Sky Without Stars

by Jessica Brody

  Marcellus’s hand fell from his pocket, heat flooding to his cheeks. “Of course, yes, right.”

  The Patriarche narrowed his watery gray eyes. “What on Laterre is the general good for, if he can’t be here when I need him?”

  Marcellus could think of a lot of things his grandfather was good for, but of course he didn’t respond. Everyone knew, despite the Patriarche being the official head of state, that General Bonnefaçon and the Ministère were the real rulers of Laterre. They were the ones who maintained the peace, managed the Regime, and most importantly, kept the Third Estate in line. The Third Estate made up 95 percent of the population, which meant if they were ever to rebel—really rebel—the First and Second Estates wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “Mon chéri.” The sudden sound of the Matrone’s words silenced everyone in the room. Her voice was ragged and breathless, barely more than a whisper. “Where is he? Where is the general? He has to catch the monster who did this to our Marie.”

  “Oh, he will, ma chérie, he will,” the Patriarche growled over his shoulder before grabbing Marcellus by the lapels and pulling him so close, Marcellus could feel the Patriarche’s breath on his face.

  “Citizen Rousseau is behind this,” the Patriarche said in a harsh whisper. “She is responsible.”

  “Citizen Rousseau?” Marcellus could barely get the words out. All he could think about was how close the Patriarche was to his chest. How, with just one misplaced hand, he would find the shirt still stuffed down the front of his uniform.

  “Yes, Citizen Rousseau, you imbécile!” the Patriarche growled. “The vile woman my father put behind bars! Don’t tell me you’re so incompetent you don’t even know who Citizen Rousseau is.”

  “No, of course I know—”

  The Patriarche pulled Marcellus even closer. “The Vangarde is making a comeback. I am certain of it. And Citizen Rousseau is behind this . . . this”—he stuttered and fumed—“murder. I need to know where she is. And I need to know now.”

  Marcellus swallowed hard and fought the urge to glance down at the Patriarche’s hands, which he knew were only centimètres away from his father’s shirt. Why hadn’t he stashed it somewhere in the Frets? The rough fabric scratched at his skin, chastising him, reminding him how close he was to being caught.

  “Citizen Rousseau remains in solitary confinement on Bastille,” Marcellus said, instilling his voice with as much confidence as he could muster. “Five droids surround her cell every hour of every day.”

  Marcellus knew this for a fact. During his training, he’d learned about the high-security measures in place to secure Laterre’s most dangerous enemy.

  “That woman could take down five droids with her eyes closed,” the Patriarche spat. “How do we know she’s still there?”

  Marcellus fought back a groan. Over the years, Citizen Rousseau’s reputation had reached the status of legendary. Since Marcellus was a child, he’d heard her described as being larger than a giant, stronger than ten droids, and even capable of shooting lasers from her eyeballs. But he knew better than to argue with the Patriarche.

  Plus, if Mabelle had managed to escape, who’s to say Citizen Rousseau couldn’t escape too?

  Then again, Mabelle hadn’t been in maximum-security lockdown thirty hours a day.

  “I’ll contact the warden right away,” Marcellus said. “We’ll get proof that she is still secure in her cell.”

  The Patriarche considered this solution and eventually released his grasp on Marcellus, backing away. Marcellus tried not to let his relief show as he reached into his pocket, pulled out his TéléCom, and unfolded it across his palm. He spoke clearly into the screen. “AirLink request for Warden Gallant.”

  The Patriarche huffed and started to pace again, as though the logistics of the communication process bored him immensely.

  Within a few seconds, the warden of Bastille appeared on the screen, sitting behind a desk in his oak-paneled office at the Ministère headquarters. He was a small, compact man with crisp silver hair and a cool, unreadable gaze.

  “Officer Bonnefaçon,” he greeted Marcellus.

  Marcellus wasted no time with pleasantries. “The Patriarche requests visual access to Citizen Rousseau’s cell.”

  The warden nodded. “Yes, Officer. Right away.”

