Resistance: Hathe Book One

by Mary Brock Jones

  Marthe shook herself. Earth’s problems were not her concern. Only those of her own oppressed people. Her new mother-in-law chose that moment to voice her opinion of the Hathian servants. “Take him away. He reeks,” said the Administrator, frowning with disgust at the too close approach of a cup bearer.

  The wine Marthe had drunk so carelessly took sudden and disastrous hold. How dare the woman! To speak so of Marthe’s valiant comrades, bravely risking discovery to attend her wedding.

  “Their bodies maybe, but not their souls,” she shot back. “Unlike others here present.”

  A deathly wave of silence filled the room and crashed with all the savagery of reality on her head. The insult was unmistakable to everyone.

  Administrator MacDiarmid stared. Hamon looked stunned, then shocked, then retreated behind that hateful bland mask of his. The husband became again the Terran officer as he moved away from her and towards his mother as his expression dared her to continue. The elite bodyguard looked questioningly at their mistress for instructions concerning this impudent baggage; and inside her head, she heard the growing chorus of Hathian outcries.

  Alone among the horde of visible and invisible participants, it was the disapproving and cool Griffith who kept his head. He sent her an urgent warning to stay still, then slipped quietly from the room, a simple peasant bound on his duties. Once outside and safe, she heard his signal to the absent Jacquel. “Only the drunken brashness of that young idiot can help us now,” was what Griffin messaged to her, and the sharpness of his tapping told only too clearly that she was included in the young idiot category.

  Jacquel had long learnt to ignore such jibes from Griffith an Castre. The man was a pompous prig, but he’d trusted him with his life more times than he cared to remember. Jacquel listened to Griffith’s precise description of what had happened, hastily disentangled himself from a warm embrace and raced to the servant’s entrance. Donning the peasant robe Griffith threw at him, he entered the hall unseen, hoping to have been thought present all along. Quickly he summed up the scene. The initial, shocked silence had been short-lived. A loud babble of voices rose higher and higher, with the Colonel’s uppermost, demanding that Marthe explain herself, though the stars knew her remark had been plain enough.

  Only Radcliff remained uninvolved. The bastard was just standing there, cynically watching the chaos unfold. The only point in his favour was he still stood between Marthe and the threatening crowd. But that was all.

  Luckily, Marthe had done as ordered and remained silent. Or was she merely stunned by her stupidity? Worst of all, on the underground channels Jacquel could hear two hotheads applauding her words and urging action if the guards should make a move towards her. By the Pillars! Only this morning, they were all too ready to kill her in the street, now they wanted to throw everything away by charging in to defend her. Dramatics are not what is needed now, you morons, just good, old-fashioned tomfoolery.

  He smiled mischievously, then had a quiet word to a nearby peasant girl and proceeded to grab her lecherously about the waist, one fumbling hand groping for her breast. About him hung the rumpled vestiges of the peasant’s outer robe, partially looped over his head and falling in a drunken knot round his shoulders.

  Amidst a growing chorus of guffaws, he lurched with her towards the centre of the storm, the girl’s face a barely glimpsed slash of terror under her hood.

  Marthe, desperately striving to know what to do next, had never seen a more welcome sight. As he neared, she could hear Jacquel’s carelessly muffled stage whispers, urging the girl to come and meet his cousin.

  “ltsh her wedding, you know. Anyone can talk to a lady on her wedding. Hey, Rickard, like my latest? Don’t smell too sweet, but who cares,” he called to a nearby Terran, then sprawled headlong as his foot caught in the robe, landing just in front of Marthe.

  She rushed forward, uncertain whether he was drunk or sober. Then recognized the grin of pure impishness on his face from old and her heart sank. Relinquishing the peasant girl, he grabbed her instead as she helped him to sit up.

