PATRIARCHE LYON PARESSE SNAPPED HIS rifle closed with a resounding crack and snatched it up to his shoulder. He closed one eye and aimed upward at the bright TéléSky, just as a swarm of unsuspecting doves fluttered by.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
The gunshots rang sharp and fierce in Marcellus’s ears. But the sound was soon replaced by a cacophony of barks from the Patriarche’s hunting dogs. The dappled and straggly eared animals yipped and bounded in circles, anxiously awaiting the prey to fall from the fake blue sky.
But no birds fell.
Because the Patriarche had missed again.
“Damn the Sols,” he roared, yanking the antique hunting gun from his shoulder and snapping it open again. With chubby, agitated fingers, he jammed more cartridges into the chamber.
Marcellus felt General Bonnefaçon wince and stiffen beside him. It was one thing Marcellus had in common with his grandfather: They both hated meeting with the Patriarche while he was hunting. Marcellus hated the echoing gunshots, the terrible flutter of the dying birds’ wings, the frantic yapping of the bloodthirsty dogs.
And his grandfather simply hated the distraction.
“Monsieur Patriarche,” the general called out before the Patriarche could raise his gun again. “As I was saying, you put in an order for a fivefold increase in droid production at the fabrique.” He pointed at the TéléCom unfurled and glowing in his hand. “I don’t remember us discussing this incr—”
“This is no time for discussions,” the Patriarche barked. “I’m done with discussions, General. This planet is falling apart at the seams and we need a stronger military presence in the cities. The other planets in the System Alliance are starting to get worried. Our ambassador just returned from Kaishi this week and said there was ‘talk’ of instability on Laterre. Talk, General! We simply can’t have this. In case you’ve forgotten, my precious daughter—the only heir to the Laterrian Regime—has been killed. The Matrone is sick with grief. She barely gets out of bed. And now the Vangarde have attacked one of my fabriques!”
His hands shook furiously as he tried to close his gun. Pascal Chaumont, the Patriarche’s most-trusted advisor, stepped wordlessly forward to assist him, snapping the weapon closed with an efficient click and handing it back to the Patriarche, before returning to stand with the rest of the green-robed advisors.
“I agree this is the moment for action—” the general began to say, but the Patriarche didn’t allow him to finish.
“What is the status of the investigation?” he asked, turning toward Marcellus.
Marcellus stood up straighter, shifting his rifle to his other hand. “I have been interviewing workers and foremen at the TéléSkin fabrique for the past two weeks, but so far no one seems to know who set off the explosif. I have more interviews scheduled for tomorrow, but based on the evidence we’ve collected, we believe someone broke into the fabrique—”
“I know exactly who set off that explosif!” the Patriarche roared, as though Marcellus’s update was a massive waste of his time. “It was that Citizen Rousseau woman! She’s responsible for all of this. I just know it.”
Marcellus opened his mouth to reply, but the general stepped in. “I assure you, Monsieur Patriarche, Citizen Rousseau is not a danger to us. She remains in maximum security lockdown on Bastille, where she’s been for the past seventeen years.”
“Until those Vangarde monsters tried to break her out!” the Patriarche reminded him.
“Tried,” the general emphasized. “And failed.”
The Patriarche harrumphed. He had become unbearably paranoid in the past few weeks, convinced that Citizen Rousseau had somehow orchestrated everything that had happened on Laterre—the murder of his only child, the riots in the Frets, the bombing of the TéléSkin fabrique—all from solitary confinement. Which, of course, was ludicrous. Solitary confinement meant no contact with the outside world. But it didn’t stop the Patriarche from spending his days watching security footage of Citizen Rousseau’s cell.
Even if Marcellus hadn’t been the lead officer on the investigation, he would still be willing to bet his life that the Vangarde had not orchestrated that attack. The problem was, he still didn’t know who had.
“Regardless,” the Patriarche snapped, “this planet needs to be brought to order. And clearly, I have to do that myself.” He tossed a furious glance at the general before raising the weapon to his shoulder again and peering up at the sky.
