Morgan's Choice Read online

  Morgan’s Choice

  By

  Greta van der Rol

  Copyright ©2011 Greta van der Rol

  First electronic edition published by Smashwords

  Published in the United States of America with international distribution.

  Cover Design by Sessha Batto

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Morgan’s Choice

  Chapter One

  Steam rose from Jones’ food pack, filling Curlew’s tiny common room with the aroma of beef stew. “That’s one month down.” He took the container out of the warmer and brought it the two steps to the table.

  Morgan glanced up at him, still chewing, as he sank down on the bench opposite. She swallowed her own food. “Yeah.”

  One month’s worth of the existing food supply gone. Another month, maybe a little longer if they rationed even further and then perhaps they’d be fishing Tariq’s body out of the cargo hold, wondering if a bit of cannibalism might be in order. The thought made her gag but at least it was an option. Running out of air—that was something else altogether.

  She speared some more synthetic plast-food from her own food pack and lifted it to her mouth.

  A staccato bleeping shattered the silence.

  She flung her fork on the table, leapt through the forward hatch into the bridge and dropped into the captain’s chair, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and tension, hope and apprehension. She flicked off the wide-range scanner’s alarm and reached into the computer system with her mind to adjust the sensors to maximum magnification. Something had just come out of shift-space close enough to trigger the warning. Maybe she’d got it all wrong and Curlew was still in Coalition space. Because otherwise…

  In a fraction of a millisecond she’d loaded the ships’ images into her implant, extrapolated, rotated to adjust for angle of approach, measured. The largest of the three ships was two point one five times Curlew’s length, but it had a quite different profile, long and angular. No bulky cargo hold, so not a freighter. The two smaller ships were more recognizable, if unfamiliar; small ships with narrow profiles shaped a little like arrow heads. Short wings, so they’d probably be capable of atmospheric flight. She checked against the ship database on her implant. Unknown ships, unknown origin. A worm of apprehension twisted in her belly. Stupid. What had she expected? Of course they weren’t Coalition ships. Curlew had plummeted so far beyond known space the navigation system was as useless as the shift drive.

  One thing for sure—the ships were headed this way.

  The red numbers on the view screen counted down time until intercept. Twenty-four minutes, thirty seconds… twenty seconds… ten seconds. Until they reached here. And then what? Whatever it was, it was better than dead. Surely.

  “Are they ours?” Jones’ voice startled her. He sat in the navigator’s seat on the other side of the bridge, gripping the arm rests with rigid fingers. He’d better keep his hands off the controls.

  “No. At least, they’re not Coalition ships.”

  “Shit.”

  His Adams’s apple bobbed. He might be a prat but he wasn’t stupid. No non-Coalition worlds had spaceships worthy of the name. And yes, she was scared, too.

  Were those ships manned? Maybe ‘occupied’ was a better word. Wriggly green things with three heads? Energy beings? What other aliens had she ever seen on the holovids? She tried to lick her lips but her mouth was dry. Hard to imagine that she might be the first woman to encounter an intelligent alien. Let’s hope she lived to tell the tale, maybe end up in somebody’s history book. She rolled her shoulders to loosen up tense muscles. “Better suit up.”

  She pulled a survival suit out of the compartment in the bulkhead next to her and scrambled into it with practiced ease, while Jones struggled with the fastenings on the front of his suit. She helped him fit the helmet over his shoulders. He clamped it in place; the instrument lights reflected in the curved transplex, distorting his features. He mashed his lips, as nervous as she was.

  Five minutes until intercept.

  The fighters were visible without magnification now, dark shapes in front of the starscape, one slightly behind the other. The view screen showed them in color; grey, like their larger companion.

  Using her implant, she magnified the image of the protuberances jutting from both short wings. Muzzles? The twinge of apprehension in her gut strengthened. Surely they wouldn’t just destroy Curlew?

  The fighters closed in, one on each side, circling around the freighter. Like sharks around prey.

  She opened a communication channel. “This is Coalition freighter Curlew. We require assistance. Can you help? Over.”

  Silence.

  She tried again, on a broader channel that might include the on-coming larger ship.

  Still nothing.

  She flexed sweaty fingers inside her gloves.

  The larger alien craft edged closer, the blunt nose growing in the view screen. The ship had adjusted its course so that it was running over the top of Curlew. Closer it came and closer, its hull clearly visible in the view screen. Scarred and battered. Not a new ship. And were those hatches all along its length?

  Jones peered up as if trying to see inside the ship. His eyes were very blue and wide with fear. She probably looked the same.

  A muffled clunk reverberated through the hull. Jones jumped. Morgan pushed down a surge of adrenalin and checked the sensor data. A rigid connection extended from a hatch in the alien vessel to the top of Curlew’s cargo hold.

  “What are they doing?” he said.

  The two fighters took up position, one on either side of the larger ship. She felt Curlew lurch a little as they changed direction and then they were underway, suspended beneath the belly of an alien vessel like prey being returned to the village after the hunt.

  “They’ve kind of taken us in tow,” she said.

