Suns Will Rise

OVERVIEW OF BOOK 2,

Between Burning Worlds

PRIMARY CHARACTERS

Marcellus Bonnefaçon: Grandson of General Bonnefaçon and son of Julien Bonnefaçon. Once a commandeur-in-training with the Ministère, now a Vangarde rebel. Traveled to Albion to track down a weapon developed by his grandfather that would allow the general to control the Third Estate (via their Skins) and use them to murder the Patriarche.

Alouette Little Lark Taureau (aka Madeline Villette): Raised by Vangarde rebels and her adoptive father, Hugo Taureau. Recently revealed to be the daughter of the Patriarche. Saved the Third Estate from the general’s weapon by using her DNA to access the Forteresse, which houses a kill switch for the Skins. Last seen outside the Paresse Tower, where she was knocked unconscious by an unidentified attacker.

Chatine Renard (aka Théo): Daughter of con artists, former resident of the Frets (slums), and escapee from the prison moon of Bastille. Lived with the Défecteurs while recuperating from injuries. Infiltrated the Ascension banquet with Marcellus, Alouette, and Cerise to stop the general from using his weapon. After riots broke out, she and Marcellus sought refuge at the Vangarde base, where Chatine was reunited with her long-lost brother, Roche.

THE VANGARDE

A rebel group believed to be dead after attempting to free their leader from Bastille. They formerly communicated via devices disguised as devotion beads, but had to shut down the network to convince the Ministère they had perished. Their base is located in the underground Refuge, where the primary members (aka the Sisterhood) protect the Forgotten Word, the First World library, and the Chronicles.

Citizen Rousseau: Former leader of the Vangarde and the Rebellion of 488. Believed by all of Laterre to be dead, but recently revealed (to Marcellus and Chatine) to be alive and recuperating in the Refuge.

Sister Denise (aka Vanessa Collins): The Vangarde’s technical expert and a former cyborg who worked on the top-secret Forteresse project (a DNA lock that protects the kill switch for the Skins and can only be opened by a direct Paresse descendant). She is currently being held in a secret facility run by the general.

Sister Jacqui: Responsible for maintaining the Refuge library, and Alouette’s favorite sister. Currently being held in a secret facility run by the general.

Sister Laurel: The Refuge’s healer and a maternal figure to Alouette.

Principale Francine: Head of the Refuge and responsible for updating the Chronicles.

Roche (aka Henri Renard): An Oublie (orphan) and former messenger for the Vangarde. Recently revealed to be the long-lost brother of Chatine, who helped him escape from Bastille. Now living in the Refuge with the Vangarde.

Julien Bonnefaçon: Father of Marcellus and son of General Bonnefaçon. Wrongfully imprisoned for a deadly bombing during the Rebellion of 488.

Mabelle Dubois: Undercover operative and former governess to Marcellus Bonnefaçon. Killed on Bastille during the mission to break out Citizen Rousseau.

THE MINISTÈRE

The division of the Regime responsible for maintaining law and order on the planet of Laterre.

General Bonnefaçon: Marcellus’s grandfather and head of the Ministère. Conspired with the Queen of Albion to develop an update to the Third Estate Skins that turned them into weapons so he could seize control of Laterre.

Inspecteur Limier: Cyborg and former inspecteur of Vallonay. Found unconscious after trying to capture Hugo Taureau in the Forest Verdure, where he was shot by Alouette. Last seen recuperating from a brain injury and memory damage in the Ministère headquarters.

Directeur Gustave Chevalier: Directeur of the Cyborg and Technology Labs in the Ministère headquarters and father of Cerise Chevalier.

Inspecteur Chacal: Former sergent and then inspecteur of the Policier who brutalized the Third Estate. Killed by Chatine at the Ascension banquet.

Warden Gallant: Warden of the Bastille prison.

Apolline Moreau: Laterrian Spaceforce capitaine who led the combatteur attack on Bastille during Citizen Rousseau’s attempted escape.

Commandeur Michele Vernay: Close friend of General Bonnefaçon and former commandeur of the Ministère. Killed on a failed mission to assassinate the Queen of Albion.

DÉFECTEURS

A community of people who have chosen to live off the Regime’s grid in the Terrain Perdu. Stealth technology (fueled by zyttrium) keeps their camp and ships concealed from detection. Their numbers have dwindled in recent years due to General Bonnefaçon’s roundups. They helped the Vangarde break Citizen Rousseau out of Bastille.

Etienne: An experienced pilote and spacecraft builder who lost his father in one of the roundups when his community set fire to the chalets in an attempt to scare off the droids and Etienne went back inside for a lost toy. Rescued Chatine from Bastille.

Brigitte: Mother of Etienne and former cyborg who worked on the Forteresse project with Sister Denise. Now a healer.

Marilyn: Etienne’s handmade ship, who has a very sexy voice.

Gabriel Courfey: Former thief from the town of Montfer and now honorary Défecteur. Traveled to Albion with Marcellus, Alouette, and Cerise to track down the general’s weapon. After being gravely wounded by a cluster bullet, he was left in the care of Brigitte.

FIRST AND SECOND ESTATES

The upper estates who enjoy a privileged life of luxury. Most live in the climate-controlled Ledôme in the capital city of Vallonay.

Patriarche Lyon Paresse: Direct descendant of the founding Paresse family and former leader of Laterre. Recently revealed to be Alouette’s biological father. Beheaded by the Red Scar.

Matrone Veronik Paresse: Former Matrone of Laterre and wife to Lyon Paresse. Originally from Reichenstat.

Premier Enfant Marie Paresse: Daughter of the Patriarche and Matrone, who was murdered by a poisoned peach just before her third birthday.

Cerise Chevalier: Daughter of Directeur Chevalier, skilled hacker, and a self-proclaimed sympathizeur of the Third Estate. She intercepted a message sent through an abandoned space probe that revealed details about the weapon the general was developing with Albion. Later, while infiltrating the Ascension banquet, she was captured by her father, who scheduled her for a cyborg operation.

Grantaire: Son of the Montfer Policier inspecteur and part of the sympathizeur network. Helped Marcellus and his friends sneak onto a voyageur and break into Ledôme.

