The Moon Dwellers

  More structure was required.

  The first Nailin was elected to president in 126 PM. His name was Wilfred Nailin. He was my great-great (and a lot more greats) grandfather. At that point elections were still held regularly. Congress decided that given the state of America, elections should be held every five years instead of four, with the opportunity for reelection after the first term. But Wilfred wasn’t satisfied with ten years in power, so after his first reelection he pushed a law through Congress that allowed for a third presidential term, but only if supported by the people, of course. There were rumors of ballot-rigging. After his second reelection, he passed a law that allowed him to remain in power indefinitely, assuming he obtained approval from Congress every five years. At the same time he passed a law that allowed Senators and Representatives to maintain their elected positions indefinitely, unless the President released them from service. It was a circular system, one where bribery and deep pockets ruled. Who you knew meant much more than what you knew.

  The people had lost their voice.

  That wasn’t the end of it.

  Wilfred’s next move was to secure his family’s future. He had one son, Edward Nailin. With the full support of Congress, Wilfred managed to pass a law that allowed positions to be handed down from generation to generation within each family, so long as Congress and the President unanimously approved it. Public elections continued to be held, but they were fixed so that no new contenders could infiltrate the inner circle of the government, which was holding all the cards.

  It worked for a while. In fact, people seemed to like the more rigid and consistent structure. Soon, however, the gap started to widen between the classes. The wealthy began to take more and more liberties, much to the middle and lower classes’ frustration. The complaints started pouring in from those who were being disadvantaged, but they were largely ignored. It got to the point where fights were breaking out in the streets. “Elected” officials couldn’t walk down the street without being accosted by the poor and depressed. Something had to be done!

  The Tri-Realms were created from 215 PM to 255 PM. First the Moon Realm was excavated, using the advancements in mining technology to create massive caverns deep beneath the original caverns, to build more cities in. Natural caves were used as a starting point, widened and heightened to the extensive size required to house thousands of people. Heavy beams of rock were used to support the caverns’ roofs, which were prone to cave-ins. Middle and lower class citizens were used to do the work, having been convinced by large salaries and the opportunity to “advance our civilization for the good of humankind.”

  Once the caverns were complete, the workers were forced to take their families to live in them. Then the work on the Star Realm began, digging even deeper below the earth’s surface. Fewer resources were allocated to excavating the Star Realm, and therefore, the caverns were smaller, more confined, more densely populated. The poorest citizens were sent to live in the deepest caverns.

  Each of the Tri-Realms was split up into eight chapters, and each chapter into between two and six subchapters depending on its size, each of which was populated by between ten and a hundred thousand people.

  Over time, taxes were increased annually for the moon and star dwellers, as those living in the Moon and Star Realms were called, until the Sun Realm was receiving significant resources to improve their own caverns. Life was good for the sun dwellers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t for anyone else.

  The U.S. Constitution was legally abolished in 302 PM.

  A Nailin has been in power for more than 350 years.

  My father told my brother and me the whole story when we turned twelve. I still remember the smug smile on his face when he finished. He is proud of what Wilfred accomplished.

  I am disgusted by it. Sometimes I think about it, and it makes me sick. Like now.

  Roc and I have been walking for over an hour, making our way to a spot on the map. We hope it will give us a shot at finding her.

  It is the middle of the night. We are tired. Neither of us speaks as we force ourselves to put one foot in front of the other, time and time again, trudging onwards.

  Through the first part of the suburbs, people are out of their houses, wearing sleeping tunics or just boxer shorts, watching the fireworks in the distance, speaking in hushed voices. They are so transfixed by the scene before them that they barely pay us any attention. We are just a couple of wandering nomads.

  After a while we see fewer and fewer people, as the explosions dull to a distant rumble, not loud enough to wake the sleeping. We march on, passing through a ritzy neighborhood—at least by moon dweller standards—with bigger houses and well-kept streets. Whoever lives in this neighborhood has done something to please my father, that’s for sure.

