Chapter One
After seeing all the palace guests collapse on the Lifestyle Channel, I’m convinced that every single Noble in Phangloria is either dead or about to die.
Including Prince Kevon.
I’m on my knees, staring down at the unmoving form of Master Thymel. Minutes have passed since Carolina Wintergreen appeared on the wall screen, and he hasn’t awoken. Color leaches from his already pale face, nearly matching his bleached-white hair and mustache.
The Thymel twins kneel on the other side of the dressmaker, their identical faces twisted in anguish. They shake their brother, call his name over and over, but he’s unresponsive.
A lump forms in my throat. Prince Kevon is suffering the same fate. He’s lying under a pile of bodies, surrounded by enemies who want him dead. I raise my head for a glimpse of the ballroom, but I can barely see the wall screen through the crowd of dressmakers who have gathered from all corners of the workshop to check on their boss. Worried faces of Artisans wearing black and white uniforms close in around Master Thymel, Georgette, and the twins.
Carolina recites her Red Runner manifesto, something I have heard a hundred times. It’s a speech about how every citizen of Phangloria, regardless of echelon, will live without the agony of hunger or thirst or toil. Everyone is equal and free to pursue their own path, free to thrive, free to love.
The fervor in her words used to rouse me to a frenzy of hope. Carolina’s voice conveys a range of emotions—anguish, determination, hope. She promises a new Phangloria where people work in cooperation and not coercion. Now, I stare down at a good man whose life might be draining through the Amstraadi monitor clamped to his ear. How many others have fallen into this unjust condition?
A black-haired woman pushes through the gathered employees, holding a first-aid box. “Let’s take a look at him.”
I shuffle back, rise to my feet, and stand on the edge of the crowd. My gaze wanders back to the screen, where the camera draws back from Carolina as she finishes her speech. Her chin is raised, her pale eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
People dressed in Harvester uniforms dart around behind her, but it’s hard to see what they’re doing. I clench my teeth, urging the camera to draw back, to show me Prince Kevon, but it stays on Carolina’s wretched face.
Her hard eyes stare into the camera. They’re hooded, framed by thick, brown hair, high cheekbones, a straight nose, full lips, and a dimpled chin. I once thought those features beautiful on her son, Ryce. Now they’re cold and cruel.
“Those of you gathered around enemies of our Glorious Republic, step back,” she says, her eyes shining with triumph. “You cannot help them, and neither can the Guardians who uphold their oppression of the majority.”
The camera cuts to a building within green surroundings. It’s a walled, brick fortress where guards live and work. In the background are the Botanical Garden’s huge, geodesic domes, indicating that the footage is either inside or close to the Oasis.
Fiery explosions detonate along multiple points around its walls, through the windows, and underneath surrounding vehicles. Bursts of smoke engulf the building until it collapses in a massive cloud of smoke and debris that spreads across the park and up to the screen.
My heart jumps into the back of my throat, and I clap a hand over my mouth. The workers facing the screen cry out with alarm.
Carolina speaks over the footage. “We have destroyed the structures that uphold Harvester oppression, starting with the Fort Sweetwater and Royal Navy Headquarters in the Oasis.”
Next is a montage of other forts, including Fort Meeman-Shelby, the one closest to Rugosa. I recognize Fort Tyler, where we stopped for a shower and breakfast on our way to the Great Wall. One after another, they explode in the same manner. Cut after cut of forts around Phangloria falling to the bombs.
My pulse thuds in my ears, muffling the horrified cries around the room, muffling Carolina’s voice.
Someone turns the volume up, and it feels like the explosions are coming from outside the room.
“There is now no other authority except the Red Runner Army.” Carolina’s voice cuts through me like a dagger.
I shake my head. What has she done? I always hated the Guardians, but I had imagined a revolution where they would work the fields, not get blown to pieces in a coordinated attack.
“Somebody fetch Myatt,” one of the twins shouts from within the crowd.
Someone from the crowd darts out of the room, and I turn back to more carnage. Carolina is back onscreen, outlining how those whose work built Phangloria’s wealth will now rule it. I shake my head. This isn’t the revolution we had planned. The plan was to sneak into the palace and force King Arias to abdicate and cede control of Phangloria to the people. Not mass murder. Not this.
Georgette rises and pushes her way through the throng. Her gray eyes are damp, and her pretty features slack. She looks like the Thymel twins, except her skin is a dark brown compared to their pale, powdered complexions.
“They’re attacking people through the ear cuffs,” I say.
She nods. “The first aid scanner picked up a malfunction in the Amstraad device.” She licks her lips. “These people are from your Echelon. I thought they didn’t train you in warfare?”
“They don’t.” My mind rolls back to Agricultural Studies, the only thing we learned in great detail. “The Amstraad Republic must be helping them. There’s no other way a Harvester could cause so many health monitors to malfunction.”
Georgette’s eyes sharpen. “Why would they help them?”
I exhale a long breath. It’s a long story, starting with how the Amstraad Republic have all the equipment necessary to grow their own food but is missing a chemical formula that will allow seeds to germinate. Phangloria has kept the other country dependent on them for decades, if not centuries. I tell Georgette that the republic is desperate for fair trade and will do anything to get the chance to become self-sufficient.
She nods. “How long have you known?”
“Since Master Thymel fell.” I sweep my hand to the screen.
They’re back in the long, narrow room with the red carpet that leads up to an empty, golden throne. Well-built Harvesters drag guards and guests and girls out through the throne room’s doors.
“Half these people aren’t even Harvesters,” I say.
Her soft nod of understanding releases a fraction of the tension that has twisted my stomach since Prince Kevon collapsed, and I exhale a long breath. Behind us, a door opens and a young man rushes in holding a large, metallic case. White hair flops over his eyes, obscuring one side of his face.
“Myatt’s our watchmaker,” says Georgette.
I raise my brows, wondering where this line of conversation is leading.
“He makes ornamental cuffs for clients not lucky enough to have been gifted an Amstraadi monitor,” she adds. “If anyone knows how to dismantle the real thing, it’s him.”
“Right.” I step back, allowing him to pass.
Myatt orders everyone to stand back. Georgette leaves my side to usher the workers around the cutting and sewing tables to the far side of the room. Some of the other workers have already gathered around a transparent water dispenser and a metallic machine that makes hot drinks.
My gaze flicks back to the screen, where Carolina orders Ryce and Vitelotte’s brother to hold a gun to Mouse’s head. The Amstraadi Colonel widens his eyes and raises his hands in the air.