Resistance: Hathe Book One

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Resistance: Hathe Book One Page 17

by Mary Brock Jones


  A triumphant exclamation was silenced by an icy glare from the little man. “If I may be allowed to continue,” he said, the look he cast about the table silencing any comment, even from this august body. “On the positive side, there are a number of advantages to be gained from the association. She is collecting valuable information on the social and military organization of the Terran headquarters, of a kind we had never hoped to be able to acquire. Further, by reinforcing the myth of the Haut Liege, Marthe has done much to lull suspicions among the ordinary Terrans.

  Sylvan watched in amusement as Gof paced up and down the room, mesmerizing his august audience.

  “Regarding Radcliff, I grant that he has not been so readily duped,” he now said, in that entirely reasonable tone of his, “but his interest in Marthe has distracted him, enough that he has let his surveillance in other areas slip. Nevertheless, he’s still wary of her, and of the whole Hathian situation. His people provide him with a comprehensive overview of the Terran position of a kind unmatched in the occupying forces, and he’s only too aware of the Terrans vulnerability to attack by a resistance movement such as ours. Our hope is that marrying Agent asn Castre will lessen his anxiety. He knows that it will bind her to him and seems to even have hopes that he can change her loyalties.”

  “Which he would be right to, wouldn’t he? How do we know she won’t come to feel that her duty lies with the Terran cause?”

  “You forget that her twin brother was killed in our cause,” protested Sylvan, unable to keep silent. He felt Gilda’s eye on him and hated to guess what she saw in his face.

  Gof deln Crantz saved him again, once more taking firm charge. “From discussions with Agent asn Castre, and from our own observations, it is clear that she has already thought through all the arguments you raise. She is also absolutely aware of the heavy losses we would suffer if she changed sides. She will not let that happen to her own people. It’s unthinkable, to her as much as to any of us. Apart from which, her studies of the Terrans has led her to conclude that Earth is the architect of its own problems and only a shock such as we will give them can force them to face reality. The Terran cause has become, in effect, our cause,” he finished with a wry smile.

  Sylvan heard Gilda’s sigh beside him. She knew Gof as well as he, and the last thing needed right now was one of his philosophical rambles.

  “Time to end this?” she murmured to Sylvan. “Then you favor the marriage,” she said in a firm voice to Gof.

  “Exactly, yes.” The small man nodded his head enthusiastically. Then one of his wickedly dangerous grins appeared. “After all, logic aside, do none of you remember when you were young, just married and your beautiful wife was expecting your first child? A very convenient absorption for our most dangerous enemy.

  Sylvan would have liked to remind his so-called friend that this was his daughter they were talking about. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible. “So can we vote on whether the computer comptroller should proceed with arranging for a transmission wedding?” he said and was thoroughly relieved to hear the muted agreement of his fellow councilors.

  The vote was unanimous, if somewhat reluctant. Marthe had her permission to wed.

  “It’s all very well,” said Trundain petulantly as the count was announced, “But how are you going to hold a wedding with the bridegroom knowing nothing of it?”

  “Major Radcliff is familiar with our customs and is aware that the exchange of vows before two or more witnesses is a binding marriage, at least upon Marthe,” replied Sylvan in the same, cool tone he had striven to maintain throughout. “He knows it would make her happy and has agreed to such a ceremony. He just won’t be told quite all of the technical details.”

  Gilda rose abruptly and offered her arm to Sylvan. He took it gladly. She was one of the few people outside his family he truly trusted.

  “That’s all right then,” she said to the throng. “Now if you’ll all excuse me, I have a deal of business to attend to.” She steered Sylvan out of the room, ignoring the rising chorus of disbelieving chatter behind them.

  Once past the closed door and around the corner, she slowed and turned to him, looking at him anxiously. “How about a friendly ear for those troubles.” Her free hand came down to stroke his arm that held her still.”You can’t fool me into thinking you support this marriage as much as you claim.”