  We transition into a lonely slum, littered with garbage in the streets and cracked sidewalks. It is a bit scary, to be honest. Even when I visit the Star Realm, I stay in the finest they have to offer, not really seeing the true living conditions. Without speaking, Roc and I pick up the pace, moving swiftly through the slums.

  We pass a lonely orphanage, named The Forgotten Kids. True, but a bit pessimistic, especially for the kids. It is weird to think how different my own childhood was. In a way, I was forgotten, too. Growing up, I was always the last of my father’s priorities. He always had something very important to attend to. I guess no matter what conditions you live in, you always have complaints—your bar is just set at a different height.

  We make it through the slums without event. The map shows at least twenty miles of sparsely populated terrain. Within it is a network of caves called the Lonely Caverns. But we are far too tired to attempt it tonight. We find a couple of large boulders and seek shelter behind them, rolling out our bedrolls and hoping for sleep.

  I doze fitfully, having alternating nightmares of explosions rocking the night, and sweet dreams of the girl’s face, her hand reaching out to me, her lips seeking mine.

  I awake to find Roc sitting up, studying the map.

  “Morning,” he says, noticing my movement in his peripheral vision.

  I notice that he doesn’t add good to the beginning of his greeting. I guess compared to our normal breakfast routine—Roc bringing me fine meats and fruits in bed, and then me sharing it all with him—there isn’t much good about this morning. All we have to eat are dried fruits and nuts, and a few blocks of thick wafers, which we managed to steal from the army storehouse before we left. And the change from our soft palace beds—ugh. Splinters of pain shoot through my back, the consequence of the dozens of sharp rocks beneath my bedroll. I shrug it off and focus on the positive.

  “Good morning,” I reply cheerfully. For, despite our modest breakfast and sleeping situation, I am ecstatic. In fact, I have never been happier. For the first time in my life I’ve woken up without the weight of my father on my shoulders. And I am doing something I want to do. I know it is selfish, but my whole life I’ve been doing whatever my father asks of me, and I desperately need a chance to live my own life. Even if it is only for…well, only for…

  “A girl?” Roc says into his map.

  My head snaps up from our pack, where I’m rummaging for food. How does he do that? I think. How does he always seem to know exactly what I’m thinking? “Huh?” I say, trying to hide my amazement.

  “Are we seriously risking our lives all for a girl? One who you’ve never met?”

  Roc’s tone sounds angry. “I’m sorry, Roc. I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but—”

  “No, it’s fine, Tristan,” Roc says, finally making eye contact with me. “I volunteered, remember? I’m just a little tense, that’s all—not used to all this dangerous stuff. If you feel something for her, then she’s worth it. I just wish she’d stop and let us catch her.” He grins and the tension melts away, but I’m not sure if the discussion is really resolved.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Think of it as part of your training. A very real part of your training. How about we practice w
ith the real swords for a while? It might make you more confident.”

  “Sure.”

  For the next hour I show him the subtleties of using a real sword. By the end, he seems more confident, performing the various maneuvers with ease. It’s just the basics, but it’s a start.

  “What time is it?” I ask suddenly when there is a break in the action.

  I don’t bother to look at my watch. Usually Roc is responsible for dragging me to anywhere I need to be.

  Roc says, “Early afternoon. Why?”

  “We should get moving,” I say, worried that we have tarried in our hideaway for too long.

  “First we need to find out more about our quarry,” Roc says. “Remember Chip’s and Anna’s advice?”

  “Who’s Anna?” I ask.

  “The lady who led us down to that cellar. Well, I don’t really know her name—she never told us—but I thought she was deserving of a name anyway, so we don’t forget her.”

  Funny Roc. But he is right, of course. We have no idea where she might be headed—we are just guessing at this point.

  “Okay, let’s move along the edge of the caverns. Maybe there will be a shop or something where we can find a telebox.”

