Resistance: Hathe Book One (2 page)

She
allowed him the change in subject. “Furlough. A month of long
showers and soft beds, then back here for pick-up duty. You’ll be
pleased to know I’m to be stuck on a road gang, part of dear cousin
Griffith’s crew.”

His
grin returned to normal. “How … fitting.”

It was
the same hill.

Marthe’s hand reached up and tugged her hood forward to hide
her face. The guards were patrolling nearby. She looked carefully
around the circle of Hathians huddling around the miserable fire
then lifted her head as slowly as possible to look beyond them and
up at the skyline behind. She took the risk of lifting her head a
fraction more to see clearly, following the angles and planes of
rock standing up from the wide flat lands all around her, the solid
black outlined against the shifting light of the evening sky. Yes,
there was the ridge leading to the top. There, the jagged block of
stone standing alone on the flat platform of the summit. And there
was that same pile of rocks she’d stumbled over that long ago
night, the night after graduation, banging her toes and setting off
the ever ready laughter in her twin’s eyes as he’d reached out to
haul her up to safety.

Her
hand reached up now, but it was to pull her hood closer still about
her face to hide the memory of a grin she couldn’t prevent touching
her mouth. She’d always hated needing to be helped, the only
throwback to her mother’s genes in a family of fair-haired giants,
and Bendin knew it. She remembered how she’d scowled back at him
that night, making it quite plain whose foot she wished had
stumbled. Jaca had been with them and watched warily, caught too
many times in the middle of an asn Castre twin flare up. But Bendin
knew when she was really hurt, and this was nothing, said the
laughing gleam in his eyes. There was nothing for it but to burst
into matching laughter.

“
Come on, Mimi,” he’d said impatiently, using her childhood
name. He kept his hold on her until she was over the last of the
rocks and standing on the summit with the two young men.

Both
moons were out that night. The larger Dromorne was already high in
the sky, its solid bulk starting to wane. Far off at the edge of
the horizon, the smaller sliver of Mathe was caught in its endless
struggle to be seen, disappearing against the battling clouds and
dying shards of sunlight.

The
three of them had stood there in silent awe, for that brief moment
at one with the vast wilderness of the high plateau lands. They had
been free, that night, as they stood on the flat top and saw their
dreams reflected in the vast plateau lands spread out below
them—wild, empty and filled with endless possibilities.

She
hunched closer to the fire. That was then and this was now. So much
had changed in the four years since. The world had turned, and she
no longer stood free. Now her twin’s body lay deep in the soil of
this world they all loved—forever young, forever asn Castre, never
to change to the an Castre of a married Hathian, never a father,
grandfather, grey-haired old curmudgeon. And now, far across the
plains, Jaca played a truly dangerous game.

A road
over the plains had since been cut, scarring the land with its raw
newness. On that lost night, there had been no road, no huts … and
no Terrans.

Yet
the night was the same—dark clouds scudding across an unsettled sky
and surging waves of movement spreading over the vast tussock
plains. The land endured and, for this brief time, it was hers.
With the wind up, fewer guards patrolled the camp and her small
huddle of Hathian workers would be left undisturbed for a
while.

She
edged closer to the warmth of the fire. She had the information she
needed, stored in the thin sliver hidden in the ragged depths of
her cloak and, for now, there was no more to be done.

Almost, she smiled. Not the wide, laughing smile of her youth,
more an easing of the muscles of her face. For a rare moment, she
could pretend she was free as she lingered outside with the other
Hathian road workers. Soon, her group would be forced into the huts
for the night. But not yet.

She
stretched her back slowly, feeling the twinge of newly abused
muscles. Three days of carrying stones had awakened muscles she’d
forgotten she had. Didn’t the Terrans have any modern construction
equipment? Of course they do, came the unbidden retort, but why use
machines when you can have the pleasure of watching Hathians
toil.

No,
don’t think of them. Pretend instead that this is an evening on one
of her childhood outings to the high plain. She’d always loved this
wild and empty corner of Hathe.

Never
had she imagined she would one day live here.

She
made the mistake then of looking at her companions, saw engrained
in their faces the harsh suffering that had not been there on those
long gone evenings. One hand twitched at her outer robe, pulling it
tightly around her as if to ward off old memories. It was no use.
Memories such as hers were hard to deny. Faces from the past danced
in the firelight: funereal faces, crying faces, faces bleak with
shock and bewilderment. The face of her brother.

Let me
be, she begged.

Not
while Terrans rule our home.

A
stray beam of moonlight brought her group to the guard’s attention.
The Terran strode across, his military bearing unmistakable, then
halted and nudged the man beside her with the butt of his weapon.
There was no argument, not from any of the Hathians. They rose and
moved off towards the confinement of the huts. She stood to go with
the rest. The guard watched them and then turned back, his heavy
boot scuffing at the dirt to destroy the last, glowing warmth of
the fire. Intent upon his actions, he failed to notice her slip
away from the others. With a quick farewell sign, Marthe melded
into the shadows then disappeared into the ever moving tussocks and
the vast lands beyond.

Griffith an Castre saw his cousin leave but gave no sign of
it. To the guards he was only Griff, the big foreman of the work
gang. They looked for no more, and he was not about to let them see
more. He continued with the rest in their shuffle into the hut.
Once inside, he closed the door against the night and their
persecutors, glanced once round then gave a tired stretch, his arms
reaching upwards as a yawn overcame him. On its way down, one hand
grazed the rough wall, leaving behind a thin patch of translucence
against the top stud.

He
turned, the yawn suddenly stifled and his weary stoop
abandoned.

“
We’re safe now.” He jerked his head up at the top corner
where his patch now fed a fake Hathian vid through the Terran
scanner, blocking the Terrans’ surveillance. Then he threw back his
hood. The rest copied him, throwing back their hoods with a
newfound eagerness belying the tiredness that lined their
faces.

