I exhale a long breath and take a few more swallows of mint water, which calms my nerves and clears away the remnants of my fear.
If I must die, everyone will know the machinations of Queen Damascena. I moisten my finger again and pick up the paper carton. It fizzes against my fingertip, making me flinch.
Strength enhancers. The fritters were pain-killers, the water has given me a calmness and clarity I haven’t felt since the day I supposedly shot the king from the persimmon tree. Ambassador Pascale took the first bottle away but left the carton on purpose.
I tear a strip off the thick paper and place it between my lips. It melts and fizzles on my tongue, releasing a mass of bitter bubbles. A rush of adrenaline surges through my veins, and I rise off the floor, chewing mouthful after mouthful of the carton. It bubbles and expands in my mouth, and foam escapes my lips.
For the next several minutes, I eat the paper, wash its chemical taste away with the minty water, and my confidence soars. My mind rolls back to the time I stood at Gemini’s side and watched the Amstraadi girls’ practicing their drills in the garden. Will this enhancer make me move like them? If the answer is yes, I might just survive this stadium.
The bottle cap lies at my feet. I reach down and hold it between my fingers. Beneath the opaque seal above the metal are letters I can’t read. I peel it off to find a paper disc that says: SUICIDE.
Shock loosens my fingers, and the cap and the suicide disc falls to the floor. The lock mechanism whirrs, and the door swings open. I drop down to the floor and place a palm over what could be my only means of escape.
“Your turn, Popcorn,” says the same female voice from before.
Rough hands hook under my arms and drag me out of my cell. I curl my fingers around the disc and scramble to my feet. My captors are two women in black who cover their heads in masks that only reveal their eyes. I scan their bodies for holsters, guns, or tell-tale bulges, but they’re unarmed.
“Let me walk,” I say.
“Suit yourself.” The woman pulls me upright and marches me through a short hallway of white doors and matching, polymer walls illuminated by more of those ceiling-holes.
We reach a metal door, and the woman on my left steps forward and taps a code into a keypad on the wall. The door clicks open, revealing another woman standing inside a white room the size of my cell.
“What’s happening?” I ask the new woman.
“I’ll be your wardrobe mistress for the day.” She holds up a jumpsuit made of sackcloth in one hand and a gown made of the same material in the other. “Prunella is wavering on her feet already, and you’re needed in the stadium. Take your pick.”
I tighten my lips, wondering what kind of sick game they’re playing. All three women close in on me, making my muscles quiver with anticipation. With one punch I could—
“If you’re thinking of escaping, don’t,” says the wardrobe mistress. “Fail to cooperate, and they’ll flood this room with a sleeping agent and drag your unconscious carcass into the stadium.”
“Jumpsuit,” I snap.
As the other women unfasten my silver dress, I glance around the room for a weapon. The woman at the door points her remote at the wall and brings up an image of Prunella in a short dress made of sackcloth. Blood flows from gashes in her arms and legs, and from a cut on her shaved head.
“What have they done to her?” I whisper.
“Short hair was a good choice.” The first woman sets aside the gown and holds the jumpsuit open at my feet. “It helped her escape Scorpio more than once.”
I gulp. “Scorpio?”
Another woman places a cup of water to my lips. “Drink this. We can’t have you croaking your way through the execution. The crowd wants big, lusty screams.”
I jerk back, and the woman huffs as though I’m the one being unreasonable.
Someone grabs my hair, holding me in place. “It’s only water. Now, drink.”
Throwing my weight back, I swing a high kick up at the huffing woman’s wrist and kick the water out of her hand. It arcs through the air and lands on the wall screen.
Her companion laughs and claps me on the back. “I guess you don’t need any help. Good luck with Scorpio.”
I step into the jumpsuit’s legs, wondering if they were only just trying to help but shake off that feeling as the wardrobe mistress pulls the garment over my hips and slides my arms through its openings at the top. They’re getting people ready for their deaths. The only people they’re helping are their Noble overlords.
