The Sword and the Plough

by Carl Hubrick

  “Evening milord,” Old Seth said, grinning broadly. Two front teeth protruded, one crossed partly over the other. “May I tempt you to some stew, sir? Can’t recommend it, I’m afraid, but the soup’s worse.” He held up the ladle and let the lumpy brown liquid splatter back into the pot.

  Lord Southern smiled. “Yes, thank you, Seth, the stew will be fine. Oh, and while you’re getting that,” his voice now dropped to a whisper, “perhaps you could tell me how soon you can arrange for my two young friends here to leave? Oh, and their likelihood of getting a quick trip to Earth,” he added. “That’s just as important.”

  “Ah!” Old Seth said with a grin. “Some action at last, eh sir?”

  Then at once, he was serious, but the gleam still dwelt in his eyes.

  “Well now,” he resumed. “We’ll need to get their photographs for the passes. That’ll be tomorrow morning at breakfast. Shame you couldn’t have mentioned it to me earlier, sir. We’d have arranged something for tonight.”

  “We only arrived this afternoon,” Caroline said, smiling. She noted Old Seth’s intonation was similar to that of the Trionians – prolonging the vowel sounds; quite different to Earth speakers.

  “Oh, and off again so soon,” the ageing convict teased. He shook his head. “I expect it’s this dreadful food.” He shuddered. “Ugh, horrible stuff,” he drawled.

  “But how soon?” Lord Southern persisted quietly.

  “Well now, let’s see.” Old Seth paused, rubbing stubby fingers across the white stubble of his chin. “First the photos. Hmm, that’ll be tomorrow morning. Then I’ve got to find look alike volunteers to take the place of your two here for the head count.”

  “Will that be difficult?” Caroline asked quietly. “I mean, who can guess the fate of the prisoners in here. It’s a lot to ask.”

  Old Seth’s look became grave. “There’s some real patriots out there, miss,” he said quietly. “Ready to do or die for the cause.”

  “Oh,” Caroline murmured. “They must be very brave.”

  “Aye miss, they’re brave and loyal to the queen.”

  “And once you have the volunteers, what then?” Lord Southern queried, intent on getting Old Seth back on track.

  “Hmm. Then comes the tricky part – getting our people in past them guards there on the cage door.” He glanced over at Lars. “Because your people’s pictures will be on our volunteers’ passes.

  “Still,” he said, motioning in the general direction of the guards. “These Megrans hate being here almost as much as you do and apt to be lazy. So, they usually don’t pay much attention to people going in, ’cause they won’t think why they should. They’ll only check proper going out, and then the photos will match real good.” He rubbed his nose. “Be ready tomorrow night.”

  “What about getting them to Earth?” Lord Southern insisted.

  “Tomorrow milord. Don’t worry, I’ve got some ideas up here.” He tapped his forehead. “Just one or two things to sort out first.

  “Now, you’d better eat your stew afore it gets cold, or them guards might notice us talking and decide to investigate.”

  * * *

  The stew was thin and close to tasteless, but it was hot and, as such, sustaining. By the time they had finished and were ready to return their plastic utensils, Old Seth had left and was supervising the departure of the food trolleys at the cage door. Once again, the prisoners were goading the Megran guards at the exit. It was the sole diversion they had in their day.

  Lars stood and watched the Megran guards checking the trolley attendants as they made their way out. At the cage door, Old Seth was watching too.

  * * *

  An uncomfortable night passed slowly. It is difficult to sleep on a hard brick floor, impossible even, particularly when two hundred others are suffering the same hardship and making it known.

  Eventually, however, breakfast time came and Old Seth was true to his word. Many hands quickly passed a small camera to a huddle of tall prisoners near the centre of the cage. In the midst of the group Lars and Caroline sat waiting, hidden from view.

  The photographs taken, head and shoulders against the blue background of a woman’s dress, the camera was passed back as swiftly as it had come, to disappear under a stack of used bowls.

