Track Switch - Double Traction

by Celefin

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Human, Original Character, Bat Pony
Length: 16589

Alone, at night, with rail-freight across Europe. That is my life. I suspect my locomotive has better social skills than me.

I used to love my lonely life. But now that I have made some unlikely friends, I sometimes miss their company when I am out there on the tracks in the small hours. Especially that one guy. Too bad I cannot bring Trax with me on a date. She would probably handle it better than me.

This story will make no sense without having read Steel Dreams.

Now with Nightline character art by LunarFroxy.

Pre-read by CandyCanine.

Published 2019-07-01 21:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-11-13 23:16:01 UTC

Loco Shed

Track Switch - Double Traction
by Celefin

Ow.

The dream that put me in my current position is already fading from memory, but the pain in my jaw is not going away that quickly. Something about being chased by something, not getting away and then falling off a pile of lawn chairs and into a stream. Without being able to fly.

Whatever it was seems to have made me gallop in my sleep and get all tangled up in my blanket. Flaring out my wings then must have tipped me out off the bed head first. One of them also cleared my bedside cabinet of everything that was on it.

After de-entangling myself I pick up my alarm clock from the floor with a sigh and switch it off. It is late afternoon and I would very much have liked to sleep a little longer. It is just about late enough that trying to go back to bed is pointless though. That would only leave my brain even more mushy than it already feels.

I pick up the rest of the stuff on the floor. Nothing appears to have been damaged and I am happy that I do not need a bedside lamp. I doubt a lamp would have survived being propelled across the room and hitting the door the same way the book I was reading before going to sleep did.

The sun is still way too high in the sky for my liking when I open the roller blind on the roof window. My room really needs some fresh air though, so I open my secondary entrance to the house regardless.

The frantic flapping of small wings reminds me of the stupid birds that are trying to build a nest inside the old chimney just above me. It is incredible how loud these creatures can be when they are trying to impress each other. Not looking forward to them having young.

Come to think of it, I can hear a marten on the roof some nights as well. Maybe I should try and catch it and drop it on them for natural pest control. My hooves are not that pretty anyway, so a few bitemarks and extra scratches would not bother me. And now I am rambling to myself internally.

I shake my head with a sigh and draw a deep breath. Definitely time for breakfast.

***

I like our little communal kitchen. The whitewashed stone walls with the traces of cobwebs on the rough surface. Pinewood cupboards with greyish patina around the handles that no amount of scrubbing could ever remove again. The electric stove with its scratched top and flaking enamel.

Thierry is cooking dinner when I enter. That is, as much as you can call pot noodles dinner of course. Even art history students need to eat every now and then though, and I would be the last one to hold his diet against him. I have been there, albeit while studying a topic that couldn’t be much further away from his.

“Hi Night,” he says with a sideways glance and tips his baseball cap at me with two nicotine stained fingers. Asian style instant food and Gauloises cigarettes – I always know when he is around, whether I meet him or not.

Our little shared house just outside of the town of Maurecourt to the northwest of Paris is a good place to be. I could not afford it by myself, but splitting the rent between four people makes it a pretty good deal. Considering the location.

It is a little more than an hour by commuter train and metro to the city centre of Paris and Thierry’s college. It is also only ten minutes to the Euro Cargo Rail Paris hub at the Peugeot factory in Achéres a little south of here. That is about twenty minutes by wing, which I should do more often than I do. I am a lazy bat.

“Hiya. Not spending the night in town?” I say with a nod.

“Nah, got some exams coming up,” he says and then points at the pot on the stove. “Want some? I think I’ve made way too much.”

Cheap chinese noodles and soggy vegetables with pre-packaged sweet and sour chili sauce? The perfect breakfast. Also, free food. “Sure!”

He nods and points at the table. “Sit down, ready in a minute.”

“Where are the others?”

“Girlfriends.”

Huh, fair enough. I hop onto the bench along the wall to sit down at my usual spot. I have sat here so often by now that my hooves have left little indentations in the soft pinewood. There are also a few blue hairs on the wall. The rough surface works really well when you have an itch on your back or behind an ear.

There is a battered book on the table, ‘On n'y voit rien : Descriptions’. ‘We cannot see anything: descriptions’. Fits my mood perfectly. I still have not got a clue what to do or even think about that maybe, possibly, upcoming date with Irek. If it is a date. Do I want it to be one, or do I not, or do I simply want to have a drink with someone who could be a good friend or-

“There you go,” Thierry says and interrupts my pointless musing. He slides a soup plate full of steaming noodles across the stained table and sits down across from me. With a smug smile, he produces a pair of chopsticks and digs in.

Chopsticks, not even a fork. Showoff. I swear it is because of me that he has one pair of those on him at all times. Also spares in his shoulder bag, in case an unsuspecting chicken curry is unlucky enough to cross his path.

I look down at the hot food with a huff, resigned to wait for it to become cool enough to stick my muzzle into it. Sometimes I hate him, with his passive aggressive display of human manual superiority.

Then again, free food. “Thanks,” I say and smile regardless. “How’s college treating you?”

Thierry looks up from his plate and shrugs. “As I said, exams. Apart from that it’s okay.” A deep sigh, after which he blows one of his blonde curls out of his face. “Although I do question my life choices every now and then.”

“Heh, been there. Lonely? Everything too much?”

“Sometimes. Both, I mean.” He taps his lips with a stick, a drop of sauce running down the length of it and staining his fingers. “Which reminds me,” he says and wipes his fingers on his jeans, “We got another title in the course bibliography.”

His bag is never far away from him. The thing is not so much sitting beside him on the bench, but lounging there. I am convinced it has a life of its own. If he was a unicorn it probably would have. Always has the same dishevelled look as its master, yet radiating smugness from every seam in the worn linen and leather.

“I had to think of you immediately,” he says and pulls out a thin volume from its maw, presenting me with the dog-eared cover. ‘Initiation au langage des arts visuels. Hors Collection’.

I tilt my head. ‘Initiation to the language of the visual arts’? Doesn’t sound like anything remotely associated with me. I am just about to say so when I look at the publisher and sound it out in English in my mind.

He appears to find my groan and slow facehoof hilarious.

“By the moon, you’re such an idiot. Grow up,” I say with my hoof still pressed against my forehead.

“I’m trying to,” he replies with a grin.

“With moderate success,” I say into my plate with a little shake of my head. Because I’m so much more mature and in control of my life, come to think of it. I really do not want to think about that now. Too difficult so early in the day. With a sigh, I carefully dip my muzzle into the noodles.

If he had ears like mine they would be twitching around in uncertainty. “You alright, Night?”

Am I that transparent? Obviously. I lick the sauce of my lips and look up. “I guess?”

“Oh come on, I know that kind of sigh. It’s not because of your cutlery disability.”

If he gives me the line about a bowl with my name on it on the floor again I am going to bite him. Maybe the kick he received for it back then has faded from memory? Not that I have not thought about the comparison myself. I am still not prepared to splash out on custom made fetlock-compatible cutlery though, that would cost a small fortune. To me at least.

The occasional bowl of soup really is not worth that investment. Still, it might give a better impression with other people here on Earth. Still not worth it. It is not as if I am disgusting to look at, is it? Who would I want to impress with sophisticated eating habits anyway? And-

“Nightline? Hello?”

I blink and shake my head, almost pushing my food off the table.

“Never thought I’d see a pony go bluescreen,” he says with a small smile. “Hey. How about you kick that storm cloud over your head apart and tell me what's bothering you?”

“You need a pegasus for that.”

It is his turn to facepalm. “Yeah, forgot about that. I didn’t mean it literally!”

I give a deep sigh. “Okay then,” I say and push away my plate. It is still a bit too hot anyway. “How do I date a guy?”

“Uh… what?”

“You wanted to know what’s up. That’s up. Any advice?”

“Oh.”

Seriously? “Yeah.”

“Night, I don’t have any idea about how ponies date. How did you even find one? That’s gotta be a million to one chance around here and in your line of work.”

Maybe I should have thought about that specific bit of social awkwardness beforehoof. I can always use new problems though. Yay me. I take a deep breath but cannot for the life of me keep my annoyance out of my voice. “It’s not a stallion, it’s one of my human coworkers,” I say and look up at the ceiling.

“Ooohkaaay.”

I… really do not like that tone. “Something wrong with that?” That came out more defensively than it should have. I also cannot keep my ears from splaying back a little.

Thierry takes a deep breath and holds up his hands. “I- I guess not,” he says, not sounding very convincing. “Sorry. Please don’t take this the wrong way.”

Pretty sure I will. “But?”

“Well, I still have to make a conscious effort not to see you as a horse.”

“Still want me to graze in the garden or eat out of a bowl on the floor?” Now I am getting angry and I don't really know why. Why did I even bring that back up myself? That was low.

“No! Of course not. Sorry, Night. Let me finish?” He is blushing and looking at his hands.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Look, I know that was really shitty of me back then. Okay? Sorry I hurt you so badly. I just can’t get my stupid subconscious to accept that you’re an alien from another and very different world, not a dumb pony from earth. I don’t know why that’s so difficult. Sorry.”

“I had a friend who married a griffon. So what?” I have to smile at that memory. I mean, I get it, but the thought still makes me shudder. Also smirk, which is good against anger.

“Not for me mind you, but I don’t think it can get much more exciting if you’re into that. I mean, rolling in the hay with a predator with claws and talons, scratching your coat, gripping your neck from behind. That kinda stuff.”

