Read Online Morgan's Choice by Greta van Der Rol - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Greta van Der Rol
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killing
didn’t sit well with her… the word ‘programming’ came to mind; she
shrugged it off. She hadn’t needed to be programmed to despise
mass-murder.
“I’ll do my best.”
****
Escorts waiting outside Ravindra’s door
led her across the corridor to her new room. A female officer a
little taller than Morgan, expressionless face, yellow eyes, Mirka
hairdo and two red, five-pointed stars on her shoulder, opened the
door. A commander. The funny eye symbol on her shoulder patches
indicated security, one of Prasad’s people. The woman gave that
curt semi-bow which meant ‘I have to be polite but you’re not my
equal’. “I am Commander Roy. I am to share these quarters with
you.”
Morgan returned the bow in kind and checked
out the room. Nice. Wood paneled, thick, green carpet, two
pale-grey sofas, four matching poufs around a beautiful low table
inlaid in an intricate pattern involving plants and birds. A
cabinet stood against one wall, an HV screen hung on another. A lot
like Ravindra’s suite, but with none of those personal touches.
“Where’s the washroom?” Morgan said.
Roy indicated a bedroom through an open
door.
Very, very nice. An enormous bed, built in
closets, bedside tables on both sides and her own washroom. Only
one bed. Oh, good grief. She whirled on Roy, who had followed her.
“We’re not sharing a bed, are we?”
The woman’s nostrils flared. “No. This is
your room. Mine is the other way. It would be a servant’s quarters.
But I am not a servant.”
Morgan didn’t miss the warning glitter in
Roy’s eyes. Also known as jailer . Oh well, what could she expect? “Understood. What’s your
job?”
“I am to ensure that you know how to behave,
introduce you to our customs.”
“And make sure I behave myself.”
Roy’s glance took in Morgan’s cheek and her
lips rose briefly in a smile.
I’ll bet you know who gave me
that. And if
you expect me to whine and complain, you can think
again .
“ You had best prepare yourself for the
senior officers’ mess, Suri .
You will find a suitable gown in the closet.”
“Fine. I’m looking forward to spending some
quality time in the washroom.”
“Through the bedroom.”
“Thanks, I’ll find it.”
Morgan’s spirits lifted as soon as she’d
closed the washroom door behind her. Now this was better than a
sonic shower and a hand-sized mirror. She’d actually be able to
wash. In a shower. With water. A wide mirror hung over a bench. She
angled her face so she could see the bruise properly, a purpling
discoloration on her cheek. No finger marks. That reminded her. She
pulled down the shirt from her left shoulder, revealing one
dull-red thumb print just above the collar bone. She had no doubt
she’d see four finger prints on her back. A strong man, His
Admiral-ship.
Her hair washed and dried, Morgan checked
the closet. Great. He’d agreed to let her have her clothes back and
here they were, put away in appropriate places. Her own underwear
and shoes, pants, shirts, night clothes and her small stash of
make-up. A wave of pleasure coursed through her. Her flexi-dress
hung on a rack, white and innocuous.
What was this, now? She pulled the garment
out of the closet, a shapeless, deep-red sack, and held it against
her body. She examined her reflection in the full-length mirror
hanging inside the door. Yuck. Surely she wasn’t expected to wear
this? The material looked nice enough, a sort of embossed, flowing,
flower pattern but the textured fabric felt rough to her fingers
and the dress itself was a simple tube, with fastenings at the
shoulders and a belt. In the vids she’d watched she’d seen all
sorts; women in sacks like these, others dressed up like dolls, and
others in clingy, figure-hugging numbers so it couldn’t be a
cultural thing. Surely she could reach a happy medium and be
comfortable.
She slipped on the flexi-dress and stood
before the mirror. This officers’ mess would be pretty formal
didn’t sit well with her… the word ‘programming’ came to mind; she
shrugged it off. She hadn’t needed to be programmed to despise
mass-murder.
“I’ll do my best.”
****
Escorts waiting outside Ravindra’s door
led her across the corridor to her new room. A female officer a
little taller than Morgan, expressionless face, yellow eyes, Mirka
hairdo and two red, five-pointed stars on her shoulder, opened the
door. A commander. The funny eye symbol on her shoulder patches
indicated security, one of Prasad’s people. The woman gave that
curt semi-bow which meant ‘I have to be polite but you’re not my
equal’. “I am Commander Roy. I am to share these quarters with
you.”
Morgan returned the bow in kind and checked
out the room. Nice. Wood paneled, thick, green carpet, two
pale-grey sofas, four matching poufs around a beautiful low table
inlaid in an intricate pattern involving plants and birds. A
cabinet stood against one wall, an HV screen hung on another. A lot
like Ravindra’s suite, but with none of those personal touches.
“Where’s the washroom?” Morgan said.
Roy indicated a bedroom through an open
door.
Very, very nice. An enormous bed, built in
closets, bedside tables on both sides and her own washroom. Only
one bed. Oh, good grief. She whirled on Roy, who had followed her.
“We’re not sharing a bed, are we?”
The woman’s nostrils flared. “No. This is
your room. Mine is the other way. It would be a servant’s quarters.
But I am not a servant.”
Morgan didn’t miss the warning glitter in
Roy’s eyes. Also known as jailer . Oh well, what could she expect? “Understood. What’s your
job?”
“I am to ensure that you know how to behave,
introduce you to our customs.”
“And make sure I behave myself.”
Roy’s glance took in Morgan’s cheek and her
lips rose briefly in a smile.
I’ll bet you know who gave me
that. And if
you expect me to whine and complain, you can think
again .
“ You had best prepare yourself for the
senior officers’ mess, Suri .
You will find a suitable gown in the closet.”
“Fine. I’m looking forward to spending some
quality time in the washroom.”
“Through the bedroom.”
“Thanks, I’ll find it.”
Morgan’s spirits lifted as soon as she’d
closed the washroom door behind her. Now this was better than a
sonic shower and a hand-sized mirror. She’d actually be able to
wash. In a shower. With water. A wide mirror hung over a bench. She
angled her face so she could see the bruise properly, a purpling
discoloration on her cheek. No finger marks. That reminded her. She
pulled down the shirt from her left shoulder, revealing one
dull-red thumb print just above the collar bone. She had no doubt
she’d see four finger prints on her back. A strong man, His
Admiral-ship.
Her hair washed and dried, Morgan checked
the closet. Great. He’d agreed to let her have her clothes back and
here they were, put away in appropriate places. Her own underwear
and shoes, pants, shirts, night clothes and her small stash of
make-up. A wave of pleasure coursed through her. Her flexi-dress
hung on a rack, white and innocuous.
What was this, now? She pulled the garment
out of the closet, a shapeless, deep-red sack, and held it against
her body. She examined her reflection in the full-length mirror
hanging inside the door. Yuck. Surely she wasn’t expected to wear
this? The material looked nice enough, a sort of embossed, flowing,
flower pattern but the textured fabric felt rough to her fingers
and the dress itself was a simple tube, with fastenings at the
shoulders and a belt. In the vids she’d watched she’d seen all
sorts; women in sacks like these, others dressed up like dolls, and
others in clingy, figure-hugging numbers so it couldn’t be a
cultural thing. Surely she could reach a happy medium and be
comfortable.
She slipped on the flexi-dress and stood
before the mirror. This officers’ mess would be pretty formal
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