Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  “Eleven?” the general repeated gruffly. “What is the significance of that?”

  “There’s no way to know for sure,” the directeur replied. “But our working hypothesis is that the eleven necklaces belong to current leaders of the Vangarde. The highest-ranking members of their organization.”

  Dazedly, slowly, Alouette reached into her sac and withdrew her string of metallic beads. Cerise jabbed the TéléCom to pause the playback and stared openmouthed at the necklace now dangling from Alouette’s fingertip, the little metal tag glinting in the console lights.

  “Wait a minute. You’re Vangarde too?” Gabriel, who up until this moment had been lingering in the back of the flight bridge, suddenly pushed his way into the middle of the group. “Am I the only one on this ship who is not Vangarde?”

  Alouette ignored him as her eyes swiveled back and forth, following the metal tag that was swinging like a pendulum. When she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet, it was as though the words were only meant to be heard by her. Disjointed thoughts whispered aloud in search of meaning. “Ten sisters. Ten strings of devotion beads. Plus mine equals eleven. Connected to the same network.” She gasped with a sudden epiphany. “Principale Francine! She gave me my devotion beads the night before I snuck out of the Refuge for the second time. She told me it was because they were going to make me a sister. But they knew. Of course they did. They knew I was sneaking out. They gave these to me so they could keep me safe.” Her head snapped up, her gaze finding Marcellus’s. “They’re tracking me.”

  “Were,” Cerise replied in a low, somber tone that sent a ripple of dread through Marcellus.

  Alouette’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Tears were already glistening in Cerise’s eyes as she let out a burdened breath and resumed the playback on the TéléCom.

  It was the general who spoke next. And even though his voice was coming from all the way back on Laterre, it still felt like he was standing right there in the flight bridge with them. His imposing presence translating across millions of miles of space. “So, if we have two of them in custody, that means there are nine Vangarde leaders still out there?”

  There was a long pause, during which Marcellus felt sweat start to pool on the back of his neck. When the directeur finally replied, there was something different about his voice. A levity that made Marcellus queasy. “That’s the good news, sir.”

  “Good news?” the general repeated.

  “We were able to run a trace through the server and pull status updates on all eleven devices. One is offline. Two are still active—those are the ones we analyzed, belonging to the operatives in custody. But the remaining eight are all dead.”

  Dead.

  The word felt like a stone sinking to the pit of Marcellus’s stomach. He glanced over at Alouette. She looked frozen. Paralyzed. A statue of disbelief.

  “What do you mean ‘dead’?” The general’s gravelly voice held a hint of hope.

  “The last time the remaining eight devices connected to the server was on Month 7, Day 32. The night of Rousseau’s attempted escape.”

  Silence filled the general’s office. A silence so thick and so laced with insinuation, it seeped out of the TéléCom like a poisonous gas, spreading through the flight bridge, leaving charred streaks in the atmosphere.

  Then the general asked the final question that stood between him and his long-fought victory over a rebel group called the Vangarde. “Where did the last connection come from?”

  Marcellus felt the stars shift even before the answer came. Even before the directeur said those two words that confirmed everything Marcellus had been fearing for days.

  “From Bastille.”

  They really were on their own.

  - CHAPTER 33 - ALOUETTE

  IN THE DARK COUCHETTE OF the voyageur, Alouette felt like she was drowning. Drowning in space. Drowning in memories and regrets and shadows.

  Drowning in sobs.

  The tears drenched her face, her sweater, the sheets of the bed. The shudders shook her entire body. Until she forgot what it felt like to be still. Until she feared she might never be still again.

  How could she ever be okay? How could she ever not blame herself for leaving them? If she hadn’t, maybe all the sisters would still be alive.

  Or maybe, Alouette would be dead too. But at least then, she wouldn’t feel this ocean of regret crashing down on her over and over again. At least then, she wouldn’t have to endure the image of their ship exploding in a devastating ball of light with eight of her beloved sisters—her family—locked inside.

