What Tomorrow May Bring

by Tony Bertauski

“No, there’s not,” I say adamantly. “You guys barely know me and you’ll just screw up your own chances. When do you get out anyway?”

  Cole looks at Tawni and motions with his head. She answers for them both. “I’m out in six months and Cole’s out in a year.”

  I nod. Even their sentences seem exceptionally harsh considering their crimes, but they sound a whole lot better than mine. In a year they’ll both be out of the Pen, able to make their own decisions again, even if under the increasingly intolerant oppression of the government.

  I’m glad when Tawni changes the subject. She says, “Wasn’t it weird today how Tristan looked at you?” My breath catches in my lungs. So she did notice.

  I look at Cole. “Tawni told me about that, too,” he says, “but I want to hear it from you.”

  “I thought it was all in my head,” I say, feeling my face go slightly warm again. One negative of having highly pale skin is that a blush stands out like a hairy wart on a nose.

  “No—it wasn’t,” Tawni says. “It was like all the crowds and everything else just disappeared, and Adele and Tristan were the only people left. I could almost see his laser eyes touching you, caressing you…”

  “Tawni!” I shout, ignoring a couple of strange glances from the other eaters. “It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t feel any…touching.” I say the last word like it’s something disgusting, like moldy bread, crinkling my nose and curling my lip. “But I did notice him looking at me.”

  “You see? I told you, Cole. But it hurt you, didn’t it?” she asks. When my eyes widen, she says, “You cried out. You were holding your head.”

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I just had a headache.”

  She shrugs, as if she’s satisfied, but I get the feeling that she and I both know it was much more than just a headache.

  Chapter Four

  Tristan

  My meetings with the leaders of the Moon Realm pass torturously slowly. Although I’m barely listening, by the end of the day I’m so annoyed with the leaders kissing my hind parts that I want to scream.

  As the rough gray cavern walls flash past on either side during the train ride back to the Sun Realm, I think about when my next scheduled visit to the Moon Realm is. Not for months, I realize. All the key contracts are signed. The Moon Dwellers will slave away for another year, providing sustenance to the lazy Sun Dwellers, for a measly wage of five Nailins a day; all because of the lopsided contract my father forced their leaders to sign. You’d think that as son of the President there’d be something I could do to help. There’s nothing. I’m merely a puppet, sent across the Tri-Realms to collect signatures and smile for the cameras. All the real negotiations are performed by my father, behind closed doors—and he always gets what he wants.

  I have to find an excuse to go back to the Moon Realm. To find out what happened to the mysterious headache-inducing dark-haired girl. I have no choice in the matter; an unseen force drives me. I wonder if I would feel this strongly if she hadn’t been in danger when I saw her. If we’d only looked at each other, would I have simply shrugged her off as just another beautiful girl? I don’t know the answer to my own question, but my every instinct is urging me to find her.

  But it’s more than that. It’s not only that she was in danger that interests me. It’s the way she handled herself. With confidence, with strength. Different from the girls in the Sun Realm, who can’t seem to do anything for themselves.

  And I need to know why my body reacted the way it did when I saw her. Was it simply a strange seventeen-year-old hormonal response to a pretty face? Seems farfetched given how many pretty girls I see every day, each of whom try to throw themselves at me. But it’s even more farfetched to think of alternative reasons for the stabbing pain in my spine, for the thundering headache in my skull. Both of which, by the way, disappeared soon after she disappeared from sight.

  Another question pops into my head: Does she hate me like so many other Moon Dwellers do? Just because I’m the son of the president?

  She probably does. Not that I would blame her. We call ourselves a democracy, but rule like a dictatorship. The title of President for my father should’ve been replaced with something else long ago. King, Master, Czar…something. If I lived in the Moon or Star Realms, I would probably rebel against my father, against the Sun Dwellers. I’m surprised there hasn’t been a major rebellion, at least not in my lifetime. The last time it happened was the Uprising in 475 PM, but it was quashed by my father’s troops in less than a year. Another rebellion is my father’s greatest fear, and yet he takes liberties away from the moon and Star Dwellers as easily as he shakes out stones from his shoes. I hate him for it.

