As the jeep rounds a tall sand dune, dots of color appear on a distant hill. I lean forward and frown at shades of greens and blues and reds that don’t appear in nature, let alone in the desert.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“One of the Foundling settlements,” says our guide. “After they pass the decontamination process, they’re free to live anywhere within the Barrens.”
As we approach, I can make out that the colors are the sides of the building. “How long does that take?”
Ingrid turns around and bares her teeth. “Why do you have to ask so many annoying questions?”
“It’s called having a conversation and being interested in something other than oneself,” I snap back.
She mutters something about having the guards decontaminate my mouth, but I turn to the first of the dwellings.
They’re structure are slightly bigger than an outhouse made from cobbled-together planks, sheets of corrugated iron, and fabric. Some of them are wooden posts with sand-filled bottles and others are patchwork tents.
I bite my lip. Harvester homes are basic but at least our earth houses are strong and insulated enough to withstand the weather. What happens during the rainy season or if there’s a wind storm? It’s easy to understand why Mom talks like the life of a Harvester is one of unbridled luxury.
After another twenty minutes, the jeep veers off the road, rounds another dune, and enters a dome four times the size of the one in Rugosa. Spotlights fill the vehicle’s interior along with the screams and cheers of a crowd. I peer out of the right-side window and gape at the interior of an auditorium larger than the Gloria Concert Hall with tiered rows that reach the ceiling.
On the left, dozens of black vehicles stand parked by an elevated stage. At the back is a gigantic Phangloria insignia, along with a row of seats. Byron stands at the center with his arms outstretched. The girls in the jeep ahead of us step onto the stage, and as soon as our driver parks, we take our seats behind Byron.
“People of the Barrens, thank you for the warm welcome.” Byron’s voice echoes across the arena. “Let’s all give Prince Kevon a round of applause. He wanted to be here to meet you all, but he has been called away on matters of the state.”
My brows rise. I wonder how much of what happened to the prince reached people who don’t have access to Netface.
Byron walks across the stage. “Today’s challenge takes us into Phangloria’s most exciting territory, our future. One day, this land will be towns, crop fields, and freshwater lakes. Each Foundling will one day enjoy their own personal oasis.”
Everybody cheers. I gulp. What if those images of wild men were for the benefit of the Foundlings? If I believed the Guardians were keeping me safe from the desert, I’d be too grateful to demand a home and an opportunity to work within the Minor Wall. I shake off these thoughts. Without all the facts, I could go mad with speculation.
“Let’s welcome our mentors,” Byron says. “They will each assign our plucky candidates a task related to life at the Barrens.”
A car door closes on the left of the stage, and a huge guard in black armor approaches. Behind him walks a gray-haired woman wearing a canvas jumpsuit, and a man dressed in Harvester-style gray overalls. Byron introduces the first man, Colonel Victorine, who is in charge of patrolling the wall. The gray-haired woman introduces herself as Primavera Melrose and says she teaches Modern History.
I sit up and study her face. Mistress Melrose was Mom’s teacher, who competed in the Princess Trials before Queen Damascena’s. That still makes her younger than Montana, yet she has the lined features of a grandmother.
Before the third person can introduce themselves, a ringing sound blares through the speakers. Everybody clutches their ears. My heart jumps into my throat, and I turn to the exits at the dome’s right and left.
“What’s happening?” Byron shouts.
Colonel Victorine grabs the microphone from the third speaker. “Everybody, stay in the arena until we deal with the disturbance at the Great Wall.”
“We’ll give you a ride.” Byron waves his arms at the production assistants, who usher us off the stage and pile us into the vehicles.
I shuffle across the seat, away from a camera lens pointed at its middle. My heartbeat races like an out-of-control pronghorn, even though I suspect this attack is something staged to make the Princess Trials more exciting.
Ingrid sits beside me and sneers. “They should throw you through one of the hatches and make the wild men chase you to the horizon.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask with an equally nasty sneer. “Are you still sore that your attempts to kill me failed?”
Her haughty expression fades, and she darts her gaze from the camera to the Noble girl sitting at her other side. Nobody gives Ingrid moral support, and she stares into her lap.
Raising my chin, I sit straighter in my seat. Without guns and girls to bolster her bullying, she’s a puffed-up desert snake—all hiss and no venom.
I turn to the window at the endless landscape of desert, wondering if Byron’s claims that this will one day become an oasis could ever come true in a century. The early Phanglorians transformed a wasteland into a beautiful, green city, but that required a lot of time and water. I can’t see them doing anything with the desert except develop it into farmland.
Moments later, we approach the Great Wall. Its metallic latticework structure reminds me of the Eiffel Tower, which was featured in a documentary about a country called France. Centuries ago, French farmworkers stopped tending to the land and overthrew their king because they wanted to eat cake. The crops failed, and a fungus took root, causing decades of famine. Later, an exiled royal arrived with seeds and soldiers to deliver the French from the brink of starvation.
Before I can remember Carolina’s version
