A rush of delight filled him at the blush that spread over her cheeks, though she refused to give any other indication that she’d heard him. The Colonel merely continued to look skeptical.
“Whatever you say,” he said, “What you do in your own quarters is your affair, but I shall expect you to maintain a tight security. Apart from any suspicions you may hold, she’s the only Lieger we’ve ever captured. As such, she is a valuable hostage, if ever we should find the rest of her thrice-accursed people. Go ahead with your plan, but guard her closely. I want her fully searched, too. The one thing I do know of her people is that they were cunning and untrustworthy. The stars know what she may be carrying on her.”
“Certainly, sir. And thank you for your confidence. Guard, you heard the Colonel.” Hamon allowed himself a small smile of triumph as he turned to follow the soldiers out of the room. They were holding firmly to their captive, hands locked behind her but still marching proudly along with her head high.
CHAPTER FOUR
Inwardly, it was a different matter. Marthe seethed with anger, her derision aimed squarely at herself. How could she have been so stupid? Her foolish, misplaced pride was about to jeopardize everything for which her people had worked so long and hard. They were too close to the end now to let the Terrans ruin it. If, that is, they managed to break her. That, she vowed, must not happen.
There was an alternative plan, she reminded herself, but she also knew that it came with a drastically lower margin of safety—a margin which would realize itself in the loss of many extra lives, lives for which she was now responsible by her silence.
She had one consolation—the small, flesh-molded communicator patch fixed to her wrist, which she had managed to activate. Base control must even now be listening to all that took place and should have alerted the Citadel natives of her plight, and of their own danger. With luck, any further captures would be prevented—if she could only convince the Terrans of the truth of her tale. It might sound far-fetched, but without any other evidence, what could they do? Even if Radcliff doubted her, the Colonel seemed easier to persuade, and he was the commander. Radcliff would have to follow his lead.
Or so she told herself as they half led, half dragged her through the Terran quarters to halt at last before the doors of the Major’s apartment. Radcliff entered his code, letting them pass through the field already set up to bar the door.
“Enter, madame,” he beckoned in mock civility. She marched past, coldly daring him to maintain the arrogance of his stance. An amused tilt of his lips was her only answer. “You, too, Sergeant. A search is required, remember. A full search.”
An expectant smirk on his face, the soldier walked in with what was undeniably a spring in his step.
Marthe watched as he approached, a wary unease taking hold of her. The Major had pulled out a portafield control from his suit and switched it onto her, holding her rigidly in place where she stood in the centre of the room with her arms slightly raised from her sides. They had returned her wrap to her as they marched out of the Colonel’s office, flinging it roughly about her shoulders. The guard dragged it off her now, leaving her in only her tunic, long shift and boots. She tensed in readiness, looking beyond the walls of the room to an imaginary horizon as she waited for the slithering of his examining hands. She loathed being searched and could endure it only by passing as far as possible into a protective trance, ignoring the humiliation of her bodily shell.
The customary mantra she used, a collection of her mother’s gems of maternal wisdom, began to unreel in her head. But this time it was different. She had barely begun the third quote: ‘nice little boys and girls do not leave prindars, especially live prindars, in the boots of their cousins’. It was the one Maman had always produced at least once during a visit by their cousin Ermentruda. Those words would return her instantly to the world of her youth, banishing the horror of the present.
Not this time. The hands did not trace their usual, overly familiar, slimy path over her shoulders and down her breasts. Instead, they reached out to grab her clothes, and the overtunic was roughly torn from her.
She brought her gaze sharply back to the present, her eyes questioning the Terran officer in stunned denial. It was no use. He lay back in his chair, his eyes smiling in wicked delight.
“Is this necessary?”
“Absolutely. The boots, Sergeant.” Her feet were lifted and soon she stood barefooted, with only the protection of her shift. For the first time, Marthe considered begging.
“I am concealing nothing. Why resort to this?”
