Madame Dufour glared at Chatine, her wrinkled arms folded across her chest. “Like father, like son,” she said, making a tsk sound with her teeth. “Mark my words, boy, you’ll be rotting on the moon before the end of this year.”
Chatine flashed her a goading grin before swiping a loaf of chou bread from one of Madame Dufour’s crates and darting toward the exit.
“Arrête!” The old woman’s command sounded like a croak. “Get back here, you wretched croc!”
“Thanks for breakfast!” Chatine called back in a singsong voice.
And then, before the droids could track her or Madame Dufour could catch her, Chatine was gone.
Once she’d put a good distance between herself and the marketplace, she slowed to a walk and massaged her dead arm with the opposite hand. It wasn’t the first time she’d been shot by a rayonette. And it probably wouldn’t be the last. The sensation would return soon enough.
Chatine reached into her pocket and pulled out the pendant she had lifted from the Second Estater. She sucked off the sweet apricot juice and held the medallion in her open palm, studying it. For the first time, Chatine noticed the ornate golden Sol carved into the surface. It was unlike any of the three Sols that hung in the sky of the System Divine. This was a First World Sol. Its brilliant, fiery rays flared out to the edge of the medallion. Chatine reverently clasped the pendant around her neck, a rare genuine smile creeping across her face.
She hadn’t seen the light of a Sol in nine years.
This was definitely a sign of good things to come.
- CHAPTER 2 -
CHATINE
AS CHATINE WALKED THE MUSTY, cold hallway that led to her family’s couchette, she was bombarded by the familiar sounds of the Frets: people fighting over scraps of food, children’s footsteps scrambling across the grated metal floors as they played games of hide-and-seek and crocs-and-bashers, the sporadic cluck of a lost chicken that had wandered away from the Marsh.
She called this eighth-floor corridor of Fret 7 the “No Way Out hallway.” Partially because every time she walked under its low, rusty ceiling, she was reminded of how trapped everyone was here. But mostly because of the various corroded signs on the wall that said, NO WAY OUT.
At least, that’s what Chatine had convinced herself the signs said. The truth was, she had no idea. She couldn’t read them. No one could. They were written in the Forgotten Word. A cryptic code of slanted sticks and swirling lines that had gradually vanished from the minds of Laterrians shortly after the settlers arrived from the First World.
Along with their hopes for a better life.
Chatine slowed, tucked a wayward strand of light brown hair back under her hood, and pulled the loaf of chou bread she’d stolen from Madame Dufour out of her pocket. She tore it in half and immediately stuffed the second half into her boot so she wouldn’t be tempted to eat it.
She supposed she could always tell her parents she’d had no luck in the Marsh today. But she knew if she wanted to keep her other score a secret—the First World medallion—she’d have to have something to distract them with. Her mother would never believe that Chatine would leave the Marsh empty-handed. Unless she had something to show for her morning, her mother would immediately grow suspicious. And if her mother was suspicious, then her father would start snooping. And nothing good ever came from Monsieur Renard’s snooping.
She stared down at the paltry half loaf in her hand, her stomach growling at the mere sight of it. She took a single bite, forcing herself to go slowly, make it last, chew. But her hunger instantly took over. She swallowed the partially chewed lump, feeling the disgusting cauliflower dough pushing its way down her throat, and immediately lunged for another bite.
But before she could sink her teeth into the bread’s tough exterior, she heard a piercing wail cut through the dark hallway. Chatine glanced up to see a woman seated on the floor outside one of the couchettes, trying unsuccessfully to coax a fussing baby to her breast. The baby squirmed and let out another shrill cry that tore through Chatine like a dull knife through stale, overcooked meat.
Would she ever be able to hear a baby cry and not feel like she was being ripped apart from the inside?
She attempted to block out the sound, but it was as if the harder she tried, the louder that baby screamed.
“Argh!” Chatine groaned. “Can’t you shut him up?”
