Sky Without Stars

by Jessica Brody

  “No,” he murmured, his voice soft and raspy.

  Julien Bonnefaçon had been no coward. He hadn’t been weak. He’d been strong. So much stronger than Marcellus could ever be.

  Probably stronger than even the general himself.

  Marcellus almost smiled at the thought.

  The pale-blue glow of Sol 3 had dimmed, and now stars were emerging in the TéléSky. One after the other, they popped out of the darkness, appearing exactly where they would be in the real sky, if the clouds on Laterre would ever part long enough for them to be seen. Soon there would be thousands of them.

  Like lights alive in the dark night sky.

  Suddenly, as Marcellus gazed through the window, he found himself humming.

  Just like the stars, the song seemed to come from nowhere—popping out of the dark corners of his mind. Yet the tune felt deeply familiar. The notes, the pace of the melody felt so old and so new at the same time.

  As he hummed, the rhythm and notes grew stronger, more fully formed in his brain. And then the words came.

  “Bright stars . . . ,” he sang between hums. “Always shining.”

  The words were coming to him in fragments. Disjointed lyrics that, like the tune, were so familiar to him, it was as though he were finding an old friend. Finding something he’d lost but had never in his heart truly forgotten.

  The song seemed to give him new strength, and he was able to sit up. His head still ached, but his body somehow felt less fragile. Less brittle and sore.

  “Lights alive in the dark night sky.”

  Outside, the stars in the TéléSky multiplied, each of them shining and twinkling so brightly. Maybe the kick in the head had done something to his brain, but it seemed like the stars were responding to him. Hearing his melody. And singing back.

  Soon the entire song had pieced itself together inside him.

  “Bright stars most high.

  Lights alive in the dark night sky.

  Always shining,

  Forever shining,

  Living truth in twinkling eyes.”

  Marcellus sang the tune over and over. Each time his voice was stronger. Each time its familiarity grew and bloomed in his chest.

  Until finally, he knew it. Like he’d never not known it.

  He knew exactly where he’d learned it.

  And, more important, the last place he’d heard it.

  Then he was on his feet. He was moving. Running. It was as though every ache and pain, every bruised rib and tender patch of skin, had suddenly healed itself. He swept out of his grandfather’s office, down the hallway, and through their private salon and dining rooms. He took the stairs down two at a time, then three at a time. He was almost flying.

  He kept running. Soon he was leaving the opulent corridors of the First Estate wings and entering the dingy hallways of the servants’ quarters. He threaded between waitstaff and gossiping serving maids.

  He didn’t stop until he reached the room.

  Her room.

  The door was open. The orange security lasers were gone, but other than that, the room was just as it had been the last time Marcellus was here a few days ago. The empty drawers, the stripped bed, the bare floor with the ripped-up carpet still rolled to one side. The paintings were still there too, just as he’d hoped, leaning on the floor, stacked against a bare wall.

  He rushed into the room and started flicking his way through the heavy frames.

  “No . . . no . . . no . . . ,” he murmured as he pushed a few of the pictures aside.

  Then he found it.

  The one he’d come for.

  He pulled it out from the stack and propped it up against the empty bed. He knelt down before it and gazed into the canvas. It was just as he remembered from when he was little. The rich blue of the sky. The earthy green of the trees and hills. The paint so thick it was like frosting on a gâteau. And of course, the swirling yellows of the stars, dotted and burning in the sky.

  Mabelle used to sing the song to him, close to his ear, as they both stared at this painting. He would always come to her room when he couldn’t sleep. Or when his grandfather had yelled at him. Or worse. Mabelle would snap on the little light by her narrow bed and he would climb in beside her. She would wrap his little body in her arms, she’d press her lips to his wrist, which was usually still tender from the general’s rough grip, and they’d both gaze up at the painting. She would sing, and he would hum.

  He could still hear her voice now. The way it would rise in the middle and then drop to a soft, mournful low note on the last line.

  “Living truth in twinkling eyes.”

  It was this song that Mabelle had hummed to him back in the boglands of Montfer. He was certain of it. He just wasn’t sure why.

  Marcellus reached out and touched the canvas. The paint felt rough and surprisingly hard under his fingers. He traced the green hills and then the gangly trees, pointing up like arrows into the sky. Then his forefinger moved across each star, until it landed on the biggest and fieriest one of all.

  The paint was thickest here, on this glowing star. But, as he looked closer, Marcellus noticed it was chipped.

  Like it had once been disturbed.

  “I have proof that your father is innocent. I hid it for you in my room at the Palais before I was arrested. It’s been waiting until you were ready to find it.”

  Marcellus paused and glanced back toward the door. The hallway outside the room was empty. He looked back at the painting, sucked in a breath, and finally scratched at the glowing yellow star with his nail.

  The paint cracked and crumbled off easily.

  Buried in the chalky, yellow dust was a shiny object. Marcellus flicked at it with his finger, and a tiny, metallic microcam fell into his palm.

  - CHAPTER 65 -

  ALOUETTE

  SOMEONE WAS FOLLOWING HER.

  Alouette was sure of it.

