Note to readers: “2200 Blues” is a novel in progress, and each chapter is an early draft in its unfolding journey. Your thoughts and reactions are invaluable, guiding its evolution and refinement. 2200 Blues © 2024 by G.R. Nanda. All rights reserved.
“Then three individuals traveled in the hovercraft before coming to you,” Rishi said, pointing at Akela. “Bringing the Death Riders to your country… for the first time in over a century.”
A hushed silence fell over the Thraíha. Nickel’s head buzzed worse than ever, as though it nullified his senses. His mouth widened, gasping for air, while his heart lodged like a lump in his throat. The Death Riders sounded terrifying, and the expansion of the Atlantic Canyons was now as frightening as Nickel could have imagined.
“What makes you think this is more than just a coincidence?” Akela asked.
“The Death Riders have become more active than before,” Rishi said. “They’ve regrouped after their greatest defeat. And Hedonim’s calling has grown stronger than ever!”
“All the signs…” Akela muttered. “Our own people have divined a pilgrimage to Hedonim!” His voice was fraught with shock.
“All the signs indeed… my old friend,” Rishi said. “The passage of the Past World has begun. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen in my travels. The exodus to Hedonim has started! Not a pilgrimage! If you don’t heed my warning, your pilgrims will join the indulgence and soullessness of the Past World.”
Akela nodded.
“Reveal yourself, Nickel,” Akela said.
The patrolmen near Akela stepped aside, allowing Nickel to be seen clearly. All the Thraíha except for Akela turned to look at him. Nickel felt paralyzed with fear, rooted to the spot, just as he had been when meeting Steve and Farrul, but this time even more so.
Rishi watched Nickel carefully, his furrowed eyebrows narrowing. His mouth was a thin line, and he looked as if he were studying Nickel’s existence, gauging for a reaction.
“The outworlder?” Rishi asked.
“Yes,” Akela said, waving his hand towards Nickel. “The first.”
Rishi’s frown deepened. His mouth opened just slightly. He held his hands behind him and slowly stepped forward, up the slight incline of the rock. Akela stepped aside, allowing Rishi to approach Nickel.
“It was your hovercraft that crashed?” Rishi asked, though his statement felt like a question.
Nickel struggled to find his words. Rishi watched him thoughtfully.
“Wasn’t it?” Rishi finished.
Nickel’s head felt weightless from lack of sleep, making it harder to respond.
“Y-yes,” Nickel muttered, nearly gasping as he spoke. His heart pounded, and he feared he might collapse under the pressure of his exhaustion and the shocking revelations unfolding before him.
“I’ve known that hovercrafts were adopted by Western culture,” Rishi said, his eyes softening. “But I’m still… surprised to see someone so young crash one in the canyons.”
Nickel gulped. It wasn’t often someone asked him about the gravity of his circumstances or what brought him there. It could have been any of the teenage boys he knew from home or the military academy—any of them could have crashed a hovercraft into the Atlantic Canyons. They’d all grown up exposed to the Ether. They were given hovercrafts at a young age, especially to escape the marine draft and stay off the radar of the U.R. citizenry service probes, making do as engineers contributing to the computer software of the Ether. At worst, they’d be drafted into cyber-warfare protocols. If lucky, they could conduct their digital pogroms from the comforts of their hovercrafts.
Nickel still had a tendency to push away the troublesome realities of the Ether’s influence on his life. It was here, in the canyons, during his time with the Thraíha, that he found himself confronting the absence of the digital domain that had consumed so much of his life. Rishi was the first person in the canyons, besides Nickel himself, to bring this to his attention.
“He’s young enough,” Akela said, turning to look at Nickel. “The younger he is, the more Thraíha he can become—not like our ancestors.”
Rishi’s expression remained thoughtful. His face softened further, the intensity slackening.
“The outworlders of the canyons weren’t always so young,” Rishi said. “I’ve seen more children and teenagers fall from the sky.” He nodded, looking down. “It means the Ether is more powerful than ever.” He looked back up at Nickel. “You must have grown up with a hovercraft, haven’t you?”
