The Timetable
Train 42 was still crawling slower than a running man.
Yet as nine long, heavy coaches were dragged forward, iron coupler by iron coupler, the ponderous roar of wheels grinding into steel rails shook the platform in an instant.
From Coach 8 came the screech of scraping metal. They hadn't even repaired that wheelset, yet the train was already rolling.
If it picked up any more speed and slipped onto the main line, there was no telling whether the damaged axle box would hold.
That goddamn monk-robed bastard...!
My thighs burned, but I could still run. Whenever a stitch stabbed into my side, I cut my breaths short and sprinted harder. The locomotive surged ahead, building speed, and the distance between us refused to shrink.
The farther I sprinted along the platform, the thinner the acrid black smoke grew, until the black iron leviathan of the steam locomotive filled my entire vision.
On the ballast before the cab, the bleeding official engineer lay sprawled while two station hands scrambled to haul him up onto the platform.
Catching sight of me bounding toward him, the engineer thrust a bloodied hand toward the cab roof and screamed, "The brass lever up on the right side of the cab! Shove it all the way forward!"
Simple enough to understand.
The trouble was figuring out how to clamber onto the cab footplate as it accelerated toward twenty kilometers per hour, already rushing past the platform's edge.
The front driver wheels flashed past the platform's safety line.
I wrapped the Type 91 rifle's sling twice around my left arm, locking it in place. Barely twenty paces remained to the cab. Squeezing out what reserves I had left, I made a final, desperate dash along the engine's flank.
The exact moment the iron handrail whipped past my eyes, I lunged forward with my right hand, snagged the bar, and drove off the ground with everything I had.
My feet left the ground. My body swung through the air and slammed hard against the engine's outer plating.
The biting wind ripped at the skirts of my coat, while right beneath my boots, the massive driving wheels and connecting rods churned, spitting boiling jets of steam that licked my soles.
One slip of a finger, and I would be sucked under churning steel like meat into a grinder.
I haven't even collected my thirty silver coins yet—I'm not dying here!
Summoning every shred of strength in my shoulders and lats, I hauled myself up onto the cab's footplate.
The moment I shoved my way into the narrow gangway of the cab, a wall of suffocating, murderous heat slammed into me.
Behind a thin iron partition, raw scarlet flames danced inside the boiler's firebox. In front of the open coal chute, the stoker lay gasping on the floor, bleeding from a gash on his head.
And there, before the control stand—
Stood the man who had cast off his brown monastic cowl, sleeves rolled high.
His right hand gripped the long brass throttle lever suspended from the ceiling, pulling it all the way back to flood the cylinders with maximum steam pressure.
"Hands off, you son of a bitch."
I leveled the Type 91 rifle.
The man glanced back at me over his shoulder.
He didn't look surprised in the slightest.
Instead, his left hand drifted subtly down toward the lower corner of the control stand.
I flicked the safety on.
There was a live round chambered, but the cramped cab was a jumble of instrument panels and wounded crewmen; I couldn't just fire at will.
The stoker shrank back against the wall.
A compact pistol materialized in the man's hand.
A split second before his muzzle aligned with my forehead, I swung the heavy barrel of the Type 91 down across his wrist.
Crack!
The pistol ricocheted off the iron wall and plunged deep into a heap of coal.
The man swallowed a groan, cradling his wrist, but wasted not a breath—with his other hand, he drew a heavy combat dagger from behind his waist in a reverse grip.
He didn't charge head-on.
Flicking the tip of his boot under a heavy coal shovel lying on the floor, he kicked it up, struck the shaft with the back of his hand, and sent it spinning toward my knees like a top.
I dropped my rifle barrel to parry the spinning blade, knocking the iron shovel clean out of the cab and onto the ballast below.
In that fleeting heartbeat, the man kicked the firebox door wide.
Whoosh!
A storm of scarlet fire and pitch-black embers billowed from the hatch, washing over my face.
Choked by the searing heat, I took half a step back—and the man's boot came down hard on the muzzle of my Type 91.
Pinning the barrel to the floorboards, he drove his dagger straight down toward my fingers.
Refusing to let go, I wrenched the rifle stock violently inward.
Under the man's boot, the barrel twisted, sweeping his ankle out from beneath him. His dagger went wide, screeching along the steel barrel in a shower of sparks.
Mister Bram, this is an act of God. Don't go blaming me.
Dropping low, the man thrust the dagger's point toward my ribs.
I drove the buttplate down against the spine of the blade; the steel sliced harmlessly through the flap of my coat.
Rather than pulling his knife back, the man lunged inside my guard, aiming to smash his forehead into my face.
