Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(57)

He notices my unease. “Hey, it’s just me, remember? You don’t need to be wary. We’re past that. We both took the beatin’ of our lives together.”

I don’t doubt that the beating we received at the hands of the Gates of Dawn rebels was the worst of his life. For me, it’s only in the top ten, somewhere behind drowning and being murdered by fusionblade. Reykin’s grimace says he’s thinking the same thing, or maybe he’s remembering the day he saved Edgerton and me from his fellow soldiers.

Our drinks arrive. After a host sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of me, I wrap my hands around it, letting it warm them. “How have you been, Edge?” I ask.

“Leaving Swords was the best thing that ever happened to me, Roselle. Hammon and I—we still cain’t thank you enough.”

“That’s not necessary, Edge.”

“It is necessary. You do realize that you saved my life a thousand times over, don’t you? You saved us from war against the Gates of Dawn. You got us out of infantry. You know we wouldn’t have lasted another year. If you hadn’t come up with that plan to rescue Hammon from Agent Crow, he’d’ve gotten her. She’d be dead—along with my baby—or worse, one of them Numbers they’re convertin’ everyone into.

“Assumin’ I’d survived all that, Census would’ve gassed me to death in my capsule on CT Day had I still been livin’ on a Sword Base. Instead we were floatin’ around the ocean, outside their reach. They cain’t get to us down here with them inferior Burton seafarers. They cain’t reach this depth—not yet anyway. Them ships cain’t hack it. They fold in, or the people in ’em die from decompression sickness when they surface. We’re safe fer now.”

“You can’t count on that,” I reply. “Spectrum’s a collective AI. They’ll find a way. It’ll only take one person who understands this technology to integrate and change its perspective.”

“We haven’t seen nothin’ like that yet. This ship’s self-contained. Barrin’ any major catastrophes, we can live down here forever. We produce our own oxygen, food, purify the water for drinkin’, and we answer to no one ’cept the rest of the fleet. No more firstborns and secondborns. We’re encouraged to have children—lots of children if we want.”

“It sounds like utopia, Edge.”

“It is. Reykin and Salloway made it possible.”

Clifton’s aesthetic graces every line of the design of this vessel.

“We plan to get our people back up to the surface eventually,” Reykin explains with a serious look. “Although these vessels have long-term capabilities, they’re only meant to be temporary. Once we figure out a way to beat Crow and his killers, we can all go back.”

“How many ships do you have?”

My question is met with silence. Reykin drops his eyes from me. I catch on. They don’t want me to know in case I get assimilated back into Spectrum. I can’t be offended—I warned Reykin not to drop his guard around me—but I am somewhat wounded, even though I try not to be.

I smile and change the subject. “You haven’t told me about your baby, Edge. Did you have a girl, or a boy?”

“We had a girl! This is our Roselle—Rosie.” Edgerton grins and fumbles with his wrist communicator. “We call her Rosie because she’s sunny all the time—so happy. She looks like me, but with Hammon’s dark hair.” He projects hologram pictures of Rosie from his wrist communicator onto the table. The images “stick” to the surface and roll to me. I use my fingers to enlarge them.

“You named her Roselle?” I whisper, scrolling through the various images of a tiny infant, then a plump-cheeked toddler with pigtails and a sanguine smile.

“After her auntie Roselle.” Edgerton gazes at me across the table. “Because there ain’t nothin’ I won’t do for her auntie Roselle in this lifetime, or in the next. You hearin’ me?”

I nod, wiping the corners of my misty eyes on a napkin. I continue to scroll through the images. I flick a cute picture of Rosie and Rogue over to Reykin, who catches it with his finger before enlarging it and chuckling.

“Rogue adores her,” Reykin says softly.

Edgerton laughs, every bit the proud papa. “We’re not sure who she loves more, Rogue or Uncle Reykin.”

“She loves me more,” Reykin assures him with a gentle smile that makes me melt a little.

Beside me, Cherno appears not to be listening to us but instead studying the world outside the window. Then plate after plate of our meal arrives. When it’s all laid out on the glistening table, entrées surround Cherno. I half expect the dragon-man to pick up his food with his hands and devour it, but Cherno has definite table manners. He lays his napkin in his lap and lifts the cutlery. The knife and fork look dainty in his hands. It makes me wonder what his life with Crow has been like. Has he suffered at the psychopath’s hands? Can he remember any of it? All of it? Or are these manners common to all ancient dragons? I find that last thought doubtful.

We begin eating. I ask Cherno, “How is it?”

He chews slowly and swallows before answering, “It’s better than a feeding tube in my capsule.”

Goose bumps raise on my arms. “It does taste like freedom, doesn’t it? You have lovely manners for being force-fed in a capsule all your life.”