  “Ho, ho,” he exclaimed. “This is more the thing. Next best thing to a Hathian lady is a Hathian peasant. But the real thing! John, Rickard, ever been with a real Hathian lady?” With a strength that convinced Marthe he was all too sober, he suddenly grasped her about the waist, one hand clutching embarrassingly at her breast as he slobbered about her throat. She did not even have time to shriek before she felt familiar hands dragging her away. Hamon was finally galvanized to action, the green flames of jealousy sparking in his eyes. It was too much. She suddenly burst into tears, and couldn’t stop. Both men were so shocked they momentarily refrained from their threatening brawl to stare in consternation.

  For a few seconds only, she clung to her husband. Then the memory of his desertion returned and she drew back, turning aside and moaning softly.

  Hamon couldn’t hear what she said, only that it was the same word, over and over. Across from him, des Trurains listened hard, then Hamon saw comprehension on the man’s face. The drunken stance and girl were abruptly discarded.

  “For God’s sake, Radcliff, get her out of here before she breaks down completely. Whatever you suspect, she deserves better than that. And here’s me thinking she’d finally learned to live without him.”

  “Who?” demanded Hamon, jealousy tearing at him.

  “Bendin, of course. Haven’t you realized yet that you’ve only one true rival—her five-years-dead twin brother? Right now, I’m guessing she wishes like hell he was standing beside her. After all, it’s not as if there was anyone else offering to protect her. If Marthe means anything to you at all, Radcliff, get your mother to apologize. Those peasants, reek though they might, are the nearest thing she has to family tonight.”

  Hamon stood, torn between giving this rogue the hiding he deserved, finding out what really lay behind this drama, or seeing to the woman he loved, still standing so terribly rigid beside him. Her face was frozen, but whether from sheer self-control or an overburdened loss of all feeling, he couldn’t say.

  With an oath, he drew her in, hoping the frozenness would hold a few seconds longer, as he led his wife and mother away from the curious mob. For the first time in his life, he was grateful for his mother’s deathly efficient guard as they kept at bay the staring crowd.

  Jacquel let them go first, as he signaled in code to the young Hathians standing tensely on the verge of the crowd to stay out of a purely family affair. A command he hoped they obeyed. Then he followed Hamon and Marthe.

  Once through the hall doors, he saw that matters had improved little. Marthe was still withdrawn, standing isolated on one side. He recognized her stance immediately; whenever the hot tongue of either Bendin or Marthe had landed them in yet more trouble, they had always stood so; Bendin tall in the back and Marthe in front but turned towards him, shielded from wrath.

  Radcliff was speaking urgently to his affronted mother, but in vain. Though her reported words of greeting to Marthe labeled her an inherently compassionate woman, he guessed she was too used to the awe her position commanded to accept the impudence she’d faced here tonight. From what Hamon was saying, it seemed she’d seen vids of the peasants on her son’s dispatches home, and whatever Marthe might claim to the contrary, Hamon’s mother clearly had no reason to believe her new daughter-in-law was anything but one of the primitive natives of those images.

  Wrong approach, decided Jacquel, watching Radcliff. The only way to soothe that stiff-necked bureaucrat was a direct apology from the offending party, and Marthe was in no state for that. I guess it’s up to me, then. He moved toward Marthe.

  “Bendin would have been proud of you,” he drawled in Harmish.

  She gasped, staring at him in shock.

  “Just how do you propose to make amends for your appalling conduct, Marthe an Castre. Or do you want these Terrans to see us as no more than barbarians?” She shook her head slowly, as if trying to clear away the last vestiges of wine and emotion.


  “Well, niece of my father’s wife, will you apologize to she who is mother of your husband?”

  The harshly formal words worked. He could see her thrust away the fug of misery.

  “Friend of my brother, I will,” was her barely audible reply. “From you, also, I beg forgiveness, for allowing the wine and the occasion to make me so forget the codes of our people.”

  “It is granted, sister of my friend.”

  He smiled encouragement and took her arm in support as he led her up to the Administrator. But the guards leapt in front of their mistress and the lady stared haughtily at the Hathian pair. Then Jacquel saw her glance at her son. Despite the cold mask of the soldier he’d assumed, Radcliff’s face told the truth of his feelings too clearly to miss: He was besotted, utterly and completely.

