Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,53

entire building. Instead, it was the familiar, bluish glow of Skins.

Chatine tapped on her own embedded screen and leaned over the side of her bunk to whisper to the woman who slept below. “What’s happening?”

The woman shook her head, fear glazing her eyes.

Tentatively, Chatine climbed out of her bunk and pulled on her boots. She could hear a commotion coming from the center of the tower, the unmistakable sound of feet pounding on the metal steps of the stairwell.

Someone pushed past her and she grabbed him by the shirt sleeve. “What the fric is going on?”

“The cell block door is open!” he whispered giddily before wriggling from her grasp and darting toward the nearest bridge.

Chatine shook her head, trying to clear the last cobwebs of sleep from her mind.

The cell block door is open?

“Power must be out,” someone murmured to another inmate as they pushed past Chatine. “Let’s go!”

Chatine blinked, still unable to process what was happening. Had these people lost their minds? Had the thin atmosphere of Bastille fritzed their brains? Even if the door of the tower was open, where were they planning to go? They were on the Sol-damn moon! What were they going to do? Stand out on the craggy surface and flag down a passing voyageur? And that’s if they even got out the door. More droids were appearing by the second. This whole stupide lot was going to get themselves tazed or paralyzed before they’d even reached the central stairwell.

“Idiots,” Chatine muttered under her breath as she shoved her way through the crowd, back toward her bunk. Let the stupide sots do whatever they wanted. There was no way she was going to run the fool’s errand of trying to escape an inescapable prison.

“Prisoner 51562.”

A metal claw clamped down on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. Chatine shuddered and turned around to see a pair of piercing orange droid eyes boring down on her from behind its PermaSteel exoskeleton.

Fear thundered through her. “I-I was just trying to get back to my bunk,” she stammered. “I had nothing to do with any of this, I swear. I’m not trying to escape.”

Muscles clenching, she braced herself for another painful jolt of the tazeur. Or even a paralyzing rayonette pulse. But the basher didn’t move; instead its eyes flickered coolly. “Urgent message for prisoner 51562,” it said in a clicking, rhythmic monotone, as though it were reciting some new, unfamiliar programming.

“Message?” she croaked.

“Your life is in danger. You must leave the Trésor tower immediately,” the droid continued in the same robotic tone. “It is not safe for you to stay here.”

Chatine stared up at the droid, dumbfounded, certain she had misunderstood, or it had malfunctioned. “What?”

“Your life is in danger,” the droid repeated. “You must leave the Trésor tower immediately. It is not safe for you to stay here.”

It almost sounded like a trap. Were droids even capable of setting traps? She didn’t think so. She racked her fog-filled brain, trying to figure out what to do. Was it possible the droid was really trying to warn her about something?

She nearly laughed aloud at the thought. Bashers don’t warn prisoners.

Then again, they don’t send messages either.

“Who is the message from?” she blurted out.

The droid’s eyes flickered for just a moment, processing her question … and its answer.

“Message sent by PompFlic,” the droid stated before turning around and clanking back into the fray.

Every molecule and nerve ending in Chatine’s body seemed to implode in on itself. Now she was certain she had misunderstood. Or permanently lost her mind to the grippe. Because there was no way that droid had just said what she thought it said.

“No, I’m pretty sure it said PompFlic,” said another voice. This one was high-pitched and familiar.

Dead Azelle was back.

Maybe Chatine really was going insane.

“PompFlic,” Azelle repeated curiously. “Isn’t that what you called Marcellus Bonnefaçon?”

Chatine’s mind was reeling. She glanced out into the commotion of the dark cell block. Inmates were still shoving their way toward the bridges, trying to reach the tower’s central staircase.

“Oh, no, I remember now,” Azelle went on inside her head. “It’s what Marcellus called himself.” She giggled. “That boy is cute, but he really couldn’t get the hang of Third Estate slang, could he?”

Chatine shut her eyes, trying to block out the shouts and the thundering sounds of footsteps. She needed to think.

“What’s to think about?” Azelle asked. “Marcellus Bonnefaçon sent you that message. Something is happening. Something bad. And he’s trying to warn you. You need to