The Patriarche glanced up from his gun, where he was stuffing a fresh round of cartridges into the chamber. “And if you’re so ‘in control’ of the situation, General, then why, may I ask, have you not yet found the Vangarde base and eliminated those terrorist rats once and for all?”
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
This time the Patriarche managed to clip the edge of a dove’s wing, causing a lone white feather to puff away on the breeze. But the bird didn’t fall. It spiraled and veered awkwardly for a moment, but then righted itself and flew off in a dancing and mocking loop into the dazzling blue TéléSky.
The Patriarche growled furiously and shoved his antique rifle back at Chaumont, snapping for the advisor to hand him a different one.
“We are still actively working on rooting out the Vangarde’s base,” the general replied vaguely.
Marcellus braved another sidelong glance at him. He’d been unable to look his grandfather in the eye since they’d left the Palais. Neither of them had uttered a word about the microcam that had vanished from beneath the loose floor tile in Marcellus’s bathroom. Marcellus assumed the general hadn’t had a chance to watch the footage yet. But it would only be a matter of time. And then, his grandfather would know.
That Marcellus had learned the truth about the copper exploit bombing.
That Marcellus had been in contact with a convicted Vangarde spy.
That Marcellus knew his father—the man he’d been taught to despise, to distrust, to banish from his thoughts—was innocent.
Which meant that the time Marcellus had to find this weapon his grandfather was building just got a whole lot shorter.
“What about those operatives you arrested?” Marcellus barely recognized his own voice as the words charged out of him. He cleared his throat and continued. “The ones who tried to break into the warden’s office and infiltrate Bastille’s security system? Surely, they should be able to tell us where the base is.”
The general shot Marcellus a scathing look as the Patriarche pounced on his suggestion. “Exactly! Why haven’t you extracted information from them, General?”
“They are still our best leads, yes,” the general said tensely as he ripped his gaze from Marcellus. “But unfortunately, despite vigorous interrogation, they are proving difficult to crack.”
Marcellus’s stomach rolled.
Vigorous interrogation.
He didn’t have to be a trained officer of the Ministère to infer what that meant.
“Obviously not vigorous enough,” the Patriarche blustered.
“I assure you,” the general replied, the slightest hint of annoyance cracking through his façade, “they will break eventually.”
“Perhaps I might have a try,” Marcellus offered, attempting to sound nonchalant. If he could be allowed to interrogate the operatives, if his grandfather told him where they were being kept, Marcellus could find out what Denise knew about the weapon. “If I’m going to be commandeur one day, I need to be well versed in these … interrogation tactics.”
The general scrutinized his grandson, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I appreciate your newfound initiative, but that won’t be necessary. As these operatives are our most important leads on the Vangarde, I am handling the situation personally.”
Disappointment stabbed Marcellus. He had been right. This was an impossible task. If his grandfather was keeping a secret, there was no way Marcellus was going to be able to uncover it. He’d need a miracle.
“In the meantime,” the general continued as the Patriarche once again took aim at the TéléSky, “we are analyzing the devices found on the Vangarde operatives when they were captured.”
Lyon Paresse lowered his gun. “What devices?”
“Necklaces, sir. Made of what appeared to be some sort of metal beads. But we believe they are more than just decorative. Possibly communication devices of some kind. Directeur Chevalier’s team at the Ministère’s Cyborg and Technology Labs is working on them now. We hope that they might provide a legitimate lead to the base.”
Metal beads.
With a shiver, Marcellus’s thoughts raced back to that night two weeks ago, in the hallways of Fret 7, when a similar necklace hanging from Alouette’s neck had triggered a mysterious message to appear on his TéléCom. A message he still didn’t know the contents of, but that he was certain had been sent by Denise.
“Very good,” the Patriarche said. “But if those operatives won’t talk, we do have other means of dealing with them.” He aimed his gun at a flock of birds that had just fluttered up from the ground.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
“Blast.” He lowered his weapon and glared at the general. “What is the progress on the exécuteur, General?”
