“Not everyone has a relation on Council,” she pointed out.
“No, but enough do to get a cross-section of public opinion, and the relationships are well enough known to be accessible.”
“I still think it’s a rather hit or miss form of government.”
“Maybe, little one, but it works. At least we make some attempt to involve the populace in the decision-making process, aside from the quadrennial vote. They don’t even bother with that on your major’s precious Earth.” A grim frown marred his usually gentle countenance. “Conquering us because they couldn’t be bothered ruling their own planet properly! To such have fallen the remnants of our ancestors.”
“Now, Father,” soothed Laren, the eternal pacifier. “Our ancestors left Earth, therefore these current Terrans cannot be their descendants.”
“A technicality. We share a common, if distant, ancestry, and one would expect a semblance of intelligence from the present inhabitants of Earth. Their communication systems can only be described as primitive, and these are the descendants of the first Terran species to acquire the gift of language. It’s criminal! Do you not agree, des Trurain”
Jaca had chosen that unfortunate moment to emerge from an adjacent corridor. “Certainly sir, most definitely,” he replied, shooting an enquiring glance at Laren.
“Father is upset that Marthe must return and is relieving himself by denouncing our distant cousins of Earth. Just keep agreeing in that beautiful manner of yours. The most polished in all Hathe, as my third cousin Juanine once said.”
“Not, I take it, in a complimentary way?” he grinned.
“Not exactly. However did you offend her, or dare I not ask?”
“You dare, but Juanine would not thank me for answering.”
“Jaca, not another!” Marthe shook her finger in mock approbation and, in reply, he fell into a pose of melodramatic dolor.
“Ah, but my Lady don’t you know it’s all due to my very sad background. Never once was I allowed to know the sweet pangs of hunger, to endure the strengthening discipline of refusal, the constraint of somnolent colors in my dress. It was all most tragic. Nor did my parents soil their hands with honest labor, choosing instead to depend entirely on the fruits of their disgustingly formidable intellects. Quite beyond the pale, I fear.” A sigh of great lament escaped his anguished countenance and a trembling hand was pressed sadly to his twinkling eyes.
Laren applauded slowly, a wry smile on her face. “A remarkable performance, Jacquel. You have missed your true calling.”
“Oh no, he hasn’t,” countered Marthe. “Ah, me, what a degenerate, what a good-for-nothing, what a filthy Lieger you are, Jaca. If that doesn’t convince the Terrans that the peasants and Haut Liege are genuine, nothing will.” She threw herself into a pose equally as haughty as his. “I vow sir, your lack of serious sentiment quite dismays me. A lost case indeed.”
“Just as long as you both remember you’re playacting,” warned her father. “Some of our people have been peasants so long, you may just convince them you’re important. Heaven help the day either of you has a jot of power in Hathe.”
All he got in answer was a laughing smile from Laren, and the disdainful silence of the wickedly affronted from Jaca. Marthe chose only to grin and hug her father, holding on to his strength as long as she could.
His arms closed hard around her, and the mood suddenly changed. “Be safe, my daughter. You are so brave, so like your mother. You and Bendin. We never knew what you would get up to next. So stubborn, so wild the pair of you. I can’t lose you too.” Then he released her, and almost pushed her away. “Go and do what you must, and know we will always be with you.”
She could say nothing, could do no more than lift her hand in farewell and in thanks, but his face she printed into her heart before she turned and walked around the corner and down the corridor leading her back to the shuttle and duty, back to Hathe.
Seated on board the transporter shuttle a short while later, Jacquel thought over Sylvan an Castre’s last words. The asn Castre twins. Always they had lived on the edge. Jacquel knew well the fire Marthe usually kept hidden, knew too the times when she could no longer contain it, how it would burst forth in a passionate storm of misplaced energy. How often would she be tested when they returned to captivity, tested to her limit? Bendin had been big and strong, a tall, bright flame of a man.
It hadn’t saved him.
Then again, after four years of rigid discipline, Marthe held herself in check rather better than had her younger self. As for the young Bendin! Jacquel grinned suddenly, remembering the one stolen, off-planet visit they had made together. Their conduct would not, he recalled, have commended them to their elders.
“What’s so funny?” She’d been so quiet.
“You were asleep a moment ago.”
“No, just dream gazing. How long do you think it will be till we sit in a modern transporter again?”
“Five months of course, more or less.” Though he knew her thoughts were of a more philosophical nature, Jacquel deliberately chose to answer the literal question. It was safer. Fortunately, Marthe chose to follow his lead, chatting instead of family trivia. The serious discussions had already taken place and no more was really needed than a short briefing once they landed, to bring them up to date with events since their departure.
For Marthe, disembarking shortly afterwards and once more assuming her dull peasant robes, it was as if she had returned from a dream. What did those clean, white corridors, those soft clothes of that colony in the sky have to do with this, the real world. A world of dirt, rough garments, harsh voices and the heavy boots of the conquerors.