  He grabbed her arm, his panicked fingers pressing hard against the sleeve of her suit. “What are you going to do about it?” His voice was a rasp.

  She snatched her arm away. “I’m going to shut down the engines.”

  The soft grumble of the sub-light drive died away, leaving only the sound of her own breathing and the thundering of her heart.

  “But—”

  Oh, good grief. What did I do to get stuck with this idiot? “Do you want to hold out for a better offer? One more month and we’re dead, Jones. Finished. Starved to death, out of air.” She thrust out a hand, pointing to the cargo hold. “Couple of months we’ll be mummified, just like Tariq. I’d rather take my chances here.”

  He backed off, mashing his lips.

  A familiar shimmer of energy appeared on the screen, away in the distance. Morgan aimed the sensors, magnified. Sure enough. “Another ship just came out of shift-space, heading this way.” She checked the preliminary data. Wow. “That thing’s enormous. It’s five klicks long. And I reckon it’s a warship.”

  “Why?”

  Save her from fucking accountants. She had to explain everything. “It’s huge, it’s dark with minimal running lights and it’s very, very fast.” She glanced at the data. The ship above them was speeding up. What could that mean?

  The
sensors identified twelve rapidly moving pinpricks traveling in formation; a squadron of the warship’s own fighters? She increased the magnification; black, rectangular. The two fighters shadowing Curlew changed vector, on an intercept course with the new players.

  Six of the black fighters peeled off to engage the two grey fighters. But the other six continued in pursuit of the larger vessel and Curlew. In moments a brief, brilliant explosion marked the end of one of the two arrowhead fighters. Its companion lasted a little longer until it, too, exploded into a ball of fragments and energy. The attacking ships’ shields sparkled as the debris impacted and disintegrated.

  Morgan felt, rather than heard the alien ship above them release the link. The vessel’s hull seemed to slip backwards as Curlew continued its momentum.

  “They’ve let go.” Jones’ voice oozed relief.

  “You don’t say?”

  She watched its progress on the rear sensors as the long grey shape receded behind Curlew, pivoted and powered away, its engines glowing yellow-white, toward the squadron of fighters from the warship. Strange. It couldn’t hope to win a battle at those odds. If she didn’t know better she could almost imagine the ship was trying to protect Curlew. That prospect sent her heart into overdrive. Why would the freighter need protecting from the new arrivals?

  She brought the ship’s drive back up to readiness and strengthened the shields. Best get out of the way and hope Curlew wasn’t going to be a target, too.

  The fighters approached, six growing rectangles. She could see details, now. A cylindrical body down the center, angled down wingtips, tubes slung under the wings. If they were going to engage it would be soon. Two more followed, fresh from destroying the grey fighters, Oh, fuck. Morgan held her breath. The six slowed down, intent on the long grey ship. But the other two swept on to match vector with Curlew, one on each side. Nobody was firing. Yet.

  The larger ship angled itself with surprising agility to meet the attack, shifting position from minute to minute. Gun turrets appeared like spines, protruding all along its hull. They fired in line, blasts of beams shooting out at the attacking fighters. If it had been a fireworks display, it might have been pretty. Shields flared blue as the attackers took evasive action and regrouped.

  The grey ship shifted position again, rotating on an axis. A missile seared past, then exploded as a beam from the defending ship hit it. Deflections spattered against Curlew’s shields, enough to start an amber warning light flashing in the bridge.

  Morgan considered easing Curlew a bit further away but the two sentinel ships hadn’t moved. Another complicated maneuver brought the gray ship closer to Curlew. A bay opened in its hull. Oh, fuck, they’d fired a missile. Her heart thundered. No, not at Curlew—at one of the guard ships. The explosion sprayed all over the fighter’s shields and ricocheted to Curlew. The shields put on a light show of sparks. The amber light on the console turned red. Rear shield down to seventy-eight percent. Shit, that was all she needed; destroyed as collateral damage. She diverted power to the shield generator.

  Two of the attackers fired two missiles each, four hunters tracking for a kill. The grey ship finished one but it couldn’t dodge them all. The first hit weakened the shields; the next two finished her. Radiation and debris from the explosion flowed past Curlew, causing the shields to light up like an advertising display in downtown Torreno. The warning system brayed an alert to go with the flashing red light. She turned off the alarms.

  Only Curlew left. She would have swallowed if her mouth wasn’t so dry. A trickle of sweat oozed past her hairline. Still the two fighters shadowed the freighter.

  A voice. A tremor surged through Morgan’s body.

  She couldn’t understand the words but the cadence was almost recognizable. A business-like voice, issuing calm instructions which probably translated as something like ‘this is warship whatever. Identify yourself.’

  “This is Coalition freighter Curlew. We need help.” For what it was worth, she transmitted Curlew’s identification sequence.

  She counted her heartbeats; one, two, three, four. She’d heard words, not unintelligible hisses or clicks. Words, she was sure of it. The voice spoke again. It sounded like an instruction. But what? Think, Morgan, think. What would they want?

  The fighter to the left of Curlew took up position in front and the one to the right dropped around behind, edging close. The voice spoke again, a few more unintelligible words.

