She glanced at the clock on the wall. Only five minutes to go.
As the seconds ticked on, the only sounds in the dining room were the clink of spoons on soup bowls and the clicking of Jacqui’s beads. Until finally—finally—the silence was broken by the sound of the bell, signaling the end of lunch. Alouette was the first on her feet. She grabbed her bowl and darted to the kitchen, where she found her father drying out a large cooking pot with a dishcloth.
“Merci, Papa,” she called as she threw her bowl down next to the sink and turned on her heel to fetch two pails from the hook on the wall.
“What’s the rush?” her father called over to her. “Your papa doesn’t get a thank-you kiss anymore? Too old for that now, I suppose.”
Alouette grinned, turned, and hurried back toward him. She was tall these days, so tall she had to dip her head to go through the Refuge’s low doorways, yet she still had to stand on tiptoe to kiss her father’s cheek.
He leaned over, his coarse white hair glowing in the dim light of the kitchen, and returned a kiss on the top of her forehead.
“Remember to get those floors scrubbed in time, Little Lark,” he whispered. “Principale Francine won’t be happy if they don’t get done.”
Alouette frowned a little. “Principale Francine is not very happy with me most of the time.”
Hugo Taureau was a huge man with hands as large as the metal dinner plates on which he served the Refuge’s meals. But those hands were gentle, too. He lifted one now and tweaked a springy coil of his daughter’s dark hair.
“She’s a good woman, Alouette. She has been kind to us. She gave me this job.” He waved the dishcloth around the kitchen. “And she gave us this home for the last twelve years. Her heart is good.” He grinned, the lines around his eyes forming little darts under his thick white eyebrows, and dipped his voice again. “But yes, she does have some sharp edges.”
Then, with one hand, he effortlessly lifted the cooking pot he’d been drying over their heads and onto a high shelf. It was as if the giant pot weighed as little as the dishcloth in his other hand. As he pushed it into place, his short sleeve slid back, revealing the five silver bumps on his muscular right arm. Her father had never told her what the markings meant or how he’d gotten them. But when she was younger, Alouette used to trace those metallic bumps on his skin, counting the number of dimples in their raised surfaces, and ask him why she didn’t have them on her arm too. He would laugh his tender laugh, and his answer would simply be, “You will never have these, ma petite. Never.” One time she asked if those strange, glittering marks had been on her mother’s skin. He’d said nothing in reply.
Hugo Taureau gave Alouette love—more than she probably deserved. He gave her food—more than a Third Estater could probably afford on Laterre. But he rarely ever gave her answers.
She’d almost given up asking the questions.
Almost.
“Papa, I have to go now,” Alouette said, finally grabbing the two metal pails from the hook on the wall. “But I will help you with the dishes after supper.”
“Sure, sure,” he laughed as he flicked the dishcloth gently in her direction. “Shoo, Little Lark.”
Alouette carried the pails to the kitchen sink and turned on the faucet. The water was running painfully slowly today.
Come on, come on, she silently urged the stream.
When the pails were finally full, Alouette heaved them from the sink, out of the kitchen, and down the dingy hallway. The buckets were heavy in her hands, and the water sloshed a little against her long gray tunic. But she moved quickly. Years of scrubbing floors and carrying water had made her strong. Not like her father, of course. But still strong.
Once she reached the vestibule, she carefully positioned the two pails just outside the small alcove where the Refuge’s only entrance was located. The sisters would be heading in the opposite direction to the Assemblée room. There they would stay, locked up for at least two hours in Quiet Contemplation. But if any of them were to wander this way, they would see the pails and think Alouette was scrubbing the vestibule.
She would clean the floors eventually. Of course she would.
But first she had to see if the transmitteur worked.
Alouette ducked under the doorway. Most rooms in the Refuge were small and dark, with ceilings so low they could be touched with an outstretched hand. But the vestibule was the tiniest and dingiest room of them all. It was just big enough to open the Refuge’s heavy PermaSteel door. Alouette had walked through this door only once in her life, when she was four years old and first came to the Refuge with her father. It was after her mother had gotten sick and died, and her father came to the sisters for help because he couldn’t possibly care for a little girl all on his own. After Alouette had passed through the door, it had clanged shut, sealing them inside for the next twelve years. She had no memory of that day or any other day before they’d arrived here. Now the only people who went through the door and up the ladder to the above-world were Sister Jacqui and Sister Laurel, who were tasked with the weekly supply runs to the Marsh.
But Alouette’s attention wasn’t on the door right now. Instead, she stood in front of a thin screen embedded into the wall. The image on the security monitor was obscured today because of yet another leak. Water droplets were splattering, one after another, right in front of the monitor’s external microcam. The tiny device watched over the Refuge’s entrance, which was hidden inside a mechanical room of one of the old Vallonay freightships.
The monitor didn’t show much of the above-world. The image was grainy and always in black and white. All it revealed were some corroding PermaSteel walls, a few rusting machines, and the big puddle of water that was always in the center of the floor. Alouette didn’t care, though. Ever since she was little, she loved to sneak into the vestibule and study the view. This little slice of the world she didn’t know. It was like peeking through a keyhole. The range of what she could see was limited, but the possibilities were endless.
