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.”
