“Let her enter,” a remarkably high and whiny voice says from behind them. They shrug and part in the middle, allowing me to pass through them. I dump my “hostage” on the floor and move forward. The kid immediately races out the door. Little wimp, I think, not so confident without your slingshot. I’m still clenching his rock-slinger in my hand.
Mep’s sitting on a big cushion in the center of the room, surrounded by a half-dozen other kids, who almost look like his worshippers, such is the meekness of their postures. He would have been sitting cross-legged; that is, if he had any legs. Instead, he is just sort of resting on his torso, the stumps of his legs no more than half a foot long. I keep a straight face, but inside I’m horrified. This poor orphaned boy is stuck in the crummy Star Realm with no legs. It almost makes my time in the Pen look like a vacation.
As I look at him closer, I see that despite his tiny stature—due to his missing limbs—the boy is older than the rest of the kids—perhaps fifteen. He gazes at me with curious brown eyes that dance with questions.
“Why have you come to see Mep?” he asks.
“Why you are speaking in third person?” I retort.
A hint of a smile crosses his face. “I’m sorry, I’m used to speaking to children,” he says. “Why have you come to see me?”
“Your thugs stole our packs,” I say, “and when I chased them they shot rocks at me.” I don’t mention the heel-in-the-head incident. I’ll save it for later if I need it.
“You shouldn’t have chased them,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“They stole my stuff.”
“Finders, keepers.”
“Yeah, rock-slinger boy already tried that on me, but unless you can tell me the Tri-Realms law that states that, I want my packs back.” I can’t believe I’m actually relying on Tri-Realms law in my defense, which is the biggest bunch of BS there is, but I can’t think of anything better to say, except maybe Give them back now or I’ll sock you in the nose.
“Mep’s Law,” he says.
I’m getting bored of this conversation, which is beginning to transition from somewhat silly to laughably loony. “Listen, you little punk,” I say, stepping forward. Immediately, about twelve feet are planted in a circle around Mep. Some of the kids have pea shooters, some slingshots, and all wear fearsome glares. Well, maybe more comical than fearsome, but still, under the flickering glow of the candles, it’s somewhat intimidating, especially because I’m hopelessly outnumbered.
So what do I do?
No surprise there—I fight.
Three kids are down before they even know what hit them, my foot arcing through the orange light. I take a little strength off the kick, as I want to intimidate the buggers, not kill them. The other kids drop their weapons and run for the door. I let them go. Like I said, my tactics are for intimidation purposes only.
I fake a punch at Mep’s face and he flinches, throwing his hands across his face in defense, as if that could really stop my fist. I know I’m just being cruel now, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough.
“Give me the packs,” I growl.
“I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Mep squeals.
“Give me the freaking packs. NOW.”
“Okay, okay, they’re right here,” Mep says, reaching behind his back and retrieving our two packs. He hands them to me and retracts his hand quickly, as if he’s afraid I’ll claw him or something. I check each bag to make sure nothing’s missing. Stale wafers. A handful of leftover Nailins. Some clothes—our only spare clothes. No canteens, but that’s because we chucked them away when they were contaminated. All there.
“Thanks,” I grumble sarcastically, making for the door.
“Wait a minute, please.” I stop, but don’t turn around. “Why don’t you stay a minute and have something to eat or drink.”
“I’ll pass,” I say.
“I want to make you an offer,” he says, his voice going up in excitement.
“You can’t possibly have anything I want,” I say, although I am curious as to what the little guy has to say.
“Just five minutes,” he says. “Take a seat.” He motions to another cushion, and grudgingly, I place it in front of him and sit down. “Thank you, I appreciate it,” he says.
I just stare at him. This day is getting weirder and weirder.
“Some protectors they are,” he says, motioning to the door. I sense movement to my left and I jerk my head to the side, seeing the three kids I kicked to the ground sneaking for the door. When my gaze catches theirs, they break for it. I laugh as I watch them go.
“They did all right,” I say, massaging my sore shoulder.
“They’re good kids,” he says, at which I cringe, again remembering the kick in the head. Noticing my reaction, he says, “They are. You don’t know what kind of lives they’ve had—where they come from.”
“That’s just an excuse,” I say.
“I like you,” Mep says. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. It’s not what I expected him to say to the girl who penetrated his defenses, accused him of stealing, and beat up his gang of minions. “I do,” he says, flashing me a smile. He’s boyishly cute, with dimples in each cheek when he grins, piercing, turquoise eyes, and messed up brown hair.
“Why?”
“Because you’re tough—like me. You don’t survive in this world without being tough.”
“I’m not from this world,” I say. “I’m a moon dweller.”
“I guessed that much,” he says with a wink. “But I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about me.” I stare at him for a second, letting his words sink in.
Oh. The Star Realm. I wonder what tragedies have occurred in this boy’s life that he would end up legless, an orphan, master to a bunch of kids who steal for survival. I want to ask him, but know I cannot.
“You don’t want to hear my story,” he says, as if sensing the question on my lips. “It’s not a happy one.” Unlike the other children, who sound rough, with harsh language from harsh upbringings, Mep is well spoken, seems mature even.
“You speak well,” I say, hoping he doesn’t take it the wrong way.
He seems to like that, his eyes opening wide. “My mother always…” He trails off, his eyes going misty.
“Your mother always what?” I prod.
He looks away and then right back at me. “She always read to me when I was little. Taught me how to read, to write. Made me smart. She’s still taking care of me, even now.”
I’m not sure I understand. I assumed he was an orphan, but maybe I was wrong. “What do you mean?”
Waving a hand, he says, “Oh, not like you think. She’s not around anymore. But the kids around here feed me, cloth me, practically worship me—all because I can read them stories.” He motions to the corner and my eyes drift to the spot. There’s a stack of old books that I hadn’t noticed earlier, with worn covers and broken spines.
It all suddenly makes sense. Mep gives the children in this place a chance to escape from the horrors of the real world, to places where there are happy endings, where heroes really do exist, where parents are alive and take care of their kids. My vision blurs and I blink furiously before I return my gaze to Mep.
I change the subject. “How’d you know I was a moon dweller?” I ask, choosing a safer question.
He laughs. “It was obvious the moment you chased after my gang of misfits,” he says. When I raise an eyebrow, he explains. “The people here are broken, their bodies, their spirits. They don’t even think we’re worth the energy. One of my kids grabs a loaf of bread off a passing cart and they barely react. You, on the other hand, it was like I’d stolen your baby.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Remembering the items in my pack, I realize I probably did look a little crazy chasing after a bunch of kids for our meager possessions, particularly when the star dweller army evidently has significant resources at their disposal.