Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  Beads of sweat began to form on the back of Marcellus’s neck as he watched the admiral for a reaction. One AirLink to Laterre, and they would be finished. Done. Not just imprisoned in an Albion prison, but worse. Much worse. Delivered back to Laterre for the general’s punishment.

  The admiral stood inhumanly still. The only visible movement was a slight twitch of his jaw.

  He snapped his fingers at one of his guards, who promptly extended a wrist toward the admiral. A second later, something strapped to the guard’s wrist glowed to life, and a hovering holographic image of a person materialized above it.

  It appeared to be a woman, but Marcellus could only see the back of her head.

  The Mad Queen?

  “Lady Alexander, Your Grace,” the admiral spoke, his tone suddenly docile and pleasant.

  Not the Queen. An advisor perhaps?

  “I have commandeered a foreign craft from the planet Laterre, aboard which an Officer Marcellus Bonnefaçon—grandson of General Bonnefaçon—and his …” He shot a skeptical look at Alouette. “… entourage claim to be here to—”

  The admiral’s voice was cut off as he listened to a response. He looked like he’d just eaten an insect. “Yes, Your Grace. I understand. Thank you. And Sols save the Queen.”

  The glowing image vanished, sucked back into the small device strapped to the guard’s wrist. For a moment, the admiral didn’t speak. Marcellus glanced uneasily at the other guard’s assault lancer, still pressed into Alouette’s chest.

  Then, after a sweeping glance from Marcellus to Alouette to Cerise, and finally to Gabriel, Admiral Wellington cleared his throat. “Lady Alexander, her majesty’s High Chancellor, has instructed me to escort you to the Queenstead spaceport. If it pleases you, one of my guards will pilot the ship the rest of the way to Albion, where awaiting transportation will take you to the Royal Ministry of Defence complex. Will that be satisfactory, Officer Bonnefaçon?”

  Marcellus swallowed and shared a look of disbelief and uncertainty with Alouette.

  He stood up a little straighter, trying to summon his grandfather’s authoritative air and Alouette’s calm confidence. “Yes, Admiral. That will be just fine. We are grateful for your hospitality.”

  - CHAPTER 38 - CHATINE

  CHATINE WAITED UNTIL THE SKY was dark and the camp was asleep. She slipped out of her bed, donned her Défecteur coat and mittens, and grabbed her crutches. On one of the shelves lining the walls of the treatment center, she located a small sac and filled it with supplies—bandages, ointment, more gauze, and a few vials of that magical goldenroot stuff. Everything she’d seen Brigitte use to treat her wounded leg.

  The bag was unlike anything Chatine had ever seen before. It had a strange closing mechanism with two fuzzy fabric strips that magically sealed when she pushed them together. Also, the sac had two straps instead of one. What was Chatine supposed to do with two straps?

  She deduced that one was for each arm, but when she looped her arms through, the bag sat oddly and uncomfortably against her chest and stomach, making her feel like one of those mothers in the Frets who attached their small children to the fronts of their bodies by fashioning old sheets and fabric scraps into slings. It made it even harder to maneuver around on the crutches, but eventually Chatine made her way through the door.

  The air outside was freezing. Even more so now that night had fallen. It stung her cheeks and chapped her lips.

  She followed the same route she had taken with Brigitte earlier, shuffling down the long, covered walkways, past the washroom and the grain silo before finally arriving at the storage chalet whose slitted windows glowed blue from the copious amounts of zyttrium inside. Chatine still couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that the Défecteurs stole zyttrium from the Regime.

  All this time, while the Ministère was busy manufacturing thousands of Skins each year, the Défecteurs had discovered how to use the zyttrium to hide themselves. To build stealth ships and invisible roofs.

  She respected the con, for sure. There was always honor and respect among talented thieves, but she still felt angry at the sight of all of that stolen zyttrium. How many people had frozen and suffered and even died to wrench that precious metal out of the rock? People like her. And Henri. And Anaïs, who would never make it back to Laterre. Didn’t it make these people—these Défecteurs—no better than the Regime?

