The Sword and the Plough

by Carl Hubrick

  “Getting homesick already, are we?”A second similarly gruff male voice uttered.

  Someone else laughed. A baritone broke into song. Several more voices joined in. Lars heard the scrape of a dozen pairs of boots step out in time to the marching song.

  Sons of Megran ride on high

  Hold your banners to the sky

  Forever march to vic-tor-y

  Fulfil your planet’s des-tin-y.

  Lars did not recognise the Megran battle hymn, but he did recognise the green uniform of the Megran troopers. The men appeared to be heading towards Vegar. They had the swagger of conquerors.

  Lars kept his head down until he was sure they were well gone. Then he dropped over the side of the plough and began to follow in the direction the troopers had taken, the road back towards town, the scene of his encounter with the two troopers the evening before.

  It was still early. The twin suns hung poised on a pastel pink horizon. He took a deep breath, relishing the cool, fresh morning air, and a farmer’s joy in the lush scent of the land. To the east, the walls of Vegar stood bright lit by the golden glow of the suns, their colours dazzling. In contrast, the western walls stood dark, casting a curtain of shade, which muted the green and gold crops on the fields below.

  But the way ahead looked clear, and there was nothing it seemed to disturb the rosy stillness of the morning, save the sounds of his heavy farm boots on the black grit road. However foolish and dangerous he knew his course might be, it was likely the town was where he would find Helen, and she must be his first priority – his only priority…

  As his steps returned him in the direction of the town’s south gate, Lars became aware of a blur of noise ahead of him, voices perhaps, but other sounds as well.

  All at once, the open road seemed a dangerous place and he quickly took cover in a field of ripening maize. The crisscross of tall stalks hid him from view, but also prevented him from seeing further ahead. He crouched low and moved as quietly as he could in the direction of the sounds.

  After a while, the rumble of men’s voices grew more distinct, as well as the sounds of numerous activities, the detail of which he could only guess. Whatever was happening, it was happening close by.

  Lars dropped to his hands and knees to make his way forward, conscious of every twig that cracked and every stone that scraped in his path.

  After a few moments on all fours, the mass of green stalks ended abruptly at a black stone wall, the ubiquitous Trionian fence. Lars raised his head warily and peered over the top.

  His blood ran cold. In front of him, a large site had been cleared of crops, and polka-dotted with perhaps twenty to twenty-five grey barracks. They had not been there the night before.

  Everywhere Lars looked he saw troopers in Megran green. Meredith pistols hung from their hips. Heavy Bess rifles, big sister to the Meredith weapon, stood in clusters of tepee shaped stacks.

  It was obvious the camp was still in the process of being organised. A squad of troopers, naked to the waist, arrived nearby to unload a heavily laden hover-barge into a storage tent. A big, red-faced man in a white apron watched them briefly and then berated the officer in charge, his hands gesticulating wildly. Lars heard the anger swell in his voice. Elsewhere, Lars could hear an irate sergeant bawling out his shame-faced men.

  It puzzled Lars that the troopers had chosen to encamp outside the town instead of commandeering the best hotels and homes as one might expect. Furthermore, though the camp would be out of sight of the townsfolk, it was too close for them not to be aware of its armed presence.

  But it was the tri-motored horses that really caught his attention. The silvery torpedo shaped machines, with their blunt prows and tapering sterns, were parked under a grove of lofty trees on the far side of the barracks, their tall tail fins reaching up into the green of the lower branches. Lars had never seen so many at one time. His guess put it at a hundred or more.

  The Royal garrison at Vegar had horses of course, or something like them, but probably no more than twenty, and patently obsolete. Lars had seen the local garrison’s horses on Renaissance Day parades ever since he was a child. However, even from where he was, Lars could see the Megran machines were different – bigger, sleeker, shinier, and with that smug look of newness. The garrison’s machines would have been no match for such as these.

