“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.