The Sword and the Plough (12 page)

Cecil bowed deep. “As always, Your Majesty,
as always,” he murmured.

The queen turned to go.

“Was there something else you wanted, Your
Majesty?” Cecil enquired. “Some reason you wanted to see me?”

The queen smiled. To Cecil, it burst on him
like heaven’s doors opening.

“Yes Cecil, indeed there was,” the queen
responded. “We came here to ask if there might be some way by which
we could obtain more information about our peoples throughout the
Commonwealth.

“
Our spies have returned little
intel
of late. Things
have been quiet, Cecil, much too quiet.” She smiled her beatific
smile again. “But we have changed our mind. We see now there is no
need. You have all in hand.”

Planet TRION
– the new fields outside Vegar
Town

“Freeze the stars! Will you look at those two
crazy suns?”

Lars woke with a start. He must have dozed.
The ploughs were shining pink in the early morning light.

“One giant sun, one dwarf,” the same gravelly
male voice continued. “It’s a wonder we don’t burn to a crisp. This
is a weird planet and no mistake.”

Lars levered himself up to peer cautiously
over the rim of the plough’s cockpit. Trion’s suns, like bright red
balls, sat low on the horizon, their heat beginning to chase away
the cool of the night.

“Getting homesick already, are we?”A second
similarly gruff male voice uttered.

Someone else laughed. A baritone broke into
song. Several more voices joined in. Lars heard the scrape of a
dozen pairs of boots step out in time to the marching song.

Sons of Megran ride on high

Hold your banners to the sky

Forever march to vic-tor-y

Fulfil your planet’s des-tin-y.

Lars did not recognise the Megran battle
hymn, but he did recognise the green uniform of the Megran
troopers. The men appeared to be heading towards Vegar. They had
the swagger of conquerors.

Lars kept his head down until he was sure
they were well gone. Then he dropped over the side of the plough
and began to follow in the direction the troopers had taken, the
road back towards town, the scene of his encounter with the two
troopers the evening before.

It was still early. The twin suns hung poised
on a pastel pink horizon. He took a deep breath, relishing the
cool, fresh morning air, and a farmer’s joy in the lush scent of
the land. To the east, the walls of Vegar stood bright lit by the
golden glow of the suns, their colours dazzling. In contrast, the
western walls stood dark, casting a curtain of shade, which muted
the green and gold crops on the fields below.

But the way ahead looked clear, and there
was nothing it seemed to disturb the rosy stillness of the morning,
save the sounds of his heavy farm boots on the black grit road.
However foolish and dangerous he knew his course might be, it was
likely the town was where he would find Helen, and she must be his
first priority – his only priority…

As his steps returned him in the direction
of the town’s south gate, Lars became aware of a blur of noise
ahead of him, voices perhaps, but other sounds as well.

All at once, the open road seemed a dangerous
place and he quickly took cover in a field of ripening maize. The
crisscross of tall stalks hid him from view, but also prevented him
from seeing further ahead. He crouched low and moved as quietly as
he could in the direction of the sounds.

After a while, the rumble of men’s voices
grew more distinct, as well as the sounds of numerous activities,
the detail of which he could only guess. Whatever was happening, it
was happening close by.

Lars dropped to his hands and knees to make
his way forward, conscious of every twig that cracked and every
stone that scraped in his path.

After a few moments on all fours, the mass of
green stalks ended abruptly at a black stone wall, the ubiquitous
Trionian fence. Lars raised his head warily and peered over the
top.

His blood ran cold. In front of him, a large
site had been cleared of crops, and polka-dotted with perhaps
twenty to twenty-five grey barracks. They had not been there the
night before.

Everywhere Lars looked he saw troopers in
Megran green. Meredith pistols hung from their hips. Heavy Bess
rifles, big sister to the Meredith weapon, stood in clusters of
tepee shaped stacks.

It was obvious the camp was still in the
process of being organised. A squad of troopers, naked to the
waist, arrived nearby to unload a heavily laden hover-barge into a
storage tent. A big, red-faced man in a white apron watched them
briefly and then berated the officer in charge, his hands
gesticulating wildly. Lars heard the anger swell in his voice.
Elsewhere, Lars could hear an irate sergeant bawling out his
shame-faced men.

It puzzled Lars that the troopers had chosen
to encamp outside the town instead of commandeering the best hotels
and homes as one might expect. Furthermore, though the camp would
be out of sight of the townsfolk, it was too close for them not to
be aware of its armed presence.

But it was the tri-motored
horses
that really
caught his attention. The silvery torpedo shaped machines, with
their blunt prows and tapering sterns, were parked under a grove of
lofty trees on the far side of the barracks, their tall tail fins
reaching up into the green of the lower branches. Lars had never
seen so many at one time. His guess put it at a hundred or
more.

The Royal garrison at Vegar had
horses
of course, or
something like them, but probably no more than twenty, and patently
obsolete. Lars had seen the local garrison’s horses on
Renaissance Day
parades
ever since he was a child. However, even from where he was, Lars
could see the Megran machines were different – bigger, sleeker,
shinier, and with that smug look of newness. The garrison’s
machines would have been no match for such as these.

The
horse
carried a heavy light-bolt cannon in the nose, and
served as a high-speed reconnaissance and attack craft. The horse
trooper sat astride the shiny metal fuselage behind a swept up
fairing that protected his legs and torso. A similar
reverse
fairing,
shielded the trooper from weapon fire from behind. Aft of the
rider, the fuselage tapered, ending in a tall tail fin with a
rudder, the height of a man. Two hover-thrust engine pods, set
amidships, powered the machines, and gave stability. A third
hover-thrust motor in the stern provided extra lift and
maneuverability.