  Chatine glanced up at the building, her mind whirring to calculate how much just a single bloc of zyttrium could fetch from an illegal smuggler like the Capitaine. The dwindling deposits of it on Bastille and the Ministère’s dependency on it would certainly make it worth a pretty larg. Enough to set Chatine up for a lifetime. Or two. Enough that she wouldn’t have to ever steal again.

  Her fingers itched. Her heart pounded. Her adrenaline spiked.

  It was the same sensation she used to get in the Frets right before she lifted a First World relic from the neck of an unsuspecting Second Estater or pinched an apple from a passing cart.

  The same sensation that used to fuel her, feed her, light the way through her darkest nights.

  And yet, somehow, standing here right now, squinting through the narrow windows of the chalet, she didn’t feel fueled. She didn’t feel full. And she definitely didn’t feel light, despite the iridescent blue glow that illuminated her face.

  She only felt darkness.

  And the blaze of her prisoner tattoo burning through the fabric of her coat. Five metallic bumps burned into her flesh like a brand. A constant reminder of the price she’d paid for her former life.

  Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to turn away from the storage chalet and keep walking. With the heavy sac banging against her chest, she slowly made her way down the walkway, past the lodge, away from the protection of the chalets, and into the great unknown.

  As she stared out at the dark, frozen terrain in front of her, she wondered if she was insane for doing this. For even considering it. She’d said so herself earlier: No one survives in the Terrain Perdu. But when she glanced back at the cluster of buildings behind her, she knew she couldn’t stay here. Brigitte had been right: Some monsters you stay and confront. Some you turn away from.

  Chatine knew what kind of monsters awaited her here if she stayed. If she lay around all day and did nothing while Henri was possibly still alive out there, lost and alone. They were not the kind of monsters she wanted to face. She’d spent the past twelve years believing he was dead when he wasn’t. She wasn’t going to make that same mistake again.

  If he was alive, she would find him.

  She’d found him once before. She could do it again. She would cross to the ends of the galaxy if that’s what it took.

  Balancing on her good leg, she planted her crutches on the ground, testing the feel of it. It was rugged and uneven. And frozen solid.

  She swung herself forward and immediately felt the chill of the open air batter her face like one of her mother’s slaps, but she kept going, holding Henri’s face in her mind.

  She was only a few mètres from the camp when her crutches hit a patch of icy ground and slid out from under her. She hit the ground hard. A bolt of pain shot up her left leg. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  Feeling around in the darkness, she searched for her fallen crutch, but it was nowhere to be found. She let out a grunt of frustration and stretched farther, wishing she still had a Skin. The light would come in handy right about now.

  She finally located the crutch, but when she tried to stand back up, the weight of the sac hanging off the front of her shoulders threw off her balance, and she went down again.

  She wanted to scream. She wanted to punch something. No, she wanted to punch someone.

  Suddenly, a light broke through the darkness, followed by the sound of booted footsteps crunching on the frozen terrain. Chatine squinted into the beam of a flashlight and rolled her eyes when she saw who was holding it.

  Well, she did say she wanted someone to punch.

  “
What the fric do you think you’re doing?” Etienne didn’t sound concerned as he stalked toward her. He sounded annoyed and inconvenienced at being woken up in the middle of the night.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” she hissed back at him, digging the tip of her crutch into the ground and trying, once again, to stand up. “I’m getting out of here. And you are not going to stop me.”

  The crutch slipped and Chatine started to go down again. Etienne reached out to catch her, but Chatine managed to stabilize herself before he could get there.

  “Well, this was a brilliant idea, wasn’t it?” he asked.

  Chatine snorted. “How did you find me anyway?”

  “You’re hobbling around a sleeping camp on metal poles. You’re not exactly discreet.”

  Chatine bristled. She was used to being the one who followed, not the one being followed. These Sol-damn crutches had stolen her edge.

