by Greg Dragon
At the bottom is another door, which the woman opens. As she enters, she says, “I’ve got three more.”
We poke our heads through the doorway, into a small cellar. It’s crowded. Not including us and the woman, there are eight others. Four candles identical to the one carried by the woman are positioned in each corner of the space, providing spheres of light that overlap in the center.
“Make yourselves at home,” the woman says, before exiting back the way we came and closing the door behind her. We gingerly lower the old man to the floor, next to a couple of kids who are staring at us with wide eyes. They can’t be more than six years old.
“Thank you,” the man says, his voice cracking. His demeanor has changed slightly, as if he’s been softened by our persistent willingness to go out of our way to help him. I wonder what made him so hard in the first place. Perhaps it was just the cruelties of life—the faltering economy, old age, living in a cave—but I sense it was something more specific. He wears a wedding band but hasn’t once mentioned his wife, out of concern or interest or anything. I guess that he’s lost her already.
Roc sits down next to the man and I follow suit. My back to the rock wall, I take in my surroundings. The place is only about fifteen by fifteen feet. It reminds me of a small wine cellar—perhaps that’s what it is, or used to be. No wine adorns its walls anymore. I’d be surprised if anyone can afford wine in this subchapter these days. Regardless of what it used to be, or could’ve been, it will serve well as a bomb shelter now, deep under the ground-level rock surface.
In addition to the two kids, there are three women and three men. Two of them hold hands and are younger, sitting next to the kids, probably their parents. The young wife looks fearful, maybe not for her own life but surely for her children’s; her eyes dart about nervously, always returning to her young ones. The other four are older, gray around the edges, with serious faces that would fit in perfectly at a funeral. Well, at least three of them look that way. The fourth—a short, frail man with an impressive mop of gray hair—is wearing the biggest grin you could imagine. I wonder if my mother’s threat from my childhood—that if you make a face for too long it will get stuck like that—has cursed this man. Perhaps in the throes of an extremely merry moment, his face was frozen in the biggest smile of his life.
“Crazy weather we’re having out there,” he says, somehow managing to keep his smile unchanged while he speaks. He’s looking right at me so I feel obliged to answer.
“I think we’re under attack, sir,” I say, assuming his comment is made from senility, rather than lighthearted humor.
“Silly child, I know that, just trying to get a little laughter going in this damn dismal place.”
I don’t particularly like him referring to me as a child, but I’m also not going to start a fight with a crazy, big-smiled old man, not after our experience in the pizzeria. Instead I say, “Oh. Ha ha.” My laugh comes out even faker than it is. And it’s pretty fake.
“Geez, it’s like trying to get a nun to laugh in a bar in here,” the guy says, still smiling. “How’d you end up lugging around ol’ Frankie here?”
The hotel deskman suddenly has a name.
“Don’t call me that, Chet. It’s Frank—I’ve told you a million times,” Frankie says.
“We were staying at his hotel,” Roc offers.
“Hotel? Ha! That dump’s more like a dormitory.”
Frankie glares at him, burning a hole through him with his eyes.
“I didn’t think it was that bad,” I say, trying to get on Frankie’s good side. Instead, he just shifts his glare to me. I guess the whole saving his life thing has worn off.
“So you’re travelers then? What part of the Moon Realm are ya from?” the funny guy asks.
Probably remembering how well I’d handled a similar question in the pizzeria, Roc answers this time. “Subchapter six,” he says. “We’re just here for the night. So many of your people have come to work in our subchapter that jobs are scarce, so we thought we’d have a look around at what you have to offer.”
I hold my breath, hoping he’ll buy the lie.
“Ha!” the man exclaims, so loudly he makes me jump slightly. “You’re Sun Dwellers if I’m an eternal optimist.” I freeze, waiting for the trouble to start. As if he senses my discomfort, he adds, “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us. We won’t give you any trouble. Name’s Chip, ol’ Frankie was just messin’ with me earlier when he called me Chet. He’s always purposely gettin’ my name wrong, callin’ me all kinds of things like Chaz, Chris, and a whole lot of other names I can’t repeat in public. What did your mothers call you, anyway?”
