“I suppose I should add wordy to the list.”
That got a quick laugh out of Emily.
“Also guilty. Give me one second,” she said, turning back to the door where the other couples were leaving. “You keep your husbands out of trouble. I’m not around to babysit them anymore.” The departing women laughed, while the men saluted smartly.
“So why do you care about me? I’m not a soldier and I don’t live wherever Novan is. I’m not even on the same planet.”
“I am in your debt, and I pay my debts.”
“I’ve never even seen you before this morning. How could you owe me anything?”
“Do you know what the core of nobility is?”
“I’m not even sure what that means.”
“At its most basic, a government with nobility is based around duty. To some people more is given, but of them more is also expected.”
Now it was Morgan’s turn to laugh, but not out of amusement.
“Oh, that. I know of that. Where I grew up they phrased it ‘Everyone is equal but extra risks required extra support.’ Funny how it was never the guards dying in the shafts. Funny how we never even saw any of the essential workers or the party leaders, except the one lady who came to give us speeches. Her and her perfectly smooth hands, and that impossibly wide, white smile.”
Morgan had let more venom creep into her voice than she had intended, but Emily didn’t even blink.
“That is what happens when the people in charge ignore their duty.”
Morgan bit off her retort, instead taking a deep breath in.
“I’m sorry. I really must be going. Would you please tell Gertrude thank you for her hospitality. I will think on her offer and let her know in a few days at school.”
Emily didn’t move, so Morgan stepped around her and darted through the door. She actually caught up to the other departing guests, who had stopped to finish some bit of conversation Morgan didn’t care about in the entryway, so she edged around them and got out to the street.
That Emily was an odd one, and unsettling. Gertrude was nice enough, but despite what she had said Morgan wasn’t planning on taking her up on the offer. The money saved would be nice, there was no point in denying that, but it also meant giving up a lot of her freedom, and being tied to someone else. Morgan wasn’t about to rely on anyone she didn’t have to.
CHAPTER 10
When faced with a dedicated criminal class, the police are often at a disadvantage. They don’t want to hurt anyone, but the old adage about it taking two to tango but only one to brawl should be remembered. There is also the matter of reputation on the streets – it is literally considered a good thing for these criminals if it takes multiple cops to subdue them, and reputation can be lost if they lose to someone viewed as weaker.
- Captain Leslie Kraft, Precinct 35, Ein city
INSTEAD OF GOING back to her tiny apartment Morgan walked over to the trade school. It was closer to Gertrude’s house, Morgan grudgingly admitted. There was still plenty of studying to do, and precious little of it she could do at her own place. None of it really, without a device of her own that could connect to the city’s network of computers and uplinks.
The building was locked up for the holiday, of course, but Morgan was on file as both a student and employee, so the system let her in without any fuss.
Taking apart one of the practice air circulation systems made her feel better, though the grease and oil did get everywhere.
Putting it back together took longer than Morgan would have liked. It was all going smoothly at first, but she got one of the innumerable small details wrong, and she had gone half a dozen steps farther before realizing it. Undoing those steps was made much harder by the mistake – it was designed to smoothly assemble and disassemble a certain way after all, and the tiny error was enough that things weren’t fitting right. Between finishing that, cleaning up as best she could, and slogging through the reading she needed to do, it was well into the early evening by the time Morgan had finished and put everything away. Time to go home, it seemed.
Thinking that word, ‘home,’ still had an interesting effect on Morgan. Her apartment was far smaller than her parents’ home, even if you took out the tool storage spaces, but it was hers.
Putting those thoughts aside Morgan started contemplating dinner. Breakfast at Gertrude’s had been large enough that she hadn’t stopped for lunch, not intentionally, but because she simply hadn’t been hungry.
Mentally going through what she still had in the refrigerator and cupboard, Morgan decided she’d best get some supplies on the way home.
She made it all of four blocks before she ran into the first missionaries of the day.
“Have you heard the good word, my child?” the woman of the pair asked. Morgan was pretty sure their clothing – a loose sleeveless robe that showed off a lot more skin than was normal for the preachers she typically ran into – was an indication of which religion they were from, not that she knew enough to guess.
“I’ve heard five good words just this week,” Morgan replied with a smile. It was hard to get too annoyed at the preachers – they believed they were helping her by trying to convert her, after all.
“Not surprising, in a city like this. But surely you can spare a few moments to learn more about our creators?”
“I need to get home,” Morgan said, gesturing towards Bo district and her apartment.”
“There is no need to inconvenience yourself, my child,” the man said, “We would be happy to walk along with you partway.”
Morgan would have said no, politely, but she was feeling a little on edge out in the open. The attack the day before had rattled her a bit more than she had realized. They preaching wouldn’t hurt her, and most of the criminals seemed to leave the preachy types alone. . .
“Sure, for a few blocks.”
The pair actually bowed to Morgan. She was able to wipe the smile off of her face at the silliness of it before they straightened up, thankfully.
