by David Estes
I slink past, hating myself. There’s nothing I can do for the woman. I’m no doctor. And I certainly don’t want to catch what she’s got.
Tawni sits on the bed, breathing heavily. “Thanks,” she says, looking up at me.
“I’m good at kicking,” I say, trying to make a joke.
She gives me a courtesy smile, but I can tell she’s not up for humor right now. The thing with the woman really affected her. “What can we do for these people?” she asks, her light blue eyes questioning.
“Nothing for them individually,” I say. “But perhaps a rebellion could help us all.”
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem like more violence is the answer to anything.”
I know what she means. “The star dwellers should never have attacked the Moon Realm,” I agree. “That was the wrong way to go about things. But maybe my mom and dad can set things right. If we can just unite the two Realms like my father said, then maybe…” I trail off, unsure of where I’m going with it.
“Maybe it will make a difference,” Tawni finishes.
I shrug. “Maybe.” I don’t even convince myself. Everything seems so out of control—like a lost cause.
“Why were you asking Trevor about the guns?” Tawni asks.
My dark mood disappears as my focus returns to my thoughts from earlier. I lay back onto the bed, thinking furiously. Something jabs me in my lower back. “Oww!” I yelp, turning to the side to grab at the thing. My hand closes on the steel and I remove the gun from beneath my tunic.
Tawni lies down next to me and we both stare at the weapon, as I turn it over and over in my hands. It’s different than the gun I fired earlier. Older, marred by time, with scratches on the handle and barrel. And etched just above the trigger: Rose.
Tawni notices it at the same time as me and says, “It was your mom’s gun.”
I rub my fingers over the engraving, tracing the lines of each letter. “From the Uprising,” I say thoughtfully. It’s like she’s passing the torch to me. She’s done her part—now I have to do mine. I wonder how many times she’s fired this gun, how many times she’s killed with it.
“You would think all the guns would be old like this one,” Tawni says. She’s smart—Tawni. Not only a good person, but a real thinker.
“Exactly,” I say. “Something’s going on, and I think Trevor’s involved. That’s why he got so defensive when I asked him about it.”
Sitting up, Tawni reaches down and retrieves our packs from underneath the bed. “Can we eat somewhere else? This place is depressing.”
We take our packs with us, as we won’t be coming back to the medical ward to sleep again. On the quiet balls of our feet, we weave our way back through the beds, careful to avoid any reaching hands, and exit back into the shadowy cavern. I know it’s the middle of the day, but it always seems like night is falling in the Star Realm. The amount of electricity they’re rationed is unforgivable.
“Where should we go?” I ask. The thought of eating in the streets with the beggars isn’t ideal. But I also have no desire to go back to the military buildings—not yet.
“Are you starving? Or can we explore a bit, maybe find a better spot?”
I’m used to being hungry—I’ve been hungry my whole life.
We move through the streets, passing dozens of homeless people, who seem to be the majority. Although we should be paying attention to where we’re going, we don’t, making a left turn, then a right, then another left, zigzagging through the subchapter. Every street looks the same. Narrow. Dirty. Beggars. Stray animals. The smell is awful, but I’m getting used to it. I guess it’s what it’s like to be a garbage man—at some point you just adapt.
The next street is a light commercial district, although most of the shops are boarded up and empty. The sides of the buildings are covered with spray paint. Some of it’s pretty good actually, showing that even delinquents have talent. One in particular catches my eye, a massive, colorful mural of a red dragon. The message is dark, with the dragon breathing bright orange flames on a group of people, setting their clothes on fire before they can flee. Their expressions are filled with horror. I shiver. But most of it is just random scribbles, or obscene messages about someone’s mother, or where to go for a good time.
A couple of grizzly men light up cigarettes as we pass by, staring at us with dark eyes cast in shadow by their hats. The tips of their smokes appear bright against the dim backdrop. When I look back at them they remove their hats and I cringe as their fully tattooed faces are revealed, gleaming with metal piercings in their eyebrows, noses, lips, and chins. They laugh at me, deep and throaty, and I usher Tawni forward at double the speed.
