Morgan's Choice (16 page)

“
Over here,
Srimana
,” somebody called.

A metal staircase, broken in the bombing, led
upwards until it ended in twisted ruin. The section going down
appeared to be intact. Hanestran trained a light down.

“The stairs look okay,” he said, playing the
light over crisscrossed metal treads.

Her stomach lurched again. “We’re going down
there?” Hanestran’s light swung around, casting strange shadows.
The darkness loomed.

“Yes. Lomas, get some lights down here.” He
was already on his way, the light held in front of him. Lomas
hurried behind, directing a couple of others holding lights and
generators. They clattered down the stairs, sending dust into the
air.

Morgan swallowed. A shiver of fear scurried
down her spine. She’d always hated cellars, right from when she was
a little girl.

Hanestran’s face appeared below, gazing up
at her. “Come,
Suri
. Your
skills are needed.” He sounded impatient.

“On my way.” She dismissed the childhood
memory, shoving it back into the archive from whence it had sprung,
and placed a shrinking foot on the top step. She enhanced her sight
so she could see what was down there, lurking in the gloom beyond
the lights they’d set up. One step at a time, down into the depths.
Her distorted shadow accompanied her down the wall. At last, heart
pounding, she reached the bottom, feet crunching on a gritty
floor.

“Over here.” Hanestran took her arm and led
her to a tall grey cylinder. “This is their emergency backup
system. It was hidden behind a false wall.”

Dust and debris lay surprisingly thick. She
trailed a foot, making a line in the dirt. Hanestran noticed. “This
room held up against the bombardment, but only just.” He looked up
at the ceiling. “See the cracks? And how much it’s sagged?” His
gaze moved to the walls. “There’s some damage there, too.” Fallen
masonry littered the floor in front of an ominous bulge.

Morgan took a deep breath, willing herself to
keep her mind on her job. Pools of shadow menaced from the walls
and the corners. The ceiling loomed just overhead. Within the
helmet her breathing had become rapid and shallow, her lips parted.
Childish nonsense. Breathe… stay calm…There was a data point; she
had work to do.

The floor trembled. She staggered. A grinding
groan from above her moved her muscles before her mind caught up.
She dived, head tucked in and hit the ground in a roll even as the
groan became a crash. The lights went out and choking dust filled
the air. Fear clutched at her heart, sucked the very air from her
lungs, constricted her throat.

“
Suri
? Lomas?” Hanestran’s voice sounded
close.

She lurched toward him, clutched at his arm,
hugged it as if it was a lifeline.

“
It’s okay,
Suri
, you’ll be okay.” He pushed her toward the stairs but he
didn’t come with her.

The hole in the ceiling that was the
stairwell glowed with light like a blessing from heaven, almost
solid with dancing, sparkling particles. She struggled toward it,
over the debris. The stair was a twisted sculpture, struck by a
slab of ceiling that hung down to the floor. She stumbled up the
angled surface, slipping and sliding in the grit underfoot. Hands
reached down to her just as another tremor swayed the building.

Morgan staggered and flailed for
something—anything—to grab as the slab shifted. Terror clutched at
her throat. She flung herself forward, toward the light, fingers
rigid. A hand grasped her forearm hard enough to hurt.

“I’ve got you.”

Someone dragged her up. Her stomach hit
the edge of the hole. She felt the ragged edges scoring the armor.
It hurt but she was out. Safe. She was safe but… she
whirled.

“Hanestran,” gasped Morgan.

She stared down into the darkness, heart in
mouth. He was there, his eyes bright blue, almost luminous inside
the helmet. Somebody tossed down a rope. Hanestran caught it and
pulled himself along as the slab Morgan had climbed tilted. All
around them the building groaned and creaked. Fragments clattered
to the floor, an ominous staccato. Hanestran hung on to the rope as
the slab slid away from his feet. A roar of sound. The stairs
vanished. Willing hands pulled Hanestran up and out as clouds of
dirt and particles erupted from the stairwell. Morgan wouldn’t have
been surprised to see spectral hands reaching out, some malevolent
power making a last attempt to claim a victim.

