The Sun Dwellers (The Dwellers Saga)

by David Estes

  “Not to these people. They want their clothes to make them stand out,” I explain.

  “But they don’t,” Tawni says. “They still all look the same, just different than moon and star dwellers. If they really want to stand out, they should visit the Lower Realms wearing those.” She points to Adele’s heels.

  Adele, clutching a rack of shirts as she moves forward another step, says, “I can’t even walk in these, much less run or kick.”

  I laugh again. “Sun dweller women don’t do much running or kicking. They mostly just go tanning, go to the salon, go shopping, that sort of thing.”

  “But how do they…live?” Tawni asks. This is all clearly blowing both girls’ minds.

  “Usually they have rich boyfriends or husbands who deal in shipping or own mines in the Lower Realms,” I say. “There’s a lot of old money up here that’s been passed down for generations.”

  “So while we’re all working like dogs for our next meal…” Adele starts, taking off the heels.

  “The sun dwellers are up here attending parties, killing time, and generally enjoying their lives,” I say coldly. “Can you see now why I left?”

  “Not really,” Tawni says. “Wouldn’t that be a good reason not to leave?”

  Roc surprises me by saying, “Tristan’s got too good of a heart for that. He doesn’t like to see people suffer while others take advantage of them.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “We shall never speak of this compliment again,” Roc says, smirking.

  “I’ll remind you every day,” I joke.

  “That’s the last time I say something nice about you.”

  “We don’t have to wear these—what do you call them?—high shoes, to blend in do we?” Adele asks, her face scrunched with concern. “Because I don’t think I can walk more than a few blocks without killing myself.”

  I take the shoes from her. “High heels,” I correct. “You can if you want, but I think we can find something much more sensible, but still fashionable.”

  “Sounds good. Where do we start?”

  “You and Tawni should pick out some tunics that you like. Pretty much anything in this store is in style right now, so it’s hard to go wrong. Roc and I will get ourselves and Trevor outfitted and then help you with your shoes and accessories.”

  “Accessories?” Adele and Tawni say at the same time.

  “We’ll show you later,” I promise. “Try and have fun with it.”

  “Yeah, girls are supposed to like shopping,” Roc adds.

  Adele and Tawni look at each other like we’re completely out of our minds, but then move off into one of the aisles full of the new Beau Gabore line of flaring-bottom tunics.

  “This should be interesting,” Roc says.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” I say again, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Don’t make me regret it.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that,” I laugh.

  * * *

  An hour later we’ve made good progress. I’ve torn strips from a dark training tunic to bandage my scraped shoulder. Roc found a chest of ice to apply to his bruised tush. Trevor’s still out, and we had the unfortunate experience of undressing him, pulling a brand new black Rizzo tunic—very stylish and modern—over his head, and getting him into a matching pair of what are known as “chairman’s pants,” high-waisted and straight-cut all the way to the brown Montgomery boots we found in his size. The pants were the trickiest, and required Roc and me to both take a leg, while we cringed, desperately avoiding touching anywhere near anything we wouldn’t want touched ourselves.

  Once finished with Trevor, we split up and decked ourselves out. Roc found a whiter-than-white ribbed tank-tunic that contrasts nicely with his brown skin, thick bright orange marching pants (sun dwellers tend to like parades), and fake leather white moccasins, which are all the rage right now. I was able to complement my light blue nylon tunic with a navy blue leather jacket, complete with turquoise buttons and arm studs. My pants are blue camouflage, which has just come back after a decade of being out of style. Due to my well-known appearance, I decide to continue wearing a hat, but replace the woman’s hat Adele nicked for me with a silver fedora with blue trim that casts a decent shadow across the upper part of my face when worn sufficiently low over my eyes. Unwilling to stoop to the level of moccasins, I find a pair of rugged brown boots that are only in fashion because they have a decent-sized heel that I normally wouldn’t be caught dead in. But they definitely beat the thin-soled slippers that Roc’s wearing.

