Resistance: Hathe Book One

by Mary Brock Jones

  Then a hush spread over the crowd. Hamon didn’t need to look. He could hear the collective holding of breath as the bride and her witnesses moved slowly around the perimeter. When she came within view at the other end of that empty row, all thought fled.

  Her dress was that of the Hathian peasants and yet light years distant. The heavy shroud was transformed. A cloud of glimmering starshine, pale as snow and glinting with the hidden sparkle of a thousand gemstones. So sheer was it that the burnished waves of her hair were barely disguised, flowing freely about her shoulders and restrained only by a circlet of Hathe’s tiny, white, astena flowers. A promise maybe? Or a warning? Delicate and ephemeral in appearance, they could survive the fiercest of gales and frosts on the plains.

  Beneath the shroud, her gown fell simply, fitted to the swells of her breast and still small waist, then billowing to fall in swirls of flowering lace about her feet. His entranced gaze had traced down the lines of her body and now saw with delight her jeweled toes peeking from under the folds.

  She walked gracefully, confidently to meet him, wiping away all doubt. The circles were complete—the inner by Marthe, the second by her three witnesses, and the outer by the natives, fearfully moving in to fill the vacant pathway.

  So that was why they were here. Even now, under the spell of her beauty, he glanced protectively at the surveillance vids and his men, armed and watchful on the perimeter.

  She faced him now, then reached out and took his hands so that they turned as one to encompass the chief witnesses, Jacquel and Ferdo, solemnly eying each other across the couple’s joined arms. Seeing her up close, Hamon was stunned by the cool dignity of her face … almost as much as by her beauty.

  It was a dearly won mask of dignity. Marthe had to work hard to ensure not even he could guess her calm pose was a front, that inside she was a bundle of nerves, utterly convinced she would forget the entire ritual. She was so relieved to hear the rallying signal from Mathe Central come through on her patch. At least if she stumbled, someone was there to remind her.

  She knew that Jaca and the other natives heard the call also, but none gave a sign of it to the Terrans. Jacquel raised his head, letting her know he too felt the readiness of their people.

  She glanced back, reassuring herself with the sight of her other two witnesses. To Jacquel’s left and just behind Marthe, her cousin Griffith stood with her as her nearest available relative. All the way down the aisle, she’d felt his disapproving eyes boring into her back, yet it was more than comforting to have him there, conferring a seal of legitimacy by his presence. His wife Adele wouldn’t be pleased at him taking such a risk, but Marthe was grateful for the courage that had brought him here today. She didn’t doubt there would be repercussions. Hamon’s men wouldn’t let him escape without questioning him. They wouldn’t learn anything, not from Griffith an Castre, but he would have an uncomfortable time of it.

  Beside Griffith was the third of her witnesses. Her hood slipping back to reveal a smiling face, Agnethe stood as a solid bulwark of normality behind her.

  A slight pressure on her hand brought her back to reality. Guiltily, she drew herself straighter and looked forward … then caught the barely perceptible wink of her mate. She grinned back. Cousin Griffith couldn’t see her face anyway.

  She turned to Jacquel, ignoring his look of disapproval, and nodded her readiness. His beautiful voice began to intone the solemn, opening words of the rite familiar to her since childhood. He spoke in both Standard and Harmish, calling on all to witness and support this pair, about to be joined before them and before God.

  Hamon watched her intently, as if aware another world also held her attention. It did, but not one she could let him enter. Not yet. Not when he could not hear what she did—the registering of the unseen Hathian congregation. Thousands of separate bands hitting the airways from all over Hathe and from the moon base on Mathe. Strongest of all, the call signs of her own family: her father, troubled and fearful, yet full of reassurance; her sister Laren, a slight quaver of warmth or tears; the affection and support of Jorven, her brother-in-law. Even the young twins, barely able to speak, tried to send their code, managing only a slight dash, followed immediately by their mother’s more expert version.

  Then came the official confirmation from Central that the marital record channel was open and permission had been duly passed for entry to be made. She could relax somewhat, or she could have if she weren’t strung up so tightly inside. Jacquel spoke again, a long, wordy injunction upon the duties of man to woman, father to son, and so on down all the degrees of family so dear to the Hathian heart.

