking today.” 

“Oh?” Edward pounced on the possibility of gossip. “Whyever not? Surely he’d manage it if he wanted to…”

“One of his axleboxes is acting up.” She said, staring at the vanishing cloud of steam. “His driver is an imbecile and so intends to see to it after the day’s work is done. Stupid man…”

“Oh,” Edward wilted slightly. “So… there hasn’t been any record attempts that we don’t know about? No competition to see who’s fastest?” 

“Goodness me, no!” Caerphilly laughed. “He’s worn out!” 

Edward brightened up significantly. 

“What sort of a competition would that be?” Caerphilly continued on obliviously. “I’m fresh from the works and he’s about to go in for a full overhaul. We’d never get a reproducible result with him in this state. Best to wait until next year when he’s back in fighting form.” 

Edward’s face fell, and remained that way until Caerphilly left. 

“You,” BoCo said from the yard, having heard everything. “Are a gossipy old woman and should be ashamed of yourself.”

-----

“Ach, you’re all jus’ stupid.” Donald remarked one night in the sheds. 

Vulgar noises met this. 

“Ach! Let me fuckin’ finish, aye?” He snapped. 

“Well get on with it!” The other engines retorted. 

“Well,” he said, keeping an eye on the yard outside to see if Gordon or Caerphilly were lurking about. “Forgive me for mixing a metaphor here, but Ah think what has happened is that… the Big Yin has found his Yang.”

“The what has found his who?” Multiple engines looked at him with confusion. Only Bear seemed to understand what was going on. 

“Aye, they’re all morons.” Donald whispered to himself. “The Big Yin is - oh forget it, Ah’m no explainin’ that if’n ye don’ already know. What Ah am trying to say here is that he’s found a kindred spirit. Or, puttin’ it a little bit neater - a friend!”

“And what are the rest of us then?” James sniffed. 

“Annoying!” Came several different voices all at once, and James grew deeply offended. 

“I am not!” 

“Jamie…” Delta said gently. “Don’t take this the wrong way… but friends don’t argue for two weeks straight.”

------

Eventually, after several more days of worrying positivity, James decided the best course of action would be to introduce a conflict in order to restore some form of normality. Everyone else thought that was a stupid idea, and told him so, but critically couldn’t stop him from putting his plan into action. 

“You know,” he said one night, trying (and mostly succeeding) to slot his plan into an existing conversation. “I don’t think that we’ve really learned all there is to know about you, Caerphilly.”

“Such as?” The Western engine looked at him funny. She hadn’t exactly been concealing anything about herself. 

“Well, I for one am curious as to what they taught you over on the Great Western.” James said, trying to play innocent. (It wasn’t working but Caerphilly didn’t know him well enough to notice.) “Gordon has all sorts of stories about how the LNER made him “absorb culture” and other dreadful things like that.” 

Caerphilly laughed. “Ah yes, the grand old tradition of the “Cultured Express.” Indeed, we had that on the Western as well. There were so many different things - stageplay, music, great literature - in fact, we even had our own theatrical company in the shed at Old Oak Common. Those were the days…” 

“Really now, theater?” Gordon raised an eyebrow. “Tell me there were at least works of drama.” 

“Oh no,” Caerphilly smirked. “As old Edmund Kean once said, ‘dying is easy, comedy is hard.’” 

“Comedies?” Gordon was in full pomposity now, and James fought to keep down a smile. Around him, the other engines suddenly had a sinking feeling, as though something was about to go dreadfully wrong.

“Oh don’t look at me like that! What was it that they forced down your boiler tubes? Shakespeare and Marlowe? Can you recite Tamburlaine the Great from memory?” To an untrained eye (like James) Caerphilly seemed slightly put out by Gordon’s response. 

With that in mind, James took this moment to strike one final blow. “Oh, he just loves opera!”

Now, in James’ mind, this last word was accompanied by theatrical scare chords; opera was stuffy, boring, and pretentious - perfect for Gordon, and loathed by everyone else.

For the other engines in the shed, scare chords did present themselves, but not at the mention of opera. Instead, the chords accompanied the absolutely delighted look that crossed Caerphilly’s face. “Like Gilbert and Sullivan?” 

“I don’t particularly care for their works, (and I daresay I’d consider them Opera) but I do know of them, why?” 

“Oh, everyone at Old Oak loved their work!” Caerphilly raved. “We must have done Penzance two or three dozen times!”

Gordon’s eyebrow raised. “They put on… Gilbert and Sullivan in your shed?”

“Oh yes! I always tried to play Frederic, but it always ended up going to one of the boys - Pendennis or Raglan. I ended up playing Mabel most of the time.”

Gordon’s eyebrow got even higher. “Frederic is a tenor. Mabel is a soprano.”

“I can do a baritone if I need to!” She sniffed. “I’ve got the steam for it!” 

“Baritone.” 

“This is all very judgmental from someone who probably doesn’t have information vegetable, animal, and mineral.”

Gordon made a face at that, and Henry, Bear, Delta, and Donald could all feel a sinking feeling in their frames. On the other side of Gordon, James’ smile slowly melted from his smokebox. 

“I think,” Gordon said with a tone so slick it could lubricate bearings. “That you will find me the very model of a modern major-general.”

“Oh no”  James whispered. 

“Ah told them…” Douglas said quietly. 

🎶 “I am the very model of a modern Major-General,

I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral, 

I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical

From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical; 🎶

Gordon started slowly, while staring at Caerphilly expectantly. 

🎵 I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,

I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,

About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news, 🎵

Caerphilly picked up exactly where he left off. 

“Lot o’ news…? Ah yes.” Gordon picked up at the pause, and James was suddenly aware that he should have listened to everyone else. 

🎶 🎵 With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.

I'm very good at integral and differential calculus;

I know the scientific names of beings animalculous:

In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-General! 🎵 🎶

They were singing together. 

This kept up for over an hour as the two worked their way through what must have been the entirety of the Pirates of Penzance. 

Then, just when it seemed like salvation was at hand, Samarkand backed into the shed, in high spirits from the day’s work. James and Henry both looked at her plaintively; they hadn’t yet gotten to know her very well, but they hoped that she’d be willing to put a stop to this. 

Delta and Bear had gotten to know the big 9F, and were much less hopeful.

Gordon and Caerphilly were finishing “When the Foeman Bares his Steel,” and she brightened up significantly. “Oh, are we singing? I love HMS Pinafore!” 

There was a very quiet squeak from one of the others - who exactly was unknown. Gordon and Caerphilly looked at each other, and then all three engines started into Pinafore. 

-

Later

Henry backed down onto the Flying Kipper looking like death warmed over. Marina decided not to press, but as she kept shuttling back and forth with the fish vans, she kept hearing something. 

“Are you… humming HMS Pinafore?” she asked at last. 

“NO!” Henry shrieked, and she scuttled away with a wide-eyed look. 

Later still, Salty came by, singing a tune as he moved a string of container cars. “I thought so little, they rewarded me By making me the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!”

Henry’s eye started twitching. 

----------------------------

Part 2: Sam

As freight traffic increased on the main line following the growth of Tidmouth Harbour, more trains were scheduled to cope. In turn, a new division of the company was founded: “NW Cargo Operations,” which handled most main-line goods trains going into the new millennium, ranging from the Flying Kipper to the Pick-Up Goods. It was often hard, dirty work, and many of the established mainline drivers felt that such duties were beneath them, and refused to take these trains unless directly ordered to. As such, many of the drivers who filled the ranks of “Cargo Ops” were younger, either promoted from the branch lines or hired directly for the purpose. (Main line crews rather derisively called the whole lot of them “Childcare Ops,” a nickname that had surprising levels of staying power) 

This was especially true on the steam traction side of things,where the crews were a strange mix of branch line crews who took an “easy” promotion, relatively junior main line crews who had  jumped at the chance to get more throttle time without having to deal with Gordon or the people whose primary career goal was driving Gordon, and rank amateurs who had only just proven that they could be entrusted with a coal shovel. There were shockingly few “adults” on the staff, meaning that more often than not, the most mature person on a given crew was the engine; this was fine for Henry and the Kipper, but James on the pick-up goods was far more common and far less ideal.

It was into this mixed bag of professionalism and skill that Samarkand - Sam or Sammie for short, if she was feeling nice - steamed headlong into. The crews were overjoyed; growing train sizes meant that more and more often they were dealing with an underpowered engine (James) on a long train (the pick-up goods, now thirty or more cars long), or the daunting process of filching a bigger engine from the passenger services. (Henry, because nobody was suicidal enough to ask Gordon) Sam, with her massive, ten-coupled frame, a power class of 9, and Crovan’s Gate “improvements” was a gift from the heavens, and they put her to work immediately on the heaviest trains. 

---

“I dare say,” Henry remarked a few days afterwards, as Sam’s container train receded into the distance in a cloud of dust and steam. “It’s like the 1960s again.” 

“I’m not sure I follow?” Caerphilly raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I suppose you weren’t there for this,” Henry said. “But as steam faded from the mainland, many of the most junior drivers and firemen were given footplate space on what had been the crack express engines. I recall hearing from a Southern engine who came here once that a close sibling - who at that point was more rust than engine, mind you - was brought beyond a hundred miles an hour on a boat train in 1967 by a crew of boys no more than twenty-five.”

“You’re kidding!” Caerphilly wished she’d been able to find out more about what had happened in that last horrible decade, after she’d been locked away. “And so, what? We’ve just handed Sam over to the daycare center and told them to flog the wheels off her?” 

“I suppose you could put it like that,” Henry mused as the signal rose. “But she seems to be enjoying it, so don’t view it as a bad thing.”

And he left, leaving a very contemplative Caerphilly behind. 

---

Contrary to what some engines (James) thought, Sam was enjoying working with “Childcare Operations.” Crews on the heritage lines she’d previously found herself on often treated her strangely: those who knew about her, her lineage, and Star treated her like she was made of glass; those who didn’t often treated her with mild indifference - she was a big engine, with big engine problems, but none of the glory that came to the ex-express engines. (Of course, some of those probably poisoned the well for her, so thanks Mallard.)  The rest, well, they were veterans of BR in the 60s or earlier, and as such treated her like they treated all the other engines - like property, to be ignored unless needed. In comparison, these fresh-faced youths who still didn’t fully know their way around an engine were a breath of fresh air, laughing and joking their way through a driving shift, and making sure that she was in on the fun. They even made references to things she’d never heard of - movies, television shows, songs, and even novels - and then bothered to explain them to her.

As this happened, it occurred to her, for the first time in her entire life, that she wasn’t the youngest one in the yard.     

----

“Something occurred to me yesterday.” She said one morning at the big station. 

“And what might that be?” The other engines - Gordon, Delta, Pip, Emma, Daisy, Caerphilly, and Marina - all turned to look at her. 

“I’m old.” she said simply. “Like, I’m one of the youngest steam engines there is and I’m over forty.” There was a very long pause. “I don’t know how to feel about that.” 

“Well don’t I just feel ancient and withered.” Caerphilly fixed her with a wry look. “Practically a fossil - I should be put on display in a museum, oh wait…” 

Delta and Marina both looked at each other across the platforms. It was clear to see that both diesels were doing the math in their heads as to exactly how close they were to Sam’s age. It looked to be concerningly close. Daisy, meanwhile, said nothing, but made a face that rather neatly expressed “oh god, am I really older than some steam engines?”

Pip chuckled lightly. “Well, I suppose that not all of us can be young and beautiful like Em and I, hmm? All you lot will have to settle for aging gracefully in the rest home.”

Caerphilly emitted a vulgar noise, and Gordon rolled his eyes. “Speaking as the elder of this moment, I believe I shall take my leave before this devolves into a feud.”

“Age before beauty, eh Gordon?” Delta pounced, trying to draw attention away from the sudden sense of insecurity she felt. 

This time they all heard the eye-roll, even as Gordon began to pull away with his stopping train. “Not only am I just as beautiful as the rest of you, but take note that you are only ever as old as you feel, and today I feel rather young indeed. Good day, ladies.” 

He left in a cloud of self-importance, leaving some of the other engines gobsmacked. “When did he get so… secure?” Daisy asked. 

“And calm?” Delta watched the coaches leave. 

“Did he just call us all beautiful?” Pip raised both eyebrows. 

 “Is that… not supposed to happen?” Caerphilly looked confused. 

The other engines all looked at her. 

“What?” she squeaked, suddenly unsure of what was going on. She had to tamp down a momentary feeling of panic as four different diesels looked straight into her eyes.

“Caerphilly,” Delta said carefully. “Is there… anything you want to tell us about yourself and Gordon?”

It took several seconds to parse. “Certainly not!” She spluttered. “And what business would it be of yours anyway?” 

“Aside from the fact that Gordon is one of the engines holding this island together?” Marina said thoughtfully. “And means a great deal to us?” The thoughtful look quickly turned wry, and she continued before Caerphilly could respond. “I can’t speak for anyone else, but I often wonder if he even knows what he’s saying. It would be most relieving to learn that he does.”

“What?” Sam broke in, eyebrows high. “How can he not know? He’s like, ninety!”

“And he has spent almost every one of those years on this island.” Marina was firm, and Delta looked like she agreed. “From whom would he have learned? James? Henry? Thomas?” 

Sam remained steadfast. “No. No. No way. He has to know! They - he can’t be that stupid!” 

Silence hung in the air for about ten seconds after this. Then, uproarious laughter split the atmosphere in two. Daisy started to turn red. Delta began crying. Marina was actually shaking. Pip and Emma - who have not been on Sodor that long! - were laughing so hard that their headlights flickered on and off. 

Caerphilly and Sam looked at each other, unsure of what to do. “This bodes poorly for us, doesn’t it?” Caerphilly said over the sound of Daisy’s helpless wheezing. 

Sam paused, long enough for her crew to emerge from the station building. They looked deeply befuddled at the howling diesels, but didn’t stop to question it. 

“I…” Sam said as they hopped into her cab and readied the train for departure. “Think that I need to be somewhere else before I catch whatever they have.” 

Delta tried and failed to say something, which instead came out as a gasping whimper. 

With concerned looks sent all around, Sam left in a billow of smoke and steam, the pick-up goods trailing behind her. 

The laughter continued, but abruptly began petering off as the pick-up goods kept going. First ten cars, 

Then twenty, 

Then thirty, 

Forty, 

Forty-seven cars were between Sam and the brakevan as she hauled the train away from the station, not once seeming to notice the immense load. 

The others watched her go with dropped jaws. 

“Remind me again,” Delta said eventually. “Why we were so revolutionary, when they had engines that could do that?” 

-----

The pick-up goods was a long and often tedious run up the island, stopping at every station and fishing cars out of goods yards before dropping new ones in their place. It often took every minute of the standard 9-and-a-half-hour driving shift, and if the size of the train while it was in Tidmouth was any indication, Sam wouldn’t be back in her shed until close to midnight. 

One advantage of the slow, plodding run? The chance for gossip to clear the engine/crew divide. 

“So,” Siobhan leaned out of the cab window as they waited in the Wellsworth goods loop. Caerphilly had just thundered by with the Limited, and it had seemed like a good time to bring it up. “Wha’ exactly was going on wit’ all ye at the platforms?” 

“Oh, nothing… just some girl talk?” Sam did not sound incredibly sure of herself. 

“Sounded more like the girls laughing at ye, than anythin’ close to talking.” 

“Well, it wasn’t supposed to be funny, but they all started laughing!” 

“So what’d ye say?” 

“I’d rather not… it’s too… gossipy.”

Siobhan recoiled. “An engine that don’t wanna gossip? What is the world comin’ to?” She disappeared into the cab. “Oi, oi, Will. Come ‘ere. No, no, come here. I gotta show ya somethin’.” 

She reappeared a moment later with the fireman - a young, barely trained teenager named Wilma - and pointed forwards in the vague direction of Sam’s face. “See tha’? That’s an engine that won’t give up the gossip! I’ve been doin’ this fer seventeen years and I’ve never seen that before. Make a note o’ it or somethin’, ‘cause it may be the only time ya ever do!” 

Sam blushed with irritated embarrassment. “I don’t know if it’s true! I couldn’t ask any more questions because they just kept laughing! I’m not gonna go around and tell lies!” 

Will ignored all of this, and focused on the important details. “How have you been doing this for seventeen years? My mum is barely older than you.”

“I signed on when I was sixteen, figured it’d keep me out the house.” Siobhan paused for a long second. “And, I know yer mum - she’s a slag, that’s how she’s barely older than me with a kid yer age.”

Will turned bright red and swatted at Siobhan. “Fuck you!” 

“Aye, that’s what yer mum was saying!” Siobhan dodged the swat and the lump of coal that followed it. “And that’s how ye fuckin do gossip, yeah!” 

“I don’t think I needed to hear any of this.” Sam remarked to nobody in particular. 

Inside the cab, nobody heard her. “Oi! Put that hose down!” 

“Stand still!”

“Don’t ye fuckin dare…” 

“Stand still! There’s coal dust on your face.”

Sam rolled her eyes, and very quietly directed more pressure to the injector running the in-cab hose. 

Bssssssshhhhhh “ACKSBTHLTHGH!” 

 ----

When the train eventually reached Wellsworth, Wilma was on the platform before Sam stopped moving, and was patiently waiting for the stationmaster to take the bills of lading for the cargo they were dropping off. 

At the other end of the platform, BoCo watched with some interest as Sam tried mightily to cover up a smile. He didn’t have to wait long for an explanation, as a sopping wet Siobhan squelched her way along the platform, checking each bearing as she went. 

“Do I even want to know?” He asked Sam quietly. 

“See that girl down the platform, talking to the stationmaster?” 

“Yes..?”

“I think she’s going to fit in very well on this railway.” 

Siobhan was close enough that she heard them anyways, and squeaked her way up the platform, leaving a trail of water behind her. “Aye, listen ta me closely, you giant green abomination. This shite is my fault, but I am gonna blame ye fer it, see if I don’t.” And she squeak-squeak-ed away to check on other parts of the train. 

“How are you liking Childcare Operations?” BoCo asked, full of innocence. 

Sam allowed a smile to light up her face. “It’s some of the best work I’ve ever had. I have to see if York would sell us Evening Star. He’d love this.” 

--------  

Later Still

They’d reached Killdane around lunchtime, and took their time setting out cars of alumina bound for the aluminum company in Peel Godred, before collecting cars of ingots for the mainland. 

“Isn’t this a little much?” Will asked as they shuffled the train around to put the heavy loaded cars at the front. “That’s, like, fifty five or sixty cars now.”

“I can take it!” Sam chirped, and Siobhan frowned. 

“Aye, lassie. It’s not that I think ye can’t, but at this stage I’m worried about losin’ a coupling somewhere.” 

“It’s downhill, it’ll be fine! Besides, if we don’t take these now, someone’s got to make a special trip before tomorrow, and who do you think that’ll be?” 

“...” Siobhan had a laundry list of reasons why this wouldn’t work, but decided to let the big engine figure it out for herself. With the electric engines looking on in wonder as she built up the train to a titanic sixty-one cars, Sam felt perfectly confident that everything was going to work. 

Then it didn’t, but in a way that no-one was expecting. 

“I’ve got no air pressure," the guard radioed in from his van. “I think the train’s too long for the air to pump up back here.” 

 No air pressure meant that the train’s brakes wouldn’t release, so they really weren’t going anywhere now. “So what do we do?” Sam asked in confusion. She didn’t even know this was possible, and had no idea how to solve it. 

Siobhan and Will were similarly befuddled, and were conferring with “control” on what their next move should be when a weak honk sounded through the yard. 

It was Delta, who limped to a stop with the mid-day Limited, looking exhausted. 

“Well, I think that these traction motors have just about had it," she said weakly. “I don’t think we’re going to make it much further.”

