The Sword and the Plough (3 page)

Planet EARTH
– Queen’s Regiment
Base

Greenwich date: January 29,
2175
– 07:00
hours

“Father? Is that you, Father?”

The image on the
vizophone
screen wavered and disappeared
in a snarl of pixels. Lieutenant York glared impatiently at the
screen.

“It’s just the co-ordinates, lieutenant,”
Staff Sergeant Fofana explained. “Your father’s using a very narrow
transmission. Doesn’t want any spare signal floating around. Likes
to keep the family skeletons locked away in the closet, eh?”

He grinned at the lieutenant, but the young
woman did not respond.

The staff sergeant tweaked the panel in front
of him; the screen began to stabilise. “There, it’s correcting now.
If you need any more help, I’ll be just outside the door.”

* * *

The image firmed. A jowly face, severe in
its look, grey hair receding at the temples – the dark green and
gold braid uniform of a Megran general.

“
Father, this is a
pleasant
surprise.” The lieutenant’s
tone spelled out her irony.

The man’s dour look eased to permit the
slightest smile.

“Cheryl, you’re looking good. More like your
late mother than ever.”

The young woman stiffened visibly at the
mention of her mother, but if the general noticed, he gave no
sign.

“I hear you’re a lieutenant now,” General
York continued. “Good for you. I’m sure you’ll make an excellent
job of it. We’ve always been a military minded family.”

“Father, you know and I know there’s no love
lost between us. So, just get on with it, and say what you have to
say.”

The general’s countenance allowed another
thin smile.

He nodded. “Good, to the point. I like that.
Tell me, are you alone?”

“Yes, why, are we passing planetary secrets
or something?” The irony was back in the young woman’s tone.

“
Or something, Cheryl,” he murmured.
“Right, I’ll come straight to the point too.
I want you
on Megran.
There are big
things happening here, and I want my daughter beside me. I can help
you. I have influence. What do you say?”

The young woman gave a bitter laugh. “What
do I say? You mean, you don’t know? After all that’s happened
–
you – really – don’t – know?”

“Cheryl, perhaps I haven’t been the best of
fathers or the best of husbands for that matter, but I wouldn’t be
asking you if I didn’t believe it was for your own good.”

The young woman’s pitch rose, “My own good?
Since when have you considered anyone’s good but your own?”

“Damn it, Cheryl. I can order you to come. I
can arrange an immediate transfer.”

The lieutenant shrugged. “If you try that,
I’ll just resign the military. Look father, I don’t know your
reasons, but I
know
you. Now understand this. I’m happy here. I have a job I
like and friends when the working day is done. I’m not leaving the
queen’s service for any reason, not now, not ever. Is
that
clear?”

“There is a good reason why I’m asking,” the
general said. “A very important reason.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve said all that I can say. You’ll just
have to trust me.”

“
Trust?
” The young
woman’s tone was ice. “I wouldn’t trust you in a million years. And
I wouldn’t come to Megran if it was the last planet in the
universe.”

“Cheryl, please listen. Trust me in this.
Trust me this once…”

“
Father, do not call me again –
ever.
Goodbye!”

The young woman pressed
end
call,
and the screen went
black.

Planet TRION
– Vegar Rural
District Seven

Greenwich date: January 30,
2175
– 12.47
hours

“Freeze the stars!”

Lars Kelmutt frowned and tapped at the
temperature gauge on the
rock plough’s
console. The digits trembled, but remained
stubbornly in the red danger zone. The roar of the laser-share
continued, but there were dips now in its power.

Shaped like an inverted silver saucer, the
rock plough, with its laser-share, was humankind’s answer to the
black lava surface of the planet, Trion. The little plough floated
on its hover thrust motors at a walker’s pace across the new
fields, its laser-share exploding the volcanic crust into friable
topsoil suitable for growing crops; a million years of nature in a
millionth of a second.

The laser-share’s origins stemmed from the
formidable laser weapons of the late 21
^st
and early 22
^nd
centuries, which had superseded firearms. Laser weapons
themselves, however (based on
advanced laser
technology
or
ALT
), had been outmoded
by the advent of
light-bolt
weaponry in the first quarter of the
22
^nd
century.

“Sis!” The plough’s communicator came on at
the sound of Lars’s voice. “The laser-share’s overheating. I might
have to shut it down for a while.”

Lars saw his sister’s wave of
acknowledgement from the other rock plough in the adjoining
new field.

When these two new fields were completed,
he and Helen would be able to register a total of eight for the
month with the
Royal New Land Claim Office
in Trion’s main town –
Vegar.

Approximately the same age as Earth, Trion
had nurtured the seeds of life from its beginnings to the evolution
of intelligent beings, only to suffer a cataclysmic age of volcanic
fury – a fury that had drowned two billion years of life’s fragile
breath under an ocean of molten lava.

One of the six inhabited planets of
The Earth Commonwealth of
Planets
, Trion was larger again by half than Earth, and
one of the main food producing planets for the group. Specially
developed additives and fertilizers, mixed with the black soil,
grew crops of a

quantity and quality unsurpassed anywhere
else.
The industrial
planets, Earth and Megran, relied on the garden planets for most of
their food supplies, and paid well for their needs.

* * *

The laser-share’s temperature steadied and
Lars set the plough’s controls to auto. He stood up in the cockpit
and let the rising zephyr cool his burning face. Lars was tall and
young, not yet twenty, his hair blonded and his skin bronzed by
Trion’s twin suns. His eyes were the deepest of blues
– almost violet.

He was wearing a conical hat, which had its
origins on ancient Earth in a region once known as Asia. The hat
had a built in sun visor against the glare of the two suns.

