Tales from Kalgachia - 37

For the fifth time in a row, the freight wagons from Kasterburg had been late arriving for Urvan Alҳazov.

He, on the other hand, had always brought his locomotive into the Lepidopterum city rail yard on time - despite fallen trees, landslides, the occasional interfering Tee-al and the many mechanical foibles of the locomotive itself, an ugly metal beast which took electricity from the rails while underground but switched to a chugging wood gas engine for surface running. At present the latter propulsion unit was sending gentle vibrations through Alҳazov's seat as it idled, its exhaust vents releasing a thin cloud of oily grey soot across the yard. It was a grey morning, stilled by the windless cold that hung over this part of Benacia at this time of year - the brief slack period between the cessation of rains from the south and the commencement of icy blizzards from the north. The latter had already taken hold in-country, coating Kalgachia's central peaks with a blanket of snow and kicking off the skiing season for those blessed with leisure time. Down in Lepidopterum, the deciduous foliage had died away but he snows had not yet arrived. They would come, mused Alҳazov - as the winter took hold, no place this deep into Benacia's western interior was ever spared.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes. Life had been punishing recently - the slow increase in freight traffic from Kasterburg had suddenly accelerated in the last year. Gone were the days of lounging around crew rooms, exchanging banter with fellow drivers amid the coffee stains and cigarette ash - now it was constant driving through all hours of the day and night, with the odd relocatory deadheading on passenger trains to catch bursts of fitful sleep. The extra hours had earned him considerable money but it lay unspent in a safe under his bed. These days he only went home every other Byeday to call in at church and collapse in comatose sleep before heading back to work the following Helloday. In theory this was the life of the model Kalgachi citizen, shot through with moments of jollity made intensely precious by their spontaneous rarity. There would be, his Parish Credent assured him, a greater payoff in the years ahead as the seeds of his labour germinated into bloom and fruit. Roll on those days, thought Alҳazov.

Fancying his chance to obtain a little of the Garden's grace up front, he climbed down from the cab of his locomotive and stepped over the yard's many rows of track, his breath wrought into steaming clouds by the cold as he buried his hands in the pockets of his overalls. He arrived at a utility telephone and lifted its receiver, waiting for the ringtone which was followed by a young male voice.

"Operations."

"Freight Scheduler please," said Alҳazov, cupping his opposite ear with his hand against the clatter of a passing train.

"Please hold," came a man's scratchy reply. After a leisurely wait, the sassy Bergburg accent of an older woman picked up the line. "Scheduler."

"Ah good morning," said Alҳazov. "I'd like to file for a crew change."

"Train reference?"

"One nine seven two eight three... Lepidopterum to Katarsis. I've been running all night and I'm about to hit my rest period. There aren't any relief drivers here but I can make Gravelbottom."

"Gravelbottom, let me see... ah, sorry. Their last relief went out on an Abrek train about an hour ago. If you can make good time and get the signalman to clear you into Kossarstadt before service one nine seven two eight one, we've got a driver on standby there. Otherwise you'll have to head on to Bergburg."

"That'll take me at least three hours into my rest period. Four for Bergburg. Five or six if the weather's bad..."

"Kossarstadt's the best I can do."

"But rest periods are mandatory! If you send me that far, I'll be the one who takes the crap if my logs are checked."

"Don't worry about log checks... they've been suspended for traffic out of Lepidopterum."

"Really? I thought that was just a rumour."

"Nope."

"But why?"

"Quotas have jumped again. Kalgachi Railways meets them, management keeps their Toastytide bonus, drivers don't get fired, everybody wins."

"I wouldn't call it winning, being unable to sleep for twenty hours."

"Oh wind your neck in, snowflake. You sound pretty delicate for a Laqi. I've had five hours of sleep in the last forty-eight and I'm still moving. You're not the only one feeling it, you know. It's the usual turd sandwich and we've all gotta take a bite. Normal service will be resumed when people start dying. You know how it is."

"Well I hope you die first, lady!" Alҳazov slammed down the phone.

The conversation had gone about as well as it usually did with that particular office, numb as they were to endless calls from irritably tired drivers. Mildly dejected, Alҳazov made his way back toward his locomotive - which was finally being approached by a shunter with a long row of boxcars. Casting a cursory eye over this mismatched procession of Kalgachi and Kasterburgish rolling stock, he hauled himself back into the locomotive cab. He would not be moving any time soon - now began the formalities of receiving a train from a foreign country, performed by a host of Prefect border guards in thick green greatcoats who approached the train from their lair near the yard signal box. With them came several sniffer dogs and a bulky electronic instrument of some kind with multiple antennae, dials and nixie tubes. As they set about inspecting the wagons from the rear, one of them marched forward to approach Alҳazov directly - the leader of the group, judging by the double-breasted cut of his coat. Much like the operations office of Kalgachi Railways, the Prefects tended to be a humourless bunch and this officer looked like no exception, thought Alҳazov, as the man strolled up to the front of the locomotive and saluted.