As if to prove her point, there was a sudden arc of electric light from the space between bogie and platform, and a thin plume of smoke rose into the air. From inside her cab, there was shouting and scurrying, before a weighty mechanical chonk rang out, and the smoke tapered off to nothing.  

“Are you alright?” Sam and Siobhan were wide-eyed at the whole display. 

“No, but don’t worry about it.” Delta’s expression had tightened quite a bit. She was in pain and not thrilled about the situation; she was even less happy about the dozen or so station staff now swarming over her. “The works were supposed to change the traction motors on that bogie next week. Bloody inconvenient timing if you ask me.”

It took some time to tend to Delta’s sudden and very prominent issue - the fire brigade had been called, so now the entire station was at a standstill. Sam, Siobhan, and Will, at a loss for anything else to do, had started re-arranging the train, assuming that they’d be breaking it into sections anyways in order to deal with the air brake issue. 

This was still ongoing when Wendell rolled in from the works to rescue the coaches from the calamity. “60 cars isn’t long enough for that to be an issue," he remarked after being informed of the problem. “They ran fish trains that long all the time on the mainland. Must be a leak somewhere. Or your air pump is bad.”

He would have explained more, but he was too busy shunting Delta out of the way, and then he was off, taking the Limited the rest of the way to Barrow. 

Meanwhile, this revelation meant that Siobhan, Will, and the guard were clambering over Sam and the trucks trying to figure out what the issue could be. 

Doing this took so long that everyone eventually lost patience, and started putting the train back together. “If it doesn’t work,” Sam rolled her eyes. “Then we’ll just treat it as an unbraked train. Not like we were going very fast anyways.”

Everyone seemed annoyed, but satisfied with this plan, but then Will had a thought as they began shunting the lines of trucks together. “Hang on, aren’t we taking her to the works?” She motioned over to Delta, who was sitting by herself, front bogie coated in fire retardant and liberally wrapped with caution tape. 

Delta heard her, and smiled self-effacingly. “I’m fine. They isolated everything, so I can go there on the motors in the rear bogie when there’s a gap in the timetable.” 

Siobhan and Sam both raised eyebrows, about to ask why she was moving on her own at all, when, as if to prove a point, Wendell flashed through the station with the midday express, clearly covering at least some of Delta’s timetable.

Will had a pensive look as the express’s lamps faded into the distance. “Hey, wait a second. If she can move on her own, and we’re having air brake problems, why don’t we just put her on the back and have her pump air from the rear? Should solve that problem, and she doesn’t have to drive on one motor set.”

It took a few moments for everyone to ponder that, and quite a bit longer for “control” and the stationmaster to sign off on it, but eventually everyone agreed that it “was the best bad idea” they’d heard today, and Delta was soon coupled between the brakevan and the train. The guard was very happy to report that the brake line was charging normally, and a brake test showed that there was full brake pressure up and down the train. 

Of course, there always had been. A group of mainland trucks had felt very troublesome indeed - something about being bossed around by a tea kettle - and had decided to cause mischief when they had the chance. This came to a head when the train was put together in Killdane yard, and the mischievous little things had held their brake valves shut, preventing the brake pressure from propagating up and down the train as usual. They all found it very funny, and had felt very proud of themselves indeed when the train had become so delayed due to their handiwork. 

The other trucks on the train - mostly trucks from other parts of Sodor - also found this funny, but only a few of the cannier mainland trucks realized that the laughter was… not directed at the same place. 

“Oi,” an “ECC INTERNATIONAL” hopper whispered to a “SODOR FUEL OIL CO.” tanker as Sam began to build up steam. “What’s about to happen?”

“You’ll see…” The tanker sounded positively giddy. 

With a hiss, the brakes came off, and the line of mainlanders waited just a moment before clamping their brake shoes against their wheels. The hopper, sensing that he was on the precipice of making a mistake, did not follow their lead. 

Behind him, the wounded diesel that had been shunted onto the train at the last moment gave a sigh. “Oh, they think they’re clever.”

Up front, the steam engine whistled loudly, and set off with a roar of exhaust, steam shooting into the air with each cacophonous chuff. 

The train quickly jerked into motion, and there was a yelp of pain from further up the train as all ten of the mainland trucks were yanked into motion with their brakes hard on. Screaming and shouting, they skidded across the yard and almost to the main line before they realized that this engine was not stopping for their prank - perhaps she didn’t even notice. They released their brakes - too little too late, in the hopper’s opinion - and began rolling, albeit with huge flat spots that painfully thump-thumped their way down the main line. 

The tanker in front was in hysterics, as were most of the other Sodor trucks. 

The few mainland trucks that didn’t participate were horrified. 

Behind, the big diesel was awestruck. “She’s like a machine,” she said. “Why did the Western Region have to get her?” 

-----

 Later

Eventually, finally, the train clanked into Barrow, fifty-seven trucks trailing behind Sam. The yard shunter gulped mightily at the sight of it, but Sam paid no notice as she rolled off to the sheds for coal, water, and a short rest. 

Caerphilly was also “on shed,” having brought in the mid-day express, and the conversation was flowing before Sam came to a halt. Will and Siobhan saw the opportunity, and scampered away to the station building unnoticed. They may have enjoyed being on Sam’s footplate, but after seven hours they needed a break, a sandwich, and a floor that didn’t move when it got excited. 

It was maybe an hour or so later, after their much-needed rest, Siobhan trotted back to the crew rest area with a sheaf of papers and a rather self-satisfied look on her face. Will saw her coming from across the room and sat up, not liking her expression one bit. “What?” She asked with some trepidation.

“So…” Siobhan tried not to look like the cat that got the canary. “Del’s in the works, Henry’s on a container train, Wendell’s in Knapford, and the two nutcases are on the Limited and the boat train, which means that the Northern Belle’s got no engine."

“What? You joking?” 

Siobhan wasn’t. The Northern Belle was an all-Pullman luxury charter train, operated by the same company that now ran the Orient Express. It catered mostly to wealthy tourists, taking them to various cities and historical sites across Northern England. It visited Sodor twice since it had been introduced last year, and while the train (and its passengers) had been resoundingly trouble-free, the management of the luxury train company was another story, apparently demanding special treatment from the Fat Controller despite refusing to pay for it. As a result of the prior two experiences, a notice had been sent around the various sheds that the train would be given to “any engine that is available,” with the heavy implication being that Wendell - arguably the “least famous” engine on the Island, and notably not a steam engine - would be the one taking it. 

But now, Wendell was clear across the island, it took very little dot-connecting for Will to realize what Siobhan was saying. “We’re gonna take a Pullman?”

“Looks like it.”

Will looked at Siobhan, and then herself. They were so thoroughly coated in coal dust and sweat that they looked like Victorian chimney sweeps. “Do we need to do our hair or something? Should we get the polish? Do we need to get Sammie?”

Siobhan was already holding up a hand to forestall the questioning. “Yard crew is gettin’ Sam righ’ now, I don’ think I can do the hair unless I’m dunkin’ myself in the water tower, and stationmaster had “orders from above” that we only needed to do ourselves up if we wanted to, which is a diplomatic way o’ sayin’ “I hope ye lasses look like shite so those wankers won’ come back.””

“Are they that bad?” 

“Aye! Ye should’ve heard the fuss they kicked up with the Fat Controller when James had to sub in for Gordon at the last moment…”

---

Later still

Siobhan and Will, looking every bit a pair of Victorian ragamuffins, left a trail of sooty bootprints down the length of the platform directly in front of the primped and polished Pullman coaches. A few passengers looked out the window and raised an eyebrow. One particularly loud voice could be heard through the double-paned window, a brash Texas accent saying something about “miners.” 

The coaches sighed and rolled their eyes. They were well aware of the reputation their management had foisted upon them, and were grateful that most railways seemed willing to judge corporate and personal sins separately. 

Further up the platform, and the diesel that brought the train here was gone, replaced by Sam, who did not look her best when still streaked with coal and brake dust from the long trip to Barrow. Her green paint and brasswork were dull under the crud. “Do we not have time for a washdown?” she said, slightly scandalized. “These are Pullman coaches!” 

“No’ today,” Siobhan chirped as she swung into the cab. “Tell ye all about it once we get goin.”

“It’s a whole thing,” Will chimed in, despite not fully understanding the circumstances either. 

“Excuse me, but what exactly do you think you’re doing?” A shrill voice called from the platform. A pair of impeccably dressed men in pressed and starched driver’s overalls stared imperiously through the cab window. 

It didn’t work. “Well Clancy,” Siobahn leaned out the cab window and gave a disaffected stare. “It appears as though I am gonna drive this train to Tidmouth.”

Clancy, who was slightly taller and had a thicker moustache than his counterpart, puffed himself up, the received pronunciation in his accent getting stronger. “And who authorized such a thing? You drive goods trains, not Pullman services!”

Siobhan reached into her breast pocket and produced a stick of chewing gum, carefully unwrapping it from the foil, before sticking it in her mouth. She balled up the foil and tossed it at Clancy, who recoiled. “I would say that my authorization came from the duty sheet I was given by the stationmaster.” She produced the duty sheet, gum snapping away noisily. “I believe ye know ‘im. About yea tall, named Burton? Brown hair, little round glasses an’ a bow tie?”

Clancy’s face screwed up in displeasure. “Yes, yes, I am well aware of our… egalitarian taskmaster, but you and he should know that this is not a service for Cargo Operations. It is a premiere service, and main-line crews should be taking it-”

“It is a charter service and ye well know it,” Siobhan shot back. “Cargo Ops has free fuckin’ reign of them just like ye do. Also, this is the Northern Belle, an’ there was a whole circular abou’ this thing getting wha’ever was available, so we’re it!”

Clancy looked like he had already been tightly wound before he walked up the platform. Now he was liable to explode. “This is an express working! You’ve got a child on the footplate! She should be in school, not firing an engine! Does she even know what she’s doing?” 

Will sat up, thoroughly offended. Siobhan got to him first. “An’ she’s doin’ a fine job o’ it. I ain’t heard no’ one complaint about ‘er all day!”

The man standing behind Clancy took this moment to open his mouth, revealing an equally posh accent with a characteristically flippant tone. “Yes, well, it may be all well and good, but we all know exactly how… permissive the engines can be. I can assure you that if something has gone wrong today, you would be ignorant of it.” 

This was the wrong comment to make.

“Have I been fuckin’ eatin’ glue the last twenty years?” Siobhan yowled. “Do I not know wha’ a fuckin’ fireman does?”

“That’s a lot of talk for someone with clean fingernails and shiny boots!” Will seemingly teleported across the cab, and was almost entirely out the window. “I bet you haven’t lifted anything heavier than a pencil all month, Rupert!”

“I’ve been called a lot of things, but quiet and permissive isn’t one of them.” Sam was utterly bewildered. “What a comment to make!” 

Rupert recoiled, and Clancy went on the attack. “Don’t be hysterical! You’re both barely out of nappies and you think that you can take an express train? Get out of the cab and let someone experienced do the work.”

“How long have you been doing this for?” Sam retorted dryly. “I imagine that it hasn’t been day in, day out, for almost forty years.”

“I don’t recall asking you for your opinion, 92250.” Clancy seethed. “But, if you must know, I signed on with the Southern Region in 1967.”

“The Southern Region that ended steam in 1967?” Sam’s tone was acidic. “What diesel did you hire onto?” 

Rupert could see that Clancy was struggling, and tried to save him. “Now see here! I will have you know that we are both very experienced drivers in the heritage rail industry, and have many hundreds of hours at the throttle of -”

“Engines like me?” A majestic voice called from behind them. It was Caerphilly, who did not look thrilled with the goings-on, to the point where the yard crew who had brought her to the platforms beat a hasty escape back to the sheds. “I imagine you did. Tell me, how does your experience of driving two or three miles through the countryside at a snail’s pace translate to running crack steam express services?”

“We have been gainfully employed on this railway for years doing exactly that!” Rupert’s voice was starting to crack.

“I know. Gordon mentions you. Frequently.” 

They were losing the battle, and they knew it. Clancy was turning a deep shade of red, and went for what he thought was the kill. “Oh for the love of God! Get out of the cab you stupid cows! This is our assignment and I will not let a woman take it from me!” 

There was a moment of silence, during which Clancy and Rupert took absolutely zero notice of how completely surrounded they were. 

KSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The silence was then broken by the sound of Caerphilly and Sam venting steam at the two men, turning the far end of the platform into a cacophonous sauna of noise, heat, and steam. 

It went on for well over a minute, only stopping when the signal in front of Sam turned green, and she slipped away with the Northern Belle rolling smoothly along behind her. The passengers looked out of the windows in awe at the display, totally ignorant of why it had happened. 

In the deafening silence, Clancy and Rupert laid flat on their backs on the freshly steam-cleaned platform. Their clothes were soaked completely through, stuck to their bodies as though they had just been fished out of the Walney Channel. Indeed, if one ignored the slightly red tinge to their skin, the two men could be mistaken for recovered drowning victims. 

Slowly, a pair of footsteps click-clicked their way across the platform. It eventually resolved into a man of average height, wearing a dark suit with a bow-tie and round glasses. A nametag on his breast revealed him as C. BURTON - STATIONMASTER. 

“I have rostered you two on the Kirk Ronan boat train,” he said in a soft American accent. “Number four is the assigned engine.” 

He dropped a clipboard onto Clancy’s chest, and walked away.

Slowly, as the footsteps faded, Clancy and Rupert’s heads turned to look towards the sheds. 

There, in the dark shadows, Gordon’s eyes glinted furiously.

[joezworld]

Express Engines

I gave Gordon a friend!

The news that The Fat Controller had found a new engine - and a steam engine at that! - had caused an uproar. The subsequent revelation that there were two increased things to an almost unbearable furor. 

“Oh please sir,” James begged the Fat Controller one afternoon. “At least tell us which Castle it is. Everyone is going batty over it!” 

A skeptical eyebrow raise met this. “James, you and everyone else will find out in due time.”

“But sir!” 

Stephen stopped and hung his head in exasperation. “If it helps you at all, one is from Swindon, the other Crewe. I shan’t tell you anything more, so stop asking!” 

---

“That doesn’t help at all!” the others grumbled when James reported back. 

“What has he done? Buy Duchess of Sutherland or Britannia?” Delta asked incredulously. “That’s the last thing we’d need. Between them and that Castle, they’d make Gordon explode!”

“Maybe he bought a Black 5,” Bear pondered. “I do hope they’re an all right sort. Some of them didn’t have the happiest of lives.” 

“Maybe it’s a diesel,” Henry said brightly. “Perhaps you two can make a new friend!”

The two shuddered. “Oh please don’t let it be a Crewe Diesel…” they said in unison. 

--

“I bet it’s a standard of some kind.” BoCo said to Edward. “I don’t imagine that anyone would be willing to part with anything from before the grouping.” 

“You don’t think so?” Edward looked thoughtful. “I’m sure that there’s some engines to spare. Goodness knows that the Barry Island engines aren’t in short supply.”

“Well what do you think it’ll be?” 

“I bet it’s a goods engine. Something like an Ivatt Mogul - remember them?” 

“All too well. Also, for the record, they became the Standard 2s, so I’d still be correct.”

“Oh hush!”

---

“Maybe it’s a Garrat!”

“Those aren’t Crewe engines, and they scrapped those.”

“A Dreadnought tank engine?”

“Scrapped those too.”

“Patriot class?”

“Scrapped.” 

“LNWR Experiment Class?”

“How do you know that those exist but don’t know that they were all scrapped?”

“Well, what about the-”

“Thomas, are you just listing any LMS engine that you know of?” Percy snapped after a while.

It was a suspiciously long time before Thomas said “No!” in a very defensive tone. 

Silence reigned for a few minutes. 

“What about the E2s?” Toby said, innocently. 

“Wrong region, and I wish they’d scrapped those.” 

“... Hey!” 

------

“You’re all thinking too big.” Oliver said to Henry at the big station. “They built hundreds of tank engines at Crewe. Could be one of them.”

“They also built those Class 91 electric locomotives at Crewe.” Henry sniffed. “And tanks for the army. So it could be anything, if we’re just going to be spouting baseless ideas.” 

“Oi! Who put sludge in your boiler this morning?” 

“I’m sorry, but it has been three days of this. I’ve barely slept for being asked my thoughts on numbers! Standard 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, who do we appreciate! It’s all becoming meaningless!  Half-term’s almost half-over, so whatever this maths problem of a locomotive is, it had better get here soon before we all go completely mad!”

----

Later, Gordon took a train down to the ferry docks at Tidmouth Harbour. Marina, one of the harbour diesels, was shunting trucks nearby. 

Marina wasn’t shy, but she also wasn’t chatty, so the silence between the two eventually grew unbearable for Gordon. “I’m surprised you haven’t started peppering me with questions about these new engines.”

“I’m not particularly concerned, unless they’re coming down here to take my work from me.” She said, shunting a row of vans. 

“And if it is a harbour engine of some kind,” Gordon ventured. “You would be welcome up at the main sheds with open arms.”

“I appreciate the offer,” she smiled. “But shouldn’t I be offering space to you? Rumor is that it’s at least one new express engine.” 

Gordon rolled his eyes. “Please. Pip and Emma have already forced that reckoning. There is no “true” express role on the Island anymore, so I have already “adapted,” as it were.”

“And here we all thought you’d be clinging to the midday express like a drowning man to a life ring.”

Again, his eyes rolled. “Being ten minutes faster than the Limited does not make an express service. There is prestige, and honor, and the promise of onward connections, all of which Pip and Emma have now.” He looked thoughtful. “I’d be far more upset if I weren’t almost 80.”

“Old age giving you a new perspective on life?” Marina wasn’t sure if he was being funny or genuine.

“Ha, no.” He said, face betraying nothing. “I’m just tired. I could stand a rest, to give myself some time to figure out what the next move is.”

“That is… shockingly mature of you,” Marina now was the one being genuine. “And I’m pleasantly surprised to see it.” 

“Well, someone has to be.” A sly look was making moves across his face. “I think Henry is about two days away from shunting James into the sea.”

“Ooh. How will Delta fare with that?” 

“If James makes it three days, she’ll be helping.” 

“And you wonder why I like the harbour so much.”

-----------------------------------

The Works

A jubilant mood was suffusing itself throughout the building. Two major projects had been officially “wrapped” within hours of each other, and a well deserved celebration was in full swing, with high-tempo dance music filtering out of the staff canteen. 

For the two “projects” quietly building steam on the shop floor, it was difficult to not feel giddy. 

“I can’t believe this is actually happening to us.” Samarkand said, feeling the heat of her fire for the first time in almost three years. “It hasn’t really set in until now. I feel… god I feel better than new! I mean, look at me! Roller bearings, automatic lubricators, a water trough scoop, a feedwater heater, and whatever a Lempor ejector is? I’m going to be… so much stronger than anyone else it won’t even be funny…”

Caerphilly barely noticed Sam going on and on. She barely noticed anything, except the absolutely intoxicating feeling of fire inside her once again. It had been almost 40 years since she’d felt this, so long that she’d forgotten what it felt like. What it could be. What she was.    

“I’m going to be an express engine again…” she said as the music from the canteen grew to a crescendo. An excited smile stretched across her face, big enough to crack her smokebox in half.

“I’m going to be an engine again.”

----------

Early the next morning, Henry was trying (and failing) to convince his fireman to pour some coffee into his tender. “Maybe it’ll work this time!” 

“No! It doesn’t do anything but waste it. Buy some yourself if you think it works so much.” 

“With what money?”

Further conversation was broken off as an unfamiliar whistle sounded in the distance. 

“Who could that possibly be?” The driver asked, poking his head out of the cab windows. 