“We belong to the Order of the Shepherding Stars,” the male said by way of introduction as they walked. “Are you familiar with the tenants of our faith?”
“You worship the stars, right?”
“Yes. The vibrant stars are the source of all life, both in their continued sustenance given freely to all as well as the very particles that make up our beings, created by stars that sacrificed themselves to scatter more complex materials through the universe.”
It actually made a kind of sense. Even Morgan had learned enough science to know that all but the most basic types of matter had originated in the furnaces of the stars. She still didn’t see how that made the star a god, though.
“And what does your god ask of you?”
“They ask little of us, child, but that we be happy and fruitful, and guard the precious lives they give us,” the woman answered.
“We show our devotion to the creators by basking in their glow as much as possible, as well, reminding ourselves of the live they give,” the male added.
Well, that explains the clothing, Morgan thought to herself.
“So killing is a sin, then?” Morgan asked, more to keep the conversation going than from any doubt as to the answer. She didn’t think she could belong to any religion that banned bacon.
“Murder is a sin,” the woman clarified. “Nothing can live without taking from another, even if it is from the stars themselves. Nothing lives forever, but that does not mean we can be wasteful or cruel.”
“Did you never wonder about your place in the universe, staring up at the stars in the sky each night?”
“Sort of,” Morgan admitted, “Though we couldn’t usually see the stars.”
“You lived on a station, perhaps?”
“No, just a really cloudy planet.”
“How sad, to be blocked from contemplating the creators.”
“It was,” Morgan agreed, though for slightly different reasons than the missionary meant.
Mo
rgan was able to get away from them gracefully as they passed the store she liked a few blocks from her apartment. Thanking them for their time, and reluctantly accepting the small data chip with their literature, she ducked into the store.
It was the work of only a few minutes to grab the essentials for dinner. In this case that would consist of meat, bread, and cheese. Mustard she had already. Throw in some chocolate milk, some local juice, and a bunch of apples for breakfast and she was good to go. Having planned ahead – or more accurately having left the folded bag in a pocket on a regular basis – Morgan shoved it all in a cloth backpack and headed home. Despite having lagged at the school it was even still early, and Morgan was looking forward to getting some extra sleep before her early morning shift.
Her good feelings lasted right up until the brick hit her squarely in the back.
The force of the impact sent Morgan to her knees, the right one cracking against the curb of the road painfully. Her hurt knee ground against the rough pavement as she fell the rest of the way.
Rolling over onto her back Morgan saw the brick that had hit her and was frankly surprised she wasn’t injured more seriously. Then she noticed her hand was sticky. Looking down presented her with the sight of a brown liquid pooling out around her.
The luck that had guided the brick to hit the jug of chocolate milk in her pack ran out, as the men who had thrown it reached her before she had time to even try standing up.
One of the three of them – and clearly these were the same men from the previous day – kicked her before pressing his boot down on her chest.
“You’ll stay down if you know what’s good for you.”
Morgan was fairly sure his idea of ‘good for her’ and her own were not exactly the same, so instead of listening she rolled as hard as she could to the left into his other leg. This, having the desired effect, sent him toppling. Unfortunately, it sent him toppling directly onto Morgan, eliciting grunts from both of them. He tried to grab her hair but it was too short to get a good handle on and she wrenched her head from his grasp. Kneeing or elbowing him seemed a good plan, but Morgan couldn’t get the leverage or angles she needed to pull it off.
The other two, meanwhile, pulled their mate off of Morgan, hauling him bodily upright. The moment he was clear Morgan started scooting back as fast as she could to try and get clear to stand up and run.
They had anticipated this and a boot came down hard on Morgan’s left arm. It caught her arm on the edge of the curb. There was a loud snapping noise but Morgan didn’t hear it. All she was aware of was pain.
Morgan wasn’t unfamiliar with broken bones, but this one was felt a lot worse than most of those had. She forced herself to look at it. Her lower arm was bent sharply, a bone jutting out of the torn skin. There was blood everywhere. It probably should have hurt more than it did
“Well, that quieted you down some,” one of them said, before kicking her arm. This had the positive benefit of being so painful that Morgan passed out.
It also had the negative consequence of being so painful that Morgan passed out, leaving her to the dubious mercy of the men attacking her.
***
The next few events were blessedly hazy for Morgan. Movement, the sound of something tearing, more pain from her arm and most of the rest of her body, muffled words she couldn’t understand.
She next completely woke up in an unfamiliar bed. Unfamiliar place, really. White walls, bare white tile, off-blue curtains on rails that would have looked less horrible had they been white, and a bed that might, at one time, have had white blankets and sheets.
The first thing she checked was her arm. It was resting on top of the blankets, encased in what had to be this place’s favorite color, a white cast. She couldn’t move it much, or feel it yet, but it at least was pointed the right way. The cast was quite different than the ones she’d had the misfortune to use before. Those were bulky, itchy things made of wrapped cloth and plaster. This was hard plastic that looked like it had been made especially for her arm, exactly fitting its contours and barely a centimeter thick. It was as comfortable a cast as she supposed possible.
