Degrees of Wrong

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by Anna Scarlett


  I glanced down, inspecting my appearance for the first time today. I could

  feel the film of filth on my face except where my tear tracks streaked it. All four blood types splattered my clothing, and sand weighed down my shoes. And my

  hair—thankfully, I couldn’t see that at all. I grimaced, realizing Blue Eyes had

  asked me on a date in this condition. What a good sport.

  Waking up in a jostling, open-topped utility vehicle didn’t bother me. Sure,

  the wind whipped my hair into a mess that only shaving it would solve. And

  yes, my neck hurt from my head bobbing like a buoy in a hurricane. And of

  course I should have been grateful that they allowed me to sleep in, exhausted as I was.

  But waking up in a jostling, open-topped utility vehicle wearing a black

  uniform and boots—instead of the mismatched pajamas I fell asleep in—irritated

  me almost beyond sense. Especially since the uniform fit perfectly. How much of

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  the last twenty-four hours had been executed as planned? And which of these

  drones dressed me?

  Sitting directly across from me, Geoffrey didn’t look away when I locked

  eyes with him. “You drugged me,” I informed him. “I knew the dehydrated peas

  tasted funny last night, but I just attributed it to the fact that they were

  dehydrated peas.”

  “I wanted you to get some rest.”

  “How thoughtful.” Before he could utter an insincere apology, I held up my

  hand, cutting him off. He took the gesture as I intended it: Don’t even.

  To keep from attacking him, I shielded my eyes with my hand and took in

  our surroundings. This wasn’t my island, and the amount of time I’d spent

  unconscious made it impossible to calculate a probable radius of travel. Our

  camouflaged taxi sped us through an open grassy field somewhere in the United

  States or Italy or China—I couldn’t be sure which. On the horizon, man-made

  structures materialized, and beyond that, an expansive body of water. I knew it

  was the ocean—calling it by name was an entirely different matter.

  In my stomach, the knot of the unknown awakened, uncoiling the fear I’d

  managed to restrain last night. But now the dehydrated peas were wearing off,

  leaving room for terror. I glanced at Ralph. His mouth was pressed into the

  straight line. It made me more nervous, if that were possible.

  The vehicle began to slow, and then creep, the closer we got to shore. The

  structures in the distance turned into old wooden buildings, probably erected at

  the turn of the last century. All six of them lined the lone dirt street of what I couldn’t deign to call a town. Judging by their varying states of disrepair, they hadn’t been occupied for some time. The scarce population of this community

  seemed to be surging in the same direction—toward the docks. And they were

  all dressed like me.

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  Ralph motioned for our driver to park behind one of the buildings, just out

  of view of the passersby. “As soon as you board, ask for Dr. Folsom. The captain

  is expecting you. You shouldn’t have any problems.”

  From a satchel beside him, he retrieved my father’s laptop and handed it to

  me. The antique laptop—and the mismatched pajamas—had been the only items

  the recovery team bothered to bring back. That Ralph didn’t expound on it

  confirmed my suspicions—my house, what was left of my life, was destroyed.

  When I told him what a lucky find the dust-encrusted laptop was—it held every

  shred of my research on the HTN4—I thought he might faint. But we couldn’t all

  afford the latest-and-greatest toys of technology, right? Besides, this thing still smelled like my father’s cologne. How could I replace it?

  Even now, Ralph eyed it with disdain, which made me hug it tighter to my

  chest. He said, “It’s a training vessel, so you won’t be the only person who

  doesn’t know full protocol. You’re going in as a cadet, which is the lowest rank.

  There was nothing I could do about that.”

  I was grateful he’d tried to champion for me in the matter at all.

  “Ralph?” I asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  He smiled, realizing I was nervous and didn’t know how to say it. “It’s called

  the Bellator. It means—”

  “Warrior,” I finished for him. When he cocked his head at me, I shrugged.

  “I’m a doctor. Latin’s required.”

  “Of course.”

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  I thought he might have more instructions for me, but after a few seconds he

  inclined his head toward the docks. “You should go now, Dr. Morgan. Follow

  the crowd and pick a line.”

  Taking in a breath, I stood.

  I turned to Ralph, unsure if this was the last time I’d see him—and unsure if

  it was appropriate to feel grateful or wrathful toward him at this point. He was, after all, my captor, not my savior. Deciding on gratitude, I extended my hand

  for a shake, otherwise unfamiliar with the rules of etiquette as they pertained to hostage situations.

  He smiled and accepted it. “You’ll be fine,” he whispered. The confidence in

  his voice consoled me—a little.

  He dropped my hand, and I willed myself to climb down. How long he

  stayed after that, I didn’t know. With tears brimming, I lumbered toward the

  street, joining the ranks of my fellow shipmates—if that’s what they were

  called—as we made our way to the docks.

