Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  Of course, she’d never have a chance to find out now. An explosif in the Skin fabrique two weeks ago had made sure of that.

  “It also kind of stinks down here,” Azelle added. “Much worse than the Frets.”

  Chatine almost smiled at that one. She knew that the Azelle who spoke to her down here in the dark exploits wasn’t real. Obviously, she knew that. She just assumed it was another symptom of the grippe. A symptom that—unlike the bone-splitting headaches and waves of dizziness—was not entirely unwelcome. It gave her something to listen to besides the monotonous banging of the picks hitting rocks and the ominous rattles and tremors that followed.

  And also, it kept her mind off Henri.

  Because Dead Azelle knew better than to talk about him.

  One ghost to distract you from another.

  “Is this how it’s going to be every day?”

  Chatine reared back her pick and slammed it into the wall, bringing down a fresh cascade of rock to add to her pile.

  “How long do we have to be down here? It’s really dark. I didn’t think it would be this dark. Cold, yes. You always hear about the cold. But no one ever tells you about the darkness.”

  Chatine sighed and pitched her pick back again, letting Azelle’s quiet prattling voice continue to envelop her like a blanket.

  “Excuse me. Can you hear me? Or are you just ignoring me? People often do ignore me.”

  The pick paused over Chatine’s head. She looked to her right, where a slender girl in an exploit coat too big for her small frame was waving her hand back and forth, trying to get Chatine’s attention.

  How long had this girl been talking? She sounded just like Azelle.

  “I know we’re not supposed to talk,” the girl went on in a low voice.

  “You’re right,” Chatine snapped with a cautious look over her shoulder for nearby droids. “We’re not.”

  “But I’m going a little bit insane,” she said, shaking her head. Her helmet—like her exploit coat—was too big, and it rattled haphazardly, causing the light from her headlamp to flash and bob. “No one here talks to anyone. It’s my first day, and I haven’t been able to get anyone to say a single word to me.”

  Chatine sighed. Of all the people she could get stuck next to, she’d ended up with a babbler.

  “And why is everyone so mean here?” the girl continued.

  “They’re not mean,” Chatine whispered harshly. “They’re tired and cranky. And don’t want to get tazed for talking.”

  “I’m Anaïs,” the girl went on, clearly interpreting Chatine’s dismissal as an invitation to introduce herself. “What’s your name?”

  Chatine didn’t reply. Maybe if she just ignored her, the girl would give up and stop talking.

  “Did you come from Vallonay?”

  Chatine kept digging.

  “I came from Delaine in the Northern Région. Do you know it? Probably not. It’s a very boring town. Mostly just sheep. You’re probably wondering why I’m on Bastille.”

  Actually, Chatine thought bitterly. I wasn’t.

  “I got rounded up for being out after curfew. They’re being really strict now. Anyone out after hours gets sent straight to Bastille. It’s not fair. I wasn’t even doing anything wrong! I swear. I was just—” The girl’s voice was cut off by her own scream as her body convulsed violently and her pick fell to the ground. Chatine glanced over to see the nearest droid retracting its tazeur.

  As she watched Anaïs’s eyes roll back into place, Chatine couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit sorry for the girl. But also the slightest bit relieved. Maybe now she would finally understand the consequences and shut up.

  “Look down, keep digging,” the droid admonished.

  Whimpering slightly, Anaïs picked up her fallen pick, and the basher moved on. Chatine watched as the girl wiped tears from her face and tried to shake off the lingering effects of the tazeur. Then she hoisted back her pick, nearly collapsing under its weight, and brought it crashing clumsily and noisily down into the rock, mere centimètres from the nearest anchor bolt.

  “What are you doing!?” Chatine hissed. “Are you trying to kill us?”

  Anaïs sniffled. “No.”

  “You have to dig around the rock bolts. If you knock one out of place, you could bring the whole tunnel down on top of us.”

  Anaïs glanced in confusion between her pick and the tunnel wall.

  Chatine huffed. “Watch me.” She demonstrated, carefully aiming her pick at the space between the two nearest anchor bolts. “See?”