“My techniciens in the munitions fabrique are working on the reconstruction. I have been told it will be completed in the next week.”
Marcellus shuddered at the thought of seeing that monstrous contraption again. The Third Estate were already calling it by a much more appropriate name—the Blade. After witnessing the sick swiftness with which it had sliced Nadette Epernay’s head from her body, Marcellus had been glad to hear that the rioters in the Marsh had ripped it to pieces.
“But they’ve already been working on it for two weeks!” the Patriarche boomed. “Why is it taking so long?”
“We’ve had to rebuild the device from scratch. The last one was completely destroyed in the recent riot. We were not able to salvage any parts.”
The Patriarche huffed and then, under his breath, muttered, “I’m sure the scientists on Albion wouldn’t need this long.”
Marcellus could almost feel his grandfather’s muscles tense. It was a well-known fact that Albion had the most superior tech-development program in the system. Far more advanced than any other planet. But no one on Laterre—Albion’s long-standing enemy—liked to admit that, especially not the general.
“I want that thing finished as soon as possible,” the Patriarche went on. “And I want the entire Third Estate to know when it is. Those ungrateful wretches need to understand that there are consequences for rising up against me.”
“Yes, Monsieur Patriarche,” the general said with a swift nod. Then he cut his eyes to Marcellus, and in a cool monotone voice that sent chills down Marcellus’s spine, he added, “Treason against the Regime should never be taken lightly. I think you would agree, Officer Bonnefaçon.”
Marcellus’s throat went dry.
Treason against the Regime.
Was that what his grandfather would accuse Marcellus of once he watched that microcam footage? Would Marcellus be the first to find himself in the path of the newly built Blade?
Marcellus tried to picture his grandfather’s expression when he would eventually connect the tiny device to his TéléCom. When he would press play. When he would discover that the Vangarde had been watching him that day he’d agreed to bomb the copper exploit and pin the blame on his own son.
Watching.
Marcellus felt a shiver travel through him as he remembered the day he’d first found the microcam and viewed its contents. He’d been shocked to learn that the footage had been captured right inside General Bonnefaçon’s study. Where all of his most private and secret conversations took place.
Marcellus’s heart started to pound as he suddenly realized what he had to do.
The idea made him feel physically sick, but it was the only way. His only chance of finding out what his grandfather was working on.
It was the very miracle he needed.
If Mabelle had managed to plant a microcam inside his grandfather’s office, then Marcellus could do it too.
“Now, enough business,” the Patriarche commanded. “General, put that TéléCom away. It’s time for you to shoot.”
The general tossed another glance at Marcellus before folding up his TéléCom and slipping it into the pocket of his pristine white jacket. He stepped forward, took a gun from one of the Patriarche’s advisors, and with
ease and an austere calm, loaded the chamber.
Marcellus felt another chill run down his spine as he watched his grandfather carefully pull the weapon to his shoulder and squint up, with unrelenting focus and determination, at the TéléSky above. Even the dogs seemed to quiet as the general watched and waited.
Finally, a flock of doves whisked into view and looped above the heads of the hunting party.
Bang.
Marcellus winced as a mess of feathers scattered into the wind, followed by the awful flutter and flap of dying wings. A great arc of bird blood sprayed like a rainbow of red through the sky. The dogs took off after the fallen prey, yapping excitedly.
“Sols!” came a thundering roar from the other side of the general. When Marcellus glanced over at Laterre’s leader, his stomach clenched at the sight of the bright red streak of blood that had splattered across the Patriarche’s cheek and forehead and was now dripping down into the folds of his wide, plump neck.
Silently, Chaumont handed the Patriarche a handkerchief, which Lyon Paresse snatched violently from his advisor’s hand.
“Nice shot, General,” the Patriarche muttered as he wiped the blood from his face and neck. “Nice shot.”
The general lowered the gun with a contented expression and immediately reached for his TéléCom again. “Apologies, Monsieur Patriarche, but I’ve just received an urgent AirLink from Directeur Chevalier.”
