“He’s been shot!” she cried. “I didn’t even know. He just kept running. But he …” her voice trailed off as shudders overtook her. Tears swallowed her words. Gabriel’s body started to tremble.
A cacophony of voices clamored for attention in Alouette’s head.
“Stay calm. Panic will only cloud your judgment—”
“Staunch the flow—”
“You are strong, Little Lark—”
“Apply pressure—”
“You are ready, Alouette—”
It was the sisters. They were all speaking to her at once. She clutched her temples in an attempt to drown them all out and focus only on what was important right now.
Sister Laurel. Her wellness lessons. Alouette had never learned how to deal with a situation like this. They didn’t have cluster bullets on Laterre. But the principles of any open wound had to be the same, right? Yes, it was just like when she’d helped Marcellus in the Frets that day they’d met. She needed to stop the bleeding.
Snapping out of her trance, she lunged toward Gabriel and fell to her knees beside him. She ran her fingers up and down the length of his back. The skin was intact. Which meant the cluster bullet was still inside of him.
“We need to flip him over so I can see the wound.” Alouette was surprised by the calmness of her own voice. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest, but her thoughts were clear and focused.
Cerise scooted back, making room, and together the two managed to gently roll Gabriel onto his back. Cerise let out a gasp that echoed the horror flashing through Alouette’s mind. In the center of Gabriel’s stomach, just below his rib cage, was a jagged, open gash, roughly the size of Alouette’s thumb.
Blood was still spilling out of it, soaking his clothes and the floor. Alouette pressed down, trying to cover it with her hands. But it wasn’t enough pressure. She needed more weight. Rocking back into her heels, she rearranged herself so that she could press one knee into Gabriel’s abdomen. He groaned in response, his eyelids fluttering.
“Are you sure you should be doing that?” Cerise looked on, aghast.
“Yes.”
Just then, Marcellus barreled down the stairs and stopped when he saw the carnage. His eyes grew wide. “W-w-what happened?”
“He’s been shot,” Alouette said matter-of-factly. “He’s losing a lot of blood. There’s probably a med kit in the infirmerie. Can you go look?”
Marcellus nodded numbly and disappeared back up the steps.
Gabriel let out a soft moan, drifting in and out of consciousness. Cerise started to sob into her hands.
Marcellus returned less than two minutes later, carrying a small leather box which he handed to Alouette. “Bad news,” he said breathlessly. “The scans in the flight bridge are showing three warships within range.”
Cerise instantly stopped crying. “The Albion Royal Space Fleet?”
Marcellus nodded. “Lady Alexander must have alerted them. If we don’t do something to conceal ourselves, we’re going to be surrounded by micro-fighters before we’re ever able to accelerate to supervoyage.”
“Fric! Fric! Fric!” Cerise swore.
Keeping her knee pressed firmly on the wound, Alouette tore open the med kit and riffled around. The supplies were slim, but she found some gauze, which she immediately pushed onto Gabriel’s wound.
“Can you do something?” Marcellus asked Cerise.
Cerise looked up at him, her tearstained face splotchy and hopeless. “What can I possibly do? They’ve already overridden my cloaking code. I don’t know what else to—”
“What about the moons?” Alouette said, peering up from her position beside Gabriel. “What’s the closest one to the ship?”
“What?” Cerise asked, confused, but then a second later, her eyes lit up with comprehension. “A moon is big enough to shield us from their scans!” She wiped her cheeks, looking relieved to have something else to do besides stand there and watch Gabriel bleed. “I’m on it!” she called, bounding back up the steps to the bridge.
Alouette pressed more gauze into Gabriel’s stomach. He moaned and murmured something unintelligible.
“Shhh,” Alouette told him. “Be still. Don’t try to talk.”
She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. It was tangled and damp with sweat, but in that moment, he looked just like the young boy she remembered from the inn. Vague and disjointed visions of him flickered through her mind: Gabriel smiling at her from behind a bubbling pot of stew. Gabriel offering to carry one of her heavy pails from the boglands. Gabriel snatching a scrap of bread from the table while Madame Renard’s back was turned.
