her all over again. His beloved governess was gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Her word clanged through Marcellus’s mind as every last molecule of air in his constricted lungs finally just left. Puffed away like the great storm of smoke on the Trésor tower of Bastille.
Taking her ashes with it.
Pop!
Marcellus jumped and turned from the screen to see Chaumont trying to catch a stream of gold, bubbling liquid overflowing from a champagne bottle in crystal flutes. “Congratulations, Monsieur Patriarche. Congratulations, General. Warden. That was nothing short of brilliant.” He handed a glass to everyone in the room except the general who stiffly refused.
The Patriarche beamed as he took a long swig, looking happier than Marcellus had ever seen him. The nonexistent contents of Marcellus’s stomach threatened to rise up at the sight of that smile.
“Central Command is reporting a few prisoner casualties,” Warden Gallant reported, peering down at his TéléCom. “But because of the escape attempt from the tower, most of them were far enough away from the attack.”
“Well done, pilotes,” the general praised the squad of combatteurs who were still circling the remains of the roof. “Good work, Capitaine Moreau. Your swift actions and bravery here tonight have saved the Regime from a dangerous enemy. Never again will Citizen Rousseau threaten the peace and prosperity of our planet.”
Marcellus clutched his glass, not daring to take a sip. His eyes kept drifting back to the monitor. To the wreckage that had been left behind on Bastille. And in every fiber of his being. Nothing but wreckage.
“Officer Bonnefaçon!” the Patriarche’s gruff voice rang out. “Don’t look so glum! This is a cause for celebration.” He clinked his glass against Marcellus’s and took another long gulp before immediately passing his flute to Chaumont for a refill.
Marcellus took a sip, trying to keep the liquid from bubbling right back up.
“Excellent work, General.” The Patriarche slapped Marcellus’s grandfather heartily on the back. “I had no doubt you could do it. The Regime is lucky to have you on our side.”
The general nodded curtly, accepting the commendation. “Just doing my job, Monsieur Patriarche.”
“If I could promote you any higher than you already are, General, I would.” The Patriarche snorted at his own joke, the champagne clearly already going to his head.
“We’ll need to get the tower rebuilt,” the warden said to the general as he continued to monitor the reports coming in from Bastille.
“Just have the prisoners do it!” the Patriarche replied jovially as he finished off his second glass of champagne. “They’re already up there and they have nothing better to do.”
“I think perhaps it’s time for you to return to your bed chambers.” Chaumont gripped the Patriarche’s elbow hard as he swayed. “It’s been a very long and exciting night, hasn’t it, Monsieur Patriarche?”
“Citizen Rousseau is dead!” the Patriarche cheered, raising his champagne flute in the air. It slipped from between his thick fingers and smashed to the floor, shattering.
Marcellus watched the spectacle with numb, deadened eyes. He could barely even feel his limbs anymore. The shock of what he had just witnessed was spreading through him like deadly gas through a windowless chamber.
As the fires continued to burn and smolder on Bastille, a different fire was burning inside his chest, growing stronger by the second. He glared over at his grandfather. The general was hiding his reaction well, but Marcellus knew that inside he must be celebrating. Now that the Vangarde had failed and Citizen Rousseau was dead, what else could possibly stand in his way?
The warden called for a servant to clean up the shattered glass while Chaumont led the drunk Patriarche out of the office. Marcellus’s gaze was still focused in on the surface of Bastille. On the debris and rubble and destruction on the screen.
Is that what will become of our planet?
Is this the kind of carnage the general’s new weapon will unleash?
Marcellus could feel the pressure building inside of him. He had to get out of this room. He could not stay here, surrounded by these screens—that wreckage, her face—any longer.
“General.” Capitaine Moreau’s voice cut through Marcellus’s thoughts. “Our detection scans are showing a second ship.”
General Bonnefaçon and Warden Gallant both turned back toward the monitors. “What?” the general asked. “Where?”
“We’re trying to triangulate the location. The signal seems to be inconsistent. Possibly the result of the smoke and debris. It’s probably a back-up team.”
“Find them!” the general commanded.
Marcellus tore his gaze away from the monitors. He couldn’t watch another slaughter. Because it would surely be another slaughter. Just like the last one.