“Did your cousin get safely away?” asked a youth.
Griffith nodded. “Yes, Hanith, and with all your hard-won information for HQ. Marthe tells me those troop movements you saw yesterday will be particularly useful.”
The boy beamed his youthful pleasure.
“She also had some good news. The date for the final assault has been confirmed. All is set for the Zenith of the Pillars of Mathe.”
He heard the ring in his voice echoed in muted cries of joy from all round him. In one corner, a woman sat with tears starting in her eyes. Griffith saw and moved over, his hands clasping hers in comfort. She looked up, hope almost afraid to enter her face.
“Six months only. Is it true?”
“Yes, Lena, it is true. Soon, it will be over.” He stood up, a fierce exultation filling him as his gaze encompassed them all. “Six months only and then we will show these accursed Terrans the truth behind the peasants of Hathe. Come that day, we will wipe them from our world and send them back to their squalid Earth. And then … then, we can go home!”
He stood a moment longer, letting some of the powerful exhilaration that surged through him pass over and fill the rest. Then he signaled for silence, the patch was removed from the surveillance device, and all settled down to sleep, a sleep for once free of despair.
Outside the hut, the night was still plagued with unrest, and black shadows skittered over the ground. Marthe moved slowly, a splash of darkness passing from clump to clump. Suddenly she froze. The tramp of feet approached, a patrolman on his way around the camp perimeter. Closer he came, till he stopped by a large clump of grass to survey the scene then gave a shiver, huddled into his big, heavy coat and continued on. Behind the clump, she let out a silent sigh of relief. As soon as the tramp of feet had died away, she hurried onwards. The last obstacle was behind her.
Moving quickly, she made for the safety of a nearby hollow. Once in the tussocks on the far side, she would be hidden from even the sharpest of human eyes. Then began a long night of hard slogging, clinging to the sides of hills, slithering into the protective cover of the bushes in the sinuous gullies that carved their way into the land and winding her way about the rocks thrusting up through the plain. Always she kept the road near, following its twisting path onwards to the goal they both sought.
It was nearly morning when the grey light of the still hidden sun showed her the jumbled shapes of buildings ahead. In the middle, towering over the surrounding huddle of shacks and closely packed houses, was a huge, white edifice. The Citadel. Home to the Terrans, and her goal.
Not far from the wall enclosing the town, Marthe stopped and curled up in the shelter of a bush. There was time to rest. She pulled the heavy outer wrap closely round her and gave in to the weariness of the long night’s tramp, lapsing into heavy sleep. An unforgivably short time had passed before she was rudely woken by the prodding of a boot in her back. She looked up, straight into the face of a Terran soldier.
“What’s this?” snarled a voice in Terran Standard.
Like all Hathians, Marthe had long ago learnt the hated tongue. Even after years on Hathe, few Terrans had bothered to acquire more than a smattering of the local Harmish tongue, rightly surmising that if the natives knew what was good for them, they would soon master their conquerors’ language.
The soldier poked his boot in again, hard. “What are you up to out here, girl? Trying to avoid your assigned duty, unless I’m mistaken.”
Marthe ducked her head, hiding the quick gleam in her eyes. “No, sir, never.”
“Then what? Explain, and make it quick.”
“I was in a foraging party sent out here yesterday, sir, and missed the last gong. The gates had shut before I knew it.”
“Why? Sleeping instead of working, I suppose?” The soldier prodded her upright and looked down in contempt. He was of only average build himself and was clearly enjoying to the full his height advantage.
“Not sleeping, sir. I’d found a jerbel bush and was trying to pick as many berries as possible. The Commander likes them particularly, sir, and I hoped to exchange them for extra supplies for my family.”
“And what happened to all those jerbels?”
“I ate them, sir. I was so hungry last night.”
“So, greedy as well as lazy. We’ll see what the Committee can do about that. Come on, get moving!”