Lars supposed that the one-man craft had
some official name and model code, but popular thinking had long
ago dubbed it the
horse
and the tag had stayed.

The
horse
could travel at high speeds over almost any
terrain, and rise up on its hover motors to jump fences and other
obstacles, much like the graceful animal used in the ancient sport
of show jumping still practised in some parts of old
Earth.

As Lars watched, some dozen or so troopers
mounted their machines and he heard the sinister snake-like hiss as
the solar motors awoke, and saw the silvery shapes rise up off the
ground, their tall tail fins cutting through the dark green foliage
as they swished out into the bright of the sun. The machines merged
into a single column and the hiss rose to a high-pitched whine as
the streamlined machines swept past the barracks and through a gap
in the stone wall, which Lars could not see. He saw the line of
tail fins, like so many sharks, speeding through the fields of
ripening corn toward the road.

The sudden sound of men’s voices made Lars
drop to the ground behind the black stone fence. He breathed in the
rich smell of the soil. The voices came closer. He heard boots
crunch the corn stubble close by, felt the skin on his neck
prickle, and his heart thump wildly. His body tensed. Two
serpentine columns of ants, going in opposite directions, marched
hurriedly about their business across the black dirt in front of
his face.

The men hoisted themselves up to sit atop the
fence. Their voices drifted above him. Lars measured his
breaths.

“I hear the Trionians are beginning to come
out of their holes at last,” a young man’s voice said
scornfully.

“Yeah!” a gruff voice answered. “And they’ll
do what they’re told now that we’ve got all their VIPs safely under
lock and key.”

“What’s left of them,” another voice noted
with a sneer.

“Not to mention their choicest virgins,” the
first speaker snorted. “I’d give a year’s pay to be in charge of
that lot for an hour or two.”

“Why rush things,” the gruff voice queried.
“How ’bout having charge of them for a month or more?”

A burst of bawdy laughter followed,
gusting louder with each new lewd remark. Lars shivered and feared
for the safety of his sister. All at once, he remembered the other
young woman from the Communication Centre. The young woman with the
beautiful hazel eyes – Caroline. Had their fates been the
same?

* * *

The troopers moved on their way, their coarse
jokes and laughter gradually fading. Lars planted his elbows and
rested his chin in his palms. He could only guess where the
prisoners might be, but it now seemed likely the first place to
check out was the camp.

His main problem then was not where to start
his search, but rather how to achieve it without being shot. There
had to be a way…

Lars lay deep in thought, absentmindedly
observing the numberless procession of small black ants as they
bobbed and sidestepped each other in their tireless cavalcade among
the grains of black soil in front of him. There was purpose in
their endeavour.

Many carried little white cargoes above
their heads – like porters on some ancient African safari –
appearing and disappearing through a crevice between the black
stones of the fence.

Their ancestors had been about their business
long before Homo sapiens had evolved on Earth. Over time, they had
unknowingly accompanied humankind to new worlds and continued
undismayed about their tasks. Nothing had stopped them in over a
hundred million years.

Yes, there had to be a way… He had but to
think of it…

* * *

Kill a Megran trooper and take his uniform.
That might work, he thought, but easier said than done; and he
could expect no mercy if he were caught. Besides, he had no
knowledge of killing, or stomach for it either, he suspected.

Perhaps bluff and bluster. Pretend outrage
and demand to see the highest-ranking officer.
Please
sir, may I have my sister back?

No. No. It was hopeless. He would never get
in. They would be prepared for anything. Only a fool would venture
into a hostile armed camp.

Only a
fool?
Somewhere in the
midst of his tumbling thoughts an idea began to stir and stretch,
waking into existence. Yes, only a fool would… But he would be a
fool to try it, he told himself.

Yet, however much he tried to deny it, the
idea grew.

Yes, a harmless idiot – a simpleton –
might wander into the Megran camp and survive. The troopers might
push and shove him, trip him up, and generally make sport of him.
They might ridicule and taunt him – laugh until their sides ached.
But even they would never harm a fool. It would be beneath their
dignity – their macho pride.

Yes, it might just work. It was a poor plan,
but his only one. He hoped he had the courage to follow it to its
end.

Using the cover of the crops, Lars ducked
down and made his way along the stone fence line to the far end of
the encampment, to where he had seen the horse troopers take their
exit.

He found the gap the Megrans had blasted in
the stone fence to create a gateway. As costume for his part, he
tousled his hair and rebuttoned his shirt so that it hung untidily
bunched and uneven. He rubbed black dust onto his face, hands, hair
and clothing. He sat back on his heels peering into the camp,
building his courage, trying to think of what he would say…

* * *

The sudden sound of men’s voices broke in
on his musings. Two men in green uniforms were striding up the road
toward the camp. If he moved, they would spot him. If he stayed
where he was, they would be upon in him in seconds. An instant
later, he saw a coming from the opposie direction, gliding across
the camp toward the gateway. He was trapped, both ways, as only a
fool would let himself be.

* * *

There was no more time to think. Lars leapt
to his feet and began to run toward the two troopers. He ran as one
possessed, waving his arms frantically and howling shrilly.

“Help me!” he screeched. “Save me!”

The troopers stopped, stared, the look of
disbelief plain on their faces.

One of the troopers drew his Meredith pistol.
Lars saw it flash and felt the blast of hot air as the light-bolt
burned into the ground near his feet. He pitched forward into the
roll he had learned at the school gym and crashed onto his knees.
He scrambled into a tight ball and buried his face in his hands,
whimpering piteously.

Lars heard the whine of the approaching horse
through his wailings; was aware of the hot hiss of hover motors die
as it settled beside him. He heard the two troopers come up,
breathing hard after their dash.

Lars continued to wail wretchedly. He lifted
his head and peeked through his fingers to see three men with hard
eyes staring down at him.