//------------------------------//
// Railteam 
// Story: Track Switch - Double Traction 
// by Celefin 
//------------------------------//


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’s head 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.