Jerking my head aside, I snapped the Type 91 up horizontally.
The thick walnut stock barred his neck head-on.
Throwing my full body weight behind it, I shoved forward. His back slammed violently into the control gauges, shattering a brass steam meter to pieces.
Glass rained onto the floor.
Letting go of his knife, the man clamped both hands around the rifle barrel, fighting like a rabid dog to shove the weapon into the glowing mouth of the firebox.
If the wooden handguard caught fire, the rifle would be ruined.
"Like hell you do, bastard!"
Yanking my left hand from the barrel, I clamped down on the man's wrist bones.
Driving my thumb into the nerve cluster on the inside of his wrist, I squeezed with the crushing grip of a ten-year augmented veteran.
The color drained from his face.
His fingers went limp one by one, and beneath my palm came the sickening crunch of his thumb joint popping out of alignment.
The moment his jaw slackened in agony, I snapped the buttstock back an inch and rammed it straight into his solar plexus.
Crack!
With a dull, wet crunch, the man's torso folded in half.
As he bounced back, reeling, I brought the rifle down hard across the nape of his neck, swept his legs, and slammed him flat onto the floor.
He crashed into the coal heap, his arms flailing weakly once or twice before he went limp and lost consciousness.
Still breathing.
I lifted the rifle to check the damage. A deep, ugly gash scarred the walnut handguard, and the side of the buttstock was gouged where it had struck a brass corner.
The barrel and bolt assembly, at least, were unharmed.
Old Bram's going to clutch his neck in horror when he sees this.
Yet there was no time to breathe a sigh of relief.
The locomotive had already cleared the station yard, steadily gathering speed.
Through the front glass, the switch leading to the main line rushed toward us.
If we hit the open rails at this pace, the damaged axle box on Coach 8 would melt into slag, sparking a catastrophic derailment.
From the floor, the bleeding stoker pointed toward the control console with a trembling hand.
"Th-that lever... shove it forward... all the way...!"
The brass throttle extended down from the ceiling.
I grabbed it with both hands and shoved with all my might, but the latch held fast. It wouldn't budge an inch.
The stoker coughed weakly and choked out, "The iron ring beneath the handle...! Pull it to unlock the catch!"
Hooking my forefinger around the ring, I yanked it and shoved the throttle forward with everything I had.
With a heavy clack, the valve swung forward, and the deafening hiss of steam feeding the cylinders died down.
The frantic churning of the pistons slowed, but the sheer momentum of nine heavy coaches kept the wheels rolling fast.
"Where's the brake lever?"
"The black handle on the right... pull it!"
A black steel brake handle sat on the right side of the control stand.
I reached out to yank it, but wedged deep between the base of the lever and the floor was a finger-thick steel wedge.
A sabotage wedge the man had hammered in with tools so the train couldn't be stopped.
This son of a bitch really thought of everything!
I locked my right hand around the tip of the wedge.
Gritting my teeth against the slick coat of grease, I crushed the metal with raw grip strength, braced my boot against the frame of the control console, and pulled with every ounce of my being.
Screeech!
Metal screamed against metal as the steel wedge tore free from the gap.
As the lever sprang loose, threatening to kick forward, I caught it with my shoulder and seized the black handle.
"Pull it back! Smoothly, all the way back!"
Following the stoker's cry, I hauled the lever hard toward my chest.
Pssssshhhhhhh—!
The roar of compressed air bursting from the undercarriage lines shook the cabin.
The needle on the pressure gauge plummeted to zero, and the cast-iron brake shoes clamped down on the steel wheels like a vice.
Screee-e-e-ch— Clang-clang-clang!
An ear-splitting shriek tore through the air as sparks erupted in showers.
From behind, the momentum of nine loaded carriages shoved hard against the locomotive's tender, rattling the coupling with jarring thuds.
The train lurched violently, pitching the unconscious monk onto the coal pile.
The grinding shudder of iron against rail gradually subsided.
Seconds later, the locomotive finally ground to a dead halt—mere feet from the main line switch.
A long, dying hiss echoed through the cab as the stench of scorched iron and coal dust settled thick around us.
When I let go of the handle, the stiff joints in my fingers throbbed with a dull ache. My thighs shook violently all at once, forcing me to lean against the control console. That was the price of wringing out every drop of physical power without any drugs in my system.
I peered out the window.
We had come to a stop a few hundred meters past the end of the station platform.
Guards and station hands were sprinting toward us across the track ballast, and at their head came Section Chief Irina, the hem of her ink-black longcoat billowing behind her.
Irina leaped onto the footplate in a single bound.