  Marthe clearly detected her cousin Griffith’s influence and Hamon looked completely stunned at hearing such moralistic outpourings from Jacquel des Trurain.

  Too soon, they came to that part most solemn. She had not forgotten the words as she’d feared. Speaking in a low, clear voice, she declared to her listening people her vows and intentions.

  “I, Marthe asn Castre, present myself before the people and the Spirit. You know me. Know now Hamon asn Radcliff, the husband I have chosen. To him do I vow to cleave, his children will be mine and mine will be his. His family will be mine, my family will be his. His cares, woes, joys and triumphs will be mine. To him am I bound for my remaining days. This do I declare before duly registered witnesses here about me now, to all of the People wherever they may be and to the one Spirit who binds us all. Is it accepted?”

  “It is accepted,” declared the six witnesses.

  “It is accepted,” declared the myriad of voices in her ears.

  “It is accepted and duly recorded, Marthe an Castre,” came the voice of the chief computer supervisor.

  It was now her Terran mate’s turn. He paused, thanking her with his eyes, then spoke loudly and clearly for all to hear. Words which she would afterwards feel would mean more than any yet to come in her life.

  “I, Hamon asn Radcliff, present myself before the people of Hathe and of Earth, and before the Spirit. You know me. Know now Marthe asn Castre, the wife I have chosen. To her do I vow to cleave. Her children will be mine and mine will be hers. Her cares, woes, joys and triumphs will be mine. To her am I bound for my remaining days. This do I declare before duly registered witnesses here about me now, to all the people of Hathe and Earth wherever they may be and to the one binding Spirit of Hathe, Is it accepted?”

  “It is accepted,” declared the witnesses.

  “It is accepted,” declared the myriad of secret voices, more sincerely than Marthe had expected, an answer to the true pride and love plain in his voice.

  “It is accepted and recorded, Hamon an Radcliff,” declared the disembodied voice of the chief computer supervisor, audible only to the Hathians.

  The depth of commitment in Hamon’s voice surprised Marthe. She hadn’t expected it and felt overwhelmed with love and gratitude. One rebellious tear pricked her eye, and she leaned forward, her arms reaching out for him. He stopped her, holding her back and signaling to Ferdo, who carefully passed him a small box. He opened it, to reveal two, plain bands of gleaming yellow, one delicate and small, one larger and solid.

  “On ancient Earth, it was the custom to symbolize such a union by the wearing of a gold ring, as you on Hathe do by the dropping of the s. Shall we wear these rings as a Terran sign of love and devotion?”

  His tone was for her, but set to carry throughout the audience. She could see nods of approval from the older ranks of the Terrans, reminded by his words that marriage was enmeshed in the deepest antiquity of Earth’s history.

  Tenderly, he slipped the delicate band of gold over the third finger of her left hand, then held out his own for her to do the same. “Welcome, wife,” he said in the lowest of voices, audible to her alone, before enfolding her in his arms. “The ring is to remind us both of this day in the time to come. I hope it’s enough.”

  She barely caught the last words, a whisper of despair and anguish. She held him even tighter, sensing with him the ba
rriers to come and fingering anxiously the strange band. Would it be enough?

  “Now,” exclaimed Jacquel merrily, “we dance and feast. Let there be music,” and the sound system suddenly woke. “Let there be food,” he gestured towards the magnificent array laid out at one end of the vast hall, “and let there be love,” he ended with a seductive gurgle, linking arms with a startled matron, who giggled in youthful zest as he planted a loud kiss on the worn mouth. Marthe could only laugh.

  His high spirits were infectious, and in short time the hall became a mass of laughing faces, cheeks bulging with food and eyes unnaturally bright from liberal doses of the abundant liquid enticements.

  Hamon was not surprised at the extravagance of the feast, having long ago discovered that old Agnethe had a soft spot for his bride. His eyes were far too full of the sight of Marthe to be worried too much about the amount of spirits available or the frequent comings and goings of the Hathian servants. They couldn’t do anything. His men were here and had orders to watch for anything suspicious. He could trust fully in their vigilance. For tonight, Hamon was free and duty be hanged.

