by David Estes
Roc deftly handles the charcoal pencil with ease, like he’s been doing it his whole life, probably because he has. At first his drawing is just lines and random bits of shading, brought together in a way that seems abstract, almost pointless. After ten minutes I’m thinking he’s a fraud.
But then with just a couple of effortless strokes the drawing starts to take shape. A person—a woman—sitting under a tree, holding a book. Tucked under her arms are two children, boys. One has brown skin and dark hair, the other white skin and light hair. The tree is majestic, with a huge trunk and sturdy, rising branches full of leaves. The woman is smiling as she reads to the boys, and I can almost hear her voice. A voice from my childhood—from our childhood. A memory is unleashed in my mind and I’m transported to a better time, a better place. A happy place:
Bright light from the artificial sun shines through my stained-glass window, sending brilliant red and blues and greens dancing across the white-painted stone walls. I should be up already, but I’m still groggy from yesterday’s late-night festivities. It was my eighth birthday, and my mom let me stay up till midnight. Last night I was happy, but today I’m sad. Because today is Roc’s eighth birthday. The day he becomes a man. My father calls it the age of accountability, which for me is awesome, because I get to stay up later, start real sword training, and brag to my brother about how I’m a man now.
But for a kid born into a servant family, like Roc, turning eight means no more fun, no more playing, time to work. Today he’s my best friend, my playmate, like a brother to me; and tomorrow he’ll be my servant, charged with cleaning my armor after training, serving me my meals, answering my every beck and call. Father sat me down and explained everything. Roc has to call me sir, and he can’t laugh around me. We can’t joke around, or play tricks on my brother, Killen, or do anything fun together. No more friendship, no more brotherhood. So I’m sad.
I slip out of bed and pad down the white, stone hallway. The lights are on in the presidential house, making the place feel bright and cheery. In the Sun Realm, things always seem bright and cheery. Roc said he hears his dad talking about the other Realms sometimes. That they aren’t bright…or cheery. That he and Roc are lucky to be living up here, even if only as servants. That the Moon and Star Realms are dreary and not a place you’d want to visit—not even for a day. All that just makes Roc and me want to visit the other Realms even more. But I’m not even sure I believe him. Roc can be a bit of a fibber sometimes, but I don’t mind.
The long dining table is empty when I arrive. Everyone else had to stick to the schedule, and they have long since finished their breakfast. But not me, not today. Because of my birthday, and because of Roc’s. My mom’s orders.
I even take a risk and sit down at one end of the table, instead of in the middle like I’m supposed to. I sit impatiently, sliding the bottoms of my socked feet against the floor as I swing my legs. A minute later I feel a tap on my right shoulder and I swing my head around to catch the culprit. No one’s there. Someone snorts to my left, a clear attempt to disguise a laugh. Roc.
I turn sharply to the left, wrenching my elbow to the side and behind me. “Oomf!” Roc hollers, as my bony elbow cracks him in the shoulder. Now it’s my turn to laugh. Roc may be a better prankster, but I’ll beat him in a fight any day.
Roc is rubbing his bruised shoulder, but his brown-skinned face isn’t angry—he knows he had it coming. He’s even sort of grinning, but wincing too, like he wants to laugh but is in too much pain to do it properly. What a dork.
He sits down next to me, still massaging his shoulder. “You should have seen your face,” he says. “You were like, ‘what the heck!’”
“Like you can talk,” I say, pointing at his pained expression.
We are interrupted when one of the servant girls brings us our breakfasts. She’s one of my father’s personal servants, blond-haired and blue-eyed, with legs that are longer than my whole body, and big bumps on her chest. Roc calls them her pillows and they’re way bigger than my mom’s. She looks like what I think an elf would look like, except a whole lot taller, if there even are elves anymore. I’m not sure what she helps my father with, but it must be important.
We devour our breakfasts without speaking, occasionally flicking bits of food at each other with our forks and laughing. Good old Roc. My best friend. At least for one more day.