  No one questioned my presence or where I’d come from. No one asked why

  I only carried a laptop instead of the black duffel bags they had thrown over

  their shoulders. They only cared that—between the heaviness of my new boots

  and my flirting with the idea of running—I was slowing their progress. Some

  even made a point of bumping into me as they pushed past, impatient to board

  the warship.

  Our collective parade eventually lined up on the four separate docks

  reaching like fingers into the ocean. Taking Ralph’s advice, I picked one, flitting to the end of it and squeezing in between a pale blonde woman and a redheaded

  man whose biceps were bigger than my head. The pale woman offered a friendly

  smile. I hoped the half smile I returned didn’t seem rude. I also hoped she

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  wouldn’t try to talk to me since I was already in danger of vomiting, and

  opening my mouth would seal the deal.

  A short, skinny man with dark hair stood opposite the line, studying his

  small hand-held device. He looked more serious than he should with such a

  small stature, and I wondered if he suffered from little-man syndrome.

  “Attention!” he yelled, or at least that’s what I thought he said. The end

  sounded more like hut.

  The word appeared to be a command of some sort because everyone in line

  stood erect, hands folded behind their backs. The three black-dotted docks in

  front of us had already come to order. I followed suit, pushing my laptop behind

  me as the knot in my stomach twisted.

  “They’re all yours, Lieu
tenant,” Little-Man said.

  Another voice said, “Welcome, land lubbers.” Only his tone didn’t sound

  welcoming at all but was rather a shout. Loud footsteps thundered down the

  wood planks, creaking the boards.

  “I am Lieutenant Frank Horan. I am now your mother, your father and your

  priest. Do not even think about speaking. You were once the scum of the earth,

  and now you are the scum of the sea.” He enunciated every word, still shouting.

  I wasn’t sure if he did this for emphasis, or if he always talked in this ridiculous manner.

  Snickers erupted at the opposite end of the line, and hurried footsteps

  descended on them.

  “What’s your name, boy?” the lieutenant roared at the culprit.

  “St-St-Stanley, sir!” the boy shouted back, his accent betraying Scottish

  descent.

  “Is St-St-Stanley your first name or your last name, boy?” Lt. Horan yelled.

  “Stanley is my last name. Sir!”

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  “So, Cadet Stanley, what in God’s name could you find so funny about the

  realization that you are lower and more vile than the bacteria that is flushed

  down the toilet somewhere in a Mexican prison on a smoldering day in July?”

  He continued to enunciate his insults, and I was sure that after speaking this way in such whole, descriptive sentences, he couldn’t help but adapt to this kind of

  dialogue on a normal basis.

  “Nothing, sir!” By the shakiness of his reply, St-St-Stanley had bitten off

  more than he could chew.

  “No?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, son! It is funny. It’s just not funny to you.

  In fact, boy, nothing is funny to you unless I tell you it is. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Good. Now, for the rest of you oxygen vacuums. I am in charge of your

  valueless lives while you are on this vessel. You do not breathe, drink, eat or

  sleep without my permission. Until you obtain my permission, you will not

  blink. Until you obtain my permission, you will withhold bowel movements.

  Until you obtain my permission, you will not swallow the spit in your mouth…”

  He continued bellowing until he came to a close with his outrageous

  requirements.

  A deep burning sensation began in my stomach, a foreign feeling I couldn’t

  identify, eclipsing the knot. As I struggled to name the fire in my gut, the

  lieutenant edged closer to my end of the line. I heard terrified cadets shouting

  their names, and the insults that followed. Each time, the pit of my stomach

  lurched in—what? Apprehension? No. Fear? No. I contemplated that for a

  moment. No anxiety? No terror? Am I still alive, then?

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  “Ebony Grace, sir!” the pale woman next to me shouted. I started, surprised

  he was so close. I peeked around her at him.

  “Is that a joke?” he yelled in her face. “You are the pastiest individual I have

  ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes on. If your name is Ebony, then my name

  is Pretty Princess!”

  As you wish, Pretty Princess, I thought. And then I giggled. Out loud.

  He parked in front of me in an instant. With wide eyes, I took in his

  appearance. He was every bit the stereotypical drill sergeant. Probably in his

  mid-forties, he had spiked blond hair that resembled blades atop his enormous

  head, and huge, brown, wrathful eyes. Too bad he was my height, giving him the

  ability to stare me down over the bridge of his stubby nose. Well-muscled, his

  stocky build gave him the appearance of a bulldog—an effect accentuated by the

  frown lines that had set in over many years of repetition. The absurd cleft in his chin reminded me of a comic book hero, but his snarl resembled a villain’s.

  He regarded me now in—disgust, I would say. All the while my stomach

  churned with…?

  “Did I say something funny?” he screamed, the warmth of his stale breath

  pushing against my face.

  I stood straighter, looked him in the eyes. “No.”

