by David Estes
“Yeah,” I say, wondering when I became a warrior. I still almost feel like I’m playing a child’s game when I start shooting my pointers. Only in this game people really die.
“Grunt’s going too,” she says.
“What?” I say, genuinely shocked. Her guy, Grunt, ain’t no warrior. He’s the shankiest man I ever met. I can’t imagine him marching through the desert, much less fighting against the Glassies.
“Everyone who don’t have a good reason not to is going,” she says. “I’m still feeding Polk ’ere, so I don’t have to.”
“You mean, you woulda gone if not for Polk?”
“What, you think I can’t take care of myself?” Veeva says. “I’ve slapped Grunt many a night when he’s come home drunk on the fire juice, gropin’ at me with those magical hands of his. I might not be the ladylike type, but I won’t lay with a man in that kinda condition, even one as talented as my Call.”
Hearing the words “magical” and “talented” associated with Grunt makes me wanna throw up my breakfast, but I swallow hard and say, “Well, I’m glad you’re not going. I’ll be fighting for you, Veevs.”
“Yeah, that’s what Grunt says, too, only he looks much scareder’n you when he says it. You’ll watch out for ’im, won’t you?” There’s something in her eyes I’m not used to seeing.
“Of course I will. He’ll be just fine. I’d better get running. Circ’s been doing all the hard work to get ready.”
“Be safe,” Veeva says. “Yer probably the only person that really gets me, so I can’t lose you.”
That’s when I realize what I saw in her eyes: fear.
~~~
“They deserved better,” Wilde says. I look at her eyes, which are full of hurt. “We have to defeat the Glassies for them.”
I was surprised when she pulled me aside, just ’fore it was time to leave.
I stare at her, unblinking. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I just need to talk to someone,” she says, and I realize what a searin’ fool I’ve been. While I’ve been trying to help Skye get through what happened, and Skye’s been trying to get herself through it, no one’s been helping Wilde.
I guess everyone just ’spects her to do things on her own, the way she always does. But this hurt must run too deep, even for her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’d forgotten.”
Her eyes soften. “It’s okay,” she says. “I didn’t love Buff, not in that way. We never would have worked out together, but he made me laugh. I still cared about him, about all of them…Dazz, his mother, Jolie. I loved them like family.”
I know. I know. I did, too, but maybe not as strongly as Wilde did, ’cause she spent so much time with ’em.
I still don’t know what to say ’cause I’m helpless. I can’t bring ’em back, can’t fix anything. But that’s not what she wants, is it? Suddenly the answer is obvious. Even the strongest of us are like little children sometimes, and just need someone to hold ’em.
I put my arms out and Wilde practically falls into me. “I’m here,” I murmur as her tears stain my neck.
~~~
I’d hold Circ’s hand as we leave, but I’m s’posed to be a warrior, and I don’t think warriors hold hands. So I settle for walking next to him, occasionally brushing up against his side. The wind’s heavy, picking up clusters of sand every now and then, tossing it into our faces. Thankfully, not strong enough for a sandstorm, but plenty strong enough to be searin’ annoying.
Skye strides up ahead with Wilde, who looks nothing like she did when I last spoke to her; once again, she’s her calm, composed self, every doubt and hurt and fear having dried on the skin of my neck, leaving faint, white tracks. T’gether, they lead us northwards.
Early on, I tried to talk to Skye ’bout Huck Jones and how Jade wouldn’t want her to hurt him, but she just told me to “Shut my tughole” and kept walking. As much as I admire her, sometimes I wish I was stronger’n her so I could give her a piece of my mind.
There are maybe a thousand of us, maybe a few more, in a long column. Feve’s next to Circ, his long blade swinging from his belt. Circ and I try to make our eyes and face look like his—serious and dark and fierce—but we crack up every time we try. Feve just shakes his head.
