Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  Chatine balanced precariously on her crutches, trying to wrap her mind around what this woman was saying. But her rage was blinding her and turning her vision red. “Are you telling me to run away?”

  “Well,” Brigitte replied with a mysterious smile, “that all depends on what you’re running away from.”

  Chatine shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Some monsters are not worth confronting,” Brigitte repeated. “But some—” she placed a hand to her chest— “like the ones that live in here, must be confronted. Because those are the ones that can truly destroy us, by turning us into our own worst villains. The challenge is knowing which is which.” Brigitte reached out again and touched one of the tiny pebbles on the ground in front of her. “It’s harder for some.”

  Chatine snorted. “You mean, you? I find that hard to believe.”

  Brigitte shook her head, momentarily lost in her thoughts. “Not me.”

  She stood up but kept her gaze locked on the ground. On the stones. On the memory of who those stones represented. “The dead can only hurt you when you try to forget them.”

  At these words, Chatine felt something pulse inside of her. A deep, bitter wound that she thought she’d closed long ago. But that had recently been ripped open again, and was now bleeding from the inside.

  “So that’s why you brought me out here?” Chatine’s voice was venomous and cold. “Because you think my brother is dead?”

  “I never said that,” Brigitte said sternly.

  “But that’s what you think, right? That the ship is gone? And the search party will never find them?”

  “I couldn’t possibly know that. The outcome is not up to me. Or you. Only your reaction is.”

  “So you want me to gather up a bunch of stones and put them in some stupide raindrop-shaped pattern to honor his memory? Because he may as well be dead?” The words were firing out of Chatine now like explosifs dropped from a combatteur. “Well, I’m not going to do that. In my world, we don’t bury our dead. We disintegrate them. We turn them to ice dust. And they become nothing.”

  “Chatine—” Brigitte tried to say, but Chatine cut her off.

  “Save it. I’ve heard enough. You know, for people who pride themselves on not conforming to the Regime, you certainly seem to have a lot of ideas on who I should be and how I should live.”

  Then, before Brigitte could spew out any more Défecteur nonsense, Chatine turned awkwardly on her crutches and hobbled back to the camp.

  - CHAPTER 36 - ALOUETTE

  “THIS IS THE MONARCH PIECE. You have to protect it throughout the entire game. If you can capture the other player’s Monarch, you win. That’s the end goal.”

  Alouette was barely listening as Cerise attempted to explain the rules of Regiments to Gabriel from across a glowing, holographic game board. Alouette was sitting in a chaise on the other side of the viewing lounge, facing out the window, with Marcellus’s TéléCom open on her lap.

  “Every other piece can move,” Cerise continued, pointing to the three-tiered board. “But the Monarch always has to stay in the same place.”

  “Why?” Gabriel asked. “Why can’t he just cross the board and destroy all the other pieces? He’s the Monarch.”

  “First of all,” Cerise snapped, “the Monarch has no gender. It’s not a he or a she. It’s just the Monarch.”

  “And that matters because?”

  “And secondly,” Cerise continued, ignoring the question, “the Monarch can’t move because it has to stay here, in the palace, where it can be protected.” She’d been explaining this game to Gabriel for the past hour, and she’d lost her patience about two minutes into the explanation.

  But Alouette knew they were only playing to keep their minds off everything else. Like the fact that amid the infinite stars in front of them loomed a great enemy, while in the abyss of space behind them was a planet on the brink of war.

  It had been two days since they’d watched that disturbing footage from the Red Scar. And none of them had even so much as uttered a single word about it. It was almost as though they were all pretending it had never happened. Alouette supposed it was easier that way. She’d been doing everything in her power to keep all thoughts of the sisters at bay too. After all, how many potential disasters could they deal with at once? Right now, their first priority had to be the general’s weapon. The rest—the grief, the sorrow, the turmoil back home—had to come later.

  “Well, that’s just stupide,” Gabriel said.

