The Sword and the Plough

by Carl Hubrick

  Lars began to eat. There was little flavour beyond that of the fat, but it was hot and served to appease the sudden hunger that he felt.

  “Good boy, Lars,” the giant sergeant warbled. “My favourite prisoner and the best eater of them all. You’re doing very well for your Uncle Wykes.”

  Lars, remembering his role as fool, beamed broadly at the fat giant as much as his swollen face would allow. “Thank you, Uncle Wykes,” he declared. “Thank you very much.”

  “Right now, lads.” The sergeant nodded to his men. “Let’s serve their lords and ladyships their dinner.”

  “Aye, aye, sergeant.” The grinning guards chanted in unison.

  The other prisoners were now ushered into place around the table. They sat wedged beside each other on the small wooden stools.

  The guards set about their task, bumping into one another in their feigned eagerness to serve. Trails of broth dripped and dribbled everywhere.

  “Careful lads,” the giant sergeant cautioned. “Don’t spill too much on the floor. We don’t want to leave any stains on the dining room carpet.”

  “Yes sergeant, we’ll be careful,” the guards assured him.

  “Oh tut, tut,” the sergeant sighed woefully. “That man there! You’ve spilt broth all over his lordship’s lap.” The big man produced a broth soaked rag. “Here, wipe it up and say you’re very sorry.”

  The guard set about making matters worse; spreading the broth stain even further over the governor’s clothes, despite the latter’s muted protest.

  The sergeant shook his head. “Oh dear, oh dear, we’ll be getting a bad reputation, and no one will want to come here anymore. Anyone would think you men weren’t fit to serve the aristocracy.”

  “Sorry sergeant,” the guards sang in chorus, broad smirks on their faces.

  The sergeant pretended a scowl. “Right then, well please try and remember what I’ve taught you.”

  * * *

  The prisoners remained silent as the meal progressed. There was no doubt in Lar’s mind that the sergeant was attempting to goad his prisoners into some display of anger. It was like a scene from a bitter burlesque, with the Falstaffian figure in the leading role. Lars wondered how the next act might play. It was not long in coming.

  The sergeant had been silent for a time watching the antics of his men, the grin on his face growing broader. Then, all at once, he was speaking again, and though his tone sounded as affable as before, the words had changed and his intent become clear.

  “Come on.” He was speaking quietly, smoothly. “Eat up for Sergeant Wykes my little charges – my ugly little Trionian pigs.”

  The prisoners exchanged quick glances. It was coming now, the final act of provocation.

  “Yes – pigs! For that’s what you are, with Trion your sty. But we will change all that – create a new order.”

  No one moved. The scene seemed frozen

  “If I had my way, I’d whip the lot of you,” the fat giant’s voice continued in the same even tone. “Whip you – until you crawled on your yellow bellies like the scum that you are.”

  Rupert flashed a warning frown at the captain. The young officer’s face seemed even greyer than before. His limbs twitched and his fevered eyes were wide and staring.

  Then all pretence was gone and the giant sergeant’s voice dropped to a snarl.

  “You and your precious queen, precious slut more likely, growing fat on good men’s labours; her – with her fine clothes and riches.”

  The mammoth man was staring directly at Caroline now, his small black eyes burning in their fleshy burrows.

  The young woman stared straight back up at him and Lars witnessed the defiance in her brave glare.

  “Bleeding aristocrats!’ The sergeant growled like a wild beast set to spring. “By the moons of Megran when we’ve finished with you there won’t be a man left to piss against…”

  He had no chance to say more.

  The captain flew at the sergeant in wild fury.

  “Murderer!” the captain shouted. “Foul stinking coward!”

  His blows bombarded the fat giant’s belly, salvo after salvo of savage jabs. The queen’s officer had suffered defeat at Megran hands. He would not suffer insult as well.

  Caught off guard by the furious onslaught, the big man went down under the barrage of blows. He lay on his back, cast like a wool-burdened sheep, thrashing his limbs and bleating his rage.

