Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  “Play it again!” she commanded.

  Cerise obliged, tapping on the screen. The same series of beeps replayed on the speakers, and once again, Alouette seemed to fall into some kind of trance. Marcellus listened carefully, trying to hear what she was hearing, but it just sounded like nonsensical noise to him.

  When the message finally concluded, Alouette sat very still for a long moment, her eyes closed, her lips moving silently.

  Then, without warning, her eyelids fluttered open, and in a steady, almost droid-like voice, she said, “Weapon nearly complete. Delivery in two weeks. I can stop it. Come now.”

  An instant chill corkscrewed through Marcellus’s body, slicing at his legs and neck and ribcage.

  Everyone stared at Alouette in silence. Gabriel was the first to break it.

  “WHAT. THE. FRIC?” he exploded.

  “That’s what the message says,” Alouette clarified, as though this was the part Gabriel was questioning.

  Marcellus numbly shook his head, trying to make sense of everything. He turned to Alouette. “How—how did you do that? How did you know what it said?”

  Alouette swallowed, clearly trying to absorb all of this shocking news as well. “It’s an old First World code. Sister—” but she stopped herself. “I mean, one of the people I lived with taught it to me.”

  “Wait a minute.” Cerise reeled on Alouette, her mind clearly calculating something. “Who are you exactly?”

  Alouette hesitated. “I’m … It’s complicated.”

  “A weapon?” Gabriel repeated in disbelief. “Being delivered from Albion? What weapon? Who is it being delivered to?”

  “My grandfather.” The words were barely audible through Marcellus’s taut lips. Yet they were clearly loud enough, because everyone in the cruiseur turned toward him at once, question marks blazing in their eyes. “He’s been developing a weapon with Albion.”

  There was no point keeping it a secret anymore. The planet would know soon enough. And by then it would be too late.

  “What?” Alouette asked in a shaky voice.

  Marcellus nodded. “The Vangarde recruited me to try to track it down. I don’t know what it is or what it does. All I know is that he’s going to somehow use it in his grand plan to take control of the planet. Or as he put it, ‘rid’ the Regime of the déchets and eliminate the ‘scum of Laterre.’ ”

  More silence followed. But this time it was different. It was the kind of silence that keeps you awake at night. The kind that’s filled with menacing shadows and lurking horrors. Once again, Gabriel was the first to speak.

  “Stop the cruiseur!”

  “What do you mean, ‘stop the cruiseur’?” Cerise shot back.

  “I mean, STOP THE CRUISEUR! I have to get out.”

  Cerise directed the vehicle to a halt and opened the door. Mist immediately seeped inside, and Marcellus realized they were in the middle of the Tourbay, Montfer’s infamous boglands where he’d met Mabelle only three weeks ago. The memory was like a splinter twisting in his heart. Three weeks ago, she had been alive. And now she wasn’t.

  Gabriel tumbled out through the door and bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in air with great, full-body spasms like he was drowning in the mist. Alouette immediately hurried after him and placed a tender hand on his back.

  Marcellus fought to keep his own breathing steady. Suddenly everything was lining up in his mind. Pieces that had once seemed like random floating debris circling his thoughts clattered into place. The AirLink conversation overheard in his grandfather’s study. His mission from Mabelle.

  “She was the only person who knew how to contact the source. She was our only lead for finding out what the general was working on and how to stop it.”

  Marcellus leapt to his feet and jumped out of the cruiseur. He strode purposefully toward Alouette, feeling his heart thud faster with every step he took. “This person who taught you that First World code. Is her name Denise?”

  The shock that registered in Alouette’s eyes was all Marcellus needed to see to know he was right. “Y-yes,” she stammered. “How did you know that?”

  Marcellus felt the misty air around him catch fire again. The blaze and heat were all too familiar now. Like an intimate friend, whispering in his ear. And strangely enough, it was that very fire—smoke and flames and all—that allowed him to see the world clearly. That allowed him to see his path clearly.

