Morgan's Choice

by Greta van Der Rol

  “So where are the rest of the Orionar, Sur?” called a fellow in the back. “Why just you ‘n her?”

  “We are emissaries,” Jones said. “Sent to see how you are coping after all these centuries. These are your worlds to rule as you see fit, but it saddens us to see how the equality you once had has been usurped. You must stand up for your rights, fight for the freedom you once had.”

  They straightened in their seats.

  “Join your leaders in throwing off the Mirka tyrant’s yoke.” Jones’ voice boomed across the audience, his interlocked fists held high above his head. They cheered and clapped.

  The wide double doors at the front of the hall burst open. Figures in black uniforms pushed inside.

  “Stand fast. You’re all under arrest,” a voice shouted.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The room erupted into noisy confusion. Shouts and screams competed with crashes of chairs toppling, boots thudding. Somebody turned out the lights. Morgan dropped to the floor. In this dress she stood out like a beacon as well as not being able to move. She flung herself off the podium, pulled the dress up around her waist and crawled to the side of the hall using her augmented eyesight to avoid running feet. The attackers were shoving their way toward the stage but the audience fought back. If she could just get out of the hall she stood some sort of chance. Getting caught was not an option. She eased forward, sticking to the wall.

  Shouts, groans, thuds filled the air. Something flopped down onto her. Her heart lurched.

  “Quick. Cover the dress and follow me,” a voice hissed.

  The guard. He’d brought the cloak. Forcing down the panic, she shrugged the dark material around herself and scurried after him along the side of the hall past a pile of struggling bodies. At the doorway, he poked a cautious head outside.

  “Come on. Hurry.”

  He leapt out, ready to fire. Asbarthi was already there, weapon in hand. A number of bundles lay on the ground, some sprawled motionless, some writhing and moaning or crying out. The sound of running feet and shouts punctuated the darkness to the right.

  “Hey there. Stop.” A soldier running toward them raised his rifle.

  Asbarthi fired. The man staggered, stumbled and collapsed in a silent heap.

  “This way.” Asbarthi set off at a jog down a tree-lined alley between the houses. She followed as best she could holding the damned and blasted dress up, the guards at her heels.

  Footsteps thudded behind her. “Stop or we’ll shoot.”

  She kept going, almost feeling the cross-hairs between her shoulder blades. Asbarthi ran back to her, weapon raised. “Go on. We’ll catch up with you.”

  ****

  Jones stumbled through the darkness away from the stage, terror clutching at his chest. It had all been going so well and now this. He couldn’t see a thing. All around him shouts and screams blended with thuds and thumps. Bodies surged this way and that. Somebody stumbled against him cursing and he slipped to his knees. Probably not a bad idea. He crawled forward on his hands and knees toward where he thought the door was. He had to get out of here, had to get away. A leg slammed into his side and he lurched, while the owner of the leg collapsed over him.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder and hauled him up. “This way.”

  Which way? Panic galloped up from his gut. “I can’t see.”

  The hand grabbed his, towed him along, shoving around the edges of the fight into the food preparation area. His savior flung a cloak at him and Jones wrapped it around his body. What he’d give now for a simple black suit.

  “We’ll get you other clothes soon. First we get you out.”

  Hadn’t Asbarthi called this man Brenish? One of Mellnar’s folk? Jones’ heart settled, just a little.

  Brenish sidled out the door, hand out, keeping Jones back. He looked around, fired once and beckoned. “Quickly.”

  Jones followed, running for a lane between the houses, trying to keep the cloak tight.

  “It’s him,” a voice shouted. “The King.”

  Pulse pounding, he sprinted.

  He’d almost reached the lane. The rapid staccato of running feet behind him sent his heart racing again. He sucked in air, legs pumping. Just a little further. Hands reached out, caught his arm. He tried to pull away but the grip was too strong. Ah, no. Caught again. Gasping for breath he looked into the grinning face of a black-clad soldier.

  “Well well well,” the fellow said. “The King himself.” He called over his shoulder. “Srimana, we have the king.”