THIRD ESTATE

Consisting mostly of ferme, hothouse, exploit, and fabrique workers, these Laterrians are the poorest of the planet and live in slums like the Frets. Until recently they were tracked and monitored by the Skins (screens implanted in their arms).

Maximilienne Max Epernay: Leader of the violent Red Scar rebel group. Responsible for many attacks, including the bombing of a hothouse and the execution of the Patriarche.

Jolras Epernay: Member of the Red Scar. Sister of Maximilienne and Nadette Epernay. Began to have doubts about Max’s violent plans and tried to warn Marcellus of her intentions.

Nadette Epernay: Former governess wrongfully executed for the Premier Enfant’s murder. Sister of Maximilienne and Jolras Epernay.

Lisole Villette: Alouette’s mother, who died when Alouette was very young. A former maid at the Grand Palais who was fired after her affair with future Patriarche Lyon Paresse was discovered. Faked baby Alouette’s death to protect her from the Ministère and gave instructions to Hugo Taureau to bring her to the Refuge.

Hugo Taureau (aka Jean LeGrand): Alouette’s adoptive father, former resident of the Refuge, and escaped convict, who fled to Reichenstat after being pursued by Inspecteur Limier.

Monsieur and Madame Renard: Con artists and parents of Chatine, Azelle, and Roche. Constantly evading arrest, they were last seen at the Défecteur camp in the Terrain Perdu, where they posed as Fabian and Gen in an attempt to steal the camp’s zyttrium.

Azelle Renard: Oldest child of the Renards and sister to Chatine and Roche. Died in the Red Scar bombing of the TéléSkin fabrique, where she worked.

The Capitaine: Trader in illicit goods and old acquaintance of Chatine who lives secretly amid the first estate.

THE PLANET OF ALBION

Of the twelve planets in the System Divine, Albion is the most similar to the First World and Laterre’s longest-standing enemy. Despite its superior weapons development program, the planet recently lost dominion over Usonia (and its supply of titan) during the War of Independence.

Queen Matilda: Current ruler of Albion. Plotted with General Bonnefaçon to develop a weapon in exchange for help winning back control of Usonia.

Admiral Wellington: Admiral of the Albion Royal Space Fleet who commandeered the voyageur carrying Marcellus, Alouette, Cerise, and Gabriel en route to Albion.

Lady Alexander: The Queen’s High Chancellor. Escorted Marcellus and his friends to the Royal Ministry of Defence complex, where the general’s new weapon was being developed.

Dr. Edward Collins: Father of Sister Denise and a neuroengineer who helped develop the weapon for General Bonnefaçon. Killed by a cluster bullet while helping Marcellus and his friends escape Albion.

- PART 1 -

ORDER OF THE SOLS

Laterre stretched out like one vast quilt of land. Verdant forests in the west. Rocky peninsulas and undulating green hills in the east. Forgotten swaths of frozen tundra stretching out endlessly at its heart. And surrounding it all, hugging its every coast and craggy cliff, the infinite, shimmering Secana Sea.

One ruler would rule these lands. One leader strong and resolute. One Sol guiding and steady and bright.

Whose light, when extinguished, would be replaced by another.

Or so the ancestors believed.

From The Chronicles of Laterre, Volume 3, Chapter 15

- CHAPTER 1 -

ALOUETTE

ALOUETTE IMAGINED IT WAS LIGHT from the Sols. Beautiful flares of cobalt blue, golden white, and scarlet red. As the blinding spark pierced her vision, she bit back a scream, reminding herself that it was an illusion, a trick of the brain, nothing more than electrical signals telling her this was even worse than the last time. It was all in her mind. The light. The pain. The fire that burned her face. That’s why they did it. They were trying to break her mind. But they would not. The last thing Alouette would allow them to break was her mind.

The scream broke instead.

It charged out of her like a voyageur breaking atmosphere, like a planet exploding. Until all she could hear was that scream and all she could see was that light and all she could feel was that fire.

Then, she vomited. And it was over.

For now.

The inspecteur lowered the device and took a step back while Alouette caught her breath. She knew to take her time. It was the only reprieve she had—these precious moments between being unable to speak and being expected to.

Where is he? asked the cyborg in that chilling monotone. Even though it was the same question the inspecteur asked every day, it still sent a shiver of fear through Alouette. She wasn’t afraid of more pain. She’d almost gotten used to the pain. It was the fear that her body would eventually betray her. Her tongue would move on its own. Her lips would foolishly give away the only thing that was keeping her alive.

Where is Marcellus Bonnefaçon? the inspecteur said, raising the device again and waving it ominously toward Alouette’s neck. Alouette flinched and immediately reprimanded herself for it. The circuitry embedded in the left side of the cyborg’s face flickered with satisfaction. This can all be over. This can all end tonight. All you have to do is tell us where he is and the pain will stop.

Alouette gritted her teeth. The device moved closer. Alouette pressed her toes against the tops of her shoes and her wrists against the metal restraints, bearing down.

Relax, came a familiar voice in her mind. The pain is worse when you fight it.

The sharp prong of the device brushed her skin, and Alouette let her body fall limp against the chair. She heard a sizzle as the electricity hummed through her skin, locating the nerve at the base of her jaw.

And then it happened.

Her forehead exploded in flames. A million tiny daggers stabbed at her eyes. Her cheekbones felt as if they were being crushed by a droid’s unyielding metal fist. And inside her mouth, her tongue turned to scorching molten lava.

This time, however, Alouette was somehow able to contain her scream.

And the meager contents of her stomach.

The inspecteur stepped away, taking the pain with her. Where is the general’s grandson? she asked. If she was getting tired of the same routine day in and day out, she didn’t show it. Then again, cyborgs rarely showed any emotion.

Don’t let them see the truth, the voice reminded her. Or they’ll have no reason to keep you alive.

Alouette closed her eyes, gripping desperately to the clarity and comfort the voice brought her. She was so grateful to have it back in her life, even if she had to use her imagination to make the words sound real.

Give it to me, someone snarled from the other side of the room, and Alouette’s eyes shot open to see a figure emerging from the shadows. Had it been there the whole time? Watching?

This farce has gone on long enough, the figure said. Who is running this facility, Inspecteur Champlain? You or her?

The cyborg looked momentarily stunned by the rebuke. I’m sorry, Monsieur. I’ve been trying. Every day. But she won’t talk.

