Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  “Why aren’t we just using those to sneak into the banquet?” Chatine asked.

  “Too risky.” Marcellus shook his head. “There are always extra guards on patrol during Ascension banquets. We’re far better off entering as guests.”

  Chatine nodded, but still didn’t look convinced.

  “Which means you’re going to have to blend in with the other guests.” Cerise turned to riffle through the rows of hangers behind her. “Marcellus, you can borrow one of Papa’s tuxedos, and for Chatine …” She paused and plucked a hanger from the rack. A plume of pale green fabric seemed to spill out into the closet like a gushing fountain. It was long and billowy with a never-ending train of silk and ruffles. “This color will be wonderful with your complexion.”

  Marcellus had never seen a more horrified expression than the one that had just descended over Chatine’s face.

  Chatine barked out a dark laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

  Cerise looked down at the dress, confused. “I don’t joke about ball gowns.”

  “I’m not wearing that.” Chatine was eyeing the explosion of a dress like it was made of jagged shards of glass, not what appeared to be layers of fine Samsarian silk.

  “But you have to. It’s the Ascension banquet. Everyone will be dressed up. Even the Third Estaters.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of long silk gloves. “And these will cover the scar from your Skin.”

  Chatine crossed her arms over her chest. “I haven’t worn a dress since I was eight years old, and I’m certainly not going to start again now.”

  “Well, what did you expect to do? Waltz into the gardens wearing that?”

  Chatine glanced down at her Défecteur clothes and a shadow of doubt flickered over her face. “I … ,” she began, but her voice trailed off.

  “This is the Grand Palais. You have to blend in. And if you don’t blend in, you die!”

  Everyone startled at Cerise’s drastic change of tone. Her mood seemed to have gone from confident to morbid in an instant. Clearly, the stress of this endeavor was taking its toll on all of them.

  “Or maybe you want to break into the Ministère headquarters and hack the guest list and I’ll go to the banquet.” Cerise went on, her voice still strained.

  Chatine’s arms fell back to her sides, and without another word, she reached out and took the dress from Cerise.

  “Merci,” Cerise said tightly. “Oh, and one more thing.” She disappeared around a corner of the closet and returned a moment later holding what looked like a clump of human hair.

  “A wig?” Chatine asked in disbelief.

  “As much as I love this look.” Cerise gestured to Chatine’s short crop of newly grown hair. “Very razor chic. I do worry it might make you look like you just escaped from Bastille.”

  “I did just escape from Bastille.”

  “Right.” Cerise extended out the wig.

  As Chatine took it and ran her fingers through the long, dark brown locks, a disturbed, almost haunted expression passed over her face. “This looks a lot like the hair I sold two years ago.”

  Cerise flashed a hurried smile. “Good, then it’ll look natural. And you.” She reeled on Marcellus and squinted at his face like he was out of focus. “Hmm. The stubble definitely helps. And we’ll get you a hat. But it won’t be enough.” She rummaged around in another drawer before pulling out a pair of dark Sol-glasses and handing them over.

  Marcellus slid the glasses over his eyes and watched the closet tint a reddish gold. It made him think of Albion sunsets and death. He slid the glasses off before refocusing on the hologram.

  “Alouette and Cerise, you will be here.” He maneuvered the map away from the Palais and pushed in on the dark structure that sat like a giant festering wound amidst the vibrant colors of the rest of Ledôme. The two black towers of the Ministère headquarters soared out of the hologram like a pair of ominous sentinels, and the rows and rows of windows, black and glassy, shone like a battalion of unblinking eyes.

  “The service entrance in the back is your best option,” Marcellus continued, fighting off a shudder at the sight of that building. “Most of the employees who use that entrance leave at 19.00. You can sneak in through the door as someone is leaving.”

  “Right.” Cerise opened a drawer, pulled out two bundles of fabric, and handed one to Alouette. “This will be our cover.”

