The Sword and the Plough (24 page)

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 gates 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.

“Aren’t you coming with us?” Caroline
asked.

“
No miss, I’ve got to get home – to the
prison.”

“
But couldn’t you get away with us –
tonight?” Lars queried.

Old Seth shook his head. “That would give
the game away and blow the whole thing sky high,” he said. “Prison
life’s not too bad, you know, not with a bit of freedom like this
now and then. Still,” he added wistfully, staring up at the stars,
“I miss not being out there at times. Life’s too short to miss out
on such ecstasy.”

“The queen will reward you handsomely for
what you have done for us, I promise you,” Caroline said
quietly.

“I know, miss,” he answered softly. But
strangely, Lars noticed, it did not seem that the thought pleased
him.

Caroline put her arms round the old man and
hugged him. Her hazel eyes were shiny with tears.

Lars put out his hand, but Old Seth wrapped
him in a hug, too.

“Now off you go. Curfew’s a little over an
hour away and you’ll have to be airborne by then. Good luck, my
friends. May you be in time to save our sweet queen Bess from
Megran’s tyrant.”

The old man raised his hand in farewell as
the little cab whirred away from the kerb into the night.

Above, the Megran sky had reached its final
shade of midnight blue and adorned itself with the silver splendor
of the stars.

“Light speed!” Old Seth called out to the
empty dark.

* * *

The queen’s secretary, Cecil, sat hunched at
his desk. His desk lamp was the sole lighting in the basement room,
an island of light in a sea of shadows. His black velvet jacket had
sunk in the gloom. Only his white shirt and red bow tie were
clearly visible. His face, half-seen, half-unseen, wore a worried
expression. He was engaged in a serious conversation with the
life-like hologram of an attractive young woman. The 3D image had
dark hair, and was clad in the scantiest of clothing. A pair of
high-heeled gold slippers adorned her feet. She paraded one
provocative pose after another as she spoke.

The hologram was the royal computer’s latest
manifestation; its most successful materialisation to date.

The man shook his head at the image’s latest
pronouncement.

“
Operation
Valkyrie
? What does that
mean, Mata Hari?” he asked. His blue eyes were puzzled.

The dark hair shook. “Nothing Cecil,” the
hologram replied. “That is all there was.”

“And everything else in the Megran government
computer was correct and in accordance with the queen’s laws?” the
man queried further.

“
Perfectly correct, Cecil, as are they all
throughout the Commonwealth.” The image pirouetted gracefully round
on the tips of its gold slippers.

“
But it must mean something, Mata Hari,”
the man persisted. He frowned. “
Operation Valkyrie,”
he repeated. “It sounds like a
code name for something. Could the details of the operation have
been deleted?”

“Then it did exist, but is no longer
existent, Cecil,” the computer image replied. The image swayed
forward and puckered a seductive red-lipped kiss.

“But what if it were deleted, because
whatever it was, is now in operation, and a record of it no longer
needed?” the man continued, asserting his logic as precisely as he
could.

“
Then I would have found the implementation
of the operation,” the hologram explained patiently, and there is
nothing functioning called
Operation
Valkyrie
.”

The image smiled to show even white teeth.
“Be assured, Cecil, I have discovered all there is to
discover.”

The queen’s secretary stood and took a few
steps to observe the image more closely. The hologram was almost
perfect, real in every way, except for the one or two places he
could see through.

“But what if it is being kept a secret?” the
queen’s secretary persevered. “What if…?”

“
A secret must still exist, Cecil,” the
computer responded. Condescension had now entered its tone. “I have
found
Operation Valkyrie
, therefore it is
not
a secret. I have found everything there is to
find, and nothing exists save the name.”

The man shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mata
Hari, but I fear your logic and mine do not agree. I think it is
imperative that I inform Her Majesty of
Operation
Valkyrie
right
away.”

The image shrugged. “You will be informing
the queen of nothing but the name of something that does not
exist,” it warned.

“
Perhaps, Mata Hari – perhaps,” the man
agreed with a nod. “But then again, perhaps that is exactly why I
should inform Her Majesty.”

It was rare for Cecil to leave his basement
command centre; he had become the quintessential hermit. But this
day he did. He picked up his walking sticks and scurried away to
seek an audience with his queen.

