BEYOND ARMAGEDDON

Book IV: Schism

By Anthony DeCosmo

Negotiations from Strength

Brutus: Then I shall see thee again?

Ghost: Ay, at Philippi.

Brutus: Why, I will see thee at Philippi, then.

Julius Cesar. ACT IV Scene 3.

General Garrett “Stonewall” McAllister’s eyes wandered away from the conversation in favor of the scenic vista viewable from his position along the ridge.

In one direction—behind and below Yost and his men—stretched the massive bowl of Crater Lake filled with cold blue water. Not far from shore sprouted Wizard Island, a volcanic cinder cone covered in evergreen trees and scattered patches of stubborn snow belying the mid-March warm spell.

McAllister spied the sagging wooden huts and dirty canvas tents of Yost’s kingdom on that island. Flickers of light came from morning campfires as the people there marked another day under the thumb of a warlord.

Further off—away from the six-mile-wide caldera—stretched green wilderness as far as Garrett’s eyes could see, beneath a roof of gray, drizzling clouds from which waved spindly strands of misty vapor.

The isolated location, the rugged crater walls, and the natural moat surrounding the island created the perfect redoubt for the warlord and those unfortunate to fall into his grasp. Garret witnessed the same scenario dozens of times across the continental United States. The organized alien armies sought heavily populated areas, leaving much of the mountainous regions to the mercy of monsters, extraterrestrial and otherwise.

Stonewall returned his attention to the task at hand.

“Ah yes, where was I?”

As usual, he sat in the saddle wearing a Confederate uniform borrowed from a Civil War museum a decade before. Benny Duda hovered at Garrett’s side, also on horseback. Benny had grown from a boy to a man but still sported the freckled face of a kid. A kid, Garrett reminded himself, with a wife and children.

“Oh, I remember. You will be brought before a tribunal that will include members of your…of your…” Stonewall searched for polite words. “…of your community. They will testify as to whether or not you and your men have committed any crimes against humanity.”

As Stonewall expected, Yost chuckled and glanced at his followers—a dozen armed ruffians—to share the joke. After all, a crazy fool dressed in a Confederate uniform offered no real threat, especially with Yost’s modified armored car lurking next to a picnic table in the field. That metallic monster brandished a .50 caliber machine gun. The word ‘Totenkompf’ had been spray painted on the side.

Yost, standing in front of McAllister’s steed, stroked his goatee and mocked, “Well, I guess you’ve got me on this one. Yup.”

The warlord broke into a laugh that sounded more an asthma attack.

“I do not believe you grasp the seriousness of your situation. If found guilty by this tribunal you will be sentenced to death. The Empire has executed more than two hundred persons for crimes against humanity in the years since the invasion.”

The word ‘executed’ grabbed Yost’s attention. He stopped laughing.

“Listen here, General. I’m starting to lose my sense of humor over this. Now you see back there,” Yost pointed over his shoulder to Wizard Island. “I made that from nothing. The army and police got wiped out. Me and my men here, we’ve kept these folks alive for the last ten years, fishing and hunting for food and shooting any of the weird things that come this way. So I ain’t going to be lectured by the likes of you.”

“Saved them? My scouts have been observing your little kingdom for several weeks now and have painted a clear picture of forced labor and other misdeeds. Would the women of your camp testify to your chivalry? I notice the population of your paradise is out of proportion.”

Yost’s eyes widened. “You know how the song goes, two girls for every boy.”

The brute again glanced to his followers and they shared another laugh.

“You, sir, are no gentleman. I have seen much suffering but none disgusts me greater than those who took advantage of the chaos to serve their own ends. I will make it a point to be at your trial and, I suspect, your execution.”

“I told you, I’m done listening to your words. Go away while we’ll still let you.”

To emphasize the point, Yost raised his hunting rifle. His men made similarly threatening moves, raising more hunting rifles and shotguns.

Stonewall asked, “I wonder, Mr. Yost, as to the vintage of the bullets in your weapons. Will they fire? The bullets in my pistol were made last month in Scranton, Pennsylvania. I have confidence in their effectiveness.”

Yost growled, “I don’t need to fire. The Death’s Head over there will cut you and your boy to pieces before you can draw.”

On cue, the driver of the armored, modified Jeep revved the engine and a man in the homemade cupola aimed a .50 caliber gun in the newcomers’ direction.

“Now you and your boyfriend need to turn tail and take your Empire fantasies with you.”

Stonewall sighed as if regretting the situation but, in truth, he enjoyed the next part most of all. The General spoke into the small microphone clipped under the lapel of his uniform.

“Captain Kaufman, it appears our friends doubt our mettle. A demonstration is in order.”

Yost fidgeted; unsure to whom the eccentric spoke.

The sky rumbled. Everyone on the ridge of the crater froze and threw their eyes upward. The clouds bulged from a great mass. The quilt of gray splintered into strands and spinning wisps as a gargantuan object of steel and light dropped from the heavens: a rectangle stretching nearly five thousand feet from bow to stern and half that distance in girth descended upon the stage, casting an even darker shadow across the already dreary morning.

Dozens of circular protrusions lined the undercarriage of the war machine in rows, between which flashed pinpricks of light. Dominating the forward edge of the ship’s belly hung a pair of protruding domes where two holes glowed threateningly.

Stonewall forced his eyes away from the hovering dreadnought and took note of Yost’s expression. The man no longer wore the cocky face of a petty tyrant.

Of course, Stonewall appreciated the trepidation. Indeed, it had taken him almost two years to grow accustomed to the sight of a dreadnought. It did not seem right for such a large machine to hang in the sky. To see one overhead…it made all below feel puny.

The General cast aside his musings and decided to finish the demonstration.

“I say, Mr. Yost, what an intimidating car you have there. I imagine you have used its firepower to coerce a fair share of slaves into your camp.”

Stonewall’s voice cut through the stunned silence. Yost shot an expression of bewildered fear toward his modified armored car. Despite their brutish nature, Yost’s thugs managed to piece together the equation and dismounted their war wagon in frantic jumps.

Silvery plasma sparkled then spat from the forward belly guns of the dreadnought in two football-shaped blasts. Yost’s men scattered like cockroaches caught in the kitchen light. The bolts hit the picnic grounds, enveloping the armored car.

The glow from the impact forced hands over eyes and the heat flash felt as if a gigantic campfire suddenly burst to life, but no flames erupted. After a moment, the light faded revealing metal shavings, smoldering rubber, and hissing steam in place of the Totenkompf.

“Now that I have your attention, be so kind as to place your weapons on the ground.”

*

Lori Brewer returned the phone to its cradle with a satisfying clunk. She knew the Internal Security moron on the other end of the line did not hear nor feel that clunk, but the slam provided a small vent for her frustration.

She ran a hand through her brown hair; hair she had cut short over the winter. Between work and an eight year old daughter, she found that long hair simply got in the way.

On her desk waited the work load of the Chief Administrator, including a stack of memos covering new housing policies, agriculture priorities, changes to the penal system, and—as usual—a dozen regarding transportation issues.

A hollow, wooden rap sounded at the doorframe of what had once been a dining room but now served as her office. She raised her eyes slowly in dread of yet another task, interruption, or complaint. Fortunately, the man standing in the doorway carried a platter of wrapped sandwiches and a pitcher of water, not memos.

“Howdy Miss, am I interrupting?”

That man at the door with the sandwiches could interrupt all he wanted. He was, after all, Trevor Stone, Emperor to the millions of saved souls living under his tutelage.

Yet no matter how grand his empire, how powerful his fleet, or how mysterious his connection to the forces behind Armageddon, Lori Brewer knew him best as that childhood friend named Dick.

“All-rrriiigghty then,” she jibed. “I guess you’re a mind reader, too, huh? My stomach is grumbling for lunch.”

“Mind reading is my specialty,” Trevor placed the platter on her desk.

Lori did some mind reading of her own. Her first clue came from his forced smile. The second came when he closed the office door behind him.

