Alouette quickly swiped back to the view of the hallway outside the server room, passing over numerous grids and security feeds. But her finger slowed to a halt as something in one of the feeds caught her eye and her breath. Her chest squeezed as she struggled to make sense of what she was seeing. She tapped twice on the feed, prompting it to fill the entire screen.
And suddenly it was as though she were back in the Terrain Perdu, every centimètre of her body frozen in the icy air. Marcellus’s words to her on the voyageur floated above her head like tiny flecks of snow.
“My grandfather has a detention facility hidden somewhere.…”
“There are only two people on the planet who know where it is.…”
“What’s wrong?” Cerise asked. “Is someone coming?”
Alouette’s mind was racing too fast to respond. But as soon as Cerise leaned over and saw the image that filled the TéléCom screen, she seemed to understand. She inhaled a sharp breath. “He must have made it through the surgery,” she said quietly. Pensively.
“Do you think … ?” Alouette couldn’t even whisper all the words. They felt too dangerous. Too laced with hazardous hope.
But Cerise plucked the question right out of Alouette’s mind. “That his memories have been restored?”
Alouette nodded, her throat constricting. Going dry. Turning to hot, desert sand.
“I think,” Cerise began, locking onto Alouette’s eyes with a fierceness and determination that made Alouette shiver, “… that there’s only one way to find out.”
All at once, Alouette understood. Cerise’s eyes were speaking so much louder than her words. Alouette thought briefly of her promise to Dr. Collins before he died. Her promise to find Jacqui and Denise. To find his daughter.
And she knew what Cerise was thinking. Because it was what they were both thinking.
This might be our only chance.
“Cerise,” Marcellus’s voice shattered the silence of the server room, causing Cerise’s and Alouette’s gazes to break apart. “Chatine and I are almost to the banquet. Is everything in place?”
Cerise blinked, as though shaking herself from a trance, and focused back on the panel in front of her. She tapped once on the screen and nodded approvingly. “Yes. The network bridge is online. Are you and Chatine ready?”
There was a long pause, in which Alouette’s heart instantly ratcheted up three notches. Finally, Marcellus replied, “Yes. We’re ready.”
Cerise took a deep breath and turned to Alouette as her lips formed a single, silent syllable. The most terrifying and hopeful syllable Alouette had ever known. Go.
- CHAPTER 65 - CHATINE
CHATINE COULD BARELY BREATHE. PARTLY because of her frazzled nerves, but mostly because of the dress. It was impossibly tight and clung to her body in the most awkward of places. The fabric fell all the way to the floor, some of it even dragging behind her. Cerise had called it a train. In the Frets, it would have been called a “mud trap.”
And she didn’t even want to get started on the shoes.
“Chatine and I are almost to the banquet. Is everything in place?” Marcellus whispered into his audio patch beside her. They were striding across a large courtyard, flanked on either side by the Palais’s administrative buildings. Finely dressed banquet guests swarmed around them. Even though he was walking right next to her, Chatine had to keep glancing at Marcellus out of the corner of her eye to make sure it was really him. With his sleek tuxedo, black hat, Sol-glasses, and the dark stubble shadowing his chin, he was barely recognizable. Both of them were. As much as Chatine hated to admit it, Cerise had done an excellent job disguising them.
“Yes, the network bridge is online,” Cerise replied in Chatine’s ear, causing her to wince. She still hadn’t gotten used to hearing voices in her head again. “Are you and Chatine ready?”
Marcellus glanced over at her, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. It was such a simple question. And yet, the answer made Chatine feel faint. Back in the Défecteur camp, when Marcellus had first laid out this plan, it had all felt so easy. So straightforward. But the distance had clearly softened her perspective. Her anger at discovering what the general was planning had placed a hazy filter on the reality of the situation.
A reality that hadn’t fully hit her until they’d passed through the gates of the Grand Palais. Until the memory of the last time she’d been here stabbed her like a knife. Now the responsibility, the gravity of what they had come here to do was finally sinking in. And it dragged on her body even more so than this ridiculous dress.
