Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,44

waves. “How dare you—”

“Shut up!” the general said, holding up a hand to the Patriarche’s face.

Marcellus was certain the Patriarche was going to have a heart attack right then and there. Eyes blazing, Lyon Paresse took a furious step toward the general, but was suddenly held back by Chaumont who whispered something in his ear.

The Patriarche’s fists clenched, but he reluctantly stayed put.

Marcellus studied the general, trying to figure out what had caught his attention. He approached carefully and stood beside the general. He stared up at the monitor, which still displayed Citizen Rousseau’s lifeless body sprawled out on the gurney.

“What is it?” the warden asked, walking over from his desk.

For a long moment, the general didn’t respond. He just continued to stare at the monitor, his eyes flicking furiously over the screen. Then, out of nowhere, he roared out a command. “Rolland, zoom in on her left hand!”

The technicien jabbed furiously at her control panel until the microcam pushed forward and to the left, focusing entirely on the prisoner’s hand.

“More,” the general said.

Rolland did as she was told until Rousseau’s long, skeletal fingers were the only thing in the frame.

The Patriarche hurried over and stood on the other side of the general. “What’s wrong?”

“Wait,” the general said, his eyes narrowing.

Everyone in the room was as still and silent as that corpse. All eyes were trained on the monitor.

And then, it happened.

It was so small, so fast, it was almost imperceptible. In fact, it was imperceptible until just a few moments ago. But now, it was all Marcellus could see.

The smallest finger on Citizen Rousseau’s left hand twitched ever so slightly, before falling still again.

“There!” the general called out.

The Patriarche gasped and stumbled back, away from the screen, as though Citizen Rousseau might come crawling through the monitor to strangle him. Marcellus took a step forward, leaning in to get a better look.

“She’s alive?” he whispered.

But before anyone could answer, it happened again. The smallest finger. The smallest movement. But there was something very strange about it. Something almost familiar. As though it were the exact same movement. The same twitch, followed by the same stillness.

The general must have come to an identical conclusion, because a second later, he reached into his pocket, unfolded his TéléCom, and bellowed into the screen. “This is General Bonnefaçon to Bastille Central Command. We need an immediate status update for prisoner 40102. Please send the nearest droid to the morgue for visual confirmation.”

The general waited. Everyone waited. Finally, the Patriarche stomped forward, and before the general could stop him, he jabbed his finger against the screen of the general’s TéléCom, routing the audio to the device’s external speakers just in time to hear the response. The robotic voice was coming from thousands of kilomètres away, but Marcellus still felt it as though it were being whispered directly into his ear.

“There is currently one droid stationed in the Med Center. Visual status cannot be confirmed. Prisoner 40102 is no longer in the Bastille morgue.”

“Sols!” General Bonnefaçon shouted.

“What’s going on?” the Patriarche demanded. “I don’t understand. How can she not be in the morgue?” He swatted at the screen. “I can see her right there with my own eyes.”

“The feed has been looped,” the general explained hastily. “She’s not there. She’s gone. We’re watching an archive.”

Gone.

The impossible word tumbled around Marcellus’s brain as he stared at the image on the screen. At that tiny finger and that tiny intermittent twitch.

“Looped?” the Patriarche repeated, as though it were far too advanced a term for him and he was still having trouble keeping up.

But the general didn’t have time for any more explanations. He was already back on his TéléCom. Even though his face was twisted with rage, his voice was eerily calm. “This is General Bonnefaçon to flight dispatch. I want every combatteur we have on the Masséna Spacecraft carrier en route to Bastille immediately.” There was a short pause before General Bonnefaçon spoke again, and this time, the words sent a thrill of anticipation ricocheting down Marcellus’s spine. A thrill of, dare he think it, hope. “The Vangarde have just declared war on the Regime.”

- CHAPTER 13 - ALOUETTE

THE RECEPTION ROOM OF THE blood bordel was small, dotted with rickety tables, threadbare rugs, and low-hanging lamps. Through the dim glow, Alouette could make out chairs covered with worn-out velvet, and on a long, sagging couch that had seen better days, a few girls huddled together. The moment Alouette stepped into the room, they looked up at