The Sun Dwellers (The Dwellers Saga)

by David Estes

  “He’s the Devil,” Tawni says, her voice a whisper, almost reverent.

  “Not far from it,” Tristan says, his eyes dark and brooding. So much of the pain he’s hidden from me is in this story, it takes me by surprise. Because I’m a moon dweller and he’s a sun dweller, I’ve taken for granted that my life is harder than his, that, if anything, he owes me. In reality, however, neither of us owes each other anything. We’ve both had it bad. We’ve both felt pain and loss. We’ve both lived in a world where nothing felt right.

  But something’s still missing.

  “What else about your mother?” I ask, knowing this story is far from over.

  Before I’m half-finished with the question, Tristan’s nostrils are flaring as he sucks in a breath. “She recovered, of course, eventually. When she did, she came to me. I’ll never forget what she said. ‘Tristan, your father is a bad man,’ she said. ‘We need to tell everyone about what he showed us. We’re in this together—you and me. You understand?’ I did understand and I told her. I promised her I would do whatever I could to tell the world the truth. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Wait for what feels like the right time.’

  “Then she got all misty-eyed, hugged me, and said, ‘I might not always be around, Tristan, but know I’m always with you, in here.’ She patted my chest, a tear dripping from her chin. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to protect you the way I should have.’ I was crying, too, and I didn’t know why at the time. I mean, yeah, I loved my mom, but it’s not like she was going anywhere. I didn’t realize until she disappeared three days later that she was saying goodbye.” There’s moisture on Tristan’s face but he either doesn’t notice or isn’t bothered by it. My heart wells up for him, a dull ache in my chest that doesn’t sufficiently encompass the emotion of losing a mother. I give him my hand again, which I’ve so selfishly denied him as he’s told the hardest story he’s ever had to tell. When he grasps my fingers I shiver, because his hand is as cold as ice, almost blue.

  Sad like him and sad like me.

  Chapter EighteenTristan

  Adele doesn’t hate me for keeping the truth from her. Or at least she’s decided to support me until a time when I’m not a mess anymore, perhaps for the good of the mission. Even Trevor’s backed off with his smartass remarks, although I suspect it will be a short reprieve.

  I know they all have a zillion more questions, at least half of which I won’t be able to answer, but we all seem to realize that they aren’t really important right now, not when we have a president to kill. So we leave the tunnel rest stop to begin the last stage of our journey, a brief and uninterrupted walk into the capital.

  Although my heart is heavy because of the dark truths, both about my father and about my mom, that I’ve dropped like a dead weight on my friends, my mind is lightened, like a ball and a chain (and maybe a wall or two) have been removed from my skull, opening my mind to a whole new world, one without secrets and lies and inequality. We’re not there yet, but I feel like we’re making progress, without even having accomplished anything yet.

  I sense a renewed determination in all of us. Perhaps it was just resting for a few minutes, or the group understanding that we all now have. Or maybe it’s just because we’re all sick and tired of being held under the foot of a tyrant. Whatever the case, we all want the same thing, and we’ll do whatever it takes to get there.

  When we enter the capital, subchapter one of the Sun Realm, a place I called home for most of my life, a strange thrill zips through the very marrow of my bones. If nothing else, the city is beautiful, a notch or two above even the finest sun dweller cities. The simulated sunset is nearly complete, and the artificial sun is glowing red, a fiery ball above the buildings and parks. The automatic streetlights are blinking on, one by one, preventing any semblance of gloom from ever infiltrating my father’s kingdom.

  Without talking about it, we stop as a unit to watch the red sun darken, until, a few minutes later, it goes dark completely, disappearing on the roof of the cavern. Instantly, the rocky firmament springs back to life, as hundreds of blinking stars and a glowing moon appear, casting nighttime light across the subchapter.