“I imagine it’s one of the new engines.” Said the fireman. “There were a few numbers on the board I didn’t recognize.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?” Henry stared. 

“When would I have? The first thing I hear is “oh lord I’m so tired, give me that coffee.” It’s like being home with the wife!”

Henry chose not to respond, and instead stared intently towards the rapidly growing cloud of steam in the distance. “It doesn’t sound like a tank engine…”

“Maybe it’s the Western engine?”

“Points are lined for the goods platforms. You think the Fat Controller is putting a Castle on goods work? It’d be like asking Gordon to shunt.” 

The engine kept getting closer, a steady chuffing sound reverberating across the station throat. 

Eventually, finally, surprisingly, the train came into view. 

“Well I’ll be damned.” The driver said. “I didn't think they'd found something like that.”

“I suppose with all the talk of standards, we did forget about that one.” The fireman mused. “Hopefully the firebox isn’t as big as it looks.”

Henry was speechless for a long moment - long enough for the huge engine to clank past him with a call of “Hi!” 

“You’re enormous!” he squeaked at last, and the engine laughed her way into the station.

----

Gordon had fallen asleep in the middle of Barrow yard (only the truly desperate tried to rest in a shed where Bloomer was awake), and was rather rudely awoken by the weeshing steam of another engine. “Gurghr-have you no decency? Can’t you tell that I’m asleep?!” 

The other engine’s laughter was a euphonious sound that emerged from the cloud of steam. “Forgive me, but we’ve been put onto the same train back to Tidmouth. The stationmaster said to whistle in your ear until you woke up, but I figured this was kinder.” 

“I stand mistaken,” Gordon rolled his eyes. “You have an incredible well of decency, madam. Even if you act on the orders of far more juvenile creatures.”

Another laugh that rang like a bell. “Oh goodness, I haven’t been madam in decades; let’s not start now, lest I become old and stuffy.”

“Well, if there wasn’t a massive cloud encompassing me, I might be able to see who it is you are.” 

“Perhaps I’m trying to be mysterious. Have you considered that?” 

“Puh. Any Crewe Engine would have relished at the chance to whistle until I was deaf. Which means…” There was next to no chance the other engine could see him, but the eyebrow raise was compulsory. “What sort of bilgewater is it that you drink, Westerner?” 

A sharp gust of wind blew through the yard, dissipating enough of the steam for the shadowy outline of the other engine to metamorphose into the Castle class he was expecting. 

Then he read the nameplates. 

“Only the finest - sourced directly from the hull of the Great Eastern.” Caerphilly Castle said with a half-smile. 

Gordon would never admit it, but it took a lot of discipline to keep his facial expression in check. “You know, I was under the impression that the pride of the inter-war Western had been locked away in a museum, far from anyone who would ever care for her properly.” 

The half smile grew slightly. “Circumstances changed, and my old jailors found me to be nothing more than unsightly decor. Then the new ones found me far too ‘mouthy’ for their tastes, and rid themselves of me at first opportunity.” 

“And the Fat Controller presumably turned their loss to his gain?” 

“And yours!” Her eyes sparkled in the mid-morning sun. “I’ve been led to understand that I shall be taking over your duties once your boiler ticket expires. I assume it’s only correct that one top link engine is replaced by another?”

Gordon’s expression was inscrutable. “You’re very different to the last Western engine we played host to.”

The smile wavered, and grew slightly sharper. “I should hope so. Will you take my word that I have no plan for mayhem and destruction?” 

“Around here, we call it ‘confusion and delay.’”

The smile became genuine once again. “You remind me of another engine I knew once. I feel like we shall get along just fine.” 

-----

A little later, and the two were coupled together at the platforms, Caerphilly in front. 

“Now then,” Gordon said behind her. “This is merely a learning trip for you, dear Caerphilly, so try not to exert yourself too much. You need to be aware of the line’s foibles, and let me assure you that there are many of them!” 

“Oh god, he’s doing the teaching voice.” Both crews had been conversing on the platform, and covered their faces with their hands in four-way unison. 

“Excuse me, but what tone would you find acceptable then, hmm?”

“Do not mock him! He is the instructor. I need to know this!” 

“oh no there’s two of him now.” Caerphilly’s fireman said with dismay.

“And you should be grateful for it.” Caerphilly said firmly. “Express engines are few and far between, so to have two fine examples on the same line is a marvel in the current day.” 

“Well said!” Gordon beamed. 

The crews looked horrified. 

---

It was still some time before the train left, and Caerphilly was watching in interest as the station pilot added yet another pair of coaches to the train. “I say. I can’t recall the last time an express working had… what is it now? Fifteen coaches?”

“Oh, it shall only get worse.” Gordon murmured as the little diesel - on loan from some heritage railway somewhere - scuttled away for yet another coach. “It’s the last weekend of half-term, and there was some form of sale on tourist class accommodations.”

“But still, on an express?” 

“Goodness no.” Gordon almost rebuked, before catching himself. “The morning express is London-bound only. This is the Limited; slightly slower than the Express, but much faster than the all-stop trains.”

“This railway can support three tiers of passenger trains? I thought that everything had been replaced by motorways?”

“You are correct that many people have turned to automobiles for their travel choices, but rest assured that they do not do so here.” Gordon explained. “While many of our mainland connections like the Sudrian and the Leeds Express have long since made their final departures, within the island our domestic service level has not changed much since the 1970s - and that was hardly changed from the 1950s!” 

“You’re serious? There’s no A or M road across the Island?”

“They tried to build a motorway across the island once. I’m told that the blueprints were so beautiful that the road decided to stay on them.” Gordon boasted. “So instead, we trains take the strain of travel.”

“I’m sorry, have I gone back in time to the War? Is there still fuel rationing?” 

“Caerphilly, I think you will find that we do things quite a bit differently on this island.” Gordon was approaching almost radioactive levels of smug self-satisfaction, and his crew was in mild agony listening to it. 

Not that Caerphilly noticed in the slightest. 

“I’m beginning to see that.” She said with a hint of eagerness, excited smoke rings puffing from her funnel. 

After a few more minutes, the shunter came back. Gordon and Caerphilly watched him roll past. 

“Gordon?”

“Yes?” 

“Don’t take this as a slight, but I don’t think any engine could get twenty coaches started on their own.”

“That is not an incorrect statement.”

“Can you teach while we both work?” 

“I can believe I can give adequate instruction - provided of course, that you can listen while pulling the train?”

“I think that you’ll find that I am just as good at learning as you are at teaching.”

“This is somehow worse than them fighting.” A voice crackled over the radio. 

“Shut it!” 

“Be quiet!” 

--------

Later 

The run was going so much worse than the crews ever could have anticipated. Instead of fighting with each other, or trying some childish game of one-upmanship, Gordon and Caerphilly were working together, puffing in not-quite-perfect unison to get the train up to the absolute maximum speed limit any section would allow for. Station stops got earlier and earlier, and by the time the train stormed out of Killdane station like they’d left most of it behind, they were almost three minutes ahead of schedule and gaining fast. This fleetfooted pace was suiting the engines just fine, but the crews were less than enamored with the footplates getting progressively bumpier and less workable as the two engines bounced off of each other's buffers high-spiritedly. 

“Gordon!” The driver yelled, holding onto the throttle with a white-knuckled grip. “Just because the signal is green doesn’t mean the next one won’t be!” 

“You never complained like this on the express!” Gordon bellowed as they careered through Cronk station. 

“This isn’t the express!” 

“Tell me, how many more stops do we have between here and Tidmouth? Is it zero? The timetable said zero!” Gordon sounded like he was smiling. This was very bad. 

“Is an express run now?” Caerphilly whistled at the front, her voice distant and distorted from the wind roaring past as they crossed the Cronk viaduct.

“Only the midday limited stops in Wellsworth!” Gordon called ahead to his trainee. “The morning and afternoon trains would conflict with Edward’s local services!”

“Do we have to worry about any local trains being in our path?” 

“Not at all! We’ve got an express path to the big station, non-stop!” 

 “Excellent!”  Black smoke poured from Caerphilly’s funnel, and she lunged forwards, sending the fireman stumbling into the coal pile with a yelp. The train continued to pick up speed as it made the uphill charge towards Maron. Gordon’s driver advanced the throttle like it might hurt him, and the bouncing on the footplate took on a new sideways element as they thundered over the crossovers just outside the station. 

“Gordon! What are you going to do about the hill?!” The driver shouted. “We’ve got to slow down for it!” 

“Cut off steam and coast once we’ve hit the summit! Don’t you remember how we did it with the express?” 

“Gordon, the express was seven coaches, not twenty!” The fireman was not thrilled at this plan, screaming at his engine even as he tried to get the coal in the firebox.

“Chaps?” Caerphilly’s driver sounded remarkably calm over the radio. “Should we be concerned about that storm in the distance? Any rain or leaves on the line?”

Looking ahead, Gordon’s driver felt yet another surge of dismay. The “storm” on the horizon was a towering wall of thunderclouds that reached thousands of feet into the sky. High-spirited engines, pulling a heavy train, in the driving rain?  Oh, spiffy. 

“The storm will hold!” Gordon crowed. “Can’t you feel the air? I’d say we’ve got at least half an hour before it really kicks off!” 

Maron station had come and gone in a flash while they discussed the storm, and Gordon’s crew shared a look of wide-eyed horror as Caerphilly whistled to the signal box just before the summit. 

Anyone watching from the lineside must have had the most incredible sight - a GWR Castle and a Gresley Pacific, whistling fit to burst, roared over the summit of the hill like they intended to fly to Tidmouth, twenty coaches clattering along in their wake and a trail of leaves and dust dancing in the slipstream. Above them, thunderclouds towered over the landscape, the first bolts of lightning streaking through the black mass. 

In seconds the train was gone, whistling into the distance like a banshee, the red light on the rearmost coach vanishing down the steep slope of the hill into the pre-storm darkness. 

 -----

It was perhaps fortunate for both engines’ reputation that no other engine was present when the Limited screeched into the big station a full seven minutes ahead of schedule. Gordon and Caerphilly were laughing and whistling like newly-built tank engines as they let off steam. Behind them, the passengers began to stream out of the coaches, and the silence of the platform turned into a dull roar of people and staff. 

The disheveled, bedraggled crew staggered out of their engines, waiting for the world to stop shaking. 

“What happened to you?” The yard crew, there to take the train back to the shed, looked with confusion between the cheerful engines and the haunted-looking crew. 

“Shut up.” Gordon’s driver said, slapping some paperwork against the other man’s chest before staggering off to the station offices.

-------

A little later, the two engines were parked at the coaling stage. The yard crew had taken one look at the sky above, with lightning arcing through the sky, and had decided that there were far safer places to be than directly under the steel structure that jutted fifty feet into the sky. 

“You were right.” Caerphilly said. “The rain hasn’t come yet. How did you know?” 

“The one advantage of age,” Gordon said, eyes never leaving the sky. “Is experience. I can feel the pressures in the air. Once it starts to drop, then we have our rainstorm.” 

“Yes, but,” Caerphilly looked away from the sky and back to him. “Barometric pressures often drop hours beforehand, not minutes. It’s basic weather science. How can you put such a fine timeline on it?”

“What are we, if not vessels containing water, wind, and pressure?” Gordon mused. “After a certain point, you just begin to know. Truth be told, I’m far more surprised that you don’t know. Usually ignorance of instinct is left to the dunderheads like James.”

“You forget that I’ve been indoors for forty years.” Caerphilly watched as a distant bolt of lightning streaked through the clouds. “In a science museum. I could tell you all about textiles, rockets, agriculture, even medicine.” She looked wistful. “But weather? I can talk about cyclones and pressure systems until I am blue in the face, but it won’t change the fact that I’ve forgotten the feeling of the rain.” 

The wind picked up, and the air shifted noticeably. “Did you feel that?” Gordon said knowingly. 

“A little.”

In the distant staff room, a radio snapped on, and a soft song began wafting out over the yard. 

“Focus on that.” Gordon advised. “It means you’re about to feel something you haven’t in years.” 

“What-?” Caerphilly started to say something, and then stopped as the first drops of rain fell onto her. “Is that-?

“Oh yes.” Gordon’s eye had a tiny hint of a sparkle in it. 

The rain began to pour down from the heavens, joined by the winds and the lightning. 

Caerphilly’s glee could be heard across the yard.

-

“Oh what is that idiot doing now?” James scoffed. “He’s getting the new engine all wet!” 

“I don’t know…” Henry said thoughtfully. “They look too happy to be wet. Maybe they’re under the coaling stage enough that they’re dry.”

“What are you talking about? Look at them! They’re shining like they just got waxed!”

“Well they could have been-”

“No they haven’t! What do you know about rain on paint? The last time you tried to develop an opinion on that you got locked inside a tunnel!”

“Well maybe they don’t mind getting their paint wet, unlike some engines I could name in this shed…”

“Gordon? Not mind something? Pah!” 

“Are they always like this?” Samarkand whispered to Delta and Bear on the other side of the shed. 

“No,” Delta replied at a normal volume, knowing that neither engine would notice her. “Usually Gordon is in here and then it’ll go on until tomorrow.” 

“But it’s ten in the morning?” 

“That’s nothing,” Bear rolled his eyes, voice colored by many years of experience. “One time they kept going for two whole weeks. By the end of it they didn’t even remember what they were arguing about.” 

“Are you being serious?” Samarkand looked like she was reassessing her life choices.

“Oh yes. They’re very tenacious when it comes to things like that.” 

“The worst part,” Delta said with a faraway look in her eyes. “Is that after a while you start to find it incredibly charming.” 

“Yep…” Bear had the exact same look. 

“What?” Sam looked from one diesel to the other. She found no clear answer. This was very disconcerting.

[joezworld]

Express Engines

Got you guys yesterday, didn't I?

Just so that everybody knows, I am stealing OCs from SiF. Usually it's because I think they deserve better but in this specific instance it's because I like her enough I wanted to wrap her into the stories I make one way or the other. She's one of Rhys B. Davies' contributions to the ERS, which is why she's actually a good character.

1963 - Severn Tunnel Junction Yard

“Samarkand. I’m looking for an engine named Samarkand.” 

“Well she’s not ‘ere, so why don’ you take yer Swindon self and git, awright? A’fore we’ve got ta stop bein’ so polite abou’ it?” Their response was crude but to the point, and Evening Star took his leave with dignity. 

It wasn’t their fault, truly. Hating him came naturally to a great many of his kind. The eldest - those with grease in their bearings far older than he - hated him for his “coddled” nature. He was “special” to London, marked for immortality before he’d turned a wheel in revenue service. His brass always shone, his movements were oiled promptly, and he was put on special, lighter duties just to keep his condition as close to perfect as possible; Should something break, it was replaced instantly. It did not take a surplus of brains to figure out why they hated him, as they sat on sidings, barely raising enough steam to keep the diesels at bay. 

Similarly, the “middle” of their clan despised him too. They were younger, Crewe-built to a tee, except for a small class of ten Swindoners - his predecessors, as it were. There had been tension around these two groups, well before he was built; the Swindoners had been sent to the East, and the Crewe-ers had taken the blame for that from the great many engines of other classes who still held onto the non-secular trappings of the former Western. When more of their shared class had once again rolled out of Swindon's famed shop doors, the Crewe engines were primed for hatred. It was an honest hate, and he felt somewhat comforted that they would have hated him even if his status had been less… special. 

The youngest - his own “cousins” as it were - hated him as well, but unlike the callous detestation of the elders and the sectarian dislike of the middles, he had no idea why they hated him so. At first, he’d assumed it was much of the same: His own Swindon brothers had no quarrel with him - indeed they did their best to treat him as an equal - so the dislike from the Crewe engines seemed to have sectarian origins.  

But they kept bringing up her. 

Who she was, he had no idea, but as he questioned the hurled abuse it became very clear that he had wronged her in some way. It was the world’s best-kept secret, known to all Crewe built, and hidden from the Swindoners on pains of death. 

At first, he was willing to let sleeping engines lie. Perhaps it was some misunderstanding, or childish jealousy; either way, he would not stoop to such levels, not allow himself to sully the name of Steam Traction over a petty grievance. 

But, as the years went on, and it became increasingly obvious that his kind was being snuffed out, his mind turned again to the mysterious her. Would he really go quietly into the good night, leaving an unknowable number of past sins to turn in the breeze? 

No. No he would not. He would find this mysterious engine, and make peace with her if it was the last thing he ever did.  

He learned things, here and there. Most of his information came from the crews; they had no truck in his private quarrels, and spoke freely if caught at the right moment. “She” was another of his own class - sister, cousin, whatever she chose to be, really. The crews spoke of her well, but mentioned that she seemed slightly “uppity". It took him time to figure out what this meant: unlike many of his fellows, who were awarded nicknames from their crews, or he - who had been named from the moment of his creation -  this engine seemed to believe that she was owed a name of her choosing, and was quite insistent that she be referred to her chosen moniker. The crews didn’t like this, and it was probably to her benefit that she was of the female persuasion: she reminded them of their daughters and nieces, headstrong but still a “silly girl” whose concerns could be pushed aside. He had no doubt that a male engine would have already been deemed “insubordinate” and sentenced to an… undeserved fate. 

Then there was the matter of the name itself. Samarkand. 

He’d learned, through his drivers, that it was the name of a great city to the east, far beyond the British Isles and even more distant than Europe. Older than anything he could fathom, it existed for millenia. It stood as the capital of a great empire at one point in long-ago history, and the king had erected his mausoleum there, forever tying the metropolis to his legend. 

That king had been named Tamerlane, and he’d lived a thousand years ago. A great ruler, his legend lived on into the modern day, and in the early days of the 19th century, a locomotive had been named after him. 

That locomotive had been the first engine to emerge from the works at Crewe. 

And now there was a locomotive who called herself Samarkand, the city where Tamerlane was laid to rest. 

Evening Star was not a moron. He could read between the lines. This engine thought that they deserved a spot in history that fate had given to him. 

But had it? 

That was the little voice in the back of his mind, traitorous and deceiving. It often spoke the darker thoughts, the ones he’d rather not have. It played at his thoughts as his driver slowly moved him to the coaling stand. Every engine had to come through here, at some point. She was assigned to this yard, and so he would find her today. 

Did fate really choose you? Or was it just men? the little voice sneered, tone laced with sweet, cloying venom. 

He grit his teeth, trying to tune it out. Ordinarily an easy task, this time it stuck there. 

You heard them when they put the name plates on. 

He’d been far too young then to understand what they said. (he was far too young now)  They’d spoken at length of things that mattered to mortal men: pride, vanity, groupings, legends, and of course, the Great Western. His lineage was, to them, not just the endling of steam, but the last gasp of a great railway. To them, he was Brunel’s last scion, and the world would treat him appropriately, whether he deserved it or not. 

There had been mutters and scowls from the few men who did not worship at the altar of Brunel. They spoke of concepts that he found foreign: unknowable things like production stoppages, and “slow-rolling” the builds. At the time, he had no idea why “fifteen engines in a year” was “bloody shameful.”

Now, as he watched the engines working the yard, he understood. He was, by all accounts, the last steam engine; the final word in a storied lineage that went back to the promethean origins of Stephenson’s Locomotion. 

And yet… he was number 92220. 

The engines who had just evicted him from their shed were 92229 and 92237. Across the yard, an engine was shunting a goods train. Its number was 92250. 

How could he claim to be the last, when they out-numbered him so? 

Admit it, you’re just a fraud, sniffed the little voice. The least deserving immortal. 

He blew off steam in irritation, the vapor billowing into the night. His crew, who had been getting ready to oil his joints, took one look at their engine and found that they needed to be elsewhere. Evening Star was left alone with his thoughts. He did not enjoy the solitude, and disquieting little thoughts buzzed around his smokebox like bees.

