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 Anna Scarlett
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.
He said my lips were too big for my face, which explained why I liked to talk
back so much.
He insisted that he was a face-rearranging machine and that I didn’t want to
press the start button.
In addition to the insults, I was the only cadet required to drop and give him
pushups every morning. Both he and I were surprised when I could comply with
his demand of twenty within the first week. That was when he started
demanding thirty.
Each time my shaky arms dropped my body to the floor, he crouched down
to my face, assuring me in a holler that I was an utter failure. Though still
struggling with the thirty pushups, I was eager to see his disappointment when I
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accomplished the feat. I was a hoarder of punishment—he’d simply increase the
quota. And I would obey.
Word had blustered throughout the ship about my behavior that first day.
Unaccustomed to being viewed as a troublemaker or an instigator, I made a
mountainous effort to recast myself in a different role. And no matter what I did, Pretty Princess couldn’t be appeased.
I could only hope that, as I graduated to more and more pushups, I wouldn’t
start looking like a man.
Pouting with this new worry, I entered the mess hall. I grabbed a tray,
selected a salad and something chocolate from the cold bar, and strode to an
empty table to wait for Ebony. The hall was full and lively, and the usual
whispers and knowing glances ensued as I walked by. I took my seat and opened
my book, ignoring the grapevine as it entwined around me. Admiral Rudd had
lent me this book, and I was grateful for an escape each day. It was an engrossing fiction about pirates. I deemed them vile and treacherous and wildly
entertaining. Ebony found me a few minutes later, after I’d narrowly escaped
cannon fire and was about to walk the plank.
“Is that still the pirate book?” she asked, taking a seat.
I looked up to greet her and saw she’d brought company. Again. Over the
past few days she’d invited a few other cadets, all young women, to sit with us. It made me uncomfortable, because to these girls I was a spectacle. I felt they were somehow thrill-seeking in sitting next to me, the rebel.
“Yes.”
Ebony bit her lip. She’d expressed a concern that I intentionally isolated
myself, and that bringing a book to lunch was not very sociable. I brought it
again today to confirm that sociable wasn’t my objective. Still, the thrill-seekers sat down.
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“I like pirates,” said Chong. I liked Chong, but she didn’t have to say
something outlandish to win my friendship—I almost rolled my eyes.
“Did you see Lt. Horan this morning?” The question came from Liz, an
obnoxious redhead whose normal vernacular was to speak like the editor of a
teen magazine. “I heard he was totally out to get you today.”
I wasn’t sure of the source of her gossip, but in fact, Horan had been
particularly evil with his insults this morning. Reluctant to confirm her hearsay, I shrugged. “I see him every morning. No change. He still hates me. I suppose I
deserve it,” I said with a sprinkling of humility.
Her huff suggested I was pathetic. She didn’t find my meek response
interesting and turned her attention to Ebony, no doubt to siphon information
from her in her indiscreet way. I hoped Ebony had at least told her the albino
version of her story.
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” We turned in unison to Cadet St-St-Stanley,
who was pulling out the chair next to me, even as he asked permission.
“Sorry, circus is closed for seating,” I muttered.
Ebony smiled up at him. “Of course not.”
I wished she was close enough to kick under the table. I didn’t need any
more spectators.
“You’ve met everyone here, I believe, Stanley.” Ebony motioned around our
table.
He grinned at all of us and winked at me. I returned a polite nod but not his
enthusiasm.
“I’m getting a sammy,” he said. “Anyone else want one?”
“A sammy?” I asked, getting a feel for the word. Liz snorted.
“Yeah, a sand- wich,” he enunciated. “What, are you an English teacher?”
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He was rude, and I liked him on the spot—I even grinned full-blown. Rude
was honest. I could trust rude.
Liz whistled, peering over my shoulder to the entrance of the mess hall.
“Captain Marek just came in with Lt. Sheldon,” she whispered, her voice full of
conspiracy.
