Pay the Piper: Hathe Book Two

by Mary Brock Jones

  “Step up security. Retina and thumbprints required at all times,” he barked. “Both thumbprints.” Then he turned to his opponent’s mother. “So he wanted us to trust him? Can you explain this, madame, or are we going to have armed rebellion after all?”

  “I’m sure my son has a good reason for his actions. He does know his father rather well.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m sure you will understand my request that you remain here for the time being. To care for your grandson, shall we say? My men will be here to protect you at all times, and until the present situation is resolved, it would be wise if you did not attempt to leave the immediate vicinity of this house.”

  Madame MacDiarmid bowed, an echo of his heavy irony, but her thoughts were all with her son.

  Hamon had realized almost immediately that if he were to have any hope of success, he must approach the Terran rebels alone. The disposal of the guard had been almost too easy, and the successful theft of the flyer buoyed him further. There was a part of him that could not but exult in this one small victory over the Hathians, a rich prize after the long years of frustration.

  Then the image of a hurt and frightened Marthe intruded and his delight faded. It was an image that he could not banish, no matter how unlikely it might be and, with renewed determination, he bent to the controls again, steering in a long, curving sweep away from his destination.

  His path thereafter was decidedly erratic, a puzzle to any would be followers as he zigzagged back and forth through the valleys, stopping at frequent intervals to land as if searching for something.

  After one such stop, Hamon emerged from the dim shadow of a tree, to watch the flyer disappear over a far ridge. The controls had been unfamiliar, so he could only hope that he had fed his program into the autonavigator, not the garbage recycler. So far, his plan looked to be working, the faint hum of the flyer fading into the distance still turning and twisting. A grimace, then he stepped back through the trees to the concealed cave. He’d hidden a flyer of his own there shortly after his return to Earth, prompted by the constant surveillance of the Alliance to organize an escape route if needed. He hadn’t expected that his own people would pose the threat.

  He waited some time, hoping to further confuse the Alliance probes, all the while driven by an urgent need to move on. Fear for Marthe wouldn’t leave him. Finally, his anxiety could stand no more, and he eased the small flyer out, hugging closely to the contour of the hills and using the forest cover as long as he could. When he judged it to be safe, he emerged and set a swift course straight for his father’s house. Trickery would not gain him entry there, would more likely get his head blown off.

  Soon, he picked up the challenge he was expecting … and a warning. As soon as he sent his answering code, the defense system flashed an alarm on his console. A number of very heavy duty weapons were locked on and tracking him. Trust his father to take no chances, he grinned wryly. But no word did he receive all through that eerie flight, across ground he had known since childhood to the house he dimly remembered from his earliest years with fondness, and later and more clearly, as filled with tension and argument. He was going home, serenaded with all the paraphernalia of a force of invading aliens.

  Quixotically, as he approached the house, he ignored the main landing site, heading instead for the smaller pad reserved for family members. His father may be playing politics, but Hamon was damned if he was going to give him the satisfaction of joining the game. The only variation from previous arrivals that he chose to concede was to blatantly lock and seal the flyer to all but himself, leaving it on standby mode for a rapid exit if needed.

  He stood for a full minute in plain sight of the external viewers, glaring arrogantly around, then strode forward. As he did so, his foot automatically stepped on a roughly gouged out crack. It was a relic of a childhood game with Caitlin. They had been hurling stones at a target set here on the top step. All his adult life, his foot had sought out the mark as he entered, as if seeking to renew old bonds. This time, he fought off the insidious sense of relaxation it brought. There was no sanctuary in this house today, only a lurking danger. His face was a solid mask as he palmed the door and entered.

  An elderly man met him inside, greeting him with a quick smile and a warm hand on his shoulder. A flinch of horror gripped Hamon.

  “Good to see you again, Master Hamon.”

  “Joseph. It’s been a long time.”

