Pay the Piper: Hathe Book Two

by Mary Brock Jones

  Later that night, Marthe lay watching Hamon. Finally unable to continue, he had succumbed to his need for sleep. She had dozed off earlier but now couldn’t relax. Tenderly, her eyes traced the lines of bone and muscle, travelling over his shoulder and down the long slope of his back, to the tautness of his buttocks, honed to a tense fitness by the hard exercise he so often used as an escape from their worries. She clenched her hands firmly to her side, fearful that their hunger to touch where eyes explored would disturb his rest.

  She couldn’t stay lying there. Carefully, she rose, sliding the door quietly as she passed through to their study. He’d left his screen set on ready. Numbers shone belligerently at her. Again her hands were tempted to reach out and touch and again she clenched them firmly to her side. This time, though, it was in anger not love, driving her to slam the erase code, and wipe away the hateful figures that threatened so blindly all she held most dear.

  How long she stood there, staring around her at this fortress they had created, she couldn’t say. Her mind roamed wildly, seeking some obscure way out. Finally, a decision. She sat at her screen, breaking the link with Hamon’s. She entered a message, setting the interspace code at the end and double scrambling with her own code. Then she coded for transmission.

  It was gone. To Hathe. To the one other person she most truly trusted.

  The message ended with two, short sentences. ‘Help. Please come.’ It was signed only, Mimi.

  “Fancy living on a freight liner?”

  Marthe looked across at Hamon in surprise. “What are the other choices?”

  “None that I can find.” His voice held a disturbing note of seriousness, and Marthe bit down hard on a shocked gasp. “My father is good. His people have uncovered most of my businesses, despite the trail of blind companies that own them. By the time I pay the taxes and bribe sufficient officials to let us move our money off planet, we should have just enough left to buy a freight liner, pay for our first cargo and cover our living expenses until I can build up a paying business.”

  “There must be something else we can do? What about my pension from Hathe?”

  “You think I’d touch that, even if they would let me?” snapped Hamon, worn out by a night and day of searching for answers.

  Marthe began to bristle, then saw the strain on his face, and subsided. “If you want to start up a freight line, fine; but why not use a planetary base? We could always lease one until we’re more financial.”

  “I’ve tried that. Our story, or rather my story, is too widely known. No planet will touch me. They neither wish to annoy Hathe nor attract the attention of my father’s more aggressive supporters, and I can’t say I blame them. No, the only place left for us to live is space.”

  Marthe paused then gathered herself in with a sharp thrusting back of her shoulders. “So be it. At least there’s no way your father can comb all of space to track us down.”

  “There is one other place closed to my father.”

  “Oh?” said Marthe, a warning glint in her eye.

  “Hathe. You and the children would be safe there. You said yourself that without me, they would be only too happy to accept you back. A Terran couldn’t touch you there.”

  Marthe had drawn herself up rigidly as she listened to him, her face for once reflecting her thoughts all too clearly.

  “At least consider it,” pleaded Hamon desperately.

  “Is that what you want? Are we so much of a burden that you wish that on us?”

  Hamon was about to lie, then saw recognition of it in her face. “Of course it’s not what I want. No responsibility as dear to me as you three could ever be a burden. To lose my family would be to lose all that makes life matter … but at least you would be alive!”

  “And have my children grow up to be taught that their father was a war criminal, some kind of perverted monster? No, thank you. We can be alive on a freighter just as easily, and with a great deal more self-respect.”

  Hamon held her eyes a minute longer, then finally shrugged his shoulders in defeat, a soft tenderness lighting his lips. “Did I ever mention quite how much I love you?”

  Marthe grinned. “You may have … but perhaps you’d better say it again. Just to make sure.”

  He gave a gasp of laughter, then rose and caught her up, swinging her out in a joyous circle. “I love you, Madame Ship’s Surgeon, delight of my life,” he shouted.

  “Thank you kindly, Captain, but should you be taking such liberties with one of your officers?”

