It had taken Brogan three days to obtain the new biopack, during which time he had presented himself at a special convening of the War Court to request the immediate appointment of the duel. Because Brogan was still hampered by his biopack, the court had at first objected to Brogan’s request. But when it learned of the three attempts against Brogan’s life, the judges relented and set the date two weeks hence.
For the next ten days Brogan had been busy. Each day he trained for hours in hand-to-hand combat. Then he spent at least an hour practicing his knife throwing. He had to assume that Josh would not fight fair, and he had to have something “up his sleeve,” an “ace in the hole.” But he also knew that, if he needed to throw his stiletto, he would have only one chance to make it good. So he had to practice until he could put the knife exactly where he wanted it every time.
It was hard on his arm. It got sore quickly, and he was almost always in pain from overusing it. He knew he was probably harming the healing process, but that could not be helped. Better short-term pain than long-term loss of life.
On the appointed day Brogan took some pain medication as usual, then set out to visit Adriel. When he arrived, she was meditating. She looked up as he came in. Her bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes showed the emotional strain, but she smiled to see him.
“Just praying about the duel today,” she said with a nervous laugh. Then she cast her eyes across the room and sighed.
“That’s a good idea,” said Brogan. “I need all the help I can get.”
Brogan saw the gratitude in Adriel’s eyes as he sat down beside her and took her hand. Brogan reflectively stroked her hand with his thumb. Adriel put her other hand on his.
“I’m sorry to have to put you through this,” Brogan said quietly.
“So am I. But let’s face it, it’s you putting your life on the line out there today, not me. So don’t think about my feelings. You go out there and concentrate on what you have to do and come back to me alive.”
She turned and put her arm around his neck and hugged him tightly. Brogan breathed deeply of her feminine strength and returned her embrace.
After awhile they separated, and Brogan asked simply, “Are you coming?”
Adriel took a deep breath and let it out. “My upbringing and my beliefs by themselves would be enough to keep me away. Even more is my fear that I would see you . . . die.” She paused. “But my love for you will not let me say no. I have to see this through with you, for better or worse.”
Brogan smiled weakly and gripped her hand tighter. “That means a lot to me.” He reached up and stroked her hair. “You are so beautiful, and I love you so much.”
Again they embraced. Then Brogan pushed her away and pulled her up off the couch as he stood. “I’ve got to go get ready. I’ll see you there. Remember. You must be ready to leave right after the duel.”
“Everything’s packed . . . what there is.”
“Good. I don’t think you have anything to fear until afterward. The Moguls will await the outcome of the fight before they try anything. So I’ll see you there.”
He gave her a lingering kiss, then turned to go.
*
When Brogan arrived at the duel site, he turned in a circle to survey the six-sided auditorium. The open floor comprising the combat area looked to have a diameter of about sixty meters. Six entrance hallways divided the six sides of the open expanse equally and gave easy access to the seating that extended the entire circumference. The duel monitors, six of them in all, were already standing at ease in front of the six sections, each facing toward the center of the arena.
The rows of seats rose from front to back to give the audience an unobstructed view of the action. Brogan had a few choice thoughts about that, but he was at least grateful that seating was limited. Each of the six sections contained only ten rows. The audience would not be overwhelming or distracting, but Brogan was still afraid that he would feel like a virus under a microscope or like a marionette forced to perform for the amusement of others.
The floor was composed of a slip-proof, artificial surface. Six colored triangles divided it equally—bright red, maroon, scarlet, magenta, violet red, and fuchsia. Their base was formed by the wall that divided the combat area from the stands, and each triangle ended in a point at the exact center of the arena.
“No wonder this place is called the Field of Blood,” muttered Brogan to himself. He walked out to the center and turned around, acclimating himself to the environment in which he would be fighting for his life in only a couple of hours. He stood there for several minutes, visualizing the impending fight
—his moves and his countermoves. Then he walked slowly to the dressing room that had been reserved for him, head down, deep in thought.