Thierry leans back in his chair. “Too much information, Night.” He drags his hands down his face. “Okay, I get where you’re coming from. Figuratively, I mean. It’s just that here on Earth someone doing it with a horse or any other animal is one of the biggest noes possible.”

“You really think I don’t know that?” I say with a huff. “And I don’t fall into the categories Earth horse or other animal!”

“No. Ah dammit. Sorry. You’re not an animal! But you’re still a different species. At least some people will find that wrong and gross.”

“First of all, I have no plans to bed him the instant I see him again. I’ve got no idea where this is going anyway, if it’s going anywhere.” I drag a hoof down my face. “Secondly, you’re one to talk about preferences other people here on Earth think are wrong and gross.”

He blinks. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Oh come on. “That Swedish guy you study with every now and then?”

“Uh, Håkan?”

“Yep. You look at him and a second later the room is full of hearts.”

For a moment his mouth is hanging open. “Absolutely not!” he bursts out, blushing fiercely.

I raise my eyebrows and give him a long look before tapping my nose with my hoof.

“You- you can smell that? He asks with wide eyes before lowering his gaze. In a low voice he adds, “That obvious?”

Now I’m feeling sorry for him. “Hey. I don’t go around sniffing for these things you know? It’s just that I know your normal scent and the change is so pronounced I can’t ignore it.” I stretch my wings and sigh. “That’s why I asked you on how to date a guy in the first place. Thought you’d be able to help me.”

“Not even my parents know that about me,” he says while looking at the table.

Oh shit.

Being alone is not healthy in the long run, especially with something like this. I can attest to that. I sigh. Everything is better with friends and I think that Thierry needs one right now. I hop down from my bench and round the table. “Hey,” I say as I sit down on the floor next to him and look up at his sad face.

We may not always see eye to eye, but that is not so important right now, is it? I hold out my open forelegs and tilt my head with a little smile. “Hey,” I repeat myself in a softer voice.

Thierry gives a deep sigh, slides down from the bench and crouches before me. “Thanks, Night,” he mumbles as he puts his arms around me and rests his forehead on my neck.

Patting humans on the back is not always comfortable for them when you have hooves. He does not seem to mind though. “If it’s any help, I think your chances with Håkan aren’t half bad.” Now, I like hugs, but squeezes like this here get uncomfortable for my wings. “And you’re cute together.” Ow.

Thanks to this little intermission, my food has had time to cool. After returning to my place I grin at Thierry and dig in, making sure to noisily dip my muzzle as deep as possible into my noodles. It is quite unpleasant. Thierry’s disgusted half-laugh, half-groan is worth it though. Much better than his heart-wrenching expression from a minute before.

“I expect to get that bowl with my name on it when I’m back next time,” I say with a grin, sauce still dripping from all over my muzzle and chin. “On the floor next to the fridge.”

A very deep sigh, but he cannot quite suppress a grin. “Deal,” he says, looking up at the ceiling in exasperation. “Need a litter box as well?”

“Nah, I’ll just use the lawn.”

Thierry puts his head in his hands and groans. “Stop it!”

By now we are both laughing. Laughing is good. I have been doing that a lot in recent days. I guess I was a little starved of it.

All of this gives me an idea. “Could I ask you for another awkward thing?” I hold up a hoof. “Serious.”

“Okay, what is it.”

Now this is indeed awkward. Anyway. “Uhm… since we’re talking pets, you know this riding school a few minutes from here?

Thierry slowly tilts his head while raising his eyebrows. “Yeees?”

“Could you-” I begin.

“Your ears are flicking,” he interrupts with a grin. “You want a bridle?”

“I- what?! I’m not into that kinda stuff!”

I realise that was just a stupid joke. He didn’t mean it the way I thought he did, judging by his incredulous expression. Great. I can feel my cheeks burning all the way up to the tip of my ears while I try not to look at him.

He is doing an admirable job of not laughing. Must be hard. “Right,” he says after clearing his throat twice.

“You can laugh,” I say in a small voice, resting my forehead on the table.

“Nah, I’m good. I’m kinda intrigued now though. Anyway, what did you actually want?”

Well, at least this cannot possibly get any more awkward. “Could you get me some silage?”

“Silage”, he deadpans.

I sigh and look up again. “Yes, Silage. I know it sounds stupid, but you know what Silage is? Compressed bales of grass wrapped airtight and left on the field to ferment.” I tap my lips with a hoof.

“I think the Equestrian word translates to something like ‘sour weeds’. It’s a regional specialty back home. I mean, they use barrels instead of plastic wrap of course. And it’s better quality with no weeds despite the name and it’s fermented with salt in it and sometimes they add some cider when it’s done. It’s still kinda close though and I miss it.”

Thierry blinks twice. “So basically Sauerkraut?”

His German pronunciation is dreadful. Anyway. “Pretty much, but not with cabbage. Tastes very different and a bit sweet.”

“Okay,” he begins, picking up one of the chopsticks and pointing it at me.

I feel a ‘but’ coming.

“But I want all the details of that interspecies date. All of them.”

“Uhm…”

“No details, no treats for the pony. You’re not chickening out of this one, Night. Are you?”

“Of course not!”

Well, I might have. Dammit.

Shunting

Track Switch - Double Traction
by Celefin

Golden evening light is filling my room when I get back from breakfast. I have made Thierry promise to come to me when he needs someone to talk to. He could not refute the point that an actual alien from another world is the best confidante. It does not get more impartial to human affairs than that, does it?

I sigh. Well, at least if you do not take into account the alien’s own personal human affairs. Which is not an affair.

With another sigh, I look at the mirror on the inside of the door. I had Marianna move it from the upper part of the door to pony height. Hovering to check how your mane looks is impractical. One of the little considerate pony improvements that never fail to make me smile.

My appearance has not improved by that improvement though. Quite the opposite. I make a mental note to ask Thierry to tell me when I look as if the birds in the chimney were instead trying to build their nest in my mane.

It takes more than 30 minutes to straighten out the matted thing with a horse comb I bought in Frankfurt. The guy’s expression was hilarious. Haha. I wonder how I would look with cropped hair.

The contrast between my bright blue mane hairs and the cream coloured carpet is pretty though. Maybe I should get a flight vest or at least a cap in that colour. With holes for my ears. Would be cute.

What am I doing?

I almost forget to dump the contents of my work bag onto a layer of newspapers instead of on the carpet. Really do not need to stain the carpet with railway grime. Wing and hoof fastened tools, clips and velcro strips, telescopic metal rod for hind-hoof operated pedal. Thermos I should have cleaned out. Slightly bent credit card.

And a creased little piece of paper with a number on it.

Picking it out of the assorted junk, I notice the state of my hooves. They are actually not just a little scratched. Tool use, hitting them on steel surfaces and walking on railway ballast have not improved their look. There is a little grease in a deep scratch on my right forehoof. With small flakes of rust still stuck in it.

Maybe pay a little more attention when cleaning them next time? Definitively have a farrier look at the uneven wear of their rims. Give them some polish. While you are at it, maybe also trim the frayed hair on my fetlocks?

I turn my head to look at the blue mare in the mirror again. Seriously? Get a grip.

***

I have Thierry check the correct fit of the straps on my flight gear and backpack. That is just so much more efficient with hands and he is happy to help today. I want to give him a hoof bump but he hugs me instead. Did not expect that, but it makes me smile.

A little canter across the lawn and I am airborne. Looking down, I feel a small pang of guilt at seeing the lawn almost perfectly intact again. The grass has all but erased the little airstrip I had worn into it when I first moved here. I really need to go flying more often.

I fly a circle and wave at Thierry before flying up onto the roof to check on my window. One of the stupid birds hits his head on the chimney when he tries to flee from the big, scary bat. Looks kinda wobbly now. Evolution at work.

The roof window does not budge, no matter from which side I pull at it. When I take off again I shake my head at myself. It has been many years now since I lived in Canterlot, but I just cannot shake the habit. I also do not need to worry about not having a window grating. There are no burglars here with the ability to fly.

Shortly after jumping off the roof again I call the airport to let them know about my brief flightplan. The guy on the other end is thoroughly confused about my take-off and landing points and I am forced to land again to explain. Now he is being rude. I do not need this.

At least we are past the days when they would flat out call me a liar when I say I am pony. My rescue comes in the form of a voice of another guy in the background. He recognises my callsign and designation. Being something exotic can be a blessing and a curse.

So at last I get my permission, if not an apology. Up yours too.

Halfway to the river Seine I reach my target altitude and begin to regret my laziness. My gear and backpack feel heavier than I remember. I am going to be sweaty when I reach Achéres and my wing muscles are going to remind me of this flight for days.

I cross the northbound mainline and reach the riverbank, the setting sun glittering on the calm water. Turning southwest, I follow the Seine above the narrow island that splits the river in two for the largest part of my route.

There are many nice places like the Seine islands around here, places I have sort of forgotten in my daily routine. I used to explore around Maurecourt quite a bit. I cannot remember when I stopped doing so, but I resolve to pick up the habit again.

There is more to life than driving trains. It is time I remember to be nice to myself again every now and then.

I fold my wings and let myself drop, flaring them out again fifty meters down and using the momentum to do a little loop. The sunlight glistening on the river to the west turns into a darkening sky as my perspective changes. The sky above gives way to the first stars appearing to the east just above towering greenish grey clouds. Dark water. Glistening sunlight.

