The Star Dwellers (23 page)

“We haul them out, hide most of them away,
and use a small number to fund our operations. We’ve been dormant
for so long that we don’t need much to get by.”

It makes sense and explains a lot. How
they’re able to keep the electricity on. How they can feed the
Resistance members. Some of the technology, like teleboxes and
videoconferencing. Not typical luxuries for the Moon Realm. All
paid for by untaxed diamonds. “Awesome,” I say. Anything that helps
the Resistance and withholds a few Nailins in tax money from my
father is cool by me.

“Yeah, we were lucky to stumble upon it when
we were constructing our command center.”

Ben skirts around one of the edges and I
follow him. The edges are dry and so are my feet. As we move around
the mist, I feel a cooling sensation when the edge of the falls
glosses over my face, my arms. It feels wonderful and I wonder if
it’s what rain feels like.

Behind the mist the tunnel continues on,
leading us away from the Diamond Lake, and presumably toward the
Vice Presidents. Well, not all of the Vice Presidents, just the
nice ones—or at least I hope.

We reach a staircase, which cuts back on
itself every dozen steps or so. It’s man-made and in good
condition, evidently having not been used as much as some of the
other steps around the place, which are crumbling and in need of
repair. By the time we reach the top, my thighs and calves are
burning; I haven’t done a good stair workout lately.

There’s a heavy metal door blocking our path,
and Ben has to use a key to open it. It’s the first door I’ve seen
that requires a key—it must be guarding something important.

Before Ben pulls the door open, he looks at
me. His eyes are black in the dim lighting and seem to have a
deepness to them, as if they are fathomless, filled with wisdom and
experience. Despite the fact that he’s staring at me, I don’t feel
uncomfortable. “Tristan, this is your time to shine. I believe in
you, and I know Adele does too.”

At that, I smirk. “She barely knows me.”

“And yet she seems to trust you. She has
always had good judgment. Speak from your heart, and everything
else will work itself out.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.”

With that, he pulls open the heavy door,
which groans in protest. Inside, there’s a flurry of activity, in
utter contrast to the nervous silence when I met with the
Resistance leaders. Men and women move around a massive stone
table, chatting and drinking cups of coffee and tea. I recognize
all the faces, but I can’t necessarily put names to them from the
one or two times I’d meet each of them in a year. The Vice
Presidents.
The nice ones
, I remind myself. Maia and Jonas
are there, too. Oh, and Ram, which makes me think that Ben’s
so-called shortcut wasn’t so short after all.

The only one missing: Roc. Although I didn’t
expect him to be here, my heart turns over when I realize it.

With a wave of his arm, Ben invites me in
first. I hesitate only for a moment, and then step inside, look
around, trying to take it all in. One by one, the Vice Presidents
notice me and a hushed silence falls over the room. Although I’m
used to being in the spotlight a lot, it’s never been in this
context. I’m no longer a diplomat from the ruling body. No longer a
contract negotiator. I have zero power. I’m an unproven potential
enemy combatant, and I know it, which makes my face warm with
embarrassment under the scrutiny of their stares.

Then the whispers start, some behind hands,
but others from visible lips, which I unsuccessfully try to
read.

Ben steps past me and I follow him numbly to
a seat near the head of the table. The rest of the attendees
silently take their seats. I preferred the buzz of conversation
from before to this awkward quiet. Vice President Morgan gives me a
comforting smile as she sits down at the head of the table, which
helps calm my rare nerves.

Evidently she’s in charge of this meeting,
because she says, “Thank you all for attending on such short
notice. Many of you have traveled far and wide to be here, and I
appreciate it.”

“Not all of us!” a man halfway down the line
growls jovially, breaking the weird feeling in the room like glass.
He wears a thick, gray beard, a bowler’s hat, and a smile. He’s one
of the few Vice President’s names I actually remember, because he
was always funny and made me laugh when I’d visit. Byron Gray.

“Thank you, Mr. Gray. It’s always been a
pleasure having you just next door, in subchapter 2.” Morgan keeps
talking, exchanging niceties with the other VPs, but I don’t hear
her words, as I’m thinking furiously about something. We’re in the
command center for the Resistance and all these VPs are here with
us. Which means they support the Resistance, or have in the past.
Which means they really are the good guys and perhaps I don’t need
to be so intimidated speaking to them. They’ll want to hear what I
have to say.