Mogul gripped his neuro-whip grimly, his knuckles beginning to turn white from the tension. He held his shield before him protectively. It was composed of the same transparent, air permeable material that protected the Emperor in the conference chamber. The shield was roughly rectangular, extending twenty-five centimeters beyond the bend of his left elbow and five centimeters past where his hand made a fist around the stiletto knife. It was securely attached to his forearm near his elbow and wrist. He eyed his opponent with a mixture of hatred and wariness.
Both combatants were outfitted in the scarlet body suits of the Imperial Guard. Brogan wore a bright-gold armband and Mogul a dark-red one. They faced each other at a distance of three meters. Brogan was outfitted with a shield identical to Mogul’s, except that it was attached to his specially modified biopack.
Brogan moved his shield up and down, then extended it straight out and pulled it back to his torso. The full range of motion gave him added confidence, but nervousness still expressed itself through the beads of sweat on his forehead. He fingered the trigger that released the handle of the thirty-centimeter stiletto knife inside his biopack for reassurance and took a deep breath.
The neuro-whips had been specially modified for the occasion. Normally they were calibrated to scramble the total nervous system and render their victims helplessly unconscious for a matter of minutes. The neuro-whips prepared for Brogan and Mogul were limited in their effectiveness. They rendered useless only the portion of the body touched by the whip
—totally useless, however—and then for a mere two minutes. Then another two minutes had to pass while the limb gradually returned to normal function.
The basic strategy was to inflict sufficient immobility on one’s opponent to insure a swift and efficient dispatch with the blade, while at the same time staying clear of the opponent’s whip and knife. It was a difficult method of hand-to-hand combat, and Brogan had chosen it precisely for that reason. But he had not bargained on being hampered by his biopack.
He felt as though a fist were pummeling the insides of his stomach. His whole life came down to the next few minutes, and he knew it. Death was a very real possibility, but he felt confident in his training and skill. His newfound convictions, however, added an uncertainty to his actions.
Many times he had wondered if he had done the right thing to invoke this duel of honor. Josh was clearly his enemy. He had killed dozens of his men on Peru II, and Brogan himself had barely survived. That was reason enough, but then Josh had tried to ruin his life and reputation by his false witness. Failing that he
—and his family—had tried to kill him . . . several times. All things considered, Josh Mogul had made Brogan’s last few months an extremely unpleasant experience.
Part of Brogan wanted to squash the imp out of existence. Mogul deserved to die. But another part realized that such a punishment was not his to mete out. Brogan shook his head. Regardless of idealistic ruminations, he did not see that he had any other choice. The die had been cast. He must now fight for his life and possibly take that of another.
He glanced over to where Adriel had taken her place. He was grateful that she had found the courage to attend. He felt stronger and more confident because of her presence.
But she can’t think much of my killing a man, can she?
he reflected.
Even scum like Mogul.
He turned reluctantly away.
Well, I can’t think about that now.
Then he searched for Manazes and found him. An orderly sat next to him, for he was still convalescing. But no one could have kept him away from this momentous event, and Brogan was grateful for his presence. He nodded in Manazes’s direction and received a salute in return. Brogan felt strengthened with resolve. With conscious effort, he pushed aside all distracting thoughts and directed his concentration at his opponent.
Automatically he noted Mogul’s stance, where he placed most of his weight, how he held his shield and whip. All the while he prayed silently. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
The warning tone sounded, and Brogan assumed his fighting crouch. He said a quick prayer under his breath and began visualizing his moves.
Mogul snarled. “You ready to die, Brogan? Are you ready to meet your God?”
“More ready than you are, Mogul,” Brogan replied softly.
Mogul laughed harshly. “I don’t plan on dying, cripple. You should have expired on Peru II and made it easier on all of us.”
“I’m afraid that this time you have your work cut out for you, Lieutenant. This time you have an audience, and you have to be a man instead of a coward.”
