Sky Without Stars Read online

  But Alouette kept going.

  She was done talking.

  She was done following orders.

  She was done being lied to.

  She reached the door to the Assemblée room, grabbed the handle, and flung it open, practically leaping back at the sight of what was on the other side.

  A second door.

  This one made of thick, riveted steel. Just like the door that led to the entrance of the Refuge.

  Another door?

  For a moment Alouette hesitated. But then her determination returned full force. She reached out and twisted the large, circular handle.

  “Alouette!” Principale Francine’s voice was even sharper now. She was closing in behind her. “Stop.”

  That word. It fueled Alouette. It gave her strength.

  She was done stopping.

  She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and pushed against the door with all her might. The door flew open, and Alouette stumbled into the room.

  Into a dream.

  Into another world.

  Everywhere she looked there were screens. Screens embedded into the walls. Screens spread across desktops. Screens stacked high to the ceiling. They all looked like the monitor that Alouette used to watch in the vestibule, except these screens didn’t show just the dingy, wet, boring mechanical room outside the Refuge. They showed everything.

  Everything.

  The hallways of the Frets. The stalls of the Marsh. The ominous cube-shaped building of the Precinct. There even appeared to be flickering images from inside Ledôme. There were towns Alouette had never seen before. Landscapes she’d only ever read about in the Chronicles.

  And sitting among all those screens were the sisters.

  The sisters whom Alouette had known for almost her entire life.

  The sisters she had thought were sleeping. Waiting to eat breakfast in silence so they could begin their day of peaceful contemplation.

  Now they were all staring at her.

  Alouette turned in a slow, stunned circle, attempting to take it all in. Wires and cables crisscrossed the floor, strange lights blinked across complicated circuit boards, invisible speakers hummed and chattered. Above a tall shelf filled to the brim with books and papers, an enormous clock displayed the time to the millisecond. By the door, there was a giant pinboard covered with scribbled notes and hand-sketched drawings. And in the dead center of the room, hovering above a solid black pedestal, a hologram map glowed bright and luminous.

  But unlike the hologram Alouette had found inside her father’s candlestick, this map was not displaying the planet of Laterre.

  It was displaying the great, spinning orb of Bastille.

  Laterre’s only moon.

  “They were attempting to hack Bastille’s security systems.”

  “Little Lark,” came a voice behind her. Alouette startled and turned to see Principale Francine standing there. But she wasn’t looking disapprovingly over her glasses at Alouette, the way she usually did. Instead, Alouette saw something gentle in her eyes. Almost sympathetic. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  - CHAPTER 77 -

  MARCELLUS

  THE GRAND BOULEVARD RUNNING THROUGH the center of Ledôme the next morning was a sea of red.

  Red hats, red dresses, red suits, red shoes and shawls. Marcellus himself was dressed head to toe in the color, as was every other aide, advisor, and Ministère official sitting around him on the stage that had been erected at the end of the boulevard. Spectators had gathered from across Ledôme, filling the wide avenue all the way to the Paresse Tower, with its latticed metalwork and soaring antennae glinting in the early Sol-light.

  Looking out over the somber, scarlet crowds, Marcellus thought of Sol 2 and how its vivid red glow had become this.

  Laterre’s official color of mourning.

  The color of death.

  Marcellus’s gaze slipped over to the small coffin that had been placed in the center of the stage. It was so impossibly tiny. Just big enough for the body of a little girl. A little girl who would have been three years old today.

  The Premier Enfant.

  Marcellus still couldn’t believe it. Only last week, little Marie Paresse had been so alive. Squealing and babbling through brunch. Watching him fold a napkin into a tiny bird.

  Her smile so bright. Her dark curls so exuberant.

  And now this.

  A sleek, bloodred coffin.

  A sudden drumroll interrupted his thoughts. The Paresse family and their entourage had arrived. Marcellus stood with the rest of the officials as the Patriarche, the Matrone, and their top advisors, including General Bonnefaçon, exited their fleet of cruiseurs and ascended the steps to the stage.

