The Sword and the Plough (32 page)

“
But he
is
here!”

“
But he doesn’t have to be at the fort.
Your father’s the Megran general in charge of all the forces on
Trion. He could be anywhere on this planet. The chances of you
bumping in to him are a million to one. Well… ten to one, at
least.”

“
But Johnny, I know it. I have this
dread
feeling. What if
he recognises me? What if we end up face to face?”

He took her hands in his. “Cheryl, generals
never know one junior officer from another. It’s as though they
don’t exist.”

Cheryl’s words now came in a rush. “What say
I give myself up? Tell him I’m alone. Pretend I came to join him as
he asked. Make believe we could be father and daughter again. I
might be able to sabotage things at the fort once the main attack
begins…”

The captain shook his head. “He’d never
believe you. And then he’d come looking for us.

“
Cheryl, remember you’re a soldier first. I
need you here, beside me,
today
.
There are just the two of us and a bunch of untrained civilians
against a Megran army.” He gave a grin. “Not bad odds I’m forced to
admit, but the odds against us will be even higher if you’re not
with me.”

The lieutenant bit her lip and pondered
his words, her blue eyes clouded. Her caution, her concern, she
believed, made good sense. Then again, her duty was to the
military…That was who she was…

At length she nodded. “Yes, I apologise.
You are right,” Her shoulders lifted and her jaw line stiffened.
“We are officers of Her Majesty the Queen. We have
our
mission
…”

* * *

“
Halt!”

There were two sentries at the fort’s
gate
, Megran troopers
masquerading in the queen’s red. One stepped forward, his rifle
held across his chest, barring their way. He was young,
fair-haired, with the beginnings of a beard, and wearing a red
uniform much too big for him, so that his hands had almost
disappeared up the sleeves.

“Well, here we go,” the captain muttered
beneath his breath.

The sentry glanced only briefly at the
officer rank insignia on the two red uniforms. Megran troopers were
wearing every sort of royal uniform at present, whatever had
survived the battle. It was just luck what you’d bagged. All that
counted was the queen’s red. He let his gaze rest on Caroline and
Lars instead.

“Who are they?” he asked, casting a nod at
the prisoners. “More trouble makers?” His eyes wandered over
Caroline and he grinned. “Nice to see another woman coming in,” he
said, giving an exaggerated wink. “Makes for a pleasant
change.”

“Trooper!” The captain’s voice was
dangerously quiet. “I wear the rank insignia of a captain because
I’ve earned it. “I’ll give you just three seconds to complete the
challenge.”

The sentry’s smirk disappeared and he
snapped to attention. “Yes
sah!”
he bawled, and then, “who goes there?”

“Captain De Vries and Lieutenant York with
two prisoners,” the captain answered. “Lost a motor on our
hover-barge halfway out from town and had to walk it.”

“
Thank you, sir. Oh, and the password,
sir?”

The captain scowled. “A little late for that,
isn’t it sentry?” he huffed. “If we’d been the enemy, you’d have
been burned away by now.”

“
Yes sir.
Sorry sir!
” The sentry
stepped aside shamefaced, ears and cheeks reddening. “Do you
require an escort for your prisoners, sir?” he asked, trying to
gain lost ground with the officer.

The captain feigned a more forgiving tone.
“No need trooper, we know our way. Carry on with your duty.”

“Yes sir.”

The trooper watched them go. Of all the
luck to stop a
real
officer. He glared at his fellow sentry’s grinning face and
jerked a stiff middle finger in sharp reply.

* * *

The interior of the fort, an area about the
size of an Olympic stadium, was bustling with activity and noise.
Megran troopers in battle green were everywhere, engaged in every
military chore ever devised.

The subterfuge of the queen’s red was evident
only along the ramparts, where the Megrans were visible to
outsiders.

Captain De Vries halted his little group and
waited a moment as a column in green with shouldered rifles marched
stiffly past, their sergeant bellowing his displeasure at their
effort.