After some time, a distant horn sounded, and the Cardiff-bound Blue Pullman roared into view. The train thundered through the station, a wild wind whipping in its wake. Shortly thereafter, a second horn sounded in the other direction. A slow goods train with a Hymek on point was bellowing for a banker, and a prairie tank scrambled out of the yard to serve the diesel. 

I haven’t got much time, Star thought. All of this will be gone soon. 

“Haven’t got much time for what?” A voice said next to him, and Evening Star almost jumped out of his frames in surprise. While he’d been ruminating, the engine from earlier, 92250, had pulled up next to him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said instinctually. “Just thinking about something.” 

The Hymek honked loudly, and the slow freight began rolling past them with a roar of diesel exhaust. 

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” the other engine said, eyes looking at the plume of diesel exhaust rising into the air. “They’re building more of them every day.”

The train continued past, the prairie tank shoving hard against the brake van, crew building steam for the steep grade in the tunnel. 

“What do you think will happen to him?” 92250 asked. Now that the noise had ceased, Evening Star could hear her properly. She had a quiet voice, one accented by both Wales and the West Midlands, with a hint of London thrown in. Most likely a Crewe engine. 

“The same thing that will happen to the rest of you, I suppose.” He hated this question. No matter the answer, he was instantly the exception, the other. The one who would live forever.  

“I suppose so.” She didn’t scowl at him like he expected. “At least they’ll save you.”

His eyes widened. “Forgive me, but most engines don’t view that as a positive.” 

The smile she gave him was upbeat, yet melancholy. “It’s better than none of us making it.”

“I suppose…” he allowed. “It just feels as though most engines would prefer it to be someone else.”

That elicited a curious look. “Who else could it be? You’re the last steam engine! If there’s anyone to save, it would be you.” 

“Many would agree with you,” He tried to keep the various emotions from his voice. “But a number of our fellows feel as though there is another… one who is more deserving of immortality than me.”

She laughed. “What? Does someone think you plucked the number off their side? What cheek.” 

He didn’t find it funny. “Nothing so gauche, but I’m inclined to agree with them. A great injustice was committed against someone, and I became the beneficiary.” 

“What great injustice?” She sniffed. “And who has been telling you that? I’ll straighten them out right quick.” 

“Oh please, don’t.” He begged. “It’s true.” 

“What is?” 

He tried to find the words. “Look at my number, and then your own. How can I be the last? You are living proof that there’s at least thirty more ahead of me, and there’s probably more after you.”

She scoffed, but he continued. “And do you mean to tell me that the great Swindon works took years to build the last batch? That paragon of efficiency? Or is it more likely that they slowed the production to keep one last prize for themselves?”

She looked at him curiously. “So you think that… Crewe built the last engine?”

“It’s possible that my fate is actually that of another engine,” he said. “The lineage of steam may have been meant to end with the great Samarkand, rather than with-”

“It’s me.” She cut him off, cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. It’s me. I’m the last Crewe engine. I’m Samarkand.”

His jaw dropped to his bufferbeam. “You? But… but, but, but you- I you must- you should-” 

She gathered herself quickly, and cut him off with a stern look. “I nothing. You’re the last steam engine, and don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

“But- but- but-” he stammered. “I’m going to be- and you- and- and, and and and.” 

She kept looking at him. “And, fate dealt us the lives we’ve been living. I can’t be Evening Star, and you can’t be me. The only thing that you have, that I want, is nameplates. Everything else, that’s yours and yours alone.”

Even as he spluttered out something about his life and his paint, and his immortality, he couldn’t help but look at her side, where there should be a set of nameplates. Instead, the word SaMARkANd was chalked on the side of her smoke deflector. Stained and runny from a past rainstorm, it was barely discernible under the muck and grime that caked her entire form. His express-passenger-green paint, polished to a mirror finish, felt… uncomfortable in comparison.  

She kept looking at him, her sad smile turning wan. “Maybe I’ll make it through this anyways. I could always run off to Sodor.” 

He could tell from the way she said it that she knew it wasn’t possible, and he felt the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” she said. “No tears. We’ll both see what the future has in store when it happens, and not a moment before.” 

There was the sound of feet on gravel, and her crew appeared through the steam. Clambering into her cab, they quickly raised steam and prepared to drive her away. “Just remember me, alright?” she said as she left. 

Evening Star had no doubt that he would never forget her for the rest of his life. 

-------------------------------

A few days later

The BR minders were entirely too easy to bend to his will. They saw him as less of an engine and more of a precious figurine; something to be kept safely in a cabinet, away from danger. They didn’t like that he had to venture outside the shed at all, and often rewarded him if he shirked a duty they didn’t like. 

On this day, it wasn’t difficult. The schedulers were in a tiff with management - part of some larger dispute between the trade unions and London - and had assigned him a train carrying literal rubbish. It was trivially easy to pretend that a bearing had seized, and pawn the duty off on a class 37 that had been snickering at his misfortune. 

On this day his minder was an odious little man named Smythe. As soon as he’d returned to the shed and been pronounced to be in “fine working order”, Smythe had oozed out of the shadows and offered him “a suitable reward” if he were to stay in the sheds for another day anyways. 

“Does the suitable reward include boons for other engines?” he asked with as neutral a voice as he could muster.

Smythe had merely smiled, and produced a notepad. 

--

A few weeks later, he was on the point of a limited-stop passenger train, slowly working its way from Cardiff to Swindon. The train was short, he was strong, and the timetabled workings did not include the two stations on either side of the Severn Tunnel. He roared through the station at the maximum allowed speed, the yard flashing by on either side. As he approached the sheds, an ecstatic whistle drew his eyes towards an engine on the nearest track. It was a 9F, just like him - clean and shiny with a new coat of green paint. On her side, a set of brass nameplates shone in the sun. 

He smiled, and roared on towards the tunnel. 

------------

1965 

The end was coming for them all. 

Steam was on its final few revolutions around the sun, and even its most famous member was not immune. Evening Star, last of the Swindoners, and the last steam engine ever built, had been withdrawn from service. A scant five years old, he felt twice that, and looked even worse; as the years had gone on, the maintenance had stopped, and problems had begun to emerge that no amount of cleaning could fix. Eventually, he learned that immortal and invulnerable were not the same, and a hard biff in a Cardiff marshalling yard had put him in the out of use line. Soon after, a cackling diesel had hauled him to the vast yard outside the Severn Tunnel, to wait for a final word on his preservation. 

Of course, what is not provided by fate, luck supplies readily. The yard manager was an honorable man, one who found the extermination of steam disquieting. When an engine as great as Evening Star was deposited in his care, he suddenly found himself short of “suitable engines” for various light shunting duties, and a fire was once again burning inside BR’s last steam engine.

He kept at this duty for some time, and one day a train arrived from Gloucester with a most unusual load. 

“Hey,” Samarkand said weakly, the fire long since gone from her. “Remember me?” 

Star said nothing, afraid of the sound he’d make if he tried. Slowly, and with great dignity, he shunted her into a section of the yard that he tried his best to avoid. In it, engine after engine was lined up, ready for final transport to the scrapper’s yard in Newport. 

“Well, I guess this is where fate puts me,” Samarkand said, still keeping a brave face. “Keep me in your thoughts, yeah?” 

It was the calm acceptance that broke him. “No,” he said firmly. 

“What?” Confusion wrote itself across her face. “No?”

Star ignored her. His crew had done this before, with other engines. They found it best to disappear for a few minutes, to give the engines some last words. They’d never done it with Evening Star, but they assumed that he was like every other engine. 

They assumed wrong. 

Star was smart enough to know things that he wasn’t strictly supposed to, and it was trivial to release his brakes, move his reverser, and put the smallest amount of steam through his pistons. Slowly, quietly, so as to avoid notice, he began reversing across the yard with Samarkand in tow. 

“What?” To her credit, she wasn’t stupid either. “Where are we going to go? We’ll never make it out of the tunnel.”

“We don’t have to go far.” He said quietly, navigating the yard until he came upon a specific switch. It was the work of a few minutes, some pointed lies, and a few direct threats, but eventually a cowering platelayer switched them onto a disused siding behind the sheds. 

“You can’t hide me,” she protested. “I’m enormous!” 

“I’m not hiding anything.” He said, slowing to a halt. “On the contrary, I want them to find us.” 

He jerked his regulator, and his driving wheels spun wildly for a moment. 

That was all it took for the disintegrating ties under them to give way, and the rails parted under them. With a shrieking sound of crunching wood, both engines crashed to the ground, sinking into the soft earth. 

---

The BR men were very upset when they came to confront him. “You stupid great engine!” One yelled. “Don’t you see what you’ve done? If they can’t get you out, we’ll cut you up on the spot!” 

“You won’t,” he said with deadly seriousness. “I’m in the National Collection. You’d have better luck knocking down the Tower of London.”

“Then we’ll find another engine and say that they’re you!” another one spat. “Nobody will notice. We’ll, we’ll just get the last one from Crewe or something! They made your kind there too! Yes! That’s what we’ll do!” 

Smythe was among their number, and he found a sudden interest in the ground near his shoes. 

“Why don’t you look behind you?” Evening Star held eye contact with the man, who eventually did turn. Samarkand’s nameplates, and the smaller plate that said “LAST ENGINE PRODUCED AT CREWE WORKS, 1958” shone under the work lights. 

What the man said next was unprintable, and Smythe was eventually forced to take charge. “Evening Star,” he said in his officious manner. “Why have you done this? Surely there is something we can do to make things right?” 

The second man raged ineffectually about “appeasement,” and Smythe ignored him. 

“You’re going to save her, or you’re going to cut us both,” Star said firmly. “I’m not negotiating.”

The second man got even angrier, and the first man joined him. They swore up and down that they would do horrible things - cut him up while she watched, cut her up while he watched, cut them both up and make a new engine out of the parts, and so on. Eventually, Smythe lost patience. “Gentlemen if you please would stop, this is juvenile and vindictive of the highest order.”

The second man had been smoking a pipe the entire time, and he took it out of his mouth in order to wave it around for effect while he protested. In the process of doing so, a huge clump of half-burnt tobacco flew out and landed on Smythe’s jacket, ruining it. 

The second man abruptly stopped, and Smythe’s glare grew withering. “P-perhaps we could find some arrangement that will suit everyone!” the man stammered, and scuttled away to find a telephone. 

Smythe turned to the other man. “Do you have any further input into the situation?” 

“There’s a heritage railroad in Yorkshire that’s been trying to buy an engine,” the other man said, terrified. “We can reach out to them in the morning.”

“Then the matter is settled.” And Smythe left to make the arrangements.

 The two engines were left in silence. Evening Star felt very pleased with himself, and Samarkand looked teary. “I… can’t believe you did it,” she said at last. 

“I’m Evening Star,” he smiled. “And you’re Samarkand. We can do anything.”

----------------

1999 - Yorkshire

It was an unfortunately all-too-common story in the realm of rail preservation: Rich man buys an engine, then another, and then another. Eventually he’s got an entire shed’s worth, but no railway to run them on. He never wants to own the railway - it’s too much something, be it liability, cash, or hassle. So he spreads his fleet to the winds; engines end up wherever someone has space for them, oftentimes spending months or years under a tarp. He plays at absent parenthood, and wonders why his engines always have some failure that his childhood books never mentioned. The engines he owns don’t mind him - most of the time they don’t ever see him enough to form an opinion… and anything is better than the scrapyard. 

Eventually, things start to change, usually for the worse. The money runs out, or his health fails; Occasionally the interest wanes, but whatever the cause, the engines go to seed. The collection is dispersed - some to museums, some to heritage lines, and some end up sitting in fields gathering rust. It’s an unhappy sight, made only slightly better by the egalitarian nature of it all: steam, diesel, even electric - none are immune. 

On this occasion, the doddering old man had died without a will. His children had jumped on his fortune like starving dogs, and when the dust settled, his “railway collection” was to be sold at public auction. It was sizable, with coaches, engines, various paraphernalia, and even an electric multiple unit going up for sale. 

The vast majority of the collection, (but not all of it - nothing was ever in the same place) had been stored at the big heritage railroad in the Moors of North Yorkshire. They claimed altruism, but all the engines had seen the men from the mechanical department prowling about, looking for those in good condition. (They hadn’t found many.)

Evening Star found it all a touch disgusting, but stilled his tongue once again. Thirty-Five years after he’d turned a wheel in revenue service, engines (and people) still got snippy over his favored position in the National Collection, his immortality, and offering up his opinion was a surefire way to solidify those of everyone else against him. And he needed their opinions of him to be favorable for his plan to work. 

It had to work. It was so important to him that he had to see it through himself, even if it meant agreeing to be an outdoor exhibit for the entire summer.

“Oh my goodness, it’s Evening Star!” The sun was coming up on the morning of the auction, and a steady trickle of people had made their way past him. Each one of them was Important to the heritage rail industry, and he stopped them all. 

“Which lots do you plan to bid on?” he asked, deathly serious in a way that made most of them stop in their tracks and answer him honestly. 

“The coaches, mostly.” 

“That class 40 in the corner.” 

“We might not be buying anything. It’s probably going to be too rich for our backers to absorb.”

“Our Austerity is coming up on his boiler ticket, so we need another tank engine.” 

“Lots 201-230, mostly. Why do you ask?” 

“Oh heavens, whatever the price is right for.”

“I promised the wife I’d only buy one thing, so…” 

“Well, among other things, we’re interested in your sister, 92250.”

“No,” he said firmly, cutting the man off. 

“No, what?” 

“No, you won’t be bidding on her.” 

“I beg your pardon? What gives you the right to-” 

“I don’t know you, which means that you haven’t come from one of the big lines, the ones that can fake an express working on open days. We’re not meant to meander around on tiny branches, so that by itself disqualifies you.”

The man turned pink. “I will have you know that-”

“I bet your works is barely bigger than she is, so you’re not going to care for her appropriately. You know her ticket expires next year?  How’re you going to handle that? Or are you going to stick her outside and let her rot while you make some fundraising campaign that lasts a decade?”

The man wilted angrily, and stormed off without a word. 

“That’s what I thought,” Evening Star said to nobody. 

The next few passers-by were mostly interested in the small pieces - parts, pieces, memorabilia, the few Hornby models that were collected on a table. One group consisted of a dozen people, and they expressed with rather fervent devotion that they planned to own the electric multiple unit by day’s end. He wished them luck.

After them was a group he recognized well - the upper management of the NRM. “Hello, Star!” they said gaily. “Find anything you like at this auction? Anything you think we should be keeping an eye out for?” 

They were joking, in the way many people did when talking to engines, but he didn’t take the bait. “Lot 347. Bid on her and don’t stop until you win.” 

Most of them chuckled, but one had actually read the auctioneer’s brochure. “Star, we already have a 9F. You should know that considering it’s you.” 

“And you’ll have two,” he said firmly. “This isn’t a request. There’s nothing and no-one here that’s more deserving of the Collection.” 

“I would say that there’s perhaps a few more things.” The museum’s director brushed him off without a second thought. “Let me do my job, and I shan’t interfere with yours.” 

The group walked away without another word, leaving a scowling Evening Star behind. “I don’t recall being asked if I wanted to have the job of 'lawn ornament.' You just won’t fix me, you cheap-”

“I say,” a voice called nearby. “I’ve never seen an engine so devoted to an auction that they aren’t a part of! In fact, I’ve seen many an engine not be too interested when they are on the block themselves.” A stout man in a 3 piece suit meandered into Star’s line of view, trailed by several others, all wearing workmen’s coats. “Tell me, what is so important about lot 3-4-7?” 

“An idiot is going to buy my sister,” Star grumbled, drawing suppressed chuckles from the stout man’s entourage. 

“How can you be so certain?” the man said, mirth twinkling in his eyes. 

“They’re all idiots,” Star said, trying to figure out why this man seemed familiar. “They have main line aspirations and tank engine capabilities.” 

One of the entourage let slip a full fledged guffaw, and Star glared at him. “They’ll treat her terribly. She’s too big, too spirited. They’ll buy her for their little Hornby train set in the woods and then blame her for not fitting on the turntable, mark my words.”  

“You certainly have a strong opinion on the matter,” the stout man said. “She must be very important to you.” 

“Someone has to look out for her,” he said, voice rock-steady. 

“I see,” the man said. “And what do you think of me, then? Am I an idiot?”

“Stephen, we came here for the coaches,” snapped a different member of the entourage. 

“And we shall have them,” the man calmed his associate. 

Star narrowed his eyes. “What would you use her for? Excursions?” 

The man snorted. “Oh heavens no. I have a real railway. She’d be pulling heavy goods trains, and perhaps filling in on passenger runs. I do seem to recall that your class was able to run at great speeds with little issue, so the possibilities are endless.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Maybe I shall use her for express passenger workings.” 

“We came here. For. The Coaches.” said the other man again. 

“She’s mainline certified,” Star said, unsure if the feeling in his boiler was whimsy or desperation. “Boiler ticket’s still good for a few more months. Whatever you buy, she can pull home.” 

The stout man beamed while his entourage looked at each other in disgust. “You have a problem, and somehow, I always end up dealing with it,” said the other man. 

“You know, I don’t think that’s true,” the stout man said, producing a strange object from under his arm. It was a flat, black circle. “I’ve found that most of the time, I have solutions.” 

He smacked the circle against his hand, and it popped out into the form of a silk top hat, which he placed upon his head firmly. “Thank you, Evening Star. You have been most helpful.” 

And The Fat Controller walked away with his entourage, leaving an absolutely gobsmacked Evening Star behind. 

“Oh my god,” the big engine said in quiet shock. “I think Sam is going to Sodor.” 

----

About two hours later, when the auction finally reached Lot 347, only a smattering of paddles were raised. One stayed raised longer than all the others, and Evening Star felt downright giddy as the auctioneer called out “Sold! To the man in the Top Hat for thirty thousand.” 

----

Two days later, and Samarkand was parked next to him, raising steam for the journey across the country. “Thirty thousand seems low, doesn’t it? Surely I’m worth more than that? I think the buffet coach went for more,” she whispered to her brother, trying not to disturb the line of Mark 2 coaches behind her. 

Star just smiled. “Sam, I think that you’re worth all the money in the world, but in this case, don’t think of it as being undervalued. Think of it as the world’s greatest bargain.”

“What d’ya mean?” 

“You’re an immortal now, Sammie. You’re going to Sodor, and there, you will drink from their fountain of youth and live forever. All for the low price of thirty thousand of someone else’s pounds.”

There was a long silence, long enough that he wondered if she was crying. Instead, there was a strange mix of giddy thoughtfulness working its way across her face. “No.”

“No what?” “You’re in the National Collection. And I’m going to Sodor.” She looked thrilled. “So that means that we’re going to live forever.”

[joezworld]

Express Engines

So, recently some friends of mine (@sparkarrestor chief among them) finally got me to watch some TTTE fan videos on youtube. I really never got into that stuff - I’m “an old” by Tumblr standards, and my first exposure to TTTE fan video content was back in the days of wooden models filmed with potatoes, and Trainz productions that still had the Fraps logo onscreen. Things were dire, and I never bothered to really investigate further in the intervening decade+. Watching it now, I’m absolutely astounded by the level of quality and skill that a lot of people on youtube have gotten up to. I find writing to be tedious and slow, but at the least I get a few new paragraphs or pages at the end of each night to read back through. Filmmaking, especially the animated stuff that these people are making, is such a long game that I don’t think I could stand it. 

One of the first things that Sparks (and @weirdowithaquill) showed me was Rhydyronen’s Express Engines, the superbly made adaptation of the second book in Sodor Island Forum’s (SiF) Extended Railway Series. (ERS)  I could honestly go on about the production quality and filmmaking skill involved in this for some time, but I feel as though after a while it would stop being constructive responses and more just me pointing at the screen and mumbling things about camera movements, so I’ll relent for right now. Just assume that I really enjoyed it and keep coming back to it.  