Alouette’s gaze slipped down to the control panel under the monitor. After checking that the hallway was empty, she ran her fingers around the rim of the panel until she found the little depression where her fingernail fit. The plastique covering popped off easily.
Alouette knew the sisters wouldn’t approve of what she was doing. Not even Sister Jacqui, who had always taught Alouette to question everything.
The whole point of the Refuge was to be cut off from the rest of the world. The sisters were the protectors of the First World books and the keepers of the Chronicles. Their sacred job was to maintain and preserve not only the histories of Laterre, but the library of books that had been rescued from the old planet and smuggled onto the freightships bound for the System Divine. Ever since the year 362 ALD—After Last Days—when the Refuge was built, the Sisterhood had been the ones to protect these treasures. They valued a “life of the mind,” as they called it, which meant retreating from the harsh and dangerous world above. People outside the Refuge valued different things than the Sisterhood. The above-world didn’t care for books, careful thought, or silence. Even the written word had been long forgotten up there.
If the Ministère were ever to find the Refuge, they would surely destroy the books and the Chronicles. And everything the Sisterhood had accomplished in the past 143 years would be gone.
“We are the protectors of knowledge and the history keepers,” Francine had once said when Alouette was rereading one of the volumes of the Chronicles during her history lesson. “Recording the world and its events is a blessed and vital task.” She’d then wagged a fountain pen at Alouette. “And the only trustworthy and long-lasting way to do this is by hand. It is for this reason that we must keep the written word alive. Lest we forget the mistakes of our ancestors.”
For as long as Alouette could remember, all she’d wanted was to become Sister Alouette, an official contributing member of the Refuge. Someone who could attend Assemblée every single day. Someone who cou
ld help maintain and update the Chronicles. Someone who would be called on not only to dust the priceless books in the library as part of her chores, but to pledge her life to protect them.
And she still wanted all of that. Truly, she did. She just didn’t understand why she couldn’t lead a life of the mind and get a better look at the above-world.
Just one glimpse, she told herself. And then she’d be satisfied.
The motherboard inside the control panel was tiny and old, yet its components were still in good shape. Alouette set the plastique cover to one side, reached into a pocket of her tunic, and pulled out a small pair of pliers. Blowing a dark curl from her face, Alouette peered closely into the motherboard until she located the old transmitteur. She gripped the edge of it with her pliers and carefully eased it out of the component connection slot. The monitor screen flickered and then went dark. She slipped the old transmitteur, which was dusty and corroded, into her pocket. It clearly hadn’t been updated in years.
Alouette always thought of the Refuge when she looked at a classic motherboard. Like the components of an electronic circuit, all the sisters had their own specific function. Sister Jacqui maintained the library and catalogued and cared for the books. Sister Laurel kept everyone healthy with her herbs and homemade salves. Sister Denise made sure the Refuge’s devices ran smoothly. And Principale Francine, the head of the Refuge and the chief record keeper of the Chronicles, was like their central memory chip.
From her other pocket, Alouette removed the handkerchief with the new transmitteur tucked inside. Not long after Sister Denise had started teaching her the basics of electronics in her science lessons, Alouette had come up with the idea of crafting a new component for the monitor. Now her 102-day project sat in her palm, sparkling and winking in the dim light.
Alouette grasped the transmitteur between the tips of her pliers and gently eased it into the now-empty connection port.
“Easy and steady,” she whispered.
The device slipped into its slot.
Alouette held her breath and looked at the monitor. But nothing happened—the screen remained dark. She felt panic flutter in her stomach. What if she’d just wasted two months of the year on something that didn’t work?
She nudged the transmitteur in harder.
“Come on,” Alouette murmured, her gaze sliding back and forth between the motherboard and the screen. But still, the monitor was black.
She glared at the new transmitteur sitting idle in the connection slot. She had to get it to work. She simply had to. Gripping her pliers, Alouette steadied her hand and reached in to remove the new component. Perhaps if she took it back to Sister Denise’s workbench and re-soldered the—
Alouette’s gaze snagged on something as she carefully pulled the transmitteur from the slot. The connectors weren’t lining up with the motherboard. Had she built the device backward?
Suddenly, Alouette let out a snort of laughter and slapped her palm against her forehead. “Silly Lark,” she scolded herself. She hadn’t built the transmitteur backward. She’d inserted it upside down!
With a renewed rush of anticipation, Alouette carefully flipped the pliers around, keeping the tips gripped firmly around the component, and slid the transmitteur back into the slot.
And then . . .
Boom!
Color flooded the screen. Alouette almost dropped her pliers in shock as her eyes darted greedily over the monitor’s view, taking it all in. She’d done it! Her new transmitteur worked! Where there were once just black-and-white images, there was now every color imaginable. The bright reds, greens, and blues of the wires snaking into an old machine in the left corner. The rust of the PermaSteel, a deep brown like the crusts on the bread her father baked in the mornings. The slither of golden light streaming in from some unseen source just outside the monitor’s view. A doorway? A light fixture?