Lunch with Trevor had become a weekly tradition in recent years. Most of those weeks they sat with the door open and shared a delicacy from one corner or another of the burgeoning nation. Sometimes crab meat trucked in from Maryland, other times beef steaks from the ranches of Texas.

A few of those luncheons—apparently like today—involved a closed door.

Lori peered at the platter. He had brought sandwiches but at first glance they seemed ordinary. She unraveled one from its wax paper wrapper.

“Roast beef?”

He nodded.

She examined the bread. Fresh baked but nothing exotic.

“Take a bite.”

Lori shrugged and bit into the thick meat. Her mouth found another taste.

She chewed, thought, then burst, “Cheddar cheese. You’ve got cheddar in here.”

“Real Wisconsin cheddar.”

Trevor sat in one of the two chairs facing her desk. He pulled his own sandwich from the plate and took a healthy chomp. Lori produced two plastic cups from a drawer and filled them with water from the pitcher.

“So the dairy farmers are in business, huh?”

Trevor replied, “Yeah, the first batches are on their way to stores now. Enjoy this free sample, because it’s hitting the shelves at five contys a pound.”

Contys, Lori knew, meant “Continentals” and that might as well mean dollars. She also knew that much of the high price reflected the cost in transporting dairy products hundreds of miles in refrigerator cars on steam trains. The bulk of that transportation cost, in turn, revolved around security. The Empire had grown across what had once been the continental United States in patches, leaving dangerous wilderness between islands of civilization.

Lori enjoyed the free sample but sensed today’s lunch did not fit the profile of a friendly chit chat. Before the world had gone to Hell, Lori Brewer was as a social worker and counselor. In recent years, it seemed as if she served as Trevor’s personal therapist.

She saw him glance toward the wall calendar as he washed down the last bite of roast beef and yellow cheddar.

Saturday, March 15.

He said exactly what she expected: “Well, it’s been just about three years now.”

Lori Brewer had come to know that, to Trevor Stone, the year divided into three parts: ‘nearly,’ ‘now,’ and ‘more than.’ Those parts related to the moment he had returned from his trip across dimensions to an alternate Earth.

Since December, he often remarked that it had been ‘nearly’ three years. At some point in April, he would change from ‘now’ to ‘more than’ three years. The cycle, she figured, would continue until he could let go of his guilt and his fear.

She agreed, “Yep, I guess so.”

Lori, done with her lunch in record time, waited.

Trevor hesitated, paused, then mumbled, “Well, you know, just remembering and all.”

Lori did not dance with words. Sometimes that served her well as a counselor, other times it chased people away. Trevor, however, had no where to run.

“Wait a second,” her eyes drooped a little, then narrowed, and her head tilted slightly as she put on her counselor’s face. “This is about California, isn’t it?”

Trevor fidgeted. Lori pushed.

“You know, Jon’s been telling me you’ve been moving really slow on California. He couldn’t figure out why. He says you could have made it to their border months ago.”

“Well, um, we had to secure supply routes and make sure our flanks were secure and all.”

“Uh-huh,” Lori clearly did not believe him.

Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose between an index finger and thumb.

“I take it your ambassadors haven’t made any progress.”

Trevor, still pinching his nose with his eyes shut, shook his head.

Lori said, “So that means we’re heading to a confrontation. They won’t back down.”

“The Witiko won’t let them back down,” Trevor spat.

“Well, wait, the people there aren’t slaves. The Witiko and the humans share the government. It’s not like the Hivvans or something.”

Her observation struck a cord, exactly as intended.

Trevor let go of his nose and stood. He paced as he spoke, his fingers flexing.

“The Witiko are in control, I don’t give a damn what that Governor says. They can call themselves a Cooperative all they want, but the Witiko and a handful of people pull all the strings. The average guy isn’t much more than an indentured servant, doing all the shit work while the elitists live in ivory towers.”

Lori suppressed a smile and pushed more buttons.

“So, you don’t think this is like New Winnabow? We shouldn’t just let them be?”

“Hell no, it’s not like New Winnabow,” his angry tone wavered only a little at the reminder of sending his personal army of K9s into that enclave of pacifists. “New Winnabow… they were human beings like you and me who chose a different path. If it weren’t for the Hivvans, I would have left them alone. But California—The Cooperative—is different. The Witiko managed to trick a bunch of idiots into thinking they’re our friends. They’re not our friends. Every damn alien has to go, either through the runes or by my sword.”

“They have to go? They must? Are you sure?”

“Damn straight, I’m sure. The invasion, Armageddon, this war has never been about killing off mankind. They came here for another reason. To beat us. To subjugate us. The Cooperative is just one way of doing that. Instead of conquering California, the Witiko bargained their way to power. If they stay in power, they stay in control. I can’t let that happen. Earth belongs to humanity.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Trevor insisted.

“Then why are you worked up about this?”

His anger eased in heavy exhales and he sat again, realizing she had played him perfectly.

Trevor Stone held the reigns of leadership reluctantly. She knew he had access to strange powers, from his ability to communicate with dogs to his uncanny knowledge of technology and skills. Indeed, it had been those gifts that had unlocked the confidence inside an apathetic young man and allowed him to muster human survivors from the ashes of the Apocalypse, then grow those ashes into an Empire. Yet since his return from an alternate dimension, self-doubt and a morose disposition plagued him.

“I don’t know,” Trevor lied.

“You don’t trust yourself. You leave more and more of the decisions to your Generals.”

He defended, “That’s not true. I’ve been on the front lines these past few years. If we invade California I’ll be there to do the killing myself, not just read about it in reports.”

That, Lori knew, to be true. Much to the chagrin of the Imperial Council, the Senate, and most especially his military officers, Trevor showed a renewed interest in battle.

“I’ve noticed. Good for you. How easier that must be.”

Again her words bothered him. “Easier? You think combat is easy?”

“Easier than sitting behind your desk and passing out orders. Easier because when you’re fighting you know what you have to do. You can see the enemy, you can shoot him and order your men forward. But when you’re behind that desk you have to deal with the implications of those battles. What a relief it must be to set aside that responsibility.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it,” she invited, expecting a story she had heard many times.

He held his hands aloft, clenching and unclenching his fingers in frustration.

“Over there,” his voice came in forced calm. “The other Trevor…the other me…he was a horrible man. Vicious, cruel, even to his own people.”

She helped him along, “And when the people over there gave you his same power..?”

Trevor closed his eyes and saw visions of alien bodies hung from crosses, the ruling Committee dying in the coup d’état he led, the alternate Nina Forest fearing an abusive and controlling Trevor Stone.

“I began to turn into him.”

“Turn into him?” Her question did not ask for clarification, but suggested an improper choice of words on his part.

“That’s wrong,” he admitted. “I let loose that part of me that my alternate had let loose. I threw away my conscience, indulged my every whim because I could. Because I had the power.”

“And who gave you that power?”

“Gave…gave it to me?”

“Power is never taken, Trevor. It’s always given.”

He nodded and answered, “They did. The people of Thebes. The humans over there. But I did the things I did. They didn’t force me.”

“They deceived you,” Lori reminded.

“It was my fault. The truth of that other Earth still can’t excuse what I did. How I acted.”

Lori knew most of what he had done including many stories left out of the written reports; stories told behind closed office doors over lunch.

She knew he had shared a passionate and self-destructive relationship with an alternate Nina Forest, a woman he had loved on his Earth only to lose her when her memories had been stolen. In that other dimension, that Nina had unlocked his most hidden desires; desires hanging on the border between lust and violence, between love and possession.

Lori also knew Trevor had killed his enemies without mercy, only to learn that his crusade over there had not been one of a just people but of an unjust invader.

“You keep thinking you’re going to become that evil dictator?”

“I am a dictator, Lori. I’m the Emperor. I have all the power.”

“Your friend Senator Godfrey might disagree. He’s got a fair amount of power these days. Most of it you’ve given him. I guess it’s because you don’t trust yourself.”

Trevor stared at the ceiling.

