Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,29

here? My TéléCom says you’re supposed to be at the TéléSkin fabrique right now, interrogating the déchets.”

Marcellus tried not to cringe at the inspecteur’s use of that vulgar word for the Third Estates. Déchets. Garbage. Scum.

“I’m on a special assignment,” Marcellus replied, fighting to keep his voice steady. Chacal had already snitched on him to his grandfather once. He had to assume he would do it again. “Confidential. It’s not logged.”

The inspecteur’s gaze raked up and down Marcellus, his circuitry flashing with suspicion. The auditeur in Marcellus’s pocket suddenly felt like a boulder.

The inspecteur couldn’t search him, could he? He didn’t have the authority.

Marcellus heard the crisp smack, smack, smack of Chacal’s infamous metal baton slapping against his palm as he considered the validity of Marcellus’s claim. The weapon glinted ominously in the afternoon light.

“And I’m running behind,” Marcellus continued, anxious to get as far away from Chacal as possible, “so I better get back to it.”

He began to push his way past the inspecteur, but Chacal flicked his baton in front of him, blocking his path. Chacal’s one orange eye bore into him.

Marcellus knew the inspecteur could use that eye to seek the truth, to pick up on Marcellus’s heart rate and body heat. A human lie detector. But he was certain Chacal was also using it as a method of intimidation. Chacal had always been predatory, with a taste for terrorization. But after his recent promotion from sergent to inspecteur—and subsequent cyborg operation—the power had immediately gone to his cybernetically enhanced brain.

“What kind of special assignment?” Chacal asked.

Marcellus allowed a small smile to cross his lips. “I would share more details with you, Inspecteur, but I’m afraid it’s above your clearance level.”

The insult registered on the man’s face, and Marcellus could see the fury flash in his one human eye.

“Shall I AirLink in a quick confirmation to the general that you are indeed supposed to be here? And not in the Fabrique District as my TéléCom says?” Chacal asked.

Marcellus could hear his heart thudding in his ears, but somehow, he managed to keep his panic concealed. “If you must,” he replied casually. “And while you’re at it, perhaps you could also explain to him why the newly appointed inspecteur of the Vallonay Policier Precinct has abandoned his sergents in the midst of a potential riot.”

The embedded circuits in Chacal’s face flashed once more, but this time, Marcellus could read the difference in their frenetic flickering. This time, it wasn’t anger or suspicion that played out on the cyborg’s face. It was fear. Followed by subtle resignation.

Chacal slowly raised his baton, allowing Marcellus to pass. “Good luck on your assignment,” he muttered, refusing to meet Marcellus’s eye.

“Merci,” Marcellus replied jovially, giving the inspecteur an undeserved salute. “And Vive Laterre.”

“Vive Laterre,” Chacal repeated, barely audible through his clenched teeth.

- CHAPTER 8 - CHATINE

THE HEAVY PERMASTEEL COLLAR CLAMPED around Chatine’s neck, and she felt herself being tugged forward. She shuffled her feet, following the inmate in front of her as they walked slowly and arduously out of the exploit complex.

Another day over.

Only ten thousand, one hundred and eighty-five to go.

She stumbled across the moon’s dusty amber-colored surface while the collar dragged at her throat, causing her to cough and wheeze.

Chatine wasn’t sure why they even needed these collars and the heavy PermaSteel chain hitching each prisoner together in a long miserable line. What was the point when there were droids stationed all along their route back to the prison building, ready to send ruthless volts of electricity through your body if you dared try to run?

The walk to and from the exploit complex was long and laborious. Chatine and the other prisoners moved like a single, lumbering snake, the great chain between them clanking and jangling in the cold Bastille air.

Chatine shivered as a gust of wind whistled through her exploit coat and spread across her skin. She glanced up and squinted against the light of the stars. They were mere pinpricks in the sky, but after twelve hours of darkness in the exploits, it took her eyes a moment to adjust.

The three Sols of the System Divine were still invisible to her on Bastille. The prison complex was positioned so far north on the moon’s surface, it was almost always night here. But the stars, they were everywhere. Like an infinite blanket of shimmering and dancing light across the sky. More stars than she could ever hope to count. More than she even thought existed.

“Look down, keep walking,” said a