Never had he been so pleased to see a hospital ward or to smell the reassuring odor of disinfectant. Through her hand, he could feel the relaxation in Marthe as she took in all the familiar paraphernalia—the pristine walls, gleaming metal and functional grandeur of the bed, enthroned in the center of the portable theater.
Marthe knew, oh how she knew, that she needed help with this baby. The small part of her mind still capable of rational thought recognized the dangerous weakness of her body, too long robbed of its strength by that ridiculous weltering of self pity. With one ear only, she listened and made some kind of response to her doctors’ questions. With the other, inner ear, she became aware of a first, faint surge.
“I’m starting to bear down,” she informed her helpers between harried breaths, and the level of activity around her suddenly increased.
The doctors closed in, and Hamon started to back out.
“You—the father aren’t you? Where do you think you’re going?” Hamon looked up in confusion. “Get back beside your wife. We need all the help we can get with this one.”
The gruff voice had an underlying kindness to it, and within seconds Hamon was back where he most wished to be, using the lifeline of his body to support and encourage Marthe’s efforts.
Life in the room became very busy
“You can push whenever you’re ready,” said the nurse to Marthe, who sensibly ignored her, aware of the fact already, and instead clung tightly to Hamon.
Half an hour later, it was an exhausted woman who clung to him still, pushing valiantly with what little energy she had left.
“We’re losing uterine strength. Stimulate contractions,” came the order. The technician monitoring the screens urgently activated the emergency program, compelling the tired muscles to keep bearing down.
“The baby?”
“Signs still normal, but a slight weakening in heart rate.”
“Come on, Marthe, we haven’t much time.”
Tears on her face, exhaustion coating her face, she pushed again.
“Nearly there. We have the head. Come on, Marthe, you can do it,” urged the doctor, simultaneously gesturing frantically to a colleague to infuse a stimulant. Hamon held her close with one arm, ignoring the painful squeezing of her hand on his as she bore down.
“Right, hold it a minute.”
“Head’s out. One more push, that’s it. Down.” There was a moment of silence. “Got it! Congratulations, you have a beautiful baby boy,” said the doctor as he placed a wet, squirming bundle on Marthe’s waiting stomach.
Marthe glanced down then sent a stunned smile to her husband, also gazing at the ugly little bundle.
“He has your mouth,” was all she could say, before turning back to feast her eyes on the miracle.
The peace lasted but a second.
“Blood pressure’s falling!”
Now Hamon did find himself thrust aside. The baby was hastily removed and urgent hands moved in to work on the tired woman. She was sealed inside a large bubble, surrounded by instrumentation, with a tube protruding from her mouth and transmitting patches, like diseased splotches, covering her body. His precious baby, too, was the center of medical activity. Gently but firmly, Hamon was forced out of the ship and left to sit anxiously in the lounge area, his only companion a nervously pacing Jacquel.
It seemed an interminable time but was really only a few minutes before a young nurse came out, her smile and brown eyes friendly and efficient.
“The baby is fine. He’s fit and healthy, a bit tired, but no ill effects at all. He’s a little small, but an Castre offspring tend to be small at birth. Would you like to come and say, ‘Hello’?”
“And my wife?” Hamon interrupted, fear clawing at his gut.
“Will be fine, too. At present she’s quite ill, but her doctors are very confident of a good outcome, and she has the best medical help available on Hathe in there. Now, come along. Your son is waiting.”
There was, unbelievably, a hint of nervousness in Hamon’s stride as he entered the ship for a second time. At first, his gaze could not be drawn from the still, quiet figure of Marthe within her hi-tech cocoon. Then, finally responding to the persistent young woman at his elbow, he looked down, his arms tentatively reaching out for the tiny bundle she was thrusting at him.
“Mind the head,” she said, helping him to settle the awkward scrap into his inexpert grip. He stared bemusedly at the strange creature: the little face screwed up and squashed-looking, with damp, wispy tendrils clinging to the seemingly too big head, the tiny hands and feet clenching and unclenching, blindly grasping at his tunic. The little eyes blearily opened, peering out at the great world, shut, then opened again. Suddenly, he wriggled around and then flung out his arms as he frightened himself, the little mouth opening in an angry squawk.
“Shush, shush,” Hamon found himself crooning, gently cradling this so precious bundle closely to his big, clumsy body. He put out a questing finger to stroke the tiny palm and found it clenched in a vise-like grip. He chuckled, and made a silent promise then and there to this small part of himself.
Trust me, little one. Somehow, somewhere, we will make it work.
Too soon, the nurse intruded. “He has to go back in his cabinet now. The doctors want Madame an Castre back at First Hospital as soon as possible.”
Reluctantly, he placed the baby in his clear cocoon, watching closely to see that she strapped him in carefully. The baby gurgled happily as the swaddling band caught him. Only then did his father relax.
He turned and moved to a nearby seat, strapping himself in. Jacquel entered and was seated immediately, having once more sealed Marthe’s hidden refuge to intruders and set the skimmers for automatic return. There was a general scurrying as the rest of the team took their seats, then the craft lifted slowly and was soon winging back to civilization. The great doors slid to and in no time the wild desert was bereft of human life once more, undisturbed and silent, untouched by the near tragedy played out in its midst.
