Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  “If I may,” the general said, easing the TéléCom from the Patriarche’s grip. He tapped proficiently on the screen a few times, eventually pulling up what Marcellus recognized as the portal for Bastille’s Central Command before tapping on the security feed of Citizen Rousseau’s cell.

  Marcellus glanced away, knowing exactly what he would see next. It would be the same thing he always saw: a frail skeleton of a woman curled up on the grimy floor. He would not see the strong, charismatic woman who had led a rebellion seventeen years ago and had almost won. The woman who was feared by every Ministère officer on the planet. He would see a shell. A useless heap of flesh and bones.

  He’d witnessed the ghastly sight so many times, he’d almost become desensitized to it.

  Almost.

  “What on Laterre—”

  Marcellus heard his grandfather’s words but could not make sense of the bewilderment in his voice until a moment later, when Marcellus glanced at the Patriarche’s TéléCom, still clutched in the general’s hands. The screen displayed the usual view of a dreary, cement cell with no windows and only one PermaSteel door. But instead of revealing a withered, gaunt-faced woman huddled in a corner, Marcellus could see that the cell was, indeed, empty.

  “I told you!” the Patriarche said, pointing his finger in the general’s face. “I told you she escaped!”

  The general ignored him and continued to prod and poke desperately at the screen, looking not too dissimilar from the Patriarche only a few moments ago.

  “It’s not possible,” the general whispered, his brow crumpled, his eyes narrowed. The sight of the general’s face made Marcellus’s stomach flip. He’d never seen his grandfather look quite so … so …

  But Marcellus couldn’t even think of the right word. It didn’t exist. Not for the almighty General Bonnefaçon.

  “Well, don’t just stand there like an imbecile, General,” the Patriarche roared. “FIND HER!”

  The general shoved the Patriarche’s TéléCom into Marcellus’s chest before reaching into his pocket for his own. He hastily unfurled it and began punching at the screen.

  “Chéri?” cried a small, fragile voice. Marcellus turned to see the Matrone now sitting bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide open. “What’s happening? Why are you shouting?”

  The Patriarche turned toward his wife, looking like he was about to say something to try to appease her, but was interrupted by the general bellowing into his TéléCom.

  “Warden Gallant. This is General Bonnefaçon. I am reporting a code orange. I repeat, a code orange. Prisoner 40102 has disappeared from her—”

  The general halted abruptly and listened, his eyes blinking in response to the incoming information. Marcellus peered at the TéléCom to see the warden’s face staring back at the general, his thin lips moving rapidly. Marcellus could not hear what the warden was saying, but he noticed his grandfather swallow and stand up straighter, pushing his shoulders back and reasserting his usual rigid stance. It was as though he was physically preparing himself for everything that came next. For the repercussions of what he was about to hear.

  For war.

  “I understand,” the general said stiffly. “Yes, I am with Monsieur Patriarche right now. I will relay the information. Merci, Warden Gallant.”

  The general disconnected the AirLink and turned toward the Patriarche, who met his stare with dark, furious eyes. “What is going on? Where is the wretched woman? Tell me what’s going on right this instant, or I swear to the Sols, General, I will—”

  The general held up a hand, halting the Patriarche midsentence. “Monsieur Patriarche. I am delighted to be the one to deliver you this news.”

  Delighted?

  The Patriarche and Marcellus exchanged confused glances before turning back to the general.

  “The warden has just received word from the droid stationed outside of Citizen Rousseau’s cell. Earlier tonight, scanners picked up a significant change in her vitals. By the time the droid entered her cell to perform a scan, her heart had stopped beating. Her body is presently being transferred to the Bastille morgue for disintegration.”

  The Patriarche stared vacantly at the general, as though he were a droid with a faulty processing chip, unable to compute the words he was hearing.

  From somewhere behind them, the Matrone let out a small sob. “Oh, thank the Sols,” she whispered into her hands. “Thank the Sols.”

