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.
After searching for the Venetian plants by groping around in the darkness of the room, Nickel finally bumped into their pots at the far end, right next to a rickety hatch that squealed when he stepped on it.
Stepping around the pots, he stooped to filter the soiled water from the plants into his pail. Then, he opened the hatch and emptied the contents of the pail down the chute below.
His mind was preoccupied with the discussion he had with Ethra and the other priests. A pang of hunger briefly interrupted his frantic thoughts, reminding him he had procrastinated too long on returning to the village for lunch. But another thought flared, disrupting him even more.
This new alarm came from a series of sharp, heavy footsteps echoing across the floor, breaking the illusion that the Thraíha priests were the last inhabitants to leave the temple.
Nickel’s heart jolted, a spike of adrenaline coursing through him before he could begin speculating. His frantic thoughts were interrupted again by a loud clanging—his pail had slipped from his grip and struck the ground without him noticing until the impact echoed against the cement floor.
The sound was so loud and unnerving that Nickel froze, his fear oscillating between the attention his clumsiness might attract and the oppressive buzzing in his mind. He was paralyzed before he could catch sight of the intruder.
When he finally turned away from the rolling pail, the wall opposite him was empty. Yet, the temple was not silent. A faint vibration hung in the air—subtle, but enough to raise his suspicion that someone else was still moving through the temple.
Nickel’s breath caught in his throat. When he exhaled, every inhale and exhale seemed to echo through the chamber. His adrenaline frazzled his movements as he crossed to the other end of the room, searching for any sign of a hidden chute or entranceway.
It was then he noticed three black screens on the wall, their surfaces so stained with grime and dust they almost blended into the cement.
Nickel stopped before them, studying the dead screens. He could imagine the Thraíha having no idea what they were, dismissing them as apertures of an old building in ruins.
Momentarily distracted, Nickel searched for a console or interface beneath the screens, like the ones in his hovercraft. Finding none, he stepped toward the leftmost screen, stumbling over long wires trailing into the edge of the room.
The wires led up the wall into a modem jutting out beneath the screen. Nickel’s eyes adjusted to the dim light as he examined the keys and buttons on the modem.
Antiquated. Old and dusty from disuse. The layout of the keys was unfamiliar—different from the integrated touchscreens he typically used. The computer mechanisms he engaged with were digital, materializing on the screens themselves.
This keypad was ancient, yet it matched the rustic age of the building. Nickel recognized its layout from his computer science modules at the Academy, where he learned to build programs using outdated methods. He had struggled with those lessons and doubted he could recall much now.
Nickel sighed as he inspected the keys. The “function” key stuck out at the top left. It was worth a shot. He dragged the “clamp” and “dataset” keys from the bottom toward the “function” key, hesitating as the motions triggered old, uncomfortable memories of school.
But the intruder was here. Nickel clenched his fist to steady his shaking fingers. The sharp sound of a single footstep echoed. Had the intruder used the modem to leave? Nickel bent low, searching for a hidden hatch or escape route under the screens. He found none. Could the intruder have exited through another part of the wall?
Nickel’s attention returned to the modem. If he could activate the screens, the temple might reveal its secrets—clues to the past the Thraíha had abandoned, and perhaps even to the intruder’s purpose.
His blurry recollections of computer science lessons flooded back. Holding his hands over the keys, he felt the same confusion and dread as he had during countless late-night assignments. He closed his eyes briefly. Would he ever make sense of this?
The sound of clanging elsewhere in the temple snapped him back to the present. His eyes flew open, and he moved the keys frantically. The “dataset” aligned with the “function,” but not directly—it needed to attach beneath it. Slowly, a map of connections formed in Nickel’s mind. The keys clicked into place, and his memory of basic functions from past projects resurfaced.
A low hum began to emanate from beneath the screens, growing like an electric motor’s fan. Nickel gasped. A monotone beep followed—the sound of a router seeking connection. One screen flickered to life, casting a ghostly glow. It brightened in quick bursts, revealing white letters against a black background:
The letters flickered out, replaced by another logo:
The letters dissolved as rectangles splayed diagonally, revealing “Global Social Networking.” The old social media company that had helped transform Hedonim into an AR-infused city. This machine was an artifact, yet its startup logos were still functional post-nuclear fallout. Were these systems restored after the accident, or had they always been here?
The screen flashed white, blinding Nickel. He shielded his eyes, reopening them only after the light faded. In its place were strings of green ones and zeroes scrolling across the screen like headlines on a news ticker. Then, the digits swapped and rearranged, accelerating until the screen blacked out.
A line of code appeared:
<function(){code711.55.9; blue_box//label(Cdataset32)}
Above it, words flashed on the screen alongside a blinking question mark:
VENKAAR, ARE YOU STILL SAFE?
Nickel’s heart raced. This message couldn’t be for him. It must be for the intruder. No Thraíha would know about these ancient computers or how to use them.
G.R. Nanda 