Interstellar Assault, page 11
Live or real births were rare and applauded. Such occurrences signified the survival of the Valiants, creating hybrids from old-style females and the new, improved soldiers. Survival was much better than extinction in everyone’s estimation. Thus, a pregnant woman had great status aboard the Akkad.
Frankly, that was interesting and enjoyable for Ningal.
Since no new Valiant soldiers had emerged from the gene labs, the ship population had stabilized at nearly sixty-five thousand individuals. Valiants died from duels at almost the same amount as Valiant baby girls were added.
Would the population explode once the Valiant females reached maturity? That would depend on their fertility. If it followed how the Valiants impregnated the old-style women, there was little to worry about.
It had been many years since Ningal last stood on the bridge. She gasped at the awe-inspiring sight, having forgotten the stark beauty of deep space.
This time, Ningal didn’t have to stand. She sat on a stool near the command chair.
“Sir,” an officer said.
“Speak,” Enki said gruffly from his chair.
“I’ve spotted a missile.”
“No,” Enki said.
“Should I put it up on the big screen?”
“Yes, do so,” Enki said.
Every eye turned to the screen, where a silver glint shone against the bright colors of the nebula. Ningal wouldn’t have known what she was seeing if a red circle around the dot hadn’t shown it.
“There’s just the one missile?” Enki demanded.
“If you give me a few moments, sir,” the officer said. “I can tell you.”
Enki made a sharp gesture.
Soon, the officer at his station said, “I see another missile.”
Enki gripped the armrests of his command chair, leaning forward.
Ningal eyed him. Clearly, the Chief Marshal wanted to ask about a third missile, but he must have thought that would be unseemly.
“There it is,” the teleoptic officer said.
“What?” Enki said hoarsely.
“The third missile,” the officer said. “They all made it through.”
“They made it through easily?” Enki asked.
The officer swiveled around on his seat to face the Chief Marshal. “It will take time to analyze and determine that.”
“You can’t tell anything now?”
After a moment, hesitation perhaps, the officer swiveled back and studied his monitor. “I can’t be precise in this. It will take more time, but I do think the missiles have sustained damage. For one thing, I do not see them accelerating.”
“I deem that important,” Enki said.
“Agreed,” said the officer.
“This missile damage,” Enki said. “Are you sure…”
The officer swiveled back around again to face the Chief Marshal. Everyone on the bridge watched them. “If my analysts can have a few days, sir, I will be able to give you better data then.”
“Yes,” Enki said, standing. “Come,” he told Ningal. “Let’s take a stroll.”
Ningal didn’t want to leave, but she knew she couldn’t ask him if she could stay while he left. Ningal rose and followed huge Enki off the bridge. She understood him better these days. He was obviously upset by the three missiles. He’d wanted the nebula to take care of the problem for him. Now…
Three days later, Enki received good news. The missiles had definitely sustained damage by passing through the nebula.
“What if we went through another one?” Enki asked two days after that at a strategy session.
“Clever,” one of his marshals said. “I recommend the maneuver.”
A week after the meeting, Ningal learned that the Akkad was veering off course yet again. The astronavigators had spotted a distant nebula. This one might be thicker than the first. The problem was that that might prove dangerous to the Akkad.
“It’s a risk I accept,” Enki said. “We must gamble if the odds are in our favor, if we’re to gain a future for our race.”
No one spoke against that. Thus, the Akkad raced for another nebula, eking out a little more distance between the Annihilator missiles and them. The struggle for survival had gained a point in their favor. Could the generational vessel take that and win everything?
It would take many more years to know that.
Ningal wondered if she’d even be alive by then. One thing was sure, by then, they would all know if the Valiant women worked as advertised or not.
-22-
EARTH
155 YEARS AGO
Jack Steele staggered through a blizzard, trying to get to town, to Goldfield, Nevada. He led his horse by the reins, urging it against the blowing ice and snow. Jack wore a heavy coat, leather gloves, hat, and had a long scarf wound around his face. He had a Colt Single Action Army, known as the Peacemaker, holstered at his side. His was a .45 Long Colt, a gift from his father when he left home in Texas, years ago now.
Growing up, Jack had heard stories about his great-grandfather’s trek through a Russian winter in 1812, and wondered if this was anything like that.
This was 1905, February 3. Jack was approximately 5,600 feet above sea level in the high desert region of southwestern Nevada. That was east of the Sierra Nevada Range, which was mostly in California.
Jack was twenty-six, a tall, rangy, broad-shouldered man. He looked a lot like his Grandfather Thaddeus had in his youth when he’d fought Comanche raiders. Jack was something of a drifter. He’d been to the Klondike in Canada’s Yukon Territory, trying his hand at placer gold mining. This method typically involved extracting gold from streambeds using a pan. That had been seven years ago already.
These days, he was at the boomtown of Goldfield, Nevada, in the central, southwestern part of the state, and the gold rush going on here. Goldfield was Nevada’s largest city by population, having swelled to 20,000. In many ways, Goldfield was a throwback to the frontier days of the Wild West. There was gambling, drinking, whores, and hard work if one had the stomach for it. One showoff had a newfangled car that would lurch and bang as it went down Main Street, running on gasoline, but otherwise everyone else used horses, mules, and wagons in Goldfield.
