Marthe came to slowly, still in that hazy, just awake state when all still seems bathed in dreams. She gazed up at him, forgetting for a moment the reality of her detention.
She sighed, stretching languorously upwards, and then grimaced with pain as she pulled on the injured skin of her stomach. She was conscious yet of only some of what had passed before her sleep and saw in Hamon merely the kind and gentle man who had carried her here and soothed her pains.
“Ah Major, how long have I slept? It must have been some time for I’m decidedly hungry.”
“I can imagine,” came the unexpectedly harsh reply, “but, unfortunately for you, Terran supplies only run to those who earn them. However, I’m certain your company at my table would enliven my own dinner. If you would come this way?”
He reached down and, grabbing her arm firmly, and led her to his balcony where a table had been set out for one, though two glasses and a water decanter had also been added to the extremely appetizing offerings spread there.
“Won’t you sit, my dear?”
He politely motioned her to the empty end of the table. She did as ordered and felt her feet gripped by another restraining field. Still strictly polite, he filled her glass before settling himself to his own chair and serving himself with every evidence of great enjoyment.
Marthe was definitely awake now and on full guard. She remembered Jaca’s warning words and vowed that she would not again trust the dubious charm of her captor. Yet her stomach growled, and it was only sheer pride that prevented her reaching out and attempting to grasp whatever she could as he tantalizingly swept one plate after another in front of her.
“Your Agnethe is one of the real treasures of this world,” said Radcliff, sniffing appreciatively and helping himself to an exquisitely tempting morsel from the selection of cheeses on the table, before leaning back to savor his wine. “It has been a remarkably full and profitable day, and to relax in the company of one so beautiful seems a rare and fitting end to it. The water is to your taste, I hope?”
She was twirling the crystal goblet pensively in her fingers. “Quite, thank you.”
“Good, good. I regret you could not have shared in such a pleasant dinner, but standing orders are clear. The Colonel may overlook most of my activities, but I doubt whether he would countenance wasting precious supplies on an enemy spy who has yet shown no sign of cooperating with us. You have not, for example, explained that so called dressing you wore, despite having no injury.” He leaned forward, abandoning the smooth urbanity as he awaited her reply. After a few minutes of observing her unflinching silence, he shrugged and continued. “No matter, I’m sure the friend who rescued you so gallantly the day I first noticed your charms will be somewhat more helpful. We have him in custody and I am quite confident he will reveal some small matter before his death tomorrow.”
At the careless announcement, Marthe’s hard-held composure cracked. “No, you couldn’t. He is innocent, believe me. Please, you cannot. Not J—” And she stopped herself just in time.
“Not who?” he snapped.
“No one in particular. You get to know most of the staff in such close quarters.”
It was too late, her false nonchalance, and she knew it. What was there about this man that had her acting like the rawest of new recruits? Yet still she must try to appear disinterested. He could not do this to Jaca, not to someone so vibrant and alive. Jaca of so many escapades and narrowly successful tricks, Jaca of her earliest childhood, to be finally brought down by his protection of her. It wasn’t fair, she thought, anger welling anew in her at the Terrans and the ease with which they so callously disposed of her people. Yet, the cooler part of her reminded, the death penalty was a rare action; her people were far too valuable as workers.
Radcliff growled angrily as he broke into her thoughts. “Don’t take me for an idiot. You are upset, too much so for him to be no one in particular. He also wore a patch like yours and, strangely, in exactly the same place. After tonight, we will have extracted its true purpose. If not from him, then from one of the others caught wearing one. We are rounding them up now and they shall also be executed.
She blanched.
“Unless,” he added.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you talk.”
She shook her head mutely, wanting desperately to plead that he spare her this.
“You have till the morning to change your mind.” Releasing her from the field, he walked her into the bedroom and laid her on the small couch now set up beside the bed. Another field imprisoned her, holding her rigidly still, “I’m afraid you will have rather an uncomfortable night, but then a few sleepless hours of contemplation may do you some good.”
