them as a weapon.”
Etienne huffed. “The code says—”
“Fric the code!” Chatine shouted. “It’s not my code, it’s yours. I lived by a code of my own for years. A code that said I only help myself. And it brought me nothing but grief. I’m done with codes. And if you keep insisting on living by yours, eventually you’re going to become one of the general’s weapons too.”
The line of Etienne’s jaw pulsed. Chatine knew he was trying to think of what to say next, but it didn’t matter. Her mind was made up.
This place—this community of kind, caring, hard-working people—had somehow managed to extinguish her anger and soothe the pain she’d carried around all of her life. But this was a new kind of anger. This was a new kind of pain.
This was a pain that would not just be felt by her.
It would be felt by the whole planet.
And General Bonnefaçon was not the kind of monster you walked away from.
“Au revoir, Etienne.” She spun toward the transporteur but stopped when Etienne’s hand wrapped around her wrist.
“Wait.” His voice was urgent. Hurried. With a heavy breath, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crudely made device, roughly the size of a Skin. “Take this,” he said, shoving it into her hand. “You might need it.”
Chatine removed her gloves and turned the device around in her hand. She had started to get used to the community’s strange, unfamiliar gadgets. But she’d certainly never seen this one before. “What is it?”
“That is how we took out the power on Bastille.”
Chatine’s mind flickered back to that night she’d awoken to pure darkness in the Trésor tower. Everything around her had gone out: the microcams, the doors, the locks on the vents.
“You did that with this?” she said incredulously, waving the slender contraption.
“Don’t be fooled by appearances. The Ministère wants you to believe that power has to come in a flashy package. But it’s that very shortsightedness that has allowed us to outsmart them for all these years.” He nodded toward the device. “It’s called an impulsion. It will take out everything connected to the nearest power grid. Lights, locks, monitors. But it won’t work on anything self-powering, like Skins or TéléComs or droids.”
As Chatine stared down at the handmade contraption, a sudden sadness began to settle over her. “I guess there’s no way to convince you to come with us?”
Of course, she already knew the answer. But hearing it spoken aloud felt like she was being hit by explosif shrapnel on the roof of Bastille all over again.
“I don’t get involved.” His voice was suddenly so cold, so fitting for this barren landscape around them.
“Not even …” She bit her lip to keep the courage from rushing right out of her. “Not even for me?”
For just a split second, the darkness faded, the walls came down, the old Etienne was visible through the lingering shadows, and Chatine felt her heavy heart lift.
“I—” he began tentatively.
“Chatine? Are you coming?” Marcellus’s head suddenly appeared in the loading door of the transporteur, staring down at Chatine with those flecked hazel eyes.
She nodded, her throat dirt dry. “One minute.”
Marcellus disappeared back inside the vehicle, and without even thinking, Chatine’s fingertips went straight to the ring. Like it was a Sol and she was a lonely, barren planet with no orbit. Like it was titan and she was a croc on the prowl for something to steal.
Etienne’s gaze dragged downward until his eyes were locked on the silver band around her thumb. Then he looked up at the open door of the transporteur, and Chatine could clock the second that he figured it out.
When she focused back on his face, the old Etienne was gone again, consumed by the darkness, as though he’d never been there at all.
“I don’t think you need me to get involved for you,” he said before turning and walking back toward the ship, the glowing morning skies reflecting off his coat.
“Etienne!” Chatine shouted into the void of the Terrain Perdu. But her voice felt just as lost as the land that surrounded her.
“Good luck, Chatine,” he called over his shoulder. And with that, the new Etienne was gone too.
Chatine watched him go just long enough for her anger to build, to rise up, to fuel her, to push her into that transporteur, and to not look back.
- CHAPTER 63 - MARCELLUS
THE VAST TÉLÉSKY OF LEDÔME arced above the transporteur, glowing and blue and dazzling with the three Sols hanging