The memory of it brought her another wave of resolve.
Finally, the elevator began to slow. Alouette looked up again as a single bird swooped and darted through the light from the dazzling beacon at the top of the tower. For a moment, as the car whined to a stop, all Alouette could see and feel and think about was that bird. What was it doing out here so late at night? Why was it up here so high?
She watched it flutter and dip as it played obliviously in the rippling air currents.
And then, it was gone. Swooping gracefully upward and disappearing into the dark night sky.
The elevator clanked into place, and its metal door rumbled open to reveal a small, octagonal room with gleaming marble floor tiles and decorative mirrors on each wall. Inside, a miniature chandelier hung from the ceiling and a heavy titan-embossed door stood like a sentry before her.
She slowly stepped off the elevator and into the chamber. It was like stepping into a tiny version of the Grand Palais. Or how she’d always imagined the Grand Palais to look.
Her heart gave a heavy thump as the door behind her clanged shut, sealing her inside.
There were no windows in here. Just her own terrified face reflected back at her an infinite number of times.
Uncertainly, she glanced around. Was she supposed to do something? Or say something? Her thoughts were cut off by a sudden whirring noise. Alouette yelped in shock just as the sound crescendoed to a high-pitched squeal. A blinding flash seared at her eyes, and all the mirrors in the room morphed into a series of glowing panels. Some of them glimmered with waterfalls of white dots, while others flashed with rows of pulsating red and blue lines. A dizzying sequence of synchronized lights roved and darted across Alouette’s face, then her neck, her chest, her stomach, her hips, her legs, and finally her feet.
Fear instantly began to rise up inside of her. Like an unwanted and engulfing wave. It ramped up her pulse and gnawed at her gut until she felt like she might faint.
And then, a siren blared.
Loud and boisterous and most definitely wrong.
Alouette’s breath quickened as panic overtook her. On one of the panels, the glowing red and blue lines flickered harder and faster like an ominous warning sign.
Doubt started to creep in. Had this been a mistake? Was this fragile hope she held in her heart nothing more than the whims and fantasies of a motherless girl desperate to give her life and past meaning?
Alouette turned around and lunged toward the elevator door. She ran her fingertips around the surface, searching for a handle or control panel, but there was nothing. She banged mercilessly, but it didn’t open.
The sirens continued to blare, and the strips of red and blue lights pulsated harder, peaking at the top of the panel. It was as if the whole room was screaming at her to get out. Telling her how wrong she’d been to come here in the first place.
Alouette’s knees buckled, and she sank down to the marble floor. She held her hands over her ears, trying to block out the sirens, but it only made the sound of her own pounding heart louder.
BumBumBumBumBumBum.
It sounded like an engine running on full throttle, moving faster and faster with no hope of slowing down. And all around her, her fear was mirrored in those pulsing blue and red lights.
BumBumBumBumBumBum.
They seemed to move in perfect synchronicity with her heart. Almost as though they were …
She gasped and stared in wonderment at the ring of glowing panels.
… monitoring her.
Then, in a moment of sudden realization, Brigitte’s words came rushing back.
“The person accessing the lock must also be alive and not under duress.”
Alouette shut her eyes and tried to reach out to her favorite sister, far across the Secana Sea, imprisoned on that little, unknown island. Alouette had to believe that she was still alive and that if she just listened hard enough, Jacqui would speak to her.
“Fear is like a wave. It comes and then it goes away. Just try to breathe.”
Alouette knew the voice was only a memory. An echo of a long-ago time. But, like always, the simple, unadorned words were just what she needed to hear.
She drew in a long, deep breath through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. Then again. And again. As she breathed deeply, she allowed her mind to drift back to the only place she could think to go.
The low-lit hallways and rugged walls. The smell of her father’s bread baking in the oven. The sound of Sister Muriel’s beads rattling through her fingers as she ate. The warm glow of the lights in Sister Laurel’s propagation room. Sister Jacqui’s kind smile. Principale Francine’s stern, but always steady gaze.
A safe place. A refuge.
Her heart began to slow.
Her fear evaporated.
She opened her eyes and peered upward. The red and blue lines had calmed to a low, even flutter on the panel above. And the small chamber had fallen silent.
Slowly and calmly, Alouette got back to her feet.
“Initial phase complete,” a pleasant voice rang out across the room, and Alouette let out a long, shuddering breath. “Commencing phase two.”
Suddenly, something protruded from the ceiling and clamped around Alouette’s neck and head, holding her in place. She yelped and her heart immediately started to race again.
The red and blue lights on the panel pulsated angrily in response.
Deep breaths, she reminded herself. Relax.
The clamp tightened around her head and a high-pitched whine reverberated into her ears.
“You are the bird,” she whispered soothingly. “A Little Lark drifting in the warm currents.”
And then she felt it. Quick and sharp and painful, puncturing the top of her head. She fought back a shriek as something burrowed into her skull. She longed to scream, to lunge with her hands and stop whatever was happening. But then, the panel in front of her flickered and changed. A strange honeycomb grid of light began to form and spread and connect. Like puzzle pieces coming together from all sides, creating a complex web of intersecting shapes that then proceeded to shrink and morph into something bigger. Something even more beautiful and elegant and twisting, like two entwined, dancing snakes. Alouette recognized the imagery from her studies. The panel was mapping out an intricate network of molecules.
