Morgan's Choice

by Greta van Der Rol

  “Not unexpected. But… I felt I had to try. Orders are orders, Lindar. We have been told to bugger off.”

  Lindar swallowed a half grin. Then he glanced around him and leaned closer. “Srimana, have you noticed? Most of the Vesha princes have already buggered off.”

  A ringing boom echoed around the chamber. Ravindra exchanged a startled look with Lindar. An explosion if he’d ever heard one. “That was from outside.” Others had noticed, too. Some headed for the door to look. The buzz of conversation in the room died away but a louder, angrier noise rose, the baying of a mob. Shouts, the hiss-zip of energy weapons.

  Pulse pounding, Ravindra looked around for exits. “Time to go, Lindar. Murag’s militia can deal with this.”

  A servant materialized, one of Murag’s staff. “That way, quickly.” He gestured at an open door at the far end of the room. Ravindra hesitated. The idiots were just standing there, Murag among them.

  “Don’t worry, my militia will deal with the scum,” Murag said, voice dripping condescension.

  The door beckoned. A bone-jarring crash spurred him on and he ran. A glance over his shoulder revealed that the front doors had burst open. He saw a brief flare of red light and dived through the doorway just as an ear-splitting boom ripped through the hall. Groans, screams, cries for help; the awful clatter and patter of falling debris. Somebody closed the door behind him, muffling the sounds of the aftermath. He picked himself up, brushing dust from his jacket.

  Asbarthi grinned, arms folded over his chest. “Welcome to the revolution, Admiral.”

  Three men were ranged on each side, all wearing dark green uniforms, all holding handguns pointed at him. One stepped behind Ravindra and manacled his wrists together. So. They weren’t going to kill him yet.

  Asbarthi pulled out a silver-handled knife from somewhere inside his coat and hefted the blade in a playful way, curling his wrist. “Much as I’m tempted to slit your guts open and leave you to bleed to death, I’ve promised Hai Sur Sayvu he can have a piece of you, too. Better come quietly, though. Or I’ll lose my self-control.”

  Nerves twanged. This wasn’t sounding good, a couple of wronged fathers out for ‘justice’. He was shoved past a table strewn with empty bottles and dirty glasses into a kitchen and out to a courtyard where a copter was parked. Beyond the walls the mob roared, exultant. Smoke curled, black and oily.

  “Where’s my adjutant?” Ravindra said as they hustled him toward the machine.

  Asbarthi raised a contemptuous lip. “Dead.”

  They shoved him in the back seat with the three guards, one next to him, two opposite, while Asbarthi climbed in next to the pilot.

  Murag would be dead, too. If he wasn’t now, he would be shortly. The copter rose, affording a brief view of the square in front of the palace filled with a swaying mass of people. Many of them held banners, the ones he’d seen in the news broadcasts Prasad had shown him. The King and Queen of the Orionar.

  The copter landed at the back of a stately home a good hour away from the capital, not far from the mountains. Ravindra just had time to glimpse a curved gravel driveway lined with skimmers in front of one of the usual overdone Vesha piles.

  “Out.” The guard shoved him and he stumbled to one knee on the grass.

  “Tut, Admiral, you have nasty stains on your nice uniform.” Asbarthi gloated, grinning. “Better have a matching pair.” His eyes narrowed. “On your knees. Now.”

  Rage coursed up from his gut. Ravindra forced it down. Not now, play the game, wait for a chance. He knelt. Asbarthi stared down at him. “Very good. You know your place. I’d love to play with you a little longer, but I have guests coming to help me celebrate. So this will have to do.”

  The Vesha’s open hand smashed across Ravindra’s face. He swayed with the blow, trying to absorb the impact. It hurt but if this was the worst he could do…

  “Now get up.” Asbarthi growled.

  He rose to his feet.

  His eyes glittering with malice, Asbarthi pulled out the knife again. “Something to think about.” He carved the tip of the blade slowly down Ravindra’s cheek.

  Ravindra forced down the scream. He wouldn’t give the scum the satisfaction, staring into his eyes.

  Asbarthi’s lips twisted and he spat full into his face. “Turn around.”

  Ravindra turned around, spittle trickling down his cheeks.

  His hair was pulled down and the knife sawed and sliced. His neck felt cool, naked.

