Resistance: Hathe Book One

by Mary Brock Jones

  “The Lady asn Castre is a close family friend—far too close for the kind of casual dalliance you Terrans seem to revel in; and don’t tell me she jumped easily into your bed. Not Mimi.”

  “Mimi, how apt. Though I somehow feel she has outgrown it,” mused Hamon, fingering the scar on his cheek. He watched as the Hathian’s eyes tracked his fingers, and his face suddenly froze into stark whiteness. “I admit to needing to use a little persuasion, but the girl is shaping up well now. I always feel a strong hand does wonders for a woman—lets her know where she stands right from the start. Don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, you bastard.”

  Radcliff stared at the slumped figure in front of him. His first triumph over the taunting Hathian and all he could feel was shame. He’d learnt, what? Nothing he hadn’t known already. The luscious Marthe of yesterday was but a counterfeit of a more precious woman, held for the briefest of interludes. A woman driven by loyalties Hamon could only guess at but which had led him to assault her in the most despicable way. He needed to leave this cell. Now. As soon as he got rid of the other reason for his visit. Curtly, he spat out the words forced on him.

  “You are to be shifted today. My commander feels I exaggerate the threat you pose and has ordered that you be released to civilian quarters. Oh, don’t worry. You’re not done with me. My own men will guard you. Not perhaps as sadistic as the Colonel’s, but far more efficient.”

  There was no change in the man on the bench. Hamon made himself finish the message.

  “He’s also ordered that you be allowed to meet with Marthe periodically. You will therefore be dining with us tomorrow night.”

  Hamon refused to stay to see des Trurain’s reaction to that. He left quickly, ignoring the globule of spit landing on the wall as the door slid behind him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  His temper hadn’t improved by the following evening. It was a quarter of an hour past the time set and there was still no sign of des Trurain. That Marthe was in full Haut Liege mode didn’t help. Especially as he suspected this was to be the Marthe he must live with from now on.

  “My dear Hamon, Jaca has never been early for any but the most important of occasions in his whole life.”

  “Don’t ‘dear Hamon’ me, you little…” A tap at the door luckily stopped him finishing, and was followed by the entrance of his disturbing guest—looking, thought Hamon in disgust, as fascinating as ever in a cast-off suit that had never become Hamon’s larger body. It was only by remembering the image of des Trurain slumped in defeat that he could maintain any semblance of polite courtesy.

  “Major, my dear Marthe, so pleasant to see you both. Marthe, positively enticing. Imprisonment becomes you, it seems.”

  It was going to be a long evening. Hamon wished just once he could best this man verbally. He left it to Marthe to answer.

  “Thank you, Jaca, love. And you also have been restored to your elegant self since I last saw you.” She linked her arm with his and drew him over to the bar. “I trust you will behave in a more civilized fashion tonight, though. You were positively barbaric the other day.”

  “My deepest apologies, little madame. I, of all people, had no right to reproach you. Bye the bye, Major, I don’t suppose you’re bisexual?”

  Marthe had seen Jacquel in one of his outrageous moods too often to consider attempting to curb him. There was no point. He now chose to gaze pensively at his shocked host. “No, I didn’t think so. Such a pity. My new quarters are an improvement, for which I thank you, but not luxurious, no, and I do so like my comforts.”

  He didn’t get the retaliation he was no doubt hoping for from Radcliff, but he did at least elicit a bubble of laughter from her. It almost vanquished the grief still lurking inside her. “Jaca, you’re the most impossible man I know. Don’t you agree, Hamon, darling?”

  “Quite,” was all she got from their victim.

  “Oh, dear, the poor boy is a bit put out,” she murmured dolefully to her exquisite compatriot. “Hamon, my deepest, most sincere apologies. It’s such an age since I was last with a friend of my own. But we mustn’t be so cliquey, Jaca darling, or my sweet Hamon becomes horribly offended. I think he must be an only child,” she added in a loud stage whisper as she waved Jacquel to a seat near her own.

