Resistance: Hathe Book One (38 page)

So it
seemed he was no longer the joke of the garrison. He smiled sourly
to himself amidst the growing confidence of his men. At least, he
reflected, you can take comfort in the knowledge that you have done
your duty. For along with growing awareness of his own success, he
couldn’t miss the worsening tension in Marthe, sapping the life
from her. From the surveillance vids he knew that scarce enough
food passed her mouth in a day to feed the child, let alone the
mother who nurtured it. Nor was the little she ate much use to her.
The digester records showed that her nausea led to vomiting more
than once each day. The hope emanating from Ferdo’s workshop
fuelled a rare excitement in the professional part of him, but he
kept it from her and never told her of the signals they were
picking up regularly. Why trouble her further, when none had yet
been decoded? She guessed too much already and it was literally
killing her.

He
entered his apartment on the third night of her latest confinement
beset with fear and was immediately aware of a new aura of
desperation surrounding her. He stopped a moment in the doorway,
watching her taut figure curled up in one of the cube chairs, her
head sunk beseechingly into her cupped hands as she stared out the
window. In silence, he studied the stark etching of her bones
through the translucent skin, the grey smudges filling the deep
hollows of her eyes, the softly swelling belly pushing on her gown
sharply contrasting with the dangerous angularity of the rest of
her tired body.

She
was so thin, wasting away before him. The records showed that when
not calling acquaintances, she spent her days sleeping. The number
of calls had decreased as the coolness in her Terran confidantes
grew. Des Trurain had likewise spent his time calling on hoped-for
allies, but the change in atmosphere among the Terrans had given
Hamon all the excuse he needed to transfer his nemesis back to a
security cell, stopping any further outside contact.

Hamon
made no attempt to deny the dark thrill he felt at knowing the
Hathian was once more immured in the gloomy prison wing. He
wondered if Marthe knew of it yet. Probably, he concluded sourly.
From the coincidental nature of their calls these last days, he had
to assume they were still in contact. Despite the complete lack of
any sign of it on the surveillance records.

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 chime
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.