“Scorpio is the name of the exoskeleton.” The wardrobe mistress rubs ashes on my bare arms while her colleague slips boots onto my feet. “Only the strongest of guardians can wield black zirconium.”
“What’s that?” I slip the suicide disc into the pocket of my jumpsuit.
“A form of metal.”
My eyes narrow. “It’s heavy, then?”
She chuckles and dusts gray powder on my face. “No spoilers.”
I turn my gaze to the screen where Prunella still stands at the foot of the tree holding out her palms. There’s no sound, but her face is twisted with anguish, and she seems to be screaming at someone on the other side of the camera. I purse my lips. What kind of people would watch someone’s last moments for entertainment?
The wardrobe mistress tells me to raise my head, so she can dust me with ashes. Sackcloth and ashes are supposed to be signs of repentance, but my only regret is the pain I caused Prince Kevon. I wait for the surge of guilt, for my heart to clench with misery, but whatever was in the effervescent paper and mint water has tamped my emotions.
Even as a hulking man in shining, black armor walks into the scene and the women around me gasp, I feel nothing except for determination that I will not fall at the hands of Scorpio.
The camera cuts to Scorpio's broad back, where the armor takes the shape of a carapace of blinking lights that I suppose are cameras. He spread out his thick arms that end in pincers the size of Prunella’s head.
Shiny bands of black metal stretch across his rib cage and around to the front, imitating scorpion legs, and the armor notches into segments down the base of his spine, which ends in a segmented tail.
He runs with mechanical steps over a landscape of dense roots that tangle and stretch over turquoise water. The trees attached to them grow at odd angles, and there isn’t a scrap of land apart from what’s created by the roots.
“He’s going to end Prunella.” The wardrobe mistress clasps her hands to her face and dirties her mask with gray powder.
“No.” One of the women hides her face with her hands and peeps at the screen through parted fingers. “I can’t watch.”
I turn my gaze to the camera. Prunella was no friend. She killed an innocent girl, injured eight contestants, and executed Gemini Pixel, but even she deserves a witness who isn’t watching out of some sick sense of entertainment.
A side shot of them appears on the screen. Scorpio wraps a claw around her neck and raises her to eye level. His tail lengthens and curls into a stinger the size of a large gourd. With one twist of his wrist, Prunella becomes limp.
The trio of women exchange dissatisfied glances.
“That’s it?” says the one who hid behind her hands. “I thought Scorpio would pull off her head or… I don’t know, do something spectacularly explosive.”
The third woman’s eyes slide toward me, and the apples of her cheeks rise beneath her black mask. “Maybe they’re saving his best moves for the next victim.”
I shoot her a venomous look, and she darts her gaze toward the wall.
A close-up of Prunella's face replays on the screen. She leans back, her eyes bulging, and her nostrils flared. The corners of her lips curl down in a scream that exposes her top row of teeth, and her wide face curls into a mask of horror.
She moves slower than usual, making me think that the producers want people to savor her death. I turn my gaze away and clench my teeth. One day, I hope Queen Damascena will know what it is t
o feel such terror.
After a few repeats of Prunella’s death, the camera cuts to a full-body shot of Byron Blake standing at the edge of a pool underneath another of those trees whose roots snake across the water. He wears green overalls that ride up to his chest with a lightweight jacket underneath and a hat in the same fabric.
The wardrobe mistress bounces up and down on the balls of her feet. “They’re about to announce the next victim.”
Facing the door at the other end of the dressing room, I pull back my shoulders, straighten my spine, and curl my hands into fists.
It’s time.
One of the women rears back. “Who on earth is that?”
I turn to the screen. A pair of women in black masks drag a short blonde toward Byron. She struggles against their grip, keeping her head down. This new victim doesn’t wear sackcloth like Prunella did or me, but a Harvester uniform with a full apron.
One of the women in black forces the Harvester’s head up, and aquamarine eyes stare into the camera within a face twisted with terror.