  “Not at all,” said Hamon, stiffly. “I have three half brothers and one half sister, to my knowledge, though little contact with my father’s second-union children, I do admit.”

  “Half brothers and sisters? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a half person. Which half, pray tell? The head and shoulders, two arms and one leg? Marthe, how curious these Terrans are.”

  “I think perhaps he means they have only one parent in common,” explained Marthe delicately. “Family relationships appear not to be as important on Earth as they are to our people.”

  “Oh?” Jacquel sank into thought a moment, gazing into his glass. “How very sad, one might say. On the other hand, it occurs to me that if family hadn’t been so important to Hathians, I wouldn’t be stuck here.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  She put enough awe into her voice to make any worthwhile listener believe she was hearing the story for the first time. Not that she thought for a minute she was fooling Hamon—only the other Terrans behind the vids she knew watched them always in the public rooms of the apartment.

  “If you hadn’t been so caught up in that ridiculous squabble with your father,” said Jacquel, a hint of a pout appearing on his ever mobile face, “you might have noticed that you were not the only enfant terrible around at the time.

  “Jaca!” And then she gave a peal of laughter. “You don’t mean... Jessamie did hint that you were involved, but I never thought you could be so stupid.”

  “Well, I was, but did you ever meet the girl?” He lifted his eyes in exasperation.

  “Yes. She was a mite dull, shall we say, but very attractive.”

  “Maybe, but looks aren’t everything, as my mother was forever telling me. This time, she was right. How a brilliant man like an Starne could father someone like Emeline defies all laws of genetic probability. She actually insisted on wearing the brightest of puce one evening when she knew I would be in yellow. The clash. It’s too awful to remember. And damn me if I could persuade her to change. After that, what hope was there of long-term felicity with such a woman?” he demanded.

  Hamon scowled. It was long past time he ended this nonsense. “Are you perhaps referring to the ex-President’s daughter, Emeline asn Starne,” he asked, half wondering whether either Hathian remembered his presence, while the other half of him was bleakly aware he was watching a performance. One aimed at him.

  “I’m sorry, how rude of us, Hamon,” said Marthe. “It was the most delicious scandal. Emeline was made pregnant, by a man unknown, and there was no marriage. He left her high and dry. Not at all the way to treat the Lady Emeline asn Starne. A prude, and simple with it, she was. It was put about that the man responsible had used ungentlemanly means with her.”

  “Rubbish,” put in des Trurain promptly. “The girl practically dragged me off. How was I to know her parents had forgotten a vital part of her education. Falling pregnant after a brief flirtation. Downright irresponsible, if you ask me.”

  “Jaca, you knew what a numbskull she was. You should’ve thought to check.”

  “Didn’t get a chance,” he replied plaintively. “To cap it all off, daddy dear made sure I was left here in penitential misery, while that hussy rocketed off with the rest to luxury.” He sighed, slumping back in his seat. “I don’t suppose you could spare me a small ship, Major. Just big enough to get me to a civilized planet.” A disbelieving snort answered that one. “It was worth a try. I did manage to make it into the control room of one of your ships once.”

  Hamon was immediately alert. “How, may I ask?” he said in a voice that would leave his tormentors in no doubt it was an order.

  “Nothing devious,” replied des Trurain airily. “I knocked one of
your boys on the head and borrowed his uniform and ID card. At the time, I’d been assigned to a crew of cleaners at the port, and that got me through the handprint check at the gate. It was all very neatly done, I thought.”

  “What happened?”

  “I couldn’t make head nor tail of your controls, that’s what happened. Beaten at first base.”

  A delighted chuckle from Marthe broke the rising tension between him and his enemy. “Jaca, you never told me that story before. What did you do next?”

  “Got out of there as quickly as I could, dressed the soldier again and left the base, fast. A more pathetic end to an adventure I’ve yet to hear.”

  “Are you still keen to leave the planet?” Hamon made sure des Trurain could read the underlying threat in his voice and watched carefully the subtle signs of tension in the other man.

  “Of course. Nothing left here for me.”

