Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  “Exactly.” Cerise resumed drumming on the screen as though that settled everything.

  Marcellus glanced at Alouette with a look that said, She’s not okay, is she?

  Alouette bit her lip and placed a gentle hand on Cerise’s shoulder. “Cerise. We’ll be detected as soon as we try to accelerate to supervoyage.”

  “Which is why we can’t use supervoyage.”

  She gave the screen one last tap and stepped back. A moment later, the ship’s autopilote voice slipped through the speakers. “Estimated arrival on Laterre in twenty-two minutes.”

  “Hypervoyage?” Alouette asked incredulously.

  “We would instantly disappear from all scans,” Cerise explained. “We’d be able to get past the Albion Royal Space Fleet and the general’s fleet. We could enter Laterrian airspace completely undetected.”

  Marcellus stood up straighter, his body now coursing with newfound strength. Newfound hope. “Are you sure?”

  Cerise jutted out her chin. “I’m sure.”

  “Have you two lost your minds?” Alouette said, suddenly stepping between Marcellus and Cerise. “You can’t hypervoyage within the System. It’s too dangerous. It’s only meant for deep space travel.”

  “Has anyone ever tried it?” Marcellus asked.

  Alouette reeled on him. “No! Because everyone knows there are too many manmade objects in orbit around the planets. Satellites and voyageurs and spacecraft carriers. It’s just too many variables to account for. You’re likely to crash. Or worse, hypervoyage right inside of something and explode instantly.”

  “Likely,” Cerise pointed out. “But not guaranteed.”

  Alouette threw up her hands. “Do you really want to debate semantics right now?” Marcellus was certain he’d never seen her so unhinged before. So desperate. “You’re talking about bending space. Trust me, that’s not something you want to mess with. The results could be catastrophic. Not just for us, but for anything that happens to be in our path.”

  “I’m just saying,” Cerise countered, “there’s a chance that it could work.”

  Frustration flashed in Alouette’s eyes. “Fine, you want to talk chances? If we jump to hypervoyage inside the System Divine, there’s a ninety-five percent chance it will end in disaster.”

  “And if we stay here,” Cerise said, “then it’s one-hundred percent certain that Gabriel will die, and the planet will fall into the hands of a madman. Pick your disaster.”

  “I hate to admit it, but I have to agree with Sparkles here.”

  They all spun to see that Gabriel’s eyes were open. His forehead glistened with sweat and his mouth was twisted in a pained grimace, but he was awake.

  “Gabriel!” Cerise ran to him and threw her arms around him, completely unmindful of his condition. He winced at the sudden impact.

  Cerise sat up, her expression instantly morphing to fury. “How could you do that? How could you just go and get yourself shot? You’re such an idiot!”

  Gabriel chuckled hoarsely. “Are you gonna punch me again?”

  Cerise huffed and stood up from the bed. “Maybe. But not until you’re better.”

  “That’s very considerate of you.”

  “Marcellus,” Alouette warned, almost as though she could see the wheels in his head spinning frantically. “We can’t do this.”

  “It’s our only chance,” Cerise argued. She pointed at Gabriel. “It’s his only chance. You said so yourself, our intentions mean more than the results. And right now, our intentions are the only thing we have left.”

  Cerise tapped again on the screen and the display shifted. Now, the monitor showed nine blinking dots glowing ominously in the darkness of space. “The microprobes are reporting three more warships than there were an hour ago,” Cerise went on. “They’re not giving up. They’re only sending more.”

  Cerise turned back to Marcellus, an expectant look in her eyes. He darted his gaze to Alouette who was staring at him with the exact same look. He clawed his fingers through his hair and closed his eyes, his thoughts a jumbled, chaotic mess.

  Was Alouette right? Had he lost his mind? Were they insane to try this?

  But what other choice did they have? His grandfather had his hands on a weapon that would certainly destroy the planet. He had his very own Third Estate army at his command now. Not to mention, if they stayed here, the Albion Royal Space Fleet would inevitably find them and throw them in the Tower. If they even let them get off this ship alive.

