by Ben Bova
Twenty-four hours, Eric thought, gazing up at the bright shafts of sunlight filtering down through the trees, with no sign of a search. Either there had been no occasion for anyone on the outside to contact Woodsgate, or—was it possible that contact had been attempted, and intercepted by whoever was responsible for wrecking the shuttle? Routine contact with the Imperial estate may have been met with faked responses, arousing no suspicion.
"I live just over this next ridge," Brendan was saying, indicating a low, thickly wooded rise up ahead, then extended his arm to the right. "We're paralleling the main trail right now, a little more than two hundred meters due south of here."
Brendan's house was easily visible once they cleared the rise, nestled between the ridge they'd just crossed and a longer, higher one that rose steadily to the north. Like most things on Earth, it was a mixture of Old World construction and modern technology. The main part of the house had been fashioned from brightly colored prefabricated panels and featured a wide, domed roof with large plastiglass skylights. A long extension made of logs—from the surrounding woods, Eric guessed—had been added, and consisted of a combination storage building or workshop and a small stable. There was a portable fusion generator at one side of the prefabbed section that supplied all the dwelling's energy needs, and a receiving dish mounted on the roof. It was larger than Eric had expected, and neatly designed and constructed, the combination of plastic and wood not at all unpleasant to his eye.
Brendan let out a long, sharp whistle as they approached the house. The brush and smaller trees had been cleared in a wide circle around the house and he whistled again when they neared the edge of the grassy area a few dozen meters from the stable.
Not quite in the open, Brendan stopped abruptly and motioned them back with his hand. "Get down," he hissed, dropping to one knee at the same time he slid the shotgun out of his holster and thumbed the safety off. Eric and his father drew their own weapons and remained in the thicker portion of the scrub just outside the cleared yard. "Stay here." He sprinted across the yard, stopping briefly behind the cover of a thick tree before carefully crossing the remaining distance to the entrance of the log structure. The door was made in two parts that opened separately, one above the other. The top door was open and he crouched silently in front of the closed lower section, listening carefully for several moments before easing the bottom door ajar and slipping inside.
As his father kept his eyes trained on the house itself, Eric studied their surroundings. There was a well-worn narrow path on the far side of the property, below the house, that disappeared through the woods in a southeasterly direction, and Eric assumed it led to the main trail. He made a mental note of its location in case Brendan ran into trouble and the two of them had to make a run of it. Minutes passed uncomfortably and Eric was sure that something had happened to him when he appeared, oddly enough, at the front door of the prefabbed portion of the house. He came out onto the porch and looked nervously around, then sprinted back to their hiding place in the scrub.
"They've been here already."
"Who's been here?" Javas demanded.
Brendan stared at the Emperor, his voice deadly serious. "Your son, and his… people. They've completely ransacked my home. I tried to find some additional weapons but they were very thorough about it. My comm screen, most of my medical gear, everything. My horse—" His face twisted in a mixture of rage and sorrow, and he checked the load on the shotgun and gripped it so tightly in his hands that his knuckles went white. He started fidgeting nervously, the pitch of his voice rising as he continued. "The bastards didn't even kill him cleanly. They cut his throat and let him bleed to death in his stall." He scanned the area again, his breath coming in quick gasps. "I—I can't, won't, let it happen again! We've got to get you out of here, find a comm station."
Cut its throat? Eric remarked inwardly. The guards on the shuttle had their throats—
"What are you getting at?" his father demanded. "You can't let what happen again?"