Johnny De Vries cast an eye around the black
stone ramparts, noting the number of counterfeit red clad troopers
manning the light-bolt cannons along the crenellated
battlements.

“Nice reception party waiting for someone,”
he muttered grimly.

He noted too, the many rows of horses parked
inside the courtyard, the deadly silver machines gleaming in the
sunlight.

“There must be over a hundred horses,” he
muttered to the lieutenant. “And from Lars told us, maybe as many
more in the camp outside the town.”

The lieutenant’s gaze had followed his. “Yes,
it’s almost like they’re expecting trouble,” she said with a frown.
“Maybe they’ve got spies among the locals.”

“About seventy-five metres to the keep,
comrades,” the captain said in a low voice. “Stay calm. Remember,
we look the part.”

“Seventy-five metres?” Lars muttered, staring
at the tall, defensive black stone tower at the fort’s hub. “It
looks much farther.”

* * *

They crossed the open ground to the keep
without incident, though some curious glances trailed their
passage.

“
There, nothing to it,” the captain said
with a grin as they entered the dark circular interior at the base
of the keep, “Not even one close relative by the name of
York.”

“It’s not over yet,” the lieutenant reminded
him with an uneasy smile.

The four glanced round the dark walled
chamber. On their left, a flight of stairs led upward to the
various levels of the keep above. On their right, the black tunnel
opening that led down to the dungeons in the bowels of the
castle.

The captain nodded to Lars. “Okay my friend,
it’s time. I’ve sent a message to the admiralty. Now, it’s over to
us.”

Lars brought the wrist communicator up to
his mouth. His lips were dry. “We’re in, Hakim,” he whispered.
“Give it all you’ve got old friend… and good luck.”

They stood staring down the tunnel entrance,
adjusting their vision for the dark beneath.

“Okay, it won’t be long now,” the captain
said. “The fun’s about to start.”

* * *

It began faintly at first, a
hiss
, like some
denizen of the deep slowly awakening. Then the monster moved, its
hiss erupting to a growl. One hundred ploughs, Hakim had said. Two
hundred and more farmers turned soldiers; farmers who had come to
rescue friends and loved ones; farmers who had come to take back
what had been theirs.

Suddenly the growl erupted into a roar.
Laser shares in makeshift turrets burned the battlements – a
barrage of laser beams as bright and burning as Trion’s eternal
suns.

The captain glanced briefly out the doorway
of the keep into the white glare of the sunlight.

“It’s working, Lars,” he cried exultant above
the battle’s din. “I just witnessed a parapet hit hard and every
Megran on it burned away.”

Caroline came close and shouted in Lars’s
ear. “Your weapon, Lars, it’s killing them.” Her eyes were ablaze
with a warrior’s grim satisfaction.

But there were other sounds that joined the
tumult now. Above the roar rose the shrill clarion of alarms, the
pounding of Megran boots on stone, and the murderous boom of the
fort’s light-bolt cannon in answer to the farmers’ laser fire.

“Right, let’s go,” the captain shouted.

* * *

They took the steps down in a rush, two at
a time, the captain leading the way. The smack of their boots
echoed loudly in the confines of the dark subterranean
passageways
– no secret
now.

They reached a landing with a heavy wooden
door off to the side, the guardroom. The door opened. A giant in
Megran green with a barrel’s girth stepped out, the Meredith pistol
in his hand thrust forward. The small dark eyes widened in
recognition – bewilderment.

“The fool… How...?”

There was no time to speak, no time to
play the jester as before. Lars pushed past the captain and leapt
into the air. He swung his pistol at the fat giant’s head; suffered
the shock of pain to his wrist as the barrel cracked
bone.

The big man jerked back and crashed like a
felled tree to the floor, blocking the doorway.

Inside the room, another green clad trooper
leapt up agape, and spun to seize a rifle from the rack on the
wall.

A light-bolt scorched past Lars’s ear like a
thunderclap. He saw the blast pass through the Megran’s chest,
catapulting him backwards over a chair to smash against the wall.
The dead man lay folded at the waist like a cast off doll; his
death wound smoking, the sickly smell of his burnt flesh fouling
the air.

