Resistance: Hathe Book One (31 page)

The
only break in the surrounding ranks of watchers lay in front of
him—a path, three people wide, down which his bride would walk.
Ranged on the outer and as yet apart from the rest waited the
native Hathians—servants supposedly setting up the feast to follow
the ceremony. To Hamon, eyeing them warily, there appeared far too
many for comfort, given the events of the morning. He tried to
still his fidgeting hands, wishing he could reach for a
weapon.

Then a
hush spread over the crowd. Hamon didn’t need to look. He could
hear the collective holding of breath as the bride and her
witnesses moved slowly around the perimeter. When she came within
view at the other end of that empty row, all thought
fled.

Her
dress was that of the Hathian peasants and yet light years distant.
The heavy shroud was transformed. A cloud of glimmering starshine,
pale as snow and glinting with the hidden sparkle of a thousand
gemstones. So sheer was it that the burnished waves of her hair
were barely disguised, flowing freely about her shoulders and
restrained only by a circlet of Hathe’s tiny, white, astena
flowers. A promise maybe? Or a warning? Delicate and ephemeral in
appearance, they could survive the fiercest of gales and frosts on
the plains.

Beneath the shroud, her gown fell simply, fitted to the swells
of her breast and still small waist, then billowing to fall in
swirls of flowering lace about her feet. His entranced gaze had
traced down the lines of her body and now saw with delight her
jeweled toes peeking from under the folds.

She
walked gracefully, confidently to meet him, wiping away all doubt.
The circles were complete—the inner by Marthe, the second by her
three witnesses, and the outer by the natives, fearfully moving in
to fill the vacant pathway.

So
that was why they were here. Even now, under the spell of her
beauty, he glanced protectively at the surveillance vids and his
men, armed and watchful on the perimeter.

She
faced him now, then reached out and took his hands so that they
turned as one to encompass the chief witnesses, Jacquel and Ferdo,
solemnly eying each other across the couple’s joined arms. Seeing
her up close, Hamon was stunned by the cool dignity of her face …
almost as much as by her beauty.

It was
a dearly won mask of dignity. Marthe had to work hard to ensure not
even he could guess her calm pose was a front, that inside she was
a bundle of nerves, utterly convinced she would forget the entire
ritual. She was so relieved to hear the rallying signal from Mathe
Central come through on her patch. At least if she stumbled,
someone was there to remind her.

She
knew that Jaca and the other natives heard the call also, but none
gave a sign of it to the Terrans. Jacquel raised his head, letting
her know he too felt the readiness of their people.

She
glanced back, reassuring herself with the sight of her other two
witnesses. To Jacquel’s left and just behind Marthe, her cousin
Griffith stood with her as her nearest available relative. All the
way down the aisle, she’d felt his disapproving eyes boring into
her back, yet it was more than comforting to have him there,
conferring a seal of legitimacy by his presence. His wife Adele
wouldn’t be pleased at him taking such a risk, but Marthe was
grateful for the courage that had brought him here today. She
didn’t doubt there would be repercussions. Hamon’s men wouldn’t let
him escape without questioning him. They wouldn’t learn anything,
not from Griffith an Castre, but he would have an uncomfortable
time of it.

Beside
Griffith was the third of her witnesses. Her hood slipping back to
reveal a smiling face, Agnethe stood as a solid bulwark of
normality behind her.

A
slight pressure on her hand brought her back to reality. Guiltily,
she drew herself straighter and looked forward … then caught the
barely perceptible wink of her mate. She grinned back. Cousin
Griffith couldn’t see her face anyway.

She
turned to Jacquel, ignoring his look of disapproval, and nodded her
readiness. His beautiful voice began to intone the solemn, opening
words of the rite familiar to her since childhood. He spoke in both
Standard and Harmish, calling on all to witness and support this
pair, about to be joined before them and before God.