“I’m Tristan,” I blurt out. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Roc glances nervously at me. He probably thinks I’ve lost my mind.
“I’m Roc,” he adds quickly.
“Tristy and Rocky…” the man says, moving his tongue in a circle as if he is rolling the names around in his mouth to see how they taste. “They’re good names, boys.”
I should just let it go. But I don’t. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If anything, my mother should have named me Damn Fool. “It’s not Tristy, it’s Tristan,” I say sternly. “And we’re not boys.”
The man chuckles, high and mirthfully. “You’ve been hangin’ out with ol’ buzzkill over here for too long,” Chip says, motioning to Frankie. “But as you wish, Tristan the Man.”
“You can still call me Rocky,” Roc offers unhelpfully.
I think we’re out of the woods—clumsily dodging a bullet. Wrong again.
“Heyyy, wait a minute,” Chip says. I know exactly what the perplexed tone in his voice means. He has another question, probably a lot more questions. Because he’s probably figured something out. “You say your name’s Tristan, eh?”
“Uh, yeah, but you can call me Tristy if you really want to,” I say, backtracking, hoping it will help, even though I know it won’t.
“You’ve got a very famous name, young man,” he says. “What’s your last name?”
I go blank. Not a single real Sun Dweller last name pops into my head. All I can think of is: “Goop…and…no…I…mean…Troop.”
“Tristan Goopandnoimeantroop? What kind of name is that?” Chip says, laughing again.
“Sorry, I’m just a little lightheaded from all the smoke out on the street,” I say, shaking my head and trying to appear confused—not that it’s that hard for me. “My last name is spelled T-R-O-O-P-E, and is pronounced True-Pay. It’s French.” I’m feeling clever all of a sudden.
“Tristan Troop-ay, huh? Are you lyin’ to me again, young man?”
I have the perfect comeback for that. “No,” I say, not even convincing myself.
I get the feeling he may have worked it out already, and is just enjoying himself, watching me flounder in my scummy old pond of lies. I cringe, waiting for him to seal the deal.
“So you’re not Tristan Nailin, the son of President Nailin, the boy wonder who will one day become the most powerful man in the Tri-Realms? You’re not that Tristan?” Chip asks, his smile growing even wider—impossibly wide—spreading from ear to ear.
“I think you have me confused with—”
“Ha! We’ve got a real treat tonight, everyone. Tristan Nailin himself, in the flesh! Well, bless my lucky stars!”
My instinct—especially after our encounter in the pizza shop—is to be ready to fight, but the man’s tone sounds light, friendly even. Either he’s a very good actor or he has nothing against me.
With unexpected swiftness, his tone changes. “Your father is a real piece of work, son,” he says in a low voice.
“And me?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“Eh, I think you’re all right, kid.” I’m so overjoyed by the fact that he doesn’t harbor any ill feelings toward me that I manage to ignore him calling me kid again. He continues: “I have a good sense about people, ya know? Just like I could tell you were lyin’ earlier, I can tell you have a good heart. I think maybe you could be the one
to make some positive change when you become president.”
“I’ll never be president,” I say honestly.
“For heaven’s sake, why not?”
I scan the room. The others in the cellar are listening to the exchange in silence. Their dark eyes feel like those of silent executioners. I hope it’s just my imagination.
I know I should stop the conversation now—for God’s sake, shut your big, fat mouth!—but I tell them anyway. “I’ve run away. We’ve run away.” I look at my interlocked fingers in my lap. “I don’t want anything to do with my father or the Sun Realm.” A whirl of energy spins through my stomach as I realize: That’s the first time I’ve said that and truly meant every word.
The guy with the smile winks at me. “You see? I told you I knew you were one of the good guys.”
I change the subject, cutting my losses. “So who do you think is behind the attack?” I ask. Despite his age, the guy does seem perceptive, and I really think he might have some valuable insights. Instead, Roc jumps in.
