Harvesters spill into the streets, a mass of beiges and browns and burned umber. The dome doors are closed with at least a thousand people crowding around its front and back. As we cross the street, our steps falter—not at the crowd but at a marquee that stands at its side with guards flanking its closed doors. Even more alarming are the eight black trucks parked on that side of the square. There’s no mistaking who or what they contain.
Anxiety clutches at my insides. The last time the guards erected a marquee, it was to round up the participants of an illicit distillery. No one has seen those Harvester men and women in the two years since they were taken.
“Do you know what that structure is about?” I whisper.
Ryce shakes his head and guides me to the furthest end of the square in view of the screen.
By now, the last vestiges of sunlight filter through the distant haze, turning the sky the color of freshly spilled blood. Dozens of guards step out of their vehicles, each clad in black armor and each carrying automatic rifles. I edge closer to Ryce, hoping that they’re here to supervise the Harvester portion of the Princess Trials.
The national anthem blares through the overhead speakers, and the Phangloria insignia appears on the screen. It’s a tree with multiple curling branches that stretch out into a semicircle and matching roots that extend the same length as the branches. At its trunk is a single eye. It’s supposed to belong to Gaia, the goddess the Nobles worship, but the double crowns that make up her eyelashes make me wonder if the Nobles believe that the monarchs are the gods.
The image fades, replaced by Jimeno Montana, the Minister of Media and OasisVision. His blue-black hair identifies him as a Noble, and he wears it swept off his face and in a braid that extends beyond his lower back. Nobody knows his age, and it’s hard to tell with his deep, terra-cotta skin obscuring any fine lines or wrinkles. Dad can remember his father claiming to have watched Montana on the screens as a boy.
“Good evening, Phangloria!” He pauses, but nobody in the crowd returns his greeting. “And now, for today’s news.”
Montana shares the usual updates, which are mostly productivity levels of the Harvesters and the Industrials, those who work in the factories in the expanse of land between our region and the Oasis. It’s tedious and designed to make us compete instead of cooperate, but whichever town produces the most output gets a dozen crates of beer and bonus water rations for the next day. For us, this water can mean the difference between our home produce succeeding or drying on the vines.
Next is news that the Amstraad ambassador has arrived to supervise the building of a new hospital and to negotiate the sale of five-thousand health monitors. My gaze wanders to the lights blinking on and off on Montana’s ear cuff. He has probably had his monitor since grandfather was still alive and young.
“How many of those devices will trickle down to the Harvesters?” I mutter, already knowing the answer.
Ryce leans close and whispers, “No Harvester would get any work done with all those dehydration alarms blazing in the fields.”
I snort. Thirst is a constant companion here. The Nobles allow us just enough water to labor.
Montana launches into a speech about how a young acolyte of Gaia spent weeks in isolation during one of the many plagues of the twenty-first century. Gaia showed him a vision of the destruction of the world and told him to gather followers to build a new land.
I tune out because it’s the story of Noah, but instead of a flood, there are nuclear bombs, natural disasters, and oceans swallowing the coast. Instead of an ark and two of each animal, there’s an underground bunker filled with the ancestors of the Nobles.
When he introduces the Princess Trials section of the news, he explains that Phangloria is a place where anyone can ascend to royalty. In each generation, girls from every Echelon get the chance to become the queen.
Ryce leans into me and mutters, “Guess how many Industrials and Harvesters have won the Princess Trials?”
“The same amount who get Amstraad monitors?” I ask.
One corner of his lip curls into the barest of smiles.
Montana clasps his hands together. “And now, news from the Princess Trials. Everyone give a round of applause to Circi Aster, lady-at-arms to Queen Damascena!”
A woman steps onscreen with deep mahogany skin, cropped black hair, and eyes as green as malachite. She wears a fuchsia jacket with a high collar that wraps around her neck, nearly skimming the Amstraad monitor on her ear. The golden crown, eye, and tree insignia on her epaulets mark her as a general.
“Thank you.” She inclines her head but doesn’t smile. Circi Aster is as serious as the weapons she wields.
The camera pans out to reveal the rest of her garment, a catsuit that hugs her waist and skims her hips. Holsters wrap around it like corsets, and I count four handguns. Circi Aster is the queen’s lady-in-waiting, bodyguard, and closest confidant wrapped in a beautiful, deadly package.
Ryce’s arm wraps around my waist, and he pulls me into his side. “Thank you, Zea for securing our life together.”
All the air leaves my lungs in a shocked breath. I turn away from the screen to gauge his expression. “What do you mean?”
In the fading light, Ryce’s eyes are like the morning sky, filled with the promise of a better day. “Someone’s going to be at my side after the revolution. Who better than the brave warrior who paved the way for our freedom?”
As Lady Circi and Montana continue to chat onscreen, I bite down on my bottom lip and examine Ryce’s features. Nothing in his expression says that his words are a ploy to make me complete my mission. I already agreed to enter the trials. What’s the point of promising a future together unless my attack on that guard had finally caught his attention?
His brows draw together, and the arm around my waist falls. “Sorry if that was presumptuous—”
“It isn’t,” I say.
Ryce nods and turns to the screen. I can barely concentrate on Lady Circi’s words. Montana asks her about all the girls who have already entered the pageant, and her face twists into a wry smile.
I turn back to Ryce. “How far have they gotten with the Trials?”
“They selected which Nobles will compete in the palace on Monday,” he replies, still staring at the screen. “On Tuesday, they chose the Artisans, yesterday the Guardians, and today the Industrials. Harvesters are tomorrow.”
I don’t bother to ask about the Foundlings. The Nobles are so peculiar about genetic perfection that they probably wouldn’t want to breathe the same air as someone without generations of careful screening.
Montana switches to a clip of the royal family in an opulent drawing room with tall windows that overlook a rose garden. Outside, fountains that spray plumes of water into the air. My lips tighten at the flagrant waste, and I focus on the royal family.
Queen Damascena is clad in an ivory gown that blends with her pale features. Wearing her golden hair in a chignon with large curls framing an oval face with high cheekbones, her face is painted to perfection, highlighting her huge, violet eyes. She’s the winner of the last Princess Trials. Although the pageant took place years before my birth, OasisVision occasionally shows highlights of her victory.
A shudder runs down my spine at the thought of parading myself in front of every citizen of Phangloria in a slinky gown with my face painted and my hair pinned and primped like a doll’s. My lips twist with distaste as Queen Damascena allows Montana to kiss her hand.