Mogul’s sneer died, and his face darkened. At that moment the commencement tone sounded, and Mogul leapt at Brogan, holding his shield high as he crouched and swept the whip at Brogan’s legs. But Brogan was no longer there. Rolling right Brogan had come up on his feet and now stabbed the whip at Mogul’s left shoulder a split second too late. Mogul had managed to thrust back his arm barely in time to take the blow on his shield instead. But the sudden defensive movement overbalanced him, and he fell backward.
Adding momentum to his fall, Mogul did a backward roll and came to his feet as Brogan spun around left and went for Mogul’s whip arm. Mogul parried Brogan’s whip with his own and came within an inch of his hand before Brogan retreated.
“Pretty good moves for a cripple,” Mogul sneered.
Brogan remained silent and began to circle his opponent.
He’s as good as I feared
, thought Brogan.
Lord, make me the best I can be.
Brogan feinted with his whip. Mogul sidestepped. Brogan thrust high with his whip and swept low with his stiletto as Mogul raised his shield to defend against the whip. Too late he saw the subterfuge. Brogan’s blade slashed a shallow cut on his upper leg as he lurched away and brought his whip down on Brogan’s shield.
Mogul gasped. His face darkened. He clenched his jaw. His eyes widened with released anger and hostility. He charged, but Brogan rolled away, and parried another blow. Again Mogul charged in, and again Brogan gave ground, making Mogul’s attempts futile.
Brogan realized that Mogul was getting frustrated. He knew that Mogul despised him, even more so now that he was hampered by the biopack. But it was that very hate that gave Brogan an advantage. Whereas Brogan was cool and clear-headed, Mogul’s judgment was clouded by emotion. Sooner or later he would make a mistake.
That mistake came when Mogul thrust with the whip, as Brogan had done earlier, while sweeping with his stiletto. The stratagem was imperfectly executed, and instead of sidestepping away as Mogul had done, Brogan moved toward the descending whip, pushing it aside and scoring a neuro-whip strike on Mogul’s right hand.
The whip dropped from Mogul’s paralyzed fingers, his mouth opening in surprise. With only his stiletto as a weapon, he was now at a definite disadvantage. Brogan pressed his opportunity. But Mogul parried each blow until he finally tripped and landed on his back. As Mogul sat halfway up, Brogan saw desperation in his eyes, and he hesitated, feeling no wish to carry the battle to its conclusion.
Suddenly Mogul flipped his stiletto handle toward Brogan and pressed the guard. A tiny pellet was ejected out of the handle’s base and hit Brogan high on his chest.
A stun pellet!
exclaimed Brogan silently as he began to lose his balance. Mogul leaped up and stabbed at Brogan with his stiletto as Brogan fell over backward. The wound was not deep, but to the spectators it appeared that the knife thrust was what caused Brogan to fall.
Mogul stood over him smiling, confident of victory. Brogan was groggy from the pellet but aware enough to realize that he could still use his legs. Since the stun pellet had hit him high, it had had little effect on his lower extremities. Brogan gritted his teeth and brought all his will power and concentration to bear on his right leg. A gasp tore from his mouth as his leg shot up and connected with Mogul’s crotch. Josh, a surprised look on his face, doubled over, and with another Herculean effort, Brogan sent him flying with another kick to the face.
Now Josh was also on his back. The two Imperial Guardsmen lay feet to feet, mimicking a mirror image. But Brogan still could not get up. The stun pellet’s effect kept him nonfunctional and would continue to do so for several more minutes.
Mogul groaned and pushed himself to his hands and knees, his head hanging limp between his arms. He shook his head a few times, trying to clear it. Slowly he swayed to his feet and stumbled as he lost his balance a few times. Still groggy, he managed to tuck away his stiletto and bend over to pick up his neuro-whip.
Brogan gazed at him helplessly. His thoughts flashed back to another place where he lay helpless before his attacker, immobilized, awaiting his fate. Cold dread wrapped itself around him like a sheet as the thought blinked in his head like a warning light that maybe he was not going to make it this time.