  The girl nodded but didn’t go back to work. Instead, she leaned on her pick and let out a melancholy sigh. “Do you think he’ll wait for me?”

  Chatine’s grip around her pick handle tightened as she buried it into the wall with more force than she’d ever used before. Rock skittered around her feet, and there was a flash of blue under the light from her headlamp. It was a thread of zyttrium laced through a shard of rubble. That would barely make up five percent of her quota today.

  Anaïs turned her head upward and stared at the ceiling of the tunnel, as though she could see right through it, all the way back to Laterre. “We were going to get married. I didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye to him before they took me away. But he’ll wait for me, right? They only gave me eighteen months. He’ll be true to me, right?”

  “He’s probably already forgotten you,” Chatine murmured to herself, and then, with a clench of her stomach, silently added in her head, Just like he’s forgotten me.

  She had no doubt that whatever Marcellus Bonnefaçon was doing back on Laterre, he wasn’t thinking about her.

  “What did you say?” Anaïs asked, her eyes twinkling in the low light of Chatine’s headlamp.

  “Nothing,” Chatine said, feeling a flicker of guilt. She softened her voice. “You need to be quiet, or that droid is going to come back. Just keep your head down. Don’t look up. There’s nothing to look up for.”

  Thankfully, this time Anaïs listened to her. With another sigh, she grabbed her pick and, struggling to even lift it over her head, brought it smashing recklessly down against the side of the tunnel. Right on top of the anchor bolt.

  “No!” Chatine cried, lunging toward her. But it was too late. A terrible cracking sound rang out above them as a plume of dust billowed down from the low ceiling, followed by a cascade of small rocks that rained and smacked onto their helmets.

  “Watch out!” Chatine jumped back from the falling debris. Anaïs looked up just long enough for Chatine to peer into her wide, terrified eyes before a giant slab of rock shook loose from the ceiling and collapsed, in another thundering wave of dust, right on top of the girl’s head.

  For several heart-pounding seconds, Chatine could only stare. Stare at the girl’s frail, unmoving body peeking out from beneath the stone. Stare at her frail shoulders and slender arms and scuffed boot … which suddenly twitched. Chatine stumbled backward, tripping over her pile of excavated rock and slamming into the wall.

  “Sols!” she cried, glancing up the tunnel. The other inmates had stopped working and were gathered around Anaïs’s body, staring incredulously at her foot, which now jerked and trembled.

  “She’s alive!” Chatine called, lunging toward the massive boulder and trying to shove it out of the way. But it was so heavy, and she was so weak, it barely moved. “Someone help! She’s alive and she’s trapped!”

  The sound of whirring metal clanked down the hallway as a droid fought to make its way through the debris. The gigantic metal monster paused in front of the girl, the glow of its orange eyes roving up and down her quivering body.

  “Don’t just stand there!” Chatine screamed. She’d never raised her voice at a basher before. “Do something! Help her!”

  The droid continued its scan, its robotic face emotionless and calculating. Finally, it took a step forward, extending its arm toward the girl. Chatine let out the breath she’d been holding. Anaïs would be okay. She would be taken to the Bas
tille Med Center. Her wounds would be treated. She would be fine. She would live. She would—

  Whoosh.

  The girl’s twitching limbs fell still. Very still. The droid lowered its arm, which Chatine now saw was glowing, the deadly rayonette still armed. A deep, soul-splitting shiver traveled through her body.

  “You …” Chatine stared up at the droid, her voice frail and thin and hollow. “What did you do? Why did you do that?”

  The droid’s orange eyes tracked over her entire face, as though searching for signs of life left in Chatine, too. She honestly wondered if it would find any. The day she was shipped off to this abominable moon was the day she’d stopped living. Stopped caring. Stopped climbing. Stopped conning. Stopped looking up to the skies, hoping for something better.

  Stopped being Chatine Renard.

  Now she had become someone else. A cursed soul who brought about nothing but chaos and destruction and death wherever she went. A shell of a person reduced to nothing more than a number.

  “Look down, keep digging, Prisoner 51562,” the droid said before turning and disappearing into the darkness of the tunnels.

