Marcellus tensed at the question, knowing it was an extension of his grandfather’s test. There was no one on Laterre more loyal to General Bonnefaçon than Inspecteur Limier, and whatever Marcellus did and said now would undoubtedly be reported back to his grandfather.
Marcellus searched for the perfect one-word answer. “Uneventful.”
The inspecteur’s head clicked toward Marcellus, and Marcellus could feel the heat of the cyborg’s orange eye roving across his face, searching for weaknesses, scanning his body temperature for spikes. Marcellus kept his eyes trained on the masses of people gathering in the Marsh, knowing that if he peered out of the corner of his vision, he would see the inspecteur’s circuitry flashing.
Marcellus had known plenty of cyborgs. A tenth of the Second Estate had some kind of neurological enhancements, but there was something about Inspecteur Limier that unnerved him. A brutal coldness that sent shivers down his spine whenever he looked at him. It was as if something had gone wrong during Limier’s operation, and the médecins had accidentally nicked something vital to his humanity.
“I despise Ascension day,” the inspecteur said, thankfully changing topics.
Marcellus didn’t respond. Instead he glanced out from the platform, taking in the Marsh in all of its misery. The decrepit market stalls and the piles of sorrowful vegetables for sale. He could see the mud, the squalor, the filth. He could smell the scent of rotting seaweed that was brought in daily from the nearby docks. A pitiful replacement for food. And then there was the giant crowd assembled. They were all there to watch the Ascension together. They’d turned it into a celebration of sorts. Stall owners dropped prices. Homemade weed wine was passed around in shared cups. Third Estaters who’d skipped their shifts at the fabriques played music by banging on kitchen pots and whistling through pieces of broken pipe. Minute after minute, they checked their Skins, wide-eyed and hopeful, waiting for the broadcast to begin. Some of them were close enough for Marcellus to see their shabby, wet clothes, their missing teeth, their sunken cheeks streaked with rain.
“The whole thing is pathetic,” Limier went on, raising his voice over the noise of the crowd. “They trade in the last of their tokens for more points, keeping themselves hungry for a lottery they’ll never win. Some of this lot will be dead from starvation before the next Ascension rolls around. These déchets have about as much chance of winning as I have of becoming Patriarche.”
Marcellus bristled at the vulgar word for the Third Estate. Déchets. Although Marcellus himself was counting the days until his training in the Frets was complete and he no longer had to step foot in this foul, filthy marketplace, he still couldn’t bring himself to see these people as garbage. He couldn’t look upon them the way he knew Inspecteur Limier did. The way most of the First and Second Estates did. His grandfather seemed to be the only person Marcellus knew who had any respect for them.
“Every estate has its place and purpose,” General Bonnefaçon always said. “The First Estate rules us, like the brain governing the body. We, the Second Estate, are the heart, providing the power and pulse. While the Third Estate are the legs on which we all stand.” He would always add with a gruff laugh, “Laterre is the envy of the System Divine because of how well our beautiful body functions.”
Looking out now at the crowd, Marcellus wondered how these sodden and sorry legs could ever hold up the body of Laterre.
The crowd gasped in collective excitement, interrupting Marcellus’s thoughts, and he noticed the flickering of images on the insides of their arms.
“Get ready,” Limier warned. “They tend to get rowdy when they don’t win.”
Marcellus pulled out his TéléCom and tapped on the Ministère’s feed to watch the proceedings. Music and energizing sound effects burst through the audio patch secured behind his ear, indicating the beginning of the broadcast. It started with a highlight reel. An amped-up, poignant montage of former Third Estaters who had Ascended and who were now living the life of luxury in Ledôme: selecting fine furniture for their brand-new manoirs, trying on clothes made of handspun cloth, dining at massive tables lined with gourmet meats and cheeses, lounging in the faux Sol-light that was projected onto Ledôme’s TéléSky.
It never rained in Ledôme. Not like here, where there was nothing to protect people from Laterre’s natural elements. In Ledôme, it was bright and luminous 408 days a year.
