Awestruck, befuddled, confused and more than a little superstitious, the throng of soldiers and women strained to listen to Assur. A few of the soldiers wanted to attack Assur—

  “Put down your weapons,” Ningal told them. “The gods of homeworld are trying to save us. Anyone who kills from this point on today will be cursed by the gods forever and threaten the safety of the ship.”

  The ploy might not have worked. It was a gamble. But Assur had weighed and analyzed the mindset of the those left and figured it should work.

  In this, he was correct. No one attempted to kill him in the hall.

  “That brute would have led us all to death,” Assur shouted, pointing at the not-quite-dead-but-paralyzed Chief Marshal. “The gods possessed me, whispering what I needed to do. I pleaded with them to choose someone else for the deed. They said as the son of the last true Chief Marshal that it was my responsibility to save the People. I bowed to the will of the gods and did what needed doing. Now, I cast myself upon the mercy of the People.”

  “If the gods did this,” Ningal cried out. “Then that means the gods believe that you can best lead us to victory against the missiles and the Vims. You must become the new Chief Marshal and restore order to the mighty Akkad.”

  “Please, no,” Assur shouted. “I don’t deserve to lead the People.”

  “You are wrong, Assur,” Ningal shouted. “The gods of homeworld chose you. Who are we to say no to that?”

  “But I am unworthy,” Assur said.

  Ningal turned to the crowd. “Is Assur unworthy if the gods of homeworld chose him?”

  “No!” shouted several of Assur’s plants in the crowd. “You must lead us, Assur. You must become the Chief Marshal and save the Akkad.”

  This was the pregnant moment. No one else said anything. No one else stirred.

  “What do you soldiers say?” Ningal shouted. Assur had coached her about what to do if no one willingly spoke up. “Is Assur your choice because the gods choose him?”

  “Yes,” a group leader shouted.

  Other group leaders looked at the Valiant.

  The group leader was a big soldier, one of Assur’s closest friends and likewise coached for this moment. Assur had promised him much higher rank indeed for doing this.

  At last, the throng in the hall shouted for Assur to lead them. Perhaps fear of the future guided them. Perhaps fear of the gods of homeworld motivated them.

  In any case, Assur son of Enki now became the new Chief Marshal of the Akkad.

  -31-

  The Years of Chaos had brutally thinned the number of People aboard ship. At the time of Assur’s rise, there were a mere 18,934 individuals left. That was a far cry from the old numbers that reached as high as 160,000.

  Combat and infighting had been endemic. The rotting bodies and blood everywhere—

  Assur instituted draconian measures. He installed Old Mother Ningal as the sole religious authority aboard ship. Her youthfulness was the sign that the gods of homeworld spoke through her.

  The years of murderous battle and infighting had dimmed the mental capacities of many of the survivors. It was as if a pall of stupidly had descended upon the Akkad. The dead included too many of the highly intelligent and highly trained.

  Assur installed the Valiant Police Committee as his punitive arm. They were his political police, as it were. For the moment, there was no need to halt pregnancies. They needed all the women to have babies in order to restore the proper numbers. If the numbers became too small, genetic problems could quickly arise.

  Chief Marshal Assur did not restart cylinder births. Instead, he concentrated on engineering and flight training the smartest individuals.

  Ningal received a few volunteers to help her with medicine and genetic training. One of her first tasks was making sure Assur received the old Rim-Sin Treatments.

  Assur planned to run the Akkad forever. He thus set up the organizations needed for that, in his studied opinion, of course.

  For brawls or killings among the soldiers, the VPC inflicted harsh punishments.

  “We will have order,” Assur decreed. “The Akkad cannot survive without order.”

  The first few years, the first one especially, proved difficult in terms of instilling order. Yet by dint of willpower and VPC enforcement, peace soon prevailed aboard ship.

  While technical abilities had fallen, they were climbing again. After the prolonged peace, the memory of the Years of Chaos became legendary for evil and possibility of grim defeat against the Vims.

