MARCELLUS COULDN’T BREATHE. THE TRAFALGAR 4000 hung above the voyageur, vast and menacing and hungry, looking like it might swallow them whole. In one gulping second, they would be gone. Consumed, chewed, and digested inside the gigantic warship. Marcellus had learned about these types of Albion spacecraft during his training at the Ministère. He knew of their might and their power. And now, as he stared up at the beast of a warship, it felt as though every molecule of oxygen in the flight bridge was being sucked out into space.
“Oh my Sols! We’re going to die!” someone screamed behind him. He was fairly certain it was Gabriel. But it sounded like it was coming from galaxies away, drowned out by the sound of the warship’s colossal engines humming just outside the window.
Whomp.
Whomp.
Whomp.
But Marcellus knew he had to be imagining it. There was no sound in space. No engines whirring. No weapons firing.
No screams.
“We’re not going to die!” Cerise shouted back at Gabriel. “Stop panicking.”
“Stop panicking?! Have you looked outside the window?”
“How did they even find us?” Alouette asked. Marcellus could feel her presence behind him. Serene and composed, even in the face of this catastrophe.
Meanwhile, Marcellus felt as though his entire body was shutting down. One essential organ at a time. He still hadn’t brought himself to move, speak, breathe. He stood motionless at the window, trying desperately to come up with a plan. A strategy. Something! But his mind was as empty as the endless void of space outside.
“I don’t know!” Cerise cried. “But now they’ve taken control of the navigation system.”
Just then, the voyageur lurched beneath their feet, knocking them all off balance. Marcellus reached out to steady himself before whipping his gaze back to the window. His chest squeezed.
The Trafalgar.
It was getting closer.
“They’re pulling us in.” Cerise voiced his fear.
Gabriel let out another yelp. “They’re what?”
“Will you stop whining!” Cerise shouted. “You are the most unsmooth criminal I’ve ever met. How have you ever managed to steal anything?!”
“What do we do?” Alouette asked.
Marcellus was still too numb to speak, but he knew the answer.
Nothing.
There was nothing to do now. They were flying in Albion airspace on a Laterrian ship. They were being reeled in by a Trafalgar 4000, like a tiny fish on a line, and soon they would be captured. They would stand trial. They would be convicted as spies, and they would spend the rest of their lives in “The Tower,” Albion’s infamous prison, rotting in one of its dank and pitch-black cells.
And his grandfather would win.
Just as he always did.
Cerise prodded frantically at the controls on the console. Alouette stood beside her, her steady gaze trying to follow Cerise’s rapidly moving hands. Marcellus turned toward the hologram map in the center of the bridge, which now showed their ship, caught between the Asteroid Channel and the planet of Albion.
“I can’t do anything,” Cerise said. “They’ve completely locked us out. Even the backup nav systems have been overridden.”
“This is it!” Gabriel cried, frantically pacing the length of the bridge like a mad man. “It’s all over. We’re all going to die. I knew this was a mistake. I knew I should never have stepped foot on this death trap. It wasn’t even that nice of a ship. Sure, it has seven bathrooms, but what good are seven bathrooms when you’re dead? And the kitchen didn’t even have paté. Or gateaux! And now I will never know what either of them taste like. I’m going to die without ever tasting gateaux and—”
POW!
Cerise’s fist slammed into Gabriel’s face with such force, he stumbled back, crashing into the holographic map, causing the planets to fritz and fuzz.
“Hey!” Gabriel shouted, holding his nose with both hands. “You punched me! You punched me in the face! You don’t punch people in the face.”
“I had to shut you up,” Cerise said, pivoting back to the flight console.
Gabriel turned to Marcellus. “Did you see that? She punched me. In the face.”
But Marcellus was barely listening. Because the voyageur had started to rumble again, this time with far more intensity. Everyone’s gazes jumped back to the window. They were heading toward a large latticed grid on the side of the Trafalgar, dotted with thousands of blinking lights. Beneath the grid, a vast fleet of tiny crafts clung to the surface of the ship like bats on the branches of a tree. Their sleek black shells shimmered ominously.
Albion Micro-fighters.