  “We’re off record?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then, no, of course I’m not happy. Would you be if your baby daughter were to marry such a man? He is ruthless, charming, and all too ready to use those charms to confirm his far too accurate guesses about the true nature of our society. His is the only department that regards the Haut Liege myth as a fabrication. Why? Because he and his people alone have taken the trouble to talk to our people. ” He made no effort to hide the strain he felt. “They’ve fooled some of our most trustworthy agents into letting slip enough details to hint at the existence of a resistance group. None of it definitive, but quite enough for a man like him. He’s more than capable of putting it all together and making guesses far too accurate for our liking.

  Gilda’s hand paused in its stroke then continued determinedly. Sylvan sighed, then continued. “So far, he doesn’t seem to have any idea of the level of technology available to us, but what he has discovered has already made many projects significantly more difficult. Is it so strange, then, that I’m not happy for my daughter to bind herself to him?”

  “No, not strange.”

  His own free hand came round to grasp hers roughly. He avoided her eyes, and took a breath. “Yet some of what I’ve heard of the man … it’s … there is much in him I could like, though I hate to admit it. He’s never, as far as we know, indulged in torture, with the exception of his manhandling of Jacquel, but that was personal. More a case of boys fighting in the sandpit.”

  “Jealousy?”

  “Without doubt,” Sylvan said dryly, then swallowed, not sure if he could ever forgive the Terran for this next bit. “Then there’s what he did to Marthe. The session he inflicted on her.”

  “Which resulted in his having some kind of breakdown,” Gilda reminded him.

  Sylvan nodded, and thrust the memory back. He took another deep gulp of life-giving air, then plunged on. “We do know that he acts out of a genuine commitment to the survival of his own people, though much in him is revolted by the Terran role here. Despite his earlier actions, I have come to believe he truly cares for Marthe. I think that’s real enough,” he forced himself to say. He paced agitatedly up and back a step. “What a tangled mess it all is!”

  “So the two are in love? The matter seems to have been tiptoed around.”

  “Oh yes. Marthe assures me that she loves the man, and he loves her, despite everything that separates them. And you know, if circumstances had been different I do believe I would be pleased with the match. They are so damned alike!”

  Marthe turned up a face kissed with happiness and Hamon knew a rare joy. He returned her smile—not as freely, not as openly. That was not in him yet, but he knew she saw his love and understood. It was the night of the Comptroller’s reception, and he’d managed to pull her out of the crowd and into a small alcove, needing her to himself for a precious time. They were still visible to a few others, but right now he was too happy to be concerned about anyone who might be watching them. He pulled her close in to his body and held her contentedly, letting his gaze idly pass over the crowded main assembly room of the Citadel. It looked as though every single Terran who could be spared from duty was here tonight, all competing, all aiming to appear the most elegant, the most beautiful, the most stunning. They needn’t have bothered. Right here in his arms was a woman who effortlessly beat them all and, for this moment in time, she was his alone.

  He had taken particular care with his own dress tonight, needing to honor her beauty with a suitable escort. He usually avoided reminding the rest of the Terrans of his position and wealth back home, but tonight, to protect
this woman, he deliberately wore the expensively tailored, dress uniform his father had insisted he bring with him instead of the standard issue one the rest of the men wore.

  Suddenly, his idle survey of the rooms was shattered. A flash of astonished rage engulfed him as his gaze lit upon the only other man in the room dressed to rival him.

  Des Trurain.

  Young and exquisite—his civilian outfit a masterful example of discretion yet with a dash of recklessness—the man was holding forth to a captivated gaggle of ladies. No longer staid, duty-bound Terran personnel, but giggling and simpering in delight as they basked in the flattering wit of their new toy. On catching sight of Hamon and Marthe, the newcomer gallantly rid himself of all but the most intrepid of the ladies and hurried forward, a welcoming smile of pure mischief upon his finely wrought face.

