The Star Dwellers

I duck sharply, afraid to let go of the rope, but making sure my eyes are protected.

Twang! The slingshot sings and I feel a sharp pain in my shoulder as the stone deflects hard off my collar bone. “Arrr,” I growl, desperately fighting off the urge to massage the wound with one of my hands. It hurts like hell, a stinging pain that shoots through my nerves like a fire cracker.

I grind my teeth so hard that my jaw starts to hurt. But it takes my mind off my shoulder and I start to climb, keeping my head down and starting with one hand up, then one foot; the other hand—the other foot. All the while the rope is careening side to side and being pulled upward by an unseen force. I repeat my climbing cycle twice more and then risk another glance up.

Another kid, a girl this time, is staring back at me, as if she was waiting for me to look up. Her hands hold a tube to her lips like a straw. Not a straw—a pea shooter, like we used to play with when we were kids. I hear a sharp exhalation of breath and feel a pin-like prick on my cheek.

This time I can’t help but to raise a hand to my injury, and I feel the warmth of fresh blood streaming down my face. That filthy, little… I think, once more lowering my head to climb, moving faster, less worried about falling, more focused on getting my hands on the brats who are attacking me. A few more stings pepper my body in various places—my ear, my neck, the crown of my head—but I ignore the pain, determined to—

Thud!

Something heavy crashes into my skull and sparkling fairy stars dance before my eyes. My head suddenly feels heavy and my hands too tired to grip the rope. In the back of my mind I know I’m pretty high up and that a fall could kill me, but the thought of going to sleep just sounds so good.

Luckily, when my fingers relax on the rope, I fall a little forward and my hands slips through the ladder, pushing the rung sharply under my arms, burning my skin. The sensation of falling loops wildly through my stomach, sending warning signals to my brain. It snaps me out of my stupor and I manage to grasp the rope once more.

I look up just as the foot comes down on my head, trying for the knockout blow. Turning my head sharply to the side, I avoid the worst of it as the dirty, shoeless foot glances off my shoulder. Able to think once more, I grab the foot and pull down hard.

“Ahhh!” a high voice yells as a small form tumbles into my arm. It’s the girl with the pea shooter. The kicker. I desperately cling to the ladder with my other arm, while trying to hold onto the girl, who is kicking and thrashing wildly, trying to unhinge herself from me, completely unconcerned with the potential three-story drop below us.

“Stop squirming,” I snap. She doesn’t listen—just wriggles even harder.

I hear a shout from above and look up to see the boy with the slingshot, once more taking aim. He’s now dangling outside the top-floor window, where I’m headed, as the ladder continues to ascend.

“Don’t shoot or I’ll drop her!” I shout, muscling the girl away from the rope so she’s hanging precariously over empty space. Finally she stops fighting me as she realizes the danger she’s in.

The boy’s eyes widen and I see doubt register in his eyes as he lowers the slingshot slightly. If he shoots me and I fall, she’s going with me. Although clearly he’s not afraid of violence, perhaps he draws the line at bearing responsibility for the death of a friend.

“What youse want?” he says.

The ladder rises another couple of feet. I can almost touch him.

“Just to talk,” I say. And wring your little neck.

He pulls back and helps to pull the ladder over the windowsill. With a final grunt, I pull myself and the girl into the window, crashing awkwardly to a crinkly floor below. I feel my tiny hostage scramble away from me, scraping against the papery floor with her fingernails.

For a moment I can’t see through the gloom, but then a bright light is flashed in my eyes and I raise a hand to shield them.

“Don’t move,” the boy says, wielding a slingshot next to the light. His confidence is back.

“Yeah, don’t move,” the girl repeats, holding the light.

“I’m not moving,” I say, considering my options. I don’t particularly believe in hitting children, but for these two I might make an exception. They put the rats in brats.

“Youse said youse wa

“About you and your friends giving me my stuff back, for starters.”

“Forget it,” the boy says. “Finders keepers.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a real rule,” I say.

“Yeah, it is,” the boy says. “And anyway, it ain’t ours to give back. Not anymore.”

What is that supposed to mean? “Well, then, whose exactly is it?”

“Mep’s. The Gimp. Only don’t call ’im the Gimp—he don’t like that.”

I feel blood trickle off my scraped knuckles, and my shoulders, neck, and head are throbbing in at least six places. Damn kids.

“Where can I find this Mep?”

“You cain’t. He finds youse.”

Screw talking—it’s not getting me anywhere. I fake right, move left, and feel the air from the rock as it rips past my head, missing me by mere centimeters. I crash into the boy, rip the weapon from his hands, and swing around him to grab him around the neck from behind.

The girl plays the flashlight on our faces and I can tell she’s scared. I feel bad for a second, but then I remember how she bashed me in the head with her heel. “Let him go!” she cries.

“Only if you take me to Mep.”

She nods furiously. “Follow me. He’s just down the hall.”

“He’s here?” I say incredulously. After all the talk about how He finds youse, I thought for sure we’d have to go to some secret hideout in the city.

The girl doesn’t answer; instead, she moves away from me through the room, her feet crinkling on the floor, which I now see is covered in old newspapers. In some spots the newspapers are rolled up, and next to them are large squares of paper, knit together to form sheets. I realize: the kids are sleeping here.

I feel sick as I begin to put it all together. These kids are orphans, living without adult supervision, stealing to stay alive, sleeping on newspaper and reporting to some gimp named Mep.

I hesitate for a second. Tawni’s still down there by herself and she’s not exactly a fighter. And the Star Realm’s not exactly a safe place, as we’re quickly discovering. With the kid still in a headlock, I peek out the window. Tawni’s looking up at me, her face masked with concern. “You all right?” I shout.

She nods. “Should I get help?” she yells back.

“No!” The last thing I want is Tawni traipsing through the narrow subchapter streets by herself. “Stay there. I’ll be back in a minute.”

We tramp across the sleeping quarters and out of the room, passing through a short hallway with moldy, pockmarked walls and a crumbling floor. At one point the boy tries to stamp on my foot, but I just tighten my hold on his throat and his body goes slack, forcing me to drag him with me.

The girl pauses at a closed door on her right, takes a deep breath, and then knocks. There’s a muffled sound and the door opens slowly.

She whispers something I can’t hear to someone I can’t see.

“Enough with the mysterious bull crap,” I say, pushing past the little girl and into the room. The room is well-lit, with lanterns in each corner and at least a dozen candles. It reminds me of a séance, like the ones Madame Sonia used to hold that my mom wouldn’t let me go to. Three kids, wearing tattered white tunics that are so dirty they appear gray, bar my path with serious arms folded across puffed-out chests. “Move it if you don’t want to get hurt.”

The kids look at each other, like they’re unsure who to be more scared of—me, or this Mep character.