  The Type Four Annihilator missiles—the two of them—yet followed. Now, the missiles were beginning to catch up, closing the distance between them and the Akkad.

  With the engines, magnetic scoop, and other devices functioning fully again, the Akkad began its century-long braking maneuver.

  With Ningal’s help, Assur had made the arrival choice. Ningal couldn’t get over her rise in authority. When it came to wielding power, it turned out that her son Assur was something of a true genius. Maybe his smaller size had something to do with this. Maybe the need to use his mind had forced him to sharpen it to a razor’s edge.

  The targeted arrival point was a star system with many gas giants. No one could tell if the system was occupied with intelligent life or not. There was no way to determine that yet.

  Assur, along with his chief advisors, had begun to work out a plan to defeat the two missiles. It was going to be a close run thing. Given the way the missiles had started to catch up—and how those on the Akkad would have to brake even harder—Assur told his mother that he needed something else.

  “What do you mean?” Ningal asked.

  They were alone in the gene labs.

  “I need to destroy another missile,” Assur said. “There are no near nebulas, however. That means I need a different tool for destroying one.”

  Ningal almost told him about Sargon the Chief Analyzer. She had checked several months ago. The stasis unit still functioned. It had functioned during the Years of Chaos. According to the medical readings, her grandfather was still alive, albeit frozen, in there. Why Ningal didn’t tell Assur, she never figured out. Perhaps it was wise for a mother to keep a secret or two from her crafty son.

  In truth, Ningal secretly feared Assur, even if she didn’t openly or consciously admit it to herself. Assur was crafty and ruthless, more ruthless than Enki had ever been.

  Whatever the case, the Akkad headed for this star system, with a blue terrestrial water-world as the third planet from the yellow star. Could that terrestrial planet have life? It was much like the old homeworld.

  “That is our target,” Assur told Ningal one day.

  “First we must survive the missiles,” Ningal said.

  Assur stared at her.

  “What?” Ningal asked.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Ningal chuckled as if he’d told a joke, and that must have been the correct response, as Assur left the gene labs a few minutes later.

  All the while, the Akkad rushed to the targeted star system while the two Vim missiles followed relentlessly.

  -32-

  EARTH

  101 YEARS AGO

  Captain Paul Steele of the United States Air Force had received terrible news last night. His wife called and told him she wanted a divorce. She couldn’t take the separation anymore, oh, and she had started seeing another man.

  Paul was stationed at a lonely Alaskan airbase so he and others could watch the damn Russkies. It was June 1959, and the Russkies had been growing more aggressive lately with their bomber patrols.

  Paul had been up all night pacing and drinking. He wasn’t supposed to be drunk. He was on alert. But he drank the whiskey nevertheless, although he wasn’t staggering drunk this morning. He had been earlier, but he’d paced a lot of that off.

  Then the alarm blared.

  Paul donned his flight equipment and raced to the briefing room for the update. He half-listened to the instructions, a consequence of being almost, but not quite, staggeringly drunk yet still managing to keep his bearings. Besides which, he kept sucking on one Certs after another so his breath wouldn’t give him away.

  Afterward, he hurried to his waiting Convair F-102 Delta Dagger, a sleek interceptor. He was the squadron leader.

  Soon enough, Paul found himself airborne, leading his squadron to intercept Tu-95s “Bears” from Russia. The enemy bombers were over the Bering Strait and heading for Alaska.

  How close would the damn bombers come this time?

  Paul shook his head. Today, the F-102s of the interceptor squadron were armed with AIR-2 Genies. What did that mean? It meant Paul and his team carried nuclear-armed air-to-air missiles.

  The Genie was a short-ranged missile, as such things went. If Paul used it, he’d arm it, launch, and try to get the hell out of there before the 1.5-kiloton W25 nuclear warhead exploded. The rocket engine accelerated the missile to Mach 3.3 during its two-second burn. Total flight time was 12 seconds, during which the Genie covered 6.2 miles. The detonation mechanism was a time-delay fuse. The mechanism would not arm the warhead until engine burnout. That was to give the launch vehicle—the F-102—time to get far enough away. Lethal blast radius was 980 feet.