“That other Earth…they weren’t different people, they just made different choices. What choice did I make over there that made me so bad? What choice will I make here, that changes me from the hero to the villain? Maybe it’s California.”

“But you’re so sure. You just told me that.”

“That’s the problem. I was so sure over there that I was doing the right thing, and I wasn’t. How can I trust myself to know where the line is?”

Lori shook her head and said, “Things are a lot different here than they were over there. Look across this desk from you. Think about your life here. Think about the decisions you’ve made on this Earth. Think about your memories.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have me, Trevor. And Jon. How different is Jon from the advisors you had over there? Your Jon, here, had to deal with his own demons, and it made him a better man and a better leader. You can trust him to tell you when you’re crossing that line. You can trust me. What about Dante? He’s on your case all the time.”

Trevor smiled. His best friend prior to Armageddon had been Dante Jones. In The Empire, Dante served as the head of Internal Security and he constantly questioned Trevor’s actions, but fell dutifully in line when decisions were made.

Lori pressed, “On that other Earth, the other Trevor had everything he desired. Do you have everything you desire, Trevor?”

He closed his eyes and pinched his nose yet again.

“The best advice I can give you is this: get over it.”

His eyes shot open. “Oh, that’s great, counselor.”

“We make mistakes. All of us do. It’s what makes us human. You’ve made mistakes, you’ve made hard decisions, and you’ve lost a lot. That’s what keeps you from crossing the line; your humanity. When you begin to believe that you’re a god, that’s when I’ll worry. Until then, I’ll place my faith in you, just like everyone else does.”

Stone relaxed in his chair.

She doubted her words could cure all his doubts and she knew that allowing him to vent his fears was not enough to make them go away. Her words, she figured, would sound hollow and distant in the middle of the night when he lay awake questioning his decisions; they would carry little weight when his armies marched into California and killed fellow human beings.

Trevor sighed and stood.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know? How does Jon put up with you?”

“Well, it helps that you’ve got him out leading armies half way across the country, so he’s not around to have to put up with me.”

Her light hearted tone did not mask the truth in her words.

“Yeah, well, I wish I could say it’s going to end soon. California is just the next battle, it’s not the last.”

“You’re not going to stop at the Pacific Ocean?”

Trevor told her what she had heard a dozen times over the years.

“This war isn’t about the United States; the United States doesn’t exist anymore. Mexico, Canada, South America, Europe. Those are the battlegrounds our children will fight on.”

There had been a time when those words sounded defiant. Now, after a decade, they served merely as a reminder of how great their task.

“Okay,” she walked him to the door. “At least that means we might have Chinese for lunch some day.”

He smiled, laughed, then placed a kiss on her forehead.

“You’re a good friend.”

“No, I’m a pain in the ass, remember?”

“Good friends usually are.”

He straightened the black and gray shirt he wore, one that mirrored the uniforms of his officer corps.

“Big meeting next week,” he reminded as he grasped the knob.

“That means big decisions. Can you handle it?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Well, if not be sure to bring me some Florida oranges for lunch next time. They’re hard to get around here.”

Trevor opened the hall door, sending a small breeze across the office. That breeze gently pushed one of the discarded sandwich wrappers to the floor.

Lori watched him go then bent and retrieved the wrapper, brushing the bottom of the desk as she reached; brushing within an inch of the small silver object stuck to the underside of that desk. An object the size of a watch battery but with a silver, wiry face.

She threw the garbage in the waist can and mumbled, “Back to work.”

*

Nina Forest stood in the dark amidst a cluster of White Ash trees, doing what she did often: watching and waiting. This time she watched a second floor window and waited for movement. Her task tonight revolved not around infiltration or assassination, but surveillance.

Unlike her combat missions, the rest of the Dark Wolves commando unit did not accompany her on this night. Instead, she waited alone. A disposition that, she had come to know, came with the territory called motherhood.

The gentle, peaceful gong of chiming bells drifted through the night, no doubt from the spires of St Anne’s over at Church Circle. Those bells rang out twelve midnight.

The bells, Nina suspected, served as the signal. A sudden squeak as the second floor window edged open confirmed those suspicions. A moment latter a rope fell from the tiny concrete ledge and swayed against the brick wall of the apartment building. Two young legs dressed in faded blue jeans swung over the ledge.

Nina’s heart would have jumped, but she knew those young legs to be agile and athletic. She had trained them herself.

Sneakers pressed against the brick and gloved hands clasped the rope, then Denise—Nina’s adopted, teenage daughter—descended so quietly that the professional soldier in Captain Forest could not help but be impressed.

She jumped the last two feet to the ground, her sneakers made a muffled thump.

The blond haired girl peered through the darkness.

“Jake?”

A cricket answered.

“Jake?”

Nina summoned the mother inside, furled her brow, and stepped forward. Her footfalls drew the girl’s attention.

“Jake? Is that you?”

Denise’s hand rested on the pistol grip protruding from a hip holster. There had been only one attack by hostile, alien creatures in the greater Annapolis area in the last six months. Nonetheless, the survivors of the post-Armageddon world knew that danger sill lurked.

Nina moved out from underneath a drooping branch.

“Jake won’t be here tonight.”

Denise froze. Her eyes shot in every direction except at Nina. Mom could nearly see the cogs and wheels churning in the daughter’s mind searching for an excuse, a lie, a story.

“I, hey, mom, hey, yeah, well I was just—”

Nina raised a hand in the universal signal for stop.

“Don’t bother, Denise. You’ve been doing this just about every night now for the two weeks I’ve been home. Lord knows how many times you snuck past Barney.”

Barney, a vet who had lost an arm on the battlefield, served as the resident nanny and hall monitor in their apartment complex.

Denise stopped babbling, stuck her lip out, and threw a hand on her hip.

“You’re not going to go running off with boys in the middle of the night.”

“Boy.”

“Huh?”

Denise spat, “Not boys. Boy. One. Jake. And I’m sixteen.”

“That’s right. Sixteen,” Nina agreed. “That’s too young for skipping out in the night like this, especially with a boy a couple of years older than you. I won’t have it.”

“Mom. It’s no biggy. I mean, you’d like Jake. And I like him,” Denise considered her words then drove her eyes onto mom’s and said, “I love him.”

Nina’s jaw dropped.

“Love? You love him? Denise, you’re only sixteen. That’s too young—”

The teenager cut off her mom and broke into a tirade that began with well-chosen words but ended in poorer ones.

“Too young? Too young to love someone? Is that what you think? But I wasn’t too young for you to teach me to shoot, or how to fight, or how to kill with a knife. I’m too young to care about anyone but I wasn’t too young for you to teach me all about the bad things out there and how they can kill me and how nasty they are. I was never too young for you to make me into a little soldier just like you!”

“Denise…”

“And what do you know about it? What do you know about love? Every man who’s ever tried to get close to you you’ve driven away! You don’t know anything about people and relationships! Well I’m sorry, mom, but I’m not the same robot you are! I have a heart!”

The teenager stopped ranting. Her breath eased in and out and in and out in big deep huffs. Her fists clenched but her angry eyes wavered in the slightest, as if fearing she had driven their confrontation over a cliff.

Nina stood still, her eyes fixed on her daughter, her brow pulled taut.

Two seconds, then three, then five past. Nina finally spoke a grumbled order.

“Go to your room. And stay there.”

Denise grunted and stomped off, pushing through the lower branches of the White Ash trees. Nina listened to the angry teen march away until she heard the front door close, confirming Denise had made it safely inside.

After hearing that sound, Nina exhaled and closed her eyes.

What do you know about love?

Nina knew Denise’s words had been spoken in frustration. She knew her daughter loved her. She knew that, in the morning, they would share a joke over breakfast then maybe play racquetball after school, or go to the bay for a crab dinner at night.

She also knew Denise’s words held truth.

Over the last five years she taught her daughter to be strong, to protect herself, and to understand the deadly world in which they lived. But she could tell little of relationships.