She expected the woman to explode right back at her. That was just how things worked around here. Anger in the Frets bounced around like light in an endless corridor of mirrors.
But she didn’t. The woman looked up at Chatine with dark, hopeless eyes, and she started to cry.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, burying her face in the baby’s tuft of black hair. “He won’t eat because there’s nothing left. The milk is all gone. My body’s too hungry.”
Shame warmed Chatine’s cheeks. She turned her back on the woman and child, preparing to flee, to find another route to her couchette so she wouldn’t have to walk past them. But her legs refused to move. It was as though the paralyzeur had somehow spread from her shoulder, all the way down her body, settling into her feet.
“My husband works in the potato ferme,” the woman went on, sniffling, “and makes a good wage, but he’s been injured. My tokens from the fabrique just aren’t enough.”
The remainder of the half loaf was heavy in Chatine’s hand. She stared down at it.
Stolen.
Because she, too, was starving.
Because this woman was proof that even when you played by the rules, you still starved.
And the baby was still screaming.
With a frustrated growl, Chatine spun around and stalked toward the mother and child. She didn’t stop as she approached them. She simply tossed the chou bread at the woman and kept going.
Chatine could hear the woman calling out to her. “Oh, merci! Merci, ma chérie! You are sent from the Sols!”
But Chatine didn’t stop. In fact, she quickened her pace until she was running. The sounds of the baby’s hungry wails followed her down the hall, chasing after her, reminding her far too much of the past she’d been trying to escape for twelve years.
Chatine didn’t stop running until she reached the door of her family’s couchette. She was breathing heavily, and her stomach growled again.
She couldn’t believe what she had just done.
That bread would have been the most she’d had to eat in days. And she’d just given it away like she had food to spare. Like she had anything to spare.
Chatine shook out her left hand, her fingers just starting to tingle with sensation again. She reached toward the lock on the door of the couchette but froze when she heard the unmistakable sound of her mother’s voice thundering through the wall, shaking the crumbling corridors and threatening to bring down what was left of the doors.
“Thirty-five percent?! You’re out of your mind if you think I’m stupide enough to give that old croc more than a tenth!”
Fantastique, Chatine thought. She’s in one of her moods.
From the sound of it, Chatine’s father had just returned from his latest job and her parents were arguing over the cuts. They were always arguing over the cuts.
Chatine reached into her boot and pulled out the other half of the chou bread. She nibbled at the edges until they looked clean-cut and not torn. As the tiny morsels of bread touched her tongue, it took all of her willpower not to cram the entire thing into her mouth and pretend it never existed.
It wasn’t until she bent over to return the loaf to her boot that she noticed the tear in the fabric of her black pants, right over her knee. She must have done it when she was crawling around on the catwalk, trying to escape the droids.
Chatine sighed. Her pants were already patched with so many metal wires, chain links, and whatever other random scraps she could find around the Frets, there wasn’t much fabric left to patch.
She straightened up and listened at the door. Her mother’s tirade seemed t
o have subsided. She waved her left arm in front of the lock.
“Access granted.” The latch hissed and Chatine quietly pushed the door open and slipped inside.
Chatine imagined that the couchettes must have once been clean, shiny staterooms with proper doors and running water and a stove that didn’t sound like a sheep in labor. Before they turned into the decrepit slums they were now.
The Renards’ couchette, however, was still one of the nicest in the Frets. Her father’s position as the leader of the Délabré gang had awarded Chatine and her family some extra comforts, like their own kitchen, a location on a high floor, and two bedrooms instead of one. Most of the Third Estate didn’t even have couchettes of their own. They slept in old cargo holds on the ground floor, tightly packed into shoddy bunks stacked all the way to the ceiling.
None of the couchettes had their own bathrooms. And only every other communal lavatory worked properly, making for a highly unpleasant smell that had become a constant fixture for life in the Frets.
When the Renards had first moved across the planet to Vallonay from their inn in Montfer, Chatine had spent her days outside in the semi-fresh air and her nights trying not to vomit from the stench. But since then, she’d grown accustomed to it.
