by Simon Hawke
If a temporal anomaly or disruption was discovered and a team was clocked hack to effect an adjustment, they were already working against the force of temporal inertia and their very presence meant there was a chance that instead of adjusting the disruption, they would only make it worse. If they failed, and another team was clocked hack to try again, they would be clocking into a time sector that was already unstable to begin with and they would also encounter the original adjustment team, which in itself could bring about a temporal paradox. They had learned that the hard way, too.
Temporal anomalies that had been brought about by the actions of the Time Wars had resulted in historical disruptions that had to be adjusted, but the adjustment missions themselves, even though successful, had undoubtedly affected temporal inertia in ways that manifested themselves as more anomalies and disruptions further down the timestream. Nor was there any way of knowing how many temporal anomalies brought about by time travel had gone completely undiscovered.
It was like trying to plug a hole in a pipe that had sprung a leak, only each time one leak was stopped, two more appeared. There seemed to be no end to it.
Only what if this was the end? What if, this time, history could not be changed? What if, this time, they had run out of time?
Scott took his pistols out of their holsters and laid them on the bed, beside him. One had been fired when he had killed Ross Demming a short while ago. Or was it a week ago?
He picked up the fired piece in his left hand, pulled the hammer back to half cock and opened the loading gate on the right side of the frame. Strange, he wondered, how for so many years no one had thought to question that. It was simply accepted. To load or unload the gun, a right-handed shooter had to transfer the weapon to his left hand, open the gate on the right side, and manually rotate the cylinder, using the ejector rod to push out one empty brass casing at a time, then load with the right hand. For a left-handed shooter, the procedure was much simpler and more natural. One simply continued to hold the gun in the shooting hand, pulled back the hammer halfway, opened up the gate and proceeded to reload. Colonel Sam Colt had been left-handed and he had designed the Peacemaker as a left-handed gun. Thereafter, the entire world had unquestioningly used the left-handed design for well over a hundred years, until the late 20th century, when a man named Bill Grover had finally hit upon the idea of manufacturing a right-handed Peacemaker with the loading gate on the left side of the frame. It seemed incredible that no one had ever thought of that before. It was a testimony to the genius of Sam Colt that his Single Action Army had been considered so perfect that for over a hundred years, no one had thought of modifying the design.
As he ejected the fired brass casing and slipped in a fresh cartridge. Scott wondered what it meant that he knew about things like that. In the 27th century. it was completely useless, trivial knowledge, and yet he had researched such obscure facts with relentless fascination, long before it ever occurred to him that he might one day enlist in the Temporal Corps. Why, in a time when lead projectile weapons had been obsolete for several hundred years, had he become so fascinated with them? Why had he devoted so many long hours to practicing with them, going to all the trouble of making his own bullets from scratch, only to perfect an arcane form of marksmanship and self-defense that would have no use whatsoever for him in modern life? Why had he been so intensely interested in the history of the Old West, more so than in that of any other time, and in the lives of the men who became frontier legends? Was it fate?
All his life. Scott had felt he had been born in the wrong time. Then when he had first clocked into this temporal scenario, he had felt suddenly and inexplicably at home, as if this was where he truly belonged. In the other timeline, he-or his twin-apparently did belong here. Maybe that was the anomaly. Maybe he should have been born in this time in the first place, only because of some temporal disruption brought about by time travelers before him, something had gone wrong and he had been born about eight hundred years too late. A man out of time, returned by Fate to the time in which he really belonged, completing some sort of temporal cycle, a missing piece of the puzzle finally dropped into place. Only now that he was here, was it his fate to live or die? The fate of billions of future lives could rest on the answer to that question.
He held the handsome, engraved and silver-plated Colt in his hand. It felt as if it had always belonged there. He had dreamed of owning such a revolver all his life. He thumbed back the hammer and sat for a long moment in silent thought. What would happen if he stuck the barrel in his mouth, angled upward, and squeezed the trigger? The big. 45 caliber bullet would smash through the roof of his mouth and into his brain in a inert fraction of a second. There probably wouldn’t be time to feel any pain.
