Degrees of Wrong (7 page)

Also, he smelled nice.

My fit-throwing stunned the three to silence. Captain Marek, in particular, regarded me as if I had morphed into a breast-feeding reptile. No doubt he was unaccustomed to being addressed in such a manner. I felt certain he would adjust.

Seizing my opportunity—the element of flabbergast—I added, “That said, I would appreciate very much if my laptop could be returned to me. It happens to contain every shred of research I’ve documented on the HTN4 virus, and it seems irresponsible to allow a halfwit like Horan to have access to it. I’d also be grateful if someone could show me to my room, and some food, in no particular order.”

Still, silence.

After a few more exaggerated seconds, Dr. Folsom took my hand and whispered, “I— Please come with me, Elyse. I’d be happy to show you to your quarters.”

I allowed her to tow me toward the door. Before we exited, I turned back to the two men still gawking at me. “And, Captain Marek?”

He raised a brow.

I paused for effect. “You owe me a toothbrush.”

Dr. Folsom jerked me by the hand out of the office. Behind us, I thought I heard Admiral Rudd snickering.

Dr. Folsom delivered me to my quarters within five minutes. She turned off the alarm at my door, as I was still an intruder by security standards.

“After you rest up a bit, we’ll get you processed,” she said.

I promenaded the room as if checking into a hotel suite. Not as luxurious as Admiral Rudd’s office, but not offensive, either. In fact, it reminded me of my dorm room at The University—I could feel at home here. The small space boasted a single, tightly made bed, a simple metal desk with matching chair, and a gray sitting chair identical to the one in the admiral’s office. A door on the far side entered into what I assumed was the bathroom, and the tall metal wardrobe beside the bed would fit seven days’ worth of these morbid black uniforms. Tiny, drab—efficient.

I turned to Dr. Folsom. “Home, sweet home.”

She returned a rueful smile. “You know, Nicoli is not a bad man.”

I didn’t believe her. Still, arguing with her seemed ungrateful—and the captain was bound to prove her wrong on his own. I strode to the bed and sat down. “First impressions are usually incorrect,” I offered as a truce. And who didn’t know that better than me?

“Yes,” she agreed. Her smile was authentic as she plopped down beside me. “Why don’t we get some food in you? Let’s go to the mess hall, and we’ll get your blood sugar back up to normal levels.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” Grinning, I followed her out the door.

She led me through the miscellaneous, unidentifiable hallways, pointing out things she thought I should remember. I pretended to commit them to memory. In reality, I knew this maze of a ship would confound me for weeks. The elevator—if that was in fact what it was called—shuffled us through the innards of the vessel.

By the time we got there, my stomach growled in agony. The mess hall was vast, with tables and chairs spread across the center and a buffet-style serving line which also reminded me a lot of The University cafeteria. We were the only patrons at the moment. I’d not only missed breakfast, but lunch as well.

Dr. Folsom grabbed a tray and bid me to take a seat. I complied, pulling up the closest chair and watching as she spoke to a man behind the counter. He disappeared into a room behind him, returning with several plates which he placed on the tray.

She strode to the table with her bounty. I sighed in appreciation. Before me she spread a fare of pasta, green salad, dinner roll and—tears came to my eyes—a piece of chocolate cake. This fluffy item I grabbed first because it was, by far, the most important food group. Devouring it in all of three bites, I closed my eyes, savoring the richness.

After annihilating the unsuspecting cake, I stabbed the pasta violently with my fork, cleaning my plate in mere minutes. The dinner roll never saw me coming, and the salad was easy prey as well. I stacked the four plates up as a tower, a monument to my fullness. I patted my belly in satisfaction but grimaced at the little bulge there now.

Dr. Folsom laughed. “That should give you a new perspective on things.”

“Yes.” But Captain Marek wasn’t one of those things. Pretty Princess didn’t fare any better. Calories were no cure for them.

“Would you like to see the lab now?”

“Yes, very much so.”

We headed out the door, into the obscurity of the halls. She fed me this mumbo jumbo about being able to remember the levels using the alphabet, like A Deck, B Deck and so forth, but I knew it would take one good instance of getting completely lost before I’d really try to discern the differences between levels. Voice-prompted elevators didn’t help—the lazy part of me would use them without shame.

When we reached the laboratory, she introduced me to the little vigilant laser as a guest, so it didn’t throw another tantrum about intruders. I surveyed my new lab in open-mouthed awe.

It was stocked to the hilt with state-of-the-art equipment—opposite of the spectrum from my makeshift lab at home. I hoped I remembered how to use some of this stuff. Speechless, I nodded to her in approval.

“Good,” she said simply. “We’ll need to make a list of things you need, specific to your research.”

“I already gave that list to Geoffrey,” I told her. She looked confused, and I supposed she didn’t know who he was.
Need-to-know basis
, I could hear him say. His favorite answer to any of my questions.

“If you’ve already made prior arrangements, we’ll wait a few days until it arrives and take stock then. In the meantime, you can familiarize yourself with the ship. But in order to do that, we’ll need to get you processed.” And then she bit her lip.

“What?” I asked with dread.

“Lt. Horan is your commander. He’ll need to be the one to sign off on your access areas.”

I growled, rubbing my temples.

Her stoic expression broke into a smile. “I’ll ask the admiral to speak to him. After your public display of affection…” she grinned, “…he’ll be out to get you. If he isn’t given boundaries, he’ll keep you busy ’round the clock. He can be quite a nuisance.”

“I was thinking of a more descriptive expletive.”

She smiled. “Let’s get you back to your room. You need to rest. You’ve endured a lot in the past few days, and you need time to recuperate from the shock of it.” She sounded like my mother again.

“Thank you.”

