“How about some apexidone?” Emery asked hearteningly, holding up a vial of clear liquid.
Cavalon’s pulse sped and cool relief washed through him even at the sight of it. Just the thought of the painkiller coursing through his veins was enough to alleviate his suffering, however briefly.
But he swallowed hard and shook his head, letting the dense pain settle back onto him like a thick, unwelcome blanket. “I can’t.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Why?” Then her shoulders slumped as realization washed over her face. “Oh. As in, you shouldn’t?” He nodded, and she gave a sympathetic grin. “There’s some over-the-counter stuff back in the medbay.”
Emery helped him up, then he had to pause and close his eyes to let the pain from standing upright subside. With a fraction of a modicum of relief, he realized his previously stranded royal Imprints had returned to their default formation on his right arm. Still far too tired—and far too afraid—to test them, he could at least sense their willingness to respond just under the surface, a latent sensation, queued and awaiting orders. Hopefully those few excruciating moments of volatile interfacing hadn’t done any permanent damage.
“Let’s not tell Mesa,” he croaked, slowly buttoning his shirt and restrapping his vest.
A trace of normal Emery returned when her worried brow bent into a scowl. “That’s stupid.”
“It won’t help, trust me. The more I get the brass to fight my battles, the harder this is going to be.”
“Or the more you’re going to get beat up.”
He pushed down the pain long enough to give her a genuine grin. “It builds character.”
She rolled her eyes. “I think you’ve got plenty enough of that already.”
She didn’t press him further, but crossed her arms and huffed. She clearly thought he was being an idiot for not reporting it, but it didn’t matter. Mesa couldn’t do anything anyway, whether or not she was the highest-ranking officer left on the ship. And Snyder was unhinged. Cavalon refused to put Mesa in his crosshairs as well.
Cavalon attempted to appear unaffected as he and Emery walked back to the medbay-turned-research lab, though he knew one look at his limping gait would give him away. Luckily, Mesa paid them no heed whatsoever as she hovered over the pyramid. The device sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by six small laser turrets, red beams shining onto the golden surface.
“You have returned,” Mesa said, still squinting at the pyramid. “I am taking measurements. I think one facet may be slightly thicker than the others…”
“We got the, uh,” Cavalon began, then tossed the bloody hand on the table. “This.”
“Excellent.” Mesa glanced up to smile her approval, but as her large eyes landed on Cavalon, the look quickly faded to concern. “Are you all right?”
He quickly cleared his throat. “Never better. I think this might be more what we’re after, though.” He produced the necklace he’d taken off the Drudger captain and held it by the chain so the golden triangle medallion dangled in front of her face. “Drudgers don’t usually wear jewelry, right?”
Mesa’s eyes lit up. “Indeed. That looks quite promising.” She lifted both sets of thin fingers to cup the medallion delicately, and Cavalon dropped it into her waiting hands. He pulled his chair out and sat, withholding a groan of pain as his bruised organs protested the compression.
Emery appeared beside him with a canteen of water and three small tablets. He gave her a grateful nod and downed the pills along with half the water. Emery sat, and they watched as Mesa carefully swept the flat golden triangles over one side of the pyramid. She turned it over to rest on a different side, then repeated the process. When the medallion reached the peak of the pyramid, a quiet beep rang out.