“Go away, I’ve only just fallen asleep,” she wailed miserably.
“Six hours ago, to be exact. Plenty of time for anyone. Right now, there are questions that need answering. You’ve stalled long enough, and I warn you, if you refuse to tell me what I want, I am prepared to use less civilized methods. You will talk then, believe me.”
She was dragged from the comfort of the sleeper and forced out to the lounge. As if caught in the middle of a brokenly repeating vidtape, she found herself standing locked in place once again by a force field, as he paced angrily in front of her, snapping questions from all sides.
“What were you really doing in the Citadel. Why were you sent here?”
“Eating jerbels. It’s not allowed for natives. And shirking duties,” she said defiantly, refusing to understand his real question.
“What duties?”
“The road. Repairing the road by the gate.”
“For how long?”
“Two months since. They co-opted my street.”
“Which street, your address?”
“Twenty-two First Circle. A room by the wall.”
“How convenient. Was there a door through the wall?”
“No, it’s far too strong and what with. . .” She glared angrily, her head buzzing from the battery of questions.
“And your neighbors? Their names and occupations?”
She gave them. All had since shifted, but the Terran records still had them registered there. Then suddenly:
“The patch. What is it really?”
“A wound dressing. Very common.”
“You lie,” he yelled, banging a hand on a nearby table, making her jump as the blow scudded through her aching head. If only she could collapse back into lovely, lovely sleep.
“Once more, what is it? An identification badge, a secret symbol? Or some device, a communicator perhaps?”
“No. A mere dressing,” she repeated wearily. “Believe me, that’s all.”
She felt him studying her, seeking a flaw, some crack in the wall of her intransigence. She refused to give him one. Weakened she might be, but she was not beaten yet. He came closer, grabbing her roughly by the arm.
“You’ve had your chance, madame. Now it’s time to be introduced to our technology. Not as advanced or as utopian as yours perhaps, but very effective. Come.” He pulled her towards the door.
The threat in his voice was not lost on Marthe. She had heard tales of the victims of Terran refinements. It was present ever afterwards, they said, in the depths of their eyes. Fear seized her, struggling to smother what courage she could still muster as she was forced to march down the unwelcoming corridors, deeper and deeper into the military heart of the fortress.
Too soon, they stopped before a pair of doors, much like any other, and were passed in, to be greeted by an incongruously cheerful “Hello” from the room’s sole occupant, a ruddy-faced, pleasantly smiling young man. All around him was bank upon bank of instrumentation, looking stupidly like the navigation room of the only interplanetary ship she had been aboard.
Two guards kept an attentive watch in the outer corridor, and Radcliff locked the doors from the inside before turning to the young man, who had, meanwhile, been scrutinizing her in far too familiar a fashion, decided Marthe, even given her curiosity value. Her best, frigid Haut Liege glare answered that. Radcliff, unfortunately, was not looking at her at the time.
“All set, Ferdo?” he said, in a tone indicating friendship with the brash young Terran.
“Just about. The Colonel wasn’t too keen on letting me use his precious gadgetry. As though I haven’t used a more pleasant version the stars know how many times. Now, if the lady would care to take her seat, we can begin.” Ferdo waved her to a chair, placed in front of a newly installed panel. “By the way, we’re still as stumped as ever with this weird patch of yours, Hamon.” He frowned at the harmless looking strip on a nearby bench.
Her captor was still looking at his friend and missed Marthe’s quickly hidden excitement. Could she do it, could she get to it? “Hopefully you’ll find something soon,” Radcliff said. “But forget about that for now. Come, madame, the chair.”
Marthe didn’t obey. She stared at the board, edging backwards in fearful horror. “No,” she whispered.
“Since you refuse to speak, there is no other choice.” Radcliff grabbed for her, but she swung away and sprang towards the far side of the room, flinging herself against the back bench in cornered dismay—the bench on which lay that small, clear patch.
