To Save the Sun

Chapter Ten

Eric’s breath came in sharp, painful gasps. There was a stabbing ache in his side and a hot, metallic taste in his mouth that burned down the very length of his throat each time he swallowed. The day had been chilly when he’d started his hike, but sweat covered him now as he ran, making the tiny scratches and lacerations on his face and forearms from low branches and briars sting. Fatigue steadily overtook him, causing him to misplace his hurried steps more and more frequently now; he was stumbling more often, and he knew that any lead he once had over his pursuers was beginning to dwindle, if, in fact, much distance remained between them.

He had never taken the main trail this near the town before, and was now beginning to regret having left the grounds at all.

There was a clearing up ahead where the hulk of a fallen tree—an enormous oak, its battered old trunk more than a meter thick—lay across the path. It had been there for some time, apparently, because someone, perhaps a local farmer or one of the townsmen who regularly hunted these woods, had taken the trouble to hack crude steps into the rounded sides with an ax. The steps were little more than boot holds scooped out of the wood and he should have slowed, he knew, and sacrificed a bit of time to scramble carefully over, but instead he made an attempt to leap it. His right leg actually cleared the top as he leaped, but his left shin banged full force into the downed tree, snagging him and sending him tumbling onto the damp, hard-packed dirt of the path on the other side.

Eric rolled onto his back and, staring at the patches of blue sky visible through the treetops, lay still and waited for the ground to stop spinning around him. He closed his eyes, shutting out the dizziness, and enjoyed for a moment the delicious chill seeping through his sweat-soaked shirt from the damp ground beneath him. Listening carefully, he tried to detect the sounds of the boys chasing him, but his breathing was still too labored and, to him anyway, too loud to hear much of anything other than his own blood rushing in his ears at the same accelerated pace as his heart pounding in his chest.

He struggled to his feet, wincing when he put weight on his left leg, and was about to start down the path once more when a sudden, stinging pain thudded against his left shoulder, followed by another further down his back. Eric tried to run, but the weakness in his leg made him stumble to his knees as a third piece of lead shot grazed his ear. His hand flew instinctively to the side of his head and he cried out, against his will, and fought back tears.

“Hold now, pup, or my next shot will crack your skull asplit!”

He clenched his eyes tightly, trying to drive the pain away. Eric felt a warm stickiness in his fingers, but refused to lower his hand and look at the blood he knew he would find there. Instead, he fell to a sitting position and pivoted slowly around to face his tormentor. The boy stood atop the fallen bole of the oak tree, aiming a slingshot at his forehead. His aim was pulled back fully, ready to fire, and if the lead ball contained in the slingshot was of the same weight as those he’d already used, Eric was sure the boast of cracking his skull was no idle one. Still holding his ear, he lowered his head in a sign of surrender.

“That’s a good pup,” said the boy atop the log, barely winded by the chase. He was at least five years older than Eric, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and jumped down from the log with an agility that said he was no stranger to the rugged terrain of the backwoods. There was something about the older boy that was familiar, Eric thought, but he couldn’t quite place him. Perhaps he’d seen him in the village on one of the rare instances McLaren had allowed him to accompany him, or maybe he was a son of one of the servants or groundskeepers at Woodsgate.

He strode casually to where Eric sat, the slingshot never wavering. A grin spread across his face, and Eric noticed the thin beard the boy was attempting to cultivate. The whiskers were very light in color; lighter, in fact, than the long copper-red hair that tumbled unkempt over his collar.

“Paulie! Mobo! Come on around!” There was a thrashing sound from the woods to Eric’s left, and presently two more boys appeared at the edge of the trail.

The three of them were dressed in similar clothing: roomy, belted pants of a dark broadcloth fabric, linen shirts with long blousy sleeves, leather lug-soled boots, and vests of leather and heavy canvas. Their clothes showed obvious wear from repeated hiking in the backwoods, but the colorful nylon knapsacks the two newcomers wore appeared new. Each of the three wore a knife sheath on his belt, while the boy with the slingshot also wore a whip coiled at his side.

“Do you know how easy you were to catch?” asked the first boy, slowly releasing the tension on the slingshot. He put the ball into a small sack dangling from his belt and tucked the slingshot itself into a pocket. “I asked you a question,” he repeated.

Eric looked up, but did not answer, and noted with satisfaction mat his silence had not been taken as fear, but rather as defiance, which seemed to perturb the boy. He nodded sharply to his two companions and they jerked Eric to his feet.

“Cut him, Reid,” said the shorter, heavier of the two as he released Eric’s left arm and discreetly stepped a few paces behind his leader. “Show him what we think of peepers.”

The boy, Reid, laughed and stepped forward. “How about that, now, pup? Did you get an eyeful, and enjoy it?”

Eric had sneaked out of Woodsgate, bypassing the security shielding that surrounded his home, and had spent the better part of the afternoon outside the grounds. He was forbidden to leave the grounds unaccompanied and Master McLaren would be livid when his absence was noticed—again. But any opportunity to ramble through the Kentucky hills, even for a short while, was worth any reprimand the Master might hand out. He had been hiking what he thought was a little-used side path off the main trail when he’d come upon them. He had heard them first, heard the sounds of a woman’s high-pitched laughter in a patch of scrub just off a section of the established trail near the village. Curiosity had drawn him closer and he saw, about a dozen meters distant through a break in the scrub, Reid and his companions—and what they were doing—in a small clearing.

A working whore was with them, one of the women he’d heard about who practiced their trade at the local taverns. She was at least a little intoxicated and seemed to find it difficult to keep from giggling periodically, even as the boys prepared to take their turns with her. She lay naked on a hastily made bed of dry leaves and pine boughs over which she’d spread out her own clothing. Reid unfastened his pants, lowered them to his knees and, not bothering to undress further, climbed on top of the woman, much to her seeming delight.

Eric had watched in fascination and fear of something he knew about, both from his formal teachings and boyhood tale-telling, but had never experienced, never seen before.

“Reid! There!” One of the boys pointed at his hiding place in the bushes and all heads turned toward him. He froze, even as Reid scrambled to his feet and quickly, clumsily, refastened his pants.

“Another!” cried the working whore, her voice showing more amusement than annoyance at the interruption. She rolled unsteadily to her side on the makeshift bed, supporting herself on an elbow, and faced Eric. He stared at her, unable to move. “And a young one, at that!” She laughed again, unbalancing herself as she did, and fell once more to her back.

There was a sharp crackling sound as a lead shot whizzed through the leaves at his right, shaking him from his immobility. Even as he turned, he saw that the three were already moving. Only the fact that they hesitated to grab their few belongings gave him a head start. He turned and ran back down the trail in the direction of Woodsgate, the sounds at his back a mixture of angry cries from the boys at his heels and the even angrier cries of the woman, now suddenly aware that her young customers were leaving without paying…

“Do you know how easy it was to overtake you?” Reid asked again, standing before him now with knife in hand. He handled the knife casually, even showed off with it by flipping it into the air end over end and snatching it firmly by the handle each time. “It was a simple matter. The trail makes a great curve over the last half-klick.” He swept his arm to encompass the woods to his right. “We simply cut across, pup; knowing you’d be slowing here at this tree.”

Eric looked up at his tormentor. Feel free to hide your fear and anger from your enemy, he recited inwardly, remembering what McLaren had taught him. But tell the truth about your feelings if it may help you defeat him. Above all, let him know the contempt you feel for him.

“Three of you, one of me,” he said, using every bit of self-discipline he possessed to make the words sound stronger than he actually felt. “Your years of knowledge and experience in the backwoods, against those of a stranger in these parts.” He paused, then raised an eyebrow and tried to make his voice sound as sarcastic as possible before adding, “It must have been very hard for you.”

Reid stared in disbelief, as did his companions, at the twelve-year-old who’d just dared to stand up to him. His smile vanished. “You should be taught,” he said, no longer flipping the knife, “not to speak with such disrespect to your elders.”

“My elders?” Eric replied, hoping the fear he was beginning to feel didn’t show in his voice. He forced a smile and looked directly at Reid. “My elders have more than fuzz on their faces.”

One of the other boys—Eric didn’t dare take his eyes off Reid to see which one—chuckled under his breath, and Reid cut him off with a sudden, icy stare. He turned back to Eric, approaching him with the knife. “Here’s something to think about, pup, next time you decide to spy on us.”

Eric wanted to tell them who he was, threaten them with the full might behind his family name, but something deep inside him made him want to see this through on his own. Besides, he realized, they’d probably never believe him anyway. Instead, he stood his ground, hands balled into tight fists at his side. Wait, wait for the moment, he thought. Wait until he is vulnerable—or until there is nothing left to lose.

Reid lightly ran the back of the blade against Eric’s neck and up under his chin, then inserted it—blade edge facing away from his skin—into the collar of Eric’s pullover shirt. He slid the knife downward, at an angle, easily slicing the fabric with the obviously razor-sharp edge. Once he’d reached the bottom of the shirt, he returned the knife briefly to Eric’s neck, then cut the shirt from his left shoulder down the length of the sleeve before repeating the procedure with the right sleeve. Eric stood motionless, staring straight into Reid’s eyes as his shirt fell away. The other two—Mobo and Paulie—laughed aloud as they watched. “Cut him!” Mobo cried again, then they both laughed even harder, urging Reid on.

The breeze played across Eric’s bare back and chest and he started to shiver, both from fear and from the chill wind. Wait… wait.

A sadistic grin beamed from Reid’s face as he stuck the knife into the waist of Eric’s pants. He sawed at the waistband and thin belt until they finally severed, chuckling as Eric’s shirt—which had been tucked into his pants—fell to the ground. Then he quickly ran the knife down the length of the right pants leg. He needed to cut only a few centimeters down the remaining leg before the pants fell away.

Reid laughed aloud and turned to receive the approving laughter of his companions.

In the brief moment his attention was drawn away Eric slapped as hard as he could at Reid’s outstretched hand, sending the knife flying into the scrub. The surprised boy turned back just in time to catch nearly the full force of Eric’s right elbow as he brought it up forcefully under his chin, causing him to stumble backward, momentarily dazed.

“Come on, bastards!” Eric crouched in a defensive stance when the other two pressed forward—none too surely, having seen what he had just done to Reid—and snapped sharply to each in turn, hands held in fighting position before him whenever either got too close. He knew he couldn’t outrun them, especially with the remnants of his pants still dangling from one leg, so he continued to stand his ground hoping to bluff them or, at the least, stall for time until he could think of something else.

Reid staggered to his feet, rubbing tenderly at his jaw, and laughed softly. Eric noticed, however, that he stayed just outside arms’ reach even as he seemed to grasp control of his situation.

“Look at this!” he shouted to his friends, pointing. “I do think we’ve been attacked by a naked man-child.” Reid turned and roared in amusement, with the other two quickly joining in the derisive laughter.

Eric let his guard down slightly, taken aback by what Reid was saying. He looked down at himself, naked but for his boots, underwear and the remains of the unsevered portion of his pants hanging in tatters from his left leg, and admitted inwardly just how ridiculous he must have appeared. The reflection took only a moment, but it was enough time for Reid to swing around with his leg, kicking him squarely in the ribs.

His chest felt like it was exploding as he twisted around with the force of the blow and crumpled facedown on the path. Reid was immediately on top of him, forcing the breath out of his lungs. The older boy grabbed his wrists and held them flat against the ground, while at the same time forcing a knee into his back, pinning him helplessly. His ribs ached and Reid’s knee in his back hurt like hell, but the pain couldn’t match the shame he felt at ignoring his training and letting himself be taken by surprise in this manner. He was glad McLaren was not here now—much less his father—to see how he had failed one of the most basic lessons of self-defense.

“What say you now, pup?” Reid spat, thoroughly enjoying the humiliation he was inflicting. He pulled Eric’s wrists backward, pinning them behind his back. Each time he spoke, he twisted his aims higher and higher behind him until Eric thought they might snap. The weight of the knee in his back was so great that Eric could barely draw a breath and he felt himself dizzying; if he couldn’t get up soon, he’d surely pass out. “Perhaps this will teach you something more important than respect.” He stood up abruptly, and Eric felt a moment’s relief spread through his aching limbs.

Reid took the whip from his belt, then played it out and snapped it loudly over his head. “Perhaps this will teach you the meaning of territory.” He nodded sharply at his companions, then flicked the whip back and forth as they tied Eric’s wrists around the nearest tree.

Eric hung helplessly from the tree, the bark rough against his bare chest, and waited for the whip to strike. He heard them laughing behind him, enjoying every minute of the torment, and tried, unsuccessfully, to look over his shoulder to where Reid stood. There was another sharp crack! of the whip and Eric jumped, certain that the next time the whip lashed out would be against his bare back. Crack! Again Reid chose not to strike him, and Eric realized what he was doing: More than causing direct pain with the whip itself, Reid wanted to frighten him, terrify him so deeply that he would beg to prevent the inevitable beating. But that was the key, Eric knew. The beating was inevitable, but there was no need to give Reid the satisfaction of knowing he was beaten. Hide your fear, hide your anger; but show your contempt.

The whip lashed out again, this time actually striking the tree just above his head. Shreds of bark scattered about his hair and shoulders. Eric’s eyes closed tightly in fear, but he forced himself to laugh.

Reid stopped, silencing his friends with a wave of his arm, and let the whip hang limply at his side. “What’s so funny?” he demanded.

Eric said nothing.

Reid stomped to Eric’s side and grabbed a handful of hair, snapping his head back. “I asked you what you were laughing at.” He pulled harder, forcing Eric’s head to turn in his direction. “Answer me!”

“I was just wondering,” Eric replied smoothly, “if you always miss your target.”

Incensed, Reid stepped quickly back and let fly with the whip, striking him across his left shoulder. Eric cried out, and tears rolled uncontrollably down his cheeks as the whip struck him a second time, then a third.

For the briefest of moments, Eric thought that the fourth strike was the whip, but as a veritable shower of wood and bark chips fell over him he realized that a part of the tree itself had exploded above him. He opened his eyes and heard yet another blast in his ears, and recognized the sound of an Earther hunting weapon; a shotgun.

“Reid! I’ll blow your gods-damned head from your shoulders if you move a muscle!”

The sounds behind him were confusing, and at the same time reassuring: scuffling sounds and fast talking as Reid and the others attempted to deal with whoever it was that had appeared so suddenly; the snort and hooves of a horse, a big one; the ka-chuck-ka-chuck, clack, of two more shells being loaded into the chamber of a shotgun.

“Hello!” Eric shouted. “Who’s there?” There was no answer.

“Is this the way you have been spending your time, Reid, accosting traveling children?” The horse stomped again and Eric heard the sound of the beast’s labored breathing—whoever the newcomer was had come in a hurry. Apparently his pursuers had had a pursuer of their own. There was a pause, and then another heavy sound as the horse leaped the fallen oak, then trotted to where he hung at the tree.

The rider was middle-aged, by Earth standards, and wore clothing that befitted a noble family. He was handsome of face, but wore a troubled expression as their eyes met.

He shook his head as he looked down from his mount. “A mere boy,” he said over his shoulder. “And for this you needed help from Fat Mobo and Paulie the Snake?” He reached for the machete at his waist and cut Eric’s bonds with a single chop. Eric fell back from the tree immediately, but caught himself before collapsing on the ground. He rubbed his wrists, but pointedly ignored the excruciating pain from the blows he’d just taken from Reid’s whip. The stranger looked down at him once more and, apparently assured that he was all right, pulled the reins on his mount and returned his attention to the others.

“I am ashamed,” he said simply. The horse snorted again, punctuating his remark as he pulled on the reins and guided the animal closer to Reid and his friends. Eric smiled in satisfaction at the way the two accomplices shied back from the big horse, but noted that Reid stood his ground, unshaken by the horseman’s strong words. “Mobo, Paulie—leave. I wish to speak to the brave and manly Reid alone.” The two immediately scrambled wordlessly over the oak and rushed back up the trail in the same direction from where the horse had appeared. Reid didn’t bother to bid diem good-bye, but remained where he stood, glaring at the horseman.

“You should mind your own business, Brendan,” he said once his friends had disappeared into the backwoods.

The horse turned slightly as the man slid the shotgun into a saddle holster and smoothly dismounted, landing at Reid’s feet. He removed his riding gloves and tucked them into a loop on the saddle, then, in one fluid motion, turned and backhanded Reid, knocking him backward into the trunk of the fallen oak. “You are my business,” he said.

Reid wiped a bleeding lip with his sleeve and leaped forward, and found himself staring at the knife that had appeared suddenly in Brendan’s hand.

“I’ve taught you nothing,” Brendan spat, shaking his head in disgust. Reid stood back and straightened, and it was obvious even from Eric’s vantage point that the newcomer’s words had hit home, as Reid’s anger seemed to drain from him.

“You’ve taught me much,” Reid replied, his voice at once defiant, but more respectful in tone than it had been moments earlier. “But I sometimes fail to see the value in what you’ve taught.”

Brendan nodded. “That much is obvious. But had I been a stranger out to do you harm, and you had attacked—as you did now—out of anger and unarmed, you might now be watching your blood spill onto the ground, and not merely trickling from a cut lip. Would you have seen a value in my lessons then?”