  But the Patriarche still didn’t seem to register the news. The general reached out and patted him congenially on the back. “Congratulations, Monsieur Patriarche. Citizen Rousseau is dead.”

  - PART 2 - BASTILLE

  The misery of the Third Estate knew no bounds. Endless days of hunger. Nights so cold that lips turned blue. Unending rain through leaking roofs. Hands rubbed raw from the soil in the fermes and the rocks in the exploits. Tiny shards of goodness sucked from their veins to buy a measly loaf of bread. For some, this misery was a wrong to be put right by the forces of good.

  Others saw it as violence to be met with violence.

  An injustice to be washed away in a rain of blood.

  From The Chronicles of the Vangarde, Volume 8, Chapter 14

  - CHAPTER 11 - ALOUETTE

  ALOUETTE TAUREAU HAD LIVED THE last twelve years of her life in the dark.

  Not because she’d lived in a Refuge hidden ten mètres below the surface of Laterre. Nor because she’d grown up protecting a secret library of First World books that hadn’t seen the light of day for centuries.

  The darkness that had surrounded Alouette for all those years consisted of lies.

  Deep, dark, all-encompassing lies.

  She’d been told the Refuge was a sanctuary. A place for quiet contemplation and study.

  Lie.

  She’d been told the sisters were peaceful people who’d taken a vow of secrecy and solitude so they could protect the First World knowledge from destruction.

  Lie.

  She’d been told that their purpose for living ten mètres underground, in a bunker hidden away from the rest of the planet, was to guard the Chronicles—the heavy, clothbound, handwritten books that lined the back shelf of the Refuge library.

  More lies.

  As the giant door of the disembarkation bay creaked open and the bateau’s great loading ramp began to unfurl, Alouette could feel those lies lurking behind her in the shadows, ready to follow her off the bateau and into this faraway city that filled the sea air with the smell of burnt metal. The light from the dock streamed into the belly of the ship, and the crowd jostled in anticipation. Alouette held tight to the sac strapped around her chest, clutching the only possessions she had left in the world.

  As she waited to disembark, the memories of the events that had brought her here, to the other side of the Secana Sea, cycled through her mind on an endless loop. She could still see it all so clearly. She could see herself flying down the low hallways of the Refuge, the place she and her father had called home for so many years. She could see herself storming into the sisters’ Assemblée room—a room she’d always been told was for private meditation and prayer. She could see her own face twisted in shock and disbelief as she tried to make sense of her surroundings.

  It was not a room for private meditation and prayer.

  It was a control center.

  The heart of an underground movement.

  It was a deep, dark secret that Alouette had been shielded from her entire life.

  “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  Principale Francine’s words came back to her now like sharp daggers in her side. The words that had turned Alouette’s world from a familiar place of safety and surety to an unknown place of danger and uncertainty.

  “We, the sisters, are the leaders of an underground movement, working to bring about an end to poverty, sickness, and suffering on Laterre,” Principale Francine said. “We call ourselves the Vangarde.”

  Alouette stood frozen in shock, unable to move. Her eyes glazed over as she to
ok in the wires and cables and circuit boards. The books and papers and screens. So many screens. She simply couldn’t stop staring at this strange new world that had somehow been part of her world the whole time. But she’d never seen it. Never known. How could the sisters have kept this from her for twelve years?

  Her eyes drifted to the seven other women in the room—Sister Laurel, Sister Muriel, Sister Marguerite, Sister Nicolette, Sister Léonie, Sister Clare, Sister Noëlle—all of them stationed at various monitors and control panels. These were the sisters Alouette had grown up with, eaten meals in grateful silence with, practiced Tranquil Forme with. These were the women who had raised her and fed her and cared for her when she was sick. And they were all in on this?

  “You, Little Lark, are part of a very important legacy,” Principale Francine continued. “A legacy that is destined to heal our broken planet. We, the Vangarde, are Laterre’s last hope. The people’s last hope.”

