There was a cough from behind him and the spell was broken. He turned to blast the intruder. It was a mistake. Swift as the Hathian loeth, the girl was fleeing out the nearby service way. He whirled to stop her. Too late. All he caught was the sliding of the door and a stray lock of hair peeping from beneath its imprisoning hood. Eyes blazing, he turned on the native responsible. It was a young man, desperately bowing in appeasement.
Hamon’s temper snapped. “What is it? And do not ever again come in like that! Sneaking around like the currish lot you are.” Head still down, no answer came. “Well, come on, you’ve done your damage. What was so important that you should interrupt me at such a moment?”
“My deepest apologies, sir. Please, I did not mean… I did not know. She’s only a native girl, sir.”
Goaded by disappointment into a rare need for violence, Hamon silenced the man with a crashing blow. Stumbling, the Hathian rose again, bowing low to soften any further blows. “The Colonel is an important man, sir, and he told me to bring you immediately. Please, sir?”
With an impatient shrug, Hamon turned to leave. What could his blasted commander want, and why now? He had no choice but to answer the summons and marched out, fully intending to continue his study of the strange native girl in the very near future. For once, he knew a hint of anticipation and smiled maliciously as he strode off.
Jacquel des Trurain stood forgotten by his enemy, staring for a long moment after Radcliff’s retreating figure. One day, Major, you will pay for today, he promised himself. Then, with a silently mouthed oath, he quietly turned to leave by the service door.
CHAPTER THREE
Marthe was overtaken by Jaca halfway down the next corridor. After checking for passing Terrans, he drew her into a nearby service room. Then he exploded.
“You really do have a talent for making trouble out of nothing. That precious hair of yours may have just been your downfall. How many times have I told you in the past—tied up and powdered? If you imagine that His Lordship of Radcliff,” and he gestured rudely, “is not going to comb the entire native section to find you, then you’re wrong! He’s notorious for pursuing beautiful women, with a vigor that’s matched only by his confounded success!” He slumped to the floor, cradling his head gingerly. “And damn me if I haven’t gone and set my head ringing again. Your Major swings a mean cut.”
Marthe crouched down beside him, guilt riding her. “I’m so sorry, Jaca. I had to call you. Anything else would have blown my cover.” She reached out to examine the bruised tenderness, but his hand caught hers.
“It’s all right, Marthe. I’m fine, really. But you see now why I warned you about that man. After this, you have to hide that hair of yours. We’ll change the roster and get another maid sent in to cover your duties.”
He put a hand on her face, tilting it to look her directly in the eye. “I know you want to find out more about Radcliff, but leave it to others. There’s only one way you’re likely to learn anything from him, and that’s out of the question. Your face was too well known to go long unrecognized once he starts parading you as his latest mistress. Don’t say no,” he added, touching a finger to lips already forming a denial. “You’ve seen the man. If you stay as his maid, he will get that hood off you. And once he sees what you really look like, how beautiful you are, do you really think you would have any choice but to stay and do whatever he wants? The kind of hunt that man could start if you disappeared would end up exposing us all. No. We’ll have your duties changed.”
Marthe was torn between angry denial and reluctant acceptance. Reality won.
“You’re right, of course. Not about the beautiful bit,” she had to add. It was an ancient argument between them.
He shook his head as if to say ‘not now’.
She touched a hand to her hair. “It’s just … it was my last stand, you see. We may have humbled ourselves and blighted our world, but while I kept my hair as it was before, it felt as if I still kept the real me alive.”
“I do understand, Mimi,” said Jaca gently. “We have fallen so, so far. But remember, we descended to these depths of our own free will, that we might one day ascend again. We have yet to be forced downwards. Your pride is untouched. The free choice of a free people, even if it be degradation, is never shameful.”
