Текст книги "The Sun Dwellers"

Автор книги: David Estes

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Adele

After they all die I finally feel the throb of pain in my shoulder, so strong I nearly pass out. But then I hear Tristan’s scream and I will my body to soldier on. I drop into my seat, my hand scrabbling at the nearest dead guard’s belt, finding a knife, and although it’s difficult with only one hand, cutting my bonds from my hands and feet. Down the aisle Tawni’s doing the same with the ropes around her ankles.

We should both be in shock, but perhaps everything we’ve seen has been so shocking that our bodies don’t even know enough to start shutting down. For whatever reason, I’m able to tuck my injured arm across my belly, pick up a gun with my right arm, and move down the aisle, stepping over bodies—over the President’s body—and usher Tawni to the steps.

We take them two at a time to the bottom and Tawni pushes through the gate, immediately sprinting across the floor. I try to run, but the pain is too much and I start seeing stars, so I drop back into a more reasonable stride.

When I reach Tristan and Tawni and Roc—poor, poor broken Roc—Tawni’s taking charge. Tristan’s hysterical. “He’s dead. He’s dead. My fault. All my fault,” he wails, sobbing and choking and gasping.

“Take him,” Tawni says to me gently.

I lay down the gun, kneel, put my good arm around Tristan’s shoulders, and pull his grief-wracked form into my chest. “Shhh. Let Tawni check him out. She knows what she’s doing. Remember? Shhh.”

He continues sobbing as Tawni hovers over Roc. Half a sword blade and the hilt are still sticking from his stomach. There’s blood around the blade’s entrance, but not as much as I’d expect from such a horrific wound. Roc’s eyes are closed, like he’s only sleeping, his chest doesn’t appear to rise and fall, so I expect the worst when Tawni places two fingers on his neck, feeling for a pulse.

I want to join Tristan, cry my eyes out, but I know he needs me to be strong now. Tawni is somehow holding it together, although it’s her boyfriend who’s lying there, possibly dead. If the roles were reversed and it was Tristan instead of Roc, I’d be a mess, inconsolable. But Tawni just goes about her business, professionally searching for a pulse, her ear near Roc’s closed lips, perhaps hoping to feel an exhalation from his nose on her skin.

“He has a pulse, but it’s weak,” she says. “And he’s breathing.” Her words should give me some comfort, but when she turns back to me, the look on her face paints a different story. “But he is dying. He needs medical help, right now.”

Tristan jerks, his head lifting from my chest, his sobbing ending abruptly. “He’s alive?” he says, the last of his tears dripping from his chin.

“Barely. Can you guys carry him?”

There’s a light in Tristan’s eyes that I thought had gone out for good. “Yes, yes, of course. But shouldn’t we remove the sword?”

“No!” Tawni cries. “That’s the only thing preventing a significant loss of blood. It might be the only thing keeping him alive.”

Strange how the instrument that caused his injuries might now be saving his life.

“Okay. Let’s go.” Tristan slides his hands under Roc’s armpits from behind, props him up.

“Gently. Gently,” Tawni says.

I grab his feet with my good arm, leaving the other one hanging limply at my side. “One, two, three,” I say and then we lift. He’s heavier than I expected, and I almost drop him, but Tawni rushes to help, placing two arms underneath his back.

“Are you okay?” Tristan asks sharply, as if he’s only now noticing my injured shoulder.

“I think it’s dislocated,” I say, “but I can handle it.”

Tristan nods, doesn’t question my statement. He knows now’s not a time to pamper his girlfriend. His friend’s life is on the line.

“Where are we going?” Tawni asks.

“The infirmary,” Tristan says. “There will still be at least one doctor on call, even during the celebration. You know, for drunks who fall down and get hurt.”

“What about the guards?” I ask.

“You killed them all.”

I take a short breath when I hear the truth in his tone. “I know I killed these ones, but what about others?”

“We killed a few earlier, and I don’t expect there are many others. My father saved them all for the ambush.”