  “I’ll keep this in my trophy cabinet,” Asbarthi said, shaking the severed coti at him, the clasp still in place. “Lock him up.” The hair clutched in his hand, Asbarthi turned on his heel.

  “Come on, move it Admiral.” The grinning imp on his right sneered his title, as if it was an insult. He would remember.

  He caught a brief glimpse of forest and mountains beyond a perimeter fence, then they hurried him into a stone out-building. A table, two chairs, a shove into another room. The door clanged shut.

  The dim light in his prison came from a vent on the back wall; too high to see through, too small to climb through. His prison wasn’t long enough to lie down, and there was nowhere to sit. Even so, a surveillance camera had been fitted, high up in a corner. The place smelled vaguely of vegetables. This probably used to be a store cupboard. Holes drilled in the bare stone walls would have held batts to support shelves.

  He sank down on one knee, bent over and wiped the spittle from his face as best he could on the other knee. His efforts opened up the slit in his face. It stung. A smear of blood joined spit and grass stains. What would Tullamarran say?

  Options right now; none. From what Asbarthi had said, he would die tomorrow and he had no elusion the process would be short or pleasant. His son and daughter might be sad, but life goes on. He couldn’t say he knew them very well. Selwood. What he’d give for another night with her. Hard to believe he could fall in love with an alien. But he had, even if he’d only just admitted it to himself.

  Straightening up he took a deep breath. His prospects weren’t good. Right now he had to martial every sense he ever had so that he could take a chance if it transpired.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Morgan plucked a flower from a garden bed and twirled it in her fingers. The ornamental plantings were truly magnificent, a distraction from her unease. Seed pods and fruits put on a lovely display of russets and oranges and purples, with here and there silvery accent bushes or golden grasses. Late afternoon sunlight bursting through a hole in the cloud cover added a coppery burnish to the foliage. It wouldn’t last long. Already the sky all the way to the mountains was grey, with that tinge of brown that heralded rain.

  At least they were letting her out on her own a little bit now—even if it was only around the house under the careful eye of a number of guards. It had been three days since their visit to Mellnar’s village. She’d been told Unwyn was okay and she could only hope that was true.

  With a bit of luck she wouldn’t have to do any more guest appearances. The very thought of yet another performance made her ill. Now that Jones was dead, she would have to make the speeches. Freedom and justice for all; throw off the Mirka yoke. The only thing she’d really agreed with was getting rid of Murag. Why they’d put that man in charge of the planet was beyond her. At least putting him out of the way would improve things for everybody.

  She scuffed her feet in the gravel, scrunching the stuff under her feet. Asbarthi had said he’d start his revolt soon; he’d been talking up Jones’ death at the hands of Murag’s forces. The King had become a martyr, Asbarthi could take over and she’d take off. Somewhere. But not back to Ravindra. She dredged up the image from her implants, Ravindra in his white dress uniform. Ravindra naked would have been better, but she hadn’t recorded any. Too busy being swept away on an orgasmic tide. She traced the lines of his tattoo with a mental finger, on his right shoulder blade. If he’d ever wanted more than a casual fuck, he wouldn’t any more. Queen of the Orionar hung around her head lik
e a curse. Huh. She’d made a real success of getting him out of her head, hadn’t she?

  “Suri Selwood, come quickly.”

  She whirled, startled. Asbarthi approached her across the lawn, all decked out in high boots, white breeches and his gold brocade coat, a grin of satisfaction splitting his face. “The revolution has started. Our people have stormed the Governor’s palace. Sur Jones’ death was just the tipping point we needed.” He slipped an arm around Morgan’s shoulders and squeezed. “We will celebrate tonight.”

  “Already?” She stepped away from him, out of his reach, hating his touch.

  “Oh, yes. I’m told the palace will be ours in a few hours. All it needed was a spark. Come inside. I have pictures.”

  Lakshmi, Akbar and Indira were already gathered. Asbarthi turned on the view screen.

  “This is first footage from the palace.”

  The scene showed a handsome domed building of red and black stone behind a forbidding metal fence. Guards stood along the length, weapons held ready. Beyond the fence they’d erected portable orange barricades to keep the people even further away. The images were being taken from inside a crowd behind the barricades; sometimes the back of a head intruded, or a shoulder.

