RAM 10 page excerpt

A Cold Day in Sanctum

The Sanctum is cold.

Men before me would describe the air as biting, say that it sapped your energy making you dull and less impulsive. The streets are largely empty of activity. The walk is lonely even when there are others to share it.

I pull my flat cap down over my eyebrows to spare my face some of the Siberian routine, flip the collar of my pea-coat then force my hands deep into the woolen pockets. These are the things I do to keep warm, or at least the things I do to assure myself that I am doing all I can.

I glance back and see a woman behind me, her cloche hat low and long scarf wafting in the wind. I feel a sort of camaraderie with the lady; we each cut through the icy drafts to make sure our station would remain functioning throughout the endless winter. Section 8 would not be the station that fails. We should have been a team but are just two strangers fighting climate wrapped in composite thread and apathy.

I turn to get a better look at her; long blonde hair tucked in to her jacket, a pale hand clutches the lapels together. She wears long woolen pants and her legs move like engine pistons, tap-tap-taps on the pavement.

I trudge on, the buildings I pass uniform, just one level stacked upon another several stories tall. It seems even the designers themselves wanted no emotion evoked from the study of their craftsmanship.

I could be a Sanctum Architect. Place red brick across a lot. Cement it. Brick and mortar stairway to a pale blue door (the dullness of primer). Two windows per level, spaced out equally. Separate the ceiling and floor with a small ledge, not large enough to stand on. Drop a flat roof on it.

There's an abandoned play park in front of the facade, full of rusting metal hanging rails. The paint is dirty, chipped and molting. I turn to comment on it to the cloche, think better. On occasion I think too much, not thoughts of great import but just the peculiar kind that you hear rather than experience; and for it I feel a wash of guilt.

A bright yellow bell flower clings to life in the cracked asphalt ahead. It pleases me to consider that even here nature might find a way. It gives me hope that somewhere flowers bloom.

Movement from the alley. I already know what it is, but I look anyway.

They are standing just inside, staring out at us with vacant eyes. They wear what they can forage, pale blue jumpsuits from the station shredded and sewn to sate their urge for creativity. A mismatch, a riot of fabric and many colored dyes.

A girl at the front has a tattoo of a tiger across her right cheek, its fangs bared and hovering over her eye while its front paws rested on her upper lip. Almond eyes and skin tone and small in stature, with long black hair tied in a ponytail. She has a club.

A young man stands behind her. Gauges in each ear lobe stretch them to a thumb's width. Spikes stick out the thin bridge of his nose and he has short blonde hair. Tattooed down the length of his throat are black plates like body armor. He holds a chain.

The last boy is the shortest with dark skin and hair. He is a little wide for a punk, but dressed and punctured all the same. His dark eyes smolder, and tattooed across his forehead are characters of a forgotten tongue in white. He has his hands tucked into the shredded jumpsuit but I can still see the jagged frame of brass knuckles.

My heart races. Punks. They watch me walk, watch me watching them. Evaluating. Deciding. The blonde sneers.

“Run!” I yell.

Flooded with adrenaline I pound the pavement. Buildings rush past me, empty alleys between, but I don't hear anyone else. My lungs burn and muscles turn to steel cable, but still I run; each breath is fire, each step pain.

Then I'm doubled over and panting. I make it most of a city block before realizing the girl isn't with me. The chain rattles in the distance.

I look back and see the punks moving in like a pincer, engulfing her in shadow. She makes a desperate noise as she limps away from them, the injured fawn snapped at by hyenas.

I'm running back. Why am I running back? Why does it feel wrong to abandon her? A question every step. Everyone moves in slow motion and I feel each moment pass me as I undo my escape. They surround her more, she's inching toward being consumed. I have to save her, I have to do something.

They see I'm returning then stop and focus on me, the chain swings uncertainly.

“Run!” the cloche pleads.

I stop beside her. “Get to the station.”

“Better listen to her chav,” growls the blonde with the black metal plate tattoos.

The cloche grabs my arm and only wastes a second trying to pull me along, the punks gather their wits and stalk towards me. I scan for anything that could be used as a weapon. Nothing. And nowhere for me to run without putting the girl back on the chopping block.

They are scavengers and move cautiously. The blonde walks straight on, the girl to my left and the dark boy to my right. I'm in their pincers, and the chain is whirling.

