“They would need to feed you up, though,” Marcellus added after a moment, cocking his head to the side to study Chatine. All of Chatine.
Heat rose, instantly and surprisingly, to her cheeks. She was blushing. Something that never happened to her. But no one had ever stared at her for this long before. Not her parents. Not her sister. No one. Her heart did a quick double beat behind her ribs.
Had he noticed something when her hood slipped?
She decided the best thing to do was to stare back at him, firm and fierce.
“What?” he said, raising his arms in mock surrender. “I was just saying you could do with some meat on your bones.” He ducked his head slightly. “Are you hungry?”
“I don’t want food,” she snarled, but even as she said it, she felt her empty stomach clench. She pointed at the leveler still in his hand. “I want what belongs to me.”
Marcellus looked from Chatine to the device and then back again. He was clearly thinking. But Chatine didn’t have the time nor the patience for his thinking.
“It’s mine!” she shouted. “Give it back!”
“Okay, okay,” Marcellus said in a tone that almost sounded kind. “Listen, I’ll offer you a deal.”
Chatine crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t do deals.”
Marcellus smirked and glanced down at the leveler again. “Something tells me you’re the kind of kid who does do deals.”
“Just give it back to me.”
Chatine was growing more and more agitated. How dare this guy swagger in here, wearing his dazzling white uniform, smirking his annoying smirk, and steal her stuff? He might be the grandson of General Bonnefaçon, but that didn’t give him the right to be such a pretentious, arrogant—
“If you come with me and let me get you something to eat, I’ll give this back to you.” He waved the leveler, taunting her. “That’s the deal.”
Chatine narrowed her eyes. It had to be a trap. He clearly thought she was a gullible sot. Typical arrogant Second Estate, thinking they could fool anyone with empty promises. Well, they couldn’t fool her.
“Go with you?” she asked skeptically.
“Yes.”
“And get food?”
He nodded. “Anything you want. Cheese. Salmon. Fresh-baked brioche. The Matrone has some gâteau she’s trying to get rid of.”
Chatine heard her stomach growl. She was so, so hungry.
Traitor, she reprimanded her gut.
But she couldn’t deny the fact that she was tempted by his offer. Very tempted. And for a moment—just a moment—she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to eat all those amazing foods. To taste real sugar on her tongue. To feel full for the first time in her life.
Then the moment passed, and she remembered who she was and, more important, whom she was dealing with.
Chatine let her hardened expression fall away and released a deep, grateful sigh. “Oh, monsieur,” she cooed. “Do you really mean it? You’d really feed me and take care of me and help me?”
Marcellus looked momentarily stunned by Chatine’s change of heart, but he quickly cleared his throat and replied. “Yes. Of course.”
“That is so kind of you, monsieur. So terribly kind. How would I ever repay your kindness?”
Marcellus fumbled for a response. “No need to repay me. I just want to help.”
Chatine took a small step forward and lowered her gaze. “I just . . . ,” she began to say, and then her voice broke and her next words were muffled by quiet sobs. “I just can’t believe anyone would do that. I can’t believe that you, an officer of the Ministère, would be so charitable and generous to such a poor, wretched boy like me.”
Marcellus chuckled uneasily. “Well, I’d like to think I’m different from my fellow officers.”
“Yes, monsieur,” Chatine said, sniffling, taking another step forward. “You most certainly are.” She lifted her head to meet Marcellus’s gaze with clear, focused eyes. “I’ve never met an officer as gullible as you.”
Then, before he could react, she snatched the leveler from Marcellus’s grip, spun quickly on her heel, and ran from the morgue as fast as her scrawny legs could carry her.
“Hey!” she heard Marcellus call after her, but she was quick. Too quick.
A moment later, she burst out of the Med Center and sprinted headlong toward Fret 17—the Capitaine’s territory. She had no doubt that pomp Marcellus would soon be calling for reinforcements, and she didn’t feel like dealing with any more droids today. She’d been waiting for this moment for too long.