  How could they not try this?

  The familiar fire started to burn inside his chest. The flames of desperation. Of fury. Of vengeance. Of knowing he would rather die than see his grandfather take control of Laterre.

  This is what Julien Bonnefaçon would have done. Marcellus was certain of it. If his father were alive today, he would stop at nothing to see General Bonnefaçon defeated. He would stop at nothing to save his planet.

  Marcellus glanced at the monitor on the wall and stared vacantly at those tiny green dots combing through space, like hunting dogs spurred on by the fresh scent of prey.

  He flashed Alouette an apologetic look, then turned to Cerise. “Prepare for hypervoyage.”

  - PART 5 - TERRAIN PERDU

  Only a special few entered the program, singled out for their intelligence, their dexterity, and their brilliance. Under bright, sterile lights, tiny wires were tapestried into their skin. Filaments threaded through their cortexes. And a glowing orange light embedded into the window of their being. Feelings were sacrificed and emotions set aside, but their abilities flourished a thousandfold. Their hands moved faster. Their brains processed quicker. Technology and flesh worked together in a beautiful, efficient, and exhilarating dance.

  But sometimes the dance faltered.

  And the embers of a forgotten conscience ignited once more.

  From The Chronicles of the Vangarde, Volume 2, Chapter 18

  - CHAPTER 50 - CHATINE

  ONCE AGAIN, CHATINE WAITED UNTIL everyone was asleep. It took longer this time because of the fête. The Défecteurs didn’t make their way back to their respective chalets until the early hours of the morning. Chatine could hear them outside, still dancing and singing and celebrating, while she lay on her bed in the treatment center, seething and raging and simmering, her breath a mess of gasps, her mind a tangle of bitter, dark thoughts.

  Finally, however, the camp fell quiet and Chatine eased out of her bed, donned her coat, and slipped out into the darkness.

  She limped down the grid of walkways, checking every corner, eyeing every door to make sure it remained closed. The last time she had snuck out in the middle of the night, Etienne had somehow found out and followed her. But she could not have him following her this time.

  He was already suspicious enough. He’d seen Chatine’s reaction when she’d come face-to-face with her parents. She’d probably looked like she’d seen a ghost. And she wished she had. All of Laterre would be better off if the Renards were dead. But they weren’t dead, as she’d spent so long hoping. They were alive. They had somehow managed to escape the Policier droids. And now they were here. The scums of Laterre. In this camp. With these innocent, unsuspecting, peaceful people.

  Etienne had obviously sensed something was off. But when he’d tried to ask Chatine what was wrong, she’d dismissed him without an explanation. She’d simply muttered that her leg was bothering her before turning away and returning to the treatment center without another word.

  Now, as she moved silently through the camp, she thought back through everything the Défecteurs had told her about their favorite new “gridders.”

  “Everyone loves Fabian and his wife, Gen.”

  “The people here can’t get enough of them.”

  “One of the pilotes took them to look for their lost children.”

  “Fabian does magic tricks. He makes things disappear.”

  Chatine grunted.

  I bet he does.

  It was a con. She was sure of it. That was the
only reason her parents would infiltrate a Défecteur camp in the middle of the Terrain Perdu. The only reason they had gained these people’s trust, invented new names and a ridiculous sob story about missing children.

  As always, the Renards were plotting something.

  Checking one last time to make sure she hadn’t been followed, she eased open the door of the farthest chalet and slipped inside.

  “There she is,” came a gruff female voice. “Our darling daughter. Our lost child. We thought we’d never see you again.”

  Chatine squinted into the low light to find her parents sitting at a table in the corner, fabric scraps spread out around them. It took Chatine all of two seconds to realize they were sewing a collection of handmade sacs. Perfect for looting.

  She clenched her teeth to keep from lashing out.