He left her then, and she could only lie there, alternately railing against her captor then remembering Jaca’s face in fleeting glimpses of past moments. Silently, in every tongue she knew, she slowly and carefully cursed the tall, arrogant man cleansing just meters away. Mathe, what a mess she had made of it! And now, for the sake of the plan, she must allow Jaca to die.
She heard Radcliff returning and shut her eyes, feigning sleep. He leaned over her, apparently unaware of his nakedness, and adjusted a control. She felt her eyelids dragged inexorably open. She stared angrily at him, blushing at his state of undress.
“Am I not allowed the simple privacy of shutting my eyes?”
“No, for it also offers the privacy to plan and plot. This way, I can observe those machinations. Your eyes are very expressive.”
“Then have the courtesy to put on a robe.”
“Why? Am I ugly in your planet’s terms?”
“You know full well you’re not! But we value personal modesty more than it seems is customary on Earth.”
“It has never bothered the other Hathian … ah, ladies I have entertained. Why should it you? It’s not as if you are still the girl barely out of her teens I saw on my first visit here.”
What was he talking about? Yet she refused to give him the satisfaction of asking the question.
He answered it anyway. “I was at your formal Presentation, and a rare pleasure it was, I might add.”
“If I had known you were there, I can assure you the feeling would not have been reciprocated,” she snapped back. With a final, supreme effort, she managed to half shut her eyes.
It didn’t stop her hearing his sudden crack of laughter, to her eternal annoyance, or his brazen reply. “I think I’m going to enjoy changing your mind on that one.”
He leaned over then, to kiss her as he had longed to do since that day he’d first seen her so many years ago, gently teasing at her stubbornly held lips. If it was not all he hoped, there was yet an instant when he felt the beginning of a response, before she again retreated within her controlled shell. He lifted his head, the mocking grin he deliberately sent her touched with real satisfaction.
“Go to the darks,” she spat, trying valiantly to turn away and failing miserably. But he seemed content with his taunting and rose, checking the controls once more before retiring to his own sleeper.
Soon, to her even greater annoyance, she heard the sound of heavy, sleep-ridden breathing. How dare he, and whether it was his peaceful sleep or his kiss that angered her most, she could not say. She lay fuming but, eventually, weariness began to overcome her, her heavy eyelids dragging against the relentless force holding them open. She strained to close them and finally managed to achieve it—but only for a moment. As soon as sleep blessedly came, her eyelids relaxed and were dragged open again. After the fifth time this had happened, wretched tears started, tracing a path of misery. The best she could do was to relax her eyes to an unfocused blur, taking refuge in a trance-like state for the rest of the long, weary night, her thoughts dwelling desolately on the fate of Jaca.
It was a tired and dispirited Marthe who greeted the Terran the next morning. Apparently oblivious to her state, he released her and led her through to the cleansing unit, passing her the cream to apply to her burns. She was at least allowed
some privacy for this, and she supposed she ought to be thankful. Afterwards, she was again forced to sit with him as he made a hearty breakfast. He never mentioned Jaca, and she began to hope that her friend would be spared. To that end, she set herself to further distracting him, whiling away the meal in pleasant small talk and questions about Earth.
The Major appeared to miss it and yet be glad to be away from it—an intriguing attitude she suspected was not unusual among the Terrans on Hathe. She encouraged him to talk more about his home world, mindful of why she had been sent here originally. Oddly enough in the circumstance, she almost found herself relaxing as she listened, even smiling at some of his tales, one so outrageous she could do nothing but join him in laughter.
The door opened right then. Hauled roughly in between two guards and haggard after a night in the cells, Jaca caught her mid-laugh. She gasped, and was answered with an accusing glare. She rose, glued to the spot by the force holding her feet, stricken and beseeching him to forget that damning chuckle. He ignored her plea. It wasn’t surprising. She knew what he saw: her body highlighted by the simple lines of her shift and her ease with the enemy. She couldn’t blame him when he turned to gaze insolently forwards.