“Did you just say other kids fell from the sky?” Nickel asked, excitement tingling through his chest, siphoning through the fear that had laid there until now. “Like, on hovercrafts?” A familiar sense of longing flared within him, roaring like a flame. If he could meet other people like him from the Ether of civilization, but in person, maybe he wouldn’t feel so alone in the canyons anymore. Right?
“Yes,” Rishi said, his eyes steeling. “Though many of them haven’t been granted as safe a passage or fate as you.” Rishi raised his eyebrows, peering intently at Nickel, his mouth forming a tight line.
Nickel’s mouth hung open in surprise.
“What happened to them?” he asked, dread creeping through him as he imagined what could have been, and how narrowly he might have escaped a worse fate. The thought only deepened his uncertainty about the dangers surrounding him.
“He and his friends,” Akela said, gesturing towards Nickel, “are the only outworlders to join us in over fifty years.”
“I see,” Rishi said, stroking his beard. “Peculiar indeed.”
The Thraíha patrolmen stood around, watching Nickel and Rishi.
“What is our task, Akela?” asked one of the patrolmen standing next to Nickel.
Akela frowned, standing still. His mouth formed a small grimace, giving him a ponderous look.
“On guard,” Akela said. “Your task is still to stay on guard.”
The patrolmen straightened, their armor clattering as their boots scraped against the rock.
“We know there are Death Riders about,” Akela said, watching the line of patrolmen as he walked past them. “There will be regular duty. I’ll speak to our leaders and make this effective. You all stay until Rishi leaves. After that, only twenty-five men will remain, rotating shifts every three hours.”
“Tchouṙth!” shouted the patrolmen in affirmation.
“You are not the Cast-Out spirit I thought,” Akela said, turning to face Rishi, who now stood between two patrolmen at the center.
“Ah,” Rishi said, nodding and raising his eyebrows. “But there’s another Cast-Out, ‘Vramung,’ as you say, being kept by your fellow tribesmen.”
Akela breathed deeply through his nostrils and walked through the gap between the patrolmen toward Rishi.
“Is that why you’re really here, ancient one?” Akela asked.
“Is that why you and your foot-soldiers are really here, Akela?” Rishi asked, raising one eyebrow higher than the other, smirking. He and Akela stood face-to-face, mere inches apart, measuring each other. “Why bring such force against,” Rishi tilted his head up, shaking it for effect, “a strange old wanderer?” His smirk widened.
Akela stiffened.
“To the Thraíha, you’re just a Vramung, a Cast-Out spirit sent to haunt us,” Akela said.
“I had to be ‘cast out’ before you could banish me, right?” Rishi asked, smiling wider.
Akela exhaled sharply.
“You must leave, Rishi,” Akela muttered, his tone almost pleading.
“I know you’re withholding my disciple from me,” Rishi muttered in a low tone, stepping even closer, their noses almost touching. “You sent this patrol to intimidate me, yet you greet me by my real name instead of the cursed one given by the Thraíha. You try to walk two paths as Thraíha, but you can’t help betraying loyalty to one over the other.”
Akela remained silent, meeting Rishi’s gaze unwaveringly. From Nickel’s vantage, it seemed that the side of Akela’s face betrayed a hardening of expression. The side profiles of two patrolmen flickered with worry and panic.
Their steadfast leader was showing signs of wavering in the presence of this Rishi. Who was this strange wanderer? He seemed to elude the Thraíha, least of all his history with Akela. This Rishi was the only person Nickel—and presumably the patrolmen—had seen melt Akela’s fast and sturdy resolve. Akela seemed to struggle between accepting this interaction out of past loyalty and fulfilling his role as a Thraíha leader, serving his people.
“I’m asking you one last time,” Akela intoned, his authoritative voice returning, stronger than before. “To leave our borders and not come back until I seek you out.”
“You’re asking me?” Rishi said, his voice lilting.
“I’m ordering you,” Akela said.
“Then you should have chosen your words better, my friend.”
“My friend, I would choose my words very carefully now,” Akela said. He whistled and raised his left hand into the air. “Hák rávouhou!”
The patrolmen unsheathed their long daggers, stepping into a defensive stance—right legs extended, left legs bent back. They hoisted their daggers, tips pointed toward Rishi.
G.R. Nanda 