She gave Marcellus a small, hesitant nod.
“Yes,” he replied to Cerise through his audio patch. “We’re ready.”
They continued to follow the throng of banquet guests toward the entrance. Chatine tried to take deep breaths to settle her nerves. She’d performed a thousand cons in her life, but never one of this magnitude. And never in shoes this tall.
“You’re doing great,” Marcellus whispered to her. “You totally blend in.”
“I feel like a pastry,” she whispered back.
“A very elegant pastry,” he amended, and Chatine was grateful for the humor. It immediately put her at ease. “Of course, I do miss the Fret rat look.”
Chatine shrugged. “What can I say? Black is my color.”
The entrance to the Ascension banquet was a long archway made of tiny flowers and fluttering leaves. Chatine and Marcellus joined the queue of guests waiting to pass through the security checkpoint. Up ahead, five officers in bright white uniforms stood guard, the glistening rayonettes strapped to their belts making Chatine’s heart flutter.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” she whispered hotly into her audio patch. If any one of those officers recognized her or Marcellus, this would all be over before it even began.
“Calm down,” Cerise replied smoothly. “Everything is set up. It’s going to work.”
Chatine didn’t like the fact that their entire mission was dependent on this Second Estate girl she barely knew who claimed to be a hacker. But Marcellus and Alouette seemed to trust her, and so Chatine had had no choice but to go along with it. If it had been up to her, they’d be climbing walls in dark camouflage. Not walking right into the lion’s den dressed like brightly colored pieces of meat.
“Skins, please,” said a deep voice.
They had reached the front of the line, and Chatine looked up to see two officers brandishing TéléComs toward them.
“Second Estate,” Marcellus clarified in a voice that sounded nothing like his own.
“Biometrics, then,” the guard said.
Chatine’s heart started to pound as she dropped her gaze, figuring the less eye contact the better. Marcellus gave her an encouraging nod before confidently placing his palm against one of the outstretched screens. Like it was nothing. Like those screens couldn’t reveal the truth about both of them in the blink of an eye.
Convict.
Traitor.
Escaped from Bastille.
Wanted by the Regime.
Chatine swallowed hard, removed her right glove, and extended her hand. She nearly recoiled at the touch of the TéléCom. Was it just her imagination or was it burning hot? As the screen glowed orange under her fingers and the scan initiated, Chatine’s mind flashed back to every other time she’d been scanned. Tracked. Logged. Marked. She’d stood under the watchful eye of cyborgs, succumbed to the degrading searches of officers, suffered the invasive inspections of droids who would just as soon bash in her head as let her go.
Her entire life was a seemingly endless collage of Ministère surveillance.
And now, for the first time, she was offering it up willingly.
“Okay, I’ve got you,” Cerise whispered in her ear. “Your biometrics are coming in. I’m routing them through the network bridge now and transmitting your fake profiles.”
Chatine tried to release the breath that was caught in her chest, but her lungs seemed to be holding it captive.
All she could think about was what would happen if Cerise’s hack failed. If this scan revealed the truth. Her real profile.
A shrill beeping sound cut through the air. Panicked, Chatine glanced back down at the screens of the TéléComs to see they had both turned red. She shared a fleeting look with Marcellus, silently asking which direction they should start running in.
“That’s strange,” one of the officers said, frowning at something evidently being reported into his ear. “Your biometrics aren’t seeming to register with the—” The beeping sound came to an abrupt halt and the angry red screens turned instantly back to orange. “Ah, here we are.” The officer looked up and flashed Chatine and Marcellus a smile. “Welcome, Monsieur and Madame Pontmercy. Sorry about that. Must have been a glitch.”
“Quite all right,” Chatine murmured, trying her best to return the smile. But it was difficult to do with her heart in her throat.
As they shuffled forward, through the archway, Chatine struggled to catch her breath. “What the fric?” she whispered once they were far enough away from the officers.