Before the world had been invaded by a host of alien wildlife and extraterrestrial militia, Nina Forest had been a shy woman who always felt the outcast. She committed herself to the one natural talent she possessed; a talent for fighting.

She found direction as a pilot in the National Guard and as an officer on a Philadelphia SWAT team, maturing far beyond her years when it came to soldiering. Yet the world of passion, love, and heart eluded her understanding.

Things had improved in the years after Armageddon. In man’s old civilization, an expert woman soldier had been an oddity. Not now. The war to save humanity allowed her to truly be herself, to explore her natural instincts to their fullest.

The more comfortable she became with the new world, the more she felt willing to take chances. She dated on occasion, dabbling in both serious attempts at building lasting relationships and short-lived affairs. Both always ended in failure.

The latter simply felt wrong; she would not give away her body and heart lightly.

As for longer relationships, she could not decide what she wanted and thus walked away, or the man grew frustrated in trying to break through her armor-plating.

At thirty-three years old, Nina knew it strange that her heart remained sealed away. Even a broken heart would be better than a hidden one.

Still, she knew something lay dormant inside. Sometimes she felt it, struggling to break free. Alas, she could not find the combination to that lock.

Nina strolled through the trees as she considered her daughter’s words. She wondered if, in a world of monsters and alien armies, it might be too much to expect Denise to be the same sixteen year old girl Nina had been. A recluse. An outcast. Why would she even want Denise to be the same? Perhaps this whole motherhood thing had been a mistake after all.

She shoved aside those thoughts and approached the figure bound to the tree.

He wore the gray pants and white dress shirt of an academy cadet. His complexion hinted at Middle Eastern descent but the new world taught that things such as ethnicity, religion and race were thin, unimportant shells painted over the common bond of humanity.

Nina sighed and pulled the gag from his mouth.

“I’m sorry Captain Forest I’m really sorry I’ll never do—”

“Listen,” she forced the words. “You want to see my daughter? What is it…Jake?”

He stopped babbling. The cautious gaze in his eyes suggested he could not be sure she honestly wanted an answer, so he stayed silent.

“Okay, look, if you want to see my daughter you come by tomorrow night at a decent time. But you come to the front door, understand?”

Again caution kept his tongue in check, but the young man nodded slowly.

“All right then,” Denise’s mom finished. “We’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Nina took a step, stopped, and then added, “Bring her some flowers or something. Flowers are nice.”

Nina walked away, nodding to herself in agreement with that line of thinking.

Jake relaxed as he realized that the woman’s threats to his body parts were not to be carried through. He only relaxed for a moment, however.

“Um…Captain Forest…um,” he wriggled his hands in the tight ropes. “Um…Captain Forest…I…uh, could use some help here…with the…ropes…”

*

The Bell UH-1 “Huey” helicopter produced a steady chop-chop-chop bouncing off the flatiron foothills to the west and echoing around Boulder Valley.

Jerry Shepherd rubbed frost from the window and eyed those famous tilted slabs of sedimentary stone for a long second, allowing the impressive sight to steal his thoughts away from the reason for his side trip to Boulder.

Shep knew that, somewhere deep in his soul, lurked the heart of a cowboy. There had been a time in his life when he pictured himself retiring to the Rocky Mountains. What a way to cap off his military and law enforcement career with a couple of years of fishing, hunting, and napping in hammocks in the shadow of grand mountains.

Such dreams evaporated when the extraterrestrial armies and alien animals came pouring through the gateways.

Shep sighed and pulled the zipper on his parka another inch higher.

The foothills he admired remained capped in white frosting that reflected the sun brilliantly. For all its beauty, the snow in a place such as Boulder, Colorado, often grew into an impenetrable barrier. He wondered why any settlers would choose to re-open a city that not only sat in isolation, but had suffered so many horrors in the early days of Armageddon.

To Shepherd, much of The Empire’s push westward had felt like McArthur’s ‘Island Hopping’ campaign during World War II in that the military commanders carefully picked where to strike and where to leave alone.

Boulder had been one of those islands left alone during the push to the Rockies. Denver, on the other hand, had been cleared, particularly the sections east of Interstate 25, including the International Airport and the Buckley Air National Guard Base. Both of those locations became important military facilities and supply points.

The distance between Denver and Boulder could be driven in minutes…if the snow plows cleared Route 36. The snow plows had done no such thing in years. The people of Boulder could not count on contact with the outside world until spring, except for the occasional flight into the airport and sporadic mounted couriers.

Part of the decision to leave Boulder alone had come from the cursed aura surrounding the city. Survivors from across the region told stories that made even the most battle-hardened warriors cringe. Stories of monsters—not animals—but monsters.

During the first days of Armageddon, creatures from the realm of Voggoth descended upon Boulder Valley and turned it into a nightmare. Unlike the animals and predators from the other alien environments, Voggoth’s beasts killed for fun, as if inflicting pain served as a goal unto itself.

Perhaps the colonists saw themselves as a cleansing agent. Shep heard that the Boulder settlers hailed from a religious sect, although he could not remember the specifics.

“General Shepherd, we’re approaching the LZ, sir.”

The transport flew over the remnants of Boulder proper. Shep eyed crumpled buildings and charred homes; rusting hulks that had once been automobiles on streets that had cracked and twisted from years of frost and thaw with no street department to patch potholes.

A stream of orange smoke rose from an open area to the north of the University. The helicopter swung about and descended into a small park filled with bare, broken trees. An old basketball court served as a makeshift landing pad.

The downdraft from Blackhawk scattered the signal flare’s smoke as the craft landed. Shepherd gathered his thoughts, checked his side arm, then exited the transport escorted by two well-groomed soldiers dressed in winter jackets and clean BDUs.

Soldiers of a different creed waited for the General outside the chopper.

They wore heavy gray uniforms with red sashes, many with an added wool coat. They carried swords and carbines and heavy packs on their back. Several sat in saddles atop gorgeous stallions. They all sported rough stubble on their cheeks; a sign of life in the cavalry, life always on the move in the wilderness.

Shepherd admired the men and envied their work. To be out in the wilderness… living off the land for weeks at a time…with only their guts, guns and brotherhood to face the unknown…yes, Shep admitted he most certainly had a little cowboy in him.

A short man with a thin mustache, narrow eyes, and an upturned cowboy hat greeted Shep. Something dangled from the man’s lips, perhaps a small cigar or maybe a kind of homemade cigarette. A feint trace of breathing embers glowed at the tip.

“Corp-o-ral Lawrence Brown, sir,” the horse soldier made a lazy salute that matched his lazy words. “Captain McBride is waitin’ for ya, over on Pearl Street.”

Shep did not know the difference between Pearl Street and any other street in Boulder, but Corporal Brown’s knowledge suggested the area had been thoroughly scouted.

“Well then, I reckon I should get on over to Pearl Street.”

Shepherd had served two years in Philadelphia’s mounted patrol, so he knew what to do with the horse presented to him.

He and an escort of a dozen riders galloped through the empty streets of Boulder. The sight at ground level matched the vision from the helicopter: many homes destroyed by fire, others crushed by explosions or blunt damage dealt by marauding devils. The cold air kept an inch of snow intact over most of the ground, but the late morning sun melted away isolated patches, revealing either muddy ground or warped pavement.

It did not take long for the entourage to reach the historic district of Boulder, a stretch that once attracted shoppers and architecture buffs. The colonists had made the walking mall area the center of their new community.

The Corporal led Shepherd to a corner building built with red and white sandstone and brick as well as tattered old awnings lining one side and smashed plate glass windows lining the other.

Several more soldiers loitered in front, one of whom Jerry Shepherd recognized: Captain Dustin McBride of the 1st Cavalry Brigade, also known as “Stonewall’s Brigade.”

While Stonewall carried on the fight with the rest of his division in Oregon, the 1st Brigade had been left behind for several weeks of well-earned rest and reconstitution. Unfortunately for them, they had been nearest when a unit was needed to check on the residents of Boulder.