Perhaps that was the solution. If he killed himself, then he wouldn’t be able to do anything to upset the balance of the timestream and bring on that disaster in the future. If he was, in fact, at the center of the whole thing, then killing himself might be the perfect solution to it all. It would absolve Priest, Cross and Delaney of having to do it. And if it could save lives, then he was prepared to do it.
But, on the other hand, what if that was exactly the wrong move? What if the act of his suicide triggered off whatever was supposed to happen? But, if that were the case, then Priest, Cross and Delaney would be in a position to do something about it. To stop him, perhaps. Wasn’t that what Darkness had told them? In that case, maybe he should go ahead and do it… and see if they arrived to stop him in the nick of time. Only if they didn’t
Scott was in an agony of indecision. He had never wanted to live so much as he did now. He had never felt as vibrantly alive as he did now. He had never been in love the way he was with Jenny. It was as if, after all those years of living out of time, he had finally found himself. Only what was he to do?
He started at the loud knocking on his door. He picked up his other gun and cocked it.
“Who is it?”
“Wyatt Earp. Open up, Kid.”
Scott holstered his pistols and went to open the door. The tall figure of the marshal confronted him.
“You’ll have to come with me. Kid.” said Wyatt.
Scott stared at him. Then he looked down and saw the gun.
“I’m putting you under arrest for the murder of Ross Demming. Hand over your guns.”
The two rustlers waiting in the alley never knew what hit them. One moment, they were standing near the entrance to the alley, staying out of sight and keeping a watch out for Delaney, the next, they were suddenly being grabbed from behind by black-suited commandos. They felt hands being clapped over their mouths and then an agonizing, incandescent pain as the razor sharp, nine-inch combat blades did their grisly work. Their bodies slumped to the ground. Without wasting any time, the S.O.G. commandos quickly strapped warp discs to the corpses’ wrists and clocked the bodies out. One of them spoke into his wrist communicator.
“Mattick to Team Leader.”
“Go ahead, Mattick
Two down.”
“Roger. Stand by.”
On Third Street, just around the corner of the Aztec Rooming House, two gunmen were shocked out of their wits when two black-uniformed men in commando masks suddenly appeared before them out of nowhere. That one second of shock was plenty of time for the two men who clocked in behind them to move up and slit their throats.
“Sagretti to Team Leader.
“Go ahead, Sagretti.”
“Four down, two to go.”
“That’s a roger. Stand by and stay out of sight. Okay, Miller, Donninger. you got a clear shot at the two out front?’
“That’s a roger.”
“Drop ’em.”
The two commandos stationed on the roof across the street from the rooming house fired. One of the rustlers slapped his hand to his chest.
“Ow! Jeez, damn skeeters-” then he spasmed and dropped dead as the fast-acting poison did its work. His partner collapsed a fraction of a second later. Capiletti spoke int
o his radio. “Okay. Sagretti, get those bodies out of there! Now! Move it!”
The black-clad commandos blended with the shadows as they quickly ran around the corner and up to the fallen rustlers. Seconds later, the bodies were gone.
“Well done. Lieutenant.” said Stone. He pulled back his sleeve and spoke into his own radio. “Listen up. This is Stone. I’m going in Give me five seconds once I go through the front door, then move in behind me. We’re taking that house. Miller, Donninger, you keep to your posts. Cover the street.”
“Roger. Captain.-
“Okay, here we go.” said Stone. He turned to Capiletti who, unlike the other commandos, was dressed in period clothes He was wearing jeans, a cotton shirt, boots and a Stetson hat. Only beneath his coat, his holsters held a laser and a plasma pistol. “Let’s go.” said Stone.
Together. the two men started across the street, heading toward the rooming house.
O’Fallon stood among the crowd, looking down at the body of Ross Demming. There was a slight tic at the corner of his mouth. He balled his hands into fists. Idiots, he thought. Goddamn idiots! A simple job, one shooter on the street, another on the roof to cover him. How in hell could they possibly have bungled it? And where in hell was Brocius?