The Terran Major pleaded with her softly. But Marthe saw that his friend’s eye was on him, doubting his loyalty it seemed. His mouth set, Radcliff beckoned to the other man and both leapt at her. Marthe acted as if she was beyond fighting, overcome by fear and allowed herself to be dragged to the ominous chair. There was just time for her to clench down hard on her wrist, before the force field gripped her and movement became impossible. Unseen to her tormentors, she felt the blessed coolness of the patch, latching on as if to a lost limb as she had brushed against the bench. She was once more in contact with her own people, whatever was about to happen.
The next minute, a concealing mask came down, blocking her eyes, and the darkness took her. A fraction of a second’s grace only, then footsteps approached. Lighter, too abrupt, not Hamon’s foot steps. Around her, surrounding her, coming closer and closer.
Hamon would not hurt her, not unless pushed to extremity. Why she believed that, she didn’t know, but she did. But Ferdo Braddock, the other Terran? The one who watched Hamon and waited for him to betray Earth.
Then she remembered. This was extremity, for Hamon, for her.
A moment only, and the nightmare began. A touch, the brush of heat against her legs. Not direct, not yet, but a faint crackling sound sent her heart into overdrive. More footsteps, around and around the chair, then that brush of heat, closer and closer. The smell of singed floor covering. As if scorched by a living flame.
Surely not, her mind screamed. No, barbaric. Witches and ancient history.
One sweep, the lightest scent of singed cloth, and she jerked on her restraints, desperate to smother the burning cloth.
A rush of cold water and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“We can stop now, if you will answer our questions. No flames, no pain. Or you can be charred and burned, that beautiful body twisted and blackened.”
Hamon’s voice, but mechanical, modulated through a speaker and hiding whatever he felt.
Now the footsteps again, and a tapping sound close by her ear, the sound of fingers on a control pad. Ferdo was in control of the torch, not Hamon, and her breathing fractured. A roar and the crackle of flames, then the heat was back. He was brushing that live flame near her feet, near her legs, higher and higher. Still those foreign footsteps walked around and around, and on each pass, the blast of heat came closer and closer. That smell again, charred fabric, the smouldering of cloth. The bottom of her tunic, starting to burn and the heat almost touching her bare legs.
“Your allies? Who are your allies?”
“The flame, the flame,” she moaned in reply.
Then it was gone. Gone the flames, the heat, only the smell lingered. Through a mist of relief, she heard the harsh tones of her nightmare.
“We have taken away the torch and smothered your burning tunic. The torch will be returned if you refuse to cooperate. Who sent you and why?”
Still she held to her vow of silence. Only just, her heartbeat surely audible to both Terrans.
“You wish further treatment?”
There was a whoosh and the crackle of fire, then a brief bout of searing pain, leaving her trembling and crumbling in terror. Just do it she found herself wishing insanely, nerves stretched to breaking point with each deadly circle of those hated footsteps.
“Once again, who sent you and why? What organization do you work for? What really happened to the ruling group? Where is your base?”
She whimpered in fear, to
o scared to speak lest all resolution leave her and she blabber on and on and on.
A hideous pause followed. Two minutes, four, five.
“God damn you,” came an agonized voice from the blackness, just before the blistering heat hit her, creeping higher and higher.
No! Why me? I’m too young.
The fire reached for her legs in a malevolent caress. Flames, crackling into life and beginning to lick at her now, the heat searing. The pain, the pain, starting, threatening, beating at the gateway to the rest of her body. Ice cold water, soothing balms, talk, talk!
“Father!” she screamed, suddenly unable to bear it. “Father, Daddy. Daddy, Bendin. Help me, help. Stop it, make them stop it!”
She screamed, again and again. The heat, the painful, burning heat. Then, gradually through the waves of terror she heard a blessedly familiar voice, soothing and calming. And the heat, the cackling of the wicked flames? Gone, all gone.