This visit to the Capitaine would be her last. She was sure of it this time.
As Chatine ran, she thought about how easy that had been. How quickly the officer had believed she would actually fall for his pitiful little trap.
But more than anything, Chatine reprimanded herself for not taking advantage of the opportunity to steal something more valuable, like that titan ring she’d seen on his finger. It was a mistake she would be sure to remedy if she were ever to come face-to-face with Officer Bonnefaçon again.
- CHAPTER 7 -
CHATINE
BREATHLESS AND FATIGUED, CHATINE REACHED the top floor of Fret 17, the northwestern-most building in the Frets, and pulled her hood farther down her forehead. There were no couchettes up here. This was Capitaine Cravatte’s turf. She headed down the long corridor and knocked on the thick PermaSteel door at the end.
A moment later, the door screeched open and a tall, menacing figure stepped out of the shadows. Chatine lowered her gaze but kept her voice steady. “I’d like to see the Capitaine, please.”
“Again?” The guard sneered, revealing a checkerboard of missing teeth. “You don’t give up, do you, boy? What makes you think the Capitaine will want to see you again so soon?”
Chatine pressed her shoulders back, trying to appear taller and more muscular than she was. “I have enough this time. I swear.”
The guard looked skeptical. “That’s what you said last time. And yet . . .” He let the sentence hang but Chatine knew exactly what he was saying.
She wiggled her toes inside her boots. The leather had worn thin as her feet had continued to grow. Soon she’d be able to see her toenails poking through the black tips.
“Please,” she said, cringing at the high squeak of her voice.
The guard guffawed. “When are those tiny balls of yours going to drop?” He opened the door wider and motioned her inside.
Chatine followed the guard down the dimly lit corridor, avoiding the puddles of rain that had gathered beneath the cracks in the decaying roof. When they reached the Bridge, the guard remained in the hallway as Chatine stepped inside.
She always loved the view from the Bridge. Fret 17 was the tallest of the old freightships. Even on the rainiest of days, you could see almost all of Vallonay from up here. The rolling hills and the low, wet valleys. The Secana Sea and rusty docklands to the left and the rows of fabriques, fermes, and hothouses to the right. And of course, Ledôme, sitting high and regal atop the largest hill in the city, illuminated with that eerie glow of artificial Sol-light. Chatine tried to imagine what this view would have looked like 505 years ago, when Freightship 17 was barreling through space at hypervoyage speed, leaving behind the wreckage of a destroyed planet. When the stars were nothing but a vast glow of light. When her ancestors sat in their couchettes, dreaming of a promised better life on Laterre.
At what point did they realize they’d been tricked? Chatine always wondered.
Was it when they’d first arrived on Laterre only to find a rainy, gray planet that almost never saw the light of the Sols? Was it when they were put to work in the exploits and the fabriques while the Patriarche and Matrone and their First and Second Estates disappeared behind the walls of Ledôme to enjoy the fruits of their hard labor?
“I didn’t expect you back so soon.” The Capitaine’s voice interrupted Chatine’s reverie, and she blinked and stared at the throne-like chair that sat in th
e center of the Bridge, facing out the panoramic windows. The original glass, from when the freightship had been built on the First World, was long gone. Capitaine Cravatte had replaced it with sheets of plastique. The thin material kept out most of the rain but none of the cold.
Chatine shivered. “I have what you asked for, Capitaine. I have enough this time.”
The chair swiveled and Chatine kept her gaze fixed on the Capitaine’s disfigured features. She’d learned a long time ago not to look away, and it had become easier with time.
There were rumors about how the Capitaine had received his scars. Some said he fought in the failed Rebellion of 488 seventeen years ago and was burned by poisonous gases released by the Ministère. Some said he cut up his own face in order to extract a higher price for his services. Some said he was just born that way.
Chatine happened to believe he was betrayed by one of his comrades, and that was why he worked alone now and why he was guarded thirty hours a day. He’d lost his trust in people.
But it didn’t matter how the Capitaine came to be the way he was, just as long as he gave Chatine what she wanted.
