The Sun Dwellers (14 page)

Adele

W
e come around the bend to find Tristan frozen in place, just staring forward.
What the hell?
I follow his gaze to the next curve in the tunnel, where six silhouettes are highlighted against a bright and churning backdrop into a sun dweller city. The silhouettes are moving, sort of chaotically, holding each other up as they stagger toward us.

As they approach, my fists reflexively clench at my sides, preparing for physical confrontation. My heart rate picks up just a notch.

“Heyyy! Who goesh there?” one of them slurs, as they move into the light from our flashlights. A guy, young, perhaps twenty, clearly drunk. His hair’s unnaturally black and spiky, speckled with something that glitters like diamonds in the light. He’s flanked by two girls and two guys, each with their arms around each other. One of the girls is blond, her hair long enough to reach her waist and streaked with locks of blue and pink and green, some braided, some not. Dark mascara rims her eyes, running slightly from her alcohol-affected blue eyes. The other female is a brunette with a buzz cut, although most of her head is hidden beneath a wildly tall black top hat, stuck with at least ten multi-colored feathers. They’re both wearing tight mini-tunics that show off their toned and tan legs, which seem to go on for a mile before reaching their strange shoes with a thin spike in the back, which they wear without socks. Scooping U-necks show the entire world just how mature they are. They’re beautiful women by any standards, but their clothes just make them look desperate, trashy. The other two guys are as pretty as the women, with high cheekbones and tan faces. They’re tall and muscular, their biceps and shoulders exposed in their tank-tunics. Right away, one of them eyes Tawni, looking her up and down, while the other traces my curves with his stare.

It makes me want to kick them where the artificial Sun Realm sun don’t shine.

“Heyyy,” the center guy says again, raising a blue bottle. I notice they are all holding bottles, the girls’ pink, the guys’ blue. Then, speaking slowly, he says, “What are you all doingsh here?”

I wait for Tristan or Roc to reply. After all, this is their world. Instead, they’re silent. I glance from Tristan to Roc, and can almost feel the angry heat coming off of them. Evidently the way the guys were looking at Tawni and me pissed them off. I’m glad, but this isn’t the time for chivalry. Our position is precarious to say the least.

“We heard the best party is in this subchapter,” Trevor says, surprising us all.

The guys laugh and the girls titter, as if Trevor just made the funniest joke in the world. “Yoush got that right,” the spokesman says. “We were jusht about to havsh our own party. Wanna come?”

If the party involves slapping the drunken smiles off their faces, I’m in.

“Thanks anyway, man,” Tristan says, finally snapping out of his temper-induced haze. “We want to hear the band.”

“Are you sure, honey?” the blonde says to him. “We can make our own music.” Her flirting tone makes me dig my nails into my hands. Now I know how Tristan felt when the guy was undressing me with his eyes.

“Yes, but thank you all for the very kind offer,” Tristan says, using his most diplomatic voice.

“Hey, where’d yoush get those digs, anyway?” the guy asks, sweeping a hand across us, motioning to our battle outfits.

“It’s a new style coming out of subchapter one,” Roc says, lying easily. “I heard they’ll be selling them in every subchapter soon.”

“I gotsh to getsh me some of those.”

“You should,” Tristan says. “Well, we’ll see you all later. Have fun.” His voice is awkward and stiff, but the partygoers don’t seem to notice.

As we pass by them the blonde touches Tristan’s arm. “You look just as handsome as Tristan Nailin,” she says. “What’d you say your name was?”

Tristan goes beet red, but I know it’s not from the compliment. I’ve noticed he always seems uncomfortable with lying. I hold my breath, hoping he can overcome it now.

“I, uh, my name is…” Not looking good.

“Trevor,” he says finally, his face returning to its natural color as a smile crosses his face.

“All right, Trevor. I most certainly hope we see
you
later,” she sings. Ugh. If we weren’t about to get past them without a fight, I would relish knocking the bleach out of her hair and the fake tan off her skin. If only.

