Sky Without Stars

by Jessica Brody

Marcellus stepped away from the girl, out of her earshot, before reaching into his pocket and unfolding his TéléCom. “I’m here.”

  “The crowd is getting restless. We need to be prepared for another riot. I’ve already ordered more droids to be sent from the Precinct.”

  Marcellus stood up a little straighter, glancing anxiously around. The crowd did seem to be growing more agitated. They were still shouting at the platform, pushing and shoving at one another to get a closer look at the deathly contraption.

  “What do you want me to do?” Marcellus asked the inspecteur.

  “Get out of there.”

  Marcellus blinked, surprised. “What?”

  “Leave the Marsh. Now.”

  “No,” Marcellus immediately replied. “I can’t. I need to stay and protect the Regime. I need to do my job.”

  “And we saw how well that turned out on Ascension day.”

  Anger flashed inside Marcellus. He was about to respond when suddenly Limier was shoved backward by a mob of people. His face momentarily vanished from the screen. When he returned a few seconds later, he was shouting, trying to be heard above the noise. “The future commandeur of our Ministère can’t risk his life in a Third Estate riot. You’re the general’s grandson. You’re a target. If anything happens to you, the general will never forgive me. Get out, Bonnefaçon. That’s an order!”

  “Inspecteur,” Marcellus argued, but the connection was already cut.

  With a frustrated sigh, Marcellus pocketed his TéléCom and walked back over to Alouette. She was still staring fixedly at the platform. Even as the crowd continued to push in from all sides, she didn’t move. She seemed frozen to the spot.

  “Hey.” Marcellus maneuvered in front of her, blocking her view, forcing her to look at him. She did. And for a moment, Marcellus was speechless. He’d forgotten just how striking these eyes were. So vast and dark with a sparkle and a depth he’d never seen before. Certainly not anywhere on Laterre.

  “Are you okay?” he asked again, the urgency in his tone rising.

  Alouette seemed to snap awake from her trance. “Yes,” she said. But then, a second later, she shook her head violently and yelled, “No! No, I’m not okay. Why did they do that?” She jabbed a finger toward the platform and the terrible machine. Her big eyes gleamed with heat and fury. “She was just a girl. How could they do that?”

  “She murdered Mar—” Marcellus started to say the girl’s name, but it hitched in his throat. “The Premier Enfant.”

  “But they can’t. It’s a mistake.” Alouette’s voice grew more impassioned. “Death punished with more death? That never worked on the First World. I thought the Regime knew that. I thought that’s why they left it behind.”

  She was rambling now, and Marcellus found himself wondering again who this girl was.

  Who talked like that?

  “We should learn from history, not repeat it.” She stared at the now-empty platform, where, only a few moments ago, Nadette had been alive. “It’s not right.”

  As the crowd’s shouts escalated, so did Marcellus’s anxiety. This was no time to stand around discussing the morality of Nadette’s execution. Limier was right. Another riot felt imminent.

  Marcellus raised his hand and wrapped it around Alouette’s closed fist. Her skin was cold and clammy, and she startled at his touch.

  “Can I take you home?” Marcellus asked. She shook her head. “I think I should take you home. Where do you live?”

  Alouette shook her head again. “No, I have to go,” she said, and yanked her fist from him.

  But as she did, something fluttered out from her hand. Marcellus swooped down to catch it and found himself holding a small, crumpled, cream-colored object, almost like a piece of paper. The kind they used to use in the First World.

  Marcellus turned over the object and unfolded it.

  It was paper.

  And on it, someone had drawn a map. A map leading to a place Marcellus knew well. A place he visited whenever he needed to escape. The one place where he could always feel safe and alone.

  Marcellus stared, dumbfounded, at the crude drawings of trees. The circular formation of small huts. The lake. The stream. There was no doubt in his mind. Marcellus was looking at a map of the old Défecteur camp in the forest.

  But that camp had been deserted long ago. If this girl was a Défecteur, as he’d assumed, why would she want to go there?

