There was only one possible answer—and, if nothing else, supposed Marthe, it was a chance to meet his family. Those three half-brothers and one half-sister she and Jacquel had been so scathing about.
As Hamon had warned, she found that they were all political animals but of widely diverse views, arguing now in tangents, then glancing hesitantly at her, before forgetting themselves and setting to again. She could almost believe herself back in evenings on Hathe. The language of politics seemed universal.
Yet the brothers surprised her. In none of the three did she find the passion of the leader that marked Hamon so ruthlessly. Only in his sister did she see it, his father’s second-union child. Though not similar to Hamon in appearance, she had the same ability to command attention as soon as she entered a room. Her eyes, the only feature she shared with her brother, snapped briskly with her current emotion.
Bitterness was there too, deeper even than it went in Hamon. Caitlin had aligned herself with their father. Ex-Ambassador Radcliff had so far declined to meet Marthe but, from his daughter’s attitude, Marthe felt both a profound reluctance towards making his acquaintance and a professional conviction that he was a man in urgent need of examination by the Alliance authorities. There was a limit, she was finding, to how far she could distance herself from political realities. She would not harm Hamon, nor could she stay neutral and let harm come to her home again.
“You have an interesting family,” she remarked to Hamon some days later. They were seated on the balcony, gazing at the breathtaking view and leisurely sipping a cooling drink.
“I suppose you could say that,” he agreed, glancing in amusement at the most blatant fishing she’d ever used.
“Your sister. She seems fond of your father.”
“Mm hmm. “
“Yet you never mention him.”
“No. We couldn't be called close, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Marthe chose to ignore the wide grin plastered on his face and kept her gaze fixed on the trees of a far ridge. “Yet, though your sister is very like you, she is close to him.”
“He doesn’t threaten her as he does me. We’re too much the same, my mother says and, frankly, the thought of turning into another Garth Radcliff fills me with horror.”
“Is he so much worse than the dreaded Major Radcliff then?”
Hamon laughed, accepting her point. “His reputation certainly isn’t.” He chuckled again and then sobered. “He has no sense of compassion, though—is constantly driven by the goal and isn’t too discriminating over the means he uses to get there. I may act in a fashion similar to his, but at least I have the grace to feel guilty.”
“That must be comforting to those poor unfortunates on the receiving end.”
She softened the words with a peal of laughter, and Hamon’s return look recognized the irony. Nor did he argue, merely contenting himself with a reminder to her that the Ambassador had sired him, and he wasn’t about to betray his own father, whatever he thought of his views.
Which left Marthe precisely where she had started, still unable to decide exactly what Hamon’s plans were. She continued to chat idly of his family, but with half a mind only. The other half kept returning to the only lead she had: his sister. And her plans.
Caitlin supported her father. Might she not also wish for her brother’s support? In which case, maybe she would accept the help of a concerned sister- in-law. After all, having never been on Hathe, how could Caitlin know that Marthe was the last person to foster Terran independence?
She continued to mull over the problem for some days, wondering how best to approach the woman. It was with some surprise, therefore, that she found herself being hailed on the vidcom one morning by the very object of her plotting. Hamon had left earlier for a meeting he would not discuss with her, so it happened that she was alone. Nothing could be better.
“Marthe? Hello, Caitlin Radcliff here,” said the remembered voice. “I happened to be in the neighborhood today and thought I would pop in. To get to know you better and welcome you to the family, so to speak. Do you think you could turn off some of this dratted security my brother surrounds himself with and let me in?”
“Certainly,” Marthe replied. “It’s nice of you to call,” she added, switching off the perimeter defenses—at least, those that impeded entry. She failed to mention that she was even more paranoid than Hamon, and that a large number of Hathian devices still dogged Caitlin’s every step as she landed and made her way along the wide path from the landing pad.
Caitlin probably guessed anyway. Marthe could see the assessing look in her eyes. They were like Hamon’s, taking on the same, metallic gleam as his under stress. Marthe noted it, but chose to ignore it, restricting herself to a discreetly courteous reply to the woman’s greeting.