The figure snatched the device from the inspecteur’s hand and stepped into the single shaft of light affixed over Alouette’s head. But Alouette didn’t need the light to recognize him. She would recognize him in a dark room, with her eyes sewn shut, and her ears covered. She would recognize the feel of him. His energy was unlike any she’d ever known. It filled every centimètre of the room, forcing out all of the air.

"Perhaps it’s because she doesn’t actually know anything, General Bonnefaçon said, his cool hazel eyes focused intently on Alouette. Perhaps she’s been playing us for fools this whole time."

And then, he was there. Towering over her. Glaring down at her like a hungry lion standing over an injured lamb.

No, Alouette reminded herself. I am the lion. He is the prey. He is more afraid of me than I am of him. That’s why I’m here.

The inspecteur took three paces back, as though Alouette might implode and she was afraid of getting hit by the debris. The general lowered himself into the chair opposite Alouette, his eyes never leaving hers.

She hadn’t seen him since the night he’d found her at the base of the Paresse Tower. She remembered the blow that came to her head, extinguishing all the stars in the sky. Then, she’d woken up here, in this dark place that knew no stars, no light, no hope of rescue. They were on an island not drawn on any maps, not marked on any TéléComs, invisible even to satellite imagery due to Laterre’s thick cloud coverage. Up until a few months ago, she hadn’t even known it existed.

Madeline Villette, the general began in a cold, chilling tone. It was the name her mother had given her. An unfamiliar name. A name that conjured up a past of running, hiding, of pretending to be someone else without even knowing it. I am not pleased to be here today. There are so many other worthwhile things I would rather be doing. I had hoped this little problem would have been solved by now. He flashed a look at Inspecteur Champlain, who was now hiding in the shadows. And yet, here we are, more than three months later.

Alouette felt something heavy and ominous slink into the pit of her stomach. If the general was here, if he was the one holding that device, that meant it was all over. She had strung them along for months and now her time was up.

Sometimes, the general went on, straightening the cuffs of his pristine white uniform, it’s the small pebble in your shoe that ends up causing more disturbance in your life than the largest of boulders. You have been an inconvenience since the day you were born. And I see now that time hasn’t changed you at all.

He stood up and began to pace behind his chair. You should be resting with the Sols right now. You know it and I know it. He stopped and snapped his gaze back to her. "But I think Inspecteur Champlain has underestimated you. I think you know exactly what you’re doing and why you’re still here."

The chill of his words sent shivers of dread through Alouette. It was all over. He was onto her. Somehow Alouette had been able to fool the inspecteur all this time, but she couldn’t fool the general. Not anymore. He knew now that she didn’t have the slightest idea where Marcellus Bonnefaçon was. He knew that every well-timed hesitation and subtle hint she’d given the inspecteur over the past three months had all been a ruse to keep her useful. Keep her alive.

Because Marcellus Bonnefaçon was a dangerous threat. He was one of the few people left who knew the truth about the general and what he’d tried to do at that banquet. With those Skins. And every day that Alouette pretended to know his whereabouts was another day she got to live. Another day she got to rot away in this cell, thinking about Marcellus, and all the other people she prayed were still alive. Still safe. Chatine and Gabriel and Cerise.

Cerise.

Alouette’s chest squeezed at the memory of the last time she’d seen her. Fighting, screaming, twisting in the grip of those guards who had dragged her down the hallway of the Ministère headquarters. Had she managed to escape them? Or was she now…

Alouette shoved the thought from her mind. She had to keep hold of her hope, no matter how thin and flimsy it had become. It was all she had left in here.

That and the voices in her head.

So, how about we make this clean and simple? the general said. "No more pain. No more games. Do you actually know where my grandson is?"

Alouette said nothing and the general gestured to Inspecteur Champlain, who hurried over with a hologram unit and switched it on.

Seconds later, Alouette’s face was bathed in light of every color: the warm browns of the Bûcheron Mountains, the inky dark blue of the Secana Sea, the luscious greens of the Forest Verdure, and the stark whites of the Terrain Perdu. The whole of Laterre spread out before her, a world unfurling. And Alouette saw her home. Not just the Refuge she grew up in or the exploit city she was born in. But all of it. It was all her home. A planet that lived in her blood and pumped through her veins. A people whom she’d set free. This was the hope that breathed inside of her. That kept her from giving up.

I’m giving you one last chance, the general said. Tell me where he is, and I might even be merciful and let you live out your days on Bastille.

Lies, said the voice in her mind.

As Alouette stared at that hologram map of the planet—her planet—it was like she was staring at a blank page of the sisters’ Chronicles, just waiting to be written upon. Just waiting for the next page of history to be recorded.

And she would have a say in that history if it was the last thing she did. Even if it killed her.

Alouette glanced up from the map and forced herself to hold the general’s steely gaze. Then, in a voice ragged with time and neglect, she said, The people will never follow you. They will never trust you. And as long as Marcellus Bonnefaçon is still out there, he will make sure you never win.

The general’s jaw tensed and his grip around the metal-pronged device tightened. Alouette braced herself for more pain. But the general only laughed. "Stupide girl. You’ve been in here a long time. The planet is a different place than you left it. A better place."

He rested his hands on the back of his chair and leaned toward her, close enough that his energy, his menacing presence, was everywhere, covering her, chilling her, seeping deeper into her nerves than any torture device. They already trust me. They already follow me. Then, after glancing over his shoulder to ensure the inspecteur was out of earshot, he whispered, It’s better than following the daughter of a worthless blood whore, just because her father is the Patriarche. His mouth broke into a sinister smile as his hazel eyes flashed in the single shaft of light. "Sorry. Was the Patriarche."

The general turned and stalked toward the door of the cell. All the while, Alouette’s mind was spinning, struggling to make sense of this new information.

Is the Patriarche dead?

But her thoughts came to a jarring halt as something sparked across her vision. At first, she thought it was the device again, sending blinding, searing light through her skull. But she felt no pain. That’s when she realized the light was coming from Inspecteur Champlain. Something was happening to her circuitry. It was flickering erratically, like someone had hacked the signal. And her face had gone deathly still, her jaw hanging slightly ajar and her eyes fixed on the empty space in front of her. Alouette glanced at the general, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Inspecteur, he said brusquely as he reached the door.

