“It’s beautiful.” Alouette’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Beautiful?” Marcellus repeated, turning his gaze back to the planet. No longer a small jewel in the sky, Albion now loomed large in the window of the voyageur. Its deep blue oceans, swirling clouds, and patchwork of emerald green continents—so strikingly different from Laterre’s single landmass—were becoming clearer and more defined with each passing second.
But as hard as he tried, Marcellus could not see what Alouette saw. He could not see beauty. He could only see danger. Threat. And possible catastrophe. They were landing in the capital of an enemy planet, shielded only by a thinly veiled lie.
“What are we going to do about the source?” Cerise whispered, leaning in close to Marcellus. “We’re supposed to meet them today at the coordinates they sent.”
But Marcellus just shook his head. He didn’t know what they were going to do about any of this.
“Arrival in Queenstead in three minutes,” the guard announced from the console. “Please fasten your restraints.”
“This better work,” Gabriel muttered under his breath as he strapped himself into one of the flight seats.
The voyageur swooped down effortlessly through Albion’s atmosphere and plummeted in a great descending arc until it was skimming like a bird just above the ocean’s surface. Amid the choppy waves and eddying currents, islands began to appear, popping up like foreign ships on a detection scanner. Then, on the horizon, a much bigger land mass emerged. A craggy and high-cliffed coastline soon gave way to undulating hills and lush meadows, and finally, a huge city arose amid the greenery.
A grand wall snaked around Albion’s capital, and as the voyageur cruised closer, Marcellus spied the four giant spires of the Queen’s palace at the center of the city.
Gabriel is right. This better work. Or we’re all dead.
The skies near the Queenstead spaceport were filled with aerocabs, Albion’s version of cruiseurs, shuttling people back and forth across the land. The Albion guard expertly maneuvered the voyageur down, across the enormous spaceport complex, and into the gaping entrance of the terminal building.
Outside the window, Marcellus could see the terminal’s vast curved roof above them, and all around was a myriad of idling ships. The voyageur came to a final halt at one of the gates, and the engines began to power down.
Marcellus tried to keep his hands from shaking as he unlatched his harness and adjusted the lapels on his jacket. He had changed back into his blinding-white officer’s uniform, hoping to make the illusion more complete.
Together with Cerise, Gabriel, and Alouette, Marcellus descended the staircase to the primary hatch, where the loading ramp was already extended. As the four of them disembarked, they were immediately encircled by Albion guards, who wordlessly patted them down and searched their pockets for weapons.
“Well, this is certainly a warm welcome,” Gabriel whispered, and Marcellus shot him a warning look.
When the security check was complete, one of the guards led them through the gigantic domed concourse, which was packed with passengers, port workers, and vendors selling last-minute food and goods for travel.
Finally, they emerged from the building and into the bright Sol-light. The first thing Marcellus noticed was the weather. It was as warm and as pleasant as the interior of Ledôme, the sky as bright and blue as the TéléSky, but everything just felt so much fresher. More authentic. He took in a deep breath, suddenly understanding how Thibault Paresse, the founding Patriarche of Laterre, could have started a five-hundred-year-long grudge against these people. They lived in a paradise. A paradise that Laterre had lost and Albion had won.
He pulled his gaze from the skies just as a black-domed aerocab pulled up in front of them. The door of the vehicle eased open like an insect’s wing unfurling, and out stepped a woman in a purple knee-length jacket trimmed with white fur. Her monoglass gleamed in the late-afternoon light as her gaze swept over each one of them before finally landing on Marcellus. She flashed him a broad smile.
“Officer Bonnefaçon, welcome to Albion. I am Lady Alexander, High Chancellor to her majesty, Queen Matilda Bellingham, and your grandfather’s primary liaison on Albion.” She spoke in a silky, flawless accent that sounded deceptively soothing to Marcellus’s ears. This must have been the person he had overheard his grandfather talking to in his study.