  Joseph had always been a special favorite on his infrequent visits as a child, ever ready to shield him from the puzzling distance that had arisen between him and his father; and his father was well aware of his affection for the old man. He made sure he showed none of his anger at that, and restricted his reply to a polite request for his father’s whereabouts.

  “In the study.” A look of embarrassment passed over Joseph’s lined face. “He has ordered that you be screened for hidden weapons before you go in, sir.”

  A wry smile lit Hamon’s face. “You mean he hasn’t a screen on the doorway?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “It’s all right, Joseph. If Father wants to indulge in ostentatious threat displays, who am I to quibble?” he said, waiting as the old man swept the beam over him.

  “As if you would be stupid enough to bring in anything untoward,” scoffed Joseph.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Then he turned towards his father’s office. “Onwards?”

  “Onwards, young sir.”

  He rewarded the old man with a mischievous quirk of his lips.

  Hamon suddenly felt a burst of confidence. Father had forgotten, it seemed, that it was old Joseph who could always lighten the younger Hamon’s mood, just as his well chosen words had done now. Maybe it was not all that Garth Radcliff had miscalculated.

  The study door refused to answer to his palm, throwing back instead an “Identify” order. Still with his head up, Hamon moved in front of the beam. A moment later, the door slid away and his father stood before him.

  Hamon was the taller of the two, just, but in the sense of presence, he knew there was little to choose.

  “You have come remarkably promptly, and free of Alliance baggage. You are to be commended.” It was the parade ground patriarch of his teenage years, the gruff voice with its familiar cold praise.

  “Always willing to oblige, as you know, Father. Especially when you give me such good cause.” Then his voice changed abruptly, some of his anger seeping in. “Where is she?”

  “Just over here.” Garth Radcliff gestured then added, just as Hamon knew an inward sigh of relief that Marthe was still alive, “ I must commend you on your good taste. She is a most beautiful woman. Or, at least, was…”

  The words reached Hamon at the same instant as the full sight of Marthe struck him.

  There was a nasty cut over one eye, the bruising already congealed to an ugly, swollen mass that engulfed the smooth surface of one cheek. She sat awkwardly, arms and legs clamped to the sides of the chair and her back arched in agony. Her eyes blazed momentarily in enormous relief, then she retreated again to a shielded world. All lightness deserted him, fury such as he had never known before sweeping in a huge wave over him.

  “Release that field immediately.” A deep breath, eyes locked on hers as he fought for control. “What were you thinking? That I would need such stupid barbarity to prove how serious you are. Why in hell do you think I’m here if I didn’t believe she was in real danger?”

  “A personal whim. Ferdo felt she owed him. You remember Ferdo, your erstwhile friend? The one she injured?” Garth said, waving forward the man Hamon had been too preoccupied to notice.

  He swung round in disgust. “Injured! Remind me to show you Marthe’s medical file one day.” He grabbed the controls on his father’s desk, but to no avail. “Release her,” he shouted. Garth shrugged, then obliged. Hamon leapt to catch Marthe as she collapsed forward, swinging her up and carrying her over to a couch he hoped was out of the force’s reach. One finger softly traced
the injuries on her head. “I am so sorry, sweetheart. I never meant for you to be hurt again. Is the face all they touched, or is there more?”

  “Not much. One arm and a leg are badly bruised, so don’t plan on making a run for it,” she managed to whisper, then leaned tiredly into his side. “Riardan?”

  “He’s fine. My mother got to him soon after you were taken, and there are Alliance troops swarming all over the homestead. He’s completely safe.” He turned back to his father, Marthe cradled protectively against him. “What now?” he demanded.

  His father didn’t answer at first. He moved over and seated himself at his desk, waving a hand to Ferdo to be seated and ignoring the glowering anger on the man’s face. “A discussion of matters of mutual interest,” he then said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Just say what you want, without the embellishments. Right now, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Such a lack of finesse, all over a woman … and not even Terran at that.”

  “My first union partner, mother of my first union child. I’ll thank you to remember it, Father, and use a respectful tone when you speak of my wife.”