  Jacquel may look like he thought the same. His mask was complete and he let not a trace show of the multiple responsibilities he juggled tonight. His first priority was to keep Marthe unaware and relaxed by keeping her constantly plied with the sweet wine of Etelia, especially imported for the occasion and guaranteed to keep a rosy hue on any bride’s cheek. The sense of well being evident in her as she floated through the evening was one of his many successes as he continuously worked to ensure that nothing drew attention to the staff’s movements. He was so busy, and couldn’t resist the thrill of it all, as he simultaneously kept an eye on the myriad strands of the gathering while still keeping amused and happy a constant stream of beautiful ladies.

  A heady waft of danger gripped him and, more than once, his merry laugh rang out as he managed to intercept a relay signal from one of the Hathians right under the noses of the Terrans. Two different languages flowed constantly through the hall. Loud, gay and relaxed, the Terran Standard tongue was for once given over to ribald banter and seduction. Floating between with the bearers of trays of drinks and food, the more subtle language of the Hathian underground was a ripple of small hand and face gestures, delicate changes in the arrangement of gowns and folds, a gentle scratching and tapping on the transmitters concealed variously about the moving bodies.

  Jacquel, continuously talking on the two levels, was in high flush, his mind a razor’s edge of activity. All was going well, and the occasional crisis only added to the adventure. The Commander wished for something from his quarters? Hathian teams were just then planting recorders there. What to do?

  Suddenly, the Commander found his way blocked by his Hathian captive. “You shall not leave, Colonel. My valiant co-saboteurs are busy delving among your boxes and bags while we speak. You shall not interrupt them.”

  Confronted by the apparently inebriated Jacquel, the Commander relaxed enough to join in the supposed game. “And what, may I ask, are your fellow saboteurs doing among my boxes and bags?”

  “It’s secret,” was the confidential whisper, as Jacquel proceeded to prop his shoulder against the Commander’s.

  “Oh? Whose secret?” Fortunately, the Commander had imbibed quite as deeply as Jacquel appeared to have. “Could it be Radcliff’s underground, monitoring my private moments?”

  Jacquel laughed. “Aha, you have it! Radcliff’s rats have come out of the sewer. How could we have a wedding without Radcliff’s rats?” He stopped, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial, stage whisper. “I have a plan, Commander. Radcliff’s my step-cousin-in-law now, and you can’t have a relation named a liar.”

  “No,” agreed the Colonel amiably, having obviously forgotten what it was he had wanted from his room.

  “So...” Jacquel paused momentously, “I am going to start an underground. Can’t have people saying my step-cousin is lying about rebels, so got to have some rebels, see. Here, Jocelyn,” he hailed loudly. “Want to join my gang of rebels?” He caught the woman about her waist and buried his mouth in her neck. “Shall we go and make some rebel plans?” he leered at her.

  She laughed back, an expectant look crossing her face.

  “Got to go now, Commander. We have seditious plans to make. Tell you what, though, you’ll be the first to know when we decide to overthrow you. How about it, Jocy? Feel like overthrowing the Commander?” He let a wicked gleam enter his eyes. “On second thoughts, I’ll throw you first,” and with another, fuddled laugh, he stumbled off in the arms of his new companion, followed by the appreciative rumbles of the Terran chief.

  “Now there’s a boy who has his priorities right.”

  Fortunately for Griffith an Castre’s peace of mind, Jacquel’s brash attempts at obstruction were just then eclipsed. An awed silence suddenly blanketed the hall. Looking from beneath his hood towards the source of the abrupt change, Griffith saw a strange squad of soldiers entering through the far door and Jacquel des Trurain’s antics immediately fell to the bottom of his list of worries. The superiority of these troops over the usual Terran soldier was striking, their heads held high and their uniforms of an immaculate cut. Obviously an elite corps. Why hadn’t they been seen on Hathe before now?