Hanestran stood for a moment, panting. Dust
whirled around his helmet like a mist, unable to settle on the
transparent surface.

She pulled at his arm. “Come on, we have to
get out of here. This place is collapsing.” She headed for the
door, out of here, out into clear air.

Hanestran followed. “Out, everybody.
Now.”

Morgan bolted, back toward the reflecting
pool where the shuttle stood.

Behind her the building moaned as if in pain.
She turned as a wall of sound crashed around her. Smoke surged.
Fragments of rubble pattered out of the sky like some strange hail.
Somebody caught her arm. “Quickly, this way.”

They darted down a passage between two
buildings.

No, this was wrong. Morgan slowed, pulling
back against the insistent tug on her arm. “The shuttle’s that
way.” She peered, trying to discern the face behind the helmet.

Hands grabbed her, pulled her arms back
behind her.

She arched and fought, straining against the
pressure. The man released his grip a little and fumbled with
something. Morgan kicked backwards. Her boot connected. He swore
and moved his leg. She whirled and twisted, broke one arm out of
his grip. Someone else thrust forward, hands outstretched. She
wrenched her arm free and thrust her head at the new attacker. The
head butt clashed against her assailant’s helmet and he staggered
back. Now. She sprinted. Three strides and arms locked around her
thighs. The roadway rose to meet her.

A hand reached over her shoulder and pressed
the helmet release. The sections snapped down into the suit. She
felt a sharp jab in her neck.

Chapter
Eighteen

Morgan kept her eyes shut. Nightmares
loomed just beyond the edge of sanity. Monsters in a cellar,
clutching spectral hands, detention cells and wrist-binders.
Think, Morgan,
think. Use your brain, that wonderful, enhanced brain that
everybody wants
.

Whatever she lay on was thick and
comfortable. Her arms lay by her sides. No bonds. And this was not
a space ship, with its sterile, recycled atmosphere. The air
smelled of some fragrance she didn’t know and it had more than a
hint of moisture. She risked opening her eyes the merest crack. The
ceiling soared above her head, ornate and decorated in vibrant
colors with paintings of animals she’d never seen.

Half-formed memories jostled. Where was she?
How was she brought here? And why? Well, that last question was the
easy one, wasn’t it? Everybody wanted the Supertech, the
bio-engineered alien who could work magic with their computer
systems.

Blinking, Morgan sat up and swung her legs
out of the bed, willing the woolly feeling between her ears to go
away. Her body felt leaden, uncoordinated and her mouth felt like
the bottom of a bog. A glass stood on the table by the bed. Water?
Or some sort of drug? She picked it up and sniffed.

The door opened.

Her hand jerked. The liquid sloshed over the
gown she wore, one of those shapeless, hospital shift things.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The woman took a tentative step toward the bed. “How are you
feeling?”

“Abused. Mistreated,” Morgan said. “Where am
I, who are you and why have I been abducted?” She wished the words
had been delivered with the force of the thoughts behind them but
her voice sounded weak and raspy, even to her own ears.

“
I’m a nurse,
Suri
.” The woman gestured at the glass. “The water will
help.”

A nurse, thought Morgan, sipping tentatively.
She looked like a nurse, smart in a dark green uniform, black hair
tied back, yellow eyes concerned and caring. The woman leaned over
her, some sort of device in her hand. Morgan pushed her away.

“It’s just a monitor. To collect your vital
signs,” the nurse said, straightening up. “See?” She held out a
slim metal rod with a flat disc on one end.

Morgan relaxed and allowed the nurse to press
the disc on her neck while she scanned the room for data ports or
sensors. Nothing. Well, you wouldn’t count the movement sensor that
must have alerted the woman. Or the surveillance camera. This place
must be old. It was certainly old-fashioned. Or maybe all manesan
houses were like this one. The door had a handle, one of those
push-down things she’d seen in historical dramas and the
surveillance camera was obvious, fitted to a bracket high on the
wall. She felt a prick to her neck and flinched.