Shepherd reigned in his ride and dismounted. His boots crunched on the snow.

“General, sir.”

“Well look at you,” Shep eyed the man head to toe. “Growin’ a beard, Dustin?”

A beard—little more than a thick goatee—sprouted from the black man’s face. It made him appear slightly older, but in truth Dustin remained a young man, even after ten years of warfare. He had joined Stonewall’s army during the first months of the new world, leaving behind a street life with gangs in Washington D.C., for a leader’s role in the fight to save humanity. That fight had cost Dustin his right ear during the battle for Wilkes-Barre.

McBride smiled. “Just a little peach fuzz, man.” But the smile changed fast to a frown. “Think you’d better see this, General.”

Dustin led him inside the historic National State Bank building, circa 1899.

Piles of bodies—some covered and others not—lay around the lobby. Any antique furniture or historic ornaments had long ago been looted or lost, making the interior feel open and bare.

“I think they used this place as a town hall type of thing,” McBride explained. “They must’ve decided to make, well, a sort of last stand here.”

Shep nodded as he took note of the bodies, discarded small arms, and the carcasses of several K9s.

Dustin said, “We found fifty dead in here, another thirty or so up and down Pearl Street. I think they used this whole section as sort of their downtown. Anyway, there’s a couple of bigger buildings nearby that were, like, factories for stuff.”

“What’d they do here?”

Shep knew that everyone who lived under the protection of The Empire contributed in some fashion. The colonists, despite their isolation, did something that generated Continental Dollars which, in turn, kept fuel, ammunition, and even mail coming their way.

“Textiles. They made wool coats and stuff like that. There’s some sheep farms on the outskirts of town. They got wiped out, too. I also think they did a lot of scavenging. There was a company up here that did a lot of wireless stuff before ‘all this’. I think they were selling the leftovers back to the army.”

Shep stroked a finger across his gray mustache.

“Okay. Wiped out by what?”

Dustin McBride motioned toward a heavy tarp and said, “Agarn.”

Corporal Brown responded to that nickname. He pulled away the covering, revealing three bodies. Each corpse wore heavy animal hides but even through the winter clothing Shepherd spied pale skin, elongated fingers, and bodies lacking any hair.

“Red Hands.”

Shepherd knew the Red Hands to be a primitive tribe that could breed and spread fast, lived as one with nature, hated technology, and fought bravely despite using primitive weapons.

Still…

“You’re telling me Red Hands wiped out this colony? With bows and arrows?”

“Looks that way, yeah.”

“How many colonists here?”

McBride answered, “The info I’ve got says about three hundred. Far as I can tell, we’ve found about three hundred dead bodies so far, too.”

“They were armed, right?”

Corporal Brown, a smoke still dangling from his mouth, answered, “Piss-tols, ri-fulls, a couple o’ Jav-lins, even got one of them pinballs ‘case a Shadow came callin’. They used to come ‘round here back in the day, or so I heard.”

Shepherd grunted. The Red Hands existed like cockroaches, as soon as The Empire thought they stamped them out a new band appeared somewhere. Red Hands moved through the wilderness expertly, usually staying out of sight for as long as they wanted to stay out of sight.

“What a sec,” Shep jumped. “Three hundred people with guns wiped out by Red Hands? How the Hell many Red Hands would it take to do that?”

Corporal Brown—“Agarn”—answered, “A shitload or two.”

California

A lonely Humvee pulling a trailer halted on Interstate 5. Overhead, a clear sky waited for the sun to climb the green foothills that cast shadows across the highway.

Garrett “Stonewall” McAllister stepped out onto the pavement and loitered behind the open door, glancing first left and then right as if searching for spying eyes.

“General, we’re going to be late,” said Benny Duda who also exited the vehicle.

“Please, Benjamin, you know I have an image to protect.”

Garrett looked first at the soldier sitting at the driver’s wheel then the one standing in the cupola behind a .50 caliber machine gun. Neither dared meet the General’s glare.

“Yessir, I understand. We do have a time table, though.”

Stonewall grunted then walked to the horse trailer. The sound of his boots clicking and his sword jingling bounced between the foothills.

They retrieved two horses—both saddled and ready—and detached the trailer. A moment later, the two riders trotted along the Interstate as it hooked east then south again with the Humvee coasting obediently behind.

Two miles later they arrived at the entrance to a small town situated amidst forests and high desert plains. The volcanic rock of Mt. Shasta dominated the eastern horizon, its flat peak covered in snow. Stonewall eyed it as he brought his horse to a halt.

Duda’s voice pulled his attention to the task at hand: “General?”

Unlike the encounter at Crater Lake two days prior, Garrett did not want to come across as intimidating or eccentric. Today called for diplomacy, for the ground on which he stood separated two armies. Duda appeared to have remembered this strategy and had already dismounted. Stonewall joined him. The Humvee, meanwhile, came to a complete stop several yards behind. The soldier in the cupola moved to the passenger’s seat, far away from the gun.

The road sloped down through an archway that featured an illustration of Mt. Shasta along with the town’s name of “Weed.” Under that arch gathered a line of five men dressed in black coveralls and jackets with shield-shaped patches. Their collars flaunted insignias of rank. They displayed expressions ranging from frightened eyes to stern jaws of determination with a variety of blends in between.

Stonewall sympathized with those frightened eyes; The Empire had arrived at California’s door after a year of anticipation.

At the same time, he feared that those stern jaws meant a stubborn pride that The Cooperative’s militia officers would translate into a conflict he very much wanted to avoid.

Stonewall glanced toward an old gas station situated away from the meeting. There he saw a group of California’s front line fighters mulling about. Among them he saw that same collection of frightened eyes and stern jaws, but much more intense. After all, these men would do the fighting and dying should conflict come.

I would like it very much if these men would join my ranks so we could fight the Earth’s enemies together.

Alas, those men gathered in the shadow of the problem. A ship towered over the station from its landing spot on the far side. Colored silver and black, it stood three stories tall on rows of landing gear and stretched fifty yards long. Its name reflected the general design: Stingray.

The extraterrestrial machine sat silent but it spoke of stealth, energy weapons, speed, and maneuverability. It spoke of the battle to come in the skies over the Golden State.

One of The Cooperative’s officers approached. The man displayed extra girth that appeared the work of time, not gluttony and he appeared well-groomed, almost painstakingly so. What remained of his gray hair fluttered in a chilled breeze.

He wore a silver star on his collar and a patch on his breast displayed the image of two outstretched hands meant to show unity but, to Stonewall’s eyes, they appeared to arm wrestle. One of those hands shined silver, the other a politically correct brownish shade representing the diverse skin colors among the human part in The Cooperative’s equation.

Stonewall raised his arm in a textbook salute and said, “General Stonewall McAllister, Second Mechanized Division of Virginia.”

The other man did not return the salute. Instead, he gaped the way most people gaped at Stonewall when first meeting the man in the Old Mist uniform.

“Exactly what war is it you’re fighting, son?”

Garrett, who had recently passed forty years of age, held his temper.

“Ah, you might believe that I endeavor to fight the War Between the States. However, I have not come here to discuss my choice of wardrobe. We have urgent matters to resolve.”

The other man sneered, “The only thing that needs to happen is that you and your followers need to stay out of my state.”

Stonewall saw that the man standing across from him wore one of those stern, stubborn jaws. He realized that any threats he might conjure would fail to impress and, for obvious reasons, Stonewall had not brought along Captain Kaufman’s Chrysaor to drop from the sky. Besides, while much smaller than a dreadnought, Stingray attack cruisers did not lack teeth.

He did, however, find something to say.

“Well, if you choose not to talk perhaps your Masters will. Are any of your leash-holders about?”

He threw in a wry smile but maintained his gentlemanly disposition, not an easy task for a man with a handlebars mustache and thick sideburns.

The gray-haired officer frowned, but before he could respond a sound grabbed the attention of everyone at the Weed city gate: two quick bursts that could have been a high-pressure air hose hissing.

