PROLOGUE

It was said that the town of Tombstone in the Arizona Territory was hell on Earth and Scott Neilson believed it. It was certainly hot enough. He would have welcomed air conditioning, but such conveniences did not exist in 1881. He would have felt more comfortable in a pair of khaki slacks, boat shoes and a polo shirt. but such attire would have made him a decided oddity in the Oriental Saloon.

All around him. men were dressed in high-heeled boots and jeans and longsleeved, loose cotton shirts in solid colors and prints. Some wore leather or cloth vests. Some even wore overcoats or trail dusters. Most wore kerchiefs and high crowned Stetsons, while others wore black bowlers. The men in bowlers were more elegantly dressed. in long, black frock coats and pinstripe, stovepipe trousers, white shirts and silk cravats with stickpins, silk vests with gold watch chains dangling from them. Many of them also carried walking sticks. And beneath that, they wore union suits. They had to be sweating like pigs, thought Neilson. He knew he was. None of

them openly wore guns..though Neilson knew there

were bound to be some Remington derringers and the occasional six-gun concealed here and there

The law in Tombstone was clear on the subject of firearms. Only officers of the law or men with special permits issued by those officers were allowed to carry guns. On entering Tombstone, one was supposed to check his guns at one of the corrals or leave them in a hotel. The practice of going armed on the streets of Tombstone was definitely frowned on and could result in arrest and a fine of twenty-five dollars. Nevertheless, many people disregarded the law and wore concealed weapons beneath their coats, often tucked into their belts or waistbands. Tombstone, it was said, had a man for breakfast every morning, which was a wry way of saying that there was at least one killing every night.

The town did not exist when prospector Ed Schieffelin arrived in 1877, looking to make a strike. Thirty years old and a seasoned miner, Schieffelin was a wild-looking character with long, dark red hair and a matted beard, his clothing patched with animal skin. The country he had come to prospect was desolate and ruled by the Apaches. After he arrived at the Army post at Camp Huachuca, he did some prospecting in the area and then accompanied an Army detachment as a scout through the Sonoita Valley and the Patagonia Mountains, near the Mexican border, then back along the San Pedro River. Upon returning, he announced his intention to go back and do some prospecting in the area. He had taken a fancy to the hills he saw along the San Pedro.

-All you'll find out there is your tombstone," he was told. "The Apaches will see to that."

Nevertheless, Schieffelin went and made a silver strike that was the richest in the territory. Remembering the warning he'd been given, he showed his sense of humor by naming his claims Tombstone and Graveyard. News of the strike soon had settlers flocking to the area and the town that grew up on Goose Hats also came to bear the name of Tombstone, as did the hills around it. It soon became the largest mining boomtown in the country, rivaled only by Colorado's Leadville, nestled in a Rocky Mountain valley at an elevation of ten thousand feet. At least it was cool up there, Neilson thought, wistfully.

He had arrived in Tombstone early that afternoon and checked into the Grand Hotel. He had come in by stage from Benson, which was as far as the Southern Pacific railroad went. However, he had not arrived in Benson on the train. He had used a considerably more advanced form of transportation and he had come a long, long way. Over eight hundred years, in fact. He had made the trip in the blink of an eye, using his warp disc, which he wore camouflaged as a heavy silver Indian bracelet on his left wrist. The large, blue-green turquoise stone was actually a cleverly hinged cover, hiding the chronocircuitry controls.

Sergeant Scott Neilson was a temporal agent, a soldier in the First Division of the United States Army Temporal Corps, an elite commando unit tasked to adjust temporal disruptions. With the advent of the Temporal Crisis, the First Division had been merged with the Temporal Intelligence Agency under the directorship of Brigadier General Moses Forrester, commander of the First Division. Neilson had come to Tombstone to investigate a situation involving Observer Outpost G-6898. The three Temporal Observers assigned to this sector had failed to make their last two scheduled reports.

Given the hazardous nature of their duty, any of a number of things could have happened to them. The Arizona Territory could be highly dangerous. If something had happened to them as a result of the normal dangers of this time sector, Neilson's job was to ascertain precisely what it was and arrange for their replacement. But if something had happened to them that was not a result of the normal hazards of this period, it could mean serious trouble. It could mean an infiltration by soldiers of the Special Operations Group, the undercover commando strike force from the parallel universe. And Tombstone could become another battlefield in the Time Wars.

Neilson had been selected for this assignment for a number of reasons. One was that he had already proven himself on a significant temporal adjustment mission in 19th-century London, when the insane, crosstime terrorist named Nikolai Drakov had brought about a temporal disruption by using his genetic engineering skills to release a plague of vampires and werewolves upon the unsuspecting city. That mission had been one of the most complex and dangerous assignments the T.I.A. had ever faced and Drakov was their most dangerous antagonist. Half of the adjustment team in that assignment had been killed. Neilson had been one of the survivors, which had netted him both a promotion and a decoration. Another reason he was chosen was that his file showed him to be a student of the frontier era, as well as a collector of antique firearms and an expert in their use.

He had grown up in Tucson, Arizona, though the Tucson of the 27th century was a far cry from the town of Tombstone in the 1800. In his own time, Tucson was a sprawling, multi leveled metropolis with skyscrapers over a hundred stories tall. Yet even so, many of its residents still clung fondly to the tradition of its Wild West beginnings and even in the 27th century, some of them still wore western boots and Stetsons. Neilson's father had been a university history professor whose hobby was studying the Old West. Over the years, at considerable expense and time involving extensive computer searches of collector lists and estate auctions, he had accumulated a collection of antique western firearms that was worth a fortune. It included old black powder pistols such as Patterson. Walker and Navy Colts, Remingtons and Colt Single Action Armys, Winchester carbines and shotguns and Sharps buffalo rifles. Most of these weapons were in poor condition and would have been dangerous to fire. Shooting them would also have diminished their collector value, However, Scott's father had also obtained a number of late-20th-century reproductions and he had a number of them duplicated by skilled Japanese artisans so that they were identical to the authentic western guns down to the last detail. And those could be safely fired.

Ammunition for them was, of course, no longer available and had to be made from scratch. It had been necessary to make the brass cases and melt the lead to be poured into antique bullet molds. Lead projectile weapons had not been in general use for several hundred years and the smokeless powder for them that had been used in the 20th and 2Ist centuries was no longer commercially available. It had been necessary to duplicate the old black powder of the frontier era, but this was more easily accomplished and had appealed to Scott's purist father. The most difficult thing about the process had been manufacturing the primers, but Scott's father had been determined to pursue authenticity at all costs.

The result was that, as a child! Scott had learned to shoot just like the gunfighters of the Old West had and, since the weapons were hopelessly outdated reproductions, they had not required special permits to own His natural hand-eye coordination was excellent to begin with and by the time he was in his late teens. Scott had become an astonishingly proficient marksman. He had picked up an interest in the Old West from his father at a very early age and, in addition to becoming an expert in its history, incessant practice in trick shooting had given him an almost supernatural level of skill. His fast draw had been clocked at 25/100 of a second and he had mastered the technique of "point shooting-(firing from the hip without using the sights) to such a degree that he could split cards edgeways at ten paces. It had pleased his father, and Scott had gotten a great deal of enjoyment out of it. However, he had always believed it was a completely useless skill . . . until he enlisted in the Temporal Corps.

Now, at the age of twenty-five. Neilson's skill had already saved his life and the lives of fellow agents on several occasions during missions to the past. Life as a temporal agent was hazardous in the extreme and the mortality rate was very high. but for Neilson, as for most other temporal agents, the adventure was well worth the risk. It was a chance to literally see history in the making. And, at the same time, to preserve it from disruption. Added to that, one of Neilson's great joys on becoming a temporal agent was the opportunity to augment his collection.

It was, of course, illegal to bring anything back from the past. but General Forrester had a tendency to wink at the practice and look the other way. Forrester, himself, possessed perhaps the most priceless collection of artifacts in the entire world, many of them presented to him by the people under his command as they returned from missions to the past. It was considered a singular honor to obtain something worthy of being included in the Old Man's collection, which he kept housed in a room behind a hidden panel in his quarters at TAC-HQ. Among his prized collection were the sword of El Cid, a .45 Colt semiautomatic that had once belonged to General Patton, the mask of Zorro, the helm of Genghis Khan, and the original manuscript of 20.000 Leagues Under the Sea—the actual original, not the one which the author had painstakingly copied by hand and submitted to the publisher. This one, unknown to history, had been specially inscribed by the author himself --"To my very dear friend, Moses Forrester. who allowed me to glimpse the wonders of the future. With undying gratitude. Jules Verne.”

Scott Neilson's own collection was nothing compared to that. He had inherited the collection of his father, which he kept stored in a vault, yet he delighted in adding to it at a cost to him that was a mere fraction of what his father had paid for the pieces he acquired. And the weapons Scott obtained in Minus Time were in spanking new condition.

The first thing he had done on his arrival in Benson was to outfit himself with a brand-new Colt Single Action Army in .45 caliber, nickel-plated, with a four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel and gutta-percha grips. He paid a total of thirty dollars. In his own time, even in condition that was less than pristine, the pistol would be worth several thousand times that sum, even after it had been fired. Unfired, it would have been nearly priceless. However, on this assignment, Neilson knew that he could easily find himself in a situation where he would have to fire the piece, so he had purchased several boxes of cartridges and gone outside the town limits, to fire his new weapon and see how close the bullets struck to point of aim. The pistol's sights were fixed and not adjustable, meaning that there was only a front sight blade on the end of the barrel and a groove along the top, but it shot close enough to point of aim to satisfy him. Within twenty-five rounds, he was capable of hip-shooting it with unerring accuracy.

He had also purchased a Winchester carbine and a floral-carved holster for his Colt, made by the Lawrence Company, along with a money belt that was looped for cartridges. Other supplies, such as a horse and saddle, he could either purchase or rent in Tombstone. He had arrived already suitably attired for the time period in black, pinstripe trousers; high-heeled boots: a dark green calico shirt, a black cloth vest with a silk back; a black frock coat and a black, flatcrowned Stetson. His light blond hair was long, down to his shoulders, and he was clean-shaven, largely because he'd never been able to grow a decent beard or moustache. With the antiagathic drugs used in the 27th century, he would retain his youthful appearance long past the normal human lifespan and in this time period, at the age of twenty-five, he looked no more than seventeen.

It was common practice for temporal agents to go unshaven and not to get their hair cut unless it was demanded by a mission, in case long hair or a beard proved a requirement for an assignment in the past. If necessary, wigs could be woven into their own hair, and beards cosmetically applied in such a manner that they could only be removed with special solvents. However, such procedures were uncomfortable and. if possible, agents liked to rely on their own hair. This unofficially sanctioned practice was initially frowned upon by many senior officers in the regular Corps. Shaggy hair and stubble looked decidedly unmilitary in the 27th century, but Forester had made it clear that any officer harassing the people under his command would have to contend with him, personally. That quickly brought an end to questions regarding hirsute temporal agents.

Before he left the 27th century, Neilson had gone in for mission programming, which entailed a computer download via the biochip implanted in his cerebral cortex. The program data was designed to give him all the knowledge he would need to function in this time sector, but for Neilson, most of it was redundant. This time sector, in particular, had long held a fascination for him. One of the most famous incidents in the history of the frontier would soon occur right here in Tombstone. And events which would lead up to it had already begun by the time Neilson arrived.

His assignment would probably be brief. He figured it would take a day or two, perhaps a week, at most, if he could not immediately locate the Observers or ascertain what happened to them. At any rate, he would no longer be in Tombstone by the time October 26th rolled around, which was a bitter disappointment to him. He would not have the opportunity to witness the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. However, while he was in Tombstone, there was a good chance that he would see some of the participants and the thought filled him with an almost childish excitement.

He had a job to do and he could not afford to waste any time in doing it, but he fervently hoped that he'd be able to go back to the 27th century and tell his friends that he shook hands with Wyatt Earp.

The Oriental Saloon was a place that Wyatt harp was known to frequent. He had a financial interest in the saloon and did a lot of gambling here. As Neilson walked in through the doors, he could barely restrain a gleeful grin. It was all just as he'd imagined it would be. A raucous place, with a high ceiling and an ornate, mirrored bar valued at over one hundred thousand dollars. There were, of course, no stools in front of the bar. One stood. There were tables to sit down at and, at many of these, men were playing cards. The room was filled with smoke and the smells of sweat and kerosene. An upright piano was being played in on corner. He looked around the room and received not a few curious glances in return. He walked over to the bar.

