They all heard it.

  Steele began to walk backward, moving in a great arc around the watching Cossacks. Were they stunned that he had killed his friend? Had the act of vicious courage frightened them? Steele aimed at the French-speaking Cossack. Maybe there was something savage and elemental on Steele’s face. None of the Cossacks urged him to surrender, none laughed, none cried out, none of them moved. They watched him back around them, and then he backed toward the woods.

  Steele could not think. He was in the instant. As he walked backward, he willed the Cossacks to charge him. He would kill the one in front. Then Steele would rip open his greatcoat. He’d pull out the eight-inch pistols with the walnut stocks and brass fittings. He would take as many of the Cossacks he could to hell with him. Then he would draw the saber and hack with a will.

  Steele possessed the gift of life, and he cherished it more than any of them did. It was a hot coal in his soul that refused to let him surrender. It would push him until he collapsed, until his heart gave out, and a great gout of blood spewed from his mouth. Until such a time, and maybe even then, Steele would fight. That was what he was, a primeval warrior.

  Then, judging the distance between the woods and the Cossacks, Steele turned around and staggered for the woods.

  Would he make it to America? Would he survive?

  There was a surge of belief in him. Maybe killing Josef had caused the ember of ferociousness to burst into hot fire. Did it consume him from within?

  Even as he staggered to the first tree, Steele whirled around. The Cossacks did not charge after him. Instead, one by one, they turned their ponies and began to canter away. Were they leaving?

  With a bark of savageness, Steele threw the rifle over his shoulder, using the carrying strap. He began to trudge. He needed food. If he didn’t find some food soon, he was going to die.

  “Not in Russia,” Steele said in a hoarse voice. He was going to survive this winter hellscape, and then he was going to escape Europe. He was going to go to America. There, he would begin anew, siring a line of fighters. He would teach them that life and freedom must be cherished with everything you had.

  ***

  Author’s Note: In real life, not fiction, Philippe-Paul de Segur served as the French Quartermaster-General during the 1812 Russian campaign. In 1824 first appeared his Napoleon’s Russian Campaign, one of the most reliable narratives of that ill-stared adventure. Toward the end of Chapter VIII, Segur tells the story of two French marines of the Guard as a band of Cossacks separated them from their column.

  Segur writes, “One of the marines lost heart and was about to give himself up, but the other shouted to him that if he committed this act of cowardice, he would kill him. And he did: when he saw his companion throw his musket away and put up his hands, he shot him down in the very arms of the Cossacks. Then, taking advantage of their surprise, he quickly reloaded his musket which he kept leveled on the bravest of the band as he walked backwards, stealing from tree to tree, and so succeeded in rejoining his company.”

  -10-

  42.99 LIGHT YEARS FROM EARTH

  226 YEARS AGO

  The mighty, generational vessel Akkad continued its journey through the great void between the stars. It fled from its destroyed home system and the three Vim Type Four Annihilator missiles chasing it.

  Thirty years after spotting the Vim Nova Ship in their destroyed home system, Akkad’s crew still had no clue about what the alien vessel did. The Nova Ship might have given chase after launching the great missiles. It might have remained in the shattered star system. It might have headed elsewhere. The point was no one aboard the Akkad had any idea, despite the officers searching the void behind the missiles for signs of the Nova Ship.

  Chief Analyzer Sargon had entered cryogenic stasis thirty long years ago. No one had unfrozen him since then. No one knew if it was possible to retrieve someone from cryogenic stasis, as it had never been attempted.

  Since initiating the freezing process, several Elders had passed away. Others had risen to take their place. The newest Ship Commander had risen to her post five years ago. She believed in the racial survival of the People. Everyone aboard the Akkad did these days.

  Sargon’s assassination of Anat had been the germ that destroyed the Suppressionist School of thought. It was now an outdated mode of thinking aboard the ship. People now thought of it as a mental infection from the home system. The survivors aboard the Akkad thought of themselves as rugged pioneers, seeking to save the People any way they could.