I have never fought anyone in my life. With fists raised, it all comes down to this, surrounded by detritus and violent outcasts.

“Come on,” the girl taunts in a high voice, “hero!”

I feint at the blonde and all three take a step back. “Piss off you brats!”

They've almost surrounded me now, and when they have they'll regain their confidence.

My heart thumps.

A bead of sweat drips down my forehead.

Now!

I rush the blonde and punch as the chain lashes my arm. An elbow across the girl's chin, but where's the-

My rib shudders

“Feel that chav!”

I double over, choking down gulps of air, then throw a haymaker into brass knuckle's gullet. He collapses, clutching at his windpipe, the blonde sprawled behind him.

The girl-

The club strikes my back and I collapse.

“Fucking hero!” Then giggles.

I'm turned on to my back and feel a seizure of pain. All sound fades into a low hum. My vision focuses and the dark boy stands over me massaging his throat, smirking. He straddles me, then raises his fist.

“I'm gonna enjoy this, chav.”

The first punch lands directly in my cheek.

The second glances off my forehead.

The third does not come. There's a scream but it's distant and quiet, then another voice joins.

My cheek feels swollen and I gingerly touch my face; the skin is pulped and covered in blood. I wipe the humor from my eye and turn to the source of the noise.

The blonde has the chain wrapped around the dark boy's neck and he's pulled it so tight that the others back is grotesquely arched. The girl has her arms wrapped around the blonde's chest while she sobs and screams. There's spittle on his lip and he's baring his teeth in a twisted smile, pulling a one black plate edge over the crest of his chin.

His eye swollen shut, I meet his stare. We hold the gaze for an interminable length then he drops the chain, still staring. Eyes on me, he drags the dark boy away as the girl pleads with him.

Then it is the street and I for a time, the usually silent building faces howl as the wind whips between them. A bitter zephyr dances between the walls and flows over me, warmth wicks away and my senses dull. In this moment, it spares me some pain.

The familiar sound of helicopter blades reach my ears and I shakily crane my neck. A round, rotored metal Eye camera floats over the street; a ball of metal suspended between two hoops of banded steel. It rolls implacably fast and bobs wildly before zeroing in and approaching me. It hovers there and stares – if you can call it that – with perverted solemnity.

I lay on the ground feeling the creeping pangs of agony wash over me as the wind chills my bones. The Eye, apparently satisfied that I would not be moving, leaves me to myself after a minute's long consideration.

Finally, some peace.

I'm drawn back to consciousness by the sound of the segmented Protector boots meeting concrete, like momentary chatterings of metal teeth.

I look toward them through slits, the Protectors dark blue metallic armor draws light into it. Cut like muscle contours, the torso flows into the hardened metal legs and arms. They carry comically oversized jet black GT1120 assault rifles, safety always off.

My chest shakes along with my heart, but I stay on the ground and hope for empathy. The sound of static follows a gravelly growl. “`Are you awake?”

Ironic question. With great effort, I reach a hand in to the air.

“Collect him,” the Protector says.

Two Protectors walk to either side and lift me off the ground. Pooled blood runs down my forehead and drips from my brow to the street below. I feel like I've been run over by a truck and it's all I can do not to cry out in pain. They carry me over to the captain who produces a small machine that blinks bright lights in my face then dings.

“Hmm. You're supposed to be at Section 8 monitoring station. What happened?”

“Punk attack.”

“Did they take anything?”

“I... didn't check.”

“Why didn't you run?”

“What?”

“According to your physical profile you could have outrun them. Why not?”

It was a good question, one I had no answer to. The only thing that's understood here is self-preservation, and I wasn't sure what motivated the return. I remain silent with my head hung.

“Bring him to the Station.”

It's warm. I look up, we're inside the monitoring station. I must have passed out during the trip. The foyer is decrepit and dirty, covered in torn posters exalting the Sanctum. Everything is tan with brown trim except for grated metal security doors that block access to the upper floors. Before us are two steel portals and the Protector swings the doors open.

The security checkpoint's walls are covered in embossed metal criss-crossed with raised scars, the halogen bulbs and white marble floors make the blood dripping from my face a bright crimson. On the left side recess sits three monitors behind a protected desk, all staring at me with wide eyes and while whispering amongst themselves.

