The Sun Dwellers (27 page)

“We’re not parking here,” Roc says.

“Oh. Is it safe to get up yet?”

“Not yet,” he says. One beat, two. “Okay, you’re fine now.”

I pop my head up, glance back as the last of the servants walk away, far behind us. We’ve passed the parked cars, too, which look funny all next to each other, brightly colored and gleaming under the moonlight.

“I’ve never seen this many cars in my life,” I murmur. “Are they gas-powered or electric?” Where I’m from they’re all gas-powered, which creates a heavy layer of smog and grime over everything. We have a removal and filtration system for all the fumes, but it’s not very effective. Many people believe the low life expectancies in the Moon Realm are directly related to the high level of pollution.

“Hybrid,” Roc replies, glancing at me. “Part electric, part gas-powered.”

I frown. “Then why isn’t there any pollution in the city? Even with hybrids there should be pollution—both from the cars and from all the plants generating the electricity to charge the batteries. You have at least ten times the number of cars that we have.”

“The air in the city is completely sucked out and refreshed every half hour using filtered air from above,” Roc says matter-of-factly. “Also, our electricity mostly comes from solar panels—technology that harnesses the power of the sun—on the earth’s surface. It’s all part of the agreement with the earth dwellers.”

I don’t say anything because I’m afraid of what I might say. Silently I fume. It’s another example of the blatant disregard for equality by the people meant to protect us. There’s so much energy at our fingertips, and yet, the Lower Realms are kept in the dark. I take deep breaths, get control of myself. After all, inequality is the reason we’re on this mission.

Ahead of us the parking lot ends, but there’s another road shooting out the drive.

“This’ll take us to the loading docks,” Roc explains. “All deliveries would have been completed yesterday, leaving today free for celebration. We’ll be able to sneak in that way.”

I’m completely at the mercy of Roc’s best judgment on how to get in the palace, which I don’t necessarily mind—he hasn’t steered me wrong yet, and he has spent his entire life here.

The new road curves to the right sharply, but Roc takes it like a driving pro, without breaking speed. As we approach a medium-sized building with a large horizontally slatted gray rolling door, he says, “Can’t get too close to it,” and then stops well short of the structure, turns off the engine, and kills the headlights.

“Why not?”

“Automatic door. If we pull up close to it, it’ll open, which makes a noise that plenty of people will hear. They’ll be all over us like sun dweller skanks on Tristan when he’s shirtless.” When he sees my expression, he clamps a hand over his mouth, says something through his fingers that sounds like, “By Idn’t bean dat.”

“Oh, you meant it all right,” I say. “Did he
like
having girls always trying to get to him?” I ask.

Roc uses his other hand to peel his fingers off his lips. “He hated it. Was always complaining about it. Called them sun sluts.”

“Good,” I say. “Let’s go.”

We exit our stolen vehicle, transfer the guy in the back to the trunk, lock the car, and throw the keys in the bushes for good measure. I want to go touch the leaves on the bushes, but there’s no time. I follow Roc to the side of the loading garage, where there’s a steel door with no keyhole and a combination lock beneath the handle. The code: 0475.

“The year of the Uprising?” I say.

“No. The year the Uprising was squashed,” Roc says, pulling open the door.

“Same thing.”

“Not to the President.”

The garage is pitch-black so Roc flicks on a flashlight. The inside is an empty shell, clearly built for utility rather than beauty. At one end is the automatic door and the other end a large platform with four sets of smaller steel doors, presumably for bringing deliveries into the palace. To the far right is an even smaller door, used for entering and exiting. Roc heads straight for the smallest door.

Standing in front of it, Roc says, “This is it. This door will take us inside the government side of the palace. Tristan, Trevor, and Tawni should be working their way from the opposite end. We’ll meet in the approximate center, where the president’s meeting room is located.”

“The throne room?”

“That’s what we like to call it. There will undoubtedly be guards in this area tonight, it’s only a question of how many and where we’ll run into them, so be alert.”

“Be careful,” I say unnecessarily.

Roc nods and pushes open the door.

Tristan

T
he guards—giant men, with heads that, standing upright, would nearly touch the ceiling—are hunched over, looking down, reading something. A memo, or orders, or something else urgent; whatever it is, it has their undivided attention, so they don’t see us yet, which gives us half a chance. But only if we act quickly.

I risk a quick glance back to get Trevor, but he’s already aware of the danger, already by my side, with Tawni ushered behind him. Slowly, we slip our swords from their scabbards, pressing our backs against the walls on either side of the upstairs hallway. I notice Trevor’s movements are very similar to mine—fluid, designed to blend in and not attract the attention of the distracted guards. It’s good to have a partner as well-trained as he is.

The guards continue toward us, lost in whatever message is on the paper. When they’re less than three feet from us, the one on Trevor’s side glances up, probably sensing the staircase is near, but looks straight between us, flinches, perhaps realizing something is wrong in his peripheral vision.

Trevor and I move as if we’re arms controlled by the same creature, simultaneously and with force.

But these aren’t inexperienced or helpless guardsmen. These are professional warriors, men I probably have scars from training with in my youth. And did I mention they’re big? Like the size of some of the smaller trees in the palace gardens.

The men transition from reading to fighting in an instant, dropping the papers and raising their swords before my blade has arced halfway toward them.

Clang!
Our swords meet theirs in unison, and we’re both thrown back by the sheer power behind their blocks. I hazard a glance at Trevor, our eyes meeting for a second as we both realize: we’re overmatched. Don’t take that as me being pessimistic, just realistic, and that doesn’t mean I think we’re going to lose, because I don’t. It just means we’re going to have to be a little more creative with our approach to the fight, especially if we want to end it quickly, which we do, for fear that more guards will arrive.

