Degrees of Wrong
His boyish grin almost stopped my heart. “Too bad I didn’t bust a lip.” He
pulled me down to him.
I snatched myself from his grasp. “I could arrange that, you know. Busted
lips are my specialty.”
“No doubt.” He spoke to the bearish boy he’d pummeled into for his grand
slam. Then he said, “They think you’re my girlfriend. What should I tell them?”
“Tell them you wish,” I answered, and trotted back to my position.
“That one’s rather obvious, love,” he called after me.
The next batter was even burlier than the catcher. He hoarded home plate
like it marked the spot for buried treasure. Even from centerfield I could see the unkempt facial hair that marked his close on adolescence. He steadied himself in
the batter’s box and waited for the pitch.
He cracked the ball, and it soared toward me. I backed up a few steps, and
then a few more. I steadied my glove, positioned myself under the ball. And then
lost it in the sun.
The hollow-sounding thud of impact as it walloped my upturned head
embarrassed me. The blow knocked me to the ground, and while I couldn’t see
just yet, I heard the stampeding sound of teenage feet herding my way. My face
throbbed with the pain, but I was more sore about how hollow my head sounded when struck.
“Elyse!” Even though my name was only two syllables, I could tell from the
start to the finish of it that Nicoli was running toward me.
I sat up. And like an ostrich hiding its head in the ground, I buried my face
in my glove.
I felt Nicoli beside me amid the indiscernible chatter of both sweaty teams.
His voice was saturated with concern when he said, “Elyse, love? Let me see.
Can you hear me?”
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He tried to gently pry the glove from my face. He would have to do better
than that—gently wasn’t going to cut it.
“No.”
He chuckled, probably relieved I wasn’t crying. “Let me see, love. Does it
hurt?”
“What? My face? Or my pride?” I pouted into the haven of the hand-shaped
leather.
“Right now, I’m worried about your face. I’ll find some way to take your
mind off your pride later. How many metatarsals am I holding up?”
I ripped the glove away and snorted. “You can’t hold up metatarsals. They’re the bones in your feet. If you’re trying to say fingers, then you’re looking for
phalanges. Both your fingers and your toes are phalanges.”
He grinned. “Made you look.” The grin melted to concern when he got a
good look at me. “Uh, love—I think you’re going to have a black eye too. That
right eye is pretty swollen.”
“My right eye? Great.” I threw my hands up in exasperation, my left hand
slightly slower to participate because of the weight of the glove. “Now we’ll have matching black eyes, and we board the ship tomorrow.”
A slow, mischievous grin settled on his face. I scowled. “What could be
funny?”
“I’m going to tell everyone that we got into a disagreement and that you hit
me.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because Frank Horan will drop to his knees and propose on the spot.”
As I stormed off the field—Nicoli in pursuit—the tallest boy ran after us. I
stopped with Nicoli, unable to be rude to the boy.
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In the stunning clarity of English, the beaming adolescent told Nicoli, “She’s
definitely a keeper.”
Nicoli grinned at him. “I’m working on it.”
The boy nodded and sprinted toward the field to finish the game. “Don’t
forget, it’s your turn to bring lunch next time,” he called over his shoulder.
Although I wouldn’t look at him, my curiosity got the better of me when I
said, “I thought today was your turn.”
“It’s always my turn.”
We boarded the transport pod empty-handed.
I stormed into the house and past Dr. Folsom who gasped when she saw my
eye. The admiral caught a glimpse of it too when I passed him on the stairs. I
knew when Nicoli entered the kitchen, because the admiral chuckled and said,
“Who won?”
I heard Nicoli answer, “Her. Always her.” I knew just exactly what kind of
grin was on his face when he said it.
I slammed my bedroom door for effect. An hour later, after I showered and
smoothed out the wrinkles of my injured pride, I bounded down the stairs
barefoot with a book in tow.
Nicoli sat at the dining-room table working on the admiral’s laptop. He
looked up when he saw me, but I ignored him, stalking past him and out the
door.
I steadied myself in the temperamental hammock and opened the book,
aware that my natural light faded with the setting sun. The horizon splayed
across the sky like fire, and the more I stared at it, I grew less and less impressed with the artificial sunset in my quarters on the Bellator.
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“Mind if I join you?”
I looked over at him. Why didn’t he have a shirt on? Why did the sunset
make him look like some sort of god, deserving of a statue in that exact pose?
Why did his black eye look better on him than mine did on me? Exasperated with myself, with him and with the universe in general, I pointed a steady finger at
him. “Don’t even think about it.”
He moved closer to me, standing over the hammock. “There’s plenty of
room. And I did promise to soothe your pride.”
“My pride isn’t located anywhere on my body,” I snapped. “Leave me alone.
