The Sword and the Plough (11 page)

A minute or so later, his torch revealed the
power plant in its ivory beam.

“
Nothing to it,” he said to himself as he
reached out to start the auxiliary generator running. But even as
he pressed the
on
button his torch light revealed why there would be no hum
of life to follow. Beneath the
on/off
control, the cables had been neatly cut,
and sections removed to forestall a simple reconnection. A two hour
job for a repair team with the pressure on, but a hopeless task for
one, Lars Kelmutt, farmer.

* * *

Lars moved swiftly on the way back. His
body ached from the beating the troopers had given him, and he
would dearly have liked to sit down and rest. But he was worried.
It had dawned on him that he was in the midst of a dangerous game
between two fiercely opposed forces – a game in which he might
easily find himself the odd player out.

The underground complex was a
self-contained war headquarters and, as such, a highly secret
establishment. It had survived a massive explosion and fire as its
creators had intended, and who might arrive at any moment. It was
not only the
enemy
he had to fear – even those on his
own
side would as likely shoot him
if he were discovered.

Yes, and while he was thinking on it –
what were Megran troopers doing on Trionian soil? Megran and Trion
belonged to the same Commonwealth of Planets, owed allegiance to
the same queen. Something big was brewing and no mistake, and
whatever that something was, he was in it, right up to his
neck

And Caroline – who was she? Much as he
trusted her, she might not be able to save him whichever side
caught up with him.

“
We’ve been betrayed…” he started, as he
entered the transmitter room. But there was no point his saying
more. The room was empty. Caroline had gone. All around, papers
littered the floor –
Top Secret
stamped on all of them. Whether this had been the
young woman’s doing or not he had no way of knowing.

Suddenly a fresh alarm struck him. “Helen!”
he cried aloud. In the turmoil of the recent events, he had
completely forgotten his sister. Helen was waiting out there all
alone. He had already gone far beyond the time he had promised. And
the situation he had discovered was much worse than either of them
could have imagined. Even outside the town, she might be in
danger.

* * *

Lars closed the secret trapdoor behind him.
It seemed the wisest thing to do. The true owners might yet make
use of it, if it remained undiscovered.

The Street outside the Communication
Centre ruin was empty, but Lars could hear the sharp bark of
commands and the sounds of marching feet not far away. He heard,
too, the unmistakable hiss of solar motors – a swarm of them. It
sounded like the Megran troopers were arriving, in
force.

Lars kept to the back streets and
alleyways he knew so well until he reached the South Gate, the way
he had come in. There was no indication of any troopers on the road
south and so he was able to move faster.

But darkness came all too swiftly, as it
did on Trion. By the time he reached the spot where he had said
goodbye to his sister just two hours before, the night had set in.
The ploughs were standing where he had left them, their polished
panels reflecting the bright light of the large star Trionians
called
Cyclops.
But his sister was nowhere to be seen.

“Helen!” His whisper broke the dark quiet as
he approached. He did not want to frighten her or alert the enemy.
But no answer came.

“Helen?” he called again a little louder. He
was by her plough now, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He was close to panic, yet hope still
lingered. She might be hiding in the tall green crops nearby.

“Helen! I’m back,” he cried out loud, defying
the danger. “Where are you?”

But the surrounding quiet mocked him, and he
did not dare call out her name again. The long silence was answer
enough. Helen was gone.

* * *

Lars stirred. It was still night, but the
air had chilled, and the change in temperature had woken him. He
was half sitting, half lying, his head and knees bent to the
cramped confines of the plough’s cockpit. He had been dreaming,
dreaming of a time when he and Helen were children.

‘
Lars? Can you come out and play with
me?’

His sister had worn a hopeful smile in his
dream. Helen
– a skinny,
freckled-faced kid with yellow hair. Helen… She was all that he
had.

He shivered and wrapped his arms round his
shoulders in an effort to keep warm. His whole body ached from the
beating suffered at the hands of the Megran troopers, and the raw
wounds still stung. His mouth was dry and tasted sour. He ran his
tongue quickly around his teeth and lips in an attempt to wash the
foulness away.

He struggled up out of the plough cockpit and
tried a gentle stretch to the edge of pain, then limped stiffly
round the two ploughs for a couple of turns to assist his cramped
limbs into action.

* * *

The contents of the locker in his own
plough were no mystery - repair kit, sunglasses, a few oily rags,
and a broken power rod, but he hoped there might be something more
useful in his sister’s plough. He pulled the locker’s contents out
into the starlight and found he was in luck – a flask of water and
two soggy tomato sandwiches left over from lunch. But just as good,
almost, he found a spare shirt, and though it was his sister’s the
loose fitting style allowed it to fit him well enough. His own
shirt was ripped and bloodied. He would need to hide it somewhere
later.

Food, drink, and the fresh shirt made him
feel a little better. He settled down in his sister’s plough and
tried to doze again and await the dawn.

But his fears for Helen gnawed at him
constantly, and the aches from his beating gave him no peace. He
remained wide-awake staring up at the stars.

* * *

The piece of paper must have slipped out when
he opened Helen’s locker, because he had not seen it to begin with.
The starlight was not bright enough to decipher the markings on the
page, so he risked turning on the instrument panel light to read
by. It was a message from Helen.

Dear Lars,

I think I may be in trouble.

There are soldiers moving down
the road from town – fifty or so of them, at least. I cannot tell
for sure. They are wearing a green uniform I’ve not seen before, so
I fear the worst for both of us.

It’s too late for me to hide. I will stay
with the ploughs and hope to bluff it out if they find me.

I hope you get back safely to read this.

I love you.

Helen

Lars could not help the sudden gush of tears
that happened next. He went to read the note again, but found it
torn and screwed up in his hands.

