Hello there!

I'm publishing an SP fanfiction that is a result of project I was working on since late 2018 in patches. It`s a short story in two parts that is as a whole part of a three-story cycle... that is not entirely related to the HMA universe but is a personal thing with first two stories just describing a chunk of my life and feelings for a girl and the simpleplanes community of course and is probably not to publish here. Weirdly, somehow it got from a 100% real love story to SimplePlanes fanfiction... I LOVE my imagination. And this transition makes sense, actually. The idea for this one came from observing the FDp steam engine installed as a monument at Kyiv Central Railway Station.

The story I will be posting consists of two chapters (one finished and one in progress), and I will be posting it in smaller parts as I translate as it was originally written in Ukrainian (well.. cus im Ukrainian and the first stories were written without an intent of becoming SP fanfiction and... Its getting compllicated.) The first chapter will be split in 4 parts.

The story is set in Treadmill103`s His Majesty Aircraft world which is a post-apocalyptic dieselpunk-atompunk-steampunk universe about weird one-of-a-kind aircraft and their brave pilots and designers using reinvented, scavenged and new technology to create and operate the planes. The Aircraft fight against Strangers, a pirate-nomad nation that are trying to conquer the Kingdom for a relic, using their fleet of scrapbuilt warships and even floating cities. There is also the Empire, a third faction with some obscure technology and impressive air force that is a friend for the Kingdom... but that relationship is fragile!

The HMA universe currently depicted by crafts is a partly-restored society with some factories and industries operating, but a lot of tech, including airplanes, are one-off builds with both new and Old World refubrished tech used, and the world is just in a beginning of a war. This story depicts a much later period when the war is long over and the industry is much more capable, so factory built aircraft and components are getting more common, but one-off designs still exist. Therefore, this story is kinda off-line with the other stuff and may be considered HMA non-canon, and it also can be thought of as a standalone. I galdly encourage any criticism and suggestions.

So, without further interruption... continue to the text.

THE RAILMAN

OR
THE ODE TO THE ENGINE

In a parallel universe, somewhere, somewhen…

A railcar crawled along a branchline line. He could see rare early sun rays playing on minor scratches, cracks and frost in his railcar's windows. The grey morning has just begin. Clouds obscured the sun while the early harvester brigades have begun their daily duty. A flock of cranes dashed across the sky, and higher, a royal squadron has just begun their maneuvers.
The city was set in a valley in front of mountains, it's living zones stretching across the fields and climbing the steep slopes, and the higher it got, the more high white churches appeared, pointing their elegant towers towards the heavens. And between the highlands, a highway bends, with trucks dashing back and forth. A red viaduct embraces the closest peak.
A freight train zips around the peaks, it's electric-steam engine whistling, slowly crawling across the viaducts. The engine pulls it's load – a string of dusty coal hoppers, fresh-painted ligroine tank cars, flatcars full of concrete, pipes and steel parts. Past zips a signature express train, it's red streamlined engines outlined with a few stylish white strokes puffing light-gray steam at both ends of the consist.
Meanwhile, the freight train steers towards the Arsenal.
His railcar just went by the mastodon engine, it's massive valve gear swaying dangerously close to the railcar roof, clouds of steam and smoke blocking the view. The tender, slightly larger than a small power substation, rumbled along the track on it's eight wheelpairs, and the cars went along, screeching and clicking at the rail connections. One more loud whistle – and the train stopped. The whole Arsenal knows – a new material batch has arrived. Smaller engines arrived, sometimes in pairs. They took cars from the main consists, while a pair of diesel shunters was dispatching some cars for later delivery. Running along the railyard, navigating between traincars, tracks and each other the tiny engines looked like a perfectly tuned and balanced clockwork toy.
Such was the whole Arsenal.
Not just the weapon warehouses and ordnance factories – the Arsenal was an enormous anglomeration, a supercity formed from a couple of cities and even more villages – settlements that no longer have their names on the map. Just one name – The Arsenal, dozens of factories blended with each other, assembly lines, pipes and railroads twisting around institutes, dormitories and houses. It had two military bases, an airbase, parks, theaters and cathedrals… All blended into one self-consistent organism, the symbol of human ingenuity, the forges of the Kingdom.
His hand was gently holding the railcar controls. Another day, another crash, another worker haul – and one more distraction from his track checking duty. A whole brigade of rail workers was sitting inside the new Type E railcar. Equipped with rail flaw detectors, this vehicle, like it predecessors, could carry repair crews and equipment – but also could control track quality and wear. The vehicle was multifunctional… but he probably was not. He thought of these crash recovery runs like an annoying duty. At least, the pay was decent.

The vehicle was running along a new viaduct, just above a highway. His railcar was gradually climbing uphill, light snow stuck to the windshield. He stopped the vehicle near a tunnel entrance.
There lied the reason he went there. A derailed passenger car, tipped on it's side, lying a dozen feet beside the trackbed. That looked like an express car – painted bright red. Lying quite far from the rails, it probably was going at a decent speed. Windows broken, handrails twisted, wheelpairs badly damaged. As were the rails.
He should've brought a crane. What a mistake – he knew the rail may end up like this, and he could expect debris that must be removed… A mountain line, where slopes are steep and turns are sharp. He suddenly thought that, in fact, a good portion of routes here were as safe as a rope walkway – and the fact that trains so rarely crash here in Northen Atsave is a lucky occasion.
He looked at the track a bit more – and it was obvious they will not only need a crane, so badly were the tracks warped. A repair consist with a one more brigade, spare track, maybe even a surveyor.
Anyway, time to go back to work. The brigade spreads out around the wreckage, measuring and noting, one worker crawling inside the coach, another browsing the car number in his handheld computer – a scratchbuilt device with many patches and gribbles, and a side keyboard with no button looking the same.
Interestingly, how did the car end up like this? Just a single wagon derailed. Probably, it had crashed after it decoupled – otherwise, the whole train would likely be wrecked.
- This belongs to the Arterial – said the worker with the computer – numbered 24-718, a tail car from an express train doing a test run, so no passengers. The crew have reported the car loss thirty minutes ago. Looks like couplers failed and no one noticed
- Just failed? Maybe somebody decoupled it?
- And what for? I'd think sabotage or mischief, but both seem far-fetched.
- Whatever. That's now none of our business…
- Anyway. Call for a repair train, we'll be waiting for it here.
He stepped off the cab ladder and went around the car. He was no expert in crashes – but suddenly his eyes turned to the back of the coach. Near the warped rear handrail lied a flower. Not a real one – but crafted from patches of silky matter, some fine matter. That reminded of higher end silk from Tavadane, a province famous for it's spectacular cloth. The type of silk pilots tie to their hands and aircraft, hoping it will bring luck. He didn't much believe these superstitions, but anyway picked up the flower and pinned it down to his railcar's dashboard, just above the ampermeter. A tiny colorful element between the glassy eyes of gauges and endless fiddly swithces and flickering indicator lamps.

Back to work. He turned on the radio, called the depot and set off home