Moongazer

by Mari Mancusi

  "People of Terra," I begin, my voice quavering. "It has been a long time. I know you've been through some terrible ordeals while I've been away. And I know the government's asked you to believe some horrible things about my departure. But I stand here before you tonight, dedicated to our cause and asking you to renew your faith as well. I understand how easy it can be to settle into your daily existence. To give up and figure it's not worth fighting the good fight. But we all know, deep in our hearts, it is worth it. Every bead of sweat, every drop of blood, every salty tear shed-it all brings us one step closer to our ultimate goal. To our ... freedom!"

  The crowd leaps to its feet as one, cheering and clapping and whooping. I've got to admit, I'm pretty impressed myself. I have no idea where that speech came from. But I'm glad it touched them somehow. I steal a glance at Ruth, who's standing at the side of the stage. She's beaming and clapping. A sense of pride swells inside me. I've not let them down.

  But suddenly the cheers are replaced by screams of terror. I look back at the audience and see armed men in silver-plated body armor bursting through the auditorium doors, throwing smoke bombs into the crowd, assaulting the Dark Siders where they stand.

  "Stay where you are!" a voice from a megaphone commands. "You are all under arrest for violation of the Terra Code 1-55435-4. Unauthorized political gatherings are not permitted under the law."

  Panic ensues, the blinded crowd trying unsuccessfully to dissipate before being knocked down by the gas fumes. It's chaos-running, trampling, screaming, begging. I watch the scene in horror from the stage, my hands fingering my sword belt, wondering if drawing a weapon I don't know how to use will do any good. I'm so lost in the riot before me that at first I don't feel the hand at my arm, frantically trying to pull me offstage. Then something registers and I whirl around, ready to meet friend or foe head-on.

  I realize it's Dawn who's grabbed me, his face ashen and his eyes wide.

  "They're looking for you," he says, his terror clear. "We have to get out of here. Now!" He thrusts a gas mask-like contraption at me and yanks another over his own face.

  I don't need a second invitation; I pull the mask over my head.

  Dawn leaps off the stage and I follow. My boot heel snaps as it hits the concrete floor and I'm forced to kick off my footwear and leave it behind. We weave into the panicked mob, pushing and shoving our way through the crush, heading for the exit. There's an overwhelming smell of sweat and fear, and the smoke from the bombs makes it nearly impossible to see where we're going. Someone steps on my bare foot, causing me to stumble, falling into the mob and onto the ground. For a moment I fear I'll be trampled to death, but Dawn grabs my hand and yanks me to my feet just in time. Then, without releasing his hold, he drags me down the side of the stage and into the orchestra pit.

  We come to a small door cut into the stage, maybe once used as a discreet exit for musicians and their conductor. Tonight, it's a lifesaving portal. Dawn presses his thumb against a sensor and it swings open. We have to duck to make it through the small entrance. As soon as we're on the other side, Dawn pulls the door shut and the LCD lights turn red, letting us know it's been locked.

  "Come on," Dawn says. "We can get out this way."

  "What about the others?" I ask, looking back at the door.

  "There's nothing we can do. It's more important to get you out."

  "But we can't just leave them!"

  "Mariah-I mean ... Skye," Dawn cries. "What are you going to do if you go back out there? Take on the entire regiment yourself? You're good with that sword, but not that good."

  He's right, of course, though it breaks my heart to think of the Dark Siders out there, being brutally punished for their devotion to me-er, Mariah.

  "What if I gave myself up?" I asked. "I mean, if they're looking for me."

  Dawn shakes his head furiously. "No. That won't help. And you'll be doing your people a disservice. They need you. They need to believe in you."

  I give up. After all, it's not like I want to go turn myself in and face torture and death at the hands of crazed totalitarian government officials. And Dawn's right; there's nothing I can do at this moment to save those people out there. Better to live and fight another day.

  "Besides," Dawn adds, "they'll be fine. We get gassed by soldiers on a regular basis these days. It's not pleasant, but they won't suffer any permanent damage."

  Knowing this makes me feel a bit better as I follow Dawn down the dark passageway, past dusty trombones and tubas and stage props. At the end of the room there's a door. Dawn presses his ear to it before activating the thumb sensor.

