Poetry's Price

Nib tries to track the passing time, but with no reference other than the swaying van, it’s useless. Several hours at a minimum, probably more. Wherever the goons are taking him, it’s far outside CyPort.

He’s alone in the back, wrists and ankles chained to a steel ring set into the floor. It’s pitch black. This time, the goons didn’t bother with the hood or a needle in the arm. He’s still barefoot, but they suited him up in a set of green coveralls that billow around his lean frame.

The van slows, then turns sharply. Nib is thrown against the limits of his chains. He strains his senses for any clue as to where they are. A rough ride, potholes, and Nib is sure he hears the sound of crunching gravel. Wherever the goons are taking him, they’re nearing the end of the line.

Minutes later, the van spins a hard turn. Inertia mashes Nib sideways and the cuffs cut into his wrists. The van lurches to a stop. Nib hears doors open and slam. Then light floods the back of the van. Two silhouettes and a cloud of dust. Something slams into his ribs.

“Twitch wrong and I cut you in half.”

The second goon unlocks the chains at Nib’s ankles. Without a word of warning, Nib is dragged from the bench and thrown out of the van. He lands hard on his back, gravel digging into his scalp.

He’s gasping for breath when the business end of a rifle appears above his nose. The muzzle gapes huge.

“On your feet.”

Nib does not argue. He rolls to his side and pushes himself upright. Two goons ready to cut him down, miles of empty gravel road, and one black van.

“Hands in front. Any sudden moves, you die.”

Nib obeys. Goon two unlocks the cuffs and pockets them. Swinging the rifle, goon one points up the empty road.

“That way. Start walking. You turn around, I shoot.”

Nib walks, bracing for a bullet in the back. Gravel stabs the soles of his feet. He hears laughter, slamming doors, then the van roaring away. When he’s sure they’re gone, he stops and risks a look back. The van is already far away, raising a rooster tail of dust.

Low clouds obscure the horizon. Foothills rise in front and flatlands behind. Best guess, he figures he’s facing east. Bastards have dumped him in the middle of nowhere. Then he spots a column of smoke. The road seems to lead in that direction. Limping over the gravel, he walks.

Two hours later, the light is fading. Nib is certain he will not live through the night. He’s about to give it up when he sees the horseman. The sight is more than he can bear. He sinks to the gravel, not caring if he’s about to die. Anything is better than walking another step.

After a few minutes, he hears the rhythmic crunch of hooves, closer and closer, then a man’s voice.

“Howdy.”

Nib raises a hand and lets it fall.

“Looks like you could use a drink. You got any weapons?”

Nib feels the laugh building in his guts until it spills past his cracked lips. The horse snorts and the horseman breaks into a chuckle.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

The rider clicks his tongue, and the horse moves forward until it looms over Nib. A canteen appears in front of his face. Nib grabs it. Before he can unscrew the cap, the rider backs the horse two paces, drapes the reins over the horse’s neck, and leans over the pommel.

“Go easy on that at first or you’ll puke.”

Nib nods and takes a sip. Best water he’s ever tasted. He takes a long drink, then remembers his manners.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Where you headed?”

Nib laughs again like he can’t help himself.

“I have no idea. The goons dumped me a few miles back. Don’t know where I am, don’t know where I’m going.”

“Goons, huh? You’re not coming from New City, so I’m guessing CyPort.”

Nib nods and drinks. Fatigue and shock wash over him. His head droops and he almost spills the canteen. He shakes his head to clear it and squints up at the rider.

“Sorry. It’s been a long day. My name’s Nib.”

“Pleased to meet you, Nib. I’m Sully and this here’s Gretel. We don’t mean you no harm. Pardon my saying it, but you look done in. Tell you what, I believe I’ll ride back to Byteless and fetch a wagon. Probably be back in about an hour. Think you can hold out that long?”

“Probably, unless something comes along and eats me.”

Sully laughs at that.

“Nothing out here but coyotes and they won’t bother you much.”

“Byteless, is that a town?”

“More of a settlement. Or a refugee camp. Depends on how you look at it.”

“Sully, I’d be damned glad to look at it anyway I can. Tell me something. You got books in Byteless?”

“Oh, yeah. We got us a little library. It’s not much, but we do the best we can.”

“I mean paper books.”

Sully pushes his hat back on his head.

“No other kind allowed. No electronic crap permitted in Byteless. That’s how the place got its name. No computers, so no bytes. Get it?”

Nib tries to laugh at the joke, but his steam is running out. Sully pulls his hat down and grabs Gretel’s reins.

“I better git. Those feet don’t look too good. I’ll be back with a wagon and a doctor. I’d take you on Greta, but she won’t carry two. You keep the water for now, but go slow, hear?”

Sully wheels the horse and Nib hears the canter of hooves against gravel. He manages to screw the canteen shut before sinking onto his back. The sound of horse and rider fades to nothing, replaced by the rustle of wind over dry grass.

Nib smiles up at the clouds. The sky is huge and close, grey in the gloaming, and words dance in the swirls. Poems coalesce and dissipate, every verse that ever has been or will be. The words fill his brain until his eyelids flutter. Sleep takes him. Nib slips beneath the surface of dreams and into the land of what may yet come to pass.