  Garth linked his fingers, staring first at him then moving his predatory gaze to the woman slumped beside him.

  His stare eventually drew her attention. Hamon felt her lift her head from his chest as she returned the look. He glanced at her, caught the challenge in her dark eyes. Across the room his father—her enemy—took up the gauntlet, accepting it with a sharp nod, then turned back to his son with no sign in his business-like voice of that short exchange.

  “Agreed,” he said to Hamon, ignoring Marthe. “What do I want? You, of course. Your full cooperation and assistance in ridding our home of these filthy invaders,”

  “You can’t do it without me? There’s more than enough opposition to the Alliance among Terrans.”

  “I haven’t your contacts among the military. Nor damn it, have I your knack for leading men, much as I hate to admit it. I can make them do as I wish, but you … you can make them want to do as you wish, and you know it,” Garth said brusquely. “Must be your mother in you.”

  “Funny, she always says I’m too much like you,” Hamon allowed himself a short grin. “And if I don’t agree to help you?”

  “You, and more particularly your pretty wife, will never leave here otherwise. You can watch as we dispose of her. Nor will your son be spared. He may be safely surrounded by Alliance muck for now, but you can’t guarantee his safety forever, not on Earth.”

  “He’s your own grandson!” exclaimed Marthe in disbelief, struggling upwards even as Hamon’s hand pulled her back.

  “I can have more,” replied his father. “Truly Terran grandchildren.”

  Marthe stared up at Hamon, “He’s bluffing, surely?”

  Hamon wouldn’t look at her, continuing to hold his father’s gaze with a taut stillness. “No, he’s not bluffing. He is deadly serious.” He sat, still and silent. Then he moved. His head rose sharply and his hand squeezed Marthe’s, in warning. Then he turned towards his fate. He nodded once. “You leave me no choice. You have me.”

  “No!” squawked Marthe.

  “A very wise decision,” said his father simultaneously.

  A wry grin touched Hamon’s lips and his head bent to meet her eyes.

  For an instant, Marthe was back in the days on Hathe when they had been forced to depend on face and feelings to speak. “Are you sure this is what you want? That it has to be this way?”

  “It’s the last thing I want, but there is no other way.” His look was both a promise and an ending.

  “You always said we are alike,” she said with a hint of tears.

  He caught her closer, and she sent him all the strength she had as he turned back to his father. “Give me the details,” he said bitterly.

  “Not with her listening,” growled Ferdo. “She’s coned, or no deal.”

  Hamon glared over at him, distrust evident in every line of his body, but it was Marthe who restrained him and nodded her head at the senior Radcliff.

  “On one condition only, that Hamon oversees the controls,” she added firmly. She wasn’t about to trust herself to the word of a Terran. Not after today.

  It was Hamon’s hands that led her back to the center chair and who took the control console from his father, to safeguard her while the Terrans talked. It helped, but only a little, as she sat tensely watching father and son. They were facing away from her, so she couldn’t tell their words by lip reading, and any sounds were blocked out completely by the cone-shaped field surrounding her. Hamon was again the professional, leaning forward earnestly. Their only hope was that neither his father nor his oldest friend could see past the front he assumed, had missed the silent communication between husband and wife. Their lives depended on his ability to sound convincing. Like her husband, Marthe had battened down the armor of her professionalism.

  There was danger in the tension cramping her muscles, and carefully she stretched taut limbs, shrugging her shoulders one by one and breathing in the slow discipline she had been taught, easing away nerves that could destroy the sharp edge of her response.

  The talking lasted a long time. At one point Hamon leapt up, marching backwards and forwards and throwing angry looks at his father. Garth merely ordered him to sit down, his hands motioning brusquely. Ferdo didn’t seem to have much to say. Maybe he still distrusted his former friend, but Marthe thought it more than that. He was superfluous here. This was between the two Radcliffs.