The Protectors wave a security badge at the checkpoint reader and one of the monitors makes a slight movement, the door buzzes and they continue through.

The marble transitions into riveted metal plates and catwalks. The room has opened up into an expansive suspended open floor, a series of floating administrator/observational units above us accessible from a stair on the right. Near the top of the building are a series of skylights and windows set into a vertical section of ceiling, casting the main area in dull light.

Machine cases rumble on the lower ground floor, each the size of a train car and covered in the industrial grease/dust mixture that's created over years of maintenance. Not many monitors get mechanic duty among the machine casings, so the one access to the lower floor is set off to the opposite side of the administrator stair.

I groan as the warmth that welcomed me to the building eats away at the numbness that makes my injuries tolerable. The monitoring stations branch off around the periphery of the cavernous room, small platforms haloed by brown metal railings, a single console at the rear of each. I can see my station looming, empty.

They throw me against my console and I cling to it, pain wracking every fiber. I can see a needle in the red and reach out to make an adjustment-

My stomach convulses, I vomit at my feet and nearly collapse. They struck me.

“Stand,” one commands.

I hold the console and slowly drag myself up until I'm perched upon it, the pain unbearable. I try not to shake as they crowd around me, breath raspy with artificial taint.

“You have a job to do citizen.”

I look over at the panel, only able to see one gauge at a time. There's another indicator in the red and I try to adjust it, miss the switch one... two... three times. I hear the rubberized glove tighten on the rifle just as I manage to hit the switch.

“Carry on.”

They do not care what state I am in, nor should they; Protectors are apathetic as any of us. The only difference is that it is their job to keep things running smoothly as much as it is my job to monitor these machines. Just jobs and identities, one monster. Another wave of nausea overtakes me, I lean on my damaged arm and it collapses.

I'm falling but then there's arms wrapped around my chest. A soft voice whispers in my ear, “I can't hold you up, you need to help!”

I grab the console and pull, slowly rising.

“Are you okay?”

I shudder, the feeling of knives in my spine. “No.”

“Why did you do that?”

“What?”

“Why didn't you run?”

I turn and see the cloche, now cloche-less, holding me. Her eyes are the most striking pattern of green and blue I've ever seen, her face is soft and pale, her lips full and red. Perfectly straight blonde hair falls to her shoulders.

“Unask the question.”

“You can't work like this”

“I have to. Why do you care?”

“I... you saved me from those punks. I owe you.”

Rotten nonsense. “Do your job and we'll call it even. You should get to your station before something goes wrong.”

“I only need to press those buttons once in a while, you know that. I checked everything before I came over.”

“How did you know where I'm stationed?”

“I've seen you walking here before. I was going to talk to you this morning. You seemed... like you were in a hurry.”

“I was late meeting some punks for a fist fight.”

She stays quiet for a few seconds. I can feel her arms around my rib cage, supporting me as I breath shallowly. “I... I'm... sorry. I'll go,” she mutters, releasing me.

“No, wait,” I start, but I can't hold myself up and slump over the console. The sound of her shoes striking the catwalk echoes lightly as she walks away then abruptly stops. I look to see what stalled her.

She has not stopped suddenly without reason, there was nothing stopping her from going further. In fact, she had merely reached the end of her journey. The station right next to mine.

The girl whose name and face I did not know, the relative stranger I'd risked my life for, was practically my cube-mate. She had neither hunted nor trekked to find me; we were strangers in a three-meter bubble, I ignorant of her entirely. She was right there, every day? My stand against the punks had crossed a chasm of indifference. Now a person three meters away, one I never noticed, had real concern.

I'd crushed it, damning her with my aggravation.

This is not normally one of my concerns. It is not of us to invest in relationships to one-another. Yet I feel... regret.

“I'm sorry,” I push myself up until I am leaning heavily on the console. “I'm in a lot of pain.”

She half-turns towards me with a look of surprise as her hands glide across the console to the edge of the railing and grips it with pale fingers. “Do you want help?”

There's a tingling sensation on the nape of my neck, and I nod.

Her teeth sparkle in the dull room, hands come together. “I'll be right back once I've checked everything.”

I watch her as she operates the panel and double-checks the console. Time passes slowly then, the throbbing pain radiates in my back and arm. If only the wind would chill me again, but then the girl comes and is standing beside me, and her warmth is more inviting.