She had to grin at that, even if somewhat weakly. “Your politician’s mind was always able to render a useful sentiment poetic.” Then practicality returned and she glanced up nervously. “We’d better not linger here. And if my hair must be bound so horribly, you should have the honor. I could do with a hand down to the bottom of the pit.”
So, solemnly but with a smile in his eyes, Jacquel took the vibrant mass, divided it into four plaits, and twisted them into a knot at the nape of her neck. Then he took a green powder and lightly sprinkled it over the whole, changing the glowing, earthen sheen to a mousy lifelessness.
“You look disgusting,” he teased. “Come wench, to your chores.”
“And you, boy, to yours, for if I look disgusting, then you look downright filthy.”
Side by side, she went with him back to the kitchen area, where levity was soon dispelled by the fussing Agnethe. She bustled up as soon as she saw them enter, scolded their lateness and set Marthe, whom she knew as Riarda, and Jaca, whom she did not know as anybody, never having bothered to discover a name, to work at the massive cauldron of grey, watery soup. It was the staple diet of the prisoners. The Terrans never tasted it themselves, her briefings had told her—so were not to know of certain powder concentrates secretly added by the cheery, harmless old head woman—and merely assumed that the peasants were a hardy breed, able to thrive despite the poor food and everlasting toil of their lives.
Agnethe was indefatigable, bustling everywhere in her huge kitchen, chiding here, praising there. For all its miserable grey walls and thin wisps of sunlight, Marthe found that an atmosphere of contentment pervaded the cavernous hall. Terrans seldom intruded, relying for control of the prisoners on the surveillance vids that constantly monitored the Hathians. Or so the Terrans thought.
At one end of the kitchen were the four enormous cooking pots: two for the morning gruel and two for the evening soup. Fortunately, the less than appetizing odors from these were vented to the outside and did not pervade the large work benches extending the length of the room. When she first arrived, these were crowded with workers, chopping, cutting and slicing the ingredients to be added to the large pots. Then later, after a thorough scrubbing, the same tables became dining tables for the hundreds of natives confined here in the fortress—so many that they had to run the meals in shifts.
For all the hustle, working in the kitchens was rather pleasant, mused Marthe later. Her surroundings may have lacked the elegance of the Major’s apartment, but there were no Terran guards here, and she was ideally placed to hear the gossip so necessary to her mission. Hathians from throughout the fortress passed through in a constant stream, bringing news and many of the secrets of their deluded captors to her receptive ears. Everything had worked out rather well. She checked the temperature of the great pot, absentmindedly watching the one beam of sunlight that penetrated the gloomy hall and dreaming of good times to come.
Suddenly, her reverie was broken. Two guards grabbed her by the shoulders. Without explanation, they pinned her arms behind her back and swung her round to march her out, forcing her to almost run to keep up with their brisk, military stride. She searched for a familiar face and was reassured to see a quick nod from a nearby, averted head.
Up the steps they shoved her, across the courtyard and through a heavily guarded doorway to a set of offices far more imposing than any she had yet seen. A wary foreboding filled her. She was brought to a rough halt in front of a stark, white door as her guards signaled their presence.
They waited a bit, then the door slid back to reveal a room dominated by a large desk. Behind it sat a small, middle-aged man wearing a bored expression on a face that presaged little sympathy.
She was pushed forward to stand in front of the desk, held in place by a strong force field and unable to move any muscles. Her two guards positioned themselves between her and the door.
“Your name, girl?” the man said without looking up.
“Riarda, sir.” She made her voice as small and obsequious as possible.
“Riarda what?”
“Just Riarda, sir.”
“Hmph.” He turned to a second man, moving into her line of vision from the far side of the room. “Is this the girl you complained of, Radcliff?”
She tensed as the familiar head turned to regard her, the eyes hard green and filled with a speculative light.
“They all look alike in that stupid shroud.”