“All right, move aside.” said Wyatt Earp, pushing his way through the crowd. He looked down at the body sprawled out on the street. “Demming.” he said, with a grimace. “Had a feelin’ he’d wind up like this, sooner or later “
He bent down and picked up the Winchester that was lying next to the corpse. He checked it. “It hasn’t been fired.” He glanced around at the crowd. “Anybody see what happened?”
“I saw the whole thing. Marshal,” said O’Fallon. “It was the Montana Kid. He shot Ross down in cold blood. Never even gave him a chance.”
“He’s lying!” Jenny shouted.
Wyatt turned toward her. “What do you know about this, Jenny?”
“I was right here.” she said. “I was leaving the saloon with Scott when Curly Bill came up behind us and jerked his pistol!”
“Then what’s Demming doing here?” asked Wyatt.
“He was up on the roof of the saloon, with his rifle,” Jenny said. “Bill wanted Scott to turn around and make his play and Demming was going to shoot him down as soon as he turned around.”
“So what happened to Curly Bill?” asked Wyatt.
“He ran after Scott shot Demming.” Jenny said.
“And Demming was up on the roof, you say?” asked Wyatt He turned and looked up at the roof. “How did the Kid happen to see him up there?”
“He didn’t,” Jenny said. “I did. I saw him and I warned Scott.”
“You saw him.” Wyatt said “What made you think to look up there?”
“Scott told me to look.”
“I see,” said Wyatt, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Why couldn’t he look himself?”
“Because he had his back turned.”
“And with his back turned, he knew there was someone on the roof behind him?”
Jenny saw how it was going and it wasn’t going well. “He.. he knew that Curly Bill knew he couldn’t beat him and he figured out that someone else had to have a gun on him.”
Wyatt grunted. “So he shot Ross Demming.”
“It was self-defense!” said Jenny.
“Head shot.” Wyatt said. He turned to look at the roof again. “Clear up there, eh? In the dark, too. What was Curly Bill doing all this time?”
“I told you.” Jenny said, “he ran.”
“Why didn’t he just shoot the Kid while the Kid was shooting Demming? He had the drop on him, didn’t he?”
“He.. well, he couldn’t because… “ Jenny’s voice trailed off.
“Marshal, she couldn’t have seen anything,” O’Fallon said. “She was inside, in the saloon. Ain’t that right, boys?”
“Yeah, that’s right, I saw her.” Zaber replied.
“And Curly Bill left quite a while ago,” O’Fallon said.
“Alter the Kid called him out back there in saloon.”
“The Kid called him out?” asked Wyatt.
“Its a lie!” Jenny said “He just offered to show Bill who was faster.”
“Ain’t that the same thing?” asked O’Fallon.
“They drew on each other with empty pistols!” Jenny said. “Ask anybody! They all saw!”
“And once the Kid saw he could take Curly Bill, he decided to do it for real.” said O’Fallon. “Curly Bill left and the Kid went out after him, but he ran into Ross Demming first and decided to take care of some old business.”
“It isn’t true!” shouted Jenny. “He’s making it all up!”
“What was Demming doing with a Winchester?” asked Wyatt.
“He had it on his horse,” O’Fallon said. He was gettin’ ready to ride out of town when the Kid came out. When the Kid saw him, he jerked his pistol. Ross went for the rifle in his scabbard, but just barely got it out when the Kid shot him. You know how fast the Kid is.”
“What happened to his horse?”
“Ran off when the shots were fired,” O’Fallon lied, smoothly. “I don’t know where Jenny got this roof business, but you have to know. Marshal, she’s in love with the Kid. Wouldn’t have anything to do with anybody else ever since the Kid showed up. You can ask anyone. She’s his woman. You can’t blame her for tryin’ to protect him. I’d like a woman of mine to do the same.”
“Is that true, Jenny?” Wyatt asked.
She shook her head. “Surely, you don’t believe him?”
“I know how you feel about the Kid, Jenny,” Wyatt said. “Everyone in town knows. And if it happened like you said, I can’t see how the Kid could have shot Demming down from that roof without having Curly Bill shoot him. Nobody’s that fast.”
