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.
The road smoldered in the night. From behind the cot, Nickel could hear the sounds of the Death Riders clashing with the Thraíha guardsmen. His forehead throbbed from a bruise, and the world of the Thraíha felt ripped away from him. Nickel tried to summon the acht-chi, as the Oracle had taught him, to dissolve his fraying nerves and bring a semblance of calm and strength. But his lack of control over his senses left him befuddled, disoriented, and overwhelmed.
A gag filled his mouth completely, and his eyes were blindfolded, though he could see a warm haze of flickering light through the black cloth—a smoldering on the horizon. Nickel tried to grunt, but the gag reduced his sounds to muted, muffled protests. He grated in exasperation, the strain making the insides of his mouth ache more with every attempt.
The cot he was tied to jolted, rolling steadily down through the canyons, carrying him further away from the Thraíha. The rumblings of roaring Death Riders surrounded him, their metal equipment and chains rattling and grating against the earth. A strange, staticky roar sputtered near Nickel, coming from both sides—unseen, unknown. It was a sound more technological than anything the Thraíha possessed.
These were not the primitives Nickel had lived among for months. The unknowingness of who they were gnawed at him. Before being kidnapped, he had glimpsed these people briefly, but afterward, there was only motion and noise, rough and unrelenting, with his sight robbed by the blindfold. The paranoia overtook him, maddening in its intensity. His hyperventilating became just another noise in the hellish descent.
If ever there was a moment he wished for his hovercraft, it was now. He felt as he had when he first crash-landed in the Atlantic Canyons, but worse—tenfold worse. It was because of him, because he had meddled with the old computers. The Thraíha were right to leave them untouched, but he hadn’t listened.
It wasn’t Rishi. Who else could it have been? It was the Death Riders, pretending to be Rishi to bait Venkaar—the man who must have been Rishi’s disciple. And Nickel had taken the bait.
The smoldering light at the end of the road grew brighter through the blindfold. Nickel squirmed in the cot, the rope chafing at his wrists. He felt no more resentment toward Steve, no more frustration at Farrul. He didn’t care if Steve would have led him back into the Ether. He didn’t care if the Ether, with all its problems, was still the safest place he could be. If only he’d left with Steve on the hovercraft…
When the rolling vehicles lurched to a stop, Nickel was jolted out of his panic-induced reverie. He tried to sit up, but the bindings held him fast. He grunted, half moaning through the gag, his entire body trembling in fear.
“Stop!” shouted a man nearby. “You’re not trying to crush the tavern with our new wheels, are you?”
“Ahh,” rasped another, smoother voice, “it won’t matter how fast we roll in, not when they see our new toys.”
Nickel flinched, imagining he might be one of these “new toys.” He wanted to scream, but the gag stifled his voice.
“I’ll crush you with the ends of them if you talk back to me!” growled the first man. Growls erupted from the group around Nickel, violent sounds amidst the chaos he’d endured.
Enough time had passed for the emasculating shame of being kidnapped—dragged and bound against his will—to dissolve into an unyielding wave of paranoia, unlike anything he’d felt before.
“Shut up!” roared the gravelly-voiced Death Rider.
“You’re forgetting why we’re here!” boomed another, his commanding tone silencing the others. “Our toys are here courtesy of the Nexus Brigade!”
Shouts of affirmation followed, but they were short-lived as the leader continued. “I’d give every one of you these scraps of the Ether if I could—if you sit tight long enough…”
Someone jostled Nickel’s cot, sending it rolling further across the uneven rock surface. The smoother stretch of road had allowed the Death Riders to line up their vehicles, but earlier, Nickel had been flung like a rag doll over boulders and winding terrain.
“…if we pull off this last raid, we’ll be so feared we’ll be the most dangerous thing in the Atlantic Canyons—more dangerous than the fucking windstorms!”
The leader’s words were met with raucous roars. Nickel’s cot jolted harder as it was pushed faster. He cringed, curling into a ball as the inside of the cot slammed into him.
“The sons of bitches at Wutobang will have no choice but to see us!” the leader roared. “And when they see us, THEY WILL FEAR US!”
The next wave of roars was so loud it seemed to rupture the air like a force of nature. It was a barbaric ecstasy, visceral and unrelenting, as if a howling storm had descended.
Amidst the noise, Nickel’s panic-stricken shock gave way to deep remorse—sadness and fear for the Thraíha. These fractured, vulnerable people had been besieged by evil men.
Nickel closed his eyes. The darkness beneath his eyelids was indistinguishable from the near-black of the blindfold.
As they traveled closer to the smoldering light, the bright haze reappeared, glowing through the black blindfold. Nickel cringed, shivering violently. This was where it would all end. In fire.
He would smolder before he could do any of the things he wanted in life—live free in the U.R. without a hovercraft, find love with Kythria, or even be brave enough to speak to any girl he liked.
Bravery. The missed opportunities. The days wasted in the hovercraft. Even the streak of restful sleep he’d begun enjoying in the Thraíha village, free from screen-induced insomnia, was gone.
The fire burned brighter—a flickering green-white haze through the blindfold.
The world was cruel and dark, and the faint hope Nickel had gained since meeting Steve and the Thraíha now seemed irretrievably lost to the wasteland of the Atlantic Canyons.
“Get the Rishi boy out!” shouted a Death Rider.
“No! Not yet!” another barked. “We’re going online! Let them see him before we give him to the pit.”
“There will be none of that tonight!” boomed a commanding voice.
For the first time since Nickel had been captured, silence fell upon the Death Riders.
The crunch of footsteps on the ground punctuated the quiet, accompanied by the faint jingling of chains. These footsteps were heavier and more deliberate than the Death Riders’ previous movements. There was something mechanical about their rhythm.
“Your treacherous journey ends here,” said a stranger in a somber, authoritative voice. “By the light of samsara, your raiding and butchery will not dominate Atalanta.”
A Death Rider spat, the sound wet and phlegmy, before his footsteps crunched toward the speaker.
“Go back to the ashram you came from, wizard,” sneered the leader of the raiding party. “I’ll make sure no ashrams remain in Atalanta.”
Nickel frowned behind his blindfold. He gasped softly. Rishi?
“Go back at once! And release the boy!” the stranger commanded. “This is your final warning!”
“Listen to him!” hissed one of the Death Riders. “He’s stronger than the Thraíha. We don’t stand a chance!”
“No!” roared the leader. A heavy chain rattled near him. “Let’s rid ourselves of him forever, starting with this spike.” The chain clanged louder. “Then we’ll hunt down every Rishi left and show their bodies to Wutobang and the whole Ether.”
Some of the Death Riders began storming forward, though their numbers were fewer now. A sharp whistle sliced through the air, followed by a sound like the atmosphere being sucked inward.
Gasps erupted from the Death Riders as bodies hit the ground, their chain-laden armor clattering against the earth.
G.R. Nanda 