Sky Without Stars

by Jessica Brody

  “Wait!” Chatine called out desperately. Her mind raced for a way to stall him, to buy herself more time. “I’m working on something even bigger now. I swear. I’ll let you in on it. Fifty percent.”

  Claque pulled the bolt cutters apart and aimed the rusty blades at her pinky toe.

  “Seventy-five percent!” she tried again, her voice trembling.

  “Hmm. Now, why don’t I believe you?” Claque said, pursing his lips. “Oh, right. Because you’re a Renard. And your good-for-nothing parents already cheated me out of a big payout today. We were supposed to get LeGrand together and then they ditched me. So it looks like I’ll be taking my cut from both that and the Bonnefaçon job tonight.” He smirked, his bolt cutters splayed open like the mouth of a giant, snarling beast.

  The wind spiked again, but there was something noticeably different about this breeze. It seemed to be localizing around them. Like a storm centered right over their heads. A violent gust swooped down and blew Chatine’s hood straight off, ripping her hair from its bun. She tried to reach up to secure it back into place, but her arms were still pinned down in Hercule’s grasp.

  Claque barely had time to register Chatine’s wild, swirling locks before a massive object descended from the sky right in front of them, whipping the wind into a frenzy.

  “What on Laterre?” Claque uttered as he stared, slack-jawed, up at the strange craft.

  Chatine’s mouth hung open too. She’d never seen anything like it in her life. With its sleek silver body and wings cutting like razorblades through the air, it appeared to be a cross between a voyageur and a cruiseur. But voyageurs traveled through deep space and cruiseurs were designed to hover silently over terrain. This vehicle had just descended from the sky like a falling star.

  The vessel hissed and juddered slightly as it came to a halt a mètre above the ground, and Chatine watched in awe as a door emerged from its seamless surface and wheezed open.

  General Bonnefaçon’s large frame appeared in the doorway. Chatine felt Hercule’s grip around her body loosen just the slightest bit before the general hoisted up his rayonette, aimed, and fired two rapid pulses, back-to-back.

  Whoosh.

  Whoosh.

  Chatine plummeted to the ground, landing on the shallow, reedy shore of the lake. Beside her, the bodies of Claque and Hercule slumped down in the water. Motionless. Dead. With smoking black holes in the center of each of their foreheads.

  Speechless, Chatine stared up at her unlikely savior in disbelief, unsure what to do next.

  General Bonnefaçon gestured to the doorway of the hovering craft. “Are you coming or not?”

  - CHAPTER 71 -

  MARCELLUS

  MARCELLUS NEEDED AIR.

  He burst out of his room and rushed down the imperial staircase. Outside the Palais, the sculpted flower gardens shone under the artificial moon that hung in the sky.

  It wasn’t Bastille, of course. Sols forbid that the First and Second Estates have to look up and see a prison. It was some other moon. Some make-believe satellite where people weren’t wrongfully imprisoned, freezing to death for crimes they didn’t commit.

  It was a lie.

  Just like everything else under this protective dome. Just like every day of Marcellus’s entire life.

  One giant lie.

  The entire planet thought Julien Bonnefaçon had bombed that exploit. The entire planet thought the Vangarde were responsible for killing hundreds of innocent people. But it had been his grandfather all along, doing the Patriarche’s bidding like another loyal Palais dog.

  General Bonnefaçon.

  The man with whom Marcellus shared blood, a house, a future.

  Marcellus stumbled over to the nearest rosebush and retched until his stomach was empty and his eyes teared.

  But he still couldn’t clear his head.

  Not in here. Not with the Palais walls closing in on him. Not with this lie of a moon hanging over him. Those fake stars winking as though they were mocking him.

  He couldn’t think in here.

  He couldn’t breathe in here.

  The TéléSky ceilings of Ledôme were too low. The air was too artificially sweet with the scent of power and privilege and corruption.

  He needed real air. And he knew there was only one place he could go. Only one place he could ever go.

