Rake gripped the optio’s shoulder and his scowl faded. She leveled a flat look at Cavalon. “You’ve got a degree that says otherwise.”
“Yeah, a degree,” Cavalon said. “Not practical experience.”
“I’m not sure anyone has practical experience draining combustible elements from live warheads.”
Cavalon’s mouth gaped open. She couldn’t be serious. Sure, he’d been well-schooled. He’d read texts and wrote papers and listened to professors drone on for practically his entire life. But it was a whole different affair to apply that knowledge empirically.
Rake lowered her voice. “If you wanted a chance, Oculus,” she said, eyes earnest, “this would be it.”
He shifted his weight, brow creasing. He knew what she meant: if he wanted to prove he could not be a fuck-up for once. She’d just said it more politely.
He blew out a long breath. “I’ll need some supplies,” he said. “Some kind of glass-lined steel pressure canisters—the kind your hydro lab would use for nutrient concentrates should work. Plus two of whoever’s got the steadiest hands.”
Rake opened her nexus. “Bray, this is Rake.”
“Go for Bray, sir.”
“Find Emery and Warner and escort them to Octo Sector, ASAP.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rake closed her nexus and looked to Cavalon. “Meet them there, Oculus. Take whatever you need from the research lab. And make short work of it.”
* * *
Cavalon had thought with absolute certainty he was the most annoying person on this ship. Yet there she stood, proving him all wrong, chewing on her gum as if it were the most arduous task in the universe.
“Flos, actually, but that’s just the last name every orphan on Viridis gets.” Emery took a deep breath before continuing. “But whatever, those overrated gene pools gave me nothin’， why would I want their fuckin’ name?”
Cavalon sighed. This was still her response to, “I’m Cavalon. Nice to meet you.”
Emery leaned against the armored wall of the dimly lit armament-repair suite and continued her rant, crossing one bare ankle over the other. She had her pants rolled up to below her knees, revealing shins covered in a mess of black-inked tattoos including a banner with the text “vita in via.” “Street life,” if memory served. Cavalon rolled his eyes.
She wore the hood on her vest up, and had ditched the undershirt in favor of displaying thin, bare arms covered in more black-inked tattoos, which were in turn covered in part by the Sentinel-issue, sparkling obsidian Imprints. She’d replaced the shoelaces on her boots with silver-glittered, neon-orange strings. It could not be proper dress protocol.
They’d been in the same room for about forty-five seconds, and Cavalon already knew her life story. Granted, recapping nineteen years didn’t take long when most of it could be summarized with the phrase “pickpocket.” She didn’t seem particularly embarrassed by her unsavory history, but she did seem to think the Legion had been obligated to straighten her out, and that they’d failed her in that regard.
“Obviously,” Emery concluded, slouching against the wall and crossing her arms. “Here I am, after all.”
She continued gnashing her gum as she grinned over at Cavalon’s second assistant. Warner stood hunched at the in-wall terminal—a stocky, thick-muscled man whose skin was almost the exact same shade of sandy brown as his buzzed hair. He had literally not spoken a word yet—not that one could be expected to get anything in edgewise with Emery in the room.
“I mean, they go to great lengths to say it’s not a prison, but let’s be real, guys. Right?” Emery shrugged. “But what-the-hell ever. This is the first time they’ve called me out to do somethin’ useful. Plus, what better time to retrain my eye-hand coordination?”