Morgan's Return

by Greta van Der Rol

  Ravindra slapped Biel's arm away, his other hand balling into a fist.

  Morgan put her spread palm on his chest. "Ashkar," she said in Manesai, "he's just an old boyfriend. I'll get rid of him. Please. We don't want a fuss."

  "Do it quickly, then." He bit the words out.

  Morgan turned back to Biel, took his arm and dragged him two steps away from where Ravindra, tense and angry, watched her every move.

  "Look, I'm under cover, okay? My name here is Marion Sefton. That's why the contacts. Sorry, Biel, but I'm working. Another time maybe?"

  "Yeah?" The red-faced anger receded a little, but he turned his head to glare at Ravindra. "So who's that asshole? Is he what you're under cover about?"

  They so did not need this. Curious onlookers craned for a better view, heads bent together to whisper. And, oh, for fuck's sake, here came the delectable Seaforth to add to the mix.

  "He's a foreign admiral. I'm keeping an eye on him." That was more or less true, anyway. "Please, Biel. I really don't need a fuss just now."

  Seabright reached out to drape an arm around Ravindra's shoulders. "Come along, Ashkar, this is such a bore and I'm—"

  Ravindra slapped her hand away, his eyes fixed on Morgan.

  "Catch you later, Biel. Please." She gave him a little smile and turned.

  "Okay." Biel almost whispered the word.

  Morgan felt, rather than saw him go.

  Seabright's beautiful red lips had formed a perfect O, her eyes wide. It was like watching a wax doll, her features seemed to melt as her eyes and lips narrowed. "Nobody does that to me." She pulled back her arm, the flat of her hand open. Morgan almost smiled.

  Ravindra deflected her arm before the slap made contact. Seabright staggered and tripped over her shoes, pitching headlong to the floor. Morgan laughed. Silly, stuck up bitch.

  "Come." Ignoring the fallen actor, Ravindra caught Morgan's arm in an iron grip and dragged her toward the foyer. The gathered bystanders made way for him.

  "I'm not a little kid," Morgan snapped, fighting against the inexorable pressure.

  He stopped, leaned over her. "Would you prefer I carry you?"

  Not happy, not happy at all. His eyes glittered. She'd be silly to push her luck. "Fine. Let go. Outside?" She pointed a finger at the door.

  A brusque nod. His grip lessened but he didn't let go. Morgan flicked a glance at Partridge, who sat white-faced where she'd left him. She contacted him via his implant. "Have another drink. We'll be back."

  ***

  Morgan marched out into the shadows of the garden, Ravindra's almost palpable fury heating the air around her. Gazing around, she found a deserted clearing with a bench. There were sensors, standard practice. She switched them off with a thought.

  Ravindra stepped in front of her. "Well?"

  She folded her arms. "I could say the same to you. An old boyfriend recognized me. But what were you doing, schmoozing with an aging actor?"

  He sucked in a breath and blew it out again, relaxing a little as he did so. "I was doing Davaskar a favor. A tactical maneuver, so he could win over one of her attendants while I amused the mistress. Now, back to you. Was he a hotshot pilot? One of your lovers?"

  Fuck. She'd hoped he'd missed that. Not a chance. Ravindra didn't miss anything.

  "The worst of it is he shouted my name and I admitted I recognized him. Still, it's not likely anybody important would have picked that up." At least, she hoped so.

  "Did you dance for him?" He stood so close to her she could feel his heat.

  She stared up at him. His eyes behind those contacts would be incandescent. She'd seen him like this before, when she'd had the temerity to go out with a bunch of female officers without permission. She'd danced for him after that, and mentioned Coreb's name. Just as well Biel wasn't Coreb. What Ravindra would have done in that case, she hated to think. "No, I didn't. But even if I did, it doesn't matter. We went through all that. It's the past; it can't be changed. I won't mention all the women you've had in your life if you forget about my ex-boyfriends. Deal?"

  He was still frowning. Oh, fuck, she didn't have time for this crap. That's what happened when you got involved. "Look, Partridge is waiting for us. Shouldn't we get on and find your ancestors?"

  Ravindra said nothing for a moment, just stood there smoldering. Then he flicked his hand. "Get on with it."