  “No, you’re stupide,” Cerise countered.

  “I’m not stupide. The whole game is stupide!”

  Alouette glanced over at the flight map on the wall of the viewing lounge.

  Eighteen more hours until they arrived on Albion. Eighteen more hours until they came face-to-face with Sister Denise’s mysterious source and discovered what the general was planning.

  “I have to agree with Gabriel.” Marcellus appeared in the doorway of the galley holding two full plates of food. “The game is pretty stupide.”

  “Wait, you know how to play too?” Gabriel asked.

  Marcellus set down a plate of cheese and fruit on the table under the glowing game board. “Unfortunately, yes. My grandfather taught me when I was little. For the past ten years we’ve played every single week. But I’ve always been dreadful at it. According to my grandfather, it’s an effective way to learn and practice strategy and military maneuvering. He said it would make me a great leader one day.” Marcellus’s tone went from bitter to morose in an instant. “Like him.”

  Everyone in the ship fell silent, as though afraid to go near Marcellus’s words. Everyone except Gabriel, that is, who seemed oblivious to the tension in the air. “So, is this what you pomps all do for fun? Sit up there in your fancy manoirs and play stupide, pointless games all day, while the rest of us are working ourselves to death?”

  “Working?” Cerise said with a snort. “Really? You work?”

  “Yes,” Gabriel said. “Unlike some people, I earn what I eat.”

  “I wouldn’t call what you do earning.”

  “I’ll have you know it takes a lot of skill to do what I do.”

  Cerise snorted. “Yes, I’m sure pickpocketing handkerchiefs from little old ladies is very challenging.”

  “First of all, I don’t rob little old ladies. And secondly, I’m not just a pickpocket. I happen to be a criminal mastermind.”

  “Mastermind? Really? You steal stuff.”

  “The Second Estate steals. The Third Estate only steals back.”

  Cerise rolled her eyes. “Oh please. You steal for yourself. Not because you’re trying to make some kind of grand political statement.”

  “My whole life is a grand political statement! While yours is a joke.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” Cerise shouted. “I’m on your side. I’m a sympathizeur.”

  Gabriel launched out of his chair. “That’s. Not. A. Thing!”

  “Yes. It. Is!”

  “No,” Gabriel said, his voice turning dark and determined, “it’s not. Until you have one of these”—he roughly pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the darkened screen just above his left wrist—“implanted in your flesh against your will, you cannot sympathize with us. We’re told these are here for our own safety. But they’re nothing but chains. These are here to enslave us.”

  “Just because you’re Third Estate, doesn’t mean you have a monopoly on pain,” Cerise muttered.

  “What the fric does that mean?”

  “You’re not the only one with problems.”

  “Yeah, right,” Gabriel snorted. “Your biggest problem is what dress to wear to what fête. My biggest problem is where my next meal is coming from.”

  “I think you already solved that when you raided the galley. I’m surprised there’s any food left.”

  “Sucks to be hungry, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m just saying”—Cerise tried for a
deep breath—“not all chains are visible.”

  “Whatever,” Gabriel mumbled collapsing back into his seat. “Let’s just play.”

  Cerise nodded, restoring herself, and sat back down. “Actually, there’s a few more rules to explain first.”

  “Of course there are.”

  Alouette let out an uneasy sigh. The tension in this voyageur had been suffocating for days. They may have all been doing an effective job at pretending the world wasn’t falling apart, but clearly the anxiety was showing itself in other ways.

  Returning her attention to the TéléCom in her lap, Alouette turned up the volume on the audio patch Cerise had lent her and continued to scroll through the search results on the screen.

  “With those two onboard, who needs in-flight entertainment, right?”

  Alouette glanced up to see Marcellus standing next to her with a wry smile. She knew he was trying for a joke, an attempt to diffuse the friction in the air. And she was grateful for the distraction. He set a second plate of food down on a nearby table before lowering himself onto the edge of the chaise and nodding toward the TéléCom. “Any luck?”