Planet EARTH
– Her Royal Highness – Elizabeth
V

“Cecil? Cecil? Are you there, Cecil?”

The voice was educated and articulate; a
female voice with a cut glass accent and an air of authority that
filled the room.

The man at the desk sat up suddenly, as
straight as his crooked back would allow.

“Is that you, Mata Hari?” he enquired
cautiously.

“
Mata Hari?” the voice asked incredulously.
“And
who
may we
ask is Mata Hari?”

“Your Majesty!” the man exclaimed, with a
sudden reverence. He pushed his chair back hurriedly and struggled
to his feet.

The regal figure of Her Royal Highness, Queen
Elizabeth V, stood framed in the doorway. She wore an ornately
styled gown of chartreuse coloured silk. A tall, white lace collar
framed her oval shaped face. Her elegant hands, with their heavily
ringed fingers, were clasped loosely in front of her.

Cecil gazed on his queen, his eyes filled
with adoration. Her beauty, almost literally, took his breath
away.

Taller than most women and with a figure to
envy, Elizabeth V was the result of generations of fine breeding;
the stock she came from, the purest of Earth’s ancient royal lines.
Her skin was cream coloured and as smooth as fine porcelain. Her
face was strong boned and striking, with a fine patrician nose. A
gold filigree broach of the finest workmanship pinned her long dark
brown hair into a bun atop her head.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Cecil managed
at last, his bent back curving further in the deepest of bows.

“
Hmm!” The disapproving hazel eyes of the
Queen of All the Planets stared down at him, taking in all. The red
lips pursed. “So Cecil, who is this Mata Hari you were expecting?
Is she a friend of yours – this person who seems able to enter our
palace without our knowledge, or the attention of our
guards?”

“
No, no, Your Majesty. No!” Cecil hastened
to assure his queen. He knew full well the regulations regarding
interlopers in the royal residence, and the consequences. “That is,
ah – she is not really a person at all.”

The left royal eyebrow arched sharply.
“Not a person, Cecil? Not a person? Well then, Cecil, must we
ask,
what
is Mata
Hari?”

“Well yes, Your Majesty! But it’s hard to
explain…” The queen’s secretary hesitated, his forehead creased
with apprehension. Was the queen angry with him… or merely not
amused?

“We are waiting, Cecil…”

“It’s the royal computer, Ma’am,” he managed
to splutter at last. “It’s changed.”

“Changed Cecil? Changed?”

“
Well yes, Your Majesty. The computer has
taken it upon herself –
itself
– to become a female. And it’s chosen a
name…”

“Hmm! Mata Hari? Is that the name?”

“
Yes, Your Majesty. And ah, sometimes it –
ah – she – copies the timbre of your voice, Ma’am.” He tried some
supplementary praise. “She admires you very much, Your
Majesty.”

The queen now seemed amused, Cecil thought,
though possibly somewhat exasperated. He was having trouble reading
her mood.

“
The computer has chosen an identity you
say, Cecil – an
identity
? You and we may have identities, Cecil, but the computer
is a machine, a very clever and complex machine, we grant you,
Cecil, but still a machine. Are we not right?”

Cecil nodded unhappily. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
By now, he was sure. The queen was decidedly displeased…

“
Hmm!” The left royal eyebrow arched again.
“We think you are not convinced, Cecil. Do you still insist then
that somehow our computer, our
machine
, has developed an identity of its
own?”

Cecil gave another unhappy nod. “Yes, Your
Majesty,” he said quietly. “But a very loyal identity,” he added
promptly, “totally dedicated to Her Majesty’s service.

“
In fact, Your Majesty…” There was no
stopping the queen’s secretary now. “It, rather
she,
even suggested she become your
chief secret agent. Apparently, the name Mata Hari belonged to a
famous spy of earlier times.”

“Really?” Now both royal eyebrows had risen.
A sure sign Her Majesty was feeling… was feeling… Cecil was forced
at last to admit to himself that he had no idea what his queen was
feeling. He quickly averted his gaze.

Elizabeth V looked thoughtful for a moment
and then floated a few steps closer. Cecil was always astonished at
the fluid grace of his queen.

“A spy, you say?” she queried softly, her
look intent.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Mata Hari… that is…the
computer…”

“
Go on!” the queen instructed gently. “Call
it – call
her
–
by that name if you wish.”

Cecil felt encouraged. “Well, Mata Hari
believes she could act as Your Majesty’s spy by probing into the
data banks of government computers on the other planets.” He
glanced up, hoping to have won some royal approval. “Ah, that is
without anyone’s knowledge, of course…” he explained hastily, so as
not to affront the queen’s honour.

“
Cecil!” the queen interjected coldly. She
was now definitely in a state of displeasure. “May we remind you
that the governors of our planets are our representatives, our
faithful servants. Would you have us demean ourselves by prying
into our subjects’ affairs?”

The queen’s voice had been increasing in
volume all the while and now reached a peak of indignation.

“
Would you have us, the mother of our
people, seek to
snoop
upon our children?”

The queen, by this time, was standing taller
than Cecil had ever witnessed before. The hazel eyes flashed and
rained their burning brilliance down upon him. His blood froze…

“Hmm, on the other hand,” the queen murmured
softly, the fire in her eyes fading. “The idea has merit… You say
our computer, this Mata Hari, can do this without arousing
suspicion?”

“She assures me she can, Your Majesty.”

The queen nodded thoughtfully, a faint smile
arising on her royal red lips.

“
Good! Then so instruct her.
But
remember this,
Cecil.” The queen’s ire was back. “This duplicitous act does not
have our blessing. Therefore, be aware, should anything –
anything at all
– go
amiss, it falls on your head.”