  An officer swaggered over. Eyes alight with glee he grabbed Jones’ chin and pulled his head around, looking at his eyes. “I expect Governor Murag would like to meet you.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Jones said, still panting.

  “Meetings of the Krystor People’s Party are forbidden.”

  “Is that what it was? I didn’t know.”

  “Of course not.” The officer’s lip curled. “Not your idea at all, I expect.”

  “No. I had nothing to do with it. I just came along for the ride.” Maybe he could talk his way out of this. He didn’t owe anybody anything, after all.

  The officer stared at him, head tilted, eyes calculating. “I see. Would you care to tell me who involved you in this?”

  “Maybe. What’s in it for me?”

  “Maybe we just won’t hurt you quite so much. Come on. Names.”

  Jones grinned. “I’m sure we can negotiate.”

  They pulled off his cloak, hustled him to a skimmer and shoved him inside next to an armed soldier. The officer seated himself in the front beside the driver and the vehicle rose. Jones gazed around him. The skirmish seemed to be over, here near the hall at any rate. A number of bodies lay on the ground and a group of people sat with their hands on their heads, under armed guard. He wondered where Selwood was. Not that it mattered. She hadn’t been any more sociable here than she’d been on Curlew. Just as close-mouthed and contrary.

  The skimmer turned into the lane that led to the gate.

  He’d get out of this. Negotiate a deal with this Murag fellow or maybe even suggest a ransom to get him back to Asbarthi. Or maybe they’d come and rescue him. Even so, his pulse beat too fast.

  ****

  Asbarthi crouched back in the shadows under the trees and watched Murag’s men load Jones into the skimmer. So he thought he’d sell out his new friends, did he? Ah well. He’d served his purpose. Perhaps he could even be of more use dead. A martyr to the cause.

  He waited until the soldiers moved away before he called his security chief at Devagnam’s house. “Barad, Murag’s enforcers have a skimmer on its way to Krystor Central. Make sure it is destroyed with all occupants.”

  He sent a picture of the vehicle.

  Now to find Selwood.

  ****

  Morgan hobbled on. She had to get rid of the fucking dress. She pushed open a gate and darted inside a neat yard. The house was in darkness. If the owners weren’t out there in the melee, they’d be hiding inside with the doors locked. Very wise. She struggled out of the gown and thrust it behind a shed. Now she’d need clothes. Washing lines? Not in this house. She peered over a stone wall into the next yard. Yes. She scrambled over into next door with only a few abrasions. The din of the battle continued, shrieks and screams punctuated by shots and the whizzing whine of energy beams. She grabbed a pair of too-large pants and a shirt from the line and sent a silent apology to the owners. Maybe she could do a little more. She took off her earrings and hung them on the line, wishing she had a pair of decent shoes. The stupid slippers she wore were already cut to shreds. Although she was grateful she hadn’t been wearing high heels.

  She stood beside the gate, listening. No footsteps, no firing in this lane anyway. The gate creaked as she opened it. Heart thundering, she hesitated. Nothing. She slipped out. The stars glittered hard as diamonds in a clear sky, their brightness scarcely diminished by the tiny crescent moon. The stone walls gleamed, still radiating the trapped wa
rmth of the day. Her footsteps made little sound on the hard-packed earth. Distant noises drifted from the melee at the hall. Scuffles and shuffles, the occasional thwack of a punch or slap, a moan, the hiss of a skimmer lifting. How many arrests, Morgan wondered? Would they be looking for her? And what about Unwyn and Jones?

  She jogged warily back almost to where she had left Asbarthi. No sign of him, but he’d been headed the other way when he stopped. She turned and set off, polling all the way. She might be covered up, but her skin and eyes would still give her away.

  Figures loomed in the distance, coming this way. She stopped and checked. Asbarthi and a guard, weapons raised.

  “No. It’s me.” She stepped forward, hands above her head.

  “Thank goodness you’re safe,” he said, lowering the weapon. His eyes flicked over her.

