Resistance: Hathe Book One

by Mary Brock Jones

  Slowly, as if on a time scale outside human experience, the strange tune became louder. So gradual that, once acknowledged consciously by the crowd, none questioned its existence. Melodies and harmonies tumbled in, building a music both haunting in its simplicity and beguiling in its complexity. He had always loved music, but this was something new.

  He was holding Marthe lightly within one arm and could feel her response. He looked down and noted the upward curve of her lips and the touch of a faraway gaze in her eyes. The strains were as familiar to her as to the other Hathians. Idly he stayed listening, noting hints of primitive Terran music forms. Was that a touch of a Celtic lament? Or there, a strain of a Renaissance court dance overlaid with the exotic complexities of the Indian sitar. But they were superficial similarities. The cadences now permeating every corner of the room originated not in any soul of Earth origin.

  The sound began to swell. Slow and stately, yet with an underlying call that tugged deeply at the core. The chattering groups grew silent. Entwined couples were still. A space had cleared in the centre of the room, and the guests clustered about, waiting. It was as if a cloud of tranquility had descended.

  Two Hathians approached from the outer part of the circle and proceeded towards them. He and Marthe now stood isolated in an island of space, he realized. As the Hathians came nearer, Hamon saw they were holding a large goblet of intricate and antique design. He appeared to be expected to drink of the odorous brew within.

  Even in his torpid state, his suspicions hovered and, with a reserved air, he held back. Marthe must lead here. A quiet air of excitement and, yes, nervousness surrounded her, lessening not one jot his caution. She stood still as a rock as the natives held the goblet out for her. A Hathian ceremony then, known and expected by her. Yet she hadn’t spoken of it in all the tiresome briefings to prepare for this day.

  One of the natives, the taller, spoke in a strange language, unlike any he had heard before. To his surprise, Marthe answered in the same tongue, before turning to him.

  “This man, who stands in place of my closest relative, wishes us peace and fertility.” Her voice was like a soft caress, the tone lessening his rigidity despite himself. “Will you drink the Cup of Harmony with me and join in the Dance?”

  Powerless beneath her gaze, he joined her in holding the cup, clasping her hand as she raised the goblet and drank deeply. There was a touch of hesitation, then, as if from some detached void, he watched himself bring that weird chalice to his lips and drink deeply. He’d meant to take a ceremonial sip only.

  A fiery liquor cascaded down his throat, melting, he felt sure, every bone in his body. Surprise was on Marthe’s face too. He could see the effort at control on her face, obvious for the first time in their relationship. His hand was still on hers as, coolly, she handed back the goblet and spoke more words in the strange tongue. He was dimly aware of the natives retreating, but it was secondary. His world had shrunk. Only two existed. Her hand took his and the music, never quite forgotten, seemed suddenly to be as closely linked to his melting limbs as the fierce liquid he had just drunk.

  Slowly, they began to dance. To one side, he was dimly aware of Jacquel explaining the rite of the Marriage Dance to the watching Terrans. He doubted it was necessary. Their rising sensuality must have been obvious as, in slow suspension, they twined about each other, moving imperceptibly, always in circles, only their backs ever visible to others.

  Marthe was in territory strange and foreign to her, and yet excitingly familiar. How often before had she seen this dance, felt the subtle timbre in the air? It was an intricate and delicate blending, this Hathian dance. Untaught, unlearned but by observation, danced only on this, their wedding night. Yet by the skills of an unknown science, the strange music and drink became one with them, investing their limbs with a unique power to love and court the other in as close a bonding as that which was to come unaided later in the night.

  A tingling fire ran through her. The burnished, hazel eyes of this man became the centre of her universe. His eyes, and those shoulders, that sharp-edged profile, the lazy, sweeping regard of burning depths moving over her breasts, bringing them tautly alive; her now undulating abdomen; her hips bending in subtle invitation; and her long, shapely legs, pointing delicately and arching as she moved. Smiling inwardly, she slowly twirled, feeling the long waves of hair lift about her and cascade down again.

  Not once did they touch more than hands, fingertips, a brushing of gown and suit. Yet it was as if they touched all along the length of their bodies. A sinking glow encompassed her, pulsing and throbbing. She was not alone. Her husband was with her in this. It was in every movement of his body.

  The music swirled in. No louder, no more strident, yet growing, climbing to such a peak, carrying them both along in a welter of emotion and sensation, across the room and out to the corridor. The dance faded to a walk, then, as if impatient, he drew her up into his arms, holding her close. They came at last to their own suite. No music was needed now. Their own bodies, and minds, and hearts brought them to that point where, at last, they came together in a long, sighing release.

  It seemed much, much later. Still she held him, all her skin cells joined one to one with the warmth and firm wonder of him. His head turned, that strong hand gently bringing her face to meet his slow smile before he softly touched her lips in sweet caress and folded her once more onto his chest. For an age they lay still, lulled in the peace of love. Then sleep quietly took them.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  She was later to remember the days that followed with a kind of disbelieving wonder. Relaxed, lapped in waves of happiness, she had time to explain the history of all that was strange to him on their wedding night.

  The most obvious was the alien music and drink, discovered early in the colonization of the planet in an underground dwelling of unknown design. The presence of carboniferous beings on the planet long ages before man’s arrival was nothing of note to her, brought up from childhood with tales of the Old Ones and their relics that were found on Hathe and a few other colonial planets. To him, though, it was all astonishingly new. Did Earth never read anything from the colonies, she had to wonder? Her happiness had been too new to blurt the thought out loud.

  More exciting to Marthe was the deepening communion between them, banishing forever, she’d thought, the barriers of race, loyalty and culture that strove so hard to divide them.

  What a fool she’d been. They’d had their idyllic spell, yes. Achingly brief days spent far from the Citadel in an old lodge far out on the plateau, but all too soon they had to come back to reality. His mother must be farewelled after her brief trip, and his other duties could wait no longer. Her Hamon must give way to Major Radcliff again.

  That was many weeks ago and, since their return, he’d increased her guards and his surveillance—whether to protect her or to report on her movements she couldn’t say. It was almost as if he sensed the growing demands on her from her own people.

  She was working nonstop now, reporting Terran troop movements, warning rebel groups of the enemy’s presence, delving into all aspects of the Citadel’s operations. Gof deln Crantz often relayed how pleased he was with her and Jacquel. Between them, they’d managed to supply the kind of information on the Terran headquarters that the resourceful Hathian resistance had given up hope of acquiring.

  So her superiors were pleased with her. There was something to be thankful in that, she supposed. Come F-day, the day on which the resistance would at last strike back and reclaim their home, the chances of success had been increased by a whole percentage point through what she and Jacquel had learned. The odds were already in the high eighties, but every extra percentage point meant less risk to the native population, thus less chance of her people dying, she reminded herself, weary after yet another night spent in the maze of corridors of the administration section combing the records of the central data bank.

  Tonight had been a success. She’d discovered a code that let her pull
the plans for the entire planetary communication system. Most of the network had been worked out already by extrapolation from peripheral parts, but this new data meant that the rebels could link into the fortress’ system for a test run before the actual assault. It was a good night.

  Unfortunately, such nights were rare. More often she would steal back in the early hours, check that the sedative she’d given Hamon had kept him under while she was gone so he knew nothing of her activities, and then fall into a dead sleep for a few, short hours. Rising heavy-headed and worn out, she’d have gained nothing to compensate for the growing suspicion of her husband as he eyed the dark eyes and gaunt face she daily confronted in her mirror.

  Central’s demands had grown lately and most nights found her prowling the Citadel’s corridors. Jacquel was just as busy, but he showed little sign of it and could easily pass off tired eyes with a mischievously lecherous grin. She could not, not to Hamon. She was so worn out. It was the baby, she supposed, eying the growing bulge. I hope you’ll be grateful one day, little one. She rubbed her hand over her stomach, the driving force that kept her going. Her child would grow up safe in the freedom she’d known in her youth. It was the only dream she dared cling to.

  Hamon walked in just then and saw her hand and the protective curl of it. She hadn’t heard him enter and he made no attempt to catch her attention. Instead, he stopped by the door, studying her far away face and biting down hard on the fear inside him. He’d reviewed all the night vids and knew how often she tossed and turned while he appeared to sleep soundlessly. It wasn’t enough to explain the deadly weariness etched into her bones. She no doubt knew how much the natives hated her, but was that what drove her? Did she imagine, as he did, all the ways she could be hurt, all the ways he could lose her forever? He was so afraid for her, fear such as never he’d felt before.

  Already, he’d once detected poison in her food. Now, all her meals were personally prepared by Agnethe, alone among the Hathians in her continuing affection for Marthe. He trusted the big-hearted cook in this; he had to, but he made sure Marthe knew nothing of the incident.

  She did, of course, but had hoped Hamon was in ignorance until Agnethe enlightened her to the contrary. It was one of the many thoughts in the storm-tossed maelstrom that held her in thrall as she sat in the chair, oblivious to her surrounds. One more burden to add to her looming pyre. There were so many of them. On her last visit to the rebel headquarters, she’d been recognized, and the guards had to intervene to stop the angry crowd from seriously hurting her. As it was, she’d collected a few nasty bruises. Merely a fall, she’d said to Hamon in the morning.

  The surreptitious spits and angry murmurs in the street were now so commonplace that she could almost overlook them. Still, she avoided leaving the fortress unnecessarily. Apart from the poison, there had been two other attempts on her life. Both had been reported to the rebel command, who promised to rein in the hotter-headed among the younger natives. Command wouldn’t stop the sneers, though. The show of hatred from the populace was too necessary to the roles she and Jacquel played. If only she didn’t have to know that, while the jeers for Jaca were forced, for her they were all too real.

  Then there was the continuing nausea of her pregnancy, lodging a cloud of depression over her spirits. Hamon had suggested she return to Earth with his mother, just for a short break. She’d refused him so violently he’d never mentioned it again, but she’d seen the hurt in his eyes at her loathing of his home world. It was one more wedge driven between them, one added to so many others that it was rare now that the barriers could be fully set aside, allowing them a respite of peace. She slumped farther into the seat.

  Hamon saw it, angrily helpless. He growled, unable to silence his grief, and she whirled round to stare anxiously at him. He could see in her eyes the shutters crashing up against him, and in the full glare of sunlight her face was more worn than ever. He asked her yet again what was the matter. She was fine, she said, as always, but today, he couldn’t take it. He swung round and flung himself out the door before he gave in to the violence that demanded he shake the truth from her before she killed herself. He couldn’t. He was caught too hard by the knowledge of what would happen if he gave in to the need to keep her safe above all else. So many lives were at stake, so many innocents who would suffer if he lost the constant battle between what duty demanded he must do and what he wanted to do.

  Something was building, he knew it, and Marthe was involved. It was the only explanation for her tension. The doctor had checked her out, assuring him that madame was merely suffering a difficult pregnancy; but the doctor didn’t see the reports flooding his desk, didn’t know of the number upon number of incidents. Trivial enough in themselves, maybe, combined they told of a well organized and strong resistance movement, readying itself for action.

  The reports alone were useless, though. Much as he hated to admit it, Hamon didn’t have the authority to take action on them, couldn’t order the all out mobilization of troops that would halt any uprising. Only the Commander could do that, and without hard evidence, the Colonel would do nothing. In the next weeks, Hamon set his staff to try everything to break through the native facade. To no avail. He introduced agents to Marthe and Jacquel, having them pose as personal servants. After a few days, Marthe informed him that she saw no need of the girl. From which he gathered that she didn’t care to be spied on so blatantly. As neither agent had learnt a thing, he agreed to get rid of them. For once he was honest, asking her outright how she’d known the girl was Terran. All he got back was a shocked tirade on the bonds of loyalty and trust in marriage. Glaring angrily at her hypocrisy, he slammed out of the room. He seemed to be making a habit of that lately.

  Marthe watched him go, unable to stop a rush of tears. Hormones, she told herself, and knew it for a lie. Her hands brushed uselessly at her wet cheeks.

  Now, the end was almost here. Marthe woke one morning, counting dates—a few days only until the Zenith of the Pillars of Mathe. Everything was ready, and she knew of nothing that could stop it. The tide of misery inside her surged to full strength. F-day, the day when all this will explode about her and after which she might never see her husband again. A long, slow tear slid down her cheek. One tear only, escaping the huge dam within.

  Hamon was awake beside her. He saw the treacherous drop and reached out to gather her in his arms, one stray finger brushing at her damp cheek. It broke her as nothing else he’d tried, finally shattering the wall of nerves inside her.

  Triumph was the one thing he didn’t feel as he watched the dam of sorrow in her burst, engulfing her in a paroxysm of weeping such as he’d never seen. Holding her tightly, he rocked her quietly till at long last the storm passed and only a soft hiccup came. Her tear-swollen, blotched face moved him only to tenderness; too absorbed was he in the release from wretchedness written there.

  “Hush, little love. Nothing can be so bad. You’re just run down. Why not have a day in bed?”

  Whether it was his voice or his words that soothed her, he couldn’t say. The tears stopped, but that was all. He could see the desperation staring from those dark eyes as she whispered: “Promise me Hamon. Please promise, if you leave you will never forget me.”

  The sheer hell in her voice tore into him, but he held hard to what little control he still possessed, denying the urge to plead, shake her, whatever it took to wring the truth from her.

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll never leave you.” He kept his tone deliberately light. “Why would I?”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right.” She was on guard again. “But if you do, you won’t forget, will you? And you will see our child?”

  “My first-born? Of course I will. And I can never, never forget you, my little Hathian witch.” This time he made sure she heard the truth of his words. It must have worked for she subsided into the haven of his shoulders, soon falling asleep again, leaving him thoughtful above her.

  So, whatever was to happen, it would be before the birth of t
he child. Less than three months away. So little time left to crack the rigid surface of these people. He pulled her closer still, anxious to hold on to every remaining minute.

  Duty battled his need to stay and finally won. Reluctantly, he let her go, easing gently from the sleeper so as not to wake her.

  It was not the gentle lover that strode into his offices a short time later. Today, he couldn’t hide his desperation from his men and saw the shock of it in their eyes. Hastily, he pulled up his shutters again, forcing his face into its work mode to reassure his officers. Then he gave them their orders.

  “Hawarth. Cancel all passes till further notice, except where the man is known to have native associations. All personnel to be armed at all times. Jones, any breakthrough yet?”

  “No, sir. Plenty of vague suspicions, but nothing definite.”

  “Then put this in the definite category. Source confidential. We can expect the climax within three months, probably sooner.”

  He might just as well have said her name. They all knew who he meant anyway, but none of them had dared to blatantly voice it since the one foolhardy attempt. The tongue-lashing he’d given the fool had ensured no one else had repeated the question. His private life was exactly that, and he wasn’t about to let any man of his become a party to it. Johne and his troops were bad enough.

  “No idea of the nature of the event yet, sir?” Jones said neutrally.

  “No, but I suspect even more strongly that every Hathian is involved. What about the rest of you?”

  “As to the nature, sir, no,” said Markham, “but discipline within the native gangs has stepped up recently, particularly from the elders. It’s as if they are reining in the younger ones.”