An Adventure Aboard the Train that Never Stops (Part 1: An Iron Will)

An Adventure Aboard the Train That Never Stops: An Iron Will

John is suddenly pulled from his dreamy afternoon and rushed onto a train to Pittsburgh, where he and Ezra meet the formidable Phoenix Jackson. Facing a terminal illness, the owner of the Phoenix Corporation is haunted by the weight of her legacy. With no children or trusted family, she grapples with the painful decision to dismantle her empire, a choice that has unleashed chaos throughout her business, including the remarkable train system, the Möbius. 

At this moment, Sophie Ellis bursts into her life, claiming that bandits are plundering the Möbius mid-journey and that she is a long-lost relative of Ms. Jackson. Intrigued by the possibility of a familial bond, Ms. Jackson feels a flicker of hope amidst her despair. But with trust in short supply and doubt lurking around every corner, she turns to Ezra and John for help.

Will they board the-train-that-never-stops, uncover the identity of the possible rogues, and reveal the true character and intentions of Sophie Ellis?

Welcome to "The Atlantium Mysteries"! I am Joseph Compton, the creative force behind this podcast, where we embark on thrilling journeys filled with mystery, intrigue, and unexpected twists. Each episode invites you to explore a world of powerful figures, hidden secrets, and moral dilemmas, all crafted with rich storytelling and dynamic characters. As the sole writer and recorder, I am dedicated to creating captivating tales that the whole family can enjoy. With a passion for storytelling and a commitment to connecting with listeners, I pour my heart and soul into every episode, navigating the challenges of writing, editing, and production. Prepare for a captivating ride that inspires joy and curiosity, making each installment an unforgettable adventure!

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Transcript

An Adventure Aboard the Train that Never Stops

After our work in Forest Hills, in the discovering of the missing Dr. Marsden, it was clear Ezra was upon a definite path of becoming an investigative consultant. Indeed, the next six weeks saw us assisting some four or five new clients with minor personal problems, from missing jewelry to misrepresented art. 

I say clients now, as I had at this point, taken the steps to ensure we were operating in a more formal business-like format. With Ezra, having insisted I continue to aid him in this work, I was forced to take some firm stances on such things as contracts and payment terms. Maybe it is my more orderly mentality or my less indifferent nature in comparison to Ezra, but I felt circumstances should be made explicitly clear to both client and consultant. With reluctance Ezra at last agreed to this with the stipulation that if these things were to be done, I would be the one doing them. I felt this arrangement fair considering he would be accomplishing the lion’s share of investigative work.

Nevertheless, I shall proceed to the next of our significant adventures, which brought us again within the realm of the Atlantium project. We were now in the midst of June, and I had very recently completed the writing of a paper on the modern history of transportation as it related to society and communication. It had been challenging for me to constrain my scope with this project due to the many and varied drastic changes which had occurred over the last century.

Ezra had been away for some several days on a speaking engagement concerning his work on terrain-adaptive algorithms for better recognizing important features on ground scans—a work he had recognized required more attention after our Martian adventure. Thus, on this day, as I rested my eyes by the sun-filled window and felt myself drifting comfortably to a doze, I was startled to find the door suddenly flung open and a hurried body rush into the room and disappear down the hall. I had barely been able to see the figure for an instant before it was out of sight. This unexpected event, of course, at once jolted my dreamy mind into alertness and I shouted out in a barely controlled panic, “Who is there?” 

There was no response, aside from a rummaging sound in one of the rooms off the hall. Then, silence a moment. I considered what I should do, when abruptly a face peered around the corner saying, “It’s me, John. Who else would it be?” Relieved to learn it was only Ezra, my alarm shifted to surprise as I said, “You’re home early!” He strode across the room and began going through things on his desk as he said, “That’s right, John. But only briefly. You and I must leave at once. Come. Pack a light backpack for a couple of days.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. 

He paused long enough to say, “We have a meeting in Pittsburgh this evening and then must catch the train-that-never-stops.”

Ezra refused to go into further detail, instead pressing me to prepare for our departure. I could do nothing but acquiesce, and in a rush, throw a few things into a backpack before being hustled out of our apartment into the afternoon heat. There was a car waiting, and jumping in we hurried toward South Station. 

