The Star Dwellers (20 page)

Tawni slides in next to me, sitting close,
our shoulders touching like the street beggars. We each open a pack
and retrieve some wafers. I know they won’t satisfy my hunger, but
at least they might stop the gnawing pain in my gut.

“You know, the star dweller army probably
provides better food to the soldiers,” Tawni says.

“I expect so.”

“Maybe we can have dinner there.”

“Sounds good.”

We munch for a few minutes in silence, each
lost in our own thoughts. Just as I’m finishing my third wafer, a
sound breaks the silence. A cry, soft and pitiful, carries down the
alley. It sounds weak and childish, like a baby or a small kid.
Peering into the gloom, I see a boy, no more than five, his face
red and tear-stained. I watch, slow to action due to my surprise,
as the kid staggers forward and then collapses face first, barely
cushioning his fall with his hands.

I spring to my feet and race to him,
expecting the worst, like maybe he’s contracted a fast-killing
disease, or been shot by some thug on the streets. Any number of
atrocities seem like a viable option in this place. I hear the
soles of Tawni’s shoes clapping the stone behind me as she
follows.

When we get within a few steps of the boy, he
miraculously springs to his feet, whoops, and then darts away, his
small legs churning like the propellers on the boats in subchapter
19 of the Moon Realm.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” I shout, but the boy
just keeps on running. I start to chase him, but stop when Tawni
yells something behind me. Whirling around, I see her running back
toward our packs. Past her a group of kids are whooping and
hollering and—

—stealing our stuff.

“Get away from that!” I yell, following in
Tawni’s wake. I realize where the kids came from when they leap on
the wall, climbing it like spiders. Except it’s not the wall
they’re climbing; rather, the rope ladders strung along the
stonework.

M
y palms are sweaty
as I stare at the screen. I don’t know why, but I’m nervous. I can
tell Roc is nervous too, because he’s biting his nails. My anger at
my father is gone, and I’m just worried about what he’s going to
say, what he’s going to threaten. Like he might tell me to come
home or he’ll bomb the crap out of the other Realms. The only thing
is: I am home. Or at least more home than I was up there, in the
Sun Realm.

I feel sweat trickle from my armpits and
beneath my knees and I try to calm my nerves by gripping the table.
This is one time I need to be strong. In this instance, being angry
is better than being timid. I can’t stop thinking about the press
announcement. I don’t care that he lied about me, but why did he
have to bring my mom into this? Why now? Righteous anger rises in
my chest once more because I know the answer: to get to me. Because
he knows that dragging my mother’s name through the mud once more
will piss me off. And for some reason, he thinks that will help him
in some way.

I’m staring at the table, but I feel the
screen change from black to white. When I turn to look, Roc’s
already gazing at it, waiting. His now-bitten fingernails have
moved to his lap and it almost looks like he has to pee.

And then the nightmare is made real, as my
father’s face appears on the screen. Away from the crowds and the
press, he looks much older, age lines surrounding his eyes and
mouth. Gray flecks pepper his short, light-blond hair. He’s getting
old, having turned forty-two earlier in the year. Less than two
decades away from the average life expectancy for males in the Moon
Realm. But he’s not in the Moon Realm. Sun dweller males get to
live for another six to ten years, averaging sixty-five years old
on their deathbeds.

His eyes are cold, black, as if the blue
pigment I inherited from him has been darkened by a life of sins.
His lips curl into a smile, but it’s not real.

“Ah, Tristan, my son. It’s been a while. How
are you?” My heart pounds rapidly and my breaths become ragged, but
I clench my face so I don’t show my discomfort.

“As you well know, I’m in my bed, recovering
from the ordeal of trying to find my mother,” I say, not trying to
hide my sarcasm.

He laughs, deep and throaty and repugnant,
and hot blood churns through my veins. I’m a coward because of it.
If we weren’t separated by miles of rock and cables and video
screens, I’m not sure it would be anger I’d feel.