  Marcellus scrambled over to the docking station and jumped onto his moto. He could be in the clearing soon. There, he would think. There, he would process. Figure out what on Laterre he was going to do next.

  He initiated the engine and revved the throttle. The moto lurched into the air and zoomed forward. When he reached the west gate, the air lock opened automatically for him, sensing his arrival moments before he got there. He sped through and banked left, leaning into the turn. Once he was outside Ledôme, under the real sky, he thrust the moto into the next gear and gripped the handlebars tighter.

  He swept downhill and raced alongside the rows and rows of hothouses in the lowlands. These giant buildings of plastique catered to the people in Ledôme, growing tropical fruits and summer vegetables that could never be grown in the outdoor fermes, where the Third Estate crops were harvested.

  More lies, Marcellus thought. More deception.

  The Third Estate starved not because there wasn’t enough food. The Third Estate starved because the Ministère wanted them to.

  Because it kept them weak.

  It kept them cold.

  It kept them obedient.

  “A hungry working class is a productive working class,” his grandfather had said.

  And Marcellus, like the imbécile that he’d always been, had gobbled it up. It had gone down as easily as whatever decadent cream dish they’d been eating at the time.

  Because his grandfather knew best. He always knew best. He was the ultimate strategist. He’d kept Laterre running for more than thirty years. While the Patriarche was out shooting pheasants and bedding women, and the Matrone was busy guzzling champagne and ordering new gowns from Samsara, his grandfather had been running a planet. Because that was his job.

  The First Estate played.

  The Second Estate governed.

  The Third Estate worked.

  That was how the planet operated. How it had always operated. Since the first freightships landed on Laterre. Since the last human beings left the First World.

  “I tried to teach you that everyone is equal under the Sols. That no one should be imprisoned or forced to live in squalor just because they were born on the wrong side of Ledôme walls.”

  That’s what Mabelle had said in the Tourbay. Apparently that’s what she’d been trying to tell him all along. But he had been too stupide and brainwashed to listen. He’d been so awestruck or intimidated—or both—by his grandfather, he’d failed to hear it.

  Marcellus let out a roar of frustration and pushed his moto up to top speed.

  Soon, he would be in the Forest Verdure at the Défecteur camp. Soon, he would be hidden from everyone.

  “Disable tracker!” he commanded his TéléCom.

  The map displayed on the inside of his visor blinked off. But just as it disappeared from view, Marcellus noticed ten new AirLink messages flickering at the corner of his vision. Every single one of them was from his grandfather.

  Ten messages?

  He suddenly remembered his grandfather trying to AirLink him earlier, when he was watching the microcam footage.

  Marcellus cringed.

  Was his grandfather angry that he’d declined the AirLink? Had he left him ten messages about duty and respect and loyalty to the Regime?

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

  Marcellus gritted his teeth against the memory, and suddenly the ache in his ribs came back full force. As if they, too, were remembering.

  No.

  He was not a coward. Not anymore. His grandfather was the real coward. Killing innocent people and then pinning the blame on his own son. Just because the Patriarche
told him to do it. Using the Vangarde as a mask. Afraid to expose himself as the villain he truly was.

  Marcellus reconnected his TéléCom and played the first message.

  The general’s face appeared across the inside of his visor. His grandfather was sitting in his tall leather office chair. Just as he’d been seventeen years ago, when he’d agreed to bomb that copper exploit.

  “Marcellus. Where are you? We’re dealing with a very serious situation. There’s been a break-in attempt at Warden Gallant’s office in Ledôme. We believe Vangarde operatives were trying to infiltrate Bastille from within the Ministère headquarters. You must AirLink me immediately.”

  Marcellus jammed on the brakes and the moto careened to a halt. The general was still talking, but Marcellus was having trouble hearing him. Even though he’d stopped moving and was now idling a mètre off the ground, he still heard a deafening roar in his ears.

  A break-in attempt?