  The Patriarche, like Marcellus and his grandfather, wore the red funeral uniform with its double rows of titan buttons and ceremonial epaulets, while the Matrone was dressed in a floor-length, pure-silk gown of deep scarlet. Her matching veil fluttered gently in Ledôme’s artificial breeze.

  As the entourage filed past, the Matrone wept into a red silk handkerchief and the Patriarche stopped to receive condolences from the officials onstage.

  “I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Monsieur Patriarche,” Marcellus said as he shook the man’s hand, bowing his head in respect.

  The Patriarche nodded and spoke in a low, throaty voice. “Your grandfather informs me that two of the governess’s conspirators were apprehended.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Patriarche.”

  “Good work.” He gripped Marcellus’s hand tighter. “Do whatever it takes to make them talk. I want every one of those Vangarde murderers found.”

  Marcellus swallowed hard and repeated, “Yes, Monsieur Patriarche.”

  Lyon Paresse released his hand and swept onward, taking his position between the Matrone and the pedestal that held his daughter’s tiny casket.

  Marcellus looked up to see his grandfather making his way toward him. He stiffened, knowing he would have to sit next to him for the entire ceremony.

  His left hand instinctively reached for his right little finger. For the spot where his mother’s ring used to be. The ring was still gone, but he rubbed the bare skin there anyway, trying to summon strength.

  “A sad day,” the general whispered as he took his place next to Marcellus.

  Marcellus felt dizzy. Nauseous. The heavy wool of his scarlet uniform itched and grasped at his neck. How could his grandfather even show his face at this funeral when he was the one responsible for it? Did his evil truly run that deep?

  “I said sad day,” the general repeated, an edge of irritation in his tone.

  “Yes, sir. Very sad.”

  It made Marcellus sick to say these words, sick to the very pit of his stomach to call his grandfather “sir.”

  To speak to him at all.

  But he couldn’t let on what he knew.

  He needed the general to trust him.

  “Inspecteur Limier is still missing in action,” the general informed Marcellus in a low tone so no one around them could hear. “His TéléCom is not responding to any connection attempts. His last known location was just outside the Forest Verdure. I’m sending out a search party this afternoon.”

  Marcellus nodded. “Very good.” Then, upon feeling his grandfather’s scrutinizing gaze on the side of his face, he forced himself to add, “I hope they find the inspecteur soon.”

  The drumroll built to a spectacular finale and everyone onstage took their seats. The red crowd of mourners on the boulevard hushed and stilled.

  An officiant in a billowing scarlet robe stepped up to a titan-plated lectern at the front of the stage. “We are gathered here today to pay our last respects to Marie Violette Justine Paresse, our dearly beloved and now tragically departed Premier Enfant.” His voice boomed out across the stage, down the boulevard, and into every audio chip across Laterre. The Third Estate were all watching the funeral live on their Skins. “She was taken from us far too soon, but her effervescent light will live on in our
System Divine.”

  After the officiant concluded his eulogy, First Estate family members and other officials stepped up to the lectern, one after another, to offer their tributes. The Matrone was too overcome with tears to speak, but the Patriarche delivered a few somber words, praising his daughter’s “sparkle and joy” and everything she’d brought to the Paresse family in her short time on Laterre.

  Marcellus did not look at his grandfather once through the whole ceremony.

  He couldn’t.

  He wouldn’t.

  Finally, the eulogies came to a close, and Marie’s casket was slowly raised until it was standing upright on the pedestal. A sound, which started as a low hum, crescendoed into a thundering roar as the coffin began to shake.

  “Vive Laterre and vive the Premier Enfant,” the officiant said in closing. “May she rest with the Sols.”

  There was a bright orange flash as the accélérateurs under the casket ignited and the stabilizeurs initiated. Then the stage beneath Marcellus began to shudder. Everyone looked up, and an entranced hush fell over the crowd as the roof of Ledôme eased open.