Beside her, Radcliff had watched their unspoken signals. Deliberately taunting, he released the force restraining her and put his arm around her waist. Then he pulled her with him as he walked towards his other prisoner, forcing her close to his side. She could only guess what it looked like to Jaca.
“Identification of prisoner, Sergeant.”
“Answers to Jaca, sir, but we checked the old Hathian records as you ordered. His full name is Jacquel des Trurain.” The guard handed over the file. Radcliff scanned it then looked up, raising a querying eyebrow at Marthe.
“Another abandoned Lieger? Your step-cousin, it seems, my dear.” She was unable to answer him, her throat too full. Suddenly, with a strength the Terran did not expect, she flung herself away from him and into the shoulder of her childhood friend.
“Jaca, forgive me. I can save you if I answer their questions, but I can’t,” she pleaded in their own tongue.
At first there was no lessening, no giving way in her oldest friend. Then he looked down into her face. What he saw, she couldn’t say, but there was a tightening of his mouth and he met her eyes for the first time. “Hush, Mimi. It’s all right, I understand. The Terran has been playing his games with you?” She nodded. “Don’t worry, he’s probably bluffing. The depths of Hathe keep you safe,” he managed to add before they were pulled roughly apart.
The Major dragged Marthe towards him, pinioning her arms behind her as he harshly ordered that Jacquel be taken out.
“Very touching, madame, but I do not bluff. Whatever your friend may say.” He spoke in Harmish—just to remind her of his fluency, she didn’t doubt. “And don’t count on des Trurain’s value as a prisoner. I am fully aware that he is potentially as useful as you, but I need information now. If one of you must be killed to make the other talk, then so be it. Sadly for des Trurain, he doesn’t possess the advantage of your sex, and so he will be the sacrifice. I need the information you hold and I will do anything to get it.”
“You’re mistaken. I know nothing of use to you.”
“I don’t think so. In half an hour, unless you start talking, des Trurain dies. You see the red light there?” She nodded. “When that goes out, so does he.”
Marthe stared, transfixed. She did not move, not a muscle, not an eye, for the entire half hour allowed, staring intently at the light and willing it to stay red.
“Five seconds to go. Well?”
Slowly, as if in pain, she shook her head. The light went dead. It was over. She slumped to her feet, silent tears cascading down her cheeks.
A long while later, she looked up.
“I grew up with Jaca,” she said as if in a dream. “I dare say that one day we would have married. Now I’ve killed him.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Hamon said nothing, turning abruptly and walking from the room. It was many hours before he could bring himself to return. He knew he should have pressed the attack while she was vulnerable; every single thing he had ever learnt told him he must. He refused to listen. There was nothing under the stars that could have made him keep questioning her then, not with that sheer human misery in her eyes. Nor could he forget her words as the light signaled the death of Jacquel des Trurain.
“We would have married…”
Haunted by her face, he spent the day searching through the files for every piece of information he could find on the Hathian man. Maybe in knowledge of his enemy, he could find a justification for his actions. Or relief from your guilt, jibed the silent thought.
He was not to be so lucky. Despite his hopes, it was an intriguing picture that emerged. On the one hand, des Trurain seemed to be nothing more than an irresponsible sprig of his world’s political elite, ready at any time to join in with the more daring of the juvenile pranks of his friends—among whom, he noted in particular, Bendin asn Castre and his twin sister, Marthe. So, she had been honest there. Even through the spare lines of the news reports, he caught an image of a close threesome. If one was mentioned, so were the other two. A triplet of bright young things, eager for whatever adventures their world could offer.
But that was too simplistic a picture of Marthe, and it seemed the same was true of des Trurain. The man had been active in student politics and was also a highly regarded scholar of history—his particular area of interest the early development of the modern Alliance, that loose confederation of the planets that had been settled long ago by people from Earth.