  Certain he must have misheard his grandfather, Marcellus rewound the message to the beginning and listened again, sucking in a breath.

  He had not misunderstood. Someone had attempted to breach the office of the warden of Bastille.

  The general continued. “Fortunately, we were able to intercept the two Vangarde operatives before any of our security systems could be compromised. The operatives are being brought to the Vallonay Policier Precinct for questioning. I’m AirLinking their images to you now.”

  Marcellus felt a jolt of something inside him, but he couldn’t, for the life of him, identify the sensation.

  Two Vangarde operatives had tried to bring down Bastille’s security systems. Two Vangarde operatives had failed.

  How did he feel about that? Afraid? Excited? Relieved? Disappointed? Maybe some strange, nauseating mix of all of them?

  Then another thought struck Marcellus.

  Could one of those operatives be Alouette?

  “We believe,” the general went on, “their larger objective was to ultimately break Citizen Rousseau out of Bastille. As you know, she would be crucial to the success of a second revolution attempt.”

  Marcellus swallowed. This was exactly what the Patriarche had been worried about. And Marcellus had to admit it was a clever move. The Vangarde’s only move, really. If they hoped to launch a full-scale revolution—to finish what they started in 488—then they needed Citizen Rousseau. If she ever were to escape Bastille, the First and Second Estates would have much reason to be afraid.

  “These captured Vangarde operatives must be questioned thoroughly,” the general was now saying. “We need to get every last shred of information out of them. We need to know where their biggest cells are, who their biggest supporters are, and most important, where their base is located.” The general leaned forward slightly, like he was trying to reach through the lens of the microcam and strangle Marcellus with his eyes. “Every force necessary will be taken to secure this information.”

  Marcellus instinctively leaned back, as though he could escape his grandfather’s intimidating stare. But all he managed to do was knock himself off balance on his moto.

  “I’m sending Inspecteur Limier to handle the interrogation,” the general’s message continued. “He’s the best man for the job. But I can’t seem to locate him. He, too, is not accepting my AirLink requests. I need you to track him down and send him immediately to the Policier Precinct. The apprehended Vangarde operatives are being transported there presently.”

  Adrenaline shot through him as an idea began to form. A bold idea. A reckless idea. Possibly the most stupide idea he’d ever had.

  Two Vangarde operatives were on their way to the Precinct right this moment. They might even have arrived already.

  If Marcellus ever had an opportunity to get answers about his father—real answers—this was it.

  “Request AirLink to General Bonnefaçon,” he commanded the TéléCom. On his visor, the connection initiated, and then, a moment later, his grandfather’s face was back in front of him. Strangely, he was no longer in his office, where he’d sent the first message from. But Marcellus couldn’t figure out where on Laterre he was. Behind him there was nothing but darkness, as though he were floating in the middle of the sky.

  “It’s about time!” the general barked. “Where have you been? Why haven’t you—”

  Marcellus cut him off. “I will interrogate the Vangarde operatives.”

  The general seemed momentarily stunned, and Marcellus wasn’t sure if it was because this was the first time in his life that his grandson had ever interrupted him, or if it was the decisive, unwavering tone with which he’d done it.

  His grandfather cocked a dark eyebrow, clearly pondering. “No,” he finally replied. “Inspecteur Limier will question the operatives. This will certainly not be the Vangarde’s last attempt to free Citizen Rousseau. They will try again. And we need to root them out before they do. This is too important to mess up.”

  For just a split second, Marcellus paused, feeling the sting. It was like lemon juice sprinkled on a wound that had been left open since he was a small child, constantly attempting to heal itself, but never quite managing to close up completely.

  That sting had always debilitated Marcellus.

  For as long as he could remember.

  But today was different. The microcam footage had changed everything. Today, he was able to harness that sting. He let it spread through his entire body until it was fueling him. Until it turned from pain to power.

  “No,” Marcellus repeated with the exact same unfaltering inflection. “I said, I will take care of it.”