The bartender, in a white shirt, vest, and bow tie, with short, neatly combed dark hair. a handlebar moustache and large, striking eyes, came over and wiped down the bar in front of him.

"Howdy, stranger." he said. "What'll it be?"

Neilson immediately recognized him from old photographs he'd seen in countless books on western history. It was none other than Buckskin Frank Leslie, the famous scout and buffalo hunter, a man who often entertained himself by shooting flies off the ceiling and the occasional cigar out of someone's mouth. A good friend of Wyatt Earp's.

"Whiskey." Neilson said.

"Comin, right up." Leslie replied, setting a glass in front of him. "New in town?" he asked, as he poured.

"Yep." said Neilson, paying for his drink.

Leslie was sizing him up. "Where you hail from, son?"

"Montana." he replied, taking a drink. He knew that a lot of these characters had drifted all over the west, from Dodge City to San Francisco, but the Montana Territory was still fairly Wild and sparsely populated. There wasn't much happening in Montana yet except for cattle ranching and farming in the western part of the territory, along the Bitterroot. And Indian trouble. Especially Indian trouble.

"Is that right?" said Leslie, with some surprise. "Montana Territory, eh?

Where ole George Custer met his Maker?"

"Yep."

"Ever meet 'im?"

"Nope. Heard all about him. though."

He was one hell of a man." said Leslie.

One hell of a stupid man, if you ask me." said Neilson.

Leslie raised his eyebrows. "How old are you, son"

"Old enough." said Neilson.

Leslie grinned as he wiped out a glass, amused by the arrogance of youth.

"What brings you to Tombstone?"

Neilson shrugged. "Heard some bends of mine might be here. prospectin'."

"That right? What are their names? Could be I know 'em."

"Ben Summers, Josh Billings and Joe McEnery."

Leslie's grin faded. "Hell. I know 'em, all right Or knew 'em. I should say I'm right sorry to tell you, son, they're dead All three of 'em.”

Neilson put down his glass and stared at him. It was what he'd feared. Only how did they die?

Before he could ask Leslie, shouting broke out behind him and he heard a chair crash to the floor.

" You goddamn. cheatin' tinhorn, son of a bitch!"

Neilson turned around. Out of the corner of his eye. he saw Leslie's hand go down below the bar.

"Step aside, son." Leslie said, softly, his eyes on the table where the altercation was taking place.

There were five men scaled at the table. One of them, a cowboy, had jumped up. sending his chair crashing to the floor. He had pulled a six-gun from beneath his coat and cocked it. The others were still sitting at the table, staring at him nervously. All except one man, who sat very still with his hands flat on the table.

He had his back to Neilson, but he was dressed like a gambler, in a dark, dandy's suit. The cowboy with his gun out was standing at a right angle to Neilson, his left side toward him, about a dozen feet away. Neilson quietly stepped aside, knowing that Leslie had a gun beneath the bar. The entire room became suddenly, completely silent,

“Come on now, take it easy. Slim." said one of the other men at the table.

That damn deck's marked!" the cowboy named Slim furiously accused the man with his back to Neilson.

"I can assure you, sir, that it is not." the gambler replied, in a calm and steady voice. "You are welcome to examine it. Any man here is welcome to examine it. I won that hand fair and square.”

"You !yin' bastard, you did not! You pulled some cheap, tinhorn trick!"

Men were quickly edging away from the vicinity of the table. Leslie waited until his field of fire was clear, then pulled a sawed-off shotgun from beneath the bar.

“Put up that pistol, friend, right now." said Leslie.

Neilson suddenly heard the ominous sound of a revolver being cocked.

"I don't believe he will, barkeep." another cowboy at the far end of the bar said. He had a gun aimed right at Leslie. "Now you put down that scattergun. Just rest it on the bar there, nice and easy, and step away."

Leslie hesitated for a second. "You don't want to do this, friend."

"You shut your damn mouth and do as I said!"

Leslie complied.

Slim turned toward the bar, moving so that he could clearly see both the gambler and Leslie. "You tell him. Jack! We'll show these cheatin' sons of bitches! That pot is mine by rights!"

Nobody moved.

"You, boy." said the man named Jack, talking to Neilson. He came around the end of the bar slowly. He aimed his gun at Neilson.

"Leave him out of this." said Leslie.

“I said, shut your damn mouth! Boy, take that scattergun and slide it down the bar to me, real careful like."

"Everybody just stay right where you are." said Slim, "and keep your hands where I can see 'em.”

"Be smart, cowboy." said the gambler, sitting perfectly still. You shoot anyone in here and you'll never make it out of town."

"Yeah? Well, you won't be around to find out, one way or the other.

Neilson hadn't moved. The situation was getting ugly and he didn't want to chance being shot by a stray bullet. His mission was too important. Not to mention his life. If he slid that shotgun down the bar, Jack would have a better weapon with which to cover their escape after Slim had shot the gambler. And God only knew who else.

" You, boy!" shouted Jack. "You tired of livin'? I said, slide that scatter gun down here!"

"Leave him alone." said Leslie. "He's just a kid."

"You opened your damn mouth once too often!" Jack responded, moving his gun to fire at Leslie. And in that moment, Neilson moved.

His hand snaked down inside his coat as he drew and cocked the pistol in one smooth motion and fired at Jack, hitting him in the chest. Without pausing, he recocked the Colt as it rolled with the recoil, brought his arm around and fired at Slim, dropping him before Jack even hit the floor. It happened so fast that no one had a chance to react.

There was a moment's stunned silence, then somebody exclaimed. "Jesus. Mary and Joseph! Did you see that?"

By God. I ain't never seen anyone that fast!" The saloon erupted into activity as Neilson stood there. Still holding his smoking gun. Great, he thought. Now what do I do?

"Right through the heart!" said someone, bending over Slim. "Dead center!"

"I'll be hog-tied!" said someone else. examining Jack's body. "This one, too!"

"Hold it right there!" said a steely voice, cutting through the commotion.

"Put down that pistol, kid, or I'll shoot you where you stand!"

Fuck, thought Neilson, unable to see the speaker behind him. Whoever he was, he had the drop on him. He released his grip on the Colt, allowing it to dangle from his index finger in the trigger guard, then slowly brought it down on the bar and raised his hands.

"It's all right. Virgil." Leslie said. "The kid's okay. He just stopped some killin'."

"Appears to me like he just did some killin’." said the tall, strapping man with the dark, reddish blond hair and bushy moustache who came around from behind Neilson. He was dressed in a dark suit, with a badge pinned to his vest. Virgil, thought Neilson. He recognized him from photographs he'd seen. It was Virgil Earp, eldest of the three "fighting Earp" brothers.

"It was killin’ that needed to be done," Leslie replied. "The kid did the right thing."

"I'll say, he did." said the gambler, getting up from the table "The kid just saved my bacon."

"Is that so?" said Virgil. "What happened?"

Neilson stared as the good-looking gambler with the neatly trimmed black moustache came toward him. "Cowboy over there called me a cheat and threw down on me. The other one got the drop on Frank. And me without my guns."

Those boys meant business, Virgil." Leslie added. "I would have been shot dead, if it wasn't for this here Montana kid."

"I owe you a debt of gratith.cle," the gambler said. "I'd like to shake your hand and stand you to a drink. The name's Bat Masterson."

Feeling rather numb. Neilson shook his hand.

"What's your name, Montana kid?" asked Virgil.

"Neilson." Scott replied instinctively, not thinking to give an alias.

"Scott Neilson."

“I like Montana Kid." said Masterson, with an easy, charming smile. "Drinks all around, Frank. And a bottle for me and the Kid, here. Virgil, you'll join us, won't you?"

Virgil Earp looked Neilson over. "Well, if Frank and Bat vouch it was a necessary shooting, then I guess that's okay with me. But I'll need to take your gun. Kid, just the same. Those boys were part of Clanton's bunch. Mean customers. You're lucky you came out of it okay."

"Hell, luck had nothin' to do with it," said Leslie, pouring the drinks "You should've seen it. Virgil. The Kid's greased lightnin' with a gun."

"You don't say." said Virgil.

"Shot ‘em both right through the heart, dead center!" said one of the other men around them. "Fastest draw lever seen in all my born days! If you'd a blinked your eye, you would've missed it!"

The others in the bar quickly agreed with this assessment.

"Sounds right impressive," Virgil said.

"Impressive doesn't do it justice," responded Leslie.

"Is he really that fast, Frank?" Virgil said, with some surprise, apparently expecting. exaggeration from the others, but not Win Frank Leslie.

"I wouldn't have a prayer against him, that's for damn sure." Leslie said.

"And here I thought he was some green kid, fresh off the wagon. Shoot! I'll bet he could beat Wyatt."

"Faster than Wyatt?" said Virgil, raising his eyebrows.

"God's my witness." Leslie replied. "You put him up against Wild Bill. I'd give you even money and it would be a coin toss.”

"Hell, Frank, I never heard of anyone as fast as Hickok." Virgil said.

"You're lookin' right at him." Leslie replied, flatly.

"Was he really that fast, Bat'?" Virgil asked.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I didn't see it." Masterson replied. "but I heard both shots come so close together. I would have sworn they had been fired from different guns."

Virgil looked at Neilson with new respect. 'Where did you learn to shoot like that, Kid?"

Neilson was still slightly overwhelmed. His hesitance and confusion were taken as modest embarrassment. He simply shrugged and said, "Practice.”

The bodies were still lying on the floor. No one made a move to do anything about them. The door swung open and two more men came in. both with pistols drawn. One man was tall and slim, with dark blond hair and blue eyes. He had a flowing handlebar moustache that curled up at the ends and, like Virgil, he was dressed in a black suit. He also wore a badge. The family resemblance was strong and unmistakable. The other man was pale, thin and slightly built, perhaps a hundred and twenty pounds, with sandy hair, sharp features, a moustache and intense. slate-gray, spectral-looking eyes.

"Heard there was some shootin', Virgil." And right fancy shooting, from what I hear," Virgil replied. "It appears that this young gentleman has saved the lives of Frank and Bat. What's more, they claim he could be even faster than you are. Come on over and say hello to the Montana Kid, just arrived in town. Kid, meet my brother, Wyatt. And the gent with him is Doc Holliday."

The two men put away their pistols and Scott was speechless as he shook their hands.

"I'm much obliged to you for coming to the aid of my good friends." said Wyatt.

"Just arrived in town, eh?" Holliday said. He coughed and glanced at the bodies. "Kid, I'll grant you one thing. You sure do make one hell of an entrance."

They took a bottle and moved to a table.

Wyatt glanced down at the corpses. "Jack Demming and Slim Carter" he said, with a grunt. "Well, that's two less rustlers we need to be concerned with. But I'd watch my back from now on if I were you, Kid. The Clanton bunch won't take too kindly to the service you just performed for this community. You plannin' on stayin' in town?"

He was askin' after some friends of his," said Frank Leslie. "Summers, Billings and McEnery."

Wyatt frowned. "You told him?"

“I started to," said Frank, "and then things got a little hot around here.

"He told me they were dead," said Scott. "What happened to them?"

"Kin of yours?" asked Wyatt.

"No, just good friends. We, all grew up together.”

“It's too bad about what happened." Wyatt said, sympathetically. They were good men, thought highly of around here.

They were murdered out at their claim."

"Funny thing, though," Doc said. "I never saw bullet wounds that looked quite like that before. No blood to speak of. Had to be small caliber, one of those little Colt New Line pocket pistols. Whoever shot ‘em got up real close. You could see the burn marks on the clothing and even on the wounds."

"We thought at first it might've been the rustlers," Virgil said. "They're not above shootin' down a man that's got a roll. But I don't know of any rustlers armed with pocket pistols. They would have used their rifles or their .45s. A pocket pistol is a gambler's weapon. Not much use 'cept at close range. Only there was no sign of them playing cards out there. We thought it could have been some claim jumpers, but then nobody's been workin' their claim. It's a riddle, all right. We get a lot of strangers comin' through town and, sad to say, those kind of things tend to happen around here. Unless somebody talks, we may never know who killed 'em.'

Scott was thinking about what Doc had said. He'd never seen bullet wounds like that before. Small wounds. Burn marks. No blood to speak of. To Doc and the others, it may have looked like the sort of wounds a small-caliber pocket pistol like the Colt New Line could inflict. To Scott, it sounded ominously like a laser.