  The day passed slowly, and yet the evening meal seemed soon upon them, the clash and clatter of pots, the sudden reality. Lars felt his mouth go dry.

  The cage door opened and the first trolleys rumbled in bringing with them the warmth and smells of the kitchen. Lars and Caroline stood near the edge of the crowd and watched. The guard on the door studied each trusty and matched each pass. Another two guards stood close by, Merediths drawn.

  “It’ll never work!” Caroline muttered. “Look how closely he’s checking each one.”

  “Of course it will,” Lars replied, pretending more confidence than he felt. “It’s so simple, it just has to work. Besides,” he grinned at her. “What guard would ever dare to question you?”

  “And what am I meant to understand by that remark?” The hazel eyes were wide with pretended affront, the glare piercing.

  Lars laughed. “See what I mean? You’ll scare the pants of them for sure.”

  Caroline relaxed her glower and smiled. “I’m afraid it will take a lot more than that,” she said.

  Several more trusties passed through under the scrutiny of the guard. Finally, their surrogates arrived.

  “Hey, here you come now,” Lars declared, craning to see better. “And very nice too – almost as nice as the original.”

  A young woman was entering the cage, auburn haired and pretty. The bright orange prison overalls could not disguise the hint of the shapely figure beneath. She stopped by the guard.

  All at once, Old Seth was at the door talking to the guard, his manner urgent – showing the man something on a scrap of paper. The guard gave the woman’s pass a hurried glance, and tried to follow her walk with his eyes, but Old Seth was insistent, pushing the paper further under the Megran’s nose.

  “Good trick that,” Lars murmured.

  “And here you come,” Caroline whispered to Lars. “Tall and bronzed and very good looking.”

  Old Seth and the guard were still talking. The young man’s trolley stopped beside them. The young man presented his pass. Old Seth said something that made the Megran laugh. The guard gave the pass a cursory glance and waved the trusty through. The young man smiled. He was still smiling as he and his fellow trusties pushed the food trolley into the cage.

  * * *

  It took only a matter of moments to exchange identities and garments. Caroline traded her shimmering silk gown for the orange convict overalls of her proxy. Lars’s stand-in eyed the torn and tattered field clothes thrust into his naked arms in trade for his prison orange with some distaste.

  “Thanks very much,” he said with obvious irony to a grinning Lars. “I’ll look after these and make sure you get them back.” But then he smiled and held out his hand. “But good luck anyway, my friend. Just don’t take too long, or I won’t have anything left to wear.”

  * * *

  Lars and Caroline played out their roles, ladling out food to the two hundred amused extras. Everyone was a bit player, excited to be part of something that might turn the tide against Ferdinand at last.

  All at once, it was time to go.

  “Right. Now you’re to go out separately,” the major explained. Old Seth thinks it will be safer. Caroline, you’re to go first. Lars will catch up with you later.”

  “And we’ll just sit tight and await your return with all the queen’s men,” Sir Henry said, his tone cheerful and confident.

  He turned to Lars and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’ll look after her for me, won’t you, son? She’s all I have.”

  “Father!” Caroline exclaimed, overhearing. “You know I can look after myself perfectly well.”

  The governor nodded. “I know, m’dear,” he murmured. “I know.”

&nb
sp; Caroline embraced her father. “You look after yourself too,” she said. “And you too, Rupert,” she added, pecking the intelligence officer on the cheek.

  She put her arms around Judith and hugged her. Judith Warner’s eyes were moist as she smiled at Lars over the young woman’s shoulder.

  A moment later, Caroline was wheeling away a rattling trolley of empty pots and plates toward the cage door with her entourage of trusties pressing close in front and behind. The guard glanced at her pass, matched face to photo, and waved her on. She did not look back.

  * * *

  “Right!” the major said brusquely. “Your turn, Lars. Take your time. Try to act naturally. Imagine you’re a convict.” A wry grin accompanied the last piece of advice.

