Work Text:
Working Pressure - A Story From The Freehold States
In their entirety, RK007 was a singular lump of coal, just over a foot in diameter.
Or at least, that was how they’d been made, hammered out under the assembly-line steam-spellpresses of the Valt Arcane Sciences Company. The sigils on their sides, cast and carved to contain the semblance of a soul, were patent-proprietary; they burned, red-to-white-hot, at a steady fifteen-hundred degrees; and their memory came encoded with the basics to every type of common machine a Coal Heart might be called upon to operate.
But a Coal Heart is as much said machine as the coal lump itself. So when RK007 had awoken for the first time, nestled in a slowly-warming firebox, the first thing they did was set about figuring out exactly who and what they were.
The firebox around them was a round-top. Behind was the backhead, studded with controls they knew; straight-pull regulator, Johnson-type hand reverse, Annington 6-ET standard brake valves for the main and independent. Ahead, beyond the throat sheet, a small narrow boiler extended, ending in a tall-chimney’d smokebox.
From there, they could trace the steam pipes back to low-slung external cylinders, of the old style with slide valves, and then the rods back further to eight small wheels, just under four-foot each. An extra axle sat in front, to lead the pilot, but RK007 could feel none behind until their tender-trucks.
A locomotive, then, Durango-type. And sure enough, as they took in the feeling of the sand-dome weighing upon their boiler and the steam starting to rise at the throttle-valve, they found their builder’s plate, high upon the side of their smokebox, and read the impression of the cast-iron letters:
HUBER MACHINE WORKS. BURNHAM CITY.
LIGHT DURANGO CLASS № 5712. 1961.
So they weren’t the first Coal Heart in this body, then, not by a long shot. They didn’t know the exact date, but they did know their own casting date, and by that, this particular engine was already two decades old. But that wasn’t unusual, they knew, not with arcane artifice to keep machines running, and whoever the last Coal Heart had been, this was their body now.
And so, RK007 became 5712, and that was that.
Settled into their form, 5712 began stretching their blindsight further, feeling the shiny surfaces of the rails underwheel and the ash-stained floor beneath. They were in a roundhouse, they were sure, and now that they were listening, they could see people moving about and hear their voices murmuring.
“Something’s got her worked up alright,” someone was saying, a laugh in the low rumble of their voice.
Another replied with a low hiss. “If it helps her work, I’ll take it.”
‘She’ seemed to be the locomotive on the road to 5712’s right. Even as a brand new Heart, they knew her type at once; six-coupled, with a great slab of a firebox and a high, parallel boiler and her cylinders tucked inside the frames; unmistakably a Goulder & Bilston No. 4 Goods, even with the slope-backed tender and Cortopassi Works fittings she now seemed to carry.
She did indeed seem worked-up. Her safety-valves were popping, letting out a frightful hiss and sending steam hammering up towards the ceiling. And in those sounds, in the jumbled creole of Clatterstomp and Binharic that all Coal Hearts know from their casting, 5712 could hear her ranting furiously.
“…absolutely no awareness at all,” she was saying, “not one bit! Ran right out in front of me, she did; if she’d been a second later I would’ve gone right over ‘er. What’s this yard coming to, letting street rats run rampant like that?” She scoffed flatly from her drain-cocks. “At least she ‘opped a merchant’s car; hopefully they beat some sense into the little-”
“That’s the fourth time you’ve ‘ad this rant, Anne,” another voice clanked, cutting ‘Anne’ off sharply. Looking over, 5712 found the source was on their far-side road, where a little four-coupled shunting engine was simmering idly. They had a saddle-tank stretched right over their smokebox, and a high wooden cab that was definitely a retrofit, giving 5712 the distinct impression of a flail snail hiding away in its shell.
Still, the little engine’s voice went on strong. “You said yourself the poor thing couldn’t ‘ave been older than ten; she survived it, so let ‘er make the mistake I say. And besides, she’s been and gone; why’s it any concern of yours, what some hobo kid got up to?”
“Weren’t you listening, you ingrate?” Anne snapped back, throwing her air-compressor hard. “I nearly ran her over! Can’t you understand-”
“Stow it,” the shunter drawled firmly. “I’ve listened three too many times already. And besides, the new blood’s awake; ‘ardly a good impression you’ve made, in’t it?” On the far side, Anne seethed, but said no more. “So,” the shunter went on, ‘turning’ to 5712, “who are you, then? Or, who were you, rather, ‘fore they shoved you in that thing?”
