Resistance: Hathe Book One

by Mary Brock Jones

  “Hector, I want our ten top men in my office within three hours, and I don’t care how difficult it is to pull them out at such short notice,” he snapped in answer to the man’s aborted protest. “Hanley, bring me that report on family relationships among the Hathians.”

  “But, sir, it isn’t quite ready yet. There are a few permutations I have yet to explore.”

  “I want the complete report on my desk within the hour,” was all the sympathy he got. “Contact me immediately if I’m needed, Hanrahan,” he threw at his secretary, and the tornado swept out as bracingly as he had arrived.

  That, said the looks on the faces of the old veterans, is that, smirking at the unfortunate young anthropologist who had only just discovered that he was, in fact, part of a military operation. Gof almost felt sorry for the man, then smiled inside. No he didn’t. He’d have given the young idiot as little sympathy as Radcliff had. He kept watching the vid.

  “You can’t scrabble together a conclusion to a paper in an hour,” Hanley was protesting huffily to any who would listen.

  “Maybe, lad, but I’d get the facts on the old man’s desk within the time,” snapped Jones, a wily elder statesman who Gof’s records said had been head of Radcliff’s security wing since the first days of the conquest. “This place may not be a paradise, but it’s a sight easier than living on Earth.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “He has done,” said Jones, and looked fully satisfied with the blanched face and busily shuffling hands of the young researcher in front of him.

  Gof switched to other vids. The whirlwind that was Radcliff swept on, into other departments. A few searching questions, a reminder of his influence, and there was the beginning of a new vitality and a curt wariness throughout the Citadel. “After all,” as Gof heard a soldier remark, “you might be able to get the odd trick past the Commander, but the Major, now, he could look straight through you, as if to see the very secrets of your soul. Sure, the occasional dodge slips through, but only a fool believed the Major didn’t know about it.”

  True to form, so the growing muttering among the soldiers said, it was Radcliff who noticed the false sense of security that had crept over the Terran forces this last year. By the stars, they had been here nearly five years and would be here forever. But no, reminded the Major. They were here by dint of their own alertness and would stay only by more of the same.

  Within a very short time, Gof’s opposite, Colonel Johne, became as interested in Hamon’s actions as was the Hathian commander. He soon noticed a newly proud step in his men. It wasn’t hard to guess who caused it. Johne did nothing as yet, beyond increasing his personal surveillance of his junior officer in case the man planned a coup. The Colonel was in silent agreement with the need to find a purpose for his bored troops and chose to bide his time. As yet, there was no cause for concern. Radcliff was too well born to be satisfied with a back planet, far from the power plays of Earth. But for himself? Ruling over this misbegotten mud heap suited him nicely, and he meant to hang on to power for many years yet.

  Within a few days, Gof deln Crantz became more than concerned. After the tenth challenge that morning to his persona of Old Raphe, the Hathian resistance commander was becoming downright annoyed. Radcliff’s actions had set alight a vicious spark among the Terrans, and Gof wasn’t about to let it get worse.

  Silent messages whirled through the Hathian sector and soon, but not as quickly as usual, more disturbing reports flooded in. The checks on work gangs had been stepped up, and IDs were being requested more frequently. The number of Terran spies in town had doubled, infiltrating practically every street and gang. Strange questions were being asked of domestics, especially those working for Terran officers.

  Damn that girl. She was supposed to direct attention away from the Hathians, not increase it. Deln Crantz sent out an urgent command to Marthe and grimly awaited her report. His grizzled face clapped in maddened lines, he strode back and forth in the safety of his cubby room. Then, a thought struck, banishing the grimness.

  Minutes later, he sent a second storm of messages out over the secret Hathian channels, spreading through the town and deep into the heart of Terran headquarters. He switched on his vid screens to Marthe’s rooms, knowing his two captive agents were together there. The horrified gasp from agents des Trurain and asn Castre as they scanned his orders was every bit as satisfying as he’d hoped.

  A joyful wedding to you, Major and Madame asn Castre. May it be a memorable one!