We make another left and enter the narrowest alleyway of all. To our surprise, it’s deserted. After the other streets, which were jammed with beggars sitting shoulder to shoulder, this one seems peaceful, serene even. I was hoping for some kind of a big plaza, with high-backed stone benches and the soothing sign of a bubbling, decorative fountain, but I don’t think that exists in this world, so I stop.
“Want to eat here?” Tawni asks, reading my mind.
“It’s as good a spot as any, I reckon,” I reply, sliding my back down the wall. I look up and see the building rise three stories before connecting with the low cavern ceiling. All the buildings are built all the way to the top of the cavern, out of necessity, I expect. With a growing population and limited space, the star dwellers are forced to use every last square inch. I thought we had it bad in the Moon Realm, but at least we had space to spread out. The subchapter 14 cavern feels like a land of plenty compared to this foreign country. My heart beats rapidly as I realize how spoiled I’ve been.
Tawni slides in next to me, sitting close, our shoulders touching like the street beggars. We each open a pack and retrieve some wafers. I know they won’t satisfy my hunger, but at least they might stop the gnawing pain in my gut.
“You know, the star dweller army probably provides better food to the soldiers,” Tawni says.
“I expect so.”
“Maybe we can have dinner there.”
“Sounds good.”
We munch for a few minutes in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Just as I’m finishing my third wafer, a sound breaks the silence. A cry, soft and pitiful, carries down the alley. It sounds weak and childish, like a baby or a small kid. Peering into the gloom, I see a boy, no more than five, his face red and tear-stained. I watch, slow to action due to my surprise, as the kid staggers forward and then collapses face first, barely cushioning his fall with his hands.
I spring to my feet and race to him, expecting the worst, like maybe he’s contracted a fast-killing disease, or been shot by some thug on the streets. Any number of atrocities seem like a viable option in this place. I hear the soles of Tawni’s shoes clapping the stone behind me as she follows.
When we get within a few steps of the boy, he miraculously springs to his feet, whoops, and then darts away, his small legs churning like the propellers on the boats in subchapter 19 of the Moon Realm.
“Hey! Wait a minute!” I shout, but the boy just keeps on running. I start to chase him, but stop when Tawni yells something behind me. Whirling around, I see her running back toward our packs. Past her a group of kids are whooping and hollering and—
—stealing our stuff.
“Get away from that!” I yell, following in Tawni’s wake. I realize where the kids came from when they leap on the wall, climbing it like spiders. Except it’s not the wall they’re climbing; rather, the rope ladders strung along the stonework.
Chapter Fourteen
Tristan
My palms are sweaty as I stare at the screen. I don’t know why, but I’m nervous. I can tell Roc is nervous too, because he’s biting his nails. My anger at my father is gone, and I’m just worried about what he’s going to say, what he’s going to threaten. Like he might tell me to come home or he’ll bomb the crap out of the other Realms. The only thing is: I am home. Or at least m
ore home than I was up there, in the Sun Realm.
I feel sweat trickle from my armpits and beneath my knees and I try to calm my nerves by gripping the table. This is one time I need to be strong. In this instance, being angry is better than being timid. I can’t stop thinking about the press announcement. I don’t care that he lied about me, but why did he have to bring my mom into this? Why now? Righteous anger rises in my chest once more because I know the answer: to get to me. Because he knows that dragging my mother’s name through the mud once more will piss me off. And for some reason, he thinks that will help him in some way.
I’m staring at the table, but I feel the screen change from black to white. When I turn to look, Roc’s already gazing at it, waiting. His now-bitten fingernails have moved to his lap and it almost looks like he has to pee.
