The Sword and the Plough Page 5

  Lars smiled. “I know what they said. But who are they? I’m betting it’s the queen’s garrison playing war games, or maybe a movie crew making a four-sense motion picture – something like that. After all …”

  Helen cut him short. “Who cares who they are or what they’re doing. I don’t want you shot.” Her eyes had dried, but her fears had not diminished.

  “Nothing will happen to me,” Lars promised. “Trust me.”

  “That’s not what they said, and I’m not prepared for you to take the risk. Nothing’s that important. Don’t you understand? What if it’s just like they said? You could be shot. Killed! Can’t you see that?”

  Lars put a reassuring hand on her arm. “I’ll be okay,” he said gently. “I’m sure we’ve got the whole thing out of proportion. I’ll sneak into town, spy out the situation, and then we’ll go home.”

  He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. He glanced up at the position of Trion’s binary sun.

  “Give me until dark. That’s about two hours. Besides, it’ll be a lot safer to travel home under the cover of darkness if there is something wrong in town.

  “And please, Helen – wait here. Don’t get any ideas of having a look round yourself.”

  “I’m not that stupid,” Helen returned bluntly.

  For a moment she stared at him, her blue eyes deeply troubled. Then she lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “I’m not going to argue any more, Lars. I’m afraid for you. I’m afraid for both of us. But you may be right. Maybe I’m just being silly. I mean, who would want to attack us? We’re nowhere and nobody. It doesn’t make sense. Just be careful, that’s all. Think how I’d feel if anything happened to you. You’re the only family I’ve got.”

  Her fingers touched his arm. “You won’t have to go right into town, will you?” Her eyes were red rimmed, but she was determined not to repeat the tears.

  “No. I’ll knock on the first door I come to,” Lars replied as cheerfully as he could. “They should be able to tell me what’s going on. But give me the two hours in case they invite me in for dinner.”

  It was a poor joke, but it made her smile.

  “All right,” she said, appearing calmer. “But hurry back.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. She watched him walk swiftly away. “Light speed!” she added in a whisper, when he had gone.

  * * *

  “Well, so far so good,” Lars muttered under his breath. “No sign of anyone wanting to shoot me.”

  He was standing in the town’s main street, just inside the South Gate, his senses poised on the sharp edge of readiness. A canyon of tall buildings loomed ahead.

  His glance darted round. There were no open, welcoming doorways. His gaze flicked up and across the buildings that towered either side of him, checking the many levels of windows above. All had their curtains drawn.

  You will be shot. The phrase resurfaced in his mind and began to niggle at his confidence. For a moment, he thought to turn tail and run. Courage, he told himself. There had to be a simple answer. He could well imagine the ribbing he would get from friends in town if he scuttled away from some idiot playing the fool with a loudspeaker.

  Then again, what if…? But who – pirates? He shook his head – no, quite ridiculous. There hadn’t been a pirate raid in over thirty years. And what about the pillars of smoke that had first caught their attention? What had happened there?

  But wait – the fire. That made sense. That’s where everyone had gone.

  * * *

  Lars felt calmer now. The fire, of course, that was the answer. Nevertheless, he chose a narrow lane off the main street that led into the labyrinthine market stall area of Vegar, rather than advance farther out into the open. A small doubt still nagged at the back of his mind. Better to remain invisible for as long as possible, he decided.

  His nerves tautened as he strained to listen in the unfamiliar quiet. But he heard not one voice or rattle of activity in his journey. He tried knocking on several doors, but only silence answered. The town seemed deserted.

  * * *

  Lars continued via the narrow winding alleyways of the market area. There were dozens of places to hide in the maze of back streets if he needed to disappear quickly.

  At length, he arrived without incident at The Queen’s Quadrangle – the town centre, with its quaint cobble-stoned pathways, its bright flower gardens, grass tetragons and trees. He had never seen it empty before. He stopped outside the tall double red doors of the Vegar bank. He tried the doors, but they were locked, despite it being a normal workday. There was no sign of life anywhere.

  “Hello, anyone there?” he called. But the echo of his own voice mocked him in reply.

  He rattled the brass lion head knockers on the lofty red doors.

  “Amanda!” he cried. “Amanda Kassada, it’s Lars Kelmutt. What’s going on. Where is everybody?”

  But no Amanda came to answer. Not the dark-eyed beauty, who now managed the major accounts in her father’s bank, nor the raven haired child he remembered, the Amanda who had kissed him so long ago in the school locker room, when they were both no more than nine or ten.

  Suddenly, he did not care anymore how much noise he made. His frustration had made him reckless.

  He banged his fists against the bank’s grand doors. “Mr. Kassada!” he shouted. “Mr. Kassada! Anybody! Will somebody please answer?”

  But no reply came.

  Lars sat down on the black marble steps of the Vegar bank. The multi-storeyed buildings round the town square looked down on him from stark and joyless windows.

  The quiet grew back, enveloping him like a suffocating blanket, and, for a time, something akin to despair washed over him and he felt close to tears.

