Her next awakening was to the familiar clamor of Terrans shouting orders.
“Stand to for inspection.”
Normal and wonderfully anonymous. Terrans bullying Hathians. That evening, she slept again—until the early hours of the morning, when a signal from her patch brought her rest to an abrupt end with a warning of an incoming message. She listened and did as ordered, opening the now unlocked cell door and moving down the passage to await her promised escort. She was on furlough already, it seemed.
A shadow, barely discernible from the other shadows of the night, tapped her shoulder and beckoned her to follow. They passed by the prison’s banks of concealed surveillance monitors, with only a moment’s work needed to ensure that nothing unusual registered on the Terrans’ screens. Soon, very soon, they had walked out the gates of the fortress and were strolling down the curfewed streets. The protective shields surrounding them deflected all signs of their passing. Only human eyes could penetrate their shields, and so secure was Earth in its assumed supremacy that they were unlikely to meet any of those at night.
Her guide led her down a narrow street to a squat collection of houses, in a door, through a typically small, drab room, and down the lift concealed behind a rough chest of drawers. Emerging, Marthe breathed a happy sigh of relief. They had entered a great, underground hall, filled with ‘her people’ as she best thought of them. Technicians monitored rows of panels on every side of the room. All around her, Hathian voices discussed problems, transmitted orders, quipped with work mates with not a trace of the defeated subservience of the so-called peasants of Hathe so familiar to their Terran overlords.
She was in the control room of the desert sector, the most crucial part of the underground’s resistance campaign. On the far wall, she could see a group checking the mass of incoming and outgoing messages: where to, who to, who was not receiving. Elsewhere, others were locked into the multitude of Terran monitors that constantly watched over the Hathians, altering one here, one there, to prevent discovery of the illicit operations of the resistance. Marthe stopped to take it all in, a huge grin lifting the corners of her mouth. It was true, all true. In the dark stretches of the past nights, she had begun to doubt, to think that she really was alone, her people gone.
But here they were.
Suddenly a tall figure detached itself from the crowd and, with a cry of joy, hurried forward to clutch Marthe in a shuddering hug. Her sister?
“Marthe! I thought I’d never see you again.”
The warm voice confirmed it. “Laren. What are you doing here? I thought you were still on maternity leave. Where are the twins, and Jorven?”
“The twins are fine. They’re over a year old now, remember, and with three very doting grandparents, they are not likely to come to much harm. As for Jorven, turn around.”
Marthe did so, to see her silent guide throw back his hood and the face of her brother-in-law laughing back at her.
“You never said anything!”
“And have you shout your surprise to the world,” he teased. “Who else should have come? You’re on family leave, not official duty.”
“I hope someone tells Father that,” snorted Laren, linking arms with Marthe and her husband. “Hurry up, you two, or we’ll miss our shuttle.”
They walked quickly to the far side of the hall, down a sloping corridor and into the upper level of an enormous chamber that lay directly below the first. Through the protective window Marthe could see two short-haul vessels, one with its blunt nose already beginning to tilt in readiness for flight.
“Five minutes to departure. Last embarkation call. All passengers please move forward immediately to docking procedure.”
“Come on,” cried Jorven. They broke into a run, hurrying to catch the departing chute, whisking them down to the flight deck, through the barricade, a halt to check their IDs, then along another corridor and a dash into the ship just as the harassed crewman was about to close the door.
“Names!”
“Asn Castre, an Castre, an Dufon.”
“Take your seats then. First three on the left. We are almost ready to leave. In future I suggest you make better arrangements to be here on time.” He sealed the door, before walking off, muttering about death and glory special agents and did they think they were the only ones who had it tough in this war.
“Welcome home, the returning heroine,” laughed Laren, buckling in and settling back for the anti-grav phase.
“I know. Isn’t it marvelous?” Marthe flung off her cloak and settled back with a grin.
A rumbling below warned the passengers. The ship began to lift, rising up to where, far above, a dark, gaping hole appeared as the cavern roof slid back to reveal the velvety blackness of the night sky. Tonight, there was only one light to compete with the tiara of the stars: the pale glow of the lesser of Hathe’s two moons—Mathe, the insignificant, the secret, so often overlooked by the unknowing and the unwise.
In a room in the Citadel, a Terran technician registered yet another minor shake hitting the township.
“Hope nothing’s building,” he said. “These ground tremors are hitting us every day now.” He checked his screens, but there was no sign of damage. Everything in the town appeared normal.
“Marthe,” called Laren, leaning over to chat. She was stopped by her husband’s warning shush. Marthe was lost to sleep.
Gently, Laren eased off her sister’s harness, curving Marthe onto her side and tucking back a stray wisp of hair, just like her own little daughter’s—but not the black cavities beneath the eyes or the finely drawn bones standing out tautly from the face.
“It takes more than one night to recover from four days without food or sleep,” Jorven cautioned. “Leave her be for now. She will probably have to face a grilling from our beloved statesmen when we get home, and she’s had to endure more than enough grilling already.”