The only bit of information I gleaned from my friend during that ten-minute ride was that our train, not the train-that-never-stops mind you, but our train to Pittsburg was departing at three fifteen. We had left Beacon Hill at quarter to three. Needless to say, my anxious mind then could do nothing but check my watch incessantly and make mental calculations based on our progress. Meanwhile, Ezra sat as calmly as ever staring out the side window. 

Once at the station, we made a mad dash for our platform. Only our intimate familiarity with the terminus allowed us even a chance to make our train before departure. South Station can be crowded, but fortunately Tuesday afternoon is not a particularly high traffic time. As we jogged along, the straps of my pack chaffing my shoulders, I kept recalculating. At times, I thought we just might make it and a moment later I would realize it was impossible. 

Then the platform was ahead, and I was looking everywhere for a clock. I did not trust my own watch, it could be slow, I thought. The platform was empty. Everyone had already boarded the train or departed the area. I knew any moment the doors would close and the great aluminum serpent would glide rapidly away from us. 

Sweating and puffing, I spurred forward. Ezra, the faster of us, made it first and, then turning, looked out expectantly at me. The doors were beginning to close. With a grunt I made the last few leaps and crossed the threshold. The shrinking gap I had just slipped through sealed closed behind me. 

Ezra and I looked at one another with smiles of relief even as we began to feel the pull of the acceleration. Within a few moments, before we had even found seats, the train would be flying along at just under one hundred miles per hour and I knew that once we were out of the city, it would increase to over two hundred and fifty miles per hour. It would take us only two and a half hours to make the five hundred and fifty mile trip on account of the then new direct line which had connected Boston to Pittsburgh some few years before.

Having caught our breath, I pressed Ezra about this hurried meeting. He eyed me from his relaxed recumbent position, the sunlight flashing intermittently upon his dark hair as we sped past the last buildings of Boston. “It’s a little thing, maybe, John,” he said at last. “Another friend of Mr. Dakkar’s. However, unlike Dr. Marsden, this friend is at least on Earth, though maybe not for much longer. She has accepted a terminal diagnosis. Though I understand it’s nothing immediate, she would like to finalize the arrangement of her physical concerns.” I looked hard at him, saying irritably, “You rushed me out of the apartment because someone wants to finalize their will? We could have taken the morning train if there was no possibility of imminent death!” 

He smiled wryly, “Oh, John, there’s more than that. Though I’ll be honest, my interest wasn’t exactly piqued either, rather it was more for you that I took up this task. You see, our client is Ms. Phoenix Jackson.” He saw my mouth drop open and smiled as he went on saying, “Yes, that Ms. Jackson, the owner of Phoenix Steel.”

As I’m sure the reader is well-aware, Phoenix Steel is the largest steel mill in the United States, indeed, the western hemisphere. But what was far more interesting to me was Phoenix Corporation’s railway complex. I had just spent weeks studying the creation and operation of this amazing system.

Ezra laughed at my gaping mouth, saying, “I thought you’d feel that way, John.” 

Recovering I said to this, “Well, regardless of my interest in the Phoenix Railway, what is the purpose of such haste for us?”

Ezra smiled again as he answered, “The Möbius passes by Pittsburg just after midnight tonight. You and I, John, are destined to be on a launch to join it.” My incredulity at this proclamation cannot be overstated and I plied Ezra with a flurry of questions, but he would give me no further details. Instead, he said only that his conversation with Ms. Jackson had been very brief and rather hurried and that she would go over everything again in greater detail when we met with her that evening. 

Thoroughly unsatisfied with this response, I turned from my stolid companion and looked out the window as the world sped past. I knew he loathed repeating information himself. He did not mind to hear it again or to consider it again, but to repeat it was drudgery to him. Thus, I was left to my own postulations, and though I tried diligently, I could hardly hypothesize what a dying woman finalizing her will had to do with us riding The Möbius, regardless of the fact that this woman had created the machine itself.

No later than a quarter to six, Ezra and I were disembarking onto the platform and moving toward the exit. I had made this journey only once or twice, but as the Homestead Station was then new and it had been well-designed, we easily found our way and soon were in a car headed to the home of Ms. Phoenix Jackson in Fox Chapel. The drive was only twenty minutes or so and took us, of course, into one of the wealthiest areas of Pittsburgh.