“My apologies, madame, but my colonel did order a full search.”
“And you are always so obedient.”
“Certainly. Especially when it suits me so well, I have waited a very long time for this moment.” His smile widened. “Continue, Sergeant.”
Again, she felt the hateful fingers pulling at her, and the coarse material was torn apart and slithered to a puddle at her feet, to be kicked to one side by a heavy boot. Her gaze had switched back to the horizon, but her usual mantra was no use here. Never would she let Maman’s memory be sullied by a moment such as this. Held tight by the grip of the portafield, she could not even bring her arms forward to cover herself. Nor could she avoid seeing the smirk of the guard, thoroughly enjoying the sight of her.
Hamon saw it too and shuffled restlessly, angry somehow at what he saw in the soldier’s eyes. A nervous finger pulled momentarily at the fabric of the chair, and there was regret in him. She was everything he had ever imagined, and to gaze at her as he had dreamed of for so long affected him far more powerfully than he had expected.
He should not have seen her first like this. He forced himself to remember years of frustration and a jeering Hathian—this lady’s twin brother—as Hamon lay sprawled in the roadway outside their house. He let the cold mask of his face settle in place again. Then he adjusted the field strength and ordered her to turn fully about.
She could feel the heat rush over her face as she obeyed, too conscious as she turned of the two pairs of eyes examining every inch of her. Radcliff refused to look her in the face. Gruffly, he stepped forward with a cloak, wrapping it around her naked body. She reached up to pull it close. Then suddenly felt her wrist grabbed. She looked up, to be held by the slate green eyes of the secret service Major.
“This patch, what is it?” He was staring intently at a slightly shiny patch on her inner wrist.
“I spilt some broth there. It’s only a dressing to cover the burn.”
“Oh?” His hand rubbed over the patch, felt a loose edge and quickly peeled back the soft film. “You heal remarkably well. Not even a scar. His eyes rose questioningly. “What exactly is this, and I want the truth.”
“Find out for yourself. You think yourself such an expert on my people!”
“I will, never fear,” He stared searchingly at her for some time, and she battened down hard on the dismay she felt at the loss of her communicator. After a short, intent challenge, he shrugged and passed the patch over to the guard. “To the analytical lab immediately, Sergeant. As for you, madame, you will come with me. It’s about time you were restored to something nearer your former self.” He pulled her towards the bedroom, removing the cloak and shoving her into the cleansing unit in one, undeniable motion.
She gasped, stunned into silence by the microjets of tingling hot water, and by the sudden, repeated disrobing. Yet it was glorious to feel the scrubbing spray of the jets. Too many days had passed since she last felt truly clean. In her pleasure at it, she almost succeeded in ignoring the Terran major, standing just outside the unit and watching her, his infernal enjoyment obvious, both at her predicament and at her nakedness.
There had been a moment when she had sensed a softening in him, but it was gone. Now, there was a smirk of thoroughly masculine satisfaction on his face. But she guessed it wasn’t the sole reason for his vigil. He did not trust her and would not leave her unguarded. So she chose to deny his presence, tur
ning up her face to the water and luxuriating in the unbraiding of the hated coils, to let her hair be flooded and drenched, the dulling powder scoured completely away. Afterwards, the strands sprang to life, restored to their native vibrancy as the warm gusts of drying air enveloped her.
It was bliss, and for an instant she let him see the woman she was, a barely acknowledged dream out of her past, but with the shutdown of the hot air currents she retreated back behind her mask. She caught a look in his face then, a fleeting shadow of disappointment, then bitter recognition of her knowledge of it. There was almost a touch of defensiveness in his harsh tugging open of the unit door, but he soon hid it from her as he handed her a sleeveless shift. Simple in design, she quickly realized it was made to enhance rather than cover.
“This will suffice in these quarters,” he said, as if daring her to deny it.