“I think your love for that girl is so strong that it causes explosions,” he says playfully.
“Roc, no,” I say, but it’s too late. The talker seems to enjoy clamping his mind around whatever topic is on the table.
“What girl?” he says, leaning forward.
I warn Roc off with my eyes. “Just a girl,” I say. “But I don’t even know her.”
“A girlfriend?” he guesses, ignoring my rebuttal.
“No, nothing like that. Just a girl,” I say, hoping that will end the conversation. But Roc isn’t ready to let it go. Good friend.
“Yeah, Tristy and his girlfriend just had their first date,” Roc says, smiling brightly. “They almost even spoke to each other this time.” I want to slug him, but I don’t think a spat of violence will win me any points with the Moon Dwellers.
“A Moon Dweller?” Chip asks, a gleam in his eyes.
I wait for Roc—who’s suddenly feeling talkative—to answer, but instead he puts his palm out to indicate it’s my turn. I wish there was a table I could kick him under.
“Yes, she’s a Moon Dweller,” I say. “I just need to ask her a few questions.”
“Well, why aren’t you with her? ’Specially at a time like this.”
It’s a good question. Now more than ever I want to find her, to figure out why every time I see her I feel ready to pass out. I don’t think the guards recaptured her, but I can’t be sure, as I was a bit busy dodging flaming rubble at the time.
“I don’t know where she is,” I say, dropping my head.
“I might be able to help with that,” Chip says. “I’m somewhat of an amateur private investigator. Where’d you last see her?”
I know I’m approaching a dangerous level of truth, but I’ve told them so much already—hell, they know I’m Tristan, the Tristan—so I decide to just go for it. I need help, and if they can provide it, then I have to accept the risks. “Okay, look. Here’s the thing…” I tell them nearly everything. The sharp pain I felt the first time I saw her; our escape from the Sun Realm; how she was trying to escape from the Pen when the bombs starting blowing up all around us; and, finally, how she was gone when the smoke cleared, like a magician performing a famous disappearing act.
When I finish, I sit back and wait for a response. I’m not sure what to expect.
Everyone starts talking at once, asking questions, making comments. The young mother exclaims, “That’s so romantic!” while her husband says definitively, “You’ve got to go after her.” The older couple, who’ve previously been silent, speak in succession: “I bet they went north,” one says, while the other says, “No, south, she must’ve gone south!” Even the kids get involved. The little girl says, “Tristan, do you think you’re meant to find her?” The boy is more interested in the action than the romance. “Were you scared when the guards pointed their guns at her?” he asks.
When the chatter dies down somewhat, I hear a voice from my right, from the door, which is now slightly ajar. The woman who invited us in is standing there—I didn’t even notice her arrival and have no idea how much she’s heard. “She’ll be laying low for a few days with her friends, until things die down. You might only have one chance to find her, because as soon as she makes a move, she’ll run as fast and as far as she can.” The woman sounds wise beyond her years, like she’s experienced everything that life has to offer. “What do you reckon, Chip? She’ll head for the northeastern suburbs most likely; at least at first, don’t you think?”
I realize that Chip is the only one who hasn’t yet reacted to my story, and I turn to him, hoping he’ll have a revelation, something that will give me some kind of direction.
“Yeah, northeastern suburbs because they extend the furthest from the commercial district, where most of the bombs were hittin’. She won’t stay in one place long, though, and eventually she’ll have to find a way out of the subchapter. Can’t use conventional means, as she don’t have travel approval, unless she can find a forger in a hurry, although I don’t know how she could pay for it. I reckon she’ll try one of the mining tunnels on the subchapter border, up near where she’s probably already hiding.”
The woman adds, “You’ll also want to find out more stuff about who she’s with, the other two escaped prisoners, because it might change what they do.”
I scan the room, looking each person in the eyes, and waiting for any more advice. When silence ensues, I say, “Thanks. Thanks for everything.”