I killed all the guards. The thought gives me a gruesome sense of pride mixed with a sick dread at what I’ve done.

Struggling under the load, we move swiftly through the gate and start up the stairs. I lead, while Tawni and Tristan push from behind. It’s like carrying…well, it’s like carrying a dead body, to be honest—difficult and cumbersome. I try to push the thought out of my mind.

We reach the top and pass through the exit, using our legs to keep the door from whacking Roc. I move as fast as I can down the hall, the others matching my speed. When we reach an intersection, Tristan says, “Left.”

We maneuver around the bend and continue our harried pace. “Here, here,” Tristan says. “Through the doors on your right.”

I push through the doors back first, twisting my head to look over my shoulder as I enter a stark white room with bright fluorescent lights running along the ceiling.

“Who are you?” a voice says from behind me.

Pushing into the room, Tristan says, “I am Tristan Nailin, son of the now dead president of the Tri-Realms. We have a patient who needs your help.”

Without waiting for permission, I lay Roc’s feet on a bed on wheels that stands in the center of the room. Tawni and Tristan rotate the rest of him around until he’s securely on the mattress. The doctor is gawking at us.

“Tristan? Why yes, of course it’s you! Did you say now dead president?” the balding, spectacled man says.

“There’s no time for any of that,” Tristan says. “I order you to save this man’s life.”

“But he’s a servant. Surely you can take him to a regular hospit—”

“Now!” Tristan roars, rising up to his full height.

“Well, of course, I suppose I could make an exception,” the doctor says, hurrying to Roc’s side. “This does not look good. Not good at all.”

“He’s still breathing and has a weak pulse,” Tawni says helpfully.

“That’s good, but they might not last. We need to put him on life support immediately.”

“Do it, Doctor,” Tristan says. “Whatever it takes.”

“Give me space, please,” the man says, shooing us to the side like animals or small children.

The doctor goes about his business, wheeling various machines around Roc, fitting a plastic mask over his mouth, strapping something to his chest, just above his heart. The sword continues to protrude from his belly like a piece of grotesque abstract art meant to shock its viewers.

Next the man injects a yellowish fluid in Roc’s right arm, and then something pink in the other one. We’re all staring, watching things unfold like a play, or live telebox. At some point Tristan grabs my hand, clutching it like it’s the only thing keeping him sane, like if I let it go he’ll spontaneously combust. His squeezing gets harder and harder until my hand starts to hurt.

“Tristan,” I say, “it’s going to be okay.”

He looks at me, his eyes misty again. “Is it?” he says. “I’m sorry, that’s more than I can hope for right now.”

Is it just Roc that’s bothering him? Or is it that I—

“Tristan, I’m sorry I killed your father. I know that was the whole point of all of this, but I’ll understand if you never forgive me.”

Tristan’s eyes flick to mine, his anger melting away. “What? No! I’m not angry about that. I would’ve done it myself if I had the chance. He wasn’t my father. Was never really my father, any more than he was Roc’s father.” There’s a sincerity in his deep blue eyes that once again proves how different he is to the ex-president. “I’m just tired. Killen…Roc…Trevor…what my mother did and how she died…it’s all too much at one time.”

With everything we’ve just gone through, I’d forgotten about the revelation the President made before he died. It seems so science fiction, so farfetched that it just might be true. “So you believe him?”

“Sometimes the truth hurts the most,” he says, glancing at the doctor, who has cut off Roc’s shirt, revealing his lean and muscly frame. The body of a servant, a workhorse. “We were ninety percent of the way there on our own. Our matching scars. The instant, almost neurological attraction we had for each other. How it suddenly turned off and the buzzing on our scalps and spine were gone. It all makes sense now.”

He’s right. In my heart I know that. But a microchip? I’m not sure what I’m more shocked about: that there’s a microchip implanted in my spine or that one or both of my parents worked with Tristan’s mom to put it there. The only strange thing is…

“How did it turn off all of a sudden?” I wonder aloud. “You know, stop pulling us to each other.”

