Sky Without Stars

by Jessica Brody

  And before Alouette could even comprehend what had just happened, Sister Jacqui sauntered out of the library, leaving her alone with her racing mind. She glanced down at Volume 10 of the Chronicles in her lap, one of the thousands of books that Alouette had come to rely on for information. For answers to all of her questions.

  But now, it seemed, her questions had grown too big, too deep, too complicated for even this vast library. She could no longer rely only on books.

  - CHAPTER 25 -

  MARCELLUS

  THE FRETS COULD BE SEEN from almost anywhere in the city, making it difficult to get lost. As Marcellus emerged from the Forest Verdure on his moto, the massive metal monstrosities appeared to rise up from the ground like fallen giants. The former freightships were an eyesore on the capital, but the Patriarche insisted they served some kind of purpose. “Give a rat a new home, and he’s going to start demanding furniture,” he was fond of saying.

  Five minutes later, Marcellus pulled his moto to a stop in the center of the Frets. He reconnected his TéléCom, attached his audio patch behind his ear, and took a deep breath, attempting to prepare himself for what he was about to do.

  But nothing could quite prepare him for what he encountered when he stepped into the Marsh.

  Marcellus had never seen the marketplace in such an uproar. The walkways between stands churned like overflowing rivers. Third Estaters shoved against one another, stall owners shouted to be heard, and the mud-covered ground was a soup of rotting vegetables, discarded planks, and broken pipes from yesterday’s riot over the aborted Ascension. Hundreds of sergents and deputies in their crisp white uniforms patrolled the scene like bright Sols amid a filthy fog, shouting, shunting, and cuffing people as they went. It was as though every member of the Vallonay Policier had been called in to act upon his grandfather’s orders.

  “. . . arrest anyone suspected of Vangarde activities or affiliations.”

  Marcellus jumped out of the way as a Policier sergent dragged a gray-haired man across Marcellus’s path.

  “I swear, I don’t know anything!” the man protested. “Please, have mercy. I have a family at home. I do honest work for my honest chance!”

  Marcellus actually recognized the man pleading for his life. He sold turnips. He had offered Marcellus one on his very first day of training in the Marsh. Marcellus remembered the kind smile on the man’s face as he’d peeled the blackened outer layer from the rotting vegetable and offered it to Marcellus. “See, Officer? Good as the Sols on the inside.”

  Marcellus would have sworn that that man was as far from Vangarde as one could get. But apparently, that didn’t matter anymore. Apparently, everyone was a suspect now.

  And as he made his way through the crowd, Marcellus could hear the whispers of conversation following him.

  “The Vangarde. They’re resurfacing!”

  “Ghosts—back from the dead.”

  “Is that who killed the Premier Enfant?”

  “Don’t know. They won’t tell us anything!”

  Marcellus pushed through a particularly jammed walkway, only to be cut off by three droids blocking the path. One of them had a woman dangling from its metallic fist, its orange eyes clicking and glowing as it scanned the woman’s Skin.

  At the sight of them, Marcellus couldn’t help but think of her. Alouette. And how she’d fled from the droids yesterday. How she’d fled from him. He hadn’t really been able to stop thinking about her since then. Her dark, round eyes had danced in his memory as he’d tried to fall asleep last night.

  Where is she now? he wondered as he backtracked to find another way through the marketplace. Did she even live in the Frets? Was Fret 7 her home? She certainly hadn’t acted like any Fret girl he’d ever met. Plus, she didn’t have a Skin. The only people Marcellus knew of who didn’t have Skins were First and Second Estaters and—

  Marcellus stopped dead in his tracks.

  He thought again about how fast the girl had scurried away when the droids appeared. Then he thought about the camp he’d just left. The one buried deep inside the Forest Verdure. Hidden from view. Hidden from the Ministère.

  Is she a Défecteur?

  The idea immediately made Marcellus’s breath quicken.

  There were always rumors floating around Laterre that some of the Défecteurs had managed to get away when the camps were raided. But Marcellus had never believed those rumors.

  But what other explanation was there for a girl without a Skin who didn’t have a profile in the Communiqué? Unless, of course, she’d given him a fake name. Which sounded exactly like something a Défecteur would do. But then, if she really was a Défecteur, what was she doing wandering around the Frets?