The double helix of her very being.
“A modified gene that can only be found in certain cells of the brain,” she whispered aloud, remembering Brigitte’s words.
This horrifying device was analyzing her brain from the inside. A moment later, she felt the needle retract. The squealing sound abated—both inside the room and in her mind—and the clamps finally released her.
Alouette reached up and touched the sore spot on the top of her scalp. When she pulled her fingers away, they were dotted with blood.
Her blood.
Paresse blood.
From a direct descendant of the Patriarche.
Alouette knew this to be true even before the voice in the small chamber announced, “Match confirmed,” and the heavy PermaSteel door in front of her eased open.
- CHAPTER 73 - MARCELLUS
GENERAL BONNEFAÇON TURNED AROUND.
Marcellus took a step closer.
General Bonnefaçon’s gaze flicked to the weapon clutched in Marcellus’s hand.
Marcellus aimed.
General Bonnefaçon laughed.
It was a cruel, mirthless laugh that sent shivers down Marcellus’s spine and caused his finger to hesitate, ever so slightly, against the trigger.
“Put down the TéléCom,” Marcellus commanded, surprised to hear the steadiness in his voice. The noticeable lack of a tremor. “It’s over, Grand-père.”
The general peered back at the carnage on the Imperial Lawn below. “It’s not over, Marcellus. It’s not even close to being over.”
“Put it down now.”
The general’s grip around the device tightened.
“Put it down, or
I’ll shoot.”
This made the general laugh again. “No, you won’t. You don’t have what it takes to shoot me. You never did. You were never a fighter, Marcellus. You were never the great strategist I tried so desperately to raise you to be.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Marcellus countered.
That seemed to amuse the general. He tilted his head, considering. “That is true. But unfortunately, you’ve already lost.”
Marcellus felt his temper flare at the words. He gritted his teeth. “No, I haven’t. You have.”
His grandfather clucked his tongue. “Don’t you see, Marcellus? You are all alone. There’s no one to help you now. You have no allies left. Your friends are gone. Your little hacker is back in the directeur’s custody. Your beloved Fret rat is somewhere down there probably getting torn limb from limb. And I already caught your blood whore.”
Marcellus flinched at the words. Blood whore? Was he talking about Alouette? Had she and Cerise really both been caught?
“She thought she was so clever,” the general spat, his knuckles turning white around the edges of the TéléCom. “Little Madeline Villette. She thought she could swoop in here and take everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve.”
Marcellus’s brow furrowed. What was he talking about? Was he trying to distract Marcellus? Confuse him into lowering his weapon? It wouldn’t work. Marcellus held his rayonette strong and steady, the barrel pointed directly at his grandfather’s chest.
“But the blood whore gave herself away when she walked into that bordel last week,” the general went on. “I never believed for a second that she was really dead. Did her mother actually think that I would buy her desperate, pathetic story and give up? Just like that? I have spent the past sixteen years setting traps for that girl. Monitoring blood at the bordels, the med centers, the Policier Precincts. I have searched to the ends of this system for her. But up until a week ago, it was as though the wretched girl had simply disappeared. I knew she was still out there, though. And I knew that one day she would make a mistake. She would reveal herself. As usual, I was right.”
Marcellus still had no idea what his grandfather was talking about. He’d been trying to track down Alouette for sixteen years? Why? Marcellus told himself to remain calm. Stay focused. His grandfather was just toying with him, attempting to break his concentration. But he would not break. He would pull this trigger, and he would put an end to it all.
Do it.
Do it now!
From the balcony, Marcellus could still hear the mayhem on the Imperial Lawn below. Bodies being torn apart. People screaming. Officers shouting commands to try to restore order. And yet, somehow, his finger was frozen. Paralyzed.
Why couldn’t he do it?
“I told you,” General Bonnefaçon sneered, mocking Marcellus’s hesitation. “Your heart is too soft. It’s always been a flaw of yours that I despised. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve never brought down a single bird on all those hunting trips. Not because you can’t shoot. But because you can’t kill. It’s not in your nature, Marcellus.” He let out a low chuckle. “It’s a shame really. You got your father’s cowardice and your mother’s tender heart. A terrible combination.”
Every molecule inside of Marcellus caught fire at once. “My father was a hero!” he roared. “He had the courage to stand up to you and this entire Regime. He joined the Vangarde because he wanted to make the planet a better place. And so did I.” A heavy lump formed in his throat, softening his voice. “I still do. Which is why you won’t get away with this. I know everything. I know you framed my father for the copper exploit. I know you killed the Premier Enfant. I know you’re trying to kill the Patriarche so you can take control of the planet. And I won’t let you get away with it.”
Suddenly, there was a blur of movement as the general launched himself toward Marcellus. Marcellus pulled the trigger, but it was too late. He didn’t have the aim. He didn’t have the steadiness. His grandfather barreled into him like a voyageur breaking atmosphere. He heard something crack that he was pretty sure was a rib. The rayonette slipped from his grasp. He fell to the ground, the impact knocking the breath and the fight right out of him.