I do some quick math. There are forty-two
subchapters in the Moon Realm, and therefore, forty-two Vice
Presidents. I quickly tick off the people around the table, not
counting the non-VPs like Maia and Jonas. Thirteen. Not a lucky
number, but a good number. Thirteen out of forty-two isn’t bad for
a start. If these are the ones who already support the Resistance,
and will agree to unite with the star dwellers, the rebellion may
have some legs under it. And that’s not including any other
subchapters who might be convinced. For just a minute, my heart
soars, before being crushed by a slew of harsh words around the
table.

“This
boy
has screwed over subchapter
39 more times than I care to remember, and you expect me to trust
him?” a woman with a flash of red hair in a bun exclaims
incredulously.

“The star dwellers are throwing grenades in
the street, and you want me to join with them,
and
with the
son of the Sun Realm President? Have you lost your mind?” shouts a
short bald man whom I can barely remember from my travels.

A huge man with no neck, who looks more like
a miner than a vice president, stands up and slams both fists down
on the table, causing me to jerk my head back. “Blasphemy. I won’t
listen to a word that
Nailin
says.” Right on the word
Nailin
, he slams both fists on the table again.

My eyes are wide and I realize I’m holding my
breath. I let it out in a slow stream. Looking around the table I
see mostly angry faces. The huge dude’s face is all red and I’m
glad he’s all the way at the other end of the table, or I feel he
might lunge across to hit me, or head butt me. Byron Gray is the
only one who doesn’t look angry, but he’s not smiling anymore under
his beard. As usual, Ram’s in the corner, and he
is
smiling,
but not because he likes me, but because he likes watching me get
ripped to shreds, whether by words or by fists. In this case, I
think I’d rather it be fists.

Because I was thinking at the time—about how
we might actually have a chance—I didn’t hear how the chaos all
started, but I know I’m losing support fast, and even Morgan and
Ben might abandon me soon.

Speak from your heart.
In my heart,
there is only darkness.

I’ll try Ben, I’ll try.

I stand up. Look around the room. “I just
spoke with my father,” I say, and I hear gasps around the
table.

“I knew it,” the red-haired lady mumbles.

“Not like that,” I say, my voice hard. Her
eyes widen in surprise at the harshness of my tone. I hate that I’m
relying on anger to get me through another hard time, but it seems
the only way I can handle things lately.

“He told me he raped and murdered my best
friend’s mother, that my best friend is actually my half-brother.
His name is Roc, and he’s not here because he’s all alone,
grieving. He won’t speak to me. I hate myself for not knowing. I
hate my father for who he is, and what he’s done, not only to my
friend and to me”—I glance at Ben and he nods, as if he knows
exactly what I’m going to say—“but to the Moon Realm and the Star
Realm. He’s raped and murdered you, too. Not actively, but
passively, through his taxes and his laws, all under the guise of a
government that is really a dictatorship. It ends now. Whether you
let me help unite the Tri-Realms or not, I will fight to the bitter
end. I will kill my father! I will kill him!”

I stop when I realize spit’s flying from my
mouth and my hands are clenched at my sides so hard that they ache.
Morgan’s mouth is open slightly, as if in disgust. Ben’s face is
expressionless, and I know that I’ve failed him.

I shove my chair under the table and walk
out.

* * *

My hands are shaking as I stride down the
steps. Shaking with anger, shaking with frustration, shaking with
pain at what my father did to Roc’s mom. I can’t wait any longer—I
have to talk to Roc. Try to make things right, somehow.

I’m down the stairs in half the time it took
to climb them. The glittering diamonds and misty falls are just a
blur as I race past them, my legs churning into the water-filled
tunnel. Each step is quicker than the one before it, and by the
time I reach the dry part of the tunnel I’m sprinting, as if the
entire sun dweller army is chasing me. But they’re not chasing me;
and if they were, I wouldn’t be running. I would be standing,
fighting, killing as many of them as I could before they killed
me.