First on their schedule was a meeting with the sector commander, Gof deln Crantz. Marthe had heard much of the bravery and resourcefulness of this man but had never before met him, as she had always worked under direct orders from the Council. What a surprise, then, to find herself confronted by a small, balding, cheery little man, most decidedly running to fat—a man she had seen many times about the Citadel, scurrying along with supplies from the townspeople for the Terrans.
“Old Raphe!”
“Yes, old Raphe, as I am known. Affectionately, I hope.” It was a beautifully cultured voice, quite at odds with the body of its owner and totally unlike the hoarse, crackly tones of the little carrier that she was used to hearing.
“My apologies, sir. I did not mean any disrespect,” she said in hasty confusion.
“That’s quite all right, my dear. Only a few of the permanent planetary staff know of my disguise—a very useful one for moving about the settlement, as you can imagine, though not exactly one to lend me dignity,” and he gave a short chortle at his own expense.
He fixed them with a stern look that brought Marthe to stiff attention. “To proceed. We haven’t been able to ascertain the nature of the major’s illness, but a girl was ordered to clean his apartments by tomorrow morning so we must conclude that he could be returning to active duty any time after that. Both of you, in the meantime, have had a session with the guards.” He waved his hand at the vidscreen. “Neither was particularly civilized, if you wish to complain at a later date, but your covers are still intact. We also have a new type of communicator for you, hopefully undetectable this time. So far, they haven’t identified any of the others who were caught with the wrist patches. The major was only particular in his identification of you, des Trurain. An interesting point. Could it be that our opponent is a man of his emotions? A rare attribute among the Terrans.”
He broke off to ponder the idea, ignoring them for quite some minutes.
“Where was I?” he said suddenly. “Yes, your communicators. Here you are.” He handed over two, thin slivers of translucent material. “Fit them behind the left ear, into the cleft. They surely won’t look there. Now you are ready to go. Asn Castre will leave first, with des Trurain to follow. In case anything happens, we don’t want any connection to be found between you. Off you go, my girl, and good luck.”<
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“Thank you, sir. I shall do my best.” She turned to squeeze Jaca’s hand lightly, before passing out of the room into the hands of her guide. She nervously squelched a wish that Jaca could have walked out with her, together one last time, for who knew how long. It was for the cause. Remember that.
Jacquel was about to follow when he was detained by the touch of a hand on his sleeve.
“A word with you first, des Trurain.”
“Sir?” A surprised Jacquel turned back to face the suddenly serious little man.
“Agent asn Castre. We haven’t let it be known that she has been instructed to cooperate with the Terrans and, in consequence, she is likely to meet with a great deal of hostility from our people. Can she cope with it?”
“Of course she can. Sir,” he added belatedly.
“Loyalty—a truly venerable virtue.” murmured Deln Crantz, “It’s fact I require, young man.”
Jacquel stood silent. What could he say? He took time to consider … what? His little Mimi, the lifelong friend and more, and agent asn Castre, the resistance operative. He took a deep breath and hoped his voice sounded surer than he felt.
“She’s strong enough, sir. Deep, though, and it will hurt her greatly. Still, she has as much chance of coping as any other, as long as you don’t expect her to take it in silence. She’s as likely to rip into any stupid enough to sneer as she is to bow down meekly.” He paused, thinking hard. How could he make this man understand Mimi? He didn’t understand her, not all the time. “I have never quite figured out how she works. I’ve seen her hold herself under the most rigid control despite gross provocation, yet at other times a mere slight will send her off. I think, sir, all we can hope is that her control will last as long as necessary. Remember, she has endured much from the Terrans these last years, yet hasn’t once lost hold of her temper while on a mission.” He looked at the man, challenging him to disagree.
“Thank you, des Trurain. You have been very helpful. You may go now.” The senior man seemed to lose all interest in him and turned in his chair to confront the far wall.
Silently, Jaca let himself out, a confused tumult inside him. Had he just damned or praised Marthe? By the Pillars, let him have helped her. She was going to need it.
CHAPTER NINE
The black waves receded in great, gulping ebbs as Hamon gingerly opened one eye. A blur of antiseptic whiteness greeted him—sterile and unexpected. He panicked and scurried back to the nothingness within, then opened his eyes again in a confused rat-a-tat of blinks. Slowly, recognition of his surroundings filtered through. The medic wards. How in hell had he come to be here? There was something about Ferdo, but what else? He tried to rise, only to fall heavily back as the tides crashed in again and set him adrift on warm, gentle currents of forgetfulness. Come, sink into oblivion.
Can’t, mustn’t, the voice within nagged. Why not? Because, because, came the insensate reply. No, he raged. Much easier to lie back and submit to the blankness.
Persistently, valiantly, the niggling inner voice pushed forward again and again, clawing at the breaches of his retreat. A girl. There was a girl somewhere. Just over those grey walls which kept him safe from the world. Her hands clung, white knuckles clenching tight, as slowly, slowly, someone dragged her inexorably down into whatever dread mire lurked on the far side. Damn them all to oblivion, he knew he had to follow the girl, catch hold of her and keep her dangling above the mire—not safe, but not engulfed either.