  She had never been more terrified in her life. It was getting darker by the second, and the trees of the Forest Verdure whipped by so fast, they were like a continuous green blur in the moto’s high-intensity headlight. Her knuckles had cramped from gripping the handles, and her face was constantly being scraped by small branches and snapping leaves.

  And now there was someone behind her.

  She could see a headlight flickering in the fog in the corner of her vision. Another moto, to be sure. Whoever it was seemed to be keeping perfect pace with Alouette. Every time she’d tried to lose them, by banking to the left or cutting through a narrow gap between the trees, they were right there. Right behind her. Turning the same turns, cutting through the same trees.

  Relentless and persistent.

  Someone must have seen Alouette take the moto from the Precinct and given chase. A sergent? An inspecteur, perhaps? A droid? Could droids even ride motos? She had no idea. Whoever it was—whatever it was—she couldn’t shake them.

  “Lean into the curves,” Alouette murmured to herself through gritted teeth. Another tree loomed large in the mist in front of her, and she unsteadily steered the moto around it. “Trust the vehicle.”

  In the pages she’d copied quickly from the Chronicles earlier, she’d found blueprints of the moto’s mechanics and circuitry. As well as notes on how to drive one. But reading about riding a moto was a lot different from actually riding a moto. Alouette had discovered that very quickly. As she’d wobbled away from the Policier Precinct and careened toward the forest, she had honestly feared for her life.

  Marcellus had made it look so easy yesterday, when he’d dipped and weaved through the trees. But it wasn’t easy. Not at all. Driving this moto was like trying to drive a hovering, untamed beast. A hundred-kilogramme beast that could buck and flail at any moment.

  And being chased by the Policier on top of that definitely didn’t help.

  “Papa,” she whispered into the cool night air.

  She had to think of him. He was the only thing keeping her going.

  Alouette had to find him
.

  She’d managed to locate the lake just outside the Forest Verdure, and now she was following the winding stream that led to the abandoned camp where Marcellus had taken her and where she swore her father must have buried something valuable.

  Please, Sols, she silently begged. Please let him still be there.

  The headlight of the other moto flashed in her vision again, as though reminding Alouette that it was still there. Still following.

  And then Alouette was struck with a horrifying realization.

  If her father was still at the camp, then she was leading whoever was behind her straight to him. She was leading the Policier directly to an escaped convict.

  Alouette instinctively twisted the throttle as far as it would go. She had to drive faster. She had to shake whoever was following her. The moto bucked upward and launched to its new speed. Her body jolted back.

  “Lean in.” She recited the words from the Chronicles aloud, bending forward until her chest was almost touching the handlebars.

  After she’d finally regained her balance, Alouette braved a glance over her shoulder.

  “No!” she shouted.

  The light was still there. Except now it seemed even closer, beaming even brighter through the trees and fog.

  Alouette could see she was getting close to the camp. She had to think of another plan.

  Suddenly, Sister Jacqui’s voice echoed in her mind.

  “Be present and awake to your world, Little Lark.”

  The words caused her to blink and take in her surroundings with new eyes. As though the words were actually waking her from a deep sleep. As though she were seeing the trees, the blanket of fog, and the beam of her own headlight in front of her for the very first time.

  “Be present and awake to your world.”

  And then the idea came.

  Alouette jammed on the brakes and leaned hard to the right to yank the moto into a deep, fast swerve. The vehicle drifted and spun under her before finally coming to a stop. She was now facing the opposite direction.

  Facing her pursuer.

  She snapped off her headlight and waited in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the forest, listening to the sounds of this world. The fog was thick all around her. She was encapsulated in it.

  But more important, she was hidden by it.

  Then she heard the sound she’d been waiting for. The low purr of the other moto’s engine and the swift snapping of branches and leaves as it blazed through the trees, speeding toward her.

  Not yet, she told herself. Just a few seconds more.

  The sound of the engine grew louder, and Alouette poised her finger on the dashboard.

  Wait for it. . . .

  The other moto crashed through the mist.

  Now!

  Alouette flicked on her headlight, illuminating the wall of fog around her in a dazzling, blinding glow. A haze of scattered light.

  The rider tried to regain control, but they were momentarily blinded by the glowing fog. The moto careened straight into a tree, sending them flying off the bike and tumbling to the ground. They rolled three times before finally coming to a halt, facedown in the undergrowth.

  Alouette jumped off her moto and slowly approached the wreckage. The other vehicle lay twisted and hissing at the base of the tree, completely destroyed. She sucked in a breath. She’d only wanted to momentarily blind the person following her. Slow them down so she could throw them off her trail. She hadn’t meant to hurt them.

  “Oh Sols,” she whispered. “Please don’t be dead.”

  Her heart thudded behind her ribs as she took a hesitant step toward the unmoving body. It was small. Too small for a Policier sergent or inspecteur. And she could now see that the rider was not wearing a white uniform, but rather was dressed all in black.

  Had she killed a child?

  With shaky hands, Alouette reached toward the rider’s shoulder. She wanted to flip them over so she could see their face, assess their injuries. If they were still alive, perhaps she could . . .

  The body let out a low groan and Alouette leapt back.