And then the nightmare is made real, as my father’s face appears on the screen. Away from the crowds and the press, he looks much older, age lines surrounding his eyes and mouth. Gray flecks pepper his short, light-blond hair. He’s getting old, having turned forty-two earlier in the year. Less than two decades away from the average life expectancy for males in the Moon Realm. But he’s not in the Moon Realm. Sun dweller males get to live for another six to ten years, averaging sixty-five years old on their deathbeds.
His eyes are cold, black, as if the blue pigment I inherited from him has been darkened by a life of sins. His lips curl into a smile, but it’s not real.
“Ah, Tristan, my son. It’s been a while. How are you?” My heart pounds rapidly and my breaths become ragged, but I clench my face so I don’t show my discomfort.
“As you well know, I’m in my bed, recovering from the ordeal of trying to find my mother,” I say, not trying to hide my sarcasm.
He laughs, deep and throaty and repugnant, and hot blood churns through my veins. I’m a coward because of it. If we weren’t separated by miles of rock and cables and video screens, I’m not sure it would be anger I’d feel.
“I see your little adventure has added to your charming wit. And I also see that you brought your servant boy, just like I asked you to.” His voice is even, as if we’re just having a friendly father/son conversation, but beneath the natural timbre of his voice I can feel an icy cold. Even when he knows he can’t touch me, he’s trying to show his control over me—that his words are commands, to be obeyed by any who hear them, especially his own son.
“He’s not a servant anymore,” I growl. “And he has a name: Roc.”
“Tsk, tsk, Tristan. Have I taught you nothing? Getting emotionally attached to the help? I warned you about that.”
“I learned nothing from you. Except what not to do,” I say, forcing the grit out of my voice. Anger is okay, but I need to control it. Need to show him he can’t get to me—no matter what.
“Anyway, enough chitchat. I can already see you don’t want to do this the easy way. I requested this conference because I want to right some past wrongs. Make amends, so to speak. No, no, don’t worry, this is not a deathbed thing—I’m far from my grave.” There’s a smile on his face, like he thinks he’s funny. I just stare at him. “I requested that Roc attend because he is involved. More than involved, really. He is the topic. Well, technically you both are.”
My mind spins as I wonder what Roc could possibly have to do with anything. I don’t mean that in a bad way; it’s just that my father has never had anything to do with Roc’s life, other than to order him around like a slave. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Roc’s hands clenched under the table, his knuckles white. I can tell he wants to look at me, but is afraid to remove his gaze from my father, as if by doing so, he’ll open himself up to an attack.
“Keep Roc out of this,” I say, surprised at how venomous I sound.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I feel bad about lying, and I just want to make it right.” His words are remorseful, but his tone is not. He’s not even trying to make his lie believable. “I did something a long time ago, something I’ve kept hidden.”
“Out with it!” I demand, slamming my fist on the table.
Even my father, the master politician, is unable to hide his shock at my outburst. His face flinches slightly, like he has a tic, but then returns to his normal, unreadable, placid expression. “Patience, my son.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But it’s true. Surely not even you can deny that. Flesh and blood and DNA.”
“You are my father only biologically,” I say. “In love, I never had a father.”
“Spin it any way you want, son, it is of no concern to me. But back to why we’re here. The truth. Do you remember the day Roc was born?” He shakes his head and chuckles. “Of course not, how silly of me. You were only a day old, as pink and helpless as a piglet. Well, it was a good day. A day in which I buried a secret that could have destroyed me—all of us. The Nailin tradition.”
My head is throbbing, perhaps from the anger pumping through my skin, my bones, my blood. Without thinking, I raise a hand to my forehead and start to massage it furiously. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. It’s fear. Despite the strength of my anger, I can’t drive away the fear of what he’s about to tell us. I know it will be bad—with my father it always is.
“I couldn’t let something so insignificant destroy something so grand, now could I? No, of course not. So I did what I had to do. As soon as the child was delivered, I ordered the doctors from the room. I wanted it to be personal, because the situation was personal. At least to me it was. So I used my own bare hands, curled them around her throat—I could feel her pulse thrumming under my fingertips—squeezed hard, hard, harder, harder, until the pulse weakened, died. She died.”