  The crowd stirred. The person with the camera swayed with them. With a phut-hiss a projectile flew through the air. It exploded in the midst of the guards on the fence. Bodies tumbled amid screams and shouts. Blood spattered the flagstones. Men streamed out of the crowd, interrupting the view but the watchers caught enough to see the barricades toppled. And then it became a surging melee. Stones flew through the air, pieces of wood became cudgels, weapons fired, people fell but the others drove on, baying for blood. Signs rose, carried high above the crowd. Guards ran down the steps from the building beyond the fence but the revolutionaries had brought in their own powerful beam weapons. The mob snarled, a many-headed demon. The fence swayed and crumpled. A rocket hit the palace, sending fragments spinning through the air. Fire flared red and smoke began to rise.

  Asbarthi turned the machine off. “That’s all the footage I have so far, but I can assure you the operation was an unmitigated success.”

  “Oh, well done, Asbarthi.” Hai Sur Devagnam leapt to his feet. “This calls for a celebration.” He summoned a servant to fetch glasses, open wine. “Such a pity that Sur Jones cannot be with us. But at least we have you, Suri Selwood.”

  Morgan did her best to smile. That was all fine. What they did on their own planet was their own business, but the sight of those signs… she and Jones in their fancy dress, King and Queen of the Orionar. Her stomach heaved. This was starting to feel like one huge, colossal mistake.

  Asbarthi handed her a glass of expensive sparkling wine himself. “Suri Selwood, please, dress yourself in your Queen’s garb for this evening’s meal. Some of our colleagues will join us to celebrate this start.”

  ****

  The other conspirators—the same ones she’d met at Hai Sur Wensar’s home—arrived shortly afterwards, dressed up in their usual extravagant finery for a grand dinner. All of them were jubilant.

  Morgan, in her gold and white dress, endured the toasts and the congratulations. She smiled and let Asbarthi bask in the applause, a beaming Lakshmi at his side. It was his idea, after all.

  “Here’s to our brave people,” he said, glass raised. “Here’s to the revolution.”

  They applauded, hands thumping gently on the table, or clicking spoons against their glasses.

  Asbarthi beamed. “Ah. Some more images from the front.”

  The severed head on a spike nearly lost Morgan her dinner. She gagged and swallowed, barely hearing the words from the elated man in the uniform beyond registering that Governor Murag had lost the fight and with it, his life. The camera lingered on the spitted head. The eyes were still open, lips contracted in a grimace. Blood had oozed from the nose and smeared its skin. Asbarthi and his friends laughed and cheered.

  The vision slid down to a headless body on a blood-splattered floor. A gore-stained yellow sash crossed the chest from shoulder to hip. The pictures from the palace were replaced with footage of a street scene. Women were being loaded into trucks, hurried along by soldiers. One woman clutched her shirt closed with her fist. The expression on her face said it all. Morgan had seen that look on many a woman’s face after pirate attacks, eyes wide with fear, expression blank with shame. Now she’d noticed one, she knew that woman wasn’t the only one. Some of them looked to be little more than children.

  Smoke from still-burning houses drifted in the air. Soldiers emerged from one house, arms laden with objects. She caught the glitter of firelight on gold. Looting; they’d descended to looting. A scuffle caught her eye. A young man was being dragged between two soldiers wearing the dark green livery of the KPP. The youth slipped, stumbled and was rewarded for the affront with a savage kick to the head. He curled into a ball, protecting his head but the soldiers kept kicking. Another joined in with a baton. Flecks of blood flicked onto the pants of the assailants. Morgan winced at every blow. No one could survive that.

  A number of people chuckled.

  She didn’t like the sound, like rocks in freezing water. No mirth, no humor. In fact, she didn’t like this party, didn’t like their obscene glee. Smile, keep smiling Morgan.

  “Hai Sur Devagnam can take our lovely Queen,” Asbarthi flung his arm out to Morgan and heads turned, “down to the capital to meet her subjects tomorrow. Meanwhile, I am expecting Hai Sur Sayvu to arrive tomorrow, as well. He and I will entertain our Mirka guest.”

  Mirka guest? The chuckles and guffaws the announcement elicited were positively evil.

