Pay the Piper: Hathe Book Two

by Mary Brock Jones

  “Are any Terran or Hathian,” asked Marthe during a lull in the talk. The lull became a dead wall of silence. Hamon straightened, staring hard at the chairwomen of the organizing committee.

  A hardened space merchant from Samarkan. Madame ka Merle had amassed a huge fortune from her widespread fleet, entering Alliance politics only when it became obvious that her business was becoming limited by the static condition of the Alliance. This expansion into a new colony was, to her, an economic necessity, one for which she was prepared to wield a great deal of sheer bloodymindedness.—which did not mean that, at this late stage in her life, she intended to suddenly develop the habit of laying all her cards on the table, as both Marthe and Hamon were well aware.

  “How many of the colonists are from Earth or Hathe,” Hamon demanded now, in the cold voice that demanded an answer.

  “Four hundred from Earth, maybe the same or a bit more from Hathe,” replied Madame ka Merle dispassionately.

  “Are they aware that you propose myself as leader and Marthe as medical officer?”

  “They are.”

  Hamon surged upwards, glaring at Sylvan an Castre. “And you call this a safe refuge!”

  “That surely is up to you, young man. You were very successful in binding men to you to achieve your aims on my home world. Now you must do the same again, with people equally desperate.” After a long day of discussion, her father had lost his usual calm. “At least it holds more hope of long-term security than your first choice.”

  “I was beginning to think you were one Hathian I could trust,” sneered Hamon angrily.

  An Castre’s hands reached up to grip the table as he slowly rose to glare at his son-in-law. “How dare you suggest that I would send Marthe or my grandchildren into danger! You, of all people. Or do you forget what the Terran occupation cost me? The death of a son and the exile of a daughter. Only one of my three children is left to grow old on the world to which their mother bore them. You think I want the death of any more of my family? By the Pillars, this is the best I could find.”

  Her father stood rigid, his eyes holding Hamon’s. Her husband returned the challenge for a bare minute, then stepped back, his hand half raised as if to ward off something. He dropped his gaze, shaking his head in release, then sat down again with quiet deliberation. It was not till her father retook his seat, his face grey and showing the imprint of all his years, that Hamon spoke again.

  “You have questioned the Terran and Hathian colonists on this matter then?”

  Marthe sensed it was as close as he could come to an apology, his voice carefully devoid of any hint of challenge. There was the slightest trace of a nod from his father-in-law, then Father turned to her to reply. The mechanical timbre of his voice alone told Marthe that he hadn’t yet recovered his equilibrium.

  “The Terran colonists are all from the ranks of those who would have been classified as ‘uncommitted to the communal good’ under the old system, and were therefore outside the food supply system—the chronic rebels and deviants. They have no love for the Earth of old and even less for the new hierarchy. On Annan IV, they see a chance to follow their dreams, unfettered by the restrictions of a worn out society—a feeling that you will find is common to all your colonists. The Terrans have no reason to love either of you, nor will they harm you if they truly believe you can make the colony succeed. That is what they want above all. As for the Hathians…” he paused, and for a moment Marthe thought he would be unable to continue.

  He proved her wrong. “None have any reason to love your husband, my dear. Every single one of them is from the families who were permanently stationed on Hathe—the ‘dirtsiders’. Their children grew up believing they were nothing, and many of their parents almost came to believe it too. We have set up re-education programs since you left, but not all can readjust. They fought too long, and cannot now set aside the habits they needed to survive then. Nor could many live with the crowds flocking the new Hathe, too used to the small villages we set up. Your Hathian colonists are exiles too. Permanently barred from their home world, not by the law as you are, but by culture and self-esteem. They may hate your husband, but if he can help them create a world to which they belong, then he will have their loyalty.

  “As for you and the children. I wouldn’t worry. You may be reviled on Hathe by the public brayers of gossip, but the dirtsiders know the truth of the occupation. They remember how often you risked your life to come to their aid.”

  No more was said that day, but her father’s words echoed in Marthe’s head as she stood with Hamon to address their fellow colonists for the first time. Her Hathians ware immediately recognizable, still unconsciously burdened with the self-effacing demeanor that had protected them during the Terran regime. They huddled together, carefully distinct from their neighbors and at the opposite end of the vast hall from the equally recognizable Terrans.

  These, too, were branded, indelibly marked by a swaggering defiance and the pinched faces of a childhood whose only constant had been an ever present and debilitating hunger.

  The whole arena was divided into similar groups, like stubbornly clinging to like, though none so signally as the Terrans or Hathians; yet Marthe also saw what her father had seen. Despite the disparity and the tensions fragmenting the crowd, a harsh similarity bound them all. First, she sensed their anger, the bitter anger of defeat, but then came the second common bond: the eagerness with which they raised their heads to look intently at their new leaders. And in the absolute silence that fell as Hamon stepped forward, she felt a bone-deep, desperate hope. For every single one. Annan IV held their only hope of a life and a purpose to it, as it did for her own family.