  Jacquel had known it from the start, now he saw the realization hit the man’s mother. No matter how affronted she might be, it would change not one whit the look on her son’s face. I know how you feel, madame, thought Jacquel in grim humor. And you can do as little about it as I.

  Even as he thought it, Madame MacDiarmid admitted it by her actions. Sighing, she called the guard to stand back.

  As for Marthe, she knew she must rescue the night somehow, but try as she might, she couldn’t bring herself to lift her eyes to look at her mother-in-law. At a silent prod from Jacquel and ever conscious of Hamon’s intense stare, she coughed nervously and began to speak.

  “Madame, mother of my husband, I apologize for my total lack of proper conduct and hope you will forgive my outburst. I fear the wine and the natural emotion of the evening overcame the somewhat tenuous control I usually strive to keep over my regrettable temper.” She gulped and now managed to glance at the older woman’s face. It was unrelenting, though she did receive a nod of acknowledgement.

  Desperate now, Marthe was reduced to begging. “Mother of my husband, please, for the sake of the deep affection we both hold for your son, I beg you to overlook this unfortunate incident.” She stared beseechingly, still hating the woman’s words, but knowing that the safety of her whole planet hung on the Administrator’s reaction. Not to mention her own happiness.

  Then words of acceptance came, and a hand was extended. But it was cold and rigid in Marthe’s thankful grasp.

  Hamon had stood silent throughout, still partly caught by the curiosity that demanded he see what would happen. But the self-absorbed shield of professionalism could not stand against Marthe’s humiliation. With an angry cry, he strode to stand beside his wife, grabbing her hand away from his mother’s.

  “There’s no need for that, Marthe. My mother should have thought before acting so obnoxiously the conqueror in front of you. Not that I ever thought to hear you defend the peasants so forcibly.” He smiled quizzically, relieved beyond words to see he could bring a charmed flush to her face, even here. He swung round to his mother. “Perhaps, Mother, you could apologize as graciously as my wife has done. I think I ought to take you on a tour of one of their old cities. I daresay all my vids have been censored. You need to see the other side of this world, to balance the propaganda that has been fed back to Earth.” His mother looked up sharply. “You did know that we had conquered a superior civilization.”

  “Superior?” He sensed she was about to add a scathing rejoinder. His arm tightened around Marthe in warning. His mother’s eyes traced his hand and her lips clamped shut.

  “Surely my father told you that, or have you been too buried in your own problems to look outwards to Alliance affairs. Do you not know that among the other planets, including the previous Hathian regime, we’re considered something of a backward ghetto?”

  “What do you mean, backward?” He saw the pain on her face at the cynicism in his voice. He’d always been her favorite child, and he had never before spoken to her in anger. She reached out a tentative hand.

  It never reached his cuff. There was a flurry of cloth and a young man Hamon hoped had gone appeared before her, his bedraggled hair and open-mouthed grin testament to a mellow befuddlement. Before his mother could do anything about it, her hand was taken and a flowery kiss bestowed upon it.

  “Most gracious and beauteous lady, pray listen no more to your son lest he further confirm everything he says. A backward ghetto indeed! When may I ask, Major, did you hear any of Hathe to be so ill mannered as to describe you thus within your hearing. Madame, look at me. Can you imagine such vulgar sentiments emanating from these lips? That the husband of my step-mother’s niece should so demean your race!” He paused, sighing dramatically as he gazed sorrowfully at Hamon in regret.

  Hamon glowered back. “What did you think of Terrans then, before we arrived?”

  “Think of Terrans?” Des Trurain spared all of a moment to consider it, then shook his head. “Don’t remember ever doing so. Marthe, do you recall thinking of Terrans?” There was a pensive frown on the man’s lips, but Hamon recognized the slight touch of a dimple at the corner of her mouth. His wife was of a mind to play along with her old friend’s game, it seemed, and merely shook her head. He wished the situation would allow him do other than let her.

  Des Trurain put an identical look on his own face. “Mind, madame, if we knew that you possessed such elegant ladies, we certainly would have cast you a thought,” he said, flourishing low over her still entrapped hand. This time, she managed to wriggle it out of his grasp, just as Hamon growled at him to let go of his mother, naming him a lecherous reprobate. Which words, of course, thoroughly engaged his mother’s interest. Hamon could only curse at his stupidity.