  Lars leaned his weight into the trolley handle. An orange clad helper joined him. They were the last. The trolley jarred and jolted over the uneven cellar floor. The empty pots voiced their metallic protest.

  Lars was sweating. The trolley was making too much noise. The guard at the cage door was looking at him – staring. The man had spotted something was wrong – he knew.

  The Meredith was big on the guard’s hip – his hand hovering near the black grooved butt.

  The Megran’s lips moved. “Your pass?”

  What?”

  The man’s eyes were brown, flecked with grey.

  “Your pass!” He sounded bored. “Hey, I haven’t got all day.”

  “Oh my pass – yeah sure. Sorry, almost forgot.”

  Black stalks of beard grew in untidy patches on the guard’s red cheeks. It was a while since he’d shaved.

  The man took the pass, held it up in line with Lars’s face. Nodded. “Yeah – go!” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

  The trolley began its noisy passage once more. A sigh of relief came from the trusty pushing beside him.

  “Bravo, well done, Trionian,” the convict muttered.

  Lars heard the cage door clang shut behind him and the heavy lock hiss back into place.

  “We’re clear!” the man beside him muttered. “Thank the stars!”

  * * *

  The line of rattling trolleys wound past the row of Megran guards, past the anxious but hopeful eyes of the royalist prisoners, and up an exit ramp into a passageway on the other side of the cellar.

  A few metres on the passage opened onto an adjacent cellar – smaller and dimly lit. Here, the food trolleys were loaded one at a time onto a large dumb waiter, which went up to the kitchens above. Wine racks full of dusty bottles stood tall on three walls.

  A solitary Megran trooper stood guard at the scene. Lars’s companion left as soon as the trolley was loaded. Lars turned to leave, but the guard signalled him over. His small dark eyes studied the young man intently.

  “Hot work, eh?” His tone seemed friendly. The Megran eased the black comb morion back on his head and mopped the sweat from his brow. “You finished for the night, then?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Lucky you, eh?” the guard drawled. “I’ve got another two hours of duty left to go.” He grinned. “Still, it’s easy work.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the main cellar and the cage. “Not much trouble from that lot in there.

  “You know, it’s no wonder the Commonwealth was going to wrack and ruin,” he continued. “It was being run by a bunch of ancient has-beens, who should have been put out to pasture years ago, just as the prince says. It’s as well the Commonwealth’s got a man like Ferdinand to save it from itself, don’t you think?”

  Lars nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.” He hated to agree, but he had to stay in character. “Well, I’d better be off.”

  “Yeah, okay – you on tomorrow?” the guard asked.

  “No, got another job.” Lars made to walk away.

  “Oh, something good?” The Megran was unhurried. It was plain he wanted to talk. He had a long and lonely duty to fill.

  “Yeah, something good.”

  “Oh!” The trooper paused, thinking what more he could say, but Lars broke in quickly before the conversation could go further.

  “Look, I’ll have to go now or I could get into trouble.”

  The guard nodded. Trouble was something he could understand.

  “Yeah well, see you later sometime, perhaps.”

  Lars began to walk away. “Yeah maybe – goodnight,” he said over his shoulder.

  * * *

  Lars found Caroline and Old Seth waiting for him at the base of a stairway leading up from the cellars.

  “You had us worried,” Caroline said. “We thought they might have found you out.”

  “No trouble then?” Old Seth asked.

  Lars shook his head. “No! As easy as a new share furrow,” he answered, using a farmer’s simile.

  Old Seth looked bemused.

  Lars grinned. “No, no trouble, just a rather talkative guard.”

  Old Seth nodded. “Good. Right. Well, let’s get moving. There’s a curfew in the city from nine o’clock on. We’ve got less than two hours ’til then.”

  “Where are we going?” Caroline asked.

  “My son’s place of business.”

  “Where’s that?” she queried.

  Old Seth chuckled, the sound echoing in the close confines of the stair well. “Up there,” he said, lifting his gaze skywards. “In Megran orbit.”

