The Moon Dwellers

Roc sits down next to the man and I follow suit. My back to the rock wall, I take in my surroundings. The place is only about fifteen by fifteen feet. It reminds me of a small wine cellar—perhaps that’s what it is, or used to be. No wine adorns its walls anymore. I’d be surprised if anyone can afford wine in this subchapter these days. Regardless of what it used to be, or could’ve been, it will serve well as a bomb shelter now, deep under the ground-level rock surface.

In addition to the two kids, there are three women and three men. Two of them hold hands and are younger, sitting next to the kids, probably their parents. The young wife looks fearful, maybe not for her own life but surely for her children’s; her eyes dart about nervously, always returning to her young ones. The other four are older, gray around the edges, with serious faces that would fit in perfectly at a funeral. Well, at least three of them look that way. The fourth—a short, frail man with an impressive mop of gray hair—is wearing the biggest grin you could imagine. I wonder if my mother’s threat from my childhood—that if you make a face for too long it will get stuck like that—has cursed this man. Perhaps in the throes of an extremely merry moment, his face was frozen in the biggest smile of his life.

It turns out he is just a really happy guy. An optimist for sure. Always looking on the bright side of things.

“Crazy weather we’re having out there,” he says, somehow managing to keep his smile unchanged while he speaks. He is looking right at me so I feel obliged to answer.

“I think we’re under attack, sir,” I say, assuming his comment is made from senility, rather than lighthearted humor.

It was humor.

“Silly child, I know that, just trying to get a little laughter going in this damn dismal place.”

I don’t particularly like him referring to me as a child, but I’m also not going to start a fight with a crazy, big-smiled old man, not after our experience in the pizzeria. Instead I say, “Oh. Ha ha.” My laugh comes out even faker than it is. And it is pretty fake.

“Geez, it’s like trying to get a nun to laugh in a bar in here,” the guy says, still smiling. “How’d you end up lugging around ol’ Frankie here?”

The hotel deskman suddenly has a name.

“Don’t call me that, Chet. It’s Frank—I’ve told you a million times,” Frankie says.

“We were staying at his hotel,” Roc offers.

“Hotel? Ha! That dump’s more like a dormitory.”

Frankie glares at him, burning a hole through him with his eyes.

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” I say, trying to get on Frankie’s good side. Instead, he just shifts his glare to me. I guess the whole saving his life thing has worn off.

“So you’re travelers then? What part of the Moon Realm are ya from?” the fu

Probably remembering how well I’d handled a similar question in the pizzeria, Roc answers this time. “Subchapter six,” he says. “We’re just here for the night. So many of your people have come to work in our subchapter that jobs are scarce, so we thought we’d have a look around at what you have to offer.”

I hold my breath, hoping he will buy the lie. He doesn’t.

“Ha!” the man exclaims, so loudly he makes me jump slightly. “You’re sun dwellers if I’m an eternal optimist.” I freeze, waiting for the trouble to start. As if he senses my discomfort, he adds, “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us. We won’t give you any trouble. Name’s Chip, ol’ Frankie was just messin’ with me earlier when he called me Chet. He’s always purposely gettin’ my name wrong, callin’ me all kinds of things like Chaz, Chris, and a whole lot of other names I can’t repeat in public. What did your mothers call you, anyway?”

“I’m Tristan,” I blurt out. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Roc glances nervously at me. He probably thinks I’ve lost my mind.

I’m Roc,” he adds quickly.

“Tristy and Rocky…” the man says, moving his tongue in a circle as if he is rolling the names around in his mouth to see how they taste. “They’re good names, boys.”

I should just let it go. But I don’t. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If anything, my mother should have named me Damn Fool. “It’s not Tristy, it’s Tristan,” I say sternly. “And we’re not boys.”

The man chuckles, high and mirthfully. “You’ve been hangin’ out with ol’ buzzkill over here for too long,” Chip says, motioning to Frankie. “But as you wish, Tristan the Man.”

“You can still call me Rocky,” Roc offers unhelpfully.

I think we are out of the woods—clumsily dodging a bullet. Wrong again.

“Heyyy, wait a minute,” Chip says. I know exactly what the perplexed tone in his voice means. He has another question, probably a lot more questions. Because he’s probably figured something out. “You say your name’s Tristan, eh?”

“Uh, yeah, but you can call me Tristy if you really want to,” I say, backtracking, hoping it will help, even though I know it won’t.

“You’ve got a very famous name, young man,” he says. “What’s your last name?”

I go blank. Not a single real sun dweller last name pops into my head. All I can think of is: “Goop…and…no…I…mean…Troop.”

“Tristan Goopandnoimeantroop? What kind of name is that?” Chip says, laughing again.

“Sorry, I’m just a little lightheaded from all the smoke out on the street,” I say, shaking my head and trying to appear confused—not that it is that hard for me. “My last name is spelled T-R-O-O-P-E, and is pronounced True-Pay. It’s French.” I am feeling clever all of a sudden.

“Tristan Troop-ay, huh? Are you lyin’ to me again, young man?”

I have the perfect comeback for that. “No,” I say, not even convincing myself.

I get the feeling he may have worked it out already, and is just enjoying himself, watching me flounder in my scummy old pond of lies. I cringe, waiting for him to seal the deal.

“So you’re not Tristan Nailin, the son of President Nailin, the boy wonder who will one day become the most powerful man in the Tri-Realms? You’re not that Tristan?” Chip asks, his smile growing even wider—impossibly wide—spreading from ear to ear.

“I think you have me confused with—”

“Ha! We’ve got a real treat tonight, everyone. Tristan Nailin himself, in the flesh! Well, bless my lucky stars!”

My instinct—especially after our encounter in the pizza shop—is to be ready to fight, but the man’s tone sounds light, friendly even. Either he is a very good actor or he has nothing against me.

With unexpected swiftness, his tone changes. “Your father is a real piece of work, son,” he says in a low voice.

“And me?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“Eh, I think you’re all right, kid.” I am so overjoyed by the fact that he doesn’t harbor any ill feelings toward me that I manage to ignore him calling me kid again. He continues: “I have a good sense about people, ya know? Just like I could tell you were lyin’ earlier, I can tell you have a good heart. I think maybe you could be the one to make some positive change when you become president.”

“I’ll never be president,” I say honestly.

“For heaven’s sake, why not?”

I scan the room. The others in the cellar are listening to the exchange in silence. Their dark eyes feel like those of silent executioners. I hope it is just my imagination.

I know I should stop the conversation now—for God’s sake, shut your big, fat mouth!—but I tell them anyway. “I’ve run away. We’ve run away.” I interlock my fingers to signify the collective of Roc and I. “I don’t want anything to do with my father or the Sun Realm.”

The guy with the smile winks at me. “You see? I told you I knew you were one of the good guys.”

I change the subject, cutting my losses. “So who do you think is behind the attack?” I ask. Despite his age, the guy does seem perceptive, and I really think he might have some valuable insights. Instead, Roc jumps in.