Morgan's Choice by Greta van Der Rol Page A

Ravindra.
    “Senior Commander Hanestran is commander of
the computer maintenance group,” Ravindra said. “This is Morgan
Selwood.”
    Hanestran looked her up and down. His
expression reflected restrained curiosity of the ‘let’s see what
you can do’ kind. “ Suri ,” he said,
returning her bow with a briefer one of his own. His eyes lingered
for a moment on her cheek.
    The admiral shifted, recalling her
attention. “You will work with Hanestran to find out what you can
about the alien craft and to tell him about your own
ship.”
    “I would be delighted.”
    He treated her to a brief stare. She’d
have to be careful with the sarcasm. “Hanestran will show you
the Yogin ship. You
will need to wear an isolation suit.” He waved a hand at a row of
orange suits hung on pegs.
    Suited up, Ravindra, Morgan and Hanestran
passed into the airlock that sealed off the isolation unit from the
rest of the ship. They waited for a few moments while the air was
exchanged, then the internal door unsealed and slid open. The place
was tall and wide as a maintenance hangar and just as
well-equipped. Workbenches lined the walls. Tools and gadgets hung
neatly on racks or stood in their assigned bays on the floor. The
room sparkled with cleanliness, in sharp contrast to the two ships
on its pristine floor.
    Curlew crouched like a battered, bloated insect,
incongruous in this environment. Beside the freighter another ship
lay on an angle, one wingtip resting on the deck, a streamlined,
arrowhead shape, the short wings meant for atmospheric flight. Here
on the hangar floor the ship looked very small, even smaller than
when she’d seen its like in space.
    While Ravindra stood to one side, watching
her, she walked around the fighter, featureless except for a bulge
in the top center, closer to the front than the back. The grey
finish was smooth and unblemished, except for a line like a seam
round the edge of the bulge. No muzzles, no vents, nothing to
reveal a propulsion system. She concentrated. No sense of a
computer system. Fascinating.
    “You wish to see inside?” Hanestran’s voice
broke into her concentration.
    “Yes.”
    He walked up the wing and flipped the bulge
open, revealing a windowless canopy, hinged at the back. “We forced
it open. It’s the only place we could find a join.”
    Kneeling on the wing, she peered inside.
Apart from a seat and a harness, the cockpit held nothing she
recognized. A lens in the middle might have been a data port. She
polled. Nothing.
    “Nothing I’ve seen before.” She jumped off
the wing back onto the deck.
    “So you cannot help?” Hanestran almost seemed
disappointed.
    She grinned at him. “I didn’t say that. It’s
a challenge. It will take time.”
    “Let me show you the body.” He led her over
to a tall, rectangular cabinet next to the workbenches. “We have
our own small morgue here.”
    He pressed a button and a drawer slid out.
Mist formed and trailed down onto the floor. The alien lay on its
back, its eyes open. Bald, ugly, vestigial nose and ears, no sexual
organs. But undoubtedly humanoid. Five fingers, five toes, two
arms, two legs. One head. Eyes like hers? Morgan looked. Yes, she
could understand why Ravindra would say that. Dull and lifeless
now, but when the Yogin lived
those eyes might have gleamed like hers.
    “It has something in its head?” she said.
    “ It had. We carried out an autopsy. The
object we found has been removed.” He pulled open a drawer, took
out a box and opened the lid. A black ball lay in the
center.
    “May I touch it?”
    He nodded. She lifted the ball with gloved
fingers. Hard, not like the flexible implants melded into her
brain. The surface absorbed light.
    She handed the ball back. While Hanestran
replaced it and returned to close up the alien’s drawer, she
wandered back to the fighter, still standing with its cockpit
open.
    She stretched out with her sensors. A touch,
the slightest tingle in her implant. Coming from the