Resistance: Hathe Book One

by Mary Brock Jones

  “Section nine reporting. All units set and ready to move.”

  “Central receiving, section nine. Confirm all go to move at third pillar. Mark Zenith start at 19.00 hours, sun at one degree below horizon.”

  Marthe heard the words in dread. Hamon still held her, even as he translated excitedly to Ferdo.

  “That’s it. Our proof!” Ferdo shouted exultantly.

  Hamon grinned back in triumph. After all this time. He hurriedly reviewed the Hathian calendar and the difference between Hathian and Terran standard hours. “That’s for tonight!”

  Releasing Marthe, he strode across to the nearest vid. “I’ll let the Commander know immediately. He has to turn the guard out now. We’ve won, Ferdo!”

  As his hand reached for the call pad, a blinding pain slashed through his arm. Gasping, he swung back. Marthe’s hand was stretched out in front of her and she stood eerily still, legs apart and braced. In her hand was a strange blaster. It was aimed directly at his heart.

  One agonizing beat, and hope ended.

  “I wouldn’t make that call,” said his beloved.

  “Or?”

  “A repeat of the last pain,”

  “I can bear it,” he warned,

  “Then Ferdo’s death or damage to you.”

  He believed her. Her stance was too real, had too much the mark of a trained professional. She had used a low blaster setting on him but he’d seen before how swiftly she could change it. She had already moved to bring both Ferdo and the technician within range and, for the present, it seemed he must play along, waiting all the while for his own split-second chance, and must forget that it was Marthe at the end of that blaster—an agonizing blow he would deal with later. All he must see now was his Hathian enemy. He forced himself into battle mode.

  Conceding with a shrug, he moved away from the wall and towards her. Sudden, killing heat seared a line a hair’s breadth in front of his foot.

  “No closer,” she threatened. He saw the concrete cast of her face, the poised shoulder, the practiced finger upon the blaster.

  “You should watch where you point that thing.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  It wasn’t a boast. He remembered that scene on the balcony facing the angry crowd of Hathian peasants and moved back, ever aware of her eyes watching, then saw her free hand go up to tug at her ear. That old, not so innocent habit.

  Marthe saw the recognition in his eyes as she tapped out the alarm signal, eyes which constantly raked her for any sign of weakness.

  “Report,” came the voice of Central in her head. Quickly, she explained the situation. The silence as she waited for a reply seemed endless.

  “The room is sealed and a temporary recording in progress.” It was the cultured voice of deln Crantz.

  “And the technician function?”

  “We will send a replacement. It’s imperative that you keep the Terrans inside that room. They must not be allowed to reveal what they know until the assault has begun. Estimate one thousand casualties if you fail.” Her commander signed out, no reply needed.

  She looked at her husband. No, her foe. That was what she must see now. Her enemies—the Terrans she had to keep confined here—and she noted the fear in the faces of Ferdo and the technician as they watched her.

  It wasn’t surprising. She was still using the resistance code to communicate with Central—a mix of words and taps on her ear patch. All they would hear was the odd word spoken. Unimportant, meaningless phrases, easily woven into a covering conversation, to add to the tiny movements of her fingers on the skin behind her ear—the secret language that had surrounded the unknowing Terrans.

  On Hamon’s face there was no fear, only jaded comprehension.

  A glacial answering image to her own posture, he’d chosen to prop himself against the far wall, legs insolently crossed in languid carelessness.

  “You may try the vid,” she said to him,” though it will be of no use to you. This room is now sealed.”

  “Within five minutes, someone will miss the controlling technician and realize something is wrong.”

  “We have temporary control of that function until a replacement of our own arrives,” she returned.

  “You don’t mind if I try anyway?”

  Hamon didn’t wait for her nod to move over to the panel, but he moved slowly enough not to spook her, ever conscious of her weapon. Even before he pressed the button, he knew there would be no response. He turned to shrug at Ferdo at the very moment the duty technician panicked and broke for the door. Quicker than he would have thought possible, that deadly weapon swung about, spat out a missile, and the technician slumped to the floor.