“
Just a pinprick to collect a blood
sample.”

And insert a probe. Morgan felt the thing
with her mind, the same sort of device they’d injected into her and
Jones when they were interviewed on
Vidhvansaka
, to monitor their emotional response.

“
Much better.” The nurse took the monitor
away and let it dangle on a cord around her neck as she jotted
notes on a data pad.

“How long have I been here?”

“Here? Three days.”

Three days. The last real thing Morgan
recalled was the furious clouds of debris in downtown Electra,
hands gripping, a close-up of the stone paving as it raced toward
her face. And then fragments, snippets. An unfamiliar face, a jab
in the neck, the soft rumble of a spaceship. Illness, a splitting
headache, the acid stench of vomit. She’d been brought here, so
three days plus the journey.

“Are you hungry?” the nurse asked.

“I’m hungry and I feel grubby. I bet I stink.
Where’s the shower?” Steadying herself with her hands, Morgan
pushed her feet into the carpet.

“Through there,” the woman said, jerking her
head at a door. “Here, let me help you.”

“I’ll be fine.” Morgan’s legs trembled as she
fought for balance.

A firm hand grasped her elbow. “Come on, I’ll
help you. You’ll regain your strength quickly, now.”

Slowly, carefully, the nurse led Morgan to
the washroom, helped her to undress, assisted her into the
shower.

“I was drugged, wasn’t I?” Morgan asked as
the blessed warm water flowed over her body.

“Yes.”

“And they overdid it?”

“Yes.” The slightest hint of a frown wrinkled
the nurse’s brow.

She managed to walk back to the bed unaided
and sat on the edge of the mattress while the woman pulled pants, a
shirt, underwear, all in shades of blue, from the wardrobe and
placed the garments in a pile beside her.

“I’ll bring you some food.” She closed the
door behind her.

Morgan dressed. The clothes fit much better
than those she’d been given on the warship. Tighter, less like a
sack. That was an improvement.

Barefoot, she padded across the carpet and
tried the door handle. It opened. But her surge of hope drained
when she stepped into an over-furnished sitting room. A view screen
hung on one wall; all the others were hung with pictures;
landscapes and still-lifes in elaborate frames. The place was so
ornate. Quite different from the elegant, simple furnishings in her
state room on the ship.

Deep red drapes tied back with elaborate
ropes hung on each side of a window over the top of a
semi-transparent curtain. She peered down into a courtyard filled
with potted plants. So this room was on the second floor. Beyond a
high stone wall she glimpsed forest, serried ranks of red-green
marching up into misty, blue-swathed hills, and beyond them
snow-capped mountains.

For good measure, Morgan tried the door in
the wall opposite the window. The handle went down, but the door
didn’t budge. She was a prisoner. What a surprise. She settled onto
one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs. The nurse would be back
soon with food. Perhaps she could at least get a glimpse at
whatever was on the other side of the door.

Where was she? She still didn’t know. This
had to be
Bunyada
. What
else could it possibly be? Ravindra would be furious. He would be
searching for her, for sure. She was too valuable to his fleet for
him not to be. He might even miss
her
a little. She felt a pang of contrition. She wouldn’t like
to be in Hanestran’s shoes when the admiral heard the news of her
disappearance.

A click, the handle went down and the door
opened inwards. The nurse stood in the doorway with a tray. Behind
her in a carpeted corridor loomed a figure in uniform. Not big
enough to be a military Shuba trooper, but he carried a weapon on
his belt. The nurse stepped inside and the guard shut the door.

“You’re looking better already,” the nurse
said as she set the tray on the low table.

The smell of fresh-brewed
charb
filled the room. The nurse
poured a cup for her and departed, leaving Morgan to select from a
plate-f of small pastries, appetizing tidbits for a jaded
palate. She ate hungrily. Must have been a while since she’d last
eaten.

She was sipping on her second cup
of
charb
when the
door opened again. This time, her visitor was a man. Green pants,
highly-polished knee-high boots, green and gold brocade jacket,
blond hair hanging around his shoulders.