Morgan's Choice (8 page)

You wouldn’t understand…
Well, she’d better try. “I’m a
BI. A Bio-engineered Intelligence. Supertech is a nickname. I was
modified at birth to work with computer systems. I’ve been designed
to interact with information systems, hence my eyes and the
implants in my brain. How I connected with your systems? Any
computer system does the same sorts of things. Data travels down a
connection into a processor. The processor does things and sends
the result out. If you know what goes in and what comes out you can
usually figure out what happens in the middle. What’s different is
the language and the rules. Sort that out and you’re there. One of
the things I’m programmed to do is exactly that; to analyze
interactions.”

And anything else he really didn’t need to
know. Or want to know.

“And what controls you?”

Far too smart, this admiral. This was one
question she wasn’t answering. “Nothing.”

“
Come now,
Suri
. You serve. Otherwise you would not have been on a
freighter with a man you evidently do not particularly like,
testing a new shift drive. And who built the shift
drive?”

Yep, far too smart. “Another Supertech built
the shift drive, one who worked for an engineering firm
specializing in space technology.”

“And you tested it?”

“If you like. A simple little run between
planets. I was due to take on a new contract not far from where the
freighter was going.”

A simple little run, indeed. She could
hear Makasa’s words.
‘Just a small test run, Selwood. A new shift drive that
looks very promising. You have to be out at Salamanca base next
month; Penniscon is almost there.’
Or at least, that was the story they told
everybody.

“Your loss would be greater than the loss of
this freighter, surely.”

“Probably.”

Oh, to be sure Makasa would think so, too. He
wouldn’t be happy, not at all. But if this design could do what
they suspected it could—find those short-cuts through
multi-dimensional space—then even inter-galactic travel could be a
real possibility. Sure, the drive had malfunctioned before she’d
had a chance to test it properly but she thought it had actually
worked and brought them here.

“Who did you report to?”

Morgan jumped.
Pay attention
. She sipped some more of the brew. “Does
it matter?”

Ravindra’s brows lowered. “Do not be
difficult, woman.”

“Yes, okay, I had a manager.”

“Rank?”

He had to be guessing
.
“Why would I be military?” She remembered just in
time to avert her gaze.

A snort of dismissal. “Do not waste my time.
Because of the way you do things and the way you behave. Neat,
disciplined, aware of ranks. I have examined hours of recordings of
you with Sayvu, you in the isolation cell and much briefer, you in
the detention cell. That in itself was enough. Your friend Jones
merely confirmed it.”

Jones. Fucking Jones. Why couldn’t he keep
his mouth shut? “I reported directly to an admiral—a
Daryadan
.” At
least, that’s what she’d guess. Makasa wasn’t as senior as the man
opposite her.

“
So. Now you will report to a
Daryabod
. An
increase in status.”

Oh, goody. Don’t say it, Morgan,
keep your mouth shut.
She smiled at his rank insignia, instead.

“
Let me show the evidence we have of
the
Yogina.
”

He turned to the view screen and found a
report. A planet appeared on the screen, the usual blue-green and
white world with oceans and continents, a sparkling jewel against
the black of space.

There seemed to be more white under the
clouds than Morgan was used to seeing. If that was snow, it was a
pretty cold place.

“This is a view of Dilmar in happier times,”
Ravindra said. “We visited the planet a few days ago. It has been
colonized for twenty years, fifty thousand inhabitants clustered
around three settlements on a fertile piece of land on the largest
continent. Why anybody would bother to hit a planet like that is
beyond my comprehension. But hit it somebody had.”