“Sorry!” came Cerise’s far-too-chipper reply. “I mixed up the profiles and nearly sent Marcellus’s to your scan and yours to Marcellus’s. Anyway, I had to abort in the middle. It wasn’t pretty. But the good news is, you’re in.”
“Barely,” Chatine muttered.
They approached a set of stone stairs that led from the courtyard down to the Imperial Lawn below. For a moment, as Chatine took in the breathtaking view, all remnants of her former anxiety seemed to vanish.
The Sols had set in the TéléSky above, but the Palais gardens glowed with a thousand tiny, twinkling lights that were hung in the trees and ornate shrubbery. Every flower imaginable glimmered in the magical half-light, and a series of illuminated fountains chugged water high into the air in a coordinated dance. And, at the far end of the Imperial Lawn, up a majestic sweeping staircase, stood the Grand Palais itself. The ocean-blue walls of the vast building looked almost purple in this light, and every one of its hundreds of windows reflected back the twinkling glow from the gardens.
A poke at her arm jolted her from her thoughts, and she looked down to see Marcellus was nudging her with his elbow. She nudged him back, assuming it was some kind of attempt to reassure her. But Marcellus just laughed.
“I’m offering you my arm,” he explained.
She stared at him, dumbfounded. “What would I want with your arm?”
He grabbed her gloved hand and looped it around the crook of his elbow. “It’s proper etiquette for a wife to take the arm of her husband.” His eyes twinkled as he added, “Madame Pontmercy.”
Chatine fought back a snort. “Proper etiquette?” She lowered her voice to a whisper and jutted her chin at the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, where she’d seen him hide his rayonette. “I think we’re far beyond that now.”
His expression darkened, as though he were just now remembering what the weapon was for. “Fine. Then it’s to help you down the stairs.”
Chatine rolled her eyes and removed her hand. “I’ve scaled walls in the Frets. I don’t need help walking down stairs.”
But as she descended the first step, the ridiculously tall shoes Cerise had made her wear wobbled beneath her and she began to fall. Marcellus reached out to catch her just in time and, with an infuriating smirk, returned her hand to his arm. “And now we understand the etiquette.”
Chatine grumbled in response, but this time kept her grip locked on his elbow as she carefully maneuvered down the steps and into the heart of the festivities. How was she ever supposed to successfully do anything covert in this ridiculous getup? She was used to blending into shadows. The only thing she would blend into in this dress was the gâteau.
“Don’t worry,” Marcellus whispered as they waded into the crowd. “If you fall again, just blame the wine.”
Even though the Patriarche and the general wouldn’t be making their grand entrance for at least another thirty minutes, the banquet was already in full swing. Music wafted through the warm night breeze, and hundreds of Third Estaters—invited in from the gray, damp world outside—were now dancing, chattering, and milling excitedly around vast tables laden with food and wine. Chatine spotted silver dishes bearing whole roasted chickens, platters of sizzling fish, towers of brightly colored fruit, and vast boards of every kind of cheese imaginable. And on the center table stood a line of embellished gâteaus, green and frosted, with dozens of cream-filled layers.
A true First Estate fête.
Chatine’s mind involuntarily fluttered back to the last fête she had attended. The linking cérémonie at the camp. Sols, how much she would rather have been there than here. The memory of Etienne’s face as he turned away from her in the Terrain Perdu had been like a permanent knife burrowed in her side ever since she’d left.
Marcellus guided her off to the side, where a row of delicately trimmed hedges flanked the perimeter of the lawn. From here, they could observe the rest of the fête without being easily spotted.
“Can you see the champagne fountain yet?” Cerise’s voice slipped back into her ear.
“I’m looking.” Marcellus craned his neck to peer above the sea of coiffed hairdos, wide-brimmed hats, and feathered hairpieces. “Okay, it looks like they’re just bringing it out now.”