“I see your little adventure has added to
your charming wit. And I also see that you brought your servant
boy,
just
like I asked you to.” His voice is even, as if
we’re just having a friendly father/son conversation, but beneath
the natural timbre of his voice I can feel an icy cold. Even when
he knows he can’t touch me, he’s trying to show his control over
me—that his words are commands, to be obeyed by any who hear them,
especially his own son.

“He’s not a servant anymore,” I growl. “And
he has a name: Roc.”

“Tsk, tsk, Tristan. Have I taught you
nothing? Getting emotionally attached to the help? I warned you
about that.”

“I learned nothing from you. Except what not
to do,” I say, forcing the grit out of my voice. Anger is okay, but
I need to control it. Need to show him he can’t get to me—no matter
what.

“Anyway, enough chitchat. I can already see
you don’t want to do this the easy way. I requested this conference
because I want to right some past wrongs. Make amends, so to speak.
No, no, don’t worry, this is not a deathbed thing—I’m far from my
grave.” There’s a smile on his face, like he thinks he’s funny. I
just stare at him. “I requested that Roc attend because he is
involved. More than involved, really. He
is
the topic. Well,
technically you both are.”

My mind spins as I wonder what Roc could
possibly have to do with anything. I don’t mean that in a bad way;
it’s just that my father has never had anything to do with Roc’s
life, other than to order him around like a slave. Out of the
corner of my eye I can see Roc’s hands clenched under the table,
his knuckles white. I can tell he wants to look at me, but is
afraid to remove his gaze from my father, as if by doing so, he’ll
open himself up to an attack.

“Keep Roc out of this,” I say, surprised at
how venomous I sound.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I feel bad about
lying, and I just want to make it right.” His words are remorseful,
but his tone is not. He’s not even trying to make his lie
believable. “I did something a long time ago, something I’ve kept
hidden.”

“Out with it!” I demand, slamming my fist on
the table.

Even my father, the master politician, is
unable to hide his shock at my outburst. His face flinches
slightly, like he has a tic, but then returns to his normal,
unreadable, placid expression. “Patience, my son.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But it’s true. Surely not even you can deny
that. Flesh and blood and DNA.”

“You are my father only biologically,” I say.
“In love, I never had a father.”

“Spin it any way you want,
son
, it is
of no concern to me. But back to why we’re here. The truth. Do you
remember the day Roc was born?” He shakes his head and chuckles.
“Of course not, how silly of me. You were only a day old, as pink
and helpless as a piglet. Well, it was a good day. A day in which I
buried a secret that could have destroyed me—all of us. The Nailin
tradition.”

My head is throbbing, perhaps from the anger
pumping through my skin, my bones, my blood. Without thinking, I
raise a hand to my forehead and start to massage it furiously.
There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. It’s fear. Despite the
strength of my anger, I can’t drive away the fear of what he’s
about to tell us. I know it will be bad—with my father it always
is.

“I couldn’t let something so insignificant
destroy something so grand, now could I? No, of course not. So I
did what I had to do. As soon as the child was delivered, I ordered
the doctors from the room. I wanted it to be personal, because the
situation was personal. At least to me it was. So I used my own
bare hands, curled them around her throat—I could feel her pulse
thrumming under my fingertips—squeezed hard, hard, harder, harder,
until the pulse weakened, died. She died.”

“What?” For a moment I’m confused. Clearly my
father murdered someone, but who? Who were we talking about? It all
comes rushing back.
Do you remember the day Roc was born?
I
gasp, as the horror of his tale splits me in half, spilling my
heart and my guts and everything out of my body. At least that’s
how it feels.
Roc’s mom didn’t die giving birth to him. She was
murdered by my father.
I’m shaking and the tears are coming and
they’re like a train and I can’t stop them. But I must. I must, for
Roc’s sake. I need to be there for him now, like never before. And
I can’t be a whimpering mess in a ball on the floor if I want to be
there for him. I let the anger take over, surging through me until
I
am
the anger. My face is contorted with rage, but I don’t
care. “She didn’t
die
; you murdered her.”

“Call it what you want, but the end result is
the same.”