Hamon
watched her intently, as if aware another world also held her
attention. It did, but not one she could let him enter. Not yet.
Not when he could not hear what she did—the registering of the
unseen Hathian congregation. Thousands of separate bands hitting
the airways from all over Hathe and from the moon base on Mathe.
Strongest of all, the call signs of her own family: her father,
troubled and fearful, yet full of reassurance; her sister Laren, a
slight quaver of warmth or tears; the affection and support of
Jorven, her brother-in-law. Even the young twins, barely able to
speak, tried to send their code, managing only a slight dash,
followed immediately by their mother’s more expert
version.

Then
came the official confirmation from Central that the marital record
channel was open and permission had been duly passed for entry to
be made. She could relax somewhat, or she could have if she weren’t
strung up so tightly inside. Jacquel spoke again, a long, wordy
injunction upon the duties of man to woman, father to son, and so
on down all the degrees of family so dear to the Hathian
heart.

Marthe
clearly detected her cousin Griffith’s influence and Hamon looked
completely stunned at hearing such moralistic outpourings from
Jacquel des Trurain.

Too
soon, they came to that part most solemn. She had not forgotten the
words as she’d feared. Speaking in a low, clear voice, she declared
to her listening people her vows and intentions.

“
I,
Marthe asn Castre, present myself before the people and the Spirit.
You know me. Know now Hamon asn Radcliff, the husband I have
chosen. To him do I vow to cleave, his children will be mine and
mine will be his. His family will be mine, my family will be his.
His cares, woes, joys and triumphs will be mine. To him am I bound
for my remaining days. This do I declare before duly registered
witnesses here about me now, to all of the People wherever they may
be and to the one Spirit who binds us all. Is it
accepted?”

“
It
is accepted,” declared the six witnesses.

“
It
is accepted,” declared the myriad of voices in her ears.

“
It
is accepted and duly recorded, Marthe an Castre,” came the voice of
the chief computer supervisor.

It was
now her Terran mate’s turn. He paused, thanking her with his eyes,
then spoke loudly and clearly for all to hear. Words which she
would afterwards feel would mean more than any yet to come in her
life.

“
I,
Hamon asn Radcliff, present myself before the people of Hathe and
of Earth, and before the Spirit. You know me. Know now Marthe asn
Castre, the wife I have chosen. To her do I vow to cleave. Her
children will be mine and mine will be hers. Her cares, woes, joys
and triumphs will be mine. To her am I bound for my remaining days.
This do I declare before duly registered witnesses here about me
now, to all the people of Hathe and Earth wherever they may be and
to the one binding Spirit of Hathe, Is it accepted?”

“
It
is accepted,” declared the witnesses.

“
It
is accepted,” declared the myriad of secret voices, more sincerely
than Marthe had expected, an answer to the true pride and love
plain in his voice.

“
It
is accepted and recorded, Hamon an Radcliff,” declared the
disembodied voice of the chief computer supervisor, audible only to
the Hathians.

The
depth of commitment in Hamon’s voice surprised Marthe. She hadn’t
expected it and felt overwhelmed with love and gratitude. One
rebellious tear pricked her eye, and she leaned forward, her arms
reaching out for him. He stopped her, holding her back and
signaling to Ferdo, who carefully passed him a small box. He opened
it, to reveal two, plain bands of gleaming yellow, one delicate and
small, one larger and solid.

“
On
ancient Earth, it was the custom to symbolize such a union by the
wearing of a gold ring, as you on Hathe do by the dropping of the
s. Shall we wear these rings as a Terran sign of love and
devotion?”

His
tone was for her, but set to carry throughout the audience. She
could see nods of approval from the older ranks of the Terrans,
reminded by his words that marriage was enmeshed in the deepest
antiquity of Earth’s history.

Tenderly, he slipped the delicate band of gold over the third
finger of her left hand, then held out his own for her to do the
same. “Welcome, wife,” he said in the lowest of voices, audible to
her alone, before enfolding her in his arms. “The ring is to remind
us both of this day in the time to come. I hope it’s
enough.”

She
barely caught the last words, a whisper of despair and anguish. She
held him even tighter, sensing with him the barriers to come and
fingering anxiously the strange band. Would it be
enough?