She took the garment and drew it on. The material was soft, of a comfort she had often longed for over the difficult years. Right now, though, she would have preferred the roughness of her own concealing robes.
“You have this stored here for your peasant drabs?”
“And any other woman I may come across in my line of work.”
“Spying!”
“If that is what you wish to call it. You are entitled, I suppose, since you are similarly occupied yourself. Are you not?”
“No,” she exclaimed. “I’m merely a Haut Liege trying to remain inconspicuous.”
“Don’t take me for a fool. I assure you I am not, and much as you try to hide what you think from me, you are not a totally blank screen.” She began to protest, but was stopped by an exasperated glare. “I don’t know yet what you’re up to, but I will find out. Who knows, you may even tell me yourself after a night of suitable persuasion.”
The words brought a quixotic mood change and a wicked grin. He stepped closer, taking her by both elbows and forcing her to look up at his face. She gave in to her urge to retreat but his grip was stronger than the caressing of his thumbs would suggest. He desired her and was making no attempt to conceal it, the challenge clear in the seductive mellowing of his eyes to a warm hazel brown. She was suddenly very afraid. The cold officer, him she could resist. She was not so sure about this man.
“Major Radcliff, I am your prisoner, nothing else. I would thank you to let me go.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You forget, you are responsible for me to your colonel. A valuable hostage, I think he said. If you ever find my people, they’re not going to be as willing to negotiate if they find I have been abused.”
He gave a short crack of laughter and pulled her even closer. “I wouldn’t call what you and I could do for each other abuse.”
She feared he was right. “Your colonel entrusted my safety to you.”
“I was ordered to keep you secure, not safe, and the Colonel is well aware of what I intend for you. If you think Earth sent its philosophers and chivalrous officers on this mercenary little jaunt, you are mistaken. I am afraid we are all quite, quite rotten to the core.”
She believed him and pulled hastily back, as afraid of her own needs as she was of him. Logic seemed to desert her, and she made a mad dash for safety. He didn’t expect it and the surprise gave her release. She raced through the lounge and to the outer door, so grateful to be free that she forgot all about the field guarding the exit. Slamming the opener with her hand, she made to burst through. She hit the powerful force bars there, throwing her roughly back and leaving small, painful burns on her arms, knees, stomach and breasts.
Gasping, she stumbled back onto the floor. She was dazed but a moment, then came to herself and half turned to her oppressor, standing watching her nonchalantly from the doorway. A maddening smile had spread across his face.
“Satisfied with the security measures we employ? Though I’ve seen less violent ways of testing them.” He strode across and, surprisingly gently, picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. Reaching into a cupboard concealed in the wall, he brought out a bottle of thick, white cream. “Here, this will stop those burns marking that so beautiful skin of yours, though it will still be painful for a few days. I wouldn’t advise such heroics too often.”
Still dazed, she lay quiet, suddenly uncertain as she watched this unpredictable man spread the cream across her knees and arms. She put her hands out in protest as he pulled her shift higher to anoint the angry burns spreading over her abdomen and up to her breasts.
“Easy there,” he gentled. “At present, my intentions are not dishonorable. Or at least, I hope they’re not,” and he carefully spread the cream over the stinging brands, pausing slightly to caress as well as soothe as he reached her breasts, then found a new shift for her and pulled it gently over her head and down, lifting it over the burnt patches.
She shivered at his touch, but whether from fear or delight, she could not have said. She looked up, a strained question in the look she bent on him. He didn’t answer it, but turned away, returning a moment later with a mug of warmly steaming liquid.
“Here, take this.”
She hesitated, but then saw something in his quiet waiting that unaccountably made her trust him. She drank, recognizing the taste of the sedative he’d included. She needed sleep after these hours of tension and she doubted he had included anything other than the sedative. All he offered was sleep, said the look in his face. She shouldn’t believe him. There was no reason to. But she remembered that fleeting glimpse of vulnerability she had seen in him earlier. She accepted and gave in. Her eyes drooped closed.
