by David Estes
She almost shrieks the last bit and I hear Cole shush her, trying to get her to calm down. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I believe you. Okay, maybe Tristan’s all right, but I still don’t get what that has to do with us, with Adele. Just because he looked at her funny…”
“Not funny, Cole. Intently, seriously, the way you look at someone that you might try to track down at some point in the future. Particularly if you have the resources, which he obviously does.”
“What?” I hear myself say out loud. I mean for it to be a thought, confined to the safety of my own mind, but my wayward lips betray me.
Silence. I slap a hand over my mouth, hold my breath, listen to my heartbeat crunch in my chest like a miner’s axe on a slab of ore.
The door is flung open and Cole’s face is silhouetted against the lights in the corridor. Some of the light sneaks past his large frame and spills across my face. One of his eyes is swollen shut, his cheek beneath marbled with black, blue, and greenish yellow.
“Are you spying on us?” he says accusingly.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I just saw you talking and wanted to hear what you were saying.” Insert foot in mouth. Translation: Yes, I am spying. Bye-bye, new friends. Hello, loneliness.
Cole looks like he wants to hit me.
“Why didn’t you just ask us then?” The question comes from Tawni, who wedges her way between us.
“Ask you?” Again, the words pop from my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. They sound stupid. Like, Duh, asking would’ve been far easier than sneaking into a broom closet and listening through a door. I try to recover. “I, uh, I just thought you wouldn’t, uh, tell me these kinds of things,” I finish lamely.
“What kinds of things exactly?” Cole says.
Tawni pushes Cole back a bit with one arm. I’m surprised she can move him at all. Her arm looks like a toothpick compared to his armor-like chest. I guess she has hidden strength.
To my surprise, she says, “Cole, we need some girl time. We’ll catch up with you later.” Despite the evenness of her tone, her words sound like a command, and a powerful one at that.
Cole stares at me with one eye for a second, and then melts into the stream of bodies, disappearing in the mob.
When Tawni turns back to me, I say, “Thanks.”
Tawni offers me a hand and I take it. Unlike the previous day in the yard, her hand is warm. Without another word, she pulls me out of the closet and leads me against the flow of human traffic. Where I’d normally bump and knock into a dozen kids if I tried such a maneuver, Tawni is graceful, able to find the path of least resistance. I stay in her wake, protected. I haven’t felt protected in a long time.
Soon the crowds thin and we are walking alone. I am surprised to find myself still holding her hand. I feel like I should shake it free, but it feels so good—wonderful actually. I guess I need it. Human contact, that is. Having been deprived of human touch for so long, my body is craving it. Last night’s dream had certainly indicated that.
We reach a cell door. Not mine but the one next to it. Tawni’s. Funny that I never knew her and the whole time she was sleeping right next to me, just a rock wall between us. Not that it matters. I’ve lost Cole’s brief friendship and I am about to lose Tawni’s slightly longer friendship. It’s time for my last-ditch effort to save it.
“Look, Tawni, I’m really sor—”
“It’s okay,” Tawni interrupts.
Huh? This time I manage to keep my stupid remark inside my head, but I’m sure my confusion is written all over my face anyway. I can feel one cheek lifted weirdly, the opposite eyebrow raised, and my mouth contorted beneath my flaring nostrils. If Tawni and I are the lead characters in a magical fairy tale, it is obvious who is the ugly stepsister. Not Tawni.
I realize Tawni’s back is to me; she is facing the bed. Thank God, I think. Using my fingers, I manage to mold my face back into what I think is close to its normal shape. Just in time, too. She turns around.
Her eyes blaze with a sort of fire. Not real fire, but determination. It is unexpected. She just looks so thin, so frail. Although she towers above me, I feel so much bigger than her. At least normally I do. But now she looks strong, like maybe her bones are made of a tougher material than I thought. I wait for her to speak.
“Your father is alive,” she says.
Chapter Four
Tristan
I like calling the Tri-Realms the underworld. For to me, that’s what it is. At times it feels more hellish than if I were at barbecue with a bunch of demons and zombies, roasting the undead on a fiery spit.
I long to feel the wind tousle my hair, the sunlight on my face. Not the fake sun my father’s engineers have created, but the real thing. There is nothing like it.
The underworld is so different. Dark, gloomy—it feels dead to me. Like it isn’t natural that any form of life other than the spiders and snakes and bats should occupy it. Certainly not humans.
And if we live in the underworld, then my father is the Devil himself, shrewd, evil, self-serving. They say that blood creates an unbreakable bond. If there is a bond between my father and me—created by blood, DNA, or something else entirely—it is as brittle as talc, cracking and crumbling while I was still in my mother’s womb.