  The horse carried a heavy light-bolt cannon in the nose, and served as a high-speed reconnaissance and attack craft. The horse trooper sat astride the shiny metal fuselage behind a swept up fairing that protected his legs and torso. A similar reverse fairing, shielded the trooper from weapon fire from behind. Aft of the rider, the fuselage tapered, ending in a tall tail fin with a rudder, the height of a man. Two hover-thrust engine pods, set amidships, powered the machines, and gave stability. A third hover-thrust motor in the stern provided extra lift and maneuverability.

  Lars supposed that the one-man craft had some official name and model code, but popular thinking had long ago dubbed it the horse and the tag had stayed.

  The horse could travel at high speeds over almost any terrain, and rise up on its hover motors to jump fences and other obstacles, much like the graceful animal used in the ancient sport of show jumping still practised in some parts of old Earth.

  As Lars watched, some dozen or so troopers mounted their machines and he heard the sinister snake-like hiss as the solar motors awoke, and saw the silvery shapes rise up off the ground, their tall tail fins cutting through the dark green foliage as they swished out into the bright of the sun. The machines merged into a single column and the hiss rose to a high-pitched whine as the streamlined machines swept past the barracks and through a gap in the stone wall, which Lars could not see. He saw the line of tail fins, like so many sharks, speeding through the fields of ripening corn toward the road.

  The sudden sound of men’s voices made Lars drop to the ground behind the black stone fence. He breathed in the rich smell of the soil. The voices came closer. He heard boots crunch the corn stubble close by, felt the skin on his neck prickle, and his heart thump wildly. His body tensed. Two serpentine columns of ants, going in opposite directions, marched hurriedly about their business across the black dirt in front of his face.

  The men hoisted themselves up to sit atop the fence. Their voices drifted above him. Lars measured his breaths.

  “I hear the Trionians are beginning to come out of their holes at last,” a young man’s voice said scornfully.

  “Yeah!” a gruff voice answered. “And they’ll do what they’re told now that we’ve got all their VIPs safely under lock and key.”

  “What’s left of them,” another voice noted with a sneer.

  “Not to mention their choicest virgins,” the first speaker snorted. “I’d give a year’s pay to be in charge of that lot for an hour or two.”

  “Why rush things,” the gruff voice queried. “How ’bout having charge of them for a month or more?”

  A burst of bawdy laughter followed, gusting louder with each new lewd remark. Lars shivered and feared for the safety of his sister. All at once, he remembered the other young woman from the Communication Centre. The young woman with the beautiful hazel eyes – Caroline. Had their fates been the same?

  * * *

  The troopers moved on their way, their coarse jokes and laughter gradually fading. Lars planted his elbows and rested his chin in his palms. He could only guess where the prisoners might be, but it now seemed likely the first place to check out was the camp.

  His main problem then was not where to start his search, but rather how to achieve it without being shot. There had to be a way…

  Lars lay deep in thought, absentmindedly observing the numberless procession of small black ants as they bobbed and sidestepped each other in their tireless cavalcade among the grains of black soil in front of him. There was purpose in their endeavour.

  Many carried little white cargoes above their heads – like porters on some ancient African safari – appearing and disappeari
ng through a crevice between the black stones of the fence.

  Their ancestors had been about their business long before Homo sapiens had evolved on Earth. Over time, they had unknowingly accompanied humankind to new worlds and continued undismayed about their tasks. Nothing had stopped them in over a hundred million years.

  Yes, there had to be a way… He had but to think of it…

  * * *

  Kill a Megran trooper and take his uniform. That might work, he thought, but easier said than done; and he could expect no mercy if he were caught. Besides, he had no knowledge of killing, or stomach for it either, he suspected.

  Perhaps bluff and bluster. Pretend outrage and demand to see the highest-ranking officer. Please sir, may I have my sister back?

  No. No. It was hopeless. He would never get in. They would be prepared for anything. Only a fool would venture into a hostile armed camp.

