Sirens sound in the distance, their blare increasing in sound with every passing second. A door opens, and footsteps hurry toward us.
“Who is that?” says a female voice.
I turn to find Prunella Broadleaf standing over us. She’s flanked by two women holding their cameras. One of them scrambles down to her knees, presumably to get a close-up of Rafaela.
“Are you twisted?” I slap the camera out of her hand, and it lands with a crack on the ground. “You should be helping, not getting footage for your stupid show!”
Prunella drops to her knees. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” My voice breaks, and I stare down at Rafaela’s blinking eyes.
An even brighter light fills the driveway, and a dark van stops behind the solar car. Its back door slides open, and a tall medic in a hooded white suit rushes out. Behind him, another medic pulls a stretcher. I swallow hard. Although we watched old footage of ambulances in the Rugosa Dome, this is the first time I’ve seen an ambulance crew in real life.
Everyone moves back to give the medics space. Another rushes out of the van, pulls Prince Kevon to one side, and presses a scanner over the cuff on his ear. My gaze switches to Rafaela, whose ear is unadorned. They erect a screen around the girl, and the camerawomen turn to me.
Prunella stands at my side. “I’m here with Zea-Mays Calico at the scene of what is suspected to be a horrific tragedy. Miss Calico, can you explain in your own words what happened to Rafaela von Eyck?”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
A man approaches from behind and wraps his hand around my arm. It’s one of the medics, holding a scanner to my wrist cuff. “There’s blood on the side of your face, Miss.”
“I’m…” I frown at his words and my fingers fly up to my wet cheek. “It’s not mine.”
“Come with me.”
I want to tell him that I’m fine and don’t need any medical treatment, but one glance at the cameras makes me hold my tongue. With a sharp nod, I follow the medic around the ambulance, away from those irritating women.
Harsh lights illuminate the back of the ambulance. Prince Kevon sits at the far end on a bed fixed to the right of its interior. On the left, there’s a unit containing a worktable, overhead cupboards, and a range of screens displaying numbers and charts.
The medic escorting me says to wait, and his colleagues push Rafaela’s stretcher up a ramp. She’s cocooned in a reflective material, but one hand pokes out. When her stretcher is locked in position, Prince Kevon leans forward and stares into her slack face.
Rafaela’s fingers twitch. I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale a long breath. That has to be a good sign, right?
“We’re ready to go.” The medic guides me up a set of steps.
The next time I look at Rafaela, her hand twitches toward him, and Prince Kevon intertwines their fingers.
I tear my gaze away from their private moment and lower myself into a seat closest to the doors.
The medic offers me a pill for the shock, but I shake my head. He holds a small bottle of water under my nose instead. After assuring me that it contains no mind-altering additives, I take a sip. The drive to the Royal Hospital is short, and I barely feel the vehicle rush through the Oasis streets.
When it stops, the back doors fly open, and the medics rush her through an indoor space where a team of people in white bodysuits stands in the doorway. I wrap my arms around my middle, hoping they can help Rafaela. Maybe the footage in her Amstraad monitor contains an explanation of how she fell.
Prince Kevon hurries after the medics. Whatever they gave him before I arrived seems to have worked. All traces of shock have gone, and he’s firing commands at them to provide Rafaela priority treatment.
As soon as I stand, my head spins. All sensation has left my legs, and they won’t move. Dipping my head, I gulp mouthfuls of air and brace myself against the ambulance’s wall, wishing I had taken up the offer of a sedative.
Somebody screams.
It’s Rafaela. White bolts of electricity spark from her ear cuff and spread across her reflective covering like sheet lighting. The people holding onto the stretcher jolt backward.
“Raf!” Prince Kevon screams.
I clap a hand over my mouth and gasp.
Electricity engulfs Rafaela’s body and extends beyond the stretcher in the form of sparks that explode in all directions. The scent of burned flesh fills the air. Prince Kevon orders the medics to help her, to turn off the machines strapped to her body, but no one can get close. Moments later, it stops.
The hand poking out of the reflective blanket stops moving. I grasp the handrail and force my legs to move.
As I reach the bottom of the steps, a tall medic with dark features holds a scanner to Rafaela’s ear. He peers into its screen and says, “Time of death, eleven seventeen.”
My heart plummets, and a pained cry leaves my lips.
Prince Kevon rushes forward. “You can bring her back.”
The medic holding the scanner steps in his path. “Your Highness, we can’t let you near the patient until we ascertain the cause of death.”
My mouth falls open with a huff of disbelief. Isn’t it obvious? Someone threw her off the building. When that didn’t kill Rafaela, they made her Amstraad monitor malfunction to finish the job.
Prince Kevon shoves the medic aside, but two more rush from behind and hold him back. He struggles in their grip. “Why aren’t you taking her to the operating theater, injecting her with nanobots, restarting her heart?”
These are all excellent questions, even if I don’t know what most of them mean. A pair of men wearing yellow overalls rush through the doors. One of them attaches a black, shiny fabric to the bottom of her stretcher and