  Citizen Rousseau might be dead. Mabelle might be dead. The Vangarde might have lost that battle. But this war against his grandfather was not over.

  General Bonnefaçon still had to be stopped.

  “Because that message was meant for her,” he said. “Denise has been working with a source on Albion. Someone involved in the development of the weapon. The same person who, I imagine, sent that message. Whoever this person is, Denise is supposed to go to Albion to meet with them so she can stop the general from using the weapon to take control of the Regime.”

  “But,” Alouette struggled, looking pained, “isn’t she still being held captive? Didn’t the general arrest her?”

  “Yes,” Marcellus said, drawing in a long, burdened breath, “which is why I have to go in her place.”

  - PART 3 - ALBION

  The twelve planets in the System Divine orbited together like a string of jewels, precious and dazzling and rare. But one jewel stood out amid the others. A memory made real and a dream brought to life. An echo of the First World, with reminiscent whispers of the old world’s breezes blowing across its lands. One family secured this wondrous place for their people and their home.

  But not without bitterness from those who lost out.

  And not without deep resentments held across the skies.

  From The Chronicles of the Vangarde, Volume 3, Chapter 10

  - CHAPTER 26 - CHATINE

  THE LAST TIME CHATINE HAD seen Laterre from space, she was leaving it behind. Heading toward Bastille to serve a twenty-five-year sentence. Now, as the strange Défecteur man’s even stranger ship surged through space, and she saw the giant white-and-gray planet looming in front of them, Chatine felt a curious sense of peace. She was going back. She was going home.

  And she was going to find her brother.

  The pilote eased his hand off the contrôleur and flipped a switch on the console.

  “Autopilote engaged,” the breathy voice of the ship announced.

  “Okay,” he said, swiveling his capitaine’s chair around to face Chatine, who was still strapped into the jump seat, her injured leg extended out in front of her. “Lives saved. Autopilote engaged. Now for pleasantries.” He held out his fist like he was going to punch Chatine in the face. She ducked out of striking distance.

  The young man laughed. “Oh. Right, sorry. I keep forgetting you don’t do this.” He nodded toward his fist. “We tap to say hello. Well, Maman likes to kiss on the lips, but I won’t do that to you.”

  Chatine instantly felt her cheeks flush with heat and berated herself for it. She’d learned her lesson about blushing for pretty-faced boys. And although this boy was decidedly rougher-looking than Marcellus—with shabbier clothes, short braided hair, and a scoundrel’s smile—his face was definitely still pretty.

  He extended his closed fist forward. “I’m Etienne.”

  Chatine remained silent.

  “And you are?” he prompted slowly.

  “Oh. Um, my name is …” A rush of exhilaration shot through her at the endless possibilities. This was her chance. Her chance to reinvent herself again. To become someone completely new. Without a past. Without a criminal record. Without a heart that had been shattered by a pair of dark hazel eyes. But, as countless new names and identities filtered through her mind, she found herself feeling not inspired, but exhausted. She’d been someone else for so long—Théo, the Fret rat; prisoner 5.1.5.6.2.—she found herself actually wondering what it would be like to simply say …

  “Chatine,” she whispered. And once it was out, she was grateful that she
couldn’t take it back. Couldn’t change her mind. This is who she had to be now.

  Chatine, the sister of Henri and Azelle.

  Etienne tilted his head, as though he were listening for something. “Chatine,” he repeated and Chatine felt like she was hearing her name for the first time. “Hmm.” He tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair before finally deciding. “I like it.”

  She scoffed. “Well, thanks. I’m so glad you approve.”

  “Okay. Let me show you how it’s done.” Etienne proffered his fist again. “Make a fist like this.”

  She did as she was told, but she kept it close to her body and Etienne had to lean forward—nearly falling out of his chair—to tap his fist against hers. He pushed himself back with a dramatic grunt. “Okay, we’ll work on the extension part later. In the meantime”—he spread his arms wide—“welcome aboard Marilyn!”

  Chatine rolled her eyes. “I just told you my name is Chatine.”

