Resistance: Hathe Book One (34 page)

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.