At least those are the published figures. In reality, I know that closer to ninety-five percent of all energy goes to the sun dwellers, allowing us to live like kings. Not that we are—there are no kings in a democracy.

“Your father requests your presence immediately,” Roc says as we walk.

“Of course he does,” I say. To any other servant, I would probably sound smug, self-righteous, like I am pleased my father has requested my audience. But not to Roc. He knows I’m being sarcastic. Roc is more than just a servant. He’s my friend—maybe my only one. In public I am forced to treat him as I would any servant, because to my father anything else would be a sign of weakness.

But in private we are the best of friends. We’ve grown up together, after all. Before he reached the age of accountability—which is only eight years old—we played every day together. He loved my mother, too. Sadly, Roc’s mother died giving birth to him. But my mom adopted him, treated him just as well as my brother and I. Kissing him goodnight, taking him on our adventures, giving him presents on the day of the Sun Festival: Roc was like a third son to my mom…and is like a second brother to me.

Roc grins. “We’ll try to get out of there fast, sir. If we have time afterwards, can I have another lesson?”

I grin back. A few months prior, Roc requested that I teach him to fight. Swords, guns, battleaxes, knives—that sort of thing. I gladly agreed. It was just another chance to disobey my father. He doesn’t want Roc and me to be friends, buddies. The servant/master code is far too important to him. Even Roc’s father, who is my father’s chief servant and has known my father for years, isn’t a friend to him.

“Absolutely,” I say. “We’ll keep focusing on swords—because they’re useful and awesome.”

We reach the palace gardens. Creating and maintaining the underground gardens costs more in a month than the entire population of star dwellers earns in a year. It isn’t possible without the sun-like technology that was invented decades earlier. Not that my father cares. Ignoring the insane cost, the gardens are extraordinary. Pillars of perfectly pruned green hedges frame the entrance. Hundreds of varieties of flora and fauna are meticulously maintained by the garden staff, providing splashes of color throughout the garden’s boundaries. The gardens look weird inside the massive cavern.

I always loved the palace gardens growing up. Running around in bare feet on the soft, lush lawns, playing hide-and-go-seek around the bushes and trees, Roc and I pretending we were palace guards as we charged through the gardens, fighting off marauders with our invisible swords. Now, like most things in the Sun Realm, I hate the gardens. For me the gardens are just another reminder of how unfair the world that my father governs is. The world that I am meant to inherit, being the eldest son.

We walk quickly through the gardens, like we always do.

Along the way we pass many people. Most of them are servants, who acknowledge me with a slight bow, which I ignore—another one of my father’s requirements. But some of them are palace guests—sun dwellers. Those are the ones I most like to look at. Because they look ridiculous. The current fashion is to wear bright colors, and the sun dwellers take it to the extreme, wearing gaudy red and pink tunics with blue and green polka dots. But compared to the hats, the tunics are tame. There are hats of all shapes and sizes, some glittering, some sparkling, some shimmering with diamonds and pearls, or stuck with feathers like a bird. All worth laughing at. Time and time again I’m forced to hide my amusement as I’m greeted by men, women, boys, girls, all seeking “just a moment of your time.” It’s a wonder we ever make it to the palace.

By the time we do, the sun is waning in the west. Or at least that’s how some of the books my mom used to read to me described the sunset. In the Sun Realm, the artificial sun is just slowly dimmed, to simulate nightfall.

In reality, it’s always night in the underworld.

My father is waiting, keeping court in his throne room—I mean meeting room. He’d have to be a king to get a throne.

“You’re late,” he says.

He’s wearing a spotless white tunic with shimmering gold embroidery along the seams. His gray goatee is groomed to perfection, no doubt trimmed twice already that day by a servant. Probably by one of the two pretty little things that stand by his side now, ready for his next command. They’re both blonde and deeply tanned, wearing tight, black tunics cut off well above the knees. The V-necks reveal just how mature they are. It’s all part of my father’s dress code for the female servants. Roc’s father excepted, all of my father’s personal servants are women—as beautiful as they are sleazy. I suspect they do a lot more for the President than just iron his tunics and trim his beard. Suspicions like that make me unable to think of him as my father sometimes.

“I was delayed by some journalists who wanted some quotes for tomorrow’s paper,” I say flatly.

“Sir,” my father says simply.

I sigh. “Sir,” I repeat. Another one of my father’s pet peeves.

“And everything else went according to schedule?” he says.

“Yes. Next year’s contracts with the Moon Realm have been finalized under the terms you stipulated…” I pause, one beat, two. My father drums his fingers on his wooden armrest impatiently. “Sir,” I say finally, enjoying my little game. I don’t dare to openly rebel against my father, but I can still have a bit of fun.

“Good,” my father says. “Is that everything?”

I nod.

Without waiting for his permission, I turn on my heel and march off, with Roc in tow. I hear my father say, “You may go,” as I walk away. It’s his lame attempt to show off his power in front of his Barbie Doll servants.

When we are out of eyesight and earshot, Roc says, “You really shouldn’t push him like that.”

I sigh. “I know, I know.” Roc is usually right. Flashing a grin, I say, “But it was fun, wasn’t it?”

“It’s the little things in life,” Roc says, smiling. His dark features look even darker as shadows fall upon the palace.

“Like swords?” I say.

“Yes!” Roc says, a bit too loudly. A passing servant woman glares at him. Mrs. Templeton—the palace housekeeper. She’s a nasty one.

We make our way through the business end of the palace and into the residential quarters. The change in décor is like night and day. The government side is stark and official-looking, everything clean-cut, free of clutter, and stamped with the symbol of the Sun Realm—a fiery red and orange sun with wavy heat lines wafting to the sides. The living quarters still feel a bit too posh and sterile, but at least there are a few personal touches, all of which my mother added before she disappeared.

There is the family portrait on the entry room table. Normally, I wouldn’t have any interest in a family photo. But this one I love, because it presents our family in such an honest light. My brother and I look bored, restless, with tousled hair and cheeky grins. My mother has her arm around the both of us, pulling us into her side. About a foot away, on her other side, is my father, not looking happy at all. The cameraman snapped the photo a split-second before he was able to turn on his friendly-President face, as I like to call it. You know, the one that’s so obviously fake it’s painful to watch. The kind of face you just want to slap.

After that photo was taken, my father’s face went all red and he looked like he was ready to slug the photographer. But my mom managed to soothe him, rubbing her hand on his back and telling him how she liked the photo, how she wanted to keep it. That was back when she still had some power over him.

Somehow she convinced him to display the photo prominently in our home. After she disappeared, I expected him to take it down. But either he’d grown to like it (which I doubt) or he’d forgotten it was even there (more likely). And so it remains, making me smile every time I pass by.