by Carl Hubrick
Helen returned a gentle smile. “You remember them better than I do, because you’re older,” she said softly. “To me, our parents sometimes seem unreal, as though I’d read about them somewhere, or seen them in an old movie.
“Oh, I don’t mean that, exactly,” she said, smiling at his bemused look. “But the truth is, you and I have worked this farm for five years now – nearly a half of my remembered lifetime – and most of what it is now…” she swept a hand across the vista of black fields around them, “is what you and I have sweated into it. I guess it just seems to me it’s always been that way.”
“I know,” Lars said, trading his frown for a smile. “Sometimes the shortness of my memory worries me a little too. We are all the family that they had, so when we forget them… ” He left the thought hanging.
“I remember you were their pride and joy,” Helen declared. “Their clever boy who was off to an Earth university to become a famous scientist.” She smiled, her blue eyes twinkling with sudden mischief. “I wonder if I was ever jealous,” she mused.
“And I recall you were their darling little girl who would never wear any of those frilly dresses they bought for you.”
“Ouch! Don’t remind me. You know I can’t abide any of that silly female stuff.”
All at once, Helen leaned forward in a conspiratorial way, changing the subject.
“You know Amanda is keen on you, don’t you?” she said in stage whisper from behind her hand.
“Amanda?”
“Yes, Amanda.” A skeptical look flickered across her face. “Oh, don’t pretend you aren’t aware of the most attractive and intelligent young woman in all of Vegar or Trion for that matter. Not to mention being the only child of Ben Kassada, owner of the Vegar Bank.” She cocked her head to one side. “Or are you just confused as to which one of your many admirers she is?”
Lars laughed. “No, I know who Amanda is. I don’t think there’s a male, young or old, within a hundred kilometre radius of Vegar who doesn’t, but I didn’t think she’d remember me. We haven’t met on more than a couple of occasions since school.”
“As the sister of the most eligible young bachelor in the Vegar district,” Helen went on. “I am often sought out by nubile young women for the most serious of tete-a-tetes. Not about you, of course,” she added with a snicker. “But you sure manage to come into the conversation a lot.”
Two bright blue eyes sparked mischief at him, and she began to wring her hands and speak in a plaintive tone, her voice quavering.
“Oh sir, are you going to get married and leave me a poor orphan? Or worse – make me live with some cruel sister-in-law?” She hung her head and pretended to sob, wiping away imaginary tears. “Oh, unkind sir!” she wailed. “Oh, wretched me!”
Lars stifled his laughter and assumed his most stony-faced look.
“Young lady,” he began, in the deepest tone he could muster.
“Oh, sir speaks – I swoon…”
Lars endeavoured to frown sternly as his part of the act, but his sister was at her thespian best, and he could not.
“Young lady,” he began again with a grin. “I have been thinking seriously about your future and I have made my decision. When I get married, you will be enrolled in Miss Higginbottom’s Finishing School for Young Gentlewomen. There you will be instructed in all the womanly arts, such as scrubbing floors, washing dishes, darning socks, et cetera, until you be forty-two, whereupon, if you fail the domestic duties exam, you will need to repeat the course again.”
“Oh, sir!” Helen cried, taking one of his hands in both of hers. “You are too kind. A true gentleman, from the soles of your feet to the top of your head – the latter of which I am about to knock right off your shoulders.”
Suddenly, her look was dangerous. “Lars, if you ever expect to survive your nuptials, you will kindly inform your new wife or wives, if that be your fancy, that I, Helen the First, hold number one place in the Kelmutt household.”
They both laughed then, carefree and at ease, satisfied with the moment.
* * *
The afternoon sun beat down on the black soil of the new fields. Beyond the green shade of the trailer’s awning the landscape shimmered in the burning heat, the thin line between earth and sky dissolving into silvery waves.
Lars let his gaze wander. To the east, he saw the green splinters of young grass burgeoning in a field of black soil, which had been solid rock two months before. He was feeling again that satisfaction of a job well done, the pride in another new field in growth. Then, even as he saw it, he heard Helen’s startled cry as she witnessed it too. To the north, billowing pall upon pall, thick black smoke was forming into a tall dark column above where they knew the town of Vegar lay. And even as they watched, two more columns began roiling angrily, ascending thick and ominous into the cloudless sky.
Chapter 6
Planet TRION – ‘The Garden Party’
Governor’s Mansion – North of Vegar
Greenwich date: January 30, 2175 – 12:47 hours
Meanwhile, while Lars and Helen had been toiling at their rock ploughs in the heat, others had been suffering no less in their own way a few kilometres to the north.
“Another garden party, eh? An afternoon of fun and games for them, and an afternoon of bleeding boredom for us,” a gravelly voice grizzled. “And this bloody heat ain’t helping things none.”
A gruff grunt acknowledged this complaint.
The remark was from one of two sentries clad in the queen’s red. The men were both in their early twenties, spruce and clean-shaven. The burnished silver of their helmets and buttons glinted brightly, reflecting the intense light of Trion’s binary sun.