Some time ago, Jack had won a seemingly worthless mining stake in a card game. In the game, he’d lost all the money he’d saved from his various adventures and won the mine. Since then, he’d worked it, and had actually extracted a bit of gold. That had been a welcome surprise.
The mining in Goldfield was different from the Klondike days. There, it had been placer mining, finding gold flakes in the rivers and surfaces. Here, one dug and used dynamite to blast holes down or into the side of a rocky hill.
The truth was that Jack was sick of swinging a pick. He was sick of the whole, backbreaking thing. Maybe it was time to go back to Texas and try his hand at farming. He’d never wanted to be a farmer, though, having his fill of it growing up.
He wasn’t much good at cards, mining, or farm work—
What am I good at?
Jack had been wondering that for years. He did enjoy traveling. He loved the outdoors. He didn’t really care for sustained hard work, although he had done it often enough in his life.
He was strong, fast, and didn’t easily lose his temper. He was a reasonable shot with his Peacemaker, and he’d won most of the fistfights in his life. The thing was he’d heard a preacher say the Good Book didn’t approve of brawling and brawlers. He didn’t really brawl, but he didn’t back down, either. He’d asked a different preacher about that. The preacher had told him a brawler loved strong drink and picking fights, especially with easy, meaning soft, targets.
That wasn’t Jack. One thing his dad had taught him was fair play and a hatred of bullies. Guess that was two things. Jack had faced down enough bullies during his drifting years. Jack had also learned that sometimes it was better to move along than to stand your ground against a pack of ruffians.
Jack trudged through the blizzard, wondering how long this was going to take, and nearly staggered against the side of a tavern. He laughed as he stopped short. He’d made it to the edge of Goldfield.
Working along the building, finding a dingy barn, he hammered on the big door until it cracked open and an old man peered out at him.
“I want to stable my horse until this blows over?”
“You got money?” asked the old man.
Jack showed him some silver dollars.
The old man opened the barn door wider.
After rubbing down his gelding, leaving him in the stable with some hay, Jack marched into the dimly lit tavern. There were more people in here than he’d expected. Some played cards. Some drank whiskey or beer. Some just talked.
Jack was hungry after his trek and ordered a plate of steak, beans and bread. He ate to the side, shoveling the lukewarm beans into his mouth and sopping the rest with bread. Then he cut and chewed the grizzled steak.
As Jack ate, he realized a group of men nearby at a larger table spoke in whispers for the most part. But one giant fellow had a deep voice never meant to whisper. That one had a bottle of whiskey and kept sipping from it.
Jack side-eyed the group because he heard two names everyone in the West knew: Virgil and Wyatt Earp. The two had been lawmen in Tombstone back in 1881. The Gunfight at O.K. Corral was widely known.
Like most people in and around Goldfield, Jack knew the Earp brothers were here. Virgil was supposed to be a deputy or something. Wyatt ran some gambling and had mining interests.
The Earp bothers were more than twenty years older since their glory days. But here they were in yet another boomtown.
Anyway, the point to all this was Jack overhead a comment or two about a gold delivery to Reno up north. That was 360 miles through desert and mountain passes. Some Goldfield banks needed to get a shipment out pronto to Reno for reasons Jack didn’t overhear.
Here was the interesting bit. According to the big, brawny fellow with a huge black beard and deep voice, the wagons were leaving in a few hours. The six of them could ambush the wagons and take the gold, and hightail it to San Francisco.
“We’ll be rich,” the big man rumbled to the hunched over listeners.
Finished with his meal, pushing the plate away, Jack sipped his beer and made sure not to look at the others over there. He finally got up, paid his score and now eyed the table of ruffians. They looked like a hard lot. As he stared, the big bearded guy glanced at him.
Jack looked away, and then looked back.
The big man with a beard was approaching him through the crowded tables. The man was a veritable bear, especially in his long fur coat.
Jack waited for him.
“You going somewhere?” the big man rumbled at him, pushing a little too close.
“Going to use the outhouse,” Jack said, having to look up because the bear-man was so tall. “What’s it to you?”
“Think you’re a tough one?”
Jack shrugged as he stared at the man. His right hand was on his holstered Peacemaker. He was ready to draw, but not to shoot the bear man. He’d pistol whip this hombre, as he figured the brute would shrug off his fist-given blows.
“Bah,” the bear man said, turning. Maybe Jack had passed some sort of test.
Jack swallowed, knowing he’d almost been in the fight of his life. Why had the brute picked him to speak to?
Jack knew why, of course. The brute must have wondered if he’d overheard them. That meant they’d likely been speaking the truth and not just jawing about it.
What did that mean to him?
Jack turned away. Virgil and Wyatt Earp were not young men anymore. Did he want those legends dying to outlaws stealing honest-working men’s gold?
Jack began to button his coat and pull out his gloves. He didn’t care for swinging a pick at rocks or driving horses at the plow. But maybe enforcing the law was respectable work that entailed brains and courage instead of just endless backbreaking labor.