The words were reinforced with a heavy blow to the side of the head. Marthe was used to such treatment, merely shaking her head to clear the momentary fuzziness before starting to walk, her shoulders bowed as if in fear. Beneath her hood, her lips twitched in triumph.
Soon they reached the great metal gates of the town. So far, her information was accurate. The only guards she could see were a troop of soldiers lounging carelessly near the outer posts. Her captor hailed the one closest. “Hey, Carl. Take charge of my work group, will you? I found this one skulking outside, too busy last night gorging on jerbels to hear the gong. It’s the Citadel for her, I reckon. Maybe a spell in prison will remind her of her place.” He gave a loud guffaw and shoved her forward.
They continued on, through busy streets crowded with natives and the occasional Terran soldier. Many were the frightened looks cast the pair and not a few shocked glances. At one point she stumbled, falling heavily against a fellow native. The soldier was too busy yelling at her to get up to notice the swift movement of hands as she passed the precious sliver over from the hidden pocket in her robe, or the quick nod of reply from the other Hathian.
Now they came to the last street. Ahead, the houses huddled even closer, seeming to draw back from the fearsome block of the Citadel. No other street led off this, and it was as if she were passing through a tunnel leading inexorably on to the black emptiness of the slowly opening gates beyond. It was the only breach visible in all the vast squareness of the fortress. Nothing else of the outer world was allowed to intrude into this, the centre of Terran control on Hathe. Equally, she could not help feeling that, once taken into the Citadel, nothing and nobody would be released lightly from the heavy gates that now shut behind her.
She was in a closed passage, blocked at the far end by another pair of metal doors. The lights came on, and Marthe saw a smaller door opening to one side. She was taken through it, to find herself in an immense triangular courtyard, bereft of natural life but for soldiers and nervous, scurrying natives. In an office, a clerk took down her particulars then tapped his voicecom.
“Sir, we have a native girl on report. Data through to your screen now. What period of punishment and duty assignment? Looks reasonably young and strong, as far as you can ever tell under that shroud of theirs.”
“One year. Major Radcliff mornings, prison kitchen the rest of the day,” came the reply from the Committee.
“Right, sir.” The clerk switched off, then looked up briefly. “Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all for now,” he said, dismissing the guard. Again, he spoke into the voicecom. “Agnethe, to Admin immediately,” he said, and then turned back to his own screen, taking no further notice of Marthe, though she now stood unguarded within a hands breadth from him and could have easily killed him. The man had no idea of the skills she had been forced to acquire these last few years. She kept her head down and maintained the image of a stray native girl, fearful in this home of the conquerors. If only she were free to do otherwise. Marthe had known so many if only moments.
Ten minutes later, a large, native woman bustled in, the hood of her robe slipping from her head to reveal a red-cheeked, smiling face and wisps of unruly, damp hair beginning to grey. “My apologies, sir. I was busy checking this evening’s meal for the officers when you called, and it needed a few of my own touches. These ignorant peasants know nothing of a gentleman’s palate, but I, who served in the kitchens of Councilor Bodmin, understand these things. Not that that degenerate would have noticed,” she added hastily.
“Enough of your prattle, Agnethe. If the Commander was not so attached to your cooking skills, that t
ongue of yours would’ve had you banned to the mines years ago. You’re to show this new girl her duties. She’s to clean for Major Radcliff in the mornings and work in the prison kitchens the rest of the day.” With which he turned back to his work and took no further notice of them.
“Come on, dear, this way,” said the matronly woman, hurrying Marthe out the door. “What’s your name, now, and how did you end up in this godforsaken place?” she asked as soon as they were out of the clerk’s hearing.
“Riarda, please ma’am,” came the timid reply. The woman may be one of her own, with an innate likeability, but Marthe’s briefings had not included this woman’s security clearance level, and she was not about to trust her with her real name. “I fell asleep and missed the shutting of the gates yesterday evening. I also ate a bag of jerbels that I’d gathered to sell to the Terrans.”