Hamon stood watching her, curled up so carelessly on his sleeper, and was aware of a rarely felt moment of contentment. To give her such a respite was strictly against any sensible strategy, but to hell with it. She would have little chance to sleep in the coming days. Then, disgusted with himself, he argued instead that the sleep would leave her unsuspecting and vulnerable to his questioning.
Stars, he was growing soft. Who was this man who stood here wavering? He had a job to do and a world depending on him. He stalked angrily away to set in motion the search for the male who had interrupted him so suspiciously the previous day.
As he stormed down the corridor leading to the native hall, the soldiers warily sprang to attention. “Something’s eating the Major today. Better watch out,” he heard more than one mutter. Did they think he was deaf?
He rattled off a staccato string of orders as he swept through the Citadel, and within a very short time was pleased to see the resulting chaos and consternation spread throughout the fortress. He had the Hathians rounded up and brought to the hall, where the men were drafted off to one side. The women could only stand by and watch as, one by one, the men were forced to step forward and speak to him. For once Hamon could sense real fear, not contrived, pulsing in the air and driving him on.
An hour or more passed and the twilight evening was fast approaching. Hamon grilled native after native, never quite hearing the voice he remembered. He had nearly conceded that his quarry had escaped, when he was alerted by a sound at the back. A burly guard was dragging forward a struggling pair, a woman and a man. He pushed the woman towards the rest and pulled the man to a halt in front of Radcliff.
“Found him skulking in the women’s quarters, sir,” the guard said, contemptuously throwing the bundle down at the Hamon’s feet.
“Well? What have you to say for yourself? What business had you there and why did you evade the guard? Didn’t you hear the order to report?”
A whining voice, faintly familiar, begged forgiveness. “The woman, sir. She wouldn’t let me go. I wanted to come, honestly.”
“That’s the one,” said Hamon, gesturing to the guard to pull the man to a stand. Hamon shoved back the concealing hood. For an instant he caught a spark of rebellious anger in the bright blue eyes before the man dropped his head and assumed a pose of abject servility. Hamon whirled, scanning the ranks of natives. There was not a hint of motion, yet he would have sworn the man had responded to a
n order. Do not cause trouble.
He turned back to examine his prisoner. The Hathian was young, only a few years less than himself but of a lighter build; he had a finely boned face, silvery blond hair and those brilliant blue eyes. The combination was decidedly striking, a fact that galled for some reason, and there was a nagging sense of familiarity about him. Hamon shrugged, unsettled and ill at ease, and flicked the hood back over the native’s head.
“Take him away, clean him up, run him through central information and lock him up for the night. Then bring him to my quarters, tomorrow at the second hour. Check the old Hathian records too. You never know.” He turned to go, then, as if remembering something, turned and grabbed the native’s wrist, turning it over to reveal a telltale shiny patch. Seizing it, he ripped it off and handed it to a nearby guard. “Take this to the lab,” he ordered, “and search all natives for similar patches. Any found wearing one is to be treated as this one, identified and locked away.”
He sensed the growing consternation in the listening natives. Absolute terror would be his preference. They all huddled down into their overrobes, arms hastily tucked into sleeves and trying to appear even less visible than usual. He was right on the verge, he knew it. Of what, he didn’t know, but after the months of frustration, he was about to learn something.
He didn’t stay to see the further results of his orders, too eager to see the effect of his latest discovery on Marthe asn Castre. Excitement rode him as he strode back through the Terran corridors. At long, long last, was the enigma of this planet starting to roll back?
Once in his own quarters, he looked into the bedroom. His captive was still sleeping, her bronze hair waving gently around the strongly drawn face. He stood watching a second, but the need to defeat these Hathians was riding him too hard to allow himself to be lulled by her beauty, and he reached out to roughly shake one small shoulder.
Resistance: Hathe Book One Page 5