“How much?” Marcellus asked briskly.
The Capitaine scanned the ten titan buttons. “Triple.”
Marcellus’s stomach lurched. “I don’t have triple.”
The Capitaine’s hand that was holding the device shifted out of reach. “Then it seems you don’t have an auditeur.”
Marcellus felt that familiar rush of anger. This criminal was trying to take advantage of him. Take advantage of the fact that he knew Marcellus not only needed this device, but needed it to be kept a secret.
But Marcellus was done being taken advantage of.
He stood up straighter. “How about I resist the urge to shut down this whole establishment right here and now, and we call it even?”
“Oh, I don’t think you’ll do that.”
“You’re right,” Marcellus said hotly. “I won’t. Because you’re going to take the ten titan buttons and you’re going to keep your Sol-damn mouth shut. Because you’re not a mouchard who does deals with the Ministère, remember?”
Marcellus stepped forward and grabbed the auditeur, swiftly and decisively, from the Capitaine’s hand. Then, without another word, he turned and headed for the door, stomping noisily down the corridor and the stairs to the ground floor.
* * *
By the time Marcellus exited out of Fret 17, the Marsh was more crowded than ever. People shoved and jostled amongst the market stalls, and the walkways thrummed with energy and noise. The protest over the Patriarche’s wage cuts seemed to be reaching a pinnacle, and Marcellus couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking through the center of an unstable Sol on the brink of imploding.
At the center of the marketplace, a group of Third Estaters was congregated around the resurrected statue of Thibault Paresse, the founding Patriarche of Laterre, shouting and punching their fists into the air. Their synchronized, echoing chant reverberated through the Frets.
“Honest work for an honest wage! Honest work for an honest wage!”
Policier sergents tried desperately to keep the crowd contained, but Marcellus knew it was only a matter of minutes before another riot broke out. Today, however, he was grateful for the commotion. It would conceal what he had to do and keep the local authorities distracted.
After checking to make sure he wasn’t being followed, Marcellus ducked through the entrance of Fret 7. Once inside, memories began to swarm him. He suddenly saw her everywhere. Tending to his bleeding head in the hallway. Reading the message sewn into his father’s prison shirt. Vanishing around the corner the last night he’d seen her.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been back here since that night he’d watched Alouette run away from him. But now, with Mabelle’s words ringing in his ears, the hallway of Fret 7 felt different. Emptier somehow.
“Little Lark is no longer with the Vangarde.”
He’d stayed awake almost the entire night searching for her on his TéléCom. Scouring countless hours of security footage from the droids patrolling the Frets. Scanning a hundred thousand faces, looking for her face. But it was like trying to find a single drop of water in all of the Secana sea.
Alouette Taureau, it would seem, had turned back into a ghost.
With a sigh, he attempted to push her from his thoughts as he scurried toward the old collapsed stairwell at the end of the hall. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved the balled-up piece of paper he’d scrawled a message on earlier this morning, informing the Vangarde that he was going to attempt to bug his grandfather’s office.
He squeezed the message in his palm before surreptitiously stuffing it between two broken slats in the staircase. Then, as he headed back down the long, dank corridor, he bent over and dragged his fingertip through the mud on the ground. When he reached the Fret’s entrance, he stopped and drew a large letter V on the wall.
The signal to the Vangarde that a new drop had been made.
Marcellus didn’t know who picked up or delivered the messages—perhaps more Fret rats like that boy he’d interrogated two weeks ago, who had been sent to Bastille for being a Vangarde courier. All Marcellus knew was that, by the time he returned tomorrow, a response would be waiting for him in the stairwell. At least, that’s what Mabelle had told him before he’d left the copper exploit yesterday morning, when she’d given him the instructions on how to make contact.
Exiting the Fret, he could hear the commotion building in the Marsh. Becoming more volatile. More violent. Soon, the droids would start firing into the crowd. Bodies would fall limp. More arrests would be made. More prisoners sent to Bastille to mine the zyttrium required to make more Skins. More chains for the Third Estate. It was a vicious cycle that Marcellus knew had to change.
