Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  The escape pod.

  He allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. But it was a second too early, because just then the voyageur trembled violently. The extra weight of Gabriel on his shoulder caused him to lose his balance, and Marcellus was thrown forward. He reached out with his free hand to break his fall, and his palm slammed against the curved wall of the evacuation bay.

  “Argh!” he cried, pulling back his hand. The metal was burning hot.

  “It must be Laterre’s atmosphere,” Alouette called out. “We’re too close.”

  Alouette’s words were swallowed up by a terrible, ear-shattering sound that shook the whole voyageur. Then a bright, scalding, blinding light roared up in front of them.

  Fire!

  In an instant, the huge flames seemed to fill the deck, sucking in every molecule of oxygen and choking out great puffs of heat and terrible smoke. Marcellus could barely open his eyes. Every inch of his skin felt as if it were melting into the hull around him.

  “Come on!” Cerise yelled, yanking down on the lever. The hatch of the escape pod screeched open. “Get in.”

  The fire licked and burned at Marcellus’s back. He lunged forward and shoved Gabriel into the pod. Together with Cerise, they lowered him into one of the jump seats, and Cerise began to strap him in. Marcellus turned back for Alouette, only to find a wall of smoke where she once stood.

  His stomach flipped as he struggled to see through the thick gray plumes. “Alouette?!” he screamed.

  There was no reply.

  He took a step forward, toward the wild, thundering blaze. The smoke burned and clawed at his throat. His eyes watered. But then, he saw it.

  A flash of dark curls in the furious glow of the flames.

  “Alouette!” he called again.

  But she wasn’t moving this way. She was moving back toward the stairs.

  “What are you doing?”

  Alouette shouted something back at him, but he couldn’t hear it over the din of the fire and the screaming ship.

  The voyageur gave another terrifying jolt as the sirens blared on and the fire lashed out at him like angry talons. “Alouette!” he called again. “You have to get into the—”

  Just then, out of the smoke, Alouette came hurtling toward him, her hands clasped tightly around what looked like a piece of cloth. Was that her sac? Had she really risked her life for that?

  Marcellus reached out a hand to her, but a moment later, a terrible roar detonated across the hull, and he watched in horror as Alouette was sucked backward, clean off her feet, pulled toward the spiraling and spewing flames.

  “Alouette!” He charged forward.

  The smoke was so thick now, he had to cover his mouth and nose with his sleeve. He could see nothing in front of him. He dropped to his knees and scoured the floor of the deck with outstretched hands. Until finally, his fingertips touched fabric. Then skin. Then hair. Heart pounding, he reached for her, pulling her fallen body to him. She let out a soft groan, and Marcellus nearly melted into the floor with relief.

  Hooking his hands under Alouette’s shoulders, Marcellus began to drag her backward, toward the hatch. Her body was still clutched protectively around that piece of cloth in her hands. By the time they both collapsed into the escape pod, Marcellus was coughing so badly, he could barely move.

  Cerise pounded her fist against the panel on the wall. The door slid shut, and the pod began to rumble. Cerise helped Alouette up and into the jump seat. Marcellus struggled to follow, his muscles barely strong enough to fasten his restraints.

  The engine let out a roar and then the pod released. In one swift jolt, they were hoisted out and away from the voyageur. The force of the blast pinned Marcellus to his seat, but just as the pod banked and they began their descent toward Laterre, he was able to turn his head long enough to steal a glance behind them. At the Galactique-class voyageur that had taken them to Albion and back. At the ship that was now exploding into a million shattering and burning pieces of light.

  - CHAPTER 53 - CHATINE

  OUTSIDE THE CHALET, THE AIR had never tasted so fresh. So cleansing. So cold and delicious. Chatine gulped in huge lungfuls of it, thirsty for more and more and more. Still clutching the handmade sac, she collapsed forward and rested her hands on her knees, trying to calm herself. Her whole body was quivering. Her heart was thundering behind her rib cage. Her mind was on fire.

