But even so, if I can somehow get her out of the Pen, no doubt she will be pleased, willing to get to know me. She will know who I am, but I hope that won’t be the reason she wants to get to know me. I am so tired of people liking me just because of my father. In my mind, that is more of a reason not to like me.
“I’ve got to find out if she’s alive tonight,” I say suddenly.
Roc glances at me, raising his eyebrows. I am ready for him to advise me that I should wait until morning, that I should do the responsible thing, be patient, but to my surprise, he says, “I know. Let’s go have a look.”
When we pass the front desk, the same old man is sitting in the same position, reading the same paper, like he is glued to the seat. Perhaps he has a neck problem, which explains why again he doesn’t bother to look up. Or perhaps he just doesn’t like guests, or more specifically, doesn’t like us. It doesn’t bother me—the fewer questions and looks we get, the better.
The security at the front gate of the Pen is light—only a single guard with an automatic weapon mans the station. I am impressed that they have guns. They aren’t easy to come by and the inmates are all less than eighteen years old; it seems like a lot of excess firepower to me.
I’ve removed my shades, as they will make me stick out even more wearing them at night. I hope the low-brimmed hat will be sufficient to hide my face. I approach the guard with my head down, but I can feel him eyeing us.
“Hoping to visit an inmate,” I say casually.
“A guest?” the guard replies.
I almost say what? but then realize we are talking about the same thing. Funny how they call their prisoners guests. “Uh, yeah, a guest,” I say.
“Visiting hours are over. Come back between ten and two tomorrow.”
The guard doesn’t sound like he’ll easily change his mind, but I have to try anyway. “Is there any chance of an exception?” I say.
“No,” he says simply, his voice sounding tired, like he hates having to constantly have this conversation with people. I consider playing my son of the president card, but decide against it for two reasons. First, I don’t really want to give away my identity just yet. There is a good chance the press will get wind of it and then my father will send guards to bring me back. Second, I don’t want to rely on my name, or my father, anymore. I am tired of it. I am ready to just be me, for better or for worse.
“Okay, we’ll be back at ten tomorrow,” I say.
The guard doesn’t answer, just stares at us. No, it’s not at us, more like through us, like we aren’t even there. We leave.
I know it isn’t a good idea to roam the city, especially at night, but we have to eat so we go for a walk. The subchapter has seen better days. Although the cavern it’s built in is magnificent, rising hundreds of feet above our heads and extending many miles in each direction, the town itself is deteriorating. Most of the shops and restaurants are boarded up, having insufficient business to exist. When people don’t have money, they can’t buy things—simple as that. I expect it means the remaining restaurants will be crowded, enjoying the benefits of being the only show in town, but I am wrong there.
We pass a tavern. Through the window I can see a lone drinker propped on an elbow, sitting on a stool at the bar. Nursing a drink. And I mean nursing. He is sipping it like it might be the last drink he will ever take. Maybe it is. Maybe things are so bad that he spent the last of his money on the drink, and plans to commit suicide later tonight. I don’t know. Things like that don’t happen in the Sun Realm.
We get to the end of the street without passing another open eatery. Turning left, I hear the distant murmur of music playing. Halfway down the block the soft glow of candlelight drifts through an open doorway. The sign above the door says simply Pizza. Not seeing any other options, we make for the light.
Entering the pizzeria, I let Roc step in front of me as I see half a dozen heads turn toward us. The music playing is by some sun dweller rock band, The Stone Crushers, I think, and has an up-tempo beat that makes you want to get up and dance. No one is dancing tonight. They are, however, eating pizza and it smells pretty good.
There is no one to greet us so we just take a couple seats and wait for service. None of the other customers pay any attention to us. A few minutes later, a short bald man with horn-rimmed glasses pushes backwards through a set of swinging doors. He is wearing a red apron and balancing four circular trays of pizza across his outstretched arms.
“Who ’ad the cheese?” he says with a grunt.
Every hand in the place goes up except ours. He quickly dishes out the pizzas and collects a few coins from each party. Then he turns toward us. “What’ll ya have?” he says.
“Whaddya got?” I ask. When the guy’s eyes narrow, I realize I should have just said cheese pizza, because I know he has it. Instead, my simple question instantly draws more attention to us than I want. I glance at Roc. He’s chewing his nails off one by one.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” the guy says.
“Just visiting for a day or two,” I say, hoping it will satisfy him and he’ll go back to serving us.
He raises a single bushy eyebrow. “Travelers, huh?” he says. “We don’t get many travelers. Where ya from?”
Now I know we’re in a bit of trouble. I can tell him the truth, tell him we are sun dwellers, but I have no idea what effect that will have. Will he and his patrons be excited that a sun dweller is visiting their subchapter? Or will they be angry, ready to have a political discussion that involves their fists and our faces? All it takes is one moon dweller with a chip on his shoulder to cause us serious problems. On the other hand, if I lie, tell him we are from some other subchapter, he might ask questions that I’m not able to answer. I will have to keep lying, spinning myself deeper and deeper into a web of deceit.
I opt for truth—big mistake.
“We’re visiting from the Sun Realm,” I say.
You could have heard the sound of one of Roc’s chewed off nails drop to the floor, that’s how quiet it gets. It even feels like the music stops playing, although in reality the song just happens to end at the exact same time.
“The Sun Realm, eh?” the pizza man says. I know that everyone inside is listening to our conversation now, slices of pizza dangling from fingertips, some in mid-bite. I know the man isn’t going to let it go in a hurry. I am glad the restaurant is only lit by candles—it will be near impossible for him to identify me.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Never served a sun dweller before,” the guy says, his light tone switching to heavy right about the time he says the words sun dweller. I sense a hidden meaning behind his words: It’s not that he has never had a sun dweller in his pizzeria, but that he will never serve a sun dweller, even if they are his only customers.
“Fair enough,” I say, standing up. “We’ll take that as our cue to leave.”
The pizza man puts a hand on each of my shoulders and pushes me firmly back into my chair. “There’s a first time for everything,” he says.
I’m not sure what he means. That he is going to serve us like any other customers? Or that he is going to head back into the kitchen and cook up the most delectable, hot, gooey, poisoned pizza he has ever made? Whatever the case, I’m not going to take any chances. As soon as the owner barrels through the swinging doors to the kitchen, I am back on my feet. Roc is up at the same time, knowing without asking what our next move will be.
We move toward the door.
Two big men block the door, standing tall with their arms crossed. Not good. I don’t even know where they’ve come from. I don’t recall seeing them in the restaurant—and if they had been, we would’ve seen them moving toward the door. They could have come from outside, but I probably would’ve heard them scuffle across the threshold, unless they are professional sneaks. There is a staircase that rises up from just to the right of the entrance, however, presumably leading to sleeping quarters for the bald pizza man. Perhaps he has sons who live with him, who, upon overhearing our conversation—key words being sun and dwellers—thought it polite to pop down and say hello. Of course, these men are staring right at us and their lips aren’t exactly moving; if not “hello,” I would take “good evening,” “welcome,” or even “hiya” at this point. No words—just stares. If these guys are his sons, they are genetic freaks, more than twice the size of their dad.