  Hamon saw it too. It was in his eyes, and he drew it into his words. Within moments, they were his. Marthe could almost feel the committee nodding in self-congratulation as they watched the vidcast. They had picked the right man. Over the following months, he reinforced it again and again, and long before the day of their final embarkation, his position was unassailable. Even the Hathians and Terrans came to him so matter of factly that it was only as they were leaving that an amused Marthe would see the faint look of surprise on their faces, as they suddenly remembered just who this man was.

  They were frantic months, filled with too much work and too little time for all the goodbyes that must be said to those they would leave behind. Many came from Hathe and Earth to see them, for however brief a moment of contact. A last hug, last words of wisdom, a last chance to see family or friend.

  “We will return, one day.” Marthe lost count of how many times she said this.

  Her farewell to Jaca was private. The expedition was leaving for Annan IV from an Alliance space station—neutral territory for all parties. He marched down the corridor to meet her surrounded by his personal troop of Hathian guards, every bit the senior government official with a demeanour to suit. She merely raised an eyebrow, saving her cheeky grin until the door had slid behind him and they were alone.

  “Commander des Trurains. Should I salute or curtsey?”

  “You dare, and I’ll shove you into that fancy pot plant.”

  He’d done that to her when they were seven and she was being particularly annoying. Bendin had held her on one side, Jaca on the other. She kept up the facade for one long moment more, then burst into laughter and grabbed him, hugging him as hard as she could manage. “Where have you been, Jaca?”

  “Back home, fixing up the mess you left behind,” he said, hugging her back just as hard. Then he set her from him, raking his gaze down her and finishing with an approving nod. “Motherhood suits you.”

  “Thank you.” A softer smile, then she held him by the shoulders and looked him over as carefully as he had her. “And you? All this responsibility. How are you?”

  He opened his face, dropped any shielding from her. “I’m getting there, Mimi.”

  It was a fair summation. New lines edged his face, but there was a definite lift to the corners of his mouth.


  “Hathe is recovering?”

  He nodded. “We couldn’t save them all—but you know that. You have those we failed among your settlers. Overall though, we are becoming one planet again, and there are protections in place for the dirtsiders. They are now treated with the honour they deserve.”

  She dropped her head, and he tilted it up again to catch the tears she couldn’t control.

  “So it wasn’t all for nothing?”

  “No, Mimi. What you did, what we did...” Then it was his turn to drop his head. She stood silent, at ease with him in a way she had feared she would never have again. When he lifted his head, it was the old smile of childhood on his face. “I have something for you. To take with you to your new home.”

  He pulled a small travel vial from his pocket and opened the cap.

  “Dirt?”

  “From Bendin’s grave,” he pulled out a sliver and placed it in her hand, “and a holo of the three of us from that night on the plateau. That last night before everything changed.”

  Her fist closed, clenched tight around vial and sliver. “Thank you,” she breathed.

  “He would have been proud of you.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I think he would have. After he’d read me the riot act three times over,” and she gave a choke of laughter.

  They were good. Not the same as before, but good. Later, she showed him her babies. Riardan went straight for the shiny medals lining his dress uniform, having decided they were old friends, while Freya gave him that long, considering look of her grandmother’s, then let her head drop against his arm and shut her eyes.

  “You’ve made the grade,” said Marthe softly. “I can count on one hand the number of people she’ll relax like that with.”

  “A wise one, then.”

  Marthe grinned. “She takes after her father’s family,” and was relieved to see a similar grin back from Jaca.

  Then it was time. Hamon came in, shook hands with that cool detachment that was the still the best he and Jaca could manage, then left them alone.

  “Be safe, Mimi,” said her oldest friend.

  “And you, be happy,” she said back.

  He was silent. One long study of her face, all the precious tales of the years between them suddenly alive in his eyes. A slight grimace, then his com crackled into life. “Commander, the shuttle leaves in ten minutes standard,” said a female voice. Marthe caught the trace of something new on his face and smothered a quiet smile.

  One last, hard hug, then he must go.

  “Good luck,” she whispered as the door slid open and his official guard surrounded him once more.

  He had assumed his public face, and gave her a formal bow. Then just as his head came back and before his men could see it, she caught a quick wink and the rogue’s grin from their days in captivity.

  The last few days were even more frantic, chaos in triplicate, and it was with a sense of stunned surprise that Marthe found herself one day standing on the bridge of the command ship, minutes only from departure. Their bags were all loaded, the vast trivia of documentation fully processed and, around her, the crew pragmatically counted down the routine of departure.

  What was she doing here? This was madness.

  Hamon caught the change in her face as he leaned over to speak to a ship’s officer. He waved the man aside and strode across to where she stood, trapped in time, with their children beside her.

  “Into the Forward Gallery. I’ve something to show you.” He took up Freya, his other hand reaching out for his wife and son.