  “My dear Marthe,” he exclaimed, bestowing a flamboyant embrace upon each of her welcoming hands, before standing back a pace in admiration. “Oh, yes,” he breathed, “very charming. Quite one of your best efforts. That touch of gold: just the thing,” he added, indicating the artless string of gold chain and pearls slipping in and out of her shining curls.

  A sadness suddenly colored his voice. “That drop necklace. If only you had it still.”

  “Jaca, how dare you remind me of our present poverty,” she chided, laughing. “What a pretty greeting, I must say. You’ve not even said hello to Hamon.”

  Hamon was still gripped by an icy fury, but managed some kind of smile. Only Marthe appeared to notice any coldness.

  “Major Radcliff. To be sure, my apologies.” Jacquel extended the barest fingertip in greeting. “How are you this evening?”

  “Fine, thank you. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company among us?”

  “It is, isn’t it?” agreed the other. “It seems your commander doesn’t share your suspicions, and has been moved to treat me as what I am, a poor wretch of a refugee. Thanks, that is, to the kind petitions of these ladies.” He took a moment to embrace each of the three still surrounding him.

  Hamon looked at the women and recognized defeat. He said something, anything, whatever it took to get him away from that place and remove Marthe to the safety of his own circle of friends. Once there, he was forced to act as if nothing was wrong—but only for a short time. As soon as a diplomatic interval had passed, he hustled Marthe into a quiet, very private corner where no one could see them. He backed her into the wall, his two arms a rigid prison and glared at her furiously.

  “What in hell is he doing here?”

  “How should I know?” she said, in a voice that sounded far too innocent to be real. “Though it is nice to see Jaca back in the kind of world where he belongs and out of that dreadful prison of yours.”

  “Nice? He was there for a reason. Who did you flash those sweet eyes at to get him released?”

  “Me? A mere Hathian order affairs among Terrans?”

  “That’s another matter,” he snapped grimly. “Just answer me, who did you get to do your work?”

  “Why, no one. At least—”

  “What?”

  “I did happen to mention some of his exploits in passing to Jocelyn Hart and Helen Ravensbot.”

  “Stars, the two most lascivious women in the compound. You have been studying us well. Who else are you manipulating? Apart from me,” he added bitterly.

  She hadn’t expected that. He saw it in the sudden darkening of her eyes.

  “Do I compromise your position that much?”

  So many questions hid behind her words, questions that mustn’t be asked. Not while they played this game of deceit. Yet still the questions lurked, still he heard them, and cold sanity returned. Anger was the last thing needed right now. Not with the bond between them so fragile in its newness and fraught with pitfalls.

  Then there was his duty. She had deliberately loosed des Trurain on Terran society. Why he could not say, but he must find out. Which he could not do unless both Hathians stayed under his surveillance.

  He took a moment, breathing slowly, aware she watched him. Then he lowered his arms to release her and stepped back. The subject was closed and she nodded her understanding before he led her back to his friends, soon becoming as seemingly ensconced as they in their game of sticks, the bets voiced quietly, with one eye always on the Commander.

  Des Trurain was a huge success, particularly with the ladies. His outrageous compliments brought a blush to the cheeks of the most duty bound professional, while his stories held the men enthralled. Try as he might, Hamon couldn’t avoid hearing the buzz of gossip that followed him. His men dutifully reported everything he couldn’t hear himself.

  The Terrans listened with envy to the elaborately embellished tales of des Trurain’s travels and of life on Hathe before the fall: the beautiful women, the luxury and ease the man still took largely for granted, the wealth there had been. He considered the stunning Marthe to be almost reduced to sackcloth and ashes. Lacking any decent baubles, he declared, when the woman was parading a load of jewelry worth at least thirty thousand credits. Wealthy as the Major was, even his pockets would have been strained by their purchase, in the Terran view.