  He shook his head. “No, not ‘welcome aboard, Marilyn.’ ” He pointed to Chatine and then gestured grandly again to the interior of the ship. “Welcome aboard Marilyn.”

  Chatine stared blankly back at him.

  His arms collapsed. “The ship is named Marilyn.”

  “You named your ship?”

  “Of course I named my ship.”

  “Who names their ship?”

  “Everyone names their ship.”

  “I don’t think everyone names their ship.”

  Etienne crossed his arms over his chest in a challenge. “Oh really? You know a lot of people with ships?”

  “Well, I definitely didn’t know Défecteurs had ships.” Chatine was still trying to wrap her mind around that part.

  The man quirked his lips into a knowing smile. “What did you think? We just hold hands, sing songs, and eat wood chips all day?”

  Chatine bowed her head, feeling heat warm her cheeks. “No.”

  “Sure, sure,” the man said. “I know what you gridders think of us.”

  Chatine’s head whipped up. “Excuse me? What did you just call me?”

  “A gridder. Someone who lives on the Regime’s grid. Watches all the Ministère broadcasts and Universal Alerts with wide, hopeful eyes. Buys into the whole three-Estates-divided-by-nature thing. Prays to win the Ascension. Plays by the rules—”

  “Whoa. Whoa. I do not play by their rules.”

  He looked her up and down, taking in her blue prison uniform. “Fine. But you’re still a slave to that.” He pointed to her Skin, which was still covered by the giant metal cuff he’d insisted she put on to block the tracker.

  Embarrassed, Chatine hid her hand behind her back as she stole a glance at Etienne’s left arm. There was nothing there but smooth, untarnished flesh. Not even a scar. A Défecteur born outside the Regime. Outside the cruel laws of the Ministère.

  “That’s not fair,” she said. “They implanted this thing in me when I was a child. I didn’t have a choice. Besides, you don’t even know me.”

  “I know you’re gullible enough to believe what the Regime wants you to believe about us.” Chatine opened her mouth to argue, but the man interrupted her once more. “What was it you called me again? A Défecteur? Now, let me see, who came up with that word?”

  She crossed her arms. “Fine. What do you call yourselves?”

  The man smiled, clearly enjoying the question. “Well, we don’t really like labels. We’re more of a you-be-you type of people.”

  Chatine snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “But,” he went on, ignoring her snide remark, “if I had to pick, I would say you could call us”—he began to count on his fingers—“renegades, bon vivants, zealous nonconformists.”

  Chatine fought hard not to roll her eyes. “Or … how about … I don’t know … Défecteurs?”

  Annoyance flashed across the young man’s chiseled features before he quickly composed himself.

  “It’s as good of a name as Marilyn,” Chatine jabbed.

  “What wrong with Marilyn?” The pilote was clearly insulted.

  “It’s …” Chatine searched for the right word. “I don’t know, kind of stupide.”

  Etienne made a choking sound and pounded his fist against his chest as though trying to dispel something caught there. “Marilyn happens to be a very beloved name on the First World.”

  Chatine unfastened her harness and, with effort, pushed herself to standing and limped over to the console. She gazed out at the view of her home planet growing closer. “Oh, right, I forgot you people have an obsession with the First World.”

  Etienne twisted his mouth to the side. “I wouldn’t call it an obsession. I’d say it’s more of an appreciation. There were a lot of things they did well on the First World.”

  “The First World died,” Chatine reminded him. “In a fiery explosion. Of their own making.”

  “Okay,” Etienne allowed. “So, they didn’t do everything well. But there were some beliefs and traditions held by different people on the First World that we happen to like upholding.”

  Chatine glanced back over her shoulder. “Like eating wood chips?”

  He snickered. “Hey, don’t knock it until you try it. With a little salt, they’re pretty tasty.”

  Chatine allowed herself a chuckle. “Well, I have to say Marilyn is …”

  Etienne leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Yes?”

  “Interesting,” she finished with a smirk.

  Etienne considered. “Interesting good or interesting bad?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it, that’s for sure.”