I laugh and do a roll, fighting the weight of the backpack. I am going to be dripping sweat when I get to my workplace. Worth it.

***

Ten minutes later, the Peugeot factory at Poissy comes into view. The huge complex fills a big chunk of the horizon, the late evening sun reflecting on the roofs and windshields of thousands of brand new cars.

In the centre of the complex, cars are being loaded onto wagons, ready for transfer to the shunting yard at Achères. I veer east over the town, toward Euro Cargo Rail’s Paris hub.

The town gives way to forest that stretches to the east. It fills a whole bend in the Seine and is usually filled with people during the day. In the evening twilight, the tree tops’ long shadows paint an intricate pattern over the green expanse. There is no one down on the forest tracks.

Most people dislike forests at night. I love them. I drop down to just above the tree tops, relishing the fresh damp air rising from the canopy. The occasional moth is a bonus, but I refrain from indulging tonight. I have spotted a few bats darting back and forth between the upper branches. Watching them from above is fun, no need to ruin their dinner.

I do call out to them though. I cannot help myself, watching the few seconds of utter confusion is delightful. Adorable creatures.

A few minutes later, a large clearing opens up below. On the ground is an intricate triangular pattern of tracks, the northern mainline merging with the western one. The steel plait leads into the track field of the Achères shunting yard, fanning out into over fifty tracks.

From up here it has a certain beauty to it that I do not think I will ever tire of. I switch to a gentle glide, bleeding speed and altitude over the last kilometre towards my target. The air is warm enough to mostly dry my coat on the way down.

A few lazy flaps carry me over the last dilapidated buildings with their crumbling facades and backyards full of garbage. Weeds and little trees are growing in between the disused loading ramps and wire fencing.

The place has seen better days, but my company’s automotive deal with shipping giant Gefco and the PSA group that owns Peugeot has revived it to a degree. At least the office building that I touch down in front of is well maintained.

The street looks deserted, with only a few cars parked along the fence. I fish out my keycard with my teeth and rear up to reach the electronic lock. It accepts the card with a bored beep and I step into the hallway that is lit by fluorescent lighting. No one is around.

The entrance door slams shut behind me with a resounding bang. My hooves are loud on the brown tiles as I walk to the door on the other side of the room. It is slightly ajar and I can make out the faint sound of a radio from the end of the adjoining corridor. At least the office is still manned.

I tap the door twice with a hoof and push it open with my forehead. The room is too warm and smells of electronics, paper and stale coffee. A PC screen, several CCTV monitors and the ugly ceiling lamp are competing for the position of worst light source. There is a cactus on the window sill.

Corinne is on duty tonight. She does not turn around when I enter, but the long braid of grey hair is unmistakable. “Hello my little pony,” she says, not taking her eyes off the spreadsheet on the screen.

“Hi there. What are you doing? That interesting?”

“Quite the opposite of interesting actually,” she answers with a sigh. “Whoever made this spreadsheet has zero idea of how to use Excel. I’m trying to fix it so that I can pass it on without embarrassment. Looks as if the one who did this tried to recreate a Word table. No relationships, hardly any functions, no conditional formatting.” She groans. “I’m not being paid enough for this.”

Finally she turns around on her office chair and gives me a tired smile. She tilts her head and looks at me over the rim of her glasses. “Did you exercise?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve flown here,” I say with an apologetic shrug. “Got carried away a bit it seems.”

She raises her eyebrows. “My lazy bat on a fitness endeavour. You trying to impress someone?”

“It was just a nice evening!” It actually was. And anyway, she is one to talk about lazy. If she were not so damn nice, I would make a quip about her own rotund form. But I do not, because that would be mean. She would probably just accept it with a chuckle and say ‘truth’ though. Then tease me again.

“Of course,” she says with a way to smug smile. Case in point. “Anyway, you’re probably not here to keep poor old bored me company. Keys are on the board and I’ve got the paperwork right here. Your flight is waiting on runway forty-two.” She leans over and opens a zipper on the side of my pack. “Please proceed to check-in.”

Over time, I have perfected this routine. I glance at the number on the paper and walk over to the cabinet that holds the keys. Rearing up, I grab them with my lips and throw them over my shoulder with a flick of my head. They land neatly in the side pocket she just opened.

She applauds with a grin. “Who’s a good girl? That’s my Nightline!” she says and reaches over to tousle my mane.

She is the only one who I will tolerate this from. I give her an exaggerated pout. “I want a treat next time.”

“You can have a 77 instead of a 66.”

“That’s not much of a treat.”

“Don’t be ungrateful, it’s even been washed last week and the air conditioning works. You’d prefer a Vossloh?”

“Oh shut up,” I say with a huff, but I cannot help but smile afterwards. “You need more coffee?”

“Is that a question?” she answers and inspects the half empty mug of cold coffee on her desk. She sighs and downs its contents with a shudder before holding it out to me.

I put a wingtip through the handle and lift it onto the counter next to the little sink on the other side of the small office. There is still water in the kettle and she has not even bothered to put the glass of instant coffee back into the cupboard.

The mug says ‘This day sucks, is it almost over?’ on its side in big, friendly letters. I know that it’s a quote from her favourite TV show. It fits her perfectly. I grin around the spoon while I put a generous measure of the brown granules into it. The hissing sound of the kettle grates on my ears, but mercifully it soon switches off again with a loud clack.

“You sure you can do that?” she asks while I pour the boiling water. She always does that.

“Yep,” I say. I always do that. Then I grab the handle with my teeth and hurry to bring her the mug. I have about four seconds before its side gets too hot to touch with my lips. As always, I make it. I smile.

“Thank you!” She tousles my mane again, as always. It is nice when she does it.

“Well,” I begin and stretch out my wings to their full extent. “I think I better get going. You here next week?”

“Holidays!” she says with content smile. “No spreadsheets and grumpy drivers for a while.”

“Lucky you,” I reply and fold up my wings again before turning to the door. “See you around,” I say over my shoulder and leave her little office.

"See you! Oh and Night?” she calls after me and I can hear the grin. “Good luck!”

“Stop it!” I shout back and open the door to the yard.

Her friendly laughter follows me out into the twilight.

I take a deep breath of the cool night air and walk the few meters to the track field. The sun has finally set by now and only a dim afterglow illuminates the western sky. Slabs of concrete mark the path across the sea of tracks, illuminated from high above by cold fluorescent lights on girder masts.

Across the bands of steel, my train is waiting.

Gefco Automotive

Track Switch - Double Traction
by Celefin

The locomotive is already running. The deep humming rumble reverberates from the SNCF machine shop buildings on the far side. My ears splay back on their own accord at the rhythmic grinding whine of the friction clutch turning the idle turbocharger.

Shrring. Rumble. Shrring.

“Like it or not, you’ll have to wait for me to check the brakes,” I mutter to the engine and try to ignore the one hundred and thirty ton hunk of diesel-electric animal. Checking the brakes is going to take a while, considering the extent of the line of stand-in deck coach carriers hooked up to it.

Stretching all the way to the other end of the shunting yard, the wagons are all loaded with new Peugeots. There is plenty of weight and time for the locomtive to let off some steam tonight. Heh.

Shrring. Rumble. Shrring. Rumble. Shrring. Rumble. Shrring.

I sigh. And for me to get a headache. Better get going.

They say you either love it or hate it. After several years I am still not sure, but the EMD Class 77 is growing on me the longer I know it. Well, the machine. Not the cabin, that is for sure.

It really was not designed for a pony. I have to rear up to turn around in here. Getting in is also a pain, there just is not enough space to do my fly and slide boarding like I do with Trax. It's a good thing I always do this at night. A pony clambering up a narrow ladder and cursing all the way. Fun.

On the other hoof, the engine itself is great. It has this no-nonsense big machine aesthetic. It feels alive. Not like a person as I can imagine my girl, wherever she is right now. But still alive in a way.

Shrring. Rumble. Shrring.

Alive and as annoying as a diamond dog.

I check the gauges and displays again. Everything is nominal. I busy myself with putting on my gear and double checking my reach with the different implements. Secure Velcro locks. Clip-on angles. Wing tool positions. It is very different from Trax in here after all.

The radio crackles to life with the traffic controller’s voice. “Good evening Madame Nightline. The schedule seems to hold tonight. Are you all set?”

“As ready as I’ll get,” I answer with a smile and look out over the track field.

“Alright. Line should be clear in five minutes.”

“Thanks,” I say and hang up. Now to wait for go. I switch off the cabin lighting.

Shrring. Rumble. Shrring.

It is about three hundred kilometres from here to ECR’s main cargo hub at Gevrey-Chambertin in central France. If everything works out, I will be there in a little more than four hours, just before my mandatory break.

The headlights of a commuter train on the mainline glisten on the rails. I tap the throttle with my left hoof. The ‘volume control’ as some of my colleagues call it.

I sigh and brush a few mane hairs out of my face with the back of my fetlock. Not looking forward to Gevrey. I have to drive a train from there to Frankfurt tomorrow night and I am almost at my fortnightly driving limit. Means stop in Gevrey after half a normal shift. The most boring place on Earth. On a Wednesday night.

The shunting signal on the ground before me switches from violet to white. Finally.

I move the throttle a tiny bit until I can feel the locomotive take the weight on the hook with an impatient growl. Then I push a little more. The frame shudders as the giant two-stroke diesel powers up and the electric traction motors haul the load forward. Volume control indeed.