"They were decent men," said Wyatt. "Never gave anybody any trouble. We gave

'em a proper Christian burial."

"What about their personal effects?" asked Scott.

"Sold ‘em off." said Frank. "There really wasn't very much. Their rig and horses. saddles. Winchesters and six-guns. . . most everything got cleaned out by the killers. Don't think those boys were pullin' much out of that claim, anyhow. unless they had it stashed. They were right decent enough fellows, but they don't seem to have worked too hard."

"Were there any bracelets'?" Scott asked. "Indian bracelets, like the one I've got?" He held up his arm and pulled back his sleeve to show them. "They're not really worth much, but we all had ‘em. They'd have sentimental value to me."

"Come to think of it. I do recall those bracelets." Leslie said. "I tried to buy one off 'em once, but none of 'em would sell. They said the same thing, that the bracelets had sentimental value. They all got 'em together somewhere."

"I don't recall any Indian bracelets among their personal effects." Virgil said. "Do you. Wyatt?"

"Nope. I don't believe I do. The killers must've stolen 'em, along with any money they had. They have any kin?"

"Yeah," said Scott. "I'll have to write to 'em. I'd like to take a look at where it happened, if that's all right with you.

"Sure thing," said Virgil. "But I wouldn't plan on goin' out there tonight. I'd wait till morning if I was you."

"I'll rent a rig and run you out tomorrow: said Masterson.

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

“It's the least I can do, after you saved my life."

"What are your plans. Kid" asked Wyatt.

"I don't know," said Scott "I'd like to find out what happened to my friends, if I can. Ask around, see what I can learn."

"We've already done that," Virgil said. "You're welcome to ask around, so long as all you do is ask. I don't want any more gunplay in this town. Kid. We've got plenty enough as it is."

"I don't want any trouble," Scott replied.

"The way you handle a gun, it's liable to find you just the same," said Leslie.

"What did you do up in the Montana 'Territory, Kid?" asked Virgil.

"My folks were farmers in the Bitterroot." said Neilson.

"You don't have the look of a farmer," Virgil replied.

"It didn't suit me, so I left."

"You wear your hair like a plainsman,"

said Wyatt. "Do much buffalo hunting?"

Scott knew that Wyatt Earp had been a buffalo hunter in his youth, along with Bat Masterson In fact, much of Masterson's early reputation stemmed from a harrowing Indian attack known as the Battle of Adobe Walls, where a handful of buffalo hunters had stood off about two hundred Indians with their six-guns and Sharps rifles. His fame from that encounter had led to his becoming a lawman in Dodge.

"I hunted some." he answered.

"How do you skin a buffalo?" asked Wyatt, softly.

Scott knew what this was all about and he had to handle it just right. Fortunately, he know the answer, but he made a long pause before giving it, staring Wyatt Earp right in the eyes. Wyatt met his gaze steadily.

“You cut up the insides of the legs and down the belly, then around the head," said Scott. "Then you tie a rope up to the hide and hitch it on a horse. It peels right back. Only that's work for skinners, not for hunters."

Masterson nodded.

"So he hunted buffalo." said Holliday. "Still doesn't mean he's not a gunfighter. 'Specially if he's as fast as Frank says."

"Practice your fast draw on the farm, did you?" Wyatt asked, softly. Virgil simply looked on quietly, watching him carefully.

"Like I said. Marshal," Scott replied, in a steady voice. "I don't want any trouble. I didn't start what happened here tonight."

"Nobody's sayin’ that you did. Kid," Masterson said. quickly. "But like Wyatt said, you wear your hair like a plainsman. Only you dress like a gunfighter. And you damn well shoot like one."

"I hear tell you're a fair hand with a gun yourself," said Scott.

"It's been said." Masterson replied. "A man's reputation gets around. Only you see, none of us have ever heard of you before. Someone shoots the way you do. you'd think there'd be some talk. The reason for all the questions is that Wyatt here tends to be the careful type. Virgil. too. It's their job to keep the law in Tombstone and, as you've seen, it can be quite a job.

"Like I said, I don't want any trouble," Neilson replied. And you've got my gun."

“We've got stores in town that sell 'em," Wyatt said. ”there's no law keeps you from buyin' another one. Just don't let me catch you wearin' it in town."

"What about Mr. Holliday'?" asked Scott. "I don't see a badge on him."

"Doc's got special permission." Wyatt said.

"I see." said Scott. "So the idea here is the law-abiding citizen is disarmed, but the outlaw carries a gun, is that it? You'd think it should be the other way around

"The outlaw is not permitted to carry a gun. either," Wyatt said.

"Yeah, but if he's an outlaw, he'll do it anyway, won't he'?"

"Only if I don't catch him at it," Wyatt replied, severely.

"Tell me something, Marshal," Scott said. "do you generally catch him before or after he shoots somebody?"

"Before, if I can manage it," said Wyatt. giving Scott a hard stare.

"And if you can't manage it. I guess that's hard luck for the fellow he just shot." They were pushing him a bit to see how he would handle it. If he didn't push back slightly, they'd be suspicious, but he had to be careful not to push back too hard

"If you don't care for the law in Tombstone. Kid, you're free to move on," said Virgil, in a neutral tone.

"Oh, now that I've been informed of the law. Mr. Earp, I'll abide by it," said Scott. "But I guess it's a lucky thing for your two friends that I wasn't informed of it before." He pushed back his chair and stood. "Meet you right here in the morning, Mr. Masterson?"

"Right here's fine with me. About eight o'clock suit you'."

"Eight o'clock suits me fine." He touched the brim of his hat. "Gentlemen . . ."

They watched him as he left.

"He asked a bunch of questions," Wyatt said, "but he didn't answer many. The Montana Kid, eh? I've never heard of him before."

"Oh, well, that was just a little joke of mine," said Masterson, with a smile. "Frank called him 'this here Montana kid' and I just sort of stuck it on him. His real name's Scott Nelson."

"Neilson. I think he said," said Virgil.

"Nelson, Neilson, I never heard of either one of 'em, "said Wyatt. "But that kid's a gunfighter, that's for certain. Jack and Slim were sure as hell no greenhorns when it came to shootin’. And he got 'em both right through the heart."

"The Kid also saved my life." said Masterson_ "And Frank's. He could have simply stood there and stayed well out of it. He didn't have to chance it."

"Only he did chance it," Wyatt said. "And the result was that he killed two men in a fair fight. By tomorrow, everyone in Tombstone will be talkin' about the Montana Kid. And by next week, they'll be sayin' that he killed three men. And then four. And then half a dozen. Before long, we'll have a man in town who's got himself a reputation as a killer."

"Isn't that how you got yours, Wyatt?" Masterson said, with' a smile.

"Maybe, only I'm wearing a badge.

"Perhaps you should pin one on the Kid," said Masterson.

“A shootist like that would be handy to have on your side. Especially since Ike Clanton's already got Sheriff Johnny Behan on his."

"I don't need any help against the likes of Ike Clanton," Wyatt said, drawing on his cigar. Unlike the others. he didn't drink.

"Maybe not now." Masterson replied, "but Johnny Behan's had it in for you ever since you took his girl. He's close to Clanton and so are his deputies. You've got a lot of badges in this town, only not all of them seem to be on the same side. That could develop into a sticky situation."

"You sayin' the Kid could side with Clanton and his bunch?"

"Oh. I doubt that very much," Masterson replied. "Not after he dropped two of them."

Wyatt grunted. "I can't say I think much of the men you choose to gamble with, Bat

Masterson shrugged slightly. "I didn't know them you know I haven't been in Tombstone that long. Wyatt. I had no idea they were part of Clanton's bunch. And their money was as good as anybody else's."

"You take much of it?"

Masterson smiled and, with a deft motion, produced a card from up his sleeve. It was an ace of spades. "What do you think?"

1

"The Montana Kid, you say?"

The man who was speaking was a striking individual. He was wearing an elegant dark suit with a red brocade vest and an expensive watch and chain. He had a large diamond on his finger, as well as in his stickpin. But it was not his attire that was the most striking thing about him. It was his size and his appearance. He was a large, powerfully built man, incredibly muscular, with arms and a chest that strained the fabric of his clothes. People stared at him with awe when he walked down the street. His thick hair was jet black and curly, giving him a romantic, Byronic aspect, and his handsome features were marred by a knife scar that ran down the side of his face from below his left eye to the corner of his mouth. His voice was deep and resonant and his mouth was cruel, but his eyes were his most striking feature. They were a bright, lambent green, with a gaze so intense it was unsettling.

The pretty young saloon girl standing before him had a hard time meeting his gaze. Not just because of the force of his personality, but because he was her creator.

"It was what the others called him," she said. "I don't know what his real name is. If he gave it, I didn't hear."

"And you say his speed with a gun was almost superhuman?"

"I've never seen anything like it." she replied. "I've seen Wyatt Earp's draw and even he isn't that fast. He fired off two shots in a fraction of a second, without even aiming, and he hit both men in the heart.”

"Interesting." said Nikolai Drakov, with a smile.

"You think he's one of them? The agents from the future?"

"There was a young man whose path I once crossed in London." Drakov said.

"He was part of the support team working with Delaney, Cross and Steiger. And he was unusually skillful with lead projectile firearms."

"What was his name?" the girl asked. "What did he look like?”

"We never actually met face to face," Drakov replied. "But his name was Neilson. Scott Neilson.”

The girl shook her head. "I don't know." she said. "He looks very young. Just a boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen--"

-Appearances could be deceptive if he's from the future," Drakov said. "With the antiagathic drugs, he could be anywhere from sixteen or seventeen to twentyfive or thirty. What else can you tell me about him?"

"He has light blond hair. He wears it long, like a plainsman. But he has the look of a gunfighter. Dark suit, vest, green calico shin, black Stetson .

. ."

"How does he wear his gun?"

"In a cross draw holster on his left side."

"A Colt?"

“Yes, nickel-plated, with a short barrel."

Good for a fast draw. What about jewelry? Was he wearing any jewelry.? A bracelet of some sort, perhaps?"

"Yes. Yes, he did have a bracelet. I saw it briefly. It was one of those silver Indian bracelets, with a large turquoise stone."

"Like these?" asked Drakov, opening a drawer in the end table. There were three matching Indian bracelets inside it. He took one out and held it up so she could set it.

"Yes. exactly like that," she said.

Drakov smiled. “You didn't hear what he and the others, the Earps and Masterson, spoke about?"

She shook her head. "I’m sorry. They were all sitting together at a table and I didn't want to seem as if I was trying to eavesdrop. And it was noisy in the saloon and—"

"That's all right," said Drakov. "You've done well, Jennifer. I want you to cultivate his acquaintance. It would be perfectly logical for you to do so. You saw what happened, you’re fascinated by him, you want to get to know him. Find out his real name. Find out anything you can. But try not to arouse his suspicion. Be friendly and curious, but not too curious. Don't push it."

"I'll do what I can."

"Yes, I'm sure you will. Did you find out where he was staying?"

"In the Grand Hotel."

Drakov nodded "Keep an eye on him. I want to know everything he does." He smiled. "Things are starting to get interesting. The players are almost all assembled."

He toyed with the Indian bracelet and opened the hinged cover, revealing the chronocircuitry controls of the warp disc.

"We will move slowly, and with great care." he said. 'I will not underestimate them this time. It should prove to be an interesting little drama. Imagine, the Network, the S.O.G., the Temporal Underground and the T.I.A., all gathered in one place, at one strategic time. It will be like playing chess against a roomful of opponents, simultaneously. Only they'll be playing against each other, little realizing that I control the board."

He snapped shut the cover on the warp disc.

"And so the game begins," he said, softly.

The one-horse rig Masterson had rented pulled up in front of the cabin in the Tombstone Hills. It looked abandoned. It was a small, primitive adobe structure with a dirt floor, similar to many dwellings in the area. It couldn't really be called a house. Building lumber had to be hauled in from the Huachucuas and the only local wood was mesquite, of which a quantity had been chopped and piled up outside the cabin. It gave off a pleasant aroma when burned. The Observers had a well dug and there was a makeshift shed about twenty feet away, with a crude corral beside it.

"Well, this is it," said Masterson, as he reigned in.

Neilson looked at the place. There was something rather sad about it. It would have been cramped quarters for three men, but this was how a lot of people lived in this time, in this part of the country. They came out from the Eastern cities or from farms and ranches in the Midwest, or from cities on the coast like San Francisco, chasing the dream of making a rich strike. A few of them, like Ed Schieffelin, got lucky. Most didn't. But still, they kept on coming.