  The flight officers still deployed the great magnetic scoop, gathering stellar debris for engine propellant. They needed too, as the Akkad continued to accelerate.

  A year ago, the latest Chief Astronavigator had discovered a huge nebula slightly out of the way of their chosen trajectory. The Akkad wouldn’t reach the vicinity of the nebula for fifty years. Still, its presence denoted a greater amount of stellar debris than usual. The Akkad could use that. Might the officers be able to use the nebula to their advantage, and might it be a tool to use against the Vim missiles?

  The idea was out there. Mathematicians had begun a detailed analysis of all the variables. Officers constantly debated maneuvering possibilities, while military specialists theorized how it might harm the following missiles.

  During the last thirty years—sixty years since launching from the home system—social mores had ossified as ship customs became more rigid. One of those customs was disallowing live births unless some passenger or crewmember died first. They dare not overpopulate the ship or everyone would starve to death.

  That seemed obvious. The present Akkad population, including soldiers, was 102,321 individuals.

  Despite the loss of prestige and finally the death of Suppressionist Theory, a new school of thought asked a simple yet troubling question.

  The People had lost to the Vims in the home system. How then could the People ultimately hope to survive the Vims if the Akkad survived the three trailing missiles? If the Akkad didn’t survive the Annihilators, the question became moot. But if they did survive, the Vims were too warlike, too vicious and thorough to defeat, as the People were too weak. The battle of the home system had proven that. How could the People possibly defeat a Nova Ship for instance?

  This far into the Great Journey, that was an unpopular question, to say the least. Few asked or dared to consider it. The handful who did, considered themselves as hard-minded realists.

  That thought solidified over time, for them, until they called themselves the Realists versus the Survivalists, how most thought aboard the Akkad. The Realist handfuls saw that the Vims were superior to the People in warlike abilities and activities. The Vims would win in the end unless something fundamental changed.

  The Realists spoke among themselves about this. What needed to change in order for the People to ultimately defeat the Vims? Would better weapons do it, a better strategy?

  “No,” said the granddaughter of Chief Analyzer Sargon. Her name was Ningal, and she was one of the seven grandchildren of his.

  Ningal was a geneticist, a small woman with a larger head than average among the higher ranked and perfectly shaped breasts and slim hips. Her husband was a meek fellow, a thin archivist working in the Computer Hall. So far, they were childless, although Ningal had filled out the paperwork for a birth permit.

  Ningal had persuaded her husband, the archivist, to scour the history section and discover more about her grandfather the assassin, if it was there.

  Occasionally, when the archivist returned from his term of duty, he had more scraps to give Ningal. She read it all with devouring interest.

  Ningal related these facts with a few other Realists. Her husband wasn’t one. It soon became apparent to them that Sargon must have had Realist ideals to act as he had.

  “Your grandfather had balls,” one Realist told Ningal. “He didn’t wait for others to act, but did what needed doing. He was a great man.”

  Ningal swelled with pride hearing that. She believed likewise.

  At home in their tiny suite of compartments, her husband disagreed vehemently.

  “We all live together,” he said. “We must act in harmony and unity or the Akkad will never survive the missiles. Your grandfather got lucky, but acted in a chaotic way. Surely you can see that.”

  Ningal stiffened as she sat in her chair, her slender legs curled under her. “We’d all be dead if my grandfather hadn’t assassinated Anat. Sargon was a great man.”

  Her husband the archivist didn’t like hearing that, squirming in his chair. He’d been reading an article on his tablet on Unity Theory.

  “You don’t agree with that idea?” Ningal said sharply.

  In order to keep the peace, he shrugged.

  “Are you too afraid to answer me?” Ningal asked, her voice rising.

  He scowled at her, probably because it was true. He was meek and physically weak even for one of the high ranked. Ningal was considered something of a tigress, partly because she spoke her mind far too often.