  The image dissolved, replaced with a high-angle shot of a woman curled up on the floor of a dirty cell, her knees drawn to her chest, her head lolling on the bare stones beneath her. She looked so small, so shrunken, so emaciated, so harmless. In her vulnerable fetal position, it was hard to believe that this was the woman who’d caused so much death and destruction seventeen years ago. Who’d rallied legions to her cause with her charismatic rhetoric and promises of change. This crumpled, tiny shell of a woman, in her sullied blue prison uniform, had once been the architect of mayhem and carnage. Now she stared unblinking at the nothingness of her cell.

  As Marcellus watched her—her shallow breathing, her shivering limbs—he found himself thinking of his father. Of his last days curled up in a cell like this one. Of his withered body lying on that gurney in the morgue.

  But then he felt the Patriarche by his side and hastily shoved the thoughts from his mind.

  “Sol-damn woman,” the Patriarche said with a snarl.

  Marcellus cleared his throat and spoke into the TéléCom, struggling to keep his voice steady and assertive. “Warden Gallant, has there been any . . . uh . . . breach in security of this cell in the recent weeks?” Marcellus almost laughed at his own question. This woman was barely able to stand up, let alone plot an assassination.

  The warden’s face reappeared in a small frame in the bottom right corner of the screen. Marcellus turned on the TéléCom’s speakers so the Patriarche could hear. “No, Officer.”

  The Patriarche grabbed the TéléCom from Marcellus. “Has she spoken to anyone?” he demanded. “Has she received or sent any messages?”

  “No, Monsieur Patriarche,” the warden replied, without a moment’s hesitation. “Citizen Rousseau is on full lockdown and in complete isolation. Her security status has not changed.”

  The Patriarche grunted and thrust the TéléCom back at Marcellus.

  “Would you like me to request archived footage of the cell?” Marcellus asked.

  “No,” the Patriarche barked. “That won’t be necessary.”

  As Marcellus disconnected the AirLink and returned the device to his pocket, he couldn’t help feeling a small rush of pride. He’d done it. He’d handled the situation, assuaged the Patriarche. And without his grandfather’s help.

  The Patriarche collapsed onto a nearby chaise, holding his hand over his eyes. Marcellus wondered if this was his cue to leave. He was desperate to get to the safety and privacy of his own quarters, wash away the dirt and blood, and steal a moment for himself to think. And most important, he was desperate to rid himself of this anchor weighing down the front of his uniform.

  It was making him feel more like a traitor—like his father—by the second.

  But before he could contemplate his escape any further, a ping echoed through his audio patch, informing him of an incoming alert. He reached for his TéléCom again before noticing that Chaumont already had his out and was staring wide-eyed at the screen.

  “What is it?” the Patriarche demanded, clearly having noticed the advisor’s reaction. He was back out of his chair, stomping over to Chaumont.

  Chaumont lowered the TéléCom and spoke somberly to the entire room. “An update from the Ministère headquarters. On the status of the investigation.”

  The Matrone turned her distraught face toward the advisor. Her gaggle of handmaids stopped fluttering to listen as well.

  “A suspect has been identified and detained,” the advisor announced.

  Marcellus drew in a breath. The room remained deathly quiet. When the advisor did not continue right away, the Matrone whispered in her hoarse, despairing voice, “Who? Who is it?”

  Chaumont shared a look w
ith a fellow advisor, as though trying to summon strength from his colleague. “It’s Nadette Epernay.”

  Marcellus felt the room spin. He reached behind him for the top of a chair and gripped it tightly to keep from falling over, trying to assure himself it was his recent head wound—not the name—that had shaken him. He hadn’t known Nadette well, but he’d seen her with the child. He knew how much she cared for Marie.

  “Nadette?” the Patriarche roared, clearly as disbelieving of the news as Marcellus was.

  “Affirmative,” Chaumont replied, his voice impressively steady given the circumstances. “It would seem your daughter was poisoned by her own governess.”

  - CHAPTER 18 -

  CHATINE

  THE GRAND PALAIS.

