that he doesn’t speak to mouchards.”
Chatine felt the stab in her gut at the word. It was exactly what Roche had called her when he’d found out she’d betrayed him, the day he’d been arrested and his fate on Bastille was cast in PermaSteel.
Now, every day, as she watched Roche board the rickety lift and descend into the depths of the zyttrium exploits, the guilt consumed her a little more, until she felt like nothing more than a skeleton. A corpse eaten away by the rot. He was just a scrawny kid. A thirteen-year-old Oublie, forgotten and abandoned and parentless. He’d just been trying to make his way in the harsh world of the Frets. And Chatine had ruined his life.
Chatine nodded, swallowing the sourness that was rising up in her throat. “Fine,” she said stiffly. “But you can tell Roche that I’m not giving up. He can ignore me, he can turn his stupide one-eared guard dogs on me, I don’t care. I’m not going to stop trying to talk to him until he forgives me. I won’t—”
She felt the shock of the tazeur against her skin before she even saw the droid. Her body convulsed for a second, lightning bolts of pain shooting through her bones and veins. Her vision blurred, her muscles cramped, and something began to clang relentlessly in her ears.
Her legs wobbled beneath her. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was lie down and never move again. But then she felt a shove at her back as the line moved forward and inmates pushed to get into the cantine and consume their meager rations of food. She stumbled, struggling to put one useless foot in front of the other, as a voice broke through the ringing in her ears. It was Clovis. And he was laughing. A sharp, derisive sound. “Forgive you?” he spat. “Don’t hold your breath, Renard.”
- CHAPTER 7 - MARCELLUS
MARCELLUS HAD NEVER LIKED THE Frets. The sights and sounds and smells were too sharp. Too immediate. Too disturbing. But today, as he darted through the alleyways, it seemed like everything here had been amplified overnight. The garbage and debris seemed to be piled up even higher than usual. The rusted edges of the walls and broken pipes seemed to jut out at sharper, more severe angles. The massive crumbling freightships seemed even more unstable, threatening to collapse and kill everyone at any moment.
And then there were the droids.
The Ministère’s ground troops. Three-mètre-high PermaSteel monsters that stalked the alleyways, scanning, observing, punishing. Thanks to the Patriarche’s increased production, there were now more on patrol today than Marcellus had ever seen.
The rickety stairwell was empty. Everyone was out in the Marsh, protesting the wage cuts the Patriarche had ordered yesterday. By the time Marcellus reached the tenth floor he was slightly winded and stopped to pause at the end of a long hallway dotted with small porthole windows.
From way up here, the city below looked peaceful. The dense layer of clouds seemed to swaddle the tops of the buildings like a soft, downy blanket. The bustle from the crowded marketplace could no longer be heard. And the rain—the constant, ever-present rain that pinged gently on the corroded walls and dingy streets—almost sounded like a soothing lullaby. And Marcellus could almost bring himself to believe that everyone down there was safe.
But of course, he knew the truth.
No one down there was safe.
Laterre was on the brink of war. The Third Estate were protesting daily in the streets. The Patriarche’s grief had turned him from an apathetic leader to a brutal, irrational one. And General Bonnefaçon was developing a weapon that threatened the lives of everyone on this planet.
Unless Marcellus could figure out a way to stop him.
He turned and pounded on the PermaSteel door at the end of the hall, gripping his rayonette tightly in his hand.
“Ministère! Open up!”
The heavy door squeaked open and a voice boomed from the murkiness inside. “What do you want?”
Marcellus looked up to see a huge guard with a mouthful of missing teeth glaring back at him, and he nearly lost his nerve. Until he remembered that he was dressed in his officer uniform. And he was armed. He had all the power here.
He waved the rayonette in the man’s face. “I am conducting an authorized search of this facility in the name of the Ministère.”
The guard began to shut the door, but Marcellus blocked it with his boot. “I need to speak to whoever is in charge here. Things