Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  Gabriel fell quiet and Alouette instantly knew her suspicions back in the cruiseur had been right. He was hiding something.

  “Why did you really agree to come with us?” she asked. “I have a feeling it has nothing to do with the general’s weapon.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Am I that predictable?”

  Alouette just smiled.

  Gabriel popped the last piece of bread into his mouth and leaned back on his hands. “Oh, I don’t know. I heard the words ‘weapon’ and ‘rid the Regime of the déchets’ and I freaked. I figured bad things were about to go down, and anywhere had to be better than Laterre.” He snorted. “Even Albion.”

  “So, what? When we land, you’re going to get off the ship and enlist in the Albion Royal Guard?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Well, just be sure to thank Cerise for the ride.”

  He cringed. “Are you mad?”

  “Mad?”

  “That I’m not along to save the world?”

  Alouette glanced down at the closed book beside her. The Vangarde’s mysterious compendium of reports. “I’m starting to think that saving the world is a pretty foolish ambition.”

  “And yet, here you are.”

  She let out a heavy sigh. “Here I am.”

  “What is this?” Gabriel shifted uncomfortably. He leaned forward and picked up her mother’s titan box from the bed before turning it around in his hands and studying the ornate design on the top. “Is this—”

  Alouette hastily snatched the box back from him. She didn’t like the sensation that came over her from watching someone else hold it. “Sorry, it’s … It belonged to my mother.” She squeezed the box in her hand. It felt like years ago that she’d found it in Hugo’s room. She had come so far since then. And yet, right now, Alouette felt just as lost and hopeless and naïve as that girl snooping around the Refuge, looking for answers. “It’s the only thing I have left of her.”

  “What’s in it?” Gabriel asked.

  Alouette ran her fingertips over the seam. “I don’t know. It’s locked.”

  Gabriel guffawed.

  “What?” She glanced up at him.

  “That would never stop me.”

  “What do you … ?” But her voice trailed off as her gaze fell back down to the bed and landed on her screwdriver. The same one Gabriel had used to break them out of their Ministère cuffs. She stared intently at the sharp-tipped tool, her jumbled thoughts focusing into one single, resolute goal. Then, before she could second-guess herself, she snatched up the screwdriver and, with more desperation than precision, jammed the flat end under the lid of the box and wrenched up. With a crack and a hiss, the top flew open. Alouette was so shocked that her forceful tactic had worked, she nearly dropped the box.

  In a split second, all her former anger and grief simply melted away, replaced by a thrumming, burning curiosity.

  Slowly, warily, Alouette leaned forward and peered inside.

  She had never known what to expect when she finally got a glimpse at her mother’s long-lost treasure. Anything probably would have surprised her at this point. But she still let out a tiny gasp.

  Nestled in a bed of soft purple velvet was a small plait of braided hair. Two distinct strands woven together: one dark and curly, so much like her own, and the other thick and reddish-brown.

  Her father’s?

  Was she looking at a piece of her real father?

  She reached out and gently touched the strands, feeling a tingle travel through her.

  “What is it?” Gabriel asked, peering over her shoulder into the box.

  But before she could answer, the door to her couchette whooshed open again and Cerise barged in, looking eager and flushed. She opened her mouth to say something, but then her gaze fell upon Gabriel and Alouette, sitting side by side on the bed, and she seemed to lose her train of thought.

  “Did you want something?” Gabriel prompted, leaning back on his hands again as though he were making a grand show of looking comfortable.

  “Not from you,” she snapped.

  Gabriel flashed Alouette an I-told-you-so look and stood up from the bed. “Fine. If anyone needs me, I’ll be raiding the galley.” He pushed past Cerise and sauntered out of the room. Once he was gone, Cerise turned to Alouette, and Alouette’s stomach instantly clenched at the anticipation of more bad news. She didn’t think she could take any more.

  But then Cerise’s eyes flashed with unmistakable excitement. “We got it.”

  Alouette frowned. “Got what?”