Marcellus had heard about their deadly capabilities. One small swarm could take out entire cities, entire fleets.
Alouette turned to him. “What’s happening?”
Marcellus squeezed his fists at his sides. “They’re docking us.”
The docking port grew larger in front of them, and soon its lights dazzled so brightly in the voyageur’s window that Marcellus was momentarily blinded.
But he could still feel the vibrations underfoot.
The whirring of vast machinery.
And the deafening clanking sound, which Marcellus knew meant only one thing.
“We’re docked,” said Cerise.
A squealing noise echoed from the voyageur’s speaker system, followed by an unfamiliar, chilling voice. “This is Admiral Wellington of the Albion Royal Space Fleet. We are commandeering this ship.”
The long vowels and clipped consonants of the admiral’s accent made Marcellus’s whole spine shudder.
“Do not try to run or escape, or you will be shot.”
With these words, the speakers clicked off. But on the screens of the flight console, Marcellus could see them. The primary hatch of the voyageur had been opened, and a squad of Albion guards were already trooping onboard.
Terrified, Marcellus searched for something reassuring to grasp on to, his fingers finally entangling with Alouette’s. He grabbed on to her hand, vowing not to let go, no matter what happened in the next few minutes. She looked over at him, and he saw something in those large, dark eyes of hers. Something he hoped to never see again.
Fear.
He squeezed her hand, hoping it would comfort her, although he had no idea why it would. What was his feeble hand compared to the Albion Royal Guard? They were known across the System Divine for being monsters. Murderers. Killing machines. And the scariest part was, they were 100 percent human. These men and women were no droids. They weren’t even cyborgs. They were flesh and bone, rumored to be recruited from birth, raised in captivity, brainwashed from infancy, trained to hunt and invade and leave no survivors.
And an entire fleet of them had just boarded this ship.
Marcellus’s hands had never felt more useless.
“They’re coming,” Cerise squeaked, her voice strangled and panicked.
Gabriel looked like he might be sick.
Then all they could hear were footsteps. Heavy, clomping footsteps, which were getting louder and louder …
Until finally, the door to the bridge whooshed open.
Marcellus sucked in a breath at the sight of them. At least twelve guards stood in the doorway dressed in pristine red uniforms and fur-trimmed black helmets that almost covered their eyes. From the way the fabric stretched across their bodies, Marcellus could see these soldiers were built to fight. Solid muscles. Supple tendons. A power and force barely kept in check by their stiff wool uniforms. And strapped to their sides were gleaming assault lancers. Marcellus had heard about these Albion weapons with their lethal cluster bullets that could unleash a spray of tiny shrapnel inside a victim’s body. They made Laterrian paralyzeurs seem almost kind.
From amid the group of guards, a man in a metallic-gray, floor-length coat pushed his way to the front. He wore no hat, and over one of his hard, dark eyes was a round disk that winked and glowed in the bluish lights of the flight bridge.
A monoglass, Marcellus realized. Albion tech that could scan the world like a cyborg eye. It tracked across the flight bridge, monitoring and analyzing each of them in turn.
“I expected something rather more …” The man trailed off and sniffed the air with his hawkish nose, clearly searching for the right word. “… daunting. But all we seem to have found here is a little gaggle of peculiarly dressed children. How very disappointing.”
Marcellus flinched at the man’s haughty Albion accent and scornful eyes. It was the same voice he’d heard over the ship’s speakers only moments ago. Admiral Wellington.
“Nevertheless, you are still flying a Laterrian ship and trespassing in Albion airspace, which, according to royal decree, warrants immediate arrest and imprisonment.”
He took one last chilling look at each of them before flicking his fingers dismissively and turning back toward the door. “Seize them.”
The guards stalked menacingly forward, their weapons raised and ready to fire at a moment’s provocation.
Searing heat charged through Marcellus. His muscles coiled, preparing to fight. But then he felt Alouette squeeze his hand in a gentle warning. Calmly reminding him that taking on this troop of Albion guards by force would not only be rash and foolish; it would be deadly.
But what else were they supposed to do? They had to fight. The general had to be stopped. Marcellus dropped Alouette’s hand and formed his fingers into a tight fist.