  Alouette shook her head. “Not much. At least not anything new.”

  Cerise had set up Marcellus’s TéléCom with her Ministère portal access, and Alouette had spent nearly the entire day watching broadcasts and reports and archived footage, searching for more information about her mother, but she was still at a dead end. With each file she watched and discarded, she could feel another one of her fragile hopes popping like a soap bubble.

  She tipped her head back against the chaise. “I did find a profile for a Madeline Villette, daughter of Lisole Villette, who died in Montfer in Month 8, 490. That date matches up to what the madame at the bordel told me. So that must be me. Madeline Villette.” The name felt so foreign. Like borrowed clothes. Ill-fitting in all the wrong places.

  “Villette,” Marcellus repeated pensively, tilting his head. “Where have I heard that name before?”

  Alouette shrugged. “I can’t imagine where. There’s not much in here about Madeline or Lisole. After the death of her daughter, Lisole Villette just disappeared. The madame said she left town. She probably changed her name. And there’s absolutely nothing about Madeline Villette’s father.”

  Marcellus proffered the plate of food toward her. “Here. Eat something. You need sustenance.”

  Alouette took a piece of cheese and popped it into her mouth. It did make her feel a little better. She immediately grabbed for another.

  “Anything more from the auditeur?” she asked.

  Marcellus sighed. “A little. Fortunately, the general still has no idea where we are. He doesn’t even seem to know we left Laterre, but it won’t be long until he sniffs something out. He’s got his new hunting dog, Inspecteur Chacal, out scouring the planet looking for us.”

  “So, the best way to win the game,” Cerise’s voice rang out from across the lounge, “is to maneuver your most powerful pieces—like your brigadier or legionnaires—up the levels of the board to eventually capture the other player’s Monarch.”

  “That’s it?” Gabriel asked. “That’s the only way to win?”

  “Yes. That’s how you win. By capturing the Monarch.”

  “And the brigadier and legionnaires are the only ones who can do that?”

  “Not necessarily,” Marcellus cut in, causing everyone in the lounge to turn to him. “You can always try for the Peasant’s Revolt.”

  “The what?” Gabriel asked, looking between Marcellus and Cerise.

  “You don’t want to try for the Peasant’s Revolt,” Cerise said decisively. “It’s a fool’s move.”

  “I am a fool,” Gabriel replied.

  “Well, at least we agree on that.”

  “So tell me what it is already.”

  “Fine,” said Cerise. “The Peasant’s Revolt is when you use your peasant pieces to surround and capture the other player’s Monarch.”

  “What’s so foolish about that?” asked Gabriel.

  “It’s just incredibly risky,” Marcellus replied. “Because in order to get enough peasants up to the top tier of the board to trap the Monarch, it usually requires you to sacrifice several of your more valuable pieces, leaving your own Monarch vulnerable.”

  Cerise scoffed. “Which is foolish, because the peasants are the weakest pieces on the board.”

  “Individually, they’re weak,” Alouette corrected.

  Marcellus peered at her in surprise. “You know how to play?”

  Alouette nodded.

  Gabriel stood up from the table. “That’s it. I’m done. This game is stupide and confusing and—”

  “Oh, sit down,” Cerise said impatiently. “You just have to start playing. You’ll pick it up eventually.”

  Gabriel succumbed and plopped back down into his chair.

  “Where did you learn to play Regiments?” Marcellus asked Alouette.

  She flashed him a sad smile. “Sister Jacqui taught me.”

  Marcellus fell silent for a long time as he stared down at his hands. Alouette knew he was thinking about Jacqui and Denise, the last remaining leaders of the Vangarde, locked up in some facility somewhere, being tortured by the general. A small part of her—the saddest part of her—almost wished they were dead too.

  “I met her, you know?” Marcellus said softly. “Both of them. Jacqui and Denise. I met them right before the general relocated them. She was …” He paused, seemingly searching for the right word. “Intriguing.”

