“WHAT’S TAKING SO LONG?” THE Patriarche grumbled. “Why can’t we see her yet?”
Marcellus stood tucked in the corner of Warden Gallant’s office, watching the Patriarche pace the room in his fluttering silk dressing gown. Meanwhile, Chaumont, the Patriarche’s favorite advisor, stood like a statue, with his hands clasped behind his back. Shimmering on the front pocket of his dark green robe were the two lions of the Paresse family crest.
The moment the words had left General Bonnefaçon’s lips—“Citizen Rousseau is dead”—the Patriarche had demanded he see the body for himself. But after more than thirty seconds of the general trying to connect his TéléCom to the morgue security cams, the Patriarche stormed out of the imperial appartements and marched straight to the Ministère headquarters, with the general and Marcellus in tow.
“We’re pulling up the feed now, Monsieur Patriarche.” Warden Gallant ran a hand through his usually immaculate silver hair. “This is not a sector of the prison that we access regularly.” He turned to a technicien currently standing in front of a vast control panel, deftly maneuvering her hands across the screens. “Rolland, what is the status?”
“I’m connecting to the microcam network for the Med Center now,” she replied in that affectless tone that all cyborgs seemed to have. “Just a few more moments.”
The Patriarche began to pace again. Marcellus stood back, behind his grandfather, afraid to even breathe.
Citizen Rousseau is dead.
He was still numb with shock. As if metal was dripping through his veins. And that word—“dead”—it felt so heavy. So final. So hopeless.
The Patriarche stopped pacing to yell at the technicien. “I want that feed up right this second—”
“The feed is up,” Rolland announced. She didn’t even blink in the face of the Patriarche’s wrath.
Frantically, the Patriarche spun around to face one of the dozens of screens that lined the walls of the warden’s office. His gaze flicked to each one, unsure where to look. A moment later, the center screen blinked to life, and Marcellus felt his heart skitter at the sight before him.
On the screen was a dark and dingy room crammed full of gurneys. Each one held an emaciated body, pummeled, beaten, and eroded from life on Bastille. The microcam scanned the room, panning over every body, every face. Their features were all different, and yet they were the same in their wretchedness. They had all died the same bleak, arduous, and miserable death in captivity. And in every single one of their faces, Marcellus saw his own father. Eyes glassy, hands spotted, fingertips blackened.
Thank the Sols Chatine was still alive up there. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what his heart would do if he had to see her in a place like this. Unable to stomach the sight of any more bodies, Marcellus turned away and searched the warden’s office for a safe place to look. His gaze finally landed on the glowing sculpture sitting on the small table next to him. He knew this elaborate model of the System Divine well. Marcellus had spent so many hours staring at it during the countless security briefings his grandfather had dragged him to over the years, he had the whole thing memorized. Every moon of Albion, every crater of Usonia, every floating rock in the Asteroid Channel. Each item was so carefully rendered with tiny lights, shimmering filaments, and delicate plastique molding. There was even a cluster of miniscule laser beams depicting the rings of Samsara.
“Move left,” the warden directed Rolland. “More. More. There!”
Marcellus reluctantly returned his gaze to the monitor. To the face that was now emblazoned on the screen. The face that everyone in this room had come here to see.
Citizen Rousseau.
Her cheeks had sunken into dark craters; her lips had shriveled to a thin, puckered line; and her skin was so dried out and wrinkled, it seemed to fold in on itself a thousand times. Gray hair fanned out in brittle waves, and her eyes—the same eyes that Marcellus had seen blaze with such fire and passion in old footage from the last rebellion—now stared blank and vacant, like two lifeless pebbles on the shores of the Secana Sea.
A stunned silence descended over the room. Over the planet. Marcellus took a step forward, out of his corner, just to make sure he was seeing the image clearly.
Seconds passed that felt like hours. There was no movement. No breath. No life.
“We have confirmation,” the warden announced. “Citizen Rousseau is dead.”
There was a hesitant stillness in the room, as though everyone was afraid to move. Afraid to even release a single breath that might cause this fragile hope to vanish into the air.
Then, celebration.
The room erupted in applause. Chaumont cheered. The warden pumped his fist in the air. The Patriarche’s face transformed into an exuberant smile as he gave the warden a congratulatory pat on the back. Even the implanted circuitry in Rolland’s face seemed to flicker a little faster.
Laterre’s most dangerous enemy was finally gone.
And everyone was rejoicing.
Everyone except Marcellus.
Marcellus turned away from the monitor, trying to collect his chaotic thoughts.
She’s really dead. What did this mean? For his grandfather? For the Vangarde? For the planet?
He knew the Vangarde had recently tried to break Citizen Rousseau out of Bastille. They had been unsuccessful, but his grandfather had been certain they would try again. Citizen Rousseau was the Vangarde’s most powerful weapon. Their best hope at a resurgence. They knew it. He knew it. Even the Patriarche knew it.