The word seemed to free the cyborg from whatever was happening to her. The flickering stopped. Her eyes snapped into focus. Yes, General?

Don’t make me regret giving you this promotion. He thrust the device back into her hand and nodded dismissively to Alouette. Make sure this is taken care of, or you’ll be back rounding up scum on the streets of Lacrête.

Yes, General, the cyborg replied. She clutched the device in her hand and stepped toward Alouette, the metal prong glinting in the overhead light.

Alouette winced, once again bracing herself for the pain. But again, the pain didn’t come.

Forget that, the general barked as he yanked open the door of Alouette’s cell. She doesn’t know anything. It would seem the decision to keep her alive has been a waste of time. His gaze settled on Alouette once more, and she could see the finality in his eyes just as clearly as she could hear it in his voice. Obviously, she’s worth more to me dead.

- CHAPTER 2 -

CHATINE

THERE WAS NO RAIN IN the Marsh today. A cloak of gray clouds hung above the bustling marketplace, but there wasn’t a drop of moisture to be found.

He’s even somehow managed to improve the weather.

Chatine Renard scooted forward on the exposed metal beam she was straddling, trying to identify one thing about the scene below that felt familiar. She couldn’t. She’d been living underground for more than three months, and it was like she’d emerged onto an entirely different planet.

Every stall in the marketplace bore a brand-new canopy, made of blue, yellow, or turquoise canvas, and as they flapped and billowed in the soft breeze, it was as if the whole Marsh had transformed into a vast rainbow sea. On the tables below, great pyramids of gleaming fruits sat next to huge baskets of vegetables that appeared so fresh and vibrant it was as if they were made of plastique. Not a single loose chicken pecked or squawked or flapped amid the mud and trash. Because there was no longer any mud or trash. The walkways between the stalls looked as if they’d been scrubbed clean, slat by metal slat. And there was a freshness in the air—a sharp cleanliness that stung Chatine’s nostrils. It was almost more pungent than the stink that used to cling to the city like a drenched jacket.

But the most unsettling sight of all was the flickering images that danced in the air, populating every corner of the marketplace and the Frets beyond. The holographic projections stood taller than a Policier droid, and their dizzying loops of bright, flashing color kept snagging at the periphery of Chatine’s vision, constantly sucking her into their shimmering displays.

How did he manage to do all of this in only three months?

Are you keeping watch? said the thirteen-year-old boy balancing next to Chatine on the high rafter. His hand was shoved into a joint that connected two support beams of what was left of the old cargo ship that now served as the Third Estate marketplace. You have to warn me if you see anything.

Chatine rolled her eyes. I know.

That was another thing that was vastly different about her trip to the Marsh today. Chatine was not used to having a partner. Especially one who gave her orders. Even if it was her little brother.

And whatever you do, Roche said, twisting his fingers deeper into the joint, "if you spot trouble, don’t be a hero."

She snorted. "When have I ever tried to be a hero?"

Pretty much every moment since the first time I met you.

Hey, Chatine shot back. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be on Bastille.

"If it weren’t for you, I never would have been sent to Bastille."

Chatine bit back the reply that came instantly to her tongue. He might have a point. Ever since she’d met Roche, the homeless Oublie with no parents, she’d somehow always found herself trying to save him from dire situations. But maybe that was just because he was always stupide enough to get himself into those dire situations.

Just keep watching, Roche told her. Don’t move your eyes in one fluid motion. Instead focus on object to object. You’ll see more that way.

I lived in the Frets for ten years, remember? I know how to keep a lookout.

With a huff, she turned and focused back on the swarms of people below. They felt no more familiar than anything else in this place. She was used to sitting on this very perch and gazing out at a sea of crocs and hustlers and con artists. Her kind of people. Or what used to be her kind of people. But now, no one was stealing. No one was sleeping off a bad weed-wine hangover in the alleyways between stalls. No one was fighting over the size of a chou bread loaf. People were being… civil to one another. Even nice. Wrapped in warm wool coats with shiny new boots on their feet, they moved carefully and politely around one another on the walkways, sometimes stopping to greet a friend or smile at a rosy-cheeked baby in a mother’s arms. Everyone seemed to have a lightness in their gait and a hop in their step. The hunger and misery that used to weigh them down, Chatine realized, was nowhere to be found. And neither were the three-mètre-high droids that used to patrol the streets like metal monsters.

The sisters had warned her that things would look different now, but she’d never expected anything like this. The whole thing was creepy. She almost preferred the droids. At least with bashers, she knew what to expect.

Can you hurry up, please? she said with a shiver.

Got it! Roche yanked his hand out of the joint, revealing a tiny black sphere clutched between his slender fingers.

Chatine leaned in for a better look. That’s it? That’s what we’re out here risking our necks for?

Don’t forget, Roche reminded her with a smirk, "you’re the one who begged to come on this mission."

I didn’t beg. I asked. Politely. Then, after a look from Roche, Chatine was forced to add, A few times.

This is one of the Vangarde’s primary cams, Roche explained, gesturing to the crowded marketplace below. Just look at this placement. You can see almost the entire Marsh from up here. The sisters have been practically blind since this cam went offline. Obviously, it’s an important mission.

Chatine didn’t doubt it was an important mission. She just doubted the sisters’ judgment in sending a thirteen-year-old kid to do it. The truth was, she had begged. She’d begged them not to send him. It was too dangerous. He was too young. And when they’d refused to listen, that’s when she’d begged to go with him. She’d assured the sisters she could be an asset, a lookout. But really, she couldn’t breathe at the thought of him being out here alone.

Roche pulled his récepteur from his pocket and flipped it open to reveal a numeric keypad and a small screen inside. He held down one of the keys and then spoke quietly into the barely visible microphone. I’ve extracted the faulty cam.

Good work, came Sister Marguerite’s response a moment later through the device’s tiny speaker. Install the replacement cam and return to base immediately.

Roger that, Roche said officiously, and snapped the récepteur closed.

Chatine watched on as he pocketed the old cam and pulled out the replacement that Sister Marguerite had given him earlier this morning. After blowing twice into the joint to chase away the dust, he leaned forward and concentrated hard on positioning the new cam between the two beams, his tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth, making him look like the little boy he would always be in Chatine’s mind. No matter how old he got or how tall he grew or how many missions the Vangarde entrusted him with, he would always be Henri, the precious baby she’d lost, and then, by the grace of the Sols, found again.