And then there was the puddle.
She’d seen it a thousand times before. But back then it was gray and silver on the monochrome screen. A simple pool of water. Now it was a pool of rainbows. The light was hitting the puddle at just the right angle, and it blinked and dazzled with color. Streaks of blue and green, and droplets of red.
Red?
Alouette leaned in closer to the monitor as something unseen dripped again into the puddle. But it didn’t look like rain. It was dark and crimson. Like . . .
Blood.
As soon as the realization barreled into her mind, someone crashed into view.
A man.
His tall body filled nearly the whole screen. Alouette gasped aloud at the sight and instantly reeled backward, away from the monitor.
“What?” The word came out in a disbelieving rush of air. “Who . . . ?”
She’d never seen anyone on the monitor screen before. Ever. Not in all the years she’d been sneaking into the vestibule and stealing glances at this view. She figured it was just because there wasn’t much use for a mechanical room now that the giant freightships no longer flew. Which was why it was the perfect hiding place for the Refuge’s entrance.
The man was wobbling now. He seemed to be on the verge of falling, or at least buckling at the knees. Alouette blinked once, then again, making sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her.
But he was still there.
Alouette moved back toward the monitor. Her heart thudded against her rib cage when she saw his hand pressing against his forehead and the blood seeping out between his fingers, splattering down onto his long silver raincoat. He was hurt. Really hurt.
“No!” The word escaped Alouette, loud and sharp.
She reached out, touching the cold surface of the monitor. The man staggered a few more steps and then stopped. She spread her fingers out over him. What was she even trying to do? Protect him? Help him? But of course she could do none of these things, stuck down here, ten mètres belowground.
She might as well be a whole galaxy away.
Alouette dropped her hand and whispered, “Come on. You’re okay. You must be okay. Go. Find someone to help you.”
But he seemed to do the opposite of what she was instructing him to do. He limped forward, deeper into the mechanical room, and grabbed for a rusty pipe on the wall. But the pipe broke in his hand, and he collapsed to the floor.
“No!” she said again, this time in a hoarse, panicked whisper. “Get up.”
But he didn’t move. He seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, his eyes closing, then dragging open, then closing again. His hand fell from his forehead, revealing a gash across his flesh. It was bleeding profusely.
Suddenly, all Alouette could think about were the instructions she’d read in the medical textbooks during her wellness lessons with Sister Laurel.
“Open wounds . . . apply direct pressure immediately . . . clean the area . . . sterile dressing or bandage . . . elevation . . . check for signs of concussion.”
He was passing out.
He was all alone.
In a forgotten mechanical room, lying in a dirty puddle.
Someone has to help him, Alouette thought, the desperation building in her chest. Someone has to go up there.
Then, with a shot of fear and adrenaline, an alarm bell started to ring in her mind as she realized that that someone had to be her.
- CHAPTER 10 -
CHATINE
CHATINE STALKED DOWN THE HALLWAY to her family’s couchette and angrily swiped her Skin in front of the lock.
“Access granted.”
She flung the door open and slammed it closed behind her. She pulled the leveler from her pocket and tossed it down on the table. She fully expected to see her mother standing there, hands on hips, red-stained lips pulled into a scowl, demanding to know how much Chatine had managed to lift from the morgue. But the couchette seemed empty. She glanced around, marveling at this rare moment of quiet. Then she heard a soft sob coming from the direction of her bedroom.
Of course she’s still here, Chatine thought bitterly. She never
leaves except to go to work.
When she walked into her bedroom, she noticed that Azelle hadn’t moved a millimètre since Chatine had left, although her expression had changed drastically. She was still staring at the Skin on the inside of her arm, but where there had formerly been a look of anticipation and excitement for the upcoming Ascension, there was now a pitiful, tearstained face.
“They canceled it!” Azelle blubbered without looking up. “Chatine, how could they do that to me? I worked so hard this year. I stored up so many points. How could they just cancel it?”
Chatine ignored her sister. She didn’t have the patience to deal with her pathetic little problems right now. She had too many problems of her own. She suddenly had to come up with a way to make seven thousand more largs in only ten days. It was impossible. It couldn’t be done. She was stuck on this dreadful planet until she died.
And now the people were rioting.
Fantastique.
“And the Premier Enfant is dead!” Azelle continued her lament. “This is the worst day ever. She was just a little girl. Who would kill a little girl?”
“Where’s Maman and Papa?” Chatine asked gruffly.
Azelle sniffled, rubbing at her cheeks. “They went to the Marsh.”
Chatine nodded. Of course they went to the Marsh. A riot would be a prime time to steal. Paralyzed bodies unable to fight back. Stall owners distracted by the blur of rayonette pulses. As long as her father could stay away from Inspecteur Limier, they’d come home with plenty of loot.
By the time Chatine had arrived back home in Fret 7, the disturbance in the Marsh had already started to spill out into the Frets, spreading through the hallways like a virus through a body. Chatine had never seen so many bashers in her life. The droids had all been marching in perfect unison, their rayonettes armed and ready to paralyze anyone showing signs of disobedience.
Sky Without Stars Page 8