Surrounded by a solid high stone wall, Ms. Jackson’s large manor stood apart even in that district of such tremendous wealth. After passing the security check at the gate, our car bore us smoothly up the paved drive, through a tunnel of arching maple boughs. A flowing green lawn stretched beyond in both directions before losing itself within a dark hardwood forest, which encompassed the entire estate. Looking forward, I saw the brick mansion—old and proper.

Now at the entrance Ezra and I stepped from the vehicle onto the paving stones and as I looked in awe at the architecture and landscaping, Ezra sent the car away, saying Ms. Jackson would secure our transit from here. “You could have warned me we were to be meeting Ms. Jackson,” I said with some annoyance. 

“To what purpose?” he said dismissively as he strode passed me and up the stairs. A member of the staff stood waiting for us and with a polite greeting, he led us into the home saying Ms. Jackson would be with us in a few minutes. We were guided into a sitting room and offered refreshments. As usual, Ezra sat calmly as if he came here often and knew the place as well as his own home. I meanwhile looked about myself in deep self-consciousness as though I no more belonged there than a hippopotamus belonged in a hair salon.

Thus, in spite of the luxuriousness of my seat and excellence of the refreshments, a few uncomfortable minutes passed until I was startled to see a figure in the doorway. I had not heard her step, but our host had indeed arrived and stood silently studying the two of us. 

As she looked upon us, I looked upon her; this great steel magnate that had come from nothing to become one of the greatest industrial dynamos of our age. Ms. Phoenix Jackson was then in her mid-nineties, still tall and firm, her shoulders straight and refined. Her majestic sable skin only a few shades paler than the photos I had seen of her in her youth; and her amber eyes, mesmerizing with their clarity and depth, gave evidence of the alert commanding mind that peered out at us. Her hair, though silvered and a bit thin, was still kept long, demonstrative of her defiance to demure to expectations. She spoke and her voice, though smooth, was a command, even if just to listen, “Good evening, gentlemen. I am Phoenix Jackson. I am very pleased to meet you.” 

We both rose and, taking her hand one at a time, introduced ourselves. She smiled appreciatively and said, “Thank you for accepting my hurried invitation. How was your journey?” 

“Fine,” I said, “though I was a little rushed. I didn’t really have time to prepare.” 

I said this as a way of excusing my informal attire, but she mistook me saying, 
“Yes, I am sorry to have made such an urgent request. I was speaking of my situation to Atlas, complaining really, when he told me I must contact the two of you at once, promising you could help me.”

“I didn’t intend it that way, Ms. Jackson,” I said, trying to apologize, but she waved my words away. Striding fluidly into the room, the skirt of her dress flowing gently behind her, she took a seat opposite the two that Ezra and I had previously occupied. With a tilt of her head, she directed us to resume our seats. As we settled in, she began speaking.

“Intentions can be wily things, Mr. Spencer. They are often perceived as something outside the self—intentions that went awry, intentions that were misunderstood, as if they had a mind of their own. Throughout my life, I’ve been accused of having the best intentions by my supporters and the worst by my detractors. Lately, however, I’ve been reflecting more on the unintended—the negative externalities that are neither good nor bad intentions but rather unforeseen byproducts.”

Turning in her chair, she pointed to a small photo on the mantle behind her. “That is my great-great-grandfather, Elias Jackson,” she said. The framed photo was small and on the opposite wall, so I couldn’t see any detail, but it was clearly an early photograph—yellowed and faded. It depicted a heavily bearded man with a serious expression.

“He was a remarkable person in a challenging time,” she continued, turning back to us. “Despite the restrictions placed on emancipated men, he remained steadfast in his intentions and, against all odds, became a successful writer and speaker. He also excelled as a father, creating a family that could carry his thoughts and dreams from generation to generation, bringing his knowledge and experience into the ever-moving future.”

She paused, glancing back at the photo, contemplating for a moment before continuing. “Perhaps it’s my age, but even before my diagnosis, I’ve felt a strong desire to understand my own lineage. I want to know where this old mind came from and how I relate to its past. How have I embraced this mental inheritance, and how have I resisted it? When was it right to do one or the other?”

She let out a small, sad laugh before adding, “But these are just the musings of an old woman. You are young, active men, eager for duty and achievement. You want to know why I called you here. As I mentioned to Mr. Lockwood—”

But here, Ezra interrupted. “Pardon me, Ms. Jackson, but I would prefer if you could share the whole situation again. I fear I received the rather rushed, shall we say, frenetic version earlier. Since I haven’t informed my friend, John, of anything, it would be best for us both to hear your tale in full together.”

