The Moon Dwellers Page 9

  I slip around the edge of the resort, but no one is nearby—everyone is drinking cocktails and splashing around in the pool, their consciences somehow remaining squeaky clean. If asked, they would probably all claim ignorance as to the living conditions of the moon and star dwellers. But they know, even if they aren’t willing to admit it to themselves.

  I make my way back to the arriving and departing visitors’ entrance, and stride confidently past the greeters. They are too busy welcoming some big shot sun dweller and don’t even seem to notice me pass by. The dark clothing probably helps in that regard, too.

  I wait for Roc at the mandated location, near the south end of the soon to be arriving transporter. I hope we’ve timed it right, that Roc will have enough time to meet me. If I have to I will leave without him, but I really don’t want to. I tap my toe on the stone platform nervously.

  I hear the rumble of the approaching transporter. Still no Roc.

  The transporter bursts through the end of the tunnel. Still no Roc.

  A whoosh of air hits me as the transporter rolls to a stop. No Roc…and then—

  Roc appears at the other end of the platform, running hard toward me, fear in the whites of his eyes.

  He crosses half the platform and I am still wondering why he looks so scared. Yeah, the train will be leaving soon, but he’s made it with plenty of time to board with me. The platform is empty; no one else in their right mind would be traveling from the hottest resort in the Sun Realm to the Moon Realm.

  He is almost to me when his pursuers arrive, charging through the resort entrance and gunning straight for us. Evidently I’ve underestimated my guards, or Roc has done something stupid, or maybe both, but whatever the case, they know they have to stop him. It is likely they haven’t worked out exactly what is happening, just that something is going down that isn’t supposed to.

  When Roc reaches me I grab his arm and run with him onto the transporter. To his credit, Roc smartly thinks to hit the door close button repeatedly.

  “Doors closing,” the speaker says. “Nonstop to subchapter six of the Moon Realm.”

  The doors begin closing and we peer through the tinted windows to catch a glimpse of our pursuers. When the doors are halfway closed I think we will make it. The guards realize they are too late and intelligently veer off toward one of the front sections of the transporter, but they are still at least five long strides away.

  These guys are not to be denied.

  One of them dives headfirst at the rapidly closing door, thrusting his arms in the tiny crack and using his elbows like a wedge to pry it open.

  “Damn,” I mutter, as they board the train. “What happened?”

  Roc’s eyes are wild, flitting from side to side, unable to focus on mine. “I don’t know—I just freaked. I tried to sneak away, made some excuse about needing to go to the bathroom. One of your guards said he’d escort me, that he was bored anyway. When I said I’d be fine on my own, he started asking me questions and I got flustered and just started running. That’s when they came after me.”

  “Damn,” I say again. I should’ve known Roc wasn’t cut out for this type of work.

  “What are we gonna do?” Roc says. His face is as white as a ghost’s. He has probably been under more stress in the last five minutes than in the last five years combined.

  I glance through the small window in the door at the end of our car. Two cars ahead I can see the guards making their way toward us, transferring cars swiftly, methodically.

  The doors close and the transporter silently leaves the station.

  We’re going to find the girl. I hope she is alive.

  “Remember all that training we’ve been doing?” Roc’s eyes don’t light up the way they usually do when I mention training. Not this time. He isn’t ready for this. But he will have to be anyway.

  I put both my hands on his shoulders, look him in the eyes. “This is gonna be okay, man, I promise. We’ll do this together.”

  I hand him the stolen sword and raise my own.

  The guards enter our car.

  I’m not sure whether they know who I am yet, so I can’t depend on my true identity to protect me from the sharp swords they are brandishing. After all, they’ve just left the pool, where they think I’m wasting away the afternoon, getting drunk and looking to score with one of my desperate admirers. Not that I ever do that. But they might think there is a first time for everything. They probably think Roc has stolen something and I am his accomplice.

  Anyway, they come at us with blood in their eyes, swinging to kill, or at least maim. I know these guys are out of Roc’s league, accomplished fighters, but I also know I will need his help if we are going to survive the next five minutes—or even the next five seconds.

