“I hear PhDs make them extra shiny.”
She let out a low, crackling sigh that sounded more like the snarl of a combustion engine.
Cavalon’s white cheeks paled another shade. “Sorry, sir. Again, sir. This probably isn’t the shit-cutting you’re looking for, huh?”
“Just stop talking.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll take a double shift tonight. After the brig’s as spotless as the bridge, head to the mess. Then report to Circitor Lace in the hangar—there’s a ruptured latrine tank that needs repair. After that, help with whatever else she needs. Report back to the bridge in the morning.”
Cavalon’s brow softened, and he didn’t blink for a few long moments. She waited for it, that smart-ass comment that would get him into even more trouble—likely something about already giving up on her babysitting duty.
But instead, he drew up his posture and gave a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”
* * *
Adequin deposited Cavalon into the capable hands of Rivas, the no-nonsense brig attendant, then released the hydroponics staff along with a firm reminder that repeat offenses wouldn’t be met with such leniency.
When she arrived at the hangar, she found Lace hunched over a workbench, blue-white sparks from her welding torch flashing against her protective goggles.
The dismantled segments of a cargo-lift drone sat all around—some piled on the worktop, others on the floor, spare hardware and circuitry littered among them. Lace very well might have been the most skilled mechanic across all forty-some Sentinel vessels, but the messes she made were absurd. Adequin had no idea how she could possibly keep it all straight.
Lace flicked off the torch and looked up. “Sir.”
“You wore them,” Adequin said.
Lace gave a short nod, dropping her goggles around her neck. “I did indeed,” she replied, looking quite pleased with herself. “You’re welcome. What can I do you for?”
“Sending trouble your way this evening.”
“Electrical or mechanical?”
“Biological.”
Lace quirked an eyebrow.
“New soldier shipped in yesterday,” Adequin explained. “He’s in rough shape, but he’ll respond if you’re firm with him.”
“I see, sir. And what should I inflict him with?”
Adequin pushed out a breath, shaking her head. “He’s like a four-year-old in an engineer’s body. Give him some toys to fix, and hopefully he’ll wear himself out.”
Lace’s soft brown eyes shone with amusement. “Happy to field it, sir. I’m sure you could use a night or twenty off.” She rubbed at a smear of grease on her chin with a gloved knuckle. “You walk all the way down from the bridge to tell me that? Coulda just pinged my nexus.”
Adequin swayed her head toward the docking bay. “Here to help Bach with something.”
Lace nodded as she eyed the Tempus, the fine lines around her lips deepening as she pressed them flat. “What’s that he calls you, sir? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“Dextera? Our rank during the war.”
“No, the other thing, what’s it—mo’acair? Sounds Northern Cautian. Your Titan call sign or something?”
“Oh that—no. Just a nickname he started using years ago.”
“What’s it mean?”
“You know, I never asked. You’re from Cautis Prime, don’t you know?”