  “This won’t buy trouble from his fleet, Asbarthi?” Dargen said.

  “The fleet has been told to withdraw.” Asbarthi chuckled. “Murag sent the order and I heard him speak to Ravindra myself. ‘Bugger off’ was the term he used. And his ship has been told he died in the assault on the palace. Which is almost right.”

  Died? Ravindra? Morgan’s heart jolted. She struggled to keep smiling while Akbar’s guests laughed. She hadn’t even known Vidhvansaka was here.

  The room swirled around her; dark faces leered, grinning with debauched delight. King Tony and Queen Morgan. Puppets with Asbarthi’s hand behind their backs. She despised them. She despised herself. Ravindra. One brief, incandescent encounter that would live in her memory forever, even if for him it was just a roll in the hay with a tart. And now he was dead. And it was her fault; her fault. Had it not been for the Orionar Queen, Asbarthi wouldn’t have been able to launch his revolt and Ravindra would still be alive. Oh, Ravindra, I’m sorry. So sorry. A tremor rocked the armor that protected her heart. I loved you.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she managed to say. She had to get out. Tonight, if she could, while they celebrated their victory. No way was she going to drive through cheering crowds in an open car, waving her wrist at Asbarthi’s command.

  Another ten minutes and she could manage to yawn and excuse herself. She’d kept the pretense going that she wasn’t strong after the escape from Mellnar’s property. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Lakshmi’s contemptuously curled lip.

  “Of course, Suri.” Asbarthi laid a solicitous hand on her arm. “We want you at your best for tomorrow.”

  Morgan smiled and took herself off. She leant for a moment against the closed door, squeezing away the threatening tears. Oh, Ravindra. A glint of silver caught her eye. Something on the table by the door. A hank of hair? With a clasp. Mirka. She almost gasped. She’d seen that clasp many, many times. Polished silver fashioned in the form of a serpent or dragon curled around itself, like the tattoo on his shoulder. Asbarthi’s Mirka guest, for him and Sayvu to entertain. ‘Almost right’, he’d said. Hope flared. Maybe he was alive and somewhere here.

  She removed the clasp and hurried upstairs as fast as the cumbersome skirt could take her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Where would Ravindra be? She’d have to find him.
Because sure as the sun came up, tomorrow they’d torture him to death.

  She sagged back in the chair and stared at the camera on its bracket near the ceiling out of hooded eyes. With a bit of luck they wouldn’t notice her protracted interest, too busy watching horrors on the screen. Her implant took over and she followed the data circuits, simple collection devices, into the processor. If they had a monitoring system, she could investigate a bit further. Simple enough, just the surveillance cameras and an alarm system. She checked the streams from the cameras. Her room, the passages, a couple of other bedrooms. And a cell. She burrowed deeper, finding the data stream. Her heart gave a huge, surging fillip. He was there, back to the wall, in white dress uniform. Blood had dripped on the jacket from a long cut on his face and his trousers were stained, too. A bare room, a solid door, a stone wall with a vent at the top. Perhaps one of the line of outhouses at the back and to one side of the manor, a stone building beside the workshops and barns.

  First she’d have to get out of this room. A man stood guard outside and she’d be deluding herself if she imagined they wouldn’t notice if she broke the surveillance camera up in the corner.

  They would have yesterday’s monitor pictures stored somewhere, probably by date. A simple redirection and the images the guards would see would be from last night. She took a moment to do the same for the camera in the bed room. Last night from the cell would be wrong. Maybe the previous hour? She checked and fixed a suitable point, repeating continuously. What about window alarms? It seemed an obvious thing to have. Yes, doors, too and the outside gates. Morgan turned them all off.

  Blinking, she refocused her eyes on the here and now in her sitting room.

  Clothes first. She crossed to the wardrobe, pulling the dress off as she walked. Black would have been good but the blue pants and shirt would have to do. She put Ravindra’s clasp in her pocket and made a quick trip to the washroom to blacken her face and hands. Now to get out of here. The guard was still at the door; it would have to be the window. She’d need something to rappel down. A bed sheet? She shook her head. She wouldn’t be able to tear it up. Her eyes roved around the room, searching for ideas. The ties for the window drapes, double loops of heavy silken rope. She could tie them together; they wouldn’t have to reach all the way down.