Fantastic Trains

by Neil Enock

  He lives in Crescent City, CA, with his lovely wife Charlotte, their youngest son, Tommy, and a couple of layabout cats, Sprocket and Daphne. Everyone in the house is an avid gamer, and their home often resounds to the sound of tumbling dice. The cats prefer games involving small birds and lizards, but they’re more than happy to take a whack at a d20 if they get a chance.

  His website is www.NickSvolos.com, and he maintains a Facebook page at www.facebook.com/NickSvolos. He’s also been known to tell jokes on Twitter as @NickSvolos.

  Steampunks needed for a post-apocalyptic world

  Do you have interest in steam power? Do you want to help salvage humanity in a post-apocalyptic world? Well then, Russia, Sweden, Great Britain and the United States might have a job for you.

  In case of a nuclear attack, or other catastrophic event, all these nations have a hidden strategic reserve of steam engines. Though Great Britain and the United States still won’t admit to their steam reserves, all experts agree that, like Sweden and the former Soviet Union, they too have mothballed an array of steam engines in the event that the fossil fuel powered electric grid is destroyed. This need for steam power would be further magnified as the devastation wrecked by detonating nuclear warheads would render electrical and electronic systems of diesel motors useless, requiring that all supplies be transported by steam locomotives.

  In recent years, Sweden and Russia have declassified information about their strategic steam power reserve. And despite their insistence on keeping their steam reserves secret, both Britain and the US have had trouble keeping theirs’ under a lid.

  The British Government insists that a Royal strategic steam reserve is a myth. Yet, periodically Royal British Army Engineer battalions are required to take training on how to operate large steam boilers that would be used to power trains and electric power plants, as well as be used to provide steam heat in the winter.

  The government of the United States neither admits nor denies such a reserve, but the author of this article, a licensed mechanical engineer, can attest that at times the US government will contact stationary mechanical engineers to gather information on alternative ways to fuel their steam boilers in the event of a national emergency.

  So steampunks, be certain, your steam vapor skills are not only valuable today, but in the event of a catastrophe, they will be downright precious.

  —— « o » ——

  Kim Solem

  Kim Solem is a licensed mechanical engineer who is fascinated by steam power and has been operating a recycled 1887 steam locomotive engine to heat a brownstone building. “Sadly, the old boy developed a crack and is being replaced by a modern steam boiler.”

  Pluck Versus the Giant Rat of Sumatra

  by David Worsick

  I trust you shall find this story inspiring, but heed the future it foretells. But let us first have some of the best port from Portugal and superb chocolate from the Netherlands to complete our meal. I do believe these chairs are suitably stuffed for your comfort.

  Now, as an employee of the prestigious Willet and Woodendit Engineering firm, I had been commissioned to inspect the newly completed coastal railroad of New Guinea. Therefore, along with our equipment, I had brought the latest design dreamed of by our engineers: an armored locomotive.

  As you know, lush New Guinea is by no means a flat, lagoonal island, but rather a rugged set of magnificent, wooded peaks and impressive, lush valleys. To link this large island together, we needed an engine of no small effort. Therefore, our engineers started with the largest locomotive which that American genius, Ephraima Shay, could offer. With her consent, they dismantled it, replaced the boiler and firebox with one meant for a small warship, and created a class E, six-cylinder, eight truck behemoth. Its first test was pulling an iron-clad turreted cutter through a canal in Devon. It was a smashing success, despite the fact that the cutter was a smashing failure as it broke the canal lock.

  Now, if you have never gazed upon a Shay, I do confess that it is an odd platypus of a steam engine. All of the massive cylinders are on the right-hand side of the locomotive and every one of them is vertically aligned, pumping in the direction of Mother Earth and Father Sky. They propel a massive crank that directs power to all of the trucks under the lopsided locomotive, allowing the partial slip needed for excessive gradients.