“Let me see,” the Capitaine said.
Chatine pulled the collection of trinkets and relics from her pocket and spread the items out on the broken console in front of the Capitaine’s chair.
The man diligently studied each piece, running his fingers over the pair of solid titan cuff links she’d snatched off a Policier sergent a few weeks back.
When he reached the end of the collection, his face fell into a frown that exaggerated his sagging left eye. “This is exactly what you brought me last time. What makes you think it would suddenly be enough this time?”
Chatine fought to hide the triumphant smile that was forcing its way onto her face as she reached under her coat and unclasped the Sol medallion. “Because last time, I didn’t have this.”
She dropped the pendant onto the console, feeling satisfaction in the clink it made against the corroded metal.
The Capitaine’s frown vanished as he leaned forward to examine the new addition.
“A genuine First World artifact, rescued from the Last Days,” Chatine said, doing her best to up sell the value of her latest acquisition.
“It is beautiful.”
“But more important,” Chatine added, “it’s enough to pay for transport on the next trade voyageur to Usonia.”
The Capitaine cocked a dark eyebrow. “Are you still quite sure that’s where you want to go? You want to spend the rest of your life in a plastique bubble, billions of kilomètres from the Sols?”
“At least they can see the Sols.”
“It’s a very unstable planet these days,” the Capitaine said, sounding infuriatingly cryptic. “They signed their own death warrant when they broke free from the Albion queen. I don’t care how mad they claim her to be, people simply cannot be trusted to rule themselves.”
Chatine gritted her teeth. Why was he stalling? “I’ll take my chances.”
The Capitaine regarded her with what could only be described as curiosity. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those. Idolizing republics will only lead you to trouble, boy. They didn’t work on the First World, and they especially won’t work here in the System Divine. If your head is in the clouds with the rest of these idiots, I suggest you—”
“My head is soaked with rain. It’s too heavy to float in clouds,” Chatine interjected. She resented the implication that she would ever sympathize with revolutionaries. Here or on Usonia. She’d been dreaming of going to the farthest planet in the System long before they’d ever declared war against the mad queen of Albion. “I’m going to Usonia,” she maintained. “And you promised to save me a spot on the next trade voyageur.”
The Capitaine nodded, steepling his hands under his chin. “I did indeed promise you. If you brought me sufficient largs for passage.”
Chatine gestured to the assortment of stolen relics. “There is over eight thousand largs’ worth of trade here.”
“Which is not enough.”
Chatine scoffed. “What do you mean it’s not enough? That was our arrangement. Eight thousand largs to sneak me onto a trade voyageur to Usonia.”
The Capitaine pressed his lips together and slowly pushed the Sol necklace back toward Chatine with the tip of his crooked finger. “I’m afraid the price of passage has gone up.”
Chatine could feel her heart thundering in her chest. She fought to keep her temper in check. To keep from screaming at the top of her lungs like a spoiled little Fret rat. “How can that be?” she asked through gritted teeth. “I was here only three weeks ago. How could the price have gone up that fast?”
The Capitaine leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his lap. “Supply and demand, mon ami.”
“Supply and what?” She was starting to feel itchy, fidgety. She scratched at her arms, which were covered in tiny bumps from the cold air.
“Demand,” he repeated. “Apparently the Usonians have elected their first leader.” The Capitaine rolled his good eye. “Foolish sots.”
“What does that have to do with me or my transport?”
The Capitaine smiled an eerie, unsettling smile. “Some people might see this advancement as promising. Which means you’re not the only one who’s going to be asking for transport to Usonia in the days to come. Therefore, I have no choice but to raise the price. Regardless of my own opinion of what’s happening out there, I am a businessman, first and foremost.”
Chatine clenched her fists inside the sleeves of her coat. Three years she had been saving up for this. It had felt like a lifetime.
She had thought that medallion was her ticket off this Sol-forsaken planet. She had thought she had finally made it. But now her dream of leaving Laterre and her miserable family behind had never felt farther away.