Tawni, who’s been watching the doctor treating Roc in silence, suddenly says, “The scientist who created them probably figured out a way to disrupt the signal, maybe cancel them out or something.”

Tristan nods. “Sounds about right.” He cringes as the doctor paints antiseptic around the point where the sword enters Roc’s skin. For some reason it doesn’t bother me. The gore, that is. I should be grossed out, ready to spew all over myself, but it just doesn’t seem real. I mean, who has a sword sticking out of their gut and requires treatment? Most of them are just taken to the morgue in that situation. Roc’s a fighter.

“Did you…?” I say, trying to coax some information from Tristan.

Tristan laughs, which catches me off guard. It’s the last thing I expect him to do right now. “Did I what?” he says, still smirking. “Did I stab him?”

I nod, wondering what’s so funny.

“No,” Tawni answers for him. “He stabbed himself.”

The pieces fall together. He wanted to end the fight against his best friend without causing any harm to me or Tawni. My heart swells with love for Roc, for being the kind of person that would willingly give his own life for his friends. “You saw him do it?” I ask Tawni.

She looks away, back to Roc. The doctor is wrapping thick gauze around the sword, mumbling something under his breath. “I sensed it,” she says thickly.

Staring at my friend, who’s watching the procedure with interest, I say, “What do you mean?”

Finally she looks at me, her eyes welling up with tears for the first time since entering the Sun Realm. It’s catching up to her. The fear, the emotional pain, seeing Roc with a sword in his gut, everything. She can be so strong for so long, but eventually everyone needs to let it all out. “I know him, Adele. I know it sounds crazy, but in the short time that we’ve been talking, I’ve learned so much about him. Roc is—he’s a good person. Genuine, you know? He always talked about how he’d be willing to give his life for Tristan or me or you. It’s almost like he’s been waiting for an opportunity to be a hero.”

“He is a hero,” I say, meaning it.

“Damn right,” Tristan says.

“From the moment you started fighting,” she says, looking past me to Tristan, “I could just sense he was going to do it. No one was watching me—they were all looking at the President, or the action down below, or Adele. I was just a bystander, unimportant. So I worked on my ropes with my hands. The guy who searched me for weapons was more interested in my body than in doing his job. He didn’t find the gun you gave me, Adele. And when he tied my wrists he left a lot of slack. I managed to slip the ropes off without anyone seeing. I grabbed the gun and waited for an opportunity.” She pauses, blinks away more tears. One slips out and meanders down her cheek. “I was too late,” she cries. “Too late to save Roc.”

“You did awesome,” I say. “You saved the day, Tawni. If you hadn’t done what you did, we’d all be dead, Roc included. He’s still alive.”

We all turn our attention back to the bed at the same time, as if we’re just remembering that there’s a life and death procedure going on. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, the doctor pulls the sword from the wound, applying pressure with the gauze in his other hand. Roc, his eyes still closed, shakes violently as the sword is extracted, but doesn’t wake up. “What’s happening?” I whisper, a hand on Tristan’s shoulder.

Overhearing, the doctor says, “His body’s reacting to the trauma. An involuntary spasm, nothing more. He’s doing okay, but he’s not out of the mines yet.”

My hand bumps off the edge of a table and pain surges through my shoulder. “Uhhh,” I groan.

“Your shoulder is not okay,” Tristan says.

“It’s fine,” I insist, cradling my dangling arm like a baby. I grit my teeth, try to blink away the pain. “It’s not like I have a sword in my stomach.”

“I’ll fix it right up,” Tawni says. “I’ll make a sling. But first I have to set it. It’s going to hurt like hell though.”

I know I’ll need treatment at some point, but there are more pressing matters.

“I’m not trying to sound insensitive,” I say. “But there’s not much we can do here to help Roc. I mean, what do we do next? The President’s dead and no one knows yet. The war will continue on until we stop it. People are dying down there. My mom—” My breath hitches.