  I block both their swords with my own, feeling their collective strength as I am thrown back against Roc. Pushing Roc hard against the side of the car, which is moving faster and faster, already nearing its top speed of two hundred miles an hour, I spin hard to the left, ducking under another sword that is intended to lop my head from my shoulders.

  Roc cries out as he slams into the wall, which draws the attention of one of the guards. The distraction momentarily gives me a reprieve, as now I am only facing one guard. I deftly slip under his attempt to gut me like a fish, simultaneously launching my own attack, slashing him hard across both legs. I avoid his chest and head—I still don’t want to kill anyone.

  He goes down like a sack of potatoes, dropping his sword and screaming in agony.

  I turn back toward Roc, who is also crying out. The other guard has him cornered, slashing at him with short, flashing strikes. Roc is doing his best to maintain his swordfighter’s stance, but each time he parries a blow, it seems even less likely he’ll be able to block the next one.

  I charge the guard from behind, dropping my sword and tackling him hard to the floor. His sword clatters to the ground next to Roc, who kicks it out of range of the guard’s scrabbling fingers. I swing my elbow hard, crashing it into the back of his head. He slumps, unconscious.

  Turning back to the other guard, who is writhing on the floor in the fetal position clutching his legs, I pick up my sword.

  “No!” Roc cries, when he thinks I am going to run him through.

  But I’m not going to kill him. I spin the sword around and use the long handle to give the guard a major headache. He stops flopping about, stops yelling. Lies there, silent.

  Roc’s face is even whiter now, like it is powdered with chalk. “You okay?” I ask.

  Roc seems unable to speak, taking short and uneven breaths, his fists balled and legs stuck firmly shoulder width apart, slightly bent at the knees—just like I’ve taught him. He is going into shock. I need to snap him out of it.

  “Roc, stay with me, man. It’s going to be okay, we’re safe now.” I know I have to secure the guards—they’ve probably taken a lot of collective hits to the head over their lifetimes and their recovery time will be shorter than most—but I’m worried about Roc, so I take care of him first.

  I put an arm around Roc’s shoulder and the other on his elbow and lead him to a seat. He is trembling slightly, his body reacting to the sudden decline in stress. Once he is seated, I kneel down and massage his arms gently and then his legs. “All okay,” I say. He is staring at his feet.

  I try to make casual conversation to snap him out of his funk. “Remember the last time we were in the sixth subchapter, Roc?” He continues to stare at the floor. “We were riding on that float, trumpets playing, people cheering—when it tipped over. You remember that? It was chaos, Roc. A mob of bodies, mashed up against each other, nearly getting trampled to death. But we survived it. And we just survived an attack by two highly trained guards, Roc. We’re just fine. You did great.”

  Finally, his chin rises ever so slightly, and he manages a grin. “You’re talking to me like I’m a child,” he says.

  I laugh. Good old Roc. “I thought you were in shock,” I say.

 
“I think I was…or nearly was,” Roc says. “Thanks,” he adds.

  “Hey, what are friends for?” I say lightly. I don’t want him getting all emotional on me. There will be time for that later.

  Luckily, Roc has managed to grab the pack that we prepared together. In it is a long coil of rope. Using my sword, I cut off four small sections and use them to bind each guard’s hands and feet. I stuff the bodies under the seats at the other end of the car, as far away from Roc as I can get. He watches me do all this with interest.

  When I come back and sit next to him, he turns to me and says, “That was my first real fight.”

  “You did great,” I repeat.

  He laughs. “How do you figure? I was screaming like a banshee and on the verge of sudden death throughout the entire thing.”

  “You didn’t die,” I say. “That’s why. And everyone is on the verge of sudden death in a swordfight. All that matters is who doesn’t die.”

  The guards stir halfway through the trip and start yelling. I wrap cloth around their mouths to shut them up.