  The Genie lacked a conventional guidance system, relying instead on the pilot’s visual targeting and the extensive blast radius of its nuclear warhead. The Genie would knock those Russki bombers out of the air; there was no doubt about that. But damn, that might start World War III.

  Paul kept thinking about that, and thinking about his wife leaving him. In truth, he was thinking about a lot of things, although not coherently or in any special order. He was drunk, and he was carrying a nuclear air-to-air missile.

  You know what? Paul thought to himself. Maybe it was time to blow some Russians out of the air. What would a nuclear explosion look like, anyway? Maybe that was what he wanted. Shelly was leaving him. What was the point of all this, anyway? He worked hard. He had trained hard. He was good at what he did. He knew his family history, at least some of it. Wasn’t there some ancestor in the dim past who had marched with Napoleon into Russia? Here the Russians were again. What was it with the Russians, the Soviets, the damn Commies?

  He was going to blow the Commie bastards out of the air. Screw them, F them. That was what he was thinking. That would show Shelly. That would show them all. And you know what? Maybe he wouldn’t even veer away as he was supposed to after launching the Genie. Maybe he would just take it.

  The Genie wouldn’t ignite until engine burnout. Should he ride with the Genie all the way to the Bears? Maybe if he was up close enough, he could see the looks on their stupid Russian faces. He could give them the bird, too. He could give everyone and everything the bird. Then they would know, and Shelly would know she shouldn’t have said she wanted a divorce.

  Yeah, that was what he should do. But you know, it was funny—he didn’t have any brothers or sisters. He didn’t have anyone who would follow behind. He was the last of the Steele line. There would be no more Steeles if he blew himself up. The ancestor in Russia who had fought to get free—wasn’t there someone who had fought Comanches, as well? Paul thought he’d heard that before. Unbelievably, his grandpa had ridden with the Earp brothers, Virgil and Wyatt. That was a hoot. And his grandfather hadn’t lost his wife either. Grandma hadn’t left grandpa and gone with some other man. Shelly was already seeing somebody else she said.

  Paul struck his controls with a gloved fist. Did his interceptor wobble because of that?

  One of his men radioed, “Everything okay, Captain Steele?”

  “Roger that,” Paul said.

  He led them in silence after that.

  Soon, though, a NORAD operator’s voice crackled over the radio, “Contact, bearing 270 degrees, altitude 35,000 feet.”

  Paul followed the coordinates. Then he saw the silhouettes of the Tupolev bombers. They were heading for Alaska all right. He was surprised how many of them there were this time. What did that mean?

  Paul nodded. It meant it was show time.

  “Flight leader to squadron,” Paul said over the radio. “Maintain formation and escort the bogeys out of our ADIZ.”

  That was if everything went as it had before. But if these Bears weren’t playing going to play ball…

  The interceptors raced to the enemy and then paced them. Paul could see the Russians in their cockpits. This was a standoff at 35,000 feet.

  Paul squinted at the enemy. These Bears had come to mess with America. Do you know what? They had come on the wrong day and at the wrong time.

  Paul pondered whether his actions would end the Steele lineage. He drunkenly contemplated this. What the heck? Shelly was going to leave him. She was seeing someone else. What was wrong with his wife? Why, he should. He should—

  The NORAD operator spoke again. He spoke harshly.

  Paul veered off. He realized he’d started his attack sequence. He’d been about to blow the Russkies to hell and take himself and his squadron with them.

  At that moment, Paul realized he loved life. Even drunk, he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to end it here. He did not want the Steele line to sink into oblivion. His ancestors had been fighters that had fought with exhilaration and to the very end.

  That was when Paul decided and said aloud, “Shelly, you and I are going to talk. Yep, we are going to talk whether you want to or not.”

  First, he flew a parallel course with his squadron as the Bears headed for Alaska. Was this a test on their part? Or were the Russians finally coming in? Did they want to die in other words?

  Paul was yet again getting ready to launch his Genie.