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Marthe woke slowly, a strange quaver roiling in the pit of her stomach. It was only gradually that its cause dawned on her. Today was her wedding day.

  Yet apart from the uneasy churning, she felt numb. That couldn’t be right. Wasn’t a bride supposed to feel something? Fear, eagerness, anxiety, excitement? Maybe as the day wore on it would come. If she made it through deln Crantz’ latest scheme, would she be able to feel again?

  The morning’s diversion, then the evening’s ceremony. Normality seemed to be sliding away from her. She tried to yank it back, deliberately flouncing out of the sleeper.

  It woke Hamon. He jerked upright and she could feel the retort rising in her to whatever he might say. Hamon must have seen it in her face, for he asked only where she was off to so early in the day. Nor did he protest when told simply, “Out.” But, then, he would know he could trust in the guards who always accompanied her. As soon as she set foot out of their apartments without him, one of his men would appear at her side as if by telepathy.

  Now she did begin to feel something, if only anger. With a wrathful glance at his reclining figure on the sleeper, she marched out of the room. Hamon had recently said she could use his personal flyer, and she made for it now. In short time, she’d lifted off, edged the craft through the tunnel leading to the outside and was speeding across the bleak, endless plains beyond the Citadel.

  In her urge to fly faster and faster, she ignored the silent shadow of the soldier sitting behind her, all seeing but never speaking. For what seemed hours, she soared and soared, skimming just above the endless tussock, with the ghostly wail of the wind her only accompaniment. Occasionally, a small ground creature would scuttle away, or an aeron sweep majestically down from the sky and over the dips and gullies below.

  More often than not, all she could see of the life of this great wilderness was the constantly moving grasses, the small, hardy shrubs and the creeping ground plants of the barren waste. All must struggle to survive the elements set against them—the scouring winds, the searing heat of summer, the even more biting cold of winter, and the fierce competition for the pitifully few resources of the rocky soil.

  Right now, all that struggle answered some savage need inside her. As she flew, swift and silent over the heart of the plateau country, she felt the winds scour away the icy walls encasing her. Slowly, silently, the tears came, pouring from the blind cataracts of her soul and loosing what could never be loosed elsewhere but which, for too long, had been buried deep inside her. She let the stream flow, shoving open the canopy and throwing her head back to let the wind tear away the drops. It was a great emptying—the last she could risk, but necessary. She had to let the deep well of tears dammed inside her drain away to make room for the flood of sorrow the weeks and months ahead would bring.

  A short while later, the guard made his presence felt. He took over the controls and returned with a set face to the Citadel. No longer did they hug the contours of the land, at one with the wind and the soil, but cut straight ahead, flying high enough to set a direct course for home. Though her soul begrudged it, her mind welcomed the harsh denial of the land as the man-made machine rigidly imposed its will. In its mechanical rule, she found an equal discipline in herself. She scrubbed her face with her hands, obliterating all trace of weakness. Her head rose, her shoulders came back, and her hands draped gently in the elegant posturing she had been taught as a young woman of the political elite. She stepped down at the shuttle port, with
a gracious smile fixed on the haughtiest face she could manage.

  Hamon welcomed her back with a sinking heart, seeing the mask set firmly once more upon that strong-willed face. For once, he was relieved that the demands of public duty denied them the chance of private words.

  “My dear, you’ve returned,” he said blandly. “I was becoming worried. We seem to have a disturbance in the town.”

  “The peasants?” she said with a knowing uplift of an eyebrow.

  “Yes. They’re demanding that we deliver you and des Trurain up to them. And while I wouldn’t mind seeing the last of him, you are far too beautiful for whatever mayhem is on their minds.”

  “Torture and rape, most probably.” She appeared totally unconcerned and in reply to his questioning look, explained: “It’s the usual demand, once they become intoxicated. I take it there aren’t enough guards on the square to control them?” He nodded brusquely and she sighed. “I daresay we’ll have to intervene. If you could procure a couple of weapons for Jacquel and myself, I will go and change.”