  One of the richest, most lavish, most expensive buildings in all of the System Divine. Built to show Laterre’s friends—and enemies alike—just how powerful and successful this Regime had become in its 505 short years of existence. This was where heads of state from Reichenstat, Novaya, Usonia, Kaishi, Samsara, and all the other major allies of Laterre were brought together to be wined and dined and impressed.

  The only members of the Third Estate who were ever allowed into the Grand Palais were servants and, once a year, Ascension winners, who were invited to a banquet with the Patriarche and Matrone. Never in her eighteen years of life did Chatine ever expect to find herself inside Ledôme, let alone inside the Grand Palais.

  And yet there she was, being guided by Inspecteur Limier himself through a door adorned with titan that could easily feed a hundred families in the Frets for an entire year. Her leg, still numb from the paralyzeur, dragged slightly behind her as they traveled across a grand foyer and down a long, lavish corridor with purple silk carpeting and titan-framed paintings on every wall. Chatine tried hard not to stare. She tried not to outwardly gawk, but it was impossible. Her eyes couldn’t process what she was seeing. Her mind couldn’t add it up, couldn’t calculate the worth fast enough. She had seen parts of the Grand Palais on her Skin. But it was something else entirely to be standing in the middle of it.

  The paintings on the walls were certainly all First World relics, cherished works of art from another time, another planet.

  She turned to the painting to her left and slowed to a stop. It appeared to be a portrait of a young woman in a blue and yellow head scarf, glancing back over her shoulder. She had a glowing white orb hanging from her ear, which reminded Chatine of a star set against the dark sky.

  Chatine wondered how much a painting like this would fetch. A thousand tokens? A hundred thousand? Probably more, but Chatine didn’t even know any numbers higher than that. She doubted Third Estate accounts could even hold that many largs.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Inspecteur Limier’s sharp voice clicked from behind her. “You’d never even get one foot out the door.”

  Chatine felt her teeth clench at being so easily marked by the insufferable cyborg. Yet, she still forced herself to turn around and flash him the breeziest, most innocent of smiles. “Whatever do you mean, Inspecteur? I was simply admiring the beautiful artwork.”

  She walked over to the next painting. If you could even call it that. It looked more like someone had thrown buckets of paint on the wall and then smeared it with frenzied hands.

  Chatine clucked her tongue approvingly, trying to conjure up her best impression of the Matrone with her long vowels and lilting cadence. “Would you look at this one! Isn’t it fantastique? Simply deeevine. Is it your work, Inspecteur? Or did one of your droids paint this?”

  The inspecteur kicked her in the back of her dead leg, almost causing her to fall into the painting. “Go,” he commanded.

  Chatine continued her parody of the Matrone, letting out a buoyant laugh as she tossed an invisible strand of hair. “Oh, Inspecteur, how easily you anger! You must have some more smoked salmon to calm your poor nerves!”

  “Walk, déchet!” he scolded, using the word for the Third Estate that Chatine despised. She suddenly felt anger boil up inside of her again. How dare he call her garbage? At least she still had human emotion, which was more than she could say for him.

  “Silly Inspecteur,” she said, turning around to continue her charade. But she was so busy prancing and acting like the lunatic Matrone that she didn’t even notice she had reached the end of the corridor. That is, until she pranced right into something hard and imposing. She staggered slightly from the impact, took a step back, and glanced up into the stark hazel eyes of a face she knew all too well. A face she’d seen often on the screen of her Skin, but prayed she’d never ever meet in person. It was the face she feared more than Inspecteur Limier, more than the Policier droids, more than Bastille itself.

  A chill ran down her spine as she took in his height, frame, and immaculate white uniform. She swallowed hard and immediately lowered her eyes to show respect. And through her dry, scorched throat and jagged breaths, she finally managed to squeak out, “Good evening, General Bonnefaçon.”

  - CHAPTER 19 -

  CHATINE

  “ARE YOU ALWAYS THIS QUIET?” the general asked.

