“Like helping with the book smuggling project!” said Anabel excitedly.
“Like test-piloting Project Rebelwing,” said Head Representative Lamarque.
“What?” shrieked Pru, in unison with Anabel, Cat, and Alex.
Lamarque mugged a perturbed expression. “I don’t see what the shock here is,” he said mildly. “Miss Wu needs a cover story for her presence in Incorporated territory, and she certainly can’t run about smuggling books anymore, not with the risk of increased scrutiny now that the tabloids have had their say. Meanwhile, we need a pilot.”
“Uncle, with due respect,” said Alex, thin lipped, “you have a pilot.”
His uncle’s gaze softened on him. “Perhaps. I have a young woman with a probable mech imprint. But if we were to delete it, I have no guarantee that the dragon would choose to imprint on . . .” For the first time, he hesitated.
“Me.” Alex’s voice was quiet. “You don’t trust that Rebelwing would imprint on me.”
“Of course she would!” snapped Cat. “That was the entire point of her design!”
“Was it?” One of Gabriel Lamarque’s eyebrows climbed. “I seem to recall that when you first pitched the creation of a living metal dragon to me, you spoke of designing a sentient mech. A mech that chooses its own pilot instead of the other way around, so as to maximize compatibility and efficiency in the field, to outpace and outfight wyvern flocks. Weren’t those your words?”
“Yes! And my mech would choose Alexandre. He’s the ideal test pilot for a sentient mobile suit, well-trained, committed to the cause, there’s no reason the mech wouldn’t—”
“And would you stake the Barricade Coalition’s future on that?”
“I—”
“Would you stake Alexandre’s life?”
Cat fell silent, mouth twisting.
“I thought not.” Lamarque didn’t look triumphant. He looked sad. “Remember why you and Alex built her, Cat. Project Rebelwing was never just about a single prototype. If Rebelwing proves successful at bonding a pilot and performing in combat, she’ll be the model for dozens of other sentient mobile suits. And that—well, that will be the Coalition’s best guarantee of a secure future.”
Pru cleared her throat. She regretted that, vaguely, when six pairs of eyes snapped toward hers. “Um, I’m sorry if this is a stupid question, but uh . . . why do you need a pilot so badly for this Rebelwing mech right now?” Her laugh, when she forced it out, sounded more like a croak, but years of smuggling experience in tight corners urged her to barrel on, heedless of her pounding heart. “I mean, sure, we’re never going to be bosom buddies with UCC Inc., given the Partition Wars and that whole corporate fascism thing, but the future of the Barricade Coalition? Really?”
“Yup.” Jay Park, surveying the others with heavy-lidded calm, leaned forward ever so slightly. “I’m afraid so. I mean, look at all this, Prudence.” He gestured expansively at his own body, draped carelessly over its seat at the table. “You really think I’d be here in this great bothersome emergency meeting instead of out to brunch at that posh new fusion restaurant on the corner of H Street if anything less than liberty itself were under threat? I could be having filet mignon. I could be having bulgogi. I could be having filet mignon and bulgogi.”
“Depressingly, he characterizes himself accurately,” muttered Anabel.
“Sticks and stones, cousin.” Behind those sleepy eyes, though, was a certain sharpness that belied Jay’s happy-go-lucky tone. It darted about the room, as his gaze flicked from one face to the next. “Now, who wants to tell our charming young smuggler the fun part behind this avant-garde little mobile suit project? Or have we all had quite enough of wringing our hands over wyverns?”
“Jay!” snapped Hakeem Bishop.
“Not you, Bishop,” continued Jay blithely, “I know wringing your hands over wyverns is your very favorite pastime, and wouldn’t wish to deprive you of the small joys in life.”
“Wyverns aren’t real,” Pru blurted out, all autopilot, before realizing how foolish that sounded while hanging out in a creepy basement chatting cybernetic dragons with her elected representatives. “I mean, not the way they were during the war,” she backpedaled. “No one’s confirmed a real sighting since—”
“Two nights ago, half past midnight,” said Cat.
Hakeem Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Cat, by all means, let us disclose sensitive government information to an underage felon.”
“Have you ever seen a wyvern?” Cat demanded, ignoring the Chief of Staff. Her metallic eye bored bright into Pru, as she spat the words. “I’m not talking about the grainy holograms you see in old footage of the Partition Wars and Incorporated propaganda videos, where you can barely tell head from tail. I’m talking about standing in the shadow of a bona fide war mech’s wingspan, at the mercy of a manufactured monster that blasted your family away into ash, and wouldn’t hesitate to send you after them. Looking it straight in the eye, and feeling death on your heels. Because I have.” Her mouth twisted. “I was just a snot-nosed little Southwestern toddler during the uprisings. Then my family caught the wrong end of a riot, and I got packed off to the labor camps, to engineer the same things that killed them. Because make no mistake: wyverns are war machines. And war will always be the UCC’s greatest source of profit.”
“The Partition Wars are over.”
“The Partition Wars are over,” mimicked Cat, practically dripping disdain. “God, what do they teach you in that prep school of yours? If you don’t think the Executive General will shell out a fortune to Incorporate the Barricade cities at the first sign of New Columbia’s weakness, you don’t deserve to pass your history exams. If Etienne and Julia were still alive, you’d never—”
“Cat.” Gabriel Lamarque’s voice, softer than Pru had ever heard it on a live broadcast, sliced across the room. “That’s enough, please.”
Cat tucked her chin, looking primed for a fight, before her gaze flickered toward Alex and Anabel. Whatever she saw in their faces must have changed her mind. With machinelike efficiency, she ducked her head and slammed out of the room fists clenched.
Anabel glanced around, expression open and vulnerable for a few seconds, before settling into something determined. Wordless, she jogged after Cat. Alex turned to follow, but his uncle’s hand landed on his shoulder first. “Let Anabel see about Cat, Alexandre.”
Alex looked ready to argue, but gave a curt nod instead.
“Who were Etienne and Julia?” Pru asked in a small voice, and regretted it instantly when Alex flinched, a full-bodied movement that shrank him away from the rest of the room’s occupants, sharp jawline drawn tight.