“How much?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice from cracking.
“Fifteen thousand largs.” The Capitaine shrugged, clearly unapologetic.
Chatine drew in a sharp breath. “Fifteen thousand?” Tears formed in her eyes and she rapidly blinked them away. “But that’s nearly double what I have. It’ll take me years to steal that much! How am I ever supposed to—”
The Capitaine’s hand shot up. “This is not a negotiation. It’s fifteen thousand largs or a life in the slums of Laterre.” He let out a low chuckle and tapped on his Skin. “Or, of course, there’s always the Ascension. Who knows? You might get lucky today.”
Chatine glared at the Capitaine. His distorted features made it virtually impossible to gauge anything from his expression. But his next words sent a new chill through her already-chilled bones.
“The next trade voyageur to Usonia is scheduled to pass through in ten days,” the Capitaine said. “If you want on it, I suggest you don’t waste any more time.”
- CHAPTER 8 -
MARCELLUS
“IF YOU’LL JUST AUTHENTICATE HERE.” the médecin pointed at his TéléCom. “We can dispose of the body.”
Marcellus was standing in the foyer of the Vallonay Med Center, just outside the doors to the morgue. He glanced down at the device in the médecin’s hand. An image of his father’s face stared back at him from the screen.
Dispose. The word was so cold. So clinical. But Marcellus reminded himself that this was not a person. This was a traitor. A dead one. Disposal was the perfect end for Julien Bonnefaçon.
Marcellus waited for the TéléCom to scan him.
“Marcellus Bonnefaçon,” the computerized voice confirmed his identity. “Disposal authorized on day twelve of month seven, 505 ALD. Profile name: Julien Bonnefaçon, prisoner number 39874.”
And that was it.
His father—prisoner 3.9.8.7.4.—was gone.
• • •
By the time Marcellus left the Med Center, the rain was coming down in droves. In his seventeen years of life, he had yet to identify any pattern in the weather on Laterre. The rain seemed to come and go on a whim, which m
ade Marcellus very grateful for his warm, dry residence in Ledôme.
He buttoned up his long silver raincoat and started on foot toward the Marsh. The Med Center was one of the farthest buildings from the center of the Frets, but today, he didn’t mind the walk. Even in the rain. It gave him time to think about what he’d just done.
Not only the disposal of his father’s body, but before that as well.
He pressed his hand to the front of his coat, feeling the bulk of the fabric under the jacket of his uniform.
His father’s prisoner shirt.
He wasn’t sure what had prompted him to take it. One moment he was staring at it, spread out across his father’s chest, and the next he was scooping it up, turning his back to the security microcam once again, and stuffing the shirt down the front of his uniform.
He just couldn’t shake the feeling that the message sewn into the fabric had been meant for him.
Not that he had any hope of reading it. Marcellus hadn’t been able to read the Forgotten Word for years.
When he arrived in the vast and chaotic marketplace, Marcellus quickly located Inspecteur Limier near the statue of Thibault Paresse, the founding Patriarche of Laterre. The inspecteur was standing on top of a narrow platform, flanked by a small army of droids. The platform had been erected as a makeshift watchtower, to survey the crowd during the broadcasting of the Ascension.
Marcellus had never witnessed an Ascension before. Of course, he knew what they were, how they worked, how much they tended to rile people up, but he’d always been safely tucked away up in Ledôme when they were happening. Now that he was on course to be named the next commandeur, his training had been moved to the Frets. His grandfather wanted him to experience all of Laterre. The good and the bad.
“Officer Bonnefaçon.” Inspecteur Limier greeted Marcellus with a subtle nod.
“Inspecteur,” Marcellus said, returning the cold greeting.
“I see your maid has wrapped you up nicely for the weather.” The inspecteur peered down at Marcellus’s glossy silver raincoat, and Marcellus could swear he saw the hint of a smirk break through the cyborg’s impermeable façade. “How went your business in the Med Center?”
Sky Without Stars Page 6