  The gallery was designed for one purpose only. The wall at the far end slid back as they entered, revealing the mighty window that was the dominant feature of the room. Through it, a kaleidoscope of stars beckoned. Right at the edge, isolated from the jostling clusters of light, was a single, winking glow.

  Hamon crouched down beside his son. “See that light, Riardan. See how pretty it is. That is going to be your home sun one day.”

  The little boy looked at his father in awe, too young to understand the words but caught by the wonder in the voice. He turned and tugged at his sister, who wriggled to be let down. Freya was no sooner freed than she crawled over to the window, trying to catch the pretty lights shimmering through the transparent plate.

  Hamon pulled Marthe in close, tucking her under his chin as they watched their children. “Look above the window,” he murmured. “I’ve activated the rear viewers.”

  Marthe did as he said, then gasped. Two screens were alive and on each shone a group of stars. Stars still close but soon to become heartrendingly distant. At the centre of one screen was a small, yellow sun, around which she knew orbited nine planets. The third one would be part of her husband’s soul till the day he died. On the second screen blazed a larger, yellow-white sun. It owned four planets. Around the second of these circled two moons, one small and insignificant and known as Mathe. It shone down on a world that epitomized all the beauty and wonder of her life.

  “Earth and Hathe,” she murmured, the wetness of a single tear on her cheek echoing the grief she could feel in the arms holding her. Then they released her and Hamon twisted her round to face him, stepping back a pace. His face was a closed mask.

  “You could return to Hathe, despite what your father said. You have enough friends in the military to ensure the children’s safety, and yours. Given time, the Hathians would come to accept you.”

  She looked up a moment more at her home sun, then turned back to Hamon, a very special smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

  “If we did that, you could return to Earth. Your father would welcome you with open arms, and I am fully confident you would soon manage to filch his organization from him. You could use it to restore Earth according to your dreams.”

  “Very likely.”

  He grinned, pulling her into his arms in a long kiss of promise. Breaking off, he gazed down into the warm brown eyes of his wife.

  “I think it’s time I gave the Captain the order to be off.”

  It was a question. She answered it by tucking her head under his chin, finding its home in the sturdy shelter of his chest. Hamon spoke the necessary words into the com channel, then they both turned to face forwards, to where their children played excitedly with the stars.

  On the screens above their heads still shone the slowly waning images of their home suns, declining into a pale farewell.

  The family stayed in that room a long time. Only once, by mutual consent, did they both glance upward—a last, long look at yearned-for and vanishing glitter. Then the screens fell dark, and their eyes fastened resolutely on the forward vista.

  The children played on, oblivious, and beneath their feet, a faint vibration told of a voyage begun.

  Ahead, the star at the edge of the galaxy beckoned.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for joining me in the tale of Hamon and Marthe’s adventures. I hope you enjoyed their story as much as I enjoyed writing it. They have now set off for their new home, and new challenges.

  But what happened to those left behind, to Jacquel and the Hathians left torn and bleeding from the wounds of war? Look out for Jacquel’s trials and adventures as he sets about restoring the world he loves in “Áftermath: Hathe Book Three”, coming in 2016.

  About the Author

  Mary Brock Jones lives in New Zealand, but loves nothing more than to escape into the other worlds in her head, to write science fiction and historical romances. Sedate office worker by day; frantic scribbler by night.

  Her parents introduced her to libraries and gave her a farm to play on, where trees became rocket ships and rocky outcrops were ancient fortresses. She grew up writing, filling pages of notebooks and filling her head with stories, but took a number of detours on the pathway to her dream job. Four grown sons, more than one house renovated and various jobs later, her wish came true.

  You can find Mary here:

  www.marybrockjones.com

  https://www.facebook.com/MaryBrockJo
nesAuthor

  https://twitter.com/MaryJones7

  ***

  Also By Mary Brock Jones:

  A Heart Divided

  Swift Runs the Heart

  Resistance: Hathe Book One

  Pay The Piper: Hathe Book Two

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to all those who have helped me bring my Hathe books to reality. Firstly to my amazing, wise and ever patient editor, Laura Daniels, who pushed me harder than I’ve been pushed before to make these books the best they could possibly be, and for which I am hugely grateful. Any errors remaining are purely the fault of my own pigheadedness. To Victoria for coming to my rescue with the formatting stuff, and saving me from computer hell. To my fellow writers at SpecFicNZ, RWNZ and RWA, particularly the Auckland specficers and RWNZers. Thanks you for your generosity, your never ending support, the laughter and the mutual moans, but most of all for helping me to believe I can do this!

  Biggest thanks of all go to my family. To my mother, for raising me in a house full of books, taking us to libraries and taking it for granted that we would all get an education and be able to think for ourselves; to my husband who is always there for me, even though I’m far away in my own world more often than not; but most of all to my sons. You grew up with Hathe – these books had a longer gestation than any baby – and now they are reality. Thank you for your acceptance, for all you taught me over the years, and for the smiles on your faces when I told you I was finally going to publish Hathe.

  The story of Hathe has begun.