The picture changed. For a moment she thought
she was being shown a gas giant, covered in roiling brown cloud.
But no. This was the same planet. From there, it became a
kaleidoscope of horror. What once were grass plains lay black and
empty. The charred skeletons of trees stretched stark limbs to a
sullen sky. Alongside the cultivated land a forest still smoldered,
a surreal sculpture of grey and black and white, distorted pillars
on an ashen base. Far away, the fire galloped up a mountainside, an
evil, leaping demon trailing a cloak of swirling smoke; somebody’s
hopes and dreams, all turned to ash. Her stomach heaved when she
saw the bodies. Troopers were piling them up, men, women, children.
All soft and floppy, their limbs loose as broken dolls. The stink
would have to be unbearable.

They’d found one survivor who had watched
the massacre from the doubtful safety of the forest. He described
the attack, hundreds of fighters such as those Morgan had seen
from
Curlew
. Then
tiny warriors, no bigger than children, had been landed. They
stalked through the settlement, killing as they went. When he’d
finished his story he broke down, his body wracked with
sobs.

Morgan rubbed her fist over her mouth. The
lone survivor’s story had shaken her more than she could say. So
easy to visualize hundreds of those little fighters she’d seen in
the isolation bay streaming down from the skies, the tiny, ugly
warriors killing anyone that moved.

Ravindra turned off the view screen.

“
He confirmed that the attacking ships
were
Yogin
fighters.
Before this incident we had come across a number of cases where
manesan freighters had disappeared in transit. We had come to
believe that something was preying on them but we didn’t know what.
After we found the ship you have seen in the isolation bay, we
began to fear we had seen the culprits. And now, as you have seen,
after having started as pirates destroying freighters the
Yogina
have begun to turn their
attention to planets. We have evidence of a mother ship but no
one—at least, no one alive—has seen it. We do not know when or
where they will strike again, where they come from, who they are,
why… And all of that worries me more than
Bunyada
ever could.”

He looked at her
. “As you found yourself, these
Yogina
do not communicate. They
destroy ships and if attacked, they fight to the death. Something
about you or your ship stopped them from taking that action. You
see the issue then? These little warriors appear to be implacable
killers. And yet these same beings spared you, spared your ship. I
want to know why.”

All so very true. She’d even thought
these
Yogina
had tried
to protect
Curlew
from the
manesan fighters. Disturbing and strange. Indiscriminate killing
didn’t sit well with her… the word ‘programming’ came to mind; she
shrugged it off. She hadn’t needed to be programmed to despise
mass-murder.

“I’ll do my best.”

****

Escorts waiting outside Ravindra’s door
led her across the corridor to her new room. A female officer a
little taller than Morgan, expressionless face, yellow eyes, Mirka
hairdo and two red, five-pointed stars on her shoulder, opened the
door. A commander. The funny eye symbol on her shoulder patches
indicated security, one of Prasad’s people. The woman gave that
curt semi-bow which meant ‘I have to be polite but you’re not my
equal’. “I am Commander Roy. I am to share these quarters with
you.”

Morgan returned the bow in kind and checked
out the room. Nice. Wood paneled, thick, green carpet, two
pale-grey sofas, four matching poufs around a beautiful low table
inlaid in an intricate pattern involving plants and birds. A
cabinet stood against one wall, an HV screen hung on another. A lot
like Ravindra’s suite, but with none of those personal touches.

“Where’s the washroom?” Morgan said.

Roy indicated a bedroom through an open
door.

Very, very nice. An enormous bed, built in
closets, bedside tables on both sides and her own washroom. Only
one bed. Oh, good grief. She whirled on Roy, who had followed her.
“We’re not sharing a bed, are we?”

The woman’s nostrils flared. “No. This is
your room. Mine is the other way. It would be a servant’s quarters.
But I am not a servant.”

Morgan didn’t miss the warning glitter in
Roy’s eyes.
Also known as jailer
. Oh well, what could she expect? “Understood. What’s your
job?”

“I am to ensure that you know how to behave,
introduce you to our customs.”

“And make sure I behave myself.”

Roy’s glance took in Morgan’s cheek and her
lips rose briefly in a smile.

I’ll bet you know who gave me
that.
And if
you expect me to whine and complain, you can think
again
.