“Mimi, little Mimi. Shush, little one. I’m here. Father is here. We have contact again. You’re all right. The flame, it’s not real. It’s only an illusion, a nerve simulation like in the theatres. It can’t hurt you. You are whole, nothing has happened.”
Slowly, hesitantly, the words began to penetrate the near hysterical fog enveloping her.
“It’s not real?” she whispered.
“No, little one, it’s not real. Come, remember your neurology. It’s a simple illusion. They’re playing on your nerves as if on an orchestra.”
She listened avidly to the voice, the sound of calm and commonsense from her childhood. The warmly reassuring words had been there when her mother had died, and again, when the loss of Bendin had left her so alone. And now, they were here again in her time of need. Then the voice changed, became the Councilor’s voice, the voice of authority giving her back courage and sanity.
“Don’t speak. We’re feeding panic reactions through to their instruments via your communicator. Unfortunately, we can’t get you out of there yet. Too much is at stake to risk having Terrans poking around in search of you, but we will get you out soon, I promise, even if only for a short time. You will have to lose that patch again, but we will do all we can to get another to you. In your food perhaps?”
“No,” in a soft hush.
“Why not? Do they search it? Tap for yes. Or, do you not get any? Her fingernail’s gentle scratch confirmed her father’s dread. “Ah, my poor Mimi. Your courage enhances the honor of this family more than I can say.
There was a period of silence, in which all her fears returned. Again she whimpered.
“I’m still here,” came the steady, paternal voice, only a slight quaver revealing his anguish. “We cannot hold this channel open any longer. Your sister and the twins send their love and their strength. Keep that chin up, remember you are asn Castre and that in a few months, we will all be back home again.”
“Jaca?” she whispered, her one big fear.
“Still in prison. We dare not release him either, but at least we are in contact and can block the worst of their brutalities. The rest who were taken at the same time are also safe, all fifty, and now have replacement patches. But I must go. We shall put you into a faint, to make the brutes give up.”
Dimly she tried to argue as the black waves advanced with the receding voice. “Not brutes,” she mumbled then gave herself to the welcoming depths, remembering only to let the patch slip back onto the floor near the bench to be found later. She was vaguely aware of rough hands dragging her out of the force, slapping her face and clinging to her shoulders.
“Ferdo, help me. God help me if she dies!”
“Calm down, Hamon. It was only an illusion. She’s merely fainted and is in shock.” Ferdo shook his wrist, wincing at the twinges in it. He’d had to fight to hold Hamon back from yanking the girl out of the field when she started screaming, but nothing could keep Radcliff from her when she fainted. Ferdo reckoned he’d bruised all the tendons in his arm trying to stop him. Then he looked at his friend again and sighed in resignation. “I’m calling the medics in here immediately, for both of you. You’re as white as a ghost. Not that I blame you. Don’t ever ask me to do such a horrifying thing again.”
The face that turned towards him made Ferdo want to bite the words back; but his words of apology were as to a deaf man. These cursed natives! They broke every rule in the book. How were they to know she would fall into an hysterical trance?
“Thank the stars,” Ferdo said at last, turning in relief as the medical team arrived.
“What happened?”
“A prisoner under neuroillusion has gone into shock. You’d better check the interrogating officer as well.”
Briskly, the chief medic set to work, checking the most obviously affected first, the Major. He barely acknowledged them, retaining his tight grip on the unconscious body of the Hathian girl.
“Come, Major, she’ll be all right. Let me read your vital signs.” The woman held her recorder over his chest and groin then infused a sedative before he knew what she was doing, sending him into a gentle sleep. “To the wards, and keep a close eye on him.”
Turning now to the Hathian girl, she gave her a cursory examination then stood up.
“Well?” Ferdo asked, “aren’t you going to do anything for her? She may be just a native, but she is also an important prisoner and the stars help you if anything happens to her.”