  Roc is better for the rest of the transporter ride, telling upbeat stories about when we were little, the trouble we used to get into. He might be overcompensating for the way he is really feeling, but I’m not about to stop him; it’s better than listening to him talk about near-death experiences.

  At some point along the way, the well-lit tunnel that we are traveling through dims, as we cross the border into the Moon Realm. Less electricity is provided to the commoners. Their leaders have signed a contract so it is okay. Yeah, right.

  An hour or so later the transporter begins to slow, pulling into a dead Moon Realm station. Moon dwellers don’t travel much; they are too busy trying to survive. I am somewhat concerned that there will be a welcoming party waiting for us: either moon dweller soldiers acting on my father’s orders, or sun dweller soldiers who somehow managed to get there in front of us. But there is no one waiting with guns, or swords, or handcuffs. I dare to hope that perhaps the only guards who know what is happening are tied up in the last car on the train. Despite the low traffic, they will eventually be found. We need to be as far away from the sixth subchapter as possible when they are discovered.

  We exit, our swords tucked under our clothing, and Roc carrying the pack. I scan the platform for any signs of trouble. There are only three people in sight. A cleaner scoops rubbish into a long-handled dust pan. An old woman steps onto the transporter a few cars in front of us. There is no way she is going to the Sandy Oasis. More likely the transporter is headed deeper into the Moon Realm. The third person is a platform attendant, who eyes us warily—he probably isn’t used to many sun dwellers stepping onto his platform.

  I approach him, keeping the cap of my hat low to shield my face. I am still wearing sunglasses. It is unlikely he will recognize me, but I still need to take precautions, so I change the tone of my voice slightly, making it gruffer and deeper. I say, “Where can I catch the first transporter to the fourteenth subchapter?”

  He looks at me like I am crazy, as if he’s never heard such a request in all his life. But then he says, “Platform seven. Just around the corner.” He motions in the direction we need to go. He doesn’t offer any information on when the next transporter will arrive, but Roc already checked the schedule. It is due only ten minutes after our arrival.

  “Thanks,” I growl.

  We round the corner and my eyes widen when I see the next platform. Based on the noise level—which is almost nonexistent—I expect to find another empty platform. Not so. Instead, the platform is packed with people, shoulder to shoulder, back to front, most of them staring straight ahead. No one speaks. They are like statues.

  I check my watch. We’ve arrived eight minutes late, which means the train will arrive any second. It is early evening—quitting time. I’ve heard that jobs are becoming so scarce in many of the Moon Realm subchapters that some people commute to other subchapters to work and then return home at the end of the day, but until I see that crowded platform I don’t really realize the extent.

  We join the crowd, wedging ourselves between a fat guy and an even fatter lady, trying to blend in. We get more than a few suspicious glances—it doesn’t help that I am wearing dark sunglasses.

  I hear a rumble in the distance and the crowd pushes forward, anticipating the train’s arrival, anxious to get home. The train arrives and the doors open. It is empty; apparently subchapter 6 has a lot more jobs than subchapter 14. By the time we push, jostle, and elbow our way onto the car, all the seats are taken. We fight our way to the wall and lean against it, trying to get some breathing space. No luck. The biggest man I’ve ever seen in my life stands right next to us and raises his gigantic arm so his sausage-like fingers can grasp the handrail. Out of his exposed armpit wafts the smell of dried sweat and too many days without a shower. He burps, letting out an even worse odor, one I couldn’t easily identify, but which reminds me of rotten onions.

  It should be a terrible ride, but it isn’t. After all, I am going to find the girl with the dark hair. The girl I know I have to find. The girl I hope will change my life. Assuming she’s still alive.

  Chapter Seven

  Adele

  It has all been arranged. The greedy guard has been paid. Tawni has withdrawn all of the money from her account. We have broken three pieces of thin plastic off of a cheap food container that we’ve stolen from the cafeteria. We are ready.

  All we have to do is wait.