  "I can't tell for sure if anyone's out there," he says. "We'll just have to risk it."

  He pushes open the door and looks from side to side. Then he motions for me. I step out into the hallway.

  "We need to get to my bike," he says. "It's parked outside."

  We rush down the corridor, the background of screams sound-tracking our journey. The smell of smoke and fear hangs heavy in the air. We turn a corner and stop short as we see our exit is blocked. Two burly guards, dressed in silver uniforms and wearing swords, are standing in front of the door. They look up and see us, and motion to one another.

  "Shit," Dawn mutters. "We're going to have to fight."

  He's on them before they can pull out their communication devices and report. With strength and speed I've never seen in a man, Dawn grabs the two of them by their necks and effortlessly lifts them a foot off the ground. They claw and kick and choke, but can't break free from his grasp of steel. His eyes are wild as he bashes their heads into one another, skulls colliding with a sickening crack. He releases them, their bodies crumpling to the ground. They're not getting up. Maybe ever.

  I stare in disbelief at sweet, gentle Dawn, who has suddenly transformed into the Incredible Hulk right before my eyes. My thoughts fly back to the fight we had in the alleyway over the knife. He must not have been even trying.

  "How did you ... ?" I start to ask, amazed at his superpowers. But I can't finish my question. Someone grabs me from behind, yanking me by my hair. I whirl, drawing my sword on instinct as I turn and thrusting out my arm. The blade slices through my attacker's middle as if he were made of butter, meeting resistance only at his vertebrae, before completing its journey to the other side. The man's face freezes in a death gaze as his top half slides off his bottom and onto the floor. Blood spurts out like a waterfall, soaking me.

  I sway, dizzy and light-headed, my eyes blurred with panic and fear. But I have no time to be sick or afraid. No time to hesitate. A second guard rises behind him, brandishing his own sword. I raise my weapon, hoping and praying I can either channel Mariah or pick up some sword skills on the fly.

  "They've jammed the door," Dawn calls out to me, his voice panicked. "Try to fend him off while I decode it."

  My katana flashes under the artificial light, almost as if it's shining with an inner glow. My opponent raises his own sword, smiling maniacally. He charges forward, swinging his blade in sweeping slashes-upper left to lower right, upper right to lower left. I stand still, my blade shimmering in the silence, judging his distance, then parrying just at the moment his sword's parallel to mine. The blades clash, and we strain against one another until his slides free. I leap back just in time to avoid his second swing, a calculated slash designed to slice me in half. My heart pounds in my chest as I steady my hands and prepare for round two.

  He charges again, and I surprise myself with another easy block. Something deep inside me, emerging from some hidden recess in my brain, seems to be giving my hands effective instruction. Have my sword-fighting skills come from a few too many rounds of Mortal Kombat in my youth? Or am I really finding some inner Mariah?

  I shake my head. Time to ponder the why later. Right now I have a sword fight to win. I check my opponent. Up close, I realize he's a bit overweight and drowning in sweat. His initial attacks have worn him out. Time to make my move.

  I parry his weak attempt at a blow,
then whirl and stab my sword forward, catching him off balance and off guard. He bellows in agony as the blade slips between his ribs, pinning him to the pillar. Blood soaks his silver uniform.

  This time I can't bear it. My stomach heaves and I bend over to be sick. I can feel Dawn behind me, pulling me away. "The door's open. We have to go now!" he cries, yanking my sword out of my victim. It makes a disturbing sound as it's pulled free-a sound I can confidently say I've never heard before. Dawn tosses the blood-soaked weapon to me and I can feel my stomach lurch again. So much blood. So much death. All at my own hands.

  But better them than me.

  Dawn opens the door and we run down the corridor, jump on his hover bike, and zoom off down the black tunnels as fast as the vehicle can take us. We're really flying. I hold on for dear life, my heart slamming against my rib cage, my whole body shaking. The wind whips through my hair, through my jacket, freezing me to the bone.

  We ride for what seems like hours. I can't help but keep turning around, paranoid that we're still being followed by sword-wielding maniacs. Unwanted visions of the invasion still parade through my mind. Both sides are locked in an endless war over a girl who isn't even remotely sure she's who they think she is.