  Chatine sat in the imposing, wood-paneled office with her heart in her throat and her hands tucked between her knees. She hadn’t looked up nor made eye contact with the general since she’d walked in here a few minutes ago. She was still too mortified about what had happened in the hallway, when she’d literally pranced right into him. And Chatine was never mortified.

  Then again, Chatine never pranced, either.

  She had no idea what had come over her.

  “Yes, monsieur,” Chatine replied softly.

  “And such good manners,” the general remarked, clearly mocking her.

  Chatine simply nodded.

  “Not exactly the report I got from Inspecteur Limier. He seemed to imply you had somewhat of a problem with authority. He’s told me much about you and your parents, and your unorthodox . . . means.” The general clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Not exactly the kind of ‘honest work’ we endorse at the Ministère.”

  Chatine bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from lashing out. Was that what this was about? Did he drag her all the way in here just to tell her to check in to her Skin more often? Collect more Ascension points? Pay into a sham of a system that could easily erase all your hard-earned tokens with the push of a button?

  “Your sister, however,” he continued. “Now, she is a model of immaculate Third Estate behavior.”

  “My sister is delusional,” Chatine muttered hotly under her breath, unable to keep her frustration inside any longer.

  The general let out a small bark of a laugh. “I might say the same thing about you.”

  Chatine grunted, although after the events of the day, she was starting to wonder if the general was right. Was she as delusional as her sister?

  “I think you’ll find I know pretty much everything there is to know about you, Théo.” The general’s smile turned sinister. “Or, shall I say, Chatine?”

  Chatine’s head whipped up, and she locked eyes with the general. She fought hard to keep her expression neutral, but she was certain the shock was written all over her face. The general stood up and began to walk slowly around the desk, coming dangerously close to Chatine.

  She squeezed her thighs tighter together, until she could no longer feel the blood in her fingers.

  “For instance, I know your parents were chased out of Montfer ten years ago for being con artists and crooks. I know that your father is the head of the Délabré gang, who specialize in conning and terrorizing people in the Frets. I know that you haven’t shown up for a single day of honest work since you arrived in Vallonay, despite your very generous job assignment in the textile fabrique.”

  The general vanished momentarily behind her chair before reappearing on her other side. As he walked, he seemed to be deep in thought, as though he were trying to figure out what exactly he was going to do about her family’s long list of crimes.r />
  He reached for the TéléCom on his desk and swiveled it around. “I also know,” he said as he pressed play and Chatine’s own face appeared on the screen, “that you steal from the dead.”

  Chatine swallowed as she watched the footage play out on the screen. It was taken from that same morning, at the morgue. The sound was off and all she could see was herself fighting to get the leveler back from Marcellus, and Marcellus holding it out of her reach with an amused expression on his face.

  Chatine’s whole body clenched. She was right. She was here because of the morgue. Because of him. That pomp officer had turned her in.

  “It’s not my fault,” she pleaded, immediately launching into her pitiful I’m-the-daughter-of-crooks charade. It was usually a safe bet. “I was only doing what my father bid me to do. The leveler was his idea from the start. I don’t even like using it. But he forces me to. I swear I—”

  The general let out a hearty laugh, stopping Chatine midsentence. “You think I brought you all the way up here for that?” He paused the playback and pointed at the leveler still in Marcellus’s hand on the screen.

  Chatine closed her mouth, confused. If this wasn’t about the leveler, then why in the name of the Sols was she here?

  “I brought you here because of that.” He dragged his finger a centimètre across the screen from Marcellus’s hand to his face. Then, in one swift motion, he zoomed in to the frozen image, filling the entire screen with Marcellus’s gleaming smile.

  Chatine wasn’t following.

  “That,” the general went on, “is not the look of someone who is distrustful of a Third Estate crook. That is the look of someone who is amused. Intrigued. Charmed, even.”

  He punched his finger against the screen, linking to the audio chip implanted in Chatine’s ear, before resuming playback. Now Chatine could hear her own conversation with the officer.

  “It’s mine!” her gruff voice shouted. “Give it back!”