“But. but that’s the way it happened! I swear!”
Sheriff Behan pushed his way through the crowd. “Heard there was a shootin’,” he said.
“You don’t say,” said Wyatt. wryly.
Behan shot him an angry look. “Ross Demming, eh? Looks like the Kid finally got him.”
“How do you know it was the Kid?” asked Wyatt.
“Heck. everybody knows there was bad blood between those two.” said Behan, “ever since the Kid gunned down his brother. I understand they had a near set-to in the Grand Hotel a while hack. Fact, you were them, weren’t you. Wyatt?”
“I was there.” admitted Earp.
“Wyatt, you’re not going to believe these men?” said Jenny.
“It appears I’ll have to believe them enough to put the Kid under arrest. Jenny.” Wyatt replied.
“But you know what kind of men they are?” she argued, with exasperation.
“That’s right, Jenny.” Wyatt said, looking at her sympathetically. “I know. And I also know what kind of man the Kid is. He’s a gunfighter and there’s enough information to make him a suspect. I’m going to have to take him into custody and let the court decide.”
“But you don’t understand.” she protested. “You can’t!”
“I have to, Jenny,” Earp replied, misunderstanding the reason for her distress. “And for his sake. I hope the Kid comes along quietly. He’ll get fair treatment. I promise. I’ll continue to look into this. I have no intention of letting a man hang on the word of someone like Johnny Ringo.”
He gave O’Fallon and his men a hard stare.
“Just tellin’ the truth. Marshal.” said O’Fallon, with a shrug. “I saw what I saw.”
“That’s what you say, Ringo.” Wyatt Earp replied. “But I think I’ll ask around just the same and find out if anybody else saw the same thing.”
Jenny felt someone come up beside her and touch her elbow. She turned to see Indian Charlie standing by her side, he merely nodded at her once, then slipped away through the crowd She felt a tightening in her stomach. Drakov wanted to see her.
As she moved away from the crowd, she felt herself torn by indecision. If she refused to
respond to Drakov’s summons, he would know that something had gone wrong. If she went to him now, Scott would be placed under arrest and thrown in jail and there would be no one to warn his friends of what had happened. Perhaps if she could find them quickly and let them know that Scott was in trouble, then go back and see Drakov…
She ran down the street, toward the Grand Hotel. She ran inside and up the stairs, to Lucas’ Priest’s room. She pounded on the door. ‘There was no answer. In desperation, she pounded again and this time, the door opened, but it wasn’t Lucas Priest. It was another man, with a large, bushy moustache and red-rimmed eyes. His nightshirt bulged out over his paunch.
“What in tarnation…?”
“Where’s Mr. Priest?”
“There ain’t no one by that name here, Missy. But say… will I do?”
She backed away, then turned and ran down the stairs and out into the street.
Ike Canton stood at the bar in Hafford’s Saloon, hunched over a whiskey. In defiance of the town ordinance, there was a six-gun stuck in his belt, beneath his coat, and a Winchester. 44–40 rifle lying on the bar before him. The bartender kept glancing at the rifle nervously. Clanton was working up a real snootful and guns and whiskey didn’t mix.
“Want me to hold on to that gun for you. Ike?” the bartender asked.
Clanton slapped a beefy hand on top of it. “It’s stayin’ right here.” he replied, in a surly voice. “There’s men in this town lookin’ to murder me and if they come lookin’ for a fight, they’ll get one!”
He glanced around at the other patrons in the bar. “You all heard that!” he said, loudly.
“I don’t want any trouble in here, Ike.” the bartender said.
“Ain’t me that’s causin’ trouble.” Clanton replied. I was mindin’ my own business when that Doc Holliday invited me to jerk my pistol! I couldn’t defend myself because I wasn’t heeled, but that Virgil harp was right there with him and you think he arrested Holliday for makin’ a play against an unarmed man? No. sir! I tell you, they’re all in it together, those Earps and Holliday! They’ve been spreadin’ lies about me, tryin’ to frame me, and now they’re out to murder me, as well!”