  Ferdo stared at him, wide-eyed and slack-mouthed. “Stars, you’ve killed him,” he spat in disgust, any lingering trace of friendship for Marthe banished from Ferdo’s voice. That was something at least. Ferdo needed to understand exactly what kind of enemy they were up against here. If he didn’t, the cool disregard in her voice should have told him.

  “It is no more than your people have done to mine often enough,” she said.

  Hamon bent down to inspect the man and saw the steady breathing, the scorch mark of a low grade charge against the back of his neck and the faint pin mark on his neck . He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Drugged?”

  She nodded, the blaster rock-steady in her hands.

  “For how long?”

  “Twenty-four hours, unless I give him the antidote sooner.”

  “And will you?”

  “Only if he shows signs of a serious adverse reaction. I can last as long as I have to, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “So we’re next?”

  She shook her head. “I carried only one dart pin.”

  “If you want to stop us, you’ll have to shoot Ferdo—or me.”

  His eyes held hers in challenge. She never flinched.

  “Yes.”

  Would she do it? He didn’t know and dared not risk it. Not yet. For now, he must give way. There was time yet. He let his lids droop down to hide his frustration as he turned and stood, moving to take a nearby chair.

  Unfortunately, Ferdo wasn’t so sanguine, not with one of his own staff lying unconscious on the floor.

  “Hamon, stop talking and do something!”

  “Do what, exactly? Marthe appears to hold the upper hand at present. Don’t you, my dear?”

  Marthe nodded grimly, already hating this game of taunting mockery he’d chosen.

  “I don’t know,” cried Ferdo, “but there are two of us, against a mere woman.”

  “Well trained and, let me point out, with a blaster of greater capability than our own. I assume it has a destruct function?” He looked at her, as if to clarify an interesting detail, and again she nodded grimly.

  “Yes, but she wouldn’t use it. By the stars, under their law she’s your wife.”

  “I assure you, my wife is quite capable of blowing us both to perdition.”

  The cold anger seeping through the mockery sent a chill through Marthe. For an instant, she glimpsed an icy fury and knew he was fighting to control it as hard as he was fighting her. So many hours to go. Could she do it? She must. The penalty was a thousand deaths if she failed.

  “Thank you for your vote of confidence,” she said, making her voice as cool and mocking as his.

  Ferdo gasped angrily and began to stride towards her. One blast to his foot sent him reeling backward. He caught his breath then looked down. His foot was untouched, whole and safe.

  “Neuroillusion. A small refinement we picked up from you,” she said. “The next time, it will be for real.”

  Ferdo retreated angrily to the far chair. Hamon merely hooded his eyes, hiding from her the rage written in their shining brilliance. She saw enough, saw they had become brittle shards of emerald green. There was no trace left of the soft hazel glow she’d seen in them just that morning, the color that said he loved her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ha
mon waited until he judged the strain must be starting to tell on her, despite any outward sign of it. Only then did he choose to speak again, in a light tone as if continuing an academic discussion. “One thing puzzles me still. Where do the peasants fit in?”

  “There are no peasants. It was a hoax.”

  “A very well acted one. Who were the peasants at our wedding, then?”

  She ignored his reminder of intimacy. “Various relatives at hand. My cousin, Griffith an Castre, stood in for Father.”

  The inner door slid open just then. Hamon tensed, then saw that the newcomer was a native and that the outer door was already closed to prevent the escape of any sounds. Imperceptibly, he slumped in his chair.

  Marthe didn’t look away from her hostages, having already been alerted by Central of the arrival of the replacement technician. Once she was again confident that the room was secure, she turned to the newcomer. Startled, she met the clear, grey eyes of her sister.

  “Laren? What are you doing here?” she signaled in astonishment.

  “I was the only one available with the necessary expertise,” Laren signed back. “Everyone else is too busy and this function is vital. We can no longer hold control via remote without compromising other channels. But I’ll talk later. For now, we both have work to do.”