  We travel for more than two hours before we come to a large cave mouth, near the southern entrance to the Lonely Caverns. Sure enough, there is a small stone shack with a stand, set up just outside the caves. A middle-aged man with a long, salt-and-pepper beard dozes in a hammock, an unlit pipe dangling from his chapped lips.

  All around him are piles of goods, some used, some new. All for sale. It seems a bit out of the way for a shop, but he has plenty of inventory, so I assume he gets some business. There is also a decent selection of preserved food, like dried meats and fruits.

  As we slalom through the piles of stuff, I hear the low murmur of a voice. I head toward the sound. At the very back of the yard, sitting on a table, is a small telebox. It is hard to believe the man has sufficient electricity to operate a telebox, and yet, there it is, broadcasting the news.

  I move closer, tilting my ear to pick up the low volume, when I hear a booming voice from behind. “What can I do for ya!?”

  I spin around to find the man standing close to us, much smaller than his voice suggests. He eyes us warily, as if he thinks we’re thieves looking to capitalize on his midday slumber.

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” I say. “We didn’t want to wake you. We were hoping to watch your telebox for a few minutes, if that’s okay? We’ve heard lots of rumors about the bombings, but we wanted to hear it for ourselves.”

  “Customers only,” he says, pointing to a sign above the telebox that I hadn’t noticed.

  “Of course, of course,” I say. “We have Nailins.” I motion to Roc, who promptly unzips the pack and extracts a handful of gold coins.

  The man’s eyes widen. “Who the hell are you?” he asks.

  “Customers,” I say simply. “Now, we’ll take ten packs of those dried meats and twenty of the fruit. What will that cost?”

  “Usually my customers just barter,” the man says, almost to himself, “but I guess that would be about five Nailins.”

  “Give him ten,” I instruct Roc. “For the exemplary service and use of the telebox.”

  I turn my attention back to the screen. I massage a knob to raise the volume, not worried about the man’s reaction. He will probably let me to do anything I want after the tip he just received.

  We’ve already missed the latest report on the bombing, which, not surprisingly, is the lead story. But a close second is the report on the guests who escaped from the Pen. First they show a guy, Cole something, large and dark-skinned. In his mug shot he appears angry, which isn’t that surprising considering he was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. The thought of the moon dweller girl traveling with him scares me. The report notes that the Cole character has no family left and therefore, he’ll probably try to get out of the subchapter.

  Next they show a girl named Tawni, with stark white hair and long, thin features. I recognize her immediately as the girl who was sitting next to the green-eyed girl the first time I saw her. Tawni is painted by the media as a good kid who made some bad choices, the latest being her choice of companions in the escape from the Pen. Her parents are prominent, wealthy figures in the subchapter 14 community. They show a photo of her house.

  “Oh my gosh,” Roc says, watching over my shoulder, “we passed right by her house last night!”

  I glance at him. “You think they might’ve been hiding out with her parents?”

  “Possibly,” Roc says.

  “We’ll check it out before we go into the caves.”

  Finally they show her. Her sad, green eyes suddenly fill the screen, and then the rest of her features follow as they pan out of the strange choice of close-up. I was right. Green eyes. I don’t know how I knew. But I did.

  Her face is flawless. Her lips are in a tight line, but behind them I can feel the warmth of a smile that hasn’t been used in a long time. Her cheeks are pale, but well-constructed. Her hair is radiant black, cascading down from her head and in front of her shoulders. Not only beautiful, she looks capable, a more important trait in the world she lives in.

  And she has a name! For the few days since I’d first seen her, she’s just been a face, an idea, but now the name Adele Rose shivers through my mind and body like the wings on a moth. Adele and Tristan. Tristan and Adele. Like the love-struck schoolboy that I am, our names flit through my head idiotically. I don’t even know her, I remind myself, trying to be sensible.