  Interestingly, Ningal hadn’t gained status because of her assertiveness. He’d tried to point that out to her more than once, but with little success.

  A week later, Ningal was in the gene labs, working. Her department cared for preborn soldiers. The Chief Geneticist walked through, and she happened to get into a conversation with him.

  The Chief Geneticist was tall for one of high intellect. He also worked out with weights and had more muscles than normal. He also happened to be among the top intellectuals in Realist circles.

  For these reasons, Ningal admired him. Worse, sometimes she imagined what it would feel like if he swept her up in his powerful arms. Did he feel her eyes on him at times?

  The way he often glanced at her increased the odds that it was so. That he came through her area of the gene labs so often also seemed provocative.

  Soldiers were lab-grown creatures, not born in the usual way. There had never been any female soldiers. Those were always flushed during fetus stage. That was to insure soldiers never procreated. They were a utility or servant class, masses of muscles and swift reflexes instead of high IQs. The People considered soldiers as brutes, willing to die for the good of the ship. Once a soldier aged and became too weak, he faced expungement—death in a laser booth.

  An old, weak soldier was an oxymoron, a drain on the ship’s precious resources.

  Ningal worked in the birthing area of the gene labs. The Chief Geneticist had started in the expungement wing. Both of them felt that his experience in…eliminating the old soldiers had hardened his outlook, making him more of a natural Realist.

  In essence, the Chief Geneticist had the hard fiber needed to do unpleasant tasks for the good of the ship, which translated into the good of the People.

  He now spoke to Ningal as she tended a pod of cylinders. There, fetus soldiers floated in a green solution, with tubes attached to their tiny forms.

  “I’ve had a revelation,” the Chief Geneticist said. His name was Rim-Sin, an ancient and honorable name.

  “Oh,” Ningal said, while checking a monitor.

  “I know how to increase our odds in defeating the Vims.”

  Ningal straightened, looking at him, at his intense features with his thick dark hair. “Do you mean in surviving the missiles?”

  “No. I mean after—when we survive the missiles.”

  Ningal smiled prettily. She loved such manly self-assurance. Why couldn’t her husband talk like that?

  “How do we survive the missiles?” Ningal asked.

  Rim-Sin shrugged.

  “It’s not important?” she asked.

  “I’m not saying that. It’s more that surviving the missiles isn’t my expertise. We will, though. We have time to figure it out. Afterward, we must already be far along the road to defeating the next Vim assault against us.”

  “I’m not sure I follow your logic,” Ningal said. That was a Realist way to say such a thing, very scientific sounding.

  Rim-Sin grinned. “I’ve discovered the secret to making the People greater than they are.”

  Ningal blinked several times. “Is it a better weapon? Was that the answer?”

  “Not even close.”

  Ningal laughed. “Are you trying to make me guess?”

  Rim-Sin stepped a little closer. “Can you guess?” he asked, staring intently into her eyes.

  Ningal felt her pulse quicken and the nipples of her breasts harden. He was standing too close. What would she do if he tried to kiss her? Should she let him? She wondered if Rim-Sin would be passionate or lifeless like her husband.

  “Can you guess?” Rim-Sin asked in a husky voice, stepping closer still so they stood practically nose-to-nose.

  Ningal loved how he was so much taller and bigger than she was. Here was a real man, a predator, not a milquetoast pushover like her limp-wristed husband.

  “Ningal,” Rim-Sin said, putting his hands on her face. He came in for a kiss, and did so lingeringly.

  Ningal breathed faster even though she felt a confliction of emotions. This was betrayal of her husband, of her marriage vows. If Rim-Sin forced himself upon her—

  He held her face tighter and kissed her with a probing tongue.

  Overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, Ningal found herself holding Rim-Sin tight. “Oh, Rim-Sin,” she whispered, surrendering to the moment’s intensity. His muscles were huge and very solid. He was overpowering her the way a man should do. She couldn’t resist him. She dare not.