All eyes shot to the gas station. An object moved over there somewhere behind the crowd of soldiers. That object shot into the air a dozen then fifty feet and flew forward, glinting silver in the sun then descended to the gathering. Two more quick bursts sounded, this time close enough so all could see the blasts of vapor from the jetpack.

The object—a humanoid very much like a man—landed standing with a thud that sent a gentle tremor amongst the group.

Stonewall studied the newcomer; it marked the first time he had seen one in person.

Two eyes and a pointed nose, a mouth with thinner lips than a man’s and ears without lobes, but otherwise a close match to humanity in appearance including two legs and opposable thumbs with ten total fingers on two hands.

The alien would have stood only as tall and wide as Garrett himself, if not for his equipment that gave him more bulk, including an open-faced helmet with a curved visor that, Stonewall knew, served a myriad of functions. Patches of bright silver armor protected his arms and thighs while knee-high heavy boots with various metallic fixtures—no doubt to aid landing—covered his lower legs.

All the apparatus combined to give the alien added size: an illusion of greater presence.

While this race’s natural skin tones varied from gray to dull yellow, silver served as their predominant color as found in the trimmings of their battle gear as well as a silver cosmetic rubbed on their cheeks, necks, and other exposed areas.

As the newcomer stared at Stonewall with an intense glare, the pupils in the alien’s eyes morphed from green to a soft red.

The true power of California joined the discussion.

The Witiko.

*

Trevor Stone flipped another page in the binder and read yet another column of text and numbers. Scribbled notes in Omar Nehru’s nearly illegible hand writing marred the margins.

Those columns dealt with industrial output from both the ‘matter makers’ stolen from the alien Hivvans as well as traditional manufacturing. Omar’s notes drew attention to looming shortages in rubber and plastics.

However, the definition of ‘shortage’ changed over the years. Not too long ago, shortages meant starvation, disease, or forced a halt in the war effort. Nowadays, shortages meant inconvenience and rationing.

Expansion across what had once been the continental United States resulted in greater access to natural resources. Perhaps more important, over the last four years the nature of the war had changed. With only remnants of the Grand Army of the Hivvan Republic remaining in isolated outposts in the Caribbean, The Empire faced mainly alien wildlife and human warlords and little in the way of organized military forces during the push west.

Of course, the ‘liberation’ of North America still left vast tracks of land—including several metropolitan areas—filled with dangerous predators, keeping the K9/paramilitary “Hunter-Killer” teams busy. Travel between population centers remained dangerous.

At the same time, Trevor appreciated the growing stockpiles of fuel, munitions, and equipment that resulted from the reduction in all-out warfare. Of course, those stockpiles would soon be called upon to tackle California.

That unpleasant thought caused him to snap shut the binder and slam it on the table next to the easy chair, startling the black and gray Norwegian Elkhound sleeping at his feet. Tyr raised his head, eyed his Master, and then slept again. The dog had aged from vibrant hunter and fighter to a tired veteran whose role as the Emperor’s personal K9 became more a symbol than a true bodyguard.

Trevor rubbed his eyes and glanced around the chamber. The VIP stateroom offered significantly more space than the typical quarters of a dreadnought, but still felt cramped due to the slanted, low ceiling and lack of windows. The decorator had attempted to hide the dull gray walls behind paintings of famous historical battles (Gettysburg, El Alamein, Five Armies, etc.,) and fine furniture such as a sofa and coffee table. Regardless, the dressing could not chase away a claustrophobic feel.

Part of that feel came from the constant low hum carrying through the ship. It did not matter if you walked the catwalks above the building-sized anti-gravity generators, stood in one of the VT&L launch pad standby rooms at the stern of the craft or, for that matter, sat reading in the Emperor’s personal quarters, the hum remained constant. Even the crews on the fixed-wing flight deck could hear that hum when not engaged in take off and landing operations.

He stood and walked through a tight archway, leaving behind the main room for the master bedroom: a queen-sized bed flanked by nightstands. In there, the art work was more personal, such as pictures from JB’s kindergarten graduation and a snapshot of the Atlantic Ocean taken from Trevor’s summer beach house in New Jersey.

A suitcase rested at the end of the bed. He sighed, zipped it open, and unpacked despite knowing his stay aboard the Excalibur would be short.

He carried his shaving kit into the bathroom, writing a mental note to remember to cut away the stubble on his cheeks in the morning. He had already cut away a few inches of hair and indulged in a ‘professional’ manicure.

While not quite qualifying as sacrifices, he found such trivialities annoying. However, he knew the Witiko to be a vain people. He knew their ways held influence over the Governor and his cabinet. Investing in extra grooming might pay dividends at the bargaining table.

Bargaining table?

Trevor stopped in front of the bathroom mirror, rewound that thought, and played it again.

What bargaining table?

There would be no bargaining. That had been and would continue to be the story of his rule. The Old Man never said anything about bargaining, but said plenty about fighting, killing, and sacrifice.

Trevor found his eyes in the mirror.

Who you kidding?

The other Trevor—the one who had led an invasion army to an alien world in a parallel universe—never needed an old man to learn how to kill. It had been his nature.

He stared at the reflection and thought about what he knew lay beneath the surface. He wondered if that surface had the strength to keep the monster inside at bay.

Lori had suggested that the difference between the Trevor Stone she knew and the Trevor Stone in that other universe revolved around his friends as well as humbling experiences such as finding Sheila’s diary or…or falling in love with Nina.

He hoped that would be enough.

It is one thing, he figured, for a man to know his limitations. It is another to realize that maybe…just maybe…he had no limitations.

A soft buzz pulled Trevor away from another bout of introspection. Part of him knew he spent too much time dwelling on the revelations of another world. Distractions could be deadly.

He moved out of the bathroom and to the stateroom door to answer the bell, pulling a heavy handle and sliding open the metal door.

Jon Brewer stood there in full dress uniform: gray and black with lines of metals and ribbons. Dress uniforms, a pet project of an Imperial Senate sub-committee, entered circulation a year ago but were rarely worn outside of dinner parties in Washington, D.C.

Brewer smiled, Trevor frowned.

“Come on now, it’s tradition for you to eat at the Captain’s table.”

“You’re going to make me wear mine? You can’t be serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious,” Jon insisted. “I’ve got a bunch of junior officers on board and they’re looking forward to eating with their Emperor. Do I need to give you the speech about how these guys are fighting and dying for you?”

“All right, all right. Give me a sec.”

Trevor’s version differed from Jon’s at the collar where gold braids stood out on the black fabric. He dressed carefully, as if handling hazardous materials. Trevor did not feel comfortable with the title “Emperor” and he felt even less comfortable with the trappings of that rank.

Tyr accompanied the two men as they exited the VIP quarters and walked the corridor.

As with the other two operational dreadnoughts, the Excalibur offered more square footage than the downtown districts of most small cities. The passages resembled those found in naval vessels but somewhat larger, offering room for two men to walk abreast as well as ceilings tall enough for even Jon—at over six feet—to stand straight.

The core building material went by the name of “Steel Plus,” a composite that would be impossible if not for the matter makers. Omar Nehru had developed his understanding of the machines to the point that he managed to tweak the molecular deconstruction and reconstruction phases, allowing him to combine various materials into something new.

“Steel Plus” offered strength several times greater than its namesake but at substantial weight savings.

The available production of Steel Plus remained earmarked for the dreadnought program. That program envisioned three more of the massive ships to join the trio in service as well as a total of four Super Carrier cargo vessels. Additional uses for Steel Plus would have to wait the estimated five more years for the construction of the floating giants to finish.

None of the ships would be possible without captured alien technology, from those matter-makers blending special materials to anti-gravity technology that not only kept the ships flying but also provided tools that made the building process easier.

They left the executive living section, moved through a dorm area where nearly five hundred shipmates quartered, and continued along a passageway deep in the center of the ship. This stretch was known as ‘the spine’ because the halls there ran alongside the main support tube; a solid rod of Steel Plus’ nearly one hundred feet in diameter stretching from bow to stern.