“Is he going to be okay?” Marcellus asked in a shattered whisper.
But Alouette didn’t respond right away. The hastily made dressing on Gabriel’s wound was already soaking through. She pulled more gauze out of the med kit and pressed it down.
“Cluster bullets are very lethal,” she said evenly. “Once inside the body, they disintegrate and shoot off tiny pieces of shrapnel in all directions, ripping holes in delicate organs, veins, and lungs.” She fought to keep her voice from breaking. She fought to channel Sister Laurel, who would not cry nor break down in the face of an injury like this. Because she knew it would hinder her ability to do her job. She had to stay calm. In control. Even though she felt like she had a cluster bullet lodged inside of her, too.
“How do you know this?” Marcellus asked.
“From the Chronicles. There was an entire volume about Albion. It was never my favorite because I always thought, When would I ever need to know this?” Alouette let out a breath. “If only I knew.”
“Can you help him?” Marcellus asked, his eyes glassy.
“He needs surgery,” she said quietly. “If the shrapnel is not removed with the right equipment, it will eventually become infected and will poison Gabriel from the inside.”
Marcellus stood there, speechless and terrified. In his eyes, Alouette saw the desperation. The pleading. Please, fix this. Find a way to fix this. “Where are we going to get this equipment? We can’t take him to a med center. He’s wanted by the Ministère.”
Alouette darted her eyes back to Gabriel’s face. It was wan and drawn, as if every gramme of blood had seeped away.
She inhaled a long breath. “The Refuge. I can take him there while you and Cerise get the inhibitor into the water treatment centers.”
“But the Vangarde are …” Marcellus’s voice trailed off, and his gaze dropped to the ground, as though he was afraid to continue, as though he felt the need to protect Alouette from any reminder of the truth. But Alouette no longer needed protecting.
“I know,” she said quietly, gazing up at Marcellus. “The Vangarde are gone. The Refuge is empty.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “Which means I will have to find what I need from Sister Laurel’s journals and perform the procedure myself.”
- CHAPTER 47 - CHATINE
“UP YOU GO!” ETIENNE SAID, hoisting Astra onto his shoulder. Astra’s face beamed with pride as she clipped a small piece of looped metal between the ends of two long cables, connecting the newly built chalet with its closest neighbor.
Instantly, the building glowed to life as the power channeled from the rest of the camp into the new dwelling, illuminating it from the inside.
Linked, Chatine thought with a smile.
Everyone cheered. Chatine stared at the spectacle in awe, marveling at how fast the construction had been completed. A single afternoon and a whole community working together, and suddenly these two people had a house. A home. And it was a thousand times nicer than any Third Estate dwelling.
As Chatine watched the newly linked couple—Saros and Castor—walk into their chalet for the first time, hands clasped and faces beaming, she felt a strange stirring inside of her that she couldn’t identify. It was warm and sweet. Like the hot chocolat the Défecteurs had been passing around in metal cups.
But it wasn’t just their faces that thawed Chatine fr
om the inside. It was the faces of everyone here. All the people who had helped create this structure. They were beaming almost as much as the couple they had gifted it to.
Chatine tried to remember the last time she’d ever built something with her own hands. She’d fixed a leaky roof in her family’s old couchette once, but that didn’t count. And her face certainly hadn’t looked like that afterward. She hadn’t glowed with pride the way everyone around her was doing right now. Would she have felt that if she’d ever shown up for her job at the textile fabrique? Would she have glowed with pride over a sheet of fabric she’d woven for the Matrone’s curtains? Or a fancy tablecloth for some Second Estate manoir?
No. Definitely not.
The difference, Chatine immediately realized, was that these people had built this structure for them. Not for anyone else. They weren’t assigned to do it. An alert didn’t go off on a device implanted in their arms, telling them it was time to work. They worked because they wanted to. Because they enjoyed it. Because the result made them glow.
