The Moon Dwellers (23 page)

I guess I should’ve known, considering the number of people commuting out
of the city every day.
There i
s no reason for travelers to stop in the 14
th
subchapter.

“Top flo
or, dead center view of the Pen,
”
I say
.

“Room t
welve
thirty-five,” the man says
, handing me
a key.
He’
d
slipp
ed the key from a peg on a board without ev
en looking at it.
Roc and I make eye contact; his lips a
r
e curled into a smirk that I am pretty sure mirrors
my own.

The room is more like a closet, but i
s clean at least, with painted-white stone walls and sl
ate floors.
A single bed fills
mos
t of the room—we’ll
have to duke
it out for bed rights.
There i
s a shared bathroom in the hallway, but with no guests
other than us, we’ll
hav
e it all to ourselves.
I close
the door.

First we check
the view.
For someone wanting
a view of the Pen—like us—it i
s a good one.
The Pen is dark and quiet.
I can
picture the girl sitting on her bed in her cell, wishing to be
anywhere but there.
I don’t dare to picture her on a slab of rock in the morgue.
She can’t be dead.
Can’t be.
If she’s alive,
I wonder if she i
s thinking
about me, whether she had
the same
strange feelings
I did
when our eyes locked.
Probably not.

But even so, if I can
somehow get her ou
t of the Pen, no doubt she will
be pleased, willi
ng to get to know me.
She will know who I am, but I hope that won’t be the reason she wants
to get to know me.
I am
so tired of people liking me just because of
my father.
In my mind, that i
s more of a reason
not
to like me.

“I’ve got to
find out if she’s alive
tonight,” I say
suddenly.

Roc glances
at
me, raising his eyebrows.
I am
ready for him to advise me that I should wait until morning, that I should do the responsible thing, be pati
ent, but to my surprise, he says
, “I know.
Let’s go have a look.”

When we pass
the
front desk, the same old man i
s sitting in the same position, reading the
same paper, like he i
s gl
ued to the seat.
Perhaps he has
a neck problem, which
explain
s why again he does
n’t bother to
look up.
Or perhaps he just does
n’t like g
uests, or more specifically, does
n’t like
us.
It does
n’t bother me
—the
fewer questions and looks we ge
t, the better.

The security at the fr
ont gate of the Pen i
s light—only a single guard
with an automatic weapon mans the station.
I am impressed that they have guns.
They a
ren’t ea
sy to come by and the inmates a
re all less than eighteen years old;
it
seems l
ike a lot of excess firepower to me.

I’
ve
removed my shades, as they will
make me stick out even more
wearing them at night.
I hope the low-brimmed hat will
be sufficient
to
hide my face.
I approach
the guar
d with my head down, but I can feel him eyeing us
.

“Ho
ping to visit an inmate,” I say
casually.

“A guest?” the guard replies
.

I almost say
what
?
but then realize we a
re talking about the sa
me thing.
Funny how they call
their prisoners
guests
.
“Uh, yeah, a guest,” I say
.

“Visiting hours are over.
Come back between ten and two tomorrow.”

The
guard does
n’t sound like he’
ll
e
asily change his mind, but I have
to try anyway.
“Is there any
chance of an exception?” I say
.

“No,” he says
simply, his voi
ce sounding tired, like he hates
having to constantly have this convers
ation with people.
I consider
playing my son of
the president card, but decide
against i
t for two reasons.
First, I do
n’t really want to give away
my identity just yet.
There is a good chance the press will
get wind of it
and then my father will
send guards
to bring me back.
Second, I do
n’t want to rely on my nam
e, or my father, anymore.
I am tired of it.
I am
ready to just be me, for better or for worse.

“Okay, we’ll
be back at ten tomorrow,” I say
.

The guard doesn’t answer, just stares at us.
No, it’s not
at
us, more like
through
us, like we aren’t even there.
We leave
.

