He stopped and saluted, tablet gripped in his other hand. “Sir.”
She nodded, and Bray unlocked his tablet, then opened the secure data-transfer menu. She tapped her nexus and a small holographic interface opened above her forearm. Holding the inside of the black band to the face of Bray’s tablet, the transfer initiated, popping the encrypted file up on her screen.
Though antiquated, the proximity served as an intentional security precaution—the only arguably more secure method being actual physical paper, which could then be destroyed. Adequin hadn’t yet encountered a need for that level of security in her time aboard the Argus. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a piece of paper.
Bray saluted and began to walk away.
“Bray?” she called after him.
He about-faced. “Yes, sir?”
“Do me a favor—don’t tell anyone who he is?”
“Of course, sir,” he said, his gray eyes steady with their usual resolute firmness, and she knew she didn’t have to worry. He’d keep his word; he always did. Bray had always been one of her most reliable oculi, and well-overdue for a bump up to circitor. But she’d technically expended the number of promotions she could hand out given their current population, and had to wait on approval from Legion HQ before advancing anyone else. Which was another reminder message she needed to send tonight.
She gave Bray a grateful nod. “Thanks. Dismissed.”
He marched away, and Adequin glanced around. The twangs of Bray’s retreating boots echoed in the empty launch bay, and the muffled sounds of Lace’s repairs floated in from the main hangar, but otherwise she was alone.
She opened the encrypted file and a bank of text appeared in the air over her forearm. She read the first paragraph, then scrolled down, skimming the rest for the broad strokes.
Unfocused intelligence. Shrewd. Insolent. Complex issues with authority. Lethargy. Self-medication. Depression.
The last line read, “Caution and close observation recommended.”
She let out a hard breath as she pinched the file closed. She hated this programmed psychological bullshit. Even with advanced AI, machines couldn’t really read a person, really tell what they were like, what they were thinking. Or what they were capable of. She’d only ordered the evaluation out of spite, an attempt to assert dominance over the unwieldy recruit. Which deviated from her customary approach, but he’d proven to be a whole new breed of disrespectful.
Every Sentinel was a delinquent, of a sort, soldiers who had been court-martialed for some offense or another—insubordination, theft, perjury, fraternization, desertion, treason. But they were all soldiers, and they regarded her with at least a modicum, if not a great deal, of respect. Maybe because they knew who she was, knew she’d been a Titan. They also knew she must have done something to end up here, and that endeared her to them. They could empathize with that.
But not Cavalon Mercer. He’d been forced aboard the Argus and into her charge by machinations and politics, the motivations of which she’d likely never understand, and didn’t care to. The bottom line was: He wasn’t one of them, and he would need to be managed differently than a soldier. What that management entailed, she didn’t know. For now, she’d just have to keep a close eye on him.
CHAPTER THREE
Cavalon hadn’t grown up in space. He’d spent his formative years firmly planted on the terra of Elyseia until his thirteenth birthday brought him to the ritual coronation grounds on the planet’s only moon. So he well-remembered what it’d been like to meet the universe for the first time.
“You’re looking into the past,” his father had told him. “By the time the light reaches you, those stars could be dust.” It’d been awe-inspiring and humbling. He’d never felt so small.