Saros and Castor emerged from their newly built chalet. The crowd cheered, and then the entire camp broke out in pandemonium.
Handmade instruments suddenly appeared. Music erupted. More hot chocolat was poured. And then a fire was built in a small pit in the center of the festivities. Chatine gazed into the flames, transfixed. Fire-making had been prohibited on Laterre ever since the first ancestors had arrived. It was a skill she thought time had forgotten. But clearly not here. Not among these people. She watched on as the fire grew bigger, until eventually the curling flames licked and batted at the cold air. The warmth and glow felt like a small Sol had fallen from the sky and landed right here, in the middle of the frozen Terrain Perdu.
Suddenly, everyone was on their feet. There was so much dancing. Men, women, children. Even little baby Mercure—who, up until a few minutes ago, had been asleep on Chatine’s lap—woke up and joined in on the festivities. His mother placed him back in his sling, and Chatine smiled as the woman spun and shimmied her way through the crowd, causing the baby to laugh and shriek.
It’s a fête, Chatine soon realized. But she’d certainly never seen anything like it before. Not that she’d witnessed a lot of fêtes in her life. Sure, there were the First Estate fêtes that the Paresse family held at the Grand Palais and broadcasted to the rest of Laterre—like the annual Ascension banquet and the elaborate birthday celebrations of the Matrone. But those always felt so formal and pretentious and decidedly not fun. Chatine would have rather poked her eyes out with an exploit pick than attend one of those. But this fête was different. These people—these strange Défecteurs who lived so far away from the rest of the planet, who hid from the Regime by stealing their own resources—they knew how to celebrate.
They all looked to be having so much fun, Chatine actually, for one sliver of a second, wished that she could join. That her stupide leg wasn’t still healing from that stupide Ministère explosif. But then her gaze landed on Etienne, jumping up and down and waving his arms like an idiot, and the moment passed quickly. Chatine was perfectly content to just sit by the warm fire and watch.
The music came to a halt a few minutes later, and Saros and Castor stepped up onto one of the ladders, and announced, “Okay, everyone! It’s time for the connecteur scramble!”
The crowd cheered and Etienne was suddenly in front of Chatine, his breathing ragged from all the dancing, his forehead damp with sweat despite the chill in the air. “Come on!” he urged, reaching out a hand to help her to her feet. “Get up!”
Warily, Chatine stared at his outstretched hand. “Why?”
“Didn’t you hear? It’s the connecteur scramble.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what that is.”
Etienne rolled his eyes. “It’s only the best part of a linking cérémonie!”
“Still don’t know what it is.”
Etienne leaned forward, clasped onto Chatine’s elbow, and dragged her to her feet. She hobbled slightly as she tried to balance on her good leg.
“Just trust me,” he said, guiding her around the roaring fire. “You don’t want to miss this.”
Etienne led her toward the ladder where the couple was still standing. Clasped in their hands was a small piece of looped metal, just like the one Astra had used earlier to connect the new chalet with the rest of the camp. In front of the couple, a large crowd had gathered. People were playfully jabbing each other with elbows, jostling for space. They all wore eager, determined expressions.
“What exactly am I supposed to do?” Chatine asked Etienne.
“Easy,” he explained, as he pushed his way through the crowd and positioned Chatine near the front. “Just catch the connecteur.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Because it’s what you do. And it’s fun.” He reached out and pulled off her mittens, then removed his own and stuffed them all into the pocket of his coat. “Plus, legend has it, whoever catches the connecteur at a linking cérémonie will …” He stopped, looking pensive.
Chatine narrowed her eyes. “Will what?”
“Will have good luck for the rest of the year.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It’s true! It’s ancient Défecteur legend.” He winked at her and then lowered his voice, sounding eerily like a droid. “The Sols shall shine and good fortune shall be bestowed on whoever shall catch the mighty connecteur.”
