Morgan's Choice (23 page)

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, every 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
?”

“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 like a
curse. Huh. She’d made a real success of getting him out of her
head, hadn’t she?