What Tomorrow May Bring

by Tony Bertauski

  It’s weird how good it feels. It’s such a simple thing, the mere sliding of a finger across skin, but it sends tingles through my whole body. I close my eyes, like Adele, and begin slowly running my own fingers across hers. We carry on like that for a long time, at least an hour—maybe hours, I’m not sure; I lose track of time.

  Is she expressing her feelings for me, her attraction? Or is she just experimenting, like me? I’m lying to myself again. As much as I want to believe we’re just experimenting with the pain, I know that’s not true. I’m enjoying this.

  This is not what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to ask her questions and have her answer them. And then once I was satisfied, I would leave, maybe even go back to the Sun Realm, where I actually feel comfortable. Story over.

  Why did I shoot my mouth off earlier, start talking about “a cause” and insinuating I could do anything to help the people of the Lower Realms? Can I really just walk away now? Is that really what I want? Already my brother will be telling my father what happened, what I did. There’s no going back. I’ll be shunned, maybe even thrown in prison, even if only a minimum security one in the Sun Realm, where I could live out the rest of my days in luxurious conditions.

  But what if my father forgave me, said I was welcome back? Would that change anything?

  I blink in the dark, try to answer at least one of the dozens of questions spinning through my mind.

  I can’t answer any of them.

  Eventually I fall asleep, still holding hands with Adele.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Adele

  I wake up when Tawni says, “Hey, sleepyhead.”

  I yawn and rub my eyes, opening them to look at my friend. She looks like her normal, perky self—not the devastated girl from the day before. I wish I could cope with things the way she can.

  That’s when I remember the position I was in when I fell asleep: holding hands with Tristan. I sneak a glance down at my hand. It’s alone—safe. Whew, I think. It isn’t like I’m embarrassed that Tristan seems to have feelings for me—ecstatic would be a better word—but I’m not keen to have everyone know about it just yet. Am I getting ahead of myself? Did he really hold my hand because he wanted to or because he felt he had to?

  I turn my head to see what Tristan looks like when he’s sleeping, but he isn’t there. Roc is gone, too.

  “Gone with Elsey to do some recon,” Tawni says, guessing my question.

  “Elsey?” I say, suddenly worried.

  “It’ll be okay,” Tawni says. “They promised to be very careful and look after her.”

  I nod, still worried.

  I hear quick feet on the steps and then Elsey bounds through the doorway, practically crashing into me. “The bombing finally stopped!” she says excitedly. “We can go rescue Father.” Her smile is a mile wide. I’m amazed at her ability to bounce back from the horrific events of the previous day.

  Slower steps thud down the stairs. I raise my head in anticipation of seeing him, hoping it won’t be awkward after our night together.

  Roc’s head pops out. He’s wearing a wide smile, too, grinning like a banshee through the cover of his bruised face. I’m not sure what everyone’s been smoking, but I want some—clearly it’s good stuff.

  Tristan follows behind him and my breath catches in my lungs. Despite his injuries—although the swelling has lessened, his face is varying shades of black, blue, and purple—he’s a sight, right out of the magazines. My vision blurs as a headache forms. Not a bad one though. They’re getting better each time I see him.

  Really, really, freaking weird.

  He looks at Elsey. “Did you tell them?”

  Elsey grins at him. “Mission complete,” she says, standing at attention, her hand perpendicular to her forehead in a rigid salute. “Ready for your next order.”

  “At ease, soldier,” Tristan says, laughing. “She really likes this role-playing stuff,” he says, explaining to me.

  “She always has,” I say, “but she’s no soldier and you’re not a general.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m just kidding—lighten up,” I say, grinning.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says again.

  “And enough of the apologies,” I say. I’m trying to act normal, but I’m not sure if I’m succeeding. I’m also trying to avoid making direct eye contact with him, for fear of worse pain coming back.

  “Fair enough,” he says. “If I’m not the general, then who is?”

  “I nominate myself,” Roc says.