  The girl snatched the paper from his hand. “I have to go,” she said again.

  Stunned, Marcellus looked up at her. “Is that where you’re going?”

  A look of trepidation passed over her face, but she didn’t respond.

  “I know where that is,” Marcellus said.

  Her eyes flashed wide. “You do? You know—”

  But the rest of her words were drowned out. The crescendo of shouts rose into one raucous, pulsing cry. Marcellus couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying—something about “the blade”—but he could feel the energy in the air shift. Then he could feel the pressure at his back. The mob started to rush the platform, shoving into Marcellus and Alouette. A few people managed to climb onto the platform and began to attack the deadly contraption, shouting, “Down with the Ministère!”

  Marcellus spun in a slow circle, assessing the threat. The newly ordered droids were already being dispatched into the fray.

  He thought briefly of Inspecteur Limier’s directives. “You’re a target. . . . Get out, Bonnefaçon. That’s an order!” But he felt like his mind was being torn in half. Part of him wanted to disobey Limier. Stay and defend the Regime. Be the commandeur he wanted so badly to be. But the other part knew Limier was right. He was a target. Which meant anyone near him would be in danger too.

  His gaze landed back on Alouette, then on the map still resting in her hand.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you away from here. Right now. I’ll take you where you want to go.”

  He held out his hand. The girl looked at his palm and then up at his face. She studied him for a few long seconds.

  “It’s okay,” he said softly. “You can trust me.”

  Marcellus felt the crowd push in harder around them.

  The girl stared down at his outstretched hand for another long moment. Then she took a deep breath and slipped her hand into his.

  - CHAPTER 43 -

  CHATINE

  CHATINE WASN’T SURE HOW IT had happened. One minute the entire crowd seemed to be calling for the girl’s head, and the next they were calling for justice for the dead governess. No, not just calling. Shouting. Screaming. And then they were fighting.

  Sometimes Chatine swore her entire estate was delusional. They looked to an impossible lottery to save them from their miserable lot in life. They ate up every false word the Ministère fed them about honest work and honest chances. And now they were scrapping like stray dogs over a found chicken bone, creating weapons out of everything and anything they could find, attacking officers and Policier deputies and even droids.

  Who attacks a droid?

  Idiots, Chatine thought as she watched a man leap onto a droid’s back and the droid toss and turn trying to get him off.

  Chatine sank to her knees and began to crawl through the fray. Her mother had actually taught her this trick years ago, crawling around on the grimy floor of the Marsh. It was a surprisingly efficient way to move through a crowd, as well as an excellent angle from which to reach into people’s pockets.

  But Chatine wasn’t concerned with pinching random trinkets and measly scraps of bread right now. She was looking for Marcellus. After losing Alouette, she’d finally spotted him again roaming the crowds in the center of the Marsh. Right before the awful contraption had sliced off that girl’s head like it was nothing more than a piece of meat on the Patriarche’s carving board. The stench was still trapped in Chatine’s nostrils. She’d smelled seared flesh before—this was the Frets after all, medical procedures were often performed on the fly—but there was so
mething about this particular stench. This particular flesh. It made Chatine’s stomach roll.

  In the end, she’d looked away.

  She had plenty of disturbing memories to populate her nightmares. She didn’t need any more.

  But then the stupide boy—Marcellus—had vanished like smoke.

  Chatine glanced up just in time to see three bashers barreling toward her, obviously in pursuit of someone. She tucked her knees into her chest and rolled adeptly to her left, landing safely under a stall. By the pungent, sour smell, she guessed it sold cabbages. And not fresh ones.

  Chatine peered out just in time to see the droids apprehend the person they were looking for: a woman now dangling from one of their grasps. She swung her arms and kicked wildly.

  Still fighting, Chatine mused with disbelief.

  Did the woman even know what she was fighting for? Or were they all just following the horde? Feeding off the frenetic energy that Chatine could feel vibrating in her bones?

  If what Mabelle had said about the Vangarde being nonviolent was true, then their plan was not working.

