uniform and touched the darkened screen just above her wrist. It blinked to life, providing a dim halo of light. The Skins had limited functionality on Bastille. There were no broadcasts, no AirLink messages, no Universal Alerts, no Ascension points or tokens. Up here on the moon, the Skins were only used to track time and people. Including, now, Chatine. All her former Skin hacks had been removed by the droids when she’d first arrived. But Chatine liked to look at her Skin from time to time, if for no other reason than to remind her of why she was really here. Why all of them were here. This small rectangular device that had been implanted in her flesh since childhood was the reason the Regime spent millions of tokens a year running this Sol-forsaken prison.
The Skins were needed to keep the Third Estate in line.
Zyttrium was needed to make the Skins.
And the dusty craters of Bastille held the last known deposits of zyttrium in the entire System Divine.
Chatine spotted the glint of metal up ahead, and the procession finally slowed to a stop. In front of them, the giant machines that dug the tunnels and secured the supports stood motionless, idling like sleeping silver beasts.
“Every inmate is required to excavate one hundred grammes of zyttrium,” the nearest droid announced, causing a stirring among the prisoners.
“One hundred grammes?!” shouted one of the inmates. “That’s double what we had to dig yesterday.”
“No talking!” the droid boomed, its eerie monotone voice ricocheting off the low-ceilinged tunnels, making it sound even less human than it already did. “Look down, start digging.”
Silently, Chatine positioned herself in front of the tunnel wall and got to work, jamming her pick into the hard rock. With each strike, she paused and waited, listening, expecting, holding her breath. Would today finally be the day the voice in her head didn’t come? The day that Chatine’s mind finally got ahold of itself and came back to its senses?
Chatine couldn’t decide what was worse: a mental breakdown, or losing that voice all over again.
And then, finally, after the tenth strike of her pick against the wall, Chatine heard it. From deep in the dark corners of her mind.
“Brrr! It is so chilly here. Way colder than on Laterre.”
Chatine’s shoulders slumped in relief. Azelle was here. For at least one more day, Chatine would not be alone on this moon.
“How are you not freezing, Chatine?” the voice asked.
Chatine didn’t reply. She never replied to the voice of her dead sister. But just like in life, it didn’t stop Azelle from talking.
“Did you hear those new quotas? You’re going to be here forever. How do they expect you to mine one hundred grammes in a day?”
Chatine shone her headlamp into the heap of rock that had gathered by her feet. There wasn’t a single hint of glowing blue zyttrium. She’d heard prisoners whispering about the shortage on Bastille. How each week, the tunnels stretched farther and farther, and the exploit carts came back less and less full.
“I remember this being a problem back at the Skin fabrique,” Dead Azelle said knowledgably. “Not enough zyttrium to make the new Skins. The superviseurs tried to hide it from us but we weren’t stupide. We saw the supply transporteurs coming in. How many of these prisoners do you think are here because of an actual crime they committed? And how many are here because the Ministère just needed more people to dig?”
Chatine momentarily glanced up at the inmates lining the tunnel, wondering if Azelle was right. Was Chatine’s existence here—as well as the existence of every other prisoner on this moon—no more complicated than a dwindling supply of zyttrium? Chatine had never known her older sister to be very wise or observant in life. But often, as Chatine lay in the cold, damp prison bunks, she wondered if she’d underestimated her sister. If maybe there had been more to Azelle Renard than Chatine ever knew.
Of course, she’d never have a chance to find out now. An explosif in the Skin fabrique two weeks ago had made sure of that.
“It also kind of stinks down here,” Azelle added. “Much worse than the Frets.”
Chatine almost smiled at that one. She knew that the Azelle who spoke to her down here in the dark exploits wasn’t real. Obviously, she knew that. She just assumed it was another symptom of the grippe. A symptom that—unlike the bone-splitting headaches and waves of dizziness—was not entirely unwelcome. It gave her something