“This look isn’t something you can learn. It’s something you’re born with,” he says, which makes us crack up even more. It’s the weirdest thing to be laughing with Feve, who I hated not that long ago. He saved my life once, but then it turned out he was working with my father. But he’s made up for his mistakes tenfold ever since, and I can’t hold a grudge for something he did that he didn’t really understand the repercussions of. These days I trust Feve as much as I trust Circ.
Some of t’other warriors are joking and laughing, too, but most of ’em I recognize as Heater Hunters, those who used to bring home tug meat for the village, and those who have fought against the Glassies twice ’fore. They’re used to the thrill of battle. It’s just another day in their dangerous lives.
But most of t’others—excluding the Marked and the Wilde Ones, who look as serious as Feve and Skye—are just normal people, used to taking care of kids and preparing food and living full and ordinary lives. I can see the fear in their eyes, just like I saw in Veeva’s, ’cept it’s a different fear. Not the fear of people they know dying, but of themselves dying.
Grunt’s one of ’em and, remembering the promise I made to Veeva, I keep one eye on him even as I’m joking with Circ and Feve. His face is already red and sweaty and it looks like he’s struggling to put one foot in front of t’other in the sand.
I feel bad for him. He shouldn’t be here. None of us should be. Why are there so many wooloo, power-hungry people in this world? Why can’t they just live like the rest of us, have a few laughs, help those that need it?
Not caring whether it’s something a warrior would do, I grab Circ’s hand and swing it along beside me. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes my hand back.
Chapter Thirty
Tristan
It’s dark when we reach the cave Adele and I stepped out of what seems like years ago.
Most of the way, Roc was practicing using the words Siena taught him. He only shut up when I pointed out what a live ’zard looked like, sunning itself on a rock. Tawni was pretty grossed out, too. Hawk laughed, said, “You survive offa what the land gives you.”
As we shake hands with Hawk and Lara, say our goodbyes, and step into the cave, it hits me that I’m leaving Adele in another world, while I return to the one so familiar to me. What if something happens and we can never get back to the surface? Will she find a way back down? Does she even want to come back? After all we’ve seen, all we’ve experienced, can any of us just return to a life of phony light and absolute darkness?
But I can’t stop my two feet from taking turns, stepping—one, two, one, two, one, two—moving me forward. Because they know: It was my plan and if I don’t follow through with it the earth dwellers will win, and Adele will die, along with every last person in the Tri-Tribes. And it will be on my head and mine alone.
We reach the pod that will take us home, step inside, remove our masks. Press a button to turn it on. Artificial yellow lighting hits me full in the face.
“What floor?” Roc says, smirking, knowing full well the pod only goes to one place.
“H,” I say. Roc looks at me quizzically. “For Hell,” I explain.
“Oh, c’mon, Tristy. It ain’t all that burnin’ bad,” Roc says, still practicing his—what do we even call it? Desert language? He pushes a button.
“I know,” I say. “I just can’t believe we’re leaving her.”
“We’re doing it to save her,” Tawni says. “It’s the right thing.”
They’re simple, but her words help to comfort me. For a long time, Tawni’s been our moral compass in a world where the shades of gray are as abundant as the shadows. Once she stopped us from killing unarmed and defenseless sol
diers. Ever since, I’ve been thankful she did. So if she thinks this is the right choice, then it probably is.
I close my eyes and the pod drops, sending an airy thrill through my stomach. Adele…Adele, where are you? When I reopen them, Roc’s holding Tawni’s hand, his foot directly next to hers. And, of course, he’s grinning, his teeth yellow in the fake light.
“What?” I say.
“Do you think anyone will be waiting with tea and biscuits?” he asks.
I’m as far from a laughing mood as I could possibly be, and yet I laugh. That’s why Roc’s my best friend. That’s why we’ve survived this long. By laughing and joking and not taking ourselves too seriously when the rest of the world seems to be only serious.
“I hope so,” I say.
“Do you think they’ll have the little flower-shaped ones filled with the red cream?” Tawni asks.
“If they don’t, heads will roll,” I say. “After all, I’m the President of the Tri-Realms now.”
