The Sword and the Plough

by Carl Hubrick

  Behind him, the other prisoners slept on. He wondered if the twin suns had risen yet, warm and yellow over the black fields. And his sister, Helen, was she just a few cells away wondering the same thing?

  A whisper came from behind him. “How are you feeling this morning?” it said.

  Caroline was sitting on the edge of the bunk she shared with Judith Warner. Her auburn hair was tousled, her chartreuse dress gown crumpled and stained. Her cheek had a red crease where she had slept on it. Nevertheless, to Lars, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with a heart to match.

  Lars grinned. “I’ve felt better,” he whispered back.

  Caroline smiled. She stood and gave her head a little shake so that the auburn tresses fell loose to her shoulders. She smoothed her hair back, tidying it into a ponytail, and slipped a hair tie deftly into place. Then she stepped over to the bunk where the captain lay and stood staring down at him.

  Lars understood her concern. He too, had checked the young officer’s condition when he first awoke. The breathing had seemed regular and he appeared to be sleeping peacefully enough, though his complexion was a deathly grey, as if all his blood had drained away.

  After a minute or two, Caroline too, seemed reassured and turned and stepped over the sleeping forms of her father and the major on the floor, and came toward him.

  Lars’s gaze dropped and lingered on the soft sweep of her gown, taut against her breasts and hips, its sensuous rustle strangely alluring. Her shape was exquisite. As she came closer, her perfume travelled before her and enveloped him, creating a sudden deep yearning to clasp her tight in his arms.

  All at once, he awoke to his focus and felt his cheeks reddening. He lifted his gaze and saw her hazel eyes aware and sparkling with humour. She smiled at him. Her hand touched his arm. He caught the warm fragrance of her skin as she leaned into him. Her hair brushed his face, electric in its touch. He felt his pulse rate rising.

  “Let’s have a look at that eye,” she said. She tilted his head back into the light, and the soft tips of her fingers gently eased the swollen eyelid open.

  Immediately, his eye burned and watered, and he turned away blinking at the tears.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “Your eye socket is badly bruised and swollen, and your eye is very bloodshot. But I think it will be all right. Still, I wish we could get a doctor to look at you.” The hazel eyes studied him with deep concern. “Is it very painful?”

  “No! Well, not too bad. It’s certainly a lot better today than it was yesterday.”

  Caroline nodded. “Good. I must say you do look much improved generally this morning.” She paused and gave an exaggerated frown. “It is morning, isn’t it?”

  Lars nodded. “Yes, around dawn I should think. I usually wake up at the same time each day.”

  “Dawn?” The hazel eyes smiled. “Then the others may sleep for quite a while yet.” She motioned a hand at the table. “Shall we at least sit down while we wait for the sergeant’s room service? We can fill in the time by deciding what to order for breakfast.”

  Lars grinned. Lady Caroline certainly had plenty of spirit. There was no doubt about that.

  They sat either side of the table, their heads bent close, their voices low.

  “Have you always lived on Trion, Lars?”

  “Born and bred here,” he answered. “And you?”

  “Well,” she said…

  * * *

  The shuttlecraft from the battleship came in huge and slow like a giant bird, the rays from the new day’s twin suns glinting gold on its gleaming metal body. The undercarriage lowered and locked. The Megran shuttle pilot made his final approach checks and spoke again to Vegar Tower.

  The tyres spewed white smoke as they hit the airstrip, and black dust swirled high in the wake of the engine’s roar. The aircraft slowed and turned toward the airport apron, the bulbous black painted nose comical in contrast with the sinister rake of the shark like tail trailing the delta wing.

  The shuttlecraft rolled to a stop and the sounds of its engines faded. It sat, perched atop the thin stilts of its undercarriage, the dark of its shadow stretched out before it. It had come for six VIP passengers.

  * * *

  The harsh sound of Megran boots resounded throughout the black stone corridor and the other prisoners awoke.

