The Sword and the Plough Page 2

  She was four hundred metres in length, from her squared off stern to her blunt bullet nosed bow. She could muster five times the firepower of the next warship in the line.

  Designed in the latter years of King Henry IX’s reign, as the ultimate safeguard against the resurgence of piracy, the battleship class comprised the most powerful warships aloft. But the high costof their construction had limited their numbers, so that in the twenty-two years of the design’s existence only four of the huge, heavily armed vessels had ever been built.

  Of these, two were in mothballs in the Earth fleet, one had been lost in the measureless reaches of space, and the fourth was on station on Megran, the furthermost planet of the Earth Commonwealth of Planets.

  Colonel Orlov nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, she is as you say, Tamati, a picture. I take it there’s nothing amiss with the old girl?”

  Tamati Rehu hesitated. “No sir,” he said finally. “Nothing we could find at any rate.”

  The colonel frowned. “You sound cautious, Tamati. What are you not telling me?”

  “Ah – nothing really, sir,” the dock supervisor said carefully. “But she’s well into middle-age now, as space ships go. She’s getting tired. Our scanners can’t see into her… into her soul.”

  For an instant, Tamati gazed past the colonel. There was nothing to look at but the boundless black of space. But he wasn’t looking at that. A reverence for the supernatural beliefs of his ancestors still resided strong in his blood.

  “As superstitious as ever, eh, Tamati?” Colonel Orlov said with a chuckle. “However, fortunately we don’t have to see into her soul. Governor Ferdinand asked if she was fit for duty, and all our equipment says that she is. I take it that’s correct?” Tamati Rehu nodded. “Good! Then that’s all that we’re responsible for.”

  The colonel looked out at the ageing battleship again. “Ah good, I see you’ve changed her name to Prince Ferdinand as instructed.”

  “Yes, and that’s another thing, sir,” the dock supervisor replied huffily. “I don’t like it one bit. You don’t change a ship’s name just like that. Queen Elizabeth V is what her name was and what it should be still. She’s borne that name proudly since the coronation. She was the young queen’s gift to the governor on that occasion, and the change of name shows a certain disrespect. On top of that, changing a ship’s name is unlucky. Prince Ferdinand should have thought of that as well before he gave the order.”

  Colonel Orlov laughed. “Tamati, I understand your feelings, but they don’t count in this instance.”

  “Yes sir, well maybe they don’t,” Tamati Rehu replied with an indignant snort. “But there’s a lot more out there than we know. However, it’s not superstition that’s going to make the young queen angry, sir. You just do not paint her name off one of her ships without permission. Like her father before her, she does not take insult kindly. The governor should be aware of that.”

  Colonel Orlov nodded. “I grant you that, Tamati, but fortunately for us that is Prince Ferdinand’s worry – not ours.

  “Now, if you’ll just give me the chit, I’ll sign the ship back to her commander – Commander Riddick.”

  Chapter 3

  Planet EARTH – Military Apartments – 27th floor

  Greenwich date: January 29, 2175 – 06:30 hours

  Captain Usha Sinha eased off the duvet and lowered her feet quietly to the bedroom floor. Her husband did not wake. She could hear his deep, husky breathing in the hush of the early morn. In the next room, her two children would also be sleeping.

  She would have to wake them all soon. They would want to wish her luck for the ordeal she had to face today as she sought promotion to Commander – her interview with the board of admirals. She drew her strength from her family and would need to call upon that before she left.

  An image of a she-wolf sprang to mind – lips curled back and sharp fangs bared – protecting her own. She smiled grimly to herself. But today the reverse would be true. Today, her family would be with her in spirit – protecting her. She would not be alone.

  Usha moved silently, testing her memories and instincts of their apartment against the dark. It was like the simulated battle conditions space-ship crews trained under; ship against ship in the black of space – power plants hit, life support down to danger level, captain and crew focused on the emerald glow of the sphere, the 4DTWS – the four dimensional, tactics and weapons system, its nanosecond responses their only hope to survive...

  Her captain’s uniform was lying on the bed in their spare room along the hall; the room they kept for guests and family when they came to stay.

  The trim red uniform of the queen’s fleet suited her lovely copper coloured skin and long raven hair. This morning, she would face six such uniforms, but uniforms with much more gold braid than her own – six red uniforms and six inscrutable faces, and not another female in sight anywhere.

  Two black eyes stared back from the mirror as she brushed her shoulder length hair. Her classical oval face, with its innate beauty, glowed golden in the glare of the solar powered lights. She practised a smile in the mirror, but only the red mouth came to life, not the eyes.

  “Usha,” Her husband’s voice said quietly behind her. “Have no concerns. You will stun them with your beauty, my darling.”

  Usha smiled at his reflection. His dark eyes were sparkling.

  “I doubt that,” she replied softly. “The queen’s top officers are beyond such considerations. But the fact that I am a woman will not pass their notice.”

  “Perhaps not,” her husband answered. “But neither are they fools. Women have proved themselves in every field of endeavour for generations now. And they will have your capabilities in black and white in front of them.

  “Captain Usha Sinha – sixteen years service in the Queen’s Fleet. Five years exemplary service as captain of one of Her Majesty’s cruisers; twice chosen to command escort ship to the royal vessel; triple A rating Deep Space Strategy trials, unequalled by any other officer since the course began.

  “I rest my case. What more do they need?”

  “Nothing more, if they had my husband’s faith.” She turned, took her husband’s hands and drew him to her. “But they want men as commanders in the good queen’s fleet.” She placed a finger on his lips as he went to speak. “No, they have never said so,” she resumed softly, “But I have seen it in their faces and heard it behind everything they say. It has always been so.”

  Her husband placed his hands lightly around her waist.

  “Well, they have trained you to fight, and fight to win, my darling. So, give it back to them as hard as you can. Commander Sinha – it is what you have always wanted. It is what you deserve.”

  Captain Sinha kissed her husband lightly on the lips in reply.

  Chapter 4

  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 l
ate 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.

  Chapter 5

  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 21st and early 22nd 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 22nd 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. Replaceme
nt 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.