  Finished with the men’s section, we leave Trevor to his comfy pile of dresses—“Sleep well, Sleeping Beauty,” Roc says before we go, drawing a strange look from me. “You know, like the story your mother told us when we were little?”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “You’re hopeless. She must have told it to us a dozen times. It was about a princess who is cursed and falls asleep for eternity or until her one true love kisses her.”

  “Are you going to be the one to kiss him and wake him up?” I say, smirking.

  Roc ignores me and heads for the women’s department to find the girls.

  We find them in the changing rooms behind thinly curtained cubicles. A pile of discarded clothes is growing in the center of the waiting area.

  “This stuff is crazy,” Adele says, hidden save for a dark shadow of her profile.

  “I kind of like some of it,” Tawni admits.

  “Any luck?” I say.

  “I think I’m all set,” Tawni says, pushing her curtain aside with a flourish.

  “Oh. My…” Roc says.

  “Is it okay? I had no clue with the makeup and hairstyle, so I just tried to copy some of the sun dweller models from the fashion magazines they had lying around.”

  Tawni’s got on a long, no-sleeved silvery blue dress that rises all the way to her neck. It’s tight at the top and hugs her hips, leaving nothing of her figure to imagination, before flaring out at the bottom. Blue and silver crystals sparkle wildly even in the dim security lighting. Her long, white hair is up in a bun on the top of her head, held together by blue and silver butterfly pins. Several turquoise-inlaid rings adorn her slender white fingers, while dark blue heels add an extra three inches to her already above-average height. Her face shimmers with some kind of luminescent makeup, accenting her ultra-feminine features.

  Roc’s making weird gasping noises next to me.

  “I think he likes it,” I say. “But is it practical? Can you even walk in it?”

  “She can walk in it,” Roc says hopefully. “Can’t you?”

  “I’ve been practicing,” Tawni says. “It’s not so hard once you get the hang of it. I just take small steps and place every foot carefully.”

  “Yeah, it’s easy,” Adele says sarcastically from the change rooms. “I’d break my neck in those things.”

  “What if we have to run?” I say.

  “I’ll just kick them off,” Tawni says matter-of-factly.

  I hate to delay longer to find something else for her to wear, plus she seems perfectly happy in her new outfit…

  “Okay. We’ll go with it.”

  “Yay!” Tawni says, looking genuinely happy. It’s almost like she’s forgotten that we’re here on a mission to kill the President. But if that helps her feel comfortable, it’s fine by me. We’ll all need to blend in for the next day or so.

  Tawni walks carefully over to Roc, rubs a hand gently on the shoulder of his new shirt. “My, my, aren’t you gentlemen dashing.”

  “Oh. Uh, thanks,” Roc says, his face turning a darker shade of brown.

  “Almost done in there, Adele?” I ask.

  “Umm…”

  “Do you need any help?” I say, grinning.

  “You wish,” she retorts. “I think I’ve got it. There. Finished.” There’s a zip, and then a deep breath. “Yeah. I think these will work just fine.”

  Unlike Tawni’s, her curtain moves slowly across the top, reveal
ing the new Adele inch by inch. I don’t gasp like Roc, but I do stare, my mouth falling open slightly. I think my tongue even hangs out, like a happy dog.

  “It’s awful, isn’t it? I knew I should have had Tawni do the makeup,” Adele says, placing a hand on the curtain as if she wants to thrust it back over herself.

  “No—no, that’s definitely not the word for it,” I sputter, still shocked at the transformation. “I was thinking more like amazing, or incredible. Adele, you look…”

  “Hot!” Roc exclaims, earning him a slap on the arm from Tawni. “I mean, you look very nice, Adele,” he corrects.

  Adele’s face reddens. “I look what?” she asks me, one hand on her hip.