This was how it all started. Neilson thought. One man came out to this barren desert territory, populated only by Apaches, scorpions and lizards, struck silver and, as word got out, the boom began. Tombstone grew up on Goose flats, at first nothing but tents and adobe cabins and a few buildings made of lumber that had to be brought in, then saloons and fancy hotels, the railroad coming in to Benson, stage lines connecting the town to nearby points. Arizona was still a Wild territory, its raucous towns peopled by miners and gamblers and cowboys coming through with their herds, "hurrahing" the town with their six-shooters after months on the trail and blowing all their money on cheap whiskey, dance hall girls and at the faro tables. The Wild West as it really was, a brief, colorful period of American history, one that shaped the nation's character for years to come.

The men that achieved fame in this period seemed bigger than life. They were men like Wild Bill Hickok, with his brace of Navy Colts tucked butt forward into his belt, and Buffalo Bill Cody, the scout and buffalo hunter who would do more than perhaps any other man to give birth to the legend of the frontier with his traveling Wild West Show. Men like Clay Allison, the rowdy gunfighter and rancher who would contribute the word “shootist" to the language and who once, for lack of anything better to do, hurrahed a town by riding through it stark naked. Men like John Wesley Hardin, one of the fastest guns who ever lived, an outlaw who eventually became a lawyer, and Billy the Kid, whom legend was to paint as a misunderstood, romantic young hero but who was, in fact, a mean spirited psychotic. And here in Tombstone were men such as John Henry “Doc” Holliday, the frail, tubercular dentist from Georgia who, as Bat Masterson would write, was “ .

. . a weakling who could not have whipped a 15-year-old boy in a go-as-you please fist fight, and no one knew this better than himself, and the knowledge of this fact was perhaps why he was ready to resort to a weapon of some kind whenever he got himself into difficulty.” And his skill with those weapons made him feared throughout the West.

Then there was Masterson himself, the gambler and lawman, who shot his sixguns from a crossed wrist position and had been credited with killing thirty-seven men, and Wyatt Earp and his brothers, who within a few short months would stride into frontier legend in their famous shoot-out with the Clantons. Yet, for all those larger-than-life, colorful figures, the real men who had built the West were men who lived like this, in small shacks and adobe dwellings, scratching a livelihood out of the dirt and aging quickly in the merciless desert sun.

The blow dust got into their lungs, their faces became lined and wrinkled prematurely, their backs worn from constant toil. They were, frequently, men who walked on both sides of the law, ranchers or miners by day, rustlers and stage robbers by night. Even Wyatt Earp was once accused of horse stealing and, in later years, he would be accused of being a stagecoach robber and a murderer, as well. In the Wild West of legend, the good guys wore white hats and the bad guys wore black. In the real Wild West, things were very seldom seen in black or white.

"Not much to look at, is it?" said Masterson, interrupting his thoughts. "A sight different from the kind of country that you're used to in Montana Territory.

"Yes, it is," said Neilson. "I was thinking that it seems like a very lonely place to die."

They got down out of the rig and brushed the dust from their clothes. Masterson had changed into a pair of faded jeans and boots, a pale brown cotton shirt, a red kerchief and a well-worn, sweat-stained, light brown Stetson hat. He wore two six-shooters on his hips, nickel-plated Colt Single Action Army .45s with four-and-three-quarter-inch barrels and gutta-percha, or hard rubber, grips. He had them made specially for him by the Colt factory in Hartford, Connecticut, with slightly taller front sight blades, a bit thicker than usual, and hair triggers. In the rig, he also had a Winchester carbine.

"Dying's always lonely." he said, "no matter where you do it."

Neilson nodded. "Only it's the man who's left alive who thinks about it, not the dead."

"You've been thinking about those two men you killed yesterday," said Masterson.

Neilson nodded.

"First time?" asked Masterson. "Not that it's any of my business."

"No. it wasn't the first time." Scott replied. "I've killed before. Not because I wanted to, because I had to. But it doesn't get any easier. I guess you'd know about that, though."

Masterson nodded, solemnly. "No, it sure doesn't. But don't go thinking I'm some sort of expert on the subject. Oh. I know my reputation, and I haven't done much to disabuse folks of it, but to tell the truth, it's mostly hogwash. They say I've killed thirty-seven men. That's nonsense. When I'm asked about it, I never say yes and I never say no. I just always say I don't count Indians or Mexicans. I've been a lawman and I'm now a gambler and in occupations such as those, it can be useful to have people think you're a killer."

“Doesn't that also invite trouble, though?" asked Scott.

"Sometimes," Masterson replied, "but it prevents trouble more often than not. Those penny-dreadful writers back East have got people believing that if you've got a reputation as a gunfighter, reckless young blades from miles around come looking for you, anxious to make a reputation for themselves by taking you on. But that's nothing like the truth. You'll find that out. Most people would think real long and real hard before tangling with someone who's known to have killed thirty-seven men. As a result of my so-called deadly reputation, there've been times when I've simply been able to stare down trouble. Wyatt, too. I've seen some pretty tough hombres hack down at just a look from Wyatt because it's known he's deadly with a gun. Of course, that doesn't always work, as you saw yesterday. The truth is, not counting any Indians I might've shot at the Battle of Adobe Walls, I've only killed one man. That's why I've got this here limp."

"What happened?" Scott asked.

"His name was Corporal Melvin King, a soldier who liked the wild life and fancied himself a good man with a six-gun. He used to like riding with the cowboys and hurrahing towns and such. It happened in Sweetwater. We both liked the same girl, only she had a preference for me. I was spending some time alone with her in a saloon one night and King heard we were together. He'd had a few drinks and he was fixed for trouble. He busted in on us and jerked his pistol. Molly tried to get between us just as his pistol went off. The bullet went right through her and smashed into my hip. I managed to get my pistol out and shoot King as I fell, but it was no help to Molly. They both died. And me, after I healed up, I had to walk around with a cane for quite a spell. That's where the story started that I got the name Bat from batting people over the head with it." He chuckled. "Amazing how these things get around."

"Where did you get the name Bat?" asked Neilson.

"It's short for Bartholomew, which is my real name. I never cared for it, so I use William Barclay. I like the sound of it better. But most folks know me as Bat Masterson, just like they'll probably know you as the Montana Kid from now on. I guess you have me to blame for that."

Neilson grinned. "I don't mind. I kind of like it."

"You may not always feel that way," said Masterson. "Having a reputation as a gunfighter is a sword that cuts both ways. It gets you plenty of respect, but not the kind you'd like. The way Wyatt reacted was the way any lawman would react on hearing of a gunfighter come to town. You represent a threat. Potential trouble. And it didn't help any to have Frank say you were faster than Wyatt. That sort of thing puts a man on his guard right away."

They entered the adobe house and Neilson started looking around. He didn't expect to find much. Observers were always careful to leave no sign that would indicate they were anything but what their covers made them appear to be. Even if someone hadn't already torn the place apart, he would have found nothing from the future here. But that wasn't what he was looking for.

"Well, it's like I told the marshal," he said, "I don't want any trouble."

"You stay around here, you'll find it sure enough," Masterson replied. "By now, the Clantons will have heard about how you gunned down those two. Now, Wyatt. Virgil and Morg know them a sight better than I do, but from what I've heard about that bunch, you'd do best to steer clear of them. Ike Clanton I've met. He's not so much. A blowhard, mostly. His brother Billy seems a lot more likable, offhand, but I hear he's quite good with a six-gun and he'll back up his brother. Then there's the McLaurys, Frank and Tom. Both gunmen. And Frank's said to be dangerous. Billy Claiborne runs with them, but I wouldn't put him in the same class as Frank and Torn. And then there's Curly Bill and Johnny Ringo."

"I've heard of them," said Scott.

"That's not surprising." Masterson replied. "Curly Bill Brocius has killed his share of men. And Ringo has a big reputation as a gunfighter. There's a good number of others, cattle rustlers and stage robbers, not a good apple in the bunch, but of them all. I'd worry about those two the most."

And you think I have something to worry about?" asked Scott.

"If you stick around, you do." Masterson replied. "I don't want to seem ungrateful or unfriendly. Kid, but if I were you, I'd waste little time in moving on. You're young, yet. Got your whole life ahead of you. You can be anything you want to be. But if you decide you're going to be a gunfighter, then you've closed off a lot of options. You can find some town that needs a good man with a six-gun to wear a badge. A saloonkeeper who'll cut you in for a small share of the business to hang around and make sure there isn't any trouble. Or you can hunt bounty. There's some money to be made from that. But it's not what I'd call an easy life. Or a very good one. Often, it's a short life. too.

"Oh, maybe your reputation as a pistolero will make some men back down." he continued, "but it will also mark you. Instead of trying to face you down, they'll look to shoot you from behind or get you through a window with a scattergun. And then they'll be able to brag about how they gunned down the Montana Kid. You'll be popular with the saloon girls, but most respectable women will keep shy of you. You'd be a bad bet to settle down with You'll have men respect you and move aside when you walk down the street, but deep down, they won't like having you, around and no one will be sorry when you leave."

"What about if you're a gambler?" Scott asked.

Masterson pulled out a crudely made wooden chair and sat down at the table.

"Well, it's more respectable, for one thing," he said, as he took out a pack of cards and absently started to shuffle them. "Lots safer, too."

"Like yesterday, you mean?" asked Scott, with a smile.

Masterson shrugged. “What happened yesterday doesn't really happen very often. And, in a way, it was my own fault. Slim was cheating. And he wasn't very good at it. I decided to cheat back a bit, to teach him a lesson. He wasn't good enough to catch me at it, hut he tumbled to it somehow. I read him wrong. I didn't figure that he'd pull a gun. That was foolish of me. Yes, there are risks to being a gambler, but the advantage is that you only have to deal with trouble that comes to you. You don't have to go out looking for it." He glanced at Scott and smiled.

"You play?"

He put the deck down in the center of the table for him to cut. Scott looked at him a moment, then picked it up and cut it twice, one-handed. He shuffled it, quickly shot the deck from one hand to the other, split it, fanned the two equal parts in either hand, put it back together and then started dealing from the top, face down.

“Deuce of hearts." he said, as he put the first card down. "Deuce of spades. Deuce of clubs. King of clubs. King of diamonds."

Masterson stared at him, then slowly turned each card over to reveal the full house. He whistled softly.

“Son. I don't know how you did that, but if you could teach me. I'd be much obliged. That's my own deck and I know it's clean.”

“All it takes is practice. Mr. Masterson." said Scott. He reached out and pulled a silver dollar from Masterson's ear, then walked it across his fingers, back and forth, snapped them, and the coin was gone. “Lots and lots of practice.”

Masterson shook his head with awe. "There sure is a lot more to you than meets the eye."

Neilson smiled. "You could say that."

"You see about all you want to see here?"

“Yeah. I guess I have." said Scott

They were so small, they could easily have been missed, but he had known what he was looking for. Three tiny holes in the adobe wall. Burned into it by lasers.

The dining room in the Grand Hotel boasted an elegant menu for a town like Tombstone, but Neilson avoided the dubious French cuisine and ordered a thick steak, instead. He had it with a buttered baked potato and some beans and washed it down with a passable claret. He was about halfway through his meal when a soft, feminine yoke behind him said. “You're the Montana Kid, aren't you?"

He turned slightly and saw a lovely young girl of about eighteen or nineteen, with long, silky, ash-blonde hair and large, powder-blue eyes. She was wearing a long, light blue calico dress with lace around the collar and highbuttoned shoes. Her creamy complexion was absolutely flawless, she had a small, tuned-up nose, a slightly pointed chin and naturally pouting lips. He thought she was one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever seen.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt your meal," she said, coming around in front of him, "but I saw what you did yesterday and I thought it was about the bravest thing I've ever seen."

"You were there? " Scott said, with some surprise. He could hardly believe he had missed seeing her.

"I work there." she said, lowering her eyes slightly. “I . . . I wasn't dressed like this. I'm one of the saloon girls. My name is Jennifer. Jennifer Reilly."

Neilson wiped his mouth and stood up "Pleased to meet you, Miss Reilly. And no. you're not interrupting me. I'd appreciate the company. Please, sit down.”

He pulled out a chair for her.

"Call me Jenny. What do your friends call you—Montana?"

He grinned. "No, not really. My friends call me Scott. Scott Neilson.”

