A loud gasp erupted around the room. Marcellus stared speechlessly at the roof of the Trésor tower. In the center of a neat grid of cooling vents, crisscrossing pipes, and water towers, stood three figures huddled close together. As though trying to stay warm or hidden or both.
“Are those prisoners?” Chaumont asked, squinting at the slightly blurry image on the screen.
Marcellus leaned in for a closer look. Through the darkness, he could see that the three figures were dressed in Bastille blue uniforms, just like the one his father had worn. And they all had hair that fell to the middles of their backs.
“What is that?” Warden Gallant cried out, suddenly pointing at something behind one of the vents.
The general maneuvered the satellite cam to the right, and as the image processed and began to clear, Marcellus felt the last sips of air get sucked right out of the room.
“It’s her!” the Patriarche called out, as though he were the only one in the room to recognize her. But of course, he wasn’t. Of course, they all recognized her instantly.
It was Citizen Rousseau. Lying on a makeshift stretcher. Looking one shudder away from death.
“Gallant!” the general shouted, startling Marcellus away from the frail, white-haired woman on the screen. “Send droids to the roof of the Trésor tower immediately.”
The warden glanced up from his TéléCom with panic scrawled all over his face. “Sir, the blackout cut the power to the exterior elevator. It’s the only access to the roof.”
Fragile hope began to flutter in Marcellus’s stomach like a flock of beautiful songbirds. They were doing it. The Vangarde were outsmarting the Ministère.
“That’s ridiculous. It can’t be!” the Patriarche blustered. “Tell them to climb up the side of the Sol-damn building if they have to.”
The warden shared a knowing look with the general and Marcellus instantly recognized the defeat in both of their eyes. But it was Warden Gallant who relayed the bad news, looking like he might actually start crying. “Droids can’t climb, sir. Until the power is restored, there is no way they can get onto that roof.”
The general slammed his TéléCom down on the warden’s desk, causing everyone in the room to jump. “Can’t you see what’s going on here? The Vangarde are using our own tech against us.”
Marcellus had never seen his grandfather look so wild and unhinged. He had the eyes of a mad man.
“I-I don’t understand how this could happen!” the warden stammered, glancing anxiously between the looped footage of Citizen Rousseau in the morgue and the satellite image of her on the roof, weak and fragile but very much alive. As though he couldn’t quite believe they were the same person. “She’s the most-guarded prisoner on Bastille.”
The general turned his vengeful eyes back to the monitors. “My guess is somehow they were able to make it look like Rousseau was dead,” he stated, his composure slowly returning. “Or, at least dead enough to fool the droids. Probably something slipped into her food by a kitchen worker. That got her out of solitary confinement, the most secure area of the prison. Then, these prisoners—Med Center workers I imagine—got her out of the morgue while we watched looped footage of her dead body. And now …” his voice trailed off as something flickered on the satellite imagery. A slender beam of light cut across the rooftop, momentarily illuminating the faces of the prisoners.
The general snatched up his TéléCom again and zoomed out on the image, until they could see almost the entire prison complex.
“The combatteurs?” the warden asked him hopefully. “Have they arrived?”
The general shook his head as a shadow passed over his face. “Negative.”
And that’s when Marcellus saw it. The lone ship descending from the sky. Heading straight toward the Trésor tower.
“What on Laterre?” The Patriarche stared wide-eyed at the monitor.
“That’s certainly not one of ours,” Chaumont said, echoing the disbelief in everyone’s eyes.
“How on Laterre did they get past our shields?” the warden bellowed, his face twisting with sudden rage.
Marcellus’s mouth fell open. It was the strangest ship he had ever seen. With a hull made up of a series of mismatched panels, it looked as if it had been cobbled together with parts of decommissioned cruiseurs and perhaps a transporteur or two. The wings jutted out in odd directions and a large window bubbled up over the top of the cockpit like a single protruding eye.
“Gallant!” the general seethed, his gaze locked on the descending craft. “We need power restored to the tower. Now.”