  “This is ridiculous,” Chatine muttered aloud.

  “Shhh!” came a voice from behind, startling her. She spun around to see a boy hiding in the shadows under the stall. She hadn’t even noticed him when she’d first rolled under here, which made her anxious. Chatine noticed everything.

  The boy was skinny, his clothes no more than a bunch of rags. But something perched on his head glinted. Two discs of plastique, circled in PermaSteel. It was a pair of goggles, like the kind Chatine remembered the exploit miners wearing in Montfer. Except these were so big on the kid, they covered most of his head. He looked like an oversized insect.

  The boy scowled at Chatine. “They’ll find us,” he whispered, holding a hand to his lips.

  “Sorry,” Chatine whispered back.

  She vaguely recognized the boy. She’d seen him hanging around the Frets before, but she didn’t know his name. “Oublies” was what his kind were called around here. Homeless and parentless. Abandoned or orphaned.

  Forgotten.

  Basically, just another Fret rat like her.

  “You can’t stay here,” the boy told her. “This stall and the inside of the Thibault statue are all part of my turf.”

  She fought back a smile.

  Definitely like her.

  “You can go inside the Thibault statue?” Chatine asked, wondering why she had never thought of that before.

  The boy flashed a wicked grin. “Yes! It’s totally fantastique in there. The perfect place to hide from bashers.” His grin turned to a scowl. “But don’t get any ideas. Like I said, my turf.” He pointed to the ground Chatine was sitting on and then at Chatine. “And you’re trespassing.”

  “I’ll be gone in a second.” She peered out of the stall, scanning the crowd for Marcellus.

  “Rent is ten largs a minute.” He held out his arm and pulled up his sleeve to reveal his Skin, waiting for payment.

  Chatine tucked her head back inside. “I’m not paying you.”

  “Then get out,” he said.

  Chatine sighed. “I’m just looking for someone. As soon as I find him, I’ll leave, okay?”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Stupide hair, stupide shiny raincoat, smiles like a sot.”

  “Officer Bonnefaçon? Oh, yeah, I saw him.”

  Chatine perked up. “You did. Where? When? Which way did he go?”

  The boy crossed his arms over his chest. “That kind of information will cost you.”

  Chatine groaned. “How much?”

  “Twelve largs.”

  “Three.”

  “Seven.”

  Chatine rolled her eyes and tapped her Skin against his, transferring the tokens. “Fine. Now tell me, what do you know?”

  The boy glanced at his Skin, confirming the validity of the transaction. Then he looked up. “What do I know about what?”

  “The officer.”

  “What officer?”

  Chatine gritted her teeth. “Officer Bonnefaçon. You said you saw him.”

  The boy leaned back on his haunches. “I didn’t see anything.”

  If Chatine hadn’t been so impressed by the boy’s ability to con her, she would have slapped him right now. And if she hadn’t been preparing to leave this planet, she might even have asked to team up with him. “You’re pretty despicable, you know that?”

  He smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You should work for the Ministère.”

  The boy shook his head. “No can do. I’ve already got an employer.”

  “And who’s that?”

  He peered around the stall suspiciously and then leaned forward, gesturing for Chatine to do the same.

  “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a spy,” he whispered. “For the Vangarde.”

  Chatine clamped a hand over his mouth. “Don’t joke about that.”

  “I’m not joking.” The boy’s muffled voice tickled against her palm. She pulled it away.

  “If they hear you even utter that word, they’ll bring you in. It doesn’t matter how young you are.”

  “I’m not young,” the boy snapped back, sitting up straighter, as though to try to make himself look taller.

  “Right. I didn’t mean young. I meant—”

  “The Vangarde trusts me. I’m their eyes and ears in the Frets.”

  “Please stop saying that word.”

  “Are you afraid of them?” the boy asked, tilting his head.

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” Chatine fired back, even though she knew it wasn’t true. She was afraid of plenty. She rubbed the small cut on her palm that was just starting to scab over, remembering the threat her father had made to her last night.

