flipping switches and saying things like, “This is for the whole baguette, baby. Come on. Make Papa proud.”
A red light on the panel flickered on. “Stealth mode activated,” said the breathy voice.
The man flung his hands into the air. “And we have engagement. That’s right. Who is the best pilote in all of Laterre?” But then, a second later, the light flickered off and his entire body seemed to deflate. “Okay, not me, apparently.”
“Stealth mode deactivated.”
“Yeah, I get it,” the man snapped in the general direction of the ship’s ceiling. “You don’t need to rub it in!” Then, a moment later, he hung his head and, looking ashamed, added in a soft voice, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I don’t want to fight. Let’s try this again.”
Chatine, once again, glanced around the empty compartment. “Who are you talking to?” she asked.
The man pulled his gaze away from the controls long enough to flash her a strange look. “The ship,” he said as if it were the only rational answer to any question.
Chatine stared at him, trying to gauge whether or not he was pranking her. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“You talk to a ship?”
“I don’t talk to a ship. I talk to my ship. We’re inseparable. We do everything together. She’s my baby. Isn’t that right, baby?”
The ship remained silent.
The man snorted and pointed at a red light on the console that was blinking erratically. “She got injured when I pulsed the power on Bastille, and now I can’t get stealth mode to stay activated.” He reached out and caressed the console. “Poor baby.”
Chatine stared incredulously. “Okay.”
The man was suddenly out of his chair again, darting to the back of the cockpit. He flipped open a panel on the wall and shone a small flashlight at the tangle of wires inside. His lips tugged into a frown. “Hmm. So it’s not the reactor. It’s definitely not the power cell. It could be …” He switched his flashlight to the other hand before pulling a wire from a port and studying the ends. “Nope. Not the thermal matrix.”
Chatine felt another warm rush of tingles shoot up her leg. She glanced down and curiously prodded at the skin around the giant gash again, marveling at how she felt nothing but that soothing glow. “So, why doesn’t it hurt?”
“Oh, it will,” the man replied distractedly as he continued to poke at wires inside the panel. “Just not for a while. You got a nasty shrapnel wound there. I pumped you full of goldenroot. The strong kind. A lot of it. You’ll be feeling pretty good for a few hours.”
“Goldenroot? What on Laterre is goldenroot?”
“Just a little remedy we use. Made with Maman’s finest herbs. Works wonders on menstrual cramps.” He paused and turned to add, “So I’ve been told.”
“How did I get in here?” Chatine asked.
The man closed the panel and returned to his chair in the center of the cockpit. “I saw you go down. On the roof. We don’t normally get involved, but I was hovering nearby and we have a kind of code back at the camp: If you can help without getting yourself killed, do it. So I did.”
Herbs?
Camp?
Something familiar was tickling the fuzzy edges of Chatine’s memory. She could only think of one kind of people who lived in a camp.
She let out a gasp. “Are you a Défecteur?”
The man’s arms fell limply to his sides, and he spun his chair away from the console to glare at her. “First of all, that name is offensive. Secondly, we didn’t defect from society. We simply chose not to partake in it. There’s a difference. One that the Regime clearly doesn’t understand.”
Chatine’s thoughts were whirling.
The Défecteurs have ships? With stealth mode?
“And thirdly—”
“Incoming explosif detected,” the ship interrupted. “Impact in five seconds.”
The pilote spun his chair back to the console. “Discussion to be continued.” He maneuvered a series of dials and then took control of the ship’s throttle and yanked it hard to the left. The ship, which was hovering a few mètres above what was left of the roof, sliced through the air.
Out the front window, Chatine watched a beam of light whiz by, just narrowly missing the ship. The air around them still seemed to sizzle, as though the explosif had gone right through the cockpit.
“Sols!” Chatine cried out, grabbing onto the first thing she saw. Unfortunately, it was the pilote’s leg. She quickly moved her grip to the base of his chair. “They’re firing at