Trion’s suns were vastly different in size;
the smaller one more a satellite of the other. But the heat and
radiance the pair emitted was immense.

Trion’s suns could also burn severely. Sun
block creams were as essential, almost, as air to breathe.

Lars’s loose fitting field clothes were made
from the homegrown cotton preferred by Trion farm hands to the more
expensive, synthetic cloths imported from Earth. The sleeves hung
loose to the wrists; the legs of the garment were likewise ample at
the ankles.

Cotton white to begin with, the best
colour to keep the wearers cool, the field clothes soon morphed to
a mottled grey. Constant contact with the black dust turned
everything to grey very quickly.
As good as new white
cotton
had become a local
simile.

* * *

“Damn it!” The temperature gauge had peaked
sharply.

The laser-share faltered then died. The
rock plough came to an abrupt halt amid a cloud of black smoke.
Lars pitched forward, cracking his head on the
dashboard.

The communicator crackled. “Lars, are you
okay?” Helen’s voice was urgent, troubled. “There’s black smoke
everywhere.”

Lars struggled upright. He rubbed his
forehead. A smudge of red came back on his fingers. “Sure Sis, I’m
fine, just a minor hiccup.”

“Are you sure everything’s all right? I can’t
even see you for the smoke. Do you want me to drive over?”

Lars began a laugh, which ended in a fit
of coughing. “I can’t see you either, Sis,” he managed to utter at
last. “But don’t worry, there’s no danger – its only smoke. Damn
power-rod must have cracked.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Yeah, should be able to as soon as the
share’s cooled down enough. I’ve got a spare rod somewhere…” He
gave a sudden start. “Oh no, damn it, the power to the share just
shorted.” Lars tweaked the fuse-box switches. “Right, I’ve got
power back.” He wrestled with a host of levers. “Okay, I’m bringing
the share up now.”

A heavily insulated floor panel rolled
back and the
Made on Earth
stamp showed on the ploughshare as it rose. A
miniature whirlwind of hot, black dust rose along with
it.

He waved to the distant figure in the other
rock plough.

“Yeah, broken power-rod, Sis, but no other
damage. Damn hot though. Look, I’ll have to shut the power off to
make the repair. I’ll call you back when I’m done.”

The hum of the hover motors tapered into
silence and the little machine settled to the ground with a
grateful hiss, a silver dot on a broad canvas of black.

Lars slipped off his sweat soaked shirt and
pulled on a fresh one. He sat on his heels by the still hot share.
It would need a while yet to be cool enough to work on.

All at once, the plough’s thin electronic
computer voice came to life. The CPU – the central processing unit
– had an independent power supply.

“
You have located the
malfunction, farmer. Replacement power-rod required.
”

“Well, I knew that much already,” Lars
muttered, “and what’s more, I think I’ve got one somewhere.”

He rummaged round in the box of spares he
carried. A blanket of black dust covered the parts. Disturbing the
dust caused Lars another bout of coughing. Repairs were best made
in the cool of the shed back home. Outside, with no power, meant no
cooling fans to ward off the 50 degree Celsius heat.

The tinny electronic voice spoke up again.
“
The farmer
knows this much already. The farmer has one
somewhere
.”

An amber light flashed on the instrument
panel; a timer had been activated.

“
Proceed farmer, you are now 0.9
minutes behind the average repair time for this
task
.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it.”

“
Farmer is working on
it,
” the computer
reiterated.

Lars pulled a face. The plough was old. Its
computer had no built in personality like the later models. It was
functional to the point of insult.

“Ah, this one looks like it might do.” Lars
muttered. He wiped the spare power-rod clean with a rag.

“
This one looks like it might
do
,” the metallic voice
echoed. “
Proceed farmer, you are now 1.1 minutes behind the average
repair time for this task. You will need to pursue your undertaking
more adroitly.
”

The last was too much. Lars exploded. “Look
Silicone Head, you try and work in this heat.”

“
The temperature is 51 degrees, Celsius.
You must work in this heat, farmer. You are now lagging 1.7 minutes
behind the average…”

The metallic voice might well have had
further helpful comment to impart, but before it could do so, Lars
had plucked out its voice chip and trampled its opinions under a
heavy black boot.

* * *

Lars switched on the power. The cooling fans
came back on. The hover motors lifted the little machine into the
air. He lowered the repaired ploughshare into position, ever
careful to ensure the share was angled downward. A laser-share
fired horizontally could devastate everything in its path for
upward of 100 metres. Such accidents were always catastrophic, but
fortunately few.

“Well, here goes,” Lars murmured pulling back
on the controlcolumn and squeezing the trigger. “Crunch time!”

The plough shuddered – a plume of dark
smoke erupted. A white-hot beam bleached a four-metre long ellipse
in the black rock field ahead of him. The rock glowed red and began
to crack and shift – shattering, crumbling – disintegrating into
soil.

Lars waved triumphantly at the far-away rock
plough shimmering atop a lake like mirage on the stygian
landscape.

“She’s fixed, Helen. I’m back in action.”

“Okay. That’s a relief. We can’t afford any
more workshop repair bills,” his sister responded, then queried,
“Lars, are you calling for a break?” Her voice sounded tired.

Lars grinned. “Why, Sis, is the heat getting
to you?”

“I can go on as long as you can,” his sister
retorted sharply. “But while you’ve been sitting admiring your
handiwork I’ve been working in this abominable heat.”

Lars nodded. “Okay,” he answered. “A rest
break is definitely in order. I’ll come over.”

“I can keep going,” Helen’s voice was defiant
now. “You don’t need to baby me.”