  “NO?” he said, incredulous. “No WHAT?” A vein on the side of his tree-

  stump neck appeared to have been provoked. It now pulsated as he yelled at me.

  “No, you didn’t say anything funny,” I clarified. Somehow, my answer

  infuriated him more.

  “What is your name, cadet?” He yelled much louder at me than he had at the

  others. Maybe it was just that he was closer now. “And what are you hiding

  behind your back?” He reached around me and snatched the laptop from my

  hands. “What do we have here?” He tossed it around in his hands. My stomach

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  tightened. “This is prohibited paraphernalia, cadet. It gives me great pleasure to take this artifact off your hands today.” He motioned to Little-Man to retrieve the item. I heard snickers at the end of the line again.

  “Stanley, is that you? Boy, I will slap the spit outta your mouth!” Horan

  screamed.

  And then I was able to identify the burning sensation in my guts. It was rage.

  I was losing my temper. Had lost it already.

  Perhaps if my home hadn’t been destroyed, I could’ve overlooked his rude

  welcome. Perhaps if I hadn’t been tazed and abducted, I could’ve forgiven his

  obnoxious demeanor, his insults. Perhaps if I hadn’t been drugged, then handled

  like a rag doll, I could’ve turned the other cheek when he screamed in my face,

  spraying spittle with each bitten-off word.

  Perhaps if I’d been given breakfast, I could’ve patiently and politely asked

  him to return my laptop to me.

  But that just wasn’t the case.

  As he allowed himself to be distracted by the imbecile Stanley, I snatched the

  laptop out of his hands. His head jerked back with a force that should’ve

  snapped his neck. The shock on his face lasted only for a second before turning

  to fury. If the vein in his neck pulsated before, it threatened to burst now. His whole body shook with rage, his face smoldering into an erratic-blood-pressure

  red.

  The line of cadets became silent as a cemetery.

  When he could speak, Lt. Frank Horan bellowed, “WHAT. DO. YOU.

  THINK. YOU. ARE. DOING.” As far as questions go, that one wasn’t.

  To his surprise—and mine—I took a step toward him, our noses almost

  touching. And for his ears alone, I whispered, “If you ever put your hands on anything that belongs to me again, I swear I will—”

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  “Enough,” an authoritative voice roared at the end of the line. This cut short

  my threat, which I supposed was good, because the lieutenant looked like his

  blood might be made of hot sauce.

  I admitted to myself that, as a doctor, I’d acted irresponsibly, given the

  visible signs of his deteriorating blood pressure. I resolved to feel guilty about that later.

  Ebony gasped, but I refused to unlock eyes with Lt. Horan until he turned to

  answer the voice addressing us—I had toed the line and couldn’t back down.

  “What the hell is going on here?” the anonymous man demanded.

  Irritable, I redirected my dirty look to
the new accuser—and gasped too.

  If I thought Blue Eyes was the most attractive man I’d ever met, I was

  mistaken several times over. This man was magnificent. He regarded us with

  muscled arms crossed over a wide chest. His short black hair complemented his

  flawless olive skin, and even though his brow was drawn into a scowl, it called

  attention to his long black lashes and dark, penetrating eyes. His perfect mouth

  was now set in a frown, his strong jaw tight with irritation. This man was

  nothing less than breathtaking. Tall, dark and handsome was an insult to this

  marvel.

  I lost my breath as his glare shifted from Lt. Horan to me. Of course, only I

  could aggravate the most desirable man in existence without so much as an

  introduction.

  “Are you threatening an officer of my ship?” His voice was powerful,

  conducive to obedience.

  My nod incited a collective whisper from among the ranks. I wasn’t sure if it

  was the act of threatening an officer, or that I’d admitted to doing so, but this seemed to take him by surprise. Get in line, I thought. Behind Pretty Princess.

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  The perfect creature closed the distance between us in three efficient strides,

  and I thought my blood pressure would suffer as well, but for a different reason.

  Lt. Horan was still red, but part of it now seemed to stem from

  embarrassment. “I had everything under control, Captain,” he muttered.

  Captain looked at me, and back to Lt. Horan. I began to feel foolish—this

  man regarded us both as a teacher chastising two children in a playground fight.

  I resented it, since this man couldn’t have been much older than myself. I even

  resented it for Lt. Horan—Captain was much younger than him.

  “This little twit was in the process of—” Horan started, and it was all I

  needed to continue where we’d left off.

  “You enjoy name-calling, do you?” I drew in a breath to accommodate the

  long list of expletives waiting at the end of my tongue.

  “Enough,” Captain hissed, stepping between us and grabbing my arm. My

  momentary pride at being considered the bigger threat was destroyed when my

  boot caught on the dock. The grip on my arm tightened, preventing a definite

  face-plant to a wooden plank. Instead, my cheek smacked against Captain’s

  chest, forcing him to wrap his arms around me to hold me steady. There, pressed

 

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