  “Sir?” I hear someone say. It’s my servant, Roc. He’s staring at me strangely.

  I look around and realize the train has stopped. “Oh, we’re here,” I say, jumping up.

  Roc escorts me out of the first-class car and onto the palace grounds. Everything’s brighter here, nothing like the gloominess of the Moon Realm. We’re still underground, yes, but the entire roof glows brightly, illuminating the massive cave network. It’s all part of the distinction between the Realms. Electricity is strictly rationed, such that the Sun Realm receives eighty percent of it, of course, with a paltry fifteen percent going to the Moon Realm, and a measly five percent to the Star Dwellers.

  At least those are the published figures. In reality, I know that closer to ninety-five percent of all energy goes to the Sun Dwellers, allowing us to live like kings. Not that we are—there are no kings in a democracy.

  “Your father requests your presence immediately,” Roc says as we walk.

  “Of course he does,” I say. To any other servant, I’d probably sound smug, self-righteous, like I’m pleased my father has requested my audience. But not to Roc. He knows I’m being sarcastic. Roc’s more than just a servant. He’s my friend—maybe my only one. In public I’m forced to treat him as I would any servant, because to my father anything else would be a sign of weakness.

  But in private we’re best friends. We’ve grown up together, after all. Before he reached the age of accountability—eight years old—we played every day together. He loved my mother, too. Sadly, Roc’s mother died giving birth to him. But my mom adopted him, treated him just as well as my brother and I. Kissing him goodnight, taking him on our adventures, giving him presents on the day of the Sun Festival: Roc was like a third son to my mom…and is like a second brother to me.

  Roc grins. “We’ll try to get out of there fast, sir. If we have time afterwards, can I have another lesson?”

  I grin back. A few months prior, Roc requested that I teach him to fight. Swords, guns, battleaxes, knives—that sort of thing. I gladly agreed. It was just another chance to disobey my father. He doesn’t want Roc and me to be friends. The servant/master code is far too important to him. Even Roc’s father, who is my father’s chief servant and has known my father for years, isn’t a friend to him.

  “Absolutely,” I say. “We’ll keep focusing on swords—because they’re useful and awesome.”

  We reach the palace garden. Creating and maintaining the underground garden costs more in a month than the entire population of Star Dwellers earns in a year. It isn’t possible without the sun-like technology that was invented decades earlier. Not that my father cares. Ignoring the insane cost, the garden is extraordinary. Pillars of perfectly pruned green hedges frame the entrance. Hundreds of varieties of flora and fauna are meticulously maintained by the garden staff, providing splashes of color throughout the garden’s boundaries. The garden looks weird inside the massive cavern.

  I always loved the palace garden growing up. Running around in bare feet on the soft, lush lawns, playing hide-and-go-seek around the bushes and trees, Roc and I pretending we were palace guards as we charged through the garden, fighting off marauders with our invisible swords. Now, like most things in the Sun Realm, I hate the garden. For me the garden is just another reminder of how unfair the world that
my father governs is. The world that I am meant to inherit, being the eldest son.

  Perhaps it’s my mother’s influence, but I can never be the man my father wants me to be.

  We walk quickly through the garden, like we always do.

  Along the way we pass many people. Most of them are servants, who acknowledge me with a slight bow, which I ignore—another one of my father’s requirements. But some of them are palace guests—Sun Dwellers. Those are the ones I most like to look at. Because they look ridiculous. The current fashion is to wear bright colors, and the Sun Dwellers take it to the extreme, wearing gaudy red and pink tunics with blue and green polka dots. But compared to the hats, the tunics are tame. There are hats of all shapes and sizes, some glittering, some sparkling, some shimmering with diamonds and pearls, or stuck with feathers like a bird. All worth laughing at. Time and time again I’m forced to hide my amusement as I’m greeted by men, women, boys, and girls, all seeking “just a moment of your time.” It’s a wonder we ever make it to the palace.