They were standing guard on the white marble terrace overlooking the gardens at the governor’s mansion. Below them, the garden party was in full swing; a painter’s palette of bright coloured dresses and scarlet uniforms. The tangled sounds of music, voices and laughter floated up to the two young sentries, along with the delicious aromas of the food-laden tables.
“There must be over two hundred people down there,” the first speaker continued. “My Earth, but my mouth’s beginning to water at the smell of all that food. You know, you’d think someone’d notice us standing up here and invite us down for a bite.”
The man’s companion gave a sardonic laugh. “They can’t even see us, mate. We’re just part of the scenery.”
The first speaker glanced down at his uniform. “You mean they can’t see the queen’s red?” he queried, his eyes wide in mock disbelief. He shook his head. “And to think I went to all that trouble ironin’ and polishin’ for nothing. My comb morion alone took me almost an hour, the damn heavy thing.”
He pushed back his silvered helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow.
The comb morion – the ancient helmet style with its brim curved up front and back, like a boat’s bow and stern, and its crest or comb – was another design link with the ancient royal, Elizabeth I. However, the contemporary model was lighter and plasarm coated. Plasarm was the latest in flexible plastic-metal amalgams. The latter had many uses, including armour. Soldiers also wore a plasarm-coated cuirass in combat situations.
“Just think, if I’d known that,” the first speaker went on. “I could have come along in my weekend civvies and mixed in.”
His comrade sneered. “Yeah? You ain’t never gonna make it down onto that lawn. You need to be born there or have enough money to pay someone to say you was born there.”
The first soldier grinned. “Oh well, I can dream, can’t I?” He mopped his brow again and glanced up at the sky. “By the bones of the ancients, but those bloody two suns are killers, ain’t they?”
A crusty grumble acknowledged.
To the south, the direction in which they were facing, they could just see the dark tops of the old fort’s parapets – the present base for the Vegar garrison. The fort had been the first structure built on Trion one hundred years earlier. Some few kilometres farther t
o the south, they knew, lay Vegar itself, chief town and seat of government on Trion.
“Hey up, look you there!” The first speaker was leaning forward in his eagerness to see something. “Whew! Makes your mouth water just to look at her, don’t it?”
A young woman, with regal bearing, was making her way toward the governor’s shade tent. She was dressed in a full-length gown that shimmered in the midday suns like gold. Her auburn hair cascaded to her shoulders in lustrous waves. On her head, she wore a tiara that sparkled with a wealth of diamonds. The crowd parted for her like the Red Sea for Moses.
“Wow, look at her. Now, that’s an aristocrat if ever I saw one.” He cast a sideways wink at his fellow sentry, at the same time uttering a low whistle. “And look at that yella dress,” he continued. “I sure wouldn’t mind a squeeze of what that’s holding. She’s some beauty ain’t she? Look at that figure! Be worth a month’s pay and then some, eh, to cuddle up with her?” The young sentry’s words tumbled out almost incoherently in his eagerness.
“Yep,” his companion acknowledged with a nod. He looked closer. “But that ain’t yella, mate,” he added scornfully. “That’s what they call chartreuse. It’s one of this year’s fashion colours. I ought to know. I’ve been dragged around enough of Vegar’s dress shops to recognise chartreuse when I see it.”
He gave a sudden start and glanced round apprehensively. “Anyway, you’d better shut up about it. You know who she is, don’t you? Lady Caroline! If anyone hears you talkin’ about her like that, you’ll be seeing the inside of them cells under the fort faster than the tongue of a Lumaian lizard drinking.”
“Of course I know who she is,” the first soldier snorted. “No harm meant, just a little harmless day-dreaming, is all. I mean, she’s downright gorgeous, and I was – well – just lookin’. Anyone’d think I was aimin’ to steal the crown jewels, or somethin’. Like they can’t control what we’re thinkin’, can they? I mean…”
His mate stiffened suddenly and stood to attention. “Huh! Watch out!” he whispered hoarsely. “Sergeant’s comin’.”
The cold-eyed stare of the sergeant came to a halt in front of the two sentries. His well-buffed comb morion shone like Trion’s suns and his highly polished buttons flashed. His portly frame tested the stitches of his black uniform trousers.
He was, in fact, what every good sergeant should look like.
“Hmm! I’ve been watching you two.” The NCO said quietly. There were too many fine guests nearby for his parade ground bellow. “Right pair of old gossips, aren’t you?” He leaned forward confidentially. “Come on then. You can tell me. What was all the chatter?”
“Oh, weren’t nothin’ really, Sarge,” the first soldier replied easily. “Just saying how pleased we were to be volunteered for sentry duty at the governor’s garden party.
The sergeant nodded. “I should think so too,” he said. “Chance to see a decent bit of skirt for a change, like the Lady Caroline over there. Now don’t she fill that dress out something lovely? Nice colour that yella. Suits her, don’t it?”
The two young men grinned in answer.
He glared at them. “Well, don’t it?”
The soldiers nodded vigorously, their wide grins still apparent.
The sergeant’s gaze narrowed. “Now, what are you two smirking at?” he queried. “Did I say something funny?”
“No Sarge. Just agreein’ with you,” the soldiers chorused.