I’m stunned at my thoughts, numb with the
pain. Who is this murderous shell of a person I’ve become?

Because I’m running, the Resistance center of
operations is far smaller than I initially thought. I reach our
sleeping quarters in just a couple of minutes. Sweat is dripping
from my nose, my chin. My breaths are heavy and ragged. My fists
are still clenched and shaking.

I open the door.

All fight goes out of me when I see Roc. He’s
on his bed, just sitting there staring at his hands. His dark hair
is like midnight in the gloom. As he looks up at me, his cheeks are
tearstained, but not with dried salt rivers like before, but wet
with new flows.

I approach him, massaging my sore hands.

He closes his eyes, angles his head down once
more. Defeated. He looks defeated.

Sitting next to him, I say, “Roc, please.
Talk to me.”

His eyes blaze open and he turns toward me. I
was wrong. There’s no defeat in his eyes. I only see…anger. Fierce
anger and pride with a hint of sadness borne by his tears. “Your
father is sick,” he snarls between clenched teeth.

“I know,” I say.

“No, you don’t know! You pretend to, but you
can’t. Can’t actually know how sick he is. You’ve been sheltered
your entire life, protected, behind walls of marble and gourmet
food and piles of Nailins! Nailins!” he scoffs. “Named after your
family. Your sick, sick family.”

“Roc, you don’t mean that,” I say, the sting
of his words visible all over my face.

“I do mean it. Your father stole my
childhood, stole my happiness, and now he’s stolen my father from
me? The man who raised me. And my mother? My poor, sweet mother who
I thought I killed when I came into this world. I’ve harbored the
guilt of her death my entire life and now I find out that my pain
shouldn’t have been directed inward, but at the very man who hates
me because I’m the one who serves him. And you tell me I don’t mean
it?”

I feel like I’ve been slapped. Not because of
what he’s saying about my father, but because he’s lumping me in
with him, like I’m guilty by association. “I never had a choice,
Roc. I never wanted to be a Nailin, never wanted a life of
privilege. I left, remember? I left it all behind, and you helped
me to do it. We’re supposed to be friends—no matter what. Isn’t
that the way friendship is?”

And then Roc’s breaking down, his angry
shoulders slumping, his head dropping into his hands, the jerk of
desperate sobs wracking his body. My arm is around him in a second
and he lets me pull his head into my chest. We’re two guys, two
friends, but it doesn’t feel weird or awkward. I’ve loved him like
a brother, and now he really is one—and I’m there for him. Will
always be there for him. I can’t change the past, but I can be a
part of his present, his future.

“My poor, sweet mother,” Roc sobs.

“I know, Roc. I know,” I say soothingly. I
realize the anger is gone from me. I’m just Tristan again. Not the
raging shell of a person I’ve been lately. Roc’s sorrow has brought
me back, which makes me feel ashamed. “Roc, I hate my father for
what he’s done—believe me, I want to kill him—but I can’t hate the
fact that you’re my half-brother. You mean too much to me for that.
I’m so sorry,” I say.

Roc’s head bobs back up, and through blurry
eyes he says, “I know, Tristan. And I know you’re not like him, not
like them.” I know he means my younger brother, who is becoming a
clone of my father. “Your mom was the best mom I could have ever
asked for,” he sniffs. “And you were—are—the best friend I could
ever want.”

“Thanks, Roc,” I say, and we hug, tenderly
and firmly all at the same time, which should be embarrassing, but
it’s not and never could be.

When Roc pulls away there’s a question in his
eyes. “Do you really want to kill your—our—father?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Roc, I
think I’ve really screwed things up.”

He wipes the tears from his cheeks and waits
for me to continue.

I tell him about the meeting with the
“supportive” VPs. “I can’t control this anger inside me, man. It’s
like the rage takes over my brain and controls what I do, what I
say. I feel like if I don’t get control of it soon, it’ll destroy
me, and destroy everything the Resistance is planning. It’s just…I
have the urge to kill. To kill my father. To kill the sun dweller
soldiers. To kill anyone who supports them. I’m afraid I’m becoming
my father. Does that make sense?”