  - CHAPTER 4 - MARCELLUS

  PATRIARCHE LYON PARESSE SNAPPED HIS rifle closed with a resounding crack and snatched it up to his shoulder. He closed one eye and aimed upward at the bright TéléSky, just as a swarm of unsuspecting doves fluttered by.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The gunshots rang sharp and fierce in Marcellus’s ears. But the sound was soon replaced by a cacophony of barks from the Patriarche’s hunting dogs. The dappled and straggly eared animals yipped and bounded in circles, anxiously awaiting the prey to fall from the fake blue sky.

  But no birds fell.

  Because the Patriarche had missed again.

  “Damn the Sols,” he roared, yanking the antique hunting gun from his shoulder and snapping it open again. With chubby, agitated fingers, he jammed more cartridges into the chamber.

  Marcellus felt General Bonnefaçon wince and stiffen beside him. It was one thing Marcellus had in common with his grandfather: They both hated meeting with the Patriarche while he was hunting. Marcellus hated the echoing gunshots, the terrible flutter of the dying birds’ wings, the frantic yapping of the bloodthirsty dogs.

  And his grandfather simply hated the distraction.

  “Monsieur Patriarche,” the general called out before the Patriarche could raise his gun again. “As I was saying, you put in an order for a fivefold increase in droid production at the fabrique.” He pointed at the TéléCom unfurled and glowing in his hand. “I don’t remember us discussing this incr—”

  “This is no time for discussions,” the Patriarche barked. “I’m done with discussions, General. This planet is falling apart at the seams and we need a stronger military presence in the cities. The other planets in the System Alliance are starting to get worried. Our ambassador just returned from Kaishi this week and said there was ‘talk’ of instability on Laterre. Talk, General! We simply can’t have this. In case you’ve forgotten, my precious daughter—the only heir to the Laterrian Regime—has been killed. The Matrone is sick with grief. She barely gets out of bed. And now the Vangarde have attacked one of my fabriques!”

  His hands shook furiously as he tried to close his gun. Pascal Chaumont, the Patriarche’s most-trusted advisor, stepped wordlessly forward to assist him, snapping the weapon closed with an efficient click and handing it back to the Patriarche, before returning to stand with the rest of the green-robed advisors.

  “I agree this is the moment for action—” the general began to say, but the Patriarche didn’t allow him to finish.

  “What is the status of the investigation?” he asked, turning toward Marcellus.

  Marcellus stood up straighter, shifting his rifle to his other hand. “I have been interviewing workers and foremen at the TéléSkin fabrique for the past two weeks, but so far no one seems to know who set off the explosif. I have more interviews scheduled for tomorrow, but based on the evidence we’ve collected, we believe someone broke into the fabrique—”

  “I know exactly who set off that explosif!” the Patriarche roared, as though Marcellus’s update was a massive waste of his time. “It was that Citizen Rousseau woman! She’s responsible for all of this. I just know it.”

  Marcellus opened his mouth to reply, but the general stepped in. “I assure you, Monsieur Patriarche, Citizen Rousseau is not a danger to us. She remains in maximum security lockdown on Bastille, where she’s been for the past seventeen years.”

  “Until those Vangarde monsters tried to break her out!” the Patriarche reminded him.

  “Tried,” the general emphasized. “And failed.”

  The Patriarche harrumphed. He had become unbearably paranoid in the past few weeks, convinced that Citizen Rousseau had somehow orchestrated everything that had happened on Laterre—the murder of his only child, the riots in the Frets, the bombing of the TéléSkin fabrique—all from solitary confinement. Which, of course, was ludicrous. Solitary confinement meant no contact with the outside world. But it didn’t stop the Patriarche from spending his days watching security footage of Citizen Rousseau’s cell.

  Even if Marcellus hadn’t been the lead officer on the investigation, he would still be willing to bet his life that the Vangarde had not orchestrated that attack. The problem was, he still didn’t know who had.

  “Regardless,” the Patriarche snapped, “this planet needs to be brought to order. And clearly, I have to do that myself.” He tossed a furious glance at the general before raising the weapon to his shoulder again and peering up at the sky.