  Instantly, the queen’s officer leapt astride him like a rodeo cowboy. He grabbed a hank of the giant Megran’s hair in each hand and strove to bash his foe’s brains out on the hard, black stone floor.

  “Get him off me!” the sergeant howled in fear and outrage.

  He tried to roll his bulk to dislodge his attacker, but the fierce grip in his hair kept pulling him back.

  But the captain’s revenge was short lived. The two guards grabbed an arm each, wrenched the young man from his victim, and hurled him backwards. Arms outstretched, he crashed crucified against the stone wall of the cell. For a split second, he hung there, as if nailed, then his legs crumpled and with a groan he fell, stunned, to the floor.

  The guards drew their pistols and jabbed the weapons at the other prisoners.

  “Against the wall!” they bawled.

  Silence followed. Guards and prisoners alike stood motionless – waiting…

  The giant sergeant rolled over and pushed himself to his knees, like a barrel righting. He wiped his mouth and blinked at the sight of blood on the back of his hand. He staggered to his feet and stood staring down at the insensible queen’s officer. He flipped the clip that secured his Meredith pistol and drew the weapon from it holster.

  Lars did not allow himself time to think. With a hoarse cry, he flung himself on top of the hapless captain.

  “Coward!” he shouted. “You hurt our nice sergeant. I’m going to kill you.”

  He locked his arms around the unconscious man and rolled the pair of them across the floor, scattering gaping prisoners and astonished jailors alike. He sat astride him and punched the helpless man repeatedly in the ribs, shrieking and yelling all the while.

  The sergeant was the first to react. Deep down in the mountain of flesh a chortle began. Then huge guffaws erupted and his sides shook.

  When at last the final tremor had subsided, he holstered the pistol – a toy again against his bigness – and chuckling still, hauled the howling Lars from his victim by the scruff of his neck.

  “All right, that’s enough my little Trionian fighting-cock. There’s no need for you to kill him.” He spun Lars round and grinned into his face. “There’s more to you than meets the eye.”

  He pushed the young man away with a friendly motion, and then turned to face the other prisoners.

  “The next time any one of you steps out of line,” he said quietly. “I will shoot the lot of you.”

  * * *

  The black leather command chair swung round and the Megran battleship commander looked up at his first officer. The young officer’s bespoke green uniform was superb; an example of the best android tailors on Megran. Sensibly, he had spurned the stock issue garb from the military robots, which was the norm.

  The commander smiled. “Good news, I take it, Number One. You’ve got a grin from ear to ear.”

  The young first officer grinned even wider. “Yes sir. Good news it is. The fighting is at an end. All military installations on Trion are in our hands. Substitute communications are operating, and our own men now man the two Trionian cruisers. The planet is ours, sir.”

  Commander Riddick nodded. “Good – very good! Send a message to General York on the surface. Congratulations. Well done. And Gregor – pass the word on: Well done – everyone.”

  * * *

  Born on Earth some fifty-six years before, Commander John Jared Riddick had been a spacefaring man for as long as he could remember. The service bars on his green uniform attested to the thirty-seven years spent in the service of the Earth Commonwealth of Planet
s; the last twenty-five aboard the battleship Queen Elizabeth, currently named Prince Ferdinand, after the governor of Megran. John Riddick had joined the battleship as a junior officer and risen through the ranks to commander.

  The once dark hair was these days mostly grey, and the sparkle had long since faded from the dark brown eyes.

  He had never married, and he had no family, apart from his widowed sister-in-law, Alice, and her son, Jared John Riddick, on Earth. He had heard on the grapevine some time ago that her son had joined the Royal Space Force as a cadet. Was it possible the boy could have grown so fast?

  “Sir?” First Officer Lipinski was back again, standing beside him.

  “Yes, Number One?”

  “An observation from one of the cruisers, sir. It seems we must have passed very close to one of Trion’s suns on our way into the system.”

