It was a shock, then, to be welcomed by a pleasantly urbane and courteous man whose first action was to enquire of her choice of refreshments. She could only shake her head in refusal. Her father-in-law shrugged, and waited as the guards escorted her to a seat, fastening her hands to the sides with force bands. He seemed to be both oblivious to the extraordinary nature of her visit and yet vaguely apologetic for the treatment offered her.
In the few moments it took to secure her, Marthe seized the chance to study her captor. He looked like Hamon, yes, far more so than his daughter. The same height, the same dark and vibrant hair, though liberally sprinkled with grey. The eyes, thank the Pillars, they didn’t share. Caitlin may have the same, disturbing eye color as Hamon, but it was from a more distant progenitor. Garth Radcliff’s were the grey of a sea caught in a spring shower. Slate, but with a shimmer of sharp blue scattered by breaking clouds.
His face had the craggy strength into which Hamon’s would one day solidify, and his body possessed the same staunch uprightness. The resemblance was frighteningly close. Almost one could imagine that here was an ally and a refuge but, always, Marthe remembered Hamon’s words. “The thought of turning into another Garth Radcliff fills me with horror.”
Garth allowed the survey, watching her in amusement, then coughed politely. “My son is thought to resemble me somewhat.”
“Some,” agreed Marthe guardedly.
“I take it you think he would have acted differently than I in the present circumstance?”
“No, not that; but he would have tried to avoid it.”
Her captor laughed in delight. “You think that makes a difference?”
“Hamon seems to,” was all she would reply.
“What a unique code of ethics the boy espouses. From quite where he acquired such a convenient philosophy, I cannot begin to imagine, but I must ask him when he arrives.”
“You’re expecting him then?”
“Of course. Aren’t you? Are you not sitting there waiting for him to storm in, intent on heroically saving you?”
It was Marthe’s turn to assume the amused smile. “Somewhat dramatic for Hamon, I would have said. Heroism’s too easy. He prefers less obvious methods. Longer and more difficult, but far more likely to get him what he wants in the end.”
Garth’s face didn’t alter, but Marthe clearly felt the spark of anger, then saw it as quickly controlled. “You do agree that he will attempt your rescue?” he said.
“Yes,” she conceded, then stuck her chin belligerently forward. “Hamon will rescue me.”
Whatever weakness she had felt in her father-in-law was now buried, though, and all she received was a gruff, “Hmmph.”
“Why this whole farce?” she demanded next. “Wouldn’t a simple invitation have sufficed?”
The man scarcely attempted to hide his scowl. “I’ve already tried that.”
“And he wouldn’t come on board. So now you hold a threat to me over his head. Well, you may know your son better than I,” she said skeptically, “but I can’t understand why you want him so badly.”
“He is blessed with rather special talents and has experience with armed resistance. Not something there is a plethora of on Earth.”
“You forgot to add that he’s also closely watched and thoroughly distrusted by the Alliance authorities. Stars, he can barely sneeze without a full page report in triplicate landing on the Commander’s screen!”
“You think that’s a problem to him?” boasted Hamon’s father.
“I know it is,” said Marthe dryly.
Her father-in-law grunted in disgust, then turned away. “It’s irrelevant,” he harrumphed, waving his hand as though he could as easily rid himself of Hathian and Alliance officialdom. “My son, for all his faults, has a superb military and political mind. He also has some very useful connections. In fact, I have an old friend of his here now. One who has been fundamental to our enterprise. I understand you know him. Ferdo, come in.”
Marthe swiveled her head in surprise. It was the same Ferdo Braddock. Exactly the same. The anger of their last meeting, when she had held him under siege in the control room on Hathe, was still carved on his face. She remembered clearly that she had shot this man that day, slicing off part of his foot. Unfortunately, her present mood allowed for no apology.
“Captain Braddock, we meet again. I trust the medics repaired your foot adequately?”
He merely grunted, refusing to look at her. Hamon’s regrettable parent answered instead. “Captain Braddock was treated here on Earth. His disability is fortunately but a minor hindrance to him in the very important work he performs for us,” he said, gesturing to the younger man to proceed. Ferdo began pulling out various pieces of unknown equipment from the bag he had carried in. Marthe ignored him for now, still caught by the elder Radcliff’s words.
“What do you mean, disability? Surely he had his foot regenerated on Hathe before he left. Or is your pride so important that you ignore common sense?”
Ferdo still refused to acknowledge her, his only response to become even more rigidly self-contained.
“Enough,” barked Garth Radcliff. “Sit still, young woman!”
“I cannot do otherwise,” she snapped back.
Radcliff had tired of the pose of urbanity. He beckoned the young Terran officer, who was carrying what appeared to be some kind of probe. Ferdo’s next action, sweeping the small box over her body, confirmed her guess, though she was as yet unworried. Terran expertise was certainly not equal to Hathian guile.
Seconds later she was proved frighteningly wrong. Braddock paused, the probe hovering over her neck.