  Alouette nodded. It was the perfect word for Sister Jacqui. She felt tears sting her eyes and quickly blinked them away. “Is that how you got recruited to join the Vangarde?”

  He shook his head. “Actually, no. It was Mabelle Dubois who recruited me.”

  Alouette’s breath unexpectedly hitched in her chest at the name. There was something achingly familiar about it. She swore she’d heard it before. Or read it before? “Why do I know that name?”

  “It was sewn into my father’s prisoner shirt. Remember? You read it to me in the Frets? The day we met?”

  “Oh, yes. Right.” But something was still niggling at her. “She was your … governess?”

  Marcellus nodded, and Alouette recognized fresh pain on his face. “She had been an undercover spy in the Palais for more than ten years before they found out she was a Vangarde operative. She started working there during the Rebellion of 488.”

  Alouette’s mind was churning now, dates and names spinning across her vision.

  Mabelle Dubois. Operative. 488.

  “Oh my Sols!” she said, launching out of the chaise.

  Marcellus stood up too. “What? What’s wrong?”

  But Alouette didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer until she was sure. Until this gnawing feeling in her chest was either confirmed or denied. Darting through the viewing lounge, she brushed past Cerise and Gabriel, tore down the stairs, and barged into her couchette with Marcellus close behind her.

  The thick red-spined book that Principale Francine had given her was lying on the bedside table. Full Compendium of Operative Reports from 488 to 489. She scooped it up and flipped to the table of contents, running her fingertip down the list of headings scrawled in neat cursive handwriting.

  And there it was.

  Her finger froze halfway down the page, on the line that read:

  Surveillance Reports from Operative Mabelle Dubois

  The connection to the name must have slipped her mind when she’d read this yesterday. It was too out of context. Too far buried in the haze of the past few weeks. But now the connection seemed far too strong to be a coincidence.

  “What is that?” Marcellus asked. He’d stepped up beside her and was staring down at the words half-hidden by her fingertip.

  “I think …” Alouette felt a shiver run through her. “I think they’re reports from when Mabelle was working as your governess. Principale Francine gave me this book before I left the Refuge.”

 
Marcellus stared incredulously between Alouette and the open page. “Why?”

  Alouette shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, read it!”

  With shaky hands, Alouette turned to the correct section and read aloud from the first report. It was about an upcoming interplanetary visit from Novayan delegates. She flipped to the next report, and together, she and Marcellus skimmed over a diagram illustrating Mabelle’s suggested placements for a new batch of surveillance microcams and another diagram that laid out the locations of four loopholes that Mabelle had engineered in the security shields around the Palais, so she could sneak on and off the grounds without being seen.

  “Yes!” Marcellus said eagerly, pointing at the page. “She told me about those. I was using them to come and go from the Palais before I was arrested.”

  In the next report, Alouette read aloud from a full hour-by-hour account of Patriarche Claude’s daily activities, including what he ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And then there was a review of the former Matrone’s comings and goings. But after skimming through more than ten subsequent reports, Alouette was still no closer to answering that nagging question: Why had Principale Francine given this to her?

  She blew out a breath and turned to the next report, convinced that this one would be just as unhelpful as the last. But something near the top of the page instantly caught her eye. A word. A name.

  The only name that seemed to matter to Alouette anymore.

  Her heart started to pound. She warned herself not to get her hopes up. There were probably countless women on the planet of Laterre that had that same name. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  But she just couldn’t help the adrenaline coursing through her as she bent her head toward the worn, yellowed page of Mabelle’s report and read aloud.

  Date: Month 6, Day 1, 488

  Operative: Mabelle Dubois

  Location: Grand Palais

  Today I came back to my room in the servants’ wing and heard the sound of muffled sobs. I knew instantly that it was Lisole in the room next to mine. Today was the “big day,” as she’d been calling it for weeks. But clearly it had not gone as planned.