She checked the stoker's pulse first, then cast her eyes over the monk slumped in the corner and the Type 91 in my hands.
Seeing the deep gouge carved into the walnut stock, her brow furrowed faintly.
"Are you injured, Sonya?"
"I'm fine."
"Your rifle took some damage."
"Please keep that a secret from Bram."
The corner of Irina's mouth twitched into a faint smile.
Guards swarmed the cab behind her, hauling the unconscious monk down in tight bonds, while the wounded stoker was carried off on a stretcher.
The official engineer, arriving late with a limp, clutched his head and cursed a blue streak at the sight of his trashed control console and shattered pressure gauge.
"Look what they did to my engine! Who did this?!"
"The bastard they're dragging away did it, sir," I said, pointing at the culprit and washing my hands of it immediately.
While they cleared the cab floor, I searched the leather vest of the bound man as he was being hauled away.
Looting was non-negotiable.
I pocketed three silver coins and a handful of copper. A soggy pack of Cheonghoecho in terrible shape got tossed onto the floor.
Then, deep inside an inner pocket in his shirt, my fingertips grazed a thin slip of paper.
I drew out the folded slip and handed it to Irina.
Unfolding it, her eyes turned frigid as she read the lines.
"What does it say?"
TRAIN 42. COACH 8. FOURTH STATION.
MINIMUM 1-HOUR DELAY MANDATORY.
Every single word matched our exact situation to the letter.
There was no order to kidnap passengers or blow up the coaches.
Both bastards carried delay orders. Yet that alone didn't explain an armed assault and an attempted runaway. We had to see what would change once time was lost.
Irina folded back the bottom of the slip and showed it to me.
It was where the origin identifier code was stamped.
"The transmission code is not from the Central Branch line."
"Then whose is it?"
"It's the Central Communications Office of the Security Bureau at Rodern Headquarters."
Headquarters?!
A chill ran down my spine.
Either the enemy's reach extended into the deepest corridors of corporate headquarters, or this was an elaborate lure meant to bait us into telegraphing headquarters for verification, thereby giving away our exact position.
Irina pressed her lips into a hard line.
"Until we reach Karmin, we will not send a single telegraph to Headquarters."
Backing the train onto the platform and shunting it into the maintenance shed took thirty minutes on its own.
The six captured hijackers were locked away in separate cells inside the guard freight warehouse, and Train 18, after an exhaustive search, was finally cleared to depart for Belok past one in the afternoon.
The severed station telegraph wires were temporarily spliced back together, but the stationmaster struck all mention of Coach 8 and Manager Beltz from his delay log, reporting the incident as a simple mechanical breakdown.
Wiping grease from his hands, the dwarven maintenance chief crawled out from beneath the axle of Coach 8.
Thanks to having stopped the train before the bearings fused, the axle itself had survived undamaged.
After packing in fresh felt wicks, flushing the casing, and topping it off with lubricant, they manually spun the wheelset for testing. By the time they finished, the clock already read two-thirty in the afternoon.
More than two whole hours of our original schedule had vanished into thin air.
The stationmaster alternated between looking at his timetable and his pocket watch, mopping cold sweat from his brow.
"Estimated arrival in Karmin is... at the earliest, 10:45 PM."
Irina's gaze hardened to ice.
"When does the direct night train to Rodern depart?"
"At 10:20 PM sharp. It is a scheduled night passenger service; I do not have the authority to hold it for a delayed connection."
We were going to miss our connecting train in Karmin.
By the time we pulled into Karmin, the direct express to corporate headquarters would have already left the platform.
The next scheduled passenger train wouldn't depart until 6:10 tomorrow morning.
Karmin was strictly under Headquarters jurisdiction. Yet our enemies had calculated our arrival down to the minute and engineered this delay. Simply being outside the Central Branch's territory wasn't enough to let us sleep soundly overnight inside a compromised carriage whose number had been exposed.
"What do we do now?" I asked.
Tightening the leather harness of her greatsword, Irina looked back at me.
"Once we reach Karmin, we will verify the escort detail and secure a safe staging area. If no uncompromised safehouse is available, we'll requisition a waiting freight train or an unscheduled run. We will not remain where the enemy expects us to be."
At three o'clock sharp.
With a low, mournful whistle, Train 42 finally rolled out of the fourth station.
Beyond the telegraph poles, the Cardun Mountains loomed—a dark, jagged spine blotting out the northwestern sky.
Nearly eight hours remained until Karmin.
I checked the deadbolt on Coach 8 once more. There was no telling what excuse they would invent to force this door open at the next stop.