Then the montage came to a close and the Ascension’s familiar animated logo played: a pair of hands reaching toward Laterre’s three Sols. The music dimmed and a commanding, accented male voice spoke the motto that every member of the Third Estate had had drilled into them from the day they were born:
“Honest work for an honest chance.”
The crowd roared with enthusiasm, keeping their gazes glued to their Skins as their faces lit up with hope and optimism. They all wanted it so badly. A chance to live high on the hill, inside Ledôme. A chance to get out of their pathetic existence in these lowland slums.
The voice spoke again. “Someone’s life is about to change. Someone has put in their honest work for an honest chance, and that chance is now here. Someone is about to Ascend to the Second Estate.”
The crowd cheered louder. If they were cold, they barely noticed now. Their hope was keeping them warm.
“Just like the Ascendants before them,” the voice continued, “the chosen one will receive a brand-new manoir in Ledôme, where the Sols shine all year long! And, in just a few days, the lucky Ascendant will have the honor of meeting our beloved Patriarche and Matrone Paresse at the Grand Palais for the Ascension banquet.”
The image on the Skins changed, causing another ripple of excitement to move through the Marsh. This was the moment they’d all been waiting for. This was it.
A spinning wheel of faces flickered across the screens. Real Third Estaters from all over Laterre who had dutifully checked in to their Skins every day, clocked in at work on time, logged their hours, and did everything else the Ministère had asked of them. Dramatic music swelled as the faces spun, fast at first and then gradually slowing down. Soon it would come to a stop at the final one. The face of the next Ascendant.
Marcellus gazed out over the silent crowd. Everyone was transfixed, staring at their inner arms. Hooked on the idea that this time—this year—it could be their face that rolled into the winning spot.
As he watched their hopeful expressions, Marcellus found himself searching the crowd for the boy—the one who had so easily conned him in the morgue. He still couldn’t believe it had happened. No one had ever conned Marcellus in his life. No one had ever dared. It was a certain unspoken advantage of being the grandson of the mighty General Bonnefaçon. Third Estaters didn’t mess with you.
Surprisingly, however, the boy hadn’t actually stolen anything from Marcellus. That was what confused Marcellus the most. Limier had warned him on his first day of training in the Frets that many of the Third Estaters were thieves. Especially the children. They distract you with one thing and then promptly steal something else. But when Marcellus had checked his pockets after the boy had left the morgue, he’d found nothing missing.
He knew he still should have felt angry at the boy for conning him, but all he’d managed to feel in that moment was fascination. With just an ounce of respect.
And now, for some odd reason, Marcellus found himself hoping right along with the rest of these people in the Marsh. Hoping that the boy would be the one selected.
Marcellus didn’t even notice that his mind had wandered off until he heard the murmurings.
“The faces!”
“Where did they go?”
“Who won?”
“Who will Ascend?”
Marcellus glanced down at the TéléCom in his hand and suddenly understood their confusion and frustration. The Ministère’s feed had gone dark. The faces had stopped spinning.
No winner had been chosen.
Marcellus turned toward Inspecteur Limier, who, for once, looked baffled. He
immediately began murmuring something into his TéléCom, no doubt calling in to the Ministère for an explanation.
The crowd started to grow restless. The murmurs slowly turned to shouts of rage. Marcellus noticed the circuitry on Inspecteur Limier’s face blink to life as he analyzed the potential threat. The Policier droids stiffened, straightening up to their full height and arming their rayonettes.
A lightning bolt of dread shot through Marcellus. He turned toward Limier, waiting for orders. Waiting for information. But the inspecteur had fallen silent. And now all Marcellus could hear was the growing unrest of the crowd.
Then three sharp beeps echoed in Marcellus’s audio patch, signaling the commencement of a Universal Alert.
Everyone’s eyes returned to their inner arms, to the official Ministère seal glowing on their Skins: a silhouette of Laterre behind a pair of crisscrossed rayonettes.
Marcellus glanced down at his handheld device. His throat squeezed as the seal vanished and his grandfather’s face appeared on the screen.