  The governor sat up. “That sounds like breakfast coming,” he muttered. He stood stiffly, then stretched, attempting to ease the ache in his back from sleeping on the cold stone floor.

  “I hope so,” his daughter remarked. “I’m absolutely famished, though I very much doubt I’ll want it when it arrives.”

  The marching boots came to an abrupt halt outside the cell door. All the prisoners were awake now. Judith Warner was smoothing her hair down with her hands. The governor was assisting the captain to his feet.

  “I wish I knew what time it was,” the major muttered.

  “About eight o’clock I should think,” Caroline said quietly in answer.

  The bolt hissed back in the lock and the cell door flew open. Six guards in Megran green marched in fanning out three to each side. Each wore a Meredith pistol at his hip. Sergeant Wykes ambled in behind them, his huge bulk assaulting both sides of the doorframe as he came.

  He stood with his feet wide apart to support his immense weight, his thumbs hooked into the belt that circumnavigated his vast girth. His fleshy face broadened into a Cheshire like grin.

  “Well, well,” he said. “So, we’re all still here, are we? It’s good to know you’re enjoying our hospitality so much that you want to stay.” He fixed his baleful grin on the little group’s leader. “Ah governor,” he said. He sniffed loudly. “We’ve arranged a nice little trip for you and your friends out to the stars.” He wiped his nose with a stubby red finger.

  “Where are we going,” the governor asked quietly.

  The sergeant shook his head and his grin expanded to show his discoloured teeth.

  “Well now,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It’s top secret.”

  “You mean nobody’s bothered to tell you,” Caroline said smoothly.

  The fat giant stomped a pace forward his features contorted and purple with rage. His finger stabbed angrily in the young woman’s direction.

  “Sergeant!” The governor’s tone was sharp with command.

  The giant man’s glare chopped back to Sir Henry. His small, dark eyes were afire with fury. It was taking him all his will to hold back, but he knew he must. He had strict orders to keep the VIP hostages safe.

  “Now, tell us please,” the governor urged. “Are all the prisoners going or just us?”

  “No, just your lot,” the sergeant growled.

  “When do we leave?” the major asked.

  The big man hesitated. How he hated them, their so-called blue blood, their superior airs, their birthright to rule…

  “When – I – say – so,” he said finally, emphasising each word in turn.

  He glowered at the little group of prisoners and the hatred arose in him, and the words he knew he should not say spilled out of his mouth like storm driven waves.

  “Aristocrats! Pah! You think you’re so high and mighty, don’t you?” he snarled. “But you’re nothing. Bloodsuckers, that’s what you are.

  “But you’re finished now – all of you – beaten – you hear? You and that… bitch of a queen of yours.” He sneered at the hushed group. “You think it’s all a game, don’t you. You think that fancy tart on the throne will rescue you – that you’ll win in the end.” He gave a sharp laugh. “But it’s over. We’ve beaten every one of your garrisons on Trion, beaten them all to a bloody pulp.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lars saw the major place a restraining hand on Captain Lancaster’s arm.

  “And your cruisers up there,” the sergeant continued, waving a huge red hand skywards. “They’re ours now too, every cannon manned by our own good lads.”

  “They’re only yours through t
reachery,” Caroline said quietly.

  The governor shot her a warning glance.

  The sergeant’s eyes narrowed to angry slits.

  “Always so bloody clever, aren’t you?” he grated. “But it’s all over. At this very moment, our troopers are collecting up all the weapons on Trion, every light-bolt pistol, rifle, even antiquated projectile weapons.” He snorted. “Pah! By Megran’s moons, bows and arrows too, if we find them… anything and everything. And why? Because we’re the clever ones, not you. And we’ve got the hostages.” He gave an evil leer. “And there’s not a damn thing any of you can do about it.”

  “But the queen might,” Caroline inserted quietly.

