The Sword and the Plough (9 page)

“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 stalking 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.

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.

Who was she? What’s more, who were the
men? Ever since he could remember, Lars had known the scarlet
uniform of the good queen’s soldiers; he knew of no other. But
these men were clad in the green garb of some
alien
world; the negative of the
royal red. Their armour, helm and cuirass, were black. Big Meredith
light-bolt pistols hung at their hips.

Lars knew the Meredith handgun. That much
was familiar. He had fired one at a military recruitment exhibition
at Fort Vegar only the year before, when he had briefly considered
the army as an alternative occupation to farmer. For its size, the
Meredith was a weapon of formidable destructive power, the mainstay
of the various infantries throughout the Commonwealth.

Lars crouched lower, viewing what he could
through a blackened tangle of twisted steel. They were closer now,
no farther than twenty metres and coming his way.

All at once, the young woman lifted her head
and began to struggle frantically. Through a tumble of auburn hair,
Lars saw an oval face of such beauty, he gasped out loud.

She was somewhere near his own age, he
guessed. Against the two burly troopers, her small stumbling figure
looked almost childlike. He looked about urgently for a better
place to hide.

Suddenly, the young woman let out a scream
of rage and kicked out wildly. Her small foot connected with the
shin of one of the troopers. The man howled in anger, and swung his
free hand in a slap that snapped her head back. The man’s companion
uttered a scornful laugh.

The young woman slumped and sagged in their
grasp, stunned by the force of the blow. The troopers swore and
hauled her upright.

Lars did not think then, but leapt to his
feet triggered by outrage at what he had witnessed. He charged down
upon the nearest trooper.

“Let her go!” he bellowed. He hauled his fist
back and let loose with a mighty haymaker.

It was a beautiful punch for Lars’s debut
into fisticuffs. But the foreign soldier was combat trained. He
brushed the untrained blow aside and slammed an iron fist into the
young man’s belly.

Lars doubled over and crumpled to the ground.
His lungs battled to breathe. His will struggled to stand, but his
limbs would not. Finally, he gasped out a moan, and managed to push
himself to his knees.

The trooper thrust the female prisoner at his
companion. “Here!” he rasped. “Hold the mad bitch while I cuff this
Trionian clown.” He unclipped the Meredith pistol at his hip.
“Right scumbag; put your hands out behind you. Give me any trouble
and I’ll burn your damn head off.”

Lars extended his hands behind him. He heard
the scratch of boots as the man stepped up to shackle him.

“Damn Trionians!” the man muttered, standing
over him.

Lars felt his strength returning. He sucked
in a breath. He shot to his feet.

His rising shoulder caught the trooper in the
chest, throwing the man off balance. In an instant, Lars was upon
him, his fists flailing. The trooper howled with rage as the hail
of blows battered him down. The Meredith pistol flew from his grasp
and disappeared into the smoking rubble with a clatter.

Lars now switched his attack to the second
trooper, but his luck had already run out. The man reacted swiftly
and shoved his prisoner into the young farmer’s path. Lars caught a
glimpse of her startled look as she cannoned into him.

Lars stumbled over the young woman and
grabbed at the man. But the trooper was moving too fast. He caught
the young man’s outstretched arm and ducked under it, wrenching it
upward as he went. Lars could not help but cry out as his shoulder
muscles threatened to tear apart.

The alien troopers were in no mood for fair
play. One now held Lars fast while the other drove in his fists at
will. Blood flowed from the young man’s eyes, nose, and mouth.
Shock and pain were his only awareness. Torment choked his
mind.

At last, his consciousness faded into
blackness, and he slumped in his opponent’s grasp.

They let him fall to the ground. He tried
to roll away when the first boot came, but there was no escape.
Explosions of pain ripped through him – agonising, relentless. His
mind and body burned in the same inferno.

After a while, he could no longer distinguish
the troopers’ profanities and curses from his own grunts and
groans. It was all one. Then, above it all, he heard the
incongruous sound of a woman’s voice, distant and indistinct, as if
from the bottom of a barrel.

“
Stop it!
Stop it
now
! Or I’ll burn you both
to ashes.”

The kicking ceased. Lars struggled against
his pain in an effort to haul himself clear of his tormenters, but
he had not the strength.

He heard a male voice answer the young woman.
“Now miss, let’s not do anything stupid.”

He tried to see what was happening, but it
was as if a thick mist was beclouding his vision. He fingered his
face, explored the sticky wet cuts, the painful contusions;
discovered one eye already swollen, burning – closing…

Lars managed to roll onto his back. The two
troopers towered either side of him. He rubbed at his good eye. The
mist cleared enough for him to see the troopers were sweating
profusely from their recent exertion.

He twisted his head painfully in the
direction of their gaze and saw a blur of yellow gown and auburn
hair.

“
Come on now, miss, give me that,” one of
the troopers was saying. He was speaking quietly, patiently, as a
teacher might speak to a recalcitrant child. He put out his hand.
“Come on, miss. We mean you no harm.”

The young woman was standing about five
metres distant, a huge Meredith pistol gripped firm in both hands.
The weapon seemed far too big for her petite grasp.

The trooper who had spoken took a cautious
step forward. His mouth displayed an improbable smile.

“Stay back,” the young woman snapped. “And
that’s my only warning.” The finned muzzle never wavered.

“Look miss.” It was the same trooper
speaking, this time making an appeal to reason. “You can’t get away
with this. Your garrison’s finished. We’re in control now. Our
troopers are everywhere. Don’t make things worse for yourself.”

But if the young woman was listening, she
gave no sign.

“Help him up!” she ordered, motioning the
Meredith in Lars’s direction, her voice hard like a knife-edge on
stone. “And don’t try anything foolish, I’m used to handling one of
these.”

The two troopers hauled Lars roughly to his
feet. His will fought to stay upright. His legs wobbled like
jelly.

“
Now leave him and
go
.” The pistol waved
them away.

The troopers stepped back a pace each,
leaving Lars swaying like a sapling in a gale. But they did not
go.

Lars gazed at his saviour. Her long auburn
hair was in a tangle, her gown a mess. But no matter her state, she
looked like an angel.

“Miss.” The second trooper spoke now, his
tone low and wary. “You are the one being foolish. If we don’t take
you in, you could be shot on sight.”

No spoken answer came from the angel.
Instead, the pistol bucked in her hands, and its hoarse bark filled
the air. The ground between the trooper’s feet dissolved in a hiss
of blinding light. He jumped back, his boots smoking from the
closeness of the blast.

“Go!” Her command was barely above a whisper,
but both men heard and began to back away.

The Meredith pistol growled again, its
light-bolts melting a red-hot path along the ground toward them. As
one, they turned and ran.

Lars tried hard to stop himself from
laughing, but it was no use. The sight of the two stalwart troopers
in full flight was too much to ignore. The laughter caught him like
a whip’s sharp crack in his sides. He grimaced and tried to wrap
the pain in with his arms.

“Are you all right?” The voice that spoke now
was warm and gentle.

Lars looked up and found himself gazing into
the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes he had ever seen.

The young woman brushed away the wisps of
hair from her face with one hand; the Meredith pistol dangled
casually from the other.

“Are you all right?” she asked again with a
concerned smile.

Lars forgot his hurts and revelled in the
warmth of her smile. Suddenly, it seemed he had always known her,
loved her perhaps, though she was a complete stranger. He could not
explain the feeling, save that it came from somewhere deep inside
him.

“
Yeah, I’ll live – I think,” he replied.
“Thanks for what you did.” He grinned ruefully. “Great hero I
turned out to be. I guess you rescued me in the end. Not the other
way round.”