Just as discreetly, she switched her patch to full surveillance even as she waved her visitor out to the balcony.
For an instant, there was relaxation in Caitlin’s back and she breathed deeply the fragrance of the woods.
“My grandmother always loved to sit out here,” she said softly, leaning over the rail then turning back to smile at Marthe. “It’s ages since I was here. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. This really is the best homestead on the reserve.”
“There are others?” exclaimed Marthe in surprise.
“Yes. This was my grandparents’ home, but Father has a place a hundred or so kilometers that way. That’s where I grew up and, after my parents split, I still came here to visit whenever I was at Father’s. As for Hamon,” a slight tightening of Caitlins mouth, one Marthe doubted the woman was aware of, “he seemed to spend half his childhood here. Father separated from his mother when he was quite young, so Hamon never really lived on the reserve as such, but he spent a lot of time with the grandparents. He’s first-born of all Father’s brood, you see. That counts for a lot on Earth.”
There was that hint of bitterness again.
“Is that why he has the guardianship of the reserve now, instead of his father?”
“Partially. He was very close to Gramps, and Grandma too—but enough of old family history. How are you settling in?”
Marthe was very familiar with the mask that suddenly slid into place. It was eerily like her brother’s, but even harder to penetrate.
“Fine,” she replied noncommittally, gesturing to a nearby chair and feeling somewhat easier when the other woman was seated. There was an air of taut readiness about the Terran woman she found unnerving and, seated, she could look her in the face.
Caitlin Radcliff was tall—almost as tall as her brother; but that, his eyes, and a sudden trick of expression were all they really shared in appearance. Her hair was not Hamon’s rich earthy brown, but rather a dark blonde, chased with the lights of the sun and smudged through with a hint of earth and fire. A squarely bobbed cut kept the incipient unruliness under control. It also served to highlight the strength in the angular face, the bones uncompromisingly delineating the wide brow and firm jaw; and when she moved, it was with the barely coiled grace of a natural athlete. Even now, at ease, her long legs jutted forward, and it was as if her body accepted the chair as but a convenient accessory. She had sat in one, easy movement and appeared to need no further twitches to discover the best accommodation with its foreign angularity.
They were undoubtedly quite comfortable chairs, but Marthe, used to the self-adjusting cubes of Hathe, generally had to spend a few minutes exploring the old fashioned construction of wood and cushions to find the best fit. It was as if, by her immobility, Caitlin Radcliff was branding Marthe as foreign. It worked all too well.
Mentally, Marthe grimaced, but many years of experience kept her mood from showing on her face. Not so the other. As Marthe had noted previously, Caitlin lacked Hamon’s training. Although she smiled affably and appeared pleased as she accepted a drink, Marthe detected a trace of hostility. Whatever had brought Caitlin Radcliff here today, she had certainly not just been ‘in the neighborhood’.
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For now, though, Marthe watched and waited, content to chat of trivialities. Yes, she was most impressed with the reserve. No, it was not as she had imagined Earth to be, and no, it was not even remotely like Hathe.
“You must be glad to have Hamon home again, after so many years away,” she said, interrupting the stream of questions.
“I suppose so. Truth to tell, he’s been a wanderer for most of his life. His time on Hathe didn’t seem very different,” replied Caitlin.
“You didn’t grow up with your brother then?”
“No. As I’ve said, his mother split from Father when he was quite young. Hamon spent his early years with his mother in the cities.”
Marthe caught the hint of distaste in her voice.
“And you?”
“See that far ridge, over to the left?” Marthe followed the hand, seeing a long, high ridge marked with one slashing vee in the centre. She nodded. “Through the pass is Father’s valley. His house is just on the other side of the ridge, just to the right of the pass.”
“Oh,” said Marthe flatly. She hadn’t realized that Garth Radcliff was so near. “And you grew up there?” It was Caitlin’s turn to nod. “You must be quite close to your father.”