  “I can’t stay here,” she said firmly. “I have to go find my brother.”

  A grimace passed over Etienne’s face, and Chatine was immediately reminded of the story Brigitte had told her in the graveyard, as she’d bent over the small arrow-shaped pattern of stones.

  “Etienne’s father. He died in the last roundup.”

  Chatine felt a stab of sympathy for the young man standing in front of her, trying to block her path. As it turned out, she and Etienne had something in common. But the sympathy was stamped out a moment later when Etienne said, “And do you really think this is the best way to do that?”

  Heat rose to Chatine’s cheeks. He thought she was insane. Delusional for believing that Henri could still be alive. Could still be out there. She could hear the doubt in his voice, and it angered her.

  Chatine stood up straighter—or as straight as she could while still leaning on her crutches. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  Etienne looked like he wanted to say something but was trying to find the right way to phrase it. Chatine felt the heat spread to her chest. She already knew what he was going to say. He was going to tell her to just forget it. Let it go. The ship was gone. Henri was gone. Citizen Rousseau was gone. Everyone was gone. And there was no point risking death and frostbite to go looking for them.

  But when he finally did speak, his words surprised her. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re very restless?”

  She was caught so off guard, it took her a moment to formulate a response. “I’m … I’m not restless. I’m opportunistic.”

  “Opportunistic, by its very nature, is restless.”

  “Whatever.” Chatine tried to hobble past him. “Someone has to go looking for that ship.”

  She felt a hand fall upon her shoulder, pulling her to a halt. “Someone is looking for the ship.” His voice was no longer laced with annoyance. It sounded gentle and bordering on pity. “Don’t forget, one of our own is lost out there too. A great pilote. And a friend. We want to find them just as much as you do. We’re not doing nothing. If they’re out there to be found, we will find them.”

  If …

  Chatine cringed at the word.

  Sols, she hated that word.

  Through her mittens, she felt for Marcellus’s ring on her thumb, only to remember—yet again—that it was gone.

  “Maybe you should just let our people do their job. I mean look at you! You’re not exactly equipped to go on a rescue mission across the System Divine right now.”

  Chatine glanced down at her lumpy bag and dangling left leg and wobbly crutches. “But I can’t just—”

  Etienne bent down to look her in the eye. “Yes, you can.”

  “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

  He cracked a smile, his dark eyes sparkling in the beam of the flashlight. “Yes, I do.”

  Chatine let the defeat sink in. She loathed to admit that Etienne was right, but he was. She was in no condition to find anyone.

  “And besides,” Etienne added, “if you leave now, you won’t get to meet the rest of the community. And everyone has been dying to meet you.”

  “Me?” Chatine thought of all those Défecteurs she’d seen in the lodge earlier and her gut twisted.

  “Yes. Gridders are a bit of a novelty here. People are always fascinated by them. You’re actually the third gridder to join us in the past month. And everyone loves Fabian and his wife, Gen. They arrived about two weeks before you. The people here can’t get enough of them. They’re like celebrities around the camp. I’m sure it’ll be the same with you.”

  Chatine scoffed in disbelief. She’d spent so many years speculating about Défecteurs, she never even thought that they might be speculating about her.

  “I hope they can deal with disappointment,” she muttered. “My life is not all that interesting.”

  “Are you kidding? You were locked up on Bastille. And you escaped. You’re already a hero in their eyes.”

  A hero who failed to save her own brother … twice.

  “Well, then I definitely hope they can deal with disappointment.”

  “What were you on Bastille for anyway?” Etienne asked. “You never told me.”

  Chatine thought back to the long list of things she should have been sent to Bastille for over the years—theft, burglary, fraud, deceit, conning, pickpocketing, terrorization, unlawful manipulation of a Skin, assault of a Policier sergent, stealing from the dead, being born a Renard—and she was grateful that she didn’t have to admit to any of those. She could just speak the truth.

