The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(47)

“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 also control humans. It’s too hot to mess around, and I walk beside Gemini in the direction Berta headed.

She and the goat are small figures in the distance, and there’s no sign of the girls riding the camels and zebu. I turn to Gemini. “Let’s take turns carrying your pack.”

We continue for what feels like an hour in the heat, never closing the distance between Berta and us. We pass the yellow salt mounds with boiling puddles and travel across rocky hills of varying shades of brown. Gemini explains that the real Detroit Depression used to be a group of freshwater lakes that became submerged by the Atlantic Ocean but dried up over the centuries.

Our footsteps crunch beneath us, and the slicing blades of the drones overhead sound like fans but provide no relief from the heat. As we travel over a field of earth so cracked and baked that it resembles curved platters, neither of us speak or pause unless it’s for sips of the water we took from the stagecoach.

We walk over a hill and toward a large figure that lies face-down on the ground. Drones surround her like mosquitos, only parting when we approach.

“What do you think happened to her?” asks Gemini.

“She’s dehydrated.” I open our shared pack and find a small version of the sunshade Krim erects over the water rations to keep them from evaporating. I set it up over Berta’s prone body and kneel at her side.

“What should I do?” asks Gemini.

“Help me roll her onto her back.”

It’s rare to see someone so far gone, as there’s usually a cactus or a kind Harvester who will give a thirsty person enough to drink to get them to the Dome for medical treatment. I pour drops of water onto Berta’s lips until she becomes conscious enough to take a sip.

Berta’s eyelids flicker, and she rasps out a breath. “Calico?”

“And Gemini,” I reply.

“How long?”

“An hour or more,” I say. “You’ve got to take tiny—” Berta snatches the bottle from my fingers and gulps its contents. “Hey!”

I try to take it back, try to tell her that we don’t have much water left, but she gives me a hard shove, and I land on my tailbone.

“What’s wrong with you?” I snap.

After draining the bottle, Berta exhales a long breath. “Got any more?”

I shoot Gemini a harsh look, silently urging her not to volunteer her water. She takes several steps back and hides the bottle behind her back. My teeth grind so hard that my jaw muscles ache, and I regret having saved the oaf.

Berta reminds me of the guards who swagger around Rugosa, acting like they’re our bosses instead of people sent to do a job. She’s rude, pushy, and mostly thinks of herself.