  She couldn’t believe what she’d just done.

  She couldn’t believe she’d gone to battle with her parents and actually won.

  But she knew this victory wasn’t just for herself. It was for Azelle, who had dreamed of a better life and had died working for it. And it was for Henri. For Roche, who had grown up parentless and abandoned and alone, wandering the streets, begging and conning for food, hiding under marketplace stalls and in the bases of statues.

  This victory was for all of them.

  The three lost Renard children, who had suffered simply for being Renards.

  Chatine’s breathing slowly returned to normal, and her head cleared as she reminded herself that this wasn’t over yet. She still had to somehow break into the storage chalet and steal seven blocs of zyttrium.

  Guilt streamed thick and heavy through her veins at the thought. She used to steal without remorse. It used to mean nothing to her. Just another part of her miserable day. But something had changed in her since she’d left Bastille. Since she’d seen that small raindrop-shaped birthmark on the back of Roche’s shoulder. Since she’d woken up on Etienne’s strange ship. Since she’d lost her Skin.

  She flipped her arm over and rubbed at the healing incision. She would always have a scar. A reminder of the life she’d led. The chains she’d worn. But it was almost as though Brigitte had taken something else from her that day when she’d lifted the Ministère-manufactured implant from her body.

  She’d taken away the ties to her past.

  She’d freed Chatine from the person she used to be. The person her parents and the Regime had turned her into.

  She couldn’t steal from these people. She was suddenly certain of it. No matter the upside, she couldn’t deceive them or con them or hurt them. She would just have to turn her parents in to the Défecteurs and deal with the consequences. Even if it meant she lost her place here too. Even if it meant she lost their trust.

  On the horizon, a slither of clouds glowed pink and blue, a warning that the Sols would soon be rising. Brigitte’s chalet, she knew, was on the other side of the camp, back near the treatment center. Chatine turned toward it and began walking. But she’d barely made it a few paces when she heard another set of footsteps.

  She spun and blinked into the beam of a flashlight, her entire body tensing. She didn’t need to see beyond that bright light to know who was behind it. The situation was too familiar. And his energy was too recognizable.

  She swallowed.

  There was no point in trying to play stupide or pretending she was just out on a late-night stroll through the camp. They were standing right next to her parents’ chalet, and the walls weren’t soundproof.

  Chatine cleared her throat, but her voice still quavered. “How much did you hear?”

  Etienne didn’t reply as he took a step toward her and lowered the flashlight so that the beam landed right on her chest. Like a blade. Then, it traveled down to the sac still in her hand, and Chatine felt her blood turn to ice.

  He knew. Of course he knew.

  “Listen,” she began. But Etienne held up a hand and didn’t allow her to finish. Why should he? There was no use trying to explain now. He knew who she was, who her parents were. He’d heard her agree to their plan. He knew she was planning to steal zyttrium from the storage chalet.

  “Come with me, please.” His words were stark and cold, like they belonged to a stranger. Like he was speaking to a stranger. Not the girl he’d rescued from the roof of Bastille. Not the girl he’d smiled at from across the fête. Not the girl she so desperately wanted to become.

>   The girl she had become … if even for a splinter of a second.

  Gripping the bag tightly in her hand, she kept her head down and followed behind him. He walked quietly, stiffly, the flashlight beam illuminating the walkway ahead of him. She didn’t know where he was taking her, but she knew she wouldn’t run. She would face up to her crime and her punishment.

  It wasn’t until they had made the final turn that Chatine recognized the path. Her gaze snapped up and she squinted at the shadowy shapes of the buildings around them, trying to confirm her suspicions.

  The night’s darkness was beginning to creep away, and, in the murky predawn gloom, she was now quite certain they were nearing the storage chalets. The buildings were taller and longer than the other structures, and their sides were punctured by slits instead of windows.

  “What are we doing—” Chatine began to ask, but once again she was interrupted before she could finish as Etienne placed a single finger to his lips. She watched in astonishment and complete bewilderment as Etienne approached the door of the last chalet, pulled a small piece of metal from the pocket of his coat, turned it in the lock, and beckoned her inside.

