Pay the Piper: Hathe Book Two

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Pay the Piper: Hathe Book Two Page 6

by Mary Brock Jones


  But none of it would help.

  Chapter Four

  Hamon twitched angrily. Yet another damned Hathian doctor, prodding and poking at his side. He had not seen this one before and the man seemed particularly inept.

  “Stars, haven’t you finished?” He pulled away from the irresolute hands. “I’ve already been examined ad nauseam by your fellow ghouls.”

  He scowled angrily, causing the middle-aged physician poking so reluctantly at him to pause. His brown eyes caught Hamon’s and he gave up his half-hearted examination.

  “Well? Out with it,” rasped Hamon. “And don’t try to con me into thinking you want to discuss my skin wounds. You haven’t seen a burns case in years.”

  The other still hesitated, worried concern written on the freckled face. Then plunged in: “You guess right. You’re not my problem, as it happens.”

  “What is then?”

  The man stepped back, taking a resolute breath. “Let me introduce myself. Dr Raph an Dothen. As you guessed, I am not a burns specialist.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  “Though young asn Marvell has done a fine job here, I must say,” the older man continued, ignoring the interruption. “No, I need your help with another patient of mine.”

  Hamon glared. How could he be of help to anyone, given his own uncertain confinement?

  “I’m in O and G, you see,” the doctor informed him somewhat diffidently. Hamon only stared in bemusement. “Sorry, obstetrics and gynecology,” the Hathian explained then retreated in haste as Hamon suddenly towered furiously over him.

  “And your patient’s name, doctor?”

  “Marthe an Castre, naturally. Your wife. You see…” and then halted.

  Hamon couldn’t stop the harsh, gasping breaths of his shock.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Quite, thank you,” replied Hamon, hating the time it took him to recover. He had half guessed it would be her at the start of this weird interview. Stars, it had only been a few days since that last, hellish meeting. Couldn’t the woman leave him alone?

  “You may tell my wife that I have nothing more to discuss. I don’t need to hear from yet another of her messengers,” he snapped.

  “Marthe doesn’t know I’m here,” an Dothen replied, clearly determined to ignore any kind of rejection, regardless of the force of it, “but I’m becoming seriously concerned about her. I told the Council months ago that they were expecting too much from a pregnant woman but, no, they had to have her working all hours.”

  Hamon broke in on the embryonic monologue. “The an Castre woman’s welfare is not my affair. You may state your business, briefly, then leave.”

  “As I was explaining, my business is Marthe an Castre. Her poor state of physical and mental health is endangering both her own and the child’s well being. You’re her closest relative. It’s up to you to do something. You are the child’s father, after all.” Doctor an Dothen, Hamon was rapidly discovering, could summon a quietly persistent core of determination when needed. He finally recognized defeat and abandoned his threatening stance. He slumped into a nearby chair and gestured to the doctor to take the other, hating totally the necessity.

  It was too soon for this. Too near still to that gut tearing, nightmare meeting … when her presence had forced him to acknowledge the yearning that still lay there, deep within him. She was part of him, still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and nothing could change what he felt for her. Long after the hurt and betrayal subsided, as he supposed it would one day, the yearning would remain. Silently, bitterly, he cursed the day he saw that treacherous lock of hair.

  “Continue, doctor,” he said, unable to keep the flat note of defeat from his voice. “As you say, the welfare of my child is at stake.”

  “Thank you. As I said, I am concerned for Marthe. It is less than two months now till the birth, and her condition is far from satisfactory.”

  “You’re a doctor. Prescribe rest. Isn’t that the usual treatment?”

  “I have. I’ve also tried re-admitting her to hospital, but it’s no use. She knows all the staff and can’t resist becoming involved. She’s still working at emergency pitch, hasn’t yet adapted to peacetime needs. Well, none of us has, and the special operatives more than most.”

  “What did you expect? That after five years of war everything would return to normal in a couple of months?”