As soon as he could, Hamon shrugged off his restraints and strode across to Marthe. A doctor was bending over her cabinet. “What’s wrong? Why doesn’t she wake up?” Hamon demanded.
“We’re keeping her asleep until her vital signs stabilize. Don’t worry. With proper rest and care, she’ll be fine.”
“Then why are you in such a hurry to get back to First Hospital?”
It was old Doctor an Dothen, who had tried so hard to tell him the truth weeks ago. He stared thoughtfully at Hamon, as if in judgment. Then he seemed to come to a decision. “Sit down, Major.”
“When a doctor tells me to sit down, I feel nervous,” half-joked Hamon, feeling behind for a seat.
An Dothen didn’t reassure him.
“I don’t know if you realize it,” he said, “but if we hadn’t made it here in time, there’s a good chance that one or both of them would have died. Marthe came in to labor debilitated, lacking in sleep and emotionally depressed.” It was a repeat of what des Trurain had already told him, but Hamon had no thought of interrupting the man. “Labor, as you may have observed, is a stressful process, and in the immediate, postnatal period, there are massive changes in the mother’s body. With appropriate care, we can carry her over the vulnerable period, but I want the reassurance of as much backup as possible, as soon as possible. She will also need the support of as many of her family and friends as will give it. She needs them to come visit, congratulate her, tell her how like Cousin Joachim her baby is. All the minor trivia of a new baby’s life. Pride and love of her baby will bring a new mother through the worst of dangers.
“But she has me,” protested Hamon.
“Has she?”
Hamon met the Doctor’s eye fully. “Yes, she has.”
"Then, young man, I’ll be damned if we can’t do it,” said an Dothen. “Now, since you can do nothing for Marthe at present, why don’t you go and look after that young tyke of yours.” The doctor grinned, pushing Hamon away as he bent once mo
re to his readouts, glancing frequently at his still sleeping patient.
Hamon paused reluctantly then, drawn by a loud cry, crossed quickly to the infant cabinet, already unconsciously spellbound by this tiny new son of his.
Chapter Seven
For a week, Marthe swung in and out of consciousness, her over tired body at war with her newly discovered need for her baby. Time and again, Hamon would come into her room to find her dissolved in tears, one hand desperately clutching her son’s tiny, outstretched fist. He could see how it overwhelmed her, this knowledge of her absolute importance and, worse, her total inadequacy. How could she be the mother this precious scrap needed, she would ask dismally.
There were other moments, ones he locked deep inside to treasure always: their son’s first feed, a fumbling failure to start with, then elation as mother and baby both discovered what was required; the pride in Marthe as she watched her son suckle busily, and then slowly drift off into contented and full sleep; his first, tentative attempts to peer at her face, as if trying to fix a pattern to the voice he already preferred above all others; the look on her face as she felt the soft fuzz on his solid little head nestling into the groove seemingly designer-built at the base of her neck.
On these rare occasions, when Hamon would glance through the doors to see a magical glow on her face, he softly stole away, puzzled at the wonder of this new, little person in their lives. But he never went far, was always there when the black walls came crashing back.
After another week, when he could see the desperation within her growing, he decided it was time to take a hand. Cornering her doctor in his office, he first paced in front of the desk then turned, his mouth set in grim determination.
“This can’t go on. She’s getting no better.”
Doctor an Dothen sat back, gazing at his desk in thought, then looked up. “I agree. Physically, yes, she’s improving, but the nurses tell me Marthe isn’t sleeping at all well.”
“It’s being in hospital. She hates being a patient. The tension literally radiates from her. I want to take her home, to her own surroundings. Surely you could arrange some kind of nursing supervision?”
The doctor nodded. “I think you’re right. There are two kinds of mothers, in my experience. One revels in the postnatal hospital stay, the other loathes it. Marthe’s of the latter and while, from a medical viewpoint, she’s still weak and needs help with the baby, these things can be easily arranged in her own home. I presume you refer to the an Castres’ house. Quite large enough to hold an entire hospital corps, if need be. That is, if one were available. We’re rather short of medical staff after the war, and of those we do have, most are tied up with treating those civilians who suffered the harsher treatments of the Terrans, curse their souls, if you will excuse me,” he added, belatedly remembering to whom he was talking but not sounding particularly apologetic.
“Nevertheless,” an Dothen continued, “I do know of one person who would suit admirably. One of our older midwives, all but retired now, but who would be very pleased to be working again. Oh, not too old. Don’t worry.” He’d caught Hamon’s new fatherly doubt. “More importantly, she has the clinical experience which will be invaluable in a case such as this. With debilitated, depressed mothers, the trick is to know when a good, stiff push is needed, as much as when to offer a shoulder to cry on, and that’s not the kind of judgment you acquire overnight. No, I think Ruth an Cracknell is just the woman you need. I assume you will be there also?”
Hamon nodded. “Already arranged. The authorities and the an Castres have agreed to my internment there. The security forces have checked it out and said they can make it work.”