“Fellow Laterrians. It is with great sorrow that I interrupt today’s Ascension ceremony with the most distressing of news.”
Marcellus looked to Inspecteur Limier to see if he knew what was coming, but the inspecteur gave nothing away. He glanced back into the crowd. A hush had fallen over the Marsh. The city. The planet.
“The Premier Enfant, two-year-old Marie Paresse, was found dead in the Grand Palais gardens earlier today.”
Marcellus suddenly heard a loud ringing in his ears. For a moment, he swore his audio patch had malfunctioned, causing him to misunderstand what his grandfather had said.
The Premier Enfant was found dead?
But that couldn’t be true. Marcellus had just seen her a few hours ago. She’d been in the banquet hall with them at brunch. He’d made her a napkin swan. There had to be some mistake.
He quickly peeled off his audio patch and reattached it behind his ear, making sure it was securely in place.
“The Chief Médecin has concluded that she died from an apparent poisoning,” the general continued, his voice crisp and clear. Marcellus’s stomach rolled.
Poisoning? Who would poison a two-year-old child? A sweet, innocent little girl?
“An investigation into this unspeakable crime is already under way,” the general went on. “But until we can ascertain who exactly is responsible and bring this criminal to justice, the Ascension will be canceled.”
Suddenly, the gruesome thoughts of poor little Marie choking among the rosebushes vanished from Marcellus’s mind, and he felt the breath hitch in his lungs. He glanced over again at the inspecteur and noticed him visibly stiffen. His circuits were flashing so rapidly, it looked like they were malfunctioning.
Marcellus didn’t need to be a cyborg to feel the shift in the air, to sense the instant change in the energy around him. The fear that pulsed through him was enough.
Anger rippled through the crowd. It was a coiled snake preparing to attack.
The first person lunged toward the platform. And Marcellus knew this would not end well.
Then, like a reply to his thoughts, there was a sudden flash of metal.
And a thud.
A searing, sharp pain splintered through his skull as his vision blurred. He pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling sticky, warm liquid pooling between his fingers. But he barely had time to assess the wound before he heard Inspecteur Limier shouting beside him.
“Rayonettes armed! Paralyze mode only! I want no casualties.”
Casualties?
Marcellus’s murky brain fought to comprehend what was happening.
Then he saw it. The angry crowd surging toward the platform, carrying rusting pieces of pipe ripped from the walls of the Frets and secondhand pots and pans grabbed from market stalls.
Marcellus reached for the rayonette strapped to his belt, only to realize a moment later that it was buried under his raincoat. He fumbled with the buttons, trying to unfasten them one by one, but his hands were shaking too hard and his fingers kept slipping on the blood.
Blood . . .
It was everywhere. Dribbling down his face and onto his coat. Dripping into his eyes, turning everything red. He wavered on his feet, feeling light-headed.
Do not pass out, he commanded himself. DO NOT PASS OUT.
Someone let out a roar, and Marcellus looked up just in time to see a man barreling toward him, a broken plank raised in his hand. Marcellus scurried backward, stumbling off the platform and into the fray.
He pushed through hundreds of bodies, his feet fumbling for traction. He kept pressing onward, fighting to stay awake, stay conscious. Through his blurry vision he could make out dark, musty hallways, an endless maze. The planet was spinning under his feet, and he could feel the blood still oozing from the cut on his head. He could taste it, the warm iron taste, dripping into his mouth. He tried to staunch the flow with his fingers, but it was coming too fast, and without both hands to steady himself, he was slipping, swaying.
Falling.
For a moment, it seemed he was suspended in time and space. The darkness creeping in like a black hole consuming a broken star. He was collapsing, his legs buckling beneath him. He crashed to the ground, trying desperately to hold on to his consciousness. Behind him, he heard voices. Some were screaming in terror, others in anger. Somewhere far in the distance, he swore he heard the whirring sound of a Policier transporteur arriving, bringing in reinforcements. More droids. He’d never thought he’d ever welcome the sound of more droids.
