Marcellus noticed his grandfather’s shoulders stiffen and his neck muscles twitch.
“Not this again, Inspecteur,” General Bonnefaçon said.
“But I saw him, sir,” Limier persisted. “This time, I’m certain.”
The desperation in the inspecteur’s tone was so unfamiliar, so strange for someone usually so impassive and composed. “He was in the Marsh yesterday. The old statue of Patriarche Thibault collapsed on top of a child. He lifted it into the air as though it were made of feathers. I would recognize that incredible strength anywhere. It was Jean LeGrand. I have no doubt.”
Marcellus nearly tripped over his own feet. Limier was clearly talking about Alouette’s father. But how did he know him?
“I’m sure you were mistaken,” the general said.
Mistaken? Marcellus had never known a cyborg to make a mistake. Cyborgs were built for precision and accuracy. Médecins, inspecteurs, scientists, all of them. The only reason they were surgically enhanced was to avoid mistakes.
“Sir, the man lifted a seven-mètre-tall bronze statue by himself,” Limier said, that same urgency in his voice. It was as though someone had removed his circuitry in the middle of the night, turning him into a regular man, with regular emotions.
“There’s only one man on Laterre with that kind of strength,” Limier went on, “and that’s Jean LeGrand. He’s an escaped convict, and he needs to be brought to justice.”
An escaped convict?
Marcellus’s grandfather ground to a halt, causing Marcellus to nearly crash into him. The general turned toward his most trusted inspecteur, and Marcellus could see the frustration and disappointment in his eyes.
“I shouldn’t have to remind you, Inspecteur, that this obsession has already cost you years of your life. Don’t let it distract you from the bigger problems we now face on this planet. You are Laterre’s most senior inspecteur. You command the Policier of the planet’s largest city and capital. I cannot lose you to this pointless infatuation again. LeGrand has been dead for twenty-five years. And he’s still dead. Stop chasing ghosts.”
Ghosts.
Marcellus felt a chill run down his spine as a million puzzle pieces seemed to suddenly clatter into place. Alouette’s fear. Her father’s strength. Her skittishness. His fury.
The secrecy.
So much secrecy.
Her father wouldn’t allow her to leave home. When she’d found out that Marcellus was the grandson of General Bonnefaçon, she’d completely freaked out.
Marcellus had thought it was just because she was a Défecteur. But now he realized it was more than that. The Défecteurs were known for harboring fugitives, claiming they didn’t agree with the Ministère’s laws. It was one of the reasons his grandfather had initiated the roundup efforts to begin with.
And now Marcellus was more than certain that there were still tribes of Défecteurs out there. Living among them. Hiding people like Alouette and her father.
An uneasy silence had fallen between the three men. They continued to walk the avenue toward the headquarters of the Ministère. Marcellus could see the building in the distance, its two identical black towers jutting majestically toward the TéléSky. Behind its arched doorways and lavishly carved windows, there lay a maze of hallways, offices, and state-of-the-art tech labs.
It was a building Marcellus both respected and feared. It represented everything that had ever made him feel safe on this planet, but at the same time, it represented a future he was unsure he was ready for. A future that had been thrust upon him the moment the Patriarche decided to ignore his grandfather’s sage counsel and send Commandeur Vernay to the planet Albion to die.
But there was still so much Marcellus had to learn. So much strength he had to find before he would ever be anything like his grandfather’s closest confidante.
And yet, there were still so many ways in which he knew he’d never be like Commandeur Vernay. He knew Vernay would have disobeyed Inspecteur Limier’s orders in the Marsh yesterday. She would have pulled rank and stayed to help control the riots. She wouldn’t have run off into the forest with a Défecteur. But most important, Commandeur Vernay would have turned Alouette in the moment she saw the scar where her Skin should have been.
But Marcellus also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he could never turn Alouette in. Not then, and not now. Not even after he’d learned she was living with a wanted criminal.