“We are accompanying Officer Marcellus Bonnefaçon, grandson of César Bonnefaçon, the General of the Laterrian Ministère.”
Marcellus blinked, uncertain who had just spoken. Then Alouette stepped forward, addressing the admiral with a smooth, diplomatic voice. “Her majesty, Queen Matilda Bellingham, is expecting us. We are here to check on the progress of a top-secret project that General Bonnefaçon is developing with your planet.”
Admiral Wellington paused and slowly turned back around, something between a grimace and a sneer playing out on his otherwise austere face. “I have no knowledge of this so-called project. Nor do I have any reason to believe that Her Majesty would be expecting an officer of the Laterrian Regime.” He pronounced the word Laterrian as though it were diseased.
“What are you doing?” Marcellus hissed to Alouette, blood pumping wildly through his veins.
But she ignored him, taking another step forward. One of the guards advanced and pushed the barrel of his assault lancer into Alouette’s chest. Marcellus felt the fire inside him flare, but Alouette looked perfectly composed. As though she wasn’t one finger twitch away from dying a gruesome, painful death.
“I’m not surprised you have no knowledge of it,” she said, standing rigid and unyielding in front of Admiral Wellington. Her expression was as unreadable as his. “As I said before, and as Officer Bonnefaçon will confirm, the project is a top-secret development. An extremely confidential venture between Albion and Laterre.”
Alouette and the admiral both turned toward Marcellus. His heart was pounding so loudly in his chest, he was certain everyone in the flight bridge could hear it. Alouette met his gaze, communicating two simple words with those expressive brown eyes of hers.
Stay calm.
Marcellus shook out his still clenched fists and attempted to swallow. “Yes,” he said in a raspy voice. “That’s right. We were given strict orders not to mention it to anyone.” He forced himself to look the admiral in the eye. “That’s why the general issued us a special cloaking code, under which we were directed to land. But since you somehow managed to override that code, I am left with no choice but to divulge the purpose of our mission to you”—he gave a small, tight bow of his head—“Admiral Wellington.”
Beads of sweat began to form on the back of Marcellus’s neck as he watched the admiral for a reaction. One AirLink to Laterre, and they would be finished. Done. Not just imprisoned in an Albion prison, but worse. Much worse. Delivered back to Laterre for the general’s punishment.
The admiral stood inhumanly still. The only visible movement was a slight twitch of his jaw.
He snapped his fingers at one of his guards, who promptly extended a wrist toward the admiral. A second later, something strapped to the guard’s wrist glowed to life, and a hovering holographic image of a person materialized above it.
It appeared to be a woman, but Marcellus could only see the back of her head.
The Mad Queen?
“Lady Alexander, Your Grace,” the admiral spoke, his tone suddenly docile and pleasant.
Not the Queen. An advisor perhaps?
“I have commandeered a foreign craft from the planet Laterre, aboard which an Officer Marcellus Bonnefaçon—grandson of General Bonnefaçon—and his …” He shot a skeptical look at Alouette. “… entourage claim to be here to—”
The admiral’s voice was cut off as he listened to a response. He looked like he’d just eaten an insect. “Yes, Your Grace. I understand. Thank you. And Sols save the Queen.”
The glowing image vanished, sucked back into the small device strapped to the guard’s wrist. For a moment, the admiral didn’t speak. Marcellus glanced uneasily at the other guard’s assault lancer, still pressed into Alouette’s chest.
Then, after a sweeping glance from Marcellus to Alouette to Cerise, and finally to Gabriel, Admiral Wellington cleared his throat. “Lady Alexander, her majesty’s High Chancellor, has instructed me to escort you to the Queenstead spaceport. If it pleases you, one of my guards will pilot the ship the rest of the way to Albion, where awaiting transportation will take you to the Royal Ministry of Defence complex. Will that be satisfactory, Officer Bonnefaçon?”
Marcellus swallowed and shared a look of disbelief and uncertainty with Alouette.
He stood up a little straighter, trying to summon his grandfather’s authoritative air and Alouette’s calm confidence. “Yes, Admiral. That will be just fine. We are grateful for your hospitality.”