  “I second it,” Elsey says.

  “Hey, don’t I get any votes?” I say.

  “Nah, Tristan and Roc are really fun,” Elsey says.

  “And I’m not?”

  “Not as fun as them,” she says, grinning.

  “Thanks a lot!” I exclaim, grabbing her and whirling her around.

  “As general,” Roc says, “our first order of business is to eat breakfast. Then we’ll head over to the Camp of Death and Skulls and Crossbones and all that.”

  “Camp Blood and Stone,” I correct.

  “I think that’s what I said,” Roc says, chuckling.

  Tawni hands each of us one of the wafers Elsey found the night before. It isn’t a very appetizing breakfast, but it’s better than going hungry. And it’s quick, which I like. I’m anxious to find my dad. He’s done so much for me in my life and now I have the chance to do something for him. I can’t fail him.

  I also need the distraction. Although I try to keep up my side of the constant bantering that has begun ever since Tristan and Roc joined us, inside I’m still a wreck. I can’t block my emotions out like the rest of them seem to do. I feel bad that my heart ballooned the night before, when Tristan held my hand, feeling more alive than it has in months. I feel bad because Cole is dead, and yet I’m experimenting with my weird feelings. My heart feels as shriveled as a raisin one minute and then as big as a balloon the next.

  We leave our little hideaway without seeing anyone. People are staying indoors after the previous night’s bombing. The smoke has cleared, revealing the extent of the destruction. It’s bad, but not irreparable, if only the Star Dwellers will let us rebuild.

  Although the dusty streets are deserted, we walk single file, sticking to the edges of buildings, ready to dive for cover if any Sun Dwellers appear. Or any Star Dwellers. Probably any Moon Dwellers, too. We don’t know who we can trust.

  Tristan is just in front of me, which I would know even if my eyes were closed. It’s like an invisible tether connects us now whenever we’re close. Not just the pain, which is still there; duller maybe, but there. The tether has low-voltage electricity surging through it, leaving me tingling. His strides look awkward, ginger, like he’s walking on eggshells, trying not to crack them. Each step is likely sending splinters of pain through his injured leg and back.

  We speak in hushed voices.

  “Where did your brother come from?” I ask.

  “Although I’d like to say he was adopted, I’m pretty sure he came from my mom’s stomach, same as me,” Tristan says, grinning.

  I shake my head and grin back. “No, I mean yesterday. How’d he know we were here?”

  “I’ve been wondering that, too,” Tristan says, his smile fading. “If I had to guess, I’d say my father sent him as soon as Rivet reported that you were headed here on the train.”

  I nod slowly. “But why’d he attack you like that?” I ask.

  Tristan glances back and says, “We haven’t been getting along lately.”

  That doesn’t really answer my question. “But why—”

  “He’s not like me, Adele. He’s different—like my father. Not good.”

  “So you mean bad, right?”

  “Yeah, bad.”

  “Which makes you good then?”

  He sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t believe what my father believes, does that make me good? Or maybe I’m not good, because it doesn’t seem like anyone is the
se days. I’d rather classify myself as not bad.” He turns his head and manages a sideways grin, but I can tell that talking about his family is hard for him.

  But I plow ahead anyway. Questions and answers, just like I planned.

  “So you’re not like your dad or brother…”

  “My father or brother,” he clarifies. It seems the distinction between dad and father is important to him. I wonder if it’s a sign of respect for the president or a lack of closeness with the man who helped create him.

  “Okay—father. So if you’re not like them, does that mean you are like your mother?”

  “I hope I’m like my mom was,” he says, once more changing my word slightly.

  “Was?” I say, hoping I’m not probing too much.

  Tristan goes silent for a moment and I worry I’ve offended him. We tiptoe across an empty intersection and duck behind another building. Roc is leading—he said he knows the way.