  Alouette unfurled the material to find a simple black pair of pants and a short-sleeved blue shirt with a crisp black collar, simple black buttons, and two deep pockets sewn at the waist.

  “Cleaner’s uniform,” explained Cerise. Then, upon Alouette’s questioning look, she added, “Let’s just say this is not the first time I’ve had to sneak into the Ministère.”

  “Have you figured out how to get into the server room yet?” Marcellus asked Cerise.

  “I can disable the security feeds, because they’re on an accessible network, but I can’t hack a biometric lock. At least not without raising a lot of alarms.” She turned expectantly to Alouette, as though they’d already come to a decision.

  “I’m going to disable the lock on the server room door,” Alouette said.

  Chatine and Marcellus both stared at her with wide, unblinking eyes. “You can do that?” Marcellus asked.

  Alouette nodded. “Sister Denise taught me how to disassemble my first Ministère lock when I was eight. Now I know why.”

  Once all the disguises had been distributed, Cerise directed them to private bathrooms to shower and change clothes. The steaming hot water raining down on Marcellus, washing away the dirt and ash and lingering chill of the Terrain Perdu, felt so good. For a moment, he nearly forgot what they had all gathered here to do. But then, as he reached to shut off the faucet, Marcellus’s gaze snagged on a window set high in the bathroom wall where, slicing through the darkening TéléSky outside, he could make out a soaring, glinting antenna.

  Even from way out here, among the manoirs of Ledôme, the Paresse Tower was visible. Marcellus still couldn’t believe what Brigitte had told them. A kill switch for the Skins? Hidden right in front of him—in front of everyone—this whole time? Looking up at it now, Marcellus felt like the tower was taunting him. Reminding him of everything that was at stake tonight.

  He stood naked and shivering, running through the plan in his mind, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong. There were no real Sols to pray to inside Ledôme, and he wasn’t about to trust the fake ones. Which meant he had no choice but to rely on himself and the people he now called his friends.

  Hastily, he grabbed for a towel and dried himself off before pulling on his borrowed tuxedo. It wasn’t as scratchy and stiff as his officer uniform, but the touch of the fabric still made him cringe.

  He was just knotting the tie when his TéléCom lit up on the bathroom counter.

  “Incoming AirLink request pending from Jolras Epernay,” a voice said in his audio patch.

  Marcellus froze as his gaze traveled down to the screen and the now all-too-familiar face of Maximilienne’s brother. He was AirLinking Marcellus again? What could that Red Scar monster possibly want with him?

  There was a rap at the door and Cerise called out, “Almost ready?”

  Marcellus blinked down at the screen again, where Jolras’s face was still waiting.

  “Yes!” he shouted back through the door as he hastily swiped at the screen, declining the request. Tonight, he only had the time and energy to think about one threat to Laterre. And that was his grandfather.

  When he emerged from the bathroom, he found Cerise was the only one waiting for him.

  “Where is everyone else?” he asked.

  “Still getting ready,” she said, and Marcellus noticed a dark shadow descend over her face. “I thought we could do this last part alone.”

  Marcellus nodded grimly and followed behind her as they walked in silence down the long hallway of the second floor. With each step, Marcellus felt his breath grow shallower and his heart
grow heavier. He thought back to that early morning when he’d darted around the abandoned copper exploit, looking for Mabelle and feeling like a traitor. At that moment, he’d wanted nothing more than to join the Vangarde, avenge his father’s wrongful incarceration and death, and stop General Bonnefaçon from destroying a planet.

  Little did he know, those fateful steps that morning would lead to these ones.

  Would lead him here.

  Cerise entered a large wood-paneled study and stopped in front of a framed painting of a peaceful First World landscape. She pushed the frame aside to reveal a thick PermaSteel vault embedded into the wall.

  “Last chance to back out,” Cerise said. “Are you sure about this?”

  Marcellus nodded, feeling the significance of such a simple gesture crash down around him. “The general must be stopped. It’s the only way.”