The warden nodded and murmured a series of hushed, angry commands into his TéléCom.
“So, we’re just supposed to sit here and watch them take her?” the Patriarche asked, looking from Marcellus to the warden to the general. But no one dared reply. The entire room was in shock at the sight playing out before them. A tense silence filled the air, as the obvious and irrefutable answer to the Patriarche’s question seemed to descend over the room as slowly and surely as that strange craft descending over the surface of Bastille.
Yes.
“Arrival on Bastille in six minutes.” Capitaine Moreau’s voice crashed through the silence.
The general snapped to attention, grabbed for his TéléCom, and in an assertive and unwavering voice said, “Capitaine Moreau. This is General Bonnefaçon. We are running out of time. The enemy is descending toward the roof of the Trésor tower. As soon as the target is in sight, I want all explosifs deployed. Spare nothing. Blow up the whole tower if you have to, but no one is getting off that moon alive.”
Marcellus froze as the general’s directives reverberated in his mind like a clap of thunder.
The Trésor tower?
“But, sir,” Moreau replied, sounding slightly unsettled by the command. “There will be prisoners inside. At least a thousand human lives at risk.”
“This is Citizen Rousseau we’re talking about!” the general roared. “She gets out and there will be even more lives at risk.”
“Copy,” Moreau said, uncertainty still lingering in her voice. “Pilotes, prime your weapons.”
Marcellus’s gaze darted from the satellite image of the roof to the view from Moreau’s cockpit cam. The great burning globe of Bastille was growing larger by the second. He had to do something. Fueled by a new wave of urgency, he moved silently toward the door and slipped, unseen, into the hallway. The second he was alone, he unfolded his TéléCom and clicked on the screen. “Access Bastille Central Command,” he whispered into the device. “Locate Prisoner 51562.”
“Locating,” the TéléCom reported. Then, a moment later, Marcellus’s pulse ratcheted up three notches as a little blinking dot appeared on the screen and the device confirmed his worst nightmare. “Prisoner 51562. Location found. Trésor tower.”
- CHAPTER 15 - CHATINE
ZAP.
The noise was unlike anything Chatine had ever heard. Like a fly buzzing its last buzz. A loose wire shorting out in the rain. Chatine snapped awake and opened her eyes. But all she saw in the cramped eleventh-floor cell block of the Trésor tower was darkness.
No orange glow, no unblinking eyes staring back at her, only a shroud of black. Was she dreaming? Chatine groggily pushed herself up onto her elbow and peered around. It was as dark as the exploits.
Then, a series of lights flickered on in the bunks around her. Not the small orange eyes that blanketed this entire building. Instead, it was the familiar, bluish glow of Skins.
Chatine tapped on her own embedded screen and leaned over the side of her bunk to whisper to the woman who slept below. “What’s happening?”
The woman shook her head, fear glazing her eyes.
Tentatively, Chatine climbed out of her bunk and pulled on her boots. She could hear a commotion coming from the center of the tower, the unmistakable sound of feet pounding on the metal steps of the stairwell.
Someone pushed past her and she grabbed him by the shirt sleeve. “What the fric is g
oing on?”
“The cell block door is open!” he whispered giddily before wriggling from her grasp and darting toward the nearest bridge.
Chatine shook her head, trying to clear the last cobwebs of sleep from her mind.
The cell block door is open?
“Power must be out,” someone murmured to another inmate as they pushed past Chatine. “Let’s go!”
Chatine blinked, still unable to process what was happening. Had these people lost their minds? Had the thin atmosphere of Bastille fritzed their brains? Even if the door of the tower was open, where were they planning to go? They were on the Sol-damn moon! What were they going to do? Stand out on the craggy surface and flag down a passing voyageur? And that’s if they even got out the door. More droids were appearing by the second. This whole stupide lot was going to get themselves tazed or paralyzed before they’d even reached the central stairwell.
“Idiots,” Chatine muttered under her breath as she shoved her way through the crowd, back toward her bunk. Let the stupide sots do whatever they wanted. There was no way she was going to run the fool’s errand of trying to escape an inescapable prison.
