Pay the Piper: Hathe Book Two Read online

  Pay The Piper

  Hathe Book Two

  By Mary Brock Jones

  ***

  All material contained herein Copyright © Mary Brock Jones 2015. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  ***

  For more works by this author, please visit:

  www.marybrockjones.com

  ***

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table Of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  To my sons who grew up with Hathe.

  Pay The Piper

  Hathe Book Two

  By Mary Brock Jones

  Secrets are revealed; questions must be answered, as two lovers caught in a maelstrom of opposing loyalties face their toughest fights yet.

  For five years, Earth ruled Hathe, taking what they needed, especially the energy-rich mineral, urgonium, it must have to survive. For five years, the Hathians kept their world safe by hiding behind a façade, posing as subservient peasants and pretending all the wealth and knowledge of Hathe has vanished. Then came the time for Hathe to fight back, and for the Terrans to learn how wrong they were.

  Now the war is over.

  Hamon Radcliff was once head of security for the Terran forces. His wife, Marthe an Castre, belonged to the Hathian resistance. Surviving the peace was always going to be tough for lovers caught on opposite sides. Both did whatever was needed to protect their home worlds, and those actions have consequences. The end of the war doesn’t take away all the anger and bitterness still lingering on both sides, and when it turns its glare on Marthe and Hamon, peace time becomes downright dangerous.

  Introduction

  The stars beckoned and man went, spreading out to populate the new worlds with new ideas and new ways. Shining among those new worlds was Hathe. It had peace, stability and wealth, all in sufficient abundance to bring forth a world in which there was a blossoming of the arts, the sciences and sheer curiosity.

  Particularly, it had wealth.

  But that was before the Terran ships appeared in Hathian space, before a raw and untried Hathian fleet flew out in futile battle against the invaders, before the Terrans stole the most precious jewel in the Hathian treasury:

  Freedom.

  Now Hathe has taken it back, and Earth must pay the price.

  Chapter One

  The Hathians had trussed him like an animal and discarded him here in the corner of the room. Hamon Radcliff glared at his enemies.

  It was all he could do. He’d tried to resist, fighting back with all the bottled up rage within him. Bruised and battered, held down by enemy soldiers, still he kept punching, kicking, using every half remembered, low down street trick he’d learned growing up on Earth. But then the leader of the Hathian soldiers had slapped one of their patches on his back and used it to blast his spine with a shock wave that dropped him flat, his legs flopping uselessly and refusing to answer his furious need for action. Defeated, swiftly bound hand and foot, he was left with nothing. All he could do was watch as the Hathian troops finished rounding up the rest of the Terrans in the communications wing.

  Cleaning up the leftover flotsam. That’s what it felt like.

  He’d nearly won. So close. After all the months of trying to pierce the enigma that lay behind the facade of this world, he thought he’d finally succeeded in keeping Hathe and its precious urgonium firmly in Terran hands. That was before he opened the control room door and met Jacquel des Trurain holding a blaster on him. Now, the Hathian was master and Hamon the conquered; very soon, by the look of it, the rest of the Terran forces on Hathe would join him.

  It was supposed to be the other way round, had been so for five years.

  Ten native soldiers were in the reception area, clearing out all the rooms in this section and commanded precisely and efficiently by des Trurain—for once, observed Hamon bitterly, dispensing with the foppish mannerisms the man had assumed during his imprisonment by the Terrans. Had they been as false as everything else about the Hathians during the Terran occupation? A character the man had assumed to cover his spying for the Hathian resistance?

  Few words were spoken by their captors, yet all the Hathians appeared to know what to do, working in an automated silence that frightened his fellow Terrans more than anything else their captors did. The Hathians were using those secret communication patches of theirs, he guessed, in that constant web of communication that had all unknowingly surrounded the Terrans. What words were spoken were in the native Harmish, a tongue alien to all except Hamon; and those were only single words or phrases, meaningless fragments that left him none the wiser.

  Too soon, all the Terrans were tied up and forced into a line, two by two. On the other side of the control room, the cause of his downfall still lay where she’d collapsed, held by her sister and worked on by medics. He watched them work, watched the faint rise and fall that meant life. Soon, he would be taken away and this would be his last sight of her.

  Her eyes opened then, to hear the Hathians speaking of their prisoners. He watched her face as they spoke his name and saw the change in her eyes as he answered their questions.

  As he denied all claims between them and declared himself for Earth.

  After that, he was dragged roughly from the floor and yanked into place at the back of the line of captured Terrans, the soldiers half carrying him as his legs slowly recovered their use. He stared straight ahead, refusing to look back at the inner control room and that crumpled figure. Whether from fear of what his blind anger at the sight of her would do, or from a desperately battened down streak of anxiety at his core, he refused to think. Instead, he shoved viciously at the Hathian soldier restraining him, sending the man tumbling backwards.