That’s how weak he really was.
That’s how ill-equipped he was to do this job. To work in that building. To one day be not only commandeur, but general of the Ministère. To follow in his grandfather’s footsteps.
He would always, always be one step behind him.
Just as he was right now.
“The Third Estate is getting out of hand.” The general’s voice broke through the silence. He clearly wanted to get to what he considered to be the most important business of the day. “Yesterday’s riots were embarrassing to the Regime. And even though we managed to restore order to the Marsh, the execution has stirred up unruly factions in the Third Estate, and now the turmoil has moved into the fabriques. We need to work quickly.”
Limier nodded. “Affirmative, General.” It was as though his previous concerns were nothing but distant memories—discarded bytes of data dispatched to the back corners of his enhanced brain. Marcellus wished it were that easy for him to forget. “Do you believe the Vangarde is behind this?”
“I do,” the general replied. “And they’re gaining momentum because of all the destruction and chaos.”
“Do you really think this is what the Vangarde wants?”
The question slipped out so involuntarily, Marcellus didn’t even realize he’d said it aloud until his grandfather and Limier stopped in their tracks. Eerily and silently in sync, they both turned their heads to face him.
“This seems like exactly what they would want,” his grandfather said in a warning tone.
Heat rose to Marcellus’s neck. “I mean, it’s just . . .” He cleared his throat, trying to gain control of his wavering voice. “I’m just wondering what their plan is. The Vangarde. Are they making demands? It all seems kind of disorganized, doesn’t it? What are they expecting will come out of these riots and commotion? Surely they would have a better plan?”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.
The general arched his left eyebrow. “They’re terrorists. They want anarchy, bloodshed, and mayhem so they can swoop in and overthrow our Regime.” He glared at Marcellus. “Our beautiful Regime.”
Marcellus swallowed hard and nodded. “I see. So, how do you plan to deal with it? The riots, I mean?”
His grandfather halted in front of the sleek plastique doors of the Ministère headquarters and turned back to his grandson. “They had a saying on the First World: The best way to stop a fire that’s blazing out of control”—he shared a look with Limier that made Marcellus’s stomach turn—“is with more fire.”
- CHAPTER 51 -
CHATINE
CAREFUL NOT TO WAKE AZELLE sleeping next to her, Chatine got out of bed and tested out her ankle. It was still slightly swollen and tender from trying to save the stupide pomp officer in the Marsh yesterday, but thankfully she was able to put weight on it. She pulled on her black pants and coat, and with a sigh, twisted her pale-brown hair into a knot. She was getting really tired of hiding it. She should cut it all off and be done with it. She still had a few weeks left before it would be long enough to sell to Madame Seezau for the full two hundred largs, but she prayed she wouldn’t be here that long.
“You’re up early.”
Chatine turned to see Azelle stretching her arms above her head, the left side of her face creased from the pillow.
“I have something I need to do this morning,” Chatine muttered as she tucked her hair under her hood and slid her feet into her boots.
Azelle giggled.
“What?” Chatine shot her sister a look.
“You’re alwa
ys so cryptic,” Azelle said.
Chatine scoffed. “Yeah, well . . .” But she had no idea how to finish the sentence, so she just let it hang. Plus, she had to be cryptic. She knew Azelle would never approve of what she was about to do.
Last night, after Azelle had gone to sleep, Chatine had retrieved the plastique doll arm from beneath the grate in the floor. It was the one thing her father’s gang hadn’t stolen from her. Then she’d lain in bed and thought about the day the white-haired man had appeared at the inn to take Madeline away. She thought about the doll he’d brought for her and how he’d called her “ma petite.” But mostly, Chatine thought about what had happened two weeks later, when Inspecteur Limier had knocked on the door of their inn, searching for an escaped prisoner named Jean LeGrand. Searching for them.
Offering a reward so high, it had made Chatine’s head spin.
“Twenty thousand tokens for any information leading to the apprehension of LeGrand and the girl.”