It’s Mom.
Chapter 22
Shock barrels my gut. I stagger back and clutch myself around the middle. “Mom.”
All three women turn from the screen and stare at me with wide eyes. “That’s your mother?” asks the wardrobe mistress. “I thought she was just a Harvester nobody sent in to get Scorpio in the mood.”
Byron addresses the camera, and the screen splits into halves. Mom’s identification photo and personal details appear on the left. The volume is off, so I can’t hear what he’s saying.
My heart pumps adrenaline and hatred through my veins. Mom has done nothing wrong. She won’t last ten minutes with Scorpio. “I’ve got to leave.” My hands curl into fists. “Now.”
“We can’t control the external door,” says the woman closest to the screen.
The wardrobe mistress shrugs. “Sorry.”
My rage mounts until blood pounds in my ears and the edges of my vision blur. I won’t allow this. I won’t stand and watch Mom die at the hands of these monsters. I won’t amuse them with my anguish at watching Scorpio run Mom ragged and beat her to death.
An idea jumps into my head. Earlier, the women warned me not to attempt an escape or they would fill the room with a gas that would make me sleep. What if something the ambassador gave me contained an antidote to the drug?
“Sorry,” I say to the wardrobe mistress.
She tilts her head to the side. “For what?”
I swing at her masked face with my left. She jumps back, but I surge forward with an uppercut to the cheekbone. It knocks her harder than expected. She stumbles toward the wall and crashes against the mirror.
The next closest woman grabs my arm. Pivoting, I slam my fist into her ribs. Something cracks beneath my knuckles. She doubles over and screams. The third woman races at me with a four-inch-long electroshocker crackling with power. I shove her colleague into her path. They both stiffen and hit the floor, just as a hissing sound fills the room.
The wardrobe mistress groans and picks herself off the floor. “What are you doing?”
I turn to the screen to find Byron addressing the camera. Mom drifts away in a boat in the background. The next shot is of Scorpio, who stands at the waterside, raising his pincers.
The wardrobe mistress staggers toward me through the gas. “You can’t beat us into setting you free.”
Her steps falter, reminding me that I need to pretend to appear unconscious for my plan to work, even though strength courses through my veins. The whole point of attacking them was for someone to open that door. The wardrobe mistress’ posture droops, her eyelids flutter, and she looks seconds away from falling asleep.
Faking a yawn, I sway from side to side. “You’re lying.” I slur my words. “One of you must have a key.”
I fall to my knees and make a show of patting the pockets of the closest woman. Footsteps rush toward us from the direction of the external door. I fall toward the other two women, palm the electroshocker, and hope whoever is watching me believes the gas has rendered me unconscious.
A mechanism turns in the door, letting in humid air along with the sound of hurried footsteps. My pulse races, and I force every ounce of self-control into not charging.
“Report,” says a distant voice.
“They appear unhurt, Your Majesty.”
“And the girl?” asks the queen.
“We’re moving her to the waterfront. Byron can interview her while she waits her turn.”
“Restrain her if you must.” The queen chuckles. “I’d love to watch her commentary of Scorpio tearing apart her family.”
I clench my teeth at the implication that Dad and the twins are also waiting somewhere in a cell like mine. As soon as I disable Scorpio and save Mom, I’ll use this newfound strength on the queen.
The two newcomers walk to my sides and each grab an arm. They drag me over their fallen colleagues and out into a mossy landscape that reminds me of compost before it gets a chance to rot. The sound of running water is close, and I’m moving over soft, muddy ground.
Deep, deliberate breaths fill my lungs, and I use every mental technique I learned from the Red Runners to counter the adrenaline seething through my veins. I can’t attack these women until they take me to Byron Blake.
After what feels like an eternity, I hear Byron’s excited voice telling the audience in the viewing theater that Scorpio’s armor won’t allow him to float in water. “But will Mrs. Calico’s boat stay afloat for long enough to reach safety?” he says with a chuckle. “Let’s find out after we hear from her daughter.”