“I didn’t know,” gasped Laren, horrified. This was her baby sister. “To think … the rumors that have been circulating, that she had fallen for a Terran! Just look at the marks on her hands,” she added, noticing for the first time the healing welts on Marthe’s palms.
Her husband’s face reflected what she felt. “If I ever get my hands on that thug, Radcliff… Mathe knows what has been happening while we were out of contact. If only she didn’t have to go back.”
“Back? No! Surely once the Council sees her? Yes, I know there have been atrocities, but when your own sister’s involved, it’s different.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, love. There is too much at stake. For all we know, it may not have been so bad.”
“You think so?” she demanded accusingly.
He looked down at the still, now peaceful body beside her. His face said it all. No, he did not think so.
Marthe remained blissfully oblivious to their anxiety. She basked in a dream world where hunger was banished and nothing could beset her. Nearing the end of the flight, she passed from deep sleep to a light doze and slowly became aware of her surroundings. Clean air, the softness of the cushioning beneath her and, best of all, the hum of genuine, relaxed Harmish voices. A touch of nausea warned of the changing flight path of their ship as they approached their destination. Shaking off the vestiges of sleep, she pulled herself up, fastening the landing harness and peering out the window at the rapidly nearing mass of Mathe, the lesser, often forgotten second moon of Hathe. The Terrans thought the name similarity merely a stupid inconvenience. The Hathians knew better.
“What a quick trip.” She yawned and stretched. “I could have slept for hours. Do you think Father will have a meal ready when we get home? I’m famished,” she declared and was surprised by the rush of pity in Laren’s eyes. What had she said now? She subsided, sitting in pensive silence until the docking doors opened.
The moment of disquiet was lost in the chaos and bustle of arrival, caught in a pushing, ever hurrying mass of people eagerly seeking loved ones they had been parted from for too long.
“Father! I should have known you would be here. Thank you. The queues are longer than on Hathe.”
“We couldn’t leave our heroine to the mercies of the mob,” he said, hugging her close then standing back gravely, “and my fellow Councilors are at the end of that line you were in.” She couldn’t hide her dismay, not from her father. “Don’t worry, I’ve arranged a detour. They can wait a few hours longer. First, we have a special celebration feast waiting. Bortch with jerbels.”
Marthe gave a hoot of laughter. “Father, I hate jerbels.”
“Oh, well, never mind.” The worry in his face belied the heartiness of his voice. “Here’s the transporter.”
They all stepped into the square, open-topped run-around and the doctor punched in the coordinates of the an Castre quarters. He reached out a hand to help Marthe into her seat.
“Careful, you must be tired out.”
“Nonsense, I’ve done nothing but sleep for the last twenty-four hours,” she retorted, “but I am famished. No jerbels, though, thank you very much.” A chuckle of laughter threatened, then was quashed as she caught the glances among her family. It was as if there was a ‘Care–Fragile’ sticker plastered on her forehead. What she was to do about it was beyond her, and she could only nod in reply to her father’s questions as they passed through the subterranean corridors.
It was with relief that she saw the doorway to the an Castre quarters, and scrambled out before they had fully stopped. She slammed the door open and stalked inside to savor the familiar spaces for one lone minute: above, the high-domed ceiling and in front the great window, looking out over the starkly silvered slopes of the dead moon. There were other lights shining back at her, oval sparks set amongst the crags and crevices telling of the windows of other homes. A rocky warren of humanity, the entire mountain was riddled with the quarters of the Hathians’ secret base.
“It’s good to be home again,” she breathed, turning to her family as they entered.
“We are mighty glad to have you here,” replied Laren. “But you must be eager to change out of those dreadful robes.”
“Strangely, no.” Marthe smiled, remembering the thin, beautiful shift of her imprisonment. Nonetheless, she followed Laren and was soon relaxing in the warm vapor jets of the cleanser, washing away the prison dirt of the last day. She emerged and began to leaf through the wardrobe she kept on hand here.
“Your stomach! What have they done to you?”
Marthe glanced down at the remaining scabs, thin lines running across her abdomen and breast. “I’d forgotten about those. My own fault, believe it or not. I tried to run through a force field and this was the result. I looked quite a mess when it first happened, but Major Radcliff had a pot of excellent salve. I must remember to ask him what it was when I get back.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t even mention that man. Surely Father can stop it? You can’t return!”
“Of course I must. I’m only on furlough.”
“But Marthe. Oh, my poor darling.”
It was too much. Marthe eyed her sister in growing wrath. For once, she refused to pander to her sister’s need for harmony. “Stop this nonsense, Laren. It’s just another assignment, no more terrible than many I’ve been on before. I should think you’d have enough sense by now not to carry on as if I were the only agent ever to be placed in danger.”
“There’s a difference between working among our own people and being caught alone among Terrans. Those days when you were out of touch!”
She tried to hide it, but Marthe was trained to read faces and couldn’t miss that fleeting look on her sister’s face. Like a bitter stab to her heart, and her mouth twisted. “When the stories started going round? A Hathian from an old, respected family, lost to all sense of duty and consorting in a disgraceful manner with a Terran? That’s what you were supposed to think. How could you, of all people, fall for it. My big sister, one person I can count on to remain calm and sensible when all about me is idiocy. Or maybe you too believed the stories?”