  Did they scream?

  Did they feel any pain?

  Or was it over before they even realized what had happened?

  The pain was almost too much to bear. It crushed down on Alouette. It suffocated her. It gnawed at her from the inside until she was just an empty shell. A doll made of whisper-thin paper.

  She clutched her devotion beads in her hands and brought the little metal tag up to her trembling lips, whispering silent prayers to the Sols against its cool surface. For Principale Francine, Sister Laurel, Sister Muriel, Léonie, Marguerite, Nicolette, Clare, and Noëlle, who had perished on that moon, she prayed they had felt no pain. And for brave Sister Jacqui and stoic Sister Denise, now the only family she had left, she prayed—no, vowed—that she would one day see them again. That she would track them down. She would find this ghastly detention facility where the general was holding them captive, and she would set them free.

  Alouette curled up on the couchette’s narrow bed and tried to sleep. Everyone else was sleeping, and she knew she should be as well. In less than three days they would be arriving on the enemy planet of Albion. She would need her strength, her wits, her courage. But every time she closed her eyes, gruesome images of an exploding ship came flooding back. Her mind was so far from the calm, peaceful garden the sisters had taught her to cultivate. It was a messy, knotted tangle of grief.

  She pushed herself up and stared out the window of her couchette. But the view did nothing to soothe her. They were almost through the infamous Asteroid Channel which divided Laterre from its longtime enemy neighbor of Albion, and the giant space rocks floating all around the voyageur made Alouette feel anxious and vulnerable.

  Pulling her gaze from the window, she immediately spotted her sac lying on the floor, where she’d dropped it the moment she’d run from the flight bridge and locked herself inside this couchette. Alouette hastily scooped up the bag and emptied all the contents out onto the bed until everything that she had left in the world was scattered around her. As jumbled and disorderly as her thoughts.

  The screwdriver that Sister Denise had given her. Her father’s titan bloc. Her trusty flashlight. Her mother’s small titan box. Alouette’s eyes roved over each one before finally coming to rest on the thing that she stole.

  With a quiet sniffle, she traced her fingertips over the rugged, time-weathered spine of the old leather-bound book with its handstitched seams and crinkled paper. And then, just as it always did, the memory of that night began to shove its way back into her mind, like an unwanted visitor barging through the door. That fateful, regretful night that she’d learned the truth about the sisters and the Vangarde.

  She was suddenly back in the middle of that Assemblée room, surrounded by twisting wires and cables, a collage of monitors and circuit boards, and the faces of the sisters she’d left behind. The sisters who were now all gone.

  “We knew right away that you were destined to be one of us,” Principale Francine told her. “From the moment you walked through that door with Hugo twelve years ago, you had a curiosity for knowledge. You drank in the world and questioned everything.”

  Tears pricked at Alouette’s eyes, as the years of secrets and darkness spread over her skin, puncturing her like a thousand tiny knives. “Does my father— Does Hugo know? About … you?”

  “No,” Francine replied with a shake of her head. “When Hugo brought you to the Refuge,
we decided not to tell him. While he is a good, honest man, he never showed a propensity for learning. Or a desire for change. He was just too hardened. Too jaded by the Regime. But you, Little Lark …” She released a nostalgic sigh. “Your heart was so pure. And so good. You read about the injustices on the planet, and you wanted to change them. So we started to train you. Sister Jacqui became responsible for your philosophical education. Sister Denise ensured you had technical skills for the field. And I took charge of teaching you the history of our world and the world that came before it.”

  “Yes!” Alouette blurted out breathlessly. “The books! I’ve read every book in that library. Because you told me we were protecting them. You told me that’s what the Sisterhood was for.”