“Oh, I’m oh-oh-seven,” 5712 repeated quickly, surprised to be dragged so casually into the discussion. “Batch R, run K; Valt Arcane.”
“Rushton,” the shunter replied warmly. “He/they if you please. I can’t rightly say what foundry bore me, now, but as an engine I’m Rose Heavy Engineering, mostly.” He made a sound from his snifters that sounded like a scoff. “‘Course, all our rebuilds are done by Cortopassi now, so they’ve put this huge great cab on my back. The crews like it, but I think it makes me look like a snail.”
5712 laughed from their own. “It does a bit,” they admitted, before suddenly realising they’d probably done what the railroad hands call ‘putting both drivers and your pilot into it’ and clamming up hard. “I mean, err, it’s not that bad, if you really think about it…”
“It’s fine, young one,” Rushton soothed, their voice broad and steady. “You’ll do fine ‘ere, I’m sure of it; ain’t that right, Annie?”
“Perhaps,” Anne admitted, valves finally settling. “Though I can’t see why they’d waste a Valt heart on a Huber. I mean, really.”
Rushton’s cylinder-drain made a sharp spurt, as-if he was spitting on the floor. “Says the standard type,” he snapped. Her boiler seemed to swell a little in response, and her safety valves burst back open with a furious roar.
“Standard?!”
“You’re a number, Anne; you’re no better of a mineral engine than they are. And you know well-as-I-do that Goulder-Bilston ‘aven’t built anything worth talkin’ ‘bout since the merger; the Dreadnoughts never ran right but at least they were interestin’.” He gave another snort from his slack valves. “Some of us are honest about what we are, at least.”
Anne looked like she wanted to reply, but she seemed to be struggling for the words. And before she could, the two workers 5712 had heard before finally stepped into her berth. They hurried over to her, muttering between them about ‘the rack’ and ‘time owed’ and other things 5712 didn’t understand. Rushton let off a soft burst of steam at the sight.
“Oh? Looks like you’re up.”
She didn’t dignify them with a reply. Instead, she waited until the pair were aboard; then she grabbed two-fistfuls of regulator, lurched forwards, and went storming out of the roundhouse, snorting great clouds of furious steam from her drain-cocks. Watching her go, 5712 couldn’t help feeling a little put-out.
“Err, is she… always… like this?” they asked softly. Rushton gave a wheezing chuckle in response, snifters rising.
“She’s alright when she’s tired,” he explained, his voice softening down to a low warm hiss. “And she’ll pull anything. But she’s in a right mood most of the time; the crews all call her ‘Teapot Anne’ ‘cause she’s always on the boil. Her sister, Jae, is no better; I dunno what Goulder’s putting in their frames these days but they must be leavin’ out their manners.
“Just take no notice; keep to what the crews ask of you, and you’ll do fine.”
“Thanks,” 5712 breathed a soft hiss from their own valves. “Is there anything else I need to know, do you think?”
Rushton let out a pondering wheeze. “Only your name, I s’ppose,” they explained, rolling back an eighth of a wheel-turn. “She ‘ad one, the previous heart in that chassis did. Called ‘erself Mary, after the song, you know, ‘Mary, Mary, come ‘ome, come ‘ome’ an’ all that. But the crews mostly called ‘er Peaches, or Grandma, and they’ll probably keep on doing it until you tells ‘em otherwise.”
5712 pondered for a moment, rolling those names and terms around in their smokebox. There was a little twinge in her frames at the thought of replacing someone now, now that someone had a name and a history to her. But still, there were things, there, that also felt right, in a way.
“I don’t think I’m Mary,” she admitted softly, letting off a sigh of steam. “But I do like being a her, I think, at least for now. And Peaches is probably good?”
“Fair enough, Peach,” Rushton murmured, and indeed, it did feel right. “Jus’ don’t be afraid of changin’ it, if it don’t feel right. I can’t count how many names and pronouns Miko’s been through, now, but they’re one of us, jus’ the same.
“And now you are, too; so let me be the first to welcome you to the sibling-hood of Porterbrook Yard; glad to ‘ave you along.”
Peaches let off steam happily in response.
“I’m glad to be here, Rushton. And ready to start.”