“No talking!” the droid boomed, its eerie monotone voice ricocheting off the low-ceilinged tunnels, making it sound even less human than it already did. “Look down, start digging.”
Silently, Chatine positioned herself in front of the tunnel wall and got to work, jamming her pick into the hard rock. With each strike, she paused and waited, listening, expecting, holding her breath. Would today finally be the day the voice in her head didn’t come? The day that Chatine’s mind finally got ahold of itself and came back to its senses?
Chatine couldn’t decide what was worse: a mental breakdown, or losing that voice all over again.
And then, finally, after the tenth strike of her pick against the wall, Chatine heard it. From deep in the dark corners of her mind.
“Brrr! It is so chilly here. Way colder than on Laterre.”
Chatine’s shoulders slumped in relief. Azelle was here. For at least one more day, Chatine would not be alone on this moon.
“How are you not freezing, Chatine?” the voice asked.
Chatine didn’t reply. She never replied to the voice of her dead sister. But just like in life, it didn’t stop Azelle from talking.
“Did you hear those new quotas? You’re going to be here forever. How do they expect you to mine one hundred grammes in a day?”
Chatine shone her headlamp into the heap of rock that had gathered by her feet. There wasn’t a single hint of glowing blue zyttrium. She’d heard prisoners whispering about the shortage on Bastille. How each week, the tunnels stretched farther and farther, and the exploit carts came back less and less full.
“I remember this being a problem back at the Skin fabrique,” Dead Azelle said knowledgably. “Not enough zyttrium to make the new Skins. The superviseurs tried to hide it from us but we weren’t stupide. We saw the supply transporteurs coming in. How many of these prisoners do you think are here because of an actual crime they committed? And how many are here because the Ministère just needed more people to dig?”
Chatine momentarily glanced up at the inmates lining the tunnel, wondering if Azelle was right. Was Chatine’s existence here—as well as the existence of every other prisoner on this moon—no more complicated than a dwindling supply of zyttrium? Chatine had never known her older sister to be very wise or observant in life. But often, as Chatine lay in the cold, damp prison bunks, she wondered if she’d underestimated her sister. If maybe there had been more to Azelle Renard than Chatine ever knew.
Of course, she’d never have a chance to find out now. An explosif in the Skin fabrique two weeks ago had made sure of that.
“It also kind of stinks down here,” Azelle added. “Much worse than the Frets.”
Chatine almost smiled at that one. She knew that the Azelle who spoke to her down here in the dark exploits wasn’t real. Obviously, she knew that. She just assumed it was another symptom of the grippe. A symptom that—unlike the bone-splitting headaches and waves of dizziness—was not entirely unwelcome. It gave her something to listen to besides the monotonous banging of the picks hitting rocks and the ominous rattles and tremors that followed.
And also, it kept her mind off Henri.
Because Dead Azelle knew better than to talk about him.
One ghost to distract you from another.
“Is this how it’s going to be every day?”
Chatine reared back her pick and slammed it into the wall, bringing down a fresh cascade of rock to add to her pile.
“How long do we have to be down here? It’s really dark. I didn’t think it would be this dark. Cold, yes. You always hear about the cold. But no one ever tells you about the darkness.”
Chatine sighed and pitched her pick back again, letting Azelle’s quiet prattling voice continue to envelop her like a blanket.
“Excuse me. Can you hear me? Or are you just ignoring me? People often do ignore me.”
The pick paused over Chatine’s head. She looked to her right, where a slender girl in an exploit coat too big for her small frame was waving her hand back and forth, trying to get Chatine’s attention.
How long had this girl been talking? She sounded just like Azelle.
“I know we’re not supposed to talk,” the girl went on in a low voice.
“You’re right,” Chatine snapped with a cautious look over her shoulder for nearby droids. “We’re not.”
“But I’m going a little bit insane,” she said, shaking her head. Her helmet—like her exploit coat—was too big, and it rattled haphazardly, causing the light from her headlamp to flash and bob. “No one here talks to anyone. It’s my first day, and I haven’t been able to get anyone to say a single word to me.”
Chatine sighed. Of all the people she could get stuck next to, she’d ended up with a babbler.
“And why is everyone so mean here?” the girl continued.
“They’re not mean,” Chatine whispered harshly. “They’re tired and cranky. And don’t want to get tazed for talking.”
“I’m Anaïs,” the girl went on, clearly interpreting Chatine’s dismissal as an invitation to introduce herself. “What’s your name?”
Chatine didn’t reply. Maybe if she just ignored her, the girl would give up and stop talking.
“Did you come from Vallonay?”
Chatine kept digging.
“I came from Delaine in the Northern Région. Do you know it? Probably not. It’s a very boring town. Mostly just sheep. You’re probably wondering why I’m on Bastille.”
Actually, Chatine thought bitterly. I wasn’t.
“I got rounded up for being out after curfew. They’re being really strict now. Anyone out after hours gets sent straight to Bastille. It’s not fair. I wasn’t even doing anything wrong! I swear. I was just—” The girl’s voice was cut off by her own scream as her body convulsed violently and her pick fell to the ground. Chatine glanced over to see the nearest droid retracting its tazeur.
As she watched Anaïs’s eyes roll back into place, Chatine couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit sorry for the girl. But also the slightest bit relieved. Maybe now she would finally understand the consequences and shut up.
“Look down, keep digging,” the droid admonished.
Whimpering slightly, Anaïs picked up her fallen pick, and the basher moved on. Chatine watched as the girl wiped tears from her face and tried to shake off the lingering effects of the tazeur. Then she hoisted back her pick, nearly collapsing under its weight, and brought it crashing clumsily and noisily down into the rock, mere centimètres from the nearest anchor bolt.
“What are you doing!?” Chatine hissed. “Are you trying to kill us?”
Anaïs sniffled. “No.”
“You have to dig around the rock bolts. If you knock one out of place, you could bring the whole tunnel down on top of us.”
Anaïs glanced in confusion between her pick and the tunnel wall.
Chatine huffed. “Watch me.” She demonstrated, carefully aiming her pick at the space between the two nearest anchor bolts. “See?”
The girl nodded but didn’t go back to work. Instead, she leaned on her pick and let out a melancholy sigh. “Do you think he’ll wait for me?”