The Patriarche waved one permissive hand toward the general as he used the other to continue mopping bird blood from his neck.
Marcellus noticed the general’s expression shift drastically as he watched the AirLink message play out on his screen. He almost looked, dare Marcellus think it, elated.
“I’m sorry,” the general said, handing his gun to the nearest advisor. “But I must cut this visit short. Officer Bonnefaçon and I are needed at the Ministère headquarters.”
“What is it?” the Patriarche asked gruffly.
The general shot Marcellus a cryptic look before turning back to the Patriarche. “It appears Inspecteur Limier has been found.”
- CHAPTER 5 - MARCELLUS
THE HALLWAYS OF THE MINISTÈRE headquarters were buzzing with activity. Officers and cyborgs crisscrossed the pristine, chrome-tiled hallways, their heads bent over the broadcasts playing out on their TéléComs. Marcellus followed behind his grandfather and watched as people saluted and then scattered at the sight of the almighty general, the Regime’s most dedicated and loyal servant.
If only they knew, Marcellus thought bitterly.
The door to the Ministère’s Cyborg and Technology labs whooshed open, and Marcellus and the general stepped through into another hallway, this one brilliant white and immaculately sterile. Marcellus squinted under the bright, harsh lights as their boots clicked rhythmically and purposefully across the polished floors.
Marcellus knew exactly where they were heading. He’d walked this route many times in his years of training as an officer and now a commandeur. Past the labs where new state-of-the-art tech was developed, the hallway that housed the cyborg initiation and training facilities, and the myriad of server rooms where Laterre’s intricate communication networks and power grids were controlled. The difference was, today, Marcellus’s mind was filled with thoughts of deception and treason.
Somehow, he had to plant a surveillance device in his grandfather’s study. He knew he’d never be able to gain access to the office alone. No one was allowed in there without the general. Even the maids had to clean the room while he was present. Which meant that Marcellus would have to do it right under his grandfather’s nose.
And then there was the problem of acquiring the device itself. These hallways were packed full of every kind of surveillance equipment imaginable. But all Ministère-issued devices were trackable. He couldn’t risk it being found.
He had to find another way.
“Access granted.”
The biometric lock on the infirmerie door disengaged and the general didn’t hesitate. He pushed the door open and blustered inside. Marcellus followed after him, decidedly less enthusiastic. The thought of seeing the cyborg inspecteur again was making him break out in a cold sweat. He had never liked Inspecteur Limier. The man was suspicious of everything and dogged to a fault. In short, the very last person you wanted to have around when you had a secret to hide. And right now, Marcellus didn’t need another pair of eyes watching him.
But as he stepped inside the infirmerie a moment later, he felt his tensed muscles instantly relax. This was not the Inspecteur Limier of Marcellus’s memories. The once fearsome cyborg now looked helpless and vulnerable. He lay unmoving and silent on a gurney under a crisp green sheet, while a collection of monitors blinked and hummed around him. A bandage had been wrapped in a complicated crisscrossing pattern over the top of his head, and a breathing tube snaked between his colorless lips like a grim, glowing serpent.
“What’s his status?” the general asked.
“It’s hard to tell at this point,” replied a voice, and Marcellus turned to find Gustave Chevalier—Directeur of the Ministère’s Cyborg and Technology Labs—standing behind them. The directeur’s cropped hair and narrow moustache were, per usual, as spotless and gleaming as his white coat. “His vitals seem stable for now, but we won’t know anything for certain until we run some tests.”
“Where was he found?” asked the general.
At this question, an officer in a white uniform stepped forward. Marcellus recognized him as Officer Meudon. “A ferme superviseur found him unconscious in the wheat-fleur fields this afternoon and called it in. We believe he must have collapsed there. He was still breathing, but unresponsive.”