  Mètre by mètre, the vibrant blue TéléSky gave way to the dreary cloud cover of Laterre. A blast of cold, damp air shot downward onto the Grand Boulevard, blowing and blustering at all the red dresses and scarlet veils below.

  Finally, there was a deafening boom and the Premier Enfant’s coffin took flight.

  It launched like a missile through the warm air of Ledôme and out through the gash in the artificial sky.

  On its direct trajectory to Sol 2.

  Marcellus watched as the dazzling trails from the accélérateurs disappeared into the clouds, leaving behind a faint and ghostly orange glow.

  After the light had faded, the roof slowly shuddered back into place, and once again Ledôme was encapsulated in the blinding blue of the TéléSky.

  As Marcellus gazed up at the three artificial Sols, he thought about the Premier Enfant.

  He thought about her murder.

  He thought about the Vangarde, the riots and mayhem that had erupted since Marie’s death, the two operatives still being held in the Precinct, where they would be relentlessly interrogated until they gave up the location of their base.

  He thought about Alouette.

  She hadn’t known that she’d been living with the Vangarde. That much Marcellus was certain of now. And yet, they had clearly been preparing her for something.

  “She’s ready, but she will need your help.”

  Ready for what? What was Marcellus supposed to do? What help did they want him to offer? And what had that message on his TéléCom said?

  They obviously already had at least some level of access to the Ministère. He was confident that was why Alouette didn’t have a profile in the Communiqué. Because the Vangarde had erased it.

  If the Vangarde could delete files from a Ministère database, Marcellus wondered what else they could do. What else did they have access to? Was it possible they were watching them all right now?

  And then, just as had been happening all morning, his thoughts finally drifted back to Laterre.

  Its fate, much like his own, seemed so uncertain now.

  How would he ever go on living the same way? How would he ever be able to look his grandfather in the eye again? What would happen if the Vangarde made another attempt to break Citizen Rousseau out of Bastille? And what would that mean for the Regime, if they somehow managed to succeed?

  The officials on the stage rose to their feet and followed the Paresse family off the stage. Marcellus walked slowly behind his grandfather, keeping his gaze trained on the heels of the general’s shiny black boots.

  It was the place he’d always known. The footsteps that had always guided him.

  Before his world had shattered.

  Before he’d learned the truth.

  But, as he followed the procession down the Grand Boulevard and his gaze drifted over the red sea of mourners, for the first time in his life, Marcellus felt an invigorating rush of certainty.

  He might not know what was going to happen to this planet, or how he fit into that uncertain future, but he did know one thing.

  He knew which side he was on.

  - CHAPTER 78 -

  CHATINE

  CHATINE BIT BACK A SCREAM as the orange laser sliced into her skin, sending a bolt of hot, searing pain through her. The clamp crushed around her arm. She heard a sizzle and smelled burning flesh, and then it was over.

  The machine withdrew and Chatine looked down at the five metallic bumps it had left behind. She tried to run her fingertips over them but pulled back when her skin cried out in agony.

  “Prisoner 51562,” came the voice of a droid behind her. “This way.”

  She shuffled away from the machine and followed the droid’s voice down the hallway, walking as well as she could with the cuffs around her ankles. She silently took her place at the end of the long line of people waiting to board the voyageur bound for Bastille.

  Prisoner 5.1.5.6.2.

  That was who she was now. That was who she’d become. Théo was gone. Chatine was gone. They’d both died in that explosion. They’d both died saving the Frets. Prisoner 5.1.5.6.2. was who had crawled out of the smoky remains.

  It was better this way.

  Her parents had never loved Chatine.

  Roche thought Théo was a traitor.

  And Marcellus despised them both.

  Why not start over with a brand-new identity? One that was tattooed right into her arm so she never forgot. Never forgot where she’d come from. Where she belonged. What she’d done.

