//------------------------------// // Big Boy // Story: Destination Unknown // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Destination Unknown Big Boy Admiral Biscuit There were enough trains that Sweetsong was tempted to hop a freight across the river rather than fly—she could land practically wherever and make it across the river before anyone noticed. For that matter, the trains were long enough that she could wait until one was crossing and then gallop along the roofs of cars and make it that way. It was a stupid idea. There was no sense in being blatant, especially since when it came time to leave she’d have to hop a train and that would be harder if they were looking for a pegasus hobo.  Besides, it wasn’t all that far; she’d seen the river as she was flying around getting herself oriented. A couple of miles, tops.  Tony could have given her directions. Still, Sweetsong reasoned that locomotives would at least be near tracks—nearly every piece of equipment on display she’d seen so far had been. It didn’t make any sense to put a train on a truck and carry it somewhere just to show it off. Therefore, she got high enough to spot both the river and the rail bridge over it, an easily-distinguishable series of truss bridges marching across the water. Railroad bridges were generally more interesting than highway bridges. As she flew closer, she could see that the truss bridges also continued over a small railyard that paralleled the river, but she didn’t see either a Big Boy or a Century there.  North, south, or west? The railyard that the bridge had fed into was gone, nothing but a barren lot with the main line and a single spur track leading to a former train station. Maybe it still was an active train station; if Amtraks went to Omaha they’d have to stop somewhere. From what she’d learned at the museum, Union Pacific was proud of their history, and maybe they were so proud that they would put their locomotives near the highway where anybody could see them. They hadn’t done that with the golden spike, though, so maybe she’d have to hunt for them. That at least narrowed her to two options—highways were both to her north and south, and for all she knew there was also one to her west that she just hadn’t seen yet. Logic wasn’t helping her; the rails went in all three directions, so she fell back to the age-old pegasus method of making a choice—choose based on whether the next bird she saw was a chirpy bird, a ducky bird, or a hawky bird. Despite the river, the first one she spotted was a hawky bird, already soaring in the early thermals, and she flew off to the north, towards the highway she’d spotted there. She did not find the locomotives. She did find Lula B’s Breakfast, Brunch and Bar, and decided to change her routine by not ordering breakfast food, instead opting for their birria tacos. She could have asked her waiter where the locomotives were, surely he’d know, but where was the fun in that? The restaurant was near both the highway overpass over the river and the railroad tracks, which was one option for leaving town—it was a little more open than she liked, though. At night, it could be an option. ••• She flew north past a cable-stayed people-bridge across the river, then turned around at a weird-looking building with lots of parking lots but no locomotives. A train was headed slowly south, and she paced it, checking for suitable cars to ride as they rolled by under her. Sweetsong dove down and flew under the I-480 bridge, then picked up altitude again, following south along the river towards I-80. The locomotives were easy to spot from the air. Despite its size, she might have missed the Big Boy, since it was painted black, but there was no missing the Armour Yellow Century, both of them angled—as she’d suspected—so drivers on the highway could get a good look at them. She wasn’t the only one who had come to see them; already there were a few tourists out taking pictures of the locomotives and taking selfies with the locomotives. Not really enough to justify taking out her guitar, but even without it she could sing. Putting out the fishing hat was a hopeful gesture, and she didn’t really focus on it, instead sometimes singing behind it and sometimes singing around the locomotives as she inspected them. The Century was so long that there was a passageway between its halves, so that nobody would have to walk the whole length and back again. The sign told her that it was powered by two sixteen-cylinder diesels, and made 6600 horsepower. The Big Boy was longer and heavier, although slightly less powerful. Its sixteen driving wheels were all taller than she was, even on her hind hooves, and the sign said that it was the biggest locomotive ever made. She believed it. Sweetsong couldn’t always get a sense of Equestrian railroads progressing to modern human railroads; there was a huge technological gap. Some of the museums she’d visited helped fill the spaces with their ever-larger equipment. While the Century wasn’t as obvious a creation, the Big Boy was familiar, but on a giant, nearly unfathomable scale. She couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to ride behind one, or even in one. It was a shame that it was relegated to a park, like some animal in the zoo who wanted to run free. ••• At first, the distant sound of a steam whistle didn’t really register. She hadn’t decided to become a hobo once she got to Earth, she’d ridden plenty of trains back home. And then she heard it again, and her ears perked and swiveled to the Big Boy—could it be her singing had brought it back to life, at least a little? Locomotives had personality, everypony knew that, and she was practically singing heartsongs. The park was nearly empty, only one old man sitting on the bench listening to her sing, and then she heard the whistle again, long and mournful, and it wasn’t her imagination nor was it the ghosts of the slumbering locomotive. Steamboat? Lots of rivers had steamboats, and some of them not only operated, but were also actually steam-powered. She hadn’t seen any, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t one trundling down the river, loaded with tourists who wanted an old-timey experience. She’d never tried to stow away on a steamboat before. She apologized to the old man