But his grandfather was not the one to do it. He was not the better solution. If there was anything Marcellus was certain of, it was that.
“Is this really where you’re supposed to be?”
Marcellus froze at the sound of the voice. The icy, cold, inflectionless tone. He closed his eyes, praying that the voice was talking to someone else—a rioter escaped from the marketplace, perhaps. But then the footsteps approached from behind him. Their stiff, rhythmic cadence snapped through the damp air. A tingle shot down Marcellus’s spine. He spun around and his gaze landed on a pair of shiny black boots as they emerged from the Fret hallway and came toe to toe with Marcellus’s own.
His pulse spiked. Had he been followed?
Marcellus took a deep breath and looked unwaveringly into the eyes of the man who stood now a mere whisper away from him.
If you could even still call him a man.
The newly implanted circuitry in the left side of the cyborg’s face blinked furiously as a look of satisfaction passed over his harsh features.
Marcellus kept his gaze steady and tried to infuse nonchalance into his words. “Inspecteur Chacal. How good to see you.”
The inspecteur glared back at him. “Officer Bonnefaçon. What are you doing here? My TéléCom says you’re supposed to be at the TéléSkin fabrique right now, interrogating the déchets.”
Marcellus tried not to cringe at the inspecteur’s use of that vulgar word for the Third Estates. Déchets. Garbage. Scum.
“I’m on a special assignment,” Marcellus replied, fighting to keep his voice steady. Chacal had already snitched on him to his grandfather once. He had to assume he would do it again. “Confidential. It’s not logged.”
The inspecteur’s gaze raked up and down Marcellus, his circuitry flashing with suspicion. The auditeur in Marcellus’s pocket suddenly felt like a boulder.
The inspecteur couldn’t search him, could he? He didn’t have the authority.
Marcellus heard the crisp smack, smack, smack of Chacal’s infamous metal baton slapping against his palm as he considered the validity of Marcellus’s claim. The weapon glinted ominously in the afternoon light.
“And I’m running behind,” Marcellus continued, anxious to get as far away from Chacal as possible, “so I better get back to it.”
He began to push his way past the inspecteur, but Chacal flicked his baton in front of him, blocking his path. Chacal’s one orange eye bore into him.
Marcellus knew the inspecteur could use that eye to seek the truth, to pick up on Marcellus’s heart rate and body heat. A human lie detector. But he was certain Chacal was also using it as a method of intimidation. Chacal had always been predatory, with a taste for terrorization. But after his recent promotion from sergent to inspecteur—and subsequent cyborg operation—the power had immediately gone to his cybernetically enhanced brain.
“What kind of special assignment?” Chacal asked.
Marcellus allowed a small smile to cross his lips. “I would share more details with you, Inspecteur, but I’m afraid it’s above your clearance level.”
The insult registered on the man’s face, and Marcellus could see the fury flash in his one human eye.
“Shall I AirLink in a quick confirmation to the general that you are indeed supposed to be here? And not in the Fabriqu
e District as my TéléCom says?” Chacal asked.
Marcellus could hear his heart thudding in his ears, but somehow, he managed to keep his panic concealed. “If you must,” he replied casually. “And while you’re at it, perhaps you could also explain to him why the newly appointed inspecteur of the Vallonay Policier Precinct has abandoned his sergents in the midst of a potential riot.”
The embedded circuits in Chacal’s face flashed once more, but this time, Marcellus could read the difference in their frenetic flickering. This time, it wasn’t anger or suspicion that played out on the cyborg’s face. It was fear. Followed by subtle resignation.
Chacal slowly raised his baton, allowing Marcellus to pass. “Good luck on your assignment,” he muttered, refusing to meet Marcellus’s eye.
“Merci,” Marcellus replied jovially, giving the inspecteur an undeserved salute. “And Vive Laterre.”
“Vive Laterre,” Chacal repeated, barely audible through his clenched teeth.