  But am I Mariah? Am I really? The thought nags and tears at me, unwilling to be ignored. Skye never picked up a sword in her life. I just fought like the bride in Kill Bill. How is that possible? I'd love to say I just got lucky, but I know that's not the case. I knew what I was doing. Somehow, some way, I was completely in control of my actions. How is that possible?

  An uneasy chill shivers through me. It's not from the bike ride this time. Who am I? It should be an easy question. So, how come I'm starting to doubt the most obvious answer?

  Dawn finally slows the bike and it settles back to the ground. He jumps off, then helps me do the same. My muscles are aching, my knees shake, my face is on fire. I look around, assessing my surroundings. We seem to be in the center of a Dark Sider community of some sort, but it appears deserted. At first I have the troubling thought that perhaps this is because its inhabitants are all lying unconscious back in the arena, but then I notice the crumbling buildings are covered in cobwebs. Either it's another illusion, like the tower, or this place hasn't been lived in for a while.

  Dawn walks up to a metal door of a tall tenement building and yanks it open. We step into the ruined lobby. There are scuffed, dirty linoleum floors, a crumbling stone concierge desk at the far end. Paintings that depict children romping in the sunshine hang haphazardly from the wall, and a row of elevators stand to the right. It's similar to the lobby of the Eclipsers' secret hideout, but it's even more depressing, if that's possible.

  "What's this?" I ask.

  Dawn doesn't answer. He simply motions for me to do the thumb thing to call the elevator. A moment later, the door slides silently open. We step inside and Dawn pushes the button for the tenth floor. We shoot upward, the elevator car creaking and shaking from side to side as we rise.

  Dawn and I both stare straight ahead, as if mesmerized by the numbers rising to meet our destined floor. The tension between us is thick. We don't touch, but at the same time, I can feel him just inches away. As I breathe in, his scent fills my nostrils-musky, dark, intense. I squeeze my hands into fists, trying to resist the overwhelming urge to give in to the near-escape adrenaline thrumming through my veins and throw myself into his arms.

  The doors slide silently open, revealing a decrepit hallway with peeling wallpaper, pulled-up carpet, and trash strewn everywhere. Graffiti promises the apocalypse is near. Um, hasn't it already come and gone?

  I follow Dawn down the musty corridor, careful not to step in puddles. Must be plumbing problems here on top of everything else. He certainly picked the most remote building in Terra to hide out in. Which, I guess, is probably best, given the circumstances.

  He comes to a door and motions for my magic thumb again. I press it against the sensor, amazed that even here it works as a magical key. The door slides open and we step inside.

  I gasp in surprise when I see the cozy apartment that greets me. If I hadn't made the journey myself I wouldn't have believed this well-decorated space was part of the building we just wandered through. There's a plush, cozy couch in one corner, a flat-panel TV hanging on the adjacent wall. A full-service kitchen leads off from the living room, complete with breakfast bar. On the walls are numerous framed photos of people. I take a closer look. Some I recognize as Eclipsers. Others are unfamiliar. But it's the center picture that grabs my attention.

  It's of me, cuddled in Dawn's arms, both of us smiling happily into the camera. Dawn's face is so radiant, so unguarded and joyful. It breaks my heart. I glance over at him, standing awkwardly by the door, as if not sure to make himself at home. His fingers twitch by his side. His face is white and his eyes dart everywhere but to me.

  Poor Dawn. Poor, poor Dawn.

  Something inside me breaks-a thin filament keeping me together, keeping me hanging on to life on Earth and all the decencies that go with it. Blame it on the senseless attack and our narrow escape. Or perhaps it's just some lingering memory deep inside my subconscious.

  Whatever. I just have to have him. Here. Now. Mine.

  I cross the room in seconds, throwing myself into his arms. Smashing my face against his-seeking, finding his lips, his mouth. I slide my fingers from his cheeks to his hair, digging into the long smooth strands while I wrestle to open his mouth.