  “Treason,” she said lightly, as though she were simply admitting to putting her shoes on the wrong feet.

  Etienne barked out a laugh. “Treason?”

  Chatine shrugged. “Yup.”

  “Really?”

  “I was in possession of some very important intelligence, and I lied to General Bonnefaçon about it. That’ll put you away for a long time.”

  Etienne’s expression was so packed with astonishment, Chatine almost laughed.

  “Makes your little stunt with the zyttrium look pretty tame, huh?” she asked.

  Etienne shook his head. “Okay, traitor. C’mon. I’ll help you back to the camp.” The beam of his flashlight fell to the sac strapped around Chatine’s chest and his expression suddenly shifted, his eyebrows knitting together. “What exactly is going on here?”

  Chatine sighed. “I borrowed it, okay? I’m sorry.”

  Etienne continued to stare at the bag, the light from the flashlight illuminating the outline of his angular features, which were now twisted and taut, as though he were trying hard to stifle a laugh.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “You’re supposed to wear it on your back.” He reached forward and slowly began to untangle Chatine’s arms from the straps, his body impossibly close to hers. She struggled to keep her balance on the crutches as he removed the bag from her shoulders and slipped his own arms through the straps before letting it fall against his back. “It’s called a backpack. See?”

  Okay, that makes much more sense.

  What was it about this place—and him—that made her feel so stupide? As much as she hated life in the Frets, at least she knew how everything worked. She wasn’t constantly making a fool of herself there. She knew how to wear a Sol-damn sac.

  With a huff, she turned and began to hobble back to the camp. Etienne jogged to catch up to her. “Wait. Let me help you, at least.”

  She continued to swing efficiently on her crutches. “That’s okay. I’ve got this.”

  But she clearly didn’t have this, because a moment later, the crutch slipped out from under her again. This time, however, Etienne caught her, his hands landing on either one of her elbows.

  “I have a better idea,” he said once Chatine was stable. He slipped the backpack from his shoulders and spun it around, looping his arms through the straps and letting it settle over his chest, just as Chatine had worn it. Then, he bent down in front of her and pointed at his back.

  “Hop on.”

  “Why would I do that
?”

  “So I can give you a lift.”

  For a moment Chatine just stared at the back of Etienne’s puffy coat, confused by the gesture. “Why can’t I just walk?”

  “Um, maybe because we saw how well that worked a second ago? C’mon, jump on.” He wiggled his hips slightly, making Chatine’s mouth quirk into the tiniest of smiles.

  She told herself it was only because she was injured. And freezing. And would probably get lost on her way back to the treatment center on her own. She told herself it meant nothing. And it certainly changed nothing. She swore to herself that it was a unique, one-time thing, as she handed Etienne her crutches and climbed onto his back.

  - CHAPTER 39 - MARCELLUS

  ALBION EMERGED LIKE A BLUE-AND-GREEN jewel in the vast, dark blanket of space.

  “There it is,” Cerise said in a hushed and reverent voice. Reverent because of everything they’d gone through to get here. Hushed because of the Albion guard who had overridden the ship’s autopilote and now sat at the flight console, forcing Marcellus, Gabriel, Alouette, and Cerise to communicate in furtive whispers and pointed gestures.

  The guard’s hands flew steadily and confidently across the controls, guiding the ship toward its final destination like a bird coasting on a stiff breeze.

  Marcellus stared in awe through the window as the twinkling planet grew larger. Throughout his life, his grandfather had taken him on diplomatic missions to almost every planet in the System Divine. To the Matrone’s home of Reichenstat. The System Alliance headquarters on Kaishi. The tropical beaches of Samsara. The newly liberated planet of Usonia. But never here. Albion had been the enemy of Laterre since the very beginning. Since the Human Conservation Commission first discovered the System Divine, and the wealthy families of the First World began to divvy up its planets. The only Laterrian he’d known to step foot on the planet was Commandeur Vernay, right before she was captured by the Mad Queen and executed.