Tristan takes a deep breath. “I want to stay with Roc.”

“But you’re the President now.”

“What? No. No, I’m not. I don’t want to be.”

“You are,” I press. “Your father’s dead. Killen’s dead. You’re the only Nailin left. Until everything gets sorted out, it’s you. You have the power to set things right.”

Tristan stares at his feet. “But this is exactly what I never wanted—this kind of power.”

I put an arm around him. This is one of the many reasons I fell for Tristan. Yeah, we had microchips pulling each other together, but there was always more to it. He’s not like the other sun dwellers who are hungry for power and fame. “That’s exactly why you’re the right person to have it. Anyway, you can help shape new laws that will spread the power out amongst a broader group with representation from all the Realms.”

He looks up and our eyes meet. So soft and so serious at the same time. Another contradiction I love about him. “Go, Tristan. Set things right. End this unnecessary war,” I say, clutching my mother’s necklace. “We’ll look after Roc.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Tristan

It’s hard for me to leave Roc like that. Although the doctor promises me he’ll take good care of him, there’s no guarantee he’ll be able to save his life. Not that me being there would make a difference one way or the other, but I’d just hate for him to wake up—after stabbing himself to save my life—and me not be there. Some friend I am.

But, on the other hand, Adele is right. Roc would want me to stop the war as soon as possible if I was able to. He wouldn’t want me hovering by his bedside while people are dying in the Lower Realms. In the end, it’s that thought that convinces me to leave him. I trust Adele to protect Roc and Tawni and herself while I’m away.

As I pass through the familiar halls of the government palace, which has been in my family now for hundreds of years—so long that most people refer to it as the Nailin House—it feels eerie. A good eerie, though, like the place has been cleansed. The air is lighter, the décor brighter, the hallways more open. Nothing has changed except that my father is dead.

Still a few corridors from the grand ballroom, I can already hear the music, growing louder and louder as I approach. People having fun while Roc is dying. Just before turning the corner to the final hall, I catch a glimpse of myself in a large decorative mirror hanging on the wall. Ugh. I look like a crazy person: my hair is wild and unkempt like I just woke up or rolled around in the gardens; my face is scarred with the white salt trails of sweat and tears; and my tunic—oh my shirt!—is wet with Killen’s blood. Although I’ll definitely make an entrance looking like this, I’m not sure I’ll get the reaction I’m looking for.

I pause in front of the mirror, remove my shirt, use the clean parts of it to wipe the white off my face and the soaked-through blood from my chest. I open a random door—some meeting room—and toss the soiled and bloody tunic inside; I’m better off going shirtless in this case. Finally, I lick my fingers and maneuver my hair so that my wavy locks fall in such a way that they look both natural and contrived at the same time.

Taking two full breaths, I round the corner. There are two stewards at the end of the hall, in front of a large oak door. When they see me, their eyes widen and they stand up a bit straighter. One of them says, “Master Tristan? But you’re supposed to be bedridden. Your father made it very clear you wouldn’t be attending the ball tonight.” The man is tall and ultra-skinny, with a well-trimmed goatee and a thin mustache.

“I’m perfectly fine—can’t you see that?” I return, putting on my best imitation of my father’s condescending tone.

“But your tunic!” he exclaims, his face reddening slightly.

“What tunic?” I ask.

“You’re—you’re not wearing one!”

“It’s the Sun Festival. Really, you’ve got to learn to live a little, Bo,” I say, moving between them. “The door please.”

Flustered, but not so much that they would ignore a direct command by the son of the President, Bo and his partner each grab one of the double doors and drag it open, sweeping a hand for me to enter. “As you wish, sir. Enjoy the evening.”

I smile and enter, waiting for the doors to close behind me before moving further into the room. The music is louder now, but nothing like the pumping base at the first Sun Festival party we attended. Sun dwellers wearing all manner of luxurious attire are dancing and mingling and drinking flutes of wine and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres being carried on silver trays by servants.