- CHAPTER 8 - CHATINE
THE HEAVY PERMASTEEL COLLAR CLAMPED around Chatine’s neck, and she felt herself being tugged forward. She shuffled her feet, following the inmate in front of her as they walked slowly and arduously out of the exploit complex.
Another day over.
Only ten thousand, one hundred and eighty-five to go.
She stumbled across the moon’s dusty amber-colored surface while the collar dragged at her throat, causing her to cough and wheeze.
Chatine wasn’t sure why they even needed these collars and the heavy PermaSteel chain hitching each prisoner together in a long miserable line. What was the point when there were droids stationed all along their route back to the prison building, ready to send ruthless volts of electricity through your body if you dared try to run?
The walk to and from the exploit complex was long and laborious. Chatine and the other prisoners moved like a single, lumbering snake, the great chain between them clanking and jangling in the cold Bastille air.
Chatine shivered as a gust of wind whistled through her exploit coat and spread across her skin. She glanced up and squinted against the light of the stars. They were mere pinpricks in the sky, but after twelve hours of darkness in the exploits, it took her eyes a moment to adjust.
The three Sols of the System Divine were still invisible to her on Bastille. The prison complex was positioned so far north on the moon’s surface, it was almost always night here. But the stars, they were everywhere. Like an infinite blanket of shimmering and dancing light across the sky. More stars than she could ever hope to count. More than she even thought existed.
“Look down, keep walking,” said a nearby droid.
Chatine trudged forward, relieved when she could finally make out the glittering lights of Bastille’s spaceport to her right. They were almost there.
Up ahead, the prison building loomed. Flanked by an impenetrable curtain wall, its six towers glowed like unwavering sentinels. Chatine’s gaze tracked across to the Trésor tower, where her own cell block was located. Up on its roof, she could just make out a long silver chute glinting in the starlight. Chatine shivered, thinking about the terrible machine that was attached to that chimney. The disintegrateur. And even though she warned herself not to, she couldn’t help but think about Anaïs, the girl from the exploit. Somewhere up there, in the dingy, cold morgue on the top floor of the tower, her body was waiting to be loaded into that machine, which blasted, froze, and turned everything to nothing. Chatine was grateful that at least today wasn’t a disintegration day. Even though the ice dust of the dead wasn’t supposed to have an odor, Chatine swore she could smell the stench as the frozen fragments billowed up the gleaming chimney into the dark skies above.
Chatine pulled her gaze from the roof as the heavy airlock of the dispatch bunker yawned open and the line of chained prisoners filed inside. The doors sealed shut, and one by one, they stepped into a narrow chamber where, amid a deafening cranking and squealing noise, the chains from their necks were removed. As soon as the metal collar was unfastened, Chatine felt like she could breathe again.
The dispatch bunker was a desolate room with nothing but a few benches, floors covered in Bastille dust, and rows of hooks for exploit coats. Chatine shrugged out of her own and was just about to hang it up when a loud clatter rang out, causing her to jump. She turned to see a man sprawled out on the floor. His head was smooth and shiny from the razor. Fresh off the voyageur.
“Watch your step, Nov,” a harsh voice spat, using the nickname new arrivals were given on Bastille.
Chatine turned around to see another man standing just behind her, glaring down at the prisoner on the floor. He’d evidently been the one to put him there. The standing man’s hair was long, falling to the middle of his back. Chatine’s gaze zeroed in on his left shirt sleeve, rolled with precision.
Another Vétéran. Like Roche’s bodyguard, Clovis.
“Sorry,” the newcomer muttered through clenched teeth. “Calm the fric down, all right?”
There was something eerily familiar about him. But as hard as she tried, Chatine couldn’t manage to place him in her memories.
“Everyone has to learn their place here,” the Vétéran growled, taking a few steps forward until he stood directly over the fallen inmate. “And right now, you are exactly where you belong. On the floor like the Nov scum that you are.”
A ripple of trepidation passed through Chatine. She’d never seen a Vétéran instigate a fight before. Most of them were too old. And while inmates like Clovis were intimidating, they mostly stayed out of trouble.