“No need. She’s only sleeping. Better get her back to her cell, then leave her alone; she’ll be fine in the morning.” With which terse assessment the woman made ready to leave, signaling the porters to lift the unconscious Radcliff and transfer him to the stretcher.
“But she can’t be. Not after neuroillusion,” gasped Ferdo.
“Oh, it’s a common enough reaction. I don’t know why the Colonel still insists on giving prisoners a session. These Hathians may be human, but something seems to have been lost from their nervous systems in the generations they’ve been here.” She looked at the technician’s pale face, told him he looked as if he needed a stiff drink, then was gone.
Not even the guard, entering soon after to remove the still shape of the girl from the floor, could disturb a stunned Ferdo. It was a long time he stayed there, not moving at all, staring with grim memories at the seat to which the Hathian woman had been fixed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Madame asn Castre, breakfast is served.”
The delightful words, in her own tongue, seeped through the murky layers of Marthe’s nightmare. Gradually she woke, barely noticing the grim walls surrounding her for the heavenly sight of Agnethe holding the biggest tray of food Marthe had ever seen.
“Food,” she breathed, sitting up in a rush and grabbing at the dishes.
“Now, now, not so fast.”
And as if to punish her, the dizzy waves reached up to seize hold again.
“There, there. Those brutes were none too gentle, were they? Sit back and let me help you. And don’t bolt the food. Your poor stomach won’t stand for such treatment.”
Marthe was beyond caring. She reached out greedily and between mouthfuls managed to gasp: “Where? I haven’t seen food like this since … oh, since before the fall. It’s real!” And she started laughing, crying and choking on a full mouth, all in one.
“Old Agnethe still has her stores. I used to be housekeeper for your great-uncle Kastoff. Now there was a man who appreciated his food. None of this synthetic rubbish for him. And you can’t possibly eat two whole brovins in one mouthful. The second one won’t go away while you eat the first.”
Marthe barely heard her, completing the impossible and reaching for more.
“No, that’s quite enough for now. It’s not wise to gorge on an empty stomach. Don’t worry, I’ll bring more soon, and here is a new com patch for you along with a set of proper Hathian robes. Not as elegant as that slip of a thing you’re wearing, but it covers a sight more of you. Don’t worry about the switch of clothes. We’ve doctored the surveillance vids to make the T
errans think a guard gave them to you. ”
Marthe took it all with a shaky smile. “Thank you, Agnethe, for everything. This cell looks … so good. To be able to speak Harmish freely again!”
She could hold back the tears no longer. Agnethe shushed her kindly, patting her hand. “Relax, you’re safe now. That nasty Major is in hospital, and likely to remain so for a while. Suffering from shock, they say. In the meantime, no one is likely to worry about you. With any luck, we can sneak you out for a couple of day’s furlough. Someone else can substitute for you; they will never know the difference.” Her backwards nod to the door spoke volumes. “Now, I must leave before one of those pesky guards comes along and wonders how I managed to get past their precious monitors.” With which she bustled out, taking with her the telltale tray and the despised elegance of Marthe’s Terran clothing.
Left on her own, Marthe shrugged on the rest of the enveloping native robes, then lay back and sighed in contentment. How good to feel again the slick promise of a wrist patch and the comforting roughness of the peasant clothing, with its promise of safety in the concealing bulk. She was still in prison, granted, but the Terran systems were easily foiled in this part of the Citadel. Unlike that other part. She shuddered, remembering the isolation of the Major’s beautiful apartment. Here, she could forget the confusion that had beset her there: the unwelcome pity she had felt for the Terrans and that unwanted spark that had flared between her and Hamon Radcliff. That she dared not remember. Best of all, she now knew that Jaca and the other captives were alive. The last of her burdens was gone.
She settled onto the hard bench, her stomach blessedly full. Free at last from the pernicious drag of the force field and able to close her eyes in peace, it was but an instant before the gift of sleep claimed her again.
Resistance: Hathe Book One Page 9