Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,15

hit nothing but the artificial Ledôme breeze.

“Monsieur Patriarche,” the general began calmly, “please be assured that I am well in control of the situation on Laterre. New security procedures are being carried out in the Frets and the fabrique district, suspects are being interrogated daily, curfews are being strongly enforced.…”

Marcellus startled as a small ping reverberated through his audio patch, notifying him of an incoming alert. As the general continued to list all the new protocols he’d initiated since the Premier Enfant’s funeral, Marcellus furtively pulled his TéléCom out of his pocket, unfolded it, and tapped on the screen.

“Tunnel collapse on Bastille in Exploit 5,” the TéléCom’s smooth, pleasant voice announced. “One fatality.”

Marcellus’s heart stopped. Exploit 5. That was Chatine’s exploit.

Normally officers weren’t alerted of every single death or accident on Bastille. The prison moon was a dangerous place, and there were simply too many. Instead, the warden received a summary report at the end of each day and only passed it along to the other members of the Ministère if there was something noteworthy to share. But as soon as Marcellus had learned that Chatine had been sent to the moon, he had instantly memorized her prisoner number, cell block tower, and exploit assignment and set up a series of alerts to notify him of any accidents or fatalities on Bastille. And every time that TéléCom dinged softly in his ear, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He clicked on the alert flashing on the screen and gripped the edges of the TéléCom, as though this flimsy device could possibly hold him up if his legs gave out.

“Today at 11.02 Laterrian time, Bastille Central Command logged a tunnel collapse in Exploit 5 caused by a compromised anchor bolt. One fatality was reported by the supervising droid. Female. Eighteen years old …”

No. Marcellus felt the ground beneath him give way.

“Prisoner number 515.…”

He was suddenly plummeting into Laterre’s red hot core. He was burning alive. His skin was on fire. His lungs burned.

“… 98.”

Marcellus blinked, certain he had misheard. He hastily tapped to replay the alert.

“…Female. Eighteen years old. Prisoner 51598.”

5.1.5.9.8.? It wasn’t her. He was sure of it. Chatine’s prison number was 5.1.5.6.2. His breath returned like a gust of warm air. She was still alive.

“Officer Bonnefaçon?”

Marcellus’s head popped up at the sound of his grandfather’s voice. The entire hunting party was now staring at him like he was a smoking cruiseur wreck. “Yes? Sorry. I was just …” But he gave up trying to make an excuse and pocketed his TéléCom. He could feel the general’s eyes on him.

“I was telling the Patriarche,” his grandfather said tightly, “that the couchette searches in the Frets are proving effective in rooting out potential rebel activity.”

Marcellus nodded. “Yes, very much so. Three arrests have been made this week.”

“So, you see, Monsieur Patriarche,” the general went on, “I’m confident that these new initiatives are—”

The Patriarche snorted as he angrily uncocked his gun. “I want wages docked too.”

The general raised one of his neatly groomed silver eyebrows. “With all due respect, Monsieur Patriarche, I’m not sure docking wages will—”

“If the people cannot behave, they must be punished. Cancelling their Ascension was clearly not enough. Maybe they need to go hungry for a while. See what that feels like.”

Hungry?

Anger immediately bloomed in Marcellus’s chest. The Third Estate were already hungry. Already starving and wet and cold, not to mention completely overworked for the meager wages they did receive.

The Patriarche glanced up from his gun, where he was stuffing a fresh round of cartridges into the chamber. “And if you’re so ‘in control’ of the situation, General, then why, may I ask, have you not yet found the Vangarde base and eliminated those terrorist rats once and for all?”

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

This time the Patriarche managed to clip the edge of a dove’s wing, causing a lone white feather to puff away on the breeze. But the bird didn’t fall. It spiraled and veered awkwardly for a moment, but then righted itself and flew off in a dancing and mocking loop into the dazzling blue TéléSky.

The Patriarche growled furiously and shoved his antique rifle back at Chaumont, snapping for the advisor to hand him a different one.

“We are still actively working on rooting out the Vangarde’s base,” the general replied vaguely.

Marcellus braved another sidelong glance at him. He’d been unable to look his grandfather in the eye since they’d left the Palais. Neither of them had uttered a word about the microcam that had vanished from beneath