  “Yes,” her father added in a sugary tone that made the faint scar on Chatine’s left palm twitch. “We heard you had a little run in with the Policier. Got yourself shipped off to Bastille. But I wasn’t too worried. I knew you’d land on your feet. Just like you always do, my little kitty cat. After all, you have Renard blood running in your veins. And we all know the Renards always land on top. With all the squabbles and riots and silly rebellions on this planet, we’re the ones who make it in the end.”

  “Stop,” she spat. “Just stop. What are you doing here? What are you planning?”

  Monsieur Renard tipped his head back and let out a long, deep belly laugh before sharing a knowing look with his wife. “Didn’t I tell you, chérie? Didn’t I predict she’d come here begging for a cut?”

  “You’re wrong,” Chatine replied. “I don’t want a cut. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  “Oh, but you will when you find out what we’re after,” Monsieur Renard said. “It’s the con of the century, my dear. You’d be foolish not to want a cut.” Chatine rolled her eyes. She’d been listening to her father claim he was planning the con of the century since she was a child. “And since you seem to have won these people over as well, we could probably use your help. How’s ten percent?”

  “No!” Chatine bellowed.

  “Keep your voice down!” her father scolded her.

  Chatine bristled but lowered her voice. “I don’t want any of it. I want you to leave. Now.”

  Her mother chuckled. “Leave? Why would we leave when we’re so close? We’ve already secured a buyer.”

  Comprehension struck Chatine in the chest. So that’s what they were really doing this week while they were out “searching for their lost children.”

  “A buyer for what?” Chatine asked. “What are you selling these poor people out for?”

  Her father let out a huff of frustration. “My sols, Chatine, you really can be dense sometimes, can’t you? Sometimes I think you’re even thicker than Azelle was.”

  Chatine flinched at the mention of her sister’s name but fought to keep her expression neutral.

  “Have you not noticed the stockpiles of a certain highly valuable metal these people have been hoarding?” her father asked.

  Chatine clenched her fists. The zyttrium. Of course that’s what her parents were after. It was the most valuable commodity in this camp. Bastille was running out of it. The Ministère needed it to keep the Third Estate Skinned and obedient. And the Défecteurs were rich in it. Her parents probably had no trouble at all finding someone who would pay top larg for it.

  “You can’t steal their zyttrium,” she said.

  Monsieur Renard snorted. “Why not? They stole it first.”

  “They need it to survive.”

  “So do we,” Madame Renard said with a shrug.

  “I won’t let you go through with it.”

  Her father cackled and stood up from his chair. He began to stalk menacingly toward Chatine. She backed away until she was pressed up against the wall of the chalet. “And how on Laterre do you plan on stopping us? Are you going to chase after us in your condition?” He glanced down at her leg and let out a pitying cluck of his tongue. “Oh yes, I heard about your little injury.” His hand reached toward her left knee. His fingers outstretched.

  Chatine braced herself. The pain came a second later. A sharp, penetrating bolt as her father’s grip squeezed around the fabric of her pants, twisting the flesh of her wound.

  “You’re not going to try to stop us,” he breathed against her cheek, and Chatine flashed back to the thousands of other moments in her life when her father had threatened her. Hurt her. Breathed his rancid breath on her until she backed down.

  Because she always backed down.

  Because he was Monsieur Renard, leader of the Délabré gang. And she was just a lowly Fret rat, dependent on him for food and shelter and survival.

  He squeezed her leg harder, and she felt a wave of dizziness rush through her. “You’re going to keep your wretched little mouth shut and let us do what we came here to do. And if you help us out, we might even be nice and give you five percent.”

  “I thought it was ten,” Chatine muttered through her clenched teeth.

  Her father snorted. “Chatine, Chatine. Have I taught you nothing? First offers always come with an expiration. I suggest you take this second offer now before it, too, expires.”

  She grimaced through the pain, the anger building inside of her.

  “Just think, Chatine,” her father whispered silkily. “Five percent can set you up for good. Five percent can get you the life you always wanted.”

