Morgan's Choice

by Greta van Der Rol

  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.

  He was pacing, arms folded, when she returned. Roy was nowhere to be seen. Sent to her room? He stopped and turned to look her up and down. She felt like a junior cadet getting the once-over from the senior under officer. Not a happy memory.

  “Better. Come. We are late.” He strode out into the corridor, leaving her to follow.

  ‘Ladies first’ sure wasn’t the way of things in this society. She tried to match his stride and was brought up short by the hem of the shapeless tube he’d forced her to wear. Fuck. And fuck again. He waited in the transit foyer, frowning his impatience, as she minced her way toward him.

  Ravindra preceded her into a large room with a dark blue carpet, softly pearlescent walls and at one end a well-stocked bar. The assembled officers stood in groups, chatting and enjoying a pre-dinner drink. Several murmured greetings and many directed curious stares at the strange female. Captain Lomandra positively looked daggers at her. She gave him a bright smile to go with the little bow. Bastard. He glowered.

  “Officers,” Lomandra said.

  They filed into the next room, some depositing glasses on tables against the walls. Morgan stood next to Ravindra, feeling like an unwilling mannequin at a fashion parade. Or maybe a prize exhibit at a freak show.

  Ravindra waited until the last officer had entered the dining room before he moved. Morgan trotted along behind him into a large room with a hard plasteel floor and walls hung with battle honors and images of captains. All the officers stood behind low chairs placed around the outside of three long tables arranged as a rectangle with one open side. The doorway they entered was level with the top table. Ravindra strode to his seat. The only one vacant was between him and Lomandra. Oh, what fun.

  Everybody bowed at Ravindra, who returned the salute. Morgan made to sit down but a warning grunt from him straightened her. Him first, it seemed. He and his officers accomplished the maneuver with grace. She eased herself into her seat, folding her legs as best she could, trying to copy the two women in the room, both wearing the same shapeless gown she wore herself. They must have incredibly powerful thigh muscles. The seat gave beneath her weight, shifting to fit her contours. Certainly comfortable enough, but she’d strengthen her back muscles, sitting on these things.

  An elaborate cloth covered the low table. Each setting consisted of a two-pronged fork and a spoon with a crooked handle, placed to one side of a bowl, and a transparent mug. Table manners would be interesting. No knives.

  The attendant poured from the jug into the mugs and set a platter of food on the table. A mound of the cooked brown grain she’d encountered so often down in the detention cells was piled in the center, surrounded by selections of various items she didn’t recognize. Orange things with tentacles, something that looked an awful lot like a pile of eyes, green vegetables, little blue hats, slabs of other things and something like a stew in a bowl with its own ladle. Down in detention she’d only ever been given a bowl full of fairly spicy food and a spoon. She waited for Ravindra, watching what he did.

  “What should I eat, Srimana?” she said as he ladled grain into his bowl.

  He shrugged a shoulder. “Whatever you want.”

  He speared items of food with his fork and transferred them to his plate. Then he put the fork down.

  Thanks a heap, bastard. She took what he had. Except the orange thing with tentacles. It seemed you picked up the bowl and shoveled food into your mouth with the spoon, just as she had in detention. She did the same, a bit of cereal and a blue hat… Oh fuck. It burned like fire, her tongue, her mouth, all the way down her throat. The heat seared up into her face, brought tears to her eyes. She forced the mouthful down and drained the mug in one huge flood. Just as well it was water.

  Ravindra regarded her with a mix of amusement and astonishment, his spoon held above the bowl. “Perhaps you should avoid the firehats. Or anything blue, for that matter.”

  Thanks a lot. He wasn’t the only one who’d found it funny. Ignoring everybody, Morgan nibbled cautiously at anything she took from the plate. The orange things tasted quite good and the eyes were a type of vegetable with a glutinous center. There was something that tasted fishy and a pile of some kind of meat. Most of the dishes were spicy-hot but tasty. Except those black slimy things that Ravindra seemed to relish. She could still feel the one she sampled sliding down to her stomach like some sort of worm. He could have those all to himself. But no doubt about it, the food was a vast improvement on the nameless mess she’d been given in the past.

  Dinner over, Ravindra explained that Morgan would be helping Hanestran with investigating the alien ship. He answered the few questions. She drifted off mentally when the talk turned to mundane ship matters. Prasad sat further down the table, appraising, evaluating. At least Hanestran had offered her a small smile, which she had returned. The two women, one wearing the medical corps insignia, the other logistics,
eyed her with the same unfriendly distaste she’d often encountered with female officers at home. For the rest of them, she felt like handing out hoops for them to throw. First to land one round my neck gets...

  Thankfully the mess dinner didn’t last too long. She stood awkwardly, grateful to stretch her legs. She tried to stride after Ravindra as he left the room and hit the hem of the bloody dress. Why women put up with this crap was beyond her understanding. They wore trousers to work in; trousers and shapeless shirts but at least they could move.

  “Will I be expected to attend the officers’ mess every night, Srimana?” Morgan asked Ravindra as they walked the last few paces along the corridor to their respective quarters. Srimana. If you tried really hard, you could sneer the word.

  He stopped and looked down at her. “No. I usually dine alone. Most times you will join me, in my quarters.”

  Oh, that was just great. Only slightly better than being the prize exhibit in the mess. “Must I wear this?” She plucked a piece of the horrible dress.

  “Yes. And I do not tolerate unpunctuality.” He turned to his quarters.

  Bastard. Arrogant, full-of-himself bastard. Morgan wished she could slam the fucking door.

  ****

  Ravindra had hardly sat down at his desk at the commencement of his day when his clerk informed him Captain Lomandra wished to see him.

  “Send him in.” He’d wondered how long it would be before Lomandra decided to confront him.

  The Captain, stone-faced as ever, entered, stood to attention and bowed. “Admiral.”

  “Captain.”

  “I wished to discuss the alien female. You have her working with Senior Commander Hanestran.” A neutral tone so far.

  “Yes. As I explained in the mess yesterday.”

  “With respect, Admiral, is that wise?”

  “If the woman can add to our knowledge of the Yogina I think it’s very wise.”