Chatine snorted. “In case you hadn’t noticed”—she pointed at her left leg—“I’m not exactly in any condition to be running after flying scraps of metal right now.”
Etienne scoffed. “Oh, please. Three days ago, you were about to cross the Terrain Perdu on that leg, so stop with the excuses.”
“Is everyone ready?” someone shouted. Chatine looked up to see that Castor was now waving the connecteur above his head.
The crowd around Chatine whooped and hollered.
“Are you sure?” Saros egged them on.
More cheering as people continued to jockey for position. Chatine was shoved from all directions.
“Nope, definitely not doing this.” Chatine tried to remove herself from the group, but Etienne reached for her bare hand, stopping her.
“Wait.” His fingers wrapped around hers, and she was overcome with a sudden flash of warmth. She looked down. As though she had to see it with her own eyes. See his hand covering hers. Covering the spot where Marcellus’s ring used to be. Like he knew.
When she looked up again, Etienne had moved closer. His piercing, dark eyes locked onto hers. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said quietly, earnestly. “If you catch that connecteur, I will give you …” He paused, as though trying to give her anticipation time to build.
It worked. Something passed through her knees. It felt a lot like wooziness.
“… all of my toast at breakfast for the next two months,” Etienne finished.
Laughter erupted from her. She couldn’t help herself. It was jittering and anxious, but it still worked to chase away the strange sensation that had taken her over just a moment ago.
“How about this?” Chatine countered, allowing her lips to curve into an all-too-familiar smirk. If there was anything that could make her feel like herself again, it was negotiating. “If I catch the connecteur, you will give me …”
She mirrored his pause. He leaned forward, rapt and waiting.
“… flying lessons,” she finished. “On Marilyn.”
Now it was Etienne who laughed. Loud and boisterous and explosive. “No. No way. Nuh-uh. Never gonna happen. Not even if the Darkest Night miraculously ended tonight and the Blue Dawn came tomorrow. Not in a million trillion Blue Dawns. Not even in a million trillion White Nights. NEVER.”
“Fine,” Chatine said smugly as she turned again to leave. But Etienne was still holding on to her hand. She was suddenly acutely aware of how close he was. Not just because of his breath warming her face, but because she could feel him there. His presence was somehow both quiet and l
oud. Both infinitely massive and impossibly small. As though he was nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
“On the count of three!” Castor called out, the connecteur poised above his head. “One …”
Chatine tried to pull her hand free. Etienne squeezed it tighter.
“Two … ,” said Saros from the ladder, grabbing on to the other end of the connecteur.
Chatine looked over at Etienne, who was staring right back at her, a mischievous look playing in his eyes. Like he knew something she didn’t.
“Three!”
The couple cocked back their hands simultaneously and tossed the connecteur up into the air. In one swift motion, Etienne pulled Chatine toward him. The small piece of metal arced over the assembled crowd and headed straight toward Chatine. Etienne’s hands wrapped around her waist, and suddenly she was flying too. Her feet left the ground. She was as weightless as she was in space. There was no time to think. No time to negotiate. The connecteur was within reach. She could see it. She extended her right arm out, past all the other hands reaching around her. Her fingertips stretched, her body lengthened. But the connecteur was curving the wrong way. It was curving away from her. She wasn’t going to catch it. It was going to just barely graze her fingertips. Then she heard a grunt as Etienne hinged forward, pushing her closer, his arms shaking beneath her.
“You got it! You got it!” he shouted.
And he was right.
The looped piece of metal hit her palm, and she closed her fist triumphantly around it. But just as soon as she’d snagged the victory, she felt herself falling. Etienne was stumbling beneath her. They were both going down.
She felt a pair of hands land on her left arm. Then another on her right shoulder. The crowd had surrounded them, stabilizing them both. Chatine felt her feet land safely on the ground and she turned to look at Etienne, who was breathless and beaming.
He nodded toward the connecteur, and she lifted it high above her head. Everyone cheered and applauded. Chatine couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face.
Between Burning Worlds Page 43