Mogul edged carefully toward Brogan’s legs from an angle. He touched Brogan’s right leg with the neuro-whip, then reached over and touched the left. Brogan felt his legs go dead. He tried to fight the irrational fear rising within him as he watched Mogul move up his right side more confidently and paralyze his arm.
He’s not taking any chances this time.
Mogul bent over him and sneered. “Say your prayers, cripple! I’m going to skewer you to the floor like a worm and watch you squirm!” He laughed derisively as he tossed the neuro-whip away.
A hush descended on the auditorium. Brogan turned his head to search for Adriel.
There!
He could see her. One last look at the beautiful, resourceful woman who loved him. She had her hand to her mouth, and tears were streaming down her face. He felt his heart would burst with remorse.
She thinks I’ve had it,
Brogan thought. Then his will hardened.
Get with it, Brogan. It ain’t over till it’s over! Mogul’s forgotten the biopack. You can still use that arm. Ironic isn’t it? The one thing that seems to be no threat could pull me through this yet.
A Scripture verse leaped into his thoughts:
When I am weak, then I am strong.
Brogan saw Mogul flex his right hand. He was beginning to regain the use of it. Josh shook his arm and pulled his stiletto out with his recovering hand.
“Well, maybe I’ll be able to kill you with my right hand after all. I always could do better work right-handed.” He approached Brogan with a leer. “Are you ready to die, you little dirt farmer?”
“No, I’m not, cheater. You couldn’t win a fair fight against my baby brother.”
Mogul’s face turned crimson. In a rage he straddled Brogan’s legs to get in position for the coup-de-grace.
At that moment Brogan raised his biopack above his head. Mogul, seeing the movement, hesitated, wondering what his helpless adversary could be doing. Brogan gave him no time to ponder. Whipping his biopack toward Josh, he triggered the stiletto receptacle’s release switch and launched his knife at Mogul’s stomach less than a meter away.
At this range I can’t miss,
Brogan reflected as the blade sank home. Mogul stumbled backward two or three steps and slumped to his knees with a look of incredulous disbelief. Brogan knew that he could not waste time savoring his success. The shock would wear off soon enough, and Josh may still be able to kill him. But he was weak, so weak, and his legs and right arm were useless.
With an effort he rolled over onto his biopack and managed to push himself into a sitting position. Exerting all his strength, he pulled himself over to Mogul, using his biopack as a lever.
Mogul was staring at the knife handle extending from his stomach. He had never been seriously hurt or injured in his entire life, and he could not believe what he was seeing and the pain he was feeling. Brogan knocked Mogul’s stiletto out of his hand with his medically encased arm, then lifted his biopack up to the knife protruding from Mogul’s stomach. He pushed the retainer back onto the handle and was rewarded with a gasp of pain. Then he yanked it out, and Mogul screamed. He clutched his wound but remained on his knees swaying.
Pushing himself up on his own knees by means of his biopack, his right arm hanging useless at his side, Brogan raised the stiletto up to the vicinity of Josh’s neck. The hush that had earlier descended on the crowd grew even deeper as the spectators anticipated the final moments of Josh Mogul’s life. But a startled murmur reached Brogan’s ears when, instead of slitting his throat, Brogan pushed Mogul on the shoulder and sent him falling over backward. The crowd voiced a collective utterance of surprise mingled with relief.
Brogan threw down his knife and announced, “This duel is over! I give Josh Mogul his life! Let him instead be sentenced by the Court as the guilty murderer he is!”
Brogan collapsed as his last vestige of strength deserted him. Four duel monitors come forward, two to Mogul and two to Brogan. As they lifted Brogan, one on one side and one on the other, to help him off the field, Brogan heard a shriek behind him. He turned his head to see Mogul come unglued with rage.
Like a supernaturally empowered madman Mogul pushed the two monitors away and grabbed one of the discarded stilettos from the floor. With an incoherent shout, he gripped the blade and reared back his arm to throw it at his vanquisher. Brogan cringed, hunching his shoulders and waiting for the ripping of cold steel between his shoulder blades.