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.
It was the sound of chirping women dressed in faded coveralls, wearing darkly tinted visors under the tattered brown canopies of fabric beneath the Bay roof of a vending station that finally convinced Nickel he’d run far enough from the hedonistic pilgrims. He doubled over as he hobbled onto a sidewalk next to a large squat building beside the vendors. He stooped over, placing his palms on his knees, panting—catching his breath.
The adrenaline, the screaming of his legs, the rapid intake and exhale of breath, the desperate need for rest—it was delicious. A soothing, cool drink against the inevitable confusion and overwhelm at where he had arrived, both physically and mentally. He’d forked out on his own, traveling alone. No Rishi, Thraíha, or Steve to guide him. He’d also let go of Hedonim and the burden of many troubles he had carried.
Nickel coughed, raising his fist to clear his throat. His eyes stung from the disorienting foggy streetscapes. He didn’t want to think. He’d been feeling a freedom and release of abandon, but he could sense the anxious creep of uncertainty. Without Hedonim, where else was there to go? What was there to do?
The chirping of the women suddenly faded. A whirring overhead cut his attention away from the ground. When he looked up, he saw a small, oval-shaped vessel passing above him. It was rusted, and certain shafts surrounding its body were broken, torn asunder at the edges. Yet it was decked with bright, multi-colored bulbous lights across its frame, like a festive holiday. The lights flickered in a sporadic array, flashing specific colors at specific times in a sequential order.
Nickel smiled, letting out a laugh as he squinted at the vehicle looming over the street. Maybe the canyons weren’t such a bad place to be. It was teeming with more life than he had assumed. These places seemed unbound by the limitations and boundaries of the Ether Realms’ camps. Clearly, life—and cultures like the Thraíha—existed outside the constrained norms of the Realms. Nickel wondered if he could pick and choose the lifestyles and relationships with technology he encountered in Atalantia. Instead of trying to fit into the camps and Realms fighting for control of the Ether, he could travel the canyons, meeting new people and cultures, choosing which ones he wanted to adopt or live with. But then again, there were the Death Riders. How many more people like them lurked in Atalantia?
The air cooled as a long shadow passed over Nickel, darkening his part of the street as the vessel drifted past him. He continued squinting at it, noticing grids and protruding spindles but no visible apertures or windows for a clear-eyed pilot. Nickel frowned, watching it leave. Was it a hovercraft piloted by someone inside, or a satellite? A remnant probe like the one over the Thraíha temple, languishing in the air, left over from the days before the nuclear fallout? Or was it a satellite designed to spy on whoever had traveled this far into the canyons of Atalantia, this close to Hedonim?
Nickel shivered, his merriment at the festivity fading into unease. The faceless nature of the flying vessel unsettled him. Was it designed to instill fear in wanderers like him?
Nickel trudged along, lowering his head. The earth still sparkled along the cracked ridges, bumps, and crevices under the glow of streetlights and the fog’s illumination. Frowning, he looked up at the sky. Sprinkles of glowing light speckled the vast darkness. The contours of high-rises and additional layers of buildings around him became more visible. More satellites floated down toward the earth, smaller than the vessel from before. One clanked against the side of a building, tipping over and scuttling along the surface of a window, which was largely obscured by fog.
Muffled shouting echoed from behind the window, high above. The window scraped open, and the muzzle of a rifle slid through, emitting a flash of fiery yellow light. A thin laser beam struck the circular satellite, sending it careening toward Nickel.
“Who’d you shoot?” came a woman’s hoarse voice from the window, followed by muffled footsteps.
“Not who!” shouted a man. The muzzle of his gun disappeared behind the window. “It’s another fucking satellite!”
“From the Ether farms?” the woman’s voice returned.
“I thought the firewall would work,” the man said, his gun buzzing with the sound of a reloaded cartridge. “It’s these damn Finneban trolls…” His voice faded along with the woman’s.
The shot satellite wobbled in the air, its lights flickering and sparking out. Nickel stopped walking, watching it teeter through the sky. The area of impact was charred, warped metal encircling the damage. It screeched as it spun erratically, a dangerously volatile object spiraling out of control.
Nickel ducked as the satellite hurtled toward him, plummeting before suddenly swiveling left. He staggered back, nearly falling on his rear. He turned to run before the satellite finally crashed into the ground, spinning manically as it did.
The fizzling noises of its electronic equipment shorted out entirely, and the satellite fell silent.
Nickel ran to the fallen satellite. No flickering lights remained, but the rear compartment emitted a thin trail of smoke into the air.
Nickel kicked at it, flipping it onto its other side, then darted back in quick, frantic steps. He wasn’t going to touch the thing with his hands.
A logo with emblazoned words was spangled across the front. Walking closer, Nickel finally read what was on it. Emblazoned in large, thickly sized letters, it said:
FINNEBAN
2201
Below that, in slightly smaller yet still imposing letters, it read:
JOIN THE ETHER WARS!
TAKE BACK THE REALMS!
AND MAKE EARTH GREAT AGAIN!
G.R. Nanda 