Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,30

nearby droid.

Chatine trudged forward, relieved when she could finally make out the glittering lights of Bastille’s spaceport to her right. They were almost there.

Up ahead, the prison building loomed. Flanked by an impenetrable curtain wall, its six towers glowed like unwavering sentinels. Chatine’s gaze tracked across to the Trésor tower, where her own cell block was located. Up on its roof, she could just make out a long silver chute glinting in the starlight. Chatine shivered, thinking about the terrible machine that was attached to that chimney. The disintegrateur. And even though she warned herself not to, she couldn’t help but think about Anaïs, the girl from the exploit. Somewhere up there, in the dingy, cold morgue on the top floor of the tower, her body was waiting to be loaded into that machine, which blasted, froze, and turned everything to nothing. Chatine was grateful that at least today wasn’t a disintegration day. Even though the ice dust of the dead wasn’t supposed to have an odor, Chatine swore she could smell the stench as the frozen fragments billowed up the gleaming chimney into the dark skies above.

Chatine pulled her gaze from the roof as the heavy airlock of the dispatch bunker yawned open and the line of chained prisoners filed inside. The doors sealed shut, and one by one, they stepped into a narrow chamber where, amid a deafening cranking and squealing noise, the chains from their necks were removed. As soon as the metal collar was unfastened, Chatine felt like she could breathe again.

The dispatch bunker was a desolate room with nothing but a few benches, floors covered in Bastille dust, and rows of hooks for exploit coats. Chatine shrugged out of her own and was just about to hang it up when a loud clatter rang out, causing her to jump. She turned to see a man sprawled out on the floor. His head was smooth and shiny from the razor. Fresh off the voyageur.

“Watch your step, Nov,” a harsh voice spat, using the nickname new arrivals were given on Bastille.

Chatine turned around to see another man standing just behind her, glaring down at the prisoner on the floor. He’d evidently been the one to put him there. The standing man’s hair was long, falling to the middle of his back. Chatine’s gaze zeroed in on his left shirt sleeve, rolled with precision.

Another Vétéran. Like Roche’s bodyguard, Clovis.

“Sorry,” the newcomer muttered through clenched teeth. “Calm the fric down, all right?”

There was something eerily familiar about him. But as hard as she tried, Chatine couldn’t manage to place him in her memories.

“Everyone has to learn their place here,” the Vétéran growled, taking a few steps forward until he stood directly over the fallen inmate. “And right now, you are exactly where you belong. On the floor like the Nov scum that you are.”

A ripple of trepidation passed through Chatine. She’d never seen a Vétéran instigate a fight before. Most of them were too old. And while inmates like Clovis were intimidating, they mostly stayed out of trouble.

So what was this man doing?

The newcomer tried to stand, but the Vétéran immediately kicked him back down to the floor.

Chatine’s muscles coiled. This would not end well. Fights between inmates broke out often, and she’d learned quickly to be as far away from the scene as possible when they did. She tossed her coat onto the hook and backed away from the two men just as the newcomer let out a roar, launched to his feet, and barreled into the Vétéran.

The older man staggered backward, taking the hit, and soon the two prisoners were on the floor together, wrestling for position, punches being thrown and ducked. Out of the corner of her eye, Chatine saw the nearest droid register the fight and start to make its way over. She turned, preparing to remove herself from the crime of proximity, when just then, something caught her eye. The two scrabbling prisoners were still on the ground. The Vétéran had grabbed a stray boot from nearby and was holding it high above his head, preparing to slam it down on the other man’s face.

But it was the newcomer—lying on his back—who Chatine was watching, transfixed. One of his hands was raised to protect his face from the blow, while the other was reaching toward the pocket of the Vétéran’s prison uniform. Chatine caught a glimpse of something small and white—like a tiny vial—before it was gone. Deposited into the pocket. The heavy boot