The boy crossed his arms in silence and stared off into the woods.

“And since when have you taken a liking to the torment of those weaker than you?” Brendan pointed to where Eric stood, almost naked, still rubbing sore wrists.

“But we caught him spying on us!”

“Yes, I know,” Brendan replied. “I encountered your working whore a kilometer up-trail. It was she who told me what happened and the direction you ran. I came up behind you some minutes ago and followed you here.” Eric saw the man smile for the first time since he’d appeared. “If you think I am angry and disappointed, wait until you talk with the whore—”

“I’ll probably never see the drunken bitch again,” Reid interrupted. “She wasn’t that good.”

“Perhaps not. But you’ll go into town and pay her tavern keeper nonetheless.”

Reid started to protest Brendan’s decision, but thought better of it, adding in a low voice, “You’ll not always be able to tell me what to do, you know.”

Brendan casually replaced the knife in the sheath on his belt. If he was offended or concerned by what Reid had said, he didn’t show it.

“That’s true enough. When you reach eighteen, my obligations to your mother will end and you’ll be free to turn your back on House Valtane, although to do so would show even poorer judgment than I’ve seen you display this day alone.” Again, he looked meaningfully at Eric.

The exertion of the chase and the terror of his treatment at Reid’s hands now behind him, Eric felt the cold of the backwoods seeping into his skin. The welts on his back hurt, and he tried to concentrate on the pain as a means of taking his mind on the growing chill. He crossed his arms, covering himself as best he could, and started shivering more intensely than before.

Brendan turned suddenly back to Reid, the look of anger he’d shown earlier once more flashing in his eyes. “Remove your shirt and vest.”

Reid’s mouth moved wordlessly several times before he finally managed to sputter a single “What?”

“Your shirt and vest; take them off. Now!”

He hesitated a moment, but realizing that Brendan was indeed serious, he complied. He removed the vest first, then the shirt, and tossed both into a heap on the ground between them. “Anything else, Master Brendan?” he demanded sarcastically.

Brendan ignored the insult. “For now, no. Get you back to House, where I’ll expect you in the exercise room at exactly six o’clock. It seems you need a refresher in hand-to-hand, not to mention manners. Perhaps we can address both at the same time.”

Reid stood a moment, unmoving, and stared in unabashed contempt for his teacher. Then, without further discourse, he turned sharply and hopped atop the log. He glanced back once at Eric with a look that said he held him personally responsible for the humiliation he’d just received, then hopped down the other side before disappearing into the backwoods at an unhurried jog.

Apparently satisfied that his young charge was on his way home, Brendan pulled a small nylon container from his saddlebag. The roughly rectangular container sported several pockets and compartments, one of which produced a plastic pouch of antiseptic pads. Brendan tore open one of the pads and daubed it with a gentle and skillful hand on Eric’s back. As cold as Eric was beginning to feel, the pad felt even colder where it touched his skin; but there was no stinging and the pain in the welts started to fade almost immediately.

“This will ease the pain and start the healing process, but have these looked at as soon as you get home.” He put the used pad into a separate section of the container and returned it to the saddlebag. Retrieving the discarded clothing, he shook them once to remove the leaves, then tossed the bundle to Eric. “The temperature is dropping rapidly, better put these on. I didn’t think his pants would fit, or I would have had him leave them as well.” He walked over to his horse, which had wandered a few paces away and was nibbling at the long grasses clustered in a small patch off the trail.

Eric wasted no time in tearing away the remnants of his pants and pulling the heavy linen shirt over his head. The welts on his back smarted as the cloth slid over them, but the warmth of the shirt—which hung nearly to his knees—more than made up for any discomfort. He watched his benefactor with interest as he buttoned the collar at his neck and quickly donned the vest. Besides the obvious gratitude he felt for the man Brendan, he was fascinated with what he perceived as an odd mixture of personality traits. It was clear that Reid looked at him in only one way, as his teacher, and Eric had to admit to himself that that was how he looked at his own teacher, Master McLaren. But McLaren was one-dimensional, trained as a Master and executing that function flawlessly.

But this man was somehow different. He dealt with his pupil with ease, even when stern brutality was called for, but there was something else about him that Eric could not quite identify. A worldliness, perhaps, or a familiarity with things long past that were missed in his life. Eric knew nothing about this man, but felt himself liking him despite his strangeness. Even now, as Brendan produced an apple from his saddlebag and proceeded to slice it into chunks for his mount, he seemed to exhibit a oneness with the animal, gaining its trust and submission much in the same way he had gained his own.

“Thank you,” he said.

Brendan stopped mid-slice on the apple and turned to face him. “So, you do speak, then.” He gave the last piece of the apple to the horse, then reached into the saddlebag and pulled out another. “Catch.”

Eric snagged the apple easily, and nodded thanks before biting deeply into the fruit. He hadn’t realized, until this moment with the tart juices dripping coldly down his chin, just how hungry the activity of the last hour had made him. He finished most of the apple in a few bites, then said, “I’ve never seen a horse like that. May I…”

“Of course.” Brendan patted the horse several times as Eric neared to reassure the animal that the small stranger meant no harm. He pointed with the knife at the last bit of apple in Eric’s hand. “He’ll be your friend for life if you give him that.”

Eric approached cautiously, holding the apple out in his palm, and reached up to stroke the horse’s head with his other hand. The animal snorted once and reared his head back, but quickly overcame any suspicions it had and eagerly took the treat from Eric’s hand. “I’ve never seen anything like him,” he repeated. “He’s beautiful.”

“You’ve got a good eye for horses. My Mistress’ House has one of the finest privately owned bio-bred farms in Sol system.” The man continued stroking the horse’s neck in silence as a feeling of awkwardness fell over them. After a moment, Brendan cleared his throat and turned to him. “Are you all right?”

The welts still hurt a good deal, but Eric nodded. “The pain’s gone; I’ll be fine,” he said. He scanned the woods around him, then up at the sky. The cloud cover had thickened and that, combined with the lateness of the day, had caused the backwoods to grow dimmer. “I’d better be getting back.”

Brendan followed the boy’s upward gaze, then glanced at the timepiece on his wrist. “You may be right. Besides, it looks like rain may be on the way, although it’s difficult to be certain in the backwoods.” He patted the horse’s neck one last time and easily swung himself up into the saddle, then bent down from the saddle and held out his hand. “Climb up, Eric, and I’ll give you a ride back to Woodsgate.”

Eric had reached up to accept Brendan’s hand, but hesitated now and stared in shock. How did this man know him? He studied the man’s face, and saw that he apparently regretted having admitted what he knew, or at least wished he’d chosen a better way of admitting it. Taking the horseman’s hand in his, he placed his foot in the open stirrup and swung himself up behind the saddle.

They rode in near silence for the next hour; when they spoke it was only to discuss some aspect of the trail or the weather, or to speculate on the type of animal tracks that were visible on the trail itself. They stopped once so Eric could relieve himself, and they took advantage of the break to share the last of the apples from his saddlebag.

They stopped again where the trail crossed the hard-surface access road, with Woodsgate looming vast and foreboding in the gray light at the end of the road. The security cameras had detected their approach, of course, and several armed Imperial guards waited at the open gate. McLaren was there, pacing, as were several of his Master’s attendants. Eric thought it odd that McLaren held back. When they were still nearing the gate, Eric had thought he’d seen the Master running forward to greet them or—more likely—to assure his safety. But now he waited with the others. Did McLaren know the horseman? He would have to ask later.

Still several dozen meters distant, Brendan brought the horse to a halt. “This is as far as I go.”

Eric swung himself down from the horse and stood looking up at Brendan. “Thank you for your help,” he said simply, then turned his back on horse and rider and headed for the gate and the pacing Master.

“I can only apologize for their actions,” Brendan called after him, “but I can say this: You handled yourself well back there.”

Eric stopped. The guards bristled nervously and tightened their grip on their weapons until he raised a hand, making them relax somewhat, and turned sharply back to face the rider.

“You watched it all, didn’t you.” It was an accusation, not a question. He stepped closer, his eyes confidently meeting Brendan’s. “Why did you wait so long to do something to stop it?”

“For that, I cannot apologize.” The horse, apparently nervous at a potential confrontation with the armed guards, snorted impatiently and he patted his neck reassuringly, soothing the animal. “For I am a teacher,” he continued, “and you needed to learn an important lesson, Young Prince.”

He pulled at the reins, swinging the horse about, and trotted down the road, finally disappearing into the backwoods.

Chapter Eleven

Javas, Emperor of the Hundred Worlds, stared out over the fog-shrouded Kentucky hills surrounding Woodsgate. He sat on the balcony of his personal suite at the family estate, enjoying the brilliance of the changing colors sweeping the wooded river valley to the southwest, and inhaled deeply of the autumn air. I stayed away from Earth too long again, he thought. I’ve missed this place… I’ve missed my son.

Robb McLaren was giving his report, but Javas had paid attention to only half of what his son’s Master had been saying.

“Sire?” McLaren asked. The man was well trained, among the finest parenting Masters the Empire could produce, and knew as much about when to intrude upon his Emperor’s private thoughts as he did about raising, and teaching, his only child.

Javas turned sharply. “I can’t believe you allowed him to slip through the shielding,” he snapped, causing the attendant standing at the doorway to jump slightly. “I’ve checked with security all the way up to Glenney, and he assures me that all shielding was not only in place, but that it had been doubled since the last time he slipped out.”

“That’s true, Sire,” McLaren replied, his voice, as always, level and near monotone. Javas often thought that a bomb could go off under his chair while he was speaking and the Master’s voice would continue as if nothing had happened. “However, he has become quite skilled at manipulating the security systems—not to mention everything else connected with the main computer. I shouldn’t be surprised if the current software of the House systems bears little resemblance to anything of its original programming. He has become that adept.”

Javas considered McLaren’s words. He looked idly at the Master, and reflected on how much the man reminded him of Montlaven, the tutor that he and his brothers shared when they were growing up at Woodsgate.

Chosen from among the Earthers, as Montlaven had been, McLaren dressed as the Earthers dressed and held many of the same customs and antiquated ideas about natural progress—he did not partake of rejuvenation, for example—and yet Javas seemed to feel a greater understanding of him than he’d ever felt with Montlaven. Of course, he reasoned, I am an adult now, and a parent, and I see those things that only a parent sees. Perhaps I see, and appreciate, things that were invisible to me when I was a child.

“I suppose I should be grateful, then, that his education in technical matters has exceeded his other pursuits?” He stood, and leaned on the ornate railing of the balcony overlooking the Woodsgate grounds and the Kentucky countryside.

McLaren cleared his throat and stirred uneasily for the first time during this discussion. “Well, uh, I am most impressed by his grasp of technical science, but I…”

“Yes?”

The Master paused, then began in a tone that almost conveyed embarrassment. “He is… headstrong, stubborn.” McLaren looked about nervously, trying to avoid the steady gaze of his Emperor. “If I may be so bold… I knew Joseph Montlaven and, as I expected to someday be made Master for your son, we compared notes frequently.” He stopped, fidgeted with the cup of coffee on the low table before him. “Neither you nor your brothers were this impetuous. I’ve never seen a personal drive or determination of will to match Prince Eric’s.”

“He gets it from his mother.”

“But, Sire—” Javas cut him off with a wave of his hand and immersed himself in the pristine beauty of the country-side. He smiled at the news that his son showed the proper strength and incentive to be his heir but, at the same time, he was concerned for the boy’s safety. Unlike the cultured, highly civilized life-style of the Moon, where the seat of Empire was located, activities like those in McLaren’s report could easily lead to an early death on a rough planet like Earth.

“I understand, Robb,” he said. “I’ll speak to him of it.” McLaren, aware that the Emperor had just ended this meeting, rose quickly and was escorted from the balcony by the attendant.

Many things had changed at Woodsgate over the years: New buildings had appeared and old ones replaced; interior furnishings and color schemes had gone through countless redesigns; even the stable had been relocated to the other side of the grounds when moving the seat of the Empire required the shuttle landing pad at the estate to be enlarged. Only the garden remained exactly as Javas remembered it from his youth. The Emperor strolled the gently sloping grounds and looked out over the wide expanse of green, the otherwise smooth spread of Kentucky bluegrass dotted here and there by scattered karst. The limestone outcroppings gradually increased in number and size, and finally became a high ridge a hundred meters to the east. There were caves in the outcroppings, and Javas remembered the time his older brothers had taken him along on an underground exploration that had both fascinated and frightened him—much to Montlaven’s distress—years earlier. Javas sat on a large outcropping and tried hard to remember exactly how long ago that had been. He had taken no rejuvenations, of course, since he’d become Emperor; but how many times had he renewed before that, and how many years had passed since he’d run these grounds as a child?

“Father!”

Javas turned at the sound and watched his son as he ran down the flagstone path leading from the main house. He’d seen his son as frequently as his schedule and Imperial duties allowed, of course; but the holoconferences held in his personal chamber on the Moon, no matter how lifelike or real they might seem at the time, still could not take the place of actual contact. The boy had grown since he’d last been this physically close to him—when? Spring? Javas shook his head self-consciously and promised himself for perhaps the hundredth time that he would make a stronger effort to return to Woodsgate sooner. Next time.

Eric ran easily, effortlessly, across the grounds with a grace and agility that reminded Javas immediately of Adela. Eric looked much like his father and had inherited much of his physical strength and abilities, but the boy favored his mother in most other respects. His hair was very dark, like Adela’s, and his build and features were small for his age. Eric’s hands showed his mother’s delicate fingers as he waved excitedly in greeting. Above all else, it was his unbound enthusiasm that reminded him most of his mother. Adela de Montgarde, at this moment approaching a planet nearly twenty light-years distant, would be very proud of the son born four years after her departure…

“Father!” Eric leaped forward, knocking Javas to the ground. It was a game they had played for years upon greeting each other after a long absence: Eric would jump and attempt to tackle his father, who, more often than not, would eventually allow the boy to topple him to the grass, where they would wrestle until exhausted. As the boy tried now to pin him to the ground, Javas remarked inwardly that Eric had grown even more than he had thought; his compact frame hid greater strength than a casual observer might at first suppose. Flat on his back in the sweet-smelling grass, Javas realized that either the boy was getting a bit too big for this game or he was getting too old.

As Eric almost succeeded in holding him down, Javas pushed firmly—but carefully—with his leg, sending his son flying backward to land on his rump with an audible plop, which ended the impromptu wrestling match with fits of breathless laughter from both of them.

Javas stood, brushing himself off, and extended a hand to help Eric up. They stood a moment and shook hands, and Javas was pleased at the firmness in the boy’s grip.

“Hello, Eric. It’s good to see you.” Javas opened his arms and father embraced son. Over the boy’s shoulder, Javas saw McLaren appear briefly on one of the main house’s many balconies. It was difficult to be certain from this distance, but it looked like the ever-serious Master had been grinning from ear to ear.

“Welcome home, Father.” Eric knew better than to ask how long the Emperor would stay this time.

They talked idly for the better part of the next hour as they walked the grounds of the estate. Eric was deeply involved in what he was learning, and spoke excitedly about how he had progressed in the previous six months. Javas noted with satisfaction that, while the boy discussed his successes with unabashed pride, he did not give in to the obvious temptation that all young boys have to exaggerate; Eric’s description of his schooling closely matched that given him earlier in the day by Master McLaren.

The Emperor was proud of his son and regretted the way the boy’s smile disappeared when the subject inevitably turned to yesterday’s events in the backwoods.

Eric tossed fitfully, trying unsuccessfully to get to sleep. No wonder I thought I’d seen him before, Eric thought. My brother.

He lay on his bed, gazing out at the Moon, huge and bright orange, now appearing over the horizon. The color faded and the Moon seemed to shrink in size as it rose. It was quite high in the night sky before Eric finally gave up on sleep, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and went to the computer terminal in the study area occupying the entire far wall of his room.

He rarely used vocal commands, preferring the feeling of intimacy the keyboard gave him. Eric knew of his father’s integrator and how it gave him instant access to any Imperial data. Maybe someday he, too, would be so linked; but for now, he felt as one with the computer as his fingers flew over the keys.

Getting out of the educational and informational modes and past the low-level security into the House files was easy; he’d long ago installed enough back doors that the Imperial techs never found them all whenever they upgraded the system. Even when they did find them, he easily installed more. McLaren had spoken to him several times about accessing House systems and playing pranks with some of the routine functions like the sprinklers and clocks, and each time he would promise—with the utmost sincerity, naturally—that he wouldn’t access them that way again. With the myriad ways he knew to gain access, it was always an easy promise to keep.

There was no way to access Imperial files from this terminal, of course, but there were personal files in the House system: McLaren’s, House staff members, his father’s; even files belonging to his grandfather. These last, as well as numerous others belonging to deceased family members, had been closed and sealed, and were impossible to open from a terminal. The others, like those belonging to his father and the Master, were “merely” blocked with security codes and passwords. Eric had accessed those files only once, a few years earlier, more as a challenge to see if it was possible than out of curiosity as to their contents, but had reclosed them immediately in respect for his father’s privacy. He never attempted to access them again, until now.