Metal clinks and rattles as we proceed over the well worn siding, punctuated by the deep, slow rhythm of the rails. The many bands of steel are braided together and split up again in a meandering river of cold neon illumination and signal lights reflected on the rails.

I spot movement in a thicket to my left, a little island in tracks, cabling and railway ballast. A fox. It disappears at the metallic grinding and clank-clank of steel wheels on a curved switch.

Vibrations translate quite well to the driver. The slow grind of the friction clutch from before has turned into a quick and high-pitched shing-shing-shing. The engine is just below the necessary rotations per minute for it to stop. I grit my teeth.

Another track field, another set of points. A shallow bridge for one set of tracks over the mainline, the tracks to be merged on the other side again when level. We are finally off the shunting area.

A yellow and a red light on a circular disk glow in the dark. One last set of points up ahead. The tracks become smoother and the frequent whine of pained metal subsides.

I reach the final group of switches and bring the train to a halt again. I notify the traffic controller of my position and put my hoof on the throttle.

“All clear. Have a nice night,” comes the reply a moment later.

Nudging the locomotive forward, I proceed over the last switches at a crawl. Out onto the mainline.

Up ahead, three yellow lights flash on a signal the shape of an inverted L.

I take a deep breath, flatten my ears against my head and feed the engine.

The beast roars. Twelve cylinders, each twice the width of my hoof, draw a stream of diesel into their maws. As the exhaust gas flow explodes, the friction clutch releases its grip. The massive turbocharger revs up, sounding like a jet turbine.

As the pounding two-stroke heartbeat resounds in my chest, a memory of the Red Wing of Manehattan flashes through my mind. The shutter panels on the locomotive’s sides creak open to increase the airflow. Almost like a valve.

I can pick up the rush of air. Almost like the hiss of steam. I know there is a plume of smoke over the roof. Almost like on my steam engine. Not as thick or tall, with no ash and a different smell. Still just as intoxicating.

Up ahead, two vertical yellow lights flash on a main signal. I rein in the charging creature at sixty kilometres an hour, very much against its will. There is a station with diverging switches up ahead.

Seventeen hundred tons of automotive logistics rumble past the tired people waiting for their faceless trains. Someone on the platform takes a picture, the flash briefly creating a purple spot in my vision.

Another stretch of vegetation which gives way to the view over the dark waters of the Seine. The lights of the Paris suburbs glitter on the surface as we cross the bridge.

More yellow. The switches send us off to the right, up onto a low overpass and across the mainline. Swerving back and heading northeast, past an endless expanse of residential areas that all look the same.

My ears are getting used to the low growl of the engine, resigned to half the speed it is capable of. I have driven its predecessor once, the EMD Class 66. Euro Cargo Rail still has them, mainly hauling heavy bulk freight.

They are the original US model, from before the manufacturer realised that a modified version would sell better in Europe. The 66 has no sound suppressor, no sound insulation for the cabin, no air conditioning and no amenities for the driver.

Another level crossing glides by, the warning chime shifting with the doppler effect. There is a man on a bicycle, holding his hands over his ears. The sound of the 77 is already plenty impressive. My contract has been amended. I am not supposed to drive the 66.

At the northernmost point of my route, I pass the Paris inland harbour on the banks of the Seine. Floodlights illuminate the loading bays and cargo facilities. There are headlights on the other track. It is another ECR train, similar to mine, albeit with empty wagons. Bound for Achères.

We both refrain from using the horn. Instead we signal a greeting to each other with a flashlight. I do not really need one except for this, but it is good for my colleagues to have. Its reach is far greater than that of the headlights.

The engine has now settled into a droning monotone and I am beginning to ignore it. Maybe it is also because I am partway deaf by now.

We reach another switching yard, the expanse of tracks stretching several hundred metres to the north. It looks deserted, the freight wagons and shunting engines frozen in time. A SNCF maintenance complex sits at the end of a dozen tracks to the east. Cold white light illuminates some of the blind windows.

A little later we cross the Marne river, the wagons thundering over the bridge. Two yellow lights glow steady in the dark and the turbocharger whines as I throttle down to thirty.

The tracks turn west again, past logistics hubs of car retailers and haulage companies. Endless rows of trucks and automobiles line the railway. Yellow lighting from a forest of high masts tints the scene in an otherworldly glow.

We reach another switching yard, an enormous sea of overlapping trackfields. Crawling over the dozens of switches, we finally turn south, then southeast, towards the outskirts of greater Paris.

Another level crossing. Tired drivers in their dark cabins, waiting for the endless lumbering train to pass. More tracks into industrial estates.

The rhythm of the rails, the girder masts of the overhead lines swishing by. Interchangeable residentials, cheap and run down close to the mainline and freight yards. A roadbridge, briefly illuminated by the headlights from below, darkening again as we pass.

Another anonymous passenger train from nowhere to nowhere.

Disused sidings and dilapidated administration buildings. Decaying freight wagons on overgrown tracks, their shadows moving across crumbling concrete structures. Noise protection walls full of graffiti.

Another flashing yellow signal. Another intermodal freight train. The heavy diesel heartbeat. It all turns into a blur. My dream of steel.

***

After what feels like forever and no time at all, the last commuter rail station drifts past in a staccato of fluorescent lamps.

There is a single green light up ahead. Block free.

I flatten my ears against my head again, but this time with a smirk. The engine snarls as I push the throttle forward, the raw might of 3200 horsepower reverberating in my bones.

At a little more than one hundred kilometres an hour, the 77 reaches its limit and settles into a steady pace. The engine noise becomes a steady hammering growl while the turbocharger’s screeching hiss turns into a feral chant that only I can hear.

I will probably be deaf by the time we reach Euro Cargo Rail’s Gevrey hub.

Still, little by little, I may yet learn to love this creature.

Author's Note

There is a blog post to this chapter as well, in case you want a little more detail on the locomotive... and of course pretty pictures.
And it also has a 'soundtrack'. At least that's the selection I listened to while writing this.

Railteam

Track Switch - Double Traction
by Celefin

It is two thirty in the morning when I leave the switching yard. There was a downpour shortly after I arrived and everything is soaking wet. The air is saturated by that fresh and spicy smell of thunderstorm. After hours in the cramped and stuffy cabin of the 77, it is bliss.

I put my flight gear on again before I left the administration building. I could have called a taxi. The company would pay for it. Tempting. But I have promised myself something and I will stick to it, at least for now. Really cannot be bothered to call air traffic control now. Just stay low then.

It has been less than ten hours since I exercised over the Seine in Paris and my muscles complain when I stretch my wings. But I am not going to let this deter me. Flying is good. Wings still outstretched, I trot down to the small parking lot.

Of course I could take off right here, but where is the fun in that? So I do not trot, I taxi to the runway. A single old street lamp provides some flickering light, just enough to paint my shadow on the glistening ground. Looks like a demon when I change my angle. A rather short demon, admittedly.

A single raindrop hits me on my muzzle and makes me smile. Time to go.

I reach the end of the carpark and clear my throat. “All systems green, cleared for take-off.”

The first metres I take at a canter, then I break into a gallop. Just before I reach the other side, I jump into the air and pull up. Taking off like this is pretty demanding, but also fun. Imagining engine noises. I hate flying in airplanes, but pretending to be one never gets old.

Remembering that I’m flying unofficially, I stop climbing and level off well below a hundred metres. That is probably better for my poor wing muscles anyway. Just as I bank into a gentle north-west turn towards Gevrey, the moon comes out from behind a towering cumulus cloud.

The white sickle looks like the sail of a ghostly galleon, watery wisps of cloud stuff still clinging to the bow and rippling in its wake. A faint but colourful halo surrounds it and I am sure Lady Luna would approve. The cool air feels soft and is so full of moisture that tiny droplets soon form in my mane and chest fur. Distant lightning to the east. I do a slow roll, a thin line of silvery spheres dripping off my wingtips in a glistening spiral.

Good thing my backpack is waterproof.

With steady wingbeats I leave the cargo hub behind and dive low over the grey meadows, fences and country lanes. The engine sound of two cars on the main road to the west carry through the still air. Some humans lead just as nocturnal lives as myself.

The headlights leave green and purple stripes in my nightvision, creating intricate patterns in the mist the cars produce. Small bubbles of light travelling through the grey landscape.

And I think I just almost gave a fox a heart attack.

Half an hour later I reach Gevrey proper and touch down on the pavement in an empty side street. The neon glow of a petrol station on the junction with the main road a few hundred metres to the west reflects on the wet asphalt. It is quiet.

The hotel ECR usually books for its employees is such an unremarkable building as to almost be invisible. I struggle out of the straps of my wet backpack and wave it back and forth in front of the keycard reader on the door.

I always keep the card in a front pocket and the lock is sensitive enough to pick it up through the fabric. My backpack dance probably looks silly, but no-one has ever been around to witness it. I look over my shoulder after the lock gives its disinterested beep. No-one there.

The reception desk is empty here in the middle of the night. There are three small envelopes on the wooden counter, each containing their respective recipient’s room keys and breakfast coupons.

Mine sits on top of two large towels.

I guess someone did not like me leaving a trail of wet hoofprints and drop stains on the carpet last time. They could have said something. It is not as if I could hang my coat in the hallway and take off my shoes. Not my fault they have carpets everywhere.