  “No, you’re right of course. There is a training course for ex-agents—to redirect their talents and skills to more useful pursuits, so I’m told.”

  “Why bother me then if the government is looking after her? Let them sort out any problems.” He thrust one hand through his already abused hair.

  “Marthe is in rather a peculiar position. That damned course only added to the stress. She hasn’t the energy for it, though certainly the will power. I had to pull her off it.”

  There was an ominously familiar pounding at Hamon's temples. The kind that hit him every time he thought too long of Marthe an Castre. If only the doddery old fool would get to the point, then leave. He would do what he could to safeguard his child, but beyond that…

  “What, precisely, is the point of this discussion, doctor?”

  The man gave him that look doctors often gave. The one that said they had seen too many of the intimacies of their patients’ lives to be fooled by whatever you might say. Hamon suspected this doctor knew exactly how he was feeling at the moment. But would it stop him? The doctor hesitated a moment longer then, to his relief, relented, launching into a stark outline of Marthe's case.

  “Marthe is underweight, has been so throughout her pregnancy, yet will not eat enough to keep the smallest flitter alive. Her nerves are strung too tightly, and she will not rest and relax as ordered. I suspect she is severely depressed, but she refuses to consult a therapist. Control of emotion is second nature to her from her years as an operative. As I suppose it is to you. But in her current situation, it can only bring her harm. Her true mental condition is impossible to ascertain. All of this could have serious implications for the baby and later on, during labor. It also bodes ill for the development of a strong maternal bond after the birth. If Bendin were still alive, I would seek his help. As it is, you seem to be the only person who can break through the wall she has thrown up—the only one who can make her slow down and start taking care of herself.”

  “When last I saw her, she appeared to have put on weight,” argued Hamon defensively.

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “What do you expect me to do. The lady and I are finished, as well she knows.”

  “Exactly what I suspect is the core of the problem. That, and this stupid trial our righteous leaders insist upon.”

  “Trial?” queried Hamon. Anything to distract the doctor.

  “Marthe is to be tried for undue fraternization, due to your relationship. Right now, it’s the last thing she needs. You would think those moralizing upstarts would have some heart. That is why it is so desperately urgent that this estrangement of yours cease. She needs all the support she can muster. If I can just minimize the stresses as much as possible. As it is—”

  “Razzing stupid to try her. The lady should be given a medal. For supreme dedication to duty under duress, or some such, grand-sounding epithet. Undue fraternization indeed,” spat Hamon. “Stars! That two-faced hypocrite doesn’t know the meaning of the words.”

  His head fell back and he stared at the ceiling, desperately battling the half of him he had come to hate—the half that demanded he believe this man. His tortured gaze switched back to the Hathian, a driven plea in his heart.

  “You may now leave, doctor. Go look after your own patient, and don’t bother me again. Not with her.”

  He began to laugh—wildly, bitterly, so much anger and despair exposed in the eerie cry.

  Still the Hathian doctor persisted. Why, Hamon couldn’t begin to guess, refusing to remember his own fears before the Terrans’ fall and the picture that haunt
ed his dreams, of the listless, slumped face of a once vibrant young woman.

  “Could you not put aside your personal feelings, at least until after the birth?”

  “Doctor, I can’t help you. That is final.”

  A word that had never registered in an Dothen's vocabulary. “You deny your own child? Are your hurt feelings so important that they must come before a little one’s life? For that is what I fear. Don’t tell me of the wonders of modern medicine,” he added, interrupting before Hamon’s already opening mouth could voice its angry denial. “No amount of technology can fight a mind bent on despair.”