Chatine, you’re doing that creepy staring thing again, Roche reprimanded her, and it was only then she realized he was right.

Sorry, she muttered, and returned her gaze to the Marsh. Sometimes she just couldn’t believe he was back.

You need to stay focused. The sisters are counting on us.

I know the stakes, she said impatiently. She might be grateful to have her little brother back, but that didn’t mean she liked taking orders from him.

Chatine drew in a deep breath. It was a relief to feel fresh air in her lungs again. To be back in a dark hooded coat and comfortably worn pants, instead of those weird tunic things the sisters made her wear. The Refuge—buried ten mètres below the ground—was a good place to hide, but it seemed to be growing smaller by the day. And the circulated air that pumped through the hallways by archaic humming machines left a stale, bitter taste in Chatine’s mouth. When Principale Francine had finally agreed to let Chatine accompany Roche to the surface today, Chatine had nearly leapt for joy.

That is, until she saw, firsthand, just how much the surface had changed in the past three months. Everything about this place was unnerving her. And the longer they were out here, exposed, the more she just wanted to get Roche safely back underground.

Bonjour, Laterre! Music suddenly flooded the air, causing Chatine to lose her balance. She gripped the beam and glanced around at the multitude of hologram projections, all displaying a bright-eyed, big-haired woman standing in front of what looked like the Vallonay docklands. But they, too, were no longer recognizable. They were too clean, too shiny, too perfect.

It’s Month 3, Day 9, 506, and another day in Laterrian paradise, the woman said with a voice that made Chatine want to punch her. I’m Desirée Beauchamp, the host of your daily TéléCast. As you can see from the glorious view behind me, Vallonay’s rebuilt docklands are a spectacle to be admired.

The footage zoomed in closer to show a stream of smiling Third Estaters crossing the gangway onto a brand-new bateau whose deck rails and vast anchors glittered and gleamed in the daylight.

Thanks to the generosity and goodwill of our provisional leader, General Bonnefaçon, the obnoxious host continued, these newly reopened docks are yet another bright and shining mark of progress on our beautiful planet.

Chatine snorted again and was about to yank her gaze away when she noticed the crowds of people below. They had all stopped what they were doing, freezing in place like someone had pressed pause on a playback. Every single person in the marketplace was staring upward, basking in the glow of the holograms, absorbing every single word this chipper woman was saying to them. As if her voice was coming straight from the Sols.

Are you done yet? Chatine asked Roche. This place is giving me the creeps.

Roche scooted closer to the support beam, stretching his arm up so that his entire hand nearly disappeared into the joint. Almost… there…, he said through gritted teeth.

We’re so grateful to General Bonnefaçon.

Chatine’s attention snapped back to the hologram. The bright-eyed woman was no longer standing in front of the docks. She was now interviewing a man dressed in a dark brown fabrique uniform, sitting with other workers at a long table overflowing with trays of crispy potatoes, bubbling gravy, and piles of steaming broccoli.

The Patriarche’s death was a travesty, to be sure, the man continued. But the general has been good to us. We have food in our bellies and warm clothes on our backs. My bébés haven’t cried from hunger in months. As far as I’m concerned, the System Alliance can just appoint the general as leader and I’d be happy as a chicken in a cornfield.

Desirée Beauchamp turned back to the cam, resuming her rosy-lipped artificial smile. Of course, we still have to wait a little while longer to find out who will be chosen as Laterre’s permanent leader. For the first time in our history, the System Alliance has been forced to invoke the contingency clause of the Order of the Sols, which states that in the absence of a legitimate heir, or if the heir is deemed unfit to rule, the Alliance shall appoint the next leader of Laterre. The general has been in talks with the delegates who represent the twelve planets of our glorious System for weeks now and, as of yet, a decision has not been made, although we expect the official vote and appointment to be announced any day now. Speculations on who the delegates of the System Alliance will choose have spread across the planet. The most popular rumors among Second and Third Estaters alike have been, of course, that the System Alliance will nominate the closest living relative to the departed Patriarche, putting his three cousins, Élisabeth, Alphonse, and Philippe Paresse, at the top of the list and earning them the nickname of ‘the Favorites.’

Chatine watched on, sickened, as the footage of the fabrique’s cantine dissolved into an image of the soaring Paresse Tower, backdropped by the vast blue TéléSky of Ledôme. Underneath the enormous clawed feet of the tower stood a slender, coiffed woman in a flowing apricot-colored gown.

Obviously, I would be honored to be appointed, said the woman Chatine recognized as Élisabeth Paresse. Her stiff upper lip barely moved as she spoke. And as the Patriarche’s oldest cousin, I do believe it is my duty to step up in this time of our planet’s greatest need.

The footage morphed again, this time to a man—Alphonse Paresse—sitting beside a sparkling blue pool behind the largest manoir Chatine had ever seen. "I’m certain whoever the Alliance appoints will be the right choice. I trust in the delegates of our beloved System. And should they appoint me, of course, I will do my very best to serve this planet and ensure that we all continue to live in glory." As he winked at the cam, Chatine felt a clench in her stomach.

The Vangarde better figure out what the fric they’re doing. And fast. Otherwise one of these buffoons is going to be moving into the Grand Palais.

Done! Roche announced, withdrawing his hand from the joint. He kept it poised under the beam, ready to catch the cam in case it fell back out. But it held.

Great, Chatine said, anxiously licking her cold lips. Let’s go.

Not yet, Roche said, squinting into the crevice between the beams. Sister Marguerite told me I had to wait for the green light. That means it’s online.

Chatine sighed. She wasn’t sure if it was the chill in the air, that Desirée woman’s tinkling voice echoing off the surrounding Frets, or just the stark, unsettling difference of this whole place, but she was starting to get a bad premonition deep in her gut. As a Fret rat, she’d learned to trust those intuitions. They were usually right.

We, of course, will be giving you live updates as we continue to monitor the System Alliance’s fateful decision, said Desirée Beauchamp. Until next time, au revoir and Vive Laterre!