“Increase her immobility,” he snapped. Marthe now could not move at all, her voluntary muscles locked rigidly in position. Ferdo lifted the hair from her neck, rolling down the collar to reveal a barely discernible patch of faintly darker skin. The color difference was insignificant, far too slight to be readily noticeable, but Ferdo’s readings clearly marked it. Triumphantly, he peeled off the patch and threw it into a box. Marthe didn’t need his brusquely thrown words to know that her only contact with her people was now utterly and completely destroyed. For the first time, she began to be seriously worried.
She caught sight of the smirk on Braddock’s face—a vicious sneer of triumph. The next instant, his arm shot out, catching her in a ringing swipe across the side of her head. Unable to duck, the full force of his hate hit her. All around her was a mobile blur, the force field alone holding her upright. She tried to tense, expecting more of the same, but through the groggy haze, she dimly heard Radcliff admonishing Braddock.
“I said you could mark her a bit, not send her into the next world. It won’t help us much with that cursed son of mine if she’s dead.”
She did receive a sullen blow to her arm and a kick to the leg that would make walking uncomfortable for some days. Braddock must have conceded after that, and she next heard the soft whoosh of the sliding door as he left. Radcliff slackened the field a bit then, allowing her to slump backwards. Her leg and arm hurt, but not enough to eclipse the pounding of her head, and she had to concentrate hard to make out her captor’s words.
“He owed you those, and they should blunt any attempt to use your alien trickery. Also, thanks to Ferdo’s endeavors, this place is free of Alliance surveillance. Your precious authorities have no idea where you are, and could do nothing to help you if they did.”
“So it’s solely up to me and my cursed alien trickery then?” She tried to smile as she jeered back. “It has served me rather well against Terrans in the past. Now shouldn’t be too different.”
“Don’t be so sure. Remember, I still control the magnitude of that restraining field.” And he gave her one, bone crushing demonstration. As the blood cleared slowly from her eyes, her returning vision showed him watching her threateningly, one finger still caressing the control pad. “While we’re on the subject,” he added, the finger casually sweeping round and round the pad, “you can disarm those
interesting-looking weapons of yours. So careless of you to carry so many around with you. You must know how keen we are to analyze them.”
“No can do,” she jeered back.
“You are so eager for more discomfort?”
Radcliff’s eyebrows had risen in a gesture sickeningly like his son’s, and, for a moment, Marthe was cast adrift. She fought desperately to deny a horrifying sense of trust in the man, wrapping the armor of her professionalism about her. A mocking smile lit her lips.
“Of course not, but it’s your own eagerness that denies you. Every one of those weapons is personally coded to me … through my patch. I can still fire them, but not disarm them. I need that patch you so avidly destroyed to do that. As it is, no one, and that includes me, had better try tampering with them. Not that the loss of however many of your compatriots infest this place would worry me. I just have no desire to be part of the resulting carnage.”
For a long moment, she could feel his gaze upon her, assessing her and then increasingly frustrated as he came to accept the truth of her words. Or at least decided that, if she were bluffing, it was not a bluff he dared risk testing.
At long last, his eyes narrowed, then he looked up at her face. “Hmph,” was all he said at first, rising to his feet. Then, “I’ll leave you to ponder your actions,” he added, like some pompous school master. “Do not forget that we have you under full surveillance at all times.”
Then he was gone, and she was left to enjoy the illusion of privacy. Hamon, where are you, she silently called, desperately hoping against reason that somehow he could feel her plea. Hamon, help, we need you so badly.
It was not an emptiness in his home that told Hamon of his loss. It was, rather, a raucous cacophony of noise. Even as his flyer hit the landing pad, jarring down in his hurry to answer Marthe’s emergency call, a platoon of allied soldiers swarmed to surround him. None would answer his urgent pleas, merely passing a sensor over him and gesturing him towards the house. He broke into a run, up the path, reaching the house out of breath and frantic with worry. He was calling for Marthe as he burst through the door but she didn’t answer. All he met as he searched ever more urgently through the rooms were yet more troops, intent on their own tasks, and harried officialdom determinedly thrusting their faces at him.
Sanity was finally discovered in the person of his mother, quietly walking Riardan up and down in the sanctuary of his room. She looked up at him, and what he saw there stopped him in his tracks.
“Riardan? What’s happened to him?”
He anxiously reached out for the baby, seeing the signs of distress still apparent in the puffy eyes and reddened cheeks. Riardan clung to his outstretched hands, then snuggled back into the comforting shoulder of his grandmother, one hand still clutching his father’s finger.
“Who did this?” Hamon demanded again. “And where’s Marthe?”
His mother didn’t answer at first. Then, she raised her eyes to look him squarely in the face. “It’s not Riardan. It’s Marthe. They’ve taken her.”
“Taken! Who?”
His mother would say no more, nodding at the soldier in the doorway in explanation. A Terran matter, with Terran interests to be protected.
Then he understood. His teeth clenched and the white shock of knowledge blasted through him. “How long ago?”
“She managed to set the alarm off as they left. The local Alliance chief picked me up on his way here. They said you were still some time away.”
“About an hour,” confirmed Hamon bitterly. “I was visiting ‘friends’.”
“Do you know what he would want with Marthe?”
“I can guess.”
The Alliance chief entered then, and they could say no more. He and his mother turned towards the Hathian, their faces kept equally blank, to an Truro’s obvious exasperation.