“Guard, remove the cloak,” the older man ordered, motioning to one of them. The soldier strode across and whipped off her outer wrap, unaffected by the strong field that gripped Marthe and held her head rigidly upright as she vainly sought to duck, to hide her face for every crucial second. But her secret was out, betrayed by one tiny, bright curl rebelliously escaping the cap and plaits that entrapped the rest, to slip tellingly down her temple and rest over her eye. She longed to blow it away, make it disappear. Too late. Radcliff had seen it.
“This is the one, Colonel.” He moved around, an eager look of expectation on his face as he came to a halt right beside the Colonel. Right in front of her, where she could hide her face from him no longer. He cannot know me. He can’t, she told herself.
The Colonel ignored him and barely looked up at her. “Girl, it seems you have failed in your duties. For this, you will have your term of punishment increased from … ah, let’s see…” and the older man bent to read her small entry in the list of prisoners.
“By the Seven Pillars of Mathe!” Radcliff stood still, gazing at her face in awe.
“What is the matter, Major?” queried the Colonel tetchily. “And what might be ‘the seven pillars of mathe’? You’re getting too damn close to these natives. It’s affecting you.”
The Terran Major, the man she was increasingly coming to think of as her most dangerous enemy, still stood in silence, his face rigid with surprise. The Colonel looked up in irritation. “Really, Radcliff. Even supposing she were pretty, you’ve no need to stand there like that.” He punched his console and rapped out an order. “Scan in target zone. Confirm prisoner identity.”
“You would find the old Hathian files to be more informative,” said Radcliff in a voice thin with shock.
“Why? Do you know her?”
“Yes,” he said, and in that one word, Marthe knew all her fears come true. How could he? How was it possible? Then Radcliff seemed to shake off the spell of stunned awe, and a gleam of sheer delight lit his face. It did nothing to reassure Marthe. His next words even less so. “Colonel Johne, may I present Madame Marthe asn Castre, daughter of the Hathian Councilor and Alliance Representative, Dr Sylvan an Castre.” The Terran commander sat up sharply. “Yes, you have in front of you a genuine Haut Liege, one of the despised Leigers whom we had thought to have fled and disappeared completely. And how is the good Doctor, your father, madame. More importantly, where is he?”
Marthe read truth in his face. This man had seen her before. When and how, she couldn’t imagine, and try as she might, she couldn’t recall ever seeing him before. Which was surprising, for having seen his face as it was at this moment, alight with excitement, she knew that never again would she forget it, though the faces of the others in this room who equally threatened her would undoubtedly fade with time.
She was caught and knew there was no escape, no point in trying to deny who she was. She gave in to the anger brimming within, letting him see it to the full as she attempted to clench her fists in vexation. Even that small show of defiance was stymied by the blasted controlling field, but with a huge effort, she surreptitiously pressed the communications patch on her wrist against her leg before spitting out a reply.
“I cannot help you, Major. It has been over four years since I last saw my father. He was as well then as a man could be who has lost everything and is being forced to flee his home.”
“Leaving behind his beloved younger daughter? Your family was renowned for their closeness, as I remember.”
“We had an argument.”
“He abandoned you?” His voice was taunting, and she saw the disbelief there. She also saw again, written in the quirk of his lips and the grinning sparkle of green in the hazel eyes, his triumphant enjoyment of this moment.
“I’d gone off on my own and missed the embarkation call. He couldn’t make them wait any longer. To delay meant risking the Terrans capturing everyone. I have no idea where they are now. All I do know for certain is that Earth does not possess the technology to find them.”
Radcliff laughed at her brave challenge. “Perhaps you would prefer to see just what Earth’s technology can achieve?”
She refused to listen to the threat implicit in his words, remaining defiant.
“You would do well to heed the Major, girl,” barked the Colonel. “He can make life very unpleasant for you.”
“Maybe, but I still can’t help you. I have no idea where my father might be at the moment.” Which was strictly true, if not in the way she made it sound. “The final destination of the fleet was known to only a few, in case any were left behind and caught.”
