She tried to curb the smirk that tugged at her lips, but from the amused glint in his eye, he’d already noticed.
He shook his head. “Don’t worry, I’m no revolutionary. But I was raised a politician, remember. I just didn’t come out the way Gramps wanted.”
“Clearly.” She scoffed and leaned her head against the wall. “So you took out an entire Mercer Biotech facility? That was…”
“I know. Stupid and impetuous and childish—”
“Brave.”
Cavalon’s eyes opened past a sliver for the first time since they came back inside. He turned his shocked look onto her.
“I mean, it was all those things too,” she assured. “But sometimes you have to fight fire with fire. I get that.”
He maintained his unreserved gawking. “Yeah…”
“And you were risking everything you knew,” she continued. “Everything that made life easy. Because you believed in something. That’s commendable.”
“You mean, the boy did.”
“Right.”
“’Cause it’s totally made up. A story.”
“Right.”
They stared at the toilet in silence for a few long moments.
“Hey, sir?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry for how I acted when we first met.”
“It’s okay.”
“My Augustus-appointed therapist always said it’s a defense mechanism. Obviously I was feeling extremely … defensive. Not that I’m trying to give an excuse,” he added quickly. “I’m just … I’m aware. And I’m trying to be better.”
“I know,” she said quietly, then added, “I think getting rid of that therapist was a good start.”
He laughed, but it soon faded away, and his tone fell serious. “And thanks for talking me off a cliff out there. Taking my own helmet off in space would have been a really, really ridiculous way to die.”
“I agree.” She let out a long breath. “And you’re welcome.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Adequin gave Cavalon another injection of saline, then helped him into a bunk. She grabbed a clean shirt and vest from storage, and Cavalon started snoring before the door slid shut behind her. Puck patted her on the back, and Mesa gave her a weary smile, but otherwise she avoided the gazes of the crew as she crossed through the common room to the cockpit.
Jackin sat in the pilot’s chair, feet up on the console, snoring softly.
“Jack.”
He jerked awake. “Void.”
She slid into the copilot’s seat. “Good morning.”
“Hey, boss.” Jackin wiped his brow.
She held up the fresh uniform. “Thought you might want to change.”
He looked at the torn shoulder of his vest, caked with dried blood. “Shit. Yeah.”
She slid the clothes across the console toward him. He stood and pulled his vest off, then yanked his torn shirt over his head. As his undershirt tugged up, she caught a stray glimpse of his lower back, where countless streaks of deep scars marred his light brown skin.
She tried not to stare, keeping her eyes focused on the collection of holographic screens in front of the copilot’s seat.
Yet her thoughts stayed fixated on those scars. They were old, at least ten years, and not the kind one got from battle, but from a much different style of warfare. She knew Jackin had been CNO for the First through most of the Resurgence, and she’d managed to glean a few other bits over the years. But he tended to be closed-lipped about what’d happened before the war, and even more so about what’d landed him at the Divide. Despite her taking advantage of a plethora of opportunities to encourage him to open up, he’d skillfully avoided it every time. And his were the only sealed service records she’d come across since joining the Sentinels.