  “So where were you planning to go? To rejoin your people?”

  The man had recovered enough to greet that with a mirthful hoot. “Devil a bit, no. Even if I had the slightest notion where the pack of them went, I’m the last one they’d welcome. No, I rather thought Etelia would do nicely. Not quite as civilized as Hathe was, but damn close, and no family scruples there.”

  “How would you earn your keep?”

  “What, work?” demanded the shocked dandy. “Lord, no. Not a pathetic refugee such as myself. There must be plenty of Etelians only too happy to work out their guilt feelings on my support.

  “In return for services rendered, I presume.”

  “Naturally,” was the unabashed reply. “It’s what I’m known for, after all. Isn’t that so, little Mimi,” and he leaned over and passed a light hand over her neck.

  “So you tell me,” said Marthe softly, smiling far too freely at her friend for Hamon’s liking.

  “Dinner is ready,” he snapped, and glared a warning to any who cared to notice.

  Marthe chose to ignore it and to further rile Hamon by linking arms with Jaca as they passed out to the balcony. “Any news?” she murmured quietly.

  “Later,” Jacquel warned, a nod warning her of Radcliff’s angry scrutiny.

  The dinner passed in mixed enjoyment. She and Jacquel seized the chance to exact a shadow of the revenge due them from the Terrans, indulging freely in a biting raillery that succeeded only in deepening the black frown on Hamon’s face. Raw from the turmoil of emotion the past days had dealt her, Marthe couldn’t resist ensuring that her disturbing captor should know some of the humiliation her people had had to endure so long. Or was it retribution for the uneasy questions he set her? She missed her place in the latest verbal exchange, lost suddenly in uncertainty, then angrily scolded herself. Her loyalty was to her own people, not this Terran. For a brief interlude, she would be purely Hathian. With Jaca leading in his most outrageous of guises, they were both insultingly free with their wit, irresponsible, and seemingly entrenched in their arrogant assumption of superiority. The Haut Liege in truth.

  At the end of the meal, Marthe leaned back.

  “What bliss. Beautiful food, two handsome men for company and conversation of charm and wit as accompaniment. Now, if you will excuse me a moment, a lady claims the privilege of a chance to freshen up. Why don’t you move through to the sitting area and I’ll fetch the drinks. Just please behave yourselves for five minutes.” She leaned over to kiss both, gently stroking Jacquel behind his ear and pressing on the inconspicuous patch hidden there.

  “The Major and I are used to quiet, little tete-a-tetes,” Jacquel assured her with a touch of malice as the two men rose.

  As he’d expected, Jacquel was soon rewarded for his jibe. Marthe had barely left when Radcliff’s control broke.

  “The lady’s mine, des Trurain,” he said angrily, “and I do not suffer rivals lightly.”

  “Mmm,” Jacquel replied, distracted by Marthe’s incoming report.

  “So you can keep your razzing paws off her.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “There’s to be a special check on the Delta refinery at ten a.m. Can you tell Central to advise the surveillance teams there to keep low for a couple of hours?”came Marthe’s message in his ear.

  “Hmm now,” said Jacquel to Radcliff, scratching his ear and pressing an affirmative to Marthe. “That could be difficult. We’ve been close friends for so long.”

  “Not that close and don’t try to claim otherwise.”

  “A number of the staff appear to be on edge. Radcliff is not the only one beginning to suspect us. The following is a list of those needing attention.” She paused to let him code for record then gave the names.

  “Did you hear me, des Trurain?”

  “Yes. Sorry. You were telling me of your masterly rights. The archaic notions of Terrans never cease to amaze me. Marthe must be quite intrigued by the novelty of it all. But, then, she has no alternative. How fortunate you are to have such a hold on a beautiful woman.”

  “I take it you’ve never needed one?” Radcliff sat back, as if to stop himself from treating Jacquel as he yearned to, crushing his Hathian rival from existence.

  Jacquel assumed an air of blithe ignorance. “I admit I haven’t but, to be fair, my background is rather more advantageous than yours.”