  “It’s allowable in exceptional circumstances.

  “Such as?”

  “When the officer in question is far too beautiful to be resisted.” After which, Marthe was effectively silenced for quite some time.

  It refreshed them, but was only an interlude.

  “You estimate we have twelve hours left. Will it be enough?” she asked anxiously, lying on his chest and slowly drawing the black, living mass of his hair away from his eyes. Eyes that darkened from warm hazel to harshest green at her words.

  “I don’t know. I’ve put the word out that we are urgently seeking a ship, and my Cantorese agent is touting for buyers for my companies.”

  “You can’t sell them that quickly!”

  “Not all, no, but I can amalgamate what’s left under one holding company, which the Terran authorities can seize in lieu of the taxes. The three largest businesses should be sold by then, and the proceeds will go straight to the space line. My competitors have been angling to buy them for years.”

  “And a ship?”

  “He tells me there are one or two possibilities. It will be tight, though, so we’d better be prepared in case he fails.”

  “To defend ourselves here, or to run for cover?”

  “Both. When this hits the Cantorese authorities in twelve hours time, they will withdraw all protection and order our immediate departure. While they might prefer that we weren’t killed on their territory, I doubt whether they would do anything to prevent it.”

  “Surely Hathe will protest if anything happens to the children or myself?”

  “I know you have powerful allies on Hathe, but how many others would be only too glad to be rid of what they regard as an embarrassment?” His hand reached up to hold her cheek in apology for his words as his eyes read her bitter acknowledgement. “Be strong, my love,” he whispered, and his lips reached up in echo. After a long interval, he drew back. “Remember, too, that they have yet to defeat us—two of the most conniving and battle hardened operatives in the business. Between our skills and the hardware we have tucked away, if we can’t give them a nasty surprise then we don’t deserve to live!” he declared, and his eyes flashed in wicked glee.

  What could she do but grin back? She nodded, and rolled over, swatting playfully at his thigh. “Let’s get on with it then, lazybones.”

  His eyes opened wide at the epithet, and he refused to honor it with a reply, leaning over to reach for his clothes to dress, before attacking his screen again with renewed vigor. Marthe looked in on the still sleeping children then hurried off to check their defensive deployments.

  Remembering the ease with which the Hathians had tricked the Terran surveillance systems during the occupation, she also made time to take her flyer out to personally inspect the surrounding countryside. Cantor was a world with no large moon. Instead, a cluster of bodies too large to be true asteroids ranged in a wide arc over the heavens, their reflected light casting a low sheen over the rocks from all directions with few shadows anywhere. It gave the night world an eerie, two-dimensional feel, leaving Marthe wary and ill at ease. Though there were no midnight-black pools of darkness that could conceal a man, neither were there the telltale abnormalities of line and angle which spoke of a hidden enemy. In this unreal landscape, forces moving as slowly as the languid drift of a cloud shadow could stay hidden from all but the sharpest of sensors.

  It was not a comforting thought, and try as she might, she couldn’t shake off a feeling of incipien
t doom. With a heavy heart, she turned back to the house.

  Then, with just four hours of safety left, Hamon let out a whoop of success. “I’ve got one! A D45 class freighter, registered to the Cordoban Asteroids. Her owner needs to sell urgently and she’s due to dock in the capital’s port today.”

  “When?”

  “Five and a half hours from now,” replied Hamon. “Her shuttle can pick us up twenty minutes later, if we can keep the air space above us free till then.”

  Marthe looked across at him, hearing the enormity of that ‘if’. She took a deep breath. “At least it’s a chance.”

  Shortly afterwards, they woke their few staff and explained the situation. There were yet three hours remaining for them to leave safely, they said. Neither Marthe nor Hamon was surprised to find that, as the deadline neared, they had been left alone with their children in the echoing emptiness of the great house. The young nanny had wept copiously as she turned to board the departing flyer, but Marthe couldn’t find it in her to condemn the defectors. All the staff were new to them, all native Cantorese. This offworlders’ tragedy was not their concern.