  Finally, Tristan says, “My mom disappeared a while ago.” Although he says it calmly, evenly, I can feel a weight behind his words. The same kind of weight I feel in my own voice when I speak about my parents.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I heard about that on the news.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “It was better that she went. For her. I’ll find her someday,” he adds.

  “I’ll help you,” I find myself saying.

  He glances back. “I’d like that.”

  The tingling in my body, which I’ve started to get used to, increases suddenly, like a surge of electricity, and I find myself giddy with excitement. I have the urge to rush to his side, grab his hand and walk with him. I restrain myself.

  “Why is this happening?” It’s a cryptic question, but when he turns and I see his eyes I know he understands what I mean.

  “I was hoping you’d know,” he says. He faces forwards once more. “I came after you hoping you’d know. That I’d be able to get answers out of you.”

  I could be saying the same thing to him. Crap. Something is happening that’s outside of both our control.

  Roc says, “Sorry to interrupt, but we’re approaching the boundary to the camp.”

  I look around—all I can see are buildings. For a second I think Roc might’ve gotten confused, but when we turn the next corner, the buildings suddenly disappear and are replaced by a high stone wall. The wall is gray and sheer and would’ve appeared ominous, an impossible barrier between me and my dad, except there’s a gaping hole in it.

  Scorch marks are burned along the edges of the breach, the result of a force so powerful it could’ve only been from an incendiary. Three times, I think. Three times we’ve been effectively saved by the Star Dweller bombs. At some point I’m really going to have to write the Star Dweller leaders a letter thanking them.

  I chuckle under my breath at my own joke.

  “What?” Tristan says.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking how strange it is that I’d still be stuck in the Pen if not for the Star Dweller bombs. Or worse, I might be dead. They always seem to explode when and where I need them the most, like a guardian angel is helping me.”

  “You think there’s something to it?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. More likely it’s just a coincidence. They seem to be bombing everything,” I say. Despite my nonchalant response, something tells me there is more to it. But it doesn’t make sense—can’t make sense. Why would the Star Dwellers be trying to help me do anything? They don’t even know who I am. They have much bigger problems to deal with now. Like how to win a war.

  “I’m wondering where they’re getting all the weapons,” Tristan says.

  My eyes jerk to his. We’d discussed the same thing, when the bombing first started. “You agree that it would be hard for them to get their hands on such advanced weaponry?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Near impossible. At least, without help.”

  My mind is whirling. Someone is helping them. And it would have to be someone from the Sun Realm. Could there really be traitors in the president’s midst?

  I shrug off my thoughts and try to focus on our present situation.

  We have a way in now, but I’m afraid to take it, afraid that the entire camp is destroyed, the prisoners left to die while the guards evacuated.

  “It’ll be okay,” Tristan says, as if reading my mind.

  “I know,” I lie.

  The first bomb hits just as we’re creeping through the hole. Another day of bombing has begun. If we weren’t so used the sound of distant bombs, we might have mistaken it for something else, a piece of machinery firing up maybe, but by now we can identify the roar of thunder as not a fluke underground storm, but as the mirthful cry of pointless destruction.

  Elsey cries out, but I manage to quickly slap a hand over her mouth, silencing her. We huddle together, hoping there isn’t a guard just inside the wall, close enough to hear the noise. Warmth and shivers flow through my skin as my arm brushes against Tristan’s.

  He looks at me, his eyes serious. “Wait here,” he says.

  I start to object, but he’s already gone, slipping inside the wall and around the corner. I see the hilt of his drawn sword flash before he moves out of sight. He moves remarkably fast considering his wounds. He’s still not moving normally, but his limp has lessened.

  Roc must see the concern on my face, because he says, “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. I taught him everything he knows.”

  I laugh. It’s high pitched and nervous, but a laugh nonetheless. It helps to calm my nerves.

  We hear a quick yell and then a groan, followed by a thud. I’ve had enough of waiting and rush through the hole, expecting violence of some sort.

  Instead, there’s only Tristan, grinning, standing over his fallen adversary.