  Marcellus braved a look at his grandfather and immediately noticed the general’s jaw tensing. This had become the new way of things around the Palais. Since the Premier Enfant’s funeral, the Patriarche had started taking matters of state into his own hands, making important decisions on a whim and changing protocols whenever it struck his fancy, all without the general knowing about it.

  And Marcellus knew this would only make the general more desperate. More eager to push his plans forward.

  “He’s building a weapon.”

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The gunshots shook Marcellus from his thoughts. They were followed by the maniacal yapping of the hunting dogs who, once again, had no prey to chase for. The Patriarche’s bullets had hit nothing but the artificial Ledôme breeze.

  “Monsieur Patriarche,” the general began calmly, “please be assured that I am well in control of the situation on Laterre. New security procedures are being carried out in the Frets and the fabrique district, suspects are being interrogated daily, curfews are being strongly enforced.…”

  Marcellus startled as a small ping reverberated through his audio patch, notifying him of an incoming alert. As the general continued to list all the new protocols he’d initiated since the Premier Enfant’s funeral, Marcellus furtively pulled his TéléCom out of his pocket, unfolded it, and tapped on the screen.

  “Tunnel collapse on Bastille in Exploit 5,” the TéléCom’s smooth, pleasant voice announced. “One fatality.”

  Marcellus’s heart stopped. Exploit 5. That was Chatine’s exploit.

  Normally officers weren’t alerted of every single death or accident on Bastille. The prison moon was a dangerous place, and there were simply too many. Instead, the warden received a summary report at the end of each day and only passed it along to the other members of the Ministère if there was something noteworthy to share. But as soon as Marcellus had learned that Chatine had been sent to the moon, he had instantly memorized her prisoner number, cell block tower, and exploit assignment and set up a series of alerts to notify him of any accidents or fatalities on Bastille. And every time that TéléCom dinged softly in his ear, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

  He clicked on the alert flashing on the screen and gripped the edges of the TéléCom, as though this flimsy device could possibly hold him up if his legs gave out.

  “Today at 11
.02 Laterrian time, Bastille Central Command logged a tunnel collapse in Exploit 5 caused by a compromised anchor bolt. One fatality was reported by the supervising droid. Female. Eighteen years old …”

  No. Marcellus felt the ground beneath him give way.

  “Prisoner number 515.…”

  He was suddenly plummeting into Laterre’s red hot core. He was burning alive. His skin was on fire. His lungs burned.

  “… 98.”

  Marcellus blinked, certain he had misheard. He hastily tapped to replay the alert.

  “…Female. Eighteen years old. Prisoner 51598.”

  5.1.5.9.8.? It wasn’t her. He was sure of it. Chatine’s prison number was 5.1.5.6.2. His breath returned like a gust of warm air. She was still alive.

  “Officer Bonnefaçon?”

  Marcellus’s head popped up at the sound of his grandfather’s voice. The entire hunting party was now staring at him like he was a smoking cruiseur wreck. “Yes? Sorry. I was just …” But he gave up trying to make an excuse and pocketed his TéléCom. He could feel the general’s eyes on him.

  “I was telling the Patriarche,” his grandfather said tightly, “that the couchette searches in the Frets are proving effective in rooting out potential rebel activity.”

  Marcellus nodded. “Yes, very much so. Three arrests have been made this week.”

  “So, you see, Monsieur Patriarche,” the general went on, “I’m confident that these new initiatives are—”

  The Patriarche snorted as he angrily uncocked his gun. “I want wages docked too.”

  The general raised one of his neatly groomed silver eyebrows. “With all due respect, Monsieur Patriarche, I’m not sure docking wages will—”

  “If the people cannot behave, they must be punished. Cancelling their Ascension was clearly not enough. Maybe they need to go hungry for a while. See what that feels like.”

  Hungry?

  Anger immediately bloomed in Marcellus’s chest. The Third Estate were already hungry. Already starving and wet and cold, not to mention completely overworked for the meager wages they did receive.