The scantily clad image froze on one toe,
poised in the middle of another pirouette as it watched him depart.
It shook its head disbelievingly, its dark hair swirling.

“Human reasoning makes no sense,” Mata Hari’s
likeness muttered.

Lars stood and peered out through the
shuttlecraft’s porthole. “Nothing much to see,” he muttered. “It’s
still night out there.”

They were huddled in the tiny, double bunk
cabin of a small, silvery, delta-winged vessel moored under a
larger vessel in Megran orbit, 200 kilometres above the skies.
There were no lights on in the cabin. Their pilot did not want his
guests’ presence known. It had been almost pitch black for most of
the trip, though their eyes had adjusted to see the vaguest forms
of their surroundings by starlight.

“It doesn’t matter,” Caroline’s voice
answered from behind him. “Jeremiah will call us when it’s safe to
go up onto the flight deck.”

Lars sat down again on the narrow bunk
beside Caroline. The young woman squeezed over to make room. Her
thigh pressed warm against his. He had known her now for six whole
days. For almost as long, he had cherished romantic thoughts about
her. But he knew this was foolish. She was the Lady Caroline, next
in line to the throne. One day, when all this was over, their
disparate worlds would inevitably part, and they would never see
each other again.

“We will just have to be patient,” Caroline
continued. “I know it’s hard, but there’s nothing else we can do.”
She paused and her eyes sought his in the darkness. “I guess you’re
worried about your sister too,” she murmured kindly.

Lars nodded. “Yes, I am. But I guess she’s as
safe as any of us anywhere, at present.”

The shuttlecraft was a working vessel
belonging to Young Seth. Jeremiah was her pilot. And like all
working vessels, the shuttlecraft had its daily responsibilities.
It was essential, as Jeremiah had pointed out to the two impatient
Trionians, that the little ship follow her normal routine to avoid
suspicion. There was a night’s work to do before they could leave
for Young Seth’s company depot in orbit.

Lars and Caroline had quickly understood
what business the shuttlecraft was so busily engaged in. Both had
seen the advertising on the little craft as they boarded.
Ace Rubbish Removals, Salvage and Scrap Merchants
, the sign writing said.

* * *

The porthole went unexpectedly bright, then
dark again as the little craft let go its magnetic connection. At
once, they could feel the thrum of the solar engines as the shuttle
accelerated. They were underway again.

Over the next few hours, they were to lose
track of how many ships’ bellies they anchored under to collect
scrap and waste. They dozed at times, leaning into one another; at
other times, they talked about their childhoods, each seeking to
learn more about the other.

“
You can come up now,” a voice crackled
abruptly in the air above them. “The Megran cruiser
Starlight
was our last
call.”

Jeremiah was in his flight chair, checking
his navigation screen when Lars and Caroline arrived on the flight
deck. He motioned to the Trionians to buckle themselves into the
two vacant seats beside him. Caroline took the place next to
Jeremiah.

“
Safety before all else,” he said.
“The
gravity compensator hub
is a
wee
bit faulty and goes in and out of phase every so
often. You can end up floating before you know it,” he
explained.

Jeremiah’s voice had an accent, a lilt, such
as Lars had not heard before. At some point, he decided, he would
ask him where he hailed from.

A man of gruff charm, Jeremiah was about the
same age as Old Seth, but as lean as a Trionian rock snake. Deep
wrinkles lined his aged and weather-beaten face, and his
close-cropped grey hair stood up like a worn scrubbing brush.

Jeremiah had changed from the civilian
clothes he had been wearing when they first met into yellow
overalls. The company’s name and logo were printed on the
back.

“Hope you weren’t too cramped down there,” he
said when they had settled. “But I couldn’t take the risk of anyone
seeing you. Some of those ships’ captains, especially the warship
ones, can be a mite nosey at times.”

The shuttlecraft had travelled now from night
into day, and the flight deck afforded its passengers a panoramic
vista of the sunlit side of the planet. On the far horizon, the
largest of Megran’s four moons was drifting away to join its
fellows and light the Megran night in their reflected glory.

Caroline surveyed the planetscape beneath
them. “I’m almost loathe to say it, but Megran looks quite
appealing from up here. From this distance it reminds me a lot of
Earth – the colours of the continents and the oceans.”