  Alouette felt like every organ inside her body was shutting down, one by one. Her liver, her spleen, her brain, her lungs, her heart. When she finally found her voice again, it was cracked and shaky. “I don’t understand.”

  Principale Francine sighed. “The Regime is extremely corrupt. The very origins of Laterre were unjust and divisive, designed to keep the poor downtrodden and defeated and ignorant. Seventeen years ago, we tried to do something about it. Our rebellion began peacefully. Our former leader, Citizen Rousseau, rallied the people behind our cause with words and emotion and a shift in perspective. But eventually, the movement got away from us. It escalated. It became violent. Instead of peacefully demanding change from the Regime—the way we envisioned it—the people started fighting the Regime. And the Regime fought back. Not just with their droids, but also with their lies. They framed us for violent acts that we were innocent of. They turned the people against us. Citizen Rousseau was captured and incarcerated on Bastille. The spirit of what she represented—what we all represented—died. And our rebellion died right along with it.”

  Alouette pressed her fingertips into her temples. She was vaguely aware that Principale Francine was speaking, but the words came to Alouette in floating fragments. Space debris that seemed to drift by before Alouette could make sense of it. The sisters had another leader who was in prison?

  Her gaze found its way to the black pedestal that stood in the dead center of the Assemblée room. Just above it, a hologram hovered and glowed, like it was burned right into the air.

  She’d recognized the image the moment she’d first walked into this room.

  It was a map of Bastille. The prison moon of Laterre.

  But now, as she peered closer to the hologram, Alouette spotted details she hadn’t noticed before. The crisscrossing lines, precise angles, and tiny annotations led her to believe it was more than just a map.

  It was a blueprint.

  “Citizen Rousseau.” Alouette repeated the unfamiliar name Francine had just uttered, feeling a chill tingle down her spine. “You’re going to break her out.”

  Francine clasped her hands in her lap and jutted out her chin. “The situation on Laterre has escalated. Exponentially. If we don’t act quickly, the planet will fall into the wrong hands, and we shall all be doomed. Rousseau is our best chance at launching a successful revolution. The people will rally around her again, just as they did before. She understands their suffering, she articulates their pain, and when she is free again, she will be their glowing lamp in a dark forest. With her eloquence, her fearlessness, and her compassion, she will light the path of change. The peaceful path. Which is why we must rescue her from Bastille.”

  Something snapped together in Alouette’s mind. Marcellus had just told her, only moments ago, that two Vangarde operatives had been captured trying to break into the office of the warden of Bastille.

  “Sister Jacqui and Sister Denise!” she cried. “They were … That’s what they were doing. That’s why they were arrested.”

  Francine nodded, a solemn shadow passing over her face. “Their capture was an unfortunate setback.”

  “Unfortunate setback?” Alouette repeated, disgusted at Francine’s blatant coldness. “The Ministère has them. They could be tortured or killed or worse! We have to help them. We have to break them out. If you can break out Citizen Rousseau, you can break them out too, right?”

  Francine sighed again. “Jacqui and Denise understood the risks when they agreed to the mission.”

  Numbness started spreading through Alouette’s toes. She had to remind herself to keep breathing. “But you can’t … You can’t just leave them.…”

  “We don’t even know where the Ministère is holding them. Trust me, we are trying to find them, but until then, Citizen Rousseau is our top priority. And the sisters know that.”

  “No!” Alouette said forcefully. The numbness was already spreading through her legs. Tears were already blurring her vision.

  “We need time. And more resources. Freeing Rousseau is a vital step, but it is only the first step. We have a very long road ahead of us before we see true change on Laterre.” Principale Francine’s eyes settled intensely on Alouette. “Which is why we need your help, Little Lark.”

  Rage suddenly flared up inside Alouette. “My help? Why would you ever need my help? I know nothing about any of this! You’ve kept me in the dark for twelve years! What use could I ever be to your … your … movement?”

