The Sun Dwellers

“We were meant to take control of the vehicle quietly,” Roc says, pulling the guy out and muscling him into the back seat.

I pull myself into the seat, shutting the door behind me. “I didn’t think you were going to hijack one of the guest’s cars,” I fire back. “Do you even know how to drive one of these things?”

“Sure. We all had to learn so we could run errands around the city.” Easing the backdoor closed, he hops in beside me, the car lurching forward before his door is fully shut. “Don’t you have cars in the Moon Realm? I think I’ve seen them there.”

“Few people have them.”

We curl around the bend, across a wooden bridge, and onto a large cement slab. “Get down!” Roc cries.

I’m already ducking when he says it, having seen the danger up ahead. Dozens of servants, having parked cars, are walking across the lot, working their way back to the entrance to collect more cars. From my low position, I see Roc wave casually as he passes a few of them.

“Will they recognize you?” I whisper.

“It’s too dark in here. I probably just look like one of them,” he says.

“We can’t park it here. Someone will see the guy in the back.”

“We’re not parking here,” Roc says.

“Oh. Is it safe to get up yet?”

“Not yet,” he says. One beat, two. “Okay, you’re fine now.”

I pop my head up, glance back as the last of the servants walk away, far behind us. We’ve passed the parked cars, too, which look fu

“I’ve never seen this many cars in my life,” I murmur. “Are they gas-powered or electric?” Where I’m from they’re all gas-powered, which creates a heavy layer of smog and grime over everything. We have a removal and filtration system for all the fumes, but it’s not very effective. Many people believe the low life expectancies in the Moon Realm are directly related to the high level of pollution.

“Hybrid,” Roc replies, glancing at me. “Part electric, part gas-powered.”

I frown. “Then why isn’t there any pollution in the city? Even with hybrids there should be pollution—both from the cars and from all the plants generating the electricity to charge the batteries. You have at least ten times the number of cars that we have.”

“The air in the city is completely sucked out and refreshed every half hour using filtered air from above,” Roc says matter-of-factly. “Also, our electricity mostly comes from solar panels—technology that harnesses the power of the sun—on the earth’s surface. It’s all part of the agreement with the earth dwellers.”

I don’t say anything because I’m afraid of what I might say. Silently I fume. It’s another example of the blatant disregard for equality by the people meant to protect us. There’s so much energy at our fingertips, and yet, the Lower Realms are kept in the dark. I take deep breaths, get control of myself. After all, inequality is the reason we’re on this mission.

Ahead of us the parking lot ends, but there’s another road shooting out the drive.

“This’ll take us to the loading docks,” Roc explains. “All deliveries would have been completed yesterday, leaving today free for celebration. We’ll be able to sneak in that way.”

I’m completely at the mercy of Roc’s best judgment on how to get in the palace, which I don’t necessarily mind—he hasn’t steered me wrong yet, and he has spent his entire life here.

The new road curves to the right sharply, but Roc takes it like a driving pro, without breaking speed. As we approach a medium-sized building with a large horizontally slatted gray rolling door, he says, “Can’t get too close to it,” and then stops well short of the structure, turns off the engine, and kills the headlights.

“Why not?”

“Automatic door. If we pull up close to it, it’ll open, which makes a noise that plenty of people will hear. They’ll be all over us like sun dweller skanks on Tristan when he’s shirtless.” When he sees my expression, he clamps a hand over his mouth, says something through his fingers that sounds like, “By Idn’t bean dat.”

“Oh, you meant it all right,” I say. “Did he like having girls always trying to get to him?” I ask.

Roc uses his other hand to peel his fingers off his lips. “He hated it. Was always complaining about it. Called them sun sluts.”

“Good,” I say. “Let’s go.”

We exit our stolen vehicle, transfer the guy in the back to the trunk, lock the car, and throw the keys in the bushes for good measure. I want to go touch the leaves on the bushes, but there’s no time. I follow Roc to the side of the loading garage, where there’s a steel door with no keyhole and a combination lock beneath the handle. The code: 0475.

“The year of the Uprising?” I say.

“No. The year the Uprising was squashed,” Roc says, pulling open the door.

“Same thing.”

“Not to the President.”

The garage is pitch-black so Roc flicks on a flashlight. The inside is an empty shell, clearly built for utility rather than beauty. At one end is the automatic door and the other end a large platform with four sets of smaller steel doors, presumably for bringing deliveries into the palace. To the far right is an even smaller door, used for entering and exiting. Roc heads straight for the smallest door.

Standing in front of it, Roc says, “This is it. This door will take us inside the government side of the palace. Tristan, Trevor, and Tawni should be working their way from the opposite end. We’ll meet in the approximate center, where the president’s meeting room is located.”

“The throne room?”

“That’s what we like to call it. There will undoubtedly be guards in this area tonight, it’s only a question of how many and where we’ll run into them, so be alert.”

“Be careful,” I say u

Roc nods and pushes open the door.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tristan

The guards—giant men, with heads that, standing upright, would nearly touch the ceiling—are hunched over, looking down, reading something. A memo, or orders, or something else urgent; whatever it is, it has their undivided attention, so they don’t see us yet, which gives us half a chance. But only if we act quickly.

I risk a quick glance back to get Trevor, but he’s already aware of the danger, already by my side, with Tawni ushered behind him. Slowly, we slip our swords from their scabbards, pressing our backs against the walls on either side of the upstairs hallway. I notice Trevor’s movements are very similar to mine—fluid, designed to blend in and not attract the attention of the distracted guards. It’s good to have a partner as well-trained as he is.

The guards continue toward us, lost in whatever message is on the paper. When they’re less than three feet from us, the one on Trevor’s side glances up, probably sensing the staircase is near, but looks straight between us, flinches, perhaps realizing something is wrong in his peripheral vision.

Trevor and I move as if we’re arms controlled by the same creature, simultaneously and with force.

But these aren’t inexperienced or helpless guardsmen. These are professional warriors, men I probably have scars from training with in my youth. And did I mention they’re big? Like the size of some of the smaller trees in the palace gardens.

The men transition from reading to fighting in an instant, dropping the papers and raising their swords before my blade has arced halfway toward them.

Clang! Our swords meet theirs in unison, and we’re both thrown back by the sheer power behind their blocks. I hazard a glance at Trevor, our eyes meeting for a second as we both realize: we’re overmatched. Don’t take that as me being pessimistic, just realistic, and that doesn’t mean I think we’re going to lose, because I don’t. It just means we’re going to have to be a little more creative with our approach to the fight, especially if we want to end it quickly, which we do, for fear that more guards will arrive.