Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,51

mantle of blackness and surrounded by a thousand shimmering stars, Bastille glowed a goldish-yellow. Its amber rocks like the burning embers of a fire. Marcellus felt like his heart might thud right out of his chest.

“General!” the warden shouted, jumping up from his desk. “There’s an update from the droids. The power has just gone out in the Trésor tower.”

“WHAT?” the Patriarche boomed. “What does that mean?”

“What caused the outage?” the general asked with impressive composure.

The warden paused to listen to the rest of the update. “Source of the outage is unclear. There was a disturbance in the nearest power cell. The droids are currently running diagnostics on the grid, but this can’t be a coincidence, right?”

Marcellus watched as his grandfather calmly and thoughtfully approached the center monitor, which was still displaying the looped footage from the morgue. He stood before it, hands clasped behind his back, and stared deeply into the screen, as though he were trying to look through the Vangarde’s hack and see what was really happening on that moon. The light from the monitor’s screen lit up the harsh lines and crevices of the general’s face, making him suddenly look ten years older than he was, and ten years more hardened.

“Where is the morgue?” the general finally asked, turning toward the warden.

Gallant’s eyes went wide as everything seemed to clatter into place in his mind. “It’s on the top floor of the Trésor tower, sir.”

The general was back on his TéléCom in a flash, whisking his fingertip across the screen. The satellite imagery on the monitor blurred and fuzzed in response. Then, a moment later, the view came to a juddering stop and the general zoomed in as far as the distant cam would allow.

A loud gasp erupted around the room. Marcellus stared speechlessly at the roof of the Trésor tower. In the center of a neat grid of cooling vents, crisscrossing pipes, and water towers, stood three figures huddled close together. As though trying to stay warm or hidden or both.

“Are those prisoners?” Chaumont asked, squinting at the slightly blurry image on the screen.

Marcellus leaned in for a closer look. Through the darkness, he could see that the three figures were dressed in Bastille blue uniforms, just like the one his father had worn. And they all had hair that fell to the middles of their backs.

“What is that?” Warden Gallant cried out, suddenly pointing at something behind one of the vents.

The general maneuvered the satellite cam to the right, and as the image processed and began to clear, Marcellus felt the last sips of air get sucked right out of the room.

“It’s her!” the Patriarche called out, as though he were the only one in the room to recognize her. But of course, he wasn’t. Of course, they all recognized her instantly.

It was Citizen Rousseau. Lying on a makeshift stretcher. Looking one shudder away from death.

“Gallant!” the general shouted, startling Marcellus away from the frail, white-haired woman on the screen. “Send droids to the roof of the Trésor tower immediately.”

The warden glanced up from his TéléCom with panic scrawled all over his face. “Sir, the blackout cut the power to the exterior elevator. It’s the only access to the roof.”

Fragile hope began to flutter in Marcellus’s stomach like a flock of beautiful songbirds. They were doing it. The Vangarde were outsmarting the Ministère.

“That’s ridiculous. It can’t be!” the Patriarche blustered. “Tell them to climb up the side of the Sol-damn building if they have to.”

The warden shared a knowing look with the general and Marcellus instantly recognized the defeat in both of their eyes. But it was Warden Gallant who relayed the bad news, looking like he might actually start crying. “Droids can’t climb, sir. Until the power is restored, there is no way they can get onto that roof.”

The general slammed his TéléCom down on the warden’s desk, causing everyone in the room to jump. “Can’t you see what’s going on here? The Vangarde are using our own tech against us.”

Marcellus had never seen his grandfather look so wild and unhinged. He had the eyes of a mad man.

“I-I don’t understand how this could happen!” the warden stammered, glancing anxiously between the looped footage of Citizen Rousseau in the morgue and the satellite image of her on the roof, weak and fragile but very much alive. As though he couldn’t quite believe they were the same person. “She’s the most-guarded prisoner on Bastille.”

The general turned his vengeful eyes back to the monitors. “My