  I glance at Adele, whose head is craned toward the ceiling, her green eyes sparkling like emeralds under the shine of the artificial stars. Her lips are parted slightly, an air of wonder in her expression, her skin porcelain, her hair a silk curtain. She’s looking at a beautiful sight and I’m looking at her—another beautiful sight.

  “It’s wonderful,” she says softly and almost mournfully, which surprises me until her next words. “But I bet it’s nothing compared to the real moon and stars.”

  As I cock my head to gaze at the artificial moon I grew up with, I realize that in that simple statement is an important truth: no matter what we try to recreate down here, none of it will ever be as good as what’s up there, on Earth. And that’s crucial to understanding the magnitude of the responsibility on our shoulders. Not only must we remove my father from his position of power, but we must take the Tri-Realms on a journey, both in their way of thinking and also in where they live, to give them back their humanity. This is our solemn duty.

  “Am I right?” Adele says, turning her head toward me.

  “About what?” I ask, not remembering her having asked me a question.

  “About the moon. The real one is better, right?”

  “Oh. That. I honestly don’t know. When we left it was still sunny. But considering how much better the real sun was, I’d guess you’re probably right—the real moon is way better.”

  “I want to see it,” she says. “Tawni and I are moon dwellers and we’ve never even seen the moon. It’s weird.” This is a side to Adele I’ve never really seen. She’s almost reflective, the way she’s looking at me with those intelligent eyes, like there’s a poem on her lips and a song in her heart. It’s another part of her I want to understand better.

  “Might be sooner than you think,” I say, wishing I could promise her what only my father has the power to authorize.

  “You think?” she says, smirking, not buying the lie.

  Night fully upon us, I lead the way into the city, feeling at home and like an outsider all at the same time. I keep my hat and sunglasses on, as I’m more likely to be recognized in this place than any other. The people here love my father and anything that belongs to him, which, from their point of view, includes me. Both my father and the people are in for a surprise.

  The streets are crowded, the day’s Sun Festival events concluded, the night’s festivities yet to begin. This in-between period is the perfect time for us to make our move, when people are buzzing with excitement and the effects of whatever liquids they’ve consumed during the day. It will also mean my father has finished with his normal Sun Festival duties and is back at the palace getting ready for the typical presidential party that he throws on this day every year. Except this year is different, because he’s also trying to fight a war, so he’ll be with his advisors, getting the latest news, making decisions on what moon dweller subchapters to bomb, which innocent civilians to murder in cold blood.

  I can’t think of a better time for us to go say hello.

  We melt into the flow of traffic, just another group of sun dwellers out for a night of fun, oblivious to the death being dealt by my father’s troops below. Up here, death is something that happens to old people, after living a long and enjoyable life, not something in the present, in the here and now.

  After ten minutes we’re still on the outskirts of the massive capital city, moving shoulder to shoulder with the other citizens, who are taking their time, clapping and singing and moving lazily forward like they have all night to get from one block to the next. Which, of course, they do. But we’re on a much tighter schedule, one that can’t wait for anything or anyone.

  Leading the way, I hang a right, from busy street to busier street, in the hopes of finding a deserted alley we can use to cut across the city. Unfortunately it’s just another sea of peopl
e, brightly dressed, moving in all different directions as if they all want to get to a different place at the same exact time. Crap.

  “Turn around,” I say to Adele, who’s right on my tail.

  “To where?” she says, looking at me like I’m crazy, which I probably am.

  “I don’t know. Back, I guess.”

  “Tristan, there’s nowhere to go. This place is a madhouse.”

  I know she’s right, but we can’t exactly stand where we are and hope my father dies of a heart attack from having too much fun at the party. Although I do remember hoping for something very similar at last year’s Sun Festival party when, in my mother’s absence, my father was dancing with two of his bleach-blond personal aides.

  “Need some help?” Roc says, bobbing up next to Adele at just the right time, as usual. How does he do that?

  “We need to get some breathing space,” I say.

  “Follow me,” he says, turning directly into the bulk of the crowd.

