Resistance: Hathe Book One (22 page)

“
The
Major and I are used to quiet, little tete-a-tetes,” Jacquel
assured her with a touch of malice as the two men rose.

As
he’d expected, Jacquel was soon rewarded for his jibe. Marthe had
barely left when Radcliff’s control broke.

“
The
lady’s mine, des Trurain,” he said angrily, “and I do not suffer
rivals lightly.”

“
Mmm,” Jacquel replied, distracted by Marthe’s incoming
report.

“
So
you can keep your razzing paws off her.”

“
Uh-huh.”

“
There’s to be a special check on the Delta refinery at ten
a.m. Can you tell Central to advise the surveillance teams there to
keep low for a couple of hours?”
came Marthe’s message in his
ear.

“
Hmm
now,” said Jacquel to Radcliff, scratching his ear and pressing an
affirmative to Marthe. “That could be difficult. We’ve been close
friends for so long.”

“
Not
that close and don’t try to claim otherwise.”

“
A number of the staff appear to be on edge. Radcliff is
not the only one beginning to suspect us. The following is a list
of those needing attention.”
She paused to let him code for
record then gave the names.

“
Did
you hear me, des Trurain?”

“
Yes. Sorry. You were telling me of your masterly rights. The
archaic notions of Terrans never cease to amaze me. Marthe must be
quite intrigued by the novelty of it all. But, then, she has no
alternative. How fortunate you are to have such a hold on a
beautiful woman.”

“
I
take it you’ve never needed one?” Radcliff sat back, as if to stop
himself from treating Jacquel as he yearned to, crushing his
Hathian rival from existence.

Jacquel assumed an air of blithe ignorance. “I admit I haven’t
but, to be fair, my background is rather more advantageous than
yours.”

“
Oh?” Now Radcliff did lean forward in threat.

“
Advanced technology, refined civilization, and so forth,”
explained Jacquel, deliberately blind to the insolent nature of his
remarks. It was perhaps fortunate that Marthe chose to return at
that moment.
“At least there was no blood,”
he signed to
her.

To
Hamon, it seemed an interminable time must pass before he could bid
good night to his unwanted guest. His relief was so deep that he
barely noticed the few, quick words whispered by Marthe to the man.
It was only later that night that the message registered: “Daily at
cockcrow’s height.”

Suddenly he was startlingly awake. An assignation? Slowly he
turned to look at the sleeping face beside him. Could this be his
proof, he wondered? Cockcrow’s height. A place? But no, des Trurain
was too closely guarded. Cockcrow? A time of course. But height?
Dawn was when cocks crowed, or used to on old Earth. But this was
Hathe, No cocks crowed here, or ever had. A pre-arranged
code?

It had
to be for some time in the morning. But how? She wore no device
that could possibly be a transmitter. That patch of hers, he’d
thought that to be one, but she wore no such patch now. His memory
played over those few, precious minutes that told him he was right.
Then less pleasant scenes intruded and he drove himself back to the
original problem.

Some
sort of contact had been arranged and all he could do now was watch
and wait. With a grim smile, he nestled in to Marthe, safe in the
innocence of sleep. Her only response to his restless tossing: to
lay one, bronzed arm across the security of his broad chest. It
soothed him and, holding one hand over hers, he settled into his
own, guilty rest. Even then, his barely submerged consciousness
kept plotting, planning, working out strategies to keep this
precious beauty of his under his treacherous eye.

Marthe
soon felt the effect of his night of planning. He began to insist
on staying with her, for most of every day. All but those rare
times when his duties could not be avoided. She might almost have
fooled herself that she was back in the early weeks of bliss. But
it wasn’t the same. This was the game, the ugly masquerade that she
had known would come and in which she, too, had a part to
play.

Sophisticated, witty and charming. The elegant mistress. She
was all of these and more, and it was the most trying of all the
missions she had undertaken. She could see in his eyes his hatred
of her falseness but knew he dared not challenge her. Not when duty
must keep her beside him, probing at her defenses, seeking always
to discover who and what lay behind her facade.

Yet
surprisingly, there was still a place for courtship on the
knife-edge they walked. Slowly, tenderly, in their nights together
he made reparation for that first, cruel taking. She learned to let
him hold her, then a kiss. Then, one inevitable night she turned to
him and could have laughed at the relief he could not hide, had she
not been as hungry for completion as he. On this night, he made
love to her with all his heart and body, bringing to it none of his
duty but all of the gentleness he usually hid so well.

It was
a start. A promise for the days and weeks to come that, together,
their passion could release the joy that was within them. That
there would be many more nights like this.

Something more she learned that night too. The reason behind
what she had always known, why this gift between them was so
necessary if they were to tolerate the sham of ugliness of the
roles they must play. Denied words, it was only in the language of
lips and hands and bodies that there could be any truth between
them—just as there had been in the brutal honesty of that afternoon
in her bedroom in the City. She loved this man, she was forced to
recognize, and he loved her. Inconvenient, inexplicable, but true.
Without those fleeting instants when there was only Hamon and
Marthe, she could not have endured the hateful game that was so
necessary to her people. Nor, she knew, could he. Did she love him
enough to sacrifice the lives of so many of her own? No. That was
no true love. Love did not ask that, could not survive such
evil.

So the
game continued. She could never forget why she was here, in the
heart of the enemy’s fortress, that she had no right to abandon her
people to their misery.

She
always kept to the agreed time for passing messages to
Jacquel—cockcrow height, as the locals labeled the daily parade of
the Terrans. Even Hamon was forced to join in the ritual gathering
of the military, to hear the Commander deliver his report and pass
on the orders of the day. During his absence, Marthe was confined
to their quarters, but with recorders in every room, she knew Hamon
had no qualms at leaving her. According to the playback he would
view later, she merely used the time to indulge in an obscure and
complicated beauty routine.

