The Sun Dwellers

“At what cost? The blood of so many is on your hands. You killed Mom? What the hell is wrong with you?” Until this point there’s only anger in Tristan’s tone, but upon mention of his mother, a hint of profound sadness creeps in.

The President smiles, his teeth bright white under the glare of the spotlight. “You don’t know what she did, Son. When you hear it, you’ll hate her. You’ll know that she had to die.”

“I’ll never think that,” Tristan says. “Anything she did, she did for the right reasons.”

“Even if she did it to you?” his father says, his evil smile returning.

Tristan

I’m scared of what my father will tell me about my mom. In my memory, she’s perfect, and that’s how I want to keep her. Anything he says to tarnish her reputation will only make me hate him more.

As we shuffle down the long corridor, our tied-up legs only able to take miniature steps, I wonder what she could have possibly done to me that would make me angry at her. All she ever did was love me, care for me, try to give me a good life, provide a buffer from my father. Regardless of what my father says, I vow to forgive her for it, if forgiveness is even necessary.

My thoughts turn to Adele, just a step behind me. These are my last moments with her, for I know my father will kill her or me, or both of us. He’ll do it in front of each other, forcing us to watch, destroying one of our minds while he destroys the other’s body. But I’ll not go down without a fight. They’ll have to hold me down with four men, one for each of my limbs, or I’ll break through, rip my bonds to shreds, kill everyone in my path. That’s what I’m feeling now.

The corridor ends and I realize where we’re going: the council room. Although my father holds most of his one on one and smaller meetings in the throne room, he conducts larger meetings with his advisors and vice presidents in the council room.

We enter the room, which is large enough to hold a couple of hundred people on lofted risers, which look down upon a square flat area in the center. Typically my father would walk around in the middle, waving his arms and shouting speeches about the rights of the sun dwellers and new taxes he’s pla

Approaching the pit, my father veers off to the right, takes a seat in the first row. I start to follow, but the guard behind me nudges to continue down. I pause but then obey, wondering what my father has in store for us. Whatever it is, it will be messed up, something only a madman would derive as punishment for disobedience.

When I reach the pit, I look back and up, expecting the rest of my friends to have been ushered down, too, looking forward to one last chance to get close to Adele, to perhaps tell her how I truly feel before it’s all over.

I frown when I see how things have been arranged.

My father, still sitting in the first row, is flanked by a guard on each side, followed by Adele and Tawni on opposite sides. Another guard caps things off on each end. The next two rows behind them are filled with more guards. And coming down the steps to meet me in the pit: Roc, his face whiter than I’ve ever seen it, clutching two swords awkwardly with his bound hands.

It doesn’t take a mining engineer to figure out what the plan is.

We have to fight each other. Not like our fun and spirited training fights, but a real fight. And knowing my father it will be to the death.

Adele

I can’t watch this. It’s too much. If my hands weren’t tied behind the chair, my feet clamped tightly together, I’d jump up, give my own life in an attempt to save them. I close my eyes when the President’s voice cuts the air beside me.

“Now for tonight’s entertainment,” he says, almost gleefully. “Son of the President against servant. Friend against friend. Traitor against traitor. However you chop it up, this has real potential for the dramatic.”

“I think you mean son of the President against son of the President. Did you forget that Roc is your son, too? No, I won’t do it,” Tristan says from below. I open my eyes. Based on the fierceness of his eyes, I know his words are a promise.

“We’ll see about that, you stupid boy,” the President says. “But first, I promised you a story, did I not?”

He stands, a big man with a small mind, ready to deliver the psychological knockout blow before the real fight even begins.

“Your mother…” he says, starting slowly. He pauses, looks at Tristan and then directly at me, his eyes lingering on mine. (It creeps me out if I’m being totally honest.) “…was a bad woman.”

“Shut your mouth!” Tristan growls from below. “She’s dead at your hands, can’t you let her rest in peace?”

The President smiles. “I could…but I won’t. Now, another outburst like that from you, and I’ll slit your little girlfriend’s throat.” The cold edge of a steel knife slides along my throat, as one of the guards demonstrates the truth of his threat.

Tristan’s face reddens, but he closes his mouth.

“As I was saying, Jocelyn Nailin, my wife—God rest her soul—was a bad woman.” He pauses, stares at his son as if daring him to refute his remark, continues. “Do you remember the gift I gave you for your fifteenth birthday, Tristan? The trip we took? Don’t say it out loud, for not all in this room are privy to our little secret, although I suspect you’ve already told your friends.”

Tristan only nods. The earth dwellers. He’s talking about when he took the whole family to the New City.

“A worthy gift, if I do say so myself,” Nailin says. “Well, your mother—ah, your mother always was a feisty one—she didn’t appreciate me keeping things from the people. As you know, she threw a temper tantrum and I had to put her in her place.”

“You abused her,” Tristan says through a clamped jaw.

“Abused, punished, call it what you want, but she deserved it. She was meddling in things she didn’t understand. Anyway, I thought she had gotten the message to butt out, but as it turns out, her meddling was only just begi

He sighs, looks at me again. “You see, she started visiting with one of my top scientists, a genius, a man who always seems to deliver when I need him to create something for me.” His eyes are the same color as Tristan’s, I realize suddenly, but they look so different, so much darker and full of hate, whereas Tristan’s seem to invite me in, almost sparkling with goodness. Strange how two identical sets of eyes can give off such opposite vibes.

He continues: “Your mother, the weasel”—he raises a finger as if to warn Tristan from refuting his insult—“went to my scientist, and said I needed him to build something for me. None of this was true, of course, but he believed her, because why wouldn’t he? What wife goes behind her husband’s back and lies to his employee?”

Returning his gaze to Tristan, who is standing as still as a statue, his muscles noticeably tensed, he says, “My scientist built what she wanted: a set of microchips, that, when attached to the spinal cord, could communicate with each other and with the brain. What could she want with such devices? It took me a long time to figure it out. But I’m getting ahead of myself. After she got the chips, she disappeared. Do you remember it, son? The day she left us? I thought it was just her throwing another tantrum, not carrying out a treasonous plan against me.

“The next day my scientist came to me, asked me how the microchips were working. Needless to say, I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, and I told him so. He told me everything, about your snaky mother, about what he built for her. I still didn’t know what she was pla