Marcellus braved a look at his grandfather and immediately noticed the general’s jaw tensing. This had become the new way of things around the Palais. Since the Premier Enfant’s funeral, the Patriarche had started taking matters of state into his own hands, making important decisions on a whim and changing protocols whenever it struck his fancy, all without the general knowing about it.
And Marcellus knew this would only make the general more desperate. More eager to push his plans forward.
“He’s building a weapon.”
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
The gunshots shook Marcellus from his thoughts. They were followed by the maniacal yapping of the hunting dogs who, once again, had no prey to chase for. The Patriarche’s bullets had hit nothing but the artificial Ledôme breeze.
“Monsieur Patriarche,” the general began calmly, “please be assured that I am well in control of the situation on Laterre. New security procedures are being carried out in the Frets and the fabrique district, suspects are being interrogated daily, curfews are being strongly enforced.…”
Marcellus startled as a small ping reverberated through his audio patch, notifying him of an incoming alert. As the general continued to list all the new protocols he’d initiated since the Premier Enfant’s funeral, Marcellus furtively pulled his TéléCom out of his pocket, unfolded it, and tapped on the screen.
“Tunnel collapse on Bastille in Exploit 5,” the TéléCom’s smooth, pleasant voice announced. “One fatality.”
Marcellus’s heart stopped. Exploit 5. That was Chatine’s exploit.
Normally officers weren’t alerted of every single death or accident on Bastille. The prison moon was a dangerous place, and there were simply too many. Instead, the warden received a summary report at the end of each day and only passed it along to the other members of the Ministère if there was something noteworthy to share. But as soon as Marcellus had learned that Chatine had been sent to the moon, he had instantly memorized her prisoner number, cell block tower, and exploit assignment and set up a series of alerts to notify him of any accidents or fatalities on Bastille. And every time that TéléCom dinged softly in his ear, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.
He clicked on the alert flashing on the screen and gripped the edges of the TéléCom, as though this flimsy device could possibly hold him up if his legs gave out.
“Today at 11.02 Laterrian time, Bastille Central Command logged a tunnel collapse in Exploit 5 caused by a compromised anchor bolt. One fatality was reported by the supervising droid. Female. Eighteen years old …”
No. Marcellus felt the ground beneath him give way.
“Prisoner number 515.…”
He was suddenly plummeting into Laterre’s red hot core. He was burning alive. His skin was on fire. His lungs burned.
“… 98.”
Marcellus blinked, certain he had misheard. He hastily tapped to replay the alert.
“…Female. Eighteen years old. Prisoner 51598.”
5.1.5.9.8.? It wasn’t her. He was sure of it. Chatine’s prison number was 5.1.5.6.2. His breath returned like a gust of warm air. She was still alive.
“Officer Bonnefaçon?”
Marcellus’s head popped up at the sound of his grandfather’s voice. The entire hunting party was now staring at him like he was a smoking cruiseur wreck. “Yes? Sorry. I was just …” But he gave up trying to make an excuse and pocketed his TéléCom. He could feel the general’s eyes on him.
“I was telling the Patriarche,” his grandfather said tightly, “that the couchette searches in the Frets are proving effective in rooting out potential rebel activity.”
Marcellus nodded. “Yes, very much so. Three arrests have been made this week.”
“So, you see, Monsieur Patriarche,” the general went on, “I’m confident that these new initiatives are—”
The Patriarche snorted as he angrily uncocked his gun. “I want wages docked too.”
The general raised one of his neatly groomed silver eyebrows. “With all due respect, Monsieur Patriarche, I’m not sure docking wages will—”
“If the people cannot behave, they must be punished. Cancelling their Ascension was clearly not enough. Maybe they need to go hungry for a while. See what that feels like.”
Hungry?
Anger immediately bloomed in Marcellus’s chest. The Third Estate were already hungry. Already starving and wet and cold, not to mention completely overworked for the meager wages they did receive.
The Patriarche glanced up from his gun, where he was stuffing a fresh round of cartridges into the chamber. “And if you’re so ‘in control’ of the situation, General, then why, may I ask, have you not yet found the Vangarde base and eliminated those terrorist rats once and for all?”
