The clock atop the carved wooden headboard ticked sleepily to 5:00. The needle of the timekeeper’s built-in musigraph whirred to life and slid into place over a groove-etched cylinder below it. The tube began to spin steadily, and a faint crackle emanated from the small horn poised precariously over the mechanism. The dust-riddled popping static precluded a bouncy woodwind and piano melody that stirred Reynard Fawkes from his slumber. Much like the many, many mornings that preceded this one, his first waking thought was a reminder to buy a new song barrel for the alarm. The fox Fen groggily lifted his hand over his head and slapped at the clock’s snooze switch. The music stopped and the needle retreated to sleep.
Reynard opened his large brown eyes and blinked as they adjusted to the pitch-dark room. He turned to see his wife, Vix, still asleep. She groaned and pulled the comforter tightly over her snow-white snout as if to ward away anything that would disturb her. Reynard smiled softly to himself, kissing her on the tangerine orange forehead before throwing off the sheets and stalking into the bathroom for a brisk shower. He stepped out a few minutes later, the lamps from the washroom casting a stark light over the bed where the female fox finally awoke.
“Mmmm…good morning,” she cooed with a yawn.
“Morning,” Reynard replied as he began buttoning up his uniform.
“How did you sleep?”
“On my back,” he replied; an answer he recited less now for the sake of dry humor and more for the sake of routine.
“Want me to make you anything before work?” she asked.
“No, thank you. I think I’ll just grab something from the mess hall on my way up.”
She nodded and sank into the pillow once more, stealing one last moment of rest before the inevitable time when she too would have to arise from the comfort of her warm bed.
“Remember to wake the kids on time for school,” Reynard said after strapping his belt and holster over his waist.
“It’s the weekend,” she chimed.
“Oh…right.”
Once he had finished dressing, Reynard faced the dozing woman, his arms held to either side and said, “Dummy check.”
She opened one eye and scanned him once over from head to toe. She closed it again and muttered, “Badge…”
Reynard clutched his lapel and noticed that, indeed, his badge was missing. He pulled open the drawer under the bedside table and retrieved a golden, shield-shaped pin engraved with the words, “Security Officer.” He clipped it to his chest and blew the drowsy woman a kiss before slipping out of the bedroom and into the small apartment’s living room.
Pale gray morning light seeped in through the curtains covering a single window, which looked portside from the Black Glacier’s lower decks. Reynard pulled back the thick fabric and took in the view of rolling, snow-capped hills and fir trees whizzing past the speeding locomotive. He pivoted away from the window and crept to the door adjacent to his bedroom. Gingerly, he turned the handle and peeked inside. There, sleeping soundly on a set of bunk beds, were his two children, Roan and Thorne. Roan, the eldest by four years, slept snugly on the top bunk while her snoring younger brother lay splayed out across disheveled sheets on the twin mattress underneath. Fawkes shook his head with a grin and closed the door. Soon enough, those two would be up and about; Thorne looking to cause all manner of trouble while his sister did her best to thwart him. They’re good pups, the officer thought to himself, strolling across the living room and out through the steel-reinforced door, Jackie would have been proud.
From beyond the front door, which led out into a corridor lined with living quarters similar to his own, Reynard could hear footsteps approaching. They stopped right at the entrance to his apartment, heralding the appearance of a small yellow envelope, which slid a few inches from beneath the doorframe. The footfalls then trailed off deeper into the hall, confirming Rey’s suspicions that the mysterious train stalker was indeed just the telegram messenger. He picked up the parcel and ripped it open. A note had just come straight from the Bridge.
Feliz is putting you on training duty today. New Hangar Captain. I’m only warning you so that you don’t look as discouraged as you did last time. She didn’t like that too much. Get to the Bridge for the usual briefing when you can.
-Roberts
The fox sighed heavily before crumpling the note and tossing it into a nearby waste bin. The last thing he needed was to have some new hire stapled to his side for a whole day, especially while he tried his damnedest to carry out his daily task of ensuring everyone aboard the steelrunner didn’t get themselves killed. He pulled his cap from the hat rack hanging on the wall and placed it on his head, making sure his ears found their way through the holes cut into either side. He took another long, deep breath and exited the apartment. Coffee that morning was most certainly going to be a double.
After stopping by the mess hall for coffee and a cream cheese bagel topped with smoked salmon (an indulgence he so rarely treated himself to), Reynard traversed the labyrinthine halls and steps leading to the forefront of the train. He approached the entrance, which consisted of a set of double doors and a keypad on the right-hand side. He quickly punched in his ID, and a small green-tinted bulb lit up. Clearance approved. A hiss of steam let out as the two sliding doors retracted to either side, presenting a view of the bustling Control Bridge within. Reynard waltzed in, still holding his cup of coffee and wiping the breakfast crumbs off his snout and uniform.