It took most of the night to break the security, and once inside Eric hesitated, fingers frozen over the keys. What he was doing was wrong, he knew, but wasn’t it just as wrong for his father to have kept secret the facts about his family? Wasn’t it wrong to wait for an incident like yesterday’s to occur before telling your own son the truth? He stared at the screen for several long minutes, and resolved to stay as much out of his father’s private thoughts as possible, but he was determined to learn more about his brother.

He installed a carefully worded worm sequence that would correlate and find only those files containing information about him and his brother, and would then display only those portions of the individual entries that cross-referenced what he wanted to know.

joawe89045—I personally ordered the fertilized ova kept out of her reach, but was unaware that she had duplicated and kept others. She has already hired a surrogate, but Glenney has not yet been able to learn if the woman has been implanted. However, the fact that she has elected to retain the services of a surrogate instead of using an artificial womb tells me much about what she has in mind for the child…

joaqp90007—Glenney reports that a healthy baby has been born. I have a son …

joacc98172—The boy, Reid, is being reared on Earth. Rihana has purchased a great deal of land adjacent to Somerville, near Woodsgate itself. Damn her! What is she up to …

joakll01955—She has engaged Brendan as the boy’s Master, but I don’t understand why. Bomeer, naturally, expects the worst. Well, at least it will help to consolidate our surveillance efforts…

joawe122743—He seems to be very bright and is responding well to his teaching. However, even at five years of age he is already showing signs of being a bully. Glenney reports that many of the townspeople have filed complaints with House Valtane…

joawel22745—I have made a decision on the matter…

joayyl22998—I am informed that the fertilization of the frozen ovum was successful and that the implanted embryo is healthy. I have already given orders that the surrogate will stay at Woodsgate and that the baby will be born there…

joabhl28732—“Adela, my love, we have a son. His name is Eric, after your father. I regret that I was not able to discuss this with you and hope you will understand my reasons. If not, then perhaps it is your forgiveness that I should hope for…”

The sky over the eastern hills was graying when Eric reached the final entry his search program had called up. He rubbed at burning eyes with his cramped fingers and squinted at the last entry.

joatr212665—My sons have met, with undesirable, although predictable, results. I’ve kept this matter from him for too long and will talk to him later this morning…

Eric rubbed his eyes again and slowly backed his way out of his father’s files, trying to leave as few footprints as possible. There would be telltales, he knew, and sooner or later his father would discover that he’d accessed the private entries. When it happened, he’d ask for his father’s understanding.

Or his forgiveness.

Chapter Twelve

“It’s beautiful!” Eric stared, wide-eyed and mouth agape, out the plastiglass window running up the entire wall of his suite. “I don’t remember any of this being so fantastic.”

“There are other views available, Young Prince,” Academician Bomeer said. “Computer! Activate room screen; alternate views, please.” The window immediately converted to a holoscreen mat showed other vistas of the lunar landscape surrounding the Imperial section of Armelin City. The display cycled through several options: an external view of the enormous Imperial landing bay now receiving incoming traffic; a magnified window-perspective of the new Science and Engineering facility under construction three kilometers to the west; the plastiglass dome of one of the recreational complexes, the lunar-normal gravity inside allowing citizens and vacationers alike to frolic in low-g sports. “Simply tell the room system which you prefer.”

The original window-aspect reappeared, fascinating Eric more than the others, and he wasted no time in ordering the room system to leave the screen off. He grinned boyishly at how much more sophisticated the room systems were here than at Woodsgate. In fact, although he had been on Luna for several hours, the Prince still had a hard time containing his excitement at virtually everything he saw, heard or experienced. It was obvious to Bomeer that the privilege of coming to the Moon on the occasion of his sixteenth birthday was a welcome present indeed.

Eric turned from the window, tempering his enthusiasm at last, and sat on a long sofa placed in such a manner as to still allow him to glance periodically at the surrounding vista. “Academician Bomeer, will my father be able to break away and spend some time with me?” He pulled his boots off as he spoke, and absently dug his toes into the thick carpeting at his feet. “I was hoping that maybe we could have dinner together tonight, just the two of us.”

“I am afraid not.” Bomeer selected a chair facing the sofa and sat down, studying the Prince. He had seen Eric nearly ten years earlier when he’d first visited the Moon, then again on a short visit planetside to attend to some of the Emperor’s affairs at Woodsgate, but he was simply not prepared for how much the boy had grown. My God, he thought as he studied Eric’s features. You truly are your father’s son… And your mother’s. “The Emperor regrets that he was not able to greet you himself on your arrival, but has asked me to meet with you personally and to see to it that your immediate needs are met in the meantime.”

A look of disappointment washed over Eric’s face for a moment, but he nodded acceptance. He smiled in understanding at Bomeer and said, “I knew he might be. Oh, well, there’s plenty of time. Could you arrange for an escort for me for later? I’d like to see some of the recreational and entertainment facilities here in the Imperial residence, as well as the research labs. Whatever’s not restricted, of course.”

Bomeer raised an eyebrow, remembering what Javas had said about the boy’s prowess with computers.

“Of course. I’ll have someone on standby; just give security a call once you have a chance to settle in.”

Eric leaned back on the sofa and stretched, working the kinks out of his arms and legs after the lengthy shuttle trip from Earth. “It’s probably just as well,” he said, yawning. “I think I could use the time to nap out for a while.”

“I imagine you are tired,” Bomeer replied. “Earthers can do that to you.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “Oh? But I am an Earther.”

A sudden wave of self-induced shock swept over Bomeer and he stuttered—something he rarely did—in quick apology to his Emperor’s son. “Your Highness! I did not mean to imply that—”

Eric laughed, dismissing the academician’s unintended insult with a wave of his hand. “Please, you’ve not offended me.” He leaned back into the couch, folding his hands behind his head. “I’ve heard you hold no great love for Earthers.”

“What can I say?” Bomeer shrugged, and chuckled nervously along with the good-natured Prince. “I’ve not attempted to hide my feelings for Earthers any more than—”

“Any more than you’ve hidden your feelings for my father’s project.” Eric’s grin broadened mischievously.

“I have known you but a few hours,” Bomeer said, cautiously returning Eric’s smile, “and already you have caught me off guard; not once, but twice. You not only remind me of your father, but I see a great deal of your grandfather in you as well.” Bomeer’s estimation of the Prince rose several notches and he stood, spreading his hands wide in open admission as he headed for the door. “In any event, it is my job to express my opinion.”

“My father speaks very highly of you for that.”

Bomeer stopped, taken somewhat by surprise at this revelation, and turned back to the Prince. “Thank you for saying so.”

Eric padded silently across the luxurious carpeting and stood facing the academician. “I’ve spoken in confidence to you, Academician; maybe you’ll return the favor. Tell me: How is my father?”

“He works too hard, he works too long; and he sometimes tries to accomplish too much in a short time.” Bomeer paused, taking the measure of the young man before him. “But he is very proud of his son and has been anxiously awaiting your visit for many weeks. Now that you have arrived… your father is fine.”

Eric extended his hand. “Thank you, Academician.”

Bomeer shook hands, then turned for the door, opening the security latch with his thumbprint. “Enjoy your rest. Security will send your escort when you are ready to tour the facilities.”

The door slid closed behind Bomeer and, nodding briefly to the guards posted at each side of the entrance to the Prince’s suite, the academician walked briskly down the corridor.

Your son is a fine young man, Javas, he mused. He will make an excellent Emperor one day.

Port Director Mila Kaselin lay on her back, her lifeless eyes staring emptily from a crushed and misshapen face into the high reaches of the Imperial landing bay. A portable screen generator had been placed on the floor near her body, the hastily erected shielding now surrounding the controller’s station opaqued at its perimeter to hide the gruesome sight Eric stared at now.

Glenney’s call had come on his third night on Luna, as he and his father had finally managed to share a private dinner together. His father had left strict orders not to be disturbed, and had even gone so far as to disable the communications page in his dining room system to ensure a quiet evening. But someone had been killed at the port facility, and the Security Chief had thought the situation important enough to warrant interrupting one of the Emperor’s all-too-rare family visits. Eric knew what had happened, of course; he had even seen it in Glenney’s holoreport showing the grisly scene uncomfortably real—and even more uncomfortably close to the dinner table—and had a good idea of what to expect. Death was no stranger to him than it was to any other sixteen-year-old, but seeing it firsthand was still an experience that caught him more unprepared than he would have liked. Seeing it over the first dinner with his father in nearly eight months hadn’t helped.

But then he had insisted on accompanying the Emperor to the scene. “This concerns me,” he’d told his father at the conclusion of Glenney’s report. “I belong there.” But now he had second thoughts about not having waited for him at the table, as his father had suggested.

“She was beaten to death, Sire,” Glenney was saying, “plain and simple. Whoever did this overpowered her and knocked her unconscious, and then continued until there was almost nothing left of her.” Glenney paused, noting the look on Javas’ face as the Emperor knelt before the broken body at his feet. “She, uh… Judging from the damage done by the blows, she was probably rendered unconscious almost immediately and didn’t suffer through most of this.”

Javas stood up rigidly, addressing his Security Chief in a tone that made the usually self-assured Glenney snap to attention. “Is that supposed to diminish what has happened here?” he demanded. The Emperor spun about and walked steadily toward the edge of the circle of shielding. “I want a full report in thirty minutes, Glenney, in my study. Eric!” Glenney’s men literally had to scramble to get the shield open fast enough for Javas to pass through without slowing his stride.

Eric hesitated, still transfixed by the body on the floor in front of him. Director Kaselin had personally taken charge of his shuttle when he’d arrived, and she had been the first to greet him when he disembarked the vehicle. He remembered thinking at the time how pretty she was, but he had difficulty now, staring down at her battered corpse, recalling anything at all about what she looked like.

“Eric!” His father had halted several paces on the other side of the shielding and was waiting impatiently with the escort, the look on his face a confused mixture of rage and sorrow. He turned away from the mess and hurriedly joined Javas, who had already resumed walking down the corridor.

They walked the labyrinth of corridors leading to the Emperor’s study in wordless silence, the clicking of their boots on the hard surface echoing hollowly as they walked.

Eric had seen his grandfather’s study at Woodsgate only once—his father had visited Earth on the occasion of his tenth birthday, and had taken him inside the sealed room to talk about his future role in the Imperial structure—but this room seemed designed to be a mirror image of it. The paneling, the bookshelves filled with as many real books as tapes, the viewscreen, everything.

He took a chair facing the enormous wooden desk and watched his father as he sat heavily behind it. Javas tilted back as fully as the chair would allow, then rubbed his face with the palms of his hands and sighed before tilting the chair forward again and leaning on the desktop. Why was he so troubled by this? To be sure, the person responsible for this horribly cruel murder must be apprehended and punished to the fullest extent of Imperial law; but just as surely his father must have dealt with problems of this severity—and worse—before. Why did this one weigh so heavily upon him? Why, for that matter, had Glenney even felt the necessity of bringing it to his father’s attention so quickly?

“Father?”

He looked up, seeming to see Eric in the room for the first time. He rose, opening a set of doors mounted flush into the paneling, and selected a bottle and two glasses from the well-stocked interior. He poured two drinks and replaced the bottle, closing the cabinet so that the doors became virtually invisible in the paneling once more. He handed one of the glasses to him and took the other for himself.

“I’m sorry, Eric,” he said. “Not much of a ‘happy birthday,’ is it?” He regarded the glass in his hand for several moments, then sipped at the contents. Eric sipped tentatively at his own, the smooth brown liquid wanning his throat as it went down.

“Who was she?”

His father had been about to lift the glass to his lips again, but stopped, lowering his arm to the desk in front of him and looking squarely into Eric’s eyes. “She was a friend.” Javas sighed, then pushed abruptly away from the desk. He leaned now against the bookcase, and must have issued a silent command through his integrator, because the viewscreen snapped suddenly to life, displaying a panoramic view of Armelin City. The old construction was obvious from this aerial perspective—older, grayer, more compact with a scattered added-on-later look to many of the domes and modules making up the lunar city—but the Imperial section, occupying fully a third of the image on the viewscreen, appeared as a connected single unit constructed as a fully functioning city unto itself.

“Do you see that, Eric? I built it in ten years. Ten years.” Javas paused, sipped at his drink. The picture on the viewscreen expanded as it panned back for a satellite view from many kilometers up. “I didn’t know your mother well when we came here from Corinth; we had barely met, once you take into account the inconsistencies of interstellar travel. We spent the entire voyage here in cryosleep, and on arrival we each went about our own tasks—hers to begin the Sun project, mine to establish the seat of Empire here in Sol system while your grandfather was in transit from Corinth. Looking back on it now, I don’t think we spoke to each other more than a dozen times over the first five years here.

“My first priority was the landing bay; everything else that was to follow demanded that it be up and running. But more importantly, it had to be running independently—with everything else I had to do, it had to be as nearly self-sufficient as I could make it. Mila Kaselin was one of the first people I assigned here, one of the first I trusted.” The screen blanked as his father issued another silent command then crossed back to the desk and sat, still nursing the glass in his hand. “She and I were close, in those early days here.”

There was a sudden beeping from the room system; not loud, but it startled Eric all the same. Javas looked to the side for a moment, his brow deeply furrowed, and the beeping stopped, then he continued as if nothing at all had happened to interrupt them. When he faced him again, the hint of an apologetic smile was on his lips.

“But that is only a part of what I’m feeling now.” He finished his drink, reaching back to set the glass on a low shelf behind him. “More important than a decades-old memory of what seemed a simpler time when I was only acting Emperor is the fact that someone I’ve considered untouchable has been murdered.” Javas sat up straight in the chair and looked at Eric with an intensity that made him squirm uncomfortably.

“Son, more than twenty years have passed since your grandfather was murdered, and we still do not know who was responsible. Certainly there were many against our goal who plotted to take not only his life but my own as well as your mother’s. He who allowed your grandfather to die was pardoned, and he now—well, he is watched.” Anger glowed briefly in the Emperor’s eyes, frustrated anger fanned by years of fruitless efforts at this one goal.

Eric had never seen his father so disturbed. He set his glass—the drink untouched but for the single sip he’d taken earlier—on the front edge of the desk and pivoted the chair. “And you’re afraid,” he said, “that those behind my grandfather’s death have now renewed their effort to change the leadership of the Empire. And, in doing so, change the Imperial stance involving the project to save the Sun.”

“Bomeer was right,” he replied. “You are sharper than we give you credit.” He took a moment to smile appreciatively at his son. “Yes, then; I believe that the inner workings of the Imperial structure have been breached.” He closed his eyes briefly in a way Eric had come to associate with his father using his integrator, then faced the door. “Security Chief Glenney has been waiting for several minutes; let’s hear what he has to say.”

The panel door slid aside and Glenney entered, taking a step inside the room and stopping with the door sliding closed mere centimeters behind him.

“Sire?” The expression on the man’s face showed surprise, and more than a little concern, at seeing Eric still with his father.

“Be seated. Your report?”

“Sire, as you know, we found—”

“Do not tell me what I already know!” The Emperor banged his fist violently on the desk and glared at his Chief. “A murder has been committed in one of the highest security areas in the Imperial section. It goes without saying, therefore, that we have been breached. It’s just as obvious that this was not a random event, but rather something that has been accomplished over an extended time, perhaps years. Tell me what I do not know.”

Glenney paused, a disconcerted gaze shifting from the Emperor to Eric, then back again. He straightened in his chair and cleared his throat. “We’ve checked and double-checked the records of anyone who could possibly have had access to the area where Director Kaselin was working at the time of her death—Sire, I’ve personally gone over them, going back more than twenty years, and have found no discrepancies. This is something that goes back to your arrival here, someone who has remained in place since that time and has only now chosen to act.” He glanced at the Prince again.

Eric was immediately on his feet, feeling as though some metallic claw had just wrenched his stomach from him. He ran a hand through his long, dark hair, then leaned with both hands on the desk, confronting his father.

“It’s me, isn’t it?” he burst out. “It’s because I’m here that this has happened. My God, this is my fault.” He turned away, trying to hide the shame he felt.

“Sit down, Eric.” His father’s words were soft, yet firm. He waited until the Prince was seated, then added, “No, it’s not you… it’s us.” Javas stood and came around the desk to stand next to Eric, then bluntly faced the security man. “Tell him.”

“I’m afraid your father is correct, Your Highness,” said Glenney, now also on his feet. “The two of you, together, may have been enough of a lure to draw out whoever has been in place for all these years.”

Javas reached for his jacket, buttoning it as he demanded, “I want those responsible for this, do you understand me?” Eric watched his father as he spoke, saw how his brow wrinkled and his eyes blinked occasionally as he talked. Even now, as he dealt with this new situation, Eric knew he was mentally issuing dozens of orders, setting perhaps hundreds of things in motion. “What are your recommendations?”

Glenney stood aside and indicated the door. “Sire, there is no proof yet to tie what has happened to a direct threat against yourself or your son, but the timing of this—occurring during Prince Eric’s first visit to Luna in nearly ten years—bothers me considerably. I want you out of here. Immediately. I can have anything you need brought down to you later, but I want you off Luna within the hour.”