The host’s beaming face faded away, leaving behind the shimmering emblem of the Ministère—two rayonettes crisscrossed over the planet—and a smooth, friendly voice crooning, "Glory for all of Laterre," which was apparently the Ministère’s new motto.

Chatine tapped her fingers anxiously on her leg, glancing between a group of sergents who were patrolling nearby and Roche, who was still peering into the joint. The sight of those somber gray Policier uniforms uneased her, and even though she was confident the two of them were well hidden up here in the rafters, she still pulled her hood low across her brow, covering her dark hair that was now just long enough to tuck behind her ears. Sister Marguerite had warned her about the repercussions of getting scanned by a cyborg or the TéléCom of a passing sergent. Since the Vangarde had erased her profile from the Communiqué, Chatine Renard officially no longer existed in the eyes of the Regime. But she definitely still existed in the eyes of the general. And he would undoubtedly be looking for her. And Marcellus. After what they’d done at the Ascension banquet three months ago, she wouldn’t be surprised if the general had tasked the most brilliant of his lackeys with tracking them down.

Success! Roche whispered beside her, pulling her attention back to her brother. "We have a working cam."

Fantastique, Chatine said hurriedly, preparing to crawl across the beam to the nearest exit. Let’s go.

Wait a minute. Roche’s attention was suddenly focused on something in the distance. Is that… He rummaged around in the sac strapped to his chest and pulled out a bulky contraption that looked like a pair of detached droid eyes. He held the gadget up to his face and peered through it.

What? Chatine asked, trying to follow the direction of his gaze.

It is! Roche exclaimed. Sols! What the fric is he doing here?

Who? Chatine’s anxiety ratcheted up three notches as she glanced between the crowd below and her brother, who was still peering through the strange contraption. It somehow seemed too big for his little head. Give me that. She snatched it out of his hand and held it up to her own eyes. The world magnified in an instant, making her so dizzy she nearly fell off the beam again. Whoa, she said, steadying herself. What is this thing?

Roche huffed. "The sisters gave it to me. It’s called a binocular. Or binoculars. I forget. Anyway, it’s a First World relic, so be careful with it."

What did you see? Chatine asked, ignoring him.

Roche pointed straight into the distance. Over there. At Monsieur Ferraille’s junkyard stall.

Mindful of her her balance this time, Chatine peered through the strange droid-like eyes, marveling at the level of detail she was able to perceive. She could see the soft fuzz of golden apricots being delivered from the hothouses, the glint of the metal coins the Ministère had minted to replace digital tokens as they passed between buyers and sellers, and even the corner of a darkened, inactive Skin peeking out from the cuff of a sleeve. If only she’d had one of these binocular things back when she was a thief. She could’ve spotted a gullible Second Estater from kilomètres away.

Finally, Chatine located the stall, and the familiar details of Monsieur Ferraille’s wares came into focus. But it wasn’t the rusted pots, spools of wire, or scraps of mismatched fabric that interested Chatine. It was the man rummaging through it all, his eyes darting anxiously around as though he were being followed.

He wore the same pristine coat as everyone else in the Marsh, the same gleaming new boots. But it was the flowing curls and high, almost regal brow that made him recognizable. And those pale, intense eyes.

Chatine shuddered. The last time she’d seen those eyes, she’d been standing in this very Marsh, moments before she’d watched Maximilienne Epernay, the leader of the Red Scar, stand on a platform and call for the Patriarche’s death. Moments before she’d watched the blue laser of the Blade slice through Lyon Paresse’s neck.

No one had heard from Max or any of the Red Scar since that night. They’d all fled into the darkness the moment the droids had arrived. Most people hoped they were gone for good.

And up until a few seconds ago, Chatine had been one of them.

But now, as she watched Jolras Epernay, Maximilienne’s brother, riffle through a pile of engine parts at Monsieur Ferraille’s stall, she wondered if they’d all been foolish to hope.

The man plucked a rusty power cell from the pile and turned it around in his hands. It was clear he was only pretending to study it because his gaze kept bouncing around the marketplace.

What was he doing here? In broad daylight? Was he on his own? Or was he back to working for Max?

As soon as he leaves that stall, we move.

Move? Chatine lowered the binoculars and turned back to her brother. You mean, go back to the Refuge?

No, imbecile. We follow him.

Chatine nearly lost her balance for a third time. Whoa, whoa, whoa. No way. Too dangerous. We’re not following him.

We have to figure out what he’s doing here, Roche said with a twinge of impatience.

No, Chatine said sternly. "We don’t have to do anything. You were assigned to replace the broken cam. Which you did. And I was assigned to protect you."

After you begged.

Chatine threw up her hands. It doesn’t matter! Sister Marguerite just told us to return to the Refuge, which is what we’re going to do. We’ll tell the sisters what we saw, and they can figure out what to do about him.

But by then he might be gone again. What if this is our only chance to find the Red Scar?

"You don’t even know he’s still with the Red Scar. He told Marcellus that he wanted nothing to do with Max anymore."

And you believe that?

Chatine squirmed under her brother’s scrutiny. The truth was she wasn’t sure what to believe. Jolras had always given her confusing vibes. But she didn’t want to supply Roche with any more ammunition. She could tell he was already forming one of his infamous hunches. He’d been driving her up the wall with them. The general had poisoned the water supply. The Matrone hadn’t escaped to Reichenstat, as everyone had been told, but was, instead, hiding out on a sheep ferme in Delaine, pretending to be a ferme worker. The rusty machines from the old blood bordels that the general had shut down were being used to make the Ministère’s new coins. And now, Jolras Epernay was on some secret, undercover mission for a terrorist group that had vanished months ago.

I don’t think we have enough information to make this decision, Chatine replied diplomatically. And I don’t think we should stray from our assignment. Remember the sisters can track us wherever we go. She gestured to the pocket where Roche had stored the Vangarde’s récepteur.

If you’re afraid, you don’t have to come, Roche said, jutting out his chin defiantly. I can do it by myself.

Chatine felt a growl building in her throat. I’m not afraid, I just—

Good, then on my count. One, two…

Chatine’s gaze darted back to the stall, where Jolras was handing Monsieur Ferraille a shiny new coin in exchange for a rusty pair of old pliers.

Roche!

Three!

Suddenly, Roche was moving, leaping to a nearby support beam and sliding toward the ground. Chatine released a final grunt of protest before letting her body tip forward.