  They found strength, though, in the emptiness. Bereft it might be of allies and companions, but neither could it hide a threat. Only the an Radcliff family were here—this strangely assorted couple, defending their two precious offspring and, as Hamon had earlier reminded her, that was not a combination to be taken lightly.

  Dawn had broken. In this arid region, the sun rose quickly into the sky, banishing the concealing eeriness of the night and exposing the plain in front of their bluff to a strong, red-white light. No cover for an attacker there.

  The mountains at their back were another matter. Immediately behind the house was a smooth shelf of rock which no one could safely cross, but beyond that, the rugged canyons offered enough cover for scores of troops, hiding them completely until they had come far too close to the house. Either Marthe or Hamon maintained a continuous watch over their mountain sensors.

  There was also the possibility of attack by longer range weapons but, as Hamon pointed out, it was unlikely that either the Terrans or Hathians would risk upsetting the Cantorese by loosing such destruction on their soil.

  “I hope you’re right,” said Marthe, agreeing with his logic, but unconvinced that the rule of commonsense would favor them. It never had before.

  Then time had run out. They looked at each other, each seeing the tension in the other’s face. Marthe glanced towards the children. Riardan was playing on the floor with some holoblocks and Freya was happily asleep. She had brought them in here earlier, unable to believe in their safety away from her protective gaze.

  Shortly after that, the screens sprang to life, incoming messages chattering in a garish display.

  “You were right about the Cantorese response, said Marthe tersely. “Our permits are withdrawn as of now, and we are required to leave on the first available transport.”

  “Send back to say we acknowledge and will do our best to comply with all haste. Which is all too true,” he added ruefully. “I just hope it’s possible. Sensors already show intruders in sector two.”

  Marthe switched to his display. Their defenses had held this time, but other sensors were already warning of a swarm of invaders.

  “Your father really is a vindictive bastard!”

  “They’re not all Terran,” countered Hamon.

  Marthe followed his pointing finger to the tell tale reading. A small party so far, but the weapons were unmistakably Hathian. She had known it would happen, but found herself totally unprepared for the shock of coming under attack by her own people. A tight, closed shield blanketed her.

  “It’s me they want, not you,” Hamon reminded her, “and since we left Earth, this is the first time I haven’t been protected by guards. The temptation is too much for those who hate me.”

  “I can’t kill Hathians, Hamon. Don’t ask me to.”

  “And if they threaten the children? You know how they will operate better than I. By the stars, the Terrans out there are my own father’s people. I probably played with some of them as youngsters; but that doesn’t mean I’m about to let them march in here and hurt Riardan or Freya—or you!”

  “So you take the Terrans and I deal with the Hathians?”

  “It’s the only way.”

  She took a great, shuddering breath, then forced the steel of her experience to arm her. Her shoulders came back, and she turned once more to the screen. Next minute her voice spoke out, strong and devoid of all emotion. “Hathians in sectors three, five and seven. I’ll take those, and you take the rest. Let me know if you need a hand.”

  Hamon reached across to lightly clench her shoulder then gave a crisp, “Yes,” before turning back to his own screen.

  At first, their automatic defenses were sufficient, but too soon that stopped. They were forced to override, using all their hard won cunning to block the intruders. The size of the force ranged against them became frighteningly obvious.

  “Shipping this lot here must have cost a fortune, let alone the bribes slipped into some Cantorese worm’s pocket. I know your father is wealthy, but this is ridiculous!”

  “He’s probably taken out a loan against the taxes I’ll have to pay.”

  “But they are owed to the government not the courts, and the Alliance controls that.”

  “Even in a puppet administration, he has enough friends to ensure he’ll receive a fat collection fee,” grimaced Hamon. Then he grinned as he noticed something in the attack pattern. “At least your people and mine still hate each other more than they hate us. There is not one iota of cooperation out there. Wouldn’t it be a turnabout if we could get them to attack each other, rather than us?”