The whole room buzzed with energy. Crewmembers darted from one station to another seemingly at random. Clicks and pings from typewriter keyboards and ticker tape rung against various steel panels filled with backlit gauges and dials, which flickered and filled the Bridge with low ambient light. The air stank of iron and burning dust from the heat ventilation tubes placed on either side of the large room. The industrial scent was, curiously, mixed with a tinge of floral sweetness: chamomile. The source was a softly burning candle beside the Conductor’s chair, located near the center of the room. Evidently, their fearless leader had taken it upon herself to hide the room’s stench. Standing at the helm, on the far end of a lattice walkway, stood Conductor Feliz, conversing with Henry Roberts beside her. Feliz’s cap and short hair poked out from behind the heavy wall of fluff that was the collar of her coat.
The prominent use of furs as typical Oliida fashion hardly bothered Reynard anymore, contrary to what some might have assumed. The practice of harvesting megafauna for their pelts was a massive industry that had only grown as years went by. The skin of one beast could make anywhere from ten to thirty coats. Natural fur was incapable of freezing, and in a world that required any and all means of warmth to survive, the business model made quite a bit of sense. Where Reynard and the rest of his kind drew the line, however, was with fur farms like that of the Contessa family, who were rumored to even use the skins of Fen. Feliz herself once told him, “You have to be one sick bastard to be willing to wear someone.”
The security officer approached the Conductor and her second in command. His padded feet treaded lightly on the floor, clawed toes tapping against metal like the ticking of a hyper-functional clock. Feliz turned slightly, now deciding to take notice of the Fen. “Fawkes,” she greeted.
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“Conductor,” Reynard replied, taking off his cap and stowing it under his armpit.
“Along with your usual duties today, I have a few tasks that require your attention. Firstly: Albert Elles. He’s our new Hangar Captain, first day on the job. Show him around and give him an overview of what his position entails. Have him meet the rest of Away Team Alpha and make sure he at least tolerates them; he’ll be spending quite a bit of time with them.”
“Understood, ma’am,” said Reynard. He kept a close eye on his superiors’ expressions, making sure he hadn’t accidentally grimaced when the news was broken.
“Secondly, as I’m sure you’ve heard, Kitty Cleary is now a resident entertainer aboard the Black Glacier. She’s considered a VIP, staying in Room 909. I’ll need you to meet with her and go over whatever personal security measures or requests she may or may not require…within reason.”
Mischievous smiles briefly danced over Rey and Henry’s faces, both having caught her meaning. After their hosting and subsequent eviction of Sylus Niflin, a House Patriarch’s nephew who had decided to bring along nearly a dozen of his closest moronic cronies, the crew made the unanimous agreement that room service would be placing a substantial limit on champagne delivery. Some still speculated to the current day as to how vomit had gotten on the ceiling or where the suite’s king-size bed had gone.
“Lastly,” said Feliz, “I was told Krol has finally gotten the Grizzly back in working order after that little misadventure with the mountain worm. Take Elles and the rest of the team on patrol. Routine trip; no more than a few kilometers if you can help it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the officer affirmed.
“You are dismissed.” Reynard saluted and turned to leave. But before he reached the door, Feliz spoke again. “Fawkes,” she said, “One more thing.”
“Ma’am?” he asked.
“Keep an eye on Elles’ performance today. He’s had…episodes.”
“How so?”
“He’s a former military man, like yourself. I trust his abilities but doubt his condition. I fear the war may have left him scarred in more ways than physical. If the job proves to be too much for him to handle, then I can’t, in good conscience, allow him to continue working here, let alone oversee the well-being of a small squadron of crew members. If anything comes off as traumatizing or otherwise too debilitating, I need you to notify me.”
“Understood, ma’am,” Reynard replied. He placed his cap back over his ears and strode through the exit, allowing the double doors to clamp shut behind him.
Fawkes let out a huff of frustration as he pounded hard on the apartment door in what had now been his third time announcing his arrival. At long last, sounds of jostling footsteps and the metallic clinking of a belt buckle muttered from the other side. The door swung open, revealing a human male with obvious bedhead and dark circles under his eyes. His mustache was slightly squashed on the left side, indicating that it had been pressed like a leaf between the man’s face and his pillow. He was missing an arm and a leg, which meant he had to lean against the doorknob to keep his balance. In his one good hand, he held up his trousers, which hung loosely around his waist, allowing for the empty pant leg to drag on the floor. In a maneuver that Reynard had grown used to with most humanoids, the man spent the first second of his greeting looking wildly from left to right over the Fen’s head, clearly expecting someone taller, before suddenly looking down and realizing who was there.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” the occupant said, “I just — ”
“Woke up?” finished Reynard.
“Y-yes,” the man stammered.
“My name is Officer Reynard Fawkes, Head of Security aboard the Black Glacier. You are Albert Elles, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Mr. Elles, or Captain Elles as I suppose you are now to be called, you seem to have slept in.”
“It seems I have,” Elles said, rubbing his eye into his shoulder, “what time is it exactly?”
“5:35 am. Your shift starts at 5:30. Get dressed and meet me in the Hangar Bay as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir. Um…where is the Hangar Bay exactly?”