“Prisoner 51562.”
A metal claw clamped down on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. Chatine shuddered and turned around to see a pair of piercing orange droid eyes boring down on her from behind its PermaSteel exoskeleton.
Fear thundered through her. “I-I was just trying to get back to my bunk,” she stammered. “I had nothing to do with any of this, I swear. I’m not trying to escape.”
Muscles clenching, she braced herself for another painful jolt of the tazeur. Or even a paralyzing rayonette pulse. But the basher didn’t move; instead its eyes flickered coolly. “Urgent message for prisoner 51562,” it said in a clicking, rhythmic monotone, as though it were reciting some new, unfamiliar programming.
“Message?” she croaked.
“Your life is in danger. You must leave the Trésor tower immediately,” the droid continued in the same robotic tone. “It is not safe for you to stay here.”
Chatine stared up at the droid, dumbfounded, certain she had misunderstood, or it had malfunctioned. “What?”
“Your life is in danger,” the droid repeated. “You must leave the Trésor tower immediately. It is not safe for you to stay here.”
It almost sounded like a trap. Were droids even capable of setting traps? She didn’t think so. She racked her fog-filled brain, trying to figure out what to do. Was it possible the droid was really trying to warn her about something?
She nearly laughed aloud at the thought. Bashers don’t warn prisoners.
Then again, they don’t send messages either.
“Who is the message from?” she blurted out.
The droid’s eyes flickered for just a moment, processing her question … and its answer.
“Message sent by PompFlic,” the droid stated before turning around and clanking back into the fray.
Every molecule and nerve ending in Chatine’s body seemed to implode in on itself. Now she was certain she had misunderstood. Or permanently lost her mind to the grippe. Because there was no way that droid had just said what she thought it said.
“No, I’m pretty sure it said PompFlic,” said another voice. This one was high-pitched and familiar.
Dead Azelle was back.
Maybe Chatine really was going insane.
“PompFlic,” Azelle repeated curiously. “Isn’t that what you called Marcellus Bonnefaçon?”
Chatine’s mind was reeling. She glanced out into the commotion of the dark cell block. Inmates were still shoving their way toward the bridges, trying to reach the tower’s central staircase.
“Oh, no, I remember now,” Azelle went on inside her head. “It’s what Marcellus called himself.” She giggled. “That boy is cute, but he really couldn’t get the hang of Third Estate slang, could he?”
Chatine shut her eyes, trying to block out the shouts and the thundering sounds of footsteps. She needed to think.
“What’s to think about?” Azelle asked. “Marcellus Bonnefaçon sent you that message. Something is happening. Something bad. And he’s trying to warn you. You need to find …”
Roche.
Chatine’s eyes flew open. And suddenly, she was on the move. She sprinted back to her bunk and threw herself up the rungs of the rickety ladder. Reaching into the small tear in her mattress, she searched for the silver ring.
Marcellus’s ring.
As her hand clasped around it, she felt a surge of hope. A surge of energy. And more important, a surge of courage.
Azelle was right. He was warning her of something. Warning her all the way from Laterre. Which meant …
He hadn’t forgotten about her.
She slipped the ring into the pocket of her uniform and jumped back down to the floor. She was suddenly wide awake. More awake than she’d felt in over two weeks. She jabbed at her Skin, using its dull glow to navigate her way around the neighboring bunks. The commotion had now consumed the whole cell floor. Inmates were charging toward the bridges. Rayonette blasts whooshed past her, burying themselves into unsuspecting flesh.
Chatine dropped to her hands and knees, remembering an old trick her parents had taught her for maneuvering around during a riot. If the bashers are shooting high, you stay low.
Crawling through the pandemonium, Chatine headed for Roche’s bunk, which was on the other side of the cell block. But even on her hands and knees, it was arduous to move. She was forced to dodge crumpled bodies, trampling footsteps, and the glimmering, terrifying legs of the droids trying to keep order.