  “Sorry about the dress.”

  “A pity. But yes, sensible. Just as well we had two made.”

  The noise of battle had receded. No more shots, only the occasional shout.

  “What now?” And let’s hope it isn’t too energetic. Running in a ball gown was not for the faint-hearted. Nor was climbing stone walls in your underclothes. She’d only just recovered her breath.

  “We wait. It will settle down. Maybe Mellnar will get a vehicle to us. Or maybe we’ll have to steal one.” Asbarthi turned to the guard. “Where should we go?”

  “Maybe the silos, Hai Sur. They’re out of the way and we can get inside. We might find a vehicle there, too.”

  “What about Unwyn and Jones?” she said.

  “Jones has been arrested. Unwyn will have to make his own way out. We can’t afford to look for him.” Asbarthi raised a hand. “No more now, Suri.” He gestured to the guard with the pistol he still held in his right hand. “Lead on.”

  She noticed the energy level was set to maximum. Asbarthi was shooting to kill.

  The guard sidled through the dark alleys between the houses, heading for a vast, unlit bulk towering against the spangled backdrop of the night sky. His weapon raised, the guard approached the building.

  A hum in the darkness. Morgan’s head snapped to the right. A vehicle, coming fast. The guard sprinted for the silo. Asbarthi grabbed Morgan’s shoulder and pulled her back into the alley and hard against the stone wall. He peered around the corner, blocking her view. Even so, she could still listen.

  The skimmer had stopped. Voices muttered in conversation.

  “Where are they?”

  “Over there.” That was their guard.

  The skimmer turned toward their hiding place.

  “Hurry,” the driver called.

  Morgan and Asbarthi dived inside as soon as the vehicle drifted beside them. Just in time. The driver accelerated away, leaving the guard behind, as a second vehicle shot out from the alley in which they’d hidden.

  “Mala,” Asbarthi swore. “A swift. Let’s hope there aren’t any others.”

  A swift. Morgan scrambled up to see. Ah. A single rider crouched under a faring on a sleek, powerful vehicle, little more than a propulsion system with a saddle. “Halt or I fire.” The words echoed in the skimmer’s sound system.

  “Get rid of him,” Asbarthi snarled.

  The man in the front beside the driver leaned out of the window, rifle in hand. The beam from the energy weapon lanced out into the darkness. The swift’s rider avoided easily and fired in response. The beam glanced off the skimmer’s rear panels; it lurched and swerved, corrected. Now the gunman in the front seat had a clear shot. The bolt blasted the rider off his machine. The man lay sprawled on the road while his swift careered on into a stone wall.

  The crash boomed and bashed and rumbled through the darkness. The skimmer plunged on, leaving the crumpled vehicle and the fallen man far in its wake.

  “Are you all right, Suri?” Asbarthi asked, laying a solicitous hand on Morgan’s knee.

  She shifted away from him. “Yes, fine. What was that about? Who were the attackers?”

  “Murag’s security forces must have been alerted to the meeting. Gatherings of the Krystor People’s Party are not permitted.”

  No, she’d expect not. “I’m still worried about Jones and Professor Unwyn. What will they do to them?”

  “Nothing nice, believe me,” Asbarthi said. “We’ll just have to hope they’re safe. I’ll be going back to Hai Sur Mellnar’s property tomorrow to return this vehicle. I’ll make some more enquiries.”

  Morgan grunted a response. She wasn’t sure she liked this darker side of Asbarthi.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Admiral Ravindra alighted from the official governmental skimmer and composed his features. The domed mass of the Krystor Governor’s palace rose before him, a towering edifice of local red and black stone. The morning sunlight reflected off the red veins so that a man could almost believe blood pumped through the rock. A flight of steps led up to a portico resting on square columns and at the top Murag waited, standing at attention, the yellow sash of office across his chest from left shoulder to right hip. Apart from the sash, the Governor certainly hadn’t forgotten his Fleet background; all his costume needed to be a uniform was rank insignia. A double row of planetary militia were ranged behind him, immaculate in black uniforms, weapons presented. To right and left, media people and curious locals pressed against restraining barriers set up in the city’s central plaza.

