Prunella makes three sharp bursts with her whistle. I shake off those thoughts and focus on the rest of her announcement with the reminder that Harvesters contribute more than we consume.
“This is an exercise in teamwork.” She claps her hands together. “Form groups of six and use any means of transportation to cross the Depression and reach the Mirage, which you’ll find in the north. The first girl to enter the threshold will enjoy dinner or breakfast with Prince Kevon.”
My stomach churns at the implication that we’ll be here all day and possibly the night. All the other girls turn to each other and talk, drowning out Prunella’s words.
“Settle down,” she squawks. “Apart from this meal, there will be no opportunities for one-to-one time with His Highness until the palace round.”
Some of the girls shriek, and my head pounds from the oppressive heat and the impending dehydration. I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Prunella points a gun into the air and shoots a red flare. “Go, go, go!”
The Amstraadi girls sprint toward the largest jeep before Prunella stops speaking, while the Nobles and Guardians rush to the other two jeeps. Meanwhile, Corrie Barzona from Bos leads the Harvesters to the Zebus.
I curl my fingers around the barriers encasing us and want to spit on the ground, but three assistants point cameras at our faces. We’re the entertainment, but this situation looks like it could kill.
A moment later, the girls pile out of the jeeps.
Berta barks out a laugh.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“They’re not authorized.” She claps her hands together and watches the Guardian girls run to the solar bikes and race toward the Mirage. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
I shake my head but can’t stop staring at the mad scramble for transportation. The Amstraadi girls all vacate the covered jeep and rush to the vehicle that the Guardian girls abandoned. One of them starts the engine, and they all roar with triumph.
They split into two teams—one to drive that jeep, and the other to commandeer the vehicle that the Artisan girls can’t get to start. A moment later, they race down the wilderness.
A camera focuses on Berta, who says, “Nobody can drive a vehicle if they don’t have authorization from the onboard computer.” She points at her wrist cuff. “All our information is stored here.”
The Noble girls get the larger jeep working and drive off after the Amstraadi girls.
I shake my head. Not only is this trial rigged, but they’re not even trying to hide their blatant bias toward the Nobles. Why do they get the only covered vehicle? The Industrial and Artisan girls, who didn’t attempt to get a vehicle working, each mount a camel, and the Guardians mount the bikes.
Byron Blake opens the cordon, and I take my first step onto hot ground that crunches beneath my feet.
“How are we supposed to reach the mirage?” I ask.
One of the stagehands emerges from the other side of the coach with a herd of long-bearded goats with oversized horns that point toward the sky. Another assistant drags three backpacks across the yellow ground.
“Good luck, girls.” Byron boards the coach.
Prunella and the camerawomen follow him, then the door hisses shut, and the coach reverses out through what appears to be a black hole in the atmosphere. A swarm of hand-sized drones fly in, each carrying cameras.
“What on earth is that?” I point at the gap.
“The walls are projections,” says Gemini in a monotone. “Everything else, however, is not.”
A white screen lowers itself over the hole and completes the hellish landscape. I turn back to the goats, which wander away in all directions. “Goats aren’t even beasts of burden.”
Berta rushes after the largest one and grabs it by the horn. “They’re supposed to carry our packs, you idiot.”
Irritation flares across my skin, adding to the prickly heat. “Will you stop calling me names?”
Ignoring me, Berta wrestles her pack onto the goat’s back and guides it over the other girls’ tire tracks. She and her goat march off without a word.
I trudge toward the other two backpacks and pull one to the side. Its contents are divided into two compartments that could easily hang on both sides of a goat.
“Nobody should have to carry another’s burden,” says Gemini.
My head throbs, but words shrivel in my throat. What do you say to a girl under a death sentence for a crime she not only didn’t commit but is designed to be a punishment for her father whose skills deem him too valuable to execute? I glance at the only goat who hasn’t galloped into the distance and decide he will suffice.
“Come on, then.” I shoulder on my pack. “Let’s go.”
The goat grazes on a tuft of vegetation, and I place a hand on its warm shoulder. “Easy, now.” I shake off my bag and put it on the goat’s back. “Come with me.”
When it doesn’t move, I wrap a hand around its horn and give it a gentle tug. “Get up.”
“You can’t force it,” says Gemini.
“What if the Mirage is a long walk?”
“Then you’ll waste your time and energy, forcing a goat to carry something against its will.”
The goat pulls against my grip, jerking me forward. I stumble over my feet and land on my hands and knees. “Ouch!”
Intense heat has me scrambling to my feet. Gemini is right. Handling the goat is turning to be way too much effort, and I’m probably providing those drones with comedy footage to entertain the lazy Nobles in their mansions. I release the horn and the goat sprints with my pack toward the horizon.
“Hey!” I rush after him, but Gemini grabs my wrist.
“It won’t stop,” she says. “I think it wore a control collar. By the time whoever is operating it lets you catch up with the goat, you’ll be far from the Mirage.”
A shudder runs down my spine. I wipe my damp hands on the pants of my jumpsuit and try not to ponder if such a collar can
