Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(56)

My smile fades. Hammon will want to know about what happened to Hawthorne.

My initial euphoria at the prospect of seeing her dies. A ball of dread bubbles up inside me. Hawthorne and Hammon went through secondborn Transition together. I murdered her best friend.

How do I tell her that?

My head throbs. A part of me wants to disappear again, never to be tormented by the truth of what I’ve done. Oblivion. It’s seductive. A place with no shame, remorse, or regret. Spectrum is like that. Integrated in it, I’d feel nothing. My conscience would evaporate from the world along with my consciousness. But I’d rather die than go back. Facing up to what I’ve done is now my only option.

“When can I see Hammon?” I ask. I don’t know what I’ll say to her. I can’t even rehearse the conversation in my mind. It’s too painful. Dark despair, and with it an underlying rage, blooms within me.

“She’ll join us later,” Edgerton replies. “There was a problem with another ship. She’s dealin’ with it.”

Reykin’s face flickers with concern before he can hide it. It’s deep-seated worry. Maybe he’s wondering, like me, if it’s possible for me to come back from killing someone I love—to go on living. “If you’re ready, Roselle, we can go get something to eat,” he says with a slight bow.

“Yes . . . of course,” I reply. His offer feels like a stay of execution.

Edgerton escorts me from the command center. Reykin and Cherno follow. After passing through a few corridors, we come to an executive dining room. The two-story hall, shaped like an exotic lagoon, has a glass stairway that ascends to a balcony level. Black mother-of-pearl floors with peacock coloring cast my reflection in them. White mother-of-pearl tables in the shape of oyster shells dot the room. One transparent wall has a view of the sea. The husks of an ancient underwater city, illuminated by exterior lighting from the Sozo One, float by us.

A host greets us, his mouth agape as he looks Cherno over. After he recovers from shock, he leads us to the center of the room. Conversations cease. I pretend not to notice the silence, but my chin rises a notch nonetheless. We come to a table beneath a black-coral chandelier on the main floor.

“The captain’s table,” the host announces with a sweeping gesture of his hand. He pulls out a chair for me. His hand on the seatback trembles.

“Thank you,” I reply, taking the seat. Every pair of eyes in the place is riveted to Cherno and me. Whispers and the chinking of cutlery gradually commence.

Reykin sits to my left and leans his handsome face near my ear. “You’ll find the daily meal selections in your communicator’s menu.” He displays the hologram on his own communicator. I lean closer, pretending that I can’t see the menu well, just to be nearer to him. I know it’s dangerous. I should be putting distance between us.

“I do not have a wrist communicator,” Cherno churlishly growls beside me, seating himself on my right-hand side and glaring at Reykin.

“We don’t have beagle on the menu, if you had it in mind for brunch,” Reykin replies with an adorable smile.

I shoot him a look of censure before turning to Cherno and asking, “What do you like?” I pull up the selection of food and show him the hologram pictures.

“Meat.” His large head dips near my face. Golden eyes scan the hologram above my wrist. The intricate texture of his skin fascinates me, but I try not to stare too long at it. He has a scent of campfire and mountain air. It reminds me of cool nights in the woods as a secondborn soldier, on patrols between battles, looking for wounded.

“Will fish work?” I ask.

His dark eyebrows pull together over his golden, glowing orbs. “Yes, but they have to be fresh.”

I scroll through options. “They have a lovely tuna.”

“That will be a nice start.”

“Oh.” My gaze darts back to the menu. “Okay . . . the eel looks fresh.”

“I will have that as well.” I begin to close out the menu, but Cherno stays my hand. “And the squid”—he quickly scrolls through the menu—“the octopus, sea bass, and the halibut—”

“Should I just have them bring everything they have on the fresh-catch menu?” I tease.

“Yes.”

Reykin studies us.

“Is that—can we have all that?” I stammer.

“Of course,” Reykin replies. “I owe him a debt. Cherno carried my brother from the Sword Palace—he helped you. You can both have whatever you want, in whatever quantity you desire.”

I sigh in relief. I’m responsible for Cherno. I brought him here. We have a bond. We escaped Crow’s torturous nightmare together—from Spectrum’s mental and physical slavery.

“Okay,” I say, “how would you like your entrées prepared, Cherno?”

“What do you mean?”

“How would you like your fish to be cooked?”

“I don’t like them cooked. I like them raw.”

“Oh.” I smile to cover my faux pas. “Of course.”

“With scales.”

“With scales . . . How about the heads? Do you like the heads still on?”

“That’s the best part.”

I order a simple breakfast of eggs and toast along with Cherno’s selections. My eyes gravitate to Edgerton. A weird shyness invades my body, and I pluck at the hem of my sleeve with my fingernails.