The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(9)
“What do you think this roll call is about?” I ask. “The trials?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Ryce pauses for a field manager on horseback, who wears a white shirt with his beige pants. Pink patches appear on the older man’s cheeks through his peeling brown skin. He tips the brim of his straw hat at Ryce, who offers back an acknowledging nod.
The square is one of the few paved areas within Rugosa. It’s a vast space that can accommodate all seven-thousand of us, with floodlights on the surrounding streets that also contain speakers.
There are no stores or boutiques in Rugosa except for a huge geodesic dome. One half consists of triangular panels that give a clear view of the OasisVision screen. The other half is a white polymer that both protects from the sun and projects the screen on its exterior. That way, everyone in Rugosa gets a chance to watch important announcements, even when the dome is full.
Harvesters spill into the streets, a mass of beiges and browns and burned umber. The dome doors are closed with at least a thousand people crowding around its front and back. As we cross the street, our steps falter—not at the crowd but at a marquee that stands at its side with guards flanking its closed doors. Even more alarming are the eight black trucks parked on that side of the square. There’s no mistaking who or what they contain.
Anxiety clutches at my insides. The last time the guards erected a marquee, it was to round up the participants of an illicit distillery. No one has seen those Harvester men and women in the two years since they were taken.
“Do you know what that structure is about?” I whisper.
Ryce shakes his head and guides me to the furthest end of the square in view of the screen.
By now, the last vestiges of sunlight filter through the distant haze, turning the sky the color of freshly spilled blood. Dozens of guards step out of their vehicles, each clad in black armor and each carrying automatic rifles. I edge closer to Ryce, hoping that they’re here to supervise the Harvester portion of the Princess Trials.
The national anthem blares through the overhead speakers, and the Phangloria insignia appears on the screen. It’s a tree with multiple curling branches that stretch out into a semicircle and matching roots that extend the same length as the branches. At its trunk is a single eye. It’s supposed to belong to Gaia, the goddess the Nobles worship, but the double crowns that make up her eyelashes make me wonder if the Nobles believe that the monarchs are the gods.
The image fades, replaced by Jimeno Montana, the Minister of Media and OasisVision. His blue-black hair identifies him as a Noble, and he wears it swept off his face and in a braid that extends beyond his lower back. Nobody knows his age, and it’s hard to tell with his deep, terra-cotta skin obscuring any fine lines or wrinkles. Dad can remember his father claiming to have watched Montana on the screens as a boy.
“Good evening, Phangloria!” He pauses, but nobody in the crowd returns his greeting. “And now, for today’s news.”
Montana shares the usual updates, which are mostly productivity levels of the Harvesters and the Industrials, those who work in the factories in the expanse of land between our region and the Oasis. It’s tedious and designed to make us compete instead of cooperate, but whichever town produces the most output gets a dozen crates of beer and bonus water rations for the next day. For us, this water can mean the difference between our home produce succeeding or drying on the vines.
Next is news that the Amstraad ambassador has arrived to supervise the building of a new hospital and to negotiate the sale of five-thousand health monitors. My gaze wanders to the lights blinking on and off on Montana’s ear cuff. He has probably had his monitor since grandfather was still alive and young.
“How many of those devices will trickle down to the Harvesters?” I mutter, already knowing the answer.
Ryce leans close and whispers, “No Harvester would get any work done with all those dehydration alarms blazing in the fields.”
I snort. Thirst is a constant companion here. The Nobles allow us just enough water to labor.
Montana launches into a speech about how a young acolyte of Gaia spent weeks in isolation during one of the many plagues of the twenty-first century. Gaia showed him a vision of the destruction of the world and told him to gather followers to build a new land.
I tune out because it’s the story of Noah, but instead of a flood, there are nuclear bombs, natural disasters, and oceans swallowing the coast. Instead of an ark and two of each animal, there’s an underground bunker filled with the ancestors of the Nobles.
When he introduces the Princess Trials section of the news, he explains that Phangloria is a place where anyone can ascend to royalty. In each generation, girls from every Echelon get the chance to become the queen.
Ryce leans into me and mutters, “Guess how many Industrials and Harvesters have won the Princess Trials?”
“The same amount who get Amstraad monitors?” I ask.
One corner of his lip curls into the barest of smiles.
Montana clasps his hands together. “And now, news from the Princess Trials. Everyone give a round of applause to Circi Aster, lady-at-arms to Queen Damascena!”
A woman steps onscreen with deep mahogany skin, cropped black hair, and eyes as green as malachite. She wears a fuchsia jacket with a high collar that wraps around her neck, nearly skimming the Amstraad monitor on her ear. The golden crown, eye, and tree insignia on her epaulets mark her as a general.