  “Oh?” Now Radcliff did lean forward in threat.

  “Advanced technology, refined civilization, and so forth,” explained Jacquel, deliberately blind to the insolent nature of his remarks. It was perhaps fortunate that Marthe chose to return at that moment. “At least there was no blood,” he signed to her.

  To Hamon, it seemed an interminable time must pass before he could bid good night to his unwanted guest. His relief was so deep that he barely noticed the few, quick words whispered by Marthe to the man. It was only later that night that the message registered: “Daily at cockcrow’s height.”

  Suddenly he was startlingly awake. An assignation? Slowly he turned to look at the sleeping face beside him. Could this be his proof, he wondered? Cockcrow’s height. A place? But no, des Trurain was too closely guarded. Cockcrow? A time of course. But height? Dawn was when cocks crowed, or used to on old Earth. But this was Hathe, No cocks crowed here, or ever had. A pre-arranged code?

  It had to be for some time in the morning. But how? She wore no device that could possibly be a transmitter. That patch of hers, he’d thought that to be one, but she wore no such patch now. His memory played over those few, precious minutes that told him he was right. Then less pleasant scenes intruded and he drove himself back to the original problem.

  Some sort of contact had been arranged and all he could do now was watch and wait. With a grim smile, he nestled in to Marthe, safe in the innocence of sleep. Her only response to his restless tossing: to lay one, bronzed arm across the security of his broad chest. It soothed him and, holding one hand over hers, he settled into his own, guilty rest. Even then, his barely submerged consciousness kept plotting, planning, working out strategies to keep this precious beauty of his under his treacherous eye.

  Marthe soon felt the effect of his night of planning. He began to insist on staying with her, for most of every day. All but those rare times when his duties could not be avoided. She might almost have fooled herself that she was back in the early weeks of bliss. But it wasn’t the same. This was the game, the ugly masquerade that she had known would come and in which she, too, had a part to play.

  Sophisticated, witty and charming. The elegant mistress. She was all of these and more, and it was the most trying of all the missions she had undertaken. She could see in his eyes his hatred of her falseness but knew he dared not challenge her. Not when duty must keep her beside him, probing at her defenses, seeking always to discover who and what lay behind her facade.

  Yet surprisingly, there was still a place for courtship on the knife-edge they walked. Slowly, tenderly, in their nights together he made reparation for that first, cruel taking. She learned to let him hold her, then a kiss. Then, one inevitable night she turned
to him and could have laughed at the relief he could not hide, had she not been as hungry for completion as he. On this night, he made love to her with all his heart and body, bringing to it none of his duty but all of the gentleness he usually hid so well.

  It was a start. A promise for the days and weeks to come that, together, their passion could release the joy that was within them. That there would be many more nights like this.

  Something more she learned that night too. The reason behind what she had always known, why this gift between them was so necessary if they were to tolerate the sham of ugliness of the roles they must play. Denied words, it was only in the language of lips and hands and bodies that there could be any truth between them—just as there had been in the brutal honesty of that afternoon in her bedroom in the City. She loved this man, she was forced to recognize, and he loved her. Inconvenient, inexplicable, but true. Without those fleeting instants when there was only Hamon and Marthe, she could not have endured the hateful game that was so necessary to her people. Nor, she knew, could he. Did she love him enough to sacrifice the lives of so many of her own? No. That was no true love. Love did not ask that, could not survive such evil.

  So the game continued. She could never forget why she was here, in the heart of the enemy’s fortress, that she had no right to abandon her people to their misery.

  She always kept to the agreed time for passing messages to Jacquel—cockcrow height, as the locals labeled the daily parade of the Terrans. Even Hamon was forced to join in the ritual gathering of the military, to hear the Commander deliver his report and pass on the orders of the day. During his absence, Marthe was confined to their quarters, but with recorders in every room, she knew Hamon had no qualms at leaving her. According to the playback he would view later, she merely used the time to indulge in an obscure and complicated beauty routine.