“Are you going out?” Azelle asked, breaking into Chatine’s thoughts.
Chatine bent down and picked up the tiny plastique arm, which now lay on the floor next to her bed. It must have slipped from her hand when she fell asleep. “Yes, but—”
“I’ll walk with you!” Azelle was suddenly up and pulling on her work uniform. “I’m going to go into the fabrique early today. Now that the Ascension is going to be rescheduled, I need to store up as many points as I can get.” Chatine watched her sister do a little skip as she went to slide her feet into her shoes.
“No,” Chatine said automatically, slipping the doll arm into the pocket of her coat. The last thing she needed right now was Azelle prattling on the entire way through the Frets, distracting her from what she had to do. “I can’t wait.”
Before Azelle could argue, or even finish putting on her shoes, Chatine ducked out of the bedroom.
The minute she was through the door, she heard the soft rumble of her father’s snores. Chatine glanced up to see him slumped forward in a chair, his arms folded on the table with his head resting on top of them.
If it weren’t for the snores, Chatine would have thought he might be dead.
If only she could be so lucky.
The situation was all too familiar. The empty carafe of weed wine on the table. Her parents’ bedroom door shut tight. He’d come home from the docks drunk and belligerent again, after hanging out inside the Grotte with the Délabré. Her mother had evidently locked the door on him, leaving him to drink until he passed out.
Chatine knew this might be her only opportunity.
She crept closer to the table and, with the precision and delicacy of a médecin, wrapped her fingers around his left wrist. She gently tugged until her father’s hand was free, causing his head to clunk down hard on the table. He stopped snoring.
Chatine cringed and withdrew, waiting for him to wake up. But her father barely even stirred.
She rolled her eyes. The man was completely out. Ten bashers could barrel through here, and her father probably still wouldn’t wake up.
She roughly grabbed his hand and yanked Marcellus’s ring off his little finger. She had to pull hard to dislodge it from between the folds of her father’s thick skin, but eventually it came loose and Chatine slipped it into her pocket. She released Monsieur Renard’s hand and let it fall with a thump back down on the table.
The snoring resumed.
Pathetic, Chatine thought as she strolled out the front door of the couchette and slammed it shut behind her. When it swung open again a moment later, Chatine readied herself to run. But it was just her sister.
“Hi!” Azelle said breathlessly as she stepped into the hallway, combing a hand through her hair. “I’m ready. Now we can walk together.”
Chatine sighed and started down the hallway of Fret 7. “Fine. But you have to walk fast.”
As expected, Azelle started talking the moment they left the couchette. She launched into a long-winded story about a girl at her fabrique who blew all her tokens on a new dress that was now hanging useless in her closet because the girl had no place to wear it.
Chatine was actually grateful when the familiar chime of a Universal Alert blasted into her audio chip and the emblem of the Ministère appeared on the inside of her arm. It was the only thing capable of quieting Azelle.
“Another one?” Azelle said inquisitively as she turned her gaze to her Skin. “Do you think they’re announcing the date of the rescheduled Ascension?”
Chatine shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
But as soon as the general started speaking, Chatine knew that the news was not good. There was a graveness in his voice that sent a shiver down Chatine’s spine. “Hello again, fellow Laterrians. We at the Ministère are greatly disappointed in the unruly behavior of the Third Estate following yesterday’s execution, not to mention profoundly saddened. The Patriarche prides himself on taking good care of his people and maintaining a just and harmonious planet. This rioting and ransacking demonstrate to us that you are ungrateful for the Regime’s generosity and support. We have provided you with jobs so that you can feed and clothe your families. Yet some of you are choosing mayhem over honest work and orderliness. We have provided you with a strong and dedicated Policier force, led by devoted and loyal inspecteurs, to keep the peace on our beautiful planet, yet some of you have chosen to attack the very people who have committed their lives to protecting you.”