  Then it was finished. One, final handshake, a clasp of promise and an intent look between father and son. Marthe searched for some hint of apology in her father-in-law’s face but wasn’t surprised to see none. The sensory cone was released. Hamon’s hand lifted her by the elbow and moved her towards the door. His grip hurt in its hardness, and she turned to admonish him, but seeing his face kept her words to herself. There was a powerful urge in her to run, and she was sure Hamon shared it. Instead, they both walked steadily to the door and bid farewell, just as at the end of any family visit. Marthe wondered if the hairs on her arm were standing on end like those on Hamon’s. She couldn’t look, too afraid to lose what control she yet retained.

  At the door, Hamon pulled them to a sudden stop and swung back to his father. “Until I hear from you, the old contact points?” Garth merely grunted assent. “Good.” Hamon turned away without any sign he may never meet his father again.

  Still, they walked slowly across to the flyer, and it wasn’t till they were past the outer defenses that Hamon finally gave in to the urgent forces riding them both. His finger hit the accelerator and the craft shot forward at a speed that at last gave hope. Marthe would have spoken then, but his face again stopped her. Instead, she stared rigidly forward, never moving, through all the confusing aerobatics Hamon employed to minimize any shadowing of their route. It was not until he put down in the shelter of a hidden glade of trees that he finally turned to her, and then it was not to talk.

  His lips opened, frantically seeking the reassurance of hers. Marthe made no protest. She needed as much as he to feel the touch of hands, of arms, of bodies.

  It was a desperate joining, washed with the stain of terror, and it was not for a long time later that either felt secure and whole once more. They lay concealed beneath the shrouding undergrowth, closely entwined and finally safe enough in the reality of the other’s return to ask the inevitable.

  “What now?”

  He didn’t answer her at first, his hand continuing its slow course, down her face, across her shoulders, his fingers trickling along her arms as his eyes became fixed on her hand lying warm in his. He made a fist, gently enclosing her fingers within his grasp.

  Only then did his eyes rise to hers. “I don’t know,” he whispered into her cheek. “I really do not know. Where is there left for us?”

  “We can’t stay on Earth?” It was both question and statement.

  “If you could persuade the Alliance that I’m no
t a threat to their security? After this little episode, there doesn’t seem much chance of that.”

  She moved to close the infinitesimal space between them, needing both to feel the comfort of his body and to offer the comfort of her own.

  “I could always go into hiding. This is my world after all,” he offered.

  “For how long though?”

  “Oh, quite some time. But you and Riardan couldn’t come with me, so that’s no good either.” Her eyebrows rose in affronted enquiry. “It would be too dangerous. The first time you opened your mouth, you would be exposed as an offworlder, risking both your lives.”

  “I’m a rather good actress. What do you think I’ve been doing for the last five years?”

  “And no Terran could ever pass himself off as Hathian.”

  She nodded, her argument lost.

  “Apart from which,” he continued, “the minute it’s seen that I have no intention of complying with my father’s orders, all our lives will be forfeit. I know him too well. He doesn’t make threats lightly.”

  She put her hand to his face, gently tracing the line of lip and brow, trying to ease the bitterness her fingers found. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.

  He rolled towards her, his hand sweeping down low over her stomach as his lips tendered his thanks. The hand gently massaged her abdomen. “There is only one thing in all this I truly regret,” he said. “I would have liked one child to be conceived here. To have a child of Earth as we have Riardan with the soil of Hathe in his bones. A gift of my world to take with us on our travels.”

  She grew still, withdrawing into silent calculation. Then her eyes opened again, catching his as her fingers played a quick cadence on the implant set into the back of her neck.

  “I’ve disengaged the cervical shield, and the timing is nearly right. There is a chance,” she whispered in promise.

  His hand knotted into her belly. Then his eyes warmed in the promise of desire and he rose over her. Her hips lifted to him and his fingers dug into the brown earth beneath. The rich aroma of his world awoke to surround them, blanket and bed and a memory of promise. In frantic and earthly delight, they found the wellspring of hope.