Resistance: Hathe Book One by Mary Brock Jones

Author:Mary Brock Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fiction interplanetary voyages, romance scifi, scifi space opera, romantic scifi, scifi love and adventure, science fiction political adventure, science fiction political suspense, scifi interplanetary conflict

“There’s to be a special check on the Delta refinery at ten a.m. Can you tell Central to advise the surveillance teams there to keep low for a couple of hours?”came Marthe’s message in his ear.

“Hmm now,” said Jacquel to Radcliff, scratching his ear and pressing an affirmative to Marthe. “That could be difficult. We’ve been close friends for so long.”

“Not that close and don’t try to claim otherwise.”

“A number of the staff appear to be on edge. Radcliff is not the only one beginning to suspect us. The following is a list of those needing attention.” She paused to let him code for record then gave the names.

“Did you hear me, des Trurain?”

“Yes. Sorry. You were telling me of your masterly rights. The archaic notions of Terrans never cease to amaze me. Marthe must be quite intrigued by the novelty of it all. But, then, she has no alternative. How fortunate you are to have such a hold on a beautiful woman.”

“I take it you’ve never needed one?” Radcliff sat back, as if to stop himself from treating Jacquel as he yearned to, crushing his Hathian rival from existence.

Jacquel assumed an air of blithe ignorance. “I admit I haven’t but, to be fair, my background is rather more advantageous than yours.”

“Oh?” Now Radcliff did lean forward in threat.

“Advanced technology, refined civilization, and so forth,” explained Jacquel, deliberately blind to the insolent nature of his remarks. It was perhaps fortunate that Marthe chose to return at that moment. “At least there was no blood,” he signed to her.

To Hamon, it seemed an interminable time must pass before he could bid good night to his unwanted guest. His relief was so deep that he barely noticed the few, quick words whispered by Marthe to the man. It was only later that night that the message registered: “Daily at cockcrow’s height.”

Suddenly he was startlingly awake. An assignation? Slowly he turned to look at the sleeping face beside him. Could this be his proof, he wondered? Cockcrow’s height. A place? But no, des Trurain was too closely guarded. Cockcrow? A time of course. But height? Dawn was when cocks crowed, or used to on old Earth. But this was Hathe, No cocks crowed here, or ever had. A pre-arranged code?

It had to be for some time in the morning. But how? She wore no device that could possibly be a transmitter. That patch of hers, he’d thought that to be one, but she wore no such patch now. His memory played over those few, precious minutes that told him he was right. Then less pleasant scenes intruded and he drove himself back to the original problem.

Some sort of contact had been arranged and all he could do now was watch and wait. With a grim smile, he nestled in to Marthe, safe in the innocence of sleep. Her only response to his restless tossing: to lay one, bronzed arm across the security of his broad chest. It soothed him and, holding one hand over hers, he settled into his own, guilty rest.

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