“Is that all? I remember feasts of best bortch, with jerbels scattered everywhere. Now we get imprisoned for a few! But times are what they are. Come along, don’t dawdle, and call me Agnethe. Everyone else does.”
Marthe followed her obediently, attempting to make sense of the maze of intersecting corridors and halls. Soon they passed into a new area and through a security door that was bland enough in appearance, but harsh experience had left her with a wary sixth sense for such entrances. It hit her now, the hidden surveillance screens setting off a fine humming throughout her body.
Beyond it, the building changed. The corridors widened and the feeling of being in a prison was no longer present. This must be the Terrans’ accommodation quarters.
“Major Radcliff’s rooms are along here,” said Agnethe, waving to a doorway. “A word of warning. The Terran may be only a major, but watch him. He’s the head of Special Services and from a powerful Earth family, I am told. He is also, I might add, very particular over the state of his room and will bawl you out properly if your work is not up to standard; but please him and he’s been known to be extraordinarily kind. Especially to a young lady like you,” added Agnethe with a chuckle. Then she became serious again. “One thing more. He speaks Harmish, though Mathe knows why he ever bothered with learning it. He’s a strange one, he is—very keen on asking questions, so you be careful.”
She threw open a door as she finished speaking, ushering Marthe into a service cupboard. Then the woman opened the door on the far side of the small room and Marthe entered a whole new world. They were in an apartment, but this was like no place she had seen in all the long and miserable years since the Terrans first landed. This place was beautiful, filled with light, air and comfort. She could only stand and gape, taking it all in. The bare plans of the Citadel she had seen gave no hint of this reality.
A profusion of plants graced the room in front of her, particularly on the small balcony at the far end and, beyond it, she could see the second of the Citadel’s great courtyards. It was as unlike the barren oppression of the first yard as the character of the girl Riarda was to her own true nature. She walked forward as if in a daze, needing to see more of this miracle. The courtyard flourished with trees and flowers in kaleidoscopic abundance. The sound of water played from numerous fountains and shaded walks meandered through garden beds.
Agnethe’s voice broke into the girl’s bemused entrancement, following close behind her. “It may look lovely, but remember we cannot appreciate it. We lack the quality of taste, so I’m told,” she warned dryly. “Staff enter through the service door only.”
She went on to explain Marthe’s duties, leading her through the elegant rooms. Marthe was silent, a properly cowed and frightened detainee. At one point only did she interrupt. They were entering the bedroom, Agnethe instructing her in the precise ordering of the room, when Marthe happened to glance up. She gasped, eyes opening wide in recognition. Agnethe looked across sharply then saw what had startled her. Above the sleeper hung a painting of a house, a very beautiful house. It was not a Terran house. Agnethe had seen Marthe’s shocked recognition. The older woman’s hand came down on her shoulder, to all intents guiding her fussily onwards. In reality, the fingers bit into her skin. Marthe acknowledged the warning with a humble downcasting of eyes.
“A pretty enough picture,” remarked Agnethe. “One of the filthy Lieger’s City houses. The Major has an interest in such relics, though why he keeps this particular one here is beyond me.”
She guided Marthe onwards, talking of duties again. Marthe listened with but half an ear and could not stop herself from giving the painting a last, quick glance as she left the bedroom. She had recognized the house of a certainty, every single, wondrous line of it. Her warning hum was back and at full magnitude.
It was with a sense of relief that she followed Agnethe back to the native section of the Citadel, almost welcoming its grimness. Here, she was put to work preparing the prisoners’ evening meal, leaving no time to spare for thoughts of the beautiful apartment with its disturbing painting.
Later that night, she managed to catch a free minute, sitting down in a quiet corner of the large dining room beside a fellow native. The breeches sticking out from under the customary cloak proclaimed him to be male, but his face was hidden by his hood. The man shuffled along to give her room, in the process separating them even more from the few native staff still clearing up, then dipped his head close to hers. Both kept their voices low.
“So you made it, little Mimi? And what huge crime did you commit to be sent here?” It was the voice of a young man, a hint of laughter breaking through despite the surroundings.