Hamon cringed as he read des Trurain’s work, with its caustic analysis of the warmongering prevalent in pre-Alliance societies. He couldn’t fail to recognize how the current actions of his own people repeated the time-worn cycle of greed and conquest.
It was a relentless and unforgiving academic self-flagellation, but he forced himself to persevere. He must understand des Trurain. Perhaps in understanding Marthe’s friend—he refused to grant the man any closer name— he would find an explanation for his own turmoil. How had he come to be in sole and vicious charge of one proud and learned woman who deserved to be pitied more than tormented, whatever the truth might be? He knew all the clichéd reasons, but his own, more personal ones … were they good enough?
Grimly, he brought up screen after screen of damning records. Was he seeking justification for his present actions or escape from the burden of his Terran birthright—a heritage that seemed to promise only pain and dishonor whichever path he chose? Whatever Marthe asn Castre might be to him, she was also the key to this planet. She alone could deliver the secret to securing the quantities of urgonium Earth needed so desperately. He had to continue his plan, must believe that success would soon be in his grasp … if he could but live with himself for long enough.
He returned to his apartment, heavy-hearted and angry. He’d undertaken a project in good faith, and whose fault was it but his own that he’d not foreseen the consequences? He passed through the doorway with a quick check of the security lock then looked through the lounge towards the balcony.
There was no sign of his prisoner.
He checked all the rooms, hurrying into the bedroom to see if she’d managed to bypass the controlling fields cloaking the apartment and fall asleep. No sign of her. Panic goading him, he activated his screen, ordering a heat sensor scan of every room.
There, in the service cupboard.
So, her grief was not too deep to stop her trying to escape. He moved swiftly, warily alert, slamming the door opener and erupting into the cupboard. Then came to an abrupt halt. Marthe was there, still sleep deprived but not trying to flee. Her elegant shift covered by an old tunic of his, she was occupied in nothing so extraordinary as that. Instead, she was mundanely emptying the contents of the rubbish bin into a recycling chute.
“What are you up to?”
“Cleaning the apartment, of course. S
ince you see fit to imprison me here, you’ve had to forgo the usual cleaning maid. And while you may fancy living in filth, I do not.”
“My apologies. I didn’t realize a Lieger would notice such things.”
She ignored his deliberate use of the insulting Lieger, instead of the more proper Haut Liege. But he knew she had heard it.
“It is years since I had servants to attend to such matters. I learned very quickly after you Terrans arrived that if I wanted my surroundings to remain in an acceptable state, I would have to do it myself.”
“Then you have my permission to continue, and my thanks, but I should point out that it won’t get you back on the rations list, though the stars know you look as though you need it.”
She looked ready to claw his eyes out at the reminder of what must by now be serious hunger. She had free access to water, but that alone wouldn’t stave off what must be a very empty stomach. Yet she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reply, glaring her resentment as she brushed past him to continue with her work. A pity. A fight was just what he needed. Anything to bury his guilt. He caught her by the wrists and held up her hands, noting triumphantly the fresh burn marks on her palms.
“So you had come in here to check whether my security fields covered this entrance. Even on such short acquaintance, you should know me better. You’ll be sore all over soon. How are your other burns?”
He reached out to feel her stomach but stopped when he saw her flinch. Ignoring her curt comment that she was rather better qualified than he in medical matters, he drew off the tunic and lifted the shift to inspect her skin. A pink flush only remained of the angry burn marks. “Good. I would hate to mar such a beautiful body.”
Suddenly, unable to stop himself, he pulled her into his arms and for one crazy instant gave release to this misplaced passion of his, this mad aberration that he knew not whether to curse or welcome.
And for one moment only, his kiss caught her unawares and he felt her response. There was warmth and a haven here and, buried deep within him, a long-neglected core of need flared up and demanded satisfaction. He could swear it was echoed in the pressure of her lips on his, her body clinging for one joyous moment to his.
Resistance: Hathe Book One Page 6