“It's nice to meet you. Scott” She watched him as he sat back down. "I see you're not wearing your gun."

"No, Virgil Earp took it from me. Said there was an ordinance against carrying guns in Tombstone."

"That doesn't seem to stop a lot of people." she said.

"No, it doesn't, does it?"

"Aren't you afraid? To be without your gun, I mean. Those cowboys that you shot have some pretty nasty friends."

"Like Curly Bill and Johnny Ringo?"

"And Ike Clanton and the McLaury brothers: she said." I see you've already heard of them"

"Yes. Bat Masterson warned me about them"

"And you're not worried?"

"Well, yes. I confess I am, a little. But the law's the law, isn't it? And I've only just arrived in town. I don't want to get on the wrong side of a man like Virgil Earp. His brother, Wyatt, already seems to have taken a dislike to me."

"Oh, that sounds like Wyatt, all right." she said. "Wyatt's very protective of his brothers. And to him, any man who wears a gun and uses it the way you do means trouble. And wait till you meet Morgan."

"Oh? What's he like? He a lawman. too?"

"He's a shotgun guard on the Wells Fargo stage. You'll know him when you see him. Those three Earp brothers look as alike as peas in a pod, but they're all really very different. Virgil is the steady one. He's calm-tempered and looks to avoid trouble if he can. Wyatt's steady, too. I guess, only in a different way. If there's trouble, he doesn't waste too many words. He'll buffalo you with his sixshooter just as soon as look at you “

To "buffalo" someone, Neilson remembered, meant to get the better of him in some way, usually by force. What Jenny was referring to was Wyatt Earp's penchant for braining miscreants with the barrel of his gun and knocking them unconscious. In a Wild frontier town like Tombstone, it was nothing more than sensible law enforcement. Why give a man a chance to draw his gun if you can crack his skull first and avoid all the unpleasantness?

"And as for Morgan," Jenny continued, "he's real hot tempered and can be quite a handful when he's been drinking. He hangs around with that Doc Holliday a lot. Wyatt and Doc are close friends too, which seems a little strange. I guess, seeing as they're so different Wyatt doesn't drink at all and Doc drinks quite excessively. When him and Morgan have had a few too many, watch out!"

"I'll try to remember that." said Scott. "May I offer you some wine?"

"Oh. thank you. no." She hesitated. "Well, maybe just a smidgen? It goes to my head so."

Scott smiled and signaled the waiter for another glass.

"Anyway," Jenny went on. "Morgan? He only gets riled when he's had a few too many, but that Doc Holliday, he's got a real short fuse. You wouldn't think it to look at him, him so frail and sickly and coughing all the time--he's got consumption, you know—but he's a real killer. They say he's one of the deadliest men with a six-shooter in the whole Southwest."

"Really? You seem to know a lot about the people in this town."

She blushed and looked down. "You must think I'm an awful gossip."

"No. I don't. Just that I'm new in town and it's useful to hear such things. Might help me stay out of trouble."

"Seems to me like you've already found some. With Slim and Jack, I mean. Not that anybody's going to miss them overmuch. They were rustlers, you know. Real troublemakers."

"I gather there's a lot of rustling going on around here," Neilson said.

“

Oh, yes. And there's a lot who don't mind it. They can get their cattle and their horses cheaper when they're rustled up from Mexico. Or from one of the bigger spreads around here. People don't ask a lot of questions when they're getting a bargain. Course, the big ranchers, they don't like it one bit, but they don't have all that much to say about it. The rustlers don't bother the smaller ranches and they usually get a real welcome there. And they never cause much trouble in town, either. At least they didn't until lately."

"Oh? What changed things?"

"Well, there's a lot of money in this town right now. It's growing bigger every day. And that's a lot of bullion going out on the two stage lines. That can be real tempting for some people who don't have too many scruples."

Jenny downed her "smidgen" of wine in one quick gulp and held her glass out for more as she spoke. Scott refilled it.

"So you're saying the town's attracting a bad element?"

"Oh, there's no doubt about that! Sheriff Johnny Behan? You run into him yet?"

"No, I can't say I have."

"Well, you ask me, he's one of them. He's a real handsome man, though his hair's thin on top, and he goes around like he's God's gift to women. He's good friends with Ike Clanton and his bunch. And his deputy, Billy Breakenridge, he's not much better. Sadie calls him Billy Blab, because he talks so much and is real full of himself."

“Sadie?"

-Oh, that's right. you wouldn't know her. Actually, her name is Josephine, but her middle name is Sarah so her close friends call her Sadie. She used to be Johnny Behan's girl, only now she's with Wyatt and there's been bad blood between the two men ever since. See, her daddy paid for her to build this house in town when she was engaged to Johnny, only now Johnny's on the outs with her and she's with Wyatt, but Johnny owns the lot the house is standing on and one night, he came to, try and dispossess her. Only Morg was there and he knocked Johnny clear off the front porch."

"Sounds like things keep jumping around here." Neilson said, with a smile. He refilled Jenny's glass as she held it out again for another smidgen. "I just might stick around a while."

"What brings you to Tombstone, Scott? If you don't mind my asking, that is."

“No. I don't mind. I came looking for some friends of mine. Only I found out they'd been killed. Maybe you knew them. Ben Summers. Josh Billings and Joe McEnery?"

"Oh. My, yes!" she said. "They were friends of yours? It was an awful thing, what happened. They were real gentlemen, all three of them, always so nice and so polite. Never pawing at you like a lot of men do. Ben and Josh were always friendly, but Joe was kind of sweet on me. He used to sneak over sometimes to see me, when the others weren't around. See, they were all supposed to be saving up to buy a ranch together out in Oklahoma and he didn't want the other two to know that he was spending any of it on me.

"I see," said Scott. What he hadn't wanted them to know was that he was going to a hooker. That son of thing was against regulations, though it was known to happen. Observers were only human, after all, and long-tem postings had their hardships.

"You don't approve of me." she said.

"No. I wouldn't say that. A girl has to make a living. I'd say that Joe McEnery had good taste.”

She lowered her eyes demurely. "It's sweet of you to say that, Scott."

"Did you see Joe often?"

"Every now and then."

"Did he ever say anything about anyone in town he might be worried about?

Someone he had trouble with, perhaps, or someone new in town who looked suspicious to him?"

"Well, he did ask some questions, once or twice," she replied. "He seemed curious about that Mr. Drake and a few others."

"Mr. Drake?"

"Oh, well, he had a room right here in this hotel, but he checked out and left town. Nathan Drake, his name was, a rich man from hack East somewhere. He came out here looking to make some investments, like a lot of people do. He wasn't interested in silver, I don't' think, just property, only he didn't find anything here that suited him. Then there was that Mr. Stone, from San Francisco. Joe was curious about him, as well. He's a gambler and you can find him most nights in the Oriental or the Alhambra He's new in town, only came in a few weeks ago. And Zeke Bailey. Joe asked about him, as well. Zeke's a gunsmith, works for Mr. Spangenberg at his shop over on Fourth Street. He came to town about a month or so ago and old George Spangenberg, he says he's just a wonder when it comes to tuning guns and fixing them. Zeke makes knives, too. Beautiful things they are. I've seen some of them in the shop. He has a little place just outside of town, where he's got himself a forge and all. Zeke's kind of quiet and keeps to himself a lot. And there's a few other people that Joe asked about. To tell the truth. I think Joe distrusted just about everyone he didn't know. Most folks around here think those three were greenhorns, nice enough, but city boys who didn't know their business and were slowly going broke out there. Me, I think they made themselves a strike and didn't talk about it, for fear of someone robbing them. I think they were hiding what they found till they were ready to pull out. Only it looks like someone found out about it anyway and killed them for it. I guess Joe was right to worry."

The bottle was empty and Scott had only drunk two glasses.

"Oh, look at me!" said Jenny. "My, here I was rattling on so, I went and drank up all that wine and didn't even notice! Now I'm feeling a bit tipsy. Scott, you naughty boy. I do believe you're trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me!"

"I'd never take advantage of a lady." Scott replied.

"Well, aren't you the proper gentleman. But what must you think of me, talking so and drinking all that wine!"

“I think you must have been thirsty," Neilson replied, with a smile.

"Now you're teasing me!"

"Well, maybe a little. But I have enjoyed talking to you, Jenny. You seem to know a lot about what happens in this town. I'd like to try and find out what happened to my friends. You've been very helpful. Maybe we could talk some more."

"You mean, like in private?" she asked, looking at him.

Neilson had been thinking about that. She did seem like a font of valuable information and information was exactly what he needed now. A friend like Jenny could be very helpful. Yet, if he turned her down, he might offend her. Or was he just rationalizing the fact that he was sexually attracted to her? He'd been rendered immune to most diseases, including those that were sexually transmitted, but he wasn't sum if getting involved with her would be a very smart thing to do. On the other hand, he did need intelligence. . .

Before he could decide, he heard a loud voice say. “I'm lookin' for the Montana Kid."

"Oh. dear." said Jenny. "It's Ross Demming."

"Demming?" Neilson said, looking over his shoulder.

“The brother of one of the men you killed. And the other man with him is Frank McLaury. Don't say anything. Maybe they won't know who you are."

But Demming's gaze had already settled on him.

"You,” he said. "You're the one. You're the polecat who shot my brother.”

The room had become completely silent, save for the sound of chairs scraping as people quickly moved out of the way. Neilson turned away from him and remained seated.

"He's not wearing a gun. Ross," Jenny said. "If you shoot an unarmed man, it will be murder.”

"You stay out of this. Jenny. It's none of your affair. He murdered Jack."

"It was a fair fight." Jenny said, was there. I saw it. As anyone in town. Jack jerked his pistol first “

"I said, stay out of it!"

"Frank, you get him out of here before there's trouble," Jenny said, speaking to McLaury. "You have more sense. You get him out of here right now."

"Jack was a friend of mine, Jenny. And Ross has a right to be upset about his brother bein' shot down by some young gunfighter out to make a reputation for himself."

"He's got no right to shoot an unarmed man!"

"The Kid can have one of my guns," said McLaury, pulling one of his Colts out of its holster. He held it out butt first. "Here, Kid. Take it. It'll be a fair fight. They say you're good. Let's see how good you are."

Neilson still sat with his back to them. His heart was beating fast and his stomach felt tight.

"I don't want any trouble," he said. "I've got no quarrel with you, Mr. Demming. Or with you, Mr. McLaury. What I did yesterday. I did because .I had no choice."

"What makes you think you've got a choice right now?” asked Ross. ,

"Take the gun, Kid," said McLaury. "Unless you're yellow.”

“All right.” said Scott. "I'm yellow."

"You take that gun," said Ross. "You stand up and take it, right now, or so help me. I'll let you have it in the back."

There was the sound of soft coughing behind Demming and a voice said. "Two can play at that game."

Demming and McLaury both stood very still.

"This ain't none of your affair. Holliday." said Frank McLaury, without turning around.

"I just made it my affair. Wyatt's on his way and so is Virgil. They heard you just rode into town and forgot to check your guns. Morg just got in on the stage, so I expect he'll be along, as well. And I don't think they'll take too kindly to your actions. Funny thing, though, how the sheriff never seems to be around at times like this. Where do you figure Johnny went?"

"Okay. Holliday.” said Frank McLaury. "You win. This time. Come on. Ross. Let's go."

"Before you turn around. Frank, put away that six-gun, nice and easy. I wouldn't want to chance your pulling a border roll on me. Hear Curly Bill's right good with it and he's been teaching you."

Slowly. McLaury put away his gun and turned around, with his hands held out from his sides.

"Okay? Now if you stand aside, Doc, we'll be going. Come on, Ross."

Demming shot a hard look at Neilson. "This isn't over, Kid. Not by a long shot. You hear me. yellowbelly? It isn't over!"

"Right now it is," said Holliday. "Now git!"

The two men went past him and out into the street. Neilson exhaled heavily as Holliday backed over to their table, then holstered his nickel plated Colt.

"Thanks,” said Scott.

"Don't mention it," Holliday replied. "Evening Jenny."

"Doc, was I ever glad to see you!" she said.

Holliday smiled thinly. "Always a pleasure to see you too, honey." He looked up as Wyatt Earp came in. "Well, howdy, Wyatt. We almost had us some excitement here just now."

"I know." said Wyatt, grimly. "Virg and Morg just took Frank and Ross to jail for carryin' their guns in town. What happened here?"

