The Sword and the Plough Read Online Free Page A

were always catastrophic, but
fortunately few.
    “Well, here goes,” Lars murmured pulling back
on the controlcolumn and squeezing the trigger. “Crunch time!”
    The plough shuddered – a plume of dark
smoke erupted. A white-hot beam bleached a four-metre long ellipse
in the black rock field ahead of him. The rock glowed red and began
to crack and shift – shattering, crumbling – disintegrating into
soil.
    Lars waved triumphantly at the far-away rock
plough shimmering atop a lake like mirage on the stygian
landscape.
    “She’s fixed, Helen. I’m back in action.”
    “Okay. That’s a relief. We can’t afford any
more workshop repair bills,” his sister responded, then queried,
“Lars, are you calling for a break?” Her voice sounded tired.
    Lars grinned. “Why, Sis, is the heat getting
to you?”
    “I can go on as long as you can,” his sister
retorted sharply. “But while you’ve been sitting admiring your
handiwork I’ve been working in this abominable heat.”
    Lars nodded. “Okay,” he answered. “A rest
break is definitely in order. I’ll come over.”
    “I can keep going,” Helen’s voice was defiant
now. “You don’t need to baby me.”
    “Helen!” Lars spoke this time as an older
brother. “I was only kidding. I need a rest even if you don’t. If I
keep going much longer in this heat, I’ll drop. Meet you at the
trailer.”
     
    * * *
     
    The trailer was a cheerful canary yellow
in colour, with a green awning down one side shading a table and
two chairs. Towed by plough to each new field site, the trailer sat awaiting
its owners, its refrigerator humming over its contents of food and
drink, a haven from the punishing heat.
    Inside, two long bunks ran its length,
beneath which medical supplies, clothing, and extra spares for the
ploughs were stowed.
    As well, Lars and Helen often made use of
the trailer to sleep over and make an early start. Each new field that came
under their ploughs was farther from the Kelmutt homestead than the
one before. A sea of green fields, with borders of young trees,
already extended from the homestead centre for nearly a kilometre
radius.
     
    * * *
     
    “To the queen!” Lars raised his glass of
ice-cold orange juice in obeisance to their monarch.
    “To the queen!” his sister echoed raising her
own glass.
    Lars, and his sister, Helen, were second
generation Trionians, but their loyalty to Earth’s monarchy was
never in question.
    They were relaxing in loungers in the
green shade of the trailer’s awning, the colours of their
little oasis in
stark contrast to the black lava plains beyond. Here and there,
hundreds of metres apart, small volcanic cones jutted upward,
incongruous elements in an otherwise flat terrain.
    Helen, at just 16, was nearly four years her
brother’s junior, but at 1.78 metres, almost as tall. Her brown
hair, the ends blonded by the sun, and the radiant blue eyes, which
matched her brother’s, left no one in doubt they were looking at
siblings.
    “Does that make you feel better?” Lars asked,
watching his sister gulp down her juice. A broad grin lit his
face.
    Helen leaned across as if to cuff her
brother – but
relented.
    “Don’t try and tell me you didn’t need a
break any less than I did,” she said, and then sighed. “Yes,
better, much better,” she admitted.
    She leaned back in the lounger and closed her
eyes. “Don’t mind me,” she murmured. “I’m just going to doze off
for a moment.”
    Lars smiled. “Go ahead, Sis, I think I might
join you. Despite the breakdown, we’re well ahead of schedule.
We’ve got all the time in the cosmos.”
    High above them, a peregrine falcon floated
on high in her world, wings outstretched over the blue deep of the
sky. The small dark eyes surveyed the green and black land beneath
for the giveaway signs of life that would focus the cruel curve of
beak and talons in a plummeting testament of death.
    The bird and her soaring grace were
perfection. To her, it mattered