We hurry off to find my mom. It isn’t hard because she’s always in the palace gardens, and we find her at her favorite spot, sitting with her back against the biggest tree in all the Tri-Realms, with a thick trunk and gnarled branches that are perfect for climbing. She tells me she loves the gardens because they’re peaceful, away from all the politics and hubbub of the government buildings. I like that word, hubbub—it sounds funny when you say it.
When my mom speaks of the gardens it’s all about the beauty of nature and the serenity—which I think means peaceful—of wasting away the day dreaming on the lawn. When my father speaks of the gardens all he cares about is how smart his engineers are who figured out how to make artificial sun powerful enough to grow plants underground. My parents are so different.
My mom looks sad when I first see her, her eyes wrinkled and tired, and her mouth thin and drooped. But as soon as she spots us, her eyes come alive and sparkle—prettier than the flowers that dot the gardens, prettier than Father’s servant girls, prettier than anything—erasing the weary lines underneath them. Her mouth sprouts wings and curls into a smile that warms my heart and soul. “Tristan, Roc—I’m so glad you’re here. I was afraid I’d have to tell myself stories all day. And that can get pretty boring. Plus they’d probably lock me up for insanity.” My mom’s smile somehow manages to get bigger as she talks.
I crack up and Roc giggles next to me. The thought of Mom sitting there talking to herself seems funny for some reason. “You can tell us the stories,” I say, right away taking control of things.
My mom ignores me and looks at Roc. “It’s your birthday, kiddo, so it’s up to you.”
That’s just the way my mom is. She treats both Roc and me like sons, which is probably why I think of him as a brother. I wonder what will happen tomorrow, when he’s not my brother anymore.
Roc’s brown eyes light up in a way they only do when my mom’s around, and he says, “I’d love a story. For my birthday.”
Mom gestures with her arms and we sit next to her, one on each side. She pulls us in close to her shoulders, kisses us each on the forehead, and says, “Once upon a time, when humans lived aboveground…”
We dream the rest of the day away in the gardens, me, Roc, and my mom. It is a perfect day and I know it’s probably the last one I’ll ever have.
The daydream fades away and I blink twice, trying to come back to the real world. I glance sheepishly at Roc, who’s still drawing, and Elsey, who’s still entranced in the elegance of Roc’s pencil-strokes. They didn’t even notice I was gone for a few minutes.
The woman looks different now, like my mom, but not. Well, half of her is the spitting image of my mom—I’d know her anywhere—and the other half is like a different person. It is a different person, I realize.
“Who…?” I murmur absently.
“My mom,” Roc replies, finishing off the second half of her nose. She’s brown-skinned, like Roc, but darker, with firm, toned muscles and full lips. She’s every bit as beautiful as my mom, and they look right together, even when combined to make one person.
My heart does a backflip. Because she died giving birth to him, Roc’s never met his mother. My dad didn’t believe in taking photos of servants, so Roc didn’t have the luxury of a photo to guide his hand, but somehow I know that the picture of his mom in his head is the right one, perfect in every way.
Like when Ben showed me Anna’s diary, I feel so selfish again. Since my mom’s disappearance, I’ve felt like my whole world is falling apart, and yet Roc has lived without a mom for his entire life. And as a servant, while I didn’t want for anything.
/> Now in this simple drawing, I feel the breadth of his emotions pouring from the page. His love for my mom, his living mother. And his love for his real mom, the one he never met but wants to know.
His pencil is down and we’re all just staring at his drawing, as if it might come to life and start talking to us. “It’s perfect,” Elsey says.
“Yes,” I agree. “Simply perfect.” Roc’s smile is worth every word.
Chapter Eleven
Adele
Everything seems so close. The good, the bad, the neutral, the evil, the happy, the sad. It’s as if the world is a thin line, everything in a row. There is no wrong, no right: only actions. These are my thoughts as I leave my mom in her office. Nothing is the same as it was before—probably never will be. After all, there’s a gun tucked in a holster in the small of my back beneath my tunic. The holster is another gift from my mom. She offered Tawni a gun, too, but Tawni politely declined. I suppose I could’ve done that, too, but that’s not me.