The doctor barely raised an eyebrow. Hamon wasn’t surprised. His patient’s well being came first with this man. It was the reason he trusted him so completely.
So Marthe returned to the home of her childhood. Cradled within the security of its familiar walls, her husband anxiously guarding her and with the cool, common sense of ‘Ruthie’, as she soon came to be known, easing her newly discovered maternal fears, Marthe slowly began to blossom. As she grew in strength and happiness, the baby lost his newborn frailty and turned into a chubby, smiling bundle.
“We’re soon going to have to call him something other than Baby,” mused Hamon carelessly one day, a finger gently tracing his son’s dimpled hands. “What do you say to Riardan Bendin? In grateful memory of a certain peasant girl I once knew, by name of Riarda,” he explained with a teasing grin on his face.
“And Bendin for my twin.” Her eyes glowed in gratitude as he leaned to kiss her. “I know you didn’t like him when you met, but it means a lot to me to have something of him live on in this little one. Though hopefully Riardan won’t be quite as naughty as Bendin. He was a fair devil, my mother always said.”
Hamon gathered her and the baby closely in to him, pleased to finally hear her laugh. She was almost whole again … though not completely. Nor would she ever be, he sometimes felt. Could she ever forget all that stood against them? It was quite a list: the memory of what they had both been forced to do to the other during the occupation; her people’s hostility towards both of them; his own feelings of dislike and more for this planet. And then there was the knowledge that soon he would have to leave, never to return. Hathe would not tolerate forever the presence of a leader of the Terran occupation force.
If not for Marthe, it would have been a day he longed for. He was Terran to his core, impatient to return home and help to rebuild the shattered world of his childhood. But just as he loved his world, so, he knew, did she love Hathe. They couldn’t live here together, though and, after the trial, it was possible she would be banished with him. The cruelty of that he was still learning to live with, even if he understood it politically.
The anger of the populace couldn’t be held at bay forever. The news vids had made sure the public were constantly reminded of his presence and of their marriage. She refused to discuss it, and the peace between them was still too fragile for him to bring it up. He wasn’t even sure how he felt. Guilty? No … but he knew he ought to. Anger at the Hathians who would put her through this? Yes. Understanding of why they did it? Yes to that too. When he returned to Earth, many of his own people would want to do the same to him.
For Marthe, the trial loomed larger and larger. ‘A formality’, said her superiors in reassuring pomposity. Her record of service to the resistance was too well respected for it to be otherwise, but Marthe wasn’t naive. The harsh school of experience she’d endured in acquiring that record of service would not allow her to ignore the undercurrents penetrating even to the fastness of their cocooned world. The government would have to take some kind of action against her. Just what that might be kept a small, worried frown from ever quite leaving her.
Hamon saw it and knew he could no longer avoid the subject. “Should I testify?” he asked her one day.
“Do you have any choice?”
“I’m not that out of practice that I couldn’t evade the Hathian authorities if I had to and hightail it out of here … if you think it would help.” He drew her slowly into the cradle of his arm as they both turned to greet the newly arrived visitor. It was Marthe’s lawyer.
After Hamon put the same question to him, the man frowned, taking a long moment before answering. “Two possibilities exist. On the one hand, most of the population have such a fixed opinion of your despicable character that nothing you might say would help,” he said at last. “On the other hand, running away,” and he ignored Hamon’s angry disclaimer, “could well reinforce the impression that Marthe acted in collusion with you to aid the Terran cause, particularly since she was so instrumental in organizing help for Earth after the occupation.”
“She was?” broke in Hamon, surprised.
Marthe waved a hand in dismissal. “I merely dropped a few hints in the appropriate place. Even I couldn’t face the thought of Terrans dying en masse.”
She might dismiss it as of no consequence, but to Hamo
n it meant everything. “Thank you,” he said softly, dropping a gentle kiss on her forehead and pulling her in closer. The lawyer coughed.
“Nevertheless, the prosecution will bring it up. They have already subpoenaed you, Major, as a witness for the prosecution.”
“What!” exclaimed an outraged Hamon. “Never.”
“Didn’t think you would like it.”
Hamon had researched the lawyer’s record. Although just older than Hamon, Yurin an Begum was a seasoned campaigner of the Hathian courts. He eyed Hamon now as if summing up his available tools of strategy, then continued. “Since it’s highly debatable whether your evidence will help or hinder Marthe, I don’t think it really matters which side calls you.”
“Then I disappear.”
“Too risky, as I’ve said already. My advice is to stay and front up to the court. You’re just a name to most of these people, and a decidedly black one at that. Appearing in person may help to dispel some of the myths. At least let them see that you haven’t got two heads,” he added with a ghost of a smile.
“No, just a damned stubborn temper,” teased Marthe as she rose, hearing the voice of her son stridently announcing his hunger.
The men stood as she left, then settled down again, the barrister sitting opposite and quietly studying Hamon. He tolerated it at first, then refused, suddenly driven to confront at least one of these cursed Hathians.
“You don’t like me, do you?” he said.
“No,” said an Begum, with no hint of apology.
Pay the Piper: Hathe Book Two Page 10