Scorpio’s armor whirrs and clicks. He stands so still that I wonder if he’s also some kind of drone. Now that I’ve disabled him, I can search for Mom.
She isn’t in the roots where I last saw her. My gaze sweeps upstream, where the water turns a sharp bend. She’s not there, either. My pulse thunders in my ears, and I glance from left to right and along the roots. Some resemble cages of tall stilts and others are so thick and tangled that they make a walkway.
“Where are you?” I try to keep the tremble out of my voice. If she’s hiding behind the tree, she would answer. “Mom!”
The current could have dragged her into the undergrowth of any one of those plants. With her beige Harvester uniform darkened with the water, I’m not sure I’ll find her.
Scorpio grunts and stomps away from the water and into the thick growth of mangroves. I bite down on my lip and soar over the canopy. Someone probably told him Mom’s location, and he’s taking a shortcut. I’ve got to get there before him.
“Mom?”
She doesn’t reply.
Anxiety twists my stomach into knots. Whatever Ambassador Pascale gave me is either wearing off or he didn’t account for the horror of losing one’s mother. A drone swoops overhead and swipes at my face, and another slashes me across the back with a metallic claw.
With a scream, I arch my spine and snatch one of them out of the air. I glide from side to side, but the second drone continues attacking from the rear. No matter how many times I swing at the thing, it always ducks out of reach. This is another distraction. They want Scorpio to reach Mom first.
When I glance down through the canopy, Scorpio is gone.
Mom’s shriek pierces the air, and my heart soars. I command the board to rise, fly over the trees, and cut across the bend. A figure floats with her upper body slumped on a thick log that’s racing down toward a waterfall.
“Mom!”
As I cross the canopy, I find Scorpio running ahead along the bed of roots. I swoop down toward him.
“Hey,” I shout.
Without breaking a stride, he turns his head. The visor covering the upper part of his face is too dark for anyone to see his eyes or machinery, confirming my suspicion that he’s a drone.
I hurl the drone at his helmet. “Eat this.”
Scorpio snatches it out of the air and growls. I dart to the left and hover inches above the water. He grabs the second drone and smashes them together.
The thunder of the waterfall fills my ears, and my heart thrashes against my ribcage. Mom’s log speeds toward the precipice. She breaks away from it and swims against the current, but the water accelerates and carries her away.
As I surge twelve inches above the water, her head disappears beneath the surface. Mom stretches out her arm. I crouch on the glider, plunge my hand into the freezing water, and pull her up by the wrist.
Our combined weight tilts the board to the left. Once I position her at my front, the glider steadies, and I turn us back toward the trees. Scorpio stands on a bed of roots with his head tilted toward us.
Mom shivers, and I wrap my arms around her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur into her hair.
“It’s them, not you.” Mom finally raises her head.
My throat dries. This is the first she’s ever spoken out against anyone. Even after Mr. Wintergreen’s death, she said that systems couldn’t always stamp out evil and that bad people existed in every society.
“They’re listening,” I whisper.
“They’ve already taken us from our homes, threatened our lives, and thrown me at the mercy of that monster,” she says. “I used to think if a person kept to the laws and contributed to the society, they could live peacefully in Phangloria, but that’s not true.”
I hum my agreement.
“The Princess Trials are only meant for one Echelon.” Bitterness laces Mom’s voice. “All the recruitment and challenges you all faced was Montana giving the nation false hope.”
“Not just Montana,” I mutter.
We drift over the water and away from Scorpio. Even if I had been a regular Harvester girl like Emmera or Forelle, the queen would have unearthed a reason why I couldn’t marry Prince Kevon.
Another drone rises from within the trees but doesn’t attack, making my muscles tense in anticipation. They’ve had enough time to bring in reinforcements, so why are they just watching us? In the Detroit Depression challenge, they came at us with a cassowary, locusts, and acid rain.
Scorpio follows us along the roots at a steady jog. Where they become too thin to support his weight, he disappears into the undergrowth.
When we cross a patch of roots that sprawl over the water, he doesn’t reappear, but the hum of machinery beneath our feet sputters.
Mom stiffens. “What’s that?”
I drift down toward the water’s surface. “The glider’s going to fail.”
“What if that man returns?”
I press the electroshocker into Mom’s palm and arrange her fingers around the trigger. “Protect yourself with this.”
“Zea, no—”
“I have an idea.”
We drift closer to the roots, and the engine continues to make gentle explosions. “Let’s find the exit.”
Mom turns her head from side to side, seeming to take in the scenery. The trees are a lush green we don’t get to see outside the crop fields. Where the artificial light hits the canopy, its leaves appear golden. The water, which has now calmed, is a transparent turquoise that reflects the tall roots.
“Are we in the Botanical Gardens?” she asks.
“Somewhere far more sinister,” I reply.
There’s no sign of Scorpio between the trees. He has either run out of power or has been recalled. I steer the glider to a carpet of roots, help Mom off the board,