Chatine followed his gaze and tilted forward on the tips of her shoes, momentarily grateful for the extra height. She spotted two waiters guiding a large cart across the lawn. On it, a glorious fountain glimmered with bubbling golden liquid that cascaded over its numerous tiers. The surrounding crowd stopped to gawk and admire the spectacle while some Third Estaters captured footage on their Skins.
“Got it,” Chatine said. “Will anyone be guarding it?”
Marcellus shook his head. “I highly doubt it. I don’t think my grandfather has any suspicion that we’re about to bring down his entire plan with champagne.”
Chatine nodded and surreptitiously ran her hand under the bottom edge of the dress’s suffocating corset, feeling for the two objects she’d stuffed in there before leaving the manoir.
The first was the strange contraption Etienne had given her back at the camp. He’d called it an impulsion. She still wasn’t sure what she would need it for, or if it would even work, but she figured it didn’t hurt to have it with her. The second object was the vial of inhibitor. Alouette had warned her to keep it secure, and Chatine could think of no better place. Nothing was moving around in this dress.
As the waiters positioned the fountain amongst the other banquet tables, Chatine angled her body toward the hedge and reached down the front of her dress to pull out the vial. For a moment, she studied the small container, wondering how these few drops of liquid could possibly protect all these people from the general’s weapon. But Alouette had assured her it would be enough, spouting something about self-propagation.
“All good?” Marcellus asked.
Chatine nodded as she tucked the vial into her palm, making it disappear like she’d done so many times with precious relics lifted from unsuspecting marks.
“Remember,” Marcellus said, “you need to get the inhibitor into the fountain before they start filling glasses for the toast. It’s the only way to be sure that everyone here drinks it and the weapon is neutralized before the general has a chance to activate it from his TéléCom.”
“But what about everyone else?” Chatine asked, a potential flaw in the plan just now occurring to her. “All the Third Estaters not at this banquet. If he tries to activate the weapon, won’t they all—”
Marcellus shook his head. “No. The scientists on Albion told us that the program is configurable to any size group. This is a targeted attack. The general has only one goal today. He has no reason to activate anyone else.”
Chatine released a breath. It’s just another con, she told herself. Like the countless you’ve done before. A sleight of hand. A quick tip of the wrist and it’s over.
She peered up at the vas
t TéléSky above their heads, where countless stars shimmered and winked like tiny, precious gems around a white moon.
And suddenly, just like that, she was back there. Up there. The last time she’d looked at a great dusting of stars like this, she’d been on Bastille. A chain tugging at her neck, choking her breaths. Her fingertips raw and shredded from a long shift in the exploit. And every part of her cold. So very cold.
Chatine’s knees went weak. Like they were made of nothing stronger than flimsy twigs. She could feel her confidence drifting away on Ledôme’s artificial breeze.
“Sols, I can’t do this,” she said under her breath.
Marcellus positioned himself in front of her, his face only centimètres away. He slid the Sol-glasses off, and suddenly all she could see were the endless flecks of green and brown in his eyes. “Yes, you can. You can do this, Chatine.”
“I—I can’t … ,” she stammered, shaking her head. “I can’t go back there. If anyone recognizes me—”
“No one is going to recognize you,” Marcellus assured her. “You are the master of disguise, remember?” A small smile quirked on his lips. “You fooled me into thinking you were a boy for a whole week. You can fool anyone here.”
Chatine glanced around, focusing on the hundreds of Third Estaters crammed into the garden. All of them were dressed in sharp tuxedoes and plush gowns which glittered under the lamps that dangled over the lawn like rows of miniature Sols.
Yet, despite their elegance, their excitement, their awe at the food and the music and the opulence of the Palais, Chatine could see in their faces and their awkward stances that they felt just as out of place as she did. For beneath the gauzy sleeves of the ball gowns and the crisp white tuxedo shirts, their Skins still glowed bright, just waiting to turn them from unassuming Ascension winners to vicious killers. At the touch of a button.
The thought made Chatine’s gut twist and her resolve strengthen. And suddenly she remembered why she was here.
For them. And for him. For Henri.
Between Burning Worlds Page 56