He didn't answer, but continued looking almost frantically around at their surroundings for any sign of movement. Eric watched Brendan for several moments and studied the look of fear in his eyes, trying to identify something there that was more than simply being afraid for one's life. I've seen that look before, he suddenly realized. Glenney's face had had the same fearful expression when they were caught in the shielding before the shuttle had crashed. His father's eyes had flashed the same terrible visage, if only momentarily, back on Luna when it seemed that an attempt was being made on their lives. Not a fear of death itself or even of impending disaster, but a fear of being totally helpless to prevent something from happening. For Glenney, it was the knowledge that he was failing in his only duty, that of protecting him and the Emperor. His father must have felt the same way about him when the threat first appeared. But in Brendan's case—
"Let what happen again?" his father repeated, grasping him by the sleeve. He jerked Brendan around angrily, nearly unbalancing him, forcing him to look directly into his face. "Answer me!"
The sudden confrontation with his father seemed to snap Brendan out of his building panic. His eyes lost some of their wildness and he made himself calm down, swallowing audibly in an attempt to slow his breathing. He relaxed his grip on the shotgun and reached an unsteady hand into one of his pockets, then extended his outstretched palm. "Sire, does this look familiar?" he asked. There was more than a hint of shame in his voice.
All traces of anger, and a good deal of the color, drained instantly from his father's face when he saw the object—a simple gold bracelet—in Brendan's hand. The Emperor picked it up carefully, as if it were red-hot, and examined it wordlessly, a troubled frown spreading across his lips. As he turned it over in his hand, the shiny metal reflected the occasional ray of direct sunshine that managed to sift down through the trees. Part of its gleaming surface was obscured with a good deal of dried blood, but on one side Eric could just make out what appeared to be a delicately ornate engraving of a majestic bird, rising from flames.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"My God," Eric said, almost under his breath, "is that what I think it is? Father, Glenney's security reports—they contained a description of this bracelet, connecting it to the group responsible for my grandfather's death. Surely they've not reorganized to fight the Sun project?"
Javas' lips drew into a tight line as he stared at the object. "Where did this come from?" he asked quietly, his eyes not moving from the bracelet in his hand.
By this point, Brendan had regained most of his self-control. He continued to warily survey their surroundings, and it was clear to Eric that his concerns dealt not only with those who had apparently been here but also with finding a clear means of escape. "Sire, I found it on my dining table, a spot of dried blood beneath it. He placed it on my table himself, his hands still dripping, after killing my horse."
"Who did?" the Emperor demanded. His father could contain himself no more, and gripped the bracelet so tightly that Eric thought he saw it beginning to flatten in his hand.
Brendan lowered his head, his words a whisper. "His name is Johnson, Sire. He was, is, the leader of those on Earth who would end your father's dream to save the Sun. He has no other goal in life but to stop this project. The man is absolutely brutal, bloodthirsty in every way, and thinks nothing of sacrificing others to achieve his ends."
The Emperor turned away, his eyes reaching skyward. Eric had never seen his father so torn with emotion. He shook his head slowly, speaking under his breath. "All those in the landing bay. Mila. Glenney. How many others?"
There was an uncomfortable pause before Brendan added, "Your father."
The Emperor lowered his head slowly and faced the two of them. Something passed then between Brendan and his father: a look, a nod, the tiniest raising of an eyebrow. His father sighed heavily, wearily. "And this man is allied with my—with Reid Valtane?"
"It would be more accurate to say that Reid Valtane is a product of th
is man."
They had remained still, talking quietly long enough that the natural sounds of the backwoods had returned around them as they spoke. But a sudden flurry of birds through the treetops caught their attention just seconds before they heard the horses approaching over the ridge on the northern side of the house.
There were three of them, and they rode swiftly, noisily, down the ridge in their direction with weapons waving above their heads. They were still at the crest of the heavily wooded ridge, and since they were riding through the thickest part of the backwoods undergrowth it would be several moments before they reached the clearing; but even at this distance Eric could hear them laughing, already enjoying the chase.
"Come on! This way!" Brendan was immediately on his feet, already moving to the south, down the gradual incline leading to the main trail. His father pocketed the bracelet and turned to follow, calling to Eric to do the same.
"I'm right behind you," he yelled. He jammed the pin laser through the ever-present layer of dead leaves and flicked it on, then tamped it the rest of the way into the moist dirt underneath, hoping silently that one of their pursuers was directly above it when it overloaded.