  Fury shimmied up her spine. "I'm not a lackey. Don't try and treat me like one." Before he could say anything, she whirled and walked back inside.

  Chapter 15

  Partridge sat with his elbow on the table, his fist pressed against his lips. He lowered his arm as they approached. Morgan managed a surreptitious look around. Seabright and her party had left. Just as well. They didn't need any more altercations. Besides, that woman wouldn't have any trouble finding somebody else to devour.

  She slid into a chair opposite Ravindra, forcing herself not to react. Keep calm. Act professional. He'd put on his admiral's face: calm, confident, unapproachable.

  "So. Is the submarine usable?" Ravindra said.

  Partridge's eyes almost glowed as he looked at her. "She's amazing. Are all the engineers in your fleet as good as her?"

  Ravindra's lips twitched, but his eyes remained cold. "Not by a long way."

  "Well, Marion and I have discussed the situation. I think the sub's good to go. I'm happy to have you along with me, if that's what you want?"

  "There's no doubt the Trimasi were keeping tabs on the sub," Morgan said. "It took me a while to find the bugs. But I did."

  "Of course," Ravindra said. "What have you done?"

  "Rigged them up on the wharf in the cavern with correct spacing and so on, so it will look like the vessel is still tied up there."

  "We have a target?"

  "Yes, that canyon in the marine survey. I suggest we go to Derryn's house early in the morning." If Ravindra could play the admiral, she could play the cool consultant. She even made a point of staring him in the eye, to annoy him and to remind him he wasn't on the bridge.

  He gave that brief nod, a jerk of the head. "What about the others?"

  She shrugged. "I expect Davaskar will be busy right now, and Jirra and Prasad won't be interested. Besides, four is plenty."

  Ravindra raised an eyebrow. "Four?"

  "Brent will be with us," Partridge said. He'd been watching like a man at a passball game, from Ravindra, to her, then back. A slightly worried expression tightened the lines of his face.

  "It's agreed, then. You will wish to return home," Ravindra said to Partridge, all formal and in control.

  The archaeologist rose to his feet. "Yes. Yes, I'll do that. Tomorrow then, just after dawn." He walked away toward the exit, avoiding a group of women who stared after him, snapping their fingers in appreciation.

  Morgan couldn't blame them. Partridge had a nice butt. A gale of laughter erupted from the direction of the dance floor. Someone had fallen over, no doubt the worst for wear. She felt the worst for wear herself.

  "I've had a busy day." Morgan made to stand but Ravindra, fast as a snake, grabbed her arm.

  "Did he show you his grandmother's data?"

  Morgan sank back onto the chair. When he was like this she couldn't read him. As soon as she was seated again, he let her go, an officer waiting for a progress report.

  "No. But I think he will. I made an effort to get to know him, got him talking about the academics. And the secret police. He's afraid of the police and for good reason. I checked what I could on the planetary 'legal' systems while I worked. Say the wrong thing, upset the establishment and you disappear."

  "The man is an academic. Why would he concern them?"

  "He's suggesting his grandmother was a geneticist. Here, the Temple says people are made in the image of the Goddess. You don't mess with perfection."

  "Ah. So his findings would upset the rulers."

  "You got it. It's like Iniciara, but here, the church still rules. I wouldn't be surprised in the Grand Poobah
of the Temple of Ushas really believes it's all rubbish. But if it keeps the natives quiet…" she waved an arm.

  "Of course." He rested his thumb against his lip, his usual gesture when evaluating. "The notes?"

  "Tomorrow." She stood.

  Ravindra followed her past the bar, where the revelers were in fine fettle, dancing, laughing, enjoying much louder music while colored lights flashed and flared with the beat. Morgan noticed Biel with a dark-haired girl on the dance floor. Good luck to him.

  She and Ravindra walked through the gardens to their apartment in silence. Did she believe his story about helping Davaskar and the Seabright woman? Yes, probably. But that didn't excuse him for being a perfect ass. If he wanted to apologize, she'd listen.

  Inside their room she yawned, stretching her arms above her head. "I'm going to have a shower and go to bed."

  He poured himself a drink, barely glanced at her from the built-in bar. "Good night."