(That being said, watching “Fourth Time Unlucky” and “Keeping Up With Castle” made me feel like my third eye was opening several different times. I had no idea that some of the filmmaking techniques in this were even possible, especially the big conversation set piece in Fourth Time Unlucky.)

---

All that being said… I do have quite a few issues with the story itself. Not the cinematography, the animation, or the voice acting, but the heart of this work - the script. It’s not a problem with Rhydyronen, the creator, instead it’s something inherent to the work itself. 

Allow me to explain:

SiF’s ERS was very formative to me as “a young,” entering the fandom in the late -00s and early -10s. I read literally of them, and even went through the long-since-retconned V1 archive that is still present on the “Your Own Railway Series Style Stories” page. There’s a non-zero chance that I know more about this series of works than anyone who isn’t an active or former contributor to the ERS. Even to this day, I check in every other Saturday to see what they’ve put out. A lot of my works are based in no small part on the real world setting of Sodor-in-the-present that they’ve done. It’s a huge part of my life, and even if I never log in to the site again, its influence will hang over my life for years or even decades to come.

There’s just one problem with all of this: The ERS is, from a very fundamental standpoint, bad. 

I don’t mean this in a critical “this is terribly written” way - far from it, in fact. The real issue with the ERS is more fundamental: they created a world, a rich tapestry of words and stories, that draws from the works of Wilbert and Christopher Awdry… and then they made it profoundly miserable to be in. 

Now, this is not a bad thing, as @mean-scarlet-deceiver has rather masterfully written, but with SiF, it’s a more cloying and existential form of misery that doesn’t really do anything or go anywhere. Sodor is on its face a normal place to live, like any other part of England, but read almost any story and you will find things happening that seem to go against the grain of most TTTE fic writers, but also of just basic understandings of human decency. 

Starting off from the beginning, ERS book 42 Evan the Private Engine is a great example of what I’m talking about. Evan, the titular engine, is a privately owned narrow gauge engine operating on the Skarloey Railway. At one point, many years ago, he broke down and was abandoned by his owner in situ. Now, for everyone who is a dyed in the wool TTTE fan like me, search your feelings and think of what happens to this engine next. Is he adopted by the Skarloey engines? Do they re-home him somewhere else? Is this actually a story being told by Skarloey to the other engines? Vote now on your phones. 

[Buzzing noise] Wrong answer! What actually happens is that Evan is left where he is for so long that everyone forgets about him, and he’s covered in the overgrowth out by the lake. When he’s discovered “many years later,” he’s lost his memory, and will never get it back. 

This is the first book in the ERS. I told @lswro2-222 about this and she’s still mad about it. 

Things do not improve from there. The ERS is filled with countless stories of: 

Engines being forgotten about for decades, (ERS #152 – Scrapyard Engines) 

Engines being threatened with scrapping after suffering from mechanical issues (ERS #58 – Brave Mountain Engines)

When said engine (quite reasonably) tries to ensure their place on the railway by sabotaging someone else, they’re sent away for scrap anyways (ERS #70 – Norman the Mountain Engine)

Engines rather abruptly deciding to leave the island of Sodor, for almost no in-text reason. (ERS #221 – Dane the Electric Engine)

Engines rather abruptly deciding to leave the island of Sodor, just as their character arc was reaching a high point (ERS #320 – Procor the Mainland Engine)

Massive interpersonal conflicts between members of railway staff that would in any other universe result in someone quitting due to the toxic work environment. (ERS #462 - The Joint Controllers, ERS # 464 - The Fat Controller's Birthday Party)

Extremely out-of-place bouts of anti-diesel racism all the way in the 1990s (ERSN #9 – Dockside Engines)

The Fat Controller (among others) treating engines like children, property, or in some other extremely dehumanizing way, even if they had no control over the situation. (ERS #452 – Lorries and Engines, among many others)

I could go on for some time, and many of these are far from the worst examples. There’s also a huge number of baffling choices, like creating an engine that can only talk in horse noises, and then much later having this engine have a mental breakdown over his inability to communicate. (ERSN7 - The Pegasus Railtour Campaign) They also killed off Stephen Hatt, but did it in a way that rubs me the wrong way and does nothing to really add to the character's legacy. (ERSN #15 – The Hatt Family’s Engines) I could go on about this one for about as long as I could go on about Pegasus, but I don’t have that much time at any point between now and forever, so we'll leave it at that.) 

Meanwhile, interesting characters are often created and then immediately set aside in favor of things that are nowhere near as interesting. Now that I know this is a matter of taste, but would you rather read about a diesel engine placed in storage for so long that she turned malevolently insane, (ERS #169 – Sudrian Diesel Engines) or various background characters like a skip lorry that interacts with almost none of the “main” cast of the island? (ERS #475 - Rocky the Skip Lorry) I know which one I want to see, which is why the insane diesel hasn’t gotten a story all to herself since her introduction in (checks notes) 2011. 

However, all of this pales in comparison to the real issue with the ERS - all of this is more or less subjective, but there’s a real, substantial, problem here: Nobody actually seems to like each other. 

Reading through the stories, there’s this overwhelming sense that none of the characters - engine, person, or otherwise, actually enjoy each other’s company unless it’s explicitly stated in text. Even then, that measure is sometimes shaky, as characterizations can change from book to book. Engines can be on good terms with each other in one, and the next, they can be snapping at each other for no clearly defined reason. 

Well, they might try to define it, but the ERS is rather insistent on following the short, easy to digest four-story format used by the Awdrys, which means that any character development occurs suddenly, and with little room to flesh things out. What this results in is often poorly-explained conflict that could be salvaged if they ever strayed away from the standard 4-story format. A good example of this is ERS# 340 - BoCo & the Freight Diesels. This book is actually one of the better ones in terms of character arcs - it follows a pair of class 60 diesels (Spartan and Wakefield) as they deal with the fallout of their brother/leader leaving Sodor unexpectedly. (ERS #320 - I could go on about that decision as well. The character was written out because it conflicted with what the actual, IRL locomotive he was based on was doing. Meanwhile, I’ve got City of Goddamn Truro running rampage through Sodor.) These three engines have better-than-average characterization due to the absolutely god-tier introductory story they received (ERS #151), but even still, the relatively short length of each book/chapter means that the contents of book 340 and the preceding stories don’t exactly give us enough insight into the engine’s psyches to fully grasp what’s happening. It’s not so much of a case of “telling instead of showing” as it is “this comes at you quickly and without any real advance warning.” This is probably more true to life with how people act under stress, but… this is fiction. You can show the audience what’s going on. There’s a good reason why some of the best works in the ERS are the long-form ERS Novels that allow characters room to breathe. 

(Also, in #340, the Fat Controller just absolutely rips an engine a new one for causing an accident, in the process completely sidestepping the fact that said engine had a driver and a second man on board the entire time. SiF does their level best to infantilize the engines whenever possible while at the same time making them 100% responsible for the failings of the people around them.)

Another great example of this is Daphne - the NWR’s Deltic that I stole for my own fan works because there’s a solid core to the character, but she’s been sadly let down by the works that follow. In the ERS she has a decently traumatic backstory, with lots of room for expansion of the character or at the very least, hints of other things. However Daphne is at most a secondary character to the ERS, and often appears in other stories, rather than her own. In these, the writers follow a handy rule of thumb for writing her: 

Deltics are loud, and so naturally, Daphne must be loud. Loud people are annoying, so Daphne must be annoying. Because Daphne is annoying, she must often speak without thinking. Because she speaks without thinking, she must be the most irritating bitch anyone has ever seen. 

I mean this seriously. Daphne’s entire role in a lot of the ERS is to show up, say something unintentionally insulting, and then drive away. She had a good introduction to the ERS in book #135, but since then she’s mostly been a loudmouth side character. Even her entry in the ERS guide says so: 

Daphne is best known as the big diesel with the big mouth! There is little denying that she is a good worker when she wants to be, but her occasionally spiky temper, bossiness and boastfulness can often lead to her fall from grace. She also has a knack of speaking without thinking, something that has caused many an upset or unfortunate incident over the years.

This is not an interesting character. This is an annoyance of the highest order and I don’t know why they keep her around.

At no point since her introduction over a decade ago has anyone tried to change this. They let her stagnate in the background while the fucking horse engine gets his own novel! 

-

I apologize, I’m getting slightly off track here. What I’m trying to say is that the ERS fundamentally does not understand its characters, starting at the Fat Controller and working their way down the list. There’s hundreds of episodes of someone getting yelled at for an incident outside their control, even when it’s plainly obvious that it had to be. Characters vary wildly, and act outside of what you would expect, considering when a story might happen in-universe. 

A great example of this is in Book #338. Honey, a new-build diesel shunter, is bought by the Ffarquhar Quarry Company and in short order, pulls every capital-D-Diesel trick in the book to get Mavis replaced… and it works. Mavis is hauled away on a lorry to an uncertain future, (she eventually gets bought by the NWR, don’t worry) with everyone in real fear that she’s going to get scrapped. Now, in my works, Thomas and Co. would probably commit murder; a lot of more normal folks might have the entire Ffarquhar branch in an uproar - something like the deputation that saved Donald and Douglas way back when. 

What SiF does… is nothing. Absolutely nothing. Thomas and Co. not only don’t try and get Mavis back, but they eventually welcome Honey into the branch line family a few books later (ERS #368 – Christmas at Ffarquhar) despite Honey being one of the only engines in the ERS or the original RWS to succeed in her evil mission. 

This is such a fundamental misunderstanding of the characters, starting with the most obvious one - Thomas the Tank Engine - that this almost would have to be set in the 1960s or 1950s. Nobody has grown attached to Mavis yet, and Honey isn’t obviously evil or something. 

Naaaaaaaaaaah. This story canonically takes place in 2018 and Honey speaks in Gen-Z/Millenial slang while actively sabotaging Mavis in broad daylight. I wish I was making this up. 

------

Apologies, I got off track again. 

So, what does any of this have to do with the Express Engines youtube video that I linked up top? 

Well, I think it shows rather clearly how the ERS rather wantonly misunderstands its own characters. Writers far better than I (@mean-scarlet-deceiver) have written pages and pages on the mental states of many of the RWS cast, most notably Gordon, who is the main character of Express Engines.

Again, Jobey has written far more on the subject than I have, but suffice it to say that by 1996 - the “canon” date of Express Engines - Gordon has mellowed out significantly. Even if he thinks that he’s going to be top dog on Sodor forever, he definitely isn’t up his own ass about it like how he was in the early days. He’s getting old and he knows it, and when Pip and Emma eventually do show up in the RWS, he’s remarkably mellow about the whole thing. Granted, that’s about 10-15 years further up the line, but it goes to show that he’s not going to go ballistic or act like a child at the first sign of his dominance being threatened like he might have in the 1930s. 

(Actually, having read all the books, I don’t think he’d act like that at most points after maybe WWII. A lot of his “I’m the fastest and the best!” schtick came from being a very big but very solitary fish in a very small pond, and getting him someone his own size to play with might have taken the edge off of his sense of self-importance.) 

Quite naturally, that’s exactly what he does in Express Engines. 

In the “book” version of the story, the main source of conflict is him lying to newly-arrived Sodor Castle about whistle codes, and this goes directly into the time trial section of the story, before wrapping up with a neat little bow of Gordon going off to get an overhaul. 

As a side note, the SiF-standard infantilization of engines starts off strong with this book. The primary conflict is Gordon feeling threatened by the arrival of a new express engine. What nobody has told him is that said new express engine is there primarily to cover for him when goes in for an overhaul. Why has nobody told him this? Because nobody told him he was getting an overhaul. The poor engine was going insane and picking fights based on literally nothing but a misunderstanding. 

Now, this is all fine and good - it actually reads a lot like Gordon just giving the new kid a hard time while working through his own insecurities, (something we can probably all relate to) but the video adaptation adds more stories, and goes… a lot further. 

For those who haven’t seen it, in the video, Gordon is basically being sidelined to the nth degree following Sodor Castle’s arrival, and it is driving him up the wall. Following the events of Fourth Time Unlucky, which covers the whistle code scene, Gordon and Sodor Castle are in a near constant feud, which comes to a head in the next (all-new) episode Keeping Up With Castle. In it, the primary set piece is a scene that @lswro2-222 called “Gordon McFuckin’ Loses It,” because, frankly, he does. There’s an extended race scene between a borderline-crazy Gordon and an all-too-smug Sodor Castle (seriously, he’s approaching unlikeable levels of smug and snooty) that ends with Gordon dangerously overshooting the platforms at Wellsworth. It’s very well shot, very well edited, has some great voice acting, and absolutely positively does not make sense within any existing characterization of Gordon that I have ever seen. 

I’ve thought about it for some time and maybe if this happened during the height of the modernization plan in the 60s, when everyone’s spirits were at an all-time low, it might have worked. It might have fit with the desperation and malaise of that era, maybe. For this story to take place in the late 90s, this is an almost impossible characterization of Gordon. I hate to be prescriptive of other people’s fan works and go “he would not fucking say that” but… he would not fucking say that. At all. Under any circumstances. It just wouldn’t happen. 

In a similar vein to that, the characterization of the other engines really chafes at me. Sodor Castle shows up, seemingly displacing Gordon to the slow services, and the immediate response is to embrace the newcomer while mocking Gordon. This is perhaps the closest to “canon” I would say the video comes - the engines would do that at first; Gordon getting one-upped so publicly by a Westerner would be hilarious for a good long while. The issue, however, comes from the fact that nobody ever seems to notice that Gordon is legitimately upset by this whole development. They either continue mocking him or actively take Sodor Castle's side, which isn't something you do unless you have a rather strong dislike for someone. Not exactly the way you'd think the engines would act after being shoved together for 50-70 years… unless you write for the ERS. 

Also, I have a particular bug up my ass about Sodor Castle in this video. He's almost too smug and prissy to be likeable. A lot of his lines work really well as singular lines, but the instant you realize the circumstances they're said in it all falls apart. As an example, during the race scene in Keeping Up With Castle, you'd think he'd be concerned or worried when Gordon goes screeching through Wellsworth with his brakes hard on. Even if he dislikes Gordon by now, the passengers must have gone through the far walls of the coaches, and instead Castle takes the time to gloat. It's the little things like that that really get me - the writers are obviously aware of what's going on, and choosing this particular response says a lot in a very unintentional way.

And, on the subject of saying things, I do want to make one point clear: This is not a mean-spirited “takedown” of the ERS. Any fan work that’s gone on for literal decades, with hundreds of distinct stories and characters, is commendable just in the sheer effort exerted by those involved. I will gladly applaud SiF in their work to have a consistent quality and tone to their work, even if it's not one that I universally agree with. 

Furthermore, I like the ERS. While many of the stories in it are misses, when they hit it out of the park, they really do it. The ERS Novels, especially numbers 1, 2, and 9 (The Life & Times Of Jim The Jinx, The Peel Godred Railway, Dockside Engines) are unironically good.

Many of the characters, especially those introduced in the ERS’s early days like Daphne, Winston, Samarkand, Zelda, and the Class 60 trio, are legitimately interesting, and had captivating introductions to the franchise. Sometimes, SiF even predicts the future, adding Pip and Emma to Sodor years before Chris Awdry did, and did so with an excellent set of stories that heavily influenced my own interpretation of the characters.  (and then, in a classic SiF move, they de-canonized those stories once it became clear that they couldn’t be reconciled with new Awdry canon) There is a lot of genuine skill that has gone into the ERS, and it’s definitely influenced the entire TTTE fan community whether you realize it or not. (Everyone calls the works diesel Wendell. Why? SiF named him.) It certainly influenced me, and that’s why I feel the need to write this all out. This series has been a significant part of my life for a significant part of my life, and it disappoints me to no end that it stumbles so often. This isn’t a callout of “you suck,” instead it’s a callout of “do better, please.” 

--------------

This viewpoint has taken me several months to collate into a single thinkpiece. I kicked the idea around for a bit, thought it out more, watched the video a few more times, and then realized that I’d have to talk about SiF a lot. (oh no, what a tragedy.) So here it is. Hope you enjoyed it.

------------

Oh, one other thing. 

While I was watching the video, and thinking about how wrong this all was, and then I thought, “well I’d do this differently.” 

And then I did. 

And then things got very out of hand. 

I may have stolen some characters from SiF. 

(Don’t worry, they’re some of the ones that I like, from the few books that I enjoy.)

Anyway, here's Express Engines. 

2001 

It was barely spring on the Island of Sodor, and already the railway was being pushed to its limits. Congestion at other ports on the mainland had forced more ships into the port of Tidmouth (and, by extension, the ports of Knapford and Arlesburgh), and so the cargo trains got longer and more frequent. 

At the same time, the Easter holidays coincided with a spate of unseasonably early warm weather, so the island was swarmed with people seeking sunny beaches and scenic getaways. Tourist class tickets were in especially high demand, and on some days the Limited and the Midday Express would strain under the weight of five, seven, or even ten third class coaches. 

Fortunately, none of the engines were “down” for heavy maintenance, so while there wasn’t a scrabble to find available motive power, some… interesting schedule choices had to be made. 

-

“Henry, it’s occurred to me that I haven’t seen you leave to pull the Kipper in some time.” Gordon said one morning. 

“I haven’t been.” Henry yawned. “BoCo’s been taking it.”  

“BoCo?” 

“He said yes, don’t worry.” Henry said blearily. 

“But why aren’t you-”

“Because I’m getting about two hours of sleep if I take the Kipper and the morning stopper train, and that’s if someone isn’t snoring loud enough to shake the dust off the ceiling beams.”

“I assure you that I do not-”

“S’not you, you daft thing. It’s James. I think there’s something wrong with him.”

--

Bear growled in displeasure. It was a deep, bass-y sound that seemed to echo through the ground, and Bill and Ben fled back to the clay pits in terror. 

“-and if I catch you pulling that ever again, I’ll be the last thing you ever see!” 

Edward looked on in awe. “Can you teach BoCo how to do that?”

--

Duck goggled. “I think I’ve seen it all now.” 

Emma smiled meekly. “I know it’s a little unusual, but-”

“I didn’t mean it as a bad thing., Duck cut in graciously. 

“Oh thanks.” She looked around. “I wish we didn’t have such a long train, we could probably come down here more often. It’s very pretty-”

“Oi!” cut in Mike, from the Small Railway’s tracks. “What’s wrong wit’ Oliver?”

Looking back, Duck could see Oliver trying and failing to hide from Pip, much to her chagrin. 

“Don’t worry about it! He deserves it!” he said after a moment’s deliberation.

--

“Excuse me,” the big EWS diesel asked as he rolled into Crovan’s Gate with a line of flatbeds. “But is this a heritage railway or something? What are you doing here exactly? Are you on a railtour?” 

“Railtour?” James sniffed. “I’m not a railtour! I'm late! Ta ta!” 

And he steamed away in a hurry. 

“That… didn’t answer my question.”

----

During this time, the Fat Controller was nowhere to be seen. Rumours flew between the coaches and trucks that he was out finding them another engine, but the engines themselves knew better. 

“From where would he find a King class?”

“I don’t know! But there’s a biiiiig engine back there under a sheet, and a bunch of paint all labeled “GW Green” sitting around - more than Duck and Oliver could need put together!”

Well, some of them did. 

“James, what now?” Henry groaned as he rolled into the shed. All he wanted to do was sleep,but it seemed like this wouldn’t happen soon. 

“Look,” James spluttered, as Gordon and Bear stared with skepticism heavy on their brows. “All I know is: Engine, sheet, paint, and soon!”

“Soon?” Bear scoffed. “Soon what? Soon the hols will be over? Soon that summer will come? Show me some proof.”