"They came in looking for the Kid." said Doc. "I heard Demming threaten to shoot him in the back."

"He's right, Wyatt." Jenny said. "The Kid and I were talking and those two came in. looking for trouble. Ross wanted to kill him. And he would have, if it hadn't been for Doc.”

Wyatt Earp gave Neilson a hard look. "I knew you were going to be trouble," he said.

"I was only having dinner, Marshal," Scott said. "I didn't do a thing."

"I want you on the next stage out of town.” said Wyatt.

"I haven't broken any laws. Mr. Earp. Unless it's against the law to have men threaten you while you're eating dinner."

"Don't sass me, son. I haven't got the patience for it."

"I'm not carrying a gun, Marshal. I'm obeying the law, just like your brother told me to. I haven't done anything to be run out of town for."

"There's no reason for you to stay around." said Wyatt. "And I can think of lots of reasons for you to leave. Next time.Doc might not be there to protect you."

“I'm obliged to Mr. Holliday," said Scott. "But I've still got some business here in town. And I haven't broken any laws. Those cowboys did. They're the ones you should be running out of town."

"They'll be leavin', soon as they've paid their fines," said Wyatt. "And I don't need you to tell me my job. I know what business you have here and it's trouble.”

"Your brother said that I could ask around and try to find out what happened to my friends; said Neilson. "That's all I was doing, Marshal. Asking. I told you. I don't want any trouble. Not with you and not with anybody else, either."

Wyatt stared at him for a long moment_ Neilson met his gaze.

"The next stage leaves at noon tomorrow." Wyatt said. "If you're smart, Kid, you'll be on it." He touched the brim of his hat. "Jenny .

He turned around and left.

"If I were you. Kid. I'd do as he said," said Holliday.

"I haven't done anything wrong, Mr. Holliday. Or is that how you people do things here in Tombstone? Fine the outlaws a few dollars, but run law-abiding people out of town?"

Holliday shook his head. 'You've got Wyatt wrong. He's only trying to do his job. And he's looking out for you, as well."

"I can look out for myself.”

"Is that right? Tell me, what would you have done if I hadn't come along when I did?"

Scott looked up at him, then made a quick movement with his wrists, crossing them and pulling two slim throwing knives from concealed sheaths strapped to his forearms, turning quickly in his chair and hurling them. They stuck in the wall by the entryway, exactly where Frank McLaury and Ross Demming had stood.

Jenny gasped, as did a number of other people in the dining room. Someone invoked the Lord's name, softly, and there was an undertone of excited murmuring.

Holliday stared at the knives. You seem to be a young man of many talents," he said. "You practice that back on the farm, as well?"

"There a law against carrying knives in Tombstone?" Scott asked him.

"Not to my knowledge," Holliday replied. He walked over and pulled the knives out of the wall. He examined them before he gave them back to Neilson.

"Clever-lookin' things. Never seen any like 'em before."

Neilson slipped them back into their sheaths. "I had them made special."

Holliday nodded. "Maybe it's too bad that I came in when I did. I've never seen two men dropped with knives at the same time before. You got any other tricks up your sleeve?"

"If I have to leave town, you might never find out," said Scott.

Holliday coughed several times. "I'll speak with Wyatt. See if I can get him to back off a bit. I have a feeling that having you around might prove to be quite interesting. Quite interesting, indeed. Be seein' you, Kid. You too, Jenny."

" 'Bye. Doc," she said. Her eyes were shining as she looked at Neilson.

"I've never seen anything like the way you threw those knives in my whole life!" she said. He felt her foot rubbing up against his leg under the table. "I've never met anyone like you."

Neilson cleared his throat. "Waiter? Check, please."

2

Neilson looked a little green around the gills as he stood in the private quarters of General Moses Forrester in the TAC-HQ building at Pendleton Base, California. Part of his ill feeling was due to what was known as “warp lag," the effects of traveling through time. Some people got used to it, others never did. Even veteran time travelers occasionally puked their guts out after temporal transition. Most everyone at least felt dizzy and queasy in the stomach. Complicating the situation was the fact that Neilson was in the presence of the Old Man himself

Forrester was a large man, built like a bull, with a massive chest and arms that were as big as Neilson's thighs. Even at his advanced age —and no One knew precisely what his age was—he could still run a marathon, do fifty pull-ups without pausing and curl an eighty-pound dumbbell with one hand. His face looked positively ancient. It was lined and wrinkled and he was completely bald. His bright green eyes. However, looked youthful and alert.

Also present in Forrester's quarters were Colonel Lucas Priest, Captain Andre Cross and Major Finn Delaney. Priest, as usual, looked smartly turned out in his sharply creased black base fatigues and highly polished boots. Dark-haired, slim and very fit; he was a handsome, thoroughly professional looking officer. By contrast, the burly Delaney looked like an unkempt longshoreman. He looked about as military as an old sweat sock. His base fatigues were rumpled, his boots were unshined, his dark red hair was uncombed and his full beard gave him the aspect of a drunken Irish poet. His facial expression, even when neutral, conveyed a wry insolence that had often provoked senior officers throughout his military career. That, together with his insubordinate nature, was one of the reasons why he held the record for the most reductions in grade in the entire Temporal Corps. He also held the record for the most promotions, due to exemplary service in the field. Lucas Priest had often chided him about it, saying that if it wasn't for his temper, he would have surely been a general by now, to which Delaney always responded with an irate scowl. At heart, he was a noncom and had always detested officers. And now he was a major. The rank did not sit well with him. He still felt funny being saluted.

Andre Cross sat between the two men on the couch, looking less like a soldier than a model hired to pose for a recruiting poster. Her straw-blonde hair was long and straight, falling to her shoulders, and her sharp, angular features were more striking than pretty. She had the physique of a bodybuilder, with long legs, a narrow waist, small hips and broad shoulders. Neilson had always thought that there was something catlike about her, in the way she moved and in the way she held herself.

Their presence made him feel somewhat more at ease, as he had served with them once before on a mission in the past, that assignment to Victorian London where half the mission team had died. People who had gone through something like that together achieved a special camaraderie that only other soldiers could fully understand. But the Old Man still had Neilson feeling a bit shaky in the knees. It felt a little strange standing before them, dressed the way he'd been in Tombstone. Almost as if he were a boy playing dress-up in a roomful of adults.

As soon as he'd clocked in and made his report. Forrester's adjutant had decided that "the Old Man should hear about this." And Forrester had summoned the others, the agency's number-one temporal adjustment team. Neilson had just finished briefing them on what he had discovered when he had clocked out to check on Observer Outpost G-6898. And now he stood at parade rest, awaiting their response.

"At ease, Sergeant,-said Forrester. "Have a seat, please."

Neilson took one of the living room chairs.

"What do you think?" asked Forrester, addressing the others.

"If Neilson thinks those Observers were killed by laser fire. I'm not inclined to question it." said Delaney. "He doesn't leap to hasty conclusions. Of course, we won't know that for a fact unless we send an S&R Team back to exhume the bodies, but under the circumstances, I'm not sure if we should risk that."

"I agree." said Lucas, nodding. "If we've got an infiltration in that time sector, they could be on the watch for that. The Observers blew their cover and the opposition, whoever they are, probably know where they're buried. They could be keeping their graves under surveillance, waiting for a Search & Retrieve team to clock back for them."

"It wouldn't be very hard to keep Tombstone's Boot Hill under surveillance, sir." Neilson added. "A small remote unit concealed nearby would do it."

"I'm a little disturbed about the fact that Scott has become involved in the scenario to the extent that he has," said Andre. "I don't mean that as a criticism. It looks as if the situation just turned out that way. But as a result, he's become highly visible."

"Maybe," said Lucas, "but we could turn that to our advantage. If he's going to attract attention, we can stay in the background and see just what kind of attention he attracts."

"Which is another way of saying we can use him as a Judas goat." said Andre.

"I don't like it. It leaves him very vulnerable."

"None of us are paid to play it safe. Andre." said Delaney. "Besides, Scott can take care of himself. And we'll be there to provide backup."

"That's always assuming that we'll have the chance to do that," Andre replied. "We don't know what we're going up against. That particular scenario doesn't seem to have a great deal of temporal significance offhand, but if there's a confluence point somewhere in that sector and agents of the S.0.G. have crossed over from the parallel timeline, it would be an important staging area for them. We'd be at a disadvantage. They'd know where the confluence point was and have control of it. We'd be going in cold with no idea where it might be located."

"On the other hand, maybe it's not the S.O.G.," said Delaney. "Maybe those Observers stumbled onto a Network operation. That would seem more likely, considering that Tombstone was a mining boomtown in that period. Scott said there had been some stage robberies with shipments of bullion stolen. That's just the sort of thing the Network would be into. Hijack silver bullion from Arizona in the 1880s, sell it in some future period when it hits its peak market value or trade it for some other commodities and pyramid the profits. Security back then would have been a joke, at least to people with resources like the Network has. It would be a prime scenario for temporal speculation. If it is the Network, then it's all the more reason for Neilson to stay highly visible. They'll be expecting someone to clock back to check on what happened to those Observers. Neilson can help draw their attention away from us.

"And maybe get himself killed while he's at it." Andre said. "I think it's too dangerous. Not only for Scott, but for the temporal continuity in that sector. Look, by his own admission, he's already become involved with people like the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday. And he's managed to get himself caught right between the Clanton faction and the Earps. He could unintentionally wind up causing a disruption in the events leading up to the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral."

"Actually, the shoot-out didn't take place at the O.K. Corral." said Neilson. "It took place in the vacant lot between Fly's Boarding House and the Harwood place. The O.K. Corral was about ninety feet farther down the street, with only its back entrance leading out to Fremont Street, where the gunfight actually ended."

"What difference does it make?" asked Andre, impatiently.

"I think it makes a great deal of difference.” said Forrester. "Neilson is the perfect man for this assignment He's got all the right qualifications. He's well versed in the history of the period and he's an expert with the weapons of the period, as well. His cover as a gunfighter couldn't be more perfect. He's tailor-made for the role I'm against pulling him out. I'm with Finn and Lucas on this one. Andre There's a risk, but I think it's justified. I'm leaving Neilson in."

"Thank you. sir." said Scott.

"You sure you're up to this, son?" asked Forrester. "You look a bit worn out."

“I, uh, didn't get much sleep, sir. I'll be fine. I can handle. it."

Forrester nodded, "All right. What about this situation with you and Wyatt Earp? Is that going to be a problem?"

"I hope not, sir I think he's just concerned about keeping order in town and I look like a disruptive influence to him. But Doc Holliday said he'd try to intercede for me and the two of them are very close. Bat Masterson also seems to like me. Of course, he won't be in Tombstone much longer after I get back. He'll be called back to Dodge City to help out his brother. And the Earps are going to have their hands full with other problems before long. I don't think they'll have a lot of time to worry about me. Especially if I keep my nose clean."

"That's just the question." Andre said. "Keeping out of trouble might be hard to do with the rustlers out gunning for you

“Maybe," Neilson said. "But I'll do what I can to stay out of their way. And I'll try to ingratiate myself with the Earps in any way I can. The way things are developing in Tombstone back in that scenario, they're going to need all the help they can get."

“The only trouble is you may wind up giving them more help than they're supposed to get." said Andre. "And you're also faster with a gun and a much better shot than just about anyone who lived back then. How do we keep you from becoming famous as the Montana Kid, fastest gun in the West?"

"That's the very least of our problems," Forrester said, before Neilson could reply. "It's nothing Archives Section couldn't handle. It would be time consuming, but we could easily assign a team to make sure that the Montana Kid remains unknown to history. Our first priority is to determine the nature of what's happening back there. Is it the Network, engaged in one of their clandestine operations, or is it an infiltration through an undiscovered confluence point by agents of the S.O.G.? If that's the case, we could be faced with a situation similar to what happened in the Khyber Pass in 1897. It could be a prelude to a full-scale invasion from the parallel timeline. Compared to that, any minor disruption Neilson's presence could bring about would be insignificant.

"

"Let's not forget Drakov." Lucas said, softly, feeling that he had to bring that up, but hating to. Forrester was plagued with guilt and self-recrimination over what his son had become. "He's always the Wild card. And we still haven't tracked down all his clones, or the genetically engineered hominoids he's scattered throughout history."

Forrester nodded, grimly. "Yes, we can't afford to overlook him, either." He took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. "The trouble is, we need to capture him alive, so we can track down all his clones. That won't be easy, but it's the only way we can be certain that we've got the original Nikolai Drakov. Only the original would know where all the copies are."