And now she was gone.
Marcellus itched to get out of this room, ride to the Frets, and drop another message to the Vangarde. If they were planning a second escape attempt, they had to call it off immediately. They had to know she was dead.
Marcellus scanned the office, watching the exalted faces and triumphant smiles, wondering if he could possibly slip out unseen. It wasn’t until he’d circled back to the monitor—to the image of Citizen Rousseau on the screen—that he noticed there was someone else in the room not celebrating.
General Bonnefaçon stood centimètres away from the screen, staring at Citizen Rousseau’s unmoving body dressed in her flimsy blue prisoner uniform. His gaze was intense, focused, his expression completely unreadable.
Marcellus felt the burning urge to jump inside his grandfather’s head and watch all his thoughts on repeat like a looped broadcast.
What are you thinking?
What are you plotting?
How does this affect your plan?
The general’s gaze suddenly snapped toward Marcellus, as though he knew Marcellus had been staring at him. “Contact Bastille Central Command. Tell the droids to power up the disintegrateur and start preparing the body.”
“Me?” Marcellus asked warily, glancing around the office for the warden. But Warden Gallant had disappeared behind his desk, busying himself with something on his TéléCom.
“Now, Marcellus,” his grandfather boomed.
Marcellus fumbled for his TéléCom, trying to keep the room from spinning at the thought of that word. “Disintegration.” Soon, Citizen Rousseau would be reduced to nothing more than fragments of ice to be shot off into space. Her name would fizzle out. Her memory would slowly be erased from the people’s minds. She would become like a distant dream, fading with each passing day.
“Officer Bonnefaçon to Bastille Central Command,” Marcellus spoke shakily into his TéléCom.
“Stop.”
Marcellus glanced up to see the Patriarche stalking toward him, his eyes fierce and determined. “No disintegration.”
Marcellus’s brow furrowed. “I-I’m not sure I understand.”
“I want her body brought back here,” the Patriarche said in a low growl. “I want her head on display in the center of the Marsh. I want the entire planet to see it. The threat she poses to the Regime isn’t over until the people see her dead.”
Marcellus swallowed. “Of course, Monsieur Patriarche. I will make arrangements for a voyageur to be dispatched and—”
“I would strongly advise against that,” the general warned.
The Patriarche glanced anxiously around the room, his nostrils flaring. He did not like being contradicted. Especially in front of people. “What was that, General?”
“I would strongly advise against bringing Rousseau’s body back to Laterre,” the general repeated, his voice unwavering. “In fact, I would advise against anyone outside this room being made aware of her death.”
The Patriarche let out a hoarse chuckle. “Oh, really? So you just want everyone on Laterre to go on thinking she’s still alive?”
“Yes.”
The Patriarche huffed indignantly. “That’s the most stupide idea I’ve ever heard!”
“It might behoove us to listen to what the general has to say,” Chaumont calmly advised his boss.
But the Patriarche was adamant. “The people have to know she’s dead! Every planet in the System Alliance must be alerted. And the Vangarde have to know their precious Rousseau is gone.”
“The Vangarde will use her death to rally the people around their cause,” the general said. “This is a highly volatile time on our planet, and martyrs make for much better motivators than prisoners. It’s the reason we made the decision not to kill her when she was first captured.”
“You made that decision,” the Patriarche said, jabbing a finger in the general’s direction.
Marcellus kneaded his hands together. The energy in the room was making him antsy. He was desperate to get this whole catastrophe over with so he could get out of here and contact the Vangarde.
“The final decision to incarcerate Rousseau was your father’s,” the general replied tightly to the Patriarche. “I simply provided council.”
“Well, my father was an imbecile,” the Patriarche raged. “He was the one who let the planet break out in rebellion in the first place. I’m sorry, General. I cannot let my people go on thinking she is still alive and well. I want her dead face broadcast on every TéléSkin on Laterre.” He turned back to Marcellus. “Contact the droids. Tell them to start preparations for the body to be retrieved.”
Marcellus glanced momentarily at his grandfather before reaching a shaking hand toward his screen.
“Arrête,” the general commanded. “Put the TéléCom down, Marcellus.”
The Patriarche snarled at the general’s blatant disobedience. Marcellus paused, his chest tightening as his gaze bounced between his superior and his superior’s superior. But General Bonnefaçon was no longer even looking at Marcellus or the Patriarche. He was back to looking at the monitor. Something on it had caught his attention.
“Proceed,” the Patriarche commanded Marcellus.
“No.” The general stepped even closer to the monitor, his eyes dark and intense, his jaw hardened.
“General Bonnefaçon,” the Patriarche spat, the rage rolling off him in thick 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.”