and nuzzled him as a farewell, then grabbed her hat—fuller than she expected—and took to the sky, ears swiveling as she listened for the whistle again. ••• She saw the smoke before she heard the whistle, and it was well inland of the river. Every pegasus knew that when there was a fire they should gather clouds and attempt to put it out, and every pegasus learned sooner or later to tell the difference between a fire and a train—or for those who lived near the water, a boat. This smoke cloud was moving, billowing up from the trees in deliberate chuffs, and she could see a steam cloud underneath as the locomotive sounded its whistle again. This was something she had to see, so she angled across the river and back to Council Bluffs, wondering if this was what Tony had told her she should stick around for. Museums ran steam trains sometimes—the one near the UP museum had a couple steam locomotives although it didn’t look like either would operate. Or there were mainline excursions now and then, which at a guess was what was happening now. As she got closer, she spotted the tail of the train, Armour Yellow passenger cars with grey roofs, and at the head of the train—  She didn’t believe it at first, but the evidence in front of her eyes couldn’t be denied: a Big Boy was on point on the train, twin to the one in the park. Sweetsong swooped down for a closer look, flying through its smoke cloud, just above the cars filled with eager passengers riding behind the behemoth of the rails, and for an instant she contemplated landing on top of a coach, being princess of the train until they kicked her off. When she told the story, nopony would believe her . . . except that it seemed every crossing had railfans with cameras and there was even a drone in the air, following the progress of the train. She swooped in front of the drone—she couldn’t help herself—and followed the tracks with her eyes, wondering if it was going to stop in Council Bluffs or continue over the river to Omaha, and wondering where she might get a ticket to ride it. There were a few tricks to fool a conductor on a passenger train into thinking she had a ticket, although she hadn’t tried them here. Boldness got results, but stupidity didn’t; it was foalish to think that any conductor would forget that he hadn’t seen a ticket from the only pony on the train. No open platforms or vestibules to land on, barring the footboards of the locomotive itself. She dropped back down to cab-height and flew alongside, looking in the cab at the crew, not dressed in the modern high-viz vests, but instead with overalls and striped bill caps. The engineer waved and she waved back, then zipped ahead, climbing back up once she’d passed the front of the locomotive, racing it down the tracks. It was going slowly, letting the passengers enjoy the journey; if they’d opened the throttle all the way they’d have left her in the dust. ••• It did cross the river, and stopped in Omaha. The passengers got out and she found out that they’d have a couple hours to look at museums and get something to eat and then go back and she should have gotten her ticket earlier if she wanted a ride, there weren’t any for sale any more. The cars didn’t have any good hiding spots—she went in one just to see—and she imagined all the seats had been sold. Who wouldn’t want to ride behind a Big Boy? Each car had its own volunteer conductor, and it was possible that they weren’t talking to each other, she could pretend she was supposed to be on the train. Worst case, they kicked her off.  Or she could focus on the crew. Maybe they’d let her ride in the locomotive? There wasn’t much chance of that, but it never hurt to try. Most railroads didn’t like hobos, didn’t like ponies who stowed away on the trains, but some of them were at least accepting of them. ••• They were professional and strict and had a task to focus on. The yard they’d stopped by had a loop of track where they could turn the locomotive around for its trip back to Council Bluffs, and she could have landed on the tender and ridden on it for a while before she got kicked off, but that was a bridge she didn’t want to burn, not as long as there was still a chance to get on the train somehow. She got yelled at for being too close to the yard, and rather than continue on anyway, she apologized and turned back, watching the locomotive from afar as it crept its way around the loop of track and through the switches. Nobody was yelling at the drone. ••• Once the locomotive was coupled back up to the new front of the train, the crew relaxed. Maybe it was her friendly demeanor, maybe it was that she was a pony, or maybe it was her singing Wabash Cannonball that got their attention. To her disappointment, she wasn’t allowed up in the locomotive, although they didn’t shoo her off the front of the tender with its commanding view into the cab. They told her about the locomotive and how it had also been a static display before being rebuilt to celebrate the sesquicentennial anniversary of the Transcontinental Railroad. They were also curious about Equestrian railroads, and she admitted that the biggest locomotive that the Manehattan, Paisley & Greenock Northern owned would fit in the Big Boy’s tender with room to spare. And then it was back to business; she was kicked off the tender so they could focus on work, and left to contemplate ways to sneak aboard the passenger cars. They were all connected, she could at least buy herself some time from alert conductors by pretending she’d gotten on the wrong car, and that was the plan she used. Two cars back, she found a family of three who had an empty seat available and didn’t object to a pony taking up the vacant seat. Sitting in the aisle wasn't as good as a window seat, but they were fun conversationalists and her seatmate didn’t mind if she leaned over every now and then to get a closer look at the scenery. He was really interested in the hobo lifestyle, and she was torn between recommending it or warning him of the dangers of trains, especially for a rookie. She knew ponies who had been maimed or killed taking a chance they shouldn’t have. Too soon, the journey was over, and she joined the throngs of people at the rail depot, either headed off to their cars or else taking time to visit the gift shop.