“We share a number of similar ideas,” was all Caitlin would say, before abruptly changing the subject. Marthe recognized the futility of further probing and regretfully accepted that she would learn no more at present. Soon, too, the talk drifted to a subject that she was very willing to explore at length—the wonderful uniqueness of her precious son. Once launched, she was more than happy to prattle endlessly on, blithely ignoring the glazed look that spread over her visitor’s face as Marthe dotingly revealed all the small triumphs of Riardan’s short life. Though only eight months old, he was crawling everywhere and already pulling himself to a stand.
“Amazing,” and “Really. You don’t say,” muttered Caitlin at appropriate intervals, sufficient encouragement to feed the conversation for quite some time.
But Marthe was not blind to the other’s lack of real interest, and she was somewhat surprised to hear Caitlin ask to see the baby, avowing an eagerness to hold her first nephew.
“I’ll go and see whether he’s awake,” she replied, unable to think of a reason not to leave the woman alone and, as soon as she was out of Caitlin’s sight she switched the surveillance systems to full alert. To her surprise, though, when she returned with her son, now wide awake and very happy to be the center of attention, it was to find Caitlin still reclining at ease in the same chair.
What was the woman up to? Almost absently, she passed the baby to his aunt’s waiting lap. Her security systems were certainly sufficient to have warned of any prying by her guest. Even as she solicitously helped an inexperienced Caitlin cope with a bundle of infantile energy, the greater part of her mind was occupied in pondering the woman’s actions.
Riardan was unconcerned with his mother’s worries, far more interested in this new person who had entered his world—purely for his entertainment, one would have supposed from the grin on his face. Even as Caitlin sat up awkwardly, trying to keep the squirming mass within the confines of her knees, he lost his initial reserve and reached up to explore her hair, pulling hard. Caitlin jumped, as Marthe quickly reached out to untangle the flyaway strands from his chubby clutch.
“I am sorry! He’s got a thing for hair at the moment.”
“Don’t worry,” said Caitlin. “Freya did mention he took after her side of the family, and the MacDiarmids have always been rather good at grabbing what they want.” A smile attempted to take the sting out of the words, not altogether successfully.
“Perhaps if you walk him. He loves being jiggled,” suggested Marthe in embarrassment.
Caitlin accepted her advice, rising in one easy motion. After some moments of her rhythmic, bouncing stride, Riardan began to gurgle happily. His aunt even showed signs of relaxing as she strolled up and down the balcony, chatting to her enthralled nephew.
Marthe stayed in her chair, adding the odd comment and watching the pair’s enjoyment, yet she could not banish her doubts, and an eerie foreboding began to grow in her. Caitlin was becoming braver, swinging the baby gently about as she swirled round the balcony. Riardan was laughing up at her, yet Marthe suddenly felt an urgent need to have him back in her arms. Involuntarily, she started to rise. At the same instant, Caitlin’s swirls carried the pair right to the edge of the balcony. Despite knowing of the force field there to prevent any accident, Marthe could not help calling out.
“Oh, please, not so close to the edge.”
“Why? You surely don’t think I would let him fall?” smiled the Terran girl.
Marthe halted. “No. No, of course not.”
Too late, she saw the glitter in the other’s eyes. “What a fool! Of course I would. And don’t come any closer, not if you value your son’s life.”
“You can’t harm him. There’s a protective field there,” Marthe snapped back.
“Not any longer. You forget, I know this house better than you do. I deactivated it some moments ago. But go ahead, try to take the child. Quite frankly, he’s only one more mouth to feed as far as I’m concerned, and not a Terran one at that.” Jeering, she held the baby away from her. Marthe froze, watching in horror and praying that Riardan would not choose now to begin wriggling. The baby had also changed, though, as if sensing the tense hostility. He lay quiet, whimpering nervously and looking piteously towards the safety of his mother.
“Shush, sit still, little one,” soothed Marthe softly, despite the panic rampaging within her. Keeping her voice as calm as she was able, so as not to frighten him further, she turned to her sister-in-law. “What do you want? Or should I ask, what does your father want?”