  Then he noticed the woman in their midst, elderly in appearance, slow¬moving and weary, but the fear slashed upon the Terran faces left him in no doubt of her power. The riddle was solved when Radcliff came eagerly towards the lady, bringing his new bride. Griffith smiled coldly. So this was Administrator MacDiarmid, the mother of our troublesome major. How very interesting.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Even as Griffith watched, Marthe came face to face with the frail woman, dragged along by Hamon right into the middle of the nerve-searing squad of giants. He’d been stunned by the soldiers’ arrival and had stood for a full minute, she swore, staring in disbelief. Never before had she seen the signs of emotion marked so clearly on his well controlled face. Without a word of explanation, she’d been propelled towards the terrifying men about the carefully guarded lady. She needed only one look at the stranger’s face and the loving look on her husband’s to tell her the visitor’s identity. The woman’s smile of welcome for Hamon was unmistakable.

  Marthe warmly hugged her new mother-in-law and discovered her first impressions to be false. Frail and aged the lady may appear, but it came of a burden carried too long. The Administrator, she quickly realized, was younger than her own mother would have been, and Marthe’s heart was filled with pity.

  “Madame, how wonderful that you could be with us. I can see that it means a great deal to Hamon,” she said.

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  She’d been right. The voice was golden, clear, mature but not yet elderly.

  Madame MacDiarmid now turned her warm smile on Marthe. “Ferdo sent me a message I’d almost given up hope of ever receiving, and I just had to meet the young woman who had finally tamed this rogue of a son of mine.”

  “Thank you for the kind words, Mother,” her ungrateful son laughed back, “but how did you find the time to come? I was under the impression that Earth would be reduced to starvation level if you ever dared leave that desk of yours.”

  “It will if I stay. A few weeks’ break can’t possibly make matters worse. Who knows, I may even find that some of my staff are halfway to being competent.” Her son’s gruff snort at what was obviously an old complaint brought a quiet smile to his mother’s face.

  “So the food rationing is still as critical as ever?” Hamon said.

  “Worse. We’re down to seventy-five percent of maintenance requirements. You have to really earn your keep on Earth these days.”

  Bewildered, Marthe looked to Hamon in query. The words had been so harsh and his mother’s callous chuckle jangled Marthe with its wrongness. It didn’t match the lady in front of her. Stern she may be, but Marthe sensed fairness and compassion there.

  Hamon proceeded to
explain and, for the first time, Marthe learnt of the harsh reality that ruled the lives of Earth’s residents. That all registered Terrans must carry a license stating the percentage of survival rations to which they were entitled, depending on work type, health and general usefulness to society, and that his mother was responsible for setting the rules governing that entitlement. She stared in horror. This woman standing before her literally decided who lived or died on Earth.

  His mother’s calm voice only confirmed it, as she wryly commented on her son’s words. “Which is why, my dear, I am the prime target for any would-be briber. You have no idea how wealthy I could be. It’s a pity they don’t realize that all the wealth in the world will not buy me what I really need—a food supply greater than one hundred percent of requirements. It’s the old story: for that we need more energy. Thank the stars for your planet, my dear.”

  Despite the horrors of the situation on Earth revealed by the woman’s words, Marthe couldn’t hide a flush of anger at the reminder of Hathe’s oppression and she straightened grimly.

  Fortunately, Hamon knew her well enough now to catch the danger signs before she did anything stupid. Even as she began to open her mouth, he was moving his mother away from Marthe and towards the converging horde of officials. She supposed she should be grateful.

  “Watch them grovel,” was his quiet aside to Marthe, and she had to smile at the devilish gleam in his clear hazel eyes, not in the slightest quelled by his mother’s glare of reproof.

  Leading the group coming towards them was the Commander, his face so fearful that Marthe was dumbstruck. Nor was he alone. All the officials were equally terrified, including the head of the Guards, a man well known among the Hathians for his cruel excesses.

  Then Hamon’s mother spoke to him, and Marthe was no longer surprised. She was the Administrator and the level of contempt in her voice froze out any attempt at familiarity. She and her bodyguard held themselves aloof from the reception party, as if to infer that the very air was contaminated. Hamon had told her that the conquering troops were gleaned from the veriest riffraff of Earth, picked solely for their lack of scruples. Now she saw it confirmed. Yet were those who sent them here any better? Or were they simply, as was her husband, men and women of principle forced by the harsh reality of Terran society to brutally discard aspirations to justice.