And is it so difficult to wear a shirt?”
He laughed as he grabbed the hammock. Before I could protest, he lowered
himself into the netting with me. And—as hammocks often do—it twisted,
dumping us unceremoniously in the white sand. By some stroke of luck, I landed
on top of him, my cheek plastered to his chest.
I lifted my head. “The man-child in you just couldn’t resist, huh?”
“That was a bad idea,” he admitted, grinning. “Despite the outcome.”
Mere inches separated our faces, and my hair splayed to the side, shielding
us from the assault of sunset. “This is awkward.” I made an effort not to look at his mouth.
“This is a lot of things.” His husky tone felt like a caress. “But awkward isn’t
one of them.” He ran his fingers through my hair with one hand and tightened
his hold on me with the other.
I narrowed my eyes, swatting his hand from my hair. “Unless you’re no
longer engaged to be married, the only thing this could be is awkward.”
I pushed away from him, draining the remains of my willpower with the act.
I stood up, kicked sand on him and strode toward the house, sure my pulse
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could be heard from several feet away—that was, if the sound of his laughter
hadn’t drowned it out.
Nicoli opened the glass shield after the water in the transport room drained.
He jumped out to help me while the admiral assisted Dr. Folsom. She
had
complained of a stomach pain on the way back to the ship, and I admired the
admiral’s attentive concern as he set her on the grated floor like a delicate vase.
He planted a tender kiss on her forehead, and she smiled up at him. How could I
have missed their affection?
The clamor and squeak of boots as they met with the shiny, slick hallway
signaled that the fresh batch of cadets had arrived. Nicoli ushered us out into
their midst.
The congested hall reminded me of my first day here. Cadets lined up, still
as sculptures, awaiting instruction. That one familiar voice—the one that boomed
over all the others—completed the nostalgia. It carried from the opposite end of
the hallway as we made our way to the elevator he stood in front of. The insults
became discernible as we approached.
He confronted a tall, pale man, whose salute faltered due to his shaking
arms—whether they shook due to fear or from the lack of muscle on them I
couldn’t say.
“You call that a salute, boy?” Lt. Horan shouted. “Or are you just waving at
the shit flies? Boy, you better not have brought shit flies on my ship!” And then,
“Ah! Here’s Captain Marek. Captain Marek, I regret to inform you that this
swarm of insects is all we have to work with. I’ve never seen a more pathetic
group!”
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Nicoli kept his expression impassive. I avoided eye contact with Horan,
unconfident in my ability to stifle a giggle, or a smirk at the very least.
Nicoli held me back when the first elevator arrived, to allow Dr. Folsom and
the admiral to take it privately. This forced us to hear the barrage of scorn Lt.
Horan dealt out, and even now, my temper bristled at the unnecessary gruffness.
The elevator opened again as Horan dismissed his hostages. He caught the
door just before it closed and pushed himself between us. To his lieutenant,
Nicoli appeared withdrawn, perhaps occupied by the week’s worth of work
waiting for him in his office. To me, Nicoli looked like a sneaky little boy,
planning his next prank.
It was then that I noticed the black eyepatch Horan wore. I averted my eyes
and cleared my throat. Why did people clear their throats in awkward
situations? Didn’t help anything. Might even make it worse.
When the doors shut, Horan turned to me and grinned. Then scowled.
Looked to his captain. Scowled some more. “What’s with the shiners?” he asked
me, alternating his thumb between me and Nicoli.
Oh my sweet goodness, I’d forgotten to think up a story, something to refute
what Nicoli planned to tell everybody. I looked at the captain, raised my brow,
willing him to go first. He wouldn’t look at me. The effort it took not to stomp my foot detracted from my creativity.
“I…I was reaching for something on the top shelf in the cabinet, and my
hand knocked down a can of peas and it hit me right in the eye,” I said finally.
How could Nicoli weave a fight scene into that? It would take a pretty talented—
“And then she threw the can at me, because she thought I put it there on
purpose,” Nicoli blurted. “Pretty good aim, if you ask me.”
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I whirled on him. He fought to keep the impassive expression, refusing to
look down at me, refusing to look anywhere except the door ahead of him. I
decided to try sleepwalking tonight.
I glanced at Horan and could see he didn’t believe either of us. He muttered
something that sounded like, “Wouldn’t have happened on my shift.” He crossed his arms, clearly sulking.
I decided to change the subject. Stifling a reflex to lunge at Nicoli, I said,
“What’s with the eyepatch? Did you hurt yourself too?”
He shrugged. “If you’re asking if I was attacked by some runaway
vegetables, then no.”
I smacked his arm. “Well?”
He shrugged again. “I just wear it sometimes for intimidation. It looks
scarier.” With that, he lifted the patch and winked at me with the perfectly
functional orb.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re scary enough.”