  “Follow you wher—”

  “Urgent message for the President!” Roc shouts, his voice booming even over the dull roar of the masses. Dozens of heads turn toward us and I look at the ground, trying to keep the brim of my hat over the majority of my face. And then Roc’s moving forward, a path opening miraculously before him, like a zipper being unzipped.

  Luckily, I have enough sense to stay with him as he moves through the temporary gateway, because the crowd continues to press all around me, as if it cannot possibly leave such a gap open for more than a few seconds. Every five or six steps Roc repeats his message, sometimes prefacing it with “Make way, make way! On order from the president!” He really is amazing sometimes.

  On Roc’s efforts alone, we swiftly travel another block and across the street, where Roc ducks into a dark alley between the buildings. At most, a shred of light from the streetlamps manages to penetrate the narrow passage, but it’s just as well considering our need for stealth and privacy. There won’t be anyone walking in a place where it’s dark. Not in this, the city of everlasting light.

  In the alley, we pass a shadowy Dumpster overflowing with trash. Evidently the garbage overload is affecting even the capital. I gawk at the garbage because it seems so out of place here, in a city that’s always been perfect and pristine, because my father wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s almost like a chink in a seemingly impenetrable suit of armor—the first sign that maybe, just maybe, the dark knight within isn’t so invincible after all.

  As I’m taking hope from the thought, the garbage seems to rise up, levitating in the air, forming arms and legs and a head, like it’s becoming a trash man or woman, just to prove that even rubbish in the Sun Realm is powerful beyond the waste in the Lower Realms. The garbage creature speaks: “Tristan Nailin,” it says.

  We’re already on high alert, so when the voice shatters the eerie silence in the alleyway, we all visibly jump, instinctively drawing our weapons from where they’re hidden beneath our sun-dweller-worthy clothing. I don’t know if a being constructed of trash can be destroyed by a sword alone, or whether it will simply laugh from the mouth of a tin can as it reconstructs itself with old broom handles, food cartons, and rusty bike frames, but I’m sure as hell going to try.

  “Whoa! Hold on there. No need for those,” the thing says. “We’re on your side.”

  As if by magic, another two garbage creatures form up on either side of the original.

  “What the hell is going on?” Trevor says. “I’ve never been to the Sun Realm, so maybe this is a normal, everyday occurrence, but come on!”

  “It’s not normal,” Roc says.

  “Who are you?” I say, squinting through the gloom.

  “Oh, right, the disguises,” the voice says. A garbage-soiled arm lifts a smelly hand to a waste-covered head, and then lifts the scalp of the thing, as if it’s removing its skin from the top. Like a cloak, the garbage peels away, revealing a young man of perhaps twenty with dark hair, dark skin, and even darker eyes standing before us.

  “My name is Bren,” the guy says. “My companions are Linus and Sinew.” The two garbage people on either side of Bren do a similar trash-cloak-removing trick to show who they truly are: a girl of no more than sixteen with a light-brown complexion and hair so dark it blends in with the night, barely visible in a bob knotted tightly on the top of her smallish head; and an even younger boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen, with wide light-brown eyes that stand out against his darker skin.

  “Bren?” Roc says. I glance at my friend, who wears an expression I’ve rarely seen on his face: one of surprise, of shock, an incredulous expression that shows he both knows these people and knows them well.

  “Roc—is that you?” Bren says, using the overflowing garbage as a ramp to step off of the Dumpster.

  “Yeah, it’s me. What are you doing in a Dumpster?”

  “Why are you wearing the garb of a sun dweller?” Bren asks. “I thought you joined the Resistance.”

  The two guys stand in front of each other, just staring for a long second, before grabbing each other in a firm, back-slapping embrace.

  “How are you, man?” Roc says.

  “Been better. Never thought I’d see you again. You remember my brother Linus and sister Sinew, right?” The two no-longer-garbage people raise a hand in greeting, but don’t move from their roost on the edge of the Dumpster.