His father, already on his feet, nodded in understanding and fastened the collar of his coat. “I agree.”

Fifteen minutes later Eric stood on the apron of the huge landing grid. His father beside him, they stood surrounded by armed Imperial guards as the shuttle Azalea Dream went through final preparation for launch.

Eric looked up and allowed his eyes to scan the vast chamber, trying unsuccessfully to pinpoint the spot where they had stood barely more than an hour earlier over the body of the slain Port Director. There were hundreds of personnel moving about the upper reaches of the dome, engaged in jobs Eric could only guess at. He returned his attention to the shuttle, now being prepared for lift-off by Glenney and the port authority staff. Unlike the huge, spherical Imperial fleet shuttles that could ferry a hundred people, the Azalea Dream was one of a class of smaller ships, with a capacity of no more than a dozen passengers, that regularly made the quick Earth-Moon run on various Imperial errands. Even so, the small ship was circled by three times the normal amount of technicians and security people as final prep was completed.

“Will you be safe at Woodsgate, Father?” Javas turned to him, the pleased expression on his face confusing Eric. “What is it?” he asked.

“You’ve just been shown that your life has been threatened, and you ask about my welfare.” He shook his head and looked away, but not fast enough that Eric didn’t catch a brief glimpse of the shame and regret in his eyes. “When I was your age, I would never have thought in the same terms about my own father if he had been—”

He had been about to say something more but stopped as a single figure broke suddenly away from the group standing at the shuttle ramp and trotted over to where they waited.

“Sire, Young Prince,” Glenney said hurriedly, “we’re ready to depart. This way, please.” He spun about immediately and quickly led the way to the ramp, with Eric and his father, and the accompanying guards, right behind him.

The escort parted when they reached the shuttle, and the ramp extended fully. The two landing techs clattered quickly down from the shuttle and secured the bottom of the ramp, standing immediately aside when finished.

Two of the guards went up the ramp first, and when Glenney indicated that the Emperor should follow, they ascended the ramp quickly, causing the ramp to bounce slightly. Eric started up the ramp next but lost his balance momentarily on the unsteady footing and pitched forward, throwing his hands out before him to brace himself as he fell.

A strong hand grasped his arm, catching him easily before he could complete his fall. Glenney and the nearest guards bristled, but Eric hastily assured them that he was all right, thanks to the quick reflexes of the shuttle landing tech who had broken his fall.

He turned to the tech, a tall, bearded man with dark, feral eyes that flashed when he smiled. “Watch your step, Young Prince.”

“Thank you,” said Eric. “I will.” He scrambled up the ramp and into the shuttle, followed by Glenney and another pair of guards.

The landing techs unsecured the ramp, and followed them inside.

Chapter Thirteen

Considering the Azalea Dream a small shuttle had been a relative observation on Eric’s part. Sitting on the landing grid of the huge dome as they waited to board during final prep, the ship had been positively dwarfed by the cavernous facility.

And while the Dream’s passenger capacity amounted to only a fraction that of the Imperial shuttle that had ferried him to the Moon three days earlier, this so-called hopper shuttle contained a passenger cabin that was both spacious and comfortably appointed with everything from a self-contained entertainment system to a small galley.

There were two rows of plush seats running the length of the cabin, five in each row, and Eric sat across a surprisingly wide aisle from the seat occupied by his father. Each seat had a viewport screen that simulated a window, as well as a program screen recessed into the back of the seat in front of it. The craft had been designed for passenger comfort and it was no surprise that, while there were many hundreds of this class in Imperial use in Sol system, there were many thousands in private service.

Glenney sat in one of the forwardmost seats. He wore a small headset and had swung the seat’s program screen from its wall position, and was engaged in busy, quiet conversation, although Eric couldn’t tell if he was in contact with the two pilots on the shuttle bridge or the two guards riding with the landing techs in the lower aft deck navigation and landing station. He could have been talking to both or, for that matter, neither. After several minutes of conversation he swung around in his seat, headset still in place, and faced the Emperor.

“We’ll depart in a few moments, Sire. Everything has been set up. Other than the Woodsgate staff, few others know that you’ll be leaving Armelin City. I’ve canceled everything that requires your immediate attention, explaining that you’ll be spending time with the visiting Prince.” His attention was drawn away momentarily as he listened to something in his headset. “A level one quarantine will be instituted on the Imperial section that will begin as soon as we’re away.”

“Quarantine?” Eric asked, addressing Glenney directly.

The man looked briefly to the Emperor, who nodded.

“Two things occurred the moment Director Kaselin’s body was discovered. First, the Imperial section of Armelin City was closed. That is, all vehicular and pedestrian traffic into and out of the section was stopped. Second, a priority computer search going back forty-eight hours was initiated on every door, corridor, workstation or terminal requiring an access code, holocard or thumbprint. That information is correlated with personnel, both on and off duty—” Glenney touched a hand to the earpiece of his headset and turned away a moment to check the program screen.

There was a soft murmuring as the engines went through the start-up cycle, then the slight shudder of the gravity harness engaging, lifting the shuttle off the landing grid. In the viewport Eric saw the grid shrinking below the small ship as it rose; he could have ordered the screen to show an upward vertical perspective, but preferred the view of the landing facility as he waited for the Security Chief to finish.

“We’re away, Sire; the harness has been released and we’re proceeding under our own power.”

“Very good.” Javas settled into the comfortable seat and leaned back fully on the headrest, eyes closed. Eric and Glenney both knew that despite appearances, he was far from napping.

Eric paid little attention now to the view as the shuttle entered its transit pattern for Earth, and considered what Glenney had said just before departure.

“So, what the computer’s looking for,” he began, “is a specific person—or group of people—at a specific place or time. But the level one quarantine?”

“A physical search, Young Prince. In the last hour, every member of security has been stationed throughout the Imperial section. They’ll sweep inward, toward the landing bay, physically checking every security checkpoint, every ID, every terminal.”

Eric held up a hand, interrupting him. “To what purpose?”

“To what—?” Glenney was startled by the question. “Why, to apprehend whoever is—”

“Don’t you think the time has come to stop talking down to me?” Eric demanded, his face set in a look of grim determination. From the corner of his eye, he saw his father raise an eyebrow, silently observing both himself and Glenney. The Chief’s mouth opened and closed several times and he looked to his father, who nodded agreement with his son.

“I know you wish to catch those responsible for the Director’s murder,” Eric went on. “Only a fool or a child would think otherwise. I am neither. What I want to know is who you’re looking for.” He turned to Javas, now sitting upright in rapt attention to the conversation. “Father, if you have no objections I’d like to see the complete file on what happened today, as well as access to the background files on previous attempts on our family; including those relating to my grandfather’s death.”

“See that Prince Eric receives access to all the files he’s requested,” Javas said without hesitation. Glenney was about to protest, but before he could speak the Emperor added, “If it makes you feel better you may enter the necessary codes yourself, then transfer control to him.” Glenney turned away, speaking in hushed tones and tapping swiftly at the keys on his program screen. Javas leaned across the aisle, a bemused expression plainly visible on his face. “Oh, and son,” he said softly, “thank you for asking for permission this time.”

Eric grinned guiltily, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, and Javas laughed for the first time since they had been interrupted at dinner by Glenney’s report. The sound of his father’s laughter lifted his spirits, and he wondered if he, too, would find rare times of good humor when he became Emperor.

The Chief stopped in mid-sentence and turned around, obviously bewildered by what was going on behind him. One glance at the expression on the befuddled man’s face, however, and Eric couldn’t help but join his father in the laughter.

“How soon till we’re home?” Eric asked, stretching his cramped legs beneath the seat in front of him.

“Not long, Your Highness,” the copilot responded. The communications channel between the bridge and the passenger cabin had been left open during de-orbit so they could hear the progress and description of the landing procedure.

Like most of the hopper shuttles, Azalea Dream was fast.

There was no way for Eric to have read all the files during the ride to Earth, and when the pilot announced that they were now on final approach to Woodsgate he reluctantly closed the access channel and blanked the program screen. He had learned much from the files. Most of it was as disturbing as it was revealing, but nothing of what he’d read disturbed him as much as the identity of the horseman who had helped him that day in the backwoods. He seemed so different, Eric noted, comparing the memory of that afternoon with what he’d just learned from the files. Was it really possible that the same man who’d shown him kindness that day could really have been responsible for his grandfather’s death?

He turned to the viewport and scanned the Kentucky countryside, awash in the deep greens of early July, passing below them. The shuttle made a wide circle, and he saw the town of Somerville pass a few kilometers to the east as they kept the ship over unpopulated forestland until they entered the restricted airspace extending in a five-kilometer radius around the estate. The craft continued its arc, and finally the estate came into view, nestled in the hills west of town. The Sun was still high in the sky, and here and there a sudden flash reached his eyes as their steady movement caused the angle to be just right to reflect off the surface of an occasional stream or pond.

“Mr. Glenney, would you please see that everyone is secure for pad-down?”

Glenney came down the short aisle, personally inspecting his seat belt as well as his father’s, then returned to his own seat and buckled in before turning to the Emperor. “Sire?”

“Anytime.”

“We’re secure,” Glenney said to the copilot. “Proceed with your final approach and landing.”

There was only the slightest sensation of movement as the craft came around and began descending at an angle toward the estate. Eric watched the descent without comment, listening to the odd one-sided conversation the pilot and copilot were having with ground control:

“Angle now at sixty-five degrees… Thank you, control, will do… No, the wind’s not a problem at all.” There was a pause, and the sound of laughter. “Right, I’ll tell him you said so. If you have us locked in, please confirm our distance… Roger that; we’re at six hundred meters, descending now at a steady five meters per second. Open a gate in the skin at four-sixty.”

Eric watched as Woodsgate drew closer in the viewport, and noticed that a large, perfect circle nearly fifty meters in diameter had appeared in the hazy air as they descended. Glenney had mentioned before they left Luna that the estate shielding had been increased to maximum even before the decision to remove them to Earth had been made, but Eric hadn’t noticed the fuzzy outline of the dome-shaped shielding until the landing gate had been opened.

“Looking good from our end, control… We copy that the skin’s open and clear; we’ll be inside in ten seconds. Give us a full ten meters clearance, though, before you reclose—” The copilot broke in suddenly, cutting the captain off. “I’m reading the skin coming back up! Abort landing pro—”

The entire cabin shook violently and tilted at a crazy angle, throwing Eric against the viewport screen. There was another shudder as what felt like a small detonation came from below, sending the bridge into confused turmoil.

“I don’t know, I don’t know! A second skin, I think, about a meter above the House shielding… What? I’m trying to! What’s happening to the harness?”

All movement stopped, and the shuttle hung motionless in the sky as both pilot and copilot jabbered constantly about the ship’s condition with ground control. Glenney had unstrapped and was on his hands and knees, climbing the now-sloping floor to the door leading to the bridge, but had no luck pulling it open. Grasping the handle firmly, he ran a hand along a smooth wrinkle in the surface of the bulkhead around the door, realizing that the metal itself had buckled slightly, effectively jamming the door. The internal lights flickered once, then came on and remained steady, but only static came now from the communications speaker.

“Captain!” Glenney called, but there was no answer from the bridge. He tapped at the headset with his fingers, then switched to another channel. “Navigation, are you there?” He waited a moment, then pulled off the useless headset, letting it slide skittering to the back of the cabin. “Damn!” he spat, then released his grip and slid down the floor to the seats. Using them for support, he leaned between Eric and his father. “Sire, are you both all right?”

“I’m fine,” he replied, shaking his dazed head to clear it. “Eric!”

“I’m all right, Father.” He dabbed at a trickle of blood at his nose from where he’d banged into the viewport and turned to Glenney. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He looked past Eric at the viewport. Eric and his father both followed his gaze and saw that the outside view was unchanged: They seemed to be motionless, hanging some 450 meters above the estate, with the landing pad plainly visible beneath them. House personnel, Imperial guards and members of the ground landing crew could be seen running on the ground below. “But judging from what the captain was saying before the speaker went out, we seem to be embedded in a second shield of some kind, projected just above the estate’s own.”

The lights flickered again, and the background hum of the shuttle’s systems steadily decreased, then died, leaving the cabin in silence. A red emergency light came on, bathing the three of them in eerie shadows for several tense moments before the main lights returned.

They sat in silence, listening as carefully as they could to several sounds, clearly audible now that the shuttle’s main engine had powered down. There was an irregular but steady hammering from aft, in what Eric assumed was the navigation and landing station where the guards and landing techs were. An occasional shouting could be heard from the direction of the bridge, although the words were unintelligible through the thickness of the flooring and bulkheads that separated them. Other sounds assailed them now, the most disconcerting of them being the metallic clangs and pops from the stressed structure of the craft itself.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Eric said.

“We may have a worse problem.” The tone of his father’s, words caught his attention immediately and he stared at him. He was sweating, his brow furrowed and eyes squinting in deep concentration. “Glenney, I’m being blocked.”

Glenney’s eyes widened. “The implants?” he snapped. “Were they damaged in the collision with the shielding?”

“No! They’re fine, but they’re being blocked or jammed by something.”

Eric felt the floor tilt suddenly beneath them. There was a pause, then another lurch and a horrible sound of metal tearing somewhere in the shuttle. The movement stopped with a bone-grinding jerk, the angle of the cabin even steeper than before. Eric glanced at his hands, his fingers white-knuckled on the armrest of the seat, and realized that the ship seemed to be vibrating slightly. He touched the wall above the viewport then, sliding his palm slowly up the surface as it curved into the ceiling, and reached as high as he could without unbuckling his restraints.

It felt like… He looked quickly into the viewport, but it seemed the same as before until he picked out an object on the ground and stared at it for several seconds. “We’re sliding!”

There was another grinding lurch, then another as the shuttle’s weight tore it loose from the shielding, sending it sliding freely down the curving outside surface of the shielding. Eric had just enough time to reflect that the craft slid in a smooth arc, like a snowball would if thrown onto the sun-warmed metal roof of the stables. The sensation of falling was gradual, at first—the Azalea Dream had impacted the shielding near its top, where the angle was not as steep—but as it traveled frictionlessly down the side, the angle steepened and they fell faster and faster. A second before impact, at a point where the shielding was nearly vertical to the ground, Eric felt a brief sensation of weightlessness.

Chapter Fourteen

The Azalea Dream had rolled quite a few times before finally coming to rest with the floor remarkably level, tilting to the port side at only a slight angle. Eric had twisted around in his restraints and leaned heavily on the wall, his back flat against the viewport. He sat unmoving for what seemed several minutes, trying to examine his surroundings but finding it difficult to focus his eyes in the dingy shadows cast by the red emergency lighting. It was uncomfortably warm in the cabin, and as he felt droplets of sweat rolling freely down his forehead and beneath his arms, he wondered idly how much time had passed.

There was a groan in front of him as he faced the opposite row of seats, and he struggled to get unbuckled. “Father! Are you all right?” Finally free of the belt, he knelt at the side of Javas’ seat, carefully working his father’s restraints loose.

“I’m—ah!” He pitched forward dizzily once the belt was off and rubbed tenderly at his right biceps. “I’m fine.” He pushed himself upright, wincing at the pain in his arm, and looked Eric over with obvious relief that his son had escaped serious injury.

“Glenney?”

“He’s on the floor,” Eric replied, “up front.” They both stood carefully, picking their way tentatively over the cushions and galley items that had come loose in the crash, and made their way forward.

That Glenney was dead was immediately clear to both of them. He lay on his back, neck and both arms bent at unnatural angles. His mouth was open, his jaw askew, and a puddle of blood collected beneath him that looked, bathed in the red lighting, more like thick black paint.

“He wasn’t strapped in when we broke loose from the shielding,” Eric said, remembering how the shuttle had tumbled on impact, tossing the hapless Security Chief violently about the cabin. The floor shuddered as the wreck settled, angling slightly forward, and Eric watched in queasy fascination as Glenney’s head rolled to one side and the puddle of blood ran across the floor and up against the forward bulkhead.

“I think we’re on the slope on the south side of the grounds,” the Emperor said. “We’d better get out of here before we fall the rest of the way down.”

Eric agreed and the two of them went immediately to the rear of the cabin where the exit door was located. Through there they would have access to the lower aft deck and the main shuttle hatch, but the door would not budge. The Emperor put a foot on the frame and pulled again, but stopped when the pain in his arm grew too severe. “Here, let me give it a try,” Eric said, grabbing the door handle. “Open the access panel and see if turning the release bar manually helps.” His father easily popped open a small panel to the left of the door and groped around inside while Eric pulled.

“Wait. Wait a minute.” Javas peered inside, trying not to block what little light there was, and reached in once more. “The release bar’s in place,” he said, puzzled, “but take a look at this and tell me what you think.” He pulled his arm out and stood out of Eric’s way.

Feeling inside the panel, the Prince grasped the release and turned it several times before giving up and removing his arm. “It spins freely, as if it’s not attached to anything.”

His father nodded agreement. “That’s exactly what I thought. And I don’t believe it was damaged in the fall.”