  And we had excessive gradients, I do say, and a commander excessively eager to earn the grade of Knighthood through service to the Queen. Ah, we were pawns of that ambition, but at least this iron rook could shield us. In front of the engine was, not a New World cowcatcher, but an ironclad’s ram. On top of that intimidating wedge of steel and iron was an armored cupola for a sharpshooter with a double-barreled grenade launcher. To take out fallen trees and wayward water buffalos, we said.

  Well, to be honest, we were there to discourage the belligerent and altogether uncooperative Sultan of Indonesia from waging war on the outskirts of Asian Christian civilization. We had also hoped to convince newly-independent Australia to purchase our freshly prototyped designs. As the Queen had commanded our directors, it would be unseemly for the Empire to help repel the steel-clad river monitors of the wrathful Fenians in the defense of young Canada of the North, but then fail to aid young Australia of the South. Rather poor impression that would have cast.

  So we tested every bit of the track and found it most adequate, and then retested it. I became friendly with the commander because of our shared love of chess, though he really should have stopped relying on the Tarrasch maneuver in his openings.

  Of course, the train used the latest composite armor, hard steel facing our enemies, tough wrought iron backing it like fans of a football club, all clinging to a cast iron frame like fans around a football star. Over the wheels of the locomotive and the trucks of the cars we hung sheets of soft steel as protective aprons. The Shay cab itself bore no weapon more threatening than the engineer’s revolver and the stoker’s rod. Yet behind the tender full of coal, we pulled an armored car with a well-shielded, sixty pounder breech loader, using steam-driven recoil absorbers and employing the new rubber-sealed breeches of Monsieur de Bange. Beside this stood a turreted, four-barrel, steam-loaded automatic Nordenfeldt, firing one-inch slugs and looking more like the drying racks for carp than a weapon of mass projectiles.

  Then came a Yankee-style caboose with Gatling mechanical guns, a small boiler and long hoses to the other cars, followed by another artillery car, two box cars and three garrison carriages with thin iron plating over oak, slits for riflemen and hooks for hammocks above the seats. Finally came the requisite combined galley, first aid station and officer’s lounge. I do admit that we, contrary to policy but very common among our fellow regiments, allowed the non-commissioned and the civilians to enjoin us in that lounge. Behind that was the two gauge and surveying cars, with their engineers and smithies. At the end of all that was a sand-bagged flat car with a Krupp field gun and two belt-fed, gear-regulated Gatling’s. And the best crew we could have prayed for. One was a skillful train engineer who was a Black American son of a former slave. He made me proud to be descended from abolitionists. The rivet tightener and valve adjuster was a lively German technician, very knowledgeable. A third of our crew were Empire, mostly British but also whites, blacks and browns from the colonies, and the rest were local natives, the Fuzzy Hairs that have never disappointed us. I insisted that they have two of the garrison cars. None of this colonial arrogance, you know.

  Yet, those superb subordinates and our tough bulldog of a train might not be enough. Rumors whispered about the Sultan’s obsession with steam-powered monsters, engineered to travel over any terrain. First the rumors said he started with a Gatling-clad “Gerbil” resembling an ill-tempered switching engine, then a malicious “Mouse” the size of a one-two-one locomotive, then an even bigger horror, the “Hamster” with two field pieces. They said he next reared up the rapid-fire “Rabbit” from Hades, and finally ratc
heted together a massively armed giant which he called the “Rat”. The more nervous of our neighbors feared he threatened to build a giant amphibious Beaver to terrify the Empire. Yes, a giant beaver would have shattered our imperial composure. How these monsters were armed and armored, we knew not for sure. We did know that massively-sized pontoons had been built to carry an enormous cargo between his islands. And he most surely wanted our large island as one of his, glowering over our friends down under. Therefore, we prepared ourselves for the worst.

  However, the worst was in no hurry to arrive. And so we waited, tested the rails, cleaned our weapons and waited some more. Thank the Heavens for the shipment of fortified wine, distilled grain and IPA. And one day a man who would drink none of that came to visit us.

