Free The Sword and the Plough by Carl Hubrick

faltered, then died away.
A buzz of excited and puzzled voices took its place. Ha! It was
probably the technicians tinkering with the power.
    He spoke up above the growing clamour of
agitated voices. “Don’t worry my friends; we’ve got the problem in
hand. What about a slow romantic waltz until we get the lights back
on?”
    There was a ripple of laughter and a ‘hooray’
chorus of approval. A few tentative notes commenced from the
orchestra.
    Sudden gruff shouts and the roar of weapons
fire froze everything in an instant and shocked silence.
    “What’s happening?” a woman’s voice cried out
fearfully.
    A crash of glass and the flash and thunder of
light-bolts close by came in answer.
    The chandeliers came on suddenly,
transforming the ballroom once more into its sparkling glory.
    Lord Southern turned to his nearest guests
and smiled. “Nothing like a power cut to liven up the evening…” he
began. He would have said more, but his mind now witnessed the
cruelly altered scene before him.
    In the centre of the dance floor, two dozen
or more armed men stood facing outward in a circle, weapons drawn,
legs braced, their faces shadowed by dark glintless comb morions.
They were not clad in the good queen’s red, but wore instead an
alien battle green.
    Slowly, the leader turned his head, his
flinty stare stalking someone.
    Then the man’s eyes found Lord Southern and
his pistol arm rose. The weapon fixed its black eye of death upon
its target.

Chapter 12
     
    Planet TRION – Vegar Township – Late
afternoon
     
     
    Lars made his way quickly through the empty
streets. He had given up his previous caution. The stink of smoke
was thick upon the air, catching in his throat. There was not a
soul in sight anywhere. The town was still and shuttered up tight,
awaiting something…
    It took Lars only a matter of minutes to
reach the scene of the fire. It was far worse than he could have
imagined.
    He was not sure how long he stood gazing
at the devastation in front of him. The many storeys of the Inter-Galactic Communication Centre had been razed to their very foundations. Nothing
remained standing. Blackened rubble and fractured steel girders had
toppled into the streets, suggesting the walls had exploded
outwards. Even now, there were still minor explosions giving birth
to new pockets of sulphurous flame. Dark smoke drifted skyward in
angry spirals. Lars had never known a fire to cause such utter
destruction.
    At first, the high-pitched scream seemed part
of the crackling flames, thuds, and bangs about him. Then it came
again, but this time he recognised the cry as human, but one of
anger more than fear. All at once, he became aware too of the lower
octaves of gruff male voices and derisive laughter.
    Lars sought cover behind a pile of rubble.
There were plenty of places to hide – mounds of blackened debris
and broken steel beams lay everywhere. What he saw next both
shocked and alarmed him.
    Out of the smoke came two burly troopers
in dark green uniforms. The men were dragging a young woman between
them. Her head hung down, and she was scrambling awkwardly to keep
pace with her captors. She was wearing a yellow gown, a gown an
upper-class guest might wear to a garden party or ball. However, if
she had been the screamer before, she was now making no
sound.
    Who was she? What’s more, who were the
men? Ever since he could remember, Lars had known the scarlet
uniform of the good queen’s soldiers; he knew of no other. But
these men were clad in the green garb of some alien world; the negative of the
royal red. Their armour, helm and cuirass, were black. Big Meredith
light-bolt pistols hung at their hips.
    Lars knew the Meredith handgun. That much
was familiar. He had fired one at a military recruitment exhibition
at Fort Vegar only the year before, when he had briefly considered
the army as an alternative occupation to farmer. For its size, the
Meredith was a weapon of formidable destructive power, the mainstay
of the