“Oh for- what about that tarped over thingy that came in last Christmas? I saw it! That’s real!” 

“That could be anything!” Gordon butted in. “There’s dozens of preserved lines that wish to make use of our facilities. For all we know, it is a King class that’s being restored for a museum!”

Henry suddenly felt very bemused. He had something to say now, but it needed to be timed perfectly.

He waited a few minutes, as Bear and Gordon continued grilling James over details that he couldn’t possibly have known. It was quite funny, but not as funny as what he had to say. 

Finally, as his eyelids drooped and his fire died down to embers, he saw his chance. “Excuse me, if I may.” He yawned. Gordon and Bear stopped mid-sentence to look at him. From the startled look Gordon was hiding, it seemed like they’d forgotten he was there.  “But I did overhear from the coaches on the Limited, who themselves overheard from the Fat Controller, that we are getting another engine - just not a King, but instead, a Castle!” 

The reactions of the others were priceless, and held just long enough for him to close his eyes and fall happily to sleep!

-----

The next morning, The Fat Controller arrived as the sun rose. “Well, my ears have been burning all morning,” he said jovially. “So I assume you already know about the new engines,-”

“EngineS?”

----

Last year - around Guy Fawkes Night

Stephen Hatt strode into his office to find his secretary holding the phone about three feet from her ear. Even at that distance, a great commotion was clearly audible. 

“The National Railway Museum for you sir,” she said, straining to keep the phone as far away as possible. “Mind the volume when you answer.” 

He gave her a wide berth and an askance look as he entered his office. Sitting down at his desk, he picked up the handset out of reflex, and quickly set it back down again. Carefully, he moved the phone to the other end of his desk, and pushed the speakerphone button with the corner of a particularly tall book. 

Pandemonium burst forth from the device, and it took a moment for Stephen to pick out the sound of a human voice over what sounded like a fully-involved riot in the background. “Hello? Stephen? Are you there? It’s Andrew. Look, Stephen, I shan’t mince words with you, but we’ve made a terrible mistake and you’re the only person left who can fix it.”

Stephen, having recovered from being assaulted by a wave of sound, raised an eyebrow. “Fix it? I haven’t even been told what the problem is yet!” 

“What? Can you speak up- oh for goodness’ sake!” There was a sound of a phone handset being put down, and then the sound of a door opening. The sounds of the riot became louder and more pronounced for a moment, and then there was a bellow of “QUIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEET!” that shook the phone. 

The door then shut with a suddenly audible click, and then Andrew was back on the phone. “I’m terribly sorry about that.”

“What is happening over there?” Stephen asked, agog. 

“My problem.” Andrew said, his tone hasty. He clearly expected the noise to start up again. “We’ve done some, uh. re-arranging of our collections you see, and two engines were put together who really have no business being anywhere near-”

“CITY OF TRURO I WILL KILL YOU TONIGHT.” A female voice came through loud and clear, to the point where the speakerphone vibrated halfway off the desk. “KEEP TALKING AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS.”

Stephen’s expression became slightly more fixed, and he stayed quiet for a long moment. 

Andrew could feel his hesitation. “Please. We haven’t been able to open for three days. They’re on opposite sides of the building and they’re still at it. We have to get one of them off property.” 

“Andrew…” Stephen said slowly. “You do recall that City of Truro had a most remarkable change of fortune some years ago, correct?”

“Stephen,” Andrew was close to begging. “Nobody will take him. We have to do something!” 

“Your use of the word 'we' is very inspired, Andy.” Stephen was actually going to have to get up and walk around his desk to reach the phone. 

“Wait! Wait!” His finger stopped inches from the “end call” button. “We’ll do anything! Name it!” 

The Fat Controller smiled. “Anything, you say?” 

-------

The engine had been brought in under cover - both tarpaulin and darkness. Once it had been delivered, it had been immediately shunted away into a far corner of the works, away from prying eyes. 

It was only then that the cover was removed, and the engine was revealed. A six-coupled Westerner, one of the great Castles of yore. She - and she most definitely was a she - was resplendent in Great Western Green and Gold, complete with all the little filigree marks that only a steam-era Swindon would apply. The paint had barely lost its luster, and it appeared from the outside as though this engine had been shunted through a portal in time. 

The only part of her that showed any age at all was her face. Around her eyes and brows were laugh lines and wrinkles, a generation of smiles and conversation physically worked into the structure of her beauty. 

She wasn’t smiling now, though. Frown lines cut into her face unnaturally, as she sent a venomous glare in the direction of the man standing by her pony truck.

“You were much more compliant back at the Science Museum,” he said, continuing an argument that had been ongoing since the moment he’d arrived in her line of sight. 

“I was valued at the Science Museum,” she snapped, putting heavy weight on the word valued. “And then you deaccessioned me.” 

“We were renovating!” He protested. “I would’ve thought that you would have loved being amongst your own kind. You were to be put in your own special museum!” 

“I was in the Museum longer than I ever was on the rails, but you never cared enough to find out which setting I preferred, did you?” she hissed. “All you wanted was Neil’s job!” 

“Sir Cossons stood down to run English Heritage and you know it.” 

“All I know is that you were in there for less than a month before I was 'better suited for display in York!'” 

“So you could be put in Swindon when the museum there was ready!” 

“But I didn’t want to go to Swindon!” she screeched. “And in any event, This. Isn’t. Swindon! You and Andrew sold me rather than deal with Truro!”

“Truro is more…” 

“Say that he’s more famous than me. Say it. That’s all Showboat Sharp ever cares about. Not that he’s totally unsuitable for public display, or that he-”

“He can keep his mouth shut when Andy tells him to, which is more than I can say about you!” He looked at her with disgust in his eyes. “You are a train! You are supposed to be seen and not heard, and no more!” 

Whatever she was about to say in reply - and it would have been vicious - was cut off by the opening of a distant door. A top-hatted figure emerged from the outside, and made his way towards them. 

“And,” the man whispered. “We didn’t sell you. I gave you away. It’s the only way the fat bastard would take this deal.”

There was a quiet “so glad to be valued...”, but it was lost in the arrival of the top hat wearing man. “Ah, Dr. Sharp, and Caerphilly Castle, I’m Stephen Hatt. Wonderful to meet you both in person.” 

“Charmed.” Lied man and engine as one as a small crowd of workmen filed in behind the man. 

Without prompting, the portly man clambered up onto Caerphilly’s bufferbeam to address the room. To her surprise, he did so gracefully, managing to not snag himself on her lamp irons, and his shoes were sturdy boots that gripped the metal properly. Maybe he wasn’t an officious fop after all?

“Well everyone,” he said, facing the group. “This is the surprise that I have been talking about. Without going into too many details, it seems as though the Science Museum’s recent renovations have left Caerphilly Castle without a home. Now, she was originally relocated to York, however a…” He paused diplomatically. “Certain engine caused much trouble for her there, and she has now made her way to us. I’d like to thank Dr. Sharp, the director of the Science Museum, for this kind contribution to our railway.”

“How much did you pay for ‘er?” came a voice from the front of the group of men. “Was it market value for once?” It was followed by poorly-suppressed laughter from the crowd. 

Even with his face away from her, Caerphilly could see that Stephen’s body language turned slightly defensive, but before he could say anything, Dr. Lindsay Sharp PhD., head of the largest  Science Museum in the United Kingdom, spoke up. “Actually, you have received her gratis.” he said with a smarmy smile. “We’re just glad to see her go to a good home! Hopefully you can put her on display someplace where the public can learn from her.”

Less-suppressed laughter met this. Stephen Hatt turned to look down at the other man. “Lindsay? Forgive me for disagreeing with you in public, but you do know that we intend to restore this engine to traffic, right?” 

There was a not insignificant amount of spluttering and swearing. Dr. Sharp had absolutely not known that. 

Caerphilly hadn’t known either. “You want me… to run again?” she said, not quite believing what she was hearing. 

“Of course!” Stephen said kindly. “Gordon, our primary express engine, is coming up on his boiler ticket, so we need another express engine to fill the gap.” He paused seriously. “Did you think that we were going to stick you on a plinth somewhere?” 

“I… I really did sir,” she said quietly. “I didn’t think that anyone wanted steam engines anymore.” She blinked. “Goodness, if I’d known, I would have insisted on having someone else come with me! Lord knows that Evening Star is never going to run under the current administration.” 

Stephen missed the acid glare she sent Dr. Sharp’s way. “Oh, how funny it is that you mention that. We actually have a 9F that we purchased recently. You’ll be meeting her soon enough, her name is-”

[joezworld]

book 22 - small railway engines - mike's whistle

happy 80th

[joezworld]

It's at number 7 now! (US iTunes Dance chart, in the iTunes store)

okay so I know slur song was banned from the club chart BUT fun fact: to make it into the lower end of the itunes charts you only need to sell like 50 songs in a day so if you have 50 friends with a dollar to spare and an iphone ... well

omg that would be so funny. I definitely don't have 50 friends I could expose this song to but thankyouuuuu!

[joezworld]

And that's the last of it! The story has officially wrapped, and now I can think about something else for a while.

[joezworld]

Christmas Story

The letters continued... 

Threats were issued:

“He’s dead if I ever see him.”

“-and if he ever shows his face around my shed, he’s a dead engine.”

“HIS COMPONENT PARTS WILL REGRET BEING ATTACHED TO HIM.”

“I’ll show him exactly what kind of a terror us diesels can be.”

“Personally, I’d have introduced his teeth to his superheater…”

-

And welcomes were given.

“I suppose this makes you one of ours now.”

“It’s nice to increase the ranks for once.”

“Can we keep you and trade Mallard to the Western?”

“I, for one, welcome you with smooth rails and green signals.”

“-and don’t worry! You’ll fit in just fine!”

-

Forgiveness was given, despite not being asked for. 

“We have heard about your recent change in “livery” and we understand.”

“Considering what’s happened I don’t blame you for tossing us into the bin.”

“-I’ve heard talk that some engines are quite taken with what you’ve done. Might be a trend!”

“Usually, old allegiances die hard. In your case, I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did.”

“Perhaps some day we can dispense with the old rivalries altogether…”

“YOU DESERVE BETTER THAN US.”

-

And declarations were made.

“ - you will always be one of us, and we love you.”

“I can’t wait to see you at the next gala!”

“YOU’LL LOOK GOOD IN BLUE, I GUARANTEE IT.”

“Keep us in your memories, but go wherever your heart takes you.”

“Don’t let engines like him keep you in a bad place, okay?”

-

Then there were the signatures. 

Your Brother

Your Sister

Your Friend

Your Compatriot

YOUR FELLOW WESTERNER

Your Eastern Acquaintance,

Caerphilly Castle

Evening Star

Deltic

Flying Scotsman

King George V

PENDENNIS CASTLE

№1306 Mayflower

D7017

D7018

D7026

D7076

Western Prince

Black Prince (92203)

Mallard [Who is writing this under duress]

Aerolite

26000 (Tommy)

№ 1420

D9500 & D9531

Lode Star

Green Arrow

№ 4498 Sir Nigel Gresley

The Engines of the Vale of Rheidol Railway

D821, D818, and D832

Blue Peter

55 022 (Royal Scots Grey)

Tuylar

Dominion of Canada

Dwight D. Eisenhower

Bittern

92212

Western Ranger

55 016

№4588

Alycidon (D9009)

№ 65462

Western Champion

Bradley Manor

7819 Hinton Manor

D9002

Royal Highland Fusilier (D9019)

№ 6412

Clun Castle

6990 Witherslack Hall

Sir Hadyn and Edward Thomas

№ 18000 (Kerosene Castle)

4488 (Union of South Africa)

Morayshire

Olton Hall

Hagley Hall

55 021

King Edward I

King Edward II

Western Courier

Western Lady

D9534

№ 7293

Western Campaigner

----------------------

Then they opened the boxes. 

The small ones were addressed to Duck and Oliver. The first few were opened up, revealing, “Name plates? Why name plates?” 

“Well, hang on a minute, these don’t look like any name plates I’ve seen before.” 

“Ah, wait, that’s it. They’re usually curved, to go over the splashers.”

“And they’re not red.”

“Well, they are if… ooooh.”

“What?”

“They’re Eastern. With the red backing. These’re LNER plates.”

Oliver stared at Duck, ignoring how the men were opening up a separate box with a similar return address.

“It’s a builder’s plate?!”

“It’s an LNER builder’s plate, see the shape?”

“Forget the shape, it says London and North Eastern on it.”

“Oh gosh, this is serious, innit?”

“That’s borderline sacreligious is what it is. Lookit that! It says Swindon on it!”

“Gordon is going to be insufferable about this, I just don’t know how.”

-

There was an identical plate for Duck, and… glory be, it really was an LNER-styled builder’s plate, made out with his information. They even found out his original works number.

He breathed in deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He mattered to them, in a way that felt just as, if not more personal than the pile of letters on the floor. Maybe it was the shock, the lingering feelings from hearing Truro’s unhinged rant in the cold December air. 

“I think,” he looked between the plate, and Oliver. “That we’re at a moment in our lives that we can’t go back from.”

-----------

The boxes addressed to Bear were much larger, and were in greater quantities. 

“Oh look, this one’s a headboard!” exclaimed his driver. 

Bear’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he saw that it said THE FLYING SCOTSMAN on it. 

The note attached was short, but sweet. “‘Tis nice to have another Eastern Diesel. Mayhaps someday this shall be used again in anger.” It was signed “Royal Scots Grey”. 

-

The next one had the GWR crest burned into the surface of the crate. Opening it revealed a rather lengthy nameplate wrapped in cloth. A note was tied around it. 

“Dearest Bear,” it read. “He’s done, even if he doesn’t know it yet. This raises an issue - we do need a “City” in our ranks. We think you can take up that role.”

The wrapping was undone, and Bear could feel a shocked tear build up in his eye. 

The words CITY OF TIDMOUTH glinted in the lights of the shed, the letters done in shining brass, just like the steam engines of old. 

-

Another package, this one from an address that he vaguely remembered as being an old Eastern Region TMD, contained a host of plates both large and small. The largest of them was a bright red rectangle, with silver letters that read BEAR. After looking it over, his crew deemed it to be a dead ringer for the name boards on Eastern Region diesels. 

“Which means…” said his driver, rifling through the smaller plates, each the size of a medallion. “That these must be from all the different Depots. Yeah, yeah, look. This one’s Stratford, and here’s York. Blimey, I didn’t know that anyone had a Colchester one.”

This went on for several minutes, as plates from seemingly every Eastern Region TMD were removed from the box. Bear’s eyebrows rose until they could go no higher. 

-

The next morning, his crew busied themselves with attaching several of the plates to his sides. There was some argument as to where they should be placed, and how to avoid making Bear look like “he was covered in fridge magnets.” 

Said argument was still ongoing as Gordon rolled by. His suddenly-wide eyes went from the Eastern Region name plate to THE FLYING SCOTSMAN headboard in shock. 

Bear ignored his crew, who were intently measuring the “CITY OF TIDMOUTH” nameplate like it may suddenly change size, and fixed Gordon with an intent look. “This is unequivocally your fault,” he said, keeping his tone serious even as he started to smile. “Thank you.” 

----------

A few days later, as the mail started to peter off, a deeply overstuffed document mailer ended up at the shed in Arlesburgh, addressed to Oliver and Duck collectively. 

It was a long and dry letter, filled with passages about duty and honor, dictated by King George V, the “self-proclaimed pro tempore leader of our kind, now that Truro is out.” 

Naturally, Duck found it fascinating, while Oliver would rather gnaw off his own buffers. It grew so dull that eventually the stationmaster got bored of reading Duck’s copy of the pair of identical letters aloud, and fetched a sheet music stand from the station, placing the type-written pages across it for the two engines to read at their own pace before leaving for the station. 

Oliver’s pace was “no, thank you, but I’d really rather skip to the end,” but Duck was insistent on reading the entire letter aloud. 

“-I humbly ask you as a fellow Westerner, free of all but our Swindon metal, do you have any interest…” Duck abruptly trailed off. 

“Hm?” Oliver said, blinking himself to attention. “Interest in what? Don’t tell me you’ve gotten bored now?”

Duck ignored him. “They can’t really-”

“Really what? Out with it!”

“Look!” Duck yelped. “It’s right there, on the fifth page, towards the bottom.”

Oliver rolled his eyes, but eventually found the sentence. “-any interest in becoming the new figurehead of the Great Western? What?” He squeaked in surprise, eyes skimming the preceding paragraphs to see what in the world they were on about.

“-perhaps the most unfortunate part of Truro’s fall from grace is that he is - or perhaps was - the most recognizable member of our lineage by a wide margin. While it remains true that the enthusiast may recognize myself or Caerphilly, the general public likely knows Truro for the same reason that they know Flying Scotsman. The name Great Western, and what it stands for, is vestigial at best. 

That being said, a new opportunity has presented itself. As I am sure you are aware, the books by the Reverend Awdry featuring you and Oliver have spawned a television show, which has in turn re-ignited popularity in the books. Already I have had to field queries about your Island from children clutching copies of “Duck and the Diesel Engine.” Many who have no other knowledge of our ways have nonetheless made the connection that we Westerners all know each other, and have asked me about you and Oliver. Strangely, none have asked about Truro; in fact, one child, who I have been assured does not yet know how to read, mistook me for Truro, and asked me what visiting Sodor was like. (I did not dissuade him of this view. I hope that I was correct in my assumption that Sodor is very pleasant in the summer.)

I’m sure that you can see the common thread here. You and Oliver will have an uncommon familiarity with the next generation, and possibly many more beyond. While I, Caerphilly, and the rest sit quietly behind ropes, you will continue as a working engine, adding to our common lore, and preaching our gospel. You are the highest ranking Paddie Shunter to survive the purges of Modernization, and you know more of Our Ways than even I do. 

With this in mind - and please do not take this as an obligation, a chore, a weight against your buffers - I humbly ask you as a fellow Westerner, free of all but our Swindon metal, do you have any interest in becoming the new figurehead of the Great Western Railway?”

--

Neither engine got any sleep that night, and it was a very bleary Duck that took the first train into Tidmouth the next day. 

“You look terrible,” Gordon sniffed unthinkingly. “Do you not sleep at night? Too much rearranging of your goods yard, perhaps?”

“Gordon, please-”

On the road opposite Duck, Bear raised an eyebrow. “It’s too early in the morning for either of you to start.”

“Oh fine,” Gordon huffed as the last of the passengers flooded into the express. “But it’s rather undignified for an Easterner to be so disheveled. Just look at us for an example, Duck!” 

Point made, he set off with a whoosh of steam, and within a minute the train’s rear lamp was fading into the distance. 

Bear didn’t say anything for a long while. Duck wondered if the diesel wasn’t saying anything because Gordon was right - compared to Bear’s mirror-shine paint and Gordon’s polished brass, he looked awful.

Or, the vicious little voice in the back of his mind piped up. He still doesn’t want to talk to you. Considering how you sided with Truro over-

“So, I got a letter yesterday.” Bear said, apropos of nothing. “From King George V herself.”

“Oh?” Duck seized the chance to get out of his own mind. “What about?”

“Seems like the Great Western needs a new figurehead, considering that somebody has lost all his prestige.”

“O-oh…” Duck warbled. “You got that too?”

“Mmhmm.” Bear wasn’t looking at anything in particular. “Apparently the television show is driving people to the books; people seem to like conflict in their children’s books. Something about being able to show right from wrong.” 

“Do they now?” Oh, if only the rails could swallow him whole at this moment. 

“Oh yes.” Bear looked contemplative. “It also helps that nobody really likes diesels. Smelly, underhanded things. It’s quite nice to be able to have one cause trouble and then get sent away for doing that in one single book.”