Was this an epiphany moment? It just might have been as Jack Steele left the tavern, heading back into the blizzard. It was time to give the Earp brothers warning, and maybe to wring something out of it for himself at the same time.
-23-
Virgil Earp stared at him in the main office of the Wells Fargo bank. The famous deputy was sixty-one years old. The old man was six feet tall and aimed his thick body at Jack so the bad arm wasn’t easily seen.
Like most people who knew the O.K. Corral Story, Jack knew that Virgil had been wounded during his time in Tombstone, having never recovered fully from all his wounds. It was the old man’s temperament and piercing stare that made him so feared these days, that and the legend behind him.
“Describe the bearded man,” Virgil said.
Jack did to the best of his recollection.
“What do you think?” Virgil asked Wyatt.
The younger and more famous brother was taller and had a long drooping mustache, although he was in his fifties instead of early sixties.
“Sounds like Big Ned,” Wyatt said in his slow drawl.
Virgil nodded, turning back to Jack. “Tell me about the others.”
Jack described what he’d seen and remembered. It turned out to be quite a bit.
“That’s Big Ned’s group,” Wyatt said.
“Maybe I should go arrest them before we leave,” Virgil said.
“Be Ned’s word against his,” Wyatt said, jutting his chin at Jack. “Besides, arresting them don’t get the gold to Reno.”
Virgil eyed Jack again. “Why you telling us this?”
Jack shrugged, and he imitated their laconic manner of speech, saying. “Don’t like bushwhackers.”
“It’s more than that,” Virgil said, staring at him.
“Sure,” Jack said, still more than a little awed to be speaking to the Earp brothers. Those eyes frightened him just a little, frightened him so much he told the truth. “I’ve started thinking about becoming a lawman.”
“Have you now,” Virgil said. Was there the hint of a grin? “Why’s that?”
“Don’t care for swinging a pick no more,” Jack said.
“Don’t care for it myself,” Virgil said. “Especially these days.”
Jack nodded. Swinging a pick one-handed would be hard work indeed.
“Think being a lawman is easy work?” Virgil asked.
“Don’t know about that,” Jack said. “I’m not a farmer, not a miner, either, really.”
“What about cards?” Wyatt asked. “You any good at that?”
“Nope,” Jack said.
“Doing figures, numbers and such, in your head?” Wyatt asked.
Virgil turned to his brother. “Why you asking him that?”
“He looks and smells honest,” Wyatt said. “I could use him at my tables. Be good practice for him enforcing the law at my tables before he tries gun work out in the street.”
Jack shook his head. “I’m not into gambling or being in saloons all day.”
“No?” asked Wyatt, raising an eyebrow.
“I try to follow the Good Book,” Jack said.
The Earp brothers glanced at each other. Did either of them show surprise? It was difficult to tell.
“Can you fight?” Wyatt asked.
“If I have to,” Jack said.
“Why you asking him all this?” Virgil said.
“You want to go to Reno with us?” Wyatt asked.
Jack nodded. He did indeed.
“Think it will help you get hired as a deputy if you help us with this?” Virgil said.
“Won’t hurt that I rode with the Earp brother,” Jack said.
“He’s got a point,” Wyatt said.
“You have a feeling about him?” Virgil asked Wyatt.
“Yup,” Wyatt said with his drawl thicker than ever.
Virgil turned to Jack. “You ready to ride right now?”
“I am,” Jack said.
“Will you shoot to kill if it comes to that?” Virgil said.
“If that’s what it takes to make it through to Reno,” Jack said.
“Probably will be,” Virgil said. “I don’t know how Big Ned got wind of our trip, but he’s right. We’re leaving in less than an hour. The blizzard was supposed to cover our leaving.”
“You won’t change the time?” Jack asked.
“Is that what you’re trying to do?” Wyatt asked.
Jack shook his head.
“You think he’s lying about that?” Virgil asked Wyatt.
“Don’t think so,” Wyatt said. “I trust him. That’s my take, for what it’s worth.”
Virgil shook his head, took off his hat, set it on the desk and scratched his scalp. He put the hat back on afterward and thrust out his good hand.
Jack shook it, excited for the first time in a long time. Reno was a long way off, and Big Ned and his gang were gunning for the gold. This was true adventure like his grandfather had faced against the Comanches. Jack liked the idea of that. It was one reason he’d gone to the Yukon Territory years ago.
“We’re going to haul about three thousand pounds of gold,” Virgil said. “That’s about a million dollars’ worth.”
Jack’s eyes widened.
“Be using three stout wagons to carry it,” Virgil added. “Probably take eighteen days at least, maybe a little more, to reach Reno. Including you, there are going to be ten of us. You still interested?”
“I want to be a lawman,” Jack said.
“That’s what you said before.” Virgil turned to Wyatt. “Well?”
“I still trust him,” Wyatt said. “But I got one other question.”
Virgil nodded.
Wyatt eyed Jack. “You ever kill a man before?”
“No,” Jack said.
“It will change you if you do,” Wyatt said.
“What you do mean?” Jack asked.
Wyatt tapped his heart and then his head. “It will change you. There’s no going back once you do that. You might not like what you feel after you gun a man down and see him stretched out before you.”