  Only a fool? Somewhere in the midst of his tumbling thoughts an idea began to stir and stretch, waking into existence. Yes, only a fool would… But he would be a fool to try it, he told himself.

  Yet, however much he tried to deny it, the idea grew.

  Yes, a harmless idiot – a simpleton – might wander into the Megran camp and survive. The troopers might push and shove him, trip him up, and generally make sport of him. They might ridicule and taunt him – laugh until their sides ached. But even they would never harm a fool. It would be beneath their dignity – their macho pride.

  Yes, it might just work. It was a poor plan, but his only one. He hoped he had the courage to follow it to its end.

  Using the cover of the crops, Lars ducked down and made his way along the stone fence line to the far end of the encampment, to where he had seen the horse troopers take their exit.

  He found the gap the Megrans had blasted in the stone fence to create a gateway. As costume for his part, he tousled his hair and rebuttoned his shirt so that it hung untidily bunched and uneven. He rubbed black dust onto his face, hands, hair and clothing. He sat back on his heels peering into the camp, building his courage, trying to think of what he would say…

  * * *

  The sudden sound of men’s voices broke in on his musings. Two men in green uniforms were striding up the road toward the camp. If he moved, they would spot him. If he stayed where he was, they would be upon in him in seconds. An instant later, he saw a coming from the opposie direction, gliding across the camp toward the gateway. He was trapped, both ways, as only a fool would let himself be.

  * * *

  There was no more time to think. Lars leapt to his feet and began to run toward the two troopers. He ran as one possessed, waving his arms frantically and howling shrilly.

  “Help me!” he screeched. “Save me!”

  The troopers stopped, stared, the look of disbelief plain on their faces.

  One of the troopers drew his Meredith pistol. Lars saw it flash and felt the blast of hot air as the light-bolt burned into the ground near his feet. He pitched forward into the roll he had learned at the school gym and crashed onto his knees. He scrambled into a tight ball and buried his face in his hands, whimpering piteously.

  Lars heard the whine of the approaching horse through his wailings; was aware of the hot hiss of hover motors die as it settled beside him. He heard the two troopers come up, breathing hard after their dash.

  Lars continued to wail wretchedly. He lifted his head and peeked through his fingers to see three men with hard eyes staring down at him.

  “Shall I shoot it?” the trooper with the Meredith queried grimly.

  The horse trooper prodded Lars sharply in the side with the toe of his boot. Lars responded with a shriek. The man gave a start and took an involuntary step backwards.

  He cursed in disgust. “What Trionian devil is this?” he muttered.

  “Hmm!” the third trooper mused. “It don’t think it’s human.”

  “By Ferdinand’s beard, if it doesn’t stop that damn noise, I’ll burn its heart out, whatever it is,” snarled the trooper with the pistol.

  But Lars had his part to play and he continued his howling, until a sudden boot below the ribs collapsed him breathless, his gasping sobs real.

  * * *

  Lars lay on his back; his eyes shut tight, his breath returning. What did his role demand now? He had no ready answer.

  The man with the Meredith dropped to one knee beside him. Lars felt the still hot pistol barrel trace a slow path down his forehead and nose. Then the hot metal circle pressed hard into his mouth, bruising his lips and grinding against his teeth. Lars lay still, his fingers gripped firm into the black dirt. He opened his one good eye.

  The trooper stood and the pistol motioned Lars to do the same.

  “Good!” the man said in a low voice. “Now, very quietly tell us who you are and what you’re doing here. Do you understand me?”

  The man had spoken slowly and clearly, as if to a child. But there was no warmth in the man’s pitiless ice blue eyes.

  Lars pitched his voice to what he hoped was the tone of someone eager to please. He puffed out his cheeks with a trusting grin.

  “Sir, my name is Lars Kelmutt and I have come to join your army.”

  A stark silence followed. Lars filled it quickly with what he hoped was a simpleton’s prattle.