“No, never.”
Laren looked so distressed, Marthe had to apologise despite herself. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I didn’t expect my family to be part of this stupid nonsense I’ve fallen into. I have survived fine so far and Major Radcliff isn’t quite the monster you imagine. Have you never considered that there might be two sides to this whole bloody mess?”
Ignoring the shocked look that greeted this, she twitched her gown into place and swept out.
“Father, where’s this feast you promised me? I intend to do my best to become the size of this room before I go back.”
“And I will do my best to help you; but first, you must greet our guest—another returning hero.”
Turning, Marthe found herself face to face with one who, deep down, she had thought never to see again.
“Jaca.” Slow, silent tears touched her cheeks. “Jaca, I’m so sorry. I had to.” She could say no more. He was alive, praise Mathe, this man she had condemned to death. Silently, she stared at him and the half-open, cautious smile on his face. But she soon had to glance away, seeing what he could not hide from her; the questions and the accusations.
“Are you on furlough as well, or did they release you?” she said, retreating to the safety of the polite query.
“Furlough.” Now she could also read ridicule there. “Your Major’s illness gave us both a reprieve. My substitute must have the privilege of the guards’ kind attentions for a few days.
“I didn’t know you were so closely watched.”
“You’re not the only Haut Liege under Radcliff’s care. I even receive the occasional, personal visit. To discuss the weather, the arts, politics. Quite … gentlemanly.”
“His father is the Alliance Representative!” It was out before she knew it. She stopped abruptly, lost for words to mend what she had said.
She could see her father’s confusion, but could do nothing about it. There was too much between Jaca and her, and both had learned in the same, hard school to keep their secrets. The awkward silence was finally broken by her father.
“Plenty of time to catch up on gossip later. Jacquel, if you would kindly take Marthe through, we will follow behind.”
Politely nodding assent, Jaca rose, offering his arm to Marthe then walking with a marked limp towards the dining hall.
“Your leg? What happened?” she exclaimed.
“Your dear friend, the Major. We don’t get on particularly,” was the unpromising reply.
“Has it been treated? You must let me look at it after dinner.”
“No,” he said gruffly. “I’ve had excellent care since I arrived back, thank you.” He would say no more, carefully handing her to her seat with punctilious courtesy. She was saved by her father from having to reply. He raised his glass.
“I believe a toast is in order. To us.” He lifted his glass and gave that quiet smile of his that always spelled safety to Marthe and an end to dissent. “May the food be excellent and the wine purest ambrosia.”
“What better toast could there be?” seconded Jorven, chuckling. “Knowing your table, I doubt not that it will be granted.”
He was proved right. Course after fascinating course appeared: kafka from Aeros, ciukh from Delion and, best of all, genuine bortch rescued from Hathe – with jerbel berries!
Her stomach already stretched beyond its limit, Marthe could only gaze in wonder. “Real bortch,” she breathed.
“Mmm, better than gruel, eh?” grinned Jaca, finally showing signs of relaxing.
“Gruel nothing! Do you realize this is only my second meal
for days? Hamon Radcliff’s so-called admiration did not extend to feeding prisoners.”
“But I thought… You were at breakfast when I was brought in.”
“Radcliff was at breakfast. I was kindly given a glass of water.”
Behind his still closed face, she saw she had shocked him. “I think that you and I need to talk.” he said. “But later. For now, bortch and jerbels.”
“Mmm,” she agreed holding out her plate for a huge helping.
“Marthe, you can’t possibly eat all that,” laughed Laren, “and don’t touch the jerbels. Remember what happened the last time you ate them.”
“As if I could forget. I was so ill I couldn’t move for days.”
“When was that?” said her father. “I never knew you were allergic to them.”
“You were away at an Alliance meeting. I was fine by the time you got home. You were there, Jaca. The four of us had raided Dufon’s orchard, and your father came out breathing fire and thunder, Jorven.”
“That’s right,” recalled Jaca, laughing even. “It’s no wonder you were ill. You ate masses of the things and half of them weren’t even ripe.”
“No more than we ate, though,” said Laren with a chuckle. “As for Bendin, he must have eaten more than all of us put together. With, as usual, no effect at all. That boy led a charmed life.”
“I don’t wish to hear any more,” exclaimed their father. “Like so many of your past escapades, it seems best left alone. Instead, tell me about the gossip planetside? I hear you rendezvoused with your cousin Griffith, though I daresay that young man refused to bother with such trivialities as family pleasantries.”
“No,” grimaced Marthe. “Only that cousin Addie had ‘presented him with a young crusader’. Which I take to mean that Addie’s finally had the baby.”
“About two weeks late. Goodness, I thought she would never have it,” Laren laughed. “Mind you, she didn’t carry well, I hear.”
“Oh, I know, do I ever know. Along with any other poor unfortunate who happened to come within shouting distance. Why Griffith let her stay planetside, I have no idea.” said Marthe in disgust. “It wasn’t as if there was anything really wrong with her. Just prolonged nausea and tiredness. Plenty of women suffer that.”
Resistance: Hathe Book One Page 10