  Ah, to have been one of those fortunate few, they dreamed. Who cared if the peasants spat Lieger contemptuously? The scum could not even comprehend Terran society. The dazzle of that lost world of the Haut Liege must have swept in a blazing mystery far above them.

  And fun! The sheer sense of the ridiculous as he teased and cavorted with this one and that. Drinking races with the Commander even. To the Terrans, locked into the tensions of the conqueror and subjected for so long before that to the harsh necessities essential for survival on Earth, the Hathian breathed out freedom itself. The Lady asn Castre also. It was not surprising Radcliff had spread that conspiracy rumor to keep her to himself. Any man there would have done the same. With each report, Hamon’s mood worsened.

  Jacquel saw it happening, but didn’t let it stop him. By the end of the evening, just drunk enough to view his fellows through a forgiving haze but betrayed only by the increasingly outrageous nature of his remarks, he judged it time to make his peace with Marthe’s glowering fiancé. She had terrible taste, but there was a baby to be considered … and anticipation of the delights yet to come that evening with the lusciously compliant Terran ladies quelled the green devils.

  He made his way over to the pair. Slowly, it must be admitted. The lovely Jocelyn waylaid him to confirm their rendezvous and a number of the younger men stopped to remind him of promised adventures, but finally he did reach the objects of his voyaging.

  “Des Trurain. Having a pleasant evening, I trust.” The words were polite, but that was all Radcliff managed. There was nothing welcoming in his face and he clutched Marthe to his side as if terrified of misplacing her. Jacquel let his grin widen.

  “Very much, thank you,” he said. “I have now come to offer my congratulations on your forthcoming marriage. See, Marthe, I got it all out. Not quite cut.”

  “Not far off,” she chuckled, “and we both thank you very much. Would you consent to be my chief witness?”

  He caught the edge of seriousness in her voice and gave her a quiet nod before letting his jovial mask drop back. “Would I consent not to be?” And he planted a less than brotherly kiss upon her mouth, whispering as he did, “Thank you. I am honored.”

  “Marriage? What’s the boy talking about?” harrumphed an elderly gentleman. “I thought you recorded the union a week ago?”

  “An archaic notion we cling to on Hathe,” explained Marthe sweetly. “The declaration of vows before six witnesses is considered a legal and binding marriage contract under our laws, even if it can’t be entered into the computer. I just cannot be reconciled to your temporary unions. Not when a child is involved.”

  “Here, what does he mean union recorded?” demanded Jacquel, half joking, half sternly. “Is it that half person, half marriage thing again? Never heard anything so ridiculous,” he harrumphed bac
k at the older Terran. He made no attempt to lower his voice and a crowd began to gather. “Do you seriously think that a well brought up lady like Madame asn Castre would contemplate bearing a child without due sanction of marriage vows,” Jacquel continued to declaim with all the pompous arrogance he could muster, before adding in a cheerful aside, “or at least, nearly well brought up. Do you remember that time you wandered into the Council chambers in nothing but your night shift?”

  “Yes, at the age of five,” she retorted. “Must you tell the whole world about it? And show some tolerance to these people. Most have never heard of marriage.” This public exposition of her private affairs was a bit much and the look she gave him made that very clear.

  ‘Get used to it,’ said the careless shrug of his shoulders.

  “Ooh, a wedding. Just like in the old fairy stories,” exclaimed one particularly silly girl.

  Standing beside Marthe, Hamon could feel the growing anger in her. He knew just how she felt, but then he’d had had the benefit of an entire evening spent controlling his rage and he wasn’t about to waste so much effort now.

  “Quite,” he said, throwing an icy glance in the direction of the latest and stupidest sally. He turned to the Commander, requesting permission for the ceremony and a public reception to follow.

  “It was to have been a small, private occasion, but des Trurain appears to have decided otherwise. I would also be honored, sir, if you would consent to act as one of my witnesses.”

  The Colonel nodded. Hamon raised his voice to announce the plans to all present then turned to Marthe with a suggestion that it was time to leave.

 

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