  Cerise sighed and pressed her palm to the glowing panel beside the door. The vault clicked open, and Marcellus sucked in a sharp breath when his eyes fell upon dozens of silver rayonettes hanging from a wooden rack in neat, shimmering rows.

  “Papa’s been stealing weapons from the Ministère ever since the last rebellion,” Cerise explained, and for a moment her eyes went glassy. “The truth is, I don’t think he’s one hundred percent convinced we won’t see another one.”

  Marcellus reached inside the vault and delicately plucked a rayonette from the rack. Every nerve in his body caught fire as his fingers closed around the glittering handle. He’d held weapons almost his entire life. His grandfather had placed his first rayonette in his hands when he was only eight years old. But he’d never felt its true weight and power and responsibility until right now.

  In his mind, he could still hear his grandfather’s words from that day ten years ago.

  “Hold it steady, Marcellus. In the face of your enemy, a wavering hand can cost you your life.”

  “Don’t hesitate. As soon as you have your best shot, you take it. Never give your opponent the chance to shoot first.”

  “See this switch? This activates the lethal mode. Only use it in the most dire of circumstances.”

  Marcellus rolled his thumb back and forth over the toggle. He couldn’t think of more dire circumstances than the ones they now faced. And when the time came, he would not hesitate. His hands would not waver. He would not give his grandfather the chance to shoot first.

  The thought brought him a rush of terror, then sickness, and then finally, a rush of conviction.

  Marcellus had waited a long time for this moment. Longer than he’d even realized. He had suffered, lost, grieved, raged, fought, froze, and traveled across the stars and back for this one chance to stop the general. A chance to make things right.

  With a snap that reverberated throughout the room, Marcellus flicked the switch on the rayonette and tucked it into the waistband of his pants. “Your father is wrong,” he said gravely to Cerise. “Laterre won’t see another rebellion.”

  Cerise blinked up at him with questioning eyes.

  “Because no matter what happens tonight,” Marcellus said, “there’s going to be a revolution.”

  - CHAPTER 64 - ALOUETTE

  THE MINISTÈRE HEADQUARTERS WAS A cold and sterile place that made Alouette grateful she and Cerise had come here at night. The hallways were mostly empty, with the exception of a few patrolling guards who paid no attention to them in their uniforms and pushing their cleaning carts. Alouette couldn’t imagine what this place must feel like during the day, when the labs were bustling with activity and cyborgs roamed the halls.

  They’d slipped in through the service entrance as the employees of the day shift were leaving. And now, as Alouette darted behind Cerise down another long, silent corridor, she swore she could hear her erratic heartbeat echoing off the spotless white walls. She’d never been more nervous in all her life. Not when she’d first snuck out of the Refuge. Not when she and Hugo had been kidnapped by the Renards. Not when the voyageur started to break apart. Not even when the escape pod had stranded them in the Terrain Perdu and she was certain they were all going to die.

  There was just something about this place. This building, with its bare, austere hallways; swift, soundless elevators; and echoing, polished floors. They seemed to suck the courage right out of her. Like leeches on her skin.

  Cerise pulled to a stop in front of an unmarked door and glanced over both shoulders before pulling out her TéléCom and unfolding it. Alouette looked at the screen to see a grid of squares, each one showing a different view of the Ministère headquarters. She immediately recognized the bottom right feed as the hallway they were now standing in, and the two figures dressed in black and blue uniforms as them.

  “I can buy you about forty-five seconds. Sixty at the most,” Cerise said, tapping furiously at the screen. A dizzying array of panels and blueprints flashed by so quickly, Alouette could barely keep up. “Will that be enough to disable the lock?”

  Alouette drew in an unsteady breath. She’d never done this with a clock ticking over her. But she knew there was only one answer to give at this point. Either she did it or the entire plan failed. “Yes.”

  Cerise prodded at the TéléCom once more. “Okay. Ready? Go.”