I take one step into the room, whistle as loud as I can. “Ladies and gentlemen!” I shout. “May I have your attention, please!”

One by one at first, and then in groups, the people stop moving and a hush falls over the room. The music stops. All eyes are on me, but I feel no fear. My father is dead, his guards dead. As Adele said, I’m the only Nailin left.

“I have an announcement to make!” I say, half-aware of a group of deeply tanned young girls who are giggling and pointing at my bare chest. “My father, the President of the Tri-Realms, and my brother, Killen, were both killed in an unfortunate accident.”

Although things were relatively quiet when I first made my entrance, now it’s like all sound has been sucked from the room. There’s not as much as the shuffle of someone’s feet, the clinking of a glass, or a whispered remark. Even the giggling girls have stopped giggling, their jaws dropping open in a similar fashion to the rest of the partygoers.

A man steps forward, one of my father’s generals, not on the front lines with his men, but attending the party of the year. Some leader. “What do you mean killed?”

The question is so dumb and yet I know why he would ask it. To these people the President is invincible, almost immortal, a symbol of solidarity and the way of life that they love. And so I answer: “My father is dead,” I repeat. “And my brother. A new weapon was being demonstrated for them and the guards, something went wrong, and they were all killed. One of the housemaids called me down from my room as soon as it happened.” The truth may come out later, but for now I have a war to stop. And if I have to tell a little white lie to buy these people’s cooperation, I’ll do it.

It works. “My God,” the general says. “But that means that you’re the—the—”

“President of the Tri-Realms,” I finish for him. “Still President Nailin, just in a different size and shape. And younger, too,” I add. I feel strange just saying it, like it’s a joke, which it sort of is, in a way.

The silence drops to the ground, shattering like a broken glass into a million pieces that burst into a plethora of sounds: People yelling, “Long live President Nailin”; girls screaming, “Marry me, Tristan!”; the dull buzz of conversation as people weigh in on what this all means for the Tri-Realms.

It’s distracting and I don’t have time for it. “Silence!” I roar, doing my best to sound and look strong and in control. “I need to see the generals in private. Now,” I add to convey the urgency of the request.

With a shrug, the general waves a hand indicating that the other generals in the room should follow. I push through the doors, past the stewards—who scramble to hold them for me—and down the hall, opening the first meeting room door I come to that’s not the one I chucked my bloody tunic into. The generals—all men, of course; my father wouldn’t dream of having a woman as a war leader—come in after me.

“Take a seat, gentlemen,” I say, wishing I could address them as scoundrels, which seems more fitting.

“Is he really dead?” one of them says, a largish man with a thick, gray beard. All of them are wearing gray or black dress tunics, complete with bow ties and shiny shoes. Ready for a night of frivolity.

“Yes,” I say. “But there will be time for mourning him later. We have urgent matters to attend to. The war.”

“Of course. You’d like an update?” another general says, pushing his blue-plated glasses higher on his nose.

“Make it quick,” I say.

“In short—we’re killing them,” the man says, pride lighting up his face.

“Well, stop,” I say.

The man raises his eyebrows. “Stop, sir?”

“Yes. Stop. A simple word, meaning to discontinue, end, or otherwise cease one’s current behavior. Stop the war. Stop the killing. Call a temporary truce until I can meet with the moon and star dweller leaders.”

“Meet with them, sir?” I swear my father’s generals are as dumb as rocks. Stop, meet: these are not hard words to understand.

I sigh. “I want to meet with them, discuss how to end the war peacefully.”

“But we’re winning, sir.”

“I don’t care if we’re winning!” I scream, letting all the emotion of the last few hours come out through my mouth. “Give the order to stop. Now!” I hand him the comm set in the center of the table. “Start the process. And if I hear about anyone killing any moon or star dwellers after the order is given, they’ll be put to death. Is that clear enough for you, general?”

The general, white-eyed and paler than usual, takes the comm set and presses a button.