The Sandseller

The shock wave jolted me awake. Even though it must have been a car much farther down the train that exploded, meteors of molten technology rained down only a moment after my eyes opened. I knew I was in a huddle car on one of the super transports, but I had no clue how I got onto the train or even who I was. Compulsively I looked at my wrist and found a watchcom with a message flashing on its screen: UNPAID - EGO REVOKED. I must have fallen behind on payments while I was sleeping; now I had to find some way to get caught up.

Panic followed the fiery rain and people scattered in all directions. Without an identity to fear for, I was able to calmly observe the situation. Out the window, I could see flames advancing forward from the exploded car. From the looks of it the anchor engine had blown and the train would soon accelerate out of control.

I had nothing else on my person, no chips I could spend and nothing to sell that didn’t seem as vital as organs. The steaming bits of plastic and silicon that impacted with the car were like a strange ore though, valuable to the right scrappers. I found the largest piece I thought I’d be able to drag and tied it up.

The heap of slag still smoldered at the ends of my chains. I heaved it toward the front with surging, staggering steps. Word spread faster than fire and the rats were all dashing about looking for safe places to jump from the train. I couldn’t go back empty handed though; I needed to get some chips before I fell so far behind on payment that I even forgot I’d ever had an ego.

By the time I got to the market the triple-track sized car was almost empty. The merchants had thrown their goods into sidecars and stood at the ready to pull their release pins, leave the super transport to its fate, and escape on side rails. They’d wait until the last moment before ekpyrosis to unhook and if the last man left to die wanted a juggle of water at the end, someone would be happy to take his crossing toll from him in exchange.

Slagmen beckoned me with waves of their heavily wrapped hands. Muffled by the frogmasks, their shouts sounded like the frenzied grunts of pre-human creatures. I didn’t even try to haggle, just slumped my plastic into their car and swiped some chips from the extended mitt of the crew’s chief. There was no time to even decide if I would try to make it to a muncher in a forward car or bail first and look for one wherever it was my feet ended up landing; I turned and raced ahead of the oncoming inferno.

I plunged and trampled through the forest of abandoned shop stalls. Along the way, I came across a howling mob of railchildren smashing a path in the other direction heedless of the danger. Their approach forced me to tuck myself into a niche and guard myself with stern kicks as they passed. Anyone dragged down by the grasping hands of such a gang would be pummeled and stripped in an instant as the hooting wave of hooligans washed over them.

At the far end of the market car, there was a curious man still at his stall with his wares. What he sold was easily recognizable, yet somehow incomprehensible. Square benches with circular basins in the centers containing a pile of sand on which to sit. The old man himself sat on one of these chairs looking calm and eager to try to sell to me.

I asked why he did not flee. He asked what there was to flee from. I told him of the sword falling upon the train. He said simply that one either survives these things, or not. As he spoke he ran leather fingers through icebristle hair. It was clear to see that he had spent many years embraced by the sun. Before I could argue further, he motioned toward one of the seats and began his pitch.

Don’t you think, he said, that everyone deserves to have a peaceful place to sit. I looked at the price card on the bench. I looked at the chips in my hand. Stable, forked, rugged? There was no telling how long until zero; I had to get them into a muncher post-ASAP. Sand didn’t get you food or pay off the debts on your identity, but it was murder expensive. Maybe a peaceful sit was worth more than murder. Peace wasn’t a bucket of sand though. The old man was not-running-from-death crazy. I told him all this.

He sighed and said that I had better get running if I wanted to escape, but then he added in a coy voice that it was a shame I couldn’t try a sit to convince me. The Rail Authority was on him not to let anyone have anything for free, but, supposing that he’d already paid for the seat he was sitting on, he could let me try it for a moment before I was on my way.

The old man stood sending sand falling from his clothes. It shimmered and floated in the doomdim atmosphere so that it looked like crystal panes slowly flowing from his body. The mirage fell into the basin and returned to being ordinary sand. When the sandseller gestured an invitation toward his bench, I turned and ran onward to the next car. I was certain that the price of sand was murder expensive.