“Nice to meet you, your …” Marcellus struggled to remember the greeting the admiral had used on the ship. “Your Grace.” He gestured toward Alouette, Gabriel, and Cerise. “These are my … um … associates.”
Gabriel stepped forward and dipped into a low bow. “Your Grace.”
Cerise grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him back, whispering hotly in his ear. “You only bow to the Queen, you idiot.”
Lady Alexander smiled politely at Gabriel, but Marcellus could see the tug of annoyance at the corner of her lips. “My most humble apologies for the … how shall we put this? The confusion concerning your arrival. We were not expecting the general or any of his ambassadors. Up until this moment, all of our communications have been conducted remotely.”
Even though her words sounded vaguely suspicious, her smile never faltered.
Marcellus cleared his throat. “Yes. I apologize for our surprise visit. My grandfather dispatched me fairly last-minute. We would have sent word of our arrival but … but …” He started to falter, the words feeling fat and clumsy on his lips.
“But we recently detected a breach in our normal communication channels,” Cerise stepped in, offering Marcellus a reassuring nod. “We had to sever all outreach until the breach could be remedied.”
Lady Alexander studied Cerise for a long moment, looking both thoughtful and apprehensive. Marcellus held his breath.
“I suppose that makes sense,” she concluded after far too long a pause. “It has been a few days since I’ve heard from the general.”
Marcellus swallowed hard. “Exactly. Apologies again for not keeping you better informed.”
Lady Alexander nodded. “Not to worry. We are very pleased to welcome you to our planet.” She gestured to the idling vehicle. “Shall we proceed to the laboratory?”
* * *
After sweeping over the dense and bustling parts of the capital, the aerocab glided onward, toward the less populated outskirts of Queenstead. Marcellus watched through the window as they passed rows and rows of what looked like fabriques and other industrial buildings.
Then they were flying out over the city walls and into the countryside beyond. Streams weaved and sparkled through meadows of grass. Forests and small villages dotted the landscape. To the left, the Sols were beginning to set behind a ridge of mountains that had loomed up nearby, and the sky was turning deep shades of violet, purple, and fiery gold.
Dangers aside, Marcellus had to admit that the sight was beautiful. Just as Alouette had said. Breathtaking, even. It reminded him of all the old stories he’d heard about the First World before it was engulfed by fires.
“Would you care for tea?” Lady Alexander asked. She pushed a button on her armrest, and from the floor of the aerocab, a titan tray glided upward, holding a set of porcelain cups and saucers with a matching teapot.
Marcellus exchanged confused glances with the others, and everyone hastily shook their heads.
“No, merci,” said Marcellus.
With another push of the button, the tray disappeared beneath the floor again.
Finally, the aerocab banked to the right, and as they descended over a bluff, an enormous compound emerged in front of them. Albion’s Royal Ministry of Defence.
Encircled in a glowing force field, the buildings inside the complex were arranged in a series of neat squares around equally neat lawns with pathways connecting them. Like all the other buildings on Albion, with their ornate gables and embellished windows, they looked like they’d been plucked from another time or transplanted from the First World.
The vehicle slowed to a stop a
t a security gate, where a squad of heavily armed Albion guards inspected the interior. Marcellus watched Lady Alexander’s monoglass darken as her credentials were transmitted, and a moment later, a guard waved them through. Once inside the compound, Lady Alexander pulled a long, curving pipe from the inside pocket of her coat and placed it ceremoniously between her lips. After flicking a tiny switch on its side and taking a long drag on its tip, she puffed out a cloud of bluish-purple mist. Marcellus watched, transfixed. He’d seen delegates from Albion smoking these vapor pipes before, on his numerous trips to Kaishi when his grandfather would meet with the System Alliance. But now, up close, he could see that Lady Alexander’s pipe was adorned with a small floral crest, carved into the titan plating.
“As you probably know,” she said between puffs, “Albion’s Royal Ministry of Defence has the most advanced laboratories in the System, dedicated to all manner of scientific inquiries.” She gestured out the window as they passed a large, two-story building. “This facility houses our bioweapons department, while the building directly to your left is entirely devoted to new artillery development.”