  “A response. From the source on Albion.”

  - CHAPTER 34 - MARCELLUS

  “THOSE WRETCHES! ALL OF THEM. The whole blasted Third Estate!”

  Marcellus woke with a start to the sound of Patriarche Lyon Paresse ranting in his ear. He sat up and grappled around in the darkness of his couchette for the light panel, fighting through the bleariness of sleep.

  “Have you seen it, General?!” the Patriarche roared. “Have you seen what they’ve done?”

  It took Marcellus a moment to realize the sound was coming from the auditeur back on Laterre. He was listening to another conversation from his grandfather’s study.

  “Yes, Monsieur Patriarche,” the general replied calmly. “I just watched the footage. It is dreadful news.”

  “Three superviseurs dead!” the Patriarche said. “And an entire hothouse obliterated!”

  Marcellus’s stomach clenched. Another attack on Laterre?

  “These victims are members of the Second Estate!” the Patriarche went on. “And they’ve been murdered! Murdered right in their own hothouse. Who will be next? Will it be us? Will they come after the First Estate? Are we all going to be murdered in our beds right here in Ledôme!?” The Patriarche’s voice was trembling now.

  “No,” came the general’s reassuring reply a moment later. “Of course not. That will never happen. Ledôme is impenetrable. Its perimeter is guarded by droids, and officers are on patrol throughout the interior at all times. If anyone wanted to get inside Ledôme, they’d have to go through me first.”

  Marcellus shivered at the words. They almost sounded like a threat.

  “I assure you, Monsieur Patriarche,” the general went on, “this assault on the Regime will not be taken lightly.”

  The Patriarche sniffed a skeptical sniff. “And who are these people anyway? I’ve never even heard of this Red Scar.”

  The entire couchette seemed to tilt underneath Marcellus. He gripped the side of the bed for balance as images from the Jondrette came flooding back to him. Those stoic guards in their red hoods. That fanatical woman with her steely gaze and provoking rhetoric.

  First the TéléSkin fabrique and now a hothouse?

  “I don’t know,” the general admitted. “I’d never heard of this organization until today.”

  “So they’re not associated with the Vangarde?” the Patriarche confirmed.

  “It would appear not.”

  “Well, they’re making a mockery of the Regime,” the Patriarche thundered, “sending that horrible footage to the entire Ministère. How did they even do that?”

  Marcellus moved like lightning, snatching up his TéléCom from the table. The Red Scar had sent a message to the entire Ministère? Why hadn’t he received it?

  “Access Ministère portal,” he commanded the TéléCom.

  “Access denied,” came the chilling response not a second later. “All clearance levels have been revoked.”

  Right, he thought miserably, letting the TéléCom fall back onto the table with a clank. Wanted criminals don’t have security clearances.

  “My officers are working on tracking down the perpetrators of this heinous act,” the general was now saying, and Marcellus could hear the frustration in his voice. This was clearly not a twist his grandfather had foreseen. “Once found, their punishment will be swift.”

  “Exactly,” said the Patriarche. “They must be dealt with. Is the exécut
eur ready?”

  “My techniciens in the munitions fabrique have just completed the final product today,” said the general.

  “Good. Once these murderers are found, I want their heads to be the first ones under that blade.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Patriarche.”

  Heavy footsteps filled Marcellus’s audio patch, and he imagined the Patriarche pacing back and forth in front of the Regiments board that hid the auditeur. “Ungrateful sots! My ancestors built this planet from nothing. They rescued these people from the Last Days. From a horrible fiery death on a collapsing planet. They gave them a place to live. Food. Shelter. Jobs. And five hundred years later, this is the thanks we get?! Murdering my superviseurs, destroying my fabriques, and rioting in my streets? You would think the news of Citizen Rousseau’s death would have scared them off, but instead it has only seemed to rile them up more!”

  “Perhaps,” the general said, still maintaining his trademark impassiveness, “the Third Estate simply need a reminder of your … generosity.”

