Free The Sun Dwellers by David Estes Page A

conversation I’ll need to have with Tristan now that I’ve told him what my mom said to me. In my mind it goes something like this:
    Tristan: So if it’s not an accident that we met, then who caused it?
    Me: I dunno.
    Tristan: Did you ask your mom?
    Me: Nope.
    Tristan: So what does this mean for us?
    Me: I’ve got no clue.
    Yeah, not very productive. I vow to pretend like I never told him.
    Eventually, however, I do slip into something of a half-sleep, my mind alternating between awake and asleep. At one point when I open my eyes, a dark figure looms over me, holding something long and sharp. I try to scream as the blade hovers over me like a guillotine, dripping something wet and sticky on my face. I place a hand on my cheek to wipe away the moisture, and when I pull it away, it’s red with blood. In the split-second before the blade slashes downward, my brain sizes up the situation. The intruder, the blood, the blade: at least one other of my friends is dead, maybe all of them.
    With the long knife arcing toward my chest, I have no time for grief, no time to grasp the reality of my horror-filled life, no time to be human . Instinctively, my body reacts to the attack, rolling to the side and narrowly avoiding the death blow as it rips into my bedding, tearing straight to the rock floor and shattering into shards of metal that tinkle like broken glass as they scatter around me and my attempted murderer.
    Pushing hard to my feet, I take a few quick steps back to buy time while I size up my enemy, but it’s unnecessary, because the looming shadow doesn’t advance, just stares at me with invisible eyes.
    “You killed my friends,” I state, my words like splinters of metal. My body is empty, like there’s nothing left inside me; no heart, no blood, no tears—I’m just a hollow shell of flesh and bone. I know in that moment I will kill this man, and then I will kill the President.
    Silence fills the dark gap between me and the swordsman. “Answer me!” I roar, my face and hands clenched and full of rage.
    Instead of responding, the shadow laughs, heavy and arrogant and evil . He takes a step forward but I remain firm, revenge my only motive; there’s death on my fingertips, making them twitch and jerk.
    Another step takes him into a beam of light from an unseen source, perhaps a hastily discarded lantern.
    I gasp when I see his face.
    The attacker is President Nailin.
    This is it. This is my moment. The culmination of our mission in a strange fated meeting. My friends dead; me soon to be. But not before him.
    Screaming out senseless words, I charge, wrenching my knife from its ankle holster in the same motion. The President keeps laughing even as I approach him, and I hesitate for a moment, wondering why he would let me kill him so easily. And where are his guards? His soldiers?
    In the moment of hesitation, I leave myself open. With a speed that seems inhuman, he pulls another sword from behind his back, where I couldn’t see it, and thrusts it forward like a javelin, piercing my gut just above my bellybutton.
    I know the pain has to be intense, but I don’t feel it. I feel nothing. No pressure, no agony, nothing.
    Leaving the sword—which is bouncing up and down slightly—embedded in me, President Nailin moves forward, leaning his sweaty, red face close to mine, so close I taste his hot, foul-smelling breath on my tongue. “I will kill you,” he breathes.
    I don’t understand why he would say that, because he’s already got me on a skewer like a stuck pig; threats aren’t necessary. I look around us and I realize: it’s not real. The cave is gone and we’re surrounded by white pillars, sparkling with diamonds. Huge wooden chairs surround us, each occupied by lavishly adorned men and women, wearing jeweled necklaces and bracelets, brightly colored silk tunics, and gaudy fur hats. Spectators.
    I shut my eyes so tight I feel like I might squash them in their sockets, will myself to awake from this