  “Of course,” Roc says. “Good to see the whole family is spending quality time together playing in the garbage.”

  Bren laughs. “It’s a disguise.”

  “Who are you hiding from?” Adele says, bringing everyone’s eyes to her.

  “This is Adele,” Roc says. “And my girlfr—I mean, her friend Tawni.” He’s suddenly very interested in something on his shoe.

  “I know who they are,” Bren says. “We’ve followed their journey quite closely, although always with a grain of salt—you know how much propaganda is on the news these days.”

  “And I’m Trevor,” Trevor says, interjecting himself into the conversation. “This is all interesting, but we don’t really have time for chitchat. Can we cut to the chase here?”

  Bren laughs again. “Your other friend is right, Roc. We mustn’t tarry; too much is at stake on this night of frivolity. Let me explain as succinctly as possible. I am also a servant, like Roc once was, working for a key sun dweller vice president who I will not name. My brother and sister also work in the same household, as aides to the master’s children.”

  I raise my eyebrows, a question on my lips.

  “I met Bren at a party many years ago hosted by your father,” Roc says to me, reading my mind, as usual. He doesn’t mention that my father is his father, too. “There’s a sort of society of sun dweller servants. We meet in secret when we’re running errands for our masters, share news and information, that sort of thing. You could say we’re linked by time and circumstance.”

  “What you did not know, Roc,” Bren says, his eyes narrowing, “is that I was part of a faction within the servant society, one with a singular goal of helping to overthrow the government and bringing balance back to the Tri-Realms.” There’s a tremor in his voice as he speaks, not one of fear, but of pride, as if his passion for the cause is trying to get out in any way it can. The coldness of gooseflesh rises up on my arms.

  “But why…?” Roc says, a question in his tone and in his eyes. He doesn’t finish the question, but Bren seems to discern the rest.

  “I didn’t know to whom your or Tristan’s loyalties were,” Bren says. “You were on a shortlist of potential new inductees into our group, but then you ran away from the Sun Realm. That’s when we knew for sure you were one of us.”

  “So you’re hiding in the trash as part of your work for this clandestine radical group?” Adele guesses.

  “Oh no, we are not radicals,” Bren says. “We are revolutionaries. But yes, we seek to escape this place to join the Resistance below. If others are fighting, then we too shall fight. This Dumpster is a meeting
place. The others shall join us soon. Then we make our way to the Moon Realm.”

  Bren has a funny way of speaking, almost proper-sounding, not like Adele’s sister, Elsey, who tends to overdramatize things, but very formal and serious, as if the fate of the world depends on his diction and word choice. But regardless of the manner in which he conveys his message, his words are pure. This is a guy who wants to do the right thing. He’s one of us.

  “Can you help us?” I ask, not really realizing the trust I’m putting in the servant until the words escape my lips.

  “We cannot linger here much longer, as even now I fear the war is slipping away below us. But we will do what we can.”

  “All we need is safe passage to the palace—I mean, the presidential complex. Can you show us the best way?”

  “Ah, now that is truly a simple request. We’ll have you there within the hour. But then we must be off to join the forces below, for we will not sit idly by while the fate of the world rests on a knife’s edge.”

  What Bren doesn’t know is that we’re the ones holding the knife.

  Chapter NineteenAdele

  I’m glad to be off the streets again.

  Meeting Bren will either be the greatest stroke of luck to grace our mission thus far, or the coincidence that leads to our demise. Being a servant, he is one I’d certainly trust over anyone else up here. In any case, we’ve decided to follow him through the underground sewer system below the city, a dark, dank, and somber place that reminds me more of home than anything I’ve seen in the Sun Realm thus far.

  We walk along the edge of the cylindrical concrete shaft that we find ourselves in, avoiding getting our feet wet sloshing through the thin stream of water that runs down the center. Tawni’s heels are off again, this time for good. Before discarding them in the water, I overheard her say, “I’ll miss you, pretty shoes,” which I don’t understand at all, and probably never will.