The mention of his name rearranged my stomach. I refrained from turning
around, although no one else bothered to bridle their curiosity—all four stared
without reserve. Not looking proved impossible for me as well. I hadn’t seen him
since my first day and wondered if my imagination had invented him. I made a
transparent display of stretching, but soon abandoned that strategy in favor of
gawking like the rest of them.
Sadly, Nicoli Marek was still as breathtaking as ever.
I couldn’t help frowning at his companion. Apparently, Lt. Sheldon was the
stunning blonde woman standing next to him in line. She placed her hand on his
shoulder while she talked. He smiled but never made a contribution to the
conversation.
“Who’s Lt. Sheldon? The one
with the big—er—hands?” Stanley asked.
Liz rolled her eyes. “Yes. Only, rumor has it that her hands haven’t always been quite so big.” She grinned, proud that she’d imparted yet another scandal.
I observed Lt. Sheldon and agreed with my lunch mates—even as a doctor, I
couldn’t find a single, medically sound reason for the woman to have such large
breasts. The set was disproportionate to her small waist, her slight bone
structure. Would’ve been disproportionate to any bone structure.
“Geez,” said Ebony, and I felt the same way—intimidated. We gaped at Lt.
Sheldon like a group of freshman who’d just beheld the head cheerleader for the
first time.
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“Apparently,” Liz continued, “she’s infatuated with Captain Marek. I’m
friends with someone assigned to her, and she told me that Lt. Sheldon’s always
throwing herself at him, every chance she gets.”
“Can you blame her?” Chong asked, brushing aside jet-black bangs from her
eyes. “Look at him.”
I was glad I wasn’t the only one bothered by his appearance—he was an icon
here.
“Oh, I know. He’s gorgeous, without a doubt. But,” Liz said, whispering
again, “it doesn’t say much for her character. He’s engaged.” She grinned, patting herself on the back for another contribution of slanderous hearsay.
“Everyone knows he’s engaged,” hissed Ebony, giving in to the drama that
was Liz. I glanced at her, surprised she’d been hooked and reeled. I had to win
her back.
“I didn’t know that.” I told myself the disappointment I fended off with a
bite of brownie was from losing Ebony to gossip, not from learning of the captain’s engagement. Everyone eyeballed me, incredulous. Good grief, had it
been announced at a press conference or something?
“How could you not know that?” Liz asked, petulant.
In that moment, I decided I’d grown sick of her company and would treat
her presence like an allergy—whether Ebony approved, or not.
I shrugged. “I guess I need to brush up on my skills at minding other
people’s business. Listen, are you busy later? Maybe you could show me the
ropes.” You mud-slinging snippet.
Stanley snickered, Liz narrowed her eyes and Ebony kicked me under the
table. How the devil could she have reached me? I must have misjudged the
distance. My shin throbbed.
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Because our table was situated in front of the exit, Captain Marek and Lt.
Sheldon would pass it in order to leave with their lunches. All of us watched, in varying degrees of unashamed, as they approached.
As he passed, his gaze found mine and he inclined his head toward me.
Etiquette nodded my head in return, amid four pairs of eyes burning questions
into my person. I had, however, practiced my poker face since boarding, so they
couldn’t discern my thoughts about the polite exchange.
Also, I didn’t know what to think about it anyway. I had wanted to thank
him for my toothbrush but stopped myself dozens of times from actually
following through. I couldn’t decide if I owed him gratitude since technically it was his fault mine got ruined in the first place. Also, thanking him might imply
that I thought he personally delivered it—while I showered. Which would make
me blush and forget my name or something more important, like breathing.
Besides, I couldn’t be sure that Dr. Folsom hadn’t brought it. I never asked, and she never told.
Lt. Sheldon frowned at me as they passed. Although stunning, frowning did
not complement her.
Liz almost fidgeted herself right out of her chair, my previous snub all but
forgotten. “What was that all about?” she exploded when they were out of sight.
She leaned close, violating both my privacy and my personal space with the act.
I hunched over my tray defensively, feeling the need to protect something
from her. I shrugged. “I was just being polite. I thought he nodded at me.”