  The bottom right square of the grid went dark, and Alouette sprang into motion. Bending down, she studied the locking mechanism secured to the wall next to the door. She pulled up the hem of her shirt to reveal the small selection of tools she’d collected from Cerise’s closet, tucked into a makeshift toolbelt. She reached for the screwdriver first and carefully removed each of the screws on the lock’s outer casing. The plastique panel popped off and her gaze roved quickly over the complicated nest of circuitry inside, while her hands switched out her screwdriver for the small power cell she’d removed from a light fixture in Cerise’s manoir. She’d spent nearly an hour finding one with the perfect voltage and another fifteen minutes attaching a short extension wire to the output.

  “Twenty seconds left,” Cerise said beside her.

  Alouette carefully maneuvered the power cell into the lock’s circuitry, but her fingers were trembling so badly, the tiny cylinder slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor. Crouching down to retrieve it, she reminded herself to breathe, calm down. Her nerves would only cause her to make mistakes. As she tried again, gently guiding the power cell into the lock, she pictured Sister Denise, sitting at her workbench, disassembling Ministère gadgets and soldering circuit boards, always with a delicate but assured hand. She was a woman of very few words. But every time Alouette had watched her break open a device and explore the mechanisms inside, it was like watching poetry in motion. A skilled musician with their favorite instrument.

  “Every device has an inherent flaw in its design,” Sister Denise had once told her. “If you search long enough, eventually you’ll find it.”

  Sister Denise’s words in her mind filled Alouette with strength and resolve and, more important, steadiness. She slipped the power cell farther into the lock, until she felt an almost infinitesimal spark as the extension wire connected with the circuitboard.

  “After analyzing Ministère locks for years, I discovered that if you introduce just the right voltage of power to the circuitboard, it momentarily overloads the system and disables the device.”

  A soft hissing sound followed, and the door swept open.

  Cerise wasted no time. She grabbed Alouette by the elbow and shuffled her through the door before sealing it shut behind them. Rows upon rows of glowing machines lined the room, each one taller than Alouette and blinking with tiny blue lights. At the center of the pristine white ceiling, amid a complicated grid of vents and fans, a cooling unit hummed.

  “Cerise, what’s the status?” Marcellus’s voice suddenly slipped into Alouette’s ear, startling her. She wasn’t used to wearing an audio patch, but Cerise insisted she be able to talk to everyone, so she’d equipped them all with audio patches and TéléComs and set up a multi-channel AirLink that allowed them to communica
te.

  “We just got into server room 12,” Cerise replied. “I just need to find the right router.” She was already moving through the aisles, her gaze flicking expertly over the shelves before pulling to a decisive halt. Crouching down, she opened her bag and pulled out a small flat contraption, which she promptly affixed to the front of a glowing panel. Cerise’s small device illuminated, its tiny screen flashing erratically. She began tapping on the device, pausing only long enough to hand Alouette her TéléCom. “Take this. Keep an eye on the cams. Warn me if anyone is coming.”

  Alouette lowered herself to the ground next to Cerise and kept her eyes locked on the grid of security feeds. She diligently flicked her finger across the screen, revealing more and more chilling views of the Ministère headquarters. Each one sent a shiver of fear through her.

  The Ministère had always been an enemy to Alouette. A danger to her way of life and to the precious books she’d sworn to protect. But now, as she stared at the countless rooms and labs and offices, she suddenly saw it—and the threat it posed—with new eyes. Now that she knew the sisters had been more than just guardians of the Forgotten Word, that they had been crusaders trying to fix a broken planet, she understood what this building had really represented to them. And what it now represented to her.

  It was a stronghold of the Regime. A symbol of corruption. It was where cruel weapons were developed, imperious cyborgs were created, and soldiers of injustice were trained.

  “Nearly there,” Cerise said, her gaze swiveling between her contraption and the machine it was attached to. “Once the network bridge is online, I’ll be able to intercept the data being sent from the banquet’s security checkpoint.”