Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,26

will go a lot easier for you if you comply.”

The guard looked more annoyed than afraid. As though he had much better things to do than entertain Ministère officers in the middle of the day. Without a word, he opened the door wider and gestured for Marcellus to enter.

Marcellus followed the guard down a dark corridor strewn with puddles. Just like all the other Frets in Vallonay, Fret 17 used to be a freightship that once soared majestically across the galaxies, bringing survivors from the First World to Laterre hundreds of years ago. Now the old structure sat lopsided and decomposing in the mud, housing thousands upon thousands of people in the cramped couchettes that filled the floors below.

This floor, however, held no rooms except for the one that stood at the end of the hallway.

Marcellus had never been up here before. Up until a few hours ago, he hadn’t known this place and its one solitary resident even existed.

“It’s all yours,” the guard mumbled unceremoniously as they reached the door. Then, before Marcellus could blink, he took off down the hallway, scurrying away faster than a cockroach from the light.

Marcellus rolled his eyes and pushed on the rusting handle. The door eased open with a whine and he stepped inside, jerking to an abrupt halt at the sight in front of him. It was one of the most incredible views Marcellus had ever seen.

Huge windows made of clear sheets of plastique looked out over the whole of Vallonay. Under the cloudy gray sky, Laterre’s capital stretched out for kilomètres. Marcellus could make out the shimmering curve of Ledôme high up on its hill and in the flatlands below, he could see the outlines of hothouses and fermes. To his left, the docklands hugged the edge of the Secana Sea, which stretched out dark blue and endless into the distance.

“It’s quite the view isn’t it?”

The voice startled Marcellus and his gaze snapped around, landing on a huge chair stationed in the center of the room, in front of a vast, decrepit flight console. In the chair sat the man Marcellus had come to see. He just never imagined he would look like this.

The man’s face was a collage of scars, craters, and pockmarks, and his left eye drooped like it was being pulled down by an invisible weight. It was a face unlike anything Marcellus had seen before. A face wrecked and transfigured by … he couldn’t even imagine what.

“I haven’t gotten fully used to the sight myself,” the man in the chair said. “It still startles me from time to time.”

Marcellus now wasn’t sure whether the man was talking about the view out the window or his face.

“Welcome to the Bridge, Officer,” the man said, eyeing Marcellus’s crisp white uniform with a twinkle of approval.

“The Bridge?”

The man gestured around the vast room. “That’s what all of this used to be. Back when these hunks of metal could fly. They call me the Capitaine.” He winked his good eye. “It’s a little play on words. Now, to what do I owe the honor?”

Marcellus holstered his rayonette and forced himself to meet the man’s eye. “I was told you could help me.”

The Capitaine cocked his head. “You were, were you? And who told you that?”

Marcellus thought of the convict at the Policier Precinct that he’d bribed for information leading him here. And the promise of silence Marcellus had made in return. “I can’t say.”

“Of course, you can’t.” The Capitaine croaked out a laugh, and Marcellus couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was mocking him. “Help you with what, mon ami? I must warn you, though. If you’re looking for a mouchard, I don’t do deals with the Ministère.”

Marcellus shook his head. He was not looking for a snitch. “I need a microcam. Something untraceable and discreet.”

“I see.” The Capitaine leaned back in his seat. “And what would you want with an untraceable, discreet microcam?”

“I—” Marcellus started to say, but the Capitaine cut him off with another cackle.

“Let me guess, you can’t say, right?”

The man was definitely mocking him.

“I suppose you want to eavesdrop on someone,” the Capitaine went on, rising from his chair and walking over to a bank of metal cabinets. He pulled one open and riffled through a small bin. “A suspect, perhaps?”

Marcellus swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yes. A suspect,” and then, he quickly added, “believed to be working with the Vangarde.”

The Capitaine turned to flash him a thin smile. “Right.”

As the Capitaine continued to sift