To my right, Roc’s body is slack, all fear
and nervousness and emotion gone from it. His head is slumped into
his chest, his eyes are closed, his arms are loose at his sides. He
almost looks dead. Inside, I think he is.

I face my father again and I realize that if
he was here in person, and not just an image on a screen, that I’d
kill him. For the first time in my life, the idea of killing
appeals to me.

He’s grinning, which should make me even
angrier, but for some reason it doesn’t, and I pause, trying to
figure something out.
Something’s not right
, I tell myself.
Of course not, you idiot, nothing’s right
, I reply to
myself.
No, not that. It’s something else. He’s not done
yet.
Even as I think the words, I know they’re true. My
father’s grin widens as he sees the recognition in my eyes. My head
churns through all his grotesque words, trying to latch onto the
right ones:

Roc…is involved…he
is
the
topic...you both are.

Do you remember the day Roc was born?

You were only a day old, as pink and
helpless as a piglet.

…
it was a good day…I buried a secret that
could have destroyed me—all of us. The Nailin tradition.

Nooooo!
My mind has put it all
together, but I scream again and again in my head, refusing to
believe it.
No! No! No!

But he won’t let it go—has to keep talking,
like he always does. “I only gave the bitch what she asked for. I
would think that would make you happy, considering who you keep
company with. She wanted me—who was I to deny her? It’s not my
fault she got pregnant, although I was quite tickled when she gave
birth the day after your mother.”

His words are like darts, each one
penetrating deeper into my heart. I don’t know how to speak at a
normal volume anymore. Can only scream. “You liar! You raped her!
You killed her! I hate you!”

Roc abruptly stands, his motions jerky as he
steps past the chair, shoving it under the table. His eyes are
moist as he staggers from the room, slamming the door behind
him.

“I. Hate. You.” I spit the words out, one at
a time, like I’m trying to eject a foul taste in my mouth. The
image of my father smiling blinks over and over in my mind as I
stride through the door and away from him.

* * *

I lie in bed staring at the rough ceiling
without really seeing it. I want to be out looking for Roc, but
they won’t let me. Ben said I would just get lost too, and then
they’d have to find us both. Ben’s lying on the bed next to me, his
injured leg elevated on a couple of pillows. He doesn’t try to talk
to me, for which I am glad. He said I could take as long as I need
before we talk about what happened with my father. But from the way
Roc charged out of the room and the way I was shaking with anger
and sadness when I emerged, I think he knows it’s something
bad.

Roc is my half-brother. Of that I am certain.
Although my father is not one to be truthful very often, in this
case the truth served his purpose so he went with it. From the
smile on his face at our reaction, I know in this case he relished
the truth. And who knows how many other half-brothers I have out
there. Knowing my father, there could be dozens. Dozens of
motherless children. Dozens of dead mothers.

I close my eyes. All these years…

I’ve considered Roc to be my brother all
these years, but in a loyalty sense. In a friendship sense. But it
seems our bond is built of more than just shared experience. We
share a father. I feel bad for Roc right away, because now he’s
stuck with my father, which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, and
certainly not on my best friend. We share the Devil as our
father.

The question that I can’t seem to answer,
though, is why did he reveal this to us? Why to me? Why to Roc? My
worst fears were that he would threaten me through those I care
about, but that didn’t happen. There is seemingly no purpose to
what he did. It’s as if he did it just to…spite me, to break my
spirit. Perhaps he thinks it will drive a wedge between Roc and me,
thus creating chaos in my life. Maybe he believes in his sick and
twisted mind that I’ll give up on the cause, go into hiding
somewhere, or even return to him. He’s so arrogant he might just
think that.

But I won’t. He’s only succeeded in lighting
a fire in my belly, one that won’t be extinguished until he’s
destroyed and his power usurped.

I open my eyes and roll my head to the right,
where I can see Ben, who looks like he’s sleeping. On the floor is
a piece of paper. Roc’s drawing. The side with the portrait of
Tawni is face down, leaving the drawing of the woman who is half
his mom and half my mom revealed. Not just my mom—his stepmom.