“Alex,” said Pru softly. “They bet on Alex. Just like we did.”
“I become the new wyvern alpha when my father dies.” Alex spoke without inflection. “They’re building themselves up by breaking down our legacy.”
“I won’t accept that.” Pru stood, propelled by an abrupt fury. “The Executive General doesn’t get to do this. Jellicoe doesn’t get to do this.” Her eyes narrowed on the Chief of Staff. “And you wouldn’t have told us about all this, if you didn’t know a way to destroy the alpha cell for good.”
“We do,” said Bishop. “Rebelwing.” He palmed over the hologram projector. A glinting, metallic exoskeleton appeared, equipped with tiny, scuttling legs and a wicked pair of incisors that resembled nothing so much as repurposed, razor-edged wyvern scales. Pru shivered. “This is a closeup of the alpha cell. It’s a nanotech parasite, almost naked to the human eye and near indestructible—except by dragon-grade plasma fire.”
Alex turned halfway, body language opening up toward Pru. His mouth angled a humorless smile at her. “In other words,” he said, “we have you.”
“Like hell you do.” It was easier to affect indignant airs than to acknowledge the cold seeping into her veins at Alex’s expression. “I’ve been in the cockpit for less than two months. I can hardly pilot my way through Jay Park’s stupid circus of an obstacle course, and now you’re suggesting that I, what, fly Rebelwing over Barricade walls to single-handedly infiltrate Jellicoe’s evil fort and take down his biggest secret weapon since the Partition Wars?”
“Well.” Alex pursed his lips. “Not single-handedly.”
Her heart beat once, twice, and then she was back in the chair. “You’re joking.”
“I am not. I haven’t even said anything yet.” Alex stuck his hands in his pockets. Leaning against the window glass, backlit by the city, he could have graced a hundred propaganda posters. No wonder Jellicoe had banked on him playing the Barricaders’ hero. Jellicoe had probably taken one look at the boy who’d pulled Cat from the labor camps, seen all that stubbornly kind, hell-bent optimism, and thought to himself, Ah, yes, this one shall be our key to fucking over the last living hope of democracy. “But what you’re thinking right now, you have to admit it makes a certain sort of sense.”
“Don’t presume to know what I’m thinking right now, buddy.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Please. We’ve shared the same neural imprint. Forgotten already?”
“Right now, believe me, I wish I could.” Pru buried her face against her palms. Her elbows dug into the tops of her thighs. “If we try to pull off what we did at the beach—me channeling the dragon’s imprint, you flying in the cockpit—you’re directly exposed to the alpha cell. Anything short of a perfect, fatal shot of plasma fire, and you become the Executive General’s latest, greatest weapon against the Barricade Coalition.”
“I know.” Alex’s thin smile went thinner. “Which is another reason I need you. Jay’s taught you how to use Rebelwing’s plasma fire cartridges, right?”
“What does that have to do with—”
“Did he teach you how to fire a killing shot?”
“No.” Pru was back on her feet in an instant.
“No? Well, it’s easy enough. If you remember what Anabel taught you about ordinary plasma guns, and apply it to—”
“Not ‘no’ as in I don’t know how! ‘No’ as in I won’t do it!”
“You might have to. One life, in the grand scheme of things—”
“Oh, shut your stupid would-be martyr mouth, already!” Pru rounded on Bishop. “You. You’re his uncle’s Chief of Staff. Are you seriously going to condone the suicide-murder of your boss’s only nephew?”
“That’s not at all what I’m condoning,” snapped Bishop. “What Alex describes is merely a last resort, and, god willing, an unlikely one. The two of you, pursuing this objective as a pair, have a far greater chance of success than either of you going it alone. When confronted with invasive enemy technology, pairs of soldiers frequently mount a successful resistance more often than single operatives, and ordinary soldiers lack the advantage of having successfully shared Rebewing’s imprint. You have overcome more remarkable odds than you realize.”
“But I might have to kill him.” Pru’s eyes burned. She refused to look at Alex. “To destroy the wyverns before Jellicoe delivers them to the Executive General, I might have to kill Alex.”
“Yes.” Bishop’s gnarled hands emerged from his pockets and folded together. “I won’t condescend to either of you by lying. You deserve more than that. So instead, I’ll suggest that you both become, if not comfortable, at least accustomed to that possibility.”
Comfortable. “Great.” Pru dashed a hand across wet eyes, wishing she could dash it across someone’s face. She needed to hit something. Mama probably wouldn’t bother restraining herself.
“Understood,” said Alex, ignoring the rage simmering under Pru’s voice. He straightened himself up, every inch the good Barricaders’ soldier, the promised hero. His face, for everything that had broken him down minutes earlier, now gave nothing away. “You have my service to the mission.”
Bishop cast his attention toward Pru. “Miss Wu? This doesn’t work without your cooperation. I know you weren’t raised to . . . throw life and limb behind power struggles against the Incorporated. I can’t force you to do this.” He followed her gaze—which flicked, damnably automatic, toward Alex—and added, in pointed tones, “Neither of us can.”
Alex’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “I won’t hold your decision against you. Whatever it is.”
“You can’t force me,” Pru mimicked. “You won’t hold my decision against me.” Her shoulders slumped. “What a joke. You forced me from the minute Mama signed those waivers that enrolled me in your godforsaken internship. You knew what Jellicoe had in his back pocket, Mr. Bishop. You knew all along, and it wouldn’t have mattered if he activated his flock two days or two years after Rebelwing imprinted on me. The six-week deadline, the so-called ‘combat assessment,’ all those stupid obstacle courses—none of it really mattered. It was all about this. The alpha.” She gave a mocking bow, blinking away the burn behind her eyes. “So yes, you have my service to your ridiculous, incredibly illegal gambit. Congratulations. Is that all?”
The Chief of Staff released a gust of a breath. She didn’t know what cut her more deeply: that he’d really doubted her that much, or the sense of being so expendable. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised her. She’d only become this important because, as everyone was so fond of reminding her, she was technically a felon. “One more thing.”