Would I have thought to bring something to dry myself off if they had told me? Unlikely. I know myself. I sigh, drop the backpack and pick up one of the towels with my mouth. The room keys slide off and land behind the counter with a solid clack. Well done, Nightline.

I do not know what to do with the wet and dirty towels and there is no-one around to ask. After retrieving the keys (which is a pain), I trudge to my room with the keys, the pack and the two towels all held in my mouth. If anyone came by now they might mistake me for some kind of big stray dog. No-one ever does though, so who cares?

At least the door to my room opens on the first try, unlike my apartment in Frankfurt. It is tidy, clean and most of all, empty of anything personal. I shove the door closed with a hind hoof and drop my stuff with a sigh. A look in the bathroom mirror confirms my suspicion that I look like shit. All of a sudden I feel a weird sense of low level anger and I have no idea where it comes from.

After showering in the not at all pony friendly tiny bathroom I flop down on the bed and turn on the TV. Advertising channels, pay-tv movies and pay-tv porn, reruns of bad sitcoms and CNN. It is always the same at three in the morning.

I hate half shifts in Gevrey. They always leave me with at least four hours of absolutely nothing to do before dinner/breakfast but stare at mind numbingly bad TV. The hotel’s wifi is awful and keeps cutting out. There is not a whole lot going on in this town at this time of day either. Cannot even go and buy some beer because they have automated the petrol station and the vending machine here in the hotel is always broken.

Need to upgrade my phone data plan for more effective time wasting.

I switch off the TV again and also the bedside lamp. The quiet darkness is nice. With a sigh I get up from the bed and sit down in front of the window that looks out over the back yard. An old birch tree stands off to the right, up against the windowless backside of an old townhouse.

There used to be a Vietnamese takeaway there. There are vents on the wall and it smelled nice most nights, but the building is empty now as far as I know. A bike shed and garbage bins sit close to the back gate.

There is light in a window on the second floor of the building on the opposite side. A woman’s silhouette moves behind the thin curtain. Another night owl, she is almost always up when I am here. I imagine myself going over there and introducing myself one day. Offer some company. Heh. As if I would ever do such a thing. But it is nice to imagine it.

She has switched on the light in the adjacent room which only has a very small window. Probably taking a shower.

I close my eyes with a sigh. I wonder how Irek is doing.

The thought makes me queasy. After a few moments of staring out into the night again, unfocused, I realise I have started biting my lower lip. I wonder why he asked me out.

I have thought about that a lot since then and have not been able to come up with a satisfying answer. I mean, yes, you ask someone out for a specific reason that likely is universal. Obviously. But why me? What does he see in me?

Which brings me to the matter of me not even being from his own species. Has he given up on his own kind and I am kinda convenient?

That… sounded mean.

I scratch myself behind an ear while I watch the opposite windows again. The woman on the second floor seems to have finished her shower. She appears to be naked, the way her shadow is clearer defined against the curtains as it glides past in the other direction.

The light in her flat goes out. She leaves me alone in the greyness of my nightsight that quickly returns after the spots in my vision have cleared. I sigh against an uncomfortable pressure on my chest.

I guess I can relate to Irek’s feelings. Considering what happened at the Four Corners pub, I maybe should have asked myself that a long time ago as well. I drag my hooves down my face, digging the edges into the sides of my muzzle.

If I made it clear during that disaster that I feel the same way, does that mean ‘clear’ clear in the same way as Irek seems to be thinking?

…?

Ugh.

I want a beer.

I put my head against the window. It is single glazing and pleasantly cool like the night air outside. Have I given up on my own kind? I have no plans of going home. Not really. There is not a big chance of meeting any stallions on this side of the portal, much less somepony who would appeal to me.

If Irek really wants to try and be with me, should I not give it a try and see what happens? I do like him a lot, for what it is worth after knowing each other for such a short time. I said yes to go for a drink with him after all. I think I like the thought. Depending on the definition of ‘think’.

My parents would be horrified. They were already unhappy with my fiance not being a batpony. And my ex-fiance’shead would probably explode on seeing who, or what, I chose in his stead.

I realise I am grinning.

Stop that.

I guess it is settled then. “Hey, I actually made a decision!” I say to myself and have to giggle. This is so far out there that it might just work out. Speaking of ‘work’. The mare in the mirror looks me up and down and gives me a sceptical look. I may be getting ahead of myself here but… how would it, you know, actually ‘work’?

It has been several minutes now and I am still looking at the pony alien. Uhm. She is nervously rubbing her forehooves together. Scratch scratch. Hooves, as in not hands. This might be a very, very bad idea after all. Shit.

Stop that.

Night, you promised not to chicken out. Taking a deep breath, I try to calm myself again. Sweet Luna, off to a great start here.

Okay, this may require some research. I glance at the tv. No, not that kind. That probably does not exist anyway. Yet. Hopefully.

Calm down, dammit. No need to get all worked up over a so far non-existing problem. Burn that bridge if and when you come to it.

It is fundamentally unfair though that I do not know how he looks without clothes. Come to think of that, how do humans feel when looking at the average pony? Most of us usually do not wear anything. Why should I?

Should I?

Get a grip, Nightline!

I am dying for a beer now.

Or something stronger.

Wait. Maybe I could ask Penny for help? If anyone has any experience about all of this then it is her. She has actual social skills. She also knows Irek really well. Maybe she has some advice?

See? I have a plan. As long as I do not look too closely at it, I can even pretend it is a good one. Well done. Ask Penny. Summon the courage to ask Penny about her potential knowledge of interspecies relationships on the matter of hypothetically being with and maybe bedding her best human friend. Easy.

“Arrgh!”

Hiding under my own wings is an acceptable plan B.

Is it breakfast time yet?

***

I have not slept especially well and not all that much either. On top of everything else, my wing muscles really hurt. The coffee is at least two hours old and bitter. The sandwich is bland.

I am calling a taxi.

***

I arrive back at my workplace an hour after sundown, with the western horizon still coloured a faint turquoise. Even in twilight, it is obvious that it has not been all that long since the partially disused Gevrey switching yard was revived.

The small office building where I collect my paperwork has not yet been really renovated. Grimy brown linoleum and flaking yellow paint. Modern office furniture and brand new IT tech. Potholes in the driveway and a rotting fence. State of the art railway control systems.

Oh, and an equally state of the art coffee machine in the kitchenette. And with a little wine rack under the sink. Euro Cargo Rail is French. In my experience, the French have their priorities in order.

This is some really good coffee.

I nod at the guy on duty in recognition of a job well done, despite him being new and inexperienced. We have just been through the ‘oh my god it’s the pony I’ve heard about’ routine, but he is alright. I give him a salute and a smile before walking out into the neon-lit night.

Looking forward to my next coffee with him.

Gevrey-Chambertin is pretty impressive. It is the central hub for ECR’s partnership with logistics giant Gefco’s automotive services division. New Peugeots and Citroens from all PSA production plants in France come here and are distributed to customers all over Europe and beyond. A lot of trains. Long trains.

I would really like to fly over the huge track field instead of walking across rails and broken concrete slabs, but that is a no go. Twentyfive kilovolt overhead lines is nothing you play with, not even with echo-location.

When I see my train I almost forget about the no flying and no jumping rule though. Almost.
I doubt that Trax would appreciate it if I accidentally step in her food and kill myself in the process. I do not intend to put fried bat on the menu.

Sometimes I feel silly for being so attached to a locomotive, but that does not lessen the joy when I get to drive her again. She just is my girl. I call out a greeting and do a double take at the echo.

Maybe it is the different colour scheme, but I had not even realised at first that we have a third team member tonight. Behind Trax is another 186, in the all red livery of ECR’s German parent company, DB Schenker.

Sure enough, there is another set of keys in the envelope. I rub my chin with my fetlock and grin. A kilometre of train with heavy vans and fifteen thousand horsepower to pull it. Oh yes.

Let’s get this train rolling.

***

How can a powered down machine look expectant? I have no idea, but Trax certainly manages to do just that. The other locomotive just looks like a hunk of steel. A very pretty one, to my eyes at least, but still. My brain is playing tricks on me and I am enjoying it.

I take a second to admire my cutie mark on the door before I enter the cab and switch on the light as soon as I have come to a halt after my fly dive skid routine. The strange loneliness and that diffuse annoyance and simmering anger evaporate the instant I am inside.

I take a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. A smile creeps onto my face and I relish the feeling. Finally.

“Hi,” I whisper and bring my girl to life. The screens light up and whisper a greeting back at me, just at the edge of hearing. At least that is what it feels like. I watch the system boot sequence for a while, Trax’ way of stretching and yawning. Makes me smile every time.

Taking a soft cloth out of my pack, I go and check her from front to back. Someone always leaves smudges or dirty fingerprints on the interior and I cannot have that. Not with my girl. I smile as I notice that a switch that had a cracked edge has been replaced.

“They’ve been nice to you?” I mumble and remove the faint shadow of dirt the electrician left behind. Then I remember that I have more than Trax to take care of tonight.

Entering the bright red DB engine feels weird somehow. As if the colour scheme would change something fundamental. Switching on the light of course reveals the same interior as every other locomotive of the same make. Still.

Booting up the control system takes a while but I am in no hurry tonight and go check the whole engine. It is exactly the same but still different somehow. It feels different. Used in a slightly different way, by different drivers, on different tracks in different countries and maintained in different depots than Trax. Spoken to in different languages.

When I get back from my little exploration, the system startup has just finished. “Good evening,” I say and have to smile. I raise the pantograph and wait for the bluish flicker from outside that signals contact with the overhead line.