  “And just who might you be, young man?” she demanded.

  “Me, madame? Nobody at all. A mere wretch marooned here by my thankless kin. Bereft of all am I,” the annoying Hathian said with another dramatic sigh.

  Hamon was about to seriously damage the young Hathian, but fortunately Marthe recognized his fraying temper and judged it time to intervene. Whether to protect her friend or her husband, Hamon thought it best he not know. Not if he hoped to salvage anything from this night.

  “May I present Jacquel des Trurain, the son of my aunt’s husband and an old friend of my twin brother,” she said. “Like myself, he was left behind when our people fled Hathe.”

  “And your brother? Did he too remain?”

  “No, madame. He was killed fighting to keep your people off planet long enough to allow the rest of the Haut Liege to escape.” Her voice sounded flat and emotionless, too tightly controlled by her will. Hamon could only guess at the pain it hid.

  “I did not realize,” came his mother’s equally cool reply. “I understand now your reaction to my words. Please accept my apology.”

  “With deep pleasure, madame.” This time, at least, her hand was accepted with a semblance of warmth. One hurdle overcome.

  “Now that I’ve got this mess sorted out, I trust I can count on you to manage the rest,” crowed Jacquel sotto voce.

  For once, Hamon couldn’t be angry. An unwelcome crisis had been averted. Marthe’s choice of words still puzzled him. The stars knew she voiced her loathing of the peasants often enough, to suddenly now turn around and defend them. He filed it away for later. Right now, calling her on it would gain him nothing. He didn’t need more lies between them, or barriers hindering his study of the Hathian pair, a study as essential as ever.

  And at a deeper level, he did not wish this night marred.

  Some while later, they returned to the reception area, Madame MacDiarmid arm in arm with her new daughter-in-law, and if any might wonder whether the Administrator’s smile was a little forced, he knew he could count on her power to ensure that none dared voice the thought.

  For Marthe, the evening had been scarred, but not ruined. A friendly woman was now alienated, but she pushed it aside philosophically. There were so many obstacles between her and Hamon; what was one more? Their love was doomed anyway. Why waste what time was left brooding over which of the opposing forces would finally bring the whole facade crashing do
wn. She shrugged and turned to Hamon, leaning close in joyful promise.

  He understood, his fingers clenching hers in equal pledge. He looked down and saw a curiously detached look on her face. After chatting briefly with Madame MacDiarmid, she moved off to mingle with her guests, stopping to talk with first this one, then that. Marthe was welcomed eagerly by them all. Hamon recognized the practiced art of a diplomat’s daughter. Others felt only the ease she engendered, the ready dissipation of tension and the scattering of rumor.

  Des Trurain was her equal, noted Hamon wryly, watching as the two worked to restore the glamour and romance of the evening. He had to admire their skill. A part of him wondered bitterly how many would later remember anything of significance in the disturbance. Then it ceased to matter, as a figure of glimmering moonshine danced over to him, the rosiness of her cheeks and the sparkle of her eyes only enhancing her beauty. He smiled at her bubbling joy and took her outstretched hand, holding firm to the quiet contact of finger to finger as both turned back to address the others about them.

  Barely noticed at first, then just there, the musical notes stole into Hamon’s mood. He stood relaxed, watching the people in the room. It was late, yet none had retired. Hidden niches enclosed gentle rendezvous and matters weighty and philosophical flowed freely in discussion. Ponderous affairs of the world and soul, solved ingeniously now by protagonists utterly safe from acting upon their thoughts.

  The music entered as a delicate counterpoint to the hum of human words. So quiet was the refrain, at the barest threshold of audibility—reedy, feather light, delving into relaxed and cogent minds—acceptance and surrender were unconscious. His gaze took in the native onlookers standing apparently aimlessly about the perimeter of the room in barely defined pairs. Briefly glimpsed under the cloaking hoods, he caught faces smiling in precious recognition.