  “They’re nice,” the boy said. “And they pay well.”

  Chatine shook her head. So this was what the Oublies did for fun? They played Vangarde spy? “Just be careful, okay? If you get caught doing anything—”

  “Please,” he interrupted her. “You’re talking to Roche. Roche doesn’t get caught.”

  “Roche.” Chatine repeated the name, remarking at how well it fit him. “I like that.”

  “Gave it to myself,” he said proudly. “After my parents were shipped off to Bastille.”

  Chatine lowered her head. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. They were heroes. Spies just like me. They got captured in the line of duty.”

  She doubted that was true. But she smiled anyway. Because she, too, could remember a time when she used to make up stories about her parents. Anything to turn them into better people than they were. “They sound great.”

  “But that won’t happen to me,” Roche assured her.

  “I’m sure it won’t.”

  “Because I’ve got something my parents didn’t have.”

  “What’s that?” Chatine asked, enjoying the charade. It was a nice distraction.

  But before Roche could answer, Chatine heard a voice outside of the stall. She froze.

  “Shhh,” she commanded Roche, pointing upward. Roche fell silent and listened.

  “Can I take you home?” the voice said.

  Chatine would recognize it anywhere, now.

  “I think I should take you home. Where do you live?”

  It was his voice.

  Officer Bonnefaçon’s.

  “Is that where you’re going? I know where that is.”

  His tone was soft and sweet. Chatine felt her pulse start to slow. Like his voice alone was enough to calm her. Suddenly, all the other sounds in the Marsh—the rumbling of droids, the shouts of the angry mob, the soundtrack of her life—faded into the background, and all she could hear was his voice.

  “Come on,” she heard him say. “I’ll take you away from here. Right now. I’ll take you where you want to go. . . . It’s okay. You can trust me.”

  Chatine closed her eyes, allowi
ng herself a moment to just imagine. Just pretend.

  That he was looking at her right now.

  That he was saying those words to her.

  That he would take her away from here. Far, far away. To another planet. Maybe even to a whole other system. One that had a friendly sky and Sols that actually gave a damn about what happened to you. She took a breath and waited for him to say more. She wanted so badly to cling to this moment. To trust him. To forget everything that was happening outside this stall and just listen to him speak.

  But he didn’t.

  The deafening sounds of the uprising came rushing back to her, crashing into her until she felt like every Third Estater with a weapon was suddenly charging her.

  She blinked her eyes open and listened again. But the officer’s voice had vanished, sucked up into the melee. And then she remembered her real motivation for finding Marcellus: Right now he was her only hope of getting off this planet.

  “What was that about?” Roche was staring at her with a baffled expression.

  “Nothing,” she muttered. “Stay here.”

  “Of course I’m going to stay here. This is my turf, remember?”

  Chatine peered out through the small gap between the stalls.

  “And you still owe me rent,” Roche reminded her. “It’s been four and a half minutes. At ten largs a minute that’s . . .” He paused, attempting to do the calculations in his head.

  Chatine glanced desperately around the Marsh, just managing to spot the top of the officer’s head disappearing into the swarm, his glossy silver raincoat getting swallowed up by a sea of shredded rags. And bobbing up and down behind him was a halo of springy black curls.

  Chatine’s pulse immediately spiked again.

  Fric!

  “Ten plus ten plus . . . ,” Roche said, counting quietly on his fingers. “That’ll be two hundred largs.”

  Chatine crawled out of the stall. “It’s forty-five largs! And you can use the seven you conned from me as a down payment.”

  She jumped to her feet and chased after Marcellus and Alouette, weaving through bodies made of flesh and steel, ducking rayonette pulses that shimmered through the air searching for targets. But the crowd was too thick. By the time she squeezed out of the Frets, she knew she was too late. He was helping the girl onto the back of his moto. He was strapping a helmet onto her head. He was climbing onto the seat. He was pulling her arms around the waist of his silver coat, telling her to hold on.