Eric, his back to the door, allowed himself to slide to a sitting position on the floor. He was sweating heavily now, and he removed the Imperial dress jacket he’d donned in preparation for the landing. He rolled it into a ball and tossed it the length of the cabin, then leaned his head back against the hard, warm surface of the door. “A second shield projected above the House shielding, effectively sabotaging the shuttle landing. Communications and shuttle systems that should have withstood the initial impact damaged… How about your integrator? Is it still being blocked?”

“Let me try—” Javas fell silent as he removed his own jacket and unbuttoned his shirt collar. He folded the jacket once, dropped it to the floor and sat on it as a cushion. A full minute passed before he inhaled deeply and sighed, adding simply, “Yes.”

“And now we find…” Eric stood, angrily kicking the door squarely in its center. An idea came to him and he pressed his ear to the warm metal, listening carefully for sounds from the other side. He looked around at his feet and found a small pitcher that had been shaken loose from the galley. He banged it sharply against the door four times in quick succession, paused, struck the door four more times, then listened closely again. Nothing. “And now we find that the main exit door has been disabled from the other side. Fairly obvious, isn’t it, Father?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he replied soberly. He sat forward, indicating that Eric should be seated where he was. “Here’s what we’re up against, then: That door has been sealed, and it appears that everyone in the aft station is either dead or immobilized, so we can’t count on their help. My integrator is effectively gone for the time being, so we can’t count on getting help that way. For that matter, if someone’s gone to the trouble of jamming my implants, it’s a fair bet they’ve already neutralized House communications as well.”

Eric crossed his legs as he sat, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. And if no one outside the House knows we’ve left Luna, he realized, then we won’t be missed any time soon. “I’ve got a feeling that we can’t rely on any physical help from inside the grounds, either, if that second shield is still in place.”

“And it probably is,” his father agreed. “This has all been too well organized for us to assume that the shield has been dissolved. One thing is clear, however. Whoever is responsible for this won’t simply assume that we’ve died in the crash. I imagine they’re on their way to us now.” He paused, then added, “If they’re not already sitting outside, waiting for us, that is.” Grasping the back of one of the seats, Javas pulled himself to his feet. He wiped his face and forehead on the back of a shirt sleeve and let out a long, slow breath as he looked around the cabin.

Eric watched as his father grew increasingly uncomfortable in the heat, and noted that his own breath was coming with just as much difficulty. He inhaled deeply, noticing a distinct hot-plastic smell to the air. “It’s just as clear that we can’t stay in here. With the shuttle systems all down we’ll bake sitting here in the sun. Or suffocate.”

The craft moved again suddenly, with the floor angling slightly more to the front of the shuttle. The fatigued metal complained loudly, but when the shifting stopped, they both heard a noise that sounded like it was coming from somewhere other than the weakened internal structure itself.

Eric tilted his head, trying to determine the sound’s direction. “Up front!” The sudden exclamation caused an odd burning sensation in his throat, making him cough, and he realized that the plastic smell he’d noticed earlier was much heavier than before. His eyes stung and had begun watering freely.

They again stepped carefully down the sloping aisle to the front of the shuttle. Glenney’s body had rolled farther, his face turned and now partially hidden beneath some light debris, but several streamers of black blood ran from his body toward the front bulkhead, pooling again where wall met floor. He tried to ignore the sight and concentrated instead on the sounds coming from behind the door leading to the front corridor and flight deck.

There it was, an irregular thunk-clunk coming from somewhere forward, perhaps from the cockpit itself. Closer inspection of the door revealed that despite the warped bulkhead that had prevented Glenney from opening it earlier, it was now a few millimeters ajar. Whatever the sound was, Eric reasoned, it may have been there all along and they were only now able to hear it.

“That last movement,” the Emperor suggested. He was coughing now, and in the pale red light Eric could see him rubbing his eyes frequently. “It must have stressed the door frame enough to partially free it.” Several items had rolled forward, and he quickly grabbed something and banged at the door. “Hello?” He hammered again, but when they listened the irregular sound continued, unchanged.

“Eric, help me pull. If we can—” He coughed violently, gasping for breath. “If we can get this open, we can take the lower corridor from the flight deck to the aft station.” His father strained hard on the door handle while Eric curled his fingers under the lip of the door. Pulling together, they managed to open the door another full centimeter. They caught their breath for a moment and pulled again, both of them tumbling backward when the door finally freed itself, letting in a sudden burst of natural sunlight and fresh air. Eric was first on his feet, and hastily opened the door fully, allowing it to rest against the bulkhead where the shuttle’s downward angle kept it in place.

He helped his father up, and as soon as they had made their way to the flight deck it became obvious that taking the lower corridor to the exit would not be necessary, as most of the front of the shuttle—nearly the entire cockpit, for that matter—had been torn away in the crash and resultant cartwheeling down the hillside. What was left of the pilot, his body horribly mangled by the jagged metal that had crumpled around him on the way down the hill, was still strapped into his seat. The copilot’s chair was missing entirely.

Anxious to be clear of the foul air in the cabin, they moved hurriedly, but carefully, onto the flight deck. There was a brisk breeze, and they inhaled deeply of the untainted air. Although the nose of the Azalea Dream was angled downward, the forward end was pointed toward the uphill side, giving them a clear view of the path they had taken down the hill. The ship must have tumbled at least six hundred meters or more down the hillside, and a path of debris and flattened, splintered trees and saplings zigzagged up toward the estate, now hidden among the trees and limestone outcroppings near the top of their fall.

The branches of a downed maple extended into the cockpit, the occasional breeze causing it to hammer thunk-clunk against an exposed section of the hull. “Be careful,” he said when Eric inched toward the jagged edge of the opening. He nodded back to his father and removed the dead pilot’s gloves, surprised at how easily he dealt with death after seeing so much of it in so short a time. He pulled them on and gingerly clambered to a position where he could carefully peer outside.

Debris was everywhere, and there was a faint hissing sound coming from somewhere underneath the wreck, but no sign of movement as far as he could tell anywhere nearby. “I think you were right,” he said when he climbed back up to his father in the doorway to the flight deck. “I think we are on the south side of the grounds, but I can’t see the House or tell for sure just how far up the side it is. We’ve got a bit of a climb at best.”

“Then we’d better put some distance between us and the shuttle,” Javas replied, turning back to the cabin. “But I doubt if we can get into the aft station from the outside. Better see what we can find in here.” The air in the cabin had grown even more noxious, and they found that they had to return frequently to the flight deck for air. They scavenged what they could, gathering some food and filling a small flask with what water they were able to coax from the galley dispenser, then retrieved their jackets and stuffed the pockets with anything useful they could find. As a last measure his father hastily examined Glenney’s body, turning up two weapons—a concealed knife in a boot sheath, and a pin laser clipped to an inside pocket. Eric knew that neither was particularly deadly, but was grateful that the macabre task of searching Glenney’s body had occurred to his father: Both weapons could prove useful if they were forced to spend any amount of time in the backwoods. Back on the flight deck, Javas kept the knife for himself, slipping it into his boot, and handed the laser to him.

The wreck shifted again, and they wasted no further time getting off. Eric still had the pilot’s gloves and climbed easily to the ground, then tossed them back up to his father while he surveyed the damaged ship.

The shuttle had come solidly to rest on an exposed outcropping overlooking the entire valley that spread below the royal family’s estate. Closer examination showed that despite the unnerving way the wreck had shifted while they were still inside, there had been little danger of it sliding farther. The angle steepened sharply a hundred meters below the outcropping and they couldn’t see the river itself, but they could see it reflecting in the sunlight as it meandered through the mountainous Kentucky countryside far to the northwest.

The July air felt pleasantly hot and humid as they examined the crash site, not nearly as stifling as it had been inside the wrecked shuttle. The craft leaked from a dozen places and a thin, smoky haze poured from the exposed cockpit. Whatever was leaking was volatilizing quickly, and must have been connected not only with the hissing that continued from underneath the wreck but with the deteriorating atmosphere inside the shuttle. The hissing diminished in volume as he moved around to the rear of the wreck, enough so that the buzz of grasshoppers in the sunny clearing could easily be heard.

“Father, you’d better take a look at this,” Eric called from the back of the now-derelict ship.

Javas came around quickly, staring worriedly at what Eric had found. The main hatch had been opened, but because of the way the shuttle had come to rest with its nose on the upward angle of the hill, the opening hung fully two and a half meters over the limestone and scrub at their feet. There was a good deal of debris directly below the hatch, almost all of it thrown or fallen from the opening above. A discarded extinguisher lay several meters away and fire foam dripped steadily from the lip of the opening. There was also a good deal of blood on the ground, and bushes had been flattened as if someone had jumped down from the hatch. More blood had dripped on the rocks several meters up the hill, and the direction the vegetation had been flattened indicated that someone had left the clearing in a hurry, going due north. There still was no movement except the wind, however, and no sound other than the constant buzz of grasshoppers.

“I think I’m the obvious choice,” Eric said, indicating the opening above their heads. “How’s your arm?”

Javas ignored the question and scanned the wreck, frowning. The smoke pouring from the front of the ship was getting thicker, and he clearly was not pleased with Eric’s offer to go inside. “Make it a fast look.”

His father cupped his hands in front of him and Eric stepped carefully into the makeshift stirrup they formed. Javas lifted upward, giving his son the boost he needed to grab onto the edge of the hatch and scramble up before disappearing inside.

Despite the open hatch, the air was even worse in here than it had been in the cabin. He looked around quickly and spent no more than a minute inside, although he wasn’t certain if it was because of the worsening air or the appalling sight that greeted him.

“Eric!” No sooner had his father called to him than a sharp metallic clang resounded from the hull of the shuttle.

He returned to the opening and knelt at the edge, lowering a nylon bag into Javas’ upstretched hands. There was another shot; now at the open hatch, he heard the gunshot itself this time. Rubbing his eyes, he took several deep breaths, then went back in for the remainder of what he’d found, tossing down a smaller, zippered case which his father easily caught. Another shot ricocheted loudly off the hull. He sat hurriedly on the lip of the hatch, his legs dangling, then placed his hands on the edge and swung around in a smooth motion with his arms to hang briefly from the opening before dropping the rest of the way to the ground.

“Come on!” he barked as soon as he was down. “Follow me.” He slung the nylon bag over his shoulder and started immediately for the cover of the trees at the edge of the outcropping.

His father followed without a word. Several more shots were fired, and while one cut through the scrub and dug into the ground mere meters in front of Eric, none of the projec-tiles found their mark. Whoever was firing at them was either an incredibly poor marksman, considering how exposed they were out here in the open, or he was deliberately avoiding hitting them in an effort to pin them down at the wreckage. For that reason, if no other, Eric wanted to get his father away from the shuttle as quickly as possible. The shots seemed to originate from the trees at the top of the clearing in the same direction the trail of blood from the shuttle hatch had led.

Once in the sheltering cover of the woods Eric’s pace didn’t slow, but he looked around him, trying to recognize landmarks and get his bearings. He stomped several hundred meters through the backwoods before finally stopping in an area that, while still angled, had leveled considerably. He looked around again, then pointed to a series of shallow depressions near another outcropping of limestone. The air was much cooler under the canopy of trees, but he refused to allow himself to enjoy it. Not yet. “There. Come on.”

There were three sinkholes set into the side of the hill. Dry leaves and branches filled the first two and Eric ignored them and crossed directly to the third: a deeper, rockier hollow set into the side of the landscape. The uphill side was a rocky, nearly vertical wall about five meters high, but the sides and bottom of the depression were mostly moss and ferns covering the gently sloping earth that had filled in the sides and floor of the depression countless years ago. Leaves had piled up at the bottom of this depression, just as at the other two, but an opening was visible at the base of the rocky wall of this sink, the rock surface around the opening moist and covered with moss and lichens. Even though the air in the constant shade of the backwoods was more comfortable than the relentless summer sunshine out in the open, the steady damp breeze issuing from the opening must have been a full ten or fifteen degrees cooler still and felt deliciously refreshing.

On a sign from Eric, both slid carefully to the bottom of the depression. “Do you recognize this, Father?” Eric asked.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.” The Emperor watched nervously as he dug at the piled leaves at the opening, tossing them behind him like a dog after a favorite bone. “You’ve been here before, I take it?”

Eric dropped the bag into the enlarged opening, then fell to his knees, pushing the bundle into the darkness in front of him. “Bend low, and watch your head on the ceiling.” With that he shoved the bag inside and disappeared in after it.

He crawled forward a short distance, then sat cross-legged on the earthen floor of the chamber once the passageway had widened enough to sit upright. Opening the bag in his lap, he rummaged among its contents as his father, on all fours, crawled up to his side and sat next to him in the cramped passageway.

“Here, take this,” he said, handing him a flashlight. He pulled another lamp from the bag and clicked it on, pointing it down the crawlway. “It opens up just around there. Follow me.”

They crawled another four or five meters and the passageway opened into a fair-sized room. From where they sat the floor sloped gradually to a long, flat wall on the opposite side. Eric played the flashlight over their surroundings, the narrow beam showing that the room was quite large, its exact boundaries disappearing into the darkness of an even larger cavern to their left. Along the lowest portion of the far wall a tiny rivulet of water trickled musically along the floor, vanishing into a small opening on the right side of the room. Eric took his flashlight and pressed it into the soft earth floor at his feet, allowing the beam of light to reflect off the gray-brown limestone of the ceiling. He extended his hand for his father’s light and did the same with it, brightening the underground room considerably. Satisfied that they were secure for the moment, he went into the larger room and returned almost immediately with a small molded box.

“It’s still here,” he said, sitting back down next to his father. He opened the lid and pulled out a sealed plastic bag containing several stubby candles. There was a narrow ledge in the rock wall at their backs, and Eric dug a handful of the candles out of the bag and placed them, one at a time, on the shelflike ledge. The ledge had been used for this purpose before, and long, frozen rivulets of wax in several different colors and consistencies ran down the face of the wall.

“I’m sorry,” he began, his voice echoing hollowly against the rock walls. He removed the pin laser from his coat and lit one of the candles, then replaced the laser in his coat and used the burning candle to light the others. “But I just wanted to get us out of there as quickly as I could.”

Javas nodded in the reflected beam of the flashlight, the vapor of his breath floating visibly through the beam in the chilly dampness of the cave, and pulled a galley sandwich from his jacket pocket for each of them before clicking both flashlights off to conserve their charge. “That’s fine; I trust your judgment. What did you find inside?”

“They were dead.” Eric bit hungrily into the sandwich and washed it down with a long swallow from the flask of water he carried in his jacket, then passed it over. “Both of the guardsmen, and one of the landing techs. The tech must have been unsecured, trying to do something when we were embedded up in the shield, and was probably killed when we hit the ground, like Glenney.” He took another bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly.

“And the guards?”

“Still strapped into their seats,” he said, swallowing hard. “Their throats were cut.”

His father considered the information. “Then the blood on the ground was theirs—”

“No,” Eric interrupted, “I don’t think so. The other landing tech, the tall one with the beard who caught me by the arm when I stumbled on the ramp, he must have been fairly badly hurt in the crash, too. The medical kit was opened, and there was a lot of blood smeared on it and its contents. Or what was left of them anyway—he used what he needed, then pretty much vandalized the rest. I managed to put together a basic first-aid kit with what was left, though.” He indicated the zippered case at his father’s side. “I found a few flashlights, some tie-downs and a couple other things we might be able to use.”

“And the guards’ weapons?”

“Thumb-keyed; useless. Whatever he tried to hit us with back in the clearing must have been hidden on board.”

“Pistol of some kind, then, judging from his accuracy, or lack of it. I suppose it’s too much to hope that there’s a crash kit in that bag?”

Eric shook his head.

“I didn’t think so. Either he took it with him or he heaved it over the edge of the outcropping to keep us from getting it. Come to think of it, if he was as badly hurt as you suspect, then he probably couldn’t have carried it very far.”

Eric reached for the flask of water and said nothing for a moment as he took a long, slow drink. He went to the tiny stream and refilled the flask, then capped it and put it in the bag.

“I’m not so sure he’d have to go that far.” He leaned forward and swept the earthen floor smooth in front of him. There were numerous sticks and bits of natural debris near the stream and, using one as a stylus, he drew a rough map of the area.

“We’re here,” he said, scratching a mark on the floor of the cave. He then drew a straight line, extending it up from the mark. “The grounds are due north about a kilometer—”

“A kilometer!”

Eric nodded soberly, drawing a circle to indicate the main grounds of Woodsgate. “I know. When I recognized the outcropping that stopped the wreck from rolling farther down the hill, I could hardly believe it either. We’re lucky to be alive.” He continued sketching in the dirt. “The House and grounds are situated at the center of this ridge, here. There are hundreds of kilometers of trails crisscrossing this part of the countryside, but a section of the main trail follows the lower portion of the ridge, completely circling the east, south and west sides of Woodsgate. If we hike straight up to the House, we’ll cross it right here.” He drew a rough line halfway between the circle and where they were, extending it as he spoke. “The main trail continues to skirt the ridge the House is located on… then crosses the access road leading to Woodsgate here… and then on into the backwoods on the other side… and finally leads east into Somerville.”