No! he thought desperately. He would not let this happen again. He would not lie down on another cold marble floor and let himself be beaten. He was not that boy anymore.
He was the son of Julien Bonnefaçon.
He was raised by Mabelle Dubois.
He had the blood of rebels in his veins and the words of revolutionaries in his head.
The kick came, swift and powerful and merciless. Marcellus rolled, dodging his grandfather’s boot just before it made contact with his side. He scrabbled up to his knees and reached for the rayonette, but another kick landed on his hand and he cried out in pain. The general bent down to grab the weapon. Marcellus let out a roar and dove toward him, clobbering him with his entire aching, sore body. The rayonette skittered across the room, disappearing under a chaise on the balcony.
The two men clashed like First World warriors, throwing punches wherever they would land, grabbing clothes and limbs and flesh, fighting for position. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcellus saw a glint of something shiny on the floor. A screen. It was his grandfather’s TéléCom, obviously having been dropped in the scuffle. And the TéléReversion program was still running. Still controlling all those people outside. Compelling them to fight. To kill.
Something exploded in Marcellus’s chest. A mixture of hope and desperation and fire. He jumped to his feet and darted forward, his fingers grasping desperately for the device, but he was halted by a splinter of pain that suddenly shot down his spine as his grandfather’s fist slammed into his back. The TéléCom slipped from his hand. The room spun. Marcellus swayed dizzily and felt himself starting to go down again. Another fist came flying at his face. Marcellus staggered backward from the blow, blood spurting from his nose.
When his vision finally cleared, his stomach clenched at the sight of the general reaching toward the holster on his belt, pulling out his own rayonette, and taking aim at Marcellus’s head.
“Fortunately for me, you and I don’t have the same problem. I can pull the trigger.”
The general’s finger squeezed. Marcellus shut his eyes. He didn’t want the last thing he ever saw in this life to be his grandfather. Instead, he thought of his father. He thought of Alouette. And Cerise. And Gabriel. And of course, Chatine.
He hoped they were safe.
Even though he knew they were not.
No one was safe anymore.
And he was all alone.
A hush fell over the room. Over the entire Palais. Marcellus was certain the silence was proof that it had already happened. That he was already dead. But a moment later, his eyelids fluttered open and he saw that the general was no longer standing in front of him with his rayonette raised. He was standing on the balcony, staring out at the Imperial Lawn. In his hands, he held his TéléCom again, and he was jabbing mercilessly at the screen.
And that’s when Marcellus realized what the silence really was.
The fighting had stopped.
The Imperial Lawn had fallen deathly quiet. Like someone had pushed pause on a broadcast.
Marcellus rushed out to the balcony to see the miracle for himself, and just as he suspected, the banquet guests were all just standing there, motionless in their ripped and bloodied dresses and tuxedos. They were wearied soldiers who had just woken from a deadly trance and were now staring in bewilderment at the aftermath of a battle they never chose to fight.
The silence was broken by a commotion and people yelling. Marcellus’s gaze snapped toward the stage in the center of the lawn to see a flutter of activity and the flash of the Patriarche’s recognizable auburn hair as his guards ushered him across the grass, up the stone steps, and into the safety of the Palais.
“Sols!” the general swore, prodding relentlessly at his TéléCom. On the screen, Marcellus could see the TéléReversi
on program was still running. But no one was fighting.
What happened?
He stared out at the carnage on the Imperial Lawn. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Some still stirring. Some not moving at all. So much blood. So much death. And for what? The general had failed. The Patriarche still lived.
One man in a ripped blue tuxedo was standing dazedly over a fallen officer. But he wasn’t looking down at his victim. He was looking at his Skin, which Marcellus suddenly noticed was completely black.
Marcellus cast his eyes farther across the lawn and saw more Third Estaters doing the same. Peering down at a darkened void implanted in their arms. One woman tapped hastily on the screen, another tried to speak into her Skin, but nothing happened.
It was as though they were no longer Skins at all.
They were just empty shackles, connected to nothing.
With a roar of frustration, the general’s head snapped up from his TéléCom and focused on something in the distance. Something far away from the Palais gardens. Confused, Marcellus tried to follow his gaze, but before he could make sense of what he was looking at, his grandfather spun around and stalked toward the door to the hallway. It was as though Marcellus was suddenly invisible. Their previous altercation forgotten. The general was on a new mission now. One that apparently only he understood.
But Marcellus had not forgotten.
Ducking down, he reached under the chaise for his fallen rayonette and hoisted it into the air, taking aim at his grandfather once more.
“Arrête,” he said in a low, ominous tone.
The general turned around and, upon seeing the weapon back in Marcellus’s hand, let out a deep groan, as though Marcellus had turned from a minor threat to a major inconvenience.
“Haven’t we been through this already?” his grandfather snapped.
“I can’t let you walk out that door, General.”
“And, as we’ve established, you can’t kill me. So, it appears we are at an impasse.”
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