“Oh,” Ms. Jackson said, leaning back in her chair, a hint of a troubled smile gracing her lips. After a moment of contemplation, she continued, “Looking backward has led me to look forward. My contribution, whether for good or ill, has been made to humanity. My final great task is to decide who will carry on in my absence and what will become of my life’s work. Who can bring the newborn Phoenix into the future when this old girl turns to ash?

For you see, my young friends, one negative externality, one unintended consequence of my fierce determination to succeed and build this empire, is that I never had children of my own. Yes, I convinced myself it was one or the other, but now, at the finish line, I find myself seriously doubting that logic. What could I have taught? What could I have shared? How could I have helped the new generation? Indeed, how might I have grown myself had I not been so…”

She left the sentence unfinished, her chin dropping as she breathed gently, her thin shoulders rising and falling. Then, suddenly straightening and slapping the tops of her legs, she said, “I am sorry, gentlemen. Despite my best intentions, I seem to keep relapsing into melodramatic brooding. The young have no time for such things.

As I was saying, I have no heir, no protégé, no one from the new generation whom I can fully trust. Therefore, I have decided that my empire must be torn asunder. Just as Alexander the Great’s empire was divided among the Diadochi after his fall, so too shall the Phoenix be fragmented, never to rise as one from the ashes again. It is too great, too powerful to be left in the hands of those within the organization who are even now striving against one another for power and control.

I have kept the company private to avoid this corruption. I have never allowed a board or an investment group to manipulate my creations and poison the health of my company. The quality of the goods, the happiness of the employees, and the efficacy of the service are the only things I have ever considered—not the greed of investors.”

Her voice was firm, yet I could see the years of struggle etched on her face—the battle between her strength and her fears waging constantly within her.

She continued, “Carving up the Phoenix Corporation seemed to be the only way forward. That has been my plan, documented for some time now. Tear it down; it’s too great. I disclosed this plan to the entire organization and took preliminary steps to achieve it. However, almost immediately, I was met with a torrent of issues that had never surfaced before—at least not to this magnitude. Labor disputes, machine breakdowns, costly miscommunications, supply disruptions. From management to staffing to technology, it’s one crisis after another—arson, property damage, you name it.

My COO, Aiden Turner, poor man, has a wife and two children, and yet he spends twelve to fifteen hours a day in the office trying to manage this chaos alongside me. If there isn’t an issue at the mill, there’s one at the mines or the recycling plant. The engineers add a zero to an order. The warehouse loses a pallet of goods. A ship arrives late; a truck departs early. On and on it goes, day after day.”

“Aiden finally admitted the other day what I had sensed in his eyes for weeks. He said it was my plan to split the company that had caused all the issues—panic among the workers, panic among our customers, panic among our suppliers.”

Ms. Jackson sighed heavily, the weight of stress and doubt evident in her demeanor. I remembered that all this turmoil was being heaped upon a woman already grappling with a terminal illness and I wished I could somehow lighten her burden.

With a self-deprecating smile, she continued, “But that has little to do with why I asked you two here—just setting the scene, I suppose. The latest concern has been a young woman—a Miss Sophie Ellis. Yesterday, she confronted me as I walked to my office, rattling off a litany of claims about the Möbius. She said she was a reporter investigating how it has displaced people, harmed animals, manipulated and monopolized local economies, and scarred the earth.”

As Ms. Jackson recounted these accusations, her smile grew, ending with a laugh. “And she was wonderful—fierce and determined. I saw myself in her, like a mirror from many decades ago.

“Alas, I had nothing to say to her. I admired her passion, but her claims were old news, of no concern to me. Yet, just before I entered the building, she added, ‘You’re robbing your own train, and I will expose you.’

“That caught my attention. I turned to her and asked for proof. She replied that she would give it to me if I would meet her privately. I suggested we speak then, but she glanced suspiciously at my assistant, my guard, and a junior officer who had stepped outside. She insisted on ‘privately.’

“I will say she is not the first to approach me like this, but her earnestness and final claim gave me pause. We had been receiving reports of shortages from the Möbius, which I found deeply concerning. My train had, until now, been free from interference. I decided a few minutes of my time was worth whatever she had to say, and I arranged to meet her at my home this morning.

