Degrees of Wrong (12 page)

“I am sore, yes,” I confirmed with double meaning.

“And why shouldn’t she be?” Ebony had arrived, eyebrows angled in animosity. She looked impressive.

“Aww, come on, ladies,” Stanley said. “The man has a gift for comedy.”

“You egg him on.” Ebony shoved my tray of food toward me. She mouthed
sorry
when some of the corn spilled onto the table. Made no difference to me—my hands weren’t meticulous enough to spoon corn into my mouth at the moment.

“
You
egged him on today,” he parried.

She sniffed, lifting her nose in that special way. “I was trying to help Elyse.”

“Well, she wouldn’t need so much help if she didn’t have such a bad temper. Are you Irish or something, Morgan?”

“No.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t think so. Beats all I ever seen.” I couldn’t tell if he was perplexed at the obscurity of my descent, or the simple fact that I had a temper
and
wasn’t Irish.

“You need to stop laughing at his jokes,” I said. “They’re not funny.”

“Yes, they are.”

“They are unoriginal, boring and flat. Not funny. Do you understand?” I would’ve pounded my fist on the table for emphasis, but both of them were nestled in my armpits, growing delightfully numb.

He grinned wider. “Funny, funny, funny. All of them.”

I shook my head. “Stanley, I don’t know how to tell you this. I’ve been watching you for some time, and I’ve grown concerned about certain behavior patterns you’ve been displaying. I think you have a chemical imbalance in your brain that inhibits your ability to assess your surroundings. This same defect is common in clowns. Mimes, also. And politicians. You all live in an altered sense of reality.”

He beamed, unaffected by the misapplication of my medical degree. “I like mimes.”

“Well, there you have it. We need to get you treated right away. The traditional method is decapitation, but I’m sure I could find some meds—”

“Excuse me, Cadet Morgan?” A pale, boy-looking man interrupted our banter. We all peered up.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Lt. Horan sent me to find you.” He seemed anxious about his message, which made me anxious as well. His lips trembled like an infant’s would after a vaccination.

“Why?”

“He said you were due in class today, and when you didn’t show up, he sent me to find you.” The man fidgeted his hands, avoiding eye contact with me. A very bad sign.

“What class?” A familiar fire broiled in my stomach.

“Hand-to-hand combat training.”

Ebony gasped, and Stanley snickered through his nose. My horror-stricken face would have to suffice as a response until my heart pumped an extra helping of blood to my voice box.

“H-H-He’s mistaken,” I stammered. “I’ve been excused from hand-to-hand.” The admiral had made arrangements for my absence from this class, citing a fabricated knee injury. He’d made these arrangements directly with Lt. Horan.

The man fidgeted his hands so much they should have been raw from the burn of friction. “He said you were excused, but that you volunteered this morning to be his assistant. He said you’d know what he meant. He gave me strict orders, Dr. Morgan. I need you to come with me.”

“No,” I said. Stanley let out another undignified giggle.

“Dr. Morgan, please,” he pleaded. “He said he’d have to start calling me Lefty if I came back without you.” Apprehension strained his voice, transparent terror radiating from his face.

I swallowed. “Lefty?” I asked against my better judgment.

“Yes. He said that’s the only testicle I’d have left if—”

I stood. “Fine. I’ll come with you, if only to straighten out this misunderstanding.” I tried to sound kind but impatience overruled.

Instant relief transformed his face, relaxing his features.

Stanley guffawed. “I told you. He’s brilliant. Just brilliant.”

The boy beckoned me to follow him. Ebony trailed behind me and Stanley behind her. I glared at him to stay, but he said, “Oh no. I wouldn’t miss this for
ten
roll calls.”

We herded into the elevator, and the boy commanded it to take us to Tactical. My stomach smoldered with fury. No doubt the sasquatch still licked wounds from this morning. For a split second, I again regretted provoking him. And again, the remorse passed with ultrasonic speed and morphed back into rage. Rage was more useful than regret anyway.

The elevator delivered us to the open door of a huge room which smelled similar to the gym. Large blue mats padded the walls, and hard rubber mats covered the floor.

I recognized most of the cadets forming a circle around the center of the room—a center I knew contained the lieutenant. The ring parted for me, and Ebony and Stanley squeezed in among the ranks.

“You sent for me, sir?” I asked, standing at attention.

“Why yes, yes I did, Cadet Morgan. And thank you so much for volunteering this morning to be my assistant in demonstrating hold techniques.”

“You are mistaken, sir.” This incited a collective gulp from the circle.

“I’m what?” he yelled.

“I said, sir, that you are mistaken. I didn’t volunteer for your demonstrations.” I raised my voice this time, giving him the benefit of the doubt that somehow the echo from the walls had warped his hearing.

“Yes, you did. You volunteered if I say you volunteered. You’re going to be my assistant today.” He stepped toward me.

I took a reflexive step back. “No.”

“Well, that’s just it, maggot. You don’t get to say no. We can do this the easy way, or the painful way. I prefer the painful way.”

“You will
not
take another step.” I pointed a shaky finger at him.

A clamor of excited whispers broke out as he did just that. I stepped back. Again.

“Come here, Morgan, or this is gonna get real humiliating to you, real fast.” He grinned his evil, malevolent grin.

I considered my options. Number One: Give in and take the abuse. Inconceivable. Audience or no, I wouldn’t allow him to impose on me in this way.

Number Two: Make a run for it. I was a fast runner. I flashed a glance around the ring of cadets, looking for an opening.

Seeing my intent, Lt. Horan barked, “The person who lets her through is my next volunteer.”

As if they’d practiced it before, the entire circle locked arms with each other, snatching away my only chance of escape. I whirled around, glared at Lt. Horan.