His father bent over the crude map. “I think I understand what you’re getting at. No matter where we would have come down, there was a seventy-five percent chance we’d be within a short distance of the main trail.”

“Exactly,” Eric agreed. “And my guess is that whoever our friend is working for, they watched the whole thing and are probably on their way out here now, picking him up along the way to lead them to us.”

“Then they’re probably the only ones who saw us go down. One of the observation satellites in LEO will spot the wreckage sooner or later, I suppose, but the chances of us having been spotted when we went down are fairly remote.”

Eric nodded in agreement. “And since your integrator is being blocked, the signal from the shuttle’s emergency locator is probably being jammed as well.”

“If it’s even still working,” his father added. “That landing tech was pretty thorough.”

“Then our best bet is to keep moving, stall for time. Eventually someone will try to raise the House on a routine matter and find it’s been cut off and investigate. If we can stay ahead of them until then, we should make it out of this.”

His father sighed heavily, then dropped the sandwich wrappers into the opened bag and rose to his feet, careful to avoid bumping his head on the sloping rock ceiling. He rubbed at the stiffness in his arm and surveyed the cave, the light from the row of candles on the wall ledge casting long, unsteady shadows into the larger cavern. “I used to go exploring caves like these with my brothers. There are several of them up above, actually on the House grounds.”

“I know. I’ve been in them.”

“And in many others, as well, it seems.” He looked down at Eric, smiling. “I never approved of your excursions outside the shielding any more than Master McLaren, but I’m forced to admit I’m grateful for your knowledge of the backwoods.”

Eric got up, brushing the seat of his pants with his hands. “I’m not the only one in our family to know these woods.”

He reached down and retrieved a flashlight from the dirt floor and shined a large circle onto the far wall of the big room to the left. In the center of the circle of light, someone had used a candle flame to smoke several words onto the angled wall. They walked closer to get a better look, and his father stopped cold when he saw what had been written there.

“ ‘Nicholas,’ ” Javas read aloud, “ ‘August 15th, 2409.’ ” He turned back with a wistful look in his eyes that Eric had never seen before. “My father.”

They took no chances as they climbed, making their way slowly and carefully through the woods to avoid being detected. Hours passed and the sun hung low in the sky by the time they reached the edge of the shielding near the top of the hill. The House shielding, hazily visible, ended at the edge of the flat portion of the grounds, but the second shield was considerably wider at its base than the one on the inside and extended several dozen meters over the edge of the hill, making it impossible for them to see what was happening at the House itself.

Gazing upward through the trees, it was easy to see where the edge of the invisible outer shield was. When it had been activated, several trees had been bisected, neatly clipping branches and treetops wherever they had come into contact with it. Looking skyward, he could even see several smaller pieces of the wrecked shuttle still embedded in the upper portion, seemingly suspended in empty air. Eric squinted at the closest portion of the shield in front of him and pressed against it with the palms of both hands. The gas-permeable field felt spongy, yet firm, beneath his fingers. He carefully studied where the shielding met the ground, looking first one direction then the other into the backwoods, and kicked experimentally at the dirt at its base.

“I think we may be in luck,” Eric said.

His father had been perched atop a nearby boulder, keeping a watchful eye for any signs of pursuit, but quickly jumped down. “Oh?”

“I think I might be able to get us inside.”

The Emperor stared at him in disbelief. “Son, McLaren reported more times than I care to remember about how you breached the shielding and sneaked out of the grounds. But, without access to a terminal, how can we…”

Eric laughed and clambered down the hillside to stand next to him. “I have a confession,” he said. “I never breached the shielding.” He laughed again, shaking his head. “I’ve never kept a secret this long. The first time Master caught me outside was not long after the time I’d reprogrammed a number of the House systems. When he caught me, he assumed I’d somehow managed to program an opening, much the same way we do for arriving and departing shuttles.”

Javas hefted the nylon bag, transferring it from one shoulder to the other. “And you didn’t.”

“No, sir,” he replied, remembering. “Oh, I probably could have figured out how to do it, but the shield gate controls are part of House security, and I never dared touch that programming. No, I found a much simpler way. You know the caves on the east side of the garden? There’s a small opening near the end of one of them. I enlarged it and pushed the passageway until it made a connection to another cave that exists in a sinkhole well outside the grounds.” He pulled the water flask from his pocket and took a quick swallow, then passed it to his father and sat on a nearby log as he continued, smiling broadly.

“I came and went as I pleased, all the while Master McLaren pulled his hair and tried to figure out how I’d reworked the security. He had it reprogrammed several times, even going so far as to call the Security Chief down from Luna one time to—”

Eric halted abruptly, remembering Glenney’s face, his jaw and neck smashed as he lay on the floor of the wrecked shuttle. His smile vanished, the memory of a childhood joke on his elders suddenly not quite so funny to him anymore. His father said nothing, neither to chastise him nor to ease the painful thought, and handed the water back. “Anyway,” he went on humorlessly, stashing the flask in his pocket, “the connection passes far enough underground that we should be able to get in underneath the shielding; as long as the sinkhole is on the outside of it, that is.”

“It’s worth a try,” his father admitted. “I don’t see where we have much choice just now.”

They had to drop down from the ridge to make much headway on the rocky terrain and headed around the shielding in a northeasterly direction, being careful to maintain a discreet distance from the trail.

It was dusk when they neared the main access road to the estate. The road was entirely in the open, visible not only from the House but from the opposite direction as well. His father thought it best, and Eric agreed, that they should wait until it was completely dark before attempting to cross the road. They found a sheltered spot and divided the last of the sandwiches from the bag, speculating on what had happened and who might be responsible. Eric had learned a great deal from the files and reports to which Glenney had begrudgingly given him access during the transit from the Moon, and agreed with his father that House Valtane was probably behind this.

“It seems logical,” his father was saying. “She was always outside the grasp of even the Emperor, legally speaking. Glenney had suggested on more than one occasion that we go outside the law, but I always refused.” The sky had long since grown black, and he cocked his head at the cry of a night bird somewhere in the trees. “I should have listened to him.”

They continued talking into the night, but were abruptly interrupted at midnight by a brilliant flash that lit the sky to the east as a magnificent fireball burst into dozens of orange streamers that gradually faded as they fell. A delayed boom-BOOM-boom reached their ears, then again as it echoed off the far side of the river valley to the south. They watched the sky above the trees and saw it before it burst this time, as a thin trail of sparks arced upward and exploded at the zenith of its flight. This one exploded three times, each report evenly spaced, each one emitting streamers of different-colored sparks. The sounds, again delayed, drifted across the valley.

“Julyfest,” his father said. “I’d forgotten what day this was.”

“I was never permitted to attend the fireworks,” Eric said softly. “McLaren said it was too dangerous for a Prince to be among an ‘uncontrolled environment of ruffians,’ as he put it.”

His father snorted in the dark. “Yes, Montlaven never permitted me to go either,” he said, “and if memory serves, he used pretty much the same words. But it was a magnificent view from the balcony, wasn’t it?”

They watched the fireworks, speaking only occasionally. At one point a strong breeze from the east brought the scent of sulfur and black powder, and Eric remembered the odor and felt, just briefly, as if he were a small part of the celebration. Once, on a July night several years earlier, with the last of the fireworks long gone, he had refused to leave the balcony until the thin smoke of the explosions drifted over the estate. The wind had not been right that night, and after the Master had tucked him into bed and retired, he’d sneaked back onto the balcony to wait for the smoke that never came. He remembered that when the Moon rose that night he could see the smoke hanging over the river valley like a fog and wished, neither for the first nor the last time, that he wasn’t a prisoner of his family name.

Eric settled back, the odor of fireworks mingled with the backwoods scent of a Kentucky summer still lingering in his nostrils, and fell into a surprisingly restful sleep.

Chapter Fifteen

A hand shook him steadily, and he woke with a start.

“Shhhhh.” His father knelt over him, helping him to a sitting position as he shook his head to clear it. He felt damp from sleeping on the ground, and every joint and muscle was cramped and stiff from the cold. He kept silent, and listened carefully in the direction his father pointed, noting that he already had slung the bag over his shoulder. Although the sky was only now beginning to turn gray to the east, the backwoods were already alive with the sounds of morning birds and he had to pay close attention to whatever it was that had caught his father’s ear.

The main trail ran below them, far enough to remain hidden, yet close enough to hear a horse negotiating that part of the trail that wound around the ridge before ascending to the level of the access road some two hundred meters farther down. They still couldn’t see it, but it was plain that the animal had stopped, pawing the ground impatiently, and the beam of a powerful flashlight swept through the trees, followed by another a few meters behind the first—a second horse and rider. Eric crouched lower in the scrub next to his father, certain that the flashlight beams couldn’t penetrate their hiding place, and let out a barely audible sigh of relief.

“Listen,” his father whispered urgently, extending his arm again. “There; farther down the trail.”

He heard it then. “Dogs. Several of them.” He remembered the horse ridden by the traitor Brendan and wondered for a moment if the dogs of House Valtane had been as expertly bio-bred as the horses, then quickly concluded that they probably were. “Let’s get moving,” he said, indicating the wide, open area of the roadway above them. “I think we can make it to the other side before the two horsemen make it up here.”

Javas nodded, and without further discussion the two of them made their way as quickly and as quietly as they could to the top of the ridge. They paused at the edge of the bushes, scanning the road in each direction. For security purposes the brush was kept neatly manicured for a distance of twenty to thirty meters on each side of the road, making a fairly wide area where they’d be exposed.

Eric watched the Woodsgate grounds at the end of the road and saw that every light on the estate grounds blazed brightly, and that additional floodlights had been erected on the landing pad and above the main gate, giving them a good picture of what was happening. Dozens of members of the Imperial guard, beefed up by Glenney before the three of them had even left the Moon, patrolled the perimeter. Eric looked closely and realized that a number of the guards appeared to be in the space between the two shields. Apparently a temporary gate had been opened in the House shielding to allow the men to enter the space. He couldn’t tell for certain, but judging from all the electronic equipment at their feet and the hand-held metering devices they passed over the inner surface of the second shield, they were still working at trying to breach it. So close, he thought, the sight confirming what they’d suspected about the shielding, and not able to do a thing.

The entire area was illuminated by several small searchlights that played out over the road and into the surrounding wooded area. Eric was grateful for the additional light that helped them to verify that the road was deserted in both directions, but they would have to take care not to get caught inadvertently in one of the searchlights.

Behind them the dogs grew louder, more frantic, and had certainly picked up their scent by now. They waited nervously for one of the House searchlights to make a last sweep in their direction, then sprinted across the open area. They crossed the wide, mowed shoulder almost immediately and were halfway across the access road itself when his father cried out and stumbled heavily to the pavement.

“Father!” Eric went immediately to his side, helping him unsteadily back onto his feet. His father tried to say something, but suddenly started shaking uncontrollably and couldn’t seem to form coherent words. Something hit the pavement just in front of them, sparking brightly as it deflected into the trees and crackled away at an oblique angle through the branches. He stared down the road, expecting that the horses they’d heard had already come around on the trail. There was someone there, just barely visible in the waning darkness. The figure took aim and Eric pulled his father out of the way just as another shot was fired, missing them. Several of the searchlights swung around in their direction and were joined quickly by the beams of a dozen hand-held lights as the guards gathered in a knot at the edge of the shielding.

Eric waved his arms frantically at the guards, trying to make them understand that the additional light was serving only to make them better targets. Another shot echoed in his ears and, not bothering to look where the shot went, he dragged his father toward the shelter of the trees on the opposite side. After a moment, Javas seemed to shake off the disorientation and managed to run several meters, almost halfway. to the trees, but then his legs and arms twitched spasmodically and he crumpled once more to the ground.

He pushed himself on unsteady knees, his head jerking uncontrollably from side to side. “N-n-n-no… Er-ic!” A painful grimace showed plainly on his face as he forced each word through clenched teeth. “R-r-run!”

“What is it? Father!” Eric struggled to drag him the rest of the way into the scrub, where yet again he managed to stand up on his own. His face was ashen, but the painful look had disappeared for the moment. He gripped at his right shoulder, and in the glowing dawn light Eric saw blood oozing between the clenched fingers.

“Eric, which way?” He panted desperately, but was speaking clearly now.

“There, but I’m not sure how far!” Eric hastily surveyed their surroundings. The landscape sloped steadily away from the level of the access road, and they were in the bottom of a small depression. “You stay here, I’ll lead them to the east. I can get to the main trail in a few minutes, and once there I can run toward the town. Stay down and you should be—”

“No!” he yelled, nearly at the top of his lungs, silencing Eric. He turned, pointing his uninjured arm in the direction they’d just come. “Listen! Do you hear them?” The dogs were closer now; it would be a matter of minutes before they caught up with them if they didn’t start moving soon. “They’ll follow you right to the trail, after they’ve already found me. No; you’ve got to make a run for the cave, get inside the grounds.”

The backwoods brightened rapidly now, giving him a better feel for their location in relation to the cave. “Come on,” he said, pulling Javas’ left arm around his shoulder to support him. “I think we can both make it.”

“All right.” He started moving. “But promise me you’ll—unnh!” His father’s eyes rolled back and he jerked repeatedly again. Eric held his father to keep him from falling, powerless to ease his pain as he felt the muscles contracting in tiny, regular seizures beneath the man’s jacket. Saliva frothed through gritted teeth as five, eight, ten times he stiffened before the seizures stopped, leaving him weak and pale again. “All right, I—I think I’ll be… I think I’ll be able to run for a minute.”

Eric didn’t hesitate, grateful only that whatever it was had passed. With Eric still supporting his father’s weight, the two of them made their way carefully through the backwoods in the direction he was certain would take them to the cave entrance. They made it out of the depression and came across a little-used hunting trail going in roughly the direction he remembered. The trail was a mixed blessing: The surer footing would enable them to pick up their own pace as they ran; but it also meant that there was a greater danger of the horses catching up with them, which would not be the case on the uneven terrain off the trail. Eric opted for speed and they had just begun moving again as the next set of seizures hit, crippling his father just as they had before.

“My God, what is it?” Eric felt tears of angry frustration run down his cheeks at his own helplessness to do anything. “What’s wrong?” He held his father tightly in his arms, stroking the back of his head until the seizures—as before, exactly ten of them—passed and he sat up, dazed and disoriented. “What is it?” Eric asked again.

His father panted heavily, increasingly exhausted by each successive bout with the seizures, and tore at his jacket to get it off, then used Glenney’s knife to cut the blood-soaked sleeve of his shirt away, exposing the surprisingly small but deep wound in his upper arm. “It’s what they shot me with,” he gasped, feeling where the skin had been penetrated. “A charged projectile of some kind, timed to send a series of electric shocks directly into my nervous system.” He looked at Eric and handed him the knife. “You’ve got to get it out. I don’t know how many more times I can take it and keep on going.”

Eric wiped the blood away from the wound and examined it closely, pressing gently where the projectile had entered. His father gasped painfully. “It’s deep, Father. I’m not sure I can—” He jumped to his feet, listening carefully. They had put some distance between themselves and the dogs in the last several minutes, or maybe the animals had momentarily lost the scent, but the barking grew closer again.

“Eric, there’s no time! Go—unnh!” He fell backward to the ground, his back arching as the first of the seizures went through him.

Now! Eric thought, and in desperation pulled the pin laser from his jacket pocket. He fell on top of his father, pinning his chest with one knee while holding his arm firmly to the ground with the other. His father’s body spasmed a third time, then a fourth. Gripping the arm with his left hand, he thumbed the safety on the pen-sized laser with his right and jammed it into the wound. A fifth spasm. The fresh blood that oozed from around the inserted laser was slippery and he lost his grip momentarily as the muscles contracted again, jerking the arm powerfully. Eric struggled to steady the arm and made sure the laser was into the wound as far as it would go. He looked at his father’s face, his eyes glassy and staring, and realized when he saw the saliva frothing pinkly at the corners of his mouth that he must have bitten his tongue or lip.

“Father, this is all my fault,” he sobbed, even though he knew his words fell on unhearing ears. “I’m so sorry!”

There was another seizure, the sixth, and Eric thumbed the activator on the pin laser, holding the button down to keep the tiny beam firing steadily. There was a horrible sizzling that wrenched his stomach, and tiny curls of foul-smelling smoke poured from the edges of the wound. He closed his eyes at the sight and fought back the wave of nausea sweeping over him, but he kept holding the activator switch until he felt a sudden popping beneath his fingers, followed by his father’s single piercing scream of pain. He released the button and immediately pulled the laser out of the partially cauterized wound.

His father went limp, the violent muscle contractions halting in mid-seizure. The glassiness disappeared from his eyes and he sat up shakily, his face ghostly white. Eric helped him try to stand, but Javas fell weakly to his hands and knees, his stomach heaving. He gasped several times, then rose once more to his knees, catching his breath. The color was beginning to return to his face and he looked up at Eric, a weak smile spreading across his face.

“Th-thank you, son.” He extended his left hand and allowed Eric to help him to his feet, then held onto his upper arm, the wound now barely bleeding.

“Are you all right? Can you walk?”