I see her face again—the moon dweller with the shimmering black hair—so beautiful, so strong, so sad, like she is crying invisible tears. Reaching out, I try to touch her, to comfort her. But each time I try, she seems further away, as if some unseen force is keeping us apart. I run, pumping my arms and legs harder and harder, trying to keep up with her, but never able to close the gap. Finally, when I think my legs will collapse beneath me, she stops. I approach, my heart fluttering, my body trembling in anticipation of feeling her skin against mine. I hear a slight whirr and feel a whoosh of air as something flies just past my ear. A flaming arrow. No! Already a spot of blood is seeping through her white tunic where the arrowhead has pierced her breast. The flames are licking at her clothes, charring them. I try to run to her, to douse the flames, to pluck the arrow from her skin and stop the bleeding, but my feet won’t move. At first I think I’m in shock, that I’m simply too weak-minded to gain control of my body, but when I look at my feet, they are encased in stone. He moves past me. The archer. I can’t see his face, but I’d recognize his gait anywhere. My creator. I scream at him to Stop, please stop! but he ignores me, instead blowing softly on the flames, fueling them until they spread. I have to turn away—God, how desperately I want to turn away—but I can’t. Can’t. Can’t even close my eyes. I watch her burn. She is brave—doesn’t even cry out, but I can hear her screams anyway.
I wake up sweating and yelling, thrashing about in my bed. And thinking about the underworld.
Roc is by my side. As always. He puts a hand across my chest. “Shhh,” he says. “Someone will hear.”
My legs stop thrashing, my arms stop flailing. I am breathing heavily but not screaming anymore. It was just a dream. I am on my bed; Roc must have carried me.
“What happened?” I say.
“You fainted,” Roc says, his lips curling slightly.
“Does that give you some kind of pleasure?” I snap.
Roc continues grinning. “Given it was brought on by your battle with a ferocious warrior, namely me, I’d say yes, it does bring me a level of pleasure. Especially because it was in the midst of my stunning and heroic victory,” he adds.
Normally I would laugh. But I feel anything but normal. I feel like I’ve lost someone special to me, someone close. Like my mother—but a different kind of close, a different kind of special. I grunt.
Roc seems to recognize that something is wrong and his smile fades. “Tristan, are you okay?” he asks.
I honestly don’t know. So I swing my legs over the side of the bed and tell him everything. About the girl in the Pen, the big guy who was about to assault her, how I saw her face just before I fainted, and about my dream—what my father did to her. When I finish I look for
his reaction. I think he might make fun of me. If the roles were reversed it’s what I might do.
Instead, his lips are tight, his eyes narrow. He says, “I think it means something.”
“You do?” I say, genuinely surprised.
“Yes. A storm is coming. I’ve felt it for some time now. I think you have, too. Why we have never spoken of it before, I do not know. Perhaps we were scared.”
My first instinct is to contradict him. Not the stuff about the storm—whatever that means—but about us being scared. He might be, but not me. I’m not scared of anything. Not even my father—not anymore—although I probably should be. But I know I’ve been too reactionary lately—too quick to fire back at Roc if I don’t like something he says. Like a good friend, he’s put up with it, shaking his head and ignoring my outbursts. So, for once, I don’t say the first thing that pops into my head. I actually think about what he said.
A storm? I know he doesn’t mean a physical storm, like the ones that rage on the earth’s surface from time to time. Therefore, a metaphorical one. Like a conflict. A battle maybe. No, more specific than that: a rebellion. I have felt it, too. Have even commented on it. If not out loud, then in my head, to myself. How it is a wonder that everyone puts up with my father’s tyrannical politics, his cruel and unfair treatment of the people that support his way of life. Not a wonder—a miracle. And miracles simply don’t happen these days. Not anymore. They are a thing of the past, of legends, of stories. Which means it is bound to happen eventually. From time to time we hear whisperings of secret groups of radicals, plotting and scheming in hidden caves, using secret handshakes and passwords. My father dismisses them as casually as he swats pesky flies from his shoulder.
I have felt it, too. So why haven’t we talked about it before? I try to open myself to the possibility that I am scared, like Roc suggested. I know right away that isn’t it. It’s something else: I don’t believe my own feelings. And why would I? Things have been the same my whole life. Things will never change, can never change. Can they?
I feel Roc’s eyes on my face. I look at him. There is a twinkle in his eye, like he knows I’ve worked it out.
I say, “I’m not scared.” You know, just to set the record straight.
He winks at me. “I know,” he says.
“You what?” I say. “Then why did you—”
“Because I am scared, and I wanted you to think about things seriously.”
I rise to my feet. “What? I do take things ser…What are you suggesting, that I’m not serious enough?” My face is starting to feel hot.
Roc puts his arms out, palms open. “No, I just think that ever since your mom…”—his eyes drift down—“…left, you’ve been in a funk, a haze, not really as engaged as you used to be. The only time I see light in your eyes is when we’re training.”
“What are you, my shrink or something?”
“There you go—not taking things seriously again.”
I grit my teeth. I am determined not to make another light comment or joke for the rest of the conversation. I hope our talk won’t last too long.
“Fine,” I say. “Okay, so I’ve been in this haze, hating life, no light in my eyes except when I’m beating the snot out of you with a wooden sword…” Blast! A joke—I’ve failed already. Being serious is harder than I thought. Maybe Roc is right, but I’m certainly not going to say that out loud. Pausing, I try to gather my thoughts. Roc lets the joke pass without comment. “So I see this girl, this moon dweller. Roc, lemme tell ya, she was incredible. Beautiful. Even wearing her gray prisoner’s tunic she was stunning. Her hair fell like a black waterfall around her shoulders. Her eyes were intensely fascinating. And her curves, my God, Roc, were they ever—”
“Get to the point, Tristan,” Roc says.