  By the time we do, the sun is waning in the west. Or at least that’s how some of the books my mom used to read to me described the sunset. In the Sun Realm, the artificial sun is just slowly dimmed, to simulate nightfall.

  In reality, it’s always night in the caves.

  My father is waiting, keeping court in his throne room—I mean meeting room. He’d have to be a king to get a throne.

  “You’re late,” he says.

  He’s wearing a spotless white tunic with shimmering gold embroidery along the seams. His gray goatee is groomed to perfection, no doubt trimmed twice already that day by a servant. Probably by one of the two pretty little things that stand by his side now, ready for his next command. They’re both blonde and deeply tanned, wearing tight, black tunics cut off well above the knees. The V-necks reveal just how mature they are. It’s all part of my father’s dress code for the female servants. Roc’s father excepted, all of my father’s personal servants are women—as beautiful as they are sleazy. I suspect they do a lot more for him than just iron his tunics and trim his beard.

  “I was delayed by some journalists who wanted some quotes for tomorrow’s paper,” I say flatly.

  “Sir,” my father says simply.

  I sigh. “Sir,” I repeat. Another one of my father’s pet peeves.

  “And everything else went according to schedule?” he says.

  “Yes. Next year’s contracts with the Moon Realm have been finalized under the terms you stipulated…” I pause…one beat, two. My father drums his fingers on his wooden armrest impatiently. “Sir,” I say finally, enjoying my little game. I don’t dare to openly rebel against my father, but I can still have a bit of fun.

  “Good,” my father says. “Is that everything?”

  I nod.

  Without waiting for his permission, I turn on my heel and march off, with Roc in tow. I hear my father say, “You may go,” as I walk away. It’s his lame attempt to show off his power in front of his Barbie Doll servants.

  When we are out of eyesight and earshot, Roc says, “You really shouldn’t push him like that.”

  I sigh. “I know, I know.” Roc is usually right. Flashing a grin, I say, “But it was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s the little things in life,” Roc says, smiling. His dark features look even darker as shadows fall upon the palace.

  “Like swords?” I say.

  “Yes!” Roc says, a bit too loudly. A passing servant woman glares at him. Mrs. Templeton—the palace housekeeper. She’s a nasty one.

  We make our way through the business end of the palace and into the residential quarters. The change in décor is like night and day. The government side is stark and official-looking, everything clean-cut, free of clutter, and stamped with the symbol of the Sun Realm—a fiery red and orange sun with wavy heat lines wafting to the sides. The living quarters still feel a bit too posh and sterile, but at least there are a few personal touches, all of which my mother added before she disappeared.

  There’s the family portrait on the entry room table. Normally, I wouldn’t have any interest in a family photo. But this one I love, because it presents our family in such an honest light. My brother and I look bored, restless, with tousled hair and cheeky grins. My mother has her arm around the both of us, pulling us into her side. About a foot away, on her other side, is my father, not looking happy at all. The cameraman snapped the photo a split-second before he was able to turn on his friendly-President face, as I like to call it. You know, the one that’s so obviously fake it’s painful to watch. The kind of face you just want to slap.

  After that photo was taken, my father’s face went all red and he looked like he was ready to slug the photographer. But my mom managed to soothe him, rubbing her hand on his back and telling him how she liked the photo, how she wanted to keep it. That was back when she still had some power over him.

  Somehow she convinced him to display the photo prominently in our home. After she disappeared, I expected him to take it down. But either he’d grown to like it (which I doubt) or he’d forgotten it was even there (more likely). And so it remains, making me smile every time I pass by.

  A part of me clings to the hope that my father kept the photo there because he misses her, wants to remember her, but the more grownup part of me knows better. Before my mother vanished, there was no love between them. It was purely another of my father’s business relationships, using my mother for the sole purpose of demonstrating stability at the top of the government.