Along the way they passed storage rooms and power junction stations, a galley and a medical bay. Intercoms, fire suppression controls, and first aid lockers lined the gray walls. Every few minutes a harsh, quick tone broadcast over the address system to warn of an incoming message, followed by a synthesized voice.

“Warning, flight operations underway.”

“Attention, Fire Control Drills Scheduled for Section Delta-Four in 30 minutes.”

“Crewman Mangus report to the nearest Security Station.”

Trevor and Jon boarded an elevator and ascended into a wide, tall tower at the ship’s stern. One of the upper decks hosted a rectangular chamber serving the dual roles of meeting room and Captain’s mess. While Jon Brewer officially held the title of “General,” he commanded the Excalibur and hence played the part of Captain.

A half-dozen officers—most of them young enough to qualify as kids and evenly split between men and women—snapped to attention around a table draped in white linen.

Trevor circled the table, making eye contact with everyone in the room. At moments like this, he understood Lori Brewer’s assertion that power is given, not taken. He felt it in the way they looked to him. A mixture of awe and fear and respect. They would do anything for him. How intoxicating a feeling and one that scared him.

Before sitting, he gazed out the observation windows facing aft overlooking a series of terraced levels descending away from the tower. There he saw circular landing pads designed to accept helicopters and ‘Eagle’ airships, as well as clusters of anti-air batteries and arrays of antennas. Around the giant vessel swirled misty gray clouds in twilight, generating a close feeling as if the dreadnought occupied an enclosed space, as opposed to actually hovering ten thousand feet above the Arizona desert.

He felt their eyes staring at his back, waiting for his words, his commands. Expecting someone much more than a mere man.

Trevor turned and walked to the head of the table saying, “Please, be seated.”

The group did as instructed.

Trevor, at the head of the table, leaned to his left and whispered to Jon, “Who’s the brain tonight?”

“Bear. Bear Ross.”

Trevor nodded in approval. He knew Ross—a former professional football player—as a tough and competent officer. As it turned out, Ross also possessed the mental and physical reflexes to be the “brain” of a dreadnought.

White-dressed waiters swept the room with trays of meat and potatoes and beans and fruit. Plates clanked and silverware jingled, cloth napkins found laps and pitchers poured wine and water into goblets.

“It’s an honor for me to sit at the table with such a fine group of officers,” Trevor made conversation as dishes arrived. He sought for and found formal words because they expected eloquent speech from their Emperor. “The Excalibur is not the fleet’s flagship by accident.”

Trevor studied their reactions. Some stared humbly at their plates, others smiled without control. Even the simplest words of praise elicited gushes of joy from his followers.

A young officer asked, “Sir, do you think California will surrender without a fight?”

“Do you want them to?”

“No, sir! We haven’t had a good fight in a long while.”

He wanted to tell the man, ‘good, we don’t want to fight.’ Instead he answered, “I know you’re up to the challenge, should it come to that.”

Trevor really did not have anything more to say, but they waited for more words so he obliged, “California is a delicate situation. When I meet with them tomorrow…”

Trevor’s attempt to provide a general overview of the situation in a calm, soothing manner fell apart as a phone mounted under the table rang with an obnoxious buzz.

Brewer answered and after a pause asked, “What? When?”

Jon returned the phone to its cradle, took to his feet, and marched in hurried steps to an audio-visual cabinet saying, “That was Ross. He’s getting a video feed from California that we’ve got to see. He’s piping it down here.”

Trevor stood, his cloth napkin fluttered to the floor. Some of the other officers stood, too, as if ready for action.

“A video feed? From California? The Cooperative?” Trevor lost the eloquence in his voice.

Jon flipped open a cabinet revealing a large television attached to a variety of recorders, transmitters, projectors, and more.

“From California, but not The Cooperative.”

Brewer pushed a switch on the television set. A picture came into focus.

“Jon…who? What?”

“The media. Our media. As for the rest…you just better watch.”

The dark set shimmied with light and static. As the picture took form so did an identification tag on the top right of the screen. This identified the video as raw feed meant for a television station somewhere further east. There the station would edit the footage and prepare it for broadcast.

Jon translated the tag: “Looks like it’s bouncing off the relay station in Phoenix. That’s how we’re getting it.”

Trevor and Jon both knew that for the transmission to travel all the way to the east coast it had to leap frog from transmitter to transmitter. Satellite feeds were a rarity and, if successful, counted as much on luck as planning.

“Yeah,” Trevor squinted as the image took shape. “But you can bet it’ll be on the news networks in twenty minutes.”

The camera framed a set of stone stairs, apparently the entrance to a city hall or mansion serving as a backdrop to a stand of microphones and a trio of players.

Trevor recognized the man to the right of the bank of microphones. He had exchanged letters with him for weeks now and studied the man’s face in intelligence photos. He wore a fine silk suit with a silver tie draped over the hint of a belly. His spotless, creamy complexion helped him appear a decade younger than his actual age of fifty.

Governor Terrance Malloy.

Trevor knew the man had not always been Governor. At the time of the invasion, he ranked somewhere far down the line of succession, if at all. His rise to power, from what Imperial Intelligence uncovered, had come with little legal support. However, few people asked questions when they were busy fighting for their lives.

The man to the left of microphones also looked familiar to Trevor, but he could not immediately place the face. The fellow sported a perfect tan, broad shoulders, a pearly white smile, and jet black hair that appeared welded in place.

However, Trevor immediately recognized the third man, the one speaking at the microphone.

Evan Godfrey.

President of and Senator in the Imperial Senate as well as a member of the Imperial Council.

Jon gasped, “Wow. Evan. Um. Wow.”

Trevor felt a tremble in the pit of his stomach that vibrated through his person. His cheeks burned red, his teeth clamped together.

Jon noticed and told the attendees to, “Clear this room.”

Trevor mumbled, “What…is…he…doing…in…”

Evan’s voice—beaming over the airwaves and destined for the ears of all The Empire—explained for himself.

“I have come here to shine the light of truth on California. To present this truth to my fellow citizens. To unmask the costume of mischaracterization that has been crafted by the military. To show that the people of California are our friends, not enemies.”

Off-camera applause confirmed that the three men spoke not only for the camera, but to a live audience.

“I came here of my own accord, not as the President of the Senate but as a citizen. A citizen not merely of The Empire, but of Earth. Governor Malloy and the people of California have been gracious hosts and I have spent the last twelve hours meeting not only with the leaders here, but with the people. I come away with one overwhelming impression. California is a refuge for humanity and fertile ground on which a new era of partnership and interstellar camaraderie has begun to grow.”

Again, more applause.

Evan held his hands aloft to quiet the enthusiastic response.

“When I return home, I will tell my fellow citizens that California is not to be feared. That The Cooperative is not to be feared. And that the Witiko are our friends.”

Thunderous applause.

“And I shall tell the Emperor do not attack these people! Live and let live in peace! The time for war is over! Now is the time for healing!”

Godfrey allowed the glorious reaction to carry on for several long seconds. He turned to the Governor and shook his hand and then turned to the other man and nodded.

When the crowd finally calmed he continued, “I want to take a moment to offer a special thanks to the two men standing here with me. The Governor—your Governor, a man who shares his power and rules with the consent of his people—took a great risk in accepting my request to visit. A great deal of distrust exists between our two nations. But Governor Malloy—Terrance—is a man of vision and peace. He knows that you must take risks for the sake of the future and sometimes the biggest risk is not to fight, but to talk. Thank you, Governor.”

More applause but this round faded fast.

“And Brad, you may have the hardest job of all…”

Brad..?

Trevor mulled the first name about. Jon, however, found the answer: “That’s Brad Gannon.”

Trevor responded in surprise, “The actor? Holy shit, you’re right. It is.”