Radcliff stared back at her for a moment, then shrugged, letting the first part of her answer ride. “And were there any others? Where are your fellow Haut Liege hiding? You can’t be the only one. What about your twin, that brother who was so protective of you in the past?”
“Dead, killed trying to keep you off planet long enough to let our people escape.” She saw it in his face—his recognition of the pain that, despite their presence, she couldn’t hide at the memory of Bendin’s loss. Yet still she glared her defiance. “We thought you our inferior in technology and you were, in all except warfare. It’s a science we never cared for, never having had sufficient dealings with your world to learn of its necessity.”
She knew, even as she said the words, the stupidity of her pride-driven insolence and wasn’t surprised to soon pay for it. The guard lashed out with a resounding blow to her head that made her sway even in the strong field.
It was too much for Hamon. Even in his triumph, he felt the blow to her in his own gut. “That’s enough, Corporal,” he snapped. He waited angrily till his stern look drove the guard to step back a pace. Then he bent to check on the girl, on Marthe asn Castre—the one woman in all the universe he thought never to see again, had hoped so badly he would see again, would finally be able to talk to, unhindered by the interference of others. He put out a hand to check her for injury and tried to ignore her flinch as he touched her face.
Her skin was so soft, her so beautiful eyes distant and closed to him. One of his fingers strayed, one only. It traced the line of her cheek, followed the curve of her neck. Then stopped as he remembered what he must do here. They were not alone. He signed to the guard to adjust the force field and pulled a chair over.
“Sit down,” he ordered and waited till she’d obeyed him, moving slowly in the field’s resistance. “Watch her,” he said to the guard, “but don’t touch her unless you have to.” Then he deliberately turned his back on her and ignored her as he addressed his commander. Which didn’t mean that he didn’t feel the fierce glare of her eyes or each angry breath, and he fought to ignore the part of him that grieved for it.
“Colonel, there is more to this than one mislaid Lieger; I’m sure of it. Yesterday, just as I was about to expose Madame asn Castre’s face, a native interrupted me with a bogus message from you. You may remember it?”
“Yes.” The Colonel was listening but his face wore the expectant air of cynicism that Hamon had seen there too often, the face of one about to hear an argument he’d heard and refuted many times before.
“I am convinced that the girl called the other Hathian by some means unknown to us. Her fathe
r was a leading communications scientist as well as a member of their government. I don’t think her presence here is purely coincidental. Nor is she on her own.”
“It’s a possibility, though it doesn’t seem feasible that this simple people could ever organize the kind of resistance movement that you repeatedly claim exists. However, I daresay we had better investigate. It appears to be a matter that comes within your jurisdiction, so I leave it up to you.”
“Thank you, sir. I take it that I am free to conduct this enquiry as I see fit.”
The Colonel looked up suspiciously. “Why?”
“I would like to try an experiment.”
“Explain.”
“As you know, our prison regime has so far proven ineffective in breaking these people. I even suspect that most Hathians confined there are still in contact with their own people outside, though we’ve found nothing to prove it, Therefore, I propose confining Madame asn Castre in my own quarters. I can then supervise her personally and, at the same time, get to know her well enough to learn more of the present Hathian society. My men have never managed to penetrate the facade these people throw up.”
“That you claim they throw up. You know my views on that well enough. What about security?”
“My quarters would be fully protected by fields, coded only to me. She will be well guarded, I promise, yet apparently accessible. We may even manage to net some others of interest.”
“If they exist! Personally, it seems an unnecessarily elaborate cover for keeping the girl for your own use. If you want her, you can have her. Though I have to say that your good taste appears to have deserted you this time.” The Colonel peered dubiously at Marthe.
“Aah, but you haven’t seen her scrubbed and gowned. Marthe asn Castre was known as one of the loveliest women on Hathe and it was a reputation not undeserved, as I once saw for myself.”
Resistance: Hathe Book One Page 4