I take that as my cue to act. Using the momentum of the woman on the right, I kick at the feet of her colleague. She releases my left arm and stumbles into the moss.
The second woman reaches for her baton, but I jam the electroshocker under her neck and press the button. Blue lightning erupts from its tip. She goes rigid and falls like a log.
“Zea-Mays.” Byron stands at the waterfront with his palms raised. “Whatever you think you’re doing, this isn’t the answer.”
I advance on him with the shocker outstretched. “Where’s my mother?”
His gaze darts to my left.
I spin around to find the first woman pulling herself off the ground. With one swift kick in the head, she falls onto her front and stops moving.
The camerawomen scramble out of my way. I ignore them and continue toward Byron, who stumbles backward toward the water.
“Zea.” He moves his forearms up and down in a motion that’s more aggravating than calming. “Please, don’t do this.”
“Take me to my mother.”
Byron’s mouth drops open. “But the rules state—”
I punch him hard in the face, and the sensation of cracking bones explodes under my knuckles. Byron’s head snaps back. He falls onto his behind and clutches his nose.
“What would happen to your brain if I kept electrocuting you with this?”
He raises a palm. “There’s no need for violence.” Byron’s voice is thick with agony. “I’ll take you to her, but you’ll need to use a glider.”
This is probably a trick. They’ll give me a glider and cut its power while I’m moving over the water, but I nod anyway. Byron beckons one of the production assistants, who rushes behind the pop-up studio and pulls out an air glider thicker and longer than the one they gave us in the Gloria National Park.
She scurries forward, places it at my feet, and backs toward the studio.
“There.” Byron gestures at the stream. “Follow the water around the stadium, and you’ll find your mother drifting away on a boat.”
I flick my head toward the board. “Stand in front of the foot straps.”
His lips part, and all the color leaches from his face. “What?”
My eyes narrow. He probably expected me to step on first, and one of the production assistants would program it to do something dangerous. I squeeze the trigger, and sparks of blue l
ightning erupt from the shocker’s tip.
Byron flinches. When I shake the electroshocker, a resigned look crosses his features, and he steps onto the glider’s front half. I step behind him and slide my feet into the straps. It rises a foot off the ground and drifts four feet above the water.
Emmera’s instructions floats to the top of my mind. Rising toes on the left foot makes the board descend, and the right makes it ascend. I finally get a chance to absorb my surroundings. We’re in some kind of artificial swamp of trees that look like they’re standing on multiple tangled stilts. Their leafy canopies form an arch over the water and tiny lights on their trunks and branches blink on and off, which I guess are cameras.
The trees also form pathways for water that runs more like a stream than a swamp. Birds sing, frogs croak, and cicadas chirp, but there’s no sign of wildlife except for Byron, who won’t stop talking.
“This is one of four stadiums built on the technology of the Botanical Gardens. It’s my first time in the mangrove swamp, and also the first time I’ve been abducted by such a charming young lady,” he says with a chuckle.
“Byron,” I snarl.
“Yes, Miss Calico?”
“If I don’t see my mother in the next thirty seconds, I’ll kill you.”
His shoulders stiffen and he points at something on the far left. “She’s over there.”
“Where?” I press the electroshocker into his jaw.
Byron shudders. “Please, don’t hurt me. If you rise over the trees, we’ll cut across the maze. They programmed her boat to sink around the time she reaches Scorpio.”
I raise the toes of my right foot, and the board soars through the canopy, scratching us as we pass the branches. It takes a bit of tilting from side to side to turn the glider where Byron directs, and I nearly lose him twice.
Deep growling reverberates from somewhere down and to the left.
“Over there beneath that tree.” Byron points at the waterfront.
Scorpio is even bigger in real life than he appears on camera, and twice as monstrous. With his silver-crested helmet, Scorpio stands about six-and-a-half-feet tall, with artificially inflated shoulders broader than General Ridgeback’s.
The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2) Page 31