  “It’s no good, doctor. I cannot help you,” cried Hamon, leaping to his feet and pacing hard to fight off the pounding waves in his head. “We are finished, Marthe an Castre and I. Stars, I couldn’t even vouch for her safety if left alone with me. Don’t you know who it was gave me this burn on my side, or what she was doing in those months we lived together? The woman is a highly trained espionage agent, quite capable of using a sexual attachment to gain access to top secret information. Even that damned marriage charade she went through… What a joke! The woman has the word ‘duty’ in the place most wear a heart.” He stopped again, glaring hard at the older man before slumping once more into his chair. “The only emotion she feels for me that has any truth is fear,” he snarled bitterly, “and well she should.”

  Doctor an Dothen was silent as the tirade came to an end. He looked long at Hamon, defensively thrust backwards in the far chair, before saying calmly: “Then there is no point in further discussion.” He stood, nodding his head in grave farewell. “And if you believe all that, my boy, it’s more than I do,” he said quietly as he disappeared through the door, leaving a fuming Hamon to once more vainly seek his couch. Would nothing stop this endless pounding in his skull?

  It was still there later in the day, but beginning to lessen. Then the door chimes signaled another visitor. He waited tensely, but it was only the comforting figure of his mother who entered, the harsh lines of strain upon her face lessening daily in the Hathian air.

  “Hamon, how are you today?”

  She had her ‘mother’ smile on, he saw with suspicion.

  “Fine, thank you. Merely a slight headache,” he added in answer to her disbelieving snort.

  “I hear Doctor an Dothen has been speaking to you.” His closed face warned her not to continue. “Very well. I actually came to tell you that you are now well enough to leave hospital, though you’re not yet ready for space travel. As soon as you’re packed, I can take you out of here.”

  “To go where?” he said harshly. “In whose protective custody are we to be kindly placed?”

  His mother, wise in the ways of the world and beginning to be wise in the ways of this strange adult who was her son, said simply that a suite had been procured for them in a secured government complex. “Up till now, I’ve been staying with the an Castres, but it was felt it would be diplomatic if you resided elsewhere.”

  “Mother, how could you? In that nest of vipers?”

  “Nonsense. I’ve had a very pleasant time. The only cloud on the horizon has been Marthe’s lifelessness, but I know I can rely on you to remedy that.” His sudden fury shocked even her.

  “So now they’ve set you onto me. Stars, they’ve won the war! Can’t they leave me alone?” he shouted. “What game are they playing this time?”

  “It’s no game. Marthe really is ill. She has lost all drive and willpower. We’ve all tried, but no one can rouse her. Heavens, you most of all know how far beyond her limit she had been pushed by the ordeal of the takeover. And while you may blame her for that as much as you like, I never thought to see you shirk a responsibility. Has it even occurred to you to check on the fate of your men?”

  A knife edge of guilt lanced through him. Of course he had thought of it; but to question any of those about him must take him back, with the inevitability of a doom, to that hateful last day.

  “Why? What’s happened to them?”

  “Don’t worry. All the Special Forces were shipped back to Earth at the earliest opportunity. You and your men seem to have aroused an extraordinary degree of ill feeling among the Hathians. Whatever did you do to them?”

  “Merely our job.” His shoulders straightened defensively and his look asked how she dared condemn him.

  “Sorry. I am allowed to move about so freely and have been so well received that I sometimes forget how recent was the occupation. Sylvan was speaking only the truth, then, when he said your guards are as much for your protection as for any other reason?”

  “They needn’t bother.”

  “Perhaps, but the Hathians maintain that any reprisals against former members of the occupying forces could harm Hathe's standing among the other Alliance planets. And at the moment, they are almost as much in need of Alliance help as is Earth.”

  He grunted in disbelief, refusing to answer that, and turned to pack his few belongings, grateful only that he would not have to cope with too many Hathian officials.

  Her words came back to him as they were driven through the streets of the City. From the darkened windows of their car, he could see that it was as beautiful as when he had last seen it, that long ago, fateful day with Marthe. Now, though, throngs of brightly dressed Hathians once again filled the wide walks, and the magnificent gardens no longer echoed in eerie desertion. Once, he was recognized, despite the dimly lit windows, and immediately the rumor spread. A queer restraint checked the protests, but he was glad of the grim-faced, efficient soldiers surrounding their vehicle. The Hathians may not have been militarily minded before the occupation, but they certainly seemed to have learned fast.