  Rim-Sin laughed, disengaging with her. He scooped her up in his arms, doing so easily.

  Ningal flushed with delight. This was going too fast and too far, but what could she do against such a forceful and powerful man?

  Rim-Sin carried her into a nook, and there, he began to unbutton her clothes…

  -11-

  The problem was that later, after their time in the nook, Ningal started to feel guilty about having cheated on her husband. Rim-Sin didn’t seem to have any qualms about being intimate with her, though. He wanted to do it all the time, the more risqué the better it seemed to him.

  In the ensuing weeks, they made love everywhere. She was helpless to resist, at least, that was what she told herself. It meant she wasn’t guilty for having the time of her life.

  The archivist—Ningal didn’t want to think of him as her husband anymore—complained about her growing inattention. He also noted her newfound disinterest in intimacy.

  “I’m tired,” Ningal would tell him. “I have a headache.” “I have a busy day tomorrow.” “I’m menstruating.” “Can’t we do it tomorrow when I’m feeling better?”

  “Don’t you want to be my wife anymore?” he asked one night.

  “No,” Ningal said, surprised at her boldness. “I want a divorce.”

  The archivist made everything worse as tears began to well in his eyes and then trickle down his face.

  Unfortunately, seeing his tears made Ningal feel guiltier than ever, fueling her anger further. This wasn’t her fault. The archivist was such a weakling and never took what he wanted. She needed a strong man. Besides, how could the People ever survive the Vims if men like her husband repopulated the passengers and crew of the Akkad? She wanted a child with Rim-Sin’s genetic potential. She wanted to give the People a savior and not a crybaby like the weeping weakling before her.

  “I want a divorce,” Ningal said again, her voice hardening. It made her feel strong saying that. She was a Realist. She was doing this for the greater good. Anyone who thought about it would certainly agree with her.

  Ningal got the divorce two weeks later. She told Rim-Sin about it the next day when he took her on a tour of the expungement wing of the gene labs.

  Rim-Sin looked around and pulled her aside. “Why did you do that?”

  Ningal’s heart raced. What was he saying? “You don’t want to marry me?”

  Rim-Sin stared at her as if she were a lab problem.

  That frightened Ningal, and she realized the expungement area of the ship seemed like a dark and dreary place. Maybe she should have waited to tell him the news. Despite everything, she felt tears welling up in her eyes. Had she made a ghastly mistake? Was—

  “I do want to marry you,” Rim-Sin said suddenly.

  Ningal felt better hearing that, but she wasn’t sure he really loved her. Rim-Sin was a plotter, a secretive fellow.

  “Do you really mean that?” she asked.

  “I do indeed,” Rim-Sin said, “if you will agree to help me with my great plan.”

  “What plan?”

  “My revelation,” he said.

  Ningal nodded. She’d forgotten about that ever since Rim-Sin had carried her into the nook and made love to her.

  “When will you marry me?” Ningal asked.

  “Tomorrow, if you want,” Rim-Sin said. “This will all be easier if we’re married. We’ll change ship history just like your grandfather did.”

  Ningal’s heart quickened. She wanted to marry Rim-Sin, and she definitely wanted to be like her grandfather.

  “Tell me the plan,” she said.

  Rim-Sin studied her for a second time. His gaze seemed ruthless.

  That frightened Ningal, and it made her moist. She didn’t understand that about herself. She wanted to please Rim-Sin no matter the cost.

  Rim-Sin smiled in a predatory way. “The Vims will defeat us in the end because the People are too weak. There are only a few like me, as most are mice, lacking courage and the muscles to really fight.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “Come with me,” Rim-Sin said. He took one of her hands and marched her back into the birthing area of the labs.

  Ningal felt better here, despising the gene labs’ killing area. It was too dark, too…something horrible back there.