“I pressed her about the alleged thievery. She claimed producers were being shorted on deliveries—discrepancies in weights. For example, the Glennhardt co-op claimed they loaded twenty tons of potatoes, but the recipients only tallied nineteen and a half. Aiden and I had already heard these reports and initiated our own investigation. We were thorough but found no definitive proof; it seemed to be a matter of bad accounting. Yet, the reports continued to grow with every swing the Möbius made, and I’m becoming increasingly worried.

“Now this young woman arrives, claiming she has proof of robbery and that if it isn’t an internal operation, then a band of rogues is stealing from my train during transit. I couldn’t help but laugh at the idea. I asked her, somewhat sarcastically, ‘You think someone is stealing half a ton of potatoes in the WILD off a train going one hundred miles an hour?’ But she stood firm and insisted she could prove it. When I pressed her on how, she finally confessed that she had already snuck onto the Möbius and seen it with her own eyes.”

Ms. Jackson laughed at my reaction to her suggestion. “My thoughts exactly, Mr. Spencer. I told her she was very bold and impertinent, and that if she had indeed boarded my train, I could have her arrested. ‘Small price,’ she replied. Small price! Oh, she was wonderful. I could hardly believe she was real.

“Well, not much else came of the conversation, I’m afraid. She had nothing more to offer, and I had no reason to believe her. She admitted, rather hesitantly, that she had video evidence, which, of course, means little since it can be easily faked. I called my assistant to see her out, but just as she was leaving, she added, ‘By the way, Ms. Jackson, I learned while researching you that we are related. I am the great-great-great-granddaughter of that man, Elias Jackson,’ pointing to the photo on the mantle.

“I was, of course, quite astonished by this claim but said nothing more than goodbye. However, I immediately had my team look into this possible connection. As I mentioned, I have no children, nor do my two siblings. Indeed, I understood myself to be the last of Elias’s line—a sad end to such a fruitful beginning.

“Yet, it turns out her claim of relation, however distant, is true. And I must admit there was something undeniably familiar about her. This revelation has quite jarred me, I must say. My legacy troubles me, as I mentioned earlier—both my financial legacy and my experiential one. I have no young close friends who honor and respect me. Yes, you might say, ‘I honor you, Ms. Phoenix. I respect you.’ But that respect stems from my wealth and success, not from knowing me intimately.

“My friends are all like Atlas—grown and powerful in their own spheres—but the next generation feels separate from us. There are too few young people these days, too few like yourselves. The thought that all I have worked so hard to learn and share will simply vanish scares me more than death itself. If I could pass on my legacy, if I could entrust it to another distant child of Elias Jackson, I would find peace.

“And so, I am tempted by this young woman. But I can't shake the feeling that it’s all foolishness. She is a stranger seeking gain, assuredly, perhaps an inheritance. Yet, doubt lingers in my mind. I must know her true intentions, and quickly.

“I see your impatience, so I will add only this final detail before I give you your orders: hours after our meeting, this young woman sent me a message saying she would be boarding the Möbius this very evening and would prove her claims.

“Now, after this old woman’s lengthy rambling, I ask you: will you help me? I believe this wild young woman will board the Möbius, whether for the first or second time, I cannot say. Whether she will uncover anything of significance seems unlikely, but I am deeply concerned for her and curious about her intentions. She must be monitored—not just for her safety, but by someone who can judge her character without bias. Is she who she claims to be or is she merely angling for a morsel from my will?

“Atlas has told me that no one can perform this task as effectively and discreetly as you, Ezra Lockwood and John Spencer. So, gentlemen, will you board the Möbius as well and observe this young woman? Determine if she is genuine or a fraud, and whether some gang of bandits is indeed stealing from my train?”

Flabbergasted, I said, “But how, Ms. Jackson? Would you have us take a launch onto the circuit?”

“Exactly,” she replied, a smile forming on her lips. “There are eight launches in Pittsburgh tonight. You shall depart from the one at my mill. We cannot know which launch Ms. Ellis will be using, so you must find her when onboard. I could post guards at all the launches and stop her, of course, but part of me wants to see if she truly would go through with this. It seems the only way to know if she is who she claims to be.”

Stupefied, I realized that Ezra had suggested this very plan, but I hadn’t fully grasped its implications. He looked at me with calm questioning and asked, “What do you say, John? Would you like to take a ride on the train-that-never-stops?”