Resistance: Hathe Book One (42 page)

It was
supposed to be the other way round, had been so for five
years.

Ten
native soldiers were in the reception area, clearing out all the
rooms in this section and commanded precisely and efficiently by
des Trurain—for once, observed Hamon bitterly, dispensing with the
foppish mannerisms the man had assumed during his imprisonment by
the Terrans. Had they been as false as everything else about the
Hathians during the Terran occupation? A character the man had
assumed to cover his spying for the Hathian resistance?

Few
words were spoken by their captors, yet all the Hathians appeared
to know what to do, working in an automated silence that frightened
his fellow Terrans more than anything else their captors did. The
Hathians were using those secret communication patches of theirs,
he guessed, in that constant web of communication that had all
unknowingly surrounded theTerrans. What words were spoken were in
the native Harmish, a tongue alien to all except Hamon; and those
were only single words or phrases, meaningless fragments that left
him none the wiser.

Too
soon, all the Terrans were tied up and forced into a line, two by
two. On the other side of the control room, the cause of his
downfall still lay where she’d collapsed, held by her sister and
worked on by medics. He watched them work, watched the faint rise
and fall that meant life. Soon, he would be taken away and this
would be his last sight of her.

Her
eyes opened then, to hear the Hathians speaking of their prisoners.
He watched her face as they spoke his name and saw the change in
her eyes as he answered their questions.

As he
denied all claims between them and declared himself for
Earth.

After
that, he was dragged roughly from the floor and yanked into place
at the back of the line of captured Terrans, the soldiers half
carrying him as his legs slowly recovered their use. He stared
straight ahead, refusing to look back at the inner control room and
that crumpled figure. Whether from fear of what his blind anger at
the sight of her would do, or from a desperately battened down
streak of anxiety at his core, he refused to think. Instead, he
shoved viciously at the Hathian soldier restraining him, sending
the man tumbling backwards.

All he
gained for his trouble was a resounding blow from the soldier on
his other side, strong enough to send him crashing against the
door.

“
That’s for my brother, dead in your mines,” his assailant
said, dusting his knuckles and helping up the soldier Hamon had
pushed over. Both Hathian soldiers waited contemptuously while the
throbbing waves in Hamon’s head receded enough to allow him to
stand unsupported. He thought he heard a woman cry out, but
deliberately ignored it and stumbled to take his place. Maybe he
couldn’t fight back yet, but it felt mighty good to give these
upstarts a taste of the future.

He was
shoved back into line and the pull of a force field captured him,
preventing any hope of escape. His legs were untied and they moved
off—the once proud conquerors forced to march pitiably from their
former domain.

Along
the endless corridors of the Citadel they shuffled, at last
reaching the vast assembly hall buried deep within the complex. En
route, Hamon saw a number of other lines of his fellow Terrans, all
marked by the same bewildered looks on their faces. Occasionally,
there would be one, bruised and beaten as his own must be, telling
of isolated rebellion but, for the most part, the Terrans appeared
too dazed to fully comprehend their fate, let alone
rebel.

What,
by all the stars, had happened? How could the whole fortress have
fallen so quickly? This was the center of Terran control on Hathe,
stuffed full with soldiers, weapons and the best surveillance
technology available to Earth. He refused to accept it, futilely
holding on to hope of something … anything.

“
Forget what you’re planning.” It was Ferdo, marching beside
him, his best friend here and the chief communications officer in
the Terran occupation forces. Captain Ferdo Braddock, who had
finally given him proof of the existence of a Hathian resistance by
cracking the secret of their communications system. Ferdo had been
in that control room with him.

“
We
nearly had them, Ferdo. We nearly beat them.”

“
Maybe, but nearly isn’t good enough. Not this time; and I
don’t like that look on your face—not if it means what I think it
does. If des Trurain can keep it professional, then so can
you.”

Hamon
glared angrily. He’d done much on Hathe he would never forgive
himself for, or forget, but his treatment of des Trurain wasn’t on
his list of regrets.

“
The
man was obviously a spy. If he’s a professional, as you say, then
he knew the risks he took. Wait to see what they do to us, now
they’re in charge, before you start regretting what we did to
them.”

“
Maybe, but—”

“
Leave it, Ferdo. Not now.”

For a
minute, Hamon thought Ferdo would ignore the warning in his voice,
but the Captain closed his mouth and obeyed. Thank the stars. There
was so much fury boiling inside him, and talk of des Trurain was
just what it would take to send him over the edge. He couldn’t
afford that. Not yet.

One
day we would have married.

She’d
said that to him once, long ago in the days when he’d first held
her captive. Marthe an Castre, his other Hathian Haut Liege
prisoner—his wife—and the man she would have married, Jacquel des
Trurain, who was now force marching Hamon to detention and who knew
what else. Marthe who lay…

No.
Don’t think of that. Not yet. Not ever.
He wiped his face clear
and set his eyes forward.

ABOUT
THE AUTHOR

Mary
Brock Jones lives in New Zealand, but loves nothing more than to
escape into the other worlds in her head, to write science fiction
and historical romances. Sedate office worker by day; frantic
scribbler by night.

Her
parents introduced her to libraries and gave her a farm to play on,
where trees became rocket ships and rocky outcrops were ancient
fortresses. She grew up writing, filling pages of notebooks and
filling her head with stories, but took a number of detours on the
pathway to her dream job. Four grown sons, more than one house
renovated and various jobs later, her wish came true.

You
can find Mary here:

www.marybrockjones.com

https://www.facebook.com/MaryBrockJonesAuthor

https://twitter.com/MaryJones7

***

ALSO
BY MARY BROCK JONES:

A
Heart Divided

Swift
Runs the Heart

Resistance: Hathe Book One

Pay
The Piper: Hathe Book Two

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

With
thanks to all those who have helped me bring my Hathe books to
reality. Firstly to my amazing, wise and ever patient editor, Laura
Daniels, who pushed me harder than I’ve been pushed before to make
these books the best they could possibly be, and for which I am
hugely grateful. Any errors remaining are purely the fault of my
own pigheadedness. To Victoria for coming to my rescue with the
formatting stuff, and saving me from computer hell. To my fellow
writers at SpecFicNZ, RWNZ and RWA, particularly the Auckland
specficers and RWNZers. Thanks you for your generosity, your never
ending support, the laughter and the mutual moans, but most of all
for helping me to believe I can do this!

Biggest thanks of all go to my family. To my mother, for
raising me in a house full of books, taking us to libraries and
taking it for granted that we would all get an education and be
able to think for ourselves; to my husband who is always there for
me, even though I’m far away in my own world more often than not;
but most of all to my sons. You grew up with Hathe – these books
had a longer gestation than any baby – and now they are reality.
Thank you for your acceptance, for all you taught me over the
years, and for the smiles on your faces when I told you I was
finally going to publish Hathe.

Now
it’s here. Hathe really does exist.