Forrester never referred to Drakov as his son. Privately, it had to be an agony for him. Years ago, when Forrester had been a rookie serving his first hitch in Minus Time, he'd been injured and separated from his unit. Unable to clock back, he had believed that he was trapped forever in the past. He had been found and nursed back to health by a Russian gypsy girl with whom he fell in love. He was later found and rescued, but by that time. Vanna Drakova was already pregnant with their child.

Forester had broken all the rules and he had made the situation worse by keeping Vanna's pregnancy a secret, he knew if he reported it, it would have been necessary for the child to be aborted and he had not been able to bring himself to do that to the girl he loved. Or to the child. The result was that he went back to the future, after trying to explain to Vanna as best he could exactly who and what he was and why he had to leave her, and the necessity for her never to reveal that knowledge to anybody else.

But the simple gypsy girl had not been able to grasp the meaning of everything he told her. The concept of temporal physics was beyond her and when young Nikolai became curious about who his father was, the story she had told him was a bizarre mixture of truth and fantasy, richly embroidered with her colorful imagination. The poor boy hadn't understood and was left believing that he was the result of a supernatural union between his mother and some kind of demon. Unknowingly, his mother had traumatized him deeply and the harsh lives that they led as Nikolai grew up had only served to make things worse.

They were taken in by a young Russian officer and they had lived through Napoleon's invasion and his disastrous retreat. Then Nikolai's adoptive father had been arrested as a Decembrist and exiled to Siberia. They had followed him there and it was in that harsh, forbidding country that Vanna met her death at the hands of a savage rapist, who had given young Nikolai the knife scar on his face when he tried to go to her defense. With her death, Nikolai Drakov had been left all alone in the world, frightened and tormented by the question of his own existence.

He never became sick. He didn't seem to age. He did age, of course, but at a rate that was far slower than normal. He had inherited a strong constitution, with an immunity to all known diseases and a lifespan that was far greater than normal for people in his time. And he did not know why or how. It had unhinged him. Then, when he encountered the notorious Sophia Falco, alias The Falcon, one of the leaders of the crosstime terrorists known as the Timekeepers. she had recognized him for what he was, seduced him and recruited him into the organization. She took him to the future with her, where she had further poisoned his mind against his father and obtained a biochip for him. Drakov was then given the benefits of an implant education through computer downloads directly to his brain. Already born with an amazing intellectual capacity, the implant programming had turned him into a genius. An insane genius. And when he found out the true story of who his father was and how he came to be, the hate he felt for Moses Forester completely overwhelmed him. He embarked upon a course that not even the Timekeepers would have dared to contemplate.

What Drakov sought was nothing less than the complete destruction of the future, a savage revenge against his father and the world and time he came from. His goal was to bring about a massive temporal disruption that would result in a timestream split, the ultimate temporal disaster.

He had at first allied himself with the Timekeepers and eventually became one of their leaders, but after the Timekeepers were defeated. Drakov managed to escape into the past and continue with his mad plan of revenge. With his own expertise and the assistance of the infamous Dr. Moreau, Drakov had created the hominoids, genetically engineered and biologically modified humans, some appearing normal in every respect, others mutated into frightful creatures, all with an unswerving loyalty toward him, obedient to his every command. His crowning touch had been to replicate himself, to create a series of clones that he had planted throughout time, in the care of devoted hominoid parents, children that at a certain stage of their development would be programmed with his own mental engrams, so that they would all be the same in every last respect. They would all share his memories and his feelings. his experiences and his warped personality. They were surrogates of himself that he could send out against his father's agents.

“Priest is right." said Forrester. "We can't overlook the possibility that Drakov might have been responsible for those Observers deaths. In which case, your covers will be blown the moment you arrive, because he knows you."

“I can anticipate you. sir.” said Lucas. "I'd be against our going in for any cosmetic surgery on this mission. Either way, if it's Drakov or the Network, our being recognized would help draw them into the open. And Scott shouldn't be the only one to bear the risk."

“All right." said Forrester. "It's your call. I want the three of you to report for mission programming immediately. And then take the rest of tonight to come up with a mission plan. I want you to present it to me by 0900 tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll have Operations select a backup team and I'll alert Colonel Cooper to stand by with a Ranger strike team, just in case you encounter the S.O.G. in force."

“He turned to Neilson.” And you get a good night's sleep," he said, "then clock back to Tombstone first thing in the morning. Make sure you arrive soon enough after your departure so that you won't arouse any suspicion."

"Yes, sir."

“That will be all, people. Dismissed."

As Neilson checked into some transient quarters to wash up and get some rest, the others proceeded down to Archives Section and the Mission Programming labs, where they reclined on contoured couches while the technicians pulled the necessary data files, accessed their cerebral implants and programmed them with all the information they would require on their mission, everything that was known about the time sector they would be departing to, as well as the pivotal events and characters in the scenario. They then repaired to the First Division Lounge to discuss their strategy and come up with a mission plan.

It was late, but the First Division Lounge was one place that never closed. It was about the size of a briefing room, with a long bar and round tables with comfortable chairs placed around the room. The entire far wall was one huge floor to ceiling window, looking out over the base from sixty stories up. The lounge did not have the ambience of a bar. There were no hanging ferns or potted plants, no pretentious décor, little in the way of decor at all, in fact. One wall was hung with a large plaque of the division insignia, a number one bisected by the symbol for infinity, which resembled a slightly stretched out, horizontal figure eight. Next to it was another large plaque, solid gold mounted on mahogany, a small replica of the Wall of honor downstairs in the lobby of the building. It listed the names of all those members of the First Division who had died in action. Another plaque had recently been added. It was the insignia of the Temporal Intelligence Agency, the symbol on it represented an infinitely repeating number and, as such, it had been an appropriate selection.

The resources of the T.I.A. indeed seemed infinite, as did the number of its personnel. Its budget had been staggering from the days of its inception and the highly classified nature of the work the agency performed was such that section chiefs had never needed to justify their budgetary requisitions or fully document their subsidiary personnel. Section chiefs often recruited from among the locals in their time sectors, none of whom, of course, knew whom they really worked for. And just as journalists zealously protected their sources and police officers carefully guarded their informers, so did the section chiefs of Temporal Intelligence protect their field agents and collaborators.

Until recently, there had been no way to obtain a complete and accurate listing of all the personnel the agency employed. It was impossible. The section chiefs would not cooperate. Even now, there was no way of knowing if they submitted complete lists or only partial ones, or even if the lists that they submitted were genuine or fabricated. Abuses had been flagrant and frequent. Upon assuming the directorship of the agency, Forrester had discovered that it was like an octopus that had lost count of its tentacles and had no real ability to control them.

Past directors had simply allowed the agency to operate in its own way, to run on its own inertia. And they had not overly concerned themselves with regulations. Though he was hardly a stickler for going by the book himself, Forrester did not work that way. He took firm charge of the agency and the section chiefs who ran their sectors like feudal kingdoms. He was determined to streamline the agency and mold it into a tight, well-disciplined, efficient unit, just as he had done when he had organized the First Division. To weed out the corruption, he had organized the agency's own internal police force, the Internal Security Division, which had been headed by senior field agent Colonel Creed Steiger.

Forrester had known there were abuses. He had been aware of the corruption. But he had not been prepared for the incredible conspiracy he had uncovered when he found out about the Network. It was a secret agency within a secret agency. The Network made its own rules and was accountable to no one. Its only imperative was profit. The Network went beyond organized crime. It was like a multinational corporation whose influence transcended time. Forrester had been astonished to discover the extent of the Network's operations. They were involved with organized crime in a large number of temporal sectors and they had extended their influence into politics, as well. The I.S.D. had uncovered Network involvement in large multinational conglomerates of the 20th century, in the 18th-century Moroccan slave trade, in piracy on the Spanish Main during the 1600s, and in diverse smuggling operations throughout the timeline. The potential for profit using time travel was simply staggering, and the resources the Network had amassed were impossible to calculate.

As Forrester had reported to his superiors, it was difficult enough trying to unravel the complicated financial structure of modern, 27th-century corporations. But even using all the considerable investigative resources at his command, it was impossible to trace complex and clandestine financial operations that cross the boundaries of time.

Profits skimmed from the revenues of the Roman Empire could be used to finance bootlegging and gambling operations during America's Prohibition and the capital that was generated there could be invested on Wall Street in the bear markets of the 20th century, using the knowledge gained from time travel to pull off the ultimate in inside trading. Money skimmed from gambling casinos in Las Vegas, Atlantic City and Monte Carlo could be funneled into arms trade in Brussels and profits realized there could finance drug smuggling and prostitution rings operated under the cover of the Mafia. It was impossible to follow the trail of the money unless one or another of those operations were discovered and shut down, the participants taken into custody and interrogated. Even so, the closed cell system that the Network utilized insured that only small portions of its vast, illegal empire could be exposed. And then the trail simply ran out once again.

Unintimidated. Forester had set out to bust the Network and, in so doing, had incurred a price upon his head. Steiger, too, had a contract put out on him by the Network and, on his last mission, he had been assassinated, though he had managed to take his killer with him. Forester's relentless pursuit of the Network had driven them more deeply underground and his only real hope of stopping them was to find their leaders, the people who would possess the records of all the Network branches and their operations. However, so far, only a few of the Network's operations had been uncovered. Its leaders remained hidden and unknown.

As a result, the merging of the T.I.A. and the First Division had gone somewhat less than smoothly. There had been considerable resentment for the time commandos among the agents of Temporal Intelligence and the members of the First Division had reciprocated with distrust. For years, the agency had been a lot like a corrupt police division. Not everyone was on the pad, meaning that not everyone was actively involved with the Network, but many of those who weren't involved had known about it and kept quiet. Indeed, there had been little else that they could do, considering the fact that the former agency director had been a Network man, himself.

Forester had instituted scanning procedures for all agency personnel in an effort to unmask those with Network connections and all the agents, even those who weren't involved, resented it. Many resigned or transferred out. Others, significantly, simply disappeared. New personnel had been brought in to replace them and, eventually, things began to settle down. But it was significant that none of the old agents from the days before the two units had been merged were present in the First Division Lounge. The newer personnel had no background of camaraderie with the soldiers of the First Division. They, like the older agents, tended to socialize together. Consequently, when Delaney. Cross and Priest entered the lounge, they saw only a few other members of the First Division at the bar and lingering over their drinks at several tables. They nodded greetings to them and took a table of their own, near the back wall.

It was late and the sprawling base below them was all lit up. The glass wall gave a panoramic view of the base and the surrounding countryside. Off in the distance, they could see the lights of traffic on the interstate and, farther off, the distant glow of the city of Los Angeles, a vast metropolis that had seen phenomenal growth over the last few centuries, growth that showed no signs of abating. It had already swallowed up many of the towns and cities to its north and south and, at the rate the growth progressed in San Diego, L.A. and San Francisco. the entire coast of California would soon be one gigantic city. Always assuming that the long-predicted "Big One didn't strike and cause most of it to collapse into the ocean, which would open up fascinating real estate opportunities in the Mojave Desert.

Over glasses of single malt Scotch whiskey, the three of them discussed their plans.

"All right, the first question is our cover," Lucas said. "I think we should all go in separately. Or at least in such a way that we'll appear not to be connected in any way."

"I second that." said Delaney.

"I'm going to have a problem with that." Andre said. 'I'm not about to take a job in Tombstone as a saloon girl and have smelly cowboys breathing cheap whiskey in my face and trying to drag me off to some back room. I'll have to go in as someone's wife. So, who's going to be the lucky guy?"

"Oh, gee. I don't know," said Delany. with mock reluctance. "What do you think, Lucas?"

Lucas sighed. "Hell, why does it always have to be me?"

"Tell you what, I'll flip you for it. Loser gets to be her husband. Call it. Heads or tails?"

He flipped a coin Andre snatched it out of the air. "Very funny." she said, wryly.

"I don't know, Andre," Finn said. "if you go in as a hooker, you'll be able to pick up a lot of information."

"That's true," said Lucas. "And you're inoculated against all known diseases, so--"

You want to drink that Scotch, or wear it?" she asked

"Okay, okay." said Lucas, with a grin. “Lt. Cross, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"You heard him, Finn." said Andre. "He just proposed."

"That's true, he did." Delaney replied, nodding. "I'm a witness."

"I accept, darling." Andre said, smiling sweetly.