The idle engine emits a barely audible hum while I go through the several pages of checklist. It even sounds a little different than Trax. I doubt my colleagues can hear the tiny difference though.

As the final step, I designate the system as the remotely controlled part of the twin engine setup. All displays show what they are supposed to show and I turn off the lights and leave the cabin.

When I carefully turn around in the air to lock the door, my skin prickles from the proximity to the overhead line and live pantograph. I do not like this part of the routine, but there is nothing to be done about that. I absentmindedly pat the door and drop to the ground with a crunching clop.

I turn to begin the brake check, but hesitate. A feeling of being watched.

There’s nothing on the track field surrounding me for hundreds of metres, at least nothing I can see.

Nothing but tracks and gravel and railway tech under cold neon light.
Nothing where the electric illumination ends and the light grey of my night vision begins. Nothing in the immediate vicinity apart from my train and the two locomotives.

I sigh and close my eyes for a second, dragging the tip of my hoof down the ridge of my muzzle. I am going to do it, right? Of course I am, there is no one… else... around to see or hear me.

“Quit it.” I say and look over my shoulder to give Trax a stern look.

I wonder if other drivers also have this compulsion. I mean, talking to your engine is just a sophisticated way of talking to yourself. Especially when you are all alone for an extended period of time. Right?

“How about you try to get acquainted with your new coworker instead? I’ll check the airbrakes whether you like it or not, you know that.”

I swear her lights just dimmed for a moment. At least I do not feel the urge to talk to the DB engine. Sigh. Who am I kidding?

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I tell the red locomotive.

Flaming Celestia. Go check those brakes, you madmare.

Some time later I am back at the front of my train and flap up to unlock the door on my engine. Trax bearing my cutiemark still makes me smile and I pat her side before I duck inside with a strong beat of my wings.

“Hi again,” I say with a smile as I slide to a halt against the driver’s seat. I shake my head at myself, sigh, and give her console a nuzzle. What am I supposed to do? It just kinda feels right.

My ears flick. There was a modulation in the faint hum of the idle engine that coincided with that nuzzle. Oh my stars. Next you will expect a personal welcome message. I have to smile at the thought though. Silly bat.

Still some forty minutes to our scheduled departure, plenty of time to put on my gear. I briefly look at the console out of the corner of my eyes before I set to work.

Fifteen minutes later I hop up into the seat, taking care to properly fold my tail around myself. I forgot that last time and when I went to bed I could not fall asleep for an hour because my dock hurt. Been years since that happened last time.

It is probably going to need more ponies in the engineers’ union to get seats with a hole in the back installed in all locomotives. Rather unlikely at present, since the only other pony in the transport business that I know of is a pegasus who drives trucks.

I give the screens a glance. Everything is nominal, including the status of the second engine. Looking forward to see how these two work together. With a deep sigh, I look out over the expanse before me that is dotted with violet lights from shunting signals.

Crap. I forgot to give Irek a call. Or maybe ‘forgot’ is the wrong expression here, more like shied away until succeeding in not thinking about it. I lift my foreleg and look at my phone. I lift my other hoof with the stylus strapped to it.

Still looking at my phone twenty minutes later.

I sigh and lean back. Telling Thierry that I chickened out is a humiliating prospect. It is just- oh well, there is not enough time for a proper phone call now anyway. Will probably get an opportunity to do so later.

Turns out that brooding at a shunting signal stretches time to almost infinity. Especially when you're putting off something important.

Trax has probably already made friends with the other engine.

I am so pathetic.

Buffer Stop

Track Switch - Double Traction
by Celefin

I am in a Taxi on the Autobahn 661 and the weather is atrocious. Someone else is going to drive my train the rest of the way. Not sure I like it, but it is probably better that way.

Squeak plop. Squeak plop. Squeak plop.

The Mercedes’ windscreen wipers make Frankfurt’s distant skyline appear every few seconds before it gets obscured again by the rain and spray. Low hanging clouds are hiding the skyscrapers’ spires and upper floors.

Lightning high above lights up the clouds with a leaden yellow for a second. Distant thunder, almost drowned out by the engine and traffic noise.

Thankfully, the driver has given up on trying to get more than one-word answers out of me. Cannot deal with that right now. I have talked more than enough already.

Explaining everything to the police officer was much harder than I had imagined. Which is stupid, really. I have not done anything wrong, quite the opposite. I prevented a disaster. Well, not me. At least not just me. Did not tell her that though. Obviously.

It did not help that it took a minute to convince her that yes, the pony before her was a pony engineer working for a subsidiary of DB. And that I had indeed been driving the train all the way from Dijon.

I was even still wearing all my gear, but that did not appear to be enough.

Felt that I somehow needed to justify my presence and defend myself. As if it was me who was in any way responsible for this mess because I am not human. Not sure if she even saw it that way. Just a feeling. The way she looked at me and how her voice sounded.

Might just as well have been my imagination. I am afraid I am a mess.

Got a phone call from a colleague some twenty minutes after the almost-crash. He is a guy trained in emergency psychological aid, standard protocol for accidents involving a person.

Well, he would not have needed to. I did not run anyone over.

I did not mash that car and spread a father and his baby who had not made it out in time because the front door of that vehicle was stuck after that accident with the boom lowered on the car’s roof over a hundred metres of track bed and everything smelling of petrol and blood and the look in the man’s eyes and-

Stop! Stop. Take a deep breath. Maybe he did need to talk me through it after all.

We overtake a lorry, its tires whipping up dirty water from the black road surface. The spinning wheels at eye height are mesmerising for a few seconds. A brief shudder as we leave it behind and get hit by side wind it shielded us from. Rain lashing at the window.

I hope Trax is alright. She has no one to talk to.

I feel a headache coming on. Can she get stressed? She can definitely get annoyed, I felt that clearly enough. How did she even know? Did the rails feel wrong somehow? Does she sing to everything around her? Come to think of it, her song sounded different just before the madness began.

I wish I could ask her. Like, really ask her. Ask Trax like a real person.

Because she is real. Real. Really real. I guess I am going to have to remind myself of that many times over. She did not feel stressed. How do I know that? I just know. Does not make sense. She was concerned about me. I know that. When I put my head against her console, I knew.

What am I to her?

They will have to check her for damage, especially to the wheels. Unbalance caused by abrasion, that was a long way to slide on sanded rails. Can she feel that? Does that hurt or can she not feel things happening to her body?

Will she feel alone when she wakes up in the depot and I am gone?

I think of my cutiemark and it makes me splay back my ears. Does she even wake up when I am not there? Is there a Trax without me?

Does it matter?

“Are you okay?”

The driver’s hand on my shoulder jolts me out of my thoughts and the mild pain of the ill fitting seatbelt brings me back to reality. I blink a few times and drag my fetlocks down my face and muzzle. They come away damp. “No,” I say and look out the window again. “Sorry, not your fault,” I add after a pause.

“It’s alright.” He gives a sad little chuckle. “It’s just that I’ve never had a pony passenger before and want to ask you stuff, but I guess you get that a lot. Like, a whole lot.” He taps his lower lip with an index finger. “Hm. At least now I know how alien pony fur feels like,” he says with a wink.

Despite everything, a little smile finds its way onto my muzzle. Maybe I should humour him a bit. I will be alone with my thoughts again soon enough.

I take a deep breath and let it out again slowly. “Okay. Ask away,” I say and turn my head away from the window and the depressingly murky morning light. Seeing his honest grin makes me feel better. It does not happen often that I enjoy the ‘never met a pony before’ routine. I think today I will.

A little while later we cross the bridge over the Main river, the grey water below us does not look as if it is flowing. It is rippling and foamy. We leave the A661 just before it passes over the Frankfurt east freight terminal, my original destination, back when everything mostly made sense. I will be home in five minutes or so.

***

I should have let the driver drop me off at the bakery. A stocked pantry is a virtue, sadly not one I posses. You would think that I knew that, having lived most of my life in Equestria where there are no supermarkets.

The mere thought of going out again to buy something is exhausting. Maybe I do not have to. There is a can of baked beans in the cupboard, half a glass of pickled beetroot in the fridge and a packet of crisps past its sell by date on the floor beside my bed. I decide to call it a meal.

I must have been really hungry. Maybe the shaking was not from distress but mainly from low blood sugar. The thought makes me feel better. A small glass of scotch improves my mood even more.

I treasure my Scapa single malt whisky and I just realised that I do have something to celebrate. I may have nightmares for a while, but no-one was killed or hurt (or damaged, in Trax’ case). I will drink to that. And to my girl.

It is quiet around here in the late morning. Most of the other tenants are at work and we did not meet anyone when we arrived. That was nice. The driver was kind enough to follow me inside and also negotiate with the lock on the door to my flat.

Faced with the choice of bed or shower, bed wins hooves down. I look down at myself. Good thing I forgot to put clean sheets on it before I left, that would have been a waste. I close the curtains with my hook on a stick and smile in the resulting murky darkness.

Even resisted emptying that bottle.

***

My phone wakes me up. Where am I? Oh right. Dammit, where is my stylus? Where is my phone for that matter? I am lying on it. No wonder it is muffled but my belly is vibrating. Arrgh!

It takes some contortions, but I end up pressing my nose against the screen in the hope of either accepting the call or shutting off the infernal device. The screen blinds my poor eyes in the process.

