That’s how the Guardian Echelon differs from ours. While Harvesters must work the land or tend to livestock, Guardians can choose a range of professions.
At the bottom are those who guard the border, and at the top are those who take care of Phangloria’s infrastructure. Architects, engineers, scientists, and medics all count as Guardians as well as the naval officers who safeguard the country from the turbulent seas beyond the Great Smoky Mountains.
An orange haze seeps over the jagged, black horizon, which pales to yellow and turns green as it bleeds into the indigo sky. It’s an hour before dawn, around the time we wake from Mondays to Saturdays.
Sergeant Silver strides down the aisle and places a gloved hand on Garrett’s shoulder. “Get to work, lover boy.”
Garrett grins and follows his companion to the front. The coach slows to a floodlit square where a subdued mass of Harvesters awaits. I stretch and stifle a yawn, hoping that they hadn’t been standing outside all night.
“What?” says Forelle.
My brows rise. “What?”
“Each time you wake, you glare at Garret.”
A denial rushes to my lips, but I shake it off. “Why are you even talking to him when you’ve got a chance to become the Queen of Phangloria?”
“Everyone on this bus is here for show,” she says. “I’ve looked it up. Each queen regent has come from the Nobles or was a distant member of the royal family.”
“Same thing.” I clap my hand over my mouth to hide a wide yawn.
Annoyance crosses her features. “It’s just a conversation. Garrett’s different from the other guards.”
“Really.” My voice is flat, but Forelle does have a point. Having a Harvester queen would mean a fairer distribution of resources to those who need it the most. We would rather drink water than watch it spout prettily from a fountain.
Emmera sticks her head through the gap. “You’re right.”
Her pinched expression tells me she’s still sore because her sister didn’t get through to the next stage of the trials. Whatever she will say next will be a rant or a veiled insult. I glance out of the window at meadows that stretch for miles. The only thing growing on them are buttercups, which glow in the morning haze.
“Neither of you have a chance of winning these trials,” she whispers. “I doubt you’ll even get into the palace.”
“Careful, Em,” I say. “If you make a sour expression at dawn, it will stay on your face until sunset.”
Her eyes bulge, and she disappears into her seat.
“I hope she isn’t going to be like this in the Oasis,” whispers Forelle.
“I hope she continues.”
“Why?”
“The sooner they see what she’s like, the sooner they’ll send her home,” I whisper back.
Not everyone in Rugosa supports the Red Runners. Mom doesn’t because she thinks the Harvester region is some kind of paradise, but there are a few who direct their animosity toward the other towns. If Panicum wins the water bonus, then they’re the enemy. They’re too small-minded to turn their anger to the one withholding the water. Emmera reminds me of that type of person.
Four more Harvester girls join us, but they’re different from the others. Their hair is glossier, their cheeks rounder, pinker, and they have a vitality I’ve only seen on guards.
“Wow,” says Forelle.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Bos.”
“Ah.” Now it makes sense. These girls live close to the Cumberland Dam and handle livestock. Just like we’re free to harvest seeds from fallen fruit, they must get a chance to consume some of the excess milk and offal.
Moments later, the doors close, and Garrett returns to Forelle’s side. “You’re awake.” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “Looking forward to meeting Prince Kevon?”
“Looking forward to stretching my legs,” I say in my sweetest voice. “How many stops until we reach the Oasis?”
“Bos was the last.”
Sergeant Silver drags Garrett to the front, and he glances over his shoulder and winks at Forelle, who giggles. I slide further into my seat and rotate my ankles.
Forelle had only tried to stop that guard from harassing me, and now he won’t leave her alone. Being pretty has its disadvantages, like becoming a magnet for unwanted attention.
The coach drives down a highway and into what I can only describe as gloom. I’ve seen sandstorms, dust storms, and solar eclipses, but I’ve never seen fog. It’s dense enough to blot the rising sun.
Smokestacks twice as tall as the vast buildings spew gasses into the sky. I clap a hand over my mouth to suppress a gasp. Around me, all the other Harvester girls are doing the same. This can only be the Industrial region.
Forelle leans across my seat and peers out of the window. “How can anyone live without clean air?”
The answer comes as we pass a troop of guards standing beneath bright floodlights. Below the usual facemask on their helmets are respirators with two huge protruding filters on the left and right. They herd a group of shabbily dressed workers who tie kerchiefs around their noses and mouths. Some of them cover their faces with rags.
“This is terrible,” I whisper. We may not have enough water, but at least we can breathe. As soon as I can get a message to Carolina, I will ask if the Red Runners extend to the Industrial region. This place makes Rugosa look like heaven.
We pass through this region, and the air clears, revealing the morning sun. We pass by a paved city consisting of large corrugated iron structures that remind me of storehouses. They last for another half hour before the coach stops again.
Everybody groans. This is the longest I’ve sat in my life, and the Oasis seems a lifetime away.
“Roadblock,” says Garrett from the aisle. “Excuse me, ladies.”
The door opens, and guards clad in black armor step into the coach, each clutching hand-held monitors.
“Show your bracelets,” bellows the one in front.
I stare down at the blinking device. Did they think one of us