Back, back, he cursed to the kind darkness. Piece by piece, consciousness returned. One eye stayed open. The second joined it as he fixed on a notch in the far wall, a break from the perfect smoothness that trapped him. One point, one focus on reality. Grimly, he stared at it, determined to use that tiny notch as his key to awareness and, the stars help him, to responsibility.
It began to return. The enemy woman, so proud, so distant. The room. The screams … and the awful void of her face at the end.
Marthe—his daemon and his redeemer. This time, Hamon, you’ve really done it. Your world or hers, came the jeering, laughing voice.
Then a new voice intruded, real and solid with humanity. He could only welcome it.
“Major Radcliff. You’ve finally woken. How are you feeling?”
He opened both eyes, aware of a niggling pain in the base of his head, and saw a starched white uniform and a kind, competent face. “Nurse Trenwyth?” he said, remembering a friendly, reserved woman from the early weeks of planetary acclimatization.
“That’s right. Pleased to see your memory’s not affected. What about the rest of you?”
He thought for a bit, reviewing what he could feel of the lump that passed for his body. “I feel a bit woozy and my head hurts. Nothing too serious,” he finally decided, then attempted a smile. “Do you know what happened to me? How long have I been here?”
“The second question is easy. About five days. As to the first, we can’t say for sure. There’s no sign of any physical damage in your neuroscans. The doctor’s current best guess is that some overwhelming emotional stress caused your brain to … well … shut down. You’ve been in a comatose state ever since.”
He scowled at her, thoroughly insulted. “Stress isn’t exactly a stranger to any inhabitant of Earth.”
“Maybe so, Major. Perhaps you’ve been under an extra strain lately. Something certainly sent you into overload. You look much better now, though, and we should have you out of here by tomorrow.
“Tomorrow! After five days, my desk must be spilling over. I can’t afford more time off. Another couple of hours at most. I have work to do, nurse.”
It seemed that long experience had taught Nurse Trenwyth the value of a soothing, white lie. “You may be right, Major. Why not get some sleep now, and I’ll send you in a bite to eat shortly.”
Smiling in reassurance—as if at a recalcitrant child, he thought gruffly—she made a small adjustment to the couch temperature then turned and left, leaving Hamon alone with his decidedly ruffled pride.
I, Hamon Radcliff, First Union son of Representative Radcliff and Administrator MacDiarmid, succumb to ‘overwhelming emotional stress’? That fool woman, he fumed, conveniently forgetting his swirling thoughts on waking. Stars, let me out of this bed and I’ll show her. There must be a hundred and one things waiting me. First up, that damn native girl needs sorting out.
He grimly forced all thoughts to the contrary to a deep, dark recess where they were no danger to him. Should he let it be said that Major Radcliff was losing his touch, could no longer cope—even, the stars forbid, be sent home?
Home, to his father’s scorn. Or, more unbearable still, home to add one more sorrow to all those that so cruelly sapped the youth from his mother’s face. She had an intolerable load already, inhuman decisions which must be made each and every day until she had become but a grey shell of the loving woman of his childhood. No, he would not be the one to increase her burden.
He felt himself drifting. Just imagine his mother in that splendid house of the an Castres, he mused. Free to enjoy the light, the air and the music. What would she have been? Her grace, the beauty of his childhood still there, still alive in her face rather than buried deep by the lines that dug in, deeper and deeper each time he saw her
Even that picture was a lie, though; the house, that whole amazing city of his memory, was false—a dream world built on a nightmare of slavery and bleak drudgery, if what the peasants said was true. Fact or fiction? Only Marthe asn Castre could tell him. Marthe, who had been suffering the Pillars knew what for five days—and again the crashing pain gripped his temples.
He had put her through a session. He was no better than Johne’s men.
Yes, but you made sure she lived.
This time, instead of drifting back into oblivion, he fought against it, struggling to a sitting position as he cursed in the blackest words he knew in every Alliance tongue. It was one of the few useful skills he had learned in his years of gypsying, he reflected cynically. The
only other skill he had acquired of any use to him had been an ability to disregard injury or weakness—a necessity in some of the places he had visited. He called on it now to lift his body from the bed, denying the racking pain that squeezed his head, his body, every part of him. It wasn’t real. There was no physical damage. That’s what the nurse had said.
It felt damned real. He had to hold onto the side of the bed until the room finally agreed to stop rolling around him. Ignoring every warning from his abused body and head, he walked slowly across the room and out. He had to leave. He forced himself to keep walking.
From the look on Ferdo’s face, he had no doubt that he looked as bad as he felt.
“Hamon, What in hell are you doing up? Have you looked at yourself lately?”
“I’m fine, Ferdo. Don’t fuss.” Yet he sank gratefully enough into the offered chair, quelling further solicitude with a black look. “Five days wasted. What have I missed and what’s the talk.”
“You’ve missed nothing and the only talk going round is that you needed a rest after the hours you’ve put in lately. By the look of you, it was pretty accurate. Either that or you’ve been on an almighty bender.”
“Something like,” Hamon conceded, forcing a grin through the waves of pain. “But enough of me. I need to know what happened to that native girl we questioned?”
Resistance: Hathe Book One Page 12