  He's still for a second, as if in shock; then he returns my kiss, opening to me, allowing me inside, sharing all that he has to give without hesitation, without remorse. He slams me against the wall, pinning my arms above me with one hand. His other restlessly explores, palm flat and dragging up my body, curving around my hip, across my stomach, rounding over my breasts. I moan as his fingers explore each, cupping them, stroking them, as if he's a blind man trying to get a lifetime of images with his hands. All the while his mouth claims mine. I shudder and let out a small squeak. The ache inside me is nearly unbearable. I twist my calf around his thigh, pressing myself into him, desperate to feel him against me, to find relief in flesh. He's rock hard, radiating a pulsating burn between his legs that I can feel even through the rough fabric of his trousers. He wants me. Perhaps as badly as I want him.

  He releases my hands and uses both of his to rip apart my shirt, still crusty with dried blood. The tough material tears in his grasp as if it's made of tissue paper. Suddenly I'm open, exposed, my breasts bared, my nipples puckered and standing at attention, not shy in their desire to be touched. He catches one in his hands, then dips his head to suckle it, wrapping his full lips around me and biting down softly. I cry out. It's pain, it's pleasure, all mixed together in a delicious agonizing soup of sensations. I try to grind against him, but he pulls away, just far enough to torture me and keep me from finding relief. He slides his other hand behind me, down my back, cupping my buttocks and squeezing lightly. Sweat drips down my forehead as I fight for some control. But he's not giving an inch. I claw at his back, digging my nails into his shoulders so deep I'm afraid I'll draw blood. Would he mind if I did?

  He pulls at my pants, lowering them to mid thigh. Yanking aside my panties, he slips his hand into me. He skims two fingers between my sex, slowly stroking up and down, up and down, all the while still sucking hard on my breast. It's like being struck by lightning, and my vision's fast going spotty under his touch. But he's not done. Not by a long shot. He reaches down with his other hand and slides two fingers deep inside me, pumping in a slow, torturous rhythm. Unable to take it anymore, I rock against his hand, desperately trying to satisfy my body's demand for release. My skin is flushed and burning. I'm sweating and writhing and panting as he plunges fingers into me again and again with an increasing pace that I struggle to match with my hips.

  I don't last long. A moment later a piercing pleasure slams into my brain, releasing endorphins to ignite every inch of my body. My ears burn, my toes tingle, my fingers go numb. I gas
p, breathless and barely conscious as I ride out the tidal wave of sensations, the agony exploding into the purest ecstasy. The pain transforming into unadulterated pleasure.

  "Dawn," I moan. "Oh, Dawn..."

  There's no response. I open my eyes, aware of a sudden emptiness, a sudden vacancy. It's then that I realize Dawn has retreated to the other side of the room. What the hell? Here I am, half naked, fully exposed, leaning against the wall, panting, sweating, barely able to form a thought in my head, and he's gone off to read a magazine?

  "But, wait. . " I start, not sure what's going on. Why did he walk away? Fear and confusion shoot through me as I fight to regain my senses and figure out what happened. Did I do something? Say something? "Don't you want to ... ? I mean ... ?" I trail off, not sure what to say, not sure what to do.

  I can see his hands trembling, belying his nonchalance. He does want me. Wants to continue where he left off. But something's stopping him. What?

  "Dawn, talk to me," I beg, my voice croaky and concerned.

  "This isn't right," he says at last. "We shouldn't do this. After all, as you've told me a hundred times, you're not Mariah. You're not the girl I love."

  An aching emptiness floods me as I pull up my pants and wrap my jacket over my ripped shirt. I feel disgusted at myself. For allowing this to happen. For succumbing to my desire for a man I don't even know. One who's in love with someone else.

  I look over at Dawn, at the pain and frustration clear on his face. He squeezes his hands into fists, staring so intensely at the ground I'm half afraid it will burst into flames under his gaze. He's so passionate. So unguarded and desperate in his love for this girl who betrayed him. A part of me suddenly wishes I really was Mariah. To be the recipient of such intense, powerful devotion from this beautiful man. To be loved with all of someone's heart, soul, and mind. I've never had that. My relationships have always been more about sex and fun and hanging out than any kind of deep connection. Shallow. Brief. Meaningless.