Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,160

left to see a squadron of Albion Royal Guards barreling out of a nearby building and sprinting toward them, assault lancers clutched in their fists.

“What do we do now?” Alouette asked Marcellus.

But it was Gabriel who answered. “I think we have to run for it.”

“What?” Cerise gaped at him. “Are you insane? Those Albion furheads will be on us before we can even shout Vive Laterre.”

“The voyageur is right there! We can make it.” Gabriel scrounged around in one of the interior compartments before pulling out a small metallic cartridge, identical to the one Marcellus had thrown yesterday at the security gate of the Royal Ministry of Defence. “This will help.”

Marcellus peered back at the incoming guards. Their uniforms were like an encroaching sea of red.

The Laterrian color of death.

“He’s right,” said Marcellus. “We have to run. On three.”

Alouette and Cerise nodded, fear glistening in their eyes.

“One …” Marcellus positioned his hand on the door release. “Two …” He sucked in a breath. “Three!”

He slammed down on the console. The doors sprang open. Gabriel tossed the capsule in the direction of the incoming guards, and they ran. The blinding gas exploded in a plume of green smoke. Marcellus kept his head down as he surged toward the ship. He could see Alouette keeping pace beside him, Dr. Collins’s canister of inhibitor clutched under her arm. The guards opened fire, shooting through the billowing fog of green. Cluster bullets showered around Marcellus like crooked rain. For a second, he thought he heard the sickening sound of one impaling into flesh, but he must have imagined it, because they were all still running.

Cerise had her TéléCom out of her pocket and was jabbing at the screen, her fingers fumbling as her legs pumped beneath her. The voyageur’s loading ramp unfurled, and they charged through the hatch.

“Close it! Close it!” Marcellus ordered.

Bullets pinged off the ship’s PermaSteel shell until finally, the side of the voyageur sealed around them, locking them inside.

“Prepare for launch!” Cerise shouted.

Marcellus pounded up the steps to the flight bridge. He barely had time to fasten his restraints before the engines rumbled and the ship swept out of the hangar and launched upward, away from the spaceport. Marcellus glanced at the other flight seats, breathing out a sigh of relief to see Alouette and Cerise were both strapped in, bracing themselves against the force of the takeoff.

It wasn’t until they had broken through the thick atmosphere and were surrounded by the vast curtain of stars that Marcellus noticed the fourth seat was empty.

- CHAPTER 45 - CHATINE

EVEN FROM HALFWAY ACROSS THE camp, the noise was thunderous. Chatine had no idea what the Défecteurs were doing out there—what this mysterious “linking cérémonie” was—but they certainly weren’t being quiet or discreet about it. With all that banging and hammering and clanging, she was surprised every Ministère officer and Policier sergent on the planet hadn’t been summoned to this very spot. After all the effort these people went through to shield themselves from the Regime, the ruckus they were making out there seemed decidedly counterproductive.

Chatine had been hiding out in the treatment center since dinner. If there was one thing she was certain about, it was that she wanted nothing to do with any Défecteur cérémonie of any kind. Just the word “cérémonie” made her hackles rise and all of her former prejudices about these people come bubbling back to the surface.

Then, somewhere far in the distance, in amongst the pounding and clanking, a melodic chorus of voices rose up, crooning in unison.

And now they’re singing. Fantastique.

She was definitely not going out there.

The clanking and banging continued for what felt like hours. It would halt only long enough for a large group of people to shout something and cheer or break into another song. Chatine pulled a pillow over her head to try to block out the noise. Which is probably why she didn’t hear the chalet door sliding open and the footsteps approaching.

When she felt a tiny tap tap tap against her arm, she screamed and sat up, wielding the pillow as a weapon. It was only when her eyes focused, the panic subsided, and she saw little four-year-old Astra standing in front of her—dressed in her reflective, hooded coat, with two fingers jammed in her mouth—that Chatine realized how ridiculous her reaction was. She lowered the pillow.

“Did I scare you?” Astra asked around her fingers. The notion seemed to delight her.

“No,” Chatine said, but quickly changed her answer to the truth.