  “Hah! Your precious queen? Well, let me tell you, we’ve got her boxed in like a wild Megran sow and she doesn’t even know it. We’ve fixed it so she won’t find out what’s going on until it’s too late.

  “We’ve got all the cards,” he said the tremble of a smirk beginning. “We’ve even got the joker.”

  He reached out unexpectedly and jerked Lars forward by his shirtfront. He clapped the young man heavily on the back.

  “The joker!” he repeated triumphantly, the laughter welling up from the vastness of his bulk. “We’ve even got the joker.”

  * * *

  The fresh scented air of the morning greeted the captives as they emerged from the long, dark tunnel of their prison. Trion’s twin suns burned down out of the pastel blue of the sky scorching their eyes so that for several moments they could scarcely see. They stopped and stood bunched like sheep, uncertain where they should go, their shapes casting a huddle of elongated shadows along the ground.

  “Where do you think they’re taking us, Father?” Caroline asked in a low voice.

  “I don’t know, m’dear,” the governor murmured. “Somewhere more secure, perhaps, or somewhere where our presence will make it more difficult for the queen to fight back.” He gave a glum smile. “I am afraid I don’t have the answers anymore.”

  The prisoners were in the main courtyard of the old black stone fort, some twenty-five kilometres to the north of Vegar, the onetime headquarters of the queen’s garrison. Around them, the old stone walls looked down, walls which had seen the birth of Vegar itself, and been decked with flags and bunting for the celebration of five coronations and ninety Renaissance Day parades. Now, for the first time in their history, the walls had witnessed the defeat of a royal garrison. Today, they knew the strut and swagger of alien troops.

  The governor noticed it first. “Major look! Look around us! The walls – it’s as if nothing ever happened.”

  The intelligence officer spun round on his heels staring wildly this way and that. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “No signs of explosions, no black stone rubble, no blast burns, no damage whatsoever.”

  “It’s impossible!” Caroline stared around in equal disbelief. “I passed by the fort on my way into Vegar on the day of the attack. Large sections of the walls had been destroyed, the barracks shattered to splinters, and there were fires everywhere.

  “It’s as though we’ve been transported back in time.” She shook her head. “Everything is as it was before the attack. It can’t be – but it is.”

  The major nodded. His face was grim. “You’ve got to hand it to them,” he declared. “They’re incredibly well organized. Repairs that would normally take weeks, months even, have been completed in a couple of days.” He frowned deeply. “But no, that can’t be. The repairs must be bogus – fake. An attempt to fool someone for some reason...”

  Lars glanced up. Up on the ramparts sentries stood and talked, the royal red of their uniforms bright in the sunlight. Lars felt his heart leap, felt for one brief moment the queen’s red was a miracle of vengeance upon the Megran green. Then he looked again. Everywhere below the ramparts, unseen from the outside, troopers in Megran green were conspicuous in large numbers, their Meredith pistols huge on their hips, their conquerors’ swagger plain to see.

  Then he too, knew the truth – knew the fat sergeant’s boasts and his own fears were real.

  It was quickly evident the intelligence officer had figured it too.

  “You were right, Lars,” the major said in a low voice at his side. “The sabotage at the Communication Centre, the Megran camp, the hostages – this!” He waved a hand at the sight in front of them. “It’s all part of an elaborate masquerade, a gigantic deception to delay the discovery of their aggression until they are ready to strike.”

  “As though the captain’s nightmare never existed,” Caroline murmured half to herself.

  “Exactly m’dear,” the governor agreed quietly. “And as our fat friend Sergeant Wykes said, when the queen does find out, it will be too late.” He frowned thoughtfully. “It does seem, at least for the time being, that the Megran forces do hold all the cards.”

  “We have to do something,” Caroline exclaimed worriedly. “The queen must be warned.”

  The major nodded his troubled brow still apparent. “Yes indeed, Lady Caroline – but how?”

  Chapter 19

  The battleship “Prince Ferdinand”

  Commander John Riddick settled back into the black leather comfort of the command chair on the battleship’s bridge and studied the computer report on the state of his ship.

