Degrees of Wrong by Anna Scarlett

extended down the hall. As we made our way to the door, I noted the diversity in the nosy faces I passed. The United Nations was now the true melting pot of the world—the crew of the Bellator was proof of it. Virtually every ethnic group was represented here. It only now occurred to me the vast military force that entailed.
    Then something else occurred to me. I pulled Dr. Folsom by the sleeve, stopping her just short of the door.
    “I need to speak with Captain Marek,” I whispered, feeling the glances intruding on the conversation.
    “Is something wrong?” she whispered back, peeking at the long line of hypochondriacs. “You know you don’t have to help me anymore.”
    “It’s not that. He said if I needed anything—” I stopped, not wanting to say too much in front of our audience. “Well, I need something.”
    I knew she still didn’t understand, but she said, “I’m sure you’ll find him in his office.”
    I headed back to the elevator. A collection of disgruntled moans chased after me. “Show’s over,” I muttered.
    I reached Captain Marek’s office and announced myself to the alarm. To my surprise, it allowed entry.
    It was just as luxurious as the admiral’s, almost identical in fact. Captain Marek sat behind his large desk and tiny computer, typing something with full concentration. Belatedly, it occurred to me that I should’ve stopped by my quarters to freshen up.
    Instead, I cleared my throat.
    He looked up in surprise. “Dr. Morgan. What can I do for you?”
    He stood, motioning for me to sit in one of the oversized gray chairs in front of his desk. I obeyed, making myself comfortable as he reclaimed his seat, regarding me expectantly. I probably interrupted his train of thought—something I detested when done to me. I resolved to make this short and sweet.
    “You told me yesterday that if I needed anything, I should let you know. Well, I do. Need something, I mean.” Making direct eye contact with him was unsettling.
    “What can I do for you, Dr. Morgan?” he repeated, his voice nothing more than polite. He was the essence of equilibrium, a quality I supposed was invaluable to a captain.
    I took in a breath. Here goes. “Well, it occurred to me that I’m not the only one.”
    “The only one?”
    “The only one trying to find a cure. This is the United Nations, right? They have limitless people at their disposal. In their military force alone, they must have a thousand mad-scientist types working on this. Someone must be close.”
    “Yes?” he said, still missing my point.
    “I want access to their research.”
    He folded his hands on the desk. “Dr. Morgan, you have a valid point, but you’re right and wrong. On the one hand, we do have scientists working ’round the clock on this, with virtually unlimited resources.” He paused, studying me. I wished I knew what he was thinking.
    He continued, “On the other hand, every one of them has failed, obviously. It’s a rare thing for the UN to bring in an outside source, and even more inconceivable for them to do it forcibly.”
    “Yet, here I am.” And I doubted anything was inconceivable for the United Nations.
    “Yes, here you are. Which leads me to the conclusion that not one of those scientists is as close to finding the cure as you are right now.” I didn’t miss the disbelief in his tone. “However, if you still feel you need to review the works of incompetents, I’ll make arrangements for you to meet with someone. I can’t imagine, however, that you’ll be granted access to it. I’m sure it’s classified information.”
    I narrowed my eyes. “Will I be permitted to speak to someone, or will you be speaking on my behalf?” Since he didn’t really believe I needed the access, he’d be bland and unassuming in his polite request for it. I, on the other hand, would cross-examine any unfortunate lightweight they sent until I gained unrestricted access to every comma, period or question mark in the database.
    He