  ***

  Morgan awoke at the time she'd set herself. Ravindra lay beside her, his back toward her, a presence felt, rather than seen, until she increased the light sensitivity in her eyes. She instructed the window to clear its night time opacity. The horizon had that lightness which signified the sun was not far away but the brighter stars still held their own above the sea. The wind was virtually non-existent for the moment. The weather forecast had talked about storms later in the afternoon but it hardly mattered, in a submarine.

  Might as well get on. She left messages for Davaskar and Prasad, then dug an elbow into Ravindra's ribs. He spluttered and heaved himself up on one arm while she slid out of bed and padded over to the closet. "Move yourself, admiral. We have a fishing trip, remember?"

  He rolled out, supple as a feline, wearing only shorts. With a pang she admired the width of his shoulders, the smooth bunch and release of his muscles as he dressed, his back to her. He was probably waiting for her to apologize first. Well, fuck him. If he thought she'd grovel, he could think again.

  "You've left a message?" Ravindra asked as he fastened his shirt.

  "Yes." He meant for the rest of their party. No details, of course. Just 'we're going out, carry on without us'.

  Outside the air felt fresh and cool on Morgan's face. Her footfalls muffled in the soft fill of the path, she slipped through the darkness of the gardens to the landing pad where their rented skimmer waited.

  Ravindra, silent as a cat, was a step behind her. "I scent trouble," he said softly.

  "Huh. Hardly surprising after last night's scene. Seashore has probably sobbed on some journalist's shoulder." If he thought she'd let it ride, he had another thing coming.

  "Seabright. Perhaps. I have no wish to be descended upon by reporters looking for a story. We must be careful to cover our tracks."

  Oh, fuck. She hadn't thought of that. He was right. Damn him. Something skittered away in the branches to her left. Her heart jolted. Nothing. Just some night critter. On the right the resort's night lights were still holding out against the growing dawn.

  "I can fix the skimmer so it can't transmit where we are. But that means I'll have to pilot manually."

  Ravindra didn't answer, just smiled.

  The skimmer sat on the landing pad, third in a line of seven machines. Morgan slipped into the pilot's seat and disarmed the navigation system. Just as well she could replay the route from her implant.

  The restraints deployed, the engine whined into life and they were in the air, rising above the sprawling grounds of the resort. The main building's green wave roof glinted in the dawn light, a rosy glow on the horizon that silhouetted the groups of islands. Morgan banked the machine out over the sea and flew along the coast. Despite the calmness of the ocean, the swell was still sufficient for waves to boom against the rocks below. The spray, flung high into the air, held a tinge of red.

  Lights were on in Partridge's mansion. The man himself stood on the doorstep, waving as Morgan shaped the craft to land. Ravindra retracted his harness before the skimmer set down and jumped out onto the gravel. "Stay here. We need to hide this machine." He strode away, his feet crunching on the path.

  Yes, Sir, three bags full, Sir.

  Partridge came to meet Ravindra, then the two men walked slowly back, talking as they came. Morgan enhanced her hearing to listen to the conversation. "Hide the skimmer? I wouldn't know where," Partridge said. "Except the garage. We could leave one of ours outside."

  "Too obvious. A cave somewhere?"

  "The only nearby cave is where we keep the submarine. I don't know. The skimmer might fit under the arch but it would be dangerous."

  Morgan could almost see Ravindra's grin. Dangerous for a Supertech? She played back their visit to the cavern. Yes, an arch where the canal ended. She hadn't noticed then, but a door filled part of it. Presumably it could be lifted.

  "Can you fly this into the cavern where the submarine is?" Ravindra asked.

  Morgan turned to Partridge. "Can you raise the door in the cavern?"

  His eyes widened. "The sea gate? Yes, of course, but it's still going to be tight. And getting it out again will depend to some extent on the tide and the weather."

  "You raise the sea gate. I'll meet you down there." Morgan felt the adrenalin surge. This was going to be fun.