Somehow I know they’ll keep my secrets. I don’t know why they would. I guess maybe they’re just good people. Real good people. The kind you call friend; the kind you stand up for; the kind you fight for. I don’t know what’s happening above me, but I vow in my heart to help these people, somehow, some way, some day. To do whatever it takes to give them a better life.
We leave, Roc and I. Explosions continue to rock the night around us, but they’re less intense and less frequent. The streets are empty, everyone having taken shelter.
We run back to the Pen, where the fence is still destroyed, and the courtyard still strewn with guards’ bodies. No one is around, probably hunkering down until the bombing ends. We stop at the point along the fence line where I last saw the girl. Consulting the map, we identify the best route to take out of the city.
“This way,” Roc says, taking the lead as navigator.
I follow him, hoping and praying that we’re doing the right thing.
Chapter Thirteen
Adele
Sometimes I wonder whether people are inherently good or inherently bad. I’d like to think good, or even neutral, like we can all make the choice for ourselves.
After a quiet morning in the servants’ quarters at Tawni’s parents’ house, we move inside once we’re sure it’s safe. Although we don’t plan to linger much longer, we’re careful to cover our tracks so no one knows we’ve been here. The longer it takes them to find our trail, the colder it will become and the safer we’ll be.
The whole morning I think about Elsey. She’ll be our first rescue, because she’s closest and I know exactly where she is. It’s all I can do to stop myself from running off alone to save her. I need to be patient. One thing at a time.
Tawni’s house is even more impressive than I’d imagined based on my glimpse in the dark. Standing three stories tall, it has more than a dozen rooms. The floors are marble and swirled with illustrious blue and green patterns. Winding staircases rise majestically in at least three places, providing access to the upper floors. The entire place is spotless, a testament to the quality of the servants that work here.
We’ve gotten lucky; it’s one of the servants’ two days off. And, as Tawni expected, no one from the Pen has shown up yet.
We turn on the telly, hoping to find out what’s happening in subchapter 14. There are two major news stories being run over and over again. The headline story is about the bombing. We were all wrong about the culprits. I’m shocked, to be honest.
; While we’ve all been hating the Sun Realm—for its unfair policies and outrageous taxes—the Star Realm has been hating us. The whole time I’ve been thinking the Star Dwellers are like a younger sibling to us, different but on the same side—but they’ve taken a different approach. The video from Vice President Meriweather, the leader of the Star Realm, explains things.
He blames us for the oppression by the Sun Realm, says we let them go too far, that we set a precedent that forces the Star Realm to comply with unfair contractual terms. He says our leaders are spineless, gutless—which I tend to agree with—and that until we remove them from power and agree to join their rebellion, they’ll continue to bomb the living sheetrock out of us. Earlier, I assumed subchapter 14 was the first target, and it was, but it was only one of many first targets. Overnight a dozen subchapters were bombed, although none as heavily as ours.
Tawni and Cole are as shocked as I am. “If we kill each other, then where will we be?” Cole says, exasperated. He refuses to sit down while watching the broadcast, and now he’s pacing, throwing his hands around as he rants.
“It will only make the Sun Realm more powerful,” Tawni agrees.
“But the Star Dwellers are right, in a way,” I say. When I see the looks on my friends’ faces, I explain, “I don’t mean in bombing us—not that. Just about our leaders. They’re just puppets for President Nailin, right? He dictates the terms, and they agree to them in exchange for a bit of money on the side.”
“Yeah, true,” Cole says, “but why not just come and talk to us about it, rather than chucking bombs around?”
“Maybe they did,” I say. “Maybe we ignored them.”
I think Cole might blow up, lose his temper again—he’s certainly in one of those moods—but he doesn’t. He chews on the side of his mouth like he’s chewing on my words, trying to understand them, and then says, “If that’s true then they should be removed from power. As far as I’m concerned, there should be a rebellion, but not against us, against the Sun Dwellers, by both us and the Star Dwellers.”