  * * *

  They reached the top of the staircase and entered a long, white windowless corridor. It was the service access to Ferdinand’s palace, Old Seth explained. Solar powered panels in the walls and ceiling provided the lighting.

  The carpet runner, which stretched out before them, was an emerald green, with a design featuring Ferdinand’s coat of arms. The shield, party per pale, showed the left half – black, the right half - gold. In its centre, the green lion rampant of Megran stood tall. Grand double doors stood at regular intervals along the way. Each displayed the prince’s crest in the centre panel, bordered by other princely motifs in gold.

  Lars breathed in deeply. The air had the luxurious scent of opulent furnishings and polish, a pleasant change after the hot, stale air of the cellars, and the body odour of two hundred unwashed souls.

  They had gone some distance, and passed several closed double doors, when Lars happened to glance through the gap where one door stood slightly ajar. The flash of light and colour, which he glimpsed in the chink, caused him to stop and step back, forgetting for an instant the danger in delay.

  The room was large and lavishly furnished. At the far end of the room was a massive mahogany desk. At the desk, a man sat writing. Lars could not see his face, only a head of curly black hair. The man wore the green jacket, red collar and gold epaulettes of a Megran commander-in-chief.

  The man glanced up for a moment, and Lars caught sight of a strong boned face of olive complexion, framed by a sternly jutting black beard. Clever brown eyes stared out from beneath the black ridge of the brows.

  Lars stepped back and motioned Caroline and Old Seth to look.

  Old Seth fell back, as if he had been stung. “Mother of Sol!” he muttered.

  Caroline gave a startled gasp. “It’s Ferdinand!” She spun on her heel and hooked Lars’s arm. “Quick!” she whispered hoarsely, dragging him away. “Let’s be out of here.”

  The three of them moved swiftly then, like chickens scurrying ahead of the farmer’s axe.

  “We’d have stood no chance if he’d spotted us,” Old Seth said in a hushed voice as they strode swiftly away. “Apart from the palace intruder alarm system, which would have brought every guard in the palace running, our beloved governor is quite capable of looking after himself. He’s highly skilled in the martial arts, and a crack shot with his gold plated Meredith pistol – and he’s never without it. He’d have burned us to cinders.” He shook his head. “That was a close call and no mistake.”

  They did not slacken their pace, nor dare speak again, until they reached the end of the corridor. A final scrutiny of their passes at the big iron gate
s at the rear of the palace, and they were free. As Old Seth had said, the guards were not so concerned at people leaving the palace, more about those coming in.

  Once safe in the narrow back alleyways of the city, Lars and Caroline stripped off their bright orange convict overalls and deposited them in the nearest public trash. Old Seth had some ordinary, inconspicuous clothes for them, grey T-shirts and jeans, stashed nearby.

  It was early evening now and the air was cool, perfumed by the artificial fragrances big cities everywhere favoured. The Megran sun had set leaving a rosy glow against a violet sky. Around them towered the darkening skyline of a large metropolis.

  Old Seth swept his arm round in a broad arc, indicating the vista before them. The lights of the city were coming on, yellow rectangles on a canvas of purple hues.

  “Behold, Modark!” he said. “Capital of Megran, second most powerful city in the Earth Commonwealth of Planets. And, if Ferdinand gets his way, the seat of power in all the Commonwealth.”

  * * *

  A line of two-seater bubble-cabs were at the kerb a block away from the palace. The little vehicles switched on their interior lights as their sensors registered the trio’s approach. Old Seth leaned into the first one in the rank and spoke their destination.

  “I’ve set the route,” he said. “The cab will take you to a shuttle-port on the outskirts of the city. Another old timer will be waiting there for you. He’ll be wearing a green tartan jacket with an upturned collar and a black beret. Ask him if his name’s O’Leary. He’ll answer – yes, Jeremiah O’Leary.

  “Jeremiah will take you up to my son, Seth. Young Seth, we usually call him,” he added with a wry grin.