  The regional Imam was a friendly, if somewhat fastidious, fellow who occasionally rode down to greet and talk with us to practice his English. We assured him that our weaponry was for defense only, and as nobody had yet designed sea-worthy rail tracks, he knew we were telling the truth. But this one time he did not smile.

  “Good day, honorable Imam,” I said. “How has your week been? Would you like some tea?”

  He replied, “My week has been recently upsetting.”

  He paused formidably and then continued.

  “I have received orders from the Sultan of Sumatra to mobilize a militia from the local believers. I have refused to do so, as I know we do not need defense from our neighbors. But I now fear that you do.”

  I responded, after much thought, “We worry about that too. We have heard rumors of a giant war machine called the Rat. And one of our near-submersible scout boats had spotted a giant raft of pontoons approaching a fifth of a fortnight ago.”

  “So, the rumors are true. Can you try to oppose such a device?”

  “We are part of the British Empire. We can try to oppose anything. Whether we succeed is the proper question.”

  “I admire your bravery. I will gather the good people around me and try my best for peace. Be aware, though, that this Sultan is well known for beheading scholars who criticize his actions. None of our lives are safe.”

  “Thank you. But I am puzzled as to why you would risk the censor of your neighbors by helping save those who do not believe as you believe. May I ask you this?”

  He responded immediately. “I will censor no questions about my behavior, so you were correct to ask. What our world demands we do and what our souls need us to do are often at war with each other. I have chosen souls over world. And you? You could be safely and comfortably away from this humid heat with all your friends and family, but here you labor to build the defenses of strangers. And now I ask why.”

  I thought for a bit more and said, “I have determined, with all my years and my study of the Sciences, that we live in a world where a man, no, a human, can gain increasing power. Power is like fire. If you control it, you can do wondrous things. If you cannot control it, it will do horrendous things. I believe that my life should strive to do wondrous things in order to stop the horrendous things. Well, to be truthful, I do moderately impressive things, all the time wondering about horrendous things.”

  The Imam laughed. “Well spoken, sir.”

  “Thank you. Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes, just a small cup, thank you.”

  I always kept tea handy in those new double-glass and vacuum canteens, with porcelain cups and a local sweetener nearby. He finished his tea, saluted with a bow and left.

  I saluted back according to my service as a sergeant. “Then fare well, scholar. We troops will stay watchful.”

  I knew that many of the army and the New Guinea inhabitants strongly disapproved of me dealing with such non-Christians. I dared not mention that I, myself, was not a believer, not in any religion. But, curse it, I still know how to tell apart people who deserve the paradise they won’t get, from people who deserve the damnation they won’t get. Never mind, though. What happens upon death is the one mystery every mortal will always solve. I’ll find out then. For now, I believe that I can read a man’s true nature. And I read him as truthful.

  Then, one early afternoon two days later, I was in the lavatory when one of the native troops knocked on the door and cried out, “Good God, sir, it’s enormous!”

  “What’s enormous?” I asked, buckling my belt.

  “The machine on the beach!”

  This was not a time to be out of uniform. I hurried dressing and washed my hands, latched my helmet on and climbed atop the nearest box car while the commander jumped to the ground to peer around the curve. And so it was, barely visible beyond a ridge that, by fortune, hid us.

  The technician shouted, “Dee grossair Ratteh fun Zoomatra!”

  As usual, he was correct. This grossest rat was about two miles away from us, crawling along the beach that lay serenely next to our elevated track. The massive metal rodent looked like the bastard crossbreed of an enormous millipede and a scandalous battleship. It had, not a circular turret like its wayward father would have, but a rotating box, square in front and rounded in back, with abstract Oriental designs painted upon it. This held what looked like two long and intimidating breech-loading cannons. Monsieur de Bange must be getting filthy rich from his invention.