“Yes?!” I would have liked to put more venom into those three letters, but I am too groggy.

The caller appears unimpressed. “Nightline?! Where are you? Are you okay? You’re in the news!”

...what?

“Hello? Are you there, Night?” A female voice.

Maybe i should say something. “Huh?”

“It’s me. Penny. Are you okay?”

Oh right, that female voice. “Hi, uh, yeah, I think so. Penny, give me a second to-”

“Okay!”

“-wake up.”

There is a small pause. “Oh. Sorry. Totally forgot. Are you at home?”

I shake my head to try and clear the mush from my brain. “Yeah, I’m in Frankfurt. And I’m fine. And my train is fine.”

“Who cares about your train, when-”

“Trax.”

“-you are- oh sorry, sorry. Okay.”

I have to smile at how her voice just changed. She means it. “It’s okay.”

“No it isn’t, but anyway. Do you need something for dinner and do you want to stay at my place tonight? I don’t have to work tomorrow, so I don’t mind staying up long.”

“Uh. I don’t know, maybe? Can I get back to you on that when my brain is up and running?”

“Great! Irek gave me your address, I’ll pick you up!”

“Uh, I-”

Click

“-have to shower first.”

I blink at my phone’s lock screen. I guess that is taken care of then, even if I did not get to have a say in it. Oh well. With a sigh, I roll onto my back and close my eyes.

Just five more minutes.

Personal Space

Author's Note

An important note about a train safety system that has a role to play later in this chapter.
Since I don’t want Nightline to launch into a technical explanation of something that is second nature to her, as if she knew there was someone reading her inner monologue, I’ll do it here:

While the fully automated ETCS (European train control system) is currently being rolled out EU-wide, many countries still retain their own, simpler systems for now. Germany’s system is called Sifa (the acronym for 'Sicherheitsfahrschaltung, which translates to ‘safety drive switch’), intended to bring the train to an immediate halt if the driver loses consciousness for whatever reason.

The driver has to press a pedal in short, regular intervals. If it’s not done on time, the system will give a single warning in the form of a loud “Sifa!” (pronounced see-fah), before it initiates an emergency braking a few seconds later. Trax is equipped with both ETCS (for all French tracks and German ICE corridors) and Sifa, exclusively for Germany.

That out of the way, here goes.

Personal Space

Track Switch - Double Traction
by Celefin

The operator pulls me out of my pointless brooding.

“Mademoiselle Nightline?”

I have to smile at how purposely formal he sounds. “Oui, honorable monsieur Cheval?” I can almost hear him smile in the short pause that follows.

“You’re good to go in five minutes. Have a nice night.”

“Thanks,” I reply and look out onto the tracks again. “Alright, Trax.” I sigh deeply. “Since I didn’t do what I should have done and call Irek, let’s at least have a good night together.”

The traction control screen flickers for the blink of an eye.

I give it a long look. “I’ll… take that for a yes?”

Nothing.

Of course nothing! Get a grip.

Thankfully, the shunting signal in front of my train chooses this moment to switch from violet to white. Cannot help but feel a slight disappointment though. I push the throttle.

My verdict about the twin engine setup after a few seconds? Wow. I did not expect to start such a heavy train with such smoothness. Did not even get the moment where the engine takes the full weight on the coupling. Hardly any vibrations.

The hum of Trax’ inverters increases in fine melodic progression as we pick up a little speed while navigating the maze of Gevrey-Chambertin. I pat her console. “Yes, tell him how it’s done.” Him? I have already categorised the DB engine as male. Oh dear.

It takes a lot of switches to braid the sixty tracks of the main track field together, an endless procession of shunting signals. Like glowing buoys on a glittering sea of steel, guiding us through the main field and the secondary departure yard.

A small roadbridge where the sea turns into a river narrow enough to cross. A flashing yellow signal gives us permission to proceed onto the mainline approach, and Trax hums. Almost excited. I smile.

The train sways over the last three sets of switches and we do not even have to wait this time. Another yellow signal, cautiously inviting us out onto the mainline at sixty kilometres an hour. More switches up ahead, albeit gentler ones designed for higher speeds.

The noise of the traction motors increases to rival that of the inverters, and Trax hums with the held back power of two locomotives. I think if she were a pony, she would be grinning. Well, I am. I imagine her screens to grow brighter and more vibrant, the triple headlights burning a brilliant white.

The tracks turn to the northwest, into the southern industrial estates of Dijon. Throttling down even more as we pass another shunting yard, and the tracks take a sharp bend to the east right after.

There is a large SNCF maintenance complex next to the tracks to the north, rows and rows of wagons and locomotives waiting on the sidings. ECR pays for their services. I pat Trax with a wing. “You meet any nice engineers there?”

She hums.

“Don’t make me jealous.”

Fifteen minutes and many bends and bridges later we finally reach the outskirts of the railway labyrinth that is Dijon. There is a green light up ahead where the double track turns to the northeast. Block free.

I feed the two engines, slowly pushing up the throttle and relishing the feeling. The DB locomotive’s weight takes most of the swaying of the wagons, acting as a buffer to Trax. Smooth. Oh so smooth.

Straight and flat through the grey landscape, alone on the track and accelerating evenly, Trax beginning to sing. I spread my wings and-

“Hey!”

-and a small but noticeable jolt. What the hell was that? Trax has stopped singing. Instead her inverters sound… aggravated? I sing a little tune in the voice I reserve for her while giving the screens a worried glance.

My intonation probably suffers due to that, but Trax does not seem to mind. The engine noise evens out again. All systems appear in perfect working order, apart from a brief flicker of a screen.

Shortly after passing the town of Saint-Julien the track turns due north and becomes a straight line all the way to the horizon. A little later we even out at a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour.

A faint point of light in the distance grows into the headlights of the regional express between Dijon and Nancy. I squint against the glare and wait for the whump when our two bowshocks meet.

I can hear it and feel it in my chest, but it hardly causes any vibration. With a smug grin spreading on my muzzle I realize we have too much mass for that in double traction. Oh yes. The other driver and the passengers sure felt that.

“Well done you two,” I say, and pat Trax on the console.

There are some soft clicks and she begins to sing again.

Jolt.

***

At one in the morning we reach Toul, a beautiful town situated a little west of Nancy, nestled in between forests, old vineyards, and the dark waters of the Moselle. An imposing cathedral rises over the medieval town center, its illuminated spires reflecting in canals and cut-off meanders of the river.

Now if only I could enjoy it like I normally would.

“How about you just do your damn job?” Ugh. Still five hours to go and these two are grating on my nerves.

Trax has not been singing for the last two hours, despite the beautiful route we are on. At least not the way I am used to and fond of. What she has been doing sounds a lot more like complaining. Or whining. Not sure yet.

The tracks meander with the river, cut through old-growth forest, and cross the stream on ancient viaducts again and again. Constructed a hundred years before anyone here knew anything about my kind. Rails singing of a bygone era.

There are irritating vibrations in every second bend. The feeling of receiving a tiny push while braking, or a miniscule drag when accelerating. All systems are green. I cannot hear any hint of a mechanical fault. Just off notes in the engine noise for no apparent reason.

Also, we are still perfectly on schedule. More so than usual, despite a few minor delays around Neufchateau. Making good time is a lot easier when you have so much power at your hooves.

A flashing yellow signal, switches up ahead.

We join the northbound mainline between Nancy and Metz, crossing the Moselle once more on an imposing stone bridge. Rolling hills, forests, the meandering river. The rhythm of the rails. Beautiful.

And I am so looking forward to my mandatory break in Metz.

***

Management would not be happy if I refuse to drive a train that has no obvious faults. Not at all happy, in fact. So I am spending most of my break double-checking everything. Engine rooms of both locomotives, wheels, disc brakes, visible cabling. Every coupling between every waggon.

Actually sniffing along the whole damn train for any hints of overheated metal from a failing bearing or stuck brake shoe. Really hope that nobody has seen me hovering about, looking like an idiot. Talk about rumours. Batpony high on brake dust or something.

Of course it has to start raining halfway through my inspection.

Trax and Schencker just sitting there now. I am probably projecting, but I think they look just as annoyed as I feel. Dripping wet and glowering at each other. Dammit. To think that I had been so looking forward to tonight.

***

Are we there yet?

Switching voltage systems in Forbach an hour after leaving Metz, about five minutes from the German border. It is pissing down and my engine reminds me of a foal who does not want to eat what is for dinner. I wish I did not have such sensitive hearing. At least I would be able to ignore the constant discordances.

Every system is green. There are no electric or mechanical faults. I am certain about that. Trax is just being a pain for no apparent reason.

“So very sorry, princess. Fifteen kilovolt it is. If you don’t like it, there’s a maintenance complex here in Forbach and another one in Saarbrücken. Want a French or a German mechanic? We’ll call it a night ten minutes from now. Should I call the operator and tell him my train’s faulty?” Sigh. I do not think I have ever talked to her in such a tone. Makes me sad.

There is a new note to the grating noise. Kinda wavering.

“Scrap the both of you,” I add and lean back with a huff.

That shuts her up.

Uhm.

What exactly did I just do?

The smooth hum of a well maintained electrical engine. Nothing else.

Okay. I am losing it. Definitely need more social interaction. Why did I not call Irek? Because I am a pathetic coward that would rather talk to a locomotive than risk, uh, something. What exactly? Oh horseapples, sometimes I really hate myself. Might as well continue down that track.