“Really? ’Cause if I recall correctly, I remember a certain cadet didn’t think
so. I remember said cadet getting in my face and calling me names the very first
day she arrived.”
I snorted. “You started it.”
“Well, that’s just it. I get to start it. It’s my job.”
Nicoli allowed us to bicker in this way until the elevator opened in my
hallway.
“Oh, zip it,” I said, pulling a fake zipper across my mouth. Horan snickered,
satisfied that he’d sandpapered my nerves.
I glared at Nicoli a final time before the doors shut in front of him. If Pretty
Princess hadn’t been there, the good captain would also need to explain how a
can of peas had cracked his rib and busted his lip.
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When I got to my room, I dropped my bags and set my alarm for two in the
morning. Nicoli wouldn’t be quite as amused when he had to pursue a moving
target in the middle of the night. Satisfied with my plan for vengeance, I headed for the lab.
“It’s a mutated gene,” I said as I entered his office unannounced. Too late, I
realized he wasn’t alone.
The black-haired lieutenant—Lt. Giglio was his name, I thought—turned in
surprise at the interruption. He nodded to me, and I returned the gesture.
Nicoli sighed heavily and rolled his eyes as if a child had spoken out of turn.
He would pay for that later.
“Dr. Morgan, I have asked you repeatedly to respect the privacy of my office.
Please schedule your requests ahead of time.” He would pay for that too. He
turned to the lieutenant. “I apologize, Lt. Giglio, for Dr. Morgan’s rude behavior.
You were saying?”
I decided I should carry around a notebook to keep a tally of all the things he
would need to pay for before I spoke to him again.
“It can wait, sir.” The lieutenant waved in dismissal. “I can see that Dr.
Morgan apparently has something more urgent for you.” He saluted to the
arrogant captain and turned to leave.
As the door slid shut, Nicoli sat on his desk and grinned. “Yes, love? What
were you saying?”
I strode over to him and pointed in his face. “You can take ‘love’ and
shove—”
“Dr. Morgan, there you are,” the admiral called from the door. “Have you
checked on Lois yet this morning?”
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I narrowed my eyes at Nicoli to indicate to him that this discussion was not
over. I turned to the admiral and switched gears. Worry made his face look
older. “Yes, I have.”
Dr. Folsom had insisted the admiral not visit her in her personal quarters, to
keep suspicions about their relationship at bay. She hadn’t been able to keep
down any fluids whatsoever in the two days since we had returned to the ship,
and the only way he could learn of her condition was through me, her attending
physician.
“I started her on IV fluids this morning,” I told him, taking his hand and
sitting him on the couch with me. “She’s dehydrated a bit because of the
vomiting. I feel it’s a virus that needs to run its course.”
“How long will she need the IV?”
“Until she can keep her fluids down herself. Really, Admiral, she’ll be fine.” I
patted his hand the way she would. He gave a half-hearted smile.
“She’s in good hands,” Nicoli chimed in. I raised a flattery-will-get-you-
nowhere brow at him.
The admiral stood. “If her condition changes…”
I stood too. “You’ll be the first to know,” I assured him. He left without
another word.
This time Nicoli secured the door. He turned to me and smiled. “Now, where
were we?”
“You were about to die.”
He chuckled and closed the distance between us. He pulled me down on the
couch beside him. “What’s a mutated gene?” he asked. “Is that what causes one
to pretend to sleepwalk to the mess hall at three o’clock in the morning?”
“No,” I retorted. “Although studies have found that a mutated gene could be
behind what makes people lie. To make up stories out of thin air. You’ve
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obviously inherited that particular gene deformity. One or both of your parents
must be a blatant liar. Oh, that’s right. Your father is a politician. Must come from the Y chromosome then.”
He laughed and tried to pull me onto his lap. I wriggled away, stood up and
walked to the conference table, seating myself in one of the chairs. My pulse
misbehaved, my skin burned where he touched. Would I ever get used to him?
“In both Marie Belmonte and Marcel Eaton, there is a mutation of the gene
CCR8,” I began again.
“A mutation? A mutation isn’t good, is it? It means something isn’t working
properly.”
I shook my head. “That’s what it means most of the time. In this case, this particular mutation prohibits the virus from infiltrating the host cells. I’ve tried to expose their cells to the virus, but it can’t penetrate.”
“Why is that?”
I paused, wondering if I should give him the detailed version, or the plain
English version. I went with the plain one. “Normally, the virus attacks the very white blood cells that the body sends to destroy it. It infiltrates the cell, and once inside, it starts to copy its genetic information onto it and reproduce, causing the virus to spread. I found that both Marie’s and Marcel’s cells lack the receptor the virus needs to infiltrate it.”
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