“You’re sounding more like your father each and every day,” Roc says in a dramatic voice. “It’s a beautiful thing to see.”
That was a low blow, but it doesn’t hurt as much as it probably should. My father destroyed my whole life, but he didn’t destroy me. My mother, even with her last act, gave me a chance at a real life, and a chance to make things right, to cleanse the Nailin name. And then my father killed her for it.
“Sooo,” I say after the longest stretch of silence, where the only sound was Roc’s incessant tapping of his toe.
“Sooo what?” Roc says.
“What exactly will we be facing when we step out of this pod?”
Roc cocks his head and taps his teeth with a finger, like he’s taking my question seriously. He’s not. “Let’s see, there will probably be an old, crusty scientist—bald, of course—and four walls of rock.”
“You mean walls with pictures of you all over them? My worst nightmare is coming true.”
“Hmm,” Roc says.
“That would be a nightmare,” Tawni says drily.
“Ganging up—not fair,” Roc says. “And my own girlfriend…”
“Seriously,” I say.
“Seriously,” Roc says, mimicking me.
“Did Trevor give you, like, a whole bunch of tips on how to annoy me?” I ask.
I don’t mean to dampen the mood, but speaking our dead friend’s name does the trick. The laughter ceases and Roc momentarily stops with the jokes. He takes a deep breath. “We have to do this, Tristan. We have to do it for Trevor and Ram and your mom and my mom. For Cole and Ben and Elsey. For everyone that’s been hurt by your father and by Lecter.”
“We will,” I say, trying to sound like my old, confident self. “Especially with your fighting skills on our side.” I can’t help it, the laughter a moment ago felt so good, like maybe we weren’t all doomed because we were doing something normal and light.
“You shouldn’t mock,” Roc says. “I’m still injured because I couldn’t figure out which way to aim the sword.”
I laugh ten times harder, because that’s Roc. Cracking a joke about the bravest thing he ever did, when he stabbed himself to save my life.
“I’d take your sword by my side every time,” I say, wiping away a bit of moisture from my eyes that’s mostly happiness.
Roc smiles. “Just as long as it’s not in your side, eh?”
“You stab me, I’ll stab you back.”
Tawni shakes her head. “I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand you two,” she says.
“That’s because we’re mysterious,” Roc says, wagging his eyebrows.
“So back to the situation below,” I say, because I feel like the half-hour ride is at least halfway over already. “How bad is it? Am I walking into guns pointed at my head, swords thrust into my neck, or fists swinging at my gut?”
Still smiling, Roc says, “All three.”
I groan.
~~~
There was no car waiting for us when we exited the secret cave onto the streets. Roc apologized for forgetting to arrange it, calling me “Your Highness.” I told him he should keep doing that.
So we’re walking, which is fine by me. I need time to prepare myself for the uphill battle I’m about to face. The streets are dark, lit only by the artificial moon and stars, which look so pathetically inadequate after seeing the real thing. The buildings, on the other hand, seem so grand compared to the tents and basic shelters used by the Tri-Tribes. And yet I can’t hear the crying of any babies or the shushing sounds made by their mothers. Lifeless. Empty.
When we arrive at the palace gates we get guns in our faces. So Roc was wrong—not all three—swords and guns and fists—just the guns. But when they see who I am, the guards apologize quickly and profusely and let us in, asking if we’d like them to send a car down.
“We’ll walk,” I say.
The road snakes through the palace gardens, and after seeing so much sand and rock and brown, the trees and plants and flowers almost look impossible. I have to take deep swallows a few times to catch my breath.
As if reading my mind—like he does—Roc says, “At least we have some happy memories of this place,” and he’s right, because when I think of the gardens I’m always happy.
We reach the main entrance, framed by a half-dozen black-marble pillars. White, spike-like spires rise up toward the lofty cavern roof, pointing at the fake moon.
As I stride inside, I remember: I’m the President. Here I have power, and it’s my responsibility to use it the right way. “Gather all the generals together,” I say.
“But it’s the middle of the night,” Roc says, feigning concern.