The general glanced away and shook his head, as though physically unable to continue.
Chatine scoffed. What a farce. Did he honestly believe he was fooling anyone with this charade?
She glanced over at Azelle, who was staring wide-eyed and desperate at her Skin.
Apparently, he did.
The general cleared his throat and continued. “I’m afraid your actions have left us little choice. Those who turn against their Regime—against their Patriarche—must be separated from those who are loyal. They cannot continue to receive our love and support if they choose to fight against us.” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “Therefore, anyone caught rioting or looting will be arrested and sent immediately to Bastille. Anyone who colludes, conspires, or abets rioters—including those who fail to report disruptive activity—will have all their Ascension points voided, among other severe punishments. We at the Ministère firmly believe in honest work for an honest chance, therefore dishonest work must result in an immediate loss of that chance.”
Chatine inhaled a sharp breath. This was not good. Not good at all. She, personally, couldn’t care less about these threats. But she knew her estate. And she knew this announcement would have the opposite effect the general was intending. This would not encourage people to calm down and go back to work. It would only make the people angrier. They didn’t like these kinds of threats. Especially when it involved their Ascension points.
The sound of muffled sobs pulled Chatine out of her thoughts. She glanced down at her Skin to see that the general’s face was gone. The screen was asking if she wanted to replay the announcement. She swiped it off and turned toward Azelle.
Her sister had stopped walking and was staring into her darkened Skin, crying quietly.
Chatine’s first instinct was to keep going and leave her behind. Let brainwashed Azelle have her little meltdown. Let her lament the shattered state of her beloved planet. But just as Chatine was preparing to mumble some excuse and duck down the next hallway, Azelle let out a sad little whimper that pulled Chatine to a halt.
She sighed and sidled up to her sister, resting a hesitant hand on her shoulder.
“Azelle,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with sympathy. But it came out flat and clumsy. “It’s going to be okay. The general wasn’t talking about you.”
Azelle sucked in a shaky breath. “How do you know?”
“For one, you’re not out there rioting or looting, are you?” Chatine almost laughed at the thought.
Azelle sniffled and finally looked up from her Skin. Her
cheeks were puffy and her eyes bloodshot. “No, but my whole fabrique is causing trouble. Yesterday, after that horrible execution, a group of workers got really rowdy. They were shouting bad things about the Patriarche. And then they started breaking things—”
“That wasn’t you—” Chatine tried to interrupt.
But Azelle shook her head. “You heard what the general said. If you don’t report what you see, your Ascension points will be deleted! I saw what those guys were doing. I saw them smash one of the machines, and I didn’t do anything to stop it. That means I’ve colluded!” Azelle hiccupped, and her voice raised an octave. “I worked so hard for my points. And I’m so close to winning, Chatine. I can feel it.”
Chatine fought the urge to roll her eyes at her sister’s delusion. How could she possibly, after all of this, still be thinking about the Ascension?
“The Ascension is the only reason I have to get up in the morning. It’s the only reason I have to live. If I lose all my points, what will I have left?” Azelle buried her face in her hands and broke into sobs.
Chatine wished she could think of more to say to her—something to make her sister feel better. Perhaps even bring her a little hope. But she’d lived on this planet for eighteen years. She knew such words didn’t exist.
As she stared at her sister, crying helplessly into her hands, a dull ache started to pulse in Chatine’s chest. For the first time in her life, she was starting to realize that she and Azelle were not that different after all. In fact, they were eerily similar.
They both just wanted out of this life.
And they were both delusional enough to believe it could be done.
Chatine laid a gentle hand on her sister’s arm. “You should probably get going, right? You don’t want to be late to work.”
Azelle seemed to break from a trance. Her head snapped up, and she rubbed her damp cheeks with the heels of her hands.
In that instant, staring into her sister’s tearstained eyes, Chatine could almost see herself. See what she would have looked like as an obedient member of the Third Estate. As a rule follower. As a girl.
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