James Gardner - Space Inc (collection)

“Wait!” Kianga’s shout distorts through Peter’s com. “Let me run a diagnostic. Maybe your interference with the brake box did the trick. If she’s green, you can get back inside before I stop her.”

“We’re running out of track. You said so. If you take the time to—”

“Shut up! Shut up, George, and obey your orders. I’m running the diagnostic now. Stand by.” Kianga’s tone rises through the words in an uncharacteristic display of emotion and breach of protocol.

Peter backs off the switch and waits for Kianga’s next transmission. The silence that follows hangs like a dead satellite in orbit. It tells Peter that there is no green light.

“Peter… “Kianga sighs his name. His real name, for the first time.

“I understand, sir, thank you for trying,” Peter says, avoiding similar familiarity, thinking it improper, even cruel.

Peter braces himself, inverted in position over the train’s nose. One hand holding to life in a cowcatcher groove, the other reaching out to end it.

Peter pretends he is brave, pretends he wants to do this, that he would do it given the choice. But he knows now that fear works stronger within than does courage or duty. It leaves him with the single bitter consolation that The Book will make a hero of him nevertheless.

Peter doesn’t see the brake box anymore, doesn’t need to. He knows the feel of the switch through his finger-shell, knows every contour of the brake box’s circuitry as he might know the faces of children he will never father.

Peter presses down against the switch, for the last time. His finger shakes wildly within the EMU glove’s shell. One last act of rebellion against Peter’s expendable humanity. One last protest against the dispassionate rules of The Book.

“There are no alternatives, sir. The Book is very clear that I, as Porter, be the one to manually deploy the brakes.” Peter tried to hide the signs of doubt and dread rising rapidly in his voice.

Kianga’s eyes narrowed, surrounded by the newly formed track lines in her skin. “And the consequences?”

Peter nodded silently. “If I fail, the train will wreck. We will all be lost.”

“And if you do succeed, you won’t be coming back.”

Peter nodded gravely. “I have given my life to The Book. It has brought me purpose and respect.”

“What good are purpose and respect to a dead man?”

Kianga was only partly right Purpose and respect were meaningless in death, but to Peter they meant everything in life. Peter would rather eject The Book and all its rules into space than die himself- But if he allowed Kianga to make the sacrifice for him, he’d be busted off the rails in disgrace to live out what remained of his life like another useless Defect. And mat was worse than death.

“Scrap The damned Book!” Kianga said in a frustrated rage that frightened Peter.

“Sir, you are the only one capable of bringing this train to a safe halt once the brakes are down. I am not,” Peter lied. He was capable of stopping the train in an emergency, but he hoped Kianga’s fury would blind her to the fact.

Kianga fumed silent acceptance. Peter had won a hollow victory.

Rail ties slice space and time past Peter’s head.

Peter braces himself, calms his rebellious finger, and presses down. The degausser switch gives silently, then bounces back tentatively.

Peter imagines the sound of brake drums squealing even through the vacuum of space, imagines inertia and momentum mocking his foolish need to attempt to hold on as they fling him from his perch in sacrifice to space.

Instead, there is nothing.

No change.

Then…

The train shudders.

Peter’s fear slaughters time and he holds on, desperate for something to cling to.

The shudder evolves, amplifies, and Peter wonders how many moments between moments are left him.

Bars of shadow close overhead, block the engine lights as they descend over Peter.

Peter’s glove slips, pushed from its groove as he is torn from the engine. Too much force. Too strong. Peter can’t hold on.

EMU finger-shells lose their grasp, scratch silently, slip away.

Free.

Peter gives in to the void, hopes his failing grip has spun him toward Venus instead of space. Hopes he will die swift and hot in its atmosphere, instead of slow and cold in space.

The shadow bars thicken and extinguish all but the light from Peter’s helmet.

SILENCE.

Time stops to pity Peter and demonstrate eternity.

CLANG.

Time startles, accelerates, explodes.

CRASH.

Peter’s skull attempts to twist through his helmet. Teeth drive into tongue, blood bubbles and sprays onto visor.

Peter’s back bounces, compresses onto something hard, inflexible.

Peter’s heart retreats to sanctuary against his spine. His face folds in on itself.

Tastes of metal, blood, and chipped enamel mix to mortar within his mouth.

Sight washes away, swallowed in a roaring, ringing, cacophony.

Somehting has him. Impossibly, something hugs him between train and track in a multiple-G embrace.

Internal EMU bellows inflate around Peter’s extremities. A G lift, then another, to maintain cruel consciousness.

Darkness dissipates to bright, burning blooms. Ringing shatters to tinny tintinnabulation.

Flushes of vision break through bright bruises of light and he sees it. The cowcatcher, cupped over him, cradling him in its unfeeling mechanical arms. Lowered, and locked into place around him, ’catcher wheels oscillate wildly in the tracks. They smack rail, do their best to shake the train apart.

“Retract!” Peter spits the bloodied word through clenched teeth and first breath.

“Scrap it, Peter! I’ll keep her true.” Kianga’s voice splinters an octave of doubt through his name.

The rattling of train grows, shares itself with the rails. Bolts shoot free, panels come loose and shear away.

Peter wets his undergarment, feels it sting, feels the train, feels Kianga pump the ’catcher arms and wheel assemblies to maintain stability. If she survives, she’ll pay for this crime against The Book. If it works. Then…

Gs strip off. Vision paints cowcatcher crossbars across Peter’s visor.

“Don’t—” Peter tries.

“Cap your stack, and let me do my job,” Kianga snaps.

Space and time expand between passing rail ties. The train stabilizes, slows.

Lurching subsides, vibrations calm. Rail ties march to a halt.

Peter drops off the ’catcher and grabs hold of its grille as the train rolls to a final excruciating stop. Angry orders shout at Kianga over the open com. Peter hears her suck in a long breath of static, then cut out.

It doesn’t take long for her voice to return. “The destination workstation’s sending an extraction team, so you’ve got twenty to get your caboose back on board before your reserve runs out.” Kianga’s voice distorts over the helmet’s damaged com. “Looks like our VIP’s going to be missing his connector and the Company won’t be missing me.”

“Sorry, sir,” Peter manages, through the pain.

“Forget it, George. You saved the train.”

“But, sir—”

“But what, George?”

“What you did. You almost lost the train and everyone on board.”

“I didn’t, did I?”

“They’ll still throw The Book at you.”

“That they will, George.”

“I don’t understand. You, you broke the rules. You went against The Book.”

“You know me better man that.”

“But I’m a Porter, a Defect Porter.”

“Brown’s Book is for trains, George. You’ve been so caught up in the rules of The Book, you’ve forgotten what they’re for. Defect or whole, there are better books for people, higher rules. Those rules, I never break. Now get inside and see to our passenger.”