“Nothing really, and don’t call me Mimi. Apart from Bendin when he was trying to be particularly annoying, no one has called me that since school, as you well know, Jaca. I’m to be known here as Riarda, even by our own people, so just you remember it.” Beneath her hood, she could feel her mouth twitching and there was no longer even a hint of submission in her voice.
“Does no one dare to tease the mighty Madame Marthe asn Castre?” he retorted, chuckling shamelessly at her hasty warning hush then throwing up his hands in apology. “All right then, what’s your news? This area is shielded so we’re safe from their eavesdropping, but stick to Harmish. No point in making things easy for the Terrans.”
“No, it is not” she very pointedly agreed. “You got my last transmission?”
“Telling me you’d met with your cousin Griffith? Yes. I assume he had all the deployments you sought, in clearest detail, right down to the color of each Terran’s eyes?”
“Not quite, but close to it. And with very strict instructions for their passage.” She laughed herself, though still quietly. “I don’t think cousin Griffith will ever approve of me.”
“By the Pillars, may he not! Life wouldn’t be half as much fun.”
“Thank you, I think. Though even I have to admit that his reports are excellent. Full visuals of weapon types, training procedures and detailed specifications on numbers of soldiers and their armaments. I passed it on as I came through town. Better still, his was the last group of troops to be surveyed. We’ve now all we need.”
“If that’s so, why were we sent here? All I’ve been told is to familiarize myself with the Terran staff.”
“It seems a few of their senior officers are still suspicious of us. We’re to study them and report back to the Council. Here’s the list,” and she beat out a staccato of coded taps with her fingertips on the clear communications patch on his wrist, a match to the one she wore on her own. “All their leaders are based here. We need to find out if there are any senior officers who might take action against us. If so, the plan will have to be modified. Whatever happens, though, the Council has confirmed that all is set for the coming Zenith. Or so Father told me a few days ago.”
Jaca dropped his head suddenly, and then raised it to look directly at her for the first time. She caught the faint shine of wetness tipping his lashes and took his hand, squeezing it as she nodded in affirmation. He dropped his head again, but not before she saw a fierce relief seize him. She allowed him a mom
ent then touched his hand again. A shudder passed over him, as if at the throwing back of a blanket, and his voice when he spoke held a determined lightness, the subject inconsequential.
“I thought you’d been off planet recently. You smell a little too sweet to have been long dirt side.”
She took the hint. To speak too openly of the hope they had all clung to so long was more than most could bear. She gave him a minute to recover, then copied his nonchalance, wrinkled her nose and said teasingly: “Unlike certain other people I might mention who are certainly overdue for furlough.”
A disgusted snort was his only reply. She ignored it and continued with her report. “I arrived here yesterday, fell asleep outside town and was found this morning by a Terran sergeant. He was ready to book me for anything, but just to be certain I told him I’d been eating jerbels.”
“You’re allergic to the things.”
“I know that, but the sergeant didn’t, did he? It got me in here anyway. I’m assigned to the prison kitchen, with mornings to be spent cleaning for a Major Radcliff. Our people really came through there. He was top of our list—Special Services head; and now I learn that he speaks Harmish. Definitely a man in need of study.”
“Radcliff!”
Jaca’s head had shot up and she saw, with surprise, his suddenly pale face and grim mouth. The normally twinkling blue eyes were flat with worry. “What is it, Jaca?”
“I wish you’d been assigned to anyone but that man.”
“But he’s ideal for our purposes. I hadn’t dared to hope we could get so close to such a priority target.”
“Maybe. All I can say is that if he so much as harms one hair of your head, I’ll have him. In the few days I’ve been here, I’ve heard more than enough about him. Where women are concerned, he’s trouble.”
Marthe stared. “What, by the Pillars, are you on about? I can look after myself. I’ve done so these past four years and more, and rather successfully, I might add.”
Resistance: Hathe Book One Page 2