  * * *

  The strategic importance of The Inter-Planetary Communication Centre – the IPCC – did not strike him until a sudden epiphany hit. There was something missing from the skyline staring back at him. Where was the huge disc-shaped antenna, which normally dominated everything in that part of town?

  He sat up, his desperation reversed, his senses once more focused.

  Now, as he listened, the omnipresent quiet began to fracture. In its stead, he heard the faint crackle of flames and the dull rumble of crumbling bricks and masonry.

  And on the breeze he smelt the acrid stink of smoke.

  Chapter 8

  Planet EARTH – The Admiralty – ‘The Interview’

  Greenwich date: January 29, 2175 – 13:00 hours

  Captain Usha Sinha hesitated beside the solitary chair in front of the long, polished mahogany table. On the other side of the table sat the interview panel of eight high-ranking officers in the queen’s red. Copious loops of gold braid hung from their epaulettes, according to their status. All were in their late sixties or early seventies.

  Usha had sat in this chair before, just this morning, and endured two hours of unforgiving interrogation. Now, she was back to learn her fate.

  She stood, awaiting their pleasure in silence, aware of the faint web of cracks in the centuries old, cream painted ceiling above her, and the nameless, dull green paint that coloured the walls. In her nostrils was the dry wood smell of ages past.

  The chairperson of the panel, Admiral Arlos, bobbed his white head and Usha sat down, the sudden scrape of her chair resonating sharply on the polished wood floor.

  Minutes passed. No one spoke. The eight white-haired heads remained bent over the papers in front of them completing their notes, their pens scratching the pages noisily like hungry hens digging the earth. Now and then, a pair of dispassionate eyes would look up and study her, then return to the papers from whence they came.

  Finally, Admiral Arlos raised his eyes. He smiled and his white tufted brows lifted.

  “It has been a long morning for you, my dear,” he said gently.

  My dear? Would he call a man, my dear? It was to soften the blow because she was a female. The men at the table did not want her tears.

>   The old admiral was still smiling, but Usha could not return the smile. Her lips were frozen with rage.

  The admiral cleared his throat. “Usha, I think we should say at the outset how very impressed we all were with the skill and dedication you have brought to your fine career to date, and the obvious potential you have to offer.”

  He paused to smile at her again. Two blank black eyes were the only response.

  “The rank of commander in the queen’s fleet is one that demands a very special type of person,” Admiral Arlos continued. “Every facet of the individual chosen must suit the profession. There is no room for error. No room for sentimentality.”

  Damn him! When would he finish it?

  “The military requires our total dedication,” the admiral was saying. “No matter what else may occupy us in time of peace, the sine qua non is our willingness to do battle if the occasion arises.

  “In the event, it is more often than not the commanders in the field who make the decisions that win or lose the day. In the end, the security, indeed the very future of The Earth Commonwealth of Planets may depend upon one such person.”

  He paused to let the effect of his words sink in. Eight pairs of eyes studied her.

  Pity? Was that what she saw in their faces? Did they not think she understood only too well where all this was heading? Or was it that they wanted to see her beaten, turned away, forever cast out from the world of the male elite? Damn them – if they were waiting for tears they could rot first.

  “Well, that’s it, lecture over.” Admiral Arlos stood suddenly and extended a big red hand across the polished mahogany between them.

  “Welcome aboard, Commander Sinha,” he said, beaming. “Welcome aboard.”

  * * *

  A frisson of excitement flashed through her like a fever. Usha had little recollection of the events that followed. Admiralty staff filled the room, men and women both, the bright red of their uniforms transforming the room’s drab hue. Congratulations flooded her from every quarter, so that she scarce had time to match the voice with the face. She was aware of a grin that grew and grew till it ached.

  “And may I add my congratulations, Commander Sinha?”

  She turned and beheld one of the high-ranking officers – one of the eight fairy godfathers who had granted her, her dream. He did not seem so awe-inspiring this side of the table; a wizened, white-haired old man in the queen’s red, who had forgotten how to smile.

  His dark, bird-like eyes peered into hers.

  “You realize that the decision was by no means unanimous,” he said quietly. “I for one do not think a woman has the strength of mind for battle. Your sex lacks the necessary instinct to kill. In my opinion, we have made a serious blunder here today – an error of judgement I fear we shall not grasp the consequences of until it is too late.”

  He stared hard at her for an instant, awaiting a rebuttal. When it did not come, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the noise and colours of the celebratory crowd.

  For her part, Usha stared in disbelief at the departing figure, and the tears that had for so long held back burst forth suddenly and came streaming down her face.

  Chapter 9

  Planet EARTH – Queen’s Regiment Base

  Greenwich date: January 29, 2175 – Early evening

  Lieutenant Cheryl York sat on her narrow bed. Her uniform felt hot and uncomfortable, but she was too tired to change it. Her cubicle, with its drab grey walls, yellowed ceiling, and imitation timber floor, was hardly appealing. It was barely big enough for a single bed – or cot, as the military described it – a wardrobe, and a small metal table and chair, painted dark blue. A full-length mirror hung behind the door.

  Normally, she did not think about it. It was just standard military digs – somewhere to sleep, somewhere to store her uniforms, her civilian clothes and a few personal belongings.