“
You had best prepare yourself for the
senior officers’ mess,
Suri
.
You will find a suitable gown in the closet.”

“Fine. I’m looking forward to spending some
quality time in the washroom.”

“Through the bedroom.”

“Thanks, I’ll find it.”

Morgan’s spirits lifted as soon as she’d
closed the washroom door behind her. Now this was better than a
sonic shower and a hand-sized mirror. She’d actually be able to
wash. In a shower. With water. A wide mirror hung over a bench. She
angled her face so she could see the bruise properly, a purpling
discoloration on her cheek. No finger marks. That reminded her. She
pulled down the shirt from her left shoulder, revealing one
dull-red thumb print just above the collar bone. She had no doubt
she’d see four finger prints on her back. A strong man, His
Admiral-ship.

Her hair washed and dried, Morgan checked
the closet. Great. He’d agreed to let her have her clothes back and
here they were, put away in appropriate places. Her own underwear
and shoes, pants, shirts, night clothes and her small stash of
make-up. A wave of pleasure coursed through her. Her flexi-dress
hung on a rack, white and innocuous.

What was this, now? She pulled the garment
out of the closet, a shapeless, deep-red sack, and held it against
her body. She examined her reflection in the full-length mirror
hanging inside the door. Yuck. Surely she wasn’t expected to wear
this? The material looked nice enough, a sort of embossed, flowing,
flower pattern but the textured fabric felt rough to her fingers
and the dress itself was a simple tube, with fastenings at the
shoulders and a belt. In the vids she’d watched she’d seen all
sorts; women in sacks like these, others dressed up like dolls, and
others in clingy, figure-hugging numbers so it couldn’t be a
cultural thing. Surely she could reach a happy medium and be
comfortable.

She slipped on the flexi-dress and stood
before the mirror. This officers’ mess would be pretty formal and
conservative, she’d guess. Deep red was obviously suitable. She
concentrated and found the dress’s tiny processor with her mind.
Cherry red. The reflectors in each cell of the fabric shifted. And
now the style. Scooped neckline, not too low. Fitted at the waist,
flowing over the hip. The cells expanded and contracted as
instructed. Length. The sack was floor length, best be safe.

She pirouetted in front of the mirror,
admiring her handiwork. Excellent. Conservative but elegant. She
smiled as she slipped on shoes, low-heeled pumps.

When she emerged from her bedroom Roy jumped
up from the sofa, eyes widening in horror. “No. You cannot wear
that to the mess. A gown was left for you. Hurry, change. You are
already late.”

“That thing? I’m not wearing that. It’s a
bag. And it itches.”

Roy scowled. “You must. Immediately. That…
that thing you wear is not suitable.” She pushed Morgan toward her
bedroom, but Morgan stood firm. She’d been pushed around
enough.

The door to the corridor opened to reveal
Ravindra, resplendent in a white dress uniform that accentuated his
dark skin. “You are late—” He stopped short, his eyes raking up and
down her body while Roy bent herself over almost double. “Cover
yourself up, woman. You look like a
Vesya
.”

Whore. What the fuck? She forgot to avert her
eyes until his furious glance reminded her. Roy had straightened
up, her face a mixture of fear and chagrin. He was going to blame
her.

“It’s not her fault. This is perfectly
acceptable in our messes.”

His nostrils flared. “Must I remind you
again? This is not where you come from. Go.” A savage wave of his
hand. “Change into the gown left here for you. Quickly.”

That shapeless bag? She glared at him.

“You dare to cross me? Already?” He took a
step forward.

Summoning what dignity she could Morgan
stepped back to her bedroom and changed the dress.
Bastard. Typical
fucking male-dominated society. They even tell their women what to
wear
. Oh, if she was at
home, she’d tell him… She tightened the belt around her waist and
scowled at herself in the mirror. Errk. She looked like two
sausages tied together.
Smile, Morgan
.