He nodded tiredly and started moving, slowly at first, one foot plodding ahead of the other as Eric helped support his weight. He regained his strength quickly as they traveled, but Eric realized that they’d lost too much time and looked desperately for landmarks. The dogs would not be far behind them now.

There they are… There was a great deal of karst here, but two large chunks of limestone—one on each side of the path—stood out among the outcroppings scattered throughout the woods. From there it was just another half kilometer to the cave.

They hurried through the opening between the two rocks, but had barely cleared them when the first of the dogs came up from behind. Eric whirled to meet them, the pin laser in hand, but the animal did not attack as he’d expected. His father joined him at his side, holding the knife well out in front of him, but still the dog hung back.

The dog was unlike any Eric had seen. It bore a resemblance, in build and coloring, to a Doberman; but the legs were much longer and thinner and ended in flat, wide paws perfectly suited for speed in the unsure footing of the backwoods. A second dog appeared, followed immediately by a third. Eric noticed that, unlike the baying dogs still in the distance, these animals hadn’t made a sound and reasoned that they had been bio-bred for speed and stealth, and trained to keep their quarry from moving until the slower, noisier dogs—and their masters—caught up.

The lead dog growled, its head lowered and unmoving but its eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. Eric raised the pin laser, and all three animals oriented on the sudden movement as Eric thumbed the switch and fired on the one in the center. The dog was beyond the effective focal length of the laser, unfortunately, and it did little more than singe a spot on its short black fur, but the lead dog seemed aware of the weapon, what it was and what it could do, and kept a discreet distance from Eric as the other two animals slowly moved to either side as if to encircle them like some wild prey—which, it occurred to Eric, was exactly what they were.

“Don’t move,” said a voice behind them, and both Eric and his father froze. The dogs growled louder, clearly unsettled by the newcomer, who walked briskly to stand between the two men, the barrel of his shotgun pointed at the dogs. Eric continued to keep the pin laser trained on the dog nearest him, but from the corner of his eye saw that his father’s mouth had dropped when he recognized who the man was.

“Brendan—”

“Sire, reach behind me. Tucked into my belt is a revolver. Slowly! Do you have it? Now, aim it carefully at the animal on your right, I’ll take the other two. Prince Eric, don’t move…”

Brendan waited until the Emperor dropped the knife into his boot to better handle the revolver with his uninjured arm, then fired over Eric’s shoulder, catching the dog on the left squarely in the face, nearly severing the head from its body. He brought the gun around and shot the lead dog a split second before his father fired at the remaining animal on the far right, bringing it down.

Brendan paused a few seconds to be sure they were dead, then in one smooth motion slipped the shotgun over his shoulder and into a holster mounted on the side of the back-pack he wore. He pulled a small vial from one of the side pockets on the pack and quickly sprinkled its contents, a grainy black powder, on the ground and around each of the dead animals. “If the other dogs come this way, they won’t be able to track us once they’ve inhaled some of that.”

“Poison?” Eric asked.

“No, nothing so exotic; or cruel, for that matter,” he said, already turning away from the grisly scene. “It’s ordinary pepper.” He took several steps into the brush before Javas stopped him.

“Wait, murderer.”

The icy cold tone of his father’s voice caused a sick, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, and as he spun to face him he saw that he now had the gun leveled steadily at Brendan. The man halted mid-stride, then sighed heavily and crunched almost unconcernedly back through the fallen leaves and branches to stand before the Emperor.

“What would you have of me, Sire?” he asked simply, his arms spread at his side. “Shall I stand before that tree, so that you may play the role of executioner? Or will you permit me to treat your wound and lead you, and your son, to safety?”

“I’m not so sure I would mind seeing your blood mingled with that of these other animals,” Javas replied, nodding at the carcasses of the three dogs. “And I don’t need your help to reach safety.”

“Oh?” asked Brendan. “With your integrator still blocked?”

His father’s eyes widened in stunned surprise at the admission. How had he known?

Brendan cocked his head in the direction of the road. “Have you wondered why they haven’t caught up with you?”

Javas looked at Eric, clearly puzzled as to what the man was suggesting, and lowered the revolver slightly.

Eric listened carefully. The dogs still barked in the distance, but it was clear that they were not coming any closer. “They’re no longer following us,” he said.

“There is no need for them to be,” he responded, pointing at his father’s injured arm. “They didn’t expect you to get very far. The purpose of the horsemen and dogs was to drive you in this direction, keep you from doubling back to the road until the rest of them came around the estate—much more quietly—from the other side.” He gazed up the path in the same direction the cave lay. “They’re not far, Sire. It should only be a matter of minutes before they reach this point, which”—Brendan looked back to Javas, an eyebrow raised—“doesn’t leave you much time, does it, to make a choice?”

Javas lowered the gun the rest of the way and tucked it into his belt. “Let’s go, then.”

Brendan turned his back to them without a word, and stepped into the brush in the same direction he’d started a few minutes earlier.

Can I trust you? Eric wondered, trying to sort out his feelings for Brendan. Surely you’re aware of how much my father hates you, and yet, you knew he wouldn’t fire the weapon; you knew he’d trust you to lead us to safety. How can you be so sure of human nature? Are you really the traitor you’ve been painted to be? “Just a moment, I know of a—” Eric began, unsure of how much to reveal. “I know of a place of safety, less than a kilometer up this path. Can we make it that far before they reach us?”

Brendan scanned the woods around him, listening carefully for several moments before shaking his head. “I don’t think so. But we can make good time through this section of the backwoods here,” he said, waving his arm to the east. “We’ll stay clear of the main trail, but I think we can join one of the secondary trail systems far enough down that we can get to a comm facility before they realize we’ve left the area.” He looked from Javas to Eric, then back to his father and added, his voice softer, “How is your arm, Sire? Will you be able to travel for a while before I take a look at it?”

“I think so.” He nodded in the direction Brendan had indicated. “This way, then?”

The three of them headed into the backwoods, tramping through the brush and speaking only occasionally to one another. Because of the relentless thickness of the undergrowth, their progress was slow, and Brendan was forced to stop more frequently than he would have liked to check their direction and compare notes with Eric on their surroundings. His father had said nothing at all, although Eric couldn’t be sure if his silence was due to his contempt for Brendan, or because of the pain he must be suffering. He cradled his arm constantly as he walked, holding it close in to his chest, and began sweating profusely with the effort of the hike. He held up the pace well, however, and they managed to cover a good deal of terrain before Brendan insisted on stopping long enough to tend to his wound.

“How did you know my integrator was being blocked?” his father asked matter-of-factly as Brendan finished bandaging his arm. Although there was little emotion in his words, it marked the first time the Emperor had addressed him directly since their confrontation back at the path.

“When I was your father’s personal medical attendant—How does that feel? Is it too tight?” Javas shook his head. “My implants were linked directly to his integrator,” he continued, “at exactly the same wavelength. Everything I did for his care—to stabilize medication levels, adjust his intensive-care equipment, even simply to monitor his condition—I channeled through him. When he died—”

The Emperor pulled his arm away suddenly, a look of cold anger sweeping across his features, and appeared about to say something but instead stared out through the trees.

Brendan shrugged, making no attempt to defend himself from Javas’ silent accusation, and began collecting his things, replacing them carefully, but hurriedly, in the medical kit as he spoke. “When he died, my implants became inactive. I could no longer access the Imperial systems any more than I could his medical files. But my implants are still there, still intact.” He closed the kit and stashed it in the backpack, then slipped it back on. “We’d better get moving.”

“Your implants are still functional?” Eric asked as he fell into step behind the other two.

“They are, Young Prince, and I am constantly aware of their presence, but they were tuned to operate only through your grandfather. Yesterday afternoon, at almost the exact moment your shuttle approached, I sensed a numbness in my head as if they had suddenly gone inoperative. There’s some kind of jamming signal covering this area”—he swept his arm around him to take in the entire backwoods—“like a heavy blanket.”

His father stopped in his tracks. “You were near the House when we crashed?” he asked suspiciously. “You’ve not been in service to House Valtane for nearly three years. Why were you in the vicinity?”

“Your intelligence information is very good. I did leave House Valtane when Reid reached eighteen.” Brendan kept his pace going, not bothering to turn back as he answered. “I live in the backwoods—I’m taking you to my home now.”

His father was about to ask another question, but at the mention of his brother’s name Javas fell silent once again. They continued on, finally reaching a narrow trail where their pace increased considerably on the smooth, growth-free surface. Sure of his surroundings now, Brendan no longer needed to reorient himself and they stopped only twice: once to check the dressing on Javas’ arm, and again when the sun was directly overhead.

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 this 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.

Hanging as he was, facing down the trail, he was the first to see the riders when they rounded the curve of the trail.

There were three of them, their horses as magnificent as the one he’d seen Brendan riding when they first met at this place. They led a fourth horse, Mobo’s body draped over it, his arms and legs dangling grotesquely over the animal’s flanks.

He’d never seen one of the riders before, but he recognized the one leading Mobo’s horse as his brother’s friend Paulie. The man’s eyes were filled with anger and hatred as he stared at him and, although he obviously held him responsible for what had happened to his companion, he didn’t speak. He led his animal to a grassy area on the side of the clearing, followed by the dead man’s horse and the other rider, leaving only the leader’s horse on the trail proper. The rider gracefully alighted on the ground, allowing his mount to follow the others to the grass.

It was his brother. Reid had been bigger than Eric four years ago, but now he virtually dwarfed him. His muscular build and physical features closely matched his father’s. His thin beard was gone, and his copper-colored hair had lightened, and he looked even more like his father than he had remembered from their first meeting. In fact, where he had merely looked familiar to him when they had first met, it would now be apparent to even a casual observer that the Emperor and Reid were father and son. Eric wondered idly if anyone would ever make the same assumption about himself.

Reid stood silently before him for several moments, then circled around to examine the others.

“Father,” he heard him say, a sarcastic chuckle underlying his words, “how nice it is to see you again for the first time. And Master; you, too, are looking well.” His brother laughed aloud, then walked to a point where Eric could just see him if he strained his neck enough. Reid shook his head in mock sadness at the sight before him. “Is this any way to treat the Emperor of the Hundred Worlds, and his Crown Prince? Johnson!”

He held out his hand, deftly catching the controller that Johnson tossed to him. “Cover them with…” A sudden thought occurred to him, and he laughed again. “Use the Master’s own shotgun.” There was a sharp, metallic sound as Johnson broke the magazine and checked the load, then walked to stand next to Reid. Satisfied that Johnson had a clear field of fire that included all three of them, Reid held the controller before him.

Eric fell suddenly, losing his balance as his feet hit the ground. His father and Brendan had both managed to stay upright when the field released. Eric scrambled quickly to his feet; too quickly, causing Johnson to swing the shotgun immediately in his direction.

“Sit down,” he ordered, punctuating the remark with the shotgun, “cross-legged. All three of you.”

“Paulie! David!” Reid called over his shoulder. “Take Mobo back to the House.”

“And one of you fetch my horse before you leave,” added Johnson, tilting his head behind him. “You’ll find him tied a few meters down-trail.”

The one identified as David scrambled over the oak and disappeared, while Paulie came forward and said something under his breath to Reid, who smiled wickedly and nodded in Eric’s direction. Paulie crossed quickly to him and hit him full in the face with his fist, knocking him backward on the ground. “He told you to sit down,” Paulie said emotionlessly. Eric wanted to throttle him, but staring up the barrels of the shotgun trained squarely on him, he fought back his anger and quietly sat upright, crossing his legs as ordered.

Hide your anger; hide your fear. Show your contempt. “That’s it?” he asked, wiping at his bleeding lip. “I would have thought that with a weapon trained over your shoulder to back you up, your bravery would have been such that you could have delivered a better blow than that.”

Pauline lunged forward, but Reid restrained him with an outstretched arm. “Forget it,” he said, his voice and commanding delivery immediately reminding Eric of Johnson’s way of speaking. His brother had obviously picked up a number of the bearded man’s strengths. “Now get moving, both of you.” Paulie opened his mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it and crossed wordlessly to his mount and, with David rejoining him, led Mobo’s horse into the underbrush to clear the downed oak before disappearing on the eastern portion of the trail.

Reid waited until the sounds of their horses faded away into the backwoods before speaking. “Father, it has been such a long time, and we have such a short time left to us.”

“Time for what, son?” the Emperor asked, looking up from his place on the ground.

“Why, to get to know each other before I kill you, of course.”

Brendan stirred uneasily at the remark, but held his tongue.

“That’s what this is all about, then? Your mother’s attempt to put her bastard son on the throne?”

Reid chuckled at the insult. “I’m no bastard. I was born according to the old ways of a natural womb, on Earth, as mandated by Imperial law and custom. As the only living heir to the throne, there won’t even be a question raised as to the validity of my claim, once your bodies are discovered aboard the wreckage of the shuttle and the news of your tragic deaths reaches Armelin City.”

“And you think you’ll get away with this?” Eric demanded. “You think no one will connect House Valtane to this?”

“And why should they, little brother?” he asked, crossing in front of him. “You’ll be the victims of a desperate attempt by the Sarpan to defend themselves.” He held the controller up between thumb and forefinger. “See this? It’s an integrated unit that controls not only the shielding in place over your palatial home, but the sticky field Johnson used to snare the three of you. There are hundreds of types of shield technology in use in the Empire, but the shield over Woodsgate has undoubtedly been analyzed from the inside, and its origin will be directly traced back to the Sarpan. Just as the nerve slug I shot you with this morning will match the Sarpan gun we’ve planted in the wreckage.”

“Sarpan?” His father gripped the bandage on his arm and stared in disbelief at Reid’s statement. “Your mother has made a deal with the aliens?”

Reid shrugged. “One finds allegiance where one can.”

“Yeah,” snorted Eric, nodding disgustedly in Johnson’s direction. “That much is painfully clear.”

“Yes,” agreed Johnson, his feral eyes narrowing at Eric, “but sometimes the allegiance can truly be of mutual benefit to all parties concerned.” He walked to the fallen oak and sat, the barrel of the shotgun still trained on the three of them. “The frogs feel threatened by your blasphemous project to alter the Sun’s natural course. They don’t understand your efforts and see only an Imperial expansion that brings humans closer to Sarpan space. They were more than happy to lend assistance to House Valtane, knowing that the final determination will show them to have acted only out of fear for their own existence.”

“Such a horrible misunderstanding,” Reid added with mock sincerity. “Of course, when I’m made Emperor I will do all I can to smooth relations with the Sarpan Realm… even if it means dismantling the project.”

“But you can’t!” His father moved forward in anger, checking himself abruptly when Johnson jumped to his feet.

“Oh? Once word spreads through the Empire that a major confrontation with the Sarpan Realm can be resolved as simply as postponing an effort that few members of the Hundred Worlds really understood anyway… In another twenty-five or thirty years, the urgency of this stupid project begun by Emperor Nicholas and the Grisian scientist will no longer be as keenly felt. I’ll see to it.”

“I’ve studied the data,” Eric interjected. “My mother’s conclusions are valid.”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” he shot back, “since I could not possibly care less about pursuing your mother’s work.”

“You disgust me, Reid,” Brendan put in, speaking for the first time since their capture. He looked at Johnson, adding, “To think I played any part in his upbringing, in the name of a debt to House Valtane.”

Johnson laughed, truly amused at Brendan’s words, his booming voice echoing through the trees. “I would think you’d be getting comfortable with being used by now.” Two steps and Johnson stood before him, his enormous frame towering over the former Master. “Beginning with Emperor Nicholas, you’ve made a life’s work of being a puppet, after all.”

Brendan leaped for Johnson’s gun, but the man must have been expecting the move and neatly sidestepped the attack, bringing the butt of the shotgun up brutally under Brendan’s chin. His father moved to catch Brendan as he fell, but caught the toe of Reid’s boot in his stomach for his trouble and fell back gasping on the ground. “Stay out of this, Father.” He spat the word like a curse.

Eric sat rooted, keeping his anger and concern in check as best he could. He wanted to go to his father’s side, but knew that Johnson—or his brother—would love for him to try, and held himself back. Wait, wait.

His father seemed all right, but winded by the blow to his stomach. Brendan lay on the ground moaning, Johnson standing menacingly above him. Waiting, it seemed, for something. As he studied the man’s face, the pure meanness behind the wolflike eyes, he saw that Johnson had intentionally goaded Brendan into attacking him out of some perverted sense of pleasure. The two men fully intended to kill them, that was apparent, but Eric realized that he and his father would be kept alive long enough to be marched back to the shuttle. Brendan, on the other hand, would most certainly be killed here, now, his body discarded in the backwoods.

He shifted his gaze to Reid and saw that he was enjoying Johnson’s torment of the former Master as much as the Earthman was. The resemblance to his father was merely physical, after all. Any influence Brendan may have had in his upbringing had been completely outweighed by whatever conditioning Johnson had exerted. Brendan managed to sit up groggily, and Eric saw that Johnson was readying to strike him again.

“What do you mean ‘used’?” Eric asked quickly, trying to forestall another blow and play for time.

Almost instantly, his father picked up on what he was attempting. “Brendan, what’s he talking about?”

Johnson stood back and looked over his shoulder at Reid, then said, “Go ahead. Tell him.”