  At some point in my parents’ relationship there must have been love—at least from my mom’s side—but I don’t think it lasted very long. As far back as I can remember he had the young, scantily clad servant girls. As a kid I thought they were just fun little helpers who giggled and helped my dad around the office. Almost like elves. That is one fantasy I wish I hadn’t outgrown. The truth is far too sickening.

  Roc is saying something. “Huh?” I say.

  He repeats himself. “You know it wasn’t your fault.”

  Roc’s words sound cryptic, but I know exactly what he’s talking about. My mother’s disappearance. Two years ago, but still as fresh in my memory as if it was yesterday.

  “I wasn’t thinking about that.” Well, not really. But it is on the fringe of my thoughts; it is always there, buzzing around the edge of my consciousness, suffocating my heart.

  “It doesn’t matter what you were thinking,” Roc says. “I know you still blame yourself.”

  I don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to dredge up the memories again—they’re too painful. I’m fine to just let her memory cling to the edges of my mind where maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to face them. Sometimes talking to Roc is like talking to a shrink, only without the comfy couch to lie on.

  “Not now, Roc,” I say.

  “Then when?” he asks.

  “Maybe never,” I say honestly.

  Roc stops, grabs my shoulders with both hands, forces me to look at him. His dark eyes are serious. “Blaming yourself is like a curse eating you from within, a rogue virus, cancerous and poisonous. It will drive you mad if you let it. You’re my friend and I hate to see you like this. And your mother would hate to see her disappearance cause you to self-destruct.”

  I expected Roc to say something cliché like Blaming yourself won’t bring her back, Tristan, but instead, his words are like darts embedding themselves in my chest. I don’t want to let him down. Nor my mother. But I can’t help it. The pain is more than I can bear. The what-ifs are a cancer, like Roc said. What if I was a better son? What if I’d stood up to my father? What if I’d been with her on the day she disappeared, refusing to let her out of my sight? Would everything be different then? Would we be a happy little family?

  I want to believe the answer is yes, but in my heart I know it isn’t so. Accepting that fact will set me free. But I can’t…or won’t.

  Not that it matters. I will hang on to the what-ifs and continue to blame myself regar
dless of whether I truly believe I had any influence on the events that transpired.

  There isn’t much to believe in these days. I once believed in the love of a mother, but then she left me. I used to believe in honor, in chivalry, in the power that one person has to enact real, positive change in the world. My mother taught me all that. It vanished when she did.

  Now all I believe in is pain.

  Pain is the great equalizer, the cure to mental anguish, the antidote for a hopeful heart. It comes in all different forms—physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. Most days I like physical the best, choosing to throw myself into my training with unbridled aggression. I make my challenges impossible, sometimes facing twenty or more opponents simultaneously. And because I’m the President’s son, they have to obey me, have to attack. At first they’re timid, afraid to bruise me, but after taking a whack or two from the broadside of my steel blade they change, becoming more ferocious than attacking lions.

  I still have scars from those training sessions.

  The beauty of physical pain is that it wipes out the other forms of pain. Not necessarily completely or for an extended period of time, but long enough to grant a reprieve from my tortured mind and soul.

  “On guard!” Roc yells, his teeth clenched together like a wild beast. He’s realized I’m not going to speak to him about my mother. I’m glad he’s given up for the time being. His new approach: beat it out of me.

  I don’t even have my weapon yet, but it doesn’t matter. Roc’s clumsy swings feel like they’re in slow motion, coming in at awkward angles, without any attempt to hide his intentions: he’s going for my head. He’s probably trying to knock some sense into me.

  He knows better than that—I’ve taught him better. Feinting is as important as the actual attack. Disguising one’s intent is the key to fighting. But he’s on a mission. I know it’s because he cares about me—wants better for me—that he’s trying to crack me across the skull.

  Not today.

  I spin to the left and drop to a roll, hearing Roc’s wooden blade crash thunderously into the wall behind me. When I fight my senses seem to magnify. I’m looking in the other direction, reaching for my own practice blade, grasping it, but I can picture Roc’s blade rebounding off the wall, him repositioning his feet like I’ve taught him, his next swing…