  I drink her in with my eyes. She’s wearing tight, black pants that, when combined with her form-fitting emerald-green leather silver-studded tunic, show off her gorgeous, hour-glass figure in a tough, rugged kind of way. The pants are tucked into high, black boots with a wide, modest heel that even I could walk on. She has on a half-dozen gleaming steel rings that match the studs on her shirt. Her long black hair is braided down the back and wrapped with silver, shimmering ties. Although she doesn’t need it, her eyelashes are lengthened and thickened with dark mascara, giving her green eyes a definite feline look. Her lips have just a touch of pink, leaving them glossy and intoxicating.

  She tucks her emerald pendant into her tunic, and I realize the outfit is an outward expression of the jewel that hangs from her necklace. A memory of her father.

  “Hellooo,” Adele says. “Am I that hideous that you don’t even have a word to describe it?”

  “N—no,” I stutter, trying to gain my composure. “Roc got it right the first time. You look hot,” I say, nodding vehemently.

  A flush heats up Adele’s face once more. “I look ridiculous,” she says, looking down at her getup.

  “Again, not the word I would choose,” I say. Changing the angle of the subject, I ask, “Can you move okay? I mean, if you had to fight or run or whatever, could you?”

  Before I know it’s coming, her shiny boot flashes upward, stopping less than an inch from my face, making me flinch. She holds the kick for a second, and then returns her foot to the floor, a half-step in front of her other one. Her arms are in a boxer’s stance, her fists knotted.

  “I guess you can fight,” I say breathlessly.

  “I guess so,” she smirks.

  Chapter ThirteenAdele

  I’m happy with my new clothes. Although they’re not really me—too tight and revealing—at least I can fight in them. And hopefully they’ll help me fit into this crazy world.

  Honestly, at first I was somewhat mesmerized by the artificial sun, the beautiful people, the interesting clothing, but now I’m just sickened by it. Not necessarily because it’s not cool, or fun, but because they don’t share it. While the star dwellers live in squalor and filth and darkness, and the moon dwellers are impoverished, hungry, and hopeless, the sun dwellers enjoy the high life, basking in their beautiful sunlight, surrounded by elegant buildings, pristine city streets, and everything money can buy. I always knew the Sun Realm was privileged, but I never knew how much.

  As we pass one last time through the racks of vibrant and well-made clothes, I wonder whether people are just born a certain way and that’s it, or whether they can be changed. The sun dwellers are born in this place where clothes are used for fashion, rather than utility. It’s all they’ve ever known, it’s all they’ve ever seen. So is that it? Is it really their fault that they don’t see the reality of the inequality at play in the world? Are they a product of their inherent natures, or their environment? Or is it a mixture of both?

  I think of myself. Although I’ve never been mean-spirited, I’m clearly a result of my parents’ upbringing, but I’ve also been changed significantly from my experiences. I guess it all comes down to how one reacts to the things they see, the things that happen to them. Like I can take everything I’ve been through—my father’s and Cole’s death, my sister’s maiming, mine and my parents’ imprisonment, the people I’ve killed—and wallow in self-pity, hate myself for not being strong enough, give up on everything…or I can rise above it, seek the good in the Tri-Realms, fight for those I’ve lost and those I still have. I can be better. It’s up to me. It’s a choice that only I can make.

  The sun dwellers have a choice: to be blind and ignorant and uninterested in the stark difference in living conditions between the Upper and Lower Realms, or see this travesty for what it is—evil and hate. No, these people do not get a free pass just because they’ve never known any other life. If they took one minute away from their own skewed self-images, greed, and slothfulness, they would see what I can see as clear as the spray of water from an underground waterfall: they’re not human anymore. No, not even close. They’re robots, programmed only to care about themselves and enjoying their own lives, not the pitiful lives of those born beneath them.

  I’m done with my rambling thoughts; it’s time for action. I’m not perfect, nor do I pretend to be. I’ve killed. I’ve said and done things I’m not proud of. But I’m better than these people. If these robots refuse to see the truth, we’ll show it to them—the hard way if we have to.

  On the way out we pass a rotating display of tinted glasses. I remember seeing many of the partiers wearing similar glasses as we crowd-surfed past them.

  “It’s bright out there,” Tristan says. “These will come in handy, both to protect our eyes and our identities.”