  “That’s because she’s one of a kind.”

  “Hmm.” Chatine reached out and ran her fingertips lightly across the console.

  Etienne hastily shooed her away. “Whoa, whoa. Time to set some ground rules. Rule number one: Only I touch the controls, okay?”

  Chatine theatrically tucked her hands into her armpits. “And rule number two?”

  “There is no rule number two. There doesn’t have to be. Because rule number one is everything. Marilyn is my ship. I am the only one allowed to fly her. And you don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. Understood?”

  Chatine intentionally ignored the question. “What class of ship is this, anyway?”

  Etienne folded his hands contentedly on his lap. “There is no class. Like I said, she’s one of a kind. The only one. My own invention.”

  “Wait a minute, you built this ship yourself?”

  Etienne opened his mouth to reply but then seemed to think better of it. “You know what? I’ve told you too much already. And you don’t exactly strike me as a super trustworthy type of person.”

  Chatine gasped in mock offense. “Me? I’m completely trustworthy.”

  Etienne spun around and faced out the front window, adjusting a few dials.

  “So, you built this ship yourself, huh?” Chatine sidled casually up to the console. “And it actually flies?”

  Etienne flashed her another warning look. “It has excellent ejection capabilities as well, in case you want to test out that feature.”

  She smirked. “That’s okay. I trust you.”

  He sneered at her obvious jab. “Good. Because Maman says trust is the building block of all good relationships.”

  Chatine instinctively backed away from his chair. “Okay, I’m going to stop you right there. We don’t have a relationship. Good or otherwise.”

  Etienne exploded in laughter. “Wow. Your buttons are, like, displayed right across your face.”

  Confused, Chatine glared. “What buttons?”

  He gestured to the series of colored dials and switches on his console. “You know, your push buttons. Your hot spots. You press them and bam!” He slammed his palm down. “Instant outrage.” He looked up at Chatine’s face, squinting as though he were searching for something. “Hmm. Let’s see here. I bet you have an auto-engage disgust lever somewhere on there too.”

  Chatine felt every ounce
of fluid in her body start to boil. And she did not like the feeling of this guy scrutinizing her face. She turned away with a grunt. “Shut up.”

  “Wow. That one was even easier to find than I thought.”

  She bristled. This Défecteur was really starting to grate her nerves. “So, how did you get involved in a mission to break out Citizen Rousseau? Do you work for the Vangarde or something?”

  “We don’t work for anyone,” Etienne said sharply. “And I’m not telling you anything else.”

  “So, they blackmailed you?”

  The pilote turned back around, clearly attempting to ignore her. Chatine flicked her gaze over the controls, selecting one at random. “Hmm. What does this one do?”

  Etienne dove toward her hand and smacked it away. “Fine. The Vangarde hired us for the mission. Sometimes we offer our services for a price. Happy?”

  Chatine thought about Roche, who was also Henri, who was also on that other ship with Citizen Rousseau.

  “How many ships were there on the mission?”

  Etienne pressed his lips together. Chatine reached for another switch on the console.

  “Okay!” he shouted in surrender. “There were two. Two ships. The primary-extraction ship and the bounty ship.” He jabbed his thumbs at his chest. “That would be me. Now stop trying to touch things.”

  “Bounty? What bounty?”

  With a relenting sigh, Etienne punched a button on the console, and one of the monitors flickered to life, displaying a view of a small, darkened cargo hold full of metal shelves and steel lockers. Strapped into one of the shelves, Chatine could make out a row of clear boxes, stacked to their lids with blocs of a glowing blue metal she knew all too well.

  Her mouth fell open. “You stole zyttrium from Bastille?”

  “Like I said. We offer our services for a price.”

  Chatine’s mind churned. What did the Défecteurs want with zyttrium? They obviously weren’t in the business of making Skins.

  “So, the other ship.” Chatine refocused her thoughts. “You know the person flying it?”

  “Yes. Faustine. She’s a friend of mine. A fine pilote, too.”