She felt too weak to move much, but Morgan checked the rest of herself over as best she could. Her clothes were gone and she was wearing a thin, short gown that felt like it wasn’t closed in the back. Nothing else seemed broken, but a lot of the bits that weren’t covered were turning a rather stunning shade of purple.
The pain was quite fuzzy, and Morgan found it hard to concentrate on anything. She really had expected the pain to be much worse. Gradually her thought process caught up with the fact that she was on Zion, not Hillman, and painkillers were not a scarce treasure.
Thirsty, she was thirsty though. There was a table on her right side, white of course, near the bed. There was a pitcher of water on it and a cup already filled, helpfully.
Focusing she slowly raised her arm to grab the cup, but stopped once she realized that her wrist was fastened to the railing of the bed with a metal bracelet, connected by a short chain. She hadn’t realized it at first because the bracelet on her wrist was buffered with a soft cuff beneath it, keeping the metal from biting into her skin.
What?
Nothing made sense. Where was she? Why was she alone in a room, chained to the bed?
Her thirst reminded her of the immediate priority and she returned to getting the cup. Her hand was shaking, and she got more of it on herself than in her mouth, but even those few swallows helped.
There was a tapping sound, getting louder. It took Morgan long seconds process that they were footsteps and that someone was approaching her little curtained off room.
Pushing the curtain aside a man with a long white coat and a rather ugly green shirt and matching pants walked up to the bed, pausing to look at something Morgan hadn’t noticed above her head. Craning her neck, she saw there were some displays full of squiggly lines and numbers that presumably meant something to doctors.
“I want this,” she held up her hand, as best she could anyway, “off.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Bullshit.” Morgan had picked up some colorful words from Mary, despite her absent friend’s best efforts, though Morgan tended to reserve them for appropriate times. Being chained to a bed without cause seemed one of those times. “No reason for them. Take. Them. Off.” Morgan was fighting through the mental fuzziness, and she was slurring her words a bit, but the anger helped her focus a little bit better.
“We have learned from painful experience that without these regrettable restraints too many people in your circumstances run off,” here he paused, so briefly Morgan wasn’t sure she had imagined it, given her current state of mind, “before they are well.”
“My arm’s in a cast. Doesn’t require bedrest.”
“Perhaps not. You did nearly die though. Lot of blood loss from a compound fracture. You nearly bled out before the paramedics got to you. If someone had called the police even a minute later you wouldn’t be here. Now, we could send you home, if you’d give us your parents’ names?”
“My parents? Different planet. I live alone.” Morgan pushed aside thoughts of dying, and focusing on what she could answer helped.
“At your age? You expect me to believe that?”
Had Morgan not already been as pale as she got from pain and injury the color surely would have drained from her face. How did they know her real age? She had identification on her, official, that listed her as a refugee and her ‘birthdate’ as the first day of the first month twelve years ago by the Zion calendar, which was five hundred twenty-six hour days long, making her legally an adult.
“I’m twelve.”
“Earth years? That I might believe.”
“No, Zion years. I had an ID card on me. Where are my things?”
The pain medication seemed to be wearing off. Morgan could think more clearly, but the pain was more noticeable as well.
“All you had when you were brought in was one of the
more noticeably fake IDs I’ve seen in a while, with a door chip attached. Your clothes weren’t even worth saving, as torn and bloodstained as they were.”
“Not fake.”
“I’ll admit most of it looks pretty good. Next time you might want to make sure there’s a fake last name to go with the first, ‘Morgan.’ A birthday of 1/1 isn’t very clever either.”
The doctor, or whatever he was, had dropped the feigned concern pretty quickly.
“It isn’t fake. Contact. . .” Morgan hesitated, still unwilling to rely on anything from a government, a hesitation that her current interactions with an employee of what was most likely a government hospital reinforced,” Contact the refugee office here in Isa. They’ll have me on file.”
“Sure they will, Cupcake. Anyway I’m just here to check that you haven’t fled or died on us. This close to your neighborhood we’re always pretty busy. I’ve wasted too much time here already. I’m sure an officer will be along eventually to talk to you. I suggest you don’t lie to him.”
He walked off, shaking his head.
“Wait,” Morgan called out a few seconds after the curtain stopped swishing back and forth. “What do I do when I need to use the bathroom?”
***
It was some hours later before anyone else entered Morgan’s room. Meanwhile, Morgan had used the privacy to get to the small bathroom attached to her small room and back. She had to sit with the door hanging open and her arm stretched out towards the bed, but she managed. She was only able to do this at all because the bed had wheels. They worked poorly, but they did work. They had probably intended her to use the odd shaped container tucked against one corner of the bed, but to say Morgan didn’t care for that option was an understatement.
Getting back into bed had proven more difficult, and then turning over so she was lying on her back harder still. She had only persevered in the end because she refused to let anyone catch her in such an undignified position.
The Long Black (The Black Chronicles Book 1) Page 13