  The heavy footsteps paused, and Marcellus’s brow lifted.

  “What do you mean?” the Patriarche asked.

  The general cleared his throat. “It’s quite possible that, with all of these disturbances, the people have simply lost sight of what’s important and what a just and fair ruler you are.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Might I suggest, then, that you reschedule the Ascension?”

  “WHAT?” the Patriarche roared. “You mean to reward them for this treachery?”

  “I mean to pacify them in the midst of it.”

  The Patriarche grunted in response.

  “The people need to remember who is in control here,” General Bonnefaçon continued. “And most of all, they need something else to think about outside of these attacks. Something to hope for.”

  “Uh-huh.” The Patriarche did not sound convinced. “So you’re suggesting we reschedule the Ascension as a distraction?”

  The general faltered for a moment. “I’m simply saying it might help. It’s kept the Third Estate in line thus far, it might do it again.”

  Marcellus narrowed his eyes, immediately suspicious. Why was his grandfather pressing for this so hard?

  “And you think this will quell any future disturbances?” the Patriarche confirmed.

  “I think it’s worth a try.”

  “Because I will not have this Regime fall under my watch. My father successfully stamped out a rebellion seventeen years ago. We cannot allow another one to break out. We must get this planet under control once and for all.”

  “We will,” the general assured him. “Just … think about it.”

  Marcellus heard a grunt, then the sound of footsteps retreating, followed by the door of the study opening and closing as the Patriarche made another one of his dramatic exits.

  As soon as the general’s office had fallen quiet again, Marcellus was on his feet. He barreled out of the couchette, down the hallway, and up the stairs to the bridge, where he found Alouette and Cerise gathered around the flight console, talking in hushed voices.

  “Bonjour, sleepy head,” Cerise said brightly.

  He ignored her and focused on Alouette. He’d been worried sick about her for the past day. After listening to the general’s conversation with Directeur Chevalier, she’d disappeared into her couchette and hadn’t come out since. He’d tried talking to her, but she’d said she wanted to be alone.

  Are you okay? He mouthed to her now.

  She shrugged in response and refused to meet his eye.

  He turned his attention to Cerise and the glowing console. “What’s going on?”

  Cerise beamed at him. “We got the coordinates for the meeting with the source. Alouette just decoded the message, and I’ve already entered the new destination into the nav system. It looks like it’s a small town on the outskirts of Queenstead.”

  Marcellus nodded numbly, barely able to follow her words. “I guess that’s good.”

  “What’s wrong?” Cerise asked, clearly noticing the haunted expression on his face.

  “I—” he tried to figure out where to begin, but then was struck by an idea. “Wait. Cerise, do you still have access to the Ministère portal on your TéléCom?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Marcellus let out a shaky breath. “Pull it up. Now.”

  A minute later, Alouette, Cerise, and Marcellus were all gathered around Cerise’s TéléCom as the mysterious footage began to play on the screen.

  It was juddering and slightly grainy, as though whoever had captured it was on the move. But Marcellus could make out a nearby hothouse glowing under an inky sky and a field of crops stretching out into the distance. The image suddenly jerked to the left, revealing three men kneeling on the muddy ground. They wore regulation green jackets and matching felt hats, marking them as hothouse superviseurs.

  Two of them had their eyes shut, but the third had his wide open.

  And they shone with terror.

  The footage tilted upward. Five figures stood behind the kneeling men. All of them were in matching coats with hoods pulled down to obscure most of their faces.

  They were dressed head to toe in the color of blood.

  The color of death.

  “The Red Scar,” Alouette whispered.

  One of the figures stepped forward. Marcellus couldn’t see much beyond the hood of the jacket. But when she spoke, he knew it was her.

  Maximilienne.

  “These men are guilty of enslavement and oppression.” She gestured to the kneeling superviseurs. “They are yet another cog in the great broken machine that is this planet. And they will pay for their complicity with chains of their own.”