I know it i
sn’t a good i
dea to roam the city, especially at night, but we have to eat so we go for a walk.
The subchapter has
seen better days.
Although the c
avern it’s built in i
s magnificent, rising hundreds of feet above our heads and extending many miles in ea
ch direction, the town itself i
s deteriorating.
Most
of the shops and restaurants a
re boarded up, having insufficient business to exist.
When people don’t have money, they can’t buy th
ings—simple as that.
I expect
it
mean
s
the remaining restaurants will
be crowded, enjoying the benefits of being
the only show in town, but I am
wrong there.

We pass
a
tavern
.
Through the window I c
an
see a lone drinker propped on an elbow, sitting on a stool at the bar.
Nursing a drink.
And I mean
nursing
.
He i
s sipping it like it
might be the last drink he will ever take.
Maybe it is.
Maybe things are so bad that he
spent the last of his
money on the drink, and plans to commit suicide later to
night.
I d
on’t know.
Things like that do
n’t happen in the Sun Realm.

We ge
t to the end of the street without passing another ope
n eatery.
Turning left, I hear
the distant murmur of music playing.
Halfway down the block the
soft glow of candlelight drifts
through an open doorwa
y.
The sign above the door says
simply
Pizza
.
Not
seeing any other options, we mak
e for
the
light.

Entering the pizzeria, I let
Roc step in front of me as I see half
a
dozen heads turn toward
us.
The music playing i
s by s
ome sun dweller rock band, The Stone Crushers
,
I think, and has
a
n
up
-
tempo
beat that mak
e
s
you want
to get up and dance.
No one is dancing tonight.
They a
re, however, eating pizza and it s
mells
pretty good.

There i
s n
o one to greet us so we just ta
k
e
a
couple
seat
s and wait
for service.
None of the other customers pay any attention to us.
A few minutes later
, a short
bald man
with horn-rimmed glasses pushes
backwards through
a set of swinging doors.
He i
s wearing a red apron and balancing four circular trays of pizza across his outstretched arms.

“Who
’
ad the cheese?” he says
with a grunt.

Every hand in the place goes
up
except ours.
He quickly dishes out the pizzas and collects
a few coins
from each party.
Then he turns toward
us.
“What’ll ya have?” he says
.

“Whaddya got?” I ask.
When the guy’s eyes narrow, I realize I should have just said
cheese pizza
, because I know he has it
.
Instead,
my simple question instantly dra
w
s
more attention to us
than I want
.
I glance at Roc.
He’s
chewing his nails off one by one.

“You’re not fro
m around here, are you?” the guy says
.

“Just vi
siting for a day or two,” I say, hoping it will satisfy him and he’ll
go back to serving us.

He raises
a single bushy eyeb
row.
“Travelers, huh?” he says
.
“We don’t get many travelers.
Where ya from?”

Now I know we’re in a bit of trouble.
I can
te
ll him the truth, tell him we are sun dwellers, but I have no idea what effect that will have.
Will
he and his patrons
be excited that a sun dweller i
s visiting their subch
apter?
Or will
they be angry, ready to have a political
discussion
that
involve
s
their fis
ts and our faces?
All it
take
s i
s one moon dweller with a chip on his shoulder to cause us serious problem
s.
On the other hand, if I lie, tell him we are
from some other subchapter, he m
ight ask questions that I’m not able to answer.
I will
have to keep lying, spinning myself deeper and deeper into a web of deceit.

I opt
for truth—big mistake.

“We’re visi
ting from the Sun Realm,” I say
.

You could have heard the sound of one of Roc’s chewed off nails drop to t
he floor, that’s how quiet it gets
.
I
t
even feels like the music stops playing
, although in reality the song
just happens
to end at the exact same time.

“The Sun Realm, eh?”
t
he pizza man says.
I know that everyone inside i
s listening to our conversation now, slices of pizza dangling from fingertips, some in mid-bite.
I kno
w
the man
i
sn’t going
to let it go in a h
urry.
I am glad
the restaurant is only lit by candles—it will
be near impossible for him to identify me.

“Yeah,” I say
.