Trevor is leading us again, following my mom’s orders to escort us to the star dweller training grounds. She said if I want to be part of the rebellion, I have to be trained like a soldier. I like that she said that—it means she respects me. Tawni will just be watching, and won’t be a fighter. My mom said that on the record, Tawni will be considered one of her private aides, but really she’ll just be with me like she has been since the start of all this.
We exit the fortress-like building, this time out the back, away from the claustrophobic city streets. The area behind is cold, not temperature-wise, but stark, uncaring, a barren wasteland of empty stone slabs and craggy gray boulders. Everything is in black and white, or a mix of the two. It makes the Moon Realm look like a paradise.
The expansive area is surrounded by a towering brown rock wall. Whether its primary goal is to keep rubberneckers out or the soldiers in, I do not know. “What is this place for, the gladiators?” I say, making a bad joke. I remember learning in school during history class about the Roman gladiators, forced to fight each other and professional warriors to earn their right of survival.
“Something like that,” Trevor mumbles, not looking back. I can’t tell if he’s serious.
Across the grounds is a platoon of soldiers, engaged in some sort of training—it appears to be hand-to-hand combat. They’re wearing blue training tunics, which don’t look that much different from their standard-issue fatigues, complete with a faded patch of the star dweller symbol on the shoulders, although they seem slightly more worn-out. They’re separated into pairs, each pair battling within the confines of circles designated by red tape on the ground. There aren’t any patterns to the pairings: males fight females, big battles small, tall locks horns with short. I can’t expect special treatment here, and I don’t.
Only two people aren’t participating, a man and a woman who are set off from the fighters, watching and shouting things like, “Keep your head up, Lewis!” or “Don’t let him back you into a corner, Matthews!”
As we approach, I see a smallish woman get flipped over the back of the ogre she’s fighting. Her body hits the stone with a sickening thud, and I can’t help but to cringe. Tawni visibly stiffens beside me and I glance at her. She’s not even looking at the woman’s prostrate body lying on the ground; rather, she’s watching as another guy takes blow after to blow to the head, twisting and turning, until his legs wobble and he collapses, blood oozing from his nose and mouth.
“So brutal,” she whispers.
My heart is in my throat. I’m well-trained, too, but these guys are serious, professional warriors. I take a deep breath and try to remember my father’s lessons. Never show your fear, Adele. Gritting my teeth, I firm up my expression and try to turn the horror on my face into a believable scowl.
Trevor turns suddenly, a wicked grin on his face. “Good luck, soldier,” he says, motioning me forward.
Ignoring him, I stride past and up to the woman supervising the training. She’s tall and muscular, wearing a tight black tank top, camo pants, and sturdy, black boots. She’s looking past me, almost as if she’s looking through me, but I ignore that too. “Adele Rose, reporting for training under the orders of General Rose,” I say, keeping my voice as firm as possible. I extend my hand and she finally looks at me, and then down at my hand.
“Get that limp fish out of my damn way,” she says, one edge of her upper lip raised in a sneer. Her eyes are dark and steely and look like they could kill. Her face isn’t ugly—even with the sneer—but it’s not pretty either. It’s just a face.
Dumbstruck, I drop my hand back to my side, unsure what to do or say next. Luckily, the guy next to her says, “Sergeant Buxton, where are your manners?” He lifts an open hand and I take it, following his arm up to his face, which wears a casual smile and kind, blue-green eyes. “I’m Sergeant Sean Brody, but you can just call me Brody,” he says, shaking my hand firmly, but not crushing my fingers.
“I’m—”
“General Rose’s daughter—I know. We’ve heard all about your strange appearance in the tunnels. In any case, the General told us yesterday that you’d be joining us.”
My heart stops. “She did?”
“Yes—is that a problem?”
My mom is just full of surprises. She really did expect me to join the star dweller rebellion. Proud heat rises in my chest. “No—not at all,” I say.
Brody releases my hand and runs his fingers through his dark bangs, pushing them away from his eyes. “Are you ready to start?” he asks.