Right. Serious. My point. What is my point anyway? Ahh, yes. “I felt something for her, Roc. Somehow across the distance, through the fence, over the mob of people, I felt something. I probably would have just let it go, chalked it up to male hormones, but then when she acted so strong, pushed that guy…I don’t know, since then I can’t get her out of my mind.”
“That’s called a crush, sir.”
Oh, damn you, Roc! He seems intent on making this more difficult than it has to be, even throwing a “sir” in there for good measure. I can feel the grit in my mouth as I shave the enamel off each tooth with my incessant grinding. Yeah, I love Roc like a brother, but also like a brother, I wish he would just go away sometimes.
When I speak again, I am proud of how even my voice is, pretending like I haven’t even heard Roc’s comment. “It’s weird. I feel like our lives are tied together. Like our destinies are intertwined. I think I have to find her, Roc, if only to know that she survived, that her strength didn’t lead to her death.”
“Is this moon dweller girl the only reason you want to go?”
I raise my eyebrows. “I, uh, I think so…” I’m so unsure of my answer that I rub my head to try to think. Yes, I want to know what happened to the moon dweller. Yes, I felt something for her and want to meet her. It hits me. “She’s only part of it,” I say.
“I know,” Roc says.
Of course he does. Roc always seems to be one mental step ahead of me. I sigh. “I want to get out of here, Roc. I’m tired of living like this. There’s no meaning in my life. I hate my father. I hate this place. Finding her is as good a reason as any to get out of here. I just have to get out of here. I can’t deal with my father anymore.”
“We can’t just leave.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t you think they’ll notice?”
“Of course they’ll notice, Roc. But who cares?”
“I do. I don’t feel like being chased all over the Tri-Realms by a bunch of your dad’s goons.”
“My father’s goons,” I correct.
“Your dad, your father: What’s the difference?” Roc says through clenched teeth.
I bare my teeth back at him. “It’s…different…to…me.” We are on the verge of another brawl.
“Whatever. In any case, I’m not leaving with you on some half-baked journey all over the Moon Realm, just to chase the first pretty tunic you’ve seen in a while. She’s a prisoner, for God’s sake.”
“Then I’ll go alone. And for the record, I’m not chasing a tunic. Yeah, I’ll try to find her. But this is not all about her, Roc. Like I told you, I need to do this for me. I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”
Roc’s hard stare continues for another moment and then his eyes soften. “Tristan, I…”
“What?”
“Never mind. You promise you’re not just doing this to find some silly girl?”
“Yes,” I say, my tone more confident than I feel.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll come with you.”
I can’t hold back my smile. I’ll say it again: Roc is like a brother to me; I’m not sure what I would’ve done if he decided not to come. I’m glad we’ve made it through our serious talk without killing each other.
Roc says, “I’ll help you find your crush.” I spoke too soon. I leap off the bed, tackling him to the ground, pushing his face into the soft carpet, putting all my weight on him. I’m laughing, he’s gasping, trying to take a breath. I release him and stand up, but I’m not done yet. As he turns over I place a foot atop his chest and raise my fists over my head, relishing my small victory.
Like when I saw the moon dweller for the first time, I feel alive again.
We spend the rest of the day making plans. Now that the contract negotiations are finally over, I’ll request a holiday. My father will insist I go to one of the finest sun dweller resorts, one that has the brightest fake sunlight and truckloads of synthetic sand. But I’ll tell him I’m tired of those places, tired of the same old scene. It won’t surprise him—he already knows how I feel about the customs of the sun dwellers. If I request another trip to the Moon Realm—an unofficial, o
ff-the-books trip—I think he’ll authorize it, as a sort of reward for all my work over the last few months. The first chance we have, Roc and I will ditch my security guards and go find the girl, and hopefully ourselves at the same time.
When we leave my apartment, I am feeling good. I won’t go so far as to say I am happy—I haven’t been happy in a long time—but I’m satisfied that I’m finally doing something real. Something I want to do. Cutting another one of my father’s ropes away, so to speak.
* * *
We are at dinner, the three of us—me, my brother, Killen, and my father, his lordship. Dinner is funny in our palace. The table we sit at is about a mile long, with enough place settings to host the entire forty-third ghetto of the Star Realm (their population is only twenty-three). My father, his majesty (a president, not a king), sits at one end. My mother used to sit at the other head, but now her seat is vacant, like it has been for a long time. My brother and I sit across from each other, in the middle, so far from my father that we’d need binoculars if we want to see him. Thankfully, I don’t.
When we were younger, my brother and I would get into all kinds of trouble at dinner, kicking each other under the table, slinging food across at each other, whispering nasty names so our parents couldn’t hear what we were saying. It was great fun, and we enjoyed the challenge of trying to get away with things while our parents shouted across the length of the table in a ridiculous attempt to have a conversation.
