When the water level nears the tops of my boots, I fear I may be getting wet feet very soon. “Uh, Ben? Are you sure this is the right way?”
He laughs, in a way that my father never could. “You scared of something?”
I turn away sheepishly and keep plodding through the water. I can handle wet feet if I have to. Just when I think my feet are doomed, the tunnel curves sharply to the left, spilling out into an underground pond. The water at our feet is pouring down a natural step, emptying into the tiny lake. The water is crystal clear, and I can easily see to the bottom, which glitters like diamonds. Beyond the lake is a beautiful fall of water, coming down in a mist of tiny droplets, creating a cloud of moisture. Every now and then I see the sparkle of something shiny drop from above, as the glow from the lamps along the sides reflects off of something.
“Wow,” I murmur. “Are those—”
“Yes,” Ben says. “This is the Diamond Lake. The water falls from hundreds of feet above, just a small waterfall. By the time the droplets get down here they’ve split apart multiple times creating the spray you see in front of you. Every once in a while a diamond comes down with it. We have no idea how far the gemstones travel before reaching us, but it could be miles, or even hundreds of miles.”
“What do you do with them?” Immediately my mind grabs hold of everything I know about the gemstone trade. This many diamonds would surely be suspicious if they started popping up on the commerce reports hitting my father’s desk.
“We haul them out, hide most of them away, and use a small number to fund our operations. We’ve been dormant for so long that we don’t need much to get by.”
It makes sense and explains a lot. How they’re able to keep the electricity on. How they can feed the Resistance members. Some of the technology, like teleboxes and videoconferencing. Not typical luxuries for the Moon Realm. All paid for by untaxed diamonds. “Awesome,” I say. Anything that helps the Resistance and withholds a few Nailins in tax money from my father is cool by me.
“Yeah, we were lucky to stumble upon it when we were constructing our command center.”
Ben skirts around one of the edges and I follow him. The edges are dry and so are my feet. As we move around the mist, I feel a cooling sensation when the edge of the falls glosses over my face, my arms. It feels wonderful and I wonder if it’s what rain feels like.
Behind the mist the tunnel continues on, leading us away from the Diamond Lake, and presumably toward the Vice Presidents. Well, not all of the Vice Presidents, just the nice ones—or at least I hope.
We reach a staircase, which cuts back on itself every dozen steps or so. It’s man-made and in good condition, evidently having not been used as much as some of the other steps around the place, which are crumbling and in need of repair. By the time we reach the top, my thighs and calves are burning; I haven’t done a good stair workout lately.
There’s a heavy metal door blocking our path, and Ben has to use a key to open it. It’s the first door I’ve seen that requires a key—it must be guarding something important.
Before Ben pulls the door open, he looks at me. His eyes are black in the dim lighting and seem to have a deepness to them, as if they are fathomless, filled with wisdom and experience. Despite the fact that he’s staring at me, I don’t feel uncomfortable. “Tristan, this is your time to shine. I believe in you, and I know Adele does too.”
At that, I smirk. “She barely knows me.”
“And yet she seems to trust you. She has always had good judgment. Speak from your heart, and everything else will work itself out.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will.”
With that, he pulls open the heavy door, which groans in protest. Inside, there’s a flurry of activity, in utter contrast to the nervous silence when I met with the Resistance leaders. Men and women move around a massive stone table, chatting and drinking cups of coffee and tea. I recognize all the faces, but I can’t necessarily put names to them from the one or two times I’d meet each of them in a year. The Vice Presidents. The nice ones, I remind myself. Maia and Jonas are there, too. Oh, and Ram, which makes me think that Ben’s so-called shortcut wasn’t so short after all.
The only one missing: Roc. Although I didn’t expect him to be here, my heart turns over when I realize it.
With a wave of his arm, Ben invites me in first. I hesitate only for a moment, and then step inside, look around, trying to take it all in. One by one, the Vice Presidents notice me and a hushed silence falls over the room. Although I’m used to being in the spotlight a lot, it’s never been in this context. I’m no longer a diplomat from the ruling body. No longer a contract negotiator. I have zero power. I’m an unproven potential enemy combatant, and I know it, which makes my face warm with embarrassment under the scrutiny of their stares.
Then the whispers start, some behind hands, but others from visible lips, which I unsuccessfully try to read.
Ben steps past me and I follow him numbly to a seat near the head of the table. The rest of the attendees silently take their seats. I preferred the buzz of conversation from before to this awkward quiet. Vice President Morgan gives me a comforting smile as she sits down at the head of the table, which helps calm my rare nerves.
Evidently she’s in charge of this meeting, because she says, “Thank you all for attending on such short notice. Many of you have traveled far and wide to be here, and I appreciate it.”
“Not all of us!” a man halfway down the line growls jovially, breaking the weird feeling in the room like glass. He wears a thick, gray beard, a bowler’s hat, and a smile. He’s one of the few Vice President’s names I actually remember, because he was always funny and made me laugh when I’d visit. Byron Gray.
“Thank you, Mr. Gray. It’s always been a pleasure having you just next door, in subchapter 2.” Morgan keeps talking, exchanging niceties with the other VPs, but I don’t hear her words, as I’m thinking furiously about something. We’re in the command center for the Resistance and all these VPs are here with us. Which means they support the Resistance, or have in the past. Which means they really are the good guys and perhaps I don’t need to be so intimidated speaking to them. They’ll want to hear what I have to say.
I do some quick math. There are forty-two subchapters in the Moon Realm, and therefore, forty-two Vice Presidents. I quickly tick off the people around the table, not counting the non-VPs like Maia and Jonas. Thirteen. Not a lucky number, but a good number. Thirteen out of forty-two isn’t bad for a start. If these are the ones who already support the Resistance, and will agree to unite with the star dwellers, the rebellion may have some legs under it. And that’s not including any other subchapters who might be convinced. For just a minute, my heart soars, before being crushed by a slew of harsh words around the table.
“This boy has screwed over subchapter 39 more times than I care to remember, and you expect me to trust him?” a woman with a flash of red hair in a bun exclaims incredulously.
“The star dwellers are throwing grenades in the street, and you want me to join with them, and with the son of the Sun Realm President? Have you lost your mind?” shouts a short bald man whom I can barely remember from my travels.
A huge man with no neck, who looks more like a miner than a vice president, stands up and slams both fists down on the table, causing me to jerk my head back. “Blasphemy. I won’t listen to a word that Nailin says.” Right on the word Nailin, he slams both fists on the table again.
My eyes are wide and I realize I’m holding my breath. I let it out in a slow stream. Looking around the table I see mostly angry faces. The huge dude’s face is all red and I’m glad he’s all the way at the other end of the table, or I feel he might lunge across to hit me, or head butt me. Byron Gray is the only one who doesn’t look angry, but he’s not smiling anymore under his beard. As usual, Ram’s in the corner, and he is smiling, but not because he likes me, but because he likes watching me get ripped to shreds, whether by words or by fists. In this case, I think I’d rather it be fists.