It was like she’d never left. Her muscles remembered every move, every turn, every loose pipe, as she spun around the metal beam and somersaulted down to the ground. The force of her landing knocked the hood off her head and she scrambled to yank it back up, desperately scanning their surroundings for anyone nearby with a TéléCom, but thankfully, there wasn’t a sergent or officer in sight.

Roche slid to the ground beside her and they were off, two former Fret rats moving in perfect synchronicity through the crowd, communicating only in glances and subtle gestures, as though they’d been doing this together their entire lives. As though the Renard blood that ran through both of their veins connected them by some invisible force.

All the while, Chatine kept Jolras Epernay in her sights, following his movements easily, effortlessly, watching his flowing curls bob through the crowd. As much as she despised Roche’s disobedience, she couldn’t deny the thrilling adrenaline that was surging through her veins. She’d forgotten what it felt like to track, to chase, to hunt. She felt like a wild animal who’d been locked in captivity for too long, and now she was finally allowed to do what she did best. For the first time in three months, Chatine Renard felt alive.

- CHAPTER 3 -

Cerise

INCOMING DOWNLOAD FROM SURVEILLANCE SECTOR 01.09.63. Please accept.

Cerise Chevalier paused the footage on her screen and turned to her tertiary monitor. Accept, she replied, and the display began to populate with thousands of images.

Downloading, said the smooth voice through her audio interface. Five percent… ten percent… fifteen percent…

Cerise’s long black lashes fluttered softly as her left eye performed a rapid initial scan of the download. She already knew from the metadata that it was originating from the Third Estate marketplace in Vallonay, captured by hologram module 63. But she wouldn’t know how useful the surveillance would be until the download was complete and she could examine it more thoroughly.

She turned back to her primary monitor and resumed playback on the footage she’d been analyzing.

Take a closer look. Think really hard before answering. Now, tell me, have you seen this man? The sergent on the screen shoved his TéléCom closer to the stall owner’s face. The woman swallowed hard and focused her flitting gaze on the image.

I told you already, she said shakily. I-I-I haven’t seen him. Not since the general broadcast his arrest warrant a few months ago.

Look again! the sergent shouted, causing the woman to whimper and cast her gaze back down at the screen. "Take your time. This is extremely important to the general. And he will be very pleased if you give him the information he wants."

I…, the woman began, her fearful eyes watering.

Yes? the sergent prompted.

"I… might have seen him."

Where? he demanded.

The woman’s throat bulged as she swallowed. In the Marsh. A few days ago. He was buying vegetables. Potatoes and leeks. Maybe for a stew?

Cerise tapped on her control panel and paused the footage. As she zoomed in on the stall owner’s frozen face, Cerise could see the flicker of her own embedded circuitry reflected in the screen of her monitor, flashing in rhythm with her neuroprocessors. Her cybernetic eye diligently captured images of the woman’s lips, cheekbones, forehead, and the skin around her eyes, until Cerise could decrypt the true meaning behind the stall owner’s response.

Lie.

Cerise marked the footage as a dead end and clicked to the next interview in her queue.

This was the weakness of humans, Cerise had quickly discovered after her operation three months ago. They gave away their secrets without knowing it. Their true thoughts and feelings and struggles were displayed right across their faces. If you had the right software, it was easy to decrypt their real emotions. And Cerise had the right software. She’d programmed it herself, using a modification to her internal facial recognition scanners.

Now Cerise could decrypt it all.

Well, 99.999 percent of it all. She was still working on perfecting the code.

But it was this ability, to analyze humans so efficiently, that had earned her a permanent job in the Ministère’s Bureau of Défense, her own cubicle in the front row of the primary operations room, and the general’s very special assignment. His top-priority assignment.

Have you seen this man? The next footage in her queue had started to play, and Cerise watched the same sergent present the same image to a group of workers loitering around the entrance of a hothouse. His name is Marcellus Bonnefaçon and he is wanted for treason.

Is there a reward? asked one of the men. Because then, yeah, I’ve seen him.

Lie.

Cerise fast-forwarded to the next response.

Sorry. I don’t know where he is, the worker mumbled.

Truth.

As the footage played on, Cerise’s hands flew deftly across her control panels, pausing on each face long enough for her left eye to capture the image and decrypt the response. It was the nanosecond after a lie was told when it was the easiest to detect. And thanks to her cyborg surgery, Cerise Chevalier now saw the world in nanoseconds. She saw the world in nano-everything. Molecules and bytes of data. Milli-centimètres and microscopic pixels. She’d never realized the universe could be so detailed and so beautiful.

It was like she’d been living her entire life with a blindfold on, only seeing the world in slivers and stolen shafts of light. But now she saw everything.

And she had the Ministère to thank for that.

They had saved her. Saved her from a pitiful, frivolous existence. Saved her from herself.

Download complete, said the voice in her audio interface, and Cerise swiveled seamlessly back to her tertiary monitor. She activated the first batch of clips, and her screen morphed into a grid of hundreds of tiny moving images. She focused her glowing, cybernetic eye on the screen, letting it capture the data so her internal processors could sort through the myriad of faces. All it would take was one slipup on his part, and she would have him. Marcellus Bonnefaçon would be as good as caught.

Oftentimes, when she lay awake in her sleep pod in the cyborg dormitories, she would imagine the look on the general’s face when Cerise announced that she’d accomplished his most critical objective. When she handed his traitorous grandson to him on a titan platter. She imagined the praise, the accolades, the commendation. Maybe even a promotion or the Medal of Accomplissement to wear around her neck, announcing to everyone that Cerise Chevalier, the former shame of the Chevalier family, the former traitor to the Regime, had single-handedly captured one of the Ministère’s most-wanted fugitives.

And then she imagined the look on her father’s face. Not just the pride that was sure to be sparkling in his eyes. But the last traces of disappointment finally being washed away.

The surveillance footage from the marketplace continued to flicker across her screen: thousands of Third Estaters going about their day, buying, selling, conversing with friends, all completely oblivious to the cams that were installed in every hologram module across the planet.