The three of them ran as fast as they could through the underbrush, trying to reach the main trail. While the horses could easily outrun them on the trail, they were better able to negotiate the underbrush and downed branches and seemed to be making some headway. Since Brendan was leading them through the underbrush, Eric assumed that the path he'd seen earlier must not have been as direct a way to get to the trail as the way they were going. Still, if the horsemen took the path, the surer footing for their animals might lead them there before them, even if it was a slightly longer way to go. He slowed as he ran, looking over his shoulder, and saw the trio was following them in nearly a straight line. Good, he thought, crossing his fingers, right over the laser. Now, if only the timing is right.
It wasn't; not quite, anyway. The horses had reached the clearing and immediately picked up speed, heading for the exact route they'd taken through the scrub—looking back, he could see the ferns and brush broken and matted by their passage, marking clearly the way they'd gone—and the front rider was still several meters away from where they'd been hiding when the laser reached overload. Had the timing been better and the horse directly above when it blew, it might have done serious injury to both horse and rider. As it was, however, the horse reared back, throwing the rider to the ground. His companions had been following closely enough that their horses also broke stride and milled about in frightened confusion as the rider who had been thrown remounted. Having lost their advantage of surprise, the riders circled each other, talking rapidly among themselves, and split up, one galloping away toward the path, the other two continuing the way they had run through the underbrush. Eric nearly laughed aloud at how well his plan had worked, good timing or no. In any event, their lead had increased tremendously, although Eric now realized that he felt suddenly naked without the laser.
The terrain became considerably steeper, and they were forced to continue their escape in a combination of running-sliding-running the last several meters before reaching the trail itself. They stood panting, trying to catch their breath, and considered their options.
"The one who took the path will most certainly turn back this way," Brendan gasped. "The other two will be slower, especially on the steeper parts we just came down. If we turn west, back toward Woodsgate, we'll have all three of them behind us; but if we turn east, toward town, we'll have but one opponent…"
The words hung in the air only a few seconds before his father flipped open the chamber on the revolver to check the load, then deftly snapped it closed again. "I understand. Let's go."
They ran quietly to the east, listening carefully for the horse they knew would soon be coming their way. They had covered only a few hundred meters when—although they could not yet see him coming from around the curve of the trail—they heard the hoofbeats echoing through the backwoods and jumped for cover on either side of the trail. Brendan and his father fired simultaneously when he rounded the curve, the combined blasts of the shotgun and revolver sending the rider literally flying out of the saddle.
The two older men went into action immediately, and Eric was amazed at how they worked together, doing what needed to be done with only a few words spoken between them. While his father dragged the downed rider into the growth at the side of the trail, Brendan tried to retrieve the horse, but had little success with the terrified animal. Instead, he slapped it on the rear and sent it running down the trail to the west in hopes that it might slow down any pursuit from that direction. With luck, the frightened animal would keep going down the trail and the two horsemen who had followed their path through the underbrush would see its hoofprints in the soft, packed earth and follow in the wrong direction. Eric hurried to his father, who knelt at the dead rider's side, and recognized the overweight man instantly as the one his brother had called Mobo.
Brendan came back to them with another shotgun, a single-barrel model, pulled from the saddle holster of the horse before he set the animal free. "Have you ever fired one of these?" he asked, tossing it to Eric.
Eric hefted the weapon in his hands, testing its weight, and allowed his fingers to explore the trigger housing. "No, not one like this."
"It's loaded, and it's easy to shoot. Just point it in the right direction, like a laser—oh, nice bit of work back there with the pin laser, by the way." Was that just the hint of a smile on his lips? "Let's move." As before, Brendan led the way.
The three of them continued running, stopping only briefly when they realized that the riderless horse must have indeed led the other two to the west. They shared the remainder of the water in the flask, then started off again, at an easy jog to conserve their strength, toward Somerville.