  “What are they?” Tawni asks, picking up a pair of thick, blue ones and holding them up to her eyes.

  “Sunglasses,” Roc says. “We use them to make our vision darker, due to the brightness of the sun.”

  “Artificial sun,” I correct, snatching a pair of black ones from the rack. I put them on, watching how my vision dims into near-blackness. “I can’t even see with these on.”

  “That’s because the lighting in here is dim already. Wait until we get outside,” Tristan advises.

  I shrug and tilt the sunglasses onto the top of my head, the way Tristan and Roc are wearing their own pairs.

  Tristan is just about to open the store’s front door, when Roc says, “What about Sleeping Beauty?”

  “Huh?” I say, frowning.

  “He means Trevor,” Tristan explains. “He was still sleeping off his head injury when we left him.”

  “We could just leave him there,” Roc suggests. “He’d probably be safer.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Tristan says, “Yeah, until the Sun Festival ends, at which time the stores will open, he’ll be found, arrested for theft and breaking and entering. Then when they determine he’s a star dweller invading the Sun Realm during a time of war they’ll connect him to the soldiers we killed or injured in the shipping tunnel, and he’ll be put to death. He’d be safe, all right.”

  Roc shrugs. “Well, if you put it that way, maybe we should bring him along. But I don’t want to have to lug him around everywhere.”

  As we march back through the store, I avoid looking at any of the stuff that just makes me angry. We reach a corner that’s filled with piled up clothing, almost like a bed.

  “Crap,” Tristan says.

  “Where?” Roc says, checking his shoes. “Hey, where’s Trevor?”

  “You mean you lost him?” I ask incredulously.

  “Uh, no, of course not,” Tristan says. “We just misplaced him.”

  “Is there a difference?” Tawni asks.

  “Not really,” Roc says. “It just sounds better saying it that way.”

  Ducking back into one of the aisles, Tristan says, “He can’t have gone far—I’m sure we’ll find him around here somewhere. Trevor!”

  We follow his lead, branching out into the store like a human net, each of us calling our lost friend’s name. I reach the end of the men’s section and, with nowhere else to go, proceed into the women’s section. Considering the extent of Trevor’s head injury, it’s entirely possible he’s trying on women’s u
ndergarments at this very moment.

  Sure enough, when I approach the women’s change rooms, someone’s talking. I can tell right away that it’s Trevor.

  “…lookin’ good, my friend,” he says. “Sick shirt, awesome pants, nice shoes…”

  “Trevor?” I say softly, not wanting to scare our concussed friend away.

  “In here!” he calls.

  When I peek around the corner, I find him standing in front of the mirror, posing, flexing his muscles and grinning at himself. “What do you think?” he asks, turning to show off his new clothes.

  “They’re okay,” I say, downplaying the fact that he actually does look pretty good in his new digs. He’s not a bad-looking guy. Nor is he a bad guy—he can just be a bit trying sometimes.

  “Okay? They’re awesome!”

  “I found him!” I yell to the others. And then to Trevor: “Are you okay?”

  “Never felt better,” he says. “Other than the hammer smashing against my head every second, I’m perfectly fine,” he laughs. “How’d we get here anyway?”

  “You mean you don’t remember?”

  “I don’t remember a thing after falling from the crowd, feeling my head crack the stone, and then making a smartass comment about how hard my head is,” he says.

  “That’s probably a good thing,” Tristan says, walking in. “You weren’t really yourself.”

  “I don’t know,” Roc says, entering next, chuckling to himself, “I think he was exactly himself.”

  “I don’t know what you goobers are talking about, but what I want to know is how I got out of my old clothes and into these?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. There’s only one way…

  “You dressed him?” I say, glancing between Roc and Tristan, who are looking down, scuffing their feet against the floor.

  “Aww, how sweet is it how the guys take care of each other,” Tawni says, arriving last.

  “Uh, yeah, sweet,” Roc says. “I washed my hands three times afterwards.”

  “You owe us, dude,” is all that Tristan says.