"Your credentials and signature for this consignment, please."

Alҳazov had already gathered up the necessary documents and passed them down into the officer's hand, receiving in return a clipboard with a consignment receipt and a pen.

On this occasion however, he paused. "Forgive me, brother Prefect," he said, "but the consignment type has been left blank on here. What's in these wagons?"

The Prefect looked up irritably. "That need not concern you," he said, "only your destination."

Alҳazov sighed, scrawled his signature on the form and held it out for the Prefect, but did not immediately get his personal documents back in return. These were still being squinted at by the officer, who eventually looked back at Alҳazov.

"Lakhi la?" he said.

"Dauncha," replied Alҳazov in his native Laqi, permitting himself a smirk of recognition at his blood compatriot. "Sajnbajna."

"Veki," said the Prefect with an uncharacteristic smile in return. He placed his fingers between his lips and whistled at the border guards searching the rear of the train, indicating the one he wanted with a leather-gloved finger and beckoning him over. The junior Prefect, out of breath by the time he had run to the front of the train, stopped only to hear the the officer whisper into his ear before running off again, this time in the direction of the signal box. The officer then began conversing with Alҳazov in a manner that might be approximated thus in the common tongue:

"The consignment you're carrying is classified, brother. I wish I could tell you but..." he tapped the Prefect badge on his fur-lined cap.

"For something so important," said Alҳazov, "the Kasterburgers sure took their time getting it here,"

"Akh, don't get me started about that bunch," said the officer with a sneer. "The Magistraat has kept too much power for himself. Everything has to go through him and his cronies. Now they say he's gravely ill, on his deathbed maybe. So everything's falling apart over there... still, it might get their claws out of our brothers in the south."

The Prefect who had been sent away now returned, stepping carefully over the rails. He carried a tray with a steaming copper ibrik, two small ceramic cups and a plate covered with an embroidered cloth. The officer dismissed his junior back down the train, having taken the tray and set it down on a nearby electrical junction box. There, before Alҳazov's eyes, he poured coffee - coffee! - and uncovered the plate to reveal cuts of cold goat meat.

"For a brother so far from his home, I can spare something special," said the officer as he handed Alҳazov the first cup of Laqi coffee he had ever drunk this far west. "If it was up to me, your wagons would be full of this stuff. Times will be harder when the trains sto-" He swallowed his words, his eyes momentarily widening in self-reproach.

Alҳazov's abruptly halted his sip of the coffee. "The trains will stop?"

"I never said that," mumbled the officer, averting his eyes to find a distraction. "Here..." he held up the plate of goat meat for Alҳazov to take a piece. It was heavily salted and infused with juniper in the traditional Kalgachi manner. "Roasted in my mother's oven," he added to Alҳazov's approving nod.

Alҳazov enjoyed the treat in silence for a while, letting the rich bitterness of the coffee wrap itself around lumps of scented goat gristle in his mouth. On the far side of the yard, a flurry of metallic squeaking announced the departure of another train hauling imports into the Kalgachi interior. Behind it, another locomotive was belching wood gas exhaust fumes as it spluttered into life. "So," said Alҳazov, "all this will be gone soon, eh?"

"I told you," growled the officer, "I never said that."

"Only," said Alҳazov, "I was thinking of moving down here. Getting a little cottage by the river. Most of my routes run out of this yard, so..."

The officer sighed and looked over his shoulder at his inspection party, who had only made it half way up the train. Then he loosened one of his greatcoat buttons, produced a silver hip flask and offered it to Alҳazov. It was Schlepogorskaya vodka, familiar and fortifying in its fiery coarseness. The officer took his own generous glug of the spirit before returning the flask to the depths of his greatcoat. He looked over his shoulder again. "Listen, brother," he said. "Stay in Schlepogora. Or go somewhere else in-country. Don't come down here."

"Why not?"

"They'd grind my bones to fertiliser if I told you the tenth of it," said the officer, whose capacious generosity now compelled him to proffer an open pack of Bedricson & Hege with one cigarette extended for Alҳazov to take. In the other was a lighter, flicked into life with an oily flame. "The good news," said the officer, lighting his own cigarette along with Alҳazov's, "is that you'll get your free time back soon enough. What you're doing right now is very important. Maybe more important than anything this country has ever done. Stick with it. I can't say exactly when the hammer will drop. Nobody knows for sure. But when it does, all of this..." he gestured across the yard with his smouldering cigarette, "...will be left to the Tee-als."

His face slowly warped into a fatalistic smile.

"...and they'd make short work of your little cottage by the river."