  Her soft smile belied any harshness and, despite her worry, Marthe was grateful for the rock-steady presence of her sister as she settled complacently in front of the console.

  Hamon had watched closely as the native entered carrying a food tray, as cover he supposed. A female from her walk. He saw the few gestures of hand and cloak, so subtle one might almost think them imagined. Then the woman settled at the console, patently familiar with the instrumentation.

  Marthe made no effort to speak, but he noted her continual fidgeting, her fingers tugging and tapping at her ear. Code? The newcomer confirmed his guess.

  “Marthe, will you stop jabbering in my ear.” Laren spoke in Harmish. “I’m trying to concentrate on these archaic controls.”

  That voice. He lifted his head and stared at her in shock. He’d last heard that voice more than five years ago. Laren an Castre was skilled in communications, but surely not here and now. It was too great a coincidence. Then his mouth straightened in self-derision. After the events of the last hour, was anything too great a coincidence?

  “From the Major’s politic silence, I’m quite certain he knows who I am. Isn’t that so, Major?”

  “As astute as ever, Madame asn Castre,” replied Hamon also in Harmish and using every ounce of the duplicitous courtesy he’d learnt from his diplomat father, exaggerating his urbane politeness further when he saw how much it set Marthe on edge.

  “An Castre,” Laren corrected, untroubled by his manner and using the same polished tones in which, years ago, he’d heard her present a paper at the college. “I’m a matron with two children these days.”

  “And as beautiful as ever, I’m sure.”

  “Jorven thinks so, anyway,” Laren replied, chuckling. “But I am remiss, Major. Welcome to the family. Or may I call you Hamon. It seems only right in such a case.”

  “Of course, and my thanks, madame. Though I didn’t expect to meet my wife’s family in such circumstances.”

  “No? And we had always assumed you were fully alive to the real situation here. Surely you realized it would have to come to this one day?” She spoke as one mildly scolding a small boy. He refused to admit she was making him feel like one. “Never mind,” she added, “it will all be over soon, and you can do your manly stomping then. You will find, Marthe, that men never can be angry silently, but, then, I am forgetting your own temper.”

  “Thank you, Laren,” said her sister dryly.

  For her part, Marthe was grateful for Laren’s diversionary tactics in this game of nerves with Hamon.

  Now Ferdo also came to her aid, though she doubted that was his intention. His bottled up anger finally boiled over as he listened to the overly polite tones of the unknown exchange between Hamon and the peasant who’d had the effrontery to take over his control post. He jumped up and made for the control chair, obviously planning to drag the insolent native out of it, and probably send out an alarm as well. Marthe hit him with a burst of blaster fire. Amazingly, he ignored it, fighting against the pain and pressing on. She was forced to switch the setting. Still he came on. Two, three steps more.

  It was Hamon who dragged him to a halt, and held him hard to keep him still.

  “Let me go, you traitor,” Ferdo snarled. “No illusion is going to stop me doing my duty.

  “By the stars, Ferdo, look at your damned foot. It’s no illusion this time,” snapped Hamon. “Look, you fool.” With one, strong arm, he forced the other’s head downwards, to see there the smoking remnants of what had once been toes. And still Marthe held her blaster on him.

  “One step closer, Captain Braddock, and you will lose a leg, not a toe. After that, your life.”

  Ferdo looked into her face, and Hamon saw his shock as Ferdo recognized what Hamon had known since the moment she’d pulled her blaster. She did not bluff.

  “Very wise, Captain Braddock,” said Laren, switching to Alliance Standard. “Marthe is one of our best shots. Now perhaps you could numb that foot for the poor Captain, Marthe—if he will behave.”

  The Terran captain gazed in horror at where his toes had been. His face blanched and pinched with pain, he nodded in dazed agreement and sighed in relief as Marthe switched the setting back to the lowest possible, angling it over the nerve endings, and a welcome numbness spread over his foot.

