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
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