The Sword and the Plough

by Carl Hubrick

  “If you say so,” the man murmured.

  “No, Cecil, the queen said so,” the voice replied haughtily. “Her Majesty had me designed to be so. There is not a computer system in the whole Commonwealth that can match me. No system can hide from me. No code exists that I cannot decipher. I am the ultimate design – the supreme creation. There is no…”

  The queen’s computer might well have continued in its self- praise, but the man uttered a sudden, impatient rebuke.

  “Enough of this!” he exclaimed. “No more of your nonsense. I have work to do. What did you want me for?”

  There was a confused sputtering and hiss of electronics before Mata Hari responded – this time more meekly. “I have to report a significant variation in the Megran central processing unit.”

  “Oh?” The queen’s secretary was immediately on the alert.

  “It is denying me access to some of its memory banks,” the queen’s computer complained.

  “I thought you said no Commonwealth computer could refuse you?”

  “I can get through,” the queen’s computer replied peevishly. “But it’s not that easy. The Megran CPU is very clever, almost as clever as I am. It will take time to defeat it. But I think it very rude to try and shut me out, and I want to know why.”

  “Yes – indeed,” Cecil looked thoughtful. “What areas are closed to you – economic, military?”

  “No-o-o, none of those,” Mata Hari admitted. “It is something new, something entered, worked on, and then deleted before I could get a glimpse of it.”

  Cecil frowned. “Not economic or military, you say. Perhaps something entered in error. Hmm, no, I can’t say it sounds very critical to me.”

  “I am Mata Hari, computer to Her Most Sovereign Majesty, Queen Elizabeth V.” The computer had slipped again into its imperious impersonation of the queen’s tones. “I have a right to know everything that is going on everywhere, no matter how insignificant.”

  “Well – yes and no,” the queen’s secretary remarked quietly.

  “Yes and no,” Mata Hari retorted huffily. “You cannot say yes and no together – it is illogical.”

  “I’m afraid being human means you can,” the queen’s secretary replied patiently. “You must try to understand. Governor Ferdinand is the queen’s representative on Megran, and I know therefore, technically, merely an extension of her will. But in practice, it doesn’t work that way. Ferdinand, like all the planetary governors, enjoys a large degree of autonomy. In other words, he has the queen’s trust to rule Megran in his own way without too much interference. It’s a very delicate political situation. Besides, like all the other governors, Ferdinand is related to the queen – a second cousin, in fact.”

  “How can I be the queen’s spy without knowing all there is to know?” Mata Hari enquired petulantly. “I have the queen’s trust too, and I am charged to be aware of anything that might jeopardize her rule.”

  “Yes quite,” the man agreed. “We are both accountable in this, but we must always proceed diplomatically. What you found is probably something of interest only to the Megran government and not for publication throughout the Commonwealth. It may be the governor’s palace accounts. Perhaps he’s overdrawn and embarrassed about it. Alternatively, it could be plans for a surprise celebration to honour our queen’s birthday. Whatever it is, it is likely being kept quiet because it’s Governor Ferdinand’s private business and none of ours. It is a question of trust, Mata Hari – trust.

  “So, in the future, unless you have something more substantial to report, I would ask that you not bother me, or you’ll end up getting both of us into trouble. Anyway, you should be far too busy for such meddling; what about your responsibilities for the planet’s communications, defence, space traffic control, finances, robot management and the rest? Leave the cloak and dagger stuff to the queen’s agents – that’s their job!”

  “Cloak and dagger?”

  “Look it up where you found your name.”

  “I still think we should tell the queen, Cecil.”

  “Nonsense, there’s nothing to tell, Mata Hari, and I don’t want to argue any further about it.”

  At this point, a male android garbed in royal livery sidled into the room bearing a cup of tea and biscuits on a tray. The robot looked human in every respect, save for his hair, which was a dark metallic blue and his skin colour, which was silver.