  And before his grandfather could utter another word, or cock another eyebrow, Marcellus disconnected the AirLink, turned his moto around, and headed back to the city.

  - CHAPTER 72 -

  CHATINE

  THE INTERIOR OF THE GENERAL’S ship was even more remarkable than the exterior. There were monitors and consoles wall-to-wall. Lights flashed across rows and rows of control panels. Two pilotes sat up front in a glowing cockpit.

  And right in the center of it all, floating in midair was . . .

  Well, everything.

  The entire planet. All of Laterre stretched out before Chatine in miniature form, emanating from a faint light projected from the ceiling. She’d heard of hologram maps before, but she’d never actually seen one in person. It was truly spectacular. She marveled at the sight of Laterre’s single landmass surrounded by dark ocean. The two cities of Vallonay and Montfer sparkled like little jewels on opposite coasts. Chatine could make out endless rows of fermes and exploits and fabriques stretching out from the cities. And in the center of it all were the barren and frozen moors of the Terrain Perdu.

  “So,” the general said, giving her an impatient look, “where is the base?”

  Chatine swallowed, her gaze falling once again to the hologram. She pointed at the shimmering city on the cusp of a huge bay where the landmass of Laterre met the Secana Sea. “Vallonay,” she said.

  The general lifted a single eyebrow. He clearly was having the same reaction as she’d had.

  Right under his nose the whole time.

  “Vallonay,” she repeated with a succinct nod.

  The general barked out an order to the pilotes sitting in the cockpit. “Back to the capital.”

  The ship launched forward and banked into a sharp turn, knocking Chatine right off her feet. She fell onto a nearby jump seat and struggled to get the restraints clasped around her. “What is this thing?”

  The general chuckled at her reaction. “It’s a combatteur. We only fly them for battle.”

  “Battle?” Chatine repeated, hating the tremble in her voice.

  But the general ignored her, pulling out his TéléCom to accept an AirLink request.

  “It’s about time!” he bellowed into the screen. “Where have you been? Why haven’t you—”

  Chatine leaned against her restraints to catch a glimpse at whom he was talking to. She could just make out the person�
��s thick, dark hair.

  Chatine inhaled sharply and leaned back, pressing her spine flush to the seat. It was Marcellus.

  Her heart was suddenly pounding again. She did not want to see him. No, that wasn’t true. She would have done anything to see him. That much, she couldn’t deny anymore. She didn’t want him to see her.

  He already distrusted her. He already despised her. Seeing her in a Ministère battle ship with his grandfather would only prove that everything he’d accused her of back in the Fabrique District was true.

  “You’re poor. You’re hungry. You’re freezing. You’ll do anything for a larg, isn’t that right? Isn’t that how your kind operates?”

  Chatine tried to steady her breath, reminding herself that soon this would all be over. Soon she’d be on a cushy voyageur bound for Usonia, traveling at supervoyage speed across the System Divine, the stars reduced to an endless glow of light outside the window.

  Soon Laterre would be nothing more than a vanishing gray sphere behind her.

  And Marcellus would be an invisible spec on that sphere, as insignificant to her as she was to him.

  Chatine turned and glanced out the window. They were high. So high, she even dared to peer up, thinking that maybe they had penetrated the cloud layer and she could catch a glimpse at the stars. But all she saw above her was murky gray darkness.

  The ground below was whizzing by, and she could tell from the blinking red dot on the hologram map in front of her that they were rapidly approaching the city limits.

  “No,” the general said a moment later. “Inspecteur Limier will question the operatives. This will certainly not be the Vangarde’s last attempt to free Citizen Rousseau. They will try again. And we need to root them out before they do. This is too important to mess up.”

  Free Citizen Rousseau? The Vangarde tried to infiltrate Bastille?

  Chatine was now happier than ever that she would soon be getting off this Sol-forsaken planet. She had a feeling things were about to go from worse to catastrophic.

  She braved another peek at the general’s TéléCom to see that the screen was dark.