Chatine’s grip around her pick handle tightened as she buried it into the wall with more force than she’d ever used before. Rock skittered around her feet, and there was a flash of blue under the light from her headlamp. It was a thread of zyttrium laced through a shard of rubble. That would barely make up five percent of her quota today.
Anaïs turned her head upward and stared at the ceiling of the tunnel, as though she could see right through it, all the way back to Laterre. “We were going to get married. I didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye to him before they took me away. But he’ll wait for me, right? They only gave me eighteen months. He’ll be true to me, right?”
“He’s probably already forgotten you,” Chatine murmured to herself, and then, with a clench of her stomach, silently added in her head, Just like he’s forgotten me.
She had no doubt that whatever Marcellus Bonnefaçon was doing back on Laterre, he wasn’t thinking about her.
“What did you say?” Anaïs asked, her eyes twinkling in the low light of Chatine’s headlamp.
“Nothing,” Chatine said, feeling a flicker of guilt. She softened her voice. “You need to be quiet, or that droid is going to come back. Just keep your head down. Don’t look up. There’s nothing to look up for.”
Thankfully, this time Anaïs listened to her. With another sigh, she grabbed her pick and, struggling to even lift it over her head, brought it smashing recklessly down against the side of the tunnel. Right on top of the anchor bolt.
“No!” Chatine cried, lunging toward her. But it was too late. A terrible cracking sound rang out above them as a plume of dust billowed down from the low ceiling, followed by a cascade of small rocks that rained and smacked onto their helmets.
“Watch out!” Chatine jumped back from the falling debris. Anaïs looked up just long enough for Chatine to peer into her wide, terrified eyes before a giant slab of rock shook loose from the ceiling and collapsed, in another thundering wave of dust, right on top of the girl’s head.
For several heart-pounding seconds, Chatine could only stare. Stare at the girl’s frail, unmoving body peeking out from beneath the stone. Stare at her frail shoulders and slender arms and scuffed boot … which suddenly twitched. Chatine stumbled backward, tripping over her pile of excavated rock and slamming into the wall.
“Sols!” she cried, glancing up the tunnel. The other inmates had stopped working and were gathered around Anaïs’s body, staring incredulously at her foot, which now jerked and trembled.
“She’s alive!” Chatine called, lunging toward the massive boulder and trying to shove it out of the way. But it was so heavy, and she was so weak, it barely moved. “Someone help! She’s alive and she’s trapped!”
The sound of whirring metal clanked down the hallway as a droid fought to make its way through the debris. The gigantic metal monster paused in front of the girl, the glow of its orange eyes roving up and down her quivering body.
“Don’t just stand there!” Chatine screamed. She’d never raised her voice at a basher before. “Do something! Help her!”
The droid continued its scan, its robotic face emotionless and calculating. Finally, it took a step forward, extending its arm toward the girl. Chatine let out the breath she’d been holding. Anaïs would be okay. She would be taken to the Bastille Med Center. Her wounds would be treated. She would be fine. She would live. She would—
Whoosh.
The girl’s twitching limbs fell still. Very still. The droid lowered its arm, which Chatine now saw was glowing, the deadly rayonette still armed. A deep, soul-splitting shiver traveled through her body.
“You …” Chatine stared up at the droid, her voice frail and thin and hollow. “What did you do? Why did you do that?”
The droid’s orange eyes tracked over her entire face, as though searching for signs of life left in Chatine, too. She honestly wondered if it would find any. The day she was shipped off to this abominable moon was the day she’d stopped living. Stopped caring. Stopped climbing. Stopped conning. Stopped looking up to the skies, hoping for something better.
Stopped being Chatine Renard.
Now she had become someone else. A cursed soul who brought about nothing but chaos and destruction and death wherever she went. A shell of a person reduced to nothing more than a number.
“Look down, keep digging, Prisoner 51562,” the droid said before turning and disappearing into the darkness of the tunnels.
- CHAPTER 4 - MARCELLUS
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—”