When I charge, I count on the fact that Trevor is an experienced fighter, that he’ll read my mind, that his brain has calculated the odds of various strategies and come up with the same idea as mine.

Not exactly.

Just before my slashing sword connects with the guard’s sword on my side, I cut to the right, planning on switching enemies, hoping Trevor does the same. I collide with Trevor, who’s thrown his sword and launched himself like a torpedo at his original opponent. Crunching him into the wall, I feel a tremor as my bones rattle from the impact. As we land, his elbow accidentally (at least I think it’s accidental) cracks me in the chin, snapping my top and bottom teeth against each other.

Luckily, both of our minds continue to work overtime, still plotting and planning and trying to predict our opponent’s next move. In this case, it’s obvious. I mean, what would I do if the two people I was fighting crashed into each other and fell to the ground? Attack hard and fast while they’re in a weak position.

Before we’ve come to a complete stop I raise my sword above us. Just in time, too, because my original enemy is slashing down with his sword.
Clang!
The blow is so powerful that it sends shivers through my hand and wrist and I almost drop my sword. But somehow I manage to hang on, barely keeping the guard’s blade from piercing my chest.

Trevor, now sword-less, is not idle. As soon as I block the attempted kill stroke, he uses my shoulder as a wedge to launch himself off of, catapulting himself onto the back of the behemoth guardsman. Using every ounce of my strength, I push back with my sword, forcing my attacker away from me. It works, and the guy stumbles back, tripping on the fallen form of his comrade, who has Trevor’s sword sticking out of his chest. Perhaps Trevor’s plan was better than mine after all.

I leap to my feet in one swift kicking motion, move in on the final enemy, who’s on his back, bucking and writhing as if trying to escape some invisible enemy. Where’s Trevor? Other than the two downed guards—one dead, the other twitching as if in mortal pain—the hallway is empty.

Then I see them: two hands wrapped around the guard’s neck from behind, splotched red and white, squeezing. The guard is still squirming, his hands pulling at the fingers, but less forcefully now. His white face is tinged with blue, his eyes bugging out.

I’m half in awe, half disgusted by the scene, as the guy flops two or three more times before going still. I stand frozen, expecting the dead body to rear up, possessed supernaturally for a final battle, but it remains as motionless as one of the Nailin statues in the gardens.

“Get ’im offa me,” Trevor grunts beneath two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and flesh.

I’m tempted to leave him underneath, but he did just singlehandedly take out two impressively large men in a most creative fashion, so I bend down and push the body off him, as requested.

He’s smiling, an unusual—and if I’m being honest, sort of freaky—reaction to having just killed. “Oh, hi,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were still here. It felt like I had to do all the work myself. And it was almost as if I was fighting three people.” Maybe having Trevor on my team isn’t so good after all.

“He would have taken both our heads when we were on the ground if I didn’t block his sword,” I say.

“He was your responsibility. And we wouldn’t have been on the ground if you hadn’t decided to tackle me.” Trevor’s still smiling.

“Never mind,” I mutter, determined not to let him get under my skin. “Good work,” I add grudgingly.

“What do we do with them?” Tawni asks, rejoining us.

“Leave ’em,” Trevor says. “We don’t have time to be hiding bodies.”

“Bad idea,” I say. “We don’t know how long finding my father will take. If the alarm is raised we’re screwed.”

“Fine,” Trevor grunts, grabbing one of the guy’s feet, the one with half a sword sticking out of his chest, and starts dragging him down the hall. “You get the other one.”

I clutch the choked guard’s legs and start pulling.
Ugh.
It’s like pulling a truck full of raw iron ore. Tawni brings the discarded swords and follows us through the first door we come to—one of the hundred or so visitor apartments that are used for important guests. Luckily, it’s unlocked, but I’m pretty sure Trevor wouldn’t have hesitated to kick it in if required.

It’s also recently been occupied, probably one of the many guests attending tonight’s party, with clothes strewn haphazardly on the bed—here a shimmering green gown, there a tiny black dress; a handful of white lacy things that I can only guess as to the purpose. The aftermath of a very picky woman trying to decide what to wear to the ball.

We dump the bodies at the foot of the bed, hide their swords in the bathtub behind the curtain: a big surprise for the woman when she comes back to her room. Tawni’s reading the guards’ papers when we ready ourselves to leave. She’s frowning.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s a trap,” she says, her face awash with terror. “He knows we’re coming.”

Adele

T
he long employees’ corridor in front of us is empty. As Roc expected, no one is using the loading dock tonight. We’re more likely to run into action as we approach the throne room.

For just a moment I wonder about how Tristan and Tawni and Trevor are doing—there’s a twinge of fear in my stomach—but then I shake it off, refocus on the task at hand.

We pass through a set of double doors, moving out of the sterile white of the maintenance hallway and into the plush luxury of the government offices. The floor is shiny, black marble, likely recently hand-polished by one of the many servants. The walls are stone, but not like the stone walls I’m used to. Into these walls are chiseled ornate designs, almost mystical. There’s a ball of fire—the real sun maybe?—raining down chariots of fire on the earth below. The chariots are driven by men with horns, wielding multi-pronged whips. Clearly it’s a war scene, but a war against whom? On the earth, directly in the path of the falling chariots, are people with spears and knives, looking wholly inadequate to face off against the fire chariots and whip-wielding, horned invaders. In fact, many of the people are fleeing, their weapons dropped during their hasty retreat.

The entire scene is a blur as we stride past, and I’m left wondering as to the significance and purpose—if any—of the artist’s stonework.

We also pass a number of beautiful, dark brown wooden doors. Behind some of them there are voices, heavy discussions that likely involve power, money, and the pursuit of both. As we rush on my heart beats faster and faster in my chest as my expectation of being discovered rises with each step.