Degrees of Wrong (9 page)

“My lieutenants are complaining that their personnel have become excessively ill.” His smile vanished.

Dr. Folsom nodded. “I
have
seen a large influx. We’ve had our hands full these past weeks. They aren’t really ill, but they seem alarmed enough by their symptoms to seek medical attention.”

She hadn’t told me that. I just assumed she was overwhelmed, in general. She hadn’t mentioned anything about an
influx
.

A small suspicion lumped in my throat.

“What symptoms?” he asked, keeping his expression neutral.

Dr. Folsom thought for a moment. “A wide variety of symptoms, actually. Nausea, dizziness, earaches, a sore throat, muscle pain.”

“None of which can be proven. I believe they’re fabricating symptoms in order to see Dr. Morgan,” he said.

“Why?” I blurted. But I knew why.

He turned to me. “I would like for you to stop seeing patients for a while, Dr. Morgan.” When he saw that I would protest, he added, “For the greater peace and unity of the ship. Surely you can see the commotion you caused a couple weeks ago has still not subsided.”

I exhaled in a gust, shaking my head. My efforts at normalcy had been wasted. “Yes,” I agreed. “However, I’ve taken every step to correct my actions. I’ve done everything asked of me.” I lifted my chin. I thought about trying Ebony’s nose maneuver but decided I needed more practice before unleashing it on someone as unnerving as Captain Marek.

“Yes,” he agreed, to my surprise. “I’m aware of that. However, people are more inclined to remember the bad instead of the good. After they realize that Dr. Folsom—
only
Dr. Folsom—will care for their needs, I’m sure their symptoms will abate.”

Dr. Folsom nodded. “Yes, Elyse, I think he’s right. I wasn’t overwhelmed before you arrived. I needed help with the initial physicals, but that chaos usually subsides after a few days. Besides, you were just telling me how you were having trouble with your research.”

Boy did I wish she’d kept that private. I tried to indicate this to her with a glare but could feel Captain Marek looking at me, and it distracted me.

“Is there something I can do for you, Dr. Morgan? I’m at your disposal,” he said solemnly.

What a loaded question.
I’d bet Lt. Sheldon would give one of her big
hands
for him to ask her that. I considered asking him to do something about Pretty Princess, but refrained. He still appeared to be blaming me for the entire unfolding of events that first day, so it’d probably be treading upon his hospitality to request that Lt. Horan be executed.

“No, of course not. I have everything I need to conduct my experiments.” Or at least I thought I did. I was still missing something critical. I frowned.

He noticed. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. If I need anything, though, I’ll let you know.” Never would happen.

He seemed satisfied. He turned back to Dr. Folsom with much less formality and smiled again. “I’ll let my lieutenants know.” He headed toward the door.

“Try not to be such a stranger, Nicoli,” she called after him.

As he exited, I noted the uniform fit him even better than it had Blue Eyes. Tearing my gaze away from his backside, I reached for another piece of candy and glowered at Dr. Folsom. “You could’ve told me they were all faking it.”

She shrugged. “You were already feeling self-conscious. I didn’t want you to feel even more uncomfortable here.”

I huffed. I might’ve had an argument if I hadn’t just been complaining about that very thing.

“By the way, we’ll be porting in a few days or so,” she said. “Do you have international citizenship?”

After the worldwide economic meltdown in 2038, most nations had banded together to create a stronger, more unified United Nations. One of its first acts after its rise to power was to establish international citizenship for all medical personnel in an effort to spread quality healthcare more evenly among the nations. Later, they enabled other trades—such as educators and engineers—to obtain international citizenship in order to avail more countries with the opportunity to grow and recover from the crisis.

Streamlining a worldwide healthcare system was another endeavor of the reinvented UN. New stipulations were placed on education qualifications, requiring all physicians, both practicing and aspiring, to attend The World University of Medicine in Italy. Indoctrinating the same advanced curriculum ensured that quality, up-to-date healthcare would be available globally. International citizenship was given to each new physician upon graduation.

“Yes, I’ve had it since graduation.” And the last time I used it was to bring my parents home a final time. I cleared my throat of the remorse lodged there.

“Good. We’ll be porting in the Maldives for about a week.”

“Why are we porting?”

“It’s just a furlough. You can get in some shopping while we’re there.”

“Excellent.” The thought lightened my mood like sunrise. Although we all wore the same melancholy black uniforms, I was unique from my peers in that I didn’t own anything else.

Purchasing new clothes and a few other personal items wouldn’t be extravagant. My parents had left a small inheritance which I never used unless necessary. I’d kept my expenses low by living meagerly and bartering medical care for goods and services from my neighbors.

“Do you mind if I use your computer? I need to check my funds,” I said.

“Of course not.” She stood from her desk and motioned for me to sit. She strode to the supply cabinet to take stock.

Once seated, I pressed my thumb to the screen for the fingerprint scan. After identity confirmation, I pulled up my balance.

And almost fell out of the chair.

“I—I think there’s been—a mistake—” I stammered. Seeing my alarm, Dr. Folsom put down the stock scanner and hurried to my side.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I—I have a lot of money.” A
lot
of money.

“Yes?” she asked, still waiting for the bad news.

“That’s it,” I breathed. “I have too much money. That money isn’t mine.” I pointed my finger at the screen in accusation.

Dr. Folsom cleared her throat. “I’m quite sure you’re being paid handsomely for your efforts.”

“And I’m just as sure I’m not being paid
that
handsomely. Besides, I never gave them my account number.”

She giggled. “Well, my dear, I’m sure you didn’t give them your address either, but here you are.”

Granted.

“Just seems like an invasion of my privacy,” I grumbled, with much less awe.

“An invasion of privacy to make a deposit into your account?”