“
Did
your cousin get safely away?” asked a youth.

Griffith nodded. “Yes, Hanith, and with all your hard-won
information for HQ. Marthe tells me those troop movements you saw
yesterday will be particularly useful.”

The
boy beamed his youthful pleasure.

“
She
also had some good news. The date for the final assault has been
confirmed. All is set for the Zenith of the Pillars of
Mathe.”

He
heard the ring in his voice echoed in muted cries of joy from all
round him. In one corner, a woman sat with tears starting in her
eyes. Griffith saw and moved over, his hands clasping hers in
comfort. She looked up, hope almost afraid to enter her
face.

“
Six
months only. Is it true?”

“
Yes, Lena, it is true. Soon, it will be over.” He stood up, a
fierce exultation filling him as his gaze encompassed them all.
“Six months only and then we will show these accursed Terrans the
truth behind the peasants of Hathe. Come that day, we will wipe
them from our world and send them back to their squalid Earth. And
then … then, we can go home!”

He
stood a moment longer, letting some of the powerful exhilaration
that surged through him pass over and fill the rest. Then he
signaled for silence, the patch was removed from the surveillance
device, and all settled down to sleep, a sleep for once free of
despair.

Outside the hut, the night was still plagued with unrest, and
black shadows skittered over the ground. Marthe moved slowly, a
splash of darkness passing from clump to clump. Suddenly she froze.
The tramp of feet approached, a patrolman on his way around the
camp perimeter. Closer he came, till he stopped by a large clump of
grass to survey the scene then gave a shiver, huddled into his big,
heavy coat and continued on. Behind the clump, she let out a silent
sigh of relief. As soon as the tramp of feet had died away, she
hurried onwards. The last obstacle was behind her.

Moving
quickly, she made for the safety of a nearby hollow. Once in the
tussocks on the far side, she would be hidden from even the
sharpest of human eyes. Then began a long night of hard slogging,
clinging to the sides of hills, slithering into the protective
cover of the bushes in the sinuous gullies that carved their way
into the land and winding her way about the rocks thrusting up
through the plain. Always she kept the road near, following its
twisting path onwards to the goal they both sought.

It was
nearly morning when the grey light of the still hidden sun showed
her the jumbled shapes of buildings ahead. In the middle, towering
over the surrounding huddle of shacks and closely packed houses,
was a huge, white edifice. The Citadel. Home to the Terrans, and
her goal.

Not
far from the wall enclosing the town, Marthe stopped and curled up
in the shelter of a bush. There was time to rest. She pulled the
heavy outer wrap closely round her and gave in to the weariness of
the long night’s tramp, lapsing into heavy sleep. An unforgivably
short time had passed before she was rudely woken by the prodding
of a boot in her back. She looked up, straight into the face of a
Terran soldier.

“
What’s this?” snarled a voice in Terran Standard.

Like
all Hathians, Marthe had long ago learnt the hated tongue. Even
after years on Hathe, few Terrans had bothered to acquire more than
a smattering of the local Harmish tongue, rightly surmising that if
the natives knew what was good for them, they would soon master
their conquerors’ language.

The
soldier poked his boot in again, hard. “What are you up to out
here, girl? Trying to avoid your assigned duty, unless I’m
mistaken.”

Marthe
ducked her head, hiding the quick gleam in her eyes. “No, sir,
never.”

“
Then what? Explain, and make it quick.”

“
I
was in a foraging party sent out here yesterday, sir, and missed
the last gong. The gates had shut before I knew it.”

“
Why? Sleeping instead of working, I suppose?” The soldier
prodded her upright and looked down in contempt. He was of only
average build himself and was clearly enjoying to the full his
height advantage.

“
Not
sleeping, sir. I’d found a jerbel bush and was trying to pick as
many berries as possible. The Commander likes them particularly,
sir, and I hoped to exchange them for extra supplies for my
family.”

“
And
what happened to all those jerbels?”

“
I
ate them, sir. I was so hungry last night.”

“
So,
greedy as well as lazy. We’ll see what the Committee can do about
that. Come on, get moving!”

The
words were reinforced with a heavy blow to the side of the head.
Marthe was used to such treatment, merely shaking her head to clear
the momentary fuzziness before starting to walk, her shoulders
bowed as if in fear. Beneath her hood, her lips twitched in
triumph.

Soon
they reached the great metal gates of the town. So far, her
information was accurate. The only guards she could see were a
troop of soldiers lounging carelessly near the outer posts. Her
captor hailed the one closest. “Hey, Carl. Take charge of my work
group, will you? I found this one skulking outside, too busy last
night gorging on jerbels to hear the gong. It’s the Citadel for
her, I reckon. Maybe a spell in prison will remind her of her
place.” He gave a loud guffaw and shoved her forward.

They
continued on, through busy streets crowded with natives and the
occasional Terran soldier. Many were the frightened looks cast the
pair and not a few shocked glances. At one point she stumbled,
falling heavily against a fellow native. The soldier was too busy
yelling at her to get up to notice the swift movement of hands as
she passed the precious sliver over from the hidden pocket in her
robe, or the quick nod of reply from the other Hathian.

Now
they came to the last street. Ahead, the houses huddled even
closer, seeming to draw back from the fearsome block of the
Citadel. No other street led off this, and it was as if she were
passing through a tunnel leading inexorably on to the black
emptiness of the slowly opening gates beyond. It was the only
breach visible in all the vast squareness of the fortress. Nothing
else of the outer world was allowed to intrude into this, the
centre of Terran control on Hathe. Equally, she could not help
feeling that, once taken into the Citadel, nothing and nobody would
be released lightly from the heavy gates that now shut behind
her.