The Sun Dwellers

“Might be sooner than you think,” I say, wishing I could promise her what only my father has the power to authorize.

“You think?” she says, smirking, not buying the lie.

Night fully upon us, I lead the way into the city, feeling at home and like an outsider all at the same time. I keep my hat and sunglasses on, as I’m more likely to be recognized in this place than any other. The people here love my father and anything that belongs to him, which, from their point of view, includes me. Both my father and the people are in for a surprise.

The streets are crowded, the day’s Sun Festival events concluded, the night’s festivities yet to begin. This in-between period is the perfect time for us to make our move, when people are buzzing with excitement and the effects of whatever liquids they’ve consumed during the day. It will also mean my father has finished with his normal Sun Festival duties and is back at the palace getting ready for the typical presidential party that he throws on this day every year. Except this year is different, because he’s also trying to fight a war, so he’ll be with his advisors, getting the latest news, making decisions on what moon dweller subchapters to bomb, which i

I can’t think of a better time for us to go say hello.

We melt into the flow of traffic, just another group of sun dwellers out for a night of fun, oblivious to the death being dealt by my father’s troops below. Up here, death is something that happens to old people, after living a long and enjoyable life, not something in the present, in the here and now.

After ten minutes we’re still on the outskirts of the massive capital city, moving shoulder to shoulder with the other citizens, who are taking their time, clapping and singing and moving lazily forward like they have all night to get from one block to the next. Which, of course, they do. But we’re on a much tighter schedule, one that can’t wait for anything or anyone.

Leading the way, I hang a right, from busy street to busier street, in the hopes of finding a deserted alley we can use to cut across the city. Unfortunately it’s just another sea of people, brightly dressed, moving in all different directions as if they all want to get to a different place at the same exact time. Crap.

“Turn around,” I say to Adele, who’s right on my tail.

“To where?” she says, looking at me like I’m crazy, which I probably am.

“I don’t know. Back, I guess.”

“Tristan, there’s nowhere to go. This place is a madhouse.”

I know she’s right, but we can’t exactly stand where we are and hope my father dies of a heart attack from having too much fun at the party. Although I do remember hoping for something very similar at last year’s Sun Festival party when, in my mother’s absence, my father was dancing with two of his bleach-blond personal aides.

“Need some help?” Roc says, bobbing up next to Adele at just the right time, as usual. How does he do that?

“We need to get some breathing space,” I say.

“Follow me,” he says, turning directly into the bulk of the crowd.

“Follow you wher—”

“Urgent message for the President!” Roc shouts, his voice booming even over the dull roar of the masses. Dozens of heads turn toward us and I look at the ground, trying to keep the brim of my hat over the majority of my face. And then Roc’s moving forward, a path opening miraculously before him, like a zipper being unzipped.

Luckily, I have enough sense to stay with him as he moves through the temporary gateway, because the crowd continues to press all around me, as if it ca

On Roc’s efforts alone, we swiftly travel another block and across the street, where Roc ducks into a dark alley between the buildings. At most, a shred of light from the streetlamps manages to penetrate the narrow passage, but it’s just as well considering our need for stealth and privacy. There won’t be anyone walking in a place where it’s dark. Not in this, the city of everlasting light.

In the alley, we pass a shadowy Dumpster overflowing with trash. Evidently the garbage overload is affecting even the capital. I gawk at the garbage because it seems so out of place here, in a city that’s always been perfect and pristine, because my father wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s almost like a chink in a seemingly impenetrable suit of armor—the first sign that maybe, just maybe, the dark knight within isn’t so invincible after all.

As I’m taking hope from the thought, the garbage seems to rise up, levitating in the air, forming arms and legs and a head, like it’s becoming a trash man or woman, just to prove that even rubbish in the Sun Realm is powerful beyond the waste in the Lower Realms. The garbage creature speaks: “Tristan Nailin,” it says.

We’re already on high alert, so when the voice shatters the eerie silence in the alleyway, we all visibly jump, instinctively drawing our weapons from where they’re hidden beneath our sun-dweller-worthy clothing. I don’t know if a being constructed of trash can be destroyed by a sword alone, or whether it will simply laugh from the mouth of a tin can as it reconstructs itself with old broom handles, food cartons, and rusty bike frames, but I’m sure as hell going to try.

“Whoa! Hold on there. No need for those,” the thing says. “We’re on your side.”

As if by magic, another two garbage creatures form up on either side of the original.

“What the hell is going on?” Trevor says. “I’ve never been to the Sun Realm, so maybe this is a normal, everyday occurrence, but come on!”

“It’s not normal,” Roc says.

“Who are you?” I say, squinting through the gloom.

“Oh, right, the disguises,” the voice says. A garbage-soiled arm lifts a smelly hand to a waste-covered head, and then lifts the scalp of the thing, as if it’s removing its skin from the top. Like a cloak, the garbage peels away, revealing a young man of perhaps twenty with dark hair, dark skin, and even darker eyes standing before us.

“My name is Bren,” the guy says. “My companions are Linus and Sinew.” The two garbage people on either side of Bren do a similar trash-cloak-removing trick to show who they truly are: a girl of no more than sixteen with a light-brown complexion and hair so dark it blends in with the night, barely visible in a bob knotted tightly on the top of her smallish head; and an even younger boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen, with wide light-brown eyes that stand out against his darker skin.

“Bren?” Roc says. I glance at my friend, who wears an expression I’ve rarely seen on his face: one of surprise, of shock, an incredulous expression that shows he both knows these people and knows them well.

“Roc—is that you?” Bren says, using the overflowing garbage as a ramp to step off of the Dumpster.

“Yeah, it’s me. What are you doing in a Dumpster?”

“Why are you wearing the garb of a sun dweller?” Bren asks. “I thought you joined the Resistance.”

The two guys stand in front of each other, just staring for a long second, before grabbing each other in a firm, back-slapping embrace.

“How are you, man?” Roc says.

“Been better. Never thought I’d see you again. You remember my brother Linus and sister Sinew, right?” The two no-longer-garbage people raise a hand in greeting, but don’t move from their roost on the edge of the Dumpster.

“Of course,” Roc says. “Good to see the whole family is spending quality time together playing in the garbage.”

Bren laughs. “It’s a disguise.”

“Who are you hiding from?” Adele says, bringing everyone’s eyes to her.

“This is Adele,” Roc says. “And my girlfr—I mean, her friend Tawni.” He’s suddenly very interested in something on his shoe.