“Roche!” she called out as she reached his bunk. She climbed up to the second-level mattress and cringed when she saw the bed was empty. Had he already left? Was he out there in that anarchy?
Chatine pushed toward the cell’s inner railing and looked out over the gaping eleven-floor drop. In the low light of the Skins, she could see the winding stairwell in the center of the tower, linked by gangways to the prison cells on each floor. Every single one was crammed full of people shoving and stumbling toward the staircase, causing the PermaSteel grating under their feet to rattle in the gloom. Droids stood behind the railings of each floor, firing their rayonettes toward the stairs. Prisoners stumbled and fell as pulses buried into their flesh, but it only seemed to cause more chaos as the other inmates tried to maneuver around them.
Chatine felt a surge of frustration. How was she even supposed to get down there? What good was Marcellus’s warning if she couldn’t escape the tower?
A scream broke into her thoughts, and she looked out just in time to see a body being shoved over the edge of one of the gangways. Chatine gripped the railing as the inmate accelerated down, down, down, toward the bottom of the tower far below.
The thud echoed through the entire building, reaching her, even eleven floors up.
Chatine turned away, her heart galloping in her chest. She knew better than to peer over the railing and look. Her nightmares were already bad enough.
Trying to catch her breath, Chatine struggled to come up with a plan. This whole scene reminded her of that horrible riot in the Marsh after Nadette Epernay’s execution. The bedlam of bodies and droids and rayonette pulses whooshing past her ears. That had been the day she’d first met Roche. She’d been crawling around on the Marsh floor, and she’d ducked under a stall to find him hiding—
Her thoughts screeched to a halt.
She raced back to the bunk and dropped to her knees again, peering under the lowest mattress. She almost smiled from the relief that rushed through her.
There he was. Tucked into a tiny, shaking ball, with his head buried between his knees. The light from her Skin illuminated his soft, recently shaved head. It reminded her of the baby chicks that were sold in the Marsh.
“Roche” she whispered.
He looked up briefly but stiffened and snapped his gaze away the moment he recognized her in the darkness.
Chatin
e climbed into the cramped space and crouched in front of him. “Roche. Look at me. We need to get out of here.”
Roche’s jaw pulsed, but still he would not meet her eye.
“Roche, please.” Chatine pulled at his elbow. “You have to come with me. We have to get out of here. It’s not safe.”
He yanked his arm away from her. “I’m not going anywhere with you! You’re the one who got me sent here in the first place, Chatine,” he spat the pronunciation of her real name.
She felt the familiar hollowness of shame spread through her. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. But you need to trust me right now.”
“Why?” he asked spitefully. “Why would I ever trust you again?”
“Because I got a message!” she shouted, her frustration boiling over. “That said our lives are in danger and that we have to leave the tower immediately.”
Roche stared at her, unblinking. “A message? From who?”
“Someone I trust,” she said, but Roche only narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Look,” Chatine tried another tack, lowering her voice into what she hoped was a grave, firm tone. “Something is happening on Bastille. Something to do with the power going out.”
Roche’s gaze softened from suspicion to curiosity. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” Chatine said helplessly. “And I don’t want to wait around to find out. So, come with me right now. We need to get as far away from this tower as possible.”
She pulled again on Roche’s arm. He didn’t move, but he didn’t fight back either. His body was as limp as a wet rag. “Roche!”
“Shh!” he said. “I’m thinking.”
“There’s no time to think!” Chatine cried. “We have to go now.”
“Go. Now.” Roche repeated slowly, pensively. He peered up at the sagging mattress above their heads as though he were trying to look through it, straight out of the tower and all the way to the stars. “ ‘… the only way off this moon.’ ” He sounded like he was in a trance. “It’s happening now.”
Then, suddenly, he was unfurling himself and scrabbling out from under the bunk. Relieved, Chatine darted after him. But to her surprise and then, dread, she saw he was not moving toward the nearest stairwell bridge. He was heading toward the railing. He was—she gasped aloud—climbing onto the railing!
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