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
This time the Patriarche managed to clip the edge of a dove’s wing, causing a lone white feather to puff away on the breeze. But the bird didn’t fall. It spiraled and veered awkwardly for a moment, but then righted itself and flew off in a dancing and mocking loop into the dazzling blue TéléSky.
The Patriarche growled furiously and shoved his antique rifle back at Chaumont, snapping for the advisor to hand him a different one.
“We are still actively working on rooting out the Vangarde’s base,” the general replied vaguely.
Marcellus braved another sidelong glance at him. He’d been unable to look his grandfather in the eye since they’d left the Palais. Neither of them had uttered a word about the microcam that had vanished from beneath the loose floor tile in Marcellus’s bathroom. Marcellus assumed the general hadn’t had a chance to watch the footage yet. But it would only be a matter of time. And then, his grandfather would know.
That Marcellus had learned the truth about the copper exploit bombing.
That Marcellus had been in contact with a convicted Vangarde spy.
That Marcellus knew his father—the man he’d been taught to despise, to distrust, to banish from his thoughts—was innocent.
Which meant that the time Marcellus had to find this weapon his grandfather was building just got a whole lot shorter.
“What about those operatives you arrested?” Marcellus barely recognized his own voice as the words charged out of him. He cleared his throat and continued. “The ones who tried to break into the warden’s office and infiltrate Bastille’s security system? Surely, they should be able to tell us where the base is.”
The general shot Marcellus a scathing look as the Patriarche pounced on his suggestion. “Exactly! Why haven’t you extracted information from them, General?”
“They are still our best leads, yes,” the general said tensely as he ripped his gaze from Marcellus. “But unfortunately, despite vigorous interrogation, they are proving difficult to crack.”
Marcellus’s stomach rolled.
Vigorous interrogation.
He didn’t have to be a trained officer of the Ministère to infer what that meant.
“Obviously not vigorous enough,” the Patriarche blustered.
“I assure you,” the general replied, the slightest hint of annoyance cracking through his façade, “they will break eventually.”
“Perhaps I might have a try,” Marcellus offered, attempting to sound nonchalant. If he could be allowed to interrogate the operatives, if his grandfather told him where they were being kept, Marcellus could find out what Denise knew about the weapon. “If I’m going to be commandeur one day, I need to be well versed in these … interrogation tactics.”
The general scrutinized his grandson, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I appreciate your newfound initiative, but that won’t be necessary. As these operatives are our most important leads on the Vangarde, I am handling the situation personally.”
Disappointment stabbed Marcellus. He had been right. This was an impossible task. If his grandfather was keeping a secret, there was no way Marcellus was going to be able to uncover it. He’d need a miracle.
“In the meantime,” the general continued as the Patriarche once again took aim at the TéléSky, “we are analyzing the devices found on the Vangarde operatives when they were captured.”
Lyon Paresse lowered his gun. “What devices?”
“Necklaces, sir. Made of what appeared to be some sort of metal beads. But we believe they are more than just decorative. Possibly communication devices of some kind. Directeur Chevalier’s team at the Ministère’s Cyborg and Technology Labs is working on them now. We hope that they might provide a legitimate lead to the base.”
Metal beads.
With a shiver, Marcellus’s thoughts raced back to that night two weeks ago, in the hallways of Fret 7, when a similar necklace hanging from Alouette’s neck had triggered a mysterious message to appear on his TéléCom. A message he still didn’t know the contents of, but that he was certain had been sent by Denise.
“Very good,” the Patriarche said. “But if those operatives won’t talk, we do have other means of dealing with them.” He aimed his gun at a flock of birds that had just fluttered up from the ground.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
“Blast.” He lowered his weapon and glared at the general. “What is the progress on the exécuteur, General?”
“My techniciens in the munitions fabrique are working on the reconstruction. I have been told it will be completed in the next week.”
Marcellus shuddered at the thought of seeing that monstrous contraption again. The Third Estate were already calling it by a much more appropriate name—the Blade. After witnessing the sick swiftness with which it had sliced Nadette Epernay’s head from her body, Marcellus had been glad to hear that the rioters in the Marsh had ripped it to pieces.