“Major Radcliff, Madame MacDiarmid, would you please join us? We need to ask you a few questions. And Major, don’t worry, we will find her.”
The words may have been kind, but the tone was abrupt, and Hamon had seen that same look in the eyes of too many Hathians to mistake his words for those of a friend.
“Have you any leads yet?” he asked as they moved through to the main rooms and were made to sit before an enquiry panel.
“Only that she’s lost her patch. Since we can’t track her, we have to assume that she’s being held in one of the six locations our sensors can’t penetrate,” said an Truro, ignoring the scowls of his staff at his frankness.
“She’s out of contact?” If Hamon had thought he was afraid before, it was nothing to what he felt now. “What do you mean, can’t penetrate six locations?”
“Certain Terran groups have developed systems to detect and negate our equipment. You were unaware of this?”
“I was,” said Hamon. “Presumably I’m known to be too closely watched to be allowed access to such information.”
His tone was carefully neutral, but he felt his mother tense as she recognized what the admission cost him. He turned to her, and they exchanged a long, intent look, ended by a brief nod from his mother.
Hamon turned back to the panel in crisp determination. “Show me these locations.” The world map lit up. One marker was only a short distance away. Hamon stabbed his finger down. “There. That’s where he’ll have her.”
“So close? Surely even he wouldn’t dare?”
“Why not? Are you willing to face the repercussions if the allies should be foolish enough to mount an assault on Ambassador Radcliff’s home? So far the opposition to your rule is fragmented enough to allow a peaceful occupation, but how long do you think that will last if you attack a revered elder statesman on what many will consider a whim?”
An Truro nodded. “What do you suggest then?”
“I know what he wants. Me. Let me make contact and we can go from there.”
“And why does he want you?” was the pointed question from a senior officer.
“To help him raise an armed rebellion, I’d guess.”
“Could you?” another voice snapped.
Hamon gazed back, all his antipathy rising, and he leveled a long steady look at the glaring face of the Alliance leader. “If I chose to, yes I could.”
“After such an admission, why should we trust you?” an Truro broke in coldly.
“Because I can get her out with the minimum of fuss—something you need.”
“And how are you going to manage that?”
“I won’t know until after I’ve contacted my father. Most likely though, I’ll have to play along with him, at least to begin with, then see what happens.”
An angry roar of dissent erupted. An Truro let it continue only so long, then broke in with a single, quelling, “Silence.”
“What guarantee do we have that once you get in there, you won’t join up with your father, leaving us with armed rebellion anyway?”
“None. But I have to get Marthe out and keep her and Riardan safe. An armed rebellion is unlikely to achieve that. Also,” and he paused then, shrugging an apology to his mother before continuing in a voice strained in confession, “For all he is my father, I don’t wish for the kind of independence he envisages for Earth. I’ve sacrificed too much to the welfare of this planet, over too many years, to let it descend into that. Oh, don’t get me wrong. There is nothing I would like more than to see you get your alien backsides off my soil; but being ruled by Garth Radcliff and his ilk is too high a price even for me to pay.”
An Truro leaned back, studying him. Hamon kept none of his angry pride hidden, meeting the cold eyes of the Hathian commander and not once backing off. After some time, an Truro broke off to confer with his colleagues, but it was a courtesy only and before long, he turned back.
“All right. For now, you call the shots.”
“Thank you,” breathed Hamon in relief. He turned to his mother, who was clutching his sleeve as if afraid to let go.
“Are you sure of this?” she asked quietly.
&nb
sp; He nodded, slow and sad. “I think I’ve always known it would come to this,” he said, “but, Mother, she is worth it.”
His mother smiled, then squeezed his hand. “You may just be right, my son.” The look she sent him was long and very private, and it was only the impatient coughing of the Alliance officers that broke it off.
“Give me five minutes to make my preparations, if you please, gentlemen,” said Hamon, “then I’ll be off.”
He turned once before leaving, to gently stroke his son’s cheek then disappeared from sight, heading for his rooms.
He left behind a particularly disgruntled group of men and his mother, her head turned down to bury itself in the warm breath of her baby grandson, hiding the fear that had clutched her as she saw her son’s face when he gave that last caress to his son.
There had been an ominous finality to it.
Considerably more than five minutes had passed since Radcliff left the room, and an increasingly vocal group of officers still waited for his return. An Truro spoke urgently into his communicator, and the search began. All too soon, and with a great deal of irritation, he was brought to the realization that yet another Terran had managed to best them. Frustrated and angry, an Truro ordered a count of all vehicles in the compound.
“All present and accounted for, Sir,” responded the young technician. “Except, of course, the flyer you ordered back to headquarters for back-up personnel.”
“I what!” An Truro glared angrily at the unfortunate junior.
“That’s what your assistant told me, sir. The one who took off in it. His ID was legit,” he added in hasty exoneration, but it served only to drive the commander’s anger farther into the stratosphere. Frantic search ensued. Soon an aide was discovered, unconscious and tethered in a closet and with his ID missing. An Truro’s face must have been bright scarlet, but he no longer cared.
Pay the Piper: Hathe Book Two Page 20