Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,43

slip out unseen. It wasn’t until he’d circled back to the monitor—to the image of Citizen Rousseau on the screen—that he noticed there was someone else in the room not celebrating.

General Bonnefaçon stood centimètres away from the screen, staring at Citizen Rousseau’s unmoving body dressed in her flimsy blue prisoner uniform. His gaze was intense, focused, his expression completely unreadable.

Marcellus felt the burning urge to jump inside his grandfather’s head and watch all his thoughts on repeat like a looped broadcast.

What are you thinking?

What are you plotting?

How does this affect your plan?

The general’s gaze suddenly snapped toward Marcellus, as though he knew Marcellus had been staring at him. “Contact Bastille Central Command. Tell the droids to power up the disintegrateur and start preparing the body.”

“Me?” Marcellus asked warily, glancing around the office for the warden. But Warden Gallant had disappeared behind his desk, busying himself with something on his TéléCom.

“Now, Marcellus,” his grandfather boomed.

Marcellus fumbled for his TéléCom, trying to keep the room from spinning at the thought of that word. “Disintegration.” Soon, Citizen Rousseau would be reduced to nothing more than fragments of ice to be shot off into space. Her name would fizzle out. Her memory would slowly be erased from the people’s minds. She would become like a distant dream, fading with each passing day.

“Officer Bonnefaçon to Bastille Central Command,” Marcellus spoke shakily into his TéléCom.

“Stop.”

Marcellus glanced up to see the Patriarche stalking toward him, his eyes fierce and determined. “No disintegration.”

Marcellus’s brow furrowed. “I-I’m not sure I understand.”

“I want her body brought back here,” the Patriarche said in a low growl. “I want her head on display in the center of the Marsh. I want the entire planet to see it. The threat she poses to the Regime isn’t over until the people see her dead.”

Marcellus swallowed. “Of course, Monsieur Patriarche. I will make arrangements for a voyageur to be dispatched and—”

“I would strongly advise against that,” the general warned.

The Patriarche glanced anxiously around the room, his nostrils flaring. He did not like being contradicted. Especially in front of people. “What was that, General?”

“I would strongly advise against bringing Rousseau’s body back to Laterre,” the general repeated, his voice unwavering. “In fact, I would advise against anyone outside this room being made aware of her death.”

The Patriarche let out a hoarse chuckle. “Oh, really? So you just want everyone on Laterre to go on thinking she’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

The Patriarche huffed indignantly. “That’s the most stupide idea I’ve ever heard!”

“It might behoove us to listen to what the general has to say,” Chaumont calmly advised his boss.

But the Patriarche was adamant. “The people have to know she’s dead! Every planet in the System Alliance must be alerted. And the Vangarde have to know their precious Rousseau is gone.”

“The Vangarde will use her death to rally the people around their cause,” the general said. “This is a highly volatile time on our planet, and martyrs make for much better motivators than prisoners. It’s the reason we made the decision not to kill her when she was first captured.”

“You made that decision,” the Patriarche said, jabbing a finger in the general’s direction.

Marcellus kneaded his hands together. The energy in the room was making him antsy. He was desperate to get this whole catastrophe over with so he could get out of here and contact the Vangarde.

“The final decision to incarcerate Rousseau was your father’s,” the general replied tightly to the Patriarche. “I simply provided council.”

“Well, my father was an imbecile,” the Patriarche raged. “He was the one who let the planet break out in rebellion in the first place. I’m sorry, General. I cannot let my people go on thinking she is still alive and well. I want her dead face broadcast on every TéléSkin on Laterre.” He turned back to Marcellus. “Contact the droids. Tell them to start preparations for the body to be retrieved.”

Marcellus glanced momentarily at his grandfather before reaching a shaking hand toward his screen.

“Arrête,” the general commanded. “Put the TéléCom down, Marcellus.”

The Patriarche snarled at the general’s blatant disobedience. Marcellus paused, his chest tightening as his gaze bounced between his superior and his superior’s superior. But General Bonnefaçon was no longer even looking at Marcellus or the Patriarche. He was back to looking at the monitor. Something on it had caught his attention.

“Proceed,” the Patriarche commanded Marcellus.

“No.” The general stepped even closer to the monitor, his eyes dark and intense, his jaw hardened.

“General Bonnefaçon,” the Patriarche spat, the rage rolling off him in thick