They had covered maybe two kilometers when the trail began to look familiar to Eric. He'd been here before, a number of times, and he tried to remember landmarks and potential side trails in case the need arose. He had dropped back behind the others, scanning their current location, and was visually separated from them around a curve in the trail when he heard a sudden gasp in front of him.
"Father!" He rushed forward, instantly recognizing the location as the same clearing where his brother had accosted him four years earlier. The downed oak was there, unchanged, the rough-hewn steps in its side just as he remembered them. Brendan and his father had been about to climb over it when they ran into a shield of some kind. They hung suspended in the clearing, their feet several centimeters above the ground as they struggled to free themselves from—what? It looked like they were caught in some invisible spiderweb as they groped and thrashed, almost in slow motion, against an unseen wall in front of them. Whenever their feet scraped the ground, they kicked up leaves and dirt that instantly became mired in whatever was holding them. Eric raised the shotgun, looking frantically for a target, and was nudged in the back by something. He whirled around and felt himself instantly mired in a thickness of air that seemed to hold him solidly. The more he struggled, the thicker the air became and the harder it seemed to be able to move at all. He lost his grip on the shotgun and stared incredulously as it floated in the air next to him, just out of his reach. He tried not to resist it, relaxing his arms and legs in an attempt to free himself by moving slowly, but to no avail.
"Well, what have we here?" a deep, booming voice asked. He heard the man's boots scuffing across the bark of the downed oak tree behind him, then rustling through the dry leaves on the ground, and struggled desperately to turn around, trying to face the speaker. "Why, it looks like the former Master of House Valtane." His commanding voice lilted sarcastically as he spoke to Brendan. "And look who you've brought me: Javas, son of Nicholas, Emperor of the Hundred Worlds."
It was apparent that his father and Brendan were still held helpless by the section of the force field behind him, but it sounded like the newcomer was somehow walking freely about them. This isn'
t one large field, Eric reasoned, but single fields around each of us. He struggled again, but managed only to turn his head a few centimeters. He might not have bothered because the newcomer walked to him next, circling him as if there was nothing there to hamper him. It was him—the tall, bearded man who had caught him as he fell on the shuttle ramp back on Luna. The man Brendan had called Johnson. There was a long plastiskin bandage running down his neck and into the open collar of his shirt, and he walked with a slight limp from the injuries he'd received in the shuttle crash the previous day. It was just as obvious, as evidenced by how well he seemed to be getting around, that he'd received a good deal of advanced medical attention. From the physicians at House Valtane, no doubt. He had no weapon that he could see, but held a small, flat object in his right hand.
"Prince Eric, I've been watching your development for some time. It's good to make your acquaintance in less formal circumstances than our brief encounter on the Moon." He walked up to Eric's shotgun and ran the thing in his hand around the perimeter of the gun, then plucked it effortlessly out of the air, adding it to the weapons he must have taken in a similar manner from the others. He slipped the controller device into his shirt pocket.
Eric was furious and tried to speak, but found that although his breathing seemed normal, he couldn't utter a sound.
"Save your breath, Young Prince," Johnson said, "you should have but a short wait." He turned away, walking out of sight behind him once more. Eric heard a brief bit of static, then, "They turned to the east, Lord. I have them."
He had felt trapped, helpless, before—at this exact spot, in fact—but for the first time in his life, he felt abject humiliation. He struggled again, uselessly, more out of anger at his situation than from any hope that he might actually break the grip of the field holding him. He concentrated on the sounds behind him: He could hear the occasional struggling of his father and Brendan as their feet would contact the ground and scoop through the leaves below them. Johnson stacked the weapons out of reach, then unfastened a pack or bag of some kind and removed a canteen, the loud slurping unmistakable. From time to time a bird called somewhere in the backwoods, and at one point he thought he heard the trilling of a raccoon, which disappeared immediately at the sound of approaching hoofbeats.