On the way back, I prodded her with questions. Captain Marek warranted dislike, of course, but also curiosity. “Why did Admiral Rudd call him a child prodigy?” I asked shyly. I didn’t want her to mistake my interest for—well, interest.

“Because that’s what he is. He’s the youngest individual to captain a UOC vessel since its inception. He’s not much older than you, twenty-nine. You can imagine the intelligence it takes to oversee such a large ship.”

I tried not to be impressed. “He doesn’t like me.” And I tried not to care.

“First impressions are usually incorrect,” she shot back. I grinned, giving her credit for her spirit. But she still evaded the non-question.

“His eyelashes are longer than mine.”

“And mine,” she chortled, eyes asparkle.

“So, even if he hadn’t been so rude, I’d still dislike him on that count alone,” I assured her. She laughed.

We reached my quarters, and she gained us access to the room. I strode to the bed, plucking off the heavy boots and rubbing my sock feet. She walked to the wardrobe, pulling out what appeared to be sleepwear, and tossed it to me. It was even in my favorite color—black.

“You have a private shower.” She pointed to the bathroom. “Take a hot one, relax and get some rest.” She walked to the bed, standing over me.

I smirked up at her. “What do you think Father would say?”

“About getting some rest?”

“About me working for the UN.”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “I think he would understand. Doesn’t sound like you had much of a choice.”

“He would disagree. He would say, ‘Every problem has at least two solutions.’”

“And the alternative was almost certain death, from what James told me. Your father would much rather you live, even if it meant working for the UN, I think.”

I cocked my head at her, doubtful.

“You know, you remind me so much of your mother. Those green eyes, that rich brown hair. But just now, when you tilted your head at me…” she drew in a sharp breath, “…I would swear it was her sitting there.” Tears threatened the rims of her eyes. They already spilled down my own cheeks.

“I miss her more than I can describe,” I admitted, burying my face in my hands.

Dr. Folsom sat, pulling me to her with both arms. Her voice shook. “You have no idea how proud she was of you. She couldn’t finish a sentence without somehow fitting in your praise.”

“I could use her advice right now,” I sobbed, “but mostly just her presence. I can’t imagine what she’d say about how I acted this afternoon.” I recoiled inwardly. I could see her frowning in disapproval, especially at my threatening Lt. Horan.
Think of his blood pressure, darling,
she’d scold.

“She would’ve been proud,” Dr. Folsom said. “Proud that you stood up for yourself, that you put a few self-important people in their rightful places.”

I was surprised she seemed to include Captain Marek in that generalization. But mostly, I appreciated her support. And her arms.

After a few moments, I was somehow able to pull myself from grief’s chasm and wipe away my own tears. Dr. Folsom took back the arms she’d lent me.

“Shower and sleep,” she reiterated, walking toward the door. “I’ll be back in the morning to get you processed, and then we’ll take a full tour of the ship.” She turned to face me. “Since your supplies haven’t come in yet, do you mind helping me with some routine physicals in the next few days? I’m swamped with all the new recruits.”

“No problem whatsoever.”

“Good. Thanks.” She smiled. “Oh, and don’t forget, you’re not in the security system yet, so you cannot leave the room, okay?”

I nodded, unable to think of a single reason I’d want to leave the confines of my new sanctuary.

She winked at me and left.

I grabbed the pajamas and headed for the bathroom. The strong water pressure surprised me, almost flaying the flesh from my body—and I enjoyed every last drop.

Toweling my hair as I exited the bathroom, I stopped short when I reached the bed. On the single, crisp pillow was a toothbrush, still in its original packaging. And I was pretty sure it hadn’t been there
before
I got in the shower.

Chapter Five

My stomach snarled. I pulled my face from the microscope and glanced at the clock, although my gut had already convinced me it was lunchtime. I grabbed my book and headed for the mess hall. I was eating with Ebony today, but in case something detained her, I’d have something to occupy me.

Ebony was nothing short of a savior to me here. She radiated self-confidence and serenity, and this had a calming effect on me—which I needed when exposed to my peers for any length of time. She had this special way of turning up her nose at the spectators. I tried to mimic it in the mirror sometimes but could never get it quite right.

I bounded down the hall toward the elevator. After one week aboard the
Bellator
, I could find my quarters and the lab without assistance. After two weeks, I could negotiate the indiscernible hallways like a paid tour guide.

My daily routine consisted of roll call in the morning, followed by breakfast with Dr. Folsom and dispensing with the rest of the day assisting her with patients. She’d only asked me to help her finish the initial routine physicals, but I could see she was drowning in other patients as well, so I offered to split her schedule. Although I didn’t mind helping Dr. Folsom, her flood of ill patients each day was barely manageable for the two of us. She’d expected to gain an assistant with this fresh batch of new recruits, but it hadn’t worked out that way.

The late-night hours offered a kind of hushed isolation conducive to research. Each evening, the
Bellator
hummed through the water with a skeleton crew—the muscle and tendons being dismissed after dinner—and I rarely passed a soul in the halls on the way back to my quarters.

The entire ship buzzed with life during the daytime hours. Whether it really was daytime I couldn’t say—the pitch-black depths smuggled us away from the real world. Still, the creator of the
Bellator
had accounted for our internal clocks, fitting the “windows” in our rooms with a timed lighting mechanism which poured out the spectrum of sunrise in the morning and painted it with the sunset in the evening. That first morning, I was amazed to find dawn cracking in my quarters.

Roll call was the only unpleasant fifteen minutes of my day, as it was administered by Lt. Horan. For me, retribution came in the form of attention. After confirming my presence each and every day, he planted himself in my face and screamed insults until his creativity ran dry—which wasn’t often enough.

He said my eyes resembled the color of an infant’s diarrhea and that my breath stunk to match it.