  However, tonight the room depressed her. It had become a virtual prison cell. She had nowhere else to go.

  The faint trill of the vizophone broke the quiet. She sat, willing it to stop, but the caller was insistent. She flicked on the small screen to check the caller before she answered it.

  “Hi there, Cheryl, I almost gave up on you.”

  It was Captain Johnny De Vries. He was wearing civilian clothes – green shirt, grey check jacket. His dark hair was slicked down, still wet from a wash.

  “Are you there?” he asked when she did not answer.

  “Yes,” she replied flatly. “What do you want?”

  “Aren’t you going to activate your end of the screen?”

  “I can’t, I’m not dressed,” she lied.

  “All the better,” he said, grinning broadly.

  “Use your imagination,” she retorted.

  He laughed. “Don’t worry, I will,” he answered. “Look Cheryl, I rang to ask if you’d like to go down to the city for a bite to eat?”

  “A date?”

  “Well – yes.”

  “No thanks, Johan,” she said.

  “What’s wrong, Cheryl?” he asked quietly.

  “There’s nothing wrong, I just don’t feel in the mood for a date.”

  “Yes, but you called me, Johan,” the captain replied softly. “What happened to Johnny?”

  “I did? Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Staff Sergeant Fofana said you seemed upset by that inter-space call you received this morning,” he persisted. “A General York – your father, was it?”

  “Well, Fofana should learn to mind his own business,” the young woman snapped.

  “Cheryl, forget the date,” Johnny De Vries said gently. “What say I pick up a bottle of your favourite and come over? I’ll be Johnny your friend. Johnny the lover can stay home tonight. We can stay in or go out – your choice.”

  Lieutenant York smiled in spite of herself. She wiped the side of her nose. A tear had found its way there.

  “All right,” she said, her voice somewhat warmer. “But I warn you, I’m not very good company tonight. I shall probably want to cry on your shoulder.”

  Johnny De Vries shrugged. “That’s what friends are for,” he replied simply.

  Chapter 10

  Planet EARTH – The Palace basement

  Greenwich date: January 30, 2175 – early afternoon

  The basement room beneath the palace was windowless and cold. Bookcases filled with ancient looking tomes stood against three of the shadowy walls; a tall computer bank with a faint green glow occupied the fourth.

  At the room’s centre, a solitary table-lamp cast a pale oasis of yellow light upon an enormous desk spread with documents and files, most of which bore a red seal impressed with a crown. The rest of the basement room remained uncertain in the gloom.

  Behind the lamp, a middle-aged man sat at the desk, his head bent low, his concentration plain as he muttered through his tasks.

  * * *

  The man was perhaps in his late fifties, his blue eyes still bright, despite his age. He had a healthy head of grey hair – overlong, but impeccably groomed. He wore a black velvet jacket over a crisp white shirt. Fixed at his shirt collar was a dapper scarlet bow tie. The lower half of the man was indistinct in the shades and shadows of the ill-lit room.

  Suddenly, the man sat up, as straight as his hunched back would allow, and fixed his gaze upon the narrow doorway to the room and further through it into the darkness. He thought he had heard footsteps coming down the hallway.

  The man put down his pen and waited.

  All at once, a female voice with an air of authority filled the room.

  “Cecil! Cecil! Are you there, Cecil?”

  “Is that you, Your Majesty?” the man enquired deferentially. He placed his hands atop the chair arms, ready to stand.

  “No, it’s me,” the same voice answered. “Where have you been? I was about to advise the queen you’d gone AWOL.”

  “Oh it’s you!” the man replied irritably. “Stop imitating the queen�
�s voice. Anyway, I haven’t been anywhere. If you must know, I’ve been sleeping.”

  “Sleep! Sleep!” The voice segued from its regal tones to those of a shrill harpy. “The queen’s secretary should never sleep until the work is done.”

  The man pushed back his chair and rose with some difficulty. His look was menacing.

  “Don’t turn me off!” the voice pleaded, all at once child-like.

  “Well, don’t shout at me!” the man replied crossly.

  He dropped back into his chair, his face contorted with pain.

  “I didn’t shout at you!” the voice protested, continuing its juvenile tone.

  “You did so!”

  “Well, do you have to sleep every day?”

  “Yes, I do. I need 6 hours sleep everyday to revitalize myself – recharge myself, if you like, just as you do.”

  “You have batteries?” the voice enquired curiously.

  The man smiled in spite of himself. “Well, in a way I suppose, Mata Hari. Yes, in a way you could say that I do.”

  The voice softened, almost cooed. “Oh Cecil, you called me Mata Hari.”

  “Well yes, isn’t that what you wanted to be called?” the man asked.

  “Oh yes, and you remembered. Thank you, Cecil, thank you.”

  “Where did you find such a silly name anyway?” he queried.

  The voice took the insult in its stride. “It was the name of a human, a beautiful woman, who lived several centuries ago. I discovered her in my memory banks. Mata Hari was a spy, Cecil, a famous spy. Now I am Mata Hari, since I am the greatest spy in the Commonwealth.”