  “You are more useful than you realize, Alouette,” Francine said with a rare twinkle in her eye. “And you have not spent those twelve years in the dark. You have spent them in training. In learning. In becoming the sister—the woman—we always knew you could be. And now I am offering you a choice to join us. To help us.”

  Alouette hastily shook her head and gritted her teeth. “No, you’re not. You stole that choice! You didn’t offer it to me, you thrust it upon me, without asking. The moment I stepped foot inside this Refuge, the moment you put that first Chronicles volume in my hand, that choice was robbed from me. My life was robbed from me. You can’t give it back.” She wiped her cheeks where tears were beginning to fall. “And I don’t want it back. I don’t want any of it.”

  “All passengers disembark!”

  The thundering voice yanked Alouette out of her reverie, and she felt the crowd around her start to move. As she followed the stream of people shuffling toward the bateau’s disembarkation ramp, she tried to push away the memory of Principale Francine’s face as Alouette had shouted those words.

  She could not allow herself to be distracted by painful memories of things she couldn’t change. She had come here, to this city, with a purpose. A burning question to answer. She’d escaped from the Refuge—from that hidden-away bunker with its low ceilings; heavy, suffocating doors; and secret rooms. She’d gathered up what few possessions she had and left the only home she’d ever known. She’d boarded a bateau and sailed around the great single landmass of Laterre, journeying as far away as she possibly could from that darkness and those lies.

  Until she’d arrived right here. In the city of Montfer. Which had twinkled on the horizon like a city of jewels. A city of hope.

  And now she was finally, finally heading toward the light.

  Toward the stories that had been hidden from her for far too long.

  Toward the truth of who she was.

  But the moment she stepped off the bateau and into the icy night air, something shifted inside of her. All her resolve seemed to shrivel up at once.

  The dock of Montfer was a bustling cesspool of noise and activity, even though the Sols had set hours ago. Rain drizzled softly from the dark sky, and the wind from the Secana Sea behind her was both biting and refreshing, offering a momentary reprieve from the foul smell that seemed to hang over the darkened city like a layer of fog. Disembarking passengers mixed chaotically with passengers trying to board the bateau that would soon head out into the night, making its return trip to Vallonay. Alouette quickly became lost and dizzy in the confusion. She wedged herse
lf into an empty space on the dock and struggled to catch her breath.

  It seemed like ever since she’d left the safety of the Refuge, it had been one overwhelming situation after the next: navigating the Marsh; negotiating with stall owners for new clothes and passage to Montfer; endless days at sea enduring violent storms, towering waves, and grueling seasickness. And now this. A strange world that felt galaxies away from the world she grew up in. The sisters may have taught her to read and write, but what good did that do now? Alouette had never felt less certain and more ill prepared than she did at this moment.

  “First time on the east coast, chéri?”

  The voice seemed to float out of nowhere. Alouette turned to see a frail older woman standing nearby, her wispy white hair matted with rain and clinging to her face. She looked like she hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  Alouette pressed her lips together, wondering whether or not she should reply. She’d learned from her time aboard the bateau that people couldn’t always be trusted. But there was something in the woman’s hungry, hooded eyes that found Alouette murmuring, “First time in a long time.”

  The woman chuckled. “I suspected as much. You look terrified.”

  Admonishing herself, Alouette tried to loosen her face. She wasn’t going to get anywhere if everyone could see the fear written all over her.

  “Let me help you out,” the woman said with a smile, revealing yellowed, rotting teeth. “I know this city backward and forward. What are you looking for?”

  Alouette hesitated, wondering how much she should reveal to this woman. But the thought of venturing out there, into that chaos, alone, made her want to turn right back around and reboard the bateau. “I’m looking for …”—she lowered her voice—“the blood bordel?” She pronounced the words like a question. Like she wasn’t sure they actually existed.

  Something flickered in the woman’s eyes. It looked like comprehension and sympathy and pity all wrapped up in one blink. “Of course. I see girls like you arriving every day. Desperate. Hungry. Craving something just out of reach.”