  “Standard strategy to avoid detection, Number One,” the commander stated with a trace of irritation.

  “Yes sir, but it appears we’ve scorched off most of the new paint. The prince’s name has gone, and the ship’s old name Queen Elizabeth V is showing through. They want to know if we’re going to paint Prince Ferdinand’s name back again, sir.”

  The commander gave a grin. “No, Number One, we’re not. Signal them – once is enough. We’ll run with it as it is. What the good prince doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  * * *

  Commander Riddick leaned back in the command chair on the battleship’s bridge. From where he sat he could see on the one side, the infinite ocean of space, defined by an immeasurable number of stars – and on the other, the huge mass of the black planet, Trion, turning slowly on its axis as it had done for over six billion years.

  When all this was over, he would get in touch with his sister-in-law, Alice. It was not too late to be an uncle. His nephew needed a male role figure. The boy and he would have a lot in common. Jared must be well into his training at the Space Force Academy by now.

  Chapter 17

  The other prisoners

  “There are different kinds of bravery. There are times when a man must swallow taunts and insults and display his courage by doing nothing.”

  The prisoners were standing in a guarded huddle at the rear of the cell, all but the captain who was seated on one of the bunks, his eyes downcast.

  “Captain,” the governor continued, “you will need to curb your temper in the future, or you will be a threat to us all.” There was no anger in his voice. It was simply a statement requiring compliance.

  The young officer looked up. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes set in shadow, and he was tired – so very tired. His light-bolt wound needed urgent specialist treatment. The necrotic tissue was spreading.

  “Sorry sir… I just couldn’t…” he started. He paused and began again. “I don’t know what came over me… If it hadn’t been for Lars…” He stopped. He glanced up at the young man and grinned sheepishly.

  “We know how you feel,” the older man said gently. “And you, Lars, that was quite a performance. Our heartfelt thanks for what you did. However, that sergeant’s no fool. We’re more useful alive than dead. I have the feeling that he, too, had gone further than he intended and used your act as an excuse to save face.” He frowned at the young man. “Be wary of him. Next time he may not be dissuaded so easily.”

  “Oh, come on, Father,” Caroline broke in. “That’s enough serious talk for one day. The captain’s suffered enough already, and poor Lars hasn’t even had the chance to get to know us before you start in to lecture him.”

  The governor laughed. “My daughter’s right,” he said. “I am inclined to lecture on too long and too often. It’s part of growing old.

  Just as well we have the young to constantly remind us.”

  The young woman poked out a small pink tongue.

  “The truth is,” the older man continued, “if the captain hadn’t hit that fat swine when he did, I believe I might have done so myself…”

  “Time for proper introductions,” Caroline interjected, grimacing at her father. “Lars, you were in no fit state to meet anyone when you first joined us, but I’ve told everyone what you did for me in the town.”

  She glanced round at the other prisoners. “Let’s start with the captain,” she said with a smile. “You’ve already introduced yourself, even if the method was a trifle unorthodox.” She motioned a hand at the young officer. “Captain John Lancaster, in command of the queen’s garrison in Vegar. The captain received his wound in action against the Megran invaders. He, and what was left of the garrison’s forces after the missile attack, kept those monsters at bay for almost two hours before they were forced to surrender.”

  The young officer glanced up at Lars and nodded – looked, for a second as if he might speak, but in the end said nothing.

  The young woman studied him briefly and then went on.

  “Major Rupert Waterman,” she announced, inclining her head toward the tall man in the queen’s uniform. “Rupert’s in charge of military intelligence in the region. It was his wave gun that we tried to get working, Lars.”

  The tall man gave a slight bow toward Lars. He was in his early forties, Lars guessed, his dark hair touched with grey at the temples. His bronzed features were strongly sculptured and the thick dark line of his brows gave his countenance a somewhat stern look.

  “Ah, intelligence,” Lars murmured. “So you understand what is going on out there.”