“Yes.” I knew it sounded unreasonable.

She cleared her throat again. This time I recognized that she was suppressing laughter and doing a horrible job at it. I glared at her. “I still think there’s some sort of mistake here. That amount of money’s inconceivable.” As the conversation progressed, I felt more and more like a child.

“That’s doubtful, dear. Are you finished with the computer? You know, with your new fortune, you could afford one of your own. A new computer, I mean.” She glanced at my father’s laptop on my desk, which I had tried to resurrect again and again.

“I don’t want a new one.” I tried to guess the age of the child I was portraying. Seven? Eight?

“Okay.” She sighed the same way my mother did when I acted senseless. She walked across the room and picked up the device she’d deserted in her efforts to calm me. I stared after her, longing to say something intelligent, something that would convince her that I was a grownup too.

A new, eager patient appeared in the doorway, and Dr. Folsom ushered him to the opposite end of the room. His expression smacked of disappointment. Captain Marek was right.

I trudged to my own desk and opened my geriatric laptop. I spent the afternoon trying to revive it, without success. Giving up, I took to reviewing my notes instead—it was the least I could do, considering the United Nations wanted to pay me in such ludicrous excess.

At ten minutes after midnight, I stretched my arms above my head, trying to elongate my spine. Dr. Folsom had retired hours ago, leaving me to my private frustrations with my progress, or really, the lack thereof.

I glanced over at the isolation room, to the cages. I’d need to order more rats. When these died—as they certainly would—I’d be fresh out. But they didn’t mind. Because they didn’t have brains—or rather, while cloned in their little test tubes, their brains were altered to sustain basic life functions of the body. They couldn’t feel pain, couldn’t suffer—a direct result from a united global front of animal rights activists many years ago. Most nations prohibited the use of live, natural-born animals in any scientific experiment, other than non-harmful, behavioral studies. Which worked fine for me, since real rats gave me the creeps. I stood, walked over to the sealed door, peered in. The tenants of all sixteen cages sat oscitant, lethargic. Dead by morning.

I shuffled back to my desk, shoulders heavy, conscience heavier. I’d lost the train of thought I’d captured at home, in my own laboratory. I’d never thought of it in that perspective, but I supposed my surroundings influenced my pattern of thinking in the same way it would influence an artist, or a writer. The island was open, spacious, with an ever-changing climate—ideal for unreserved meditation. Here, in this super-sized submarine, my thoughts were cramped, my concentration divided, restricted by space and people and Pretty Princess.

My recent bout of insomnia only magnified my vexation as I sat here staring at the screen, hands not even touching the keyboard. When I
could
sleep, nightmares about that last day on the island tormented me until my own screaming wrenched me awake.

Sometimes I dreamed in black and white, which spared me some of the gore, but more often my dreams yielded a full recollection of the slaughter. I heard the screams, smelled the smoke, felt the victims shudder under my touch. I heard the sickening thud of the children falling to the ground, tasted the vomit in my mouth as I knelt over in agony.

I shivered and looked at the clock. I knew I should try to sleep. I knew I would fail.

I glanced at the pile of shiny, golden, chocolate wrappers that had accumulated on my desk in the hours since Dr. Folsom left. This was getting out of hand, even for me. My pants were getting uncomfortable. Shopping for new clothes would be a shocking experience if I didn’t wean myself from this dependency. Even though these dreadful black uniforms concealed it heroically, a tiny little pouch protruded from my belly. I reached down, patting it with disgust.

Then I remembered something Dr. Folsom had pointed out to me on my second day here—the
Bellator
housed a gym.

Back on my island, I offset the surplus of calories by running on the beach every morning. On the ship, the only physical activity I could claim was the pushups Lt. Horan demanded every morning.

I stood up and stretched again, incorporating all the muscle groups into the act. Teeming with fresh motivation, I hung up my lab coat then ordered the elevator to take me to the gym. It maneuvered me through the internal parts of the vessel, delivering me right to the entrance of my destination.

Enthusiastically announcing myself to the alarm, I entered the torture chamber and made a sweeping inspection of my deserted surroundings. The gym offered at least two dozen virtual joggers, a luxurious spread of weight machines and free weights, an army of resistance-training equipment and an array of unidentifiable—at least to me—apparatus stationed throughout the large room. The walls presented themselves as mirrors, and hard rubber floors supported the heavy machinery. It smelled delightfully of sweat and hard work, of pain and suffering, of adrenaline and— Something moved over in the corner.

Startled out of my poetic observation, I scrutinized the area of movement by the free weights. The mirrors made it difficult to discern the real from the reflection, obscuring the equipment into a muddle of metal.

And then, to my horror, my gaze rested on the origin of movement.

A sweaty Captain Marek stepped out from behind a machine and stopped as if paralyzed. We must have seen each other at the same time—he regarded me with the same shocked expression I knew I wasn’t hiding on my face.

“Uh, Dr. Morgan? Can I help you?”

With
what
? “No.” At least I managed to answer his question in my state of stupor.

“No? What are you doing here, then?” he asked, his pointed question ringing with wariness.

Taken aback, I blurted, “Having a tea party. Would you like to join? One lump or two?” It was high time I owned up to having a bad temper. This was my sixth or so chance to make a good first impression and I’d already murdered it.

To my surprise, relief dominated his exquisite features. I realized then why he was here at this late hour—to avoid his fan club. As it turned out, Captain Marek didn’t care for center stage, either. And the main attraction he would be, as he’d obviously forgotten to bring his shirt along for his workout session—a fact I tried desperately to ignore.

“I see,” he said. I thought he might grin and hoped he wouldn’t. My heart rate could only take so much. “Regretfully, I’ll have to decline your invitation. But I must ask why you’re choosing to conduct your tea party at this late hour.”