The Moon Dwellers (7 page)

At least
those a
re the publ
ished figures.
In reality
,
I kno
w that closer to ninety
-five percent of all energy goes
to th
e sun dwellers, allowing us
to live like kings
.
Not that we a
re—there are no kings in a democracy.

“Your father requests
your presence i
mmediately,” Roc says as we walk
.

“Of course he does,” I say
.
To any othe
r servant, I would probably sound
smug
, self-righteous, like I am pleased my father has
requested my audience.
But not to Roc.
He
know
s I’m
being
sarcastic.
Roc is
m
ore than just a servant.
He’s
my friend—may
be my only one.
In public I am
force
d to treat him as I would
an
y servant, because to my father
anything else would be
a sign of weakness.

But in private we a
re the best of friends.
We
’ve
grown up together, after all.
Before he reached th
e age of accountability—which i
s only eight years old—we played every day together.
He loved my mothe
r, too.
Sadly, Roc’s mother
died givi
ng birth to him.
But my mom
adopted him, treated
him just as well as my brother and I.
Kissing him goodnight, taking him on our adventures, giving him presents on the
day of the Sun Festival: Roc wa
s like a third son to my mom…and
is
like a second brother to me.

Roc grins
.
“We’ll try to get out of there fast, sir.
If we have time afterwards, can I have another lesson?”

I grin
back.
A few months
prior
, Roc
requested that I teach him to fight.
Swords, guns, battleaxes, kn
ives—that sort o
f thing.
I gladly agreed.
It was
just another chance
to disobey my father.
He does
n’t want Roc and
me
to be friends, budd
ies.
The serv
ant/
master code i
s
far
too important to
him.
Even Roc’s father, who i
s my
f
ather’s chief servant
and has known my father for years, i
sn’t a friend to him
.

“Absolutely,” I
say
.
“We’ll keep focusing on swords—because they’re useful and awesome.”

We reach
the palace gardens.
C
reating and mainta
ining the underground gardens costs
more
in a month
than the entire po
pulation of star dwellers earn
s
in a year.
It isn’t
possible without the s
un-like technology that was
invented decades earlier.
Not that my father cares
.
Ignoring
the insane cost, the gardens a
re extraordinary.
Pillars of perf
ectly pruned green hedges frame
the entrance.
Hundreds of vari
eties of flora and fauna a
re meticulously maintained by the garden staff, providing splashes of color throughout the garden’s boundaries.
The gardens look weird inside the massive cavern.

I always loved the palace gardens growing up.
Running around in bare feet on the soft, lush lawns, playing hide-and-go-seek around the bushes and trees, Roc and I pretending we were palace guards as we charged through the gardens, fighting off marauders with our invisible swords.
Now, like most
things in the Sun Realm, I hate
the
gardens.
For me the gardens a
re just another reminder of how unfair the
world that my father governs is.
The world that I am
meant to inherit, being the eldest son.

We walk
quickly through
the gardens, like we always do
.

Along the
way we pass
many people.
Most
of them a
re serva
nts, who acknowledge
me wi
th a slight bow, which I ignore
—another one of my father’s re
quirements.
But some of them a
re palace guests—sun dwellers.
Those
a
re
the ones I most like
to look at.
Because they look
ridiculous.
The current fashion i
s to wear bright c
olors, and the sun dwellers take
it to the extreme, wearing gaudy red and pink tunics with blue and green polka dots.
But com
pared to the hats, the tunics are tame.
There a
re hats of all shapes and sizes, some glittering, some sparkling, some shimmering with diamonds and pearls, or stuck with feathers like a bird.
All worth laughin
g at.
Time and time again I’
m
forc
e
d to hide my amusement as I’
m
greeted by men, women, boys, girls, all seeking “jus
t a moment of your time.”
It’
s a
wonder we ever mak
e it to the palace.

By the time we do, the sun i
s waning in the
we
st.
Or at least that’s how some of the books my mom used to read
to
me describe
d
the sun
set.
In the Sun Realm, the artificial sun is
just slowly dimmed, to simulate nightfall.