I drag both of my hooves down my forehead and muzzle. A deep breath. Another deep breath. This is ridiculous. I clear my throat regardless and sit up straight, watching the screens and listening to the idle engine.

“Trax?”

Silence. What else? Idiot.

Silence of the kind of someone not saying anything. Seriously? I lean forward and touch the console with a hoof, listening intently. “How about we work together again?” I say in the softest and most non-threatening way I can muster.

The glow of the traction control screen becomes a little bit brighter for a second. So faint I might not have noticed it without my nightvision. The slightest of change in the background hum of the idle inverters.

I sit back up, a cold sensation crawling up my spine. Shit. Maybe it is because I want, or expect, to notice something. Trick of the mind, nothing more. Looking around in the cabin that does not show anything new at all, does not sound different at all when I call out in a frequency range beyond human hearing.

The softest of clicks from somewhere in the engine room.

I swallow. By the dark mistress of dreams.

I am so preoccupied with dredging through my memories for other instances that could match this situation that I almost do not notice how the signal in front of my train switches from double red to yellow. My hoof feels wobbly when I push the throttle. Watching the newton metre bar creep upwards. Waiting for… something.

“Sifa!”

The robotic voice of the the German train safety control system cuts through my thoughts. Dammit. I push the deadman’s pedal with only five seconds to spare. Pull yourself together Night, this is getting dangerous. Do not cause an emergency braking by forgetting the most basic of basics and get yourself reprimanded like an absolute rookie.

Calm. Down. Trax has not turned into an AI. Or something unfriendly. Whatever it is she has turned into. If she has. Watch the track and the signals and do your job!

The acceleration is as smooth as when I started in Dijon, and Trax’ headlights peacefully illuminate the edge of the dark forest on both sides of the track. Somewhere around here is the German border.

When we cross the Saar river a few minutes later a thought strikes me. Does the Deutsche Bahn engine feel at home in the German system? Am I being ridiculous again? Is Trax unique? Is this even real or a product of my imagination? Still not sure about that.

Oh my stars. I do not think I will ever hop into the driver's seat in any locomotive with the same feeling as before… before this.

“Sifa!”

“Fuck off!”

***

The terrain turns hillier, noticeable inclines become more frequent. Trax sings her quiet songs while the two engines effortlessly pull the heavy load along. Thick spruce forest covers the slopes above the ever narrower valleys. It is pitch black against the soft first light of dawn peeking over the eastern ridges.

Between two tunnels there are headlights on the opposite track.

Even with double traction my train shudders on being hit by the ICE’s bowshock as it whispers past in a white, red-striped flash. I do love hauling cargo, but I do not think anyone can deny that the white queen has a special magic.

Then again, with my recent experience... I grimace. The ICE-3 version of the Intercity Express has sixteen traction motors spread along the underside of the carriages. Same goes for all the electrics. She is probably a real prissy bitch with multiple personalities.

“Sifa!”

Nightline. Get. A. Grip.

***

Murky darkness has turned into twilight when we emerge from the mountain valleys out onto the old flood plains of the Rhine. Every block signal glows green. Straight and flat and a smooth one hundred and forty kilometres an hour.

I spread my wings and glide. The screens glow brighter. Tamed lightning in her song.

Back in Mannheim once again. The rain returns as we crawl over the Rhine bridge and through the vast track fields of the southern shunting yards. Wet steel reflects the soft glow of green and yellow ‘slow’ signals, muted by the grey drizzle.

Early commuter trains glide past us, empty faces looking out through dirty windows painted in diagonal rows of raindrops. The locomotives and railcars all have the personality of a piece of railway ballast. Dead.

I realise I am petting Trax’ console with a wing.

Out onto the mainline again, turning north towards my final destination. One more hour through the first grey morning light and I will be back home. The rain comes back in earnest, the raindrops hammering against the windscreen.

Lightning flashes in the distance, somewhere over greater Frankfurt. Gusts of wind bend bushes and young trees toward the tracks, only to be whipped back by our bowshock. Green leafs blowing past a green signal.

We pass under the A5 and continue in parallel with the Autobahn. Cars swerving in and out between other cars and trucks, and edging past in a low hanging cloud of dirty spray. Semi-trailers buffeted by northwesterly gusts. It is not even rush hour yet and the A5 is nowhere near capacity, but I am already getting stressed just by watching it.

Reaching Darmstadt, half an hour south of Frankfurt. We roll past the cars that overtook us a while ago, now stuck in stop and go. I never see the cause of the tailback since the A5 turns to the northwest while we approach the city centre. I have to smile.

Grey and dull facades of cheap housing lines the northern approach to the central station. I am watching the overhead line sway back and forth in the wind. The rain is pattering on the roof while I am staring at the single red light on the black rectangle before me.

Ten minutes later, the ICE from Stuttgart to Hamburg trundles past, more than thirty minutes delayed already. I sigh. It was going so well. A few moments later the signal switches to ‘slow’, a green over a yellow light. Finally.

North of the city, two more tracks join us from the east and we are back on the river of steel that flows towards Frankfurt. A signal flashing green in the rain, giving us clearance to accelerate back up to one hundred kilometres per hour.

Five minutes later, Trax starts whining again.

“Seriously?” I say with a deep exhale and roll my eyes. She probably cannot see that. I guess.

A train of tank wagons speeds past us on the opposite track.

We pass a rectangular sign of black and white stripes marking a magnetic trigger point. It is part of the system that controls the automatic gate operation of the level crossing up ahead. The only one of those left on the whole route between Mannheim and Frankfurt.

Whine whine whine.

“Will you stop it?!”

A small jolt and then a soft vibration joins the dissonance.

I see a warning light on the electric brake system controls flickering on and off. I do not like this. I am just about to say something when Trax’ inverters start to scream and half of the console’s lights flash red.

Adrenaline floods my system as I flatten my ears against my skull. It looks like Trax is trying to use the regenerative brake on her own, her wheels screeching on the rails while the DB engine and the weight of the train is pushing her over the wet steel.

Something is very, very wrong. Fuck my beginning career as engine-whisperer, fuck management and sorry to Frankfurt central’s operators. I am done here.

I slam my hoof on the emergency button.

Eight sets of disc brakes clamp down on the wheels of the two engines with a combined force of five hundred kilonewtons. Sand pours onto the rails. The airbrake system depressurises and hundreds of brake shoes drop onto the wagon wheels.

The resulting cacophony is overwhelming. Sparks bathe the trackbeds in flickering light. I grit my teeth and brace myself against the console with both hooves.

Now I can see the level crossing that I am about to block with a kilometre of freight train.

Wait. Flashing warning lights.

There is a car on the crossing. On my track. It has hit another car in front of it and is now stuck under the boom of the crossing gate.

Please no.

No.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

***

I have lost my sense of time, but it appears we have stopped without a crash.

I crack open an eye and look out. Ten metres in front of us there is an ashen-faced man standing behind what I assume is his car, frozen in Trax’ headlights. The rear passenger door is open. He is looking up at me, clutching a crying baby against his chest.

A few hundred metres away, an intercity train screeches to a halt on one of the opposite tracks. My emergency braking maneuver has shut down the whole system. All blocks closed. A throng of people have flocked to the end of the nearby commuter rail platform, all of them staring at us.

By all gods and goddesses.

I slide off my seat, ducking behind the console with its bright screens that are glowing with a red tint. “Thank you,” I whisper.

Nothing.

I touch the console with my forehead. “Thank you,” I force out again against the lump in my throat. Please show me that all of this is not a figment of my imagination. Please show me that I am not mad. Please. Please give me something. Anything. Please be real. “Trax?”

There is a soft hum from the engine room, a modulation that I have never heard before. Screen luminosity and colour return to normal. A series of soft clicks.

I reach up with a shaking hoof and flick the switch to retract the pantograph.

Trax whispers something through the faint noise of compressing springs and scraping metal. It sounds concerned. Soothing. She settles down and goes to sleep. Lucky her.

I stand on wobbly legs and take the two steps to the door. It takes two tries to open it. A gust of cool wind blasts back my mane and forelock and drives raindrops into my face, but it does not matter. Cold is good right now.

The wind makes my landing less than elegant and I almost slip on the wet ground. Flashing blue lights reflect on the nearby station’s walls, the emergency services are arriving. Good, someone please take responsibility here because I feel like I am about to faint.

I just want to go home. Call Irek. Or Penny. But I will have to talk to the police first I guess, and whoever else needs it as well. Craning my head and blinking rain out of my eyes, I look up at my girl.

She just sits there. Unblemished. She just saved a life. Two lives. I do not know how, but I am absolutely certain of that. Without her trying to brake, I would never have hit the emergency button before it would have been too late. And absolutely no one is ever going to believe me.

My ears flick at a faint sizzling sound, like raindrops falling into embers.

I look at the wrecked car on the crossing and then back along the train but I cannot see any flames or flickering light. None of the deck coach carriers have derailed. The cargo is where it is supposed to be. No smoke in the air either, only the faint smell of hot metal coming from the disc brakes.

But there is still that sound, like the hiss of water droplets falling into a hot pan.

From above me.

I slowly turn my head and look up at Trax again. Then I see it. There, airbrushed onto Trax’ door as a birthday present and still without so much as a nick in the paint.

My mark.

Every drop of rain that hits it immediately turns into a puff of steam. Water running down from the roof evaporates before it even comes close.

There is a spot of scorching hot metal right under my cutie mark.

Trax’ mark.