The sergeant gave a curt nod. “Good! And keep that smile on your faces, because you’re both on a charge – gossipin’ on duty.” His ruddy round cheeks rose in a grin. “Have a nice day, lads.”
“You and your big mouth,” the second soldier growled as soon as the sergeant was out of earshot.
“Ain’t my fault,” the other protested. “The sergeant liked looking at her, too.”
“Yeah? Well he can afford to, we can’t. Now we’ll be confined to barracks all weekend. When are you gonna to learn to keep your big mouth shut?”
“Aw, give it a rest,” the first soldier began. “What’s done is…” His voice trailed away. “Hey!” he exclaimed suddenly.
“What now?” the second soldier groaned.
“Over there – looks like smoke,” the other said, bobbing his head in the direction he was looking. “By the bones… Vegar’s on fire!”
“Freeze the stars…” his companion began. But if he said more, it was drowned out by a sudden roar of air and the brutal crump and thump of explosions.
A spilt second later, the ground erupted and leapt up to meet them…
Chapter 7
Planet TRION – Vegar Township
Greenwich date: January 30, 2175 – 16:10 hours
“Well Helen, looks like we needn’t have worried at all,” Lars’s tone sounded more reassuring than he truly felt. “There it is, Gossip City, with its population of 8,749 busybodies looking as normal as ever.”
Brother and sister had brought their ploughs to a stop atop a rise and now sat looking down upon the town of Vegar set out like an architect’s model on a desktop patchwork of green and gold. They had made the journey to the town’s outskirts as fast as their ploughs would go. It had taken them nearly an hour and a half.
“The smoke’s just about gone,” Lars continued. “Whatever caused it is probably under control by now.”
The wind’s breath made soft waves in the growing squares of crops around the town. There was nothing else moving that they could see.
“Y-e-s,” Helen replied cautiously. “It does look almost normal, I agree, but I still think we should be very careful if we go down there. It’s altogether too quiet for me.”
* * *
Vegar, the capital of Trion and the administrative seat for the planet, had been built in the shape of a square to make it easier to defend. The outer buildings of the town formed the walls of the square, their foundations going deep into the solid black stone of the planet, so that they were as enduring as the countryside itself.
To keep the town contained within its walls, and to avoid a parallel to Earth’s history of urban sprawl, new structures went up, rather than sideways. Each block of buildings had warehouses, offices and shops on the first few levels, with several storeys of apartments above. Moreover, Vegar’s architects had kept the overall picture of the town in mind as they worked; for while the buildings varied in size and style, each matched its neighbour in the harmony of its proposal.
Likewise, the colours of the town had been chosen to match its various seasonal settings. White, pastel blues, greens, browns, plus dark reds and greys in a subtle range of shades, blended as happily with the fallow charcoal coloured fields of winter as they did with the more vibrant spring, summer and autumn hues of greens, yellows, browns and golds.
The town was in fact a glorious view for visitors and a recurring joy for those who called Vegar home.
* * *
The two ploughs began to move again. Ahead of them, the black lava road stretched north in a straight line, right up, as they knew, to the town centre, where the roads from the four compass points met in the town square at The Queen’s Quadrangle, as it was called.
They did not enter the town’s gates, but came to a stop some five hundred metres or so out to make a final assessment of the situation.
As if on cue, a tocsin sounded – the town hall bell. Lars had only ever heard it toll before on festive occasions, such as Renaissance Day, Queen’s Birthday and New Year. A loud speaker in the town crackled into life and its stentorian voice echoed through the quiet streets.
Attention! Attention! Citizens of Vegar! Stay inside your homes and no harm will come to you. We repeat, stay inside your homes.
There was a pause. Lars held his breath. Helen began to sob quietly. Then the strident tones began again.
All fighting is now at an end and our patrols are securing the town. Please stay inside your homes. Martial law is now in effect. Anyone seen on the streets – will be shot.
The warning re
peated once more, then the crackly speaker cut off and the equally ominous silence returned.
For a second or two, brother and sister sat stunned. It seemed impossible to believe that the familiar scene in front of them could suddenly be so full of menace.
“Quick!” Lars gunned his rock plough hover-motor back to life. “Let’s get these things off the road.”
They drove the ploughs at speed twenty metres or so down an adjacent trail – a firebreak or an old stock route. The surrounding fields of wheat would not conceal the ploughs completely. However, as Lars tried to reassure his sister, what could be more natural in farmland than a plough or two?
They stood together surveying the scene.
“We should try and make it home.” Helen urged, her chin quivering, and her face beginning to moisten with tears.
“That wouldn’t help,” Lars replied gently. “If there is trouble here, it will reach us at home soon enough.”
He was feeling strangely calm and clear-headed, though he could feel his pulse pounding.
“What are we going to do then?” Helen’s voice had faded to the faintest whisper, as if the very crops around might hear.
“You are going to stay here,” Lars whispered in turn. “I’m going to check out what’s happening down there,” he said, dipping his head in the direction of Vegar.
“You are not!” his sister cried out loud, then remembered her fears and continued in a whisper. “You’re not going into Vegar. Didn’t you hear what they said? You’ll be shot.”