  An official reception, in honor of the fleet’s visit, brief though it would be. A begrudging politeness which Murag could not avoid. Ravindra couldn’t think of much worse.

  His adjutant a step behind him, he took the steps at measured pace until he stood in front of the Governor, where he gave the most perfunctory bow he could manage without being discourteous. He did not like Murag, not one little bit. “Governor Murag. It is a pleasure to be here on Krystor.”

  Murag returned the same barely civil bow and a formal, “It is my pleasure to welcome you and your fleet, Admiral.”

  A command and the guard shifted with military precision, creating a pathway to the double doors of the entrance.

  Murag performed an impeccable about turn then the two men strode together between the ranks into the main hall. Ravindra had never been here before. Light flooded into an impressive circular room through arched windows. A colorful crowd filled the place, Vesha princes in their usual flamboyant styles. Knee-high boots with tight breeches seemed to be the flavor of fashion for the men, multi-colored dresses with too much jewelry for the women. His white dress uniform looked austere in comparison. He moved forward to meet and greet, exchange a few words, sip at a drink. The room buzzed with conversation, a peel of laughter, clink of glass. And yet he sensed a tension thick enough to taste.

  A fellow wearing white breeches and a golden brocade jacket approached. “A good day to you, Admiral.”

  Not a supporter, not by the way the man almost bared his teeth. “Sur. You are?”

  “We’ve not met. But you might remember my name. Asbarthi. Sitivan Asbarthi.”

  Ravindra met the man’s eyes for an instant. “Ah, yes. I met your son.” And then I had him shot. What did he want? An apology? The man was a terrorist, responsible for fifteen dead in a bombing. “I trust his body was returned to you?”

  The pupils of Asbarthi’s eyes contracted to slits. “I have not forgotten. Enjoy your day.” A last savage glance and Asbarthi returned to talk to his own kind.

  Ravindra stared after him. Was he supposed to be frightened or something? Murag provided a distraction, guiding him over to an empty space. “I suppose we’d better have that private chat.”

  “Here?”

  Murag stood with his thumbs in his belt, legs apart. “Why not?”

  Why the Union Council had sent a martinet like Murag here was beyond his comprehension. The fellow had only just avoided a court martial, allowed to retire and shoved off to be a regional governor instead of being stripped of his commission. “I wanted to discuss your Orionar.”

  Murag scowled. “It’s rubbish, ev
ery word. I was sent to this planet to bring them peace; the rule of law and order and these… these… freaks are not going to stop me.”

  “But you haven’t caught them yet.”

  “The so-called king is dead, killed in an operation three nights ago. We’ll get the woman soon enough. The Vesha Hai Sura are involved in this. All I need is proof.”

  Ravindra twirled the glass in his hand. “Of course.” So Jones was dead. No great loss from his point of view. He debated again whether to tell Murag a little more about Selwood. No. She had chosen her course. He pushed away the pang of regret. Let Murag capture her if he could. He’d place his bet on Prasad’s people every time. “I am happy to offer assistance.”

  “No.” Murag spat the word, slashing his hand parallel to the ground. Heads turned, the chatter died down for a moment, then resumed unabated. The Governor took a step closer, hissing his words. “I have made it clear to the Council that I want no interference from the Fleet. And I don’t care what your motives might be. I would have stopped you from coming here at all if I could. You’ve made your goodwill visit and now you can bugger off. I sent an order to the Council to that effect some days ago. You should know that.”

  Ravindra’s fist itched. “Of course I know that. The fleet withdraws on my return. I have merely offered you a chance to reconsider.”

  “Because of this Orionar rubbish? You have too high an opinion of yourself, Admiral.”

  Murag spared Ravindra the strain on his self-control by walking away. Or perhaps a very low opinion of you, Murag.

  His adjutant strolled out of the gathering. “Not a great success, Srimana?”