  “We are still here to protect the books. The books are a symbol, can’t you see? The books represent the kind of life we want for the people of Laterre. A life of knowledge and freedom and ideas. Do you remember why the written word was forgotten? It was deemed too powerful a tool. Too potentially destructive to the new way of life. So it was gradually phased out by the people who feared it. When we rescued those books from the First World, we were rescuing a philosophy. We were rescuing hope. And now we need to find that hope again. That’s why we continue to write and update the Chronicles. That’s why we continue to protect the written word.”

  “B-b-but,” Alouette stammered, shaking her head. “But I’ve read the Chronicles. Every volume. They don’t say anything about any of this. About Citizen Rousseau or the rebellion or the Vangarde.”

  Francine lowered her gaze to the floor, looking almost ashamed. “Actually, they do.”

  Alouette was about to speak again when suddenly Principale Francine stood up and walked over to the far wall where Alouette could see a large, metal cabinet. Then, slowly, Francine cranked on a heavy, round handle and the glimmering doors on the cabinet winched back to reveal shelves and shelves, filled top to bottom with clothbound books. Alouette let out a tiny gasp as Francine continued to wind the handle and the first set of shelves moved away, revealing even more shelves behind them. And even more books. Books upon books. Packed tightly onto the revolving shelves, with spines of all different colors.

  “Chronicles,” she murmured under her breath.

  But these weren’t the Chronicles Alouette had grown up reading and dusting and protecting in the Refuge’s library. These were something different. Something Alouette had never seen before. These were the chronicles of the sisters’ deepest, darkest secrets.

  The Chronicles of the Vangarde.

  “Remember, Little Lark. Knowledge is always available for those who seek it.” Francine ran her fingertips over the books before plucking a single red-spined volume from the shelf. She handed it to Alouette. “Start with this one.”

  Alouette had felt the weight of the book as Principale Francine had placed it in her hands that night. The weight of all those unread words, unknown histories. Truths that Alouette had been denied access to for all these years.

  When she’d left the Refuge that very next morning, she’d taken this book with her as a reminder. A promise. That never again would she allow herself to live in the dark. She hadn’t read it yet. She hadn’t been able to. Twice on the bateau to Montfer, she had tried. But both times, she’d barely been able to lift the cover. The pain of the sisters’ lies and betrayal had still been too fresh. Too pulsing.

  But now, she knew it was time.

  She pulled the volume toward her and, with a steady breath, flipped open the cover.

  Her gaze scanned over the long title on the first page.

  Full Compendium of Operative Reports from 488 to 489

  Alouette frowned at the words. Operative reports? She certainly hadn’t expected that. She’d assumed this was another volume of the Chronicles, like the ones kept in the library: beautiful, poetic histories and accounts of their world and the world that existed before them. But as her eyes roved over the table of contents, listing operative names and corresponding page numbers, she realized this book, with its bright red spine, was something different.

  Had this really been what Principale Francine had meant to give her? Of all the books in that vast vault, why had she chosen this one?

  A gentle knock came at the couchette door, startling Alouette. She closed the book and pushed it aside. “Yes?” she called.

  A second later, Gabriel tentatively poked his head into the room. “Were you sleeping?”

  She shook her head. “No. Come in.”

  He stepped inside but halted when he saw Alouette’s face. “Are you okay?”

  It was only then Alouette realized what she must look like. Tear-stained cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, and disheveled hair. She wiped her face with the heel of her hand. “Not really.”

  Gabriel walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Do you … want to talk about it?”

  “Not really,” Alouette said again, even though she was certain Sister Jacqui would tell her that she should talk about it. But she knew if she talked about the sisters, she would only start crying again. And she was so sick of crying.

  “Are you hungry?”

  As soon as Gabriel asked the question, Alouette’s stomach rumbled. “Yes, actually. Famished.”

  “I thought so.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small loaf of bread, which he broke in half and offered to Alouette.

  For a long moment, all she could do was stare down at the jagged half loaf. A chill passed through her as a hazy memory tickled the corners of her mind. Something about this situation felt achingly familiar.