“But they’ve already been working on it for two weeks!” the Patriarche boomed. “Why is it taking so long?”
“We’ve had to rebuild the device from scratch. The last one was completely destroyed in the recent riot. We were not able to salvage any parts.”
The Patriarche huffed and then, under his breath, muttered, “I’m sure the scientists on Albion wouldn’t need this long.”
Marcellus could almost feel his grandfather’s muscles tense. It was a well-known fact that Albion had the most superior tech-development program in the system. Far more advanced than any other planet. But no one on Laterre—Albion’s long-standing enemy—liked to admit that, especially not the general.
“I want that thing finished as soon as possible,” the Patriarche went on. “And I want the entire Third Estate to know when it is. Those ungrateful wretches need to understand that there are consequences for rising up against me.”
“Yes, Monsieur Patriarche,” the general said with a swift nod. Then he cut his eyes to Marcellus, and in a cool monotone voice that sent chills down Marcellus’s spine, he added, “Treason against the Regime should never be taken lightly. I think you would agree, Officer Bonnefaçon.”
Marcellus’s throat went dry.
Treason against the Regime.
Was that what his grandfather would accuse Marcellus of once he watched that microcam footage? Would Marcellus be the first to find himself in the path of the newly built Blade?
Marcellus tried to picture his grandfather’s expression when he would eventually connect the tiny device to his TéléCom. When he would press play. When he would discover that the Vangarde had been watching him that day he’d agreed to bomb the copper exploit and pin the blame on his own son.
Watching.
Marcellus felt a shiver travel through him as he remembered the day he’d first found the microcam and viewed its contents. He’d been shocked to learn that the footage had been captured right inside General Bonnefaçon’s study. Where all of his most private and secret conversations took place.
Marcellus’s heart started to pound as he suddenly realized what he had to do.
The idea made him feel physically sick, but it was the only way. His only chance of finding out what his grandfather was working on.
It was the very miracle he needed.
If Mabelle had managed to plant a microcam inside his grandfather’s office, then Marcellus could do it too.
“Now, enough business,” the Patriarche commanded. “General, put that TéléCom away. It’s time for you to shoot.”
The general tossed another glance at Marcellus before folding up his TéléCom and slipping it into the pocket of his pristine white jacket. He stepped forward, took a gun from one of the Patriarche’s advisors, and with ease and an austere calm, loaded the chamber.
Marcellus felt another chill run down his spine as he watched his grandfather carefully pull the weapon to his shoulder and squint up, with unrelenting focus and determination, at the TéléSky above. Even the dogs seemed to quiet as the general watched and waited.
Finally, a flock of doves whisked into view and looped above the heads of the hunting party.
Bang.
Marcellus winced as a mess of feathers scattered into the wind, followed by the awful flutter and flap of dying wings. A great arc of bird blood sprayed like a rainbow of red through the sky. The dogs took off after the fallen prey, yapping excitedly.
“Sols!” came a thundering roar from the other side of the general. When Marcellus glanced over at Laterre’s leader, his stomach clenched at the sight of the bright red streak of blood that had splattered across the Patriarche’s cheek and forehead and was now dripping down into the folds of his wide, plump neck.
Silently, Chaumont handed the Patriarche a handkerchief, which Lyon Paresse snatched violently from his advisor’s hand.
“Nice shot, General,” the Patriarche muttered as he wiped the blood from his face and neck. “Nice shot.”
The general lowered the gun with a contented expression and immediately reached for his TéléCom again. “Apologies, Monsieur Patriarche, but I’ve just received an urgent AirLink from Directeur Chevalier.”
The Patriarche waved one permissive hand toward the general as he used the other to continue mopping bird blood from his neck.
Marcellus noticed the general’s expression shift drastically as he watched the AirLink message play out on his screen. He almost looked, dare Marcellus think it, elated.
“I’m sorry,” the general said, handing his gun to the nearest advisor. “But I must cut this visit short. Officer Bonnefaçon and I are needed at the Ministère headquarters.”
“What is it?” the Patriarche asked gruffly.
The general shot Marcellus a cryptic look before turning back to the Patriarche. “It appears Inspecteur Limier has been found.”