  “You’re late.”

  Marcellus startled and looked up to see Inspecteur Limier striding toward him.

  “You were expected at 09.00.”

  Marcellus cursed the heat rising in his cheeks. He hated how Limier always made him feel like a five-year-old dressed up in a uniform, pretending to be an officer.

  “I was just making some initial inquiries,” Marcellus said.

  The inspecteur stood before him with his usual broad stance and imperious stare. “Inquiries?”

  Marcellus tried to hold the inspecteur’s gaze, but it made his stomach roll. He looked away. “Yes, inquiries.”

  The circuitry in the inspecteur’s face flashed in a cool, steady rhythm like the fireflies in the Palais gardens. Marcellus held his breath as he watched the inspecteur’s orange eye rove the hectic marketplace.

  “Well, now that you’ve made your inquiries,” the inspecteur said, returning his enhanced gaze to Marcellus. “You can proceed to Fret 16 and commence door-to-door interrogations at the couchettes.”

  Marcellus knew this was his opportunity. He stood up straighter, steeling himself to say the words he had rehearsed the entire way back from the Forest Verdure.

  “Actually, I will be traveling to Montfer this morning,” he announced with all the authority and confidence he could muster.

  “Montfer?” the inspecteur shot back. “You are not needed in Montfer. You will proceed to Fret 16.”

  Marcellus’s stomach clenched, but he pressed on. “I have leads on Vangarde activity in Montfer. I have only come to the Marsh to report for duty, after which I will be hiring a cruiseur to take me across the Terrain Perdu.”

  Limier’s circuitry flashed furiously as his mechanical eye scanned Marcellus’s face, searching for signs of weakness. Marcellus clenched his jaw until it hurt, but he did not back down. He returned the inspecteur’s harsh stare with one of his own.

  For a few long seconds, no words passed between the two men. There was no need. Both of them knew what the other was thinking.

  Marcellus was a boy. An officer who’d barely had a chance to get his uniform dirty in the field. Who was probably being promoted to commandeur only because his grandfather was General Bonnefaçon. Limier, on the other hand, was the most respected and most feared inspecteur in the whole of the Ministère.

  But Limier was an inspecteur and Marcellus was an officer.

  Limier was outranked.

  They both knew it.

  It was Limier who finally broke the standoff. “Fine,” he snapped. “But you will take Sergent Chacal with you.”

  “What? No. I don’t require any help.”

  The last person Marcellus needed with him when he was trudging around Montfer searching for a convicted Vangarde spy was Sergent Chacal. Chacal had the persistence, cruelty, and personality of a droid. If Marcellus made one move that wasn’t regulation, the bullheaded sergent would be on his TéléCom to Limier.

  Perhaps even to the general himself.

  Limier flashed a sinister snarl of a smile. “Oh, but I insist, Officer.” His circuitry slowed to an even flicker. “It’s for your own protection. We can’t have you wandering around a foreign city by yourself in these dangerous times.”

  Marcellus considered his options. It wasn’t protocol for
anyone to cross the barren, ice-cold lands of the Terrain Perdu alone. If Marcellus pulled rank again, insisting he not be accompanied to Montfer, the inspecteur would surely get even more suspicious. He’d just have to find a way to distract Chacal once they’d arrived.

  Marcellus painted on a smile. “Yes. Good thinking, Inspecteur. Please tell Chacal to meet me at the cruiseur port.”

  “Very well.” Limier got on his TéléCom to relay the directive, and Marcellus headed in the direction of the Vallonay Policier Precinct.

  Only Ministère personnel had use for them in the Frets. Cruiseur transport was expensive and the Third Estate lacked the funds. When they did travel, they usually went by sea. It took days for a bateau to travel the Secana Sea from Vallonay, on the west coast of Laterre’s single landmass, to Montfer on the east. Marcellus’s grandfather had always said it was better this way. A working class that can easily move around quickly becomes an unworking class. It’s best to keep your laborers in one place: close to their jobs.