  Sometimes in the Pen waiting is dangerous. Although a lot of the kids are wrongly convicted—screwed by the system, like me, I guess, and probably Tawni and Cole, too—there are plenty of bad kids in here as well. Real bad kids. Kids that will knock an old lady over on the road, steal her walker, and then break it down and sell the parts. Like the giant tattooed guys I’d been dealing with in the last couple days.

  There is a lot of violence in the Pen. Kids form gangs, fight over turf that doesn’t belong to anyone, try to control the cigarette and booze trade.

  I am no stranger to violence.

  I remember my first week in the Pen. I was scared, didn’t know anyone—which didn’t change much in six months—didn’t know what to expect. I was sitting in the yard, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, working on my leave-me-the-hell-alone vibe, when I saw a fight break out. I’m still not sure what it was about—one guy looked at the other guy’s girlfriend maybe. Anyway, all of a sudden the punches started flying. And I don’t mean like a schoolyard fistfight, where one kid gets a bloody nose and it’s over. This was a no-holds-barred, savage, kick-him-when-he’s-down kind of fight. And neither guy would relent. They were both twice as big as me and had clearly fought before. By the end of it they were both covered in blood, staggering around like they were drunk, probably suffering from concussions, or worse. Eventually one of them went down for good, but that didn’t stop the other guy from stomping him into the ground until the guards finally came to break it up. I never saw either of the kids again. For all I know the guy on the ground is dead and the other guy is now an Enforcer for the sun dwellers. Bottom line: the Pen isn’t a friendly place.

  Early on, I had a little trouble from a couple of the guys. I can promise you they weren’t bothering me because of my brains. They wanted something else, something I wasn’t about to give them. Their legs are still broken more than four months later.

  No one messed with me after that—at least not until that day with Tawni. I’m not sure if it is because of the message I sent with my fighting ability, or simply because my lack of hygiene makes me less and less attractive with each passing day, but whichever it is, I am thankful for it.

  I don’t have a problem with violence. I’ve grown up in a violent world, where miners are killed every day by cave-ins, and sun dweller Enforcers roam the streets cracking the knees of anyone unwilling to cooperate with them. My dad taught me to only use violence when provoked.

  Today is one of those times.

  I am sitting i
n the yard by myself. We’ve just finished going over the plans one final time and now Cole and Tawni are walking along the perimeter of the fence, doing what Cole likes to call “his zoo thing,” staring at any people passing by on the outside, growling and carrying on like a caged animal. I guess he does it for kicks.

  I showered after breakfast for the first time in weeks. I did a way better job than usual, scrubbing all the nooks and crannies, even rubbing the bar of soap through my hair. The water was freezing, but I suffered through it. I smell good for the first time since entering the Pen. I want to be as clean when I leave as when I arrived. Call it a symbolic cleansing of sorts.

  No one, besides Tawni and Cole (and a few obnoxious girls in the bathroom), have spoken to me in months, but now a gang guy saunters up, staring at me the whole way. It’s the guy who approached me before, when I first met Tawni, when I first saw Tristan. The tatted-up gang leader with the big muscles and the small brain.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he says, in the exact same way he did before. Like I said, no brains. My dad used to say the definition of stupidity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Or maybe that was the definition of crazy. Either way, it sprang to mind when the guy spoke.

  “Like I told you before, leave me alone,” I say.

  “Not gonna happen,” he says. “Not this time. You see, you’re looking even better today, and there’s something I want. And when I want something, I get it.” I’m trying to act tough, but inside I am trembling, scared shitless, but I learned a long time ago that inside the Pen you can’t show your fear. The others thrive on it, smell it, gravitate toward it, like bats to blood.

  I could run from him, try to hide, perhaps avoid him for the rest of the day until we escape, but that’s not how I was raised.

  I fight.

  I stand up, finally making eye contact with him. His black eyes are vicious and uncaring.

  “You ready to play,” he says, licking his lips, eyeing me from top to bottom and back up again. I don’t wait for him to make the first move, which is another thing my father taught me. Especially not when your opponent is bigger than you.