//------------------------------// // Shunting // Story: Track Switch - Double Traction // by Celefin //------------------------------// 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.