She studied my expression, trying to determine my innermost secrets—at
least, that was how I felt. “He was nodding at you,” she assured me. “But why?”
Good question, snippet. “Honestly, I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since my first day here. And he wasn’t very happy with me at that point.”
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Stanley snickered again, and I wondered if the man knew how to be serious.
His brown eyes bulged in barely suppressed laughter. I entertained the idea of
pinching him, and then brooded over my recent tendency toward violence.
“He seems happy enough with you now,” Ebony teased. Under the table, I
tried to reach her with my foot. Success.
“Ouch!” Stanley grunted. “What’d you do that for?” But he grinned.
“Sorry.” I offered a sheepish smile. Ebony laughed, knowing she was my
intended target. I refrained—with great effort—from looking under the table. I
would sit closer to her tomorrow.
“Are you sure you haven’t spoken to him since then?” Liz continued. I felt
like she was writing an article for a tabloid. I wanted to reiterate that I hadn’t even seen him since that day, let alone spoken to or thought about him. Well, that last part was untrue—I thought about choking him once. Well, twice, if you count dreaming about it. Oh, and all those times I thought about thanking him. Plus that other time…
She bombarded me with the same questions, only asked in different ways. I
told her exactly what I knew—nothing. Lunch ended with both of us grimacing
in frustration. She was sure I was hiding something, and I was sure she was a
lunatic.
That she considered a polite acknowledgement between two almost-
strangers a bona fide reason for a military-style interrogation confirmed that she was an open-and-shut case for the mental ward. I’d sign off on it as a physician
any day of the week. In fact, the next time I was alone in the elevator, I would
demand that it take me to the psychiatric unit, just to see if the Bellator housed one. A doctor could never be too prepared.
Needless to say, I returned to Dr. Folsom in dark spirits.
“I hope it’s nothing I’ve done.” She laughed from her desk.
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I combed through a drawer for my chocolate stash. “I just don’t like to be the
center of attention all the time. You’d think enough time has passed since that
first day.” I shoved the candy in my mouth and reached for another piece.
Dr. Folsom raised a brow. “They have support groups for that, you know,”
she teased. I emitted a dirty look in her direction, slammed the drawer shut and
resolved to chew the candy slower this time.
“I’m just so frustrated,” I whined. “I feel like my research is going nowhere.
Every test ends in failure. I’m missing something vital.”
The HTN4 perplexed me. Its unprecedented ability to reproduce after it
infiltrated its host’s cells ensured death would come within forty-eight hours.
Nothing I’d done so far could prevent it, nor reverse the effects after infection.
Not to mention only part of my research could be salvaged from my laptop, the
rest of it—most of it—having been counted among the casualties of that day. The
loss of my father’s laptop almost eclipsed the loss of data—almost. Against all
these factors, I felt like a flag flying at half-mast—sympathetic, but useless.
Dr. Folsom frowned. She was about to say something, but the lab door
opened. Captain Marek materialized at the threshold and greeted Dr. Folsom
with a smile. I was shocked that his mouth was capable of the task. And it was so much more than capable—it was downright good at it. It wasn’t a smile of toleration, like the one he gave Lt. Sheldon in the mess hall. It was a genuine
smile, one which revealed dimples and perfect teeth and warm eyes.
“Nicoli,” she exclaimed. “So good to see you. What brings you to our end of
the ship?”
He didn’t seem to mind—or notice—her informal address. He glanced in my
direction.
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Again, we exchanged polite nods instead of words. My nerves danced to the
tune of my grinding teeth. I never wanted to see him in this lab, never wanted to test my theory that he couldn’t affect me while in doctor mode.
“I’m sorry my visit isn’t for pleasure, Dr. Folsom.” He did seem happy to see
her and just as regretful that he hadn’t come for the company.
She smiled with a motherly familiarity. “I figured as much. I know you’re
busy, but you could at least drop by sometimes. We don’t bite.”
My cheeks felt melty when he cast a doubtful glance at me.
“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