  Immediately behind this double-threat were two large black smokestacks, richly decorated in chrome arabesque. Well behind those was another turret with a smaller naval gun. Between these rotating threats were two pedestal-mounted field guns with bullet shields. These guns could brilliantly be tilted upward to threaten airships. If only we had airships to be threatened.

  The entire monstrosity rode on eight giant studded steel wheels on each side, each a dozen feet in diameter. With my binoculars, I could see Gatling’s studded throughout its front and sides. The two main cannons must have had calibers of at least eight inches. The barrels looked like they were forty calibers in length, longer than any piece I’d seen before. With modern cordite charges, each cannon would have been able to fire two hundred pounds of shell and explosives with each shot.

  This was far more power than our armor was designed to resist. They’d easily outrange us and we would not withstand one hit. And if they hit the railroad, we would be immobile while that monstrous metal rodent could ford the bay and attack us from any angle.

  Then doors opened on the side of the beast and out came a mechanical elevator descending with two cavalry troopers. Scouts on horseback, riding off in search of us. Then a roar charged toward our train. The big guns had fired.

  Seconds later, two shells plowed deep into the railway twenty yards in front of us, shredding the tracks and shaking our cars and our troops. One of those shells had landed near the reconnoitering imperial commander, leaving only his shredded red jacket. Bloody Hades. I was now next in command. No more shall he Tarrasch his knight!

  “What do we do?” said the engineer. The native major next to me was studying the behemoth with his binoculars. Then he shook his head.

  Come on, sir, I thought to myself. Think! For the Empire, the pubs back home and for your sorry little life, you scoundrel. Think. Yes, of course! The sorry little Nordenfeldts! Now I knew what to do.

  I told the major that his troops should detach those four-barreled weapons from their turrets and remount them on the wheeled caissons we used to move ammunition. I also had the wheels of several Gatling’s unlatched from the car floors and the Krupp gun rolled off the flat car. The troopers worked quickly and efficiently. In front of us, the train crew was now cutting down jungle trees and placing them in front of our locomotive and cars. Fortunately, so fertile was this volcanic island that long weeds made the railway tracks impossible to see from the beach. Though I suppose the commander might have disagreed about that had he still been around.

  Another two shells overshot our position and gouged cellars out of the sand. And not beer cellars, either. I grabbed my favorite but usele
ss sword, a more practical Lee-Colt repeater and my tall helmet, dyed khaki with tea. We left our scarlet jackets behind. The native troops always wore dark mottled green, and we had indeed learned from them.

  We heard the giant approaching with a grinding, clanking noise and saw its engine smoke rise over the bush. It was heading for the main seaport that we had just left. The raiders could attack where the town had no defenses: from the land side. We picked an ideal spot for the ambush and cleared bushes so the heliograph relays could reach the sand-bagged and foliated train.

  “Now,” I instructed, “keep the Gatling’s out of sight and fire them in an arc over the ridge. We want bullets to fall around the exposed field guns. Aim the Nordenfeldts at the hubs of the front wheels. Not the back wheels! The grenade shotguns will fire smokers, and the riflemen will aim for the mechanical guns. Remember, you don’t have to kill the gunner, just dismantle the gun.”

  The riflemen would try this with their rotating box magazines, seven five-round clips per cylinder. Bulky it was, but these troopers could handle them well.

  “How are we going to work the Nordenfeldts without a steam line?” one of them asked. “Do we have to do it by hand? That would really slow down our rate of fire.”

  “No,” I said, pointing to the train crew who was laying down the agricultural hoses we employed to extract river-birthed water for the boiler. “These aren’t designed for steam, but they’ll last as long as our ammunition will.”

  “The steam hoses are primed,” said the technician in his cute accent. We prepared as fast as we could, for the Rat moved as speedily as a jogging soldier. The monster fired two more shells at our train. We heard a crash and saw shattered lumber fly into the sky. A box car had become tinder and now we would be short of supplies. And time.