  “Oh my Sols!” Alouette cried. “What is she going to—”

  But her words were swallowed up by a flash of blue light across the screen. Marcellus’s eyes blurred for a second before he saw the laser clutched in Maximilienne’s hand.

  Dread squeezed his lungs as two of the hooded figures grabbed one of the kneeling men and yanked back the sleeve of his jacket. Maximilienne stepped toward him, the tip of her laser glowing a vivid blue.

  The humming, sparking sound filled Marcellus’s ears, followed by the screams and pleas of the superviseur.

  The laser bore down, scorching and carving and burning the man’s skin into a smoking and sickening rectangle. With one final yelp, he fainted from the pain.

  Marcellus glanced over at Cerise, whose face was twisted in disbelief and horror. He could almost see the realization play out on her face. What happened at the Jondrette wasn’t just for show. That could have been her.

  On the screen, Maximilienne moved on, and in a cacophony of whirs and sparks and screams, the two other Second Estate men underwent the same torture, their arms branded with the same terrible scar.

  As the Red Scar guards grabbed each of the kneeling men and yanked them to their feet, Marcellus could swear he recognized one of the hooded figures. His gaze zeroed in on the guard on the far left, and the single long curl that sprang out from under his hood.

  Jolras, he remembered, picturing the guard who had stood so defiantly and protectively next to Maximilienne on the bar at the Jondrette, and who had clearly recognized Marcellus. The one who Maximilienne had called her brother.

  Two siblings of Nadette Epernay, driven to these horrible acts of revenge.

  The branded men were spun roughly around and shoved toward the nearest hothouse.

  Then Maximilienne spoke again.

  “No longer will the First and Second Estates enjoy the fruits of our labor,” she shouted in an impassioned cry. “Soon every member of the upper estates will come to fear the name Red Scar.”

  Suddenly, the screen of the TéléCom flashed a blinding white as a deafening, thunderous boom exploded out of the speakers. Startled, Marcellus blinked to clear his vision, and when he was finally able to focus on the screen again, he saw that the hothouse was gone.

  Its plastique ro
of had been blown completely off, and all of its large paneled windows had disintegrated into nothing. Plumes of dust and rocks engulfed the screen, and where the three superviseurs had been standing moments ago, only a lone boot in the mud remained.

  -CHAPTER 35 - CHATINE

  WHEN CHATINE WAS SEVEN YEARS old, she found an injured mouse in the Tourbay. Back then, she often wandered around the boglands to pass the time. It was the only place she could go to escape Henri’s ghost. It had been haunting their inn for a year now, and the misty fields near Montfer seemed to keep it at bay. As though it were afraid of getting lost in the dense fog.

  She came upon the mouse near a muddy stream. Chatine could tell right away that there was something wrong with it. She cornered it between her feet and picked it up by its tail. It dangled in front of her, squirming in an attempt to break free. And that’s when Chatine noticed that its back left foot had been cut clean off, leaving behind a bleeding stump.

  Chatine deposited the wriggling creature into the pocket of her coat and returned to the inn. She knew her mother would slap her dizzy if she found out Chatine had brought a mouse into the inn. The only rodents allowed through the doors were the ones being cooked into her father’s “famous Jondrette sausages.”

  But Chatine wanted to cure the little animal. She thought that with enough time and patience, she could not only make him better, but maybe she could make him love her too.

  She placed the mouse in an old bread box that she’d found in a trash heap in the Bidon and hid the box under her bed. Every day, she cleaned the mouse’s wound and fed him scraps from the kitchen. And every day, he seemed to get a little better. Each time she opened the lid to check on him or bring him water, he would scurry around the bottom of the box, back and forth, like he was excited to see her.

  Until one day, when she opened the lid and he was dead.

  She couldn’t understand why. She’d given him everything he needed. Food, water, attention, care. What could have happened? She showed the dead mouse to her older sister, Azelle, who studied the creature for a long moment before taking the box from Chatine’s small hands and turning it around and around like she was inspecting it for defects.