  “Impossible, and well you know it.”

  “Hamon, we only need one charge each. You may post as many guards behind us as you like, but we need weapons if we’re going to get out of this alive.”

  “You don’t seem particularly worried.”

  “I’m used to this sort of thing,” she replied coolly. “Meet me inside the doors to the public balcony in a quarter of an hour and, in the meantime, let the rabble know we’re coming. They’ll behave till then.”

  She turned and strode off, calling to a guard to inform des Trurain of events.

  When next he saw her, he scarcely recognized her, or her companion. He’d seen nothing like it since his pre-invasion visit to the planet. Both she and des Trurain appeared to be in full Hathian court dress. Though where they’d procured them at such short notice, he couldn’t think.

  On closer inspection, he saw the cloth was cheap and the jewels fake. But from a distance, from the crowd mobbing the square outside, she would look to be richly clothed, the stiff folds of her gown falling straight from shoulder to floor and every inch bejeweled and embroidered. Formal and regal, not cheap and bizarre. The close-set sleeves molded to the exquisite slimness of arm, and her hair was carefully coiled about the long strand of pearls she favored with what appeared to be ambrosite and diamonds winking here and there among the rich bronze.

  Des Trurain, in a white, close-fitting coat and soft, bagged trousers caught into boots of whitest synleather, appeared less bejeweled but just as magnificent. Not for the first time, Radcliff recognized the body of a natural athlete, set off today by a sash of deep, shimmering black, studded with false diamonds, jaridite and even what, at a distance, would appear to be a huge, yellow lignosite, rarest stone in the Alliance.

  Low-slung about the hip of each was a girdle, equally jeweled and embroidered, carrying a holster. Their presence on the magnificent figures could only be regarded as sinister by any viewer, Terran or Hathian.

  “Where did you get those?” was his stunned reaction.

  “We’ve been expecting such a disturbance since the wedding was announced with so few precautions,” replied des Trurain. “The outfits may be fabrications, but at a distance they’ll serve our purpose.”

  “You have the weapons?” Marthe’s cold voice was unlike anything he’d heard from her. Even his soldiers were falling back in awe. Silently, he signaled for the two hand blasters to be passed over. Both took them in a completely familiar grasp, sighting with professional assurance.

  “You’ve used Terran blasters before?”

  “For hunting. You made the best in the Alliance,” answered des Trurain, making the compliment an insult.

  “Remember, one false move and the guards have orders to destroy you both.”

  Neither Hathian gave any sign of hearing him.

  “If you go first with a few men to announce us, we’ll follow behind,” said Marthe.

  Hamon passed through the doors, to be greeted by a sea of angry, chanting faces, many with hoods thrown back for the first time in public to reveal the greasy, native hair. For once, their heads were up, their voices raised in angry challenge. Violence hung over the crowd. Shouts of ‘Kill the Liegers’, ‘Down with the tyrants’, ‘Death’s too good for them’, reverberated across the packed square.

  As he held up his hand, the shouts died to a low, fierce rumble. For now, they would hear what he had to say.

  He spoke the words exactly as Marthe had dictated them.

  “We have brought the Haut Liege as you requested. You may lay your grievances before them. However, know that we regard this to be a purely Hathian matter, and the outcome is your own affair. I give you Jacquel des Trurain and Marthe asn Castre.”

  As he pronounced their names, the rumble grew to a loud, angry swell. Then, all noise ceased abruptly, and a strange silence quivered in the air. Turning involuntarily, he saw the cause.

  Two grim-faced, aristocratic figures strode arrogantly forward. Giving way unconsciously, the Terran soldiers allowed the pair to proceed to the balcony edge, to stand revealed in all their glory to the silent menace beneath. At first, they merely gazed sternly down at the crowd. Then it happened. A stone flung through the air, followed by a vicious dart. The stone grazed Marthe’s forehead and the dart embedded itself in des Trurain’s left arm. In a flash, two blasters drew, fired and two white clouds were all that remained of two protesters.