“Makes our Ministère tech labs look like First World relics,” Cerise whispered to Marcellus.
“What was that?” Lady Alexander asked, her eyebrow arching clear above her monoglass.
“Nothing,” Cerise muttered.
The vehicle glided to a halt in front of an imposing building with pointed-arch windows, a high vaulted roof, and ornate spires that stretched toward the sky. “And this,” Lady Alexander announced with an air of importance, “is where our most classified and high-clearance research takes place. This is where we’ve housed the general’s project.”
Marcellus checked the time on the aerocab’s clock. Their meeting with the source was scheduled to take place in less than two hours. How would they ever get out of this situation? Let alone sneak off to meet in secret with an Albion traitor?
“After you,” Lady Alexander said cordially as the vehicle door swung open.
Marcellus climbed out and took an anxious look around. He was starting to severely doubt their decision to come here. Their cover could be blown at any moment.
“Officer Bonnefaçon,” called another richly accented voice, and Marcellus turned to see a petite man in a trim white lab coat whisking toward them down a stone path. His wiry red hair—which appeared to have been, at one point in the day, confined with gel—now wisped in various directions around his head. As he moved toward them, he tried desperately to smooth down the rebellious strands. “We were so thrilled to hear of your visit. We are delighted to have you here.”
Marcellus nodded to the man and forced a smile. “Merci. We are … delighted to be here, as well.”
“I’m Dr. Cromwell,” he said, his monoglass reflecting the blue sky and buildings around them. “I will be giving you and your associates a tour of our state-of-the-art lab. I think you and your grandfather will be very pleased to witness the progress that we have made.”
Marcellus immediately noted the eagerness in the man’s face. It was not too dissimilar from the way he’d been greeted by Lady Alexander when they’d stepped off the voyageur. It seemed this entire planet was bending over backward to please him. Or rather, to please the person they thought was working directly for the general.
Why were they so eager to make a good impression? What was the general promising them in return for this project?
Marcellus held back a shudder and forced himself to say, “Well, we can’t wait to see it.”
Dr. Cromwell beamed. “Right this way.”
The scientist guided Marcellus and the others up the path to an unmarked entrance. With a hissing noise, the heavy arched doors eased open, revealing a wood-paneled hallway within.
“Welcome to the Filbright Wing,” he said, ushering them through. “We don’t generally like to boast, but we in the Filbright like to think that the work in our laboratories is at the cutting edge of Albion’s developments.”
Marcellus anxiously cleared his throat. “Wonderful.”
“It’s just through here,” Dr. Cromwell said, leading them down the hallway and through another set of doors.
Inside was a room filled with consoles, monitoring equipment, and strange-looking contraptions with snaking tubes and thrumming pumps. They were met by two more scientists, who were introduced as Dr. Ward, an angular woman with sunken cheeks, and Dr. Collins, an older man with silver hair and a beard. The two scientists helped everyone into white lab coats.
“I was just telling the general during our last correspondence,” Lady Alexander said as she buttoned the coat over her elegant purple jacket, “that the project is nearly ready.”
Dr. Cromwell beamed again as he smoothed back another strand of escaped hair. “Oh yes. We’re just completing our final round of tests.” He turned to Marcellus. “Would you care for a demonstration?”
Marcellus looked to Alouette and Cerise who both nodded subtly. “Yes, yes. That’s why we’re here. To witness the … uh … product.”
Dr. Cromwell beckoned them to follow him through another doorway into a room that contained nothing but an enormous cube in the center, constructed completely of transparent plastique.
“Is that the weapon?” Gabriel whispered, sounding slightly disappointed. Cerise immediately shushed him.
“Would anyone care for tea before we begin?” asked Dr. Cromwell.
Once again, they all shook their heads.
“Very well. Bring up the subjects, please!” Dr. Cromwell called out.
Subjects?
