The Moon Dwellers

We pass a lonely orphanage, named The Forgotten Kids. True, but a bit pessimistic, especially for the kids. It is weird to think how different my own childhood was. In a way, I was forgotten, too. Growing up, I was always the last of my father’s priorities. He always had something very important to attend to. I guess no matter what conditions you live in, you always have complaints—your bar is just set at a different height.

We make it through the slums without event. The map shows at least twenty miles of sparsely populated terrain. Within it is a network of caves called the Lonely Caverns. But we are far too tired to attempt it tonight. We find a couple of large boulders and seek shelter behind them, rolling out our bedrolls and hoping for sleep.

I doze fitfully, having alternating nightmares of explosions rocking the night, and sweet dreams of the girl’s face, her hand reaching out to me, her lips seeking mine.

I awake to find Roc sitting up, studying the map.

“Morning,” he says, noticing my movement in his peripheral vision.

I notice that he doesn’t add good to the begi

“Good morning,” I reply cheerfully. For, despite our modest breakfast and sleeping situation, I am ecstatic. In fact, I have never been happier. For the first time in my life I’ve woken up without the weight of my father on my shoulders. And I am doing something I want to do. I know it is selfish, but my whole life I’ve been doing whatever my father asks of me, and I desperately need a chance to live my own life. Even if it is only for…well, only for…

“A girl?” Roc says into his map.

My head snaps up from our pack, where I’m rummaging for food. How does he do that? I think. How does he always seem to know exactly what I’m thinking? “Huh?” I say, trying to hide my amazement.

“Are we seriously risking our lives all for a girl? One who you’ve never met?”

Roc’s tone sounds angry. “I’m sorry, Roc. I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but—”

“No, it’s fine, Tristan,” Roc says, finally making eye contact with me. “I volunteered, remember? I’m just a little tense, that’s all—not used to all this dangerous stuff. If you feel something for her, then she’s worth it. I just wish she’d stop and let us catch her.” He grins and the tension melts away, but I’m not sure if the discussion is really resolved.

“Thanks,” I say. “Think of it as part of your training. A very real part of your training. How about we practice with the real swords for a while? It might make you more confident.”

“Sure.”

For the next hour I show him the subtleties of using a real sword. By the end, he seems more confident, performing the various maneuvers with ease. It’s just the basics, but it’s a start.

“What time is it?” I ask suddenly when there is a break in the action.

I don’t bother to look at my watch. Usually Roc is responsible for dragging me to anywhere I need to be.

Roc says, “Early afternoon. Why?”

“We should get moving,” I say, worried that we have tarried in our hideaway for too long.

“First we need to find out more about our quarry,” Roc says. “Remember Chip’s and A

“Who’s A

“The lady who led us down to that cellar. Well, I don’t really know her name—she never told us—but I thought she was deserving of a name anyway, so we don’t forget her.”

Fu

“Okay, let’s move along the edge of the caverns. Maybe there will be a shop or something where we can find a telebox.”

We travel for more than two hours before we come to a large cave mouth, near the southern entrance to the Lonely Caverns. Sure enough, there is a small stone shack with a stand, set up just outside the caves. A middle-aged man with a long, salt-and-pepper beard dozes in a hammock, an unlit pipe dangling from his chapped lips.

All around him are piles of goods, some used, some new. All for sale. It seems a bit out of the way for a shop, but he has plenty of inventory, so I assume he gets some business. There is also a decent selection of preserved food, like dried meats and fruits.

As we slalom through the piles of stuff, I hear the low murmur of a voice. I head toward the sound. At the very back of the yard, sitting on a table, is a small telebox. It is hard to believe the man has sufficient electricity to operate a telebox, and yet, there it is, broadcasting the news.

I move closer, tilting my ear to pick up the low volume, when I hear a booming voice from behind. “What can I do for ya!?”

I spin around to find the man standing close to us, much smaller than his voice suggests. He eyes us warily, as if he thinks we’re thieves looking to capitalize on his midday slumber.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” I say. “We didn’t want to wake you. We were hoping to watch your telebox for a few minutes, if that’s okay? We’ve heard lots of rumors about the bombings, but we wanted to hear it for ourselves.”

“Customers only,” he says, pointing to a sign above the telebox that I hadn’t noticed.

“Of course, of course,” I say. “We have Nailins.” I motion to Roc, who promptly unzips the pack and extracts a handful of gold coins.

The man’s eyes widen. “Who the hell are you?” he asks.

“Customers,” I say simply. “Now, we’ll take ten packs of those dried meats and twenty of the fruit. What will that cost?”

“Usually my customers just barter,” the man says, almost to himself, “but I guess that would be about five Nailins.”

“Give him ten,” I instruct Roc. “For the exemplary service and use of the telebox.”

I turn my attention back to the screen. I massage a knob to raise the volume, not worried about the man’s reaction. He will probably let me to do anything I want after the tip he just received.

We’ve already missed the latest report on the bombing, which, not surprisingly, is the lead story. But a close second is the report on the guests who escaped from the Pen. First they show a guy, Cole something, large and dark-ski

Next they show a girl named Tawni, with stark white hair and long, thin features. I recognize her immediately as the girl who was sitting next to the green-eyed girl the first time I saw her. Tawni is painted by the media as a good kid who made some bad choices, the latest being her choice of companions in the escape from the Pen. Her parents are prominent, wealthy figures in the subchapter 14 community. They show a photo of her house.

“Oh my gosh,” Roc says, watching over my shoulder, “we passed right by her house last night!”

I glance at him. “You think they might’ve been hiding out with her parents?”

“Possibly,” Roc says.

“We’ll check it out before we go into the caves.”

Finally they show her. Her sad, green eyes suddenly fill the screen, and then the rest of her features follow as they pan out of the strange choice of close-up. I was right. Green eyes. I don’t know how I knew. But I did.