"Hey, wait a minute." Lucas said, with a grin. "That wasn't fair. You tricked me."

"Did you hear me use any coercion?" Andre asked Finn.

"Nope," Delaney said. "Far as I could tell, he proposed of his own free will. And he's still sober. Hasn't even finished his first drink.”

"Okay, okay, stop kidding around." said Lucas, smiling.

"What makes you think I'm kidding?" Andre said, raising her eyebrows.

"Very cute," said Lucas. “All right, really, let's get serious here."

"What makes you think I'm not serious?"

"Come on, Andre, that's enough. We've got work to do."

"Hey, you proposed. Finn heard you. He's a witness."

"Okay, you guys have had your joke. . ."

"I wasn't joking," Andre said, with a look of wide-eyed innocence. "Were you joking, Finn?"

Delaney shook his head. "Not me. Hell. I even offered to flip him for it, but he sat right there and asked you to marry him. I heard it."

Lucas rolled his eyes. "I meant only for the mission. Come on. guys. . ."

"Did you hear him say anything about it being only for the mission?" Andre asked Delaney.

"Nope He said, and I quote. ’Lt. Cross, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?' Granted, he didn't go down on one knee, but I don't think that's required. Not very romantic of you, Lucas. And you didn't even give her an engagement ring. Jesus, how cheap can you get?"

"Are you through?" asked Lucas, with exasperation.

"Now if he doesn't go through with it, I've got grounds for a breach of promise suit, isn't that right?" asked Andre.

Delaney nodded. "I'd say so. I'm a witness. And if I'm called to testify, I'll be under oath to tell the truth. I'm sorry, Lucas, but as an officer and a gentleman, what else can I do?"

“As an officer, you leave rather a great deal to be desired," said a deep. Continental-sounding voice behind them, "and if you're a gentleman, then I'm Queen of the bloody May."

They turned around to see what appeared to be a ghost sitting at the table just behind them. The speaker was a tall, slim man with gaunt, aquiline features: dark, wavy hair: brown eyes and a neatly trimmed moustache, he was dressed in brown wool flannel slacks and custom-made, conservative tan shoes with toe caps a white button-down Oxford shirt that was open at the neck to display a brown and gold paisley silk ascot, and a brown tweed Norfolk jacket. He wore a brown felt fedora tilted at a rakish angle and carried a blackthorn walking stick with a sharp brass tip. He was sitting in the chair, sideways to the table, turned toward them, with his legs casually crossed and his walking stick held across his lap.

They could see right through him. His form seemed to flicker, appearing almost completely solid one instant, then transparent and insubstantial the next. It was an effect of the process that had permanently tachyonized his body, rendering him trapped forever by the immutable laws of physics which he had sought to tamper with. His name was Dr. Robert Darkness.

He was, in every respect, as flamboyant and eccentric as his name. Little was known about him. For years, he had been a mystery man, first coming to prominence as a research scientist who had stumbled upon the principles that led to the invention of the warp disc and the most devastating weapon ever known to man—the warp grenade.

It was the latter that had led to the current crisis. A portable nuclear device and time machine, the warp grenade was so named because of its resemblance to old 20th-century hand grenades, about the same size and shape as a large egg, easily capable of being held in one hand. Its built-in chronocircuitry enabled pinpoint adjustment of its nuclear explosion. It could be set to destroy an entire city, or just a block within that city, or a building on that block, or a room within that building, or even a small area within that room. It could be adjusted so that whatever surplus energy released by the explosion was not required for the task would be clocked through time and space, to explode harmlessly in the far reaches of the cosmos. At least, the ordnance experts who had constructed it, based on the work that Darkness did, had believed that it would work that way.

In practice, such massive amounts of energy clocked through Einstein-Rosen Bridges, "wormholes" in space and time, had brought about a shift in the chronophysical balance of the universe. At least, that was the theory. It was also possible that the actions of the Time Wars had brought about increased instability in the timestream and contributed to the imbalance. Whatever the cause, a parallel timeline, an alternate universe, had been brought into congruency with our own and the proximity of the two timelines had brought about the Confluence Phenomenon, wherein the timestreams rippled and, at various points in space and time. intersected. At those confluence points, it was possible to cross over from one universe into the other.

For the people in the parallel timeline, the disaster had been magnified because each time a warp grenade had been exploded in our universe; its surplus energy had been clocked into theirs. Most of those explosions had occurred in outer space, yet some of them had caused untold destruction. Several space colonies in the parallel universe had been utterly destroyed, with cataclysmic loss of life. It had brought about a war

The war was, of necessity, a limited one. Strategic weapons were not used, because the moment the Confluence Phenomenon had been discovered, it quickly became apparent to the people in both timelines that attempts to clock strategic weapons into the other universe could backfire. With the instability in both timelines, there was no telling exactly where or when a detonation could occur. As a result, the conflict had become the ultimate Time War, one timeline against the other, with each seeking to cause temporal disruptions in the opposing timestream.

In the parallel universe, commandos and agents of the strike force known as the Special Operations Group were dispatched through confluence points with missions to interfere with history. Their scientists believed a timestream split would serve to overcome the Confluence Phenomenon and separate the two timelines once and for all. The scientists of the Temporal Corps believed the opposite. They were convinced that a timestream split in either universe could set off a temporal chain reaction that would have disastrous consequences. It could bring about ultimate entropy, an end to all of time. It was therefore necessary to locate as many confluence points as possible and to patrol them for their duration. At the same time, it was imperative to preserve temporal continuity and prevent disruptions caused by infiltrations of the S.O.G. while attempting to bring about minor disruptions in their timeline, thereby tying up their manpower and their resources while they attempted to adjust them.

It was a situation with unlimited potential for disaster, with a Sword of Damocles hanging over everyone. What Dr. Darkness thought of all this had not been known. Shortly after the warp grenade had been developed, he had disappeared. He had gone off planet, to some secret research base he had established somewhere in the far reaches of the galaxy. It was there that he began his experiments with tachyon translocation, temporarily converting the human body into tachyons in order to achieve the ultimate in transportation. Only, in his calculations, he had overlooked a little known principle of physics known as the Law of Baryon conservation. by which his tachyon translocation process was ultimately restrained.

The result was a permanent alteration in his subatomic structure, rendering it unstable. He became the man who was faster than light. He could move through time and space in less time than it took to blink. Yet, upon arrival at his destination, he could not walk so much as one step. The only way he could achieve anything resembling normal mobility was to “tach," to translocate from one spot to another. It could be highly disconcerting. What was even more disconcerting was what Moses Forrester, Lucas Priest. Finn Delaney and Andre Cross had recently learned about him. And they were the only ones who had that knowledge.

Dr. Darkness was from the future. A future in which, it seemed, some cataclysmic temporal disaster had occurred. He would not reveal what it was, nor would he reveal if he'd been sent out on a mission by people from the future or was simply working on his own, he revealed very little, but it was obvious that he was trying to effect a complex temporal adjustment in an effort to avert whatever disaster had occurred in the time from which he came. And the three of them were somehow a part of the mission he was on.

Delaney groaned and shut his eyes. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me. He isn't really here. I'm just having a bad dream.”

I'm equally pleased to see you, too. Delaney." Darkness replied, wryly. "I'd sooner have a case of indigestion. Regrettably, one has to make do with the tools one has at hand. And you, Delaney, are unquestionably a tool.”

“Doc. I'm almost afraid to ask,” said Lucas, "but the last time we saw you, you said something about one more key mission we'd have to perform."

Darkness nodded "That's right, Priest. This is it.”

“Shit," Delaney said. “I knew it. We're all going to die." 3

"I sincerely hope that none of you is going to die," said Dr. Darkness, toying with his walking stick. "Otherwise all the work I've done will have been wasted."

Suddenly, there was a drink in his hand. He had tached over to the bar and helped himself, then tached back, faster than the speed of light, so that it seemed as if a glass of Scotch had simply appeared in his hand out of thin air. He took a sip. "Ahh. That hits the spot."

"I'm touched by your concern for our lives," said Lucas, wryly.

"Spare me your sarcasm, Priest." Darkness replied. "You owe your life to my concern, as you may recall."

"I haven't forgotten." Lucas said. “And I'm grateful. However, I'm also apprehensive. It has to do with your irritating habit of not telling us your plans."

“That's unavoidable," said Darkness. "I'm afraid it's necessary for you to function on what you'd call a 'need to know' basis. You have to realize that from my perspective, this is the past and I need to be very careful not to interfere with certain actions you must take. At least, not until the proper time."

"So why bother telling us at all?" asked Andre.

"Because Forrester deduced the truth about me. And, as a result, it's necessary for me to impress upon you the importance of what I have to do.” said Darkness. "The fate of the future rests almost entirely in your hands. When the time comes, I cannot afford to have you hesitate. You will have to do exactly what I tell you, exactly when I tell you. Without question."

"That's asking us to take an awful lot on faith," Delaney said.

"Yes, it is. However, I had hoped that by now, you would trust my motives."

"Don't get us wrong, Doc, " Lucas said. "It's not that we don't trust you. You've saved our bacon in the past, no pun intended. You even brought me back from death. I think. I'm still not entirely sure what happened. But the point is that we've got a job to do and it's hard enough doing it without your doing a job on us."

"What Lucas means is that what we do requires peak concentration," Andre said. "That's hard enough to achieve without knowing that at some point, you're going to show up and yank the rug out from under us. You're asking us to trust you. And we'd like to do that. It doesn't seem unreasonable, under the circumstances, for you to trust us, as well."

“I see your point." Darkness replied. "And I appreciate your position. But I need you to understand mine, as well. When you clock out on one of your temporal adjustment

missions,

one that involves your interacting with significant

historical figures, you can't very well approach them and tell them who you are and what you're doing, can you?"

"Of course not," said Delaney, "but that's different. They wouldn't believe us. They'd think we were insane. This is hardly the same situation. We know about time travel. We know you're from the future. And we know that, somehow. we're involved in something—or we're going to be involved in something—that's going to have a significant impact on what happens in the time you came from. We can understand and accept that. And we'd like to help you. But we could do a better job of it if we knew just what it was we were supposed to do."

"I'm not convinced of that." said Darkness. "In fact, I've already told you a great deal more than I should have. much more than I had planned to. My hand was forced when Forrester realized that I was from the future. The fact that you know that alone could jeopardize what I must do. It could affect your actions in a way that would sabotage my mission."

"So then you are on a temporal adjustment mission," Andre said

"That much is obvious." Darkness replied. "However, that isn't what you're asking, is it? You want to know if I'm your counterpart from the future, if I've been specifically sent back here on a mission or if I'm working on my own. And that's something I'm not in a position to tell you. I can't stop you speculating, of course, but I can assure you that it would be pointless. It really makes no difference, either way"

"Damn it, Doc, you've got to tell us more than that!" exclaimed Delaney. with exasperation. "What happens in the future, where you came from? Does it happen because of something we did, or something we didn't do?"

For a moment. Darkness did not reply. He seemed to be considering. Finally, he sighed. "It really was unfortunate that Forrester discovered the truth about me. I should have anticipated that, only I didn't. I underestimated his resourcefulness. As a result, without meaning to, he's endangered my mission. That's why I had to tell him that I would have no further contact with him. It would have been too dangerous. If you hadn't known . . . only you do know. And that knowledge could affect your actions. A moment's doubt or hesitation at the crucial time . . .

He drained his glass and set it down on the table.

"I can tell you this much," he said. "Nothing that you have done—and I'm speaking from a future perspective, of course— served to bring about what I'm trying to prevent. However, you are going to be in a position where you will be able to do something to significantly alter the scheme of events in the future. I have seen to that you were chosen very carefully. Telling you much more at this stage would be risky. You are approaching a key focal point in time. And when that time comes, you must do exactly as I say. Without even a second's hesitation I had tried to improve your odds for success with those particle level implants that I gave you, but unfortunately. I was unable to perfect them and they ultimately failed. Perhaps that was my fault, perhaps it was the influence of the Fate Factor. It's like trying to swim against the current. I'm struggling to overcome temporal inertia at almost every turn."

“Like when I was supposed to die back in Afghanistan?" asked Lucas, softly.

"What really happened, Doc? Did you change history? Was that Ghazi sniper supposed to kill me?"

Dr Darkness gazed at him steadily. "No." he said.

"But then, how—"

"That sniper was not a Ghazi." Darkness said. "And he was not supposed to be there."

"What?" said Lucas. "Are you saying that . . ."