As if by some unspoken agreement, the five of us walk with our heads forward, forcing ourselves not to look back, which might appear suspicious. Just when we’re approaching the entrance to the subchapter and I think we’re home free, the guy yells behind us. “Hey!” We freeze, turn slowly, look at him. The alcohol has worn off, I think. He’s going to realize we don’t belong, recognize Tristan or one of us from the news, sound the alarm, give chase.

“I highly recommend the crowd-surfing,” he says instead. I smile, an easy smile that comes from a narrow, heart-pounding escape. I speak for the first time. “Thanks for the tip. We’ll do that,” I say.

My head’s spinning before we even slip through the entrance to the city. Our close encounter with the partiers, the pulse of the music slamming around in my head, the thrill of being thrust into the midst of the biggest celebration in the Tri-Realms: it all adds up to a muddled brain.

When we trot into the subchapter, all battle-clad and full of adrenaline, my jaw drops to the floor. A brilliant, yellow orb hangs high above the city, shooting shockingly bright light across everything beneath it. I try to look at the ball of light, but am instantly blinded, forcing me to use a hand as a visor.
An artificial sun.
Nothing could have prepared me for it. Compared to the dim, overhead lights of the Moon Realm, this subchapter is lighted as if by a thousand fires, and yet all that brightness comes from one big ball hanging from the cavern roof. After a few seconds the spots and stars clouding my vision dissipate, and I take in the rest of the scene before me, continuing to use a hand to shield my eyes from the artificial sunlight.

Although the other sun dweller city we passed through was beautiful and incredible—far surpassing anything I’d ever seen—it was empty of humans, the population getting a good night’s sleep before a day of fun and celebration. But this…this is just plain nuts.

The streets are wide and long and straight, jammed with thousands of people wearing the most colorful outfits I’ve ever seen. They’re moving their bodies in what I assume is meant to be dancing, but is more like convulsing, their hips gyrating to the beat while their arms flow over each other like waves. On top of the crowds are dozens of people doing what I’m pretty sure the drunk guy was referring to before: crowd-surfing. Hundreds of hands pass the bodies across the crowds, roaring with delight.

Everyone seems to have a drink of some sort in their hands. Some of them are blue and pink bottles like we saw before, while others hold crystalline mugs and conical glasses full of liquid of varying colors. Somehow most of them manage not to spill their drinks while they move like maniacs. I assume it must come from lots of practice.

The band, The Sun Rockers, is dead ahead, on a raised stage in the middle of the road. They’re wearing bright red, plasticky-looking outfits with pointed shoulders and knees. The lead singer’s black hair is sculpted into a red-tipped Mohawk. He’s clutching the microphone like a rope, using both hands, while he wails a melody about how he’s “gonna hit the party hard.”

“C’mon!” Tristan hisses, and I realize I’ve stopped and am just staring out at the crowd, while the others are moving down a ramp and into the fray.

“Act like the other sun dwellers,” I mumble to myself, recalling Tristan’s advice.

Jogging slightly, I catch up to the others, pushing in close to them as we form a little pod which we can hopefully use to push through the crowds. Tristan leads the way, slipping between the bodies, unafraid to bump and jostle his way through. I cling to Tawni’s back, while she clings to Roc, instantly feeling claustrophobic. Despite living underground my entire life, and having endured many tight crawlspaces and tunnels, this is far worse. Sweaty, churning bodies. Hands all over the place, unabashedly groping at me in all the wrong places. Cheering and screaming so loud I’m starting to worry I might lose a portion of my long-term hearing. I wasn’t prepared for this at all.

Hang on to Tawni. Just hang on. You’ll get through this just like everything else.

I can tell Tawni’s feeling the same way, unable to mask her horror as a tall, muscly, shirtless guy smacks her on the butt as she passes by.

“Just go to another place, Tawni,” I say, squeezing one of her shoulders. She glances back, manages a nod.

At first we’re able to make steady progress through the herds of sun dwellers. There are a lot of strange and interesting people. A girl with pink hair tied into tight little braids. A guy wearing just his undergarments, both on his head and in the more normal pelvic area. Three guys who look identical, wearing more makeup on their faces than many of the highly makeupped women. The men really are as pretty as the women. Many of the men have long hair, lustrous and silky and full of glitter and colorful hair ties. Most of their ears are pierced, adorned with diamond studs or shiny, gold hoops. Some of them wear dark eyeliner and lipstick.