  His training alone gave him the pride needed to maintain his sternly uncaring front during the brief journey to the secured building but did not stop him wishing heartily that he could catch the first flight out of this cursed paradise.

  But he had made a promise. One that he would keep no matter how much he may loathe the recipient.

  “I told the an Castre woman that I will be here at the birth of my child and, by the stars, I will be. But don’t worry, as soon as that responsibility is discharged, I will be on the first flight out.”

  “Very understandable in the circumstances, sir, I’m sure,” said the official accompanying them. “It’s up to the Council of course, but I will certainly let them know of your request. I understand from her relatives that Madame an Castre is not well. Of course you wish to stay.”

  At that point, Hamon sent the official a look designed to remind the man of some of the nastier stories of his activities during the occupation. The Hathian decided to leave, immediately and with all haste.

  “If one more person tries that ‘poor Marthe’ routine, I will be forced to take drastic action,” growled Hamon desperately at the disappearing back. “That includes you, Mother. I promised the woman I would see the baby, and I do want to know my firstborn. The stars know he can’t help who his mother is; but I do not wish, now or ever, to be bothered by that lying witch again!”

  Madame MacDiarmid opened her mouth to speak.

  “No. Don’t tell me again that the woman is wasting away. One thing I know about Marthe an Castre is that she’s made of solid titanium. She’s not capable of failing to cope … with anything!” he said, the black hurt and anger of that day still eating at him. How could she? Betrayal, from the one woman he had trusted with his life and his heart.

  No. She would not lure him back with fake stories of illness, and he thrust to the deepest recesses of his mind his own fears and worries of those last weeks—before she had turned to face him as his enemy. He would not remember her sunken eyes, or the too hollow cheeks. She had looked fit enough when last he saw her. As full of fight as ever.

  Sick? Ha!

  When a week had gone by and he had still received no word on whether he could stay or not, he couldn’t deny his growing anxiety. It was for the child. He wanted to see his child born. If he told himself that often eno
ugh, maybe he’d begin to believe it.

  Whatever the cause, after another day of pacing, he demanded to see deln Crantz. If he had to beg from anyone, he’d rather it be the resistance commander. Only if that failed would he try Sylvan an Castre or Jacquel des Trurain. He wasn’t that desperate, not yet.

  He still had to wait another day, pacing angrily in the comfortable rooms that now imprisoned him, before he was brought by a posse of guards to an office deep in the same complex. The little man was the same as ever, his round body and cheerfully wrinkled face still sitting as oddly with the intelligent gleam in his too knowing eyes as he waited to hear his inconvenient prisoner’s demands.

  Hamon lost no time in telling him.

  “I propose a swap. Send my mother home and keep me as a hostage instead.”

  Deln Crantz didn’t look surprised. More resigned.

  “No.”

  But Hamon had expected that. “Why not? You need important, well connected hostages. I qualify, on both sides of the family. As you know, my father is the Alliance ambassador, Garth Radcliff, and other family members on both sides hold prominent Terran positions.”

  “And your father would hold off taking action against us to protect you?”

  So the man had done his homework. Hamon was too experienced at reading people to argue. He shrugged acknowledgement. “I’m still well enough connected to ensure the good behavior of Earth.”

  “But not as critical to Terran well being as your mother. Your world cannot afford to lose a woman who knows as much about supply and distribution as the Administrator.”

  “Maybe. But unlike my father, she would hold off acting against you to protect me. Let her go and keep me, and you would have the same surety as you have now.”

  Deln Crantz looked skeptical. “No,” he simply said again.

  Hamon surged from his chair in frustration, pacing angrily. Deln Crantz made no attempt to move, as if he knew Hamon would not give up that easily.

 

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