  She watched in relief as the stranger slowly, painstakingly pushed themselves to their knees and stood up. When they finally turned around, Alouette’s eyes widened. It was the boy from the Marsh. The one she’d lost in the crowd.

  Why was he following her?

  The boy still looked dazed from the fall. He stood with his hands resting on his knees as though fighting to stay conscious. There was something different about him. His hood wasn’t covering his head. And Alouette could just make out a tangled knot of ash-brown hair at the base of his neck.

  Alouette could hear his labored breathing, and her surprise morphed back into guilt. She opened her mouth to apologize, but suddenly the boy stood up and locked eyes on Alouette. There was something so fierce, so venomous, in his stare, Alouette was stunned into silence.

  No one had ever looked at Alouette like that before.

  So much animosity radiated off the boy, Alouette felt like she was being punched in the stomach. But she couldn’t look away. The darkness in the boy’s gaze seemed to hold her captive.

  And yet, the longer she stared back at him, the more familiar he became. It was that same sensation she’d had in the Marsh. The sensation that she knew him. That they’d met before.

  The boy swallowed, looking like he was about to say something—trying to say something—but nothing came out. It didn’t matter, though. His stare spoke louder and with more hatred than any words could have.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a name whispered through Alouette’s mind. Like a rustle of wind through the trees. It was a strange name. A vaguely familiar name.

  Chatine.

  Then she heard something else.

  The sound of footsteps. The crackle of twigs. Someone else was nearby.

  She finally tore her gaze from the boy and looked in the direction of the noise. Through the swirl of mist and trees, Alouette spotted a faint glow of light in the distance.

  Her father’s light?

  It had to be. She must be closer to the clearing than she’d thought. Which meant she wasn’t too late. He was still there!

  She glanced back one last time at the boy before darting into the trees. She moved through the darkness, toward the glow. Branches snagged at her coat and vines twisted up from the ground to trip her, but she didn’t stop. As she got closer to the source of light, she could hear more noises. The sounds of scuffling, scraping, and thudding.

  “Papa!” she called out, finally stumbling into the clearing.

  But the sight in front of her wasn’t at all what she expected. Hugo Taureau was sitting on the ground, slumped against the base of a tree, his hands bound behind his back, a filthy cloth stuffed into his mouth.

  “Papa!” Alouette shouted again as she ran toward him. But she managed only a few paces, because suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a strange ripple in the damp air, like the invisible molecules around her were quivering. Then something harsh and fiery and hot exploded in Alouette’s left leg.

  She let out a scream before crumpling to the ground.

  - CHAPTER 66 -

  MARCELLUS

  “ONE NEARBY DEVICE FOUND,” THE TéléCom informed Marcellus. “Microcam. Unknown model. Unknown origin. Attempting to connect. Please wait.”

  Marcellus shuddered out a breath and began pacing. He was back in his bedroom in the south wing, his door bolted shut, the drapes drawn. The entire walk back from the servants’ quarters, Marcellus had felt as though the microcam in his pocket were as heavy as a stone. This had been way worse than walking around the Palais with his father’s prison shirt tucked into his uniform. With every butler, maid, and advisor that he passed, he became increasingly certain that they would take one look at him and just know.

  Know that he was smuggling Vangarde property. Know that he was betraying his grandfather and his Regime with every step that he took. With every second that he didn’t smash the devi
ce under the heel of his shoe.

  He had considered throwing it away. For a flicker of a moment, he’d entertained the idea. But then he’d touched his bruised cheek and ribs and stomach, and he’d once again felt the sting of his grandfather’s words.

  “You are so weak. Just like your father.”

  And the moment had passed very quickly.

  Marcellus stopped pacing and peeked tentatively over at the microcam sitting on his bed, next to the TéléCom. He felt like a child peering out from behind a chaise during a game of hide-and-seek, waiting to see if his seeker had found him.

  Except in this scenario, if he was found, he’d be incarcerated.

  He’d be banished.

  He’d be disowned.

  Just like his father.

  His heart banged violently in his chest.

  “Attempting to connect,” the TéléCom repeated. “Please wait.”

  Marcellus wondered if the TéléCom would even be able to connect to this strange device. He’d instantly recognized it as a surveillance microcam, but it was definitely not a Ministère-issued unit. This one was crudely made, as though it had been crafted in a small, outdated workshop, cut off from the state-of-the-art, cyborg-run tech labs that lined the third floor of the Ministère headquarters.

  Marcellus wrung his hands together. What if the TéléCom couldn’t connect?

  Or even more terrifying, what if it could?

  Marcellus honestly couldn’t decide which outcome he would prefer. If the TéléCom failed to connect, then he would never have to watch whatever was on this microcam. He could just go on living his life like the past week had never even happened. Like he’d never removed the shirt from his father’s back. Never ventured out to Montfer. Never seen his old governess again. Never befriended a traitorous Third Estate Fret-rat girl posing as a boy. Never looked into the endless dark brown eyes of a Vangarde operative posing as a Défecteur.

  But Marcellus knew, even before the TéléCom displayed its final verdict, that he didn’t want that. Despite how harrowing and heartbreaking and painful this last week had been, he didn’t want to pretend that none of it had happened.