“Get them out of sight, quick.”

The captain grabbed one of the giant
sergeant’s feet. Lars and Caroline pulled on the other. They lugged
the unconscious man mountain behind the door.

“By the stars, that one was heavy,” the
captain muttered, wiping his brow. He was breathing heavily.

The lieutenant, meantime, had dragged a table
in front of the dead Megran.

“Too messy to shift,” she explained
coolly.

“Here!” Caroline thrust an armload of
light-bolt rifles at Lars. “We’d better have these in case we have
to shoot our way out.”

She took another stack of rifles from the
rack, and hung the cell keys from the barrel of one of them.

* * *

The descent was steeper now, down dark
narrow steps hollowed and worn smooth by decades of countless heavy
boots. More stone stairs, and then a yellow-lit
landing
, where the
tunnel opened out and the maze of corridors to the cells
began.

There would be many cells to open and the
captain did not wait for keys.

“
Stand back!” he cried to the occupants of
the first cell. The Meredith in his hand roared and lit all around
like sudden sunlight. The cell door lock melted away with a
sputter. One hard kick and the door flew open. Without waiting, he
went on to the next.

The lieutenant, meanwhile, had gone down
another darkened passageway in the opposite direction. At each cell
door, her pistol flared, lighting the darkness around her briefly
in its brilliant glare.

“Lars!” Caroline’s hand sought his. “Don’t
worry, we’ll find your sister.” She squeezed his hand gently and
then was gone, calling on the bemused hostages to follow her.

By now, dozens of hostages were gathering
in the corridor, their faces shaped in shadow, their eyes unsure
and wary. Some wore the queen’s red, survivors of the brief battle
against the Megran invaders, others Lars recognised as faces he had
seen in Vegar in happier times.

“Lars, is that you, Lars?”

His gaze swung round to meet the voice among
the crowd. Two almond shaped eyes gazed up into his, their dark
stare anxious and confused.

“Amanda,” he replied with a quick smile. “So
they got you too.”

“Oh Lars, it’s so good to see you. What’s
happening? Is it all over? Are we going home?”

Lars nodded. “Yes, you’re going home. Follow
the others, we’ll be moving out shortly.”

* * *

“Daddy!”

“Amanda!”

Ben Kassada, the manager of the Vegar bank in
better times, took his daughter in his arms and hugged her.

“Oh sweetheart,” he cried. “It’s so good to
see you.”

Ben Kassada was a happy man – his daughter
at last returned to him.

But then his mind went down the perilous
path of doubt. “Are you all right?” he asked with sudden dread.
“They didn’t – hurt you?”

His daughter smiled. “No daddy, I’m fine,
truly I am.”

She nestled into his shoulder. “We’re going
home,” she whispered. “I spoke to Lars Kelmutt and he promised
me.”

* * *

Lars entered another cellblock newly
freed. The mass of hostages milled about him. His eyes searched
among the throng. He smiled and replied
-
yes, you’re free
to those who asked, and pointed the way to
Caroline waiting at the foot of the stairs.

Then a half-seen profile amid the crowd
caught his eye. Lars held his breath. He moved a pace forward,
tilting his head this way and that to see more clearly. Then there,
at last, the face he knew so well, a thin face, a pale face, her
blue eyes now finding him.

“Helen!”

All at once, his sister was in his arms,
hanging on to him, trembling, her hair soft against his cheek, her
scent warm in his nostrils.

“You came back for me,” she whispered. “I
always knew in my heart you would.”

And he could not help the tears that welled
up suddenly and rolled in torrents down his face.

The hostages gathered in the dim stone
chamber of the keep. The brightness of the sunlight outside seared
their eyes, the noise of battle stabbed at their ears, and the
strange smells of burning assaulted their nostrils. But the
presence of the queen’s red in their midst heartened them. Their
ordeal was surely nearly over.