“Then wake them up.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Tawni, can you try to get Adele’s mother on the main video screen?” I ask.
“I’ll do what I can,” she says.
While Roc scurries off to pound on a few generals’ doors and Tawni goes to the communications office, I make my way to the place my father always liked to refer to as “the throne room.” Lavishly adorned walls flash by on either side, but I barely notice them. After all, I grew up in this kind of luxury. It doesn’t mean anything, not to me.
When I enter the throne room, it’s empty, save for the dozens of black-marble pillars holding up the balcony above and surrounding the lone, grand seat in the middle. The throne, constructed with a thick, sturdy oak-wood frame and cushioned with generous red-velvet pads on the seat, back, and armrests, stands as a reminder of the difference between my father and me. The old President Nailin would spend as much on a place to rest his rear as a moon dweller miner made in ten years. The new President Nailin has the urge to take an axe and chop the chair into splinters to be used for firewood.
Distorted shards of memory slice through my head and I see this room as it was on the night my father died. The floor slick with blood. Steel weapons flashing, clanging, killing. Bodies falling. Trevor falling, dying. My father’s great victory, cut short when Adele shot him in the head not long after in his grand council room.
The fall of a tyrant. One down, one to go.
Although I’m tired from the trek across the desert and the midnight stroll from the hidden cave to the palace, I resist the urge to sit in my father’s plush throne. The generals would probably respond well to that kind of normalcy, but I just don’t have the stomach for it, not when so many of the decisions that exacerbated the inequality in the Lower Realms were made from this very chair.
I remain standing as a video screen lowers from a crack in the ceiling. Evidently Tawni found a palace technician to help her get things set up. Hopefully General Rose isn’t too angry with me for waking her, although I take comfort in the fact that you can’t kick someone through a screen. Even my father wasn’t able to develop that kind of technology.
I hear the first grumbling voice, echoing from a hall outside of the throne room. “If this is some kind of a joke, I’ll have you whipped a thousand times!
”
I almost laugh, but the thought of facing the generals makes me feel slightly ill. I may be the president, but these are men who have done things a certain way for a long time. They’re used to winning, to crushing the enemy, not to signing peace agreements. The ceasefire pact I signed with the Lower Realms before we went above will only hold them off for so long.
A large man with a thick, gray beard stomps in wearing a heavy frown. His eyes widen when he sees me. “Good God, it’s President Nailin,” he says. I don’t miss the mockery in his tone. Not a good start. “You do exist.”
“General,” I say, not taking the bait. When all the generals are here I’ll make things very clear.
Three other men enter behind him, blinking sleep out of their eyes and registering surprise when they see me. They whisper to each other behind their hands.
“We ask for meetings with you a dozen times, and then you roust us from our beds in the middle of the night?” says the large, sarcastic man, General Aboud. “All hail, President Nailin!” He almost sounds drunk. Maybe he is. Maybe he passed out, rather than going to sleep.
I ignore him, watch as six more generals shuffle in, standing beside their comrades. Roc steps in behind them, winks at me. I rest an arm on the top of the throne. Even if I don’t have the audacity to sit in it, perhaps just having it near me will set the right tone.
I start to speak, but General Aboud beats me to it. “Where the hell have you been? We’ve got a war to fight and your own generals can’t even get an audience with you.”
This is one question I’ll most definitely answer. “Above,” I say. The men stare at me with blank faces.
“Above?” Aboud says. “There is no above. We are the above!”
“No,” I say calmly, although the red-faced man before me makes my blood boil. “We are not.” I go on to explain everything to them; everything my father would not. The secret project my great-grandfather started, recruiting the best and smartest engineers, keeping them separate from the rest of society, monitoring them to ensure no one talked; the early failed expeditions to the earth’s surface, everyone dead; the continued attempts, the construction of the Dome, reengineering the air filtration system to allow for life on earth; the slow but effective wresting of power from my father by Lecter. As I speak, there’s utter silence. Even Aboud knows when to just shut up and listen.