Brendan massaged his jaw and was still wavering from the blow he’d taken. “Go to hell,” he croaked, not even bothering to raise his head.

Johnson kicked him savagely, sending him writhing to the ground once more. His father had managed to edge closer and reached out to Brendan, but Johnson smacked the barrel of the shotgun sharply against the side of his head, forcing him back. “Do it, just do it!” he yelled, roughly prodding his father in the face with the gun. “I’ll drag your gods-damned corpse back to the shuttle myself—”

“Enough!” Reid grabbed the man’s shoulder, restraining him. Johnson stood aside, but kept the gun leveled. “The Sarpan don’t use shotguns,” he reminded him, then leaned into his father’s face. “But don’t think I won’t kill you here, myself, if it comes to it. It would be more trouble, but we could make a shotgun wound look like a crash injury.” He straightened and suddenly kicked his father forcefully in the ribs, knocking him on his back.

Eric marveled at how well his brother was playing this out. He had stood back and studied the three of them while Johnson worked on them, both physically and emotionally, intervening only when it seemed necessary to avoid having his plans altered. He paced a few meters away, turning back to address them.

“What Brendan is now realizing,” he began, raising an eyebrow, “and what he seems too ashamed to admit, is that he’s the reason we caught you so easily.” He walked in a wide circle around them, concentrating his gaze on Brendan as he spoke. “His implants may be inactive, but my mother has monitored them for years. You didn’t know that, did you, Master? We’ve watched you, followed you, traced your steps since I was a boy. Then, after you left our service three years ago, we still knew every move you made. Knew of your hovel in the woods, and how you’ve shadowed our House as well as the Imperial residence. We tracked you easily once you met up with my father and brother, and it was simplicity itself to set up a trap at your home. Were you so naive as to think you could prevent the inevitable?”

His father sat up again, wincing with the movement—the blows he’d taken, along with his injured arm, were beginning to take a heavy toll upon him. Eric saw fresh blood oozing slowly down the man’s wrist and realized that his wound had reopened and was once again bleeding freely. “Why, Brendan?” His words came weakly, his voice rasping. “I asked you before why you stayed here, in the backwoods, and you never answered.”

“I sought…” Brendan coughed, wiped a bit of blood from his lips. “I sought to serve you, Sire, to make up for—” He stopped, looked apologetically to Javas. “I wanted only to watch them. They hated you, that was plain. Their plans had been thwarted by your father, their numbers reduced when they were systematically rounded up after his death. I had hoped to be able to watch them, perhaps somehow warn you if the resistance to your regime mounted once more. But instead…” He hung his head in shame, his voice shaking as he whispered, “Instead, I’ve betrayed your House once again.”

His father started to speak, obviously confused by what he was hearing.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Reid came forward, grasping the lapels of the Emperor’s jacket. “The Master has been stupidly loyal to the Empire all along.” He released his hold on the jacket, letting Javas fall heavily to the ground.

“We’ve wasted enough time here, Lord,” Johnson said.

“You’re right,” Reid agreed, turning for his horse. “On your feet.”

A satisfied smile spread over Johnson’s features and he raised the shotgun toward Brendan’s face as everything seemed to happen at once.

“No!” Eric tried to stand, desperate to do something but knowing he was too far to the side. His call distracted the gunman, however, allowing his father the split second he needed to leap sideways in an attempt to reach Johnson. He managed to deflect the gun enough that when it discharged, only a small portion of the blast caught Brendan in his left shoulder and upper chest. The force of the blast sent him flying backward into the scrub at the edge of the trail. At the same time, Javas kicked upward, knocking the gun aside but not with enough strength to dislodge it from Johnson’s grip.

“Damn your interference!” With Brendan groaning in agony on the ground below him, Johnson turned to where his father staggered upright. He flipped the shotgun around, smashing the butt end into his face with a horrible, audible crunch.

Not caring if a second blast came his way, Eric sprang to his father’s side. He was bleeding heavily from a deep purple-red gash that ran several centimeters in length, and his eye was already swelling shut over his flattened cheekbone. He was still conscious, barely, and gasped for breath as Eric cradled him in his lap. Johnson stood over them, his feral eyes glowing with rage, the twin barrels of the shotgun pointed directly at them.

Reid had come forward and held the controller out in front of him, but lowered it again when he saw that all resistance had stopped. “Finish the Master.”

“Very well, Lord.” The sudden anger drained from Johnson as he turned away reluctantly and crossed the trail to where Brendan lay in the underbrush.

“Eric,” the Emperor gasped, “my boot.”

The knife! Eric reached down his father’s side and into his boot. In one fluid movement he drew the blade from its sheath and flung it at Johnson.

The blade found its mark just below the man’s beard and he fell to his knees, his breath coming in tortured, gurgling wheezes. Still on his knees, he turned to Eric. Where before, his eyes had reflected the cunning and ruthlessness of a savage predator, now they glowed only with the fear of trapped prey. He fell forward on top of the shotgun, the life spilling out of him into the scrub.

Not taking the time to look behind him, Eric made a dash for the weapon, yanking it forcibly from beneath Johnson’s still body. He spun around, aiming the gun at his brother, now the only other person still on his feet. Reid stood only a few meters away, unmoving, with the controller held out before him. His face was unreadable. Behind him, he heard Brendan groaning; before him, his father lay panting on the ground.

“What do you care about the Master?” Reid asked confidently. “He’s a traitor to your House.”

Where is it? Eric wondered. Without taking his eyes from Reid and keeping the shotgun pointed straight ahead, he moved forward slowly, kicking up some leaves experimentally, hoping to find the sticky field.

“If our father were not bound by his promise to our grandfather, he would surely have killed him himself.” Reid ran a hand through his long hair almost nonchalantly as he spoke, and seemed untroubled by all that had happened. It was clear that Johnson meant nothing to him, and had only served as a means to an end; Reid would probably have ordered his death himself once he’d achieved his goals.

Eric edged closer, Reid’s hand following his every movement. The sticky field was certainly somewhere between him and his brother, he reasoned, but other questions raced through his head: Is it movable? Can he direct it? Enlarge it? Contract it around him? How high is it, and does it extend all the way to the ground below him? Can the shotgun penetrate it?

“You know, Eric,” his brother said, using his name for the first time, “I’m quite impressed by how well you’ve handled yourself.”

He felt a sudden pressure at his back and turned slightly before he fought off the urge to whip around. He stopped moving forward and stepped to the side, but found that he was mired as before, unable to move. He froze, the shotgun thrust out before him, and tried not to entangle himself in the rapidly enveloping field any more deeply than he already had. The field at his back was cold against his skin—he hadn’t noticed that before when he’d struggled with it. He remained motionless, but hopes of not becoming helplessly stuck melted as he felt the chilling sweep of the Sarpan field cover his body, sweeping around from behind him in a split second to hold him fast, leaving him little more than a statue. He kicked his foot and stirred up dust that caught in the field around him as it floated upward. The field seemed to be tightly focused on him, wrapping around him like a cocoon.

Seeing that he was now held securely by the sticky field, Reid stopped his banter and slipped the controller into his shirt pocket, then crossed to where his father lay on the ground, checking his condition. Javas appeared to be all right for the moment, but from Eric’s vantage point he seemed to lapse in and out of consciousness. Standing again, Reid strode casually up to where he was being held tight in the field’s grip and stood mockingly at his side.

He tried to speak, in vain, and managed only to frown up at his tormentor. Show your contempt.

“It was stupid of you to fight me, Eric,” Reid said, leaning so close that he could feel his brother’s breath on his face. “Look at you: You take more after your scientist mother than the Emperor. I’m stronger, more suited for rule than you could ever be.” He started to say something else, but a sudden rustle from the underbrush caught his attention and he turned away for a moment. The rustling stopped, and was replaced by Brendan’s groaning as the man fell back into the scrub once more. “Pathetic. The Master is trying to help you, still trying to prove to you that he’s no traitor. Since you’ve managed to kill Johnson, I’ll take care of this last chore myself.”

He went to the fallen oak where the guns had been piled, and picked up both of the weapons Johnson had confiscated from them. “I recognize Mobo’s gun,” he said, leaning it against the oak, then picked up the revolver. “This one must belong to the Master. I believe I’ll use it to kill him.”

Wait, wait.

“No, don’t do it…” His father had managed to raise himself up on one elbow, but was helpless to intervene as Reid approached the trail. Eric waited until his brother was almost in front of him, then with every bit of strength he possessed pushed the gun forward and watched as the dust delineating the edge of the field stretched, then snapped back closer to his body. The moment the chamber cleared the edge of the field, he squeezed the trigger.

Reid was barely a meter in front of him when he fired, and the full blast of the shotgun threw his brother forcefully against the oak. Eric felt the sticky field dissolve around him almost instantly, and he hit the ground and rolled to the side in the event Reid tried to respond with the revolver. He needn’t have bothered. Reid, his chest blown nearly away, was dead before he hit the tree. His head lolling to one side, his brother’s body leaned in an almost natural position against the oak. Eric swallowed hard as he stared at the gaping hole in Reid’s chest, and saw that bits and pieces of the controller electronics were scattered amid the blood.

Eric turned away. “Father, are you all right?” he asked, supporting his shoulders.

“I’ll be fine. Help me up.” He weaved unsteadily as Eric helped him to his feet, but kept his balance.

Together the two of them went to Brendan. They removed his backpack in an attempt to make him as comfortable as possible. Eric rummaged through the backpack until he found the medical kit and dressed the Master’s wounds as best he could, but it was clear to both of them that the injuries were even more severe than he had thought; he’d lost too much blood.

“The shield controller was destroyed,” Eric said, trying to keep Brendan alert. He removed his jacket and made a pillow for him; his father’s jacket was already draped over him. “If he was telling the truth about it being an integrated control, then the shield on the House should be down, too. Lie still; we’ll have help soon.”

Brendan ignored the hopeful remark and addressed his father. “Sire… Your integrator… ?” He coughed again, spitting blood. He seemed to grow weaker, his skin more pallid by the minute.

The Emperor shook his head. “No, it’s still out. But they’ll be searching the woods any time now with body heat scans. Hang on, Brendan.” He looked around, hoping to spot some sign of impending rescue, but Brendan’s hand on his arm drew his attention.

“Sire… Your father…”

“Shhhh. Don’t talk.”

“No.” Eric felt Brendan shivering beneath his touch, saw his lips quivering as he spoke. Brendan’s eyes grew glassy, but stared desperately into his father’s face as he tried to sit. “I didn’t kill him.”

His father stiffened. “I think I know that now.”

“He was already dying. We… we even had to keep him in cryosleep for… most of the journey here.” Brendan released his grip on Javas’ arm and fell back against Eric’s rolled jacket, catching his breath before going on. “He hid it from me… hid it from all of us with his integrator. Johnson’s… people would have murdered him, but he beat them to it… knowing that the public spectacle of his death would result in an intensive… effort to find his killers…”

“And gain immediate support for the project,” Javas finished for him. “He gave you the bracelet, didn’t he, using you as the bait Glenney needed to hunt down Johnson’s people.”

Brendan nodded almost imperceptibly at the burden that had just been lifted from him. As he died, the hint of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

There was a humming vibration above their heads and Eric looked upward at the hovercraft skimming the treetops, recognizing it by its markings as one of the short-range hoppers kept at the House. The craft slowed as it passed over their location, then circled around and reoriented over the clearing as it prepared to land.

His father hadn’t moved, and remained staring at Brendan’s body, his eyes moist.

“You’ve done something few can do, my friend,” he said softly, his words nearly lost in the increasing whine of the descending hovercraft. “You’ve given your life twice for your Emperor.”

The day had begun with a beautiful summer sunrise over the green Kentucky hills to the east. It was still early, and Eric and his father strolled the grounds on what was to be their last morning together before the Emperor returned to the Moon. In the two days that had passed since returning to Woodsgate, his father’s wounds had been quick-healed, and only a slight shininess of plastiskin remained on his cheek where the bone structure of his face had been rebuilt. In a few days more even that would be gone, and with it, all physical traces of their ordeal.

“I’ll tell you something else,” his father was saying. He’d stopped to make a point, and Eric let his eyes roam the garden as he spoke. He felt a strong, humid breeze from the south and already felt warm in his formal Imperial jacket. Today would be hot, he knew. “In many ways, I don’t really miss it. Without my integrator, I’ve been more at peace with myself than I have in years.” He chuckled to himself, and added, “Of course, once they’ve reactivated the circuitry I’m sure I’ll wonder how I ever got along without it.”

“What about House Valtane?”

Eric’s blunt question took his father by surprise, and he resumed walking before answering. “I don’t know. I’m forced to admit that she’s covered her tracks well. We’ve been able to find little, if any, ties to the Sarpan other than the most innocuous of trade agreements. She apparently has no interest whatever in the project, other than how it might affect her personal gain, and merely used the zealousness of Johnson and his people to get to us. Without their leader to guide them, it’s becoming ridiculously easy to round up what’s left of them.”

“There will still be resistance, I suppose.”

His father sighed. “Yes, I suppose mere will. But nothing as fanatical—or as fatalistic—as Johnson’s group. They were the only serious threat.” Javas looked away again and cleared his throat. He was clearly uneasy about something. He took a deep breath, then said, “Eric… has Master McLaren told you of the test of courage that is given to each heir to the Empire upon his reaching manhood?”

Eric felt his heart race suddenly, but hid his true feelings as best he could. “He’s not yet spoken of it to me, not directly anyway; but yes, I know of it.”

His father nodded in understanding. “Do you know that my oldest brother failed?”

A whisper: “Yes.”

Javas sighed again. “I can’t guess how much you know about what happened, but accept that the test is the final determination of a man’s fitness to rule. To fail the test proves cowardice, which is punishable by death—instantly and without question—at the hands of a member of the House of Arman. Only he can set the conditions of the test; only he can be the judge in this. It is tradition, and cannot, will not, be broken.”

Javas pushed, and stared off into the distance where a flock of game birds were clearing a rise at the edge of the estate grounds. “Eric, officially speaking, your test would still be many years away. However, I can conceive of no test that would prove your courage more than the ordeal you’ve just gone through. There will be no need to test you further.” He smiled then and held out his hand. “You’ve made me proud, in more ways than you can imagine.”

Eric was about to reply, but was interrupted by a sudden, steady whine behind them as the shuttle prepared for takeoff, and the two men turned back to the front of the House. McLaren stood waiting at the edge of the shuttle pad, hands clasped behind his back and a dour expression on his face. Things truly are back to normal, Eric mused as they neared.

The head of House security sprinted up to them, bowing his head nervously. “Sire, your shuttle is ready to depart.”

The Emperor nodded to dismiss him, and when he was out of earshot, said, “I’ve got a feeling it will be a long time, if ever, before Imperial security is the same again.”

“Good.” Eric turned to his father, and extended his hand in farewell.

“Good-bye, Eric,” the Emperor said, shaking his hand firmly before turning for the shuttle.

“Father?” Eric said suddenly, stopping him. “I’m proud to be your son.”

His father raised his hand to the waiting security personnel at the shuttle to signal that he was coming and turned back to Eric. “I fought your grandfather for so many years,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I never told him how proud I was of him until he was an old man, almost too late. Thank you for not making me wait as long.” The Emperor smiled warmly, then headed for the waiting shuttle.

Eric watched as the craft lifted off and passed through the shielding. It circled the grounds once, then disappeared through the clouds.

… there are a few physical differences, as well. Due to the gravity of 1.2 g, most native Pallatins are shorter in stature than human standard. Further, after three centuries their eyes are larger to better utilize the dimmer light emitted by their K-2 sun. The eyes have been described as very expressive and are, to the keen observer, a key indicator of their emotions at any given moment…

Eric found it difficult to sleep that night, and sat idly fingering the keys of the terminal at his study desk. He was only half reading the screen and tapped at the keys to bring up a different file. The readout on the flatscreen display showed a green planet, slightly larger than Earth, turning slowly as a description of the world scrolled by beneath it.

Pallatin, it read. Star type: K-2. Distance: 16.5 light-years. Colony established: 2321. Economy: Ship construction, heavy and light industrial, bioengineering, literature …

Sixteen and a half light-years. He did a quick mental calculation—at top speed, Dr. Adela de Montgarde was probably arriving at Pallatin just about now. Or perhaps she had even concluded her business there and was now on her way home. In any event, she certainly would know by now that she had a son, waiting on Earth.

Eric had never felt a closeness to his absent mother, had never felt a need to contact her. Besides, he’d reasoned, the distances made the relevancy of any message he might send pointless. The events of the past week, however, had made him rethink his reasoning.

It would still take several years for the message to reach her; in fact, it would probably be intercepted on the return trip. It didn’t really matter, though, as she would most likely be in cryosleep when the message was received. It would greet her upon her awakening when she reentered Sol system, as would each of the periodic recordings that would follow this one.

He tapped the keyboard lightly and the display disappeared, then quickly keyboarded the sequence to set up a holographic recording. Soft lighting came up around the flatscreen as the system prepared to record, and a low chiming told him when it was ready.

“Record.” The glow changed subtly as the recording process started.

“Hello, Mother,” he began. “Let me tell you about myself.”