  She was in the Pen for treason, although the report doesn’t provide any details on what she had done specifically. Her parents are noted as traitors, too, but no information is given on their whereabouts, and one can only assume that they’ve been executed in accordance with the law. But I know differently. She has a sister, too, ten years old and living out her childhood in an orphanage in a rough part of town. A slum. The slums.

  Roc and I look at each other at the same time. “She’s headed for the orphanage,” I say as Roc nods vigorously. “Maybe already there and gone.”

  “You don’t know that. We have to check,” Roc says.

  “Let’s go.”

  Roc settles up with the shop owner and shoves the food into our pack. I am already halfway down the path, back the way we came. The lights above the majestic cavern are dimming, simulating the impending darker gray of dusk. I feel a warmth in my skin, although there is a chill in the air. I think it is the warmth of determination. Although I was determined before, now that I know her name, it is like she has finally become real to me, more than just a dream or a boyish fantasy.

  Roc catches up with me at a slight jog and I immediately match my pace to his. We make our way back to where we camped, hoping we’ll be able to find safe passage into the slums. The news story motivates us, and we make it back in half the time. Just as the large boulders we’d camped behind appear in the distance, we hear the scurry of frantic footsteps approaching from the path that leads to the slums.

  “Down!” I cry, not that either of us need to hear it. We are both already diving for the rocks, flattening ourselves and crawling behind the biggest stones we can find on the barren landscape.

  Just as we hide, a form bursts from behind a large boulder, racing along the track dangerously fast. He is big, man-size, dark. A second shape emerges, with white, flowing hair and long strides. Big, dark-skinned guy, white-haired girl: it doesn’t take a mining engineer to figure out who they are.

  I hold my breath, watching the entrance to the slums, hoping and praying she will emerge. No, not she—Adele. I am shocked when the third figure scrapes from the path, short legs pumping wildly, dark hair pulled into a ponytail. My first thought is: she’s much shorter in person. But then I realize my mistake when a fourth figure appears.

  There is no mistaking her this time. Athletic strides, fiercely determine expression, piercing green eyes—it is Adele. My hear
t flutters.

  My mind is a black hole; my heart is a stallion. The stallion in me wants to jump up, say, “I’m here, and I’d love to meet you!” but thankfully my mind’s black hole implodes upon itself, evaporating and returning clarity of thought.

  The orphanage. Her sister. A small girl who resembles Adele. It is clear what has happened. They’ve broken her out. And the way they are running—like the wolves of hell have been unchained behind them—means that someone is chasing them. Enforcers perhaps. Or orphanage security, if there even is such thing.

  Wrong and wrong.

  The Devil himself emerges behind her, running with purpose, perfectly balanced and efficiently functioning, like a machine. A very evil machine. I know that face, that form, all too well. Rivet. The best of my father’s special purpose unit. And the most evil. The most like my father. He is chasing my Adele. Or at least Adele; I still have to ask her about the my part.

  Behind him is the rest of his unit: half a dozen special forces personnel with big guns and sharp swords. Death on twelve feet.

  Adele and her friends look like they might turn toward us, but then they veer left, up a slight rock hill, heading for the mouth of one of the Lonely Caves.

  Rivet is gaining.

  Without thinking, I stand up and run hard, cutting the distance between them like a knife, willing my legs to fly. My hand draws my sword instinctually, using small movements to conserve strength. My heart is pounding, not from the urgency of the run, but because I know Adele is so close, and yet she might never know I am even here. I hear footsteps behind me and know right away that Roc has my back. He and I both know he’ll be no match for the highly trained soldiers, but he is my friend—a true friend—and he will go down fighting, whether to the grave or to a prison cell. Just like me.

  Rivet is like a heat-seeking missile: Such is the intensity in his venomous eyes and the way his stare is locked on Adele that he doesn’t even see me coming. One of his men shouts something as I approach, but he ignores it, thinking it is just a standard war cry, an adrenaline-induced whoop! of the chase.