“
Now,” exclaimed Jacquel merrily, “we dance and feast. Let
there be music,” and the sound system suddenly woke. “Let there be
food,” he gestured towards the magnificent array laid out at one
end of the vast hall, “and let there be love,” he ended with a
seductive gurgle, linking arms with a startled matron, who giggled
in youthful zest as he planted a loud kiss on the worn mouth.
Marthe could only laugh.

His
high spirits were infectious, and in short time the hall became a
mass of laughing faces, cheeks bulging with food and eyes
unnaturally bright from liberal doses of the abundant liquid
enticements.

Hamon
was not surprised at the extravagance of the feast, having long ago
discovered that old Agnethe had a soft spot for his bride. His eyes
were far too full of the sight of Marthe to be worried too much
about the amount of spirits available or the frequent comings and
goings of the Hathian servants. They couldn’t do anything. His men
were here and had orders to watch for anything suspicious. He could
trust fully in their vigilance. For tonight, Hamon was free and
duty be hanged.

Jacquel may look like he thought the same. His mask was
complete and he let not a trace show of the multiple
responsibilities he juggled tonight. His first priority was to keep
Marthe unaware and relaxed by keeping her constantly plied with the
sweet wine of Etelia, especially imported for the occasion and
guaranteed to keep a rosy hue on any bride’s cheek. The sense of
well being evident in her as she floated through the evening was
one of his many successes as he continuously worked to ensure that
nothing drew attention to the staff’s movements. He was so busy,
and couldn’t resist the thrill of it all, as he simultaneously kept
an eye on the myriad strands of the gathering while still keeping
amused and happy a constant stream of beautiful ladies.

A
heady waft of danger gripped him and, more than once, his merry
laugh rang out as he managed to intercept a relay signal from one
of the Hathians right under the noses of the Terrans. Two different
languages flowed constantly through the hall. Loud, gay and
relaxed, the Terran Standard tongue was for once given over to
ribald banter and seduction. Floating between with the bearers of
trays of drinks and food, the more subtle language of the Hathian
underground was a ripple of small hand and face gestures, delicate
changes in the arrangement of gowns and folds, a gentle scratching
and tapping on the transmitters concealed variously about the
moving bodies.

Jacquel, continuously talking on the two levels, was in high
flush, his mind a razor’s edge of activity. All was going well, and
the occasional crisis only added to the adventure. The Commander
wished for something from his quarters? Hathian teams were just
then planting recorders there. What to do?

Suddenly, the Commander found his way blocked by his Hathian
captive. “You shall not leave, Colonel. My valiant co-saboteurs are
busy delving among your boxes and bags while we speak. You shall
not interrupt them.”

Confronted by the apparently inebriated Jacquel, the Commander
relaxed enough to join in the supposed game. “And what, may I ask,
are your fellow saboteurs doing among my boxes and
bags?”

“
It’s secret,” was the confidential whisper, as Jacquel
proceeded to prop his shoulder against the Commander’s.

“
Oh?
Whose secret?” Fortunately, the Commander had imbibed quite as
deeply as Jacquel appeared to have. “Could it be Radcliff’s
underground, monitoring my private moments?”

Jacquel laughed. “Aha, you have it! Radcliff’s rats have come
out of the sewer. How could we have a wedding without Radcliff’s
rats?” He stopped, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial, stage
whisper. “I have a plan, Commander. Radcliff’s my
step-cousin-in-law now, and you can’t have a relation named a
liar.”

“
No,” agreed the Colonel amiably, having obviously forgotten
what it was he had wanted from his room.

“
So...” Jacquel paused momentously, “I am going to start an
underground. Can’t have people saying my step-cousin is lying about
rebels, so got to have some rebels, see. Here, Jocelyn,” he hailed
loudly. “Want to join my gang of rebels?” He caught the woman about
her waist and buried his mouth in her neck. “Shall we go and make
some rebel plans?” he leered at her.