Get up, he commanded himself. But the pain in his head was too strong, his legs too weak. And his eyelids were so, so heavy.
“Bonnefaçon!” someone shouted in his audio patch. “Where are you?”
And that was the last thing Marcellus remembered before everything went black.
- PART 2 -
THREE SOLS
Three layers formed on Laterre, firm and unwavering like strata of rock. On the very top, the wealthy descendants of the Paresse family became the First Estate, the royalty of the land. Then came the Second Estate, serving and protecting and managing the planet. Finally, the vast Third Estate stretched out beneath, tilling the fermes, mining ore in the exploits, and crafting goods in the fabriques.
The Regime was steadfast and strong.
Until Laterre’s constant rain seeped into the cracks.
From The Chronicles of the Sisterhood, Volume 3, Chapter 1
- CHAPTER 9 -
ALOUETTE
MEALS IN THE REFUGE WERE always eaten in silence.
“Grateful Silence,” the sisters called it.
And Alouette Taureau was grateful today. Truly, she was. She knew it was a blessing to have a bowl of steaming potato soup for lunch when, elsewhere on Laterre, tiny children cried from hunger and parents fought with their fists over scraps of stale chou bread. Sister Jacqui said that some children in the Frets didn’t even have parents to fight for them. Alouette was grateful that she lived here in the Refuge of the Sisterhood, where they were safe and warm and where she never needed to beg or steal.
Or worse.
But it wasn’t the gratefulness that Alouette found difficult.
It was the speed.
Grateful Silence at mealtimes not only meant eating with no talking, it also meant eating with mindfulness and gratitude. In short, it meant eating very, very slowly. Old Sister Muriel was the expert at this. Under her halo of bright white curls, Sister Muriel always chewed each bite of her food twenty-five times. Twenty-five joyful and thankful times. Alouette struggled to get to four or five chews on a good day. And with soup?
Who could chew on soup?
Alouette knew that, like Muriel, she should be slowly enjoying every bite of the food her father had prepared for them. She knew that if she wanted to become a sister one day, she had to follow all the rules, pay attention in her lessons, study the Chronicles, help care for the books, and complete her chores with mindfulness and diligence.
And normally, she was mindful and diligent.
Today, however, it was more difficult than ever.
Because today, she had the transmitteur.
Alouette glanced around the Refuge dining room, taking in the ten sisters who were all quiet and focused on their soup. She slipped her free hand into the deep pocket of her tunic and felt for the small square of silicon. It was still there, nestled in the handkerchief she’d used to protect it.
So tiny. And yet so significant at the same time.
She fought the smile that threatened to break free on her lips.
Two months. That’s how long it had taken Alouette to build the transmitteur. A hundred and two days secretly toiling away at Sister Denise’s workbench, while Denise and the other sisters were locked away in the Assemblée room for their daily Quiet Contemplation. Two whole months.
And today was the day she would finally see if her hard work had paid off.
Alouette brushed her fingertips lightly around the edge of the transmitteur, thinking of all the potential this little device held. It was a key. A key to unlocking another piece of a world she didn’t know.
A world she barely remembered.
A world she hadn’t seen in person for over twelve years.
Even though it existed only ten mètres above her head.
Alouette felt a sharp nudge on her right arm that almost sent the spoon in her hand flying. She yanked her fingers out of her pocket and looked up to see Principale Francine, the head sister and the director of the Refuge, peering at her with steely gray eyes. She patted the air with a downward-faced palm and then glanced purposefully at Alouette’s bowl of soup. Alouette was eating too fast.
Slow down, she reminded herself. Slow down or they’ll know. . . .
As she lowered her gaze back to her soup, Alouette caught the eye of Sister Jacqui, her favorite of the sisters, who flashed Alouette one of her reassuring smiles. Jacqui’s short brown hair was sticking out at chaotic angles, and her free hand fidgeted with her devotion beads. Every sister wore a string of them around her neck, and Alouette couldn’t wait for the day she received her own. The day her own name would be engraved on one of those small metal tags that hung from the end.
Sky Without Stars Page 7