  “You are an optimist,” laughed Marthe. She looked at her screen. “How long before that shuttle arrives?”

  “An hour, minimum.”

  The laughter vanished and both stared at their screens. Their defenses were holding, but already there were too many ragged patches.

  “Hamon, you’ve a couple broken through the second ring in sector eight. They are into that narrow crack running down the rock face. The one that comes out…”

  “…right by the house!” His finger leapt forward. A sonic blast hit the ledge above and a sudden rumble told of a heavy rock fall, burying two men. It was the first of the deaths they were to cause.

  Marthe looked at Hamon and took her cue from the rigid set of his face. He was already turning to another threat, releasing a shattering burst of electric static. It wiped out the control circuitry of the weapons of the group just breasting the mountaintop behind them. They were alive, but unable to do anything and, as he had hoped, they immediately withdrew to re-arm.

  For as long as possible, this was their strategy: knock out enemy equipment and block invasions with landfalls, sudden hotspots, curtains of vicious laser fire across paths over the harsh rocks, forcing the Terrans and Hathians to fall back, knowing they would only return with new tools to seek out and destroy the Radcliffs' defenses.

  These were not inconsiderable. They retained full coverage of the periphery, but in three sectors, the number of sensor traps still operative was becoming dangerously low.

  “Flyers approaching in four and six,” warned Marthe.

  “How is that air corridor above us?”

  “Clear so far. No sign of the shuttle, though, and more flyers approaching. They could block our escape route.”

  “Activating scramble pattern,” returned Hamon, switching to a separate program. Immediately, a strong beam arced over the incoming flyers, knocking out their navigational systems, followed by a series of aerial explosions, too rapid and random to be avoided by manual control alone. It worked this time, forcing the attackers to turn back. Hamon swiveled to grin at Marthe.

  “Never thought I would be grateful for Hathian technology, but your little surprise worked a treat.

  “I only wish Terrans had come up with something similar to stop Ha
thian flyers. I’ve got six ricocheting all over the place in sector three.”

  “Need some help in discouraging them?”

  “No. If anyone’s going to hurt Hathians, it will be me.”

  “You would be betraying your own if you let me hurt them again, you mean?” he demanded.

  She was too busy to reply, but he wasn’t fooled. She had heard his words. A sudden image flashed into his head, of her brother lying cold on a pathologist’s bench, followed by his own memories of the first battle for Hathe. He had been secure on the bridge of the command ship, watching with irritation the puny crafts of the Hathian defense forces hurl themselves at the huge Terran ships. Each flash of light signaling the destruction of yet another small craft had been received with a sense of satisfaction that this tiresome, delaying action would soon be over.

  Now he looked at the screen, and wondered which held men or women he knew. How many of those, too, would be laid on a cold slab tomorrow, all in the name of greed and hate?

  “Two flyers down,” reported Marthe, the careful tone of her voice telling him her thoughts were not too far distant from his own. He braced himself. Now was not the time for introspection. His gaze locked back on his screen.

  “They’re starting to send in the heavy guns. I’ve got one carrier coming in, supported by ten flyers, and the ground below is swarming with troops,” Hamon called sharply, his eyes never leaving the screen.

  “Similar here. And it’s a mix of Terran and Hathians. They may not be cooperating, but they are certainly watching each other closely, to use whatever advantage possible.”

  “Closing in on all sides. Activating inner defense shield.”

  “Hold for a count of three. I should be able to catch a few in its net.”

  “Right. One … two … three. Now!”

  Hamon’s finger shot out and a deathly shimmer sprang up on a globe about them, open only at one, small circle directly above, to allow the signal to the shuttle to pass through undistorted.

  “We caught one transporter and ten flyers,” said Marthe, reading the disordered waves on her screen, which told of vessels with controls suddenly burned out by the shield, settling on the ground in untidy lumps. Their enemies were close now, only a couple of kilometers from the house.