  “It’s okay,” Gabriel said, nudging it closer. “I washed my hands.”

  She looked up into his dark eyes and then back down at the loaf. And that’s when it hit her. The memory slammed its way back into her mind. She saw those same eyes, that same hand unfurling to revealing a tiny piece of chou bread.

  “I remember,” she whispered. “I remember you. From the Renards’s inn. You used to sneak me food under the table where I slept.”

  “Well, it’s about time.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Wait, you already knew this?”

  “I knew you looked familiar when I saw you at the Precinct. But I didn’t figure it out until we were walking to the inn and the place clearly creeped you out. Understandably so. I was hoping you’d eventually remember me, too.” He paused and lowered his voice. “They used to call you Madeline, right?”

  Another chill ran through her. “So, you were there?”

  “I started working there when I was six.”

  “Six?!” Alouette exclaimed, although she wasn’t sure why she was so surprised. The Renards had put her to work when she was barely four years old.

  “My papa used to work in the kitchens,” Gabriel explained. “He would bring me with him every day, and I would help out. Until he got sick and couldn’t work anymore. That’s when I learned how to steal. It was mostly just médicaments and food at first. Then I moved onto the hard stuff.”

  “Hard stuff?”

  “Manoir jobs mostly. The amount of wealth the Second Estate has just lying around their gardens would blow your mind.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, yes, I was there. At the Jondrette. With the Renards.” He shuddered. “Horrible people. And total criminals, too.”

  Alouette cocked a teasing eyebrow at him.

  “Hey! I only steal from the Second Estate. They have plenty. The Renards cheat their own kind. They used to make us fill the sausages with frog limbs and mice guts.” He lowered his head, his tone suddenly turning somber. “They were awful to you. I remember Madame Renard yelling at you. All the time. You were so small, and she would tower over you. They used to …” but his voice trailed off, as though he couldn’t even bring himself to say it aloud.

  Alouette cast her gaze to the floor. Because she knew. They both knew.

  Gabriel cleared his throat. “So, yeah, I used to steal food for you sometimes.” He gestured down to the half loaf in hi
s hand again. “I stole this from the kitchen too.” He winked. “Don’t tell Sparkles.”

  Alouette flashed a weak smile. “I don’t think she would mind if you took a loaf of bread.”

  “I mean don’t tell her that I called it the kitchen. She’ll freak out. ‘It’s a galley, you uneducated, unwashed Third Estate clochard.’ ” His impersonation of Cerise was over the top but it still made Alouette smile. It felt good to smile. Even if just for a moment.

  She grabbed the bread from Gabriel’s hand and took a small bite. “Cerise is not that bad.”

  Gabriel scoffed. “She is worse than that bad. Of all the things wrong with our planet, calling things by their proper names is top of her priority list.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I think she really is just genuinely trying to help. Her heart seems to be in the right place.”

  Gabriel bit off a piece of bread. “She doesn’t get it. This is all a game to her. I mean, think about it. She spends her days searching for magical switches that can shut off the Skins.”

  “The kill switch,” Alouette said, remembering the strange term.

  “Exactly. She thinks this planet can be fixed with the touch of a button. She’s delusional.”

  “You don’t think it exists?”

  “Of course it doesn’t exist. It’s a fantasy! And unlike her, I can’t afford to believe in fantasies. I have real problems to deal with.” He sighed and took another bite of bread.

  Alouette had to admit she was doubtful too. She’d read about the Skins in the Chronicles. Countless pages about their origins, their functionality, the neuroelectricity they ran on. But there had never been any mention of an off switch. She had a hard time believing the Regime would allow such a thing to exist.

  “The point is,” Gabriel continued after a large swallow, “whether you all succeed in stopping the general or not, it doesn’t affect Cerise in any real way. When this is all over, she’ll go back to her manoir, and her life will be more or less the same.”

  “Whether we succeed?”