  The skimmer lifted off the ground and flew out over the cliff. Fifty meters below, the waves surged up rocks, foamed, gurgled, circled, sucked back. Morgan angled down to the wave tops, looking for an opening below the house, standing high above on the clifftop. The movement of the gate caught her eye, rising, dripping, into the rock. Clever how they'd done that, building a gate that looked just like a part of the cliff. When the movement stopped, she measured the height between wave crests. Damn. Too easy. With the skimmer's engine throttled right back to just above stall, she slid toward the rocks. Tiny water droplets, spray from the sea, traced long lines on the side windows. Now underneath the arch into darkness. The sound of the engine changed, louder, deeper in the confined space. The lights switched on when the cave's systems sensed the machine, flooding the area in a soft glow. The submarine, a long, dark cylinder, lay in its mooring in the canal, rocking slightly with the surge of water from outside. There wasn't much room in here, but room enough. Morgan eased the control around to the left, settled the skimmer on the wharf and shut down the engine. Then she set the sea gate to close.

  The sea gate had settled into place when Ravindra appeared with Partridge. Morgan met them at the lift.

  Partridge gaped at her. "That is amazing. You're sure one fine pilot."

  She made sure to give him her best smile. "Before we go, would you show us your grandmother's data? Please?"

  Partridge's lips pressed together, then he shrugged. "Why not?" He turned and went back into the lift.

  "You have not told the academics about what you have?" Ravindra asked as the lift rose.

  Partridge shook his head. "They're her notes. They could land me in jail."

  "Mm. Religions can be… difficult."

  In the foyer, Partridge took a moment to ask the IS to arrange for food, then led them into his wonderful, circular study. While she and Ravindra sat, he went over to the wall and, keeping his back to them, did something. He returned with a box, which he opened, revealing a slim, rectangular object. Lifting the oblong out carefully, he said, "The notebook."

  He gazed from her to Ravindra. "This is more than just her notes. Grandmother must have found something, some source which is now gone, probably destroyed when she was disgraced. You can see a reference here." He pointed to the header, which held a date and a set of numbers. "I think some of the text in the notebook is a translation."

  Partridge took a pair of thin rubber gloves from a drawer. "Please don't touch," he said, pulling them on.

  Understandable. She and Ravindra both leaned over the relic. The thing looked well-used, tattered and scarred, but made of a tough material. Maybe leather? Partridge opened the cover, revealing pages yellowed with age. The leaves were mad
e of some sort of plant fiber, fine but strong, and bound together with carbon filaments so the pages could be easily turned. The material had lasted well, considering the amount of time that had passed. The author had written the words by hand, the letters uneven and difficult to decipher. The text wasn't going to be easy to read.

  Eastly came in, carrying a tray. The delicious smell of fresh-brewed kaff and pastries out of the oven had her mouth watering. "That's welcome, Brent. We didn't stop for breakfast."

  Smiling, Brent poured kaff into mugs and handed them out. Morgan noticed the slightest touch of fingers as the archaeologist took the mug from his 'secretary'.

  "Brent wrote code to scan the handwriting and reset it as print." Partridge turned a few more pages, taking great care to touch only as much as he had to.

  "So you have a translation?" Ravindra asked.

  "For the words, yes. But there are some illustrations."

  "Can we see the translations?" Morgan asked.

  Partridge eyed her for a long moment. "Yes." He went back to his secret wall safe and removed a tablet, which he handed to her.

  Morgan sucked in the data. There were a few notes, genetic computations, disjointed ideas. She paused at some star maps. The author had drawn constellations visible from Ushas with some unreadable coordinates against a few stars. But most of it was philosophical. 'So much violence, so many people taking up arms against each other. Why can't they work together, recognize not everyone is the same?'

  Further on she'd written, 'If we could all know our place, have a role to play, each man using his abilities to help himself and everyone else. People could live in harmony.'

  Morgan handed the tablet to Ravindra, showed him the passages. He snorted. "Live in harmony. What a nice idea."

  "It is, isn't?" Partridge challenged him, a glint in his eyes. "I suppose you're a cynic, it can't be done."

  "You're right. It can't be done." Turning away from Partridge, Ravindra said to Morgan in Manesai, "It isn't enough. By a long shot."

  "I agree. But it does show this ancient person was thinking along the lines we'd expect. He's a geneticist, as proved by the DNA jottings. And he'd be just the sort of idealistic idiot who'd think he could create races which would suit his vision."