  All the breath seemed to leave her body at once as she gazed around the interior of the chalet. Chatine had seen zyttrium before. She’d spent seemingly endless hours mining it on Bastille. But never like this. And never so much of it. Shelves upon shelves bordered the entire space, and on every single one, small blocs of the processed metal were stacked in orderly piles. The whole place, even Etienne’s clothes and hair, glowed blue. It was like she’d been transported into the hidden depths of a shimmering sea.

  For a moment, Chatine wondered if this was some kind of trap. But then Etienne silently reached out and pried the handmade sac from her tight grip. Chatine’s throat went dirt dry as she watched him count out seven gleaming blue blocs of zyttrium and place each one carefully and reverently into the bag.

  Something stirred inside of her. Something so great and overwhelming and unfamiliar, she nearly sobbed. She reached out and braced herself against one of the shelves as the strange sensation trembled through her like a rolling explosion.

  Once the Renards’ sac was weighed down with the precious metal, Etienne turned to face her and finally answered her question, “I heard all of it.”

  He extended the bag toward her, and—with shaking, numb fingers—Chatine took it. It felt impossibly heavy in her hands. Heavier than seven blocs of zyttrium should feel.

  Then Etienne offered her the tiniest, yet most monumental of smiles. “Flying lessons start after breakfast,” he said before turning and leaving the chalet.

  - CHAPTER 54 - ALOUETTE

  THE PARACHUTE DEPLOYED ABOVE THE escape pod, and suddenly they were drifting, buffeting across an endless gray-and-white sky.

  “What were you thinking, going back in there?” Cerise bellowed at Alouette. “You could have gotten yourself killed! You could have gotten us all killed!”

  “I had to … ,” Alouette began weakly, but she couldn’t find enough breath to speak. So instead, she carefully unfolded the blanket in her hands, like she was unswaddling a baby. And there, nestled in her arms, was the object she’d risked her life—all of their lives—to save.

  Marcellus sucked in a sharp breath as his gaze fell upon the sleek silver canister. “The inhibitor,” he whispered dazedly.

  Alouette nodded and gave the barrel a sharp twist. The top hissed open with a puff of steam. Her vision cleared and then… every last ounce of hope leaked out of her.

  Where there were once twelve intact, glowing vials, there was now a splatter of broken glass and congealed serum. All but one of Dr. Collins’s doses of inhibitor had been destroyed.

  Marcellus stared numbly down into the barrel, looking like he was staring into the barrel of a rayonette set to kill.

  “No,” he said, his voice shattering as quickly and violently as their voyageur had only moments ago. “No!” He banged his fist against the wall of the escape pod. “What are we going to do now? How are we going to stop him? We have nothing. No plan. No hope. No inhibitor.”

  “And it looks like no navigation, either,” Cerise said somberly, poking at the flight controls. “The fire must have damaged the system.”

  “What does that mean?” Alouette asked, dread clawing at her voice.

  “It means I have no way of controlling our landing. We’re at the mercy of Laterre’s gravity and winds now.”

  Marcellus leaned his head back against his jump seat and closed his eyes. Alouette could see his lips moving, like he was murmuring something under his breath. A prayer to the Sols, perhaps? Alouette turned toward Gabriel, who was passed out in the seat across from her. Unconscious. Near death.

  She took deep, calming breaths, trying to tell herself that this, too, would be okay. This, too, they would survive. Just like they’d survived every catastrophe before this, against all odds.

  They were still here. Injured and weary and bleeding, but still alive.

  That had to count for something, right?

  Outside the window of the pod, the nothingness and uncertainty of the Laterrian sky spread out around them. Thick gray clouds that seemed to go on forever, consuming everything. And for just a moment, Alouette wondered if they would ever touch the ground. If maybe they would just float in this misty limbo forever.