  Chillingly, des Trurain’s voice cut across the stunned silence. “As you heard, this is a purely native matter. Remember, therefore, who you are and who we are and disperse to your homes without further nuisance. The next malingerers will not be so fortunate in the speed of their punishment.”

  Hamon saw the effect of that chilling voice on his soldiers and cursed silently. Below, the natives subsided, their heads fearfully downcast.

  “There is to be a feast for you today, in honor of the Lady asn Castre’s marriage,” continued des Trurain, bowing haughtily to Marthe, who now spoke for the first time.

  “There will be food and drink dispensed to all, as there used to be. Ensure that the standard of behavior is also as it used to be. Any deviations will be dealt with according to the ancient customs of this planet.”

  Hamon watched her eye the rabble. Her performance, if it was that, was as effective as des Trurain’s. A disconcertingly wan cheer rose on all sides. There were half-hearted calls of ‘Blessings to the Lady’ and ‘Many thanks’ as quietly the crowd broke up and left. In a few moments, all that remained was an empty square, bare of all but the dark stains left from two piles of ash, the sole residue of two human peasants who had dared to stand against their past overlords.

  The threatening figures of that deadly retribution turned and walked back inside. Not till they were safely behind the shielded doors did Hamon see any sign of relaxation in either Hathian.

  “Now that’s taken care of, let’s get on with the preparations,” he heard Marthe say to Jacquel as they passed their weapons back to him.

  Hamon looked at the settings. Destruct. They had been on the lowest setting when he’d issued them. In the deft swiftness of that deadly instant, he’d missed the quick finger flick of both on the controls.

  Beside him, Marthe was easing the dart from des Trurain’s shoulder, causing a slow flood of darkest red to trickle down his arm. “You’d better come along to my quarters and let me bind that for you,” she said in an unconcerned voice.

  “And you had better clean up that graze,” returned des Trurains. “I hope you’ve some covering screen for tonight. You’re going to have a bruise.”

  “Mmm,” she replied, gingerly putting her hand to her head and suddenly swaying in pain. Hamon jumped in to take her arm before the Hathian could touch her again. He was surprised, and secretly relieved, to feel the slightest of tremors.

  “Those rabble,” he ground out.

  “I thought we came off pretty lightly,” said des Trurain. “Nice to see you
haven’t lost your touch, Marthe. Good shooting.”

  “The same to you. But I will have you know that stone was thrown quite hard.”

  “You were expecting trouble like that?” Hamon demanded.

  “After your leniency? Of course. A second uncle of Jaca’s was killed by such a crowd only ten years ago.”

  “It was his own fault,” Jaca added.. “Reckoned he was going to reason with them. Hah! Not even armed, the idiot.”

  Hamon hauled her round to face him. “You went out there, knowing you could be killed?”

  She looked surprised. “What do you think I’ve been telling you for days now?”

  He didn’t have to say it. That he’d believed her then as little as he believed most of what she said about her life as a Lieger; but those few moments on the balcony had shaken his convictions, just as the relief and fear he felt deep in her was shaking him still. All he could do to calm it was to urge her to get her head checked by a doctor.

  For once, he and des Trurain were on the same side as the Hathian added his urging. Her long and wrangling reply that she would do no such thing till she was rid of this ridiculous get-up didn’t help in the slightest, and it was in fraught bickering that they made their way to the medical section.

  There, Marthe’s temper was flayed further by the ‘primitive hack hands’, as she put it, of the hospital staff. To which the Terran doctor finally growled that she would have to be at death’s door before he would come near her again and slammed out, leaving her in command of the treatment room. Hamon tried to reason with her, and had his head snapped off too. It was only des Trurain she would allow to remain. Hating it, but still terrified for her, Hamon was forced to concede and leave them to it. Worse, he couldn’t mistake the locking of the door behind him. If anything happened to her, she was now beyond his help. He rammed his hand hard against the wall and began pacing, refusing to go any farther from her. That was asking too much.