Marcellus braved another glance at Vallonay’s most-prized and celebrated inspecteur. Limier’s taut skin appeared to be made of wax. His once-flickering circuitry, which was threaded across his forehead and cheek, was lifeless and gray, like a forlorn and abandoned spiderweb. Marcellus was grateful the cyborg’s eyes were closed, so he couldn’t see his enhanced left eye. The same eye that used to unnerve Marcellus every time it glowed bright orange and roved over him, assessing and inspecting and searching for signs of weakness. Signs of treachery and deceit.
“Who did this to him?” The question emerged like a growl from the back of the general’s throat.
“We don’t know,” Officer Meudon replied.
“Access his memory chip,” General Bonnefaçon ordered. “Whatever he saw last will have been captured by his cybernetic eye.”
Directeur Chevalier winced slightly. “Unfortunately, his entire cybernetic system has been compromised. We believe he was shot in the face by a rayonette pulse, and it scorched his circuitry. It’s likely that his memory chip was severely damaged in the attack. But I will see what I can find.”
The general nodded, and Directeur Chevalier walked over to a small control panel near the inspecteur’s bed. He tapped on the interface and the light from the screen illuminated his smooth, unblemished features, most likely the result of youth injections. Marcellus often thought it peculiar that the man who was personally in charge of recruiting and vetting candidates for the Cyborg Initiation Program was not a cyborg himself.
“Accessing the files now,” he announced. “It will take a few minutes to process them.”
The general sighed and lowered himself into a chair in the corner, all the while never taking his steady gaze off Limier. For a brief moment, Marcellus caught a glimpse of something on his grandfather’s face that he had only ever seen once before in his life. It was when the general had lost his previous commandeur, Michele Vernay. Vernay had been captured and killed while trying to assassinate Queen Matilda, the “Mad Queen” of Albion, during the Usonian War of Independence. Marcellus had been there when the general had received the alert. He’d seen the pain flash in his grandfather’s eyes. And then he’d seen that pain turn to anger.
All of that had transpired in less than a minute. A fleeting moment of vulnerability. Once it was over, hi
s grandfather had returned to his stoic, impervious self again.
But now Marcellus could see the same torment flash in his grandfather’s eyes as he watched Limier’s chest precariously rise and fall in an uneven rhythm. The general cared about this man. Marcellus knew that. And in that moment—and that moment only—Marcellus felt the tiniest drop of sympathy for his grandfather. He was a man who had known loss. And Limier had been his grandfather’s most loyal inspecteur for years. He entrusted the cyborg with things he didn’t share with anyone else. Even his own grandson.
The thought pulled Marcellus up short, and his gaze darted back to Limier and Directeur Chevalier, who was still trying to connect to the inspecteur’s memory chip.
If memory files could be accessed from the moments before Limier was attacked, could other files be accessed as well? Memories from further back?
Marcellus’s fingers twitched as an idea began to form in his mind. The inspecteur was the general’s most prized interrogator. No one could pull the truth out of a criminal like Limier. Which meant he had to know the location of his grandfather’s secret facility. The very facility where Marcellus was certain the Vangarde operatives Jacqui and Denise were being held. His gaze zeroed in on Directeur Chevalier’s control panel, where files were slowly appearing on the screen. If he could search those files and find out where the operatives were being held, Denise could tell him what she knows about the general’s weapon and perhaps direct him to the source she’s been—
“Papa! There you are!” A shrill voice punctured Marcellus’s thoughts, and he turned to see a tall, slender girl sweep through the door and hurry toward Directeur Chevalier. She wore a bright purple velvet dress, cinched at the waist with an oversized belt, and her shiny obsidian-black hair was fashioned atop her head in a ridiculous construction that Marcellus thought resembled a willow tree in the Palais gardens.
“I’ve sent you nearly a thousand AirLinks,” the girl went on, her chipper voice a startling contrast to the somber tension in the room. “Are you ignoring me again, silly Papa? Oh, hi, General. Hi, Marcellus. Didn’t see you there. Marcellus, you’re looking … dapper as always.”
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