“How perceptive of you. Quite simply, Father wants you. Or, to be precise, he wants Hamon, and you are going to give him to us.”
“Oh? And how exactly does he hope to achieve that?”
“You’re to be a hostage to Hamon’s support of our cause.”
“Why do you need Hamon? Surely Garth Radcliff has quite enough supporters already?” challenged Marthe.
“Of course he does,” the Terran returned angrily. “But Hamon, curse him, is the only one who can bring in the military—something we would find very useful.”
“What, get men to follow him in a cause he is forced to espouse?”
“Ah, but you’re wrong there. He is as committed to Terran independence as any of us, despite what you may wish to the contrary. It’s only the means to achieve it that he hasn’t yet decided. There, he needs some persuasion.”
“And you think holding me will do that?”
“He does seem ridiculously fond of you, and he will be only too aware that Father wouldn’t give two bits if you were killed.”
“You haven’t taken me yet,” Marthe reminded her.
“No,” allowed the Terran, “but if you don’t turn off all your accursed foreign defenses and let our forces in, right now, you can say goodbye to the brat. He is becoming really, very heavy and I don’t mind in the slightest dropping him right over the edge.”
Marthe gave her a long, considering look. There was only one possible answer and Caitlin Radcliff knew it.
“All right, but Riardan stays here, in his own room.”
“Agreed.”
Marthe looked at her again, then, seeing something in her eyes, nodded grimly. Holding her wrist in open view, she tapped out an intricate sequence upon the control patch there. “They can now enter.”
Within minutes, four heavily armed men surrounded her. A fifth had taken the baby from Caitlin and carried him into the lounge and, even as Caitlin began to strip the concealed weaponry from her, all she could feel was an overwhelming sense of relief to have Riardan away from the terrifying drop. Once disarmed, she was bound by a tight force band to a captor on either wrist. She could not even stroke her baby as he passed her and was placed in his cot, from where his frightened cries called to he
r. They did let her close the door, her hand gently touching the doorframe, activating all her defenses within his room. He might be frightened, hungry and lonely, but at least he would be safe until his father arrived.
They then dragged her back to the balcony, where Caitlin was examining her weapons with keen interest.
“Quite an arsenal you carry.
“And all personal-coded. You can’t use them,” said Marthe coldly. “Nor should you try dismantling them for examination. The resulting explosion would not do much for your looks.”
“Very impressive. What else do you have concealed? We know you Hathians are full of devious tricks, and I can still blow this whole place to pieces, including your son in his so safe room.”
Marthe glared at her but saw the implacable look, so chillingly like the one she had occasionally seen on Hamon’s face. She shrugged, and requested that one hand be released. They did, but dug the blaster at her head sharply into her temple as a reminder of the need for obedience. Very slowly and carefully, Marthe reached around to the concealed skin slither on her back, pulling into real space her remaining blaster and one, tiny knife, old fashioned but very effective if all else failed.
“That’s it?” demanded Caitlin doubtingly.
“That’s it,” nodded Marthe. “You have my word on the blood of my ancestors.”
Caitlin shrugged in disdain, but accepted the pledge nonetheless, gesturing her to move off. Within minutes, she was in a flyer, winging rapidly towards the pass in the hills; but all she could hear, all she could think of, were the frightened howls of her baby son. Please come home to him, Hamon. Now. The plea kept repeating itself over and over in her head and she stared sightlessly ahead, blind to the harsh faces of her enemies, well and truly surrounding her now.
Chapter Thirteen
Garth Radcliff was not as she’d imagined. She had drawn pictures of him in her head all through the flight—images colored by the echoing memory of her son’s screams. She’d thought she knew what it was to hate, especially to hate Terrans, but by the time she was dragged roughly from the flyer and through the doors of the great house set firmly on a massive outcrop of rock, what she felt for Garth Radcliff could no longer be contained by such a simple word.
Pay the Piper: Hathe Book Two Page 19