  After ordering his cruiseur, Marcellus disconnected his TéléCom again. Having Sergent Chacal with him was inconvenience enough. He didn’t need anyone tracking his location around Montfer as well.

  The Marsh was still thick with Policier and commotion, and it took Marcellus longer than usual to reach the Precinct—a huge, windowless black cube of a building just north of the Marsh.

  He hated this place. It was a warren of endless claustrophobic hallways filled with sterile white interrogation rooms, overcrowded holding cells, and ever-vigilant security microcams. In the Precinct’s artillery vaults, rows and rows of Policier droids hung like slabs of meat as they recharged, their robotic eyes dead and ghostly.

  Thankfully, today, Marcellus didn’t have to go inside. The cruiseur station was just outside the Precinct, and as soon as he arrived, he saw the gleaming silver vehicle waiting for him, hovering just a few mètres off the ground.

  But he stopped walking when he noticed someone sitting on the hood, head down, legs dangling in front of the cruiseur’s headlights.

  Dressed in black with a hood pulled up to hide their face, the figure was slight, almost wispy, like the slightest breeze might blow them right away. A young girl, perhaps?

  Marcellus slowed his approach, resting his hand on the rayonette strapped to his belt. He hated using the weapon. The sticky sound the pulse made when it entered a human body had always sickened him. And that was just on paralyzeur mode. Marcellus prayed he’d never have to hear the sound it made when it was set to kill.

  Upon hearing him approach, the hooded figure lifted their head, and two stone-gray eyes blinked back at Marcellus from beneath a layer of grime. He felt himself relax and his hand drop from his weapon when he recognized the boy. The one he’d met in the morgue yesterday, whom he’d sworn Limier arrested during the fray of the canceled Ascension.

  Théo. Marcellus remembered the ill-fitting name that Limier had called him.

  “I hear you’re going to Montfer,” the boy said, his words crisp and direct.

  Marcellus stopped walking. “How did you know that?” There was something about this boy—the steeliness of his eyes, or the raw conviction in his posture—that made Marcellus feel both safe and on guard.

  Théo shrugged. “I know things.”

  Marcellus cocked his head and studied the boy’s face, remembering how hard he had fought in the morgue for that strange device. And then remembering how betrayed the boy had looked when Limier’s droids came for him in the Fret hallway. “Look, I didn’t call Limier on you yesterday. I swear, I—”

  “It’s fine,” the boy snapped, refusing to meet Marcellus’s eye.

  Marcellus could tell it was clearly not fine, but he got the hint to drop it. “So, how did you get away from Limier?”

  Théo scoffed. “The same way I always get away from that flic.”

  “What did you call him?”

  The boy averted his eyes, as though caught doing something wrong. “ ‘Flic,’ ” he repeated. “It’s what we call your kind. Anyone who works for the Policier or the Ministère.”

  Marcellus couldn’t help but smile. It seemed he was always learning new words from this kid. “I thought I was a pomp.”

  “Oh, you’re that, too.”

  “So, I’m a PompFlic?” Marcellus said with a snuffle of laughter.

  Théo looked almost annoyed. “Nobody says that.”

  Marcellus wiped the amusement from his face. “Oh. Sorry.”

  The boy’s impassive expression didn’t shift. “You’re gonna need a guide.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “In Montfer. You can’t just walk into an exploit town in a uniform and expect people to talk to you. You need someone who knows the town. Speaks the language.”

  “They speak a different language in Montfer?”

  Once again, the boy looked annoyed, as though Marcellus were a waste of his time. “Someone who speaks Third Estate, I mean.” He leveled his gaze at Marcellus. “Someone who knows what ‘flic’ means.”

  Marcellus blinked. “You want to come with me to Montfer?”

  He shrugged again. “I’m just saying I can help.”

  “So you know the town?”

  “Yep. Used to live there.”

  Marcellus felt the urge to agree. What the boy was saying was true. He barely knew Montfer. And he’d certainly never rooted out a suspected terrorist before. How would he even know where to start? The only thing the message from his father had said was that Mabelle was in Montfer. But how would he ever find her? Montfer was the second-largest city on the planet.

  He needed all the help he could get.