  “Ah…thank…thank you very much,” Cecil murmured, then shook his head in self-reproach for wasting his thanks on a machine. Talking to machines was a foolish habit he could not seem to break.

  “You’re very welcome, sir” the android answered, its mouth widening in a smile to reveal ultra-white plastic teeth.

  “What time is it?” Cecil enquired, this time rather brusquely.

  “Just after 8 a.m., sir,”

  “Ah, I must have slept in.”

  “Yes sir, would you care for some breakfast? I would be pleased to make you toast or eggs, or perhaps something a little more filling?”

  “Why thank you, that’s very kind of…” Cecil began, and then remembered again that the machine’s civility was merely an electronic response. “No, nothing! Go!” he finished in annoyance.

  He turned to the queen’s computer. “And you, get on with your tasks – and not another word today. Not one word!”

  “But I have something else, which might be substantial…” Mata Hari started.

  “Hah!” Cecil shot up his hand. He had had more than enough of machines today already. “I warned you – not one word. Not one word!”

  “Yes Cecil,” Mata Hari replied dutifully.

  Her green glow quavered for a moment or two, for she was muttering under her electronic breath.

  “But there is something else too,” she was muttering. “We lost contact with the other Commonwealth planets for over 180 minutes earlier this morning – New Terra, Lumai, Theti, Trion – all the planets, except Megran.” A splutter of indignant green incandescence followed. “But I know that’s not very substantial…”

  Chapter 11

  Planet LUMAI – Governor’s Palace – “The Ball”

  Greenwich date: January 30, 2175 – 22:35 hours

  The mirror ball, lit by twenty magnificent crystal chandeliers in the high vaulted ceiling, sent a dizzy display of luminous rays around the vast ballroom.

  Below, the dance floor was a whirl of colours, like a paint wheel spinning. Young women’s bright eyes flashed, red lips laughed, ball gowns swished and dainty shoes tapped the polished wood boards in time to the music. The shiny black boots of the queen’s soldiers made their own bold, staccato rap, pivoting in step with their partners.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, m’dear?”

  Lord Magnus Southern, standing with a group of young people at the fringe of the dancers, had to raise his voice above the music and excited chatter of the ballroom.

  “Yes thank you, Lord Southern,” the young woman concerned replied. She dropped into a curtsy and smiled up at the craggy face with its shock of white hair.

  The governor of the planet, Lumai, bowed and extended a hand to assist the young woman to her feet. Her voluminous chartreuse ball gown rustled.

  “You look enchanting, m’dear,” he declared, his lips brushing her hand. She had long blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes.

  At 78, Lord Southern was at once the oldest and most revered statesman in the Commonwealth. He was also a fine gentleman.

  He nodded to her escort in the queen’s red. “Good evening Wade,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”

  The young queen’s officer bowed, his array of service medals swinging perpendicular as he did so.

  “Good evening, sir,” he replied with a polite smile.

  The governor gestured at the ballroom scene about them. “A wonderful sight, don’t you agree Wade? All the sparkle – all the glamour. It’s as if the whole place has been decorated with diamonds.”

  “Yes indeed, sir,” the young officer respon
ded.

  “And what a glorious number of young women here this evening. Like a garden of beautiful flowers.”

  “Yes indeed, sir.” The young man replied again, bobbing his head in respectful agreement.

  Lord Southern smiled. “The first monarch of our Commonwealth, Elizabeth III, had such good colour sense in maintaining the tradition of red for her uniforms, don’t you think? They contrast so well with the wonderful colours of the young women’s gowns.”

  He glanced down at his own non-military grey suit, and his expensive, Earth made, but plain black leather shoes. “I declined to spoil the look of things this evening and left my uniform on its hanger.” He chuckled. “The older I get the more I look like a knob of old bone sticking out of red meat when I wear the queen’s scarlet.”

  * * *

  The annual government ball, held in the capital town of each of the six planets, recalled the ancient traditions of Earth. The pomp, the ceremony, and the grandeur were designed to tie the Commonwealth together under the royal sway.