“I, uh, I guess,” I say, my confidence waning as I hear the grunts and groans of combat from behind me.
“Are you or aren’t you!” Sergeant Buxton shouts, directly into my ear.
I cringe and turn away from her. “I’m ready,” I say through clenched teeth.
Tawni has moved off to the side with Trevor, and I can see the two of them chatting, flashing smiles, and occasionally laughing. Traitor, I think.
“Han! You’re up!” Buxton yells. Evidently she has difficulty controlling the volume of her voice, because she’s always about a hundred decibels louder than necessary.
A dark, Asian-looking girl’s head pops up from where she’s got another girl pinned to the ground. She releases the girl and trots over, not even looking winded from her fight. “Yes, Sergeant,” she says.
“Rose, get in the circle,” Buxton growls.
My heart hammers as I walk across the hard stone, wondering what it will feel like to get slammed against it. The girl whom Han was fighting rolls out of the circle, face bloodied, apparently unable to stand up.
“At ease, soldiers!” Buxton shouts from behind us. “Feel free to watch the show!”
Great, I think. The last thing I want is an audience for my first fight.
The other soldiers pull themselves up from various levels of peer-inflicted injuries and make their way over to our circle. Out of the corner of my eye I see Tawni and Trevor move closer. Tawni’s no longer laughing, her mouth a tight line. She’s worried about me. Serves her right, I think.
Instinct and training kicks in. I settle my heart and lungs by taking deep breaths through my nose, exhaling from my mouth. All of my father’s mottos ring through my head: hit first and hit hard; a quick fight is a good fight; there’s no such thing as a fair fight; play to your strengths.
But all my thoughts vanish when the taunting begins. “You smell like a moon dweller, chickie,” a guy with a black eye says. “You a moon dweller?”
My mouth is tight as I nod.
“We’ve been looking for some moon dwellers with balls to join us, but you don’t look like you’ve even fought a cold before.” I grit my teeth and try to ignore him, focusing on my opponent, who has just stepped into the ring, her fists clenched at her side. She looks ready; I hope I am.
“We need moon dwellers who can fight,” a butch woman with no neck cries.
I stare at her sharply and say, “I can fight.”
The original heckler chimes in a
gain. “Bah! You’re just a scared little girl, not a fighter.” He got the scared part right. But not scared of fighting. Scared of losing those closest to me; scared of failing my parents, my people; scared of not fighting well enough for everything that is important to me.
“I’ll prove it,” I say.
“Fight!” Buxton shouts, even louder than she has yet. Her voice echoes through my ears, and I don’t think I’ll ever hear well again.
Han is like a flash of light, faster and more agile than anyone I’ve ever fought before. But I’ve got a few inches on her, am built slightly bigger, and I have the advantage of not underestimating her. My father taught me to use any advantage I can in a fight.
She moves in fast, feinting left and right, left and right, trying to lull me into a rhythm. She whips a lightning-quick kick at my head and I duck sharply, narrowly avoiding it, but realizing too late that it was a combo move. Her other leg is already in motion, sweeping the ground and cutting toward my feet. I try to jump, but all my force is pushing down and I can’t get my feet off the ground. A sharp pain jolts through my ankles and I go down hard on my right shoulder, wincing as I feel it start to throb.
My training kicks in and I know the fight is moments away from being over if I don’t get out of the vulnerable position I’m in.
I roll hard to the side, away from Han, and hear her boot clomp down hard on the rock, just where I was a second earlier. My mind is machine, thinking like my opponent, anticipating her next move.
She’ll expect me to try to get to my feet.
So I don’t.
Instead, I roll back the other way.
My surprise works, as I feel my turning shoulder bash into her legs, which are moving in the opposite direction of my roll. She was rushing to stop me from getting to my feet, trying to maintain her advantage. The joke’s on her as she tumbles over me, sprawling head first. More pain lances through my shoulder and I realize it’s the same one that hit the ground. Bad luck, but I can’t worry about that. Not now.