In reality, it’s always night
in the underworld.

My father i
s waiting, keeping court in his throne room—I mean
meeting
room.
He’d have to be a king to get a throne.

“You’re late,” he says
.

He’
s wearing a
spotless
white tunic with
shimmering
gold embroidery along the seams.
His gray goatee i
s groomed to perfection, no doubt trimmed twice already that day by a servant.
Probably by one of the tw
o pretty little things that stan
d by his side now, ready for his next command.
They’
re both blonde and deeply tanned, wearing tight
,
black
tunics cut off well above
the knees.
The V-necks reveal just how mature they are.
It’
s all part of my father’s dress code for the female servants.
Roc’s father excepted, all of my fathe
r’s personal servants are women—as beautiful as they are sleazy.
I suspect they do
a lot more for
the P
resident than just iron his tunics and trim
h
is beard.
Suspicions like that
mak
e me unable to think of him as my father
sometimes
.

“I was delayed by some
journalists who wanted some quot
es for tomorrow’s paper,” I say
flatly
.

“Sir,” my father says
simply.

I sigh.
“Sir,” I repeat
.
Another one of my
father
’s pet peeves.

“And everything else went according to schedule?” he s
ays
.

“Yes.
N
ext year’s contracts with the Moon Realm have been finalized under the
terms you stipulated…”
I pause,
o
ne beat, two.
My father drums
his fingers on his wooden arm
rest impatiently.
“Sir,” I say
finally,
enjoying my little game.
I do
n’t dare to openly rebe
l against my father, but I can
still have a bit of fun.

“Good,” my father says
.
“
Is t
hat everything?”

I nod
.

Without wait
ing for his permission, I turn on my heel and march off, with Roc in tow.
I hear
my father say, “You ma
y go,” as I walk away.
It’s
his lame attempt to show
off
his power in front of his Barbie Doll servants.

When we a
re out o
f eyesight and earshot, Roc says
, “You really shouldn’t push him like that.”

I sigh.
“I know, I know.”
Roc i
s usually right.
Flashing a grin, I say
, “But it was fun, wasn’t it?”

“It’s the
little things in life,” Roc says
, sm
iling.
His dark features look even darker as shadows fa
ll upon the palace.

“Like swords?” I say
.

“Yes!” Roc says
, a bit too loudly.
A passing servan
t woman glares
at him.
Mrs. Templeton
—the palace housekeeper.
She’
s a nasty one.

We mak
e our way through the business end of the palace and into the res
idential quarters.
The
change in
décor i
s like night
and day.
The government side i
s stark and off
icial-looking, everything clean-
cut, free of clutter, and stamped with the symbol of the Sun Realm—a fiery red and orange sun with
wavy heat lines wafting to the sides
.
The living quarters still feel
a bit too posh and sterile, but
at least
there are
a few personal touc
hes, all of which
my mother
added
before she disappeared.

There i
s the family portrait on the entry room table.
Normally
,
I wouldn’t have any interest in a fam
ily photo.
But this one I love, because it presents
our family in such an honest light.
My brother and I look
bored, restless, with tousled hair
and cheeky grins.
My mother has
her arm around the both of us, pulling us into her side.
About a
foot away, on her other side, i
s my father, not looking
happy at all.
The cameraman
snapped the photo
a split-second before he
wa
s able to turn on his friendly-P
resident face, as I like to call it.
You know, the one that’s so obvio
usly fake it’s painful to watch.
The kin
d of face you just want to slap.

After that photo was taken, my father’s face
went
all red and he looked like he was ready to slug t
he photographer.
But my mom
managed to soo
the him, rubbing her hand on his
back and telling him how she liked the photo, how she wanted to keep it.
That was back when she still had some power over him.

Somehow she
convinced him to display the photo prominently in our home.
After she disappeared, I expected him to
take it down.
But either he’
d grown to
like it (which I doubt) or he’
d forgotten it was even there (m
ore likely).
And so it remains
, mak
ing me smile every time I pass
by
.