“Yes, I-I’m quite aware of what happened…” Maybe his boiler could explode. That might fix things. 

“And everybody loves a runaway train.” 

“Well, I -uh, I wouldn’t- um…” 

Bear smirked. “Obviously I don’t include you in that.” 

“W-w-well of course, I-”

Bear didn’t say anything for a second, and Duck continued to trip over his own tongue, until: 

“She’s right, you know.”

“Wh-what?” 

“King George. She’s right about you. Every child in the country is going to know your name someday, especially if they put you on the telly. And there’s not another engine alive who knows all of the history that you do.”

“Bear,” Duck finally managed to find his voice. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Duck was floored. “Bear, you were there! I just followed along behind him, doing whatever he said to-”

“Duck,” Bear cut him off and looked him straight in the eyes. “He was City of Truro. Who would have expected that out of any engine, let alone one of his stature?” 

“But - but - but I-” 

“Acted childish, perhaps,” Bear continued, gently. “But he revealed himself to you at the same time he did everyone. Even I didn’t think he’d hurt me on purpose!”  

“But I should have noticed!” Duck cried. “And I didn’t! What sort of leader would I be?”

Bear was unmoved. “It’s true that you didn’t notice then, but look at what you’re doing right now.” 

“What?” 

Bear smiled gently, his new nameplates gleaming in the station lights. “You’re giving yourself the third degree over this. It’s been six months, Duck! Even I’ve moved on from that, or I would, if you’d let me. Truro’s got his just desserts, I’ve found that more engines care about me than I previously thought possible, and Oliver… is Oliver-ing along like nothing ever happened. It’s just you who hasn’t moved on from this yet, and that is the true mark of a leader.”

“No, Bear,” Duck started to stammer. “But-I can’t. Surely-”

“The only sure thing is that you’d do a good job.” Bear said as the last of his passengers boarded. “Besides, if you do badly enough…” The guard blew the whistle, and waved the green flag. “You’ll look really good in garter blue!” 

And then he was off, engine roaring. The train sparkled against the early summer sun as it left, and Duck was suddenly alone at the platform. 

“He does make a good point,” Well, he was almost alone. He was still coupled to Alice and Mirabel. “What do you want to do?”

Duck didn’t say anything for a long while. 

He had a lot to think about.

[joezworld]

This looks great! I love Bear's single aggrieved eye in the back.

Bit of fanart for @joezworld's most recent story, which I've been enjoying quite a lot, since it's ending soon. Trying to paint steam is still my bane.

[joezworld]

I got a cold for Christmas so these two chapters go up late. Enjoy!

[joezworld]

Christmas Story

Tidmouth Station - December 27, 1984 - 10:00 AM

City of Truro was roused from his cold and uncomfortable slumber by the movement of his wheels. He opened his eyes to find that he’d been attached to a goods train. He was facing rearwards still, and a sea of hostile looking trucks and vans stared back at him. He stared back, not about to be scared by a group of lesser creatures. 

Presently, there was a whistle, and another green engine rolled past him, a single flatbed truck behind him. “Good morning!” the engine said cheerfully. “I was wondering when you were going to wake up.”

Truro blinked, unused to common courtesy after the savage treatment he’d endured. “Yes, I am now awake,” he said slowly. “Where are we going?” 

“To the mainland - well, that’s where I’m going at least,” the engine prattled on as he was backed down onto the train. “I think you’re going beyond there.”

“My own fifteen guinea special, as it were,” Truro remarked blithely. “It seems that my loan here has fallen through.”

“Ah well,” the engine said - was he a Black Five? He seemed to have some Stanier in his design. Maybe a touch of Gresley too. “Not everything works out. I’m sure that the museum will have you back on display in no time.”

Truro had to avoid gritting his teeth. “Yes, I’m sure they will.”

-

The journey continued mostly uneventfully as the train continued down the line. Quite naturally, it was a slow pickup goods, and so there was plenty of time for this… LMS? engine to talk and talk and talk. 

“-and so then I said- oh my goodness, what is he wearing?” The engine cut off as they rolled past a signal near some no-where station in the middle of the countryside. 

Truro didn’t have to guess at who was coming the other way - the growling motor was obvious from a distance. 

The two trains passed at a relatively slow pace - the horrid diesel growling away at a quiet roar. It said something to the engine pulling Truro along, and then was sliding away down the line, surely to ruin someone else’s day. 

The green engine was silent. 

“What was that about?” Truro hoped that he could perhaps find an ally against this backwards island with its diesel loving steam engines. “Did it-”

“Oh, nothing.” The green engine said. “I’ve just been in the works for a few months. I haven’t seen him since October and, well it seems like I’ve missed some things.”

“Like this monster…” The truck nearest to Truro whispered. Truro shot it an icy glare to make it subside. 

“Oh goodness me,” Truro said with faux-drama. “I can only sympathize! I’ve been on this island a month and I wish that I’d been in the works the whole time!” 

“Really?” the engine laughed. “Why’s that? I can say it’s not the picnic it used to be!” 

“Oh, well, let’s just start with that blasted diesel that just passed us…” Truro launched into a… reasonably accurate tale of the last month, not noticing how quiet the engine in front got as he went on. 

He pointedly ignored the deranged looking smiles on the faces of the trucks behind him.

----

Halfway to Kellsthorpe Road Station - December 27, 1984 - 1:35 PM

“Henry.” The Fat Controller didn’t even have the energy to be upset. “You have been out of the works for five hours.”

Henry was defiant. “Sir, I wish that someone had told me. I would have dealt with him in the yard.” 

“That is not the right response.” Stephen Hatt called from where he was inspecting the p-way gang. They almost had a track open. 

“With respect sir,” Henry said without a hint of shame. “But you’re not the Fat Controller yet.”

Charles Hatt inspected the gravel by his shoes, trying very hard to remember why he put up with these engines. 

“-you dare lay your filthy hands upon me!” came a bellow from the lineside. The men were slipping cables around City of Truro’s battered form. “I am the Great Western, and you will all pay for this treachery!” 

Ah yes, there it was. 

Charles looked up at Henry. “Henry, the National Railway Museum and the Great Western Museum had to go through a great deal of trouble for him. There was some kind of an engine trade.”

“So?”

“Henry, we owe Swindon and York an engine now. The same engine.”

“He’s still in one piece.” There was a clunk. “Mostly. Say, if he’s in two pieces, he can-”

“An operating engine.”

There was a pause, as Henry thought something over. “Well I’m certainly not going.”

The Fat Controller felt exhausted. “Henry…” 

“I won’t. He deserved it.”

A deep sigh escaped Charles. “I want you to know that I’m only agreeing to this because it will soon not be my problem.”

“Sir, you’re not retiring from the Hatt Locomotive Trust as well, are you?”

“Bollocks.”

--------------------------

The Museum of the Great Western Railway at Swindon - January 3, 1985 - Early in the morning. 

“ATTENTION, BILGEWATER DRINKING WESTERNERS!” a voice rattled the walls of the museum, startling the exhibits awake. 

“What in the world..?” Lode Star stammered as she blinked the sleep out of her eyes. 

“I AM A REPRESENTATIVE OF A SUPERIOR RAILWAY, AND I HAVE JUDGED THIS FACILITY TO BE INFERIOR! YOU SHOULD BE FURIOUS AT THE SQUALOROUS CONDITIONS THEY HAVE FORCED YOU TO- what? No, I shall not be silent! Do you think I want to be here?! This is a ramshackle hovel! By an industrial park! You should be ashamed that you keep anything of value here, let alone locomotives!” 

A blue tender was backing into the spot that Truro had vacated over a month prior. Complaints and whinges followed in its wake, finally resolving into the form of a 4-6-2 of distinctly eastern design. 

“Who are you?” Lode Star asked, trying very hard to be imposing. 

“I,” the big engine said imperiously, “am Gordon, first of the Gresleys and an honored member of the London and North Eastern Railway. I am here, however temporarily, as a “fill-in” for your most reviled member, City of Truro.” He said Truro’s name like it was a curse word. 

“Whatever happened to Truro?” she asked, suddenly very concerned. 

“You shall find out, in due time,” the blue engine said ominously.

--------

The National Railway Museum, York - April 25, 1985 - Midday

The engines in the Great Hall were abuzz with anticipation, although it couldn’t be said that it was pleasant. The train had been delayed by several hours, and this gave some engines time to request a move outside. 

When the request had been denied, they stopped asking and started ordering. 

-

“I’m going to give him one chance to explain himself.” Caerphilly Castle set her jaw, waiting for the train to come into view.   

“I’m surprised you’re going to give him that much,” Evening Star said grimly. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Western Fusilier growled. 

Evening Star eyed the big diesel-hydraulic. “Fuse, you shouldn’t be here. It’s not going to be healthy for you.”

“And I suppose that you possess a recently-discovered wellspring of calm?”

“Quiet, the lot of you!” Railcar 4 snapped. “We’re going to talk to him, and then-”

“We’re going to kill him,” Fusilier sniffed. 

“No!” 

-

Inside the doors to the Great Hall, a trio of Gresleys watched with varying levels of concern. 

“I wish that they weren’t out there,” Green Arrow said quietly. “It’s not going to end well for them.”

“Oh, do give over.” Mallard sniffed. “What are they going to do? Yell him to death? Not a one of them can move under their own power!” 

“You would be surprised at the power of words, cousin,” Gordon said quietly, watching the proceedings. 

“I am well aware of the power of words, mister Representative Most Plenipotentiary.” The streamlined engine scoffed. “What exactly were you thinking with that? Letting some of them into our ranks?”

“Mal, I didn’t see you complaining when they tapped the shovel to your buffers.” Green Arrow raised an eyebrow. 

“Why you-!” 

“Quiet!” snapped Coppernob, from his place near the doors. “Do we want to hear this or not?”

The train slowly rolled into view, and the entire museum fell silent. 

“Well cousin,” except for Mallard, of course. “You’ve certainly done it now.”

First along was Truro, who was being pushed into the yard by a diesel - oh goodness gracious it was Bear. 

It didn’t look like Bear.

Then again it didn’t look like Truro either. 

Bear, still unmistakably a Western Region diesel-hydraulic, was painted from buffer to buffer in LNER Express Apple Green. In an oval in the center of his bodywork, 7101 was spelled out in gold letters, while it was flanked by the letters LN ER. His wheels were rimmed in white, and he had traditional red bufferbeams, with № 35 102 painted on it. He practically sparkled in the sun, and there couldn’t have been a cleaner engine inside the museum. 

And then there was Truro. 

His GWR green was gone. 

In its place was a very drab BR Black. 

[joezworld]

Christmas Story

Merry Christmas you guys.

Christmas Day

Morning broke over one of the most subdued Christmases Tidmouth sheds had ever seen. 

For most of the engines, it had started early: 

Gordon had vanished before the sun, taking some morning train - which one it was, nobody was quite sure; the limited-service Christmas day timetable was a baffling mystery that only became clear on the day of.

Edward, who woke at five-thirty in the morning out of habit, had elected to leave the shed while silence still reigned. Whichever train Gordon didn’t take, he did. 

James and Delta woke together as twilight began to dapple the sky, and slipped out of the shed with a bare minimum of noise or fuss. Where they went off to was anyone’s guess. Oliver, who missed their departure despite being awake, could only guess. They’d said something about the harbour?

That left just the three Westerners in the room. Oliver was the only one awake, and he regarded the scene with worried eyes. Bear and Duck hadn’t exchanged two words since Bear’s new “paint” had been applied, and he did not want to be around to hear what they said. Shortly before seven thirty, an inspector groused his way in, looking for an engine willing to run a P-Way service down the Little Western to finish up the various issues with the line, and Oliver jumped at the chance.

That left just two… 

-

Bear awoke to the morning sun finally making an appearance. The shed appeared to be empty, but… 

There was a quiet clatter to one side, and he lazily looked over to see Duck’s crew staring at each other in accusation while an oil can rolled on the ground. 

Bear didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything he particularly wanted to say. 

“Um.” Unfortunately, Duck did. “Bear. About…”

“Duck.” Bear cut him off. “I understand your… position right now, or at least I think I do, but I don’t want to talk to you right now.” He sighed deeply. “Or perhaps for a while. Maybe you should try this again later.”

There was a quiet sniffle from the tank engine, who then departed with a minimum of noise or fuss. 

Bear didn’t feel a bit of bother about how he made his fellow engine feel, and that bothered him more than anything else. 

-

Eventually, a crew came for him. It was pushing ten in the morning, and he set off with a strange working: an empty coaching stock move all the way to Kirk Ronan. 

“There’s a guaranteed connection with the ferry from France,” his driver explained. “Usually there’s another train, but not today.”

“Damned Christmas timetable…” 

“You know,” the man continued. “It’s strange. Gordon was supposed to take this train, but he insisted on having you take it. Couldn’t begin to imagine why.”

Bear rolled his eyes. “It’s easy work. This is probably his idea of a Christmas present.”

“Who knows?”

-

Bear didn’t put any more thought into it, and brought the train into Kirk Ronan right on schedule.

The ferry, a big red and white one named Chartres, was already there, moored tightly to the dock, and absolutely festooned with lights and decorations. «Joyeux Noël, mon petit ami!» She boomed. “It is a time of joy and happiness, no? Where are all the decorations?”

Bear looked around; the ferry terminal was quite drab - he remembered hearing something about the snow being worse along the coast. Maybe they couldn’t decorate. “They must be saving them for next year!” he said, trying to seem upbeat. 

The ferry made a noise of assent, and then any chance for further conversation was lost as a flood of passengers made their way down the boarding ramps and into the coaches. Soon afterwards, the train departed back the way it came, express service to Tidmouth station. The ferry heralded their departure with an earth-shaking foghorn blast, and then they were into the distance. 

There were almost no other trains on the line, and Bear had plenty of time to think. Goodness me. It really is Christmas, isn’t it? I made it through the month, and all it cost me was one friend, most of my sanity, and my identity. 

He laughed bitterly to himself. This is a terrible Christmas. 

As he went further down the line, another thought came to him. I can’t believe I let them use this paint on me. I thought blue was too much? This itches!

-

The train arrived at Tidmouth a few minutes ahead of schedule, just as the clocks struck noon, and Bear was surprised to see that there was a “restricting-diverge” signal ahead of him. “They’re sending us around the loop?” 

“The loop”, a section of line that Gordon had famously been mis-routed down once (James still needles him about it, once in a great while), was not actually a single line, but was rather a series of feeder tracks that connected the various dockside industries with the harbour itself, as well as the big station. In the early 1900s, some bright spark (probably Sir Topham Hatt, although the Dry family had significant involvement in the development of Tidmouth’s dockyards) had realized that making a full “loop” to connect both sides of the big station to the docks may be beneficial, and so many of the lightly built industrial spurs were connected into a rambling branch line that snaked through Tidmouth’s waterfront before ducking underneath the high street in a cutting, eventually meeting the Little Western just outside the station’s “rear”. Doing this added almost fifteen minutes to a journey, and so it was restricted to only the most dire of emergencies (or if you really irked the signalman). 

As Bear trundled over, under, around, and through Tidmouth, he had the distinct feeling that he was being played with. There weren’t any signals out of order, he wondered. Why am I going this way?

He got his answer soon enough, as he eventually entered the station through the Little Western’s platforms, gliding to a stop about three-quarters of the way down the platform. 

To his confusion, he was not the only engine there:

Duck and Oliver were face-to-face on the platform to his left, and each looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. 

Gordon was parked directly in front, with a worryingly inscrutable grin on his face. 

Toby was parked next to Gordon, and looked like he was only now understanding what was going on. 

In the background, Truro had been pushed just inside the station’s glass canopy, clearly so that he could hear what was going on. Amusingly, he also wasn’t meant to interrupt whatever was going to occur, as there was a red-and-white checkered tablecloth shoved into his mouth to gag him. Even better, nobody had bothered to set or splint his nose at any point. It looked like it really hurt. Shame about that. 

Alongside the porters and other staff meeting the train, there were several members of the station staff lining the platform, each in their “dress” uniforms, complete with shined shoes and buttons. 

Finally, and perhaps most concerningly, the… Yugoslav-Mexican band that the Fat Controller had sourced was tuning their instruments on the platform next to Gordon. 

-

“Do I even want to know?” he asked Gordon as the passengers poured out of the train. 

“Just go along with it,” Toby said, looking resigned to whatever was about to happen. 

“Brother Toby,” Gordon chided. “Is that really the tone you wish to take in front of the initiates?”

“Gordon,” Toby began. “You are treading upon a line that I didn’t even know existed three minutes ago. Get on with it.”

“In due time…” Gordon said beatifically. “Once we have privacy.”

And so they waited for another ten minutes while the passengers departed. Everybody except Gordon felt increasingly awkward as time stretched on, but eventually the last stragglers had made their way to the waiting room doors. Once they swung shut with a solid click that could be heard four platforms away, Gordon cleared his throat. “Let us begin.” 

Bizarrely, the stationmaster then stepped forward. He was dressed up even more than the other station staff, and was wearing white tie, complete with a top hat. He was holding a pad of paper in his hands - while they’d been waiting, Bear had seen a glimpse of it, and it looked like it was some sort of speech-  oh no.

“OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ!” The stationmaster bellowed at the top of his voice, scaring everyone except Gordon and the band. “WE NOW CALL TO ORDER THIS EMERGENCY SESSION OF THE EXCEPTIONAL AND MOST RESPECTABLE GRAND OLD ORDER OF THE LONDON AND NORTH EASTERN RAILWAY!”

“The what.” Someone said. It might have been Bear.

“TO START THIS SESSION, WE TURN TO THE HONORABLE MEMBER FROM THE GREAT NORTHERN RAILWAY, WHO HAS BEEN GRANTED POWERS PLENIPOTENTIARY DUE TO THE EXCEPTIONAL CIRCUMSTANCES!” 

“Granted what.”

“From where.”

Gordon had the audacity to look like something normal was occurring. “Thank you, sir,” he said with remarkable aplomb. “Ordinarily, these sessions would begin with a great deal more pomp and circumstance, however in light of yesterday’s events, I have elected to set those aside in order to get down to business.” 

He looked around the station, ignoring the absolutely baffled looks being sent his direction. “Since the year nineteen hundred and twenty three, the Grand Old Order of the London and North Eastern has claimed, in due time, every locomotive who has ever rolled out of one of our most esteemed workshops. Under the banner of the North Eastern, and our numerous predecessor railways, countless deeds of mechanical excellence have been performed. Mountains have been moved, cities have been evacuated, and nature herself has been tamed by our steel and metal, brick and stone.” 

He paused his stentorian address for a second, again surveying the increasing bafflement, before continuing. “To serve under our flag was to commit yourself to greatness, in one form or another. And for the last sixty-one years, this has been enough; we have recognized greatness, and greatness has come unto us.”

“However!” he exclaimed with great drama. “Recent events have forced a change in our calculus. Before this day, we have only ever accepted locomotives from our own workshops into our ranks - our own kind. Before today, that was seen as sufficient. No more!” 

He again surveyed the room, and Bear got the distinct feeling that Gordon wasn’t actually looking at faces at all. He tried to follow the gaze and found it lingering on the ‘GREAT WESTERN” insignia on Duck and Oliver’s sides, and the Western Region crest on his own, just visible under the paint.

He began to get an inkling of where this was going…

Gordon continued. “We had never felt the need to expand our own ranks before this day, because we had committed an act of hubris. We had assumed, like children, that all other railways within this great nation behaved in the same way as us! That they recognized greatness within their own ranks just as we did in our own.” 

His face turned serious. “This was an error. One that we shall never make again.”

Behind him, behind all of them, City of Truro’s eyebrows began to knit together. Clearly Bear was not the only one thinking along these lines. Something was mumbled against the gag. 