  Then the lead Russian Tu-95 began to turn slowly.

  “A test,” Paul said with relief. This was another Commie test of American resolve.

  Paul realized sickly that he’d come within a razor’s edge to blowing these guys out of the sky and himself with them.

  Paul blinked several times. It had been a terrible mistake to guzzle all that whiskey last night and early this morning. He had cut loose while he was supposed to be on alert.

  That told him he loved Shelly. He didn’t want to lose her or the Steele line.

  Once he landed back at base, he was going to do whatever it took, even if it was resigning his commission. He was going to go to California, to some Podunk town called Modesto. He was going to talk to Shelly one way or another. And this guy, this bastard, who was cheating with his wife. Yeah, there was something in Paul Steele’s gut. He was going to deal with that hombre the way his ancestors had done.

  What was the cheater’s name again? Paul would have to check that later. After dealing with the punk, then he would see Shelly.

  -33-

  Nine days later, after having driven from the San Francisco airport, Captain Paul Steele drove through Modesto in his rental car. Harry Fredrickson. That was the cheater’s name.

  Fortunately, Paul hadn’t had to resign his commission to make the trip. Through some judicious phone calls, he’d also found out where this Fredrickson bastard lived. Now, he was headed straight there. It was time to have a talk with this boy. Time to see why ole Harry had been cheating with his wife, and what exactly was going on between them. Yeah, Paul hadn’t told Shelly he was coming. He hadn’t told anyone. But here he was.

  Paul drove down various Modesto streets, turning onto McHenry Avenue. He checked his pen-drawn map and searched for street signs.

  “Here we go, Elm Street.”

  Paul signaled, then turned the car onto Elm Street. He studied the street numbers as his heart began to beat harder. 08, 10, 12…there it was. He coasted to a stop beside the curb and turned off the ignition. His heart was pounding. Could he actually believe he was doing this? Paul nodded sharply. Oh yeah, he could believe it all right. Was that the cheater’s house?

  “Remember,” Paul whispered to himself. “Talk first.”

  Paul got out of the car, slamming the door without locking it. His gut clenched with fury. He didn’t know what was going to happen between Shelly and him, but he knew this cheater had been messing with his doe, with his gift from God. Maybe he hadn’t been doing everything right with Shelly, but that didn’t give this hombre any right to be poking his dick where it didn’t belong.

  Suddenly, Paul found himself at the door, ringing the bell. He heard footsteps approaching from inside. Then a large man opened the door, staring balefully at him.

  “Fredrickson?” Paul said. “Are you Harry Fredrickson?”

  “Yeah, what’s it to you?”

  Paul saw an oak of a man with dark hair and fancy good looks. Fredrickson’s broad shoulders caused his shirt to bunch up.

  A woman called from in the house. “What is it? Harry? What’s going on?”

  Although struggling to form words, Paul managed to ask thickly, “Are you seeing Shelly?”

  Big-man Fredrickson’s brown eyes widened. He turned his head and shouted into the house, “Just a minute, dear.” Fredrickson faced him and stepped out of the house, closing the door behind him. He shoved Paul back with his body, and then he poked a huge finger into Paul’s chest.

  “What’s it to you? Who are you, anyway? Are you some private dick that’s come here to try to blackmail me? Well, it won’t do you any good. I don’t care if you have pictures. You’d better know that I’ll bust you up good. I may even forget myself and bust you up so good that you’ll never walk straight again. What do you have to say to that, buddy boy?”

  Every time Fredrickson spoke, he poked his huge index finger against Paul’s chest.

  Paul luxuriated in that. Each poke stoked his anger, his rage just a little bit more, and he could barely say, “Is it true? Are you seeing Shelly?”

  “So what if it’s true?” Fredrickson sneered.

  Paul moved then. He grabbed the huge index finger and twisted hard, breaking it. He hardly realized afterward that he was landing solid blows against Fredrickson’s face. Paul hammered the big ape back against the door. Then Paul started giving the man body shots, hard shots. That felt so good.

  Fredrickson grunted and groaned, folding in on himself.