To Save the Sun

by Ben Bova

  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 a
nd 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.