It was amazing what conditions a person could get used to.
As suspected, when Chatine entered the couchette, she found her father sitting at the table in the living room, counting a large pile of shiny, Sol-shaped buttons. She remembered him talking about a job he was planning to pull at the garment fabrique. This was clearly the result. Chatine knew, based on their shape, that the buttons were supposed to go on the uniforms of Ministère officers. They were made of pure titan, which her father would undoubtedly melt down so he could use the precious silvery metal as currency.
Typically, only the First and Second Estates had access to titan. Members of the Third Estate were paid in digital tokens—or largs, as they were called around here—deposited into their profile accounts each week. That is, if you actually showed up for your assigned job, which Chatine and her parents never did.
Chatine’s mother was standing over Monsieur Renard, monitoring the count.
“I can’t believe that greedy woman wanted thirty-five percent for flashing a tette! I could have flashed a tette for thirty-five percent!”
“Trust me. Your old tettes aren’t worth thirty-five percent,” Monsieur Renard said under his breath.
But her mother heard it. And so did Chatine. She attempted to stifle a chuckle but was unsuccessful. Madame Renard jerked her head up, noticing Chatine for the first time since she’d walked in. Before Chatine could see what was coming, her mother reared her hand back and slapped Chatine hard across the face.
She stumbled from the blow, slamming against the couchette door.
“What the fric?” Chatine held her throbbing cheek. “He’s the one who said it!”
“These old tettes have made more money around here than both of you combined!” Madame Renard was screeching now. She turned and glared hard at Chatine. “Because I know how to use what the Sols gave me to my advantage.”
Chatine bit down hard on her lip.
It had been over two years since since she’d turned sixteen, and there wasn’t a day that passed when her mother didn’t less-than-subtly mention how many largs a healthy young girl such as Chatine could make in Vallonay. The blood bordels paid almost double for girls her age. Once you turned twenty-five, the price started dropping.
But Chatine preferred her methods. They were working. And as long as she continued to bring in more largs as a boy named Théo than she ever could as a girl named Chatine, she was able to convince her parents to keep up the charade that they’d given birth to a son eighteen years ago, instead of a daughter.
And Chatine would rather empty her veins into the Secana Sea than sell her blood to the First Estate.
“What did you bring me?” Madame Renard asked, dragging her hard gray eyes up and down Chatine’s black coat, searching for extra bulk.
Chatine pulled the half loaf of chou bread from her boot and tossed it at her mother. Madame Renard caught it deftly with one hand and started to examine it, running her dirty fingernails over the edge where Chatine had torn it in half.
“Where’s the rest?” Madame Renard asked. “You better not be trying to steal from me too, you worthless clochard.”
Chatine returned her mother’s challenging stare with one of her own, refusing to show any fear. “It came that way,” she stated evenly.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. She clearly didn’t believe Chatine.
“I lifted it from Dufour’s stall,” Chatine went on. “You know that old croc can’t be trusted.”
This seemed to do the trick. Her mother let out a grunt and tossed the loaf onto the table. It crashed into the pile of titan buttons that Monsieur Renard was counting, causing them to scatter.
“Fric!” Monsieur Renard swore. “Now I have to start over.”
“Good.” Madame Renard spat out the word. “Maybe this time you’ll magically find the missing hundred you still owe me from the last job.” Then she reeled back on Chatine. “Guillaume told me new bodies were delivered to the morgue this morning. Cavs ripe for the picking. You better get your dirty face over there before their profile accounts are emptied.”
Chatine shivered at the thought of going to the morgue again. She hated everything about that place. The ghostly quiet hallways. The smell of rotting flesh. But mostly, she hated the cavs themselves. Those empty, unseeing eyes always seemed to be staring right into Chatine’s soul.
She wanted to argue. She wanted to refuse to go, but she knew better than to disobey her mother. Her father may have been the leader of the most formidable gang in the Frets, but Madame Renard was definitely the master of the house.