There was silence for a few moments, followed by a faint humming sound coming from the cube. Marcellus’s mind whirred with questions that he dared not ask. Then he watched in stunned silence as two trapdoors suddenly snapped open in the bare floor of the plastique cell. More humming noises and rumbling followed, before two circular platforms emerged from the gaps in the floor. On each of the platforms stood a man—barefoot, dirty, and disheveled, as though he’d spent the last few months locked in a cage. The rumbling stopped, and the two burly men faced each other in the center of the cube. They had shaved heads and wore nothing but flimsy green jumpsuits that strained over their big frames.
“What are they doing?” Alouette asked in a harsh whisper.
Marcellus glanced over at her. In her eyes, where, only a short while ago, he’d seen wonder and curiosity as they’d coasted toward Albion, he now saw a dark shadow descending.
She knew, just as he did, that something was about to happen.
Something very, very wrong.
“I don’t know,” he whispered back, and he could hear the tremor in his own voice.
“Remember, start very slowly,” Dr. Cromwell said to Dr. Ward, who was prodding at a device in her hand that looked a lot like a TéléCom.
All three scientists and Lady Alexander had their gazes locked on the giant cube. Inside, the two men began pacing slowly around the plastique cell, eyeing each other with a mix of wariness and anticipation.
“What kind of a demonstration is this?” Cerise whispered.
But again, Marcellus couldn’t answer. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what they were about to witness.
“Increase to point five volts,” Cromwell said in an eerily steady tone.
Marcellus’s gaze snapped to the scientist for a moment before returning to the cube. The two men inside began to circle faster around each other. The taller one rotated his large shoulders. The other man blew out short, angry puffs of air. They were still glaring hard at each other.
“Up to one point five,” Dr. Cromwell instructed. “And introduce the trigger.”
Suddenly, the men stopped pacing and charged toward each other, their chests clashing like a pair of giant rocks. Marcellus felt Alouette flinch beside him, and his own stomach lurched.
What was going on? What were they—?
Thwaacckkkk!!
Marcellus leapt backward as something red and glittering splattered across the c
lear plastique wall in front of him. Blinking hard, he tried to process what had just happened. The shorter man was holding his face as a spurt of blood sprayed from his mouth like a fountain in the Palais gardens. The other man was a few mètres away shaking out his fist, crimson droplets falling down like rain from his knuckles.
Marcellus opened his mouth to say something—anything—to stop whatever in the name of the Sols was happening. But Dr. Cromwell spoke first, his voice cold and clinical. “Push it up to two point five, please.”
Dr. Ward slid her finger across the surface of the device, and it was as if an invisible explosion detonated inside the huge plastique cube. The two men descended on each other like a pair of wild, untrammeled beasts. The shorter man led with a series of thudding, heaving punches to the other man’s gut. But then his opponent managed to right himself and responded with a furious round of brutish kicks and wild punches to the stomach, chest, and face. More blood splattered the walls of the plastique cube, and feral growls shook the entire construction.
As Marcellus watched it all unfold, he felt like he was trapped inside a cell of his own. Alone. Isolated. And terrified. He wanted to scream, to make it stop, but his voice was lost and useless, locked behind a sheet of impenetrable plastique. Somewhere beside him, he heard Alouette let out a muffled gasp.
Marcellus glanced at Dr. Cromwell, Lady Alexander, and Dr. Ward. They were all focused on the cube, their faces relaxed and placid despite what was happening in front of them. But Marcellus suddenly realized that the other scientist, the gray-haired Dr. Collins, was not looking at the subjects. His head was upright and facing toward the plastique wall. But his eyes were trained downward, as though he couldn’t bring himself to watch.
“Once General Bonnefaçon was able to supply us with the original blueprints of the implants,” Dr. Cromwell was now saying, his calm, measured tone a disturbing contrast to the vicious snarls coming from the cube, “reversing the direction of the neuroelectricity to manipulate the subjects was fairly straightforward.”
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