“That’s right, scum sucker. There’s no way out.”

He took another step. Out of room behind me, I stepped to the side. He followed suit, mirroring my movements, until we circled each other. He stalked me with a wary aggression, forcing me to the left, forcing me to the right.

Number Three: Bring him down.

I never trained in hand-to-hand combat, and I didn’t know tactical maneuvers. I didn’t have any weapons, and if I did, I’d be more dangerous to myself than to the feral lieutenant. I’d tried my hand at kickboxing once—the only thing I got out of it was a bloody nose and a scrape on my knee from hitting the floor. Still had the scar.

I was a doctor, not a fighter. Trained not to hurt, but to heal—and therein lay the answer. At The University, I took a class on alternative medicine. It mostly involved herbal remedies and midwife lore, but we did cover one section on acupuncture. Pressure points.

Pressure points of the body were very real and could be used to remedy anything from stress tension to migraines. Or they could be used to cause pain. And incapacitation.

I racked my brain, trying to remember the best ones to use. I’d never done this before on a live specimen, and especially not with a view to
inflicting
pain.

Lt. Horan picked up the pace, making the orbit we danced smaller and smaller.

“Stop that,” I snapped.

He laughed. “Not on your worthless life.” He lunged forward to grab me. I narrowly escaped his grasp by dodging to the left and almost fell when I tripped.

“You will
not
manhandle me,” I spat.

He laughed again. His darkened armpits and neck evidenced his exertion, and I hoped he was wearing himself out. Because…

Pressure points had a downfall. You had to be very close to your opponent. I didn’t know if I had the courage to let him come that close. My attack had to be precise or it wouldn’t work—there would be no second chances today.

Lt. Frank Horan was an expert at hand-to-hand combat. He only toyed with me to increase my anxiety, and therefore, his pleasure. I couldn’t outmaneuver him, didn’t have the strength to hold him down, and he probably already expected me to go for the groin. I decided to use his confidence against him. Planting my feet on the hard rubber matting, I moved fists to hips. “Enough!” I roared like a mouse.

He stopped.

“If you come near me, I’ll be forced to kick your testicles up your throat,” I warned, cringing at the vulgarity. Still, I needed to provoke him. I hoped my threat would make him protect his groin area—I needed access to the pressure points around his neck and head. The one on his forehead would be ideal, but I doubted he’d let me near his face. The second-best option—the one located on the muscle line between his neck and his shoulder—seemed the most probable for success.

“I don’t think so, worm.” He took an infant step forward, calling my bluff. Whispers tore from the halo of cadets—I swear I heard Stanley snicker.

Satisfied I’d stay put, he lunged, leaning low and at an angle to protect his privates, just as I’d hoped.

The blazing fire in my stomach all but iced over as this mammoth threw the weight of his body at me. For the slightest of seconds, I thought my knees would buckle from the anticipation of it—that, or from the pure terror I felt as his outstretched arms reached for my neck.

His big hands entwined around my throat, the length of them enclosing it.

Do it
, I commanded my arm.

Without another thought, my arm raised and my fist pummeled the pressure point between his neck and shoulder blade. Lt. Frank Horan slumped to the floor in an unconscious, muscled heap.

Chapter Seven

I may have struck him too hard. With a glancing blow at the precise point, it was only supposed to incapacitate long enough to flee. I had
punched
Lt. Horan’s.

I stared down at him now, as did our audience. For several tense seconds, no one moved. And then everyone did.

The ring of cadets rushed in to horde around us as I dropped to my knees and checked his vitals. To my relief, he breathed steadily and his wrist pulsed in good rhythm. I laid his arm beside him and sat on my heels, eyeing my victim.

“My God. Call for Dr. Folsom,” someone said.

“
She
is a doctor,” Ebony whispered.

I peered up at her. “He’ll be fine. He’s just unconscious.”

I clutched my throat where he’d grabbed me. He sprawled before me in a sweaty pile, but it felt like he still had possession of my neck.

And I was panicking. The adrenaline my body had produced made it impossible to calm down, to steady my heart rate. My body was now equipped to run for hours, fight off a crocodile attack or swim through a rip current. Next stop, migraine central.

I vaguely heard the horrified whispers around me. The room reeled and whirled, and I tried not to pass out. I wished it were me on the floor sleeping contentedly, with no worries, no cares.

Because as it stood right now, I was in deep trouble.

“Well, if she’s a doctor, then why isn’t she an officer?” a girl jeered.

Her question stopped the room from spinning. My head snapped toward her as I stood. She stepped back.

“What did you just say?” I demanded, pointing at her. Distress filled my cheeks with blood, the tiny fingers of a heated blush reaching all the way to my ears.

“I-I was just wondering why you’re not an officer. If you’re a doctor, a real doctor, then they would’ve had to recruit you as an officer.”

I pushed past her, throwing my shoulder into the wall of cadets, breaking into a full run for the elevator. Behind me I heard pandemonium.

“She’s escaping! Shouldn’t we go after her?”

Another man said, “Sure, Lewis, be my guest. Then we’ll just put your body next to Lt. Horan’s.”

Creating scenes must be my specialty
. “Captain Marek’s office,” I screeched.

The elevator launched me forward, and I tried again to calm my erratic heart rate. I wiped the sweat from my forehead—the sweat of anxiety rather than exertion. The perspiration felt cold in comparison to my flushed skin. I danced around the tiny space to burn off some adrenaline before reaching his office.

The doors opened, and I lurched out as if someone had pushed me from behind.

Announcing myself to the alarm for the second time today, I scrambled through the office door. Someone would come searching for me soon, and I needed to get to Captain Marek before they did.

He sat on the edge of his desk, using his finger to scroll down the screen on the small device in his hand. He appeared perplexed—and magnificent.