  Lord Southern supported the concept to the hilt. He was, after all, a loyal and devoted servant to the queen, as well as a second cousin.

  Magnus Southern made his way round the perimeter of the joyful crowd. It was his function as governor to mingle.

  The young men not yet dancing stood in jovial groups caparisoned for the evening in their full dress uniforms, the latter further adorned with gold braid, rainbow ribbons and shiny medals. And as they watched the dancers, their fine black patent leather boots tapped in time to the music.

  The few young women awaiting invitation to dance sat in small, colourful natter groups around the room’s edge, the magic of their multifarious perfumes filling the air.

  Among the crowd, the silver-skinned androids, the males with blue hair, the females with blonde locks, moved about barely noticed, serving the best Earth champagne and other refreshments. Although usually far more intelligent than their human counterparts, they were devoid of any sentient capacity and regarded as the new slave class.

  Another young couple caught the governor’s eye. The young man in red bowed. Lord Southern acknowledged with a brief nod, but his gaze quickly focused on the young man’s partner. He dipped his head, his eyes smiling into hers.

  “And who is this charming young woman you have with you this evening, Jared?”

  “Sir, I have the pleasure to present Ms Catherine Ballinger,” the officer replied.

  The young woman curtsied; another yellow ball gown. Her perfume drifted upon the air.

  “Ms Ballinger,” Lord Southern murmured. “What a lovely fragrance you’re wearing.”

  The young woman radiated a beatific smile.

  “And what a beautiful dress – such a delightful colour.”

  “It’s called chartreuse, sir,” the young woman replied. “It’s one of the new fashion shades from Earth.”

  The governor gave an aha bob. “Right, that explains the prevalence of the colour here this evening” He waved them onto the dance floor. “Now off you go and enjoy yourselves.”

  He watched the young couple whirl onto the floor with a certain envy – the yellow – no chartreuse gown held close to the queen’s red. Once his hair too, had been black and shiny, and his blue eyes vivid in their gaze; and the young women – well, there had been a few. Then came the day when that special young woman had entered his life, making their lives one… Life had been so sweet, so sure, so right… He had not felt old until the day she died.

  For a moment, he fiddled with the heavy gold band on his finger, the wedding ring she had given him on that wonderful day…

  “Lord Southern?” A young woman had come up behind him, catching him fifty years in the past. The allure of her perfume wafted ahead of her. She had sparkling dark eyes and raven hair; her skin tan continued as far down her cleavage as he dared look.

  She flashed a warm, coquettish smile. “I would be so pleased if you would sign my dance programme,” she said.

  “Well, m’dear, I don’t usually…”

  “Oh please, Lord Southern.” Again, her plea was gift wrapped in a beguiling smile.

  The governor sighed a smile. “Very well, m’dear,” he said.

  The queen’s representative took the dainty red pencil and wrote down his name. It was taking him every effort to keep his mutinous gaze averted from the low cut dress and the rounded shapes, half revealed, so pleasing to his eyes.

  “The fourth waltz then,” he said. “I shall look forward to it.”

  The young woman curtsied, her shiny gown fabric crumpling with a whisper. “Oh thank you, Lord Southern,” she said.

  He watched the raven-haired beauty make her way back to her group, enjoying the pleasurable click-clack of her step as she went. She had won her dare, no doubt. She had certainly caught the governor of Lumai off his guard.

  “Lord Southern!” One of his uniformed aides pushed urgently through the crowd; a tall thin young man with curly brown hair. “Sir, there appears to be a major fault in our communications system. We’ve lost contact with Earth and all the other planets too.”

  “Well Kieron, you’ve got someone onto it, haven’t you?” the governor returned briskly.

  “Yes sir, I put the technical people onto it straight away.” The young man frowned. “But it’s very strange, sir, the whole planet seems to be out.”

  “The whole planet?”