  I approach him, feeling my heart beat faster as the distance between us lessens. “Is he…dead?” I ask.

  “Just unconscious,” Tristan says. His grin fades and he raises a finger in the air. “We have to hurry.”

  I can hear a dull commotion further into the camp. Something’s happening. Something big, by the sound of it. Inside the wall we can see all the way to the main buildings, where the prisoners are probably kept. But the sound arises from further to the left, past a cluster of massive stone blocks stacked in a pyramidal structure.

  I don’t know how I know, but I do: my father is here. Admittedly, being this close after not seeing him for so long makes me go a bit crazy. Okay, really crazy. I take off, leaving my friends behind, envisioning a joyous reunion with him, jumping into his arms, holding him to me.

  It’s a long run, and my initial burst of speed wanes, forcing me to drop into well-measured, paced strides. Tristan catches up halfway to the pyramids, pulling alongside me, galloping in a strange limp-run, his breathing heavy, but not as heavy as mine. To his credit, he doesn’t try to stop me, to reason with me, like so many other guys would do. He seems to understand that I have to do what I’m about to do.

  Whatever that is.

  “What’s the plan?” he says as we run together.

  Plan? Huh? The word sounds as meaningless to me as a phrase uttered in an ancient language by someone who forms words by clicking their tongue against the roof of their mouth. “I…uh…well…” I stammer. Finally, I say, “Get my dad?” What a plan! I even say it like a question, as if I’m not sure that’s why we’re sprinting across a barren prison camp. Good one, Adele.

  Tristan deserves a medal for patience. “So go and kick some butt then?” he says. He tries to grin, but the pain of running with his injuries turns it into a grimace.

  “Exactly,” I say. His assured tone gives me strength, and I feel like we have a plan, even though we don’t. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Never felt better,” he says.

  “Liar.”

  The pyramids loom closer. They’re a lot bigger now that we’re close to them, rising hundreds of feet into the air. I veer right, heading for the outer edge of the first one in the line of three.
Tristan follows, keeping pace and sticking close to my side. As we pass the corner, my eyes widen at the sight before me.

  Dozens of other giant, gray pyramids dot the landscape, rising majestically above us.

  The commotion we heard from a distance is getting louder and soon we can make out individuals yells. It sounds like a battle.

  I continue to steer us in the direction of the sound, but we still can’t see anything except the pyramids, which are staggered in such a way that they block the view in every direction once you’re in their midst.

  “We’re close,” Tristan says. “Get ready.”

  Ready for what? I have no idea, but I nod anyway. We pass a final pyramid and abruptly our vision opens to a wide open rock slab plain. A half-constructed pyramid stands a ways off. In front of the pyramid: chaos—the source of the noise.

  A mob of prisoners are fighting the guards, who are using long whips and Tasers to hold them off. None of them have guns. Clearly the intention is to hurt, not to kill.

  But the guards aren’t doing so well. We pull to a stop, and as we watch, one of the guards is bashed over the head by a shirtless guy wielding a rock. A prisoner. His body is covered in scars, some dark and ancient, and others fresh—some even ooze bright red blood.

  There are hundreds of prisoners, all of whom are in a similar condition. None of the men wear shirts and they all have various injuries, likely caused by the sting of the guards’ whips. The women wear ratty tank tops and sport similar welts and gashes. But they’ve had enough.

  The revolt is ultraviolent and for a few minutes we watch in awe as the prisoners start to gain an advantage. Although the inmates are taking a beating, the guards are dropping fast, being pelted with stones or bludgeoned by bare fists, a result of the overwhelming force that’s gathered to defy them.

  The camp name suddenly makes sense. The Stones: the massive stone blocks used to construct the pyramids—they were likely constructed off the backs of the prisoners, a pointless exercise that appears to have no purpose other than to inflict pain. The Blood: the prisoners provide that when abused by the guards.

  Now the guards’ blood is mixed with the prisoners.