  All he gained for his trouble was a resounding blow from the soldier on his other side, strong enough to send him crashing against the door.

  “That’s for my brother, dead in your mines,” his assailant said, dusting his knuckles and helping up the soldier Hamon had pushed over. Both Hathian soldiers waited contemptuously while the throbbing waves in Hamon’s head receded enough to allow him to stand unsupported. He thought he heard a woman cry out, but deliberately ignored it and stumbled to take his place. Maybe he couldn’t fight back yet, but it felt mighty good to give these upstarts a taste of the future.

  He was shoved back into line and the pull of a force field captured him, preventing any hope of escape. His legs were untied and they moved off—the once proud conquerors forced to march pitiably from their former domain.

  Along the endless corridors of the Citadel they shuffled, at last reaching the vast assembly hall buried deep within the complex. En route, Hamon saw a number of other lines of his fellow Terrans, all marked by the same bewildered looks on their faces. Occasionally, there would be one, bruised and b
eaten as his own must be, telling of isolated rebellion but, for the most part, the Terrans appeared too dazed to fully comprehend their fate, let alone rebel.

  What, by all the stars, had happened? How could the whole fortress have fallen so quickly? This was the center of Terran control on Hathe, stuffed full with soldiers, weapons and the best surveillance technology available to Earth. He refused to accept it, futilely holding on to hope of something … anything.

  “Forget what you’re planning.” It was Ferdo, marching beside him, his best friend here and the chief communications officer in the Terran occupation forces. Captain Ferdo Braddock, who had finally given him proof of the existence of a Hathian resistance by cracking the secret of their communications system. Ferdo had been in that control room with him.

  “We nearly had them, Ferdo. We nearly beat them.”

  “Maybe, but nearly isn’t good enough. Not this time; and I don’t like that look on your face—not if it means what I think it does. If des Trurain can keep it professional, then so can you.”

  Hamon glared angrily. He’d done much on Hathe he would never forgive himself for, or forget, but his treatment of des Trurain wasn’t on his list of regrets.

  “The man was obviously a spy. If he’s a professional, as you say, then he knew the risks he took. Wait to see what they do to us, now they’re in charge, before you start regretting what we did to them.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “Leave it, Ferdo. Not now.”

  For a minute, Hamon thought Ferdo would ignore the warning in his voice, but the Captain closed his mouth and obeyed. Thank the stars. There was so much fury boiling inside him, and talk of des Trurain was just what it would take to send him over the edge. He couldn’t afford that. Not yet.

  One day we would have married.

  She’d said that to him once, long ago in the days when he’d first held her captive. Marthe an Castre, his other Hathian Haut Liege prisoner—his wife—and the man she would have married, Jacquel des Trurain, who was now force marching Hamon to detention and who knew what else. Marthe who lay…

  No. Don’t think of that. Not yet. Not ever. He wiped his face clear and set his eyes forward. A black smile touched his lips at the harsh orders from a guard to stop talking. With pleasure, and thank you for your timely intervention. He almost said it aloud, just to see the look on the man’s face. Anything to protect him from questions he couldn’t face answering, though he doubted that the Hathian had meant to benefit him. Not their most hated prisoner.

  They entered the assembly hall and halted. The huge room was half full already. Anxious groups dotted the hall, talking softly in scared voices. Between the doorway and the crowd, a faint luminescence announced the presence of a confining field, shining a brighter white in the narrow arch through which incoming prisoners were being processed.

  Soon, their coffle was brought up to the two Hathian clerks. Even here, Hamon’s anger was denied the relief of defiance. The clerks had facial analysis records of every Terran and, once in front of the screen, the instant identification brought up a full dossier on each captive. Normally, he would have admired the efficiency of the operation, but not now, not with a black haze shrouding all his thoughts. Later, he would use all he now unconsciously observed. For the present, all he could do was hate. It was less painful than thought. Even so, he could not stifle an angry growl as he saw his own record come up:

  Major Hamon Radcliff, Head of Special Services.

  Priority ranking – Category 1. Detain at all costs.

  Connections of Importance:

  Father: Alliance Ambassador Garth Radcliff

  Mother: Administrator Freya MacDiarmid

  Wife: Marthe an Castre, Hathian citizen

  “Your last entry’s wrong” he forced out. “The marriage was a sham. Part of her cover story.”

  The clerk looked up, then back at his record. He checked a file. “No, it’s right here. Entered into the register and signed by voice recognition print. It’s legal,” the man said without looking up again.

  Hamon was stunned, then angry again. He knew enough of Hathe’s traditions to know what the man meant. A true marriage, entered into the almighty Hathian genealogical records—no sham but a promise given in full honor.

  He hadn’t known.

  He was barely holding on, barely keeping up the shield of anger, when the Hathian clerk read the flag on his screen and urgently gestured a nearby soldier. “This the one Councilor deln Crantz wanted?”