  He whined crossly about the Vegar garrison; how the queen’s soldiers had refused to let him join their army, how he wanted to wear a black comb morion like the Megran troopers…how brave he would be… Somehow, from somewhere, Lars found the words to prolong his performance.

  His audience grew, a dozen or so curious troopers. They had come sensing blood sport, and now stood in a circle round Lars with counterfeit smiles – watching…waiting…

  At last, the trooper with the pistol wearied of the blather.

  “All right, Lars, and we want you to join our army. We might even make you an officer.”

  Lars nodded his head eagerly.

  “But, and it’s a big but, Lars.” Here the trooper paused and put his arm round the young man’s shoulders. “A Megran trooper has to know how to tame a horse.”

  He extended his other arm to gather in the heartless nods and mirthless grins from his audience. “Right men?”

  “Right!” the smirking spectators chorused.

  “But he’s just a simpleton,” some kinder voice muttered, but was promptly shouted down with hoots and hollers.

  The flinty blue eyes bored in hard. “Lars here wants to ride a horse so he can be a trooper, don’t you, Lars?”

  Lars glanced uneasily at the shining monster with the tall tail fin and the sinister black eye of its light-bolt cannon. Whatever they had in mind for him he knew would not be pleasant.

  “Yes s-s-sir!” he stammered, barely above a whisper.

  “What was that, Lars? We didn’t hear you?”

  “Yes sir,” Lars managed a marginal decibel louder.

  There were murmurs of approval from among the troopers, and mouths twitched not to let the laughter show.

  “By Ferdinand’s beard, you’re a good one, Lars,” a trooper said, coming forward and shaking Lars’s hand vigorously.

  “A born trooper,” said another, clapping his shoulder.

  The horse trooper meanwhile had mounted his machine, and the hover motors had begun to hiss, the thrust power sending out little puffs of black dust.

  The man with the ice blue eyes holstered his pistol and held out a hand. “Come on then, Lars.” He was smiling, but his gaze was pitiless. “Time to ride your horse.”

  Two strong-armed troopers lifted Lars and set him astride the smooth metal nose of the machine, facing the front. Lars clenched his legs tight and locked his fingers into the finned barrel of the light-bolt cannon. His face wore a fixed smile like that of a novice circus stunt-rider.

  “You’re going to get a good view from up there,” someone shouted.

  “Yeah, some people have all the luck,” another voice drawled from somewhere.

  The mass of tr
oopers laughed.

  The horse trooper gave a nod. As one, the circle of spectators drew back a few paces. The tempo of the hover motors increased to an earsplitting whine and the horse rose up on a mushroom of dust.

  “Tally-ho!” the horse trooper shouted loudly.

  The thrust motors cut in sharply and the machine shot into forward motion. It accelerated down the track, its engines screaming.

  Lars’s fingers morphed into claws to keep his hold. The slipstream ripped his breath away and his vision dissolved into tears. The horse bucked and spun wildly, trying to throw him, but he clung on. He tasted blood from his lips as his teeth bit in hard.

  “Hang in there, trooper,” he heard the horse soldier shout as if from a great distance. The man’s laughter, too, came from far away.

  Then they were speeding low through fields of maize, the sea of ripening cobs like an army of Lilliputians wielding clubs. They cuffed and buffeted Lars zealously, bruising and drawing blood. Next was a copse of trees, the machine ripping through the lower branches and undergrowth. The horse soldier seemed intent on riding through every bit of tough foliage he could find.

  * * *

  By the time the machine returned to its cheering onlookers, Lars’s clothing was in tatters. His face, limbs and torso were streaked with blood from scores of cuts and grazes. His whole body burned. His one good eye returned only misted vision.

  “Bravo Lars!” he heard them shouting.

  Lars went to lift a hand in acknowledgement. Immediately, the horse spun. He lost his grip and tumbled sideways. Then the black wave of unconsciousness rolled over him.

  * * *

  “On your feet, trooper!” The black tide ebbed and Lars returned to consciousness. He remembered the ice blue eyes behind the voice.