“ONE SHIP STILL DETECTED,” CAPITAINE Moreau’s voice cut through the tense silence in the warden’s office. The view from the cockpit cam, as Moreau’s combatteur slowly circled above the wreckage of the Trésor tower, showed nothing but smoke.
Marcellus’s gaze was latched onto the monitor, his heart in his throat as he searched for a sign of her. Any sign. His emotions were as rippling and disorienting as that smoke. A heady mix of fear and dread and anger.
He’d told Chatine to leave the tower. Not climb up to the roof! But apparently that was exactly what she’d done, because not a few moments ago, he’d watched her run headlong toward the departing ship. He’d watched an explosif detonate just mètres away from her. He’d watched her tiny, frail body get thrown backward. And then he’d watched the smoke conceal everything, until there was nothing but gray.
Swirling, shimmering, and billowing gray.
“Take it down already!” the general shouted.
“Do not let that ship leave!” Moreau called out to her pilotes.
The smoke on the screen started to clear as the combatteurs repositioned themselves. Marcellus desperately scanned what was left of the roof. But still, he could not find her.
Where are you? he wanted to scream straight into the monitor.
Through the undulating patches of gray, Marcellus could see the Ministère’s fighters swarming the Vangarde ship, firing relentlessly at the helpless little craft. It buffeted and jerked, trying in vain to dodge the blasts. But it was hopeless. They were one ship against an entire fleet. The Ministère had them surrounded. And they weren’t even firing back. Marcellus knew there was no way they would get off Bastille alive.
“One ship still detected,” Moreau repeated, her voice weary and laced with frustration.
The view from the cockpit cam juddered as Moreau steered her combatteur down closer to the tower. The small Vangarde craft below her seemed to flash in and out of view as the fire blazed and the smoke swished.
Then, three more combatteurs streaked past her, their sleek bodies nothing more than blurs of shimmering silver. Explosifs began to fall on the tower like a rainstorm in the Frets.
Except this was no rainstorm.
Marcellus balled his fists until he felt blood seep from his palms.
The Vangarde ship continued to shudder and sway until finally, in a blinding flash of fiery light, it was gone.
Winked out of existence like a dying star.
Leaving nothing but smoke and ash in its wake.
The entire room was silent. Marcellus stared at the screen as a strange buzzing noise started to ring in his ears. Everyone waited. The Patriarche grabbed Chaumont’s hand and squeezed it. General Bonnefaçon folded his arms across his chest. Marcellus sucked in what felt like the last drop of air in the room.
“No ships detected,” Moreau reported.
A collective breath was released. Shudders of relief echoed through the warden’s office. And, for the second time that night, the room broke into applause.
Marcellus continued to stare at the screen filled with billowing gray ash. He clamped his teeth down hard on his bottom lip. Stopping himself from yelling out. Stopping himself from running forward and placing his hand on the screen. Like he could reverse the footage, replay it with a different outcome. A different end.
But no. He could not do that. This was the only end. And, as the storm of gray began to eddy, glow, and then puff away, Marcellus was certain it was the end.
For the Vangarde. For Citizen Rousseau. And most likely for Chatine Renard, too.
Because, as the ash and debris continued to clear, and Marcellus could finally see what was left of the tower—a fiery, smoking mess with twisted beams of PermaSteel and a mountain of charred mortar—he knew no one could possibly have survived that.
And yet, it didn’t stop him from searching. As Moreau continued to circle the wreckage, Marcellus’s gaze flitted desperately over the monitor. A moment later, a gust of wind appeared to sweep across the moon, chasing away a large plume of smoke from the roof of the tower, and that’s when he saw her.
Her body had been ripped apart by the explosifs. But her face was just as he remembered it. Just as he would always remember it.
Except it wasn’t Chatine.
It was Mabelle.
Marcellus stepped up closer to the screen, placing his palm flat across the surface. At the sight of her body—dressed all in black—lying on that demolished rooftop, something thick and hot and bitter filled his throat. A scream rising up. A scream that he could not let break free.
She was there. On Bastille. She’d refused to tell Marcellus anything about this mission when he’d asked, and she was a part of it. Even after escaping that horrible place, she had chosen to go back. And now he had lost 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. And Marcellus didn’t have the head, the heart, or the stomach for it.
With his grandfather’s attention diverted, Marcellus slinked toward the door of the warden’s office, slipped into the hallway, and finally let his body be overtaken by sobs.