Chatine clenched her fists tight and stalked into her bedroom, closing the door behind her and collapsing against it. She shut her eyes and took a moment to try to restore her angry, ragged breathing to normal.
Keep it together, she told herself. You’re almost out of here.
She touched the small lump under the collar of her jacket—the gold Sol medallion—and could practically taste the freedom on her tongue.
It tasted nothing like chou bread.
“Hey,” a soft voice interrupted her thoughts, and Chatine opened her eyes to see her older sister, Azelle, lying on the bed they shared, staring at the small screen embedded in the inside of her left arm.
“Why aren’t you at work?” Chatine asked.
“Night shift,” Azelle replied without looking up.
Unlike Chatine, Azelle never missed a day of work at her Ministère-assigned job. She worked in the TéléSkin fabrique, processing the zyttrium metal that arrived by the shipload from Bastille and manufacturing it into new Skins to be implanted in the arms of the thousands of children born each year. When Azelle wasn’t dutifully logging hours at the fabrique, she could usually be found here, in the couchette.
Chatine was supposed to work in the fabriques too. The textile fabrique. At least that’s what her Skin told her. But she rarely listened to anything her Skin had to say. She was convinced the Ministère had those things rigged, which was why she’d rigged hers right back. She’d paid a pretty larg to have her Skin hacked so that her profile said Théo Renard and so that the Ministère could no longer track her whereabouts or send her reminders to check in at work each morning. But there were certain notifications—like Universal Alerts, curfew warnings, and the reminder for her monthly Vitamin D injection—that she simply couldn’t deactivate.
“Where you been?” Azelle asked.
“In the Marsh,” Chatine replied, opening a tin box next to their bed and riffling around until she found a stray piece of steel wire. She bent down and hastily threaded the metal through the fabric of her pants, stitching the tear back together. It wasn’t her finest patch-up job, but she couldn’t be bothered to care at this point.
“I was just
AirLinking with Noemie down the hall,” Azelle said, her light gray eyes never leaving her arm. “She said there’s a woman in her fabrique who’s trying to organize a protest for more wages.”
Chatine snorted. She didn’t have time for murmurings of protests. They never worked. The last major rebellion was in 488, seventeen years earlier, instigated by the Vangarde, a group led by a woman who called herself Citizen Rousseau. Thousands of Third Estaters lost their lives for that woman, who was now locked away on Bastille. And for what? What did they have to show for it?
Nothing but a pile of ashes.
There were always rumors of unrest floating around the city of Vallonay. Hopeful fools trying to rally supporters, just as Citizen Rousseau had done back in 488.
“I don’t know why anyone would be stupide enough to protest,” Azelle said.
Chatine moved to the foot of their bed and popped up the metal floor grate, pulling out the wool sac that she kept hidden underneath. She wasn’t worried about Azelle noticing. The Ascension was starting in a few hours. The girl would be glued to her Skin for the rest of the morning.
“If you’re caught, you’ll be immediately flown off to Bastille and the Ministère will delete all your Ascension points,” Azelle went on. “I can’t think of anything more horrible than that!”
Chatine fought the urge to argue that she could think of punishments much worse than losing Ascension points. The last thing she needed right now was a fight with Azelle over the credibility of the all-powerful Ministère. Her sister lived and died by their laws and broadcasts. In Azelle’s eyes, the Second Estate—and the Ministère especially—were as powerful as Sols.
In Chatine’s eyes, the Second Estate were nothing but gullible marks to steal from.
She reached into the sac and started transferring items to her pockets. As she did, she took a mental inventory of each object in her collection, making sure nothing had disappeared in the night. In a family of thieves and con artists, you could never be too safe with your secret possessions.
Some of the First World relics she knew the names and purposes of—like watch, pencil, and Sol-glasses. But for others, she’d had to resort to her own interpretations. Like the bound pile of papers with scribblings of the Forgotten Word on them. Or the thin black rectangle with the metal backing that Chatine thought looked like an external Skin.
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