  Best guess would be ‘come with me’. She engaged the drive and matched speed and course with the leading fighter.

  Not ten klicks away, the warship’s huge bulk took up the entire display on the view screen. The profile looked narrow but that was only because of the vessel’s length. Two-thirds of the way along its length and down to its stern a second level jutted above the first.

  The leading fighter slowed to a stop. Another unintelligible command. She shut down the engines and hoped Jones wouldn’t notice her hands shaking. Nope. He was too scared to notice anything.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “Why ask me? How the fuck would I know? They could be strange, flesh-eating beings with three heads who eat humans for dinner. Maybe we’ll be on the menu.”

  He scowled. “Why do you always try to make a joke when it’s serious?”

  “It may not be a joke. If it’s not the Coalition and it’s not the Festive Fairy…” A shudder ran through Curlew’s hull. “Hang on. They’re bringing us on board. That was their grav beam catching on.”

  Chapter Two

  Curlew moved steadily toward the massive warship. Morgan thought of a fisherman reeling in a catch, a fish gasping its life away on the deck. Best not to think too much. The real answers drew ever closer.

  She glanced over at Jones, his face pale inside the helmet, his eyes fixed on their destination. He rubbed his gloved hands along the arm rests of his chair. Backwards and forwards; backwards and forwards. She felt the same way.

  Soon all she could see in the view port was the warship’s matte black side wall. They were headed for an open hatch, lit from within. An airlock, she supposed. Curlew slowed down, drifting between stark grey walls. She deployed Curlew’s landing gear. The freighter would float, or if they had artificial gravity, she’d drop. Near the far wall the grav beam released. The landing pads clunked to the deck. The airlock’s outside hatch slid shut at Curlew’s stern.

  Her heart hammered in her chest. Jones sat rigid, jaw loose, eyes flicking around him.

  Mauve light engulfed the ship.

  He jumped. “What the fuck is that?”

  She pushed down the panic. There had to be reasons. Calm down. Use your brain, Morgan. Panic achieves nothing. “Probably some sort of precaution against contamination.” Coalition warships did something similar if they impounded pirate ships at home.

  The light vanished.

  Movement outside. A vehicle advanced across the deck, small to her eyes but who knew? She angled the sensors to track its progress. It stopped, extended a wide nozzle that changed shape to match the external hatch door and attached with a soft sucking sound. Her heart beat even faster, blood pounding in her neck.

  “Selwood…” Jones’ voice was a whisper, a plea.

  “I don’t know.”

  The hatch gave way. She’d already deactivated the locks. Vacuum doors thudded into place, reverberating in the silent ship. Why prolong it? If she made them fight their way in, they wouldn’t be happy. Breathing deeply, she deactivated the safety sensors and retracted the doors.

  Air blasted past her, howling out as if the ship had been holed in space. She gripped the arm rests.

  Jones’ mouth opened, his lips stretched back. “Ah, shit.”

  “They’re releasing the atmosphere,” she said between breaths, trying to bring her heart rate down. “They don’t want it on their ship.”

  The gale dropped to a breeze, then nothing. The device released and trundled away. She checked the sensors for ship’s internal environment. Vacuum.
>
  Silence except for the too-fast hiss of her own breathing and the pounding of her heart within the envelope of a spacesuit. She stared at the visuals.

  A hatch opened in the airlock. Figures entered the space around the ship. Humanoid. Two arms, two legs, one head. Oh, man. She couldn’t see features; they all wore darkened, full-face helmets and they were dressed in black. If they were human, she would have said they wore body armor, stiff and bulky. But maybe that’s how they were. They were certainly very big, well over two meters tall.

  Four of them approached the forward hatch.

  This was it.

  Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she shared a quick glance with Jones. Scared. Sure, she was scared, too. Terrified. Let’s meet the locals, Morgan. And keep remembering, without them your lifespan was weeks.

  Two aliens eased into the ship, weapons poised, suspicious, while the other two covered. She watched them through the sensors, prowling along the corridors, easing open hatches, conferring in the common room where the remnants of that last interrupted meal still stood on the table.

  Soon enough a trooper appeared at the bridge hatch. He had to duck his head to get through. At least she assumed the trooper was male; there was no way to tell. He gestured, a flick of the wrist with a short-barreled weapon held in one massive hand.

  “Time to go Jones,” Morgan murmured. She stood, carefully placing her hands on top of her helmet.

  The trooper squeezed into the compartment away from the entrance to let them go before him. She walked along to the forward hatch and down the ramp onto the warship’s deck. Grey walls, low lighting levels, hard floors. A row of troopers waited, weapons held in both hands.

  A sharp shove in the back from their escort impelled her toward an open doorway. She stumbled into a low-roofed, windowless compartment with bench seats on either side, Jones behind her. Both of them swayed as whatever they were in began to move. Some sort of isolation vehicle. She checked the suit’s sensor data. Yes, still in vacuum. But the gas levels were rising. They were airing up in here. Nitrogen, Oxygen, Carbon Dioxide. Pretty much the same as home.