It was one of General Bonnefaçon’s more brilliant tactics. Now that the planet was stable again, thanks to him, initiatives had to be put in place to keep it that way. But without the Skins, the Ministère had lost their ability to comprehensively monitor the Third Estate. And since the general had significantly reduced the number of droids patrolling the cities—in favor of a friendlier, more peaceful atmosphere—there simply wasn’t enough footage available for the Ministère to do its job and protect the people. The hologram modules, which both projected and captured, was the next best thing to an implanted device, especially when the general announced that they would eventually be installed inside every Third Estate dwelling and workplace as well.

It also created the need for an entirely new division in the Bureau of Défense, of which Cerise was now a part and which spanned the entire fifth floor of the Ministère headquarters. Sparse cubicles in long, curving rows filled the room, all of them facing toward a set of large monitors up front and a vast glowing hologram that projected Laterre’s new thirty-hour-a-day TéléCast feed. Cerise’s cubicle was at the end of the first row, and if she pushed back from her desk and peered out of a nearby window, she could just see the Grand Palais and the gushing sparkle of a fountain in the distance.

Halt, she called out, and the hundreds of moving images on her screen paused mid-playback. Her hands flew over the controls, isolating the footage that had snagged her attention.

It was a girl. A girl who, up until a nanosecond ago, had not been visible on any cams. It was as though she’d just fallen from the sky. And the moment she landed, her bulky black hood fell back, giving Cerise a momentary glimpse of her face.

It was a face that tickled at the edges of Cerise’s mind.

Where had she seen that girl before?

Normally, Cerise’s memory was faultless. Flawless. The database in her brain was nearly as vast as the Communiqué itself, and her cyborg implants had given her the gift of perfect recall. But, for some reason, this girl’s painfully familiar features could not be recalled.

Why not?

The levels of cortisol in her body started to rise, and Cerise could feel her neuroprocessors firing up, fighting against her body’s natural response to stress. An easy calm flowed through her and she relaxed back in her chair, observing the still-frozen footage with a detached curiosity.

She magnified the image of the girl’s face and uploaded it to the Communiqué. If her own facial recognition software failed her, the Ministère’s central database certainly would not.

No results found, replied the voice in her audio interface, causing Cerise’s head to tilt in fascination.

Not in the Communiqué? Not in her memory?

Who was this girl?

Keeping the frozen image up on one monitor, Cerise dragged the source footage to another and continued the playback. She tracked the girl in the black hood as she maneuvered deftly and stealthily through the marketplace. She was clearly on the hunt for something. Maybe even following someone. When the girl moved out of range of hologram module 63, Cerise quickly accessed the footage from module 64, matching the time stamp to the millisecond so she could pick up the girl’s trail again.

It was not until she neared the center of the marketplace and Cerise paused the footage again that she was able to identify whom the girl was following. And this was a face Cerise certainly did recognize.

A face anyone in the Bureau would recognize.

Jolras Epernay. The brother of Maximilienne Epernay. If there was anyone higher on the general’s most-wanted list than his own grandson, it was Maximilienne. The Ministère had lost all traces of the Red Scar the night of the Patriarche’s murder. It was as if they’d simply vanished off the face of the planet.

Suddenly, the image of the Medal of Accomplissement hanging from Cerise’s neck swelled and expanded in her mind. The Red Scar was the Regime’s greatest enemy. Possibly even more dangerous than the Vangarde had been when they were still alive. If Cerise were to single-handedly locate the Red Scar and its leader, she would be a hero. No longer would anyone be able to see her as Gustave Chevalier’s sparkle-headed daughter who had been naïvely hoodwinked and manipulated by a known traitor. No longer would anyone be able to see her as the foolish, stupide girl who had helped Marcellus Bonnefaçon break into the Grand Palais three months ago and attempt to assassinate the general.

Her slate would finally be wiped clean. Her reputation would finally be untarnished, and she would be redeemed.

Ah, very good! said a deep voice behind her. Excellent find, Technicien.

Cerise calmly turned and peered up at the man of the hour. The celebrated hero who had saved Laterre from the brink of destruction and returned it to all of its former glory… and then some.

Good afternoon, General. She nodded her head in salute and followed the general’s gaze back to her monitors, assuming the find he was referring to was Jolras Epernay. But his eyes were incontrovertibly directed at the frozen image of the girl in the black hood. Flickers of recognition danced once again on the periphery of Cerise’s mind. Do you know her?

Yes. And so do you.

I do?

Her name is Chatine Renard. The general cocked one of his dark, immaculately groomed eyebrows, as though he expected this might trigger something for Cerise.

Chatine Renard, she repeated, turning back to the screen and waiting for the name to spark a connection in her neuropathways, but once again, it just gave her a frustrating sense of impenetrability. I have the perception that I have seen this girl before. But for some reason I cannot access her in my memory.

The general’s brow fell, and when he spoke again, Cerise could hear disappointment in his voice. Perhaps because Chatine Renard reminds you too much of your own betrayal.

Heat flooded through Cerise’s face, causing her circuitry to spark.

It appears, the general continued after clearing his throat, we have found yet another memory that has fallen prey to the unfortunate side effect of your surgery.

Cerise’s head fell into a rueful nod. It appears so, sir.

She knew she had been an integral part of Marcellus Bonnefaçon’s treasonous plan to assassinate the general, but only because she had been told so. Not because she remembered any of it. In fact, she had so few memories of her life before the surgery. Sometimes she would experience fleeting glimpses of strange images—like a voyageur rocketing through space, a planet with radiant blue skies, and two men with bloodied faces, locked behind a wall of clear plastique. But these images never made any sense to her.

Her father had determined that it was a known but rare side effect of her cyborg procedure. Her newly implanted neuroprocessors had deemed certain human memories to be inefficient and disruptive in her role of serving the Regime—namely, any memories that marked her as a traitor of that very Regime—and these memories had been relegated to less accessible parts of her brain. No matter how hard Cerise tried to conjure them up, they simply wouldn’t come to her. Not when the general had interrogated her for days on end about the details of Marcellus’s plan, not when she lay awake at night and commanded her brain to remember. And because human memories were not downloadable and viewable like cyborg memories were, Cerise found herself held hostage by her own human weaknesses.

Chatine Renard is an excellent lead on my grandson, the general said, pulling Cerise’s attention back to the screen, where he was tapping a finger on the face of the girl frozen there. "She has always had a special relationship with Marcellus. And, like you, she was an integral