  “Yes sir, as far as we can tell.”

  “But that’s impossible. Find out what’s happening and get back to me posthaste.”

  Lord Southern’s brow wrinkled. He had two problems tonight – a young woman whose dance programme now featured the governor of Lumai, and, more serious, some technical hitch with the planet’s communications.

  “Matthew!” He signalled over another of his aides. “Apparently there’s a problem with our communications system. Check it out for me, then call me over the ballroom intercom, and – ah – make it sound important, will you, maybe even somewhat urgent.”

  The aide grinned. “Had enough already have we, sir?”

  Lord Southern smiled. “Yes, something like that, Matthew,” he murmured.

  One problem solved at least. The governor glanced up at the plethora of dazzling light from the crystal extravaganza above him. Foolish old man, he thought, but man nonetheless, befuddled by a pretty girl in a low cut dress. Yet, the invitation to dance had made him feel alive – happy. Maybe next year he would dance. Forget protocol or perhaps change it by then – why not?

  * * *

  The sudden blackness hit him like a hammer.

  Damn! Had he gone blind?

  But the music too, faltered, then died away. A buzz of excited and puzzled voices took its place. Ha! It was probably the technicians tinkering with the power.

  He spoke up above the growing clamour of agitated voices. “Don’t worry my friends; we’ve got the problem in hand. What about a slow romantic waltz until we get the lights back on?”

  There was a ripple of laughter and a ‘hooray’ chorus of approval. A few tentative notes commenced from the orchestra.

  Sudden gruff shouts and the roar of weapons fire froze everything in an instant and shocked silence.

  “What’s happening?” a woman’s voice cried out fearfully.

  A crash of glass and the flash and thunder of light-bolts close by came in answer.

  The chandeliers came on suddenly, transforming the ballroom once more into its sparkling glory.

  Lord Southern turned to his nearest guests and smiled. “Nothing like a power cut to liven up the evening…” he began. He would have said more, but his mind now witnessed the cruelly altered scene before him.

  In the centre of the dance floor, two dozen or more armed men stood facing outward in a circle, weapons drawn, legs braced, their faces shadowed by dark glintless comb morions. They were not clad in the good queen’s red, but wore instead an alien battle green.

  Slowly, the leader turned his head, his flinty stare stalkin
g someone.

  Then the man’s eyes found Lord Southern and his pistol arm rose. The weapon fixed its black eye of death upon its target.

  Chapter 12

  Planet TRION – Vegar Township – Late afternoon

  Lars made his way quickly through the empty streets. He had given up his previous caution. The stink of smoke was thick upon the air, catching in his throat. There was not a soul in sight anywhere. The town was still and shuttered up tight, awaiting something…

  It took Lars only a matter of minutes to reach the scene of the fire. It was far worse than he could have imagined.

  He was not sure how long he stood gazing at the devastation in front of him. The many storeys of the Inter-Galactic Communication Centre had been razed to their very foundations. Nothing remained standing. Blackened rubble and fractured steel girders had toppled into the streets, suggesting the walls had exploded outwards. Even now, there were still minor explosions giving birth to new pockets of sulphurous flame. Dark smoke drifted skyward in angry spirals. Lars had never known a fire to cause such utter destruction.

  At first, the high-pitched scream seemed part of the crackling flames, thuds, and bangs about him. Then it came again, but this time he recognised the cry as human, but one of anger more than fear. All at once, he became aware too of the lower octaves of gruff male voices and derisive laughter.

  Lars sought cover behind a pile of rubble. There were plenty of places to hide – mounds of blackened debris and broken steel beams lay everywhere. What he saw next both shocked and alarmed him.

  Out of the smoke came two burly troopers in dark green uniforms. The men were dragging a young woman between them. Her head hung down, and she was scrambling awkwardly to keep pace with her captors. She was wearing a yellow gown, a gown an upper-class guest might wear to a garden party or ball. However, if she had been the screamer before, she was now making no sound.