“What?” For a moment I’m confused. Clearly my father murdered someone, but who? Who were we talking about? It all comes rushing back. Do you remember the day Roc was born? I gasp, as the horror of his tale splits me in half, spilling my heart and my guts and everything out of my body. At least that’s how it feels. Roc’s mom didn’t die giving birth to him. She was murdered by my father. I’m shaking and the tears are coming and they’re like a train and I can’t stop them. But I must. I must, for Roc’s sake. I need to be there for him now, like never before. And I can’t be a whimpering mess in a ball on the floor if I want to be there for him. I let the anger take over, surging through me until I am the anger. My face is contorted with rage, but I don’t care. “She didn’t die; you murdered her.”
“Call it what you want, but the end result is the same.”
To my right, Roc’s body is slack, all fear and nervousness and emotion gone from it. His head is slumped into his chest, his eyes are closed, his arms are loose at his sides. He almost looks dead. Inside, I think he is.
I face my father again and I realize that if he was here in person, and not just an image on a screen, that I’d kill him. For the first time in my life, the idea of killing appeals to me.
He’s grinning, which should make me even angrier, but for some reason it doesn’t, and I pause, trying to figure something out. Something’s not right, I tell myself. Of course not, you idiot, nothing’s right, I reply to myself. No, not that. It’s something else. He’s not done yet. Even as I think the words, I know they’re true. My father’s grin widens as he sees the recognition in my eyes. My head churns through all his grotesque words, trying to latch onto the right ones:
Roc…is involved…he is the topic...you both are.
Do you remember the day Roc was born?
You were only a day old, as pink and helpless as a piglet.
…it was a good day…I buried a secret that could have destroyed me—all of us. The Nailin tradition.
Nooooo! My mind has put it all together, but I scream again and again in my head, refusing to believe it. No! No! No!
But he won’t let it go—has to keep talking, like he always does. “I only gave the bitch what she asked for. I would think that would make you happy, considering who you keep company with. She wanted me—who was I
to deny her? It’s not my fault she got pregnant, although I was quite tickled when she gave birth the day after your mother.”
His words are like darts, each one penetrating deeper into my heart. I don’t know how to speak at a normal volume anymore. Can only scream. “You liar! You raped her! You killed her! I hate you!”
Roc abruptly stands, his motions jerky as he steps past the chair, shoving it under the table. His eyes are moist as he staggers from the room, slamming the door behind him.
“I. Hate. You.” I spit the words out, one at a time, like I’m trying to eject a foul taste in my mouth. The image of my father smiling blinks over and over in my mind as I stride through the door and away from him.
* * *
I lie in bed staring at the rough ceiling without really seeing it. I want to be out looking for Roc, but they won’t let me. Ben said I would just get lost too, and then they’d have to find us both. Ben’s lying on the bed next to me, his injured leg elevated on a couple of pillows. He doesn’t try to talk to me, for which I am glad. He said I could take as long as I need before we talk about what happened with my father. But from the way Roc charged out of the room and the way I was shaking with anger and sadness when I emerged, I think he knows it’s something bad.
Roc is my half-brother. Of that I am certain. Although my father is not one to be truthful very often, in this case the truth served his purpose so he went with it. From the smile on his face at our reaction, I know in this case he relished the truth. And who knows how many other half-brothers I have out there. Knowing my father, there could be dozens. Dozens of motherless children. Dozens of dead mothers.
I close my eyes. All these years…
I’ve considered Roc to be my brother all these years, but in a loyalty sense. In a friendship sense. But it seems our bond is built of more than just shared experience. We share a father. I feel bad for Roc right away, because now he’s stuck with my father, which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, and certainly not on my best friend. We share the Devil as our father.