  The ship’s computer waited the set length of time its programming told it was necessary for the slower human brain to respond, and then asked politely in its soft feminine tones if anything further was required.

  “No thank you, that will be all computer,” the human answered. “You may return to your other duties.”

  “Yes sir,” the honeyed voice replied. “Have a good day, commander.”

  The screen in front of Commander Riddick went blank, and for an instant, he was tempted to call the electronic voice back, and ask further questions just to hear the soothing mellifluous tones once more. Despite a crew of over two hundred men, his was a lonely occupation.

  The Commander clasped his hands behind his head, and stared out through the transparent dome of the warship’s bridge into the black emptiness of space. The computer’s survey indicated that the battleship Prince Ferdinand was in tiptop shape.

  Prince Ferdinand – what arrogance on the part of the prince to change the ship’s name. And the impending war? He knew he had no right to question the wherefores of it – something about freedom from royal oppression… Still at times, he wondered…

  As for the crew, he could vouch for them himself. He had spent months training them into an efficient team. Overall, the battleship was in fighting trim.

  The commander’s gaze drifted out the bridge window into the blackness. The ancient light of an infinite number of stars stared back at him. It was more than thirty years since he had been in battle. The Commonwealth of Planets had enjoyed a long spell of peace since the war against the pirates. How young he’d been then – too young to be afraid. He could still remember how he’d felt during those frenzied days of battle; the fevered excitement and noise of it all – the shouts, the curses, the screams... Everything had happened so fast there had been no time to think, no time to think at all.

  He could still evoke the fearsome heat of the turret, the roar of the light-bolt cannons; recall seeing the enemy ship twist and shudder like a live thing, and then vanish in a fiery ball of whirling debris; and recall too, the sound of a hundred men cheering.

  But that had been in the last stages of the Commonwealth’s war against the pirates; a very one-sided campaign in the Commonwealth’s favour, and the end of an era.

  The king’s large and well armed fleet had sought the pirates out, forced them to fight, and then ruthlessly blasted them into oblivion. The pirates had not stood a chance with their older and smaller vessels and obsolete weaponry. But they had chosen to fight – there had been no other choice, but the gallows. He could sympathise with them now, now that the time of hatred had passed.

  The giant star, Cyclops, came steadily into view over the rim of th
e black planet lighting the heavens around it. Was he too old for battle now, he wondered – too afraid of pain and the risk of dying? And the responsibility of it all, life or death for himself, his ship, and his crew, would rest finally on his shoulders. He sighed. It was a lot to ask of any man.

  “Sir?” the commander’s reverie ended. His young first officer, Gregor Lipinski, stood before him like a tailor’s dummy, back and shoulders stiff and straight, blue eyes fixed firmly ahead, brown hair and beard at regulation trim. The man was immaculate from his shiny black boots to the bright silver triangle with the star pentagram at its centre, the Megran Space Force insignia stud that joined his jacket collar at the throat. Lipinski was the perfect example of a career officer, ambitious, dedicated – alone. John Riddick wondered if he too, had seemed like that to his commanding officer those many years ago.

  “Yes, Number One?”

  “The shuttle craft with the Trionian prisoners is approaching, sir. She’s due to dock in about three minutes.”

  “Very good. Thank you, Number One. Oh, and tell the helmsman to lay in a course for Megran – wormholes M3 and T2 -maximum speed. We’ll be leaving Trion’s orbit as soon as the prisoners are aboard.”

  * * *

  From darkness into sudden light, the leviathan warship Prince Ferdinand slowed to sub-light speeds. The blur of her shape focused slowly as the battleship’s eight massive engines reversed their power. Ahead of her, the multi-hued orb that was the planet Megran hung in the void.

  “Holding Megran orbit now, commander.”

  “Good. Thank you, helmsman. You may switch full control to computer when ready.