  Marcellus narrowed his eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

  The boy’s deadpan expression slowly morphed into a smirk. “A few largs will do it.”

  Marcellus nodded. It seemed like a fair trade. The boy slid from the hood of the cruiseur and scurried around to the door. Marcellus reached for the panel to open it but stopped and turned back toward the Marsh. “Actually, I have to wait.”

  Théo looked confused. “For what?”

  “For another”—Marcellus paused, trying to remember the right word—“flic,” he finished, proud of himself.

  The boy laughed and shook his head. “Just . . .”

  “What?”

  “Don’t.”

  Marcellus’s shoulders slouched in defeat. “Fine. But I do need to wait for him. His name is Sergent Chacal.”

  Marcellus noticed the boy bristle at the name, and he wondered what kind of run-ins Théo had had with Chacal and his metal baton in the past. But he seemed to shake off his trepidation quickly. “Why is he coming with you?”

  “Inspecteur Limier ordered it.”

  The boy’s face twisted in confusion. “I don’t get it. Don’t you outrank both of them?”

  Marcellus couldn’t help but sigh. Even this Third Estate boy could tell he was a coward. “Technically yes, but—”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Marcellus considered the question. Théo was right. What was he waiting for? He needed to start acting like the commandeur he was destined to be. He glanced between the boy and the cruiseur, its sleek silver body humming gently as the engine idled. Quickly, he activated the door panel and the cruiseur hissed open. “Nothing,” he finally replied. “Let’s go.”

  - CHAPTER 26 -

  ALOUETTE

  WITH HER HEART IN HER throat, Alouette gently turned the knob and nudged at the door. It squeaked open a crack. She’d been inside her father’s room countless times. But never like this.

  Never in secret.

  Never without his permission.

  After glancing over her shoulder to make sure the hallway was empty, Alouette gave the door another nudge until it was open wide enough for her to squeeze through. She peered back into the hallway one more time. Tranquil Forme was beginning soon, which meant the sisters would be gathering in the common room and her father would be starting to prepare lunch
.

  She had only a few minutes.

  Alouette sucked in a breath and tiptoed inside.

  Hugo Taureau’s room was sparse. Only a narrow bed, neatly made with one coarse blanket, a straight-backed chair, and a small nightstand with nothing on it except a single lamp. He had no shelves, no books, and only a tiny closet for his clothes.

  But maybe, just maybe, she thought, there was more hiding in this sparse room. Something. Anything. A clue to who her father was.

  An answer to why he had that number tattooed on his arm.

  2.4.6.0.1.

  Alouette moved farther into the room and knelt on the floor, peering under the bed. But she found nothing except a faint smattering of dust. She slid her fingers under the mattress and heaved it up, revealing the springs of the old metal frame. Nothing there, either. Her gaze traveled to the nightstand and its cupboard under the lamp. Still on her knees, she turned the small handle and pulled the door open.

  An old plastique doll sat upright inside the cupboard.

  Alouette tilted her head slightly. “Katrina?” she whispered in surprise.

  She hadn’t seen the doll since she was a child. She always assumed her father had thrown it away after she’d outgrown it. But here it was.

  “Katrina,” Alouette said again, reaching for the doll and entwining her fingers in its thick nylon curls. Almost instantly, Alouette felt some of her anxiety melt away. Just like when she was a child and she would wake up from a horrible nightmare and Katrina would be there waiting to calm her.

  Alouette held the doll out in front of her and let her gaze wander over its delicate face and faded yellow dress. Her eyes settled on the empty sleeve where one of Katrina’s arms used to be. She tried to remember how the doll had lost its arm, but the memory was too vague. Too thin and wispy to grasp on to. And the harder she tried to do so, the farther away it receded into the back of her mind, like an itch she could never scratch.

  With the doll still clutched in her arms, Alouette pushed back onto her feet and circled slowly around the small room, peering into crevices and shadows. Finally, she came to the closet and pulled back the curtain. As always, Hugo’s clothes and aprons were neatly folded on the three shelves inside, above an extra pair of canvas shoes. Alouette pulled out sweaters and pants and ran her fingertips along the surfaces of the shelves. But there was nothing different. Nothing unusual.