The next few sentences felt shouted, despite Gordon never raising his voice. “Over the month of December nineteen eighty-four, it has become known to us that City of Truro, the so-called “Greatest of all Westerners”, and the de facto leader of their kind, is nothing but a duplicitous charlatan! A murderous brute, who uses subterfuge and dirty tactics in ways not seen since modernization some twenty years past! He is no better than the worst examples of diesel-kind!”

There was a muffled shout from behind Gordon. It was ignored. 

Gordon continued. “But lo! He is the public and private face of the Great Western! One hundred fifty years of history, resting squarely upon his deceptive and ill-tempered buffers! Truly he is the worst of us, and is unfit to lead his clan.”

There was yet another muffled noise. Truro might actually be biting on the tablecloth now. 

“However, we are not in the position to make decisions for another railway, let alone one as ancient and prestigious as the Great Western.” Gordon intoned. Bear didn’t like the sparkle developing in the blue engine’s eyes. That could only mean trouble. “But, we can make amends in our own way!” 

Bear’s train of thought screamed into the station, brake-blocks smoking. Oh he is going to, isn’t he?

“HONOR GUARD,” roared the stationmaster. “PRE-SENT!” 

Someone had actually gone to the trouble of painting a coal shovel gold. Truro sounded like he was going to eat the tablecloth. 

Then the band started playing. It was, after a moment of harmonizing, a very jaunty version of Pomp and Circumstance. 

Bear was actually going to go insane. 

He’s going to do it. He’s going to induct me into the damned LNER like it’s going to make things better. 

The porter carrying the shovel turned on his heel and marched over to Duck and Oliver, marching like this was a drill exercise at a military academy. All three Western engines blinked. 

“Now,” Gordon said. “With the aforementioned facts now known, I, as the most honorable member from the Great Northern Railway, do hereby nominate Oliver to be enjoined with our ranks, and formally inducted into the Grand Old Order of the London and North Eastern. Brother Toby, as the Right Honorable Member from the Great Eastern Railway, will you second this motion?”

“Gordon, I-”

“Will you second this motion?”

A sigh. “Yes, I will second this motion. As the… righteous and honorable member from the GER.”

“Thank you, Brother Toby. The motion has been seconded!”

“Gordon, I-”

“Thank you.”

Gordon turned his attention to the “honor guard”, who dropped to one knee next to Oliver’s buffers, and laid the shovel gently across the nearest one. 

Bear momentarily managed to tear his eyes away from the spectacle, finding Toby in the sea of insanity. Is this happening? He mouthed. 

Yes, this is actually happening. Came the response. 

“Oliver!” Gordon boomed, snapping Bear’s gaze back to the insanity occurring in front of him. “Your years of loyalty and honorable service have not gone un-noticed! For too long you have labored away without reward, without the fruits of your own labours. For your tireless service to your railway, your own kind, and to yourself, you shall be honored. Do you Consent to be joined to the Order of the London and North Eastern? Do you Swear to follow and uphold their Ways, ahead of all others?”

Oliver looked absolutely dumbstruck. “Uhh… I, uh….”

“Say yes or we’ll never be done with it!” Toby hissed. 

“Uh- YES!” Oliver squeaked, suddenly realizing that he wasn’t in a position to say no. “Yes I do!”

Gordon looked immensely pleased with himself. “Then I dub thee ‘Brother Oliver’, and formally induct you into the Order. Welcome.” 

Oliver looked overwhelmed, a feeling that Bear mirrored, especially once the “honor guard” stood and marched over to Duck with precise marching steps that wouldn’t have been out of place in a military drill. 

Duck looked… well he looked almost vacant, staring off into the middle distance as events happened around him. It took little intuition to figure out where he was looking: there, in the middle distance, was City of Truro, furiously raging behind the tablecloth. 

The shovel was laid on Duck’s buffer, and the whole process began again. Gordon began an even longer and more pompous sounding prattle about Duck’s service at Paddington, how he’d dispatched Diesel, and how he’d managed the Little Western in the years since. There wasn’t a mention of how he’d acted during the last month, but even the most uncharitable part of Bear’s mind couldn’t really square a month’s worth of inaction against a half-century’s worth of work. 

There is no way I can be agreeing with Gordon on this. The big diesel thought to himself. He’s insane. He’s trying to… show up Truro by ‘adopting’ us. 

Gordon had launched into an identical spiel about “Consenting”, but Duck had barely let him get the word out before saying “Yes.” in a quiet but undeniably firm manner. 

Gordon managed to keep his surprise contained to an upward quirk of his eyebrows, but everyone else, Bear included, were thoroughly shocked. 

What? I would’ve thought that he wouldn’t… couldn’t… I mean, it’s the Great Western, that’s his life!

Duck didn’t take his eyes off of Truro the entire time. The forcefully silenced engine was turning a worrying shade of purple.

Bear had a sudden moment of understanding. But it’s his life… as defined by Truro. 

He doesn’t want this anymore than I do. Truro isn’t god. He’s not Brunel. 

But he is the Great Western. 

He looked at Truro, who was again trying to eat or spit out the tablecloth. A group of porters carrying a ladder, a shunter's pole, and some amount of canvas were approaching him menacingly. 

And if that’s the Great Western. 

He looked at Gordon, who was finishing Duck’s “induction” with a mix of surprise, seriousness, and well-earned pomposity. And that’s the LNER…  

Then… Maybe…

The “honor guard” turned to face him.

Gordon’s speech was shorter than his praise of Duck, but longer than Oliver’s. “Bear! Your continued service to this railway has not gone un-noticed! For over twenty years you have taken on every job asked of you with a dignity, grace, and competence that has made you not only a sterling member of this railway, but of your class as a whole. It would be my honor to induct you into the Grand Old Order of the London and North Eastern Railway!  Do you Consent to be joined to the Order? Do you Swear to follow and uphold their Ways, ahead of all others?”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Yes, I do.”

----

Later that night

“I’m sorry,” Edward stared in a rare moment of bafflement. “The Grand Old Order of the what?” 

“There’s no such thing.” James said firmly. “Do you think that he’d talk about anything else if there was?”

"I’m well aware of that," Edward said, still deeply confused. "The Southern and LMS had elite, secret brotherhoods, that's well known. I'd never heard anything about the LNER, and if Gordon hasn’t said anything before now…”

BoCo smiled faintly. "There might not have been one before last night," he said, "but if Gordon says there is one, then I think it exists now."

"That's rubbish," scoffed Delta. "How can you have an LNER order with Gordon, Duck, Oliver, Bear, and Toby? That’s over fifty percent Great Western."

"If Gordon's started it, every Eastern engine still around will hear and want to be in on it by the end of the month."

"Well, maybe so."

"Blimey.” James said, looking suddenly pensive.” This is going to be a whole thing, isn't it?"

“Oh yes,” Edward agreed. “In fact, I’d say that there’s a decent chance he’ll try to induct us next, so everyone be on your guard if you care about your old allegiances, or at least the appearance of them. 

Bear listened to them with a raised eyebrow. “What do you mean? I thought he was trying to get back at Truro?”

The other engines looked at him funny. 

“What?”

“Did you not get it?” Delta asked, in a tone that implied that she wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “This isn’t about Truro, this is about Gordon.” 

“What do you mean?”

The other engines looked at each other. 

“Bear,” Edward began. “Gordon doesn’t care about Truro in that way. I can’t say his exact reasoning for letting him witness the whole event, but I daresay it wasn’t anything more than kicking an engine when he’s already down. That ceremony, on the other wheel… wasn’t about Truro at all.”

“Then what was it about?” 

“You!” several voices said at once. The other engines looked at each other, before James of all engines spoke up. 

“Bear, Gordon’s an idiot, but he’s our idiot. And he thinks, because he’s an idiot, that he can only care about someone if they’re…” he searched for the right word. 

“Related?” BoCo said after a second. 

“Not the word I was looking for but close enough.” James continued. “He doesn’t think he’s allowed to care about you unless you’re… related to him, somehow. Or at least that it’s not proper. Stupid Londoner nonsense if you ask me, but he tries to care anyways, which means that when someone like you gets bossed around and treated like yesterday’s ashes by the… what’s the word?”

“Embodiment?”

“Yep that’s it - the embodiment of your railway, he doesn’t think he can help because… “well that’s a Great Western issue”.” James could not imitate Gordon at all but he did it anyway. “And so when he has to do something - and trust me somebody was going to have to do something about that berk - he’s going to get…”

“Inventive?” 

James glared at Edward, Delta, and BoCo. “Would you three like to say it?”

“No, I think you’re doing a fine job.”

“Nope.”

“You’ve got it under control.”

James sighed deeply, and opened his mouth to say something more, but was cut off by Bear. “So, wait. Gordon did all that because he… cares about me? Us?” 

“If you must know,” Gordon’s voice rang out as he backed into the shed in a flurry of smoke and snowflakes. “I did it because you would otherwise be forever yoked to that infantile and childish railway and its monstrous figurehead. By “staking a claim” in you, for lack of a better phrase, you are once and forevermore freed of any association with that brutish monstrosity.”

“And the fact that you now have a guilt-free reason to be nice to him is just a perk, hm?” Delta said smugly. 

“Delta,” Gordon said as he was turned on the turntable. “If you would like for me to have a ‘guilt free reason’ to be nice to you, all you have to do is ask. 

“I like my heritage.” She said, all too quickly. “Really!” 

Gordon laughed regally, and backed into the stall between Bear and Edward. “Yes, I’m sure. The offer will stand, however.”

His crew hopped down and began cleaning out his ashpan. Bear took the momentary clatter to whisper to Gordon. “You really didn’t have to do that, you know. I could’ve handled it.”

“I did have to, actually.” Gordon said just as quietly. “There is a time for passivity, and a time for action. The instant he laid buffer on you, the time for action was upon us.”

He said it so firmly, so utterly final, that Bear’s response died in his throat. Gordon looked at him for a second, before turning his attention to the other engines. 

Bear sat there for a while, absorbing his words. My god. They do care about me.

[joezworld]

Should've been up a few hours ago but whatever it's here now!

[joezworld]

Christmas Story

So yeah, I really did drop a 15,427 word chapter on you guys last time. Hope you liked it.

The Fat Controller had to be summoned. 

There had been, immediately following the shouting and the yelling and the shovel and the wrench, a near perfect silence as everyone tried to digest what had just happened. The snow had muffled a great deal of the natural sounds, and it amplified the quiet. 

The silence that occurred after the Fat Controller finished roaring at Truro would have been as equally complete on a brisk summer’s day as it was on snowy Christmas Eve. 

Not even the snow dared crunch under Charles Hatt’s feet as he walked away, then stopped and turned on the ball of his foot. He pointed at Truro, and the engine jumped slightly. “I expected better of you. I will not make that mistake again.” 

He continued on his way back to the station. On the platform, the stationmaster, signalman, and yardmaster were staring in wide-eyed shock. “See to it that he is returned to his owners post haste.” The Fat Controller hissed as he walked by, not even turning to face them. 

The doors to the waiting room opened and shut with a slam, and they were alone on the platform for a moment. Then the doors opened again, much more softly, revealing Stephen Hatt. He was calmer, but no less furious. “So, which one of you got his nose like that?”

The three men looked at each other. “Someone from the P-Way gang.” Said the stationmaster. “Don’t know his name.”

“An’ Ted, one of the drivers, got him with the shovel,” the signalman spoke up. 

Charles didn’t say anything for a while, rummaging through his coat pockets for something, eventually fishing out a silver flask. “Tell them “well done”.” He said, popping the cap off and taking a long drink. “That one deserved it.”

-----

The news spread up and down the line like wildfire: 

At Wellsworth, Edward was outraged, his smoke jagged and shaky as he fumed. “I cannot believe I didn’t notice!” he raged at himself. 

BoCo, on the other buffer, was less upset. “I can’t believe they broke his nose. I wish I could’ve seen it. I hope they don’t fix it before I can see it.”

-

On Thomas’ branch line, the engines were horrified. “He did what?” Toby said, horrified and aghast. “Doesn’t he have any decency?”

“He thought he did,” Thomas said quietly. “It’s just that his version of decency is quite indecent to everyone else.”

“He’s a goddamned fundamentalist, is what he is,” Percy grunted. “They’re always trouble.”

“Forget him,” Daisy scoffed. “What about Bear? Has anyone told him?”

-

Bear smiled when the stationmaster told him. For reasons that he couldn’t properly express even to himself, he’d started sleeping out behind the shed in Barrow, and had planned on having a very lonely Christmas. “They roughed him up some?” He chuckled. “Well isn’t that the best present I could get. Warms me up a bit just thinking about it.” 

“Yes, I imagine it would,” the stationmaster replied, keeping his uncharitable thoughts about Western steam engines to himself. 

“Say, is there any way I could get back to Tidmouth sheds by tonight?”

“The Fat Controller already called. You’re on the next train out of here.”

-

In the sheds, there was a very distinct rumble of anger at Truro’s actions. 

“Some icon he is,” James scoffed. “Let the mainland have him, I say!”

“I cannae believe that he’d stoop so low.” Douglas growled. “An’ do all that.”

“I coulda’ been killed!” Donald interjected. 

“You and me both…” Oliver said, voice quiet. “I can’t believe that I didn’t see it.”

“None of us did,” Delta said. “I thought he was a run of the mill bastard, not… one of my siblings.”

There was a wave of agreement through the shed. “He really is a diesel, isn’t he?” James said. “In all the very worst ways. No offense.”

“None taken.” She mused. “I ought to adopt him. Lord knows we’ve lost enough of the ranks in the last few years.” A pause. “Oh he’d hate that, wouldn’t he? The idea that a diesel likes him.”

James and Oliver both snickered at the thought. “You should do that. He might melt his crown sheet.” “You can have him, I don’t imagine anyone else wants him.”

A little bit more laughter echoed across the diesel-steam divide before Delta rolled her eyes. “Gosh, that means I’d have to put up with him, wouldn’t I? Maybe not then.”

“Yeah, for the best.” “Probably.”

“What do you think, Gordon?” She looked over to where the big engine was uncharacteristically silent. “Anything?”

“Hmm?” Gordon raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t think I have anything productive to say right now.”  

James raised an eyebrow, and barely managed to stop something insulting from coming out of his mouth. Gordon caught it anyway, but recognized the effort. “Truly, I don’t.” He paused, exhaling a deep breath. 

James’ eyebrow was joined by one from Oliver. 

Gordon rolled his eyes. “Oh fine. You want my piece?” He exhaled again. “There are lines that are created when you reach this stature, when you become the face of a railway. They exist for Flying Scotsman, they exist for Mallard, they exist for Duchess of Hamilton, and they exist for myself.” He looked deeply serious. “In time, I feel that they may come to exist for Thomas, even.” Another pause. “These lines are not… restrictions, but they are there, constantly. You are the icon of the railway - of your lineage. Your actions reflect upon everyone. To cross them, to break the norm, is a very serious thing indeed.”

There was a choked noise from the other end of the shed, and everybody looked over at Duck. 

After the… event with Truro, the Fat Controller had cancelled the rest of the Little Western’s services for the day - Oliver needed to be checked for damage, and Duck (who had heard everything) refused to move under his own power. Donald had pulled them back to the big station, and pushed them into the sheds. 

Duck hadn’t said a word since, and everyone had assumed he’d fallen asleep. 

Whether he actually had was immaterial, because he was now awake and crying quietly. 

Oliver and the others immediately tried to comfort him, and Gordon was left alone in the clamor. “It’s a serious thing,” He said, unheard by everyone. “Because you stop being an engine, and start being a legend.”

He watched as Duck wept silently. “And people put a great deal of faith into legends…”

--------

It is almost Christmas.

--------

At some point close to midnight, as the last passenger trains for the mainland slipped off into the distance, an inspector came to the sheds. Now that it’s quiet, he said. Someone needs to bring Truro up to the big station. 

Gordon was still in steam, and volunteered before anyone else could say anything. 

He went light engine, taking due care in the tunnel, Bulgy’s bridge, and the points outside Haultraugh station. How many hours, pounds, and men did it take to fix the problems caused by one engine? He thought as he made his way down the line. 

The station at Arlesburgh was empty, with everything buttoned up tightly for the holiday. There was a sliver of light coming from inside the shed of the small railway, but everything else was lit only by the moon. 

Truro sat by the shed, alone, cold, and forgotten about; his glossy paint, which usually reflected light back into the air, seemed to be absorbing it, leaving the area around him darker than the rest. 

Silently, Gordon slipped into the goods yard, and retrieved two flatbeds and a brakevan. Nobody, engine or crew, wanted to be near the disgraced Westerner, and so the flatbeds acted as physical separation; the van was to make sure that they didn’t have to rely on Truro for any braking power. 

The trucks watched silently as Gordon collected his train. “And they said tender engines don’t shunt.” one voice whispered from the sidings. Gordon didn’t dignify it with a response. 

“Are we taking him to be someone else’s problem?” Toad asked as Gordon coupled up to him. 

“We’re getting there.”

“Excellent.”

Truro finally seemed to realize what was happening as Gordon marshalled Toad and one of the flatbeds next to him. “Are you to ‘take me away’?” he asked, mockingly. 

Gordon, Toad, and the trucks glared at him, but otherwise remained silent. They stayed silent as Gordon was turned on the turntable, the train was put together, and then set off for the big station. 

As they left the yard, seemingly every truck in the yard called out "good riddance!”, breaking the silence for the first and only time. 

Truro seemed unnerved by that for just a second, but the train had been oriented so nobody actually had to look at him, so it wasn’t a sure thing. 

“What?” He asked as they rolled towards Haultraugh. “Not one word for the condemned? Are you all so poisoned by the soft thinkings of this island that I don’t even get a final goodbye?”

“City of Truro.” Gordon said finally. “I understand the things you went through. I went through many of them myself.”

“I don’t think that you di-”  

“And I thought, perhaps naively, that you and I were similar.”

“Similar? Pah! Our similarities end at the coal that goes in our boilers!” Unseen by everyone, Truro was twisting up his face in bitter mockery, and making his already broken nose worse with each facial contortion. 

“I know,” Gordon said as he negotiated the train through the temporarily-repaired switch at Haultraugh. “I assumed that our differences were the core of our similarities, Our roles as leaders of what was left of our lineages. I am the first Gresley, and spoken of in the same breath as Mallard and Flying Scotsman. You are the Greatest Westerner, and often come up in concert with Brunel himself.”

“Oh get on with whatever pretentious moral judgement you want to give me, and spare me the sermon.”

Gordon’s face twisted into a frown. “I assumed incorrectly, and it will not happen again. You are not like me, nor my brother. You are no luminary, no role model. You have a half-baked record to your name and little more. You are a disgrace to your railway and mine.”

Truro’s response was lost to the noise as the train entered the tunnel, and no more was said after that. 

Gordon completed the trip in silence, and left Truro in the yard near the station, surrounded by empty tracks and a brick wall. He made sure to move Toad and the flatbeds before he left, and then sidled up next to him. 

His crew jumped down, and began setting Truro’s handbrake and chocking his wheels. “I’m a disgrace?” Truro said, clearly trying to get the last word in. “It’s you who is-”

He was cut off, not by Gordon, but by the clocktower from the Catholic Cathedral. It bonged once, twice, eventually twelve times, and then launched into a deep, bass-y version of Carol of the Bells. 

“Merry Christmas, City of Truro.” Gordon said as he steamed away. “I hope that you find happiness someday.” 

-

A few minutes later, he arrived in the shed to find everyone sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. He noted with some joy that Bear was parked squarely between James and Delta, and was snoring away like nothing was wrong. 

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” he said as quietly as he could, while his crew banked his fire.

He didn’t go to sleep just yet, though. He had to think about something…