  “Lie him down on the floor and prop the foot up on a stool,” ordered Marthe, partly glad to have eliminated an opponent; but there was another part of her, one that demanded to know how she could inflict such pain on a fellow human. She heard the echo of it in Hamon’s voice.

  “Congratulations, Madame Wife. You’re whittling the numbers down very neatly. Only one to go. What are you planning for me?”

  “Boiling in oil,” she snapped back, not caring if her momentary loss of control afforded him the greatest satisfaction, though never did she let her hand on the blaster waver.

  “Now, now, children, such tantrums,” Laren scolded. “Hamon, you haven’t introduced me to your angry young man.

  “My apologies, madame. Your sister will insist upon these minor interruptions,” he said, gesturing to Ferdo’s missing toes. “Madame Laren an Castre, may I present Captain Ferdo Braddock, head of our communications section. Ferdo, my sister-in-law.”

  Hamon bowed as he finished, using the ironic flourish to put his hands momentarily out of sight. Almost immediately, a burning heat slashed along his left side. Just in time, he drew his hand back from the smoldering remnants of the tiny handgun he always wore. Damnit, he’d hoped she’d forgotten about it.

  “Marthe, a bit radical, dear,” said Laren, staring at the apparently senseless shot.

  “My husband carries a small blaster in a pocket on his left side, Laren. He drew it then.”

  Marthe could feel herself shaking. How could it have come to this, to be forced to shoot at the man who, the stars forgive, she still loved above all else?

  “Your memory does you credit,” drawled Hamon in mocking congratulation.

  He revolved slowly to inspect the charred hole in his suit, carefully pulling the edges together to conceal from the others the fiery welt rising on the singed skin.

  That shot had shaken his confidence. While his mind had told him she would shoot, his heart still believed that he, at least, must be immune. No longer. For an instant, he nearly succumbed to the black depression hovering over him. He thrust it back, glancing at the clock. There was still time. The guards could be called out in an instant. He could still win, unlikely though it may seem to his opponents—as he must think utterly of the two Hathian women.

  “Are you all right,” asked Ferdo from below.

  “Don’t worry. Nothing more than a singed tunic. Lie still an
d leave everything to me.”

  They spoke Terran Local rather than the Standard that was the usual lingua franca of the troops on Hathe, but his hope that they wouldn’t be understood was killed by Marthe’s laconic translation to Laren—solely, he knew, to inform him of her command of Earth dialects. For the present, then, he would have to wait, and he cursed the long sleep he’d gone to such pains to allow her last night. Yet still the shadows lingered beneath her eyes and the skin clung to her bones in high relief. Soon the strain must become too great and the debilitating spells of nausea return.

  There was also the sister to consider, but instinctively he knew her experience didn’t match Marthe’s. She lacked the alert readiness for action that branded Marthe a trained agent. As was he, he reminded himself grimly. His enemy had five years of war service and superior weapons. He had ten years gleaned throughout the Alliance and the knowledge that no weapon is superior to a simple gadget used to best advantage. Idly, his eyes swept the room, marking potential weapons and noting possible positions of attack. As he did so, he deliberately strove to appear relaxed, settling back in his chair and checking on Ferdo from time to time. All the time, he watched Marthe, stared coldly at her and set his voice to taunt her, sending it to slam against the hard shell she’d flung up against him.

  It was his voice Marthe found the hardest to endure. That uncaring, constant battering of scorn, tearing away at her defenses. A nightmare parody of the deep tones that had bathed her in past delight.

  Much later, she retreated to a stool, still poised for combat despite the pains beginning to throb in her head.

  Laren watched her, a big sister frown on her face. Don’t do it, thought Marthe. Don’t beg. But it was a forlorn hope. Laren had seen the fatigue she could no longer hide.

  “Major, since the Terran case is now hopeless, can you not accept defeat gracefully? There is really no point in continuing this ridiculous resistance,” said Laren.

  “But it is so amusing, madame. And if you’re so assured of victory, why waste your time here?”