  The life she always wanted.

  The words flittered jarringly through her mind, like they didn’t quite fit together. The sentence was complete, but she couldn’t make sense of it.

  What was the life she always wanted? For a while, she thought it could be found on Usonia, far away from Laterre and its harsh laws and unjust Regime. But now? Somehow Usonia didn’t seem far enough. Or maybe it was never the distance that she craved. Maybe it was something else.

  Something that she’d stumbled upon without even knowing it.

  With a sudden, fierce determination, Chatine lifted her hands and planted them on her father’s chest. Grimacing through the pain, she shoved him as hard as she could. He stumbled back—more out of surprise than Chatine’s actual strength—and fell onto the bed.

  “What the—” he growled but Chatine cut him off.

  “Shut up,” she snapped. Her mother opened her mouth to speak but Chatine cut her with a glance. “Both of you. This is how it’s going to work.”

  Her father’s shock quickly gave way to a knowing smile. “Ah, there’s the Chatine we know and love. A counteroffer. I’m listening.”

  Chatine took two purposeful steps toward him. “You’re going to pack up your things and leave. Tonight. You’re not going to speak to anyone. You’re not going to take anything that doesn’t belong to you. You’re just going to leave and never come back.”

  Monsieur Renard leaned forward slightly, waiting for the rest. “And?”

  “And nothing,” Chatine fired back.

  Monsieur Renard shared a look with his wife before they both broke into wild hoots of laughter. “Well, well, well,” he said through his cackles. “Look at our little Fret rat all grown up and making demands she can’t follow through on.”

  “I can follow through,” Chatine swore.

  “Oh yeah?” Madame Renard replied, amused. “You and what droid army?”

  “I don’t need an army.” Chatine glared at her father. “You, of all people, must remember how quickly I can ruin your plans with nothing more than a scream. If you don’t leave right now, I will scream. It will be the loudest thing you have ever heard. And then, when they all come running, I will tell them everything. I will tell them who you really are. I will tell them what you’ve done. All of it. Every con, every crime, and every severed toe. I will even tell them what you did to baby Henri.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Chatine saw her mother flinch.

  “Yes,” she went on. “I know the truth. I know he wasn’t reall
y dead. I know you lied to me for twelve years, made me believe that that little girl Madeline killed him, when really you sold him off to pay for your own mistakes. You have robbed and cheated so many people, but nothing is more unforgivable then what you stole from me. You stole my life. And his life. And Azelle’s life too. You stole my childhood. And my innocence. And my ability to believe in anything. And now, here, thanks to these people, I have managed to get a sliver of that back. And I will not let you take it away again. I will tell them exactly what you’re planning, and then you can deal with that army.”

  For a split second, Monsieur Renard actually looked uncertain. But he quickly wiped the expression from his face and stood up. Again, he walked toward her. But this time, Chatine did not back away. She stood her ground. Even when her father pinned her with that dark, sinister stare that had haunted her for almost her entire life. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Chatine raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

  “You like it here,” Monsieur Renard stated as though this were a key piece of intel that Chatine had foolishly given away.

  “So?”

  “You like it here too much,” he amended. “You’ve fallen in love with these ignorant dropouts.”

  Madame Renard chortled. Anger coursed through Chatine, but she fought to keep her hands and her breath steady.

  “Didn’t I ever tell you not to fall in love with your mark?” her father asked. “It’s dangerous and … messy.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Chatine said confidently.

  “You’re not in love with them?”

  “They’re not my mark.”

  Madame Renard scoffed. “You expect us to believe that?”

  “Believe whatever you want,” Chatine spat at her, “but the truth remains, if you don’t leave, I expose you.”

  “As I was saying,” Monsieur Renard went on, undeterred, “you like it here. Too much. And if you expose us, we expose you. And then, it’s adieu darling Défecteurs. Do you really think they’d let you stay after they find out you’re a croc?”