The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(49)

“I need to search Gemini’s backpack.” With as much force as I can muster, I slam my elbow into her gut.

With a grunt, Berta releases her grip. I stumble forward a step, and she holds me steady.

“What’s inside?” she says as though I didn’t just deal her a painful blow.

“Some kind of gun.”

“Calico,” she growls.

It’s not like I’m going to shoot the stupid bird and get myself arrested. Gemini’s screams turn to whimpers, and time is running out.

I shoulder off the backpack and lay it flat on the slope. Several items lie in the way—the pop-up shelter, a reflective foil blanket, and some sort of device that looks like it might inflate. My fingers brush against something hard, plastic, and shaped like a gun. I pull it out.

Berta steps back and raises her hands, her gaze darting to the drone hovering close. “This is not my idea. I wanted to leave the traitor and continue to the Mirage.”

I shake my head and point the gun down the slope. There’s a time for wavering, but it’s not when someone is being trampled to death by an enraged cassowary. My muscles tighten, and I widen my stance. Ryce told me that the first time I fired a gun with live ammunition, there would be a recoil that might knock me backward.

Clenching my teeth and bracing myself for anything, I aim ten feet to the left of the cassowary and squeeze the trigger. Instead of a gunshot, a high-pitched blare pierces my eardrums.

“Cut it off!” Berta doubles over with both hands clapped over her ears. The shrill muffles her voice.

“It won’t stop,” I shout back.

My gaze drops to the bottom of the slope, where Gemini lies motionless on the ground. The cassowary sprints into the distance.

Berta snatches the noisy gun from my fingers and stomps on it with a heavy boot, but that does nothing. As she continues to attack the inanimate object, I rush down the slope, fall onto my behind, and skid my way down to Gemini.

“Hey.” I land beside her on my knees and brush blonde hair off her face. Her tears have already dried into trails of salt that highlight her reddened skin. Although blood seeps through the arms of her slashed jumpsuit, her face is unmarked. I press my fingers to her throat, which pulses with an irregular beat.

“Gemini?”

She doesn’t answer.

My throat thickens. If her bones are broken, and I rolled her to the side, would that make her recovery worse?

The drones that filmed the attack hover down, and a camera whirrs inches from my ear, presumably to get a close up of my face. If this is what they do in Amstraadi shows, it’s no wonder the Ambassador looks like an unfeeling cyborg.

“Gemini?” I repeat, even though the effort is futile.

Berta’s heavy footsteps crunch over the mound as she approaches. She hovers over me with her hands on her hips. “Is she dead?”

“We’ve got to move her in case something else attacks.” I inject as much venom in my voice without sounding treasonous.

“Calico,” she says with a sigh.

“What?” I snap, irritation spreading across my fevered skin. Right now, I wish it was Berta and her big mouth lying here injured instead of Gemini. “If this is about her death sentence—”

“She’s bad news—”

“You’re not her executioner!”

Berta steps back, her mouth slack, and her eyes wide with shock. I don’t know what my words have triggered, but I hope she finally stops thinking about herself.

“Carry her if you want, but don’t turn to me when she’s dead weight.

Berta’s watch has an app that directs us over the hill, and we trudge for what seems like hours in the heat. The sun shines brighter, evaporating all traces of moisture from my mouth, my throat, and even from the surface of my skin. This level of tiredness and dehydration is worse than working a day in the tomato fields without water.

“How big can a simulation be?” I try to keep the whine out of my voice, but the effort is futile.

“As big as the botanical gardens?” Berta croaks.

The series of domes that surround the Oasis? I’m too tired to ask, but I’ve already worked out that we could be here for days if our bodies don’t give out first.

Our surroundings are more desertlike with acres of sun-bleached earth, and the occasional fluorescent-green pool edged with white salt crystals. My dry throat rasps for me to dip my fingers into the water for a taste, but Berta warns me that the saltwater will worsen my dehydration.

My ears ring from the gun, but the clomp of our boots over the grit breaks up the sound. I can’t keep up with Berta’s longer paces, so she slings Gemini on her back.

Later, Gemini’s headband hisses again and releases green gas.

“No,” I groan.

Berta lowers Gemini to the ground. “What the hell was that?”

A dark mass approaches from the sky. Without a word, I drop the backpack and rush toward the girl on the ground. Berta snatches the bag and sprints ahead with a new burst of energy. I hope she’s getting a head start to find something in the backpack, but based on recent events, she’s probably just saving her own hide.

Not wanting to wait, I gather Gemini in my arms and break into a stumbling jog. My steps crumble salt crystals underfoot, but a sound other than the whirr of camera drones fills my ears.

I’ve heard this sound before in documentaries about creatures that used to plague the earth. It’s the rattle and rustle and roar of tiny wings. Wings of creatures supposed to be extinct. The darkness dissipates into thousands of little blots—locusts—only with bodies as long as my hand encased in sand-colored carapaces.