Definitely not like the Moon Realm.

Tristan’s head bobs and bounces as he fights through the crowd, hopefully taking us in the right direction to eventually give us some breathing room. He’s heading straight for the raised stage, and as we get closer the way forward gets more difficult, as the bodies mash even closer together, almost no space between anybody. With our movements slower, it gives me the chance to watch the reactions of people as we pass by. Right away I realize that Tristan is our biggest problem. He seems to know it, keeping his head tilted down and a raised hand over his face, but it still doesn’t stop some people from recognizing him, just like his tramp-admirer in the caves thought he looked like the son of the President. Heads turn as guys and girls alike stare after him, not sure if they were mistaken at having just seen the heir to the presidency. A few of them even say things like, “Whoa! Wasn’t that Tristan Nailin?” or “Dude, did you just see who I did?”

Not good.

Eventually someone will act on what they see and chase after him, trying to get an autograph, a touch, a kiss, or maybe all three. I decide to take a chance. The only good thing is that they’re less likely to recognize me with him marching along in front.

Just as we push past a row of dancing bodies with their backs to us, I grab one of their hats right off their head. The reveler, too busy grinding up against other nearby bodies, doesn’t even notice. The hat’s got a huge brim that can cover a whole face, is littered with metallic stars and hearts and other bobbles, and has a bright blue bow around the dome top. Other than clearly being made for a woman, it’s perfect. Tristan will just have to deal with it.

I pass it forward to Tawni. “Pass this up to Tristan,” I say.

She gives me a look that says, “You’re crazy,” far better than any words could, but sends it forward to Roc anyway, relaying the message. Roc hands it to Trevor, who hands it to Tristan. He looks at it like it’s a rare disease, holding it away from him, and for a minute I’m scared he’ll just toss it away, but then he sort of shrugs and plops it on his head, using a hand to pull the wide brim over his face.
Yes!
I think.

Our progress, which has been like walking through mud, abruptly grinds to a halt. We’re about twenty feet from the stage, and I can clearly see the band now. The lead singer is running around now, not even bothering to sing, like he’s on drugs. “I can’t go any further!” Tristan yells back. “We’ll have to go another way.”

I cringe. The thought of going around or back or any way that keeps us in the press of the crowd any longer is too unbearable. I look past Tristan, my eyes naturally zeroing in on the maniac singer, who suddenly throws his microphone to the stage and leaps off, landing on a bed of hands, which draws even more screams from the audience. That’s when it hits me.

Why go through when we can go over?

Little did I know at the time, but the drunk guy had given us the best suggestion of all. The singer is passed around, moving rapidly across the sea of helpers. It’s certainly a far faster way to travel than our current method.

“Tristan, up!” I yell above the noise, letting go of Tawni’s shoulders with both hands for the first time, so I can motion up.

“Too risky,” he yells, which draws a few strange stares from nearby frolickers.

“Not more than it already is,” I say. “Quick and fast. We can run at the end if we have to.”

We’re getting more and more looks, but it’s not because of our exchange. It’s because my hands are still in the air, raised to the roof. Apparently it’s the universal sign for crowd-surfing.

“Need help up?” a big guy says, lowering his hands to the ground, like a step.

“Thanks,” I say, not waiting for approval from Tristan. They’re just going to have to follow my lead this time. I step into the guy’s cupped hands, and then the world spins as I’m thrown into the air.

I’m off balance and out of control, but when I come back down, I land much more softly than I expected. The feeling is new and weird and kind of cool at the same time, as hundreds of tiny little fingers and palms touch me all along my legs, arms and back. It’s almost like floating while getting a newfangled type of massage at the same time. I check that my assortment of weapons is still tucked safely beneath my clothes and in their sheaths. They are, although even if they weren’t, the intoxicated partiers would probably just think they were fakes and part of our costumes—just another sun dweller fashion statement. The only thing I didn’t think about: