Resistance: Hathe Book One

by Mary Brock Jones

  He realized, then, that she was not sunk in thought as he’d first assumed. Rather, she was asleep where she sat. Had sat for some time, but it was not a tranquil rest. Stark despair shivered in the grim cast of her face. Sleep had come hardily, breaking down the barriers on guard about the tired fortress of her mind. Yet her rigidly held body fought back. Sleep could only stop the pacing, the restless prowling he saw in the vids, the endless plotting scribed onto her face as she searched for ways to defeat him, to keep faith with whoever it was who held her loyalty. Right now, her overtaxed body had finally defeated her, forcing a temporary surrender.

  All this came to him at the deep level below consciousness that was their only channel left to breach the distance between them. Politics denied them the language of words, but not the language of the body. That didn’t lie. Yet it could not tell all. It could not tell him whether he would win this deadly battle—or what would be left to them afterwards.

  Marthe was not as fully asleep as she seemed. Dozing, lost in plans, she still plotted, still drew on the core of strength she tried not to let Hamon see, still fought back as, one by one, he crashed doors shut on her. Desperation held her in a stranglehold. Desperation, but not yet its twin, despair. She refused to succumb to that, to the black pit that waited when nothing more could be attempted.

  She could feel it pulling her in, even as she denied its lure. Instead, she gave in to the state of mind that filled her before every mission, multiplied so many times greater now. Power hummed through her, and she was strung up to a high pitch, capable of whatever wild and crazy action might be required. The orders from HQ had been very clear: in the event of disaster, use any means available. Far better that she and Jacquel be sacrificed—all her hopes of life, love and laughter lost—than the terrible carnage that must follow premature discovery of their plans.

  They were so close to success. All she had to do was hold out till tomorrow, the long awaited Zenith of the Pillars of Mathe—the day unique to this solar system, when sun, planet and moon would come together in a configuration of devastating effect. It occurred only once every ten years, and the Hathians had developed their technology to cope with the anomaly created in that time. The Terrans were ignorant of this foreign system. The hated conquerors would be vulnerable then, and the resistance would attack.

  When even her home system conspired against the Terrans, how could she fail her people?

  She moved fitfully in the cube, twitching angrily. She should be happy. She was about to achieve everything she’d fought five years for, but there was that other thought that gnawed at her constantly. The knowledge that with her state victory must come private disaster, hers and Hamon’s. Here she could no longer fight. Despair won. Once she was forced to action, there was no way for her and Hamon to stay together.

  Unless? Was there a hope? What if Hathe offered Earth the help it so badly needed? “We must,” she vowed. “We must!” Her clenched fist lifted angrily against the cube and came down with such a blow that she frightened herself from her doze. Startled, she toppled sideways, to be caught in strong arms. Still half-asleep, her arms came up automatically, to wind hard around his shoulders, hold so tightly that never would he leave.

  Gently, Hamon eased her onto his lap as he sat in the cube. It was still molded to her slighter figure, but soon flattened out to suit his larger frame.

  For a while, she fought to wake, to sit up and talk. As if with a baby, he gentled her down, calming the harrowed fears haunting her face. It worked. Subsiding back into the warm shoulder with a whispered “Hamon”, she drifted off again, a tired smile hovering about her mouth.

  They stayed like that for most of the night, Hamon fearful of moving lest she wake from her much needed sleep—the first true sleep she’d enjoyed in many days. He sat—still, stony, but warm and comforting to his woman despite aching shoulders and a hard bent neck. Well after midnight, he finally relaxed into sleep, letting the cube mold and cosset them both as he drifted off.

  Marthe woke slowly and looked out towards the big bank of windows at the end of the apartment. It was still night, the sun not yet risen to obliterate the delicate trace of moonshine lingering still.

  Then it hit her, a hammer blow to her gut, what that faint glow signaled: the rarely seen, delicate wash of light that was the fading into day of Hathe’s smaller moon, Mathe. So faintly it shone normally that it never seemed clear to a watcher whether it owed allegiance to Hathe or the larger moon, Dromorne.

  Tonight, it had decided. At midnight, Mathe had shone brightly in the Hathian sky. On its dead slopes stood seven ghostly colomns, ancient relics of an unknown people. The Pillars of Mathe. On Mathe, this night just past, the shining circle of Hathe rose high in the lunar sky, almost reaching the middle of the seven pillars. Tonight, it would stand over the central one, a shining beacon of triumph announcing the end of the ten-year cycle that brought the heavenly bodies together once more. The night of the Zenith of Hathe.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When next she woke, it was the sun that shone in her eyes. Blinking, she peered over Hamon’s comfortable bulk to the brightly lit balcony beyond. She was not the only one awake. They had left the windows open last night, and a tiny Hathian flitter, alive in a riot of gaudy livery, was perched on the overly green leaves of Hamon’s Terran plant. The creature sat quite still, peering closely at the wrongness of the carbon dioxide-enhanced plant, then flicked up and jumped around, to stare at her with disdain. No bigger than a thumb and less than a meter away, it was totally unconcerned by her nearness. Almost she could believe that multi-lensed eye winked at her in conspiracy. Then it took a cautious bite of the tainted plant. Immediately, it spat out the green stuff, clawing at the foulness of its mouth in disgust. Marthe would swear it was revenge that drove the tiny claws to shred the offending leaf to nothing. Then, with a last, defiant sprint round the balcony, it flew off—no doubt to seek genuine Hathian fodder.

  So much for Terrans, eh little one? She smiled to herself, delighted with the arrogance of the tiny animal. Sitting up, she stretched, feeling laughter gurgle up through her body.

  The movement woke Hamon. He rolled onto his back and grinned up at her. “You’ve woken in a good mood this morning.”

  She was glad he was awake, glad he could share in the life coursing through her. Rapturously, she launched herself into his quickly opened arms.

  “Oof! Assault so early in the day?”

  She barely gave him a chance to catch a breath, before her mouth fastened hungrily onto his and her fingers set to rousing his avid interest. He showed no reluctance to join in her game, quickly catching her mood. They were vigorous cubs at play. Tickling here, smoothly caressing there, stirring up laughter and passion both.

  The cube had spread out to become a wide couch during the night, but still they tumbled off, Hamon swinging quickly round to cushion her from harm before they cheerfully righted themselves, only to drown once more in shared wonder. She could feel the hard mass of him, the sleek lines of trained muscles that knew very well when to change from gentle caress to a hard, insistent masculinity. Eventually, laughter was defeated by passion, but even as his firm strokes drove her onwards, she felt their smiles linger, caught in the corners of gasping mouths.

  Afterwards, she snuggled in to his chest, one hand straying still to comb the dark curls at the base of his neck as he slowly traced the curve of her belly, placing a soft kiss there for the baby. His eyes caught sight of the timer and he caught at her hand, bringing it tenderly to his lips before smiling ruefully.

  “I ought to be going. If, that is, you have finished with my services?”

  “Yes, for the moment, thank you.”

  She leaned back, reclining on one elbow in sensuous nonchalance then spoiled the illusion by hurling herself at him and grabbing him in a huge bear hug that tumbled them backwards in a sprawling heap, a look of panic on Hamon’s face till he saw the grin on hers and she broke into giggles as they slid farther over. The door chi
me sounded as they hit the floor. One of Hamon’s guards no doubt, wondering what had become of him.

  Hamon was the first to disentangle himself, still laughing. “Can’t let my staff see me like this. They might think I’m human after all.” He began to scrabble about for his discarded clothing, calling over the speakers for the guards to wait a moment.

  He quickly cleansed and dressed for the day while Marthe tidied the debacle of the lounge. All too soon, the only remnant of their moment of refuge was the smile still hovering inside her. She disappeared while Hamon spoke to the officer at the door, and did not see who the man was. Hamon came in to the bedroom, to say only that he had to go, urgently. She knew better than to ask questions, but clung to him wordlessly as a thought came to her: this may be their last time together.

  “No time for more games, love,” Hamon remonstrated, failing to pick up her change of mood. He gave her a quick peck on the forehead as she released him. Dimly, she heard him leave, clapping the other man on the shoulder.

  “Right, we’d better see what’s got Captain Braddock so excited.”

  At the time, the words failed to penetrate the cloud of sadness that fell on her, as quick and as real as the joyous abandon of her early rising. But there was no time for sorrow when Hathe needed her. Time to begin her preparations for the afternoon’s action; she threw herself with relief in to her duties. As a distraction, it worked, until later that morning when Hamon’s careless words suddenly came back to her in a rush.

  Captain Braddock—his friend Ferdo—who was also a highly trained communications scientist. Ferdo had once told her that he tolerated the harsh, military regime on Hathe solely for what it gave him—the chance of a lifetime to test Terran equipment in an alien environment. Diplomacy had kept her silent but had not quelled the angry rebuttal inside. Surely someone who had heard of her Father’s work would realize the more advanced Hathians had long ago solved all the problems that now excited him so much!

  Still, Ferdo was one of the few Terrans with any knowledge of more recent Alliance advancements in technology. She put an urgent call through to his office.

  A guardswoman appeared on the screen. “The communications room is not open to personal calls at present. May I know the nature of your business?” came the coldly impersonal voice.

  “It was nothing important. I merely wished to ask Major Radcliff when he will be home tonight. I’ll call him at his own office later.”

  “The Major will be here all day. I will tell him of your request, Madame an Castre.”

  The screen went blank.

  Bendin’s foulest expletive exploded from her. How could she have overlooked the most obvious source of danger? She hastily blocked the Terran surveillance vids in her room and contacted Central with her fears. To no avail. Everyone was busy with last minute checks. Eventually, she managed to get through to Jaca, but he, too, was fully occupied with getting ready for the final assault on the Citadel and had no time to talk. He did hear her out, sparing her a half-distracted moment.

  “What can they do at this late stage?” was his harried response.

  “Make the whole thing a lot bloodier than necessary, that’s what!”

  “Only if they manage to discover anything, which is unlikely. Earth doesn’t have the expertise.” There was a distinct lack of sympathy in his tone. “Radcliff’s your ball game. If you suspect a problem, deal with it. The rest of us have enough to do already.”

  He broke off, leaving her staring into space and biting her lips. Carefully, she ticked off the contents of her concealed body pouch. Most particularly, the blaster hidden there. Her practice shots left a gaping hole in the bedroom wall, impossible to explain if Hamon should find it, but it was reassuring to find her accuracy as sharp as ever.

  She toyed with lunch, scarcely tasting the nourishing fare she forced herself to swallow, and was very pleased to see Hamon enter soon afterwards, forgetting for a moment the damage to the bedroom. Luckily he was in haste. Then she saw the grim cast of his face.

  “I hope you’ve finished eating. Your presence is required elsewhere.”

  “Hamon, it’s midday. Whatever would people say,” she replied coquettishly, deliberately misreading his words. He didn’t answer, seizing her by the arm and leading her out of the room.

  “Please, you’re hurting me.” She tried pulling away from his harsh grip.

  “Sorry.” The tone was curt, but his hand relaxed a fraction—though not enough to let her escape.

  She let a brush stroke of fear enter her voice. “Whatever’s going on?”

  “Nothing will happen to you, I promise. No matter what.” There was a desperate hollowness to his words; and while she felt excitement in him, she also sensed anger. At what, she couldn’t guess, unless it was her pathetic delaying tactics. She forced her body to subside, appearing to acquiesce. Yet every nerve and muscle was taut, ready, as so often in the past, for whatever might be needed.

  They soon arrived at their destination—the communications wing. There was no surprise in her. The guard appeared to expect them, waving them through to Ferdo’s inner sanctum: the Terran central communications control room. Lights, screens and banks of equipment covered the walls in a threatening array. In the far corner sat the duty technician, constantly monitoring a myriad of channels.

  The only other occupant was Ferdo, listening intently to a crackling, distorted fragment of sound coming from a nearby speaker. Beside him, an energy cone had been set up and beneath it, she saw, lay one of the old patches. That crackle of sound told her they’d found nothing dangerous yet. Despite that, her internal alarm was on high alert and there was no relaxation within her. She cleared her mind, setting aside the personal and letting the familiar, icy logic of her training take over.

  Ferdo’s head turned as they entered, his face glowing with anticipation. “Hamon, you’re back, and with Marthe. Good.”

  “Nice to see you, Ferdo. Now, by all the Pillars what are you two so eager to show me?” she said.

  Hamon tensed up, as surprised as Ferdo looked at Marthe’s apparent willingness to cooperate. It was too abrupt a change from her earlier fear. But Marthe was not Terran, and right now that was what he must remember. The survival of all those millions on Earth must come first, whatever it cost him. The cost to her he dared not consider. Not if he was to do his duty here. She would be safe and physically unharmed; that was all he had the right to promise, and he grimly checked the room for possible escape routes. Hamon would have sworn her earlier fear had been real and, since entering, she’d never once turned her back on any of them. Not even on the harmless technician at the far side of the room.

  Ferdo put down his probe and took a step forward. “Marthe, thank you for coming. If you would just take this seat and stretch your wrist out here, we can begin?”

  “Begin what?”

  “A little experiment,” said Hamon in a tone that brooked no argument.

  “It’s that unusual patch you once wore,” explained Ferdo enthusiastically. “I feel sure the key to it is bringing it in contact with the owner. We’re going to return the patch to your wrist, then cover the whole with a cone. Hopefully we can then make some sense of these noises we’re picking up. The Colonel will have to listen to us then.”

  “What arrant nonsense!” Marthe snatched her hand away. By the Pillars! This was more than she’d bargained for. Hamon caught hold of her wrist again and returned it firmly to the table. Coldly, he called Ferdo’s duty officer over.

  “Technician, as the Colonel has seen fit to limit our use of force field generators,” he said, a grim cast to his face, “you will restrain this lady and prevent her from moving.”

  The next minute, Marthe found herself pinned tightly, her right hand firmly held behind her back. If she even tried to struggle, the man would surely break her arm. Her other hand was pulled onto the bench, palm up. She glared at Hamon, daring him wordlessly to explain. He merely stepped back, hiding whatever he felt behind the implacable barr
ier of his set face.

  The technician who held her was too well trained and too strong. Despite all she attempted, her wrist was brought relentlessly under the cone and the patch placed against her skin. Please, God, let it not be activated.

  Ferdo hunched anxiously over his toys, but for all his furious twiddling, the crackling cacophony was unchanged.

  “Maybe if we enlarge the field of reception to take in the whole body,” he said. The cone tilted towards her as his finger played on the controls. Still the crackling. His fingers moved viciously, then stopped, frustrated.

  Hamon stared at Marthe, thinking hard. A memory jarred at the edge of consciousness, some niggling habit of hers. They had to be close. She was too unhappy with their activities, despite her innocent veneer.

  “Of course, “he exclaimed suddenly. Taking over with a hold as strong as the technician’s, he grabbed her other hand, bringing it inexorably forward.

  “What do you think you’re doing,” Marthe demanded, but knew too well. Try as she might to avoid it, her hand was brought round and the fingers pressed firmly against the patch. So tight was his grip that she couldn’t move her fingers, couldn’t warn her people with the alarm code. The patch was fully active and the Hathians had no idea of it. Horror engulfed her.

  “I think it’s activated by finger contact,” she now heard Hamon say to Ferdo. “I’ve often seen Marthe tapping her arms in the past, or more recently, tugging her ear.” And despite her outraged gasp, he pushed her hair aside to pull back her earlobe. “Nothing there,” she was relieved to hear him say, as his fingers brushed across her improved patch, snugly sitting in the ear crease. “Try it again, Ferdo.”

  Tensely, Marthe watched the Captain. Again, a babble of sound broke through, but this time, they were undeniably human sounds. Ferdo flashed a triumphant grin. Again, he adjusted his controls. The babble broke up, separating into its parts. Until only one damning voice spoke. The accent was the same as her own, the language, Harmish.