  Suddenly, all she could think about was everything she’d left behind on that ship. Her mother’s titan box, her screwdriver, the sisters’ compendium of reports. They were all just things, Alouette knew that. Nowhere near as important as a human life. But she still felt the ache of their loss just the same.

  That titan box was the only thing she’d had left of her mother. Her screwdriver had been a gift from Sister Denise. And Principale Francine had entrusted her with those reports—that small slice of Vangarde history. And now it was all nothing but space dust.

  Something hammered against the sides of the pod, pulling Alouette’s attention back to the window, which was now covered in tiny droplets of water. The soft gray blanket around them had turned dark and sinister as they’d continued their slow, undulating descent toward the ground. Then, moments later, light flooded the small pod and Alouette could suddenly see Laterre’s great landmass stretching out below.

  Squinting through the rain-splattered plastique, she could make out uneven terrain with patches of slick, foreboding ice and clusters of rocky outcrops. It wasn’t until the ground drew closer that she realized where they were. And her heart nearly thudded to a stop. She recognized this unforgiving landscape. She’d read about it in the Chronicles.

  It was a place no one survived.

  Despite the parachute slowing their descent, their landing was hard. Rough. Jolting. The underbelly of the pod smacked down on the frozen tundra with a force so strong, it felt as though every bone and nerve in Alouette’s body clashed and collided against one another. They slid along the slick surface of the ground before crashing into a jagged, jutting rock and finally skidding to a halt.

  Alouette kept her gaze locked on the window, as though staring at their surroundings might possibly change them. Might possibly reverse time, change the direction of the winds, deliver them any place but here.

  “This doesn’t look good,” croaked a voice, and everyone turned to see that Gabriel was awake, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the barrenness outside the window.

  “No,” Marcellus agreed quietly, and when Alouette peered over at him, she saw that his face looked hopeless and defeated. “This is definitely not good.”

  Alouette’s head fell back against the headrest in despair, just as the Terrain Perdu winds started to howl and pummel against the shell of their lonely, battered escape pod.

  - CHAPTER 55 - MARCELLUS

  THE TINY SPARK CRACKLED IN the wet morning air before immediately fizzling out. Marcellus cursed quietly under his breath and struck the small rock against the PermaSteel bolt again. His arms were tired, and he could barely feel his fingers anym
ore.

  “Don’t worry,” he said to Gabriel through chattering teeth. “Just a few more seconds and I’ll have this thing going and all of our troubles will be over.”

  It was a lie, of course.

  Everything out of his mouth for the past three hours had been a lie.

  “We’ll be rescued.”

  “We’ll find an AirLink signal.”

  “I can start a fire.”

  But it was better than the truth. Marcellus couldn’t face the truth, let alone utter it aloud. The truth was unbearable. And morbid. And …

  His fault.

  This was all his fault.

  Gabriel getting shot. The hypervoyage disaster. Their destroyed escape pod.

  He pushed the thought from his mind and focused back on the small pile of twigs and spindly branches in front of him.

  “Almost there,” he said breathlessly to Gabriel. “We’ll be warm soon.”

  Another lie. They might never be warm again.

  But Marcellus kept telling himself that the lies didn’t matter. Even if Gabriel was awake, he wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway. The Terrain Perdu’s winds howled and gnawed too loudly from every direction, and Gabriel was bundled too deeply inside layers of jackets, hoods, and emergency blankets that they’d managed to grab from the escape pod right before the floor—which had been pummeled during the crash-landing—collapsed out from under it. Then the rest of the pod had folded in on itself in a plume of shattering plastique and buckling PermaSteel.

  Marcellus continued to bang the rock against the metal. He’d never started a fire without matches before. His matchbox had been in his sac on the voyageur, which was now nothing more than a pile of ash floating through space.

  Alouette had told Marcellus she’d read in a book once that a spark could be created with nothing but a stone and a steel blade. The stone had been easy to find among the craggy outcrops, but, for the blade, they’d had to use a fragment of metal from the crumpled escape pod instead.