2200 Blues © 2024 by G.R. Nanda. All rights reserved.
After signaling the distress beacon, Nickel hacked his way through the rest of the androids, exhilarated by his newfound will and strength. Just as he was about to jump off the walkway onto the other side of the street, a piercing circle of burning pain burst across his back, spreading in tendrils of shocking electricity. Nickel cried out, his body contorting involuntarily before going slack. He fell face-first beside his clattering sword, loosened from his grip.
Nickel winced in pain, gasping and panting for breath.
“Nickel Veda,” came a cool voice from behind, accompanied by clanking footsteps on the walkway.
How do you know my name? Who are you?
The speaker finished walking down the walkway in slow, deliberate steps before lightly hopping down onto the ground. A hard hand rolled Nickel over by the shoulder. As Nickel turned onto his back, he gasped repeatedly, moaning incoherently, staring up at his attacker with wide eyes.
Slowly walking before him was a soldier, dressed in none other than the military secret soldier armor that Nickel had seen on the experimental elite force being developed back at the military base he studied in before leaving on his hovercraft.
“I tracked your hovercraft coordinates before you crashed in Atalantia,” the soldier said through his muffling helmet. “What is it that makes you leave a lucrative and high-status role in the Ether Realms for this wasteland of all places?”
Nickel wheezed, his limbs shivering and shuddering from the shock, still unable to move or coordinate his body.
“The Ether Realms have made all places on Earth wastelands!” Nickel growled, his voice ragged as he struggled to control his breaths.
The soldier cocked his head, eyeing Nickel. Through the muted black exterior of the soldier’s helmet visor, Nickel thought he could almost see eyes squinting at him in a jeering expression.
“Defect from the Realms, and you defect from the interests of the United Republic, whether you call it a wasteland or not,” the soldier said. He lifted his gun, twisting the cap around the nozzle—no doubt shifting the mode from stun to… probably kill.
“Trust me,” the soldier breathed. “This is much better than anything you’d go through in interrogation.” He trained the gun on Nickel, and the circular device inside its chamber began to spin, emitting a noise that grew louder and faster, turning into a whirring hum. “Besides,” he added, tilting his head to the side, shrugging his shoulders, “they’d kill you at the end anyway—”
A flash of light blinded Nickel. He cried out, squeezing his eyes shut. His whole body screamed with panicked adrenaline, his nerves fraying under the blast.
“You’re good.”
Nickel gasped again, shuddering. He slowly opened his eyes. The soldier lay limp on the ground before him, a trail of smoke rising from his torso.
Someone made a blowing sound behind Nickel.
“I guess farming wasn’t all I was meant for,” came a voice, laughing. It sounded oddly familiar.
Nickel groaned, rolling onto his stomach, looking up at Farrul’s smirking face. Farrul stood with two blaster rifles in his hands, his mouth puckered as he blew the smoke from the end of one of them.
Nickel laughed. He couldn’t help himself. He closed his eyes, laughing hysterically. Farrul walked over, lifting him up by his back. As Farrul offered his hand, Nickel took it, still laughing, unable to contain himself. He steadied himself with Farrul’s help, gripping his arms for balance. The worst of the shock had faded, leaving only tingling tremors and sharp feelings of itchiness.
“I’m good,” Nickel said, still chuckling. Farrul slowly let go of him.
“Oh, man,” Nickel breathed, wiping his nose. “You continue to surprise me.”
“So do you,” Farrul replied. “Why the hell are you even here?”
Nickel chuckled again, this time dry and weak. He shook his head. “M-man, it’s a long story.” His face slackened. “Wait, why are you here?”
“He has a pilgrimage to finish.”
Nickel turned to see Theren walking toward him, followed by several other Thraíha dressed in the same stone-plated battle garb the Thraíha patrolmen had worn when they met Rishi.
“Theren,” Nickel whispered in disbelief.
“You did good work, Nickel,” Theren said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “The beacon you activated alerted not just the Merrix defenses but my platoon following the pilgrimage to Hedonim.”
“Where’s Steve?” Nickel asked, turning to Farrul.
“He’s the reason we’re here,” Theren said. “He flew to show us the way.”
Nickel stared into the distance between Theren and Farrul. “My hovercraft?” he asked suddenly, turning to Farrul, frowning, his mouth agape in surprise. “It works?”
Farrul inhaled deeply, making a cringing expression. “Yeah… he pretty much flew it until he destroyed it,” Farrul said. “Sorry.”
Nickel stayed quiet for a moment, then shook his head, smirking.
“Probably for the best,” Nickel muttered, looking down. “I’m done with the Ether.”
“But it’s not done with you,” Theren said, stepping closer. “The year of the Past World is 2200—the only year from it we Thraíha recognize. The tides of the Huntsman’s travels are shifting below our feet.”
“The Ether Wars,” Nickel said. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a prickling tremor of nervousness. “I have to warn my family.”
“The war is coming for all, Nickel,” Theren said. “Hedonim is part of a project for our minds,” he added, tapping his temple with his finger. “But before we take a stand for our minds, we must fight the battle for our land.” He pointed toward the alley’s end, where the ruckus of fighting and chaos raged beyond the haze of dust and rubble.
“For Atalantia!” Theren called.
“FOR ATALANTIA!” boomed the Thraíha behind him, raising their weapons in salute. Their voices echoed through the streets of Merrix.
A conch war horn blew from an adjacent square. Nickel picked up his fallen sword and joined the running mass of Thraíha fighters.
“ATTACK!” Theren shouted. “Shut down the heart of our enemies! ATTACK!”
They surged through the streets, rushing toward the android farm hanging in the sky.
G.R. Nanda 