So what was this man doing?
The newcomer tried to stand, but the Vétéran immediately kicked him back down to the floor.
Chatine’s muscles coiled. This would not end well. Fights between inmates broke out often, and she’d learned quickly to be as far away from the scene as possible when they did. She tossed her coat onto the hook and backed away from the two men just as the newcomer let out a roar, launched to his feet, and barreled into the Vétéran.
The older man staggered backward, taking the hit, and soon the two prisoners were on the floor together, wrestling for position, punches being thrown and ducked. Out of the corner of her eye, Chatine saw the nearest droid register the fight and start to make its way over. She turned, preparing to remove herself from the crime of proximity, when just then, something caught her eye. The two scrabbling prisoners were still on the ground. The Vétéran had grabbed a stray boot from nearby and was holding it high above his head, preparing to slam it down on the other man’s face.
But it was the newcomer—lying on his back—who Chatine was watching, transfixed. One of his hands was raised to protect his face from the blow, while the other was reaching toward the pocket of the Vétéran’s prison uniform. Chatine caught a glimpse of something small and white—like a tiny vial—before it was gone. Deposited into the pocket. The heavy boot came down. The newcomer rolled left and was instantly back on his feet. He landed a kick right in the Vétéran’s stomach. The Vétéran collapsed. The newcomer went for a second blow, but it never connected because he was suddenly flung back as the droid grabbed him by the scruff of the neck like a dog. Dangling from its metal fist, the Nov wriggled and whipped his body, but it was no use. Hardly anyone broke free from the grasp of a droid. A split second later, the droid’s tazeur made contact with the newcomer’s neck. His whole body juddered and seized before the droid dropped him to the floor in a quivering, convulsing heap.
And that’s when Chatine saw it.
The cuff of the newcomer’s left shirt sleeve.
It, too, had been rolled up.
Just like Clovis’s. Just like the old man who had started the fight.
Chatine’s body stiffened.
He couldn’t be one of them. He’d only just arrived. It didn’t make any sense. The Vétérans were all ancient prisoners, with hair that fell at least to their chins. This man didn’t fit in.
“Prisoner 51616,” announced the droid,
which still loomed over the newcomer. “This is your first warning. Any future altercations or breaches in protocol will earn you two days in solitary confinement.”
As Chatine watched the man hobble away, she was struck, once again, by that same twinge of recognition. His prominent brow and hooked nose seemed so familiar to her. But still, she couldn’t figure out how she knew him. The haze of the grippe was holding her brain and her memories hostage. Trying to recall this man’s face was like trying to swim through thick sludge.
Chatine followed the newcomer with her eyes, watching as he pulled off his exploit coat and hung it up. Her good sense told her to let it go. Stop obsessing over this. It was none of her business, and she was better off not getting involved anyway.
But another part of her—the part that had been tamped down, drowned out by the grippe, forgotten back on Laterre—wouldn’t allow her to let it go. It was the very part of Chatine that had helped her survive the streets of Vallonay.
It was the Fret rat in her.
She’d thought it was dead and incinerated. She’d thought it had been killed the moment that prisoner number had been tattooed into her arm. But now she could feel it rising back up, screaming through the thick fog, telling her there was something going on here. Something she had to figure out.
Chatine studied the new inmate as he joined the line of prisoners exiting the dispatch bunker and heading for the cantine. His long muscular limbs, broad shoulders, and square jaw tugged at the corners of her memory.
Where had she seen him before?
He turned his head to rub at the back of his neck, giving Chatine a perfect view of his face. And that’s when a flimsy memory pushed its way into her mind. She could suddenly see wisps of fog in the air. His large, menacing frame emerging from a wall of mist.
Montfer.
The Tourbay.
Mabelle.
He was one of Mabelle’s bodyguards. Chatine had seen the man when she’d accompanied Marcellus to Montfer to meet with his former governess, an escaped Vangarde prisoner. That was back when Chatine was still working as a spy for General Bonnefaçon. The decision that had eventually landed her on Bastille.
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