  Earlier this morning, she’d been brought into the prisoner transport center. She’d been stripped of her normal clothes. Her hooded coat and black pants—with their chain links and metal stitches—were replaced with a threadbare blue uniform. The same uniform she’d seen on Marcellus’s father in the morgue all those days ago.

  Her hair had been ripped from its knot at the base of her neck and shorn off. As she’d watched her long, light brown locks fall to the floor and wash down a nearby drain, she’d thought about how long it had taken her to grow them. Two hundred largs gone. Just like that.

  Not that she needed largs where she was going.

  All she needed was this tattoo.

  “OWWWWWW!” she heard a voice cry, and she turned around to see Roche standing next to the machine, his arm outstretched, angry tears in his eyes.

  She felt the uncontrollable urge to run to him, to shove the device away, to hold him until he stopped crying. But of course, she didn’t. She’d sealed both of their fates. There was nothing she could do about that now.

  At least, she thought, I can do my best to protect him up there.

  When the machine was finished and the scrawny boy was forever marked, he brushed the tears away with the back of his hand as the droid led him—prisoner 5.1.5.6.3.—to stand behind Chatine. She turned to look at him. It was the first time they’d been face-to-face since she’d betrayed him at the Precinct.

  “Roche,” she whispered, “listen to me. I’m sorry for what happened. I thought you were just playing around when you talked about working for the Vangarde. I never thought—”

  Roche shuffled his bound feet until his body was turned away from her. He wouldn’t look at her. He wouldn’t even acknowledge her.

  “Roche, please. I—”

  “No talking,” a nearby droid thundered. “Face forward.”

  Chatine sighed and turned. But she was not giving up. She would make it up to Roche. That much, she promised herself. And she certainly had plenty of time to do it. Her sentencing had been pronounced the moment she’d arrived at the prisoner transport center this morning.

  Twenty-five years.

  Twenty-five years in those freezing-cold exploits. Twenty-five years in those dark, dirty cells. She’d heard stories about those cells. They made the couchettes sound like the Grand Palais. Some people even claimed that they were haunted. That whe
n you died on the moon, your spirit couldn’t get to the Sols. So it just stayed there forever. Roaming the halls.

  “All prisoners walk forward!” the basher commanded.

  The line in front of her started to move. Chatine scuffled her feet along the floor, trying to keep pace with the person in front of her.

  As she walked, her thumb drifted to the index finger of her right hand, rubbing at the smooth metal of Marcellus’s ring. She’d managed to sneak it past the droids by hiding it under her tongue during her processing.

  Behind her, she could hear soft whimpers. Roche was crying again.

  “Hey,” she whispered over her shoulder. “Didn’t you say your parents were revolutionary spies?”

  The whimpers stopped, but Roche made no reply.

  Chatine passed by a droid whose glowing orange eyes seemed to follow her. When she’d moved far enough away, she went on, “And didn’t you say they were captured in the line of duty?”

  Still no response. Just the quiet shuffling of feet.

  “Maybe you’ll see them up there,” Chatine said.

  Chatine heard Roche sniffle, and she allowed herself the tiniest of smiles.

  The hallway spilled out onto a loading dock where a voyageur awaited them, its huge body and sleek silver wings hovered just above the ground. Chatine glanced up at the morning mist that had settled around the city. She felt a single drop of rain on the tip of her nose. For some reason, it made her feel hopeful.

  She boarded the vessel into the passenger hold, a dim chamber with two rows of PermaSteel jump seats. As the restraints were fastened around her chest, Chatine remarked on how, before this week, she’d never ridden in any sort of transportation, apart from the bateau that had brought her family from Montfer to Vallonay ten years ago. And now, in only the past few days, she’d ridden in a patroleur, a cruiseur, a moto, a combatteur, and now a voyageur.

  Not bad for your last week on Laterre.

  The ship rumbled beneath her, and Chatine felt herself thrust against the bottom of her seat. Her stomach lurched, and for a few moments, there was nothing but the strange sensation of falling upward.