  “Not really,” the intelligence officer answered, “but we have a few ideas. We will talk later, perhaps. I would be interested to know what you’ve witnessed.”

  Lars nodded, then turned his gaze to the two prisoners he did not yet know.

  The older woman gave a shy smile as their eyes met. Lars smiled back. She was thin – and would have failed to reach his shoulder for height. The abundance of grey in her close-cropped hair, and the lines in her parchment like skin, gave more proof of her sixty-two years than she would have wished. The bright brown eyes, which flicked timorous glances at him, and the long thin line of her nose, reminded Lars of a Trionian sparrow – the plain brown dress she wore, her plumage.

  She offered her hand to the young man. It was small and bony in his grasp.

  “Judith Warner,” she said, in a quiet well-spoken voice. Lars noted the distinctive Earth accent. Everyone in the cell, it seemed, had been educated on Earth.

  “Ms Warner is my father’s secretary, Lars,” Caroline explained. “And we are all very upset that she’s been dragged into this. Those Megran swine have no sense.”

  “I believe they think I may have some knowledge of Trionian military matters,” the woman said with a wry smile. “But of course, I was only ever a clerk.”

  “You were much more valuable than that,” the older man said kindly, patting her lightly on the shoulder. “The office would have collapsed into chaos long ago without you.”

  The woman shot him a diffident smile of thanks for the compliment.

  The older man now extended his hand to Lars. He was tall and strongly built. His features were handsome, if Lars was any judge, and the well-tanned skin offered a distinct contrast to the almost pure white of his hair. The queen’s red jacket that he wore was heavy with braid. It was unmistakably Earth tailored, for the fit was perfect.

  Caroline spoke. “And my father, Lars – Henry Tudor, governor of Trion.”

  “Presently unemployed, m’dear,” the man murmured, his thick dark brows arching humorously over clever blue eyes.

  Lars started. “Sir Henry Tudor?” The penny at last dropped. “Father?” He glanced quickly at Caroline. “Then you’re…”

  “The Lady Caroline,” Major Waterman finished for him, “first cousin to Her Majesty the Queen.”

  “My late mother was twin sister to the queen,” Caroline explained quietly. “Born just a few minutes later.”

  “After the sad death of her mother, Lady Caroline became next in line to the throne,” the intelligence officer added.


  Sir Henry shook his head at Lars’s questioning look and smiled.

  “No, I’m not a royal, if that’s what you’re thinking, Lars. I just had the very good fortune to marry one.”

  “Does the sergeant know who you all are?” Lars asked quietly, his look a little grim.

  “Yes, I’m afraid he does,” the major replied. “There’s not much they don’t know, it seems. The commander of the Megran forces, General York, appears to be very well informed. Without a doubt they will be listening to us right now.” He shrugged. “But we have little in the way of secrets left to tell.”

  Caroline answered his question too, her voice harsh and rancorous, such as Lars had not heard it before.

  “You may have guessed, Lars,” she said, gesturing at the other members in the cell. “There is one key person missing from our group.”

  Lars nodded. “I remember… Something rotten going on, you said. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes Lars,” the governor confirmed. “We were caught with our proverbial pants down, I’m afraid.”

  “Father’s deputy has gone over to the other side,” Caroline continued, her expression dark. “He’s been one step ahead of us all the way. Thanks to him, the enemy knows everything there is to know.”

  “The transmitter complex?” Lars queried.

  The young woman dipped her head in acknowledgement.

  “And the m..m..missile attack upon the garrison,” the captain exclaimed suddenly.

  He had risen from his bunk and was standing unsteadily in their midst. His dark eyes were gaping wildly. A fierce fury contorted his face and he was breathing heavily.

  “My b..b..best men – all gone.” His voice was cracked and uneven. “The first missiles were right on target – took out the recreation centre and the barracks, killing more than half my force. The next run incinerated the mess hall and the armoury.