  The soldier looked at the record, then up at Hamon. “Hamon an Radcliff. Yes, that’s the one. Never thought I’d want to be this close to him.”

  The soldier smirked at the knowing look on the clerk’s face. “Doesn’t look too fearsome now, does he?”

  Laughing triumphantly, the man signaled over his troop and pulled Hamon out of the line. Hamon tried to shove him away but the rest of the soldiers grabbed him as well, holding him tightly and leaving no chance for escape. With his hands bound, all he could do was glare at them, hiding nothing of the fury burning him up. He was pleased to see those not holding him finger their weapons nervously. They had reason.

  “Chin up,” called Ferdo desperately after him. Hamon was forced to watch helplessly again as the communications officer was processed and passed through to join the dazed collection of Terrans. Once inside the hall, the newly caught Terrans were released from their bonds, but it made no difference. They were prisoners.

  Hamon was taken away from the main hall and thrust into a small side room, recognizable as once having been a stores cupboard. The soldiers were none too gentle, shoving him in as hard as they could. He hit a shelf and stifled the automatic gasp. He’d hit the burn in his side, striking the dull pain of his wound an agonizing blow. All he could manage was to keep it from showing on his face, keeping his reaction to a slight grimace. These scum must not guess how badly he was hurt. It was the only advantage he could find in his present situation.

  “The Councilor is busy now. You’ll have to wait here till he’s free to fit you in.” The leader of the soldiers grinned maliciously. “Whenever that might be.”

  They switched on a field over the entrance to keep him away from the door, then slammed and locked it as they left. He could hear them laughing as their footsteps disappeared. Something told him he was in for quite a wait.

  He was right. The long hours of the night brought no change. He knew how much time was passing only from his timer. The lights dimmed, but never turned off completely, and he was forced to use a bottle found on a shelf to relieve himself. He refused to call out for food or water. He wasn’t yet reduced to begging … not from Hathians.

  His captors had forgotten him, it seemed. Could it be they’d met with difficulties? Stars, he hoped so, desperate for a ray of promise. A black haze of anger carried him through the night, riding him like a giant bear on his shoulders. At first, he gave himself over to it in relief. By morning, he’d had enough. He forced his brain to turn away from its useless treadmill of ‘what if’ and began to plot, to consider ways and means of countering the Hathians. First, get rid of that patch des Trurain had slapped on him, but after too many attempts and useless scrabbling, he had to admit defeat. He knew where it was, knew what it was meant to look like and feel like, but it made no difference. This patch was nothing like the one he’d taken from Marthe. He couldn’t touch it, see it, do anything to get rid of it. It was there, and a continual threat to his ability to fight back.

  But it was Hathian, and once he got back to the other Terrans, Ferdo would want to analyze it. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to ignore the presence of the blasted thing.

  Next, he needed to find out what had happened, how widespread was the takeover. Just how could a resistance be so discreet as to be barely glimpsed until that last, fatal day?

  She’d looked hurt, so badly hurt. And the child? She carried his child.

  But no. That picture he wouldn’t remember. Not yet. Possibly not ever.

&nb
sp; He shook his head, viciously banishing those last moments. It had been galling enough to wake up this morning after a fitful doze on the floor to find his left thumb clenched down firmly on his wedding band. Cursing, he’d snatched it away, but couldn’t bring himself to pull off the ring as he’d first intended. The incident had soured him again, and it had taken some hard self-flagellation before he regained a semblance of cool thought.

  Finally, well into the next day, he heard the sound of the door opening. He tensed, pulling himself up and standing as far from the door as he could, poised for whatever might happen.

  The soldiers looked every bit as wary of him as he could wish for. Their leader looked in, eyes unblinking as they locked on Hamon’s position at the far end of the room. He stared silently back. The man switched off the field guarding the room and Hamon sprang forward, but the leader was ready. A tap on the control pad on his arm set off another spinal shock through that damned patch and left Hamon yet again in a helpless heap on the floor. Twice in short succession? He already had a massive back ache from the first one. Fortunately for the continued functioning of his nervous system, the effect of this blast was brief. Within seconds, he was held firmly by a personal field, the paralysis had faded and he was hauled to his feet to face his foe.

  “Des Trurain. I see our roles are reversed,” he drawled slowly. “Your restraint does you credit, considering.”

  “We are a civilized nation. Undue retribution was never part of our plan.”

  The Hathian’s whip-like strength, barely held in check as he stood balanced for action, belied his words. Hamon fought for sanity. Whatever his heart might want, logic said he must back down this time. He was too badly injured, too much in need of food. He nodded briefly, giving way. One day, he promised himself, there would be a reckoning with this particular Hathian, but not till he was fit again and capable of giving him the drubbing he so richly deserved.