Reynard stared blankly at Albert for a moment before pointing to a map of the train decorating the wall opposite the man’s apartment. “I’m sure you’ll find your way,” said Fawkes before leaving the one-legged man to dress himself and, gods willing, take a shower.
Albert tugged at his prosthetic arm as he walked, ensuring that he had attached it properly in the frantic scramble to dress himself. There was hardly a lousier first impression than a handshake being interrupted by the hand falling off. He moved quickly, checking directional signs all along the way to prevent himself from becoming horribly lost. Finally, he reached the Hangar Bay. After a few failed attempts to punch in his ID before realizing the 4 on the hand-written note he was given was, in fact, a 9, he stepped into the gargantuan garage-like facility.
He found Officer Fawkes in a heated argument with what looked to be a Grendel mechanic and a blonde human woman with a set of driving goggles decorating her forehead. It took no time at all for Albert to realize what had spurred the fen’s wrath. Behind the two underlings sat a tank…painted an atrocious shade of pink.
The two Hangar workers’ clothes were covered in paint stains of the same color, as if they had unintentionally tried to create a camouflage pattern that would only ever blend in with the abomination beside them. “What’s wrong with wanting to add a bit of character to her?” asked the woman as Albert approached the scene of the crime.
“Bismark, it baffles me that I have to explain this to you,” said Reynard, “That machine is a weapon meant for intense enemy incursions, and an expensive one at that! Picture, if you will, that you are an enemy gunner. Three tanks from this very Hangar are barreling toward your position. Which are you going to aim for? The black one that may look like a large, ordinary rock from a distance. The white one that blends in with the snow that blankets our entire planet. Or…THE BRIGHT PINK MONSTROSITY THAT BLENDS IN WITH EXACTLY NOTHING IN THIS PLANE OF REALITY!”
“They’re gonna be shooting at us anyways,” replied Bismark, “If I’m gonna go out, I may as well go out looking fabulous. Right, Krol?”
“Look, I only helped because you said you’d slip me a few aces at poker tonight if I did,” admitted the paint-splattered Grendel.
“I knew it!” cried a voice from beneath one of the other more appropriately colored tanks. An Underfoot wearing a welding mask rolled on her back out from under the vehicle. She flipped up the visor, revealing a hearty, middle-aged woman with soot and grease streaked across her complexion. “I always knew ya were a cheat, Krol!”
“I’ve never cheated, Jessie,” called Krol with a devilish grin, “at least not yet.”
“Luck of the Grendel, my arse,” she grumbled as she pulled her mask down and rolled back under the tank, bright blue sparks soon emanating from where she worked.
“I want that thing repainted by the end of the day,” warned Reynard, pointing at the tank and turning to Albert, “Well, Captain, they’re your problem now. Keep an eye on them for a few minutes while I take care of something.” The Fen stomped off, reaching the door before yelling, “If you haven’t tendered your resignation by the time I get back, I’d be willing to call today a success.”
Albert turned his attention back to the two amateur artists. The Grendel extended his arm and said, “Ah, so you’re the new Hangar Captain! The name’s Krol, pleased to meet you. I’m one of the mechanics here.”
Though reluctant, Albert received the man’s greeting and introduced himself, knowing full well he would be getting a handful of fresh paint. The blonde followed suit, removing one of her fingerless gloves.
“Pam Bismark! Pleasure to meet ya, Cap’n,” she said.
“Likewise,” replied Elles, “and what is it you do here?”
“I,” she proudly began, “am the driver of this little beauty!” She gestured toward the pastel nightmare, both arms outstretched like a magician fishing for applause after a less-than-impressive trick.
“She’s…” Albert said, desperately trying to think of a compliment, “Impressive. What is it exactly?”
“A tank!” she exclaimed in earnest.
“No,” Albert interjected, “I mean, what kind?”
“Oh. Well, it’s a Mk. II Assault Tank, or ‘Sturmpanzer’ as it’s also known.”
“It’s…a Sieges’ tank?”
“Precisely,” said Krol, “Credit where it’s due, those Vironists make some damn fine artillery. This puppy has enough stopping power to even blow holes into steelrunners.”
Albert felt a slight shiver run down his spine as he examined the machine. The tanks that had destroyed his company were Mk. 1’s: a generation older than the one that sat before him. In another timeline, he may have found himself cowering behind cover as this thing blasted round after round at him and his brothers in arms. Never in a million millennia would he have guessed that he’d be commanding one. The voices began to creep into the corners of his mind.
Look what you’ve gotten us into!
Don’t look at it!
They’re staring, say something!
You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.
Say something, you idiot!
You’ll get everyone killed again!
“You okay, Cap’n?” asked Pam, “You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine,” said Albert, collecting himself, “Just…still waking up, I suppose.”
“How’s about we show you the rest of the Hangar?” suggested Pam.
“Yeah, then we’ll go to the mess hall and have Jessie buy us breakfast,” said Krol, “She still owes me from last poker night.”
“Like Hel I do!” called the enraged Underfoot.