Such
trust in the infallibility of Terran technology amused Marthe as
she signaled Central one morning to intercept the surveillance of
her quarters.

“
His suspicion of me is growing,”
she reported to her
father and Jacquel.

“
Has
he not been so all along?”

“
Yes, but something in particular happened about a month ago
that’s made him even more suspicious; and no, I don’t know what it
was. He barely leaves my side now, and last week my entire wardrobe
was replaced with Terran-made clothing. About which all I can say
is, if they are the latest Terran fashions, as Hamon claims, then
Earth is sadly lacking in design skills.

I
told Hamon what I thought of them, but he refused to return my own
clothes and instead detailed a tech to change the styles to my
liking. Even our food is untouched by Hathian hands. Terran
standard rations only. He says he prefers them after so many years.
It’s all a decided nuisance. I should be able to keep broadcasting
at this time, but if I have to change, Central will let you
know,”
she added to Jacquel
. “I’ll do my best not to,
though, as I know you are as closely watched as I
am.”

“
Closely watched is an understatement,”
said Jacquel,
frustration lacing his codes.
“Radcliff’s troops are as paranoid
as their master. Their interference is seriously limiting what I
can do. We need something to keep them better occupied, some sort
of diversion.”

“
Such as?”
enquired the elder an Castre
warily.

“
It’s time for the emergence of a certain, highly
intriguing Hathian rogue into Terran society. I’m sure I could set
enough tongues wagging to divert the attention of our captors,”
Jaca announced gleefully.

“
I’m quite sure you could,”
agreed Marthe
dryly.

“
The idea has merit,”
Dr an Castre conceded.
“You
may go ahead.”

“
What!”
Marthe exploded. “
Have two possible
conspirators for the Terrans to wonder at? Why not just come right
out and give them all the details of the resistance while you’re at
it?”

“
Are
you two such clumsy actors then? The Terrans will think nothing of
the kind, except Radcliff who suspects you anyway. I take it that
we can trust Jaca to treat the Terrans to some of the less
restrained facets of his otherwise quite admirable
personality?”

“
Thank you, I think,”
laughed that worthy.

“
You said yourself, Marthe, that none can play the Haut
Liege better than Jacquel.”
Marthe gritted her teeth at the
chuckle from Jaca on hearing this. Did her father have to remember
only her silliest comments?
“May I leave the introduction in
your capable hands?”
added that venerable man, knowing the
answer all the time.

“
There is a reception next week for the outgoing
comptroller. He will be invited,”
she promised.

Marthe
began her campaign the next day. She had become friendly with a few
of the Terran woman, using her inclusion in their gatherings as a
chance to gather valuable information, but this day it was she who
let slip an interesting morsel, the merest hint of Jacquel’s name
and exploits.

“
How
fascinating. Do tell us more.” Jocelyn Harp from Ballistics was
bored with Hathe and, in particular, the men in the Terran forces
stationed there. Her large, sultry green eyes gazed avidly at
Marthe and her over-ripe mouth gaped ever so slightly.

“
Well, I can’t say precisely. But from what I heard, via
friends of friends…”

“
Marthe! You cannot leave us in suspense. He sounds quite
delicious,” protested Helen Ravensbot, a dark-haired and lively
woman from Stores.

“
Memorable, was one term I heard bandied about,” Marthe said,
spinning out the word to its most intriguing fullness. “He’s
certainly fun to be with, but I never had the chance to find out
more than that. My brother and he were very close and, on occasion,
even Jacquel remembers he has scruples—though I must have been only
the only woman he ever singled out for such an honor,” she finished
caustically.

“
I
have to meet this paragon,” exclaimed Mathilde Chong, slowly
licking her lips and conveniently forgetting a hard working partner
in senior administration.

“
Not
much chance of that, I’m afraid. Our families expected Jacquel and
I to marry eventually, before your people arrived, that is. I was
silly enough to let Hamon know and now he keeps Jacquel closely
guarded, claiming he is a dangerous saboteur. He loathes Jacquel, I
do know that, but if you ask me, it’s nothing more than simple
jealousy.

“
That’s infamous!”

“
I
agree, but what can I do. Hamon would completely misconstrue any
attempt on my part to have Jacquel released. A pity. He could bring
such cheer into our lives.”

“
It
is rather bleak at present,” sighed Jocelyn. “I can’t remember when
I last had a man who was
memorable.
”

“
Lucky you,” retorted Mathilde. “You haven’t got Hank snoring
beside you every night.”

“
You
know, ladies,” said Helen, “we do need to add some life to our
entertainments. I just happen to be in charge of next week’s
reception, and not even Major Radcliff can ignore an official
invitation from the Commander to our Hathian guest.”

They
all laughed.

“
Does Hamon need to be told?” queried Marthe, all innocent
trepidation. “Surely the Commander has supreme authority over
prisoners. As long as you ladies keep Jaca occupied, and well away
from us for the night, I will manage Hamon.”

“
With pleasure,” they chorused, laughing low and
soft.

“
Our
invitations have arrived for the Comptroller’s reception,”
announced Hamon at breakfast later that week.

“
How
nice of the establishment to notice my existence.”

“
The
Commander’s dinner still rankles?”

“
Of
course it does. Do you know what I did that evening?”

“
Went to bed early with a reader?”

“
Yes, if you must know.”

“
I
did,” he confirmed wryly. “A private dinner, my dear, is not a
place for potential spies, whereas I doubt even your ingenuity
could succeed in a crowded reception among the babble of nonsense
that will be spouted. Plus your lady friends were quite insistent
you should come. Jocelyn, in particular, was most
persuasive.”