Brad Gannon had been a young and upcoming Hollywood heart throb prior to Armageddon, having wooed the young female demographic with a series of romantic comedies despite critics likening his performances to plywood. He often popped up in the shadow of Hollywood’s heavy hitters at activist events, like global warming protests and anti-war rallies.

The summer of the invasion promised to be a big year for Brad Gannon as he stepped up to action movies. Yet the big break never came and no one paid attention to celebrities once the monsters started appearing. At that point, the Hollywood elite were just other men in an ‘every man for himself’ environment.

Apparently Gannon had found a role in California.

Godfrey finished his speech, “Brad, I’m personally counting on you to take the message of peaceful coexistence to my people. Me, I’m a politician. A leader, if you will. But you are a familiar face from before the war. I think the people back east will want to see this from your perspective. I’m counting on you to change hearts and set the record straight.”

Brad stepped forward, shook Evan’s hand, and spoke.

“Thank you, Senator. This is, just, a great day for California. I think I speak for everyone here when I say that you, Evan, are really, just, well, just high speed. And you are the first bit of hope that maybe we can all just get along.”

More applause. Gannon smiled a big, brilliant white smile.

“What the people of your, um, Empire need to know is that California fought longer and harder than the rest of the country when things started happening. Our policemen and soldiers and even ordinary citizens fought for five years. Up and down the coast, in the mountains, in the desert. We, just, stuck together and, I think, California really showed what it’s made of.”

A clap. Then two. A round of clapping.

“But there’s something else everyone needs to know, too. We were losing. The Witiko came to this Earth and were told we were their enemies. So they, just, fought us. And after five years they had us on the ropes. But then, almost five years ago now, they came to us to seek peace. They told us that they had grown tired of war and wanted to live with us in peace. Just like that. They chose this, when they had us beaten. I think that speaks a lot about the greatness of the Witiko and how we can all just get along.”

The signal flickered, then steadied. Perhaps a sign of the camera jostling or maybe interference in the transmission. It did not matter, Trevor barely noticed. He watched everything through a veil of red.

“And that’s the point here, you know? That’s the lesson we’ve learned,” Gannon did his best to deliver a speech on the scale of the Gettysburg address but, as he had done in so many movies, he fumbled his lines. “It’s not just about the individual, or even about us. I mean, people. I think we’ve learned it’s a bigger universe. So with that in mind I, just, want to introduce some one who really deserves a lot of credit. I’d like to introduce Chancellor D’Trayne.”

The applause boomed. Everyone around the microphones clapped; Evan hardest of all. Brad Gannon retreated a step to make room for the next speaker. The camera pulled out to catch the approach of D’Trayne.

The tall alien stepped forward with a nod of his head and his eyes blinking rapidly as if emotion threatened to overwhelm his dignity. He dressed in a toga-style robe with a body suit of a kind underneath. As with all his people, silver played the prominent color, particularly on the otherwise gray alien’s arms and cheeks where the Witiko’s favorite cosmetic had been applied in generous doses.

Chancellor D’Trayne shook Gannon’s hand, he shook Governor Malloy’s hand, and then dramatically reached across and firmly grasped Evan Godfrey’s hand.

Then the Witiko faced the camera, and smiled.

*

The Mohave County Courthouse had been constructed of tufa stone nearly a hundred years prior in a town that had itself been carved out of hard surroundings. The city of Kingman took its name from an early railroad surveyor and, after World War II, billed itself as the ‘heart’ of historic Route 66, a passage made famous in song and legend.

Situated in the Hualapai Valley between the Cerbat and Hualapai mountain ranges, Kingman offered dramatic natural vistas in all directions. However, the most striking scenery that morning came not from nature but from man…and alien.

To the southeast along a jagged wall of mountains hovered the Excalibur, a thousand feet in the air, its massive shadow covering a dead bedroom community.

To the west, on the grounds of Kingman Muncipal Golf Course, sat three silver and black Stingray cruisers. While not nearly as imposing as the dreadnought, the fact that they had flown into the city without appearing on the Excalibur’s radar made them seem giants.

The courthouse in downtown Kingman held the middle ground.

Trevor Stone sat at a square table in the center of a large meeting room. A pair of Doberman pinschers stood rigidly near the east exit. Jon Brewer and two soldiers in dress uniforms—side arms only—waited in the wings.

Chancellor D’Trayne occupied a seat on the opposite side of the table flanked by Governor Malloy and Brad Gannon. Senator Evan Godfrey stood nearby. Two Witiko guards—side arms only—covered the west exit.

“I suppose I should break the ice,” Godfrey offered after two full minutes of silence.

“You have no business here,” Trevor replied without even glancing at Evan.

Brand Gannon smiled and raised his hands, palms out, in a conciliatory fashion.

“Hey, let’s get this off on the right foot, right? I mean, Evan here has been a great help.”

Trevor kept his eyes on Chancellor D’Trayne and paid little attention to the humans on the far side of the table. In his mind, they might as well not even be there, regardless of any political gobbledygook suggesting otherwise.

D’Trayne’s eyes wavered between light yellow and light green. The silver lotion on his cheeks sparkled. To Trevor, the make up looked ridiculous; a concession to ego the way aristocrats of centuries past would powder their faces and wear wigs.

Trevor spoke directly to the Witiko, “Evan Godfrey has no authority here, unless you need funding for a sewage project. Whatever he’s told you, forget it. I am in charge.”

“That’s right,” Evan broke in. “You are in charge, Trevor. I know you may be mad at me for coming here, but I did it for you. To explain to these people more about you. About how you’re not a brutal despot. I told them that there’s more to you than conquering and killing.”

He tried to ignore those words but they did strike a cord, reminding Trevor of his meetings with Lori. His fears.

“That’s right, Evan. You’re absolutely right. I don’t want to fight the people of California. I don’t want to fight the Witiko.”

The Chancellor’s eyes turned full green. Governor Malloy stammered then boomed, “This is great news! You are indeed a reasonable man, Trevor Stone.”

Gannon echoed, “Ah, man, that’s just fantastic. Just, you know, fantastic.”

Trevor did not pull his eyes from D’Trayne.

“I offer the Witiko peaceful passage through the runes to their home world.”

The alien’s eyes flashed red for a moment, then green, then softened to yellow. Trevor found himself impressed by how well D’Trayne controlled his eyes considering the colors in his pupils apparently reflected his emotions.

“Aww Christ,” Gannon huffed and slumped in his chair.

“The Witiko are our allies,” Malloy attempted to counter the offer that Trevor had made on numerous occasions in recent months. “They are our partner and friends.”

“Friends?” Trevor spat the word.

Godfrey said, “Think of how much greater we would be with the Witiko as allies. Don’t make the mistake of thinking them enemies. You don’t want to be on the wrong side again.”

Again?

Trevor did not understand Evan’s reference, but it did remind him once more that, in the other universe, Trevor had fought for the wrong side.

Malloy reasoned, “If they were not our friends, then why would they have stopped fighting when they had us beat? You must remember this. It is important.”

Trevor allowed a hint of a smile to curl at the edge of his mouth, but still kept his focus on the Chancellor who remained motionless and silent except for yellow to green pupils.

“They just stopped fighting, what, five years ago?”

“Yes. I remember,” Malloy told Stone in a voice that suggested deep admiration for the Witiko’s gesture. “My predecessor, the former Governor who led the war effort, died in a tragic accident and I assumed the reins of leadership. I feared I would be remembered as the leader who watched humanity be destroyed. Instead, I was approached by the Chancellor who offered peace. I accepted, and together we washed the blood from our hands and forged The Cooperative.”

Trevor saw why Evan liked Malloy so much; they spoke the same language.

“Do you want to know why the dear, peace-loving Chancellor sued for peace?” Trevor asked. Bright red flashed in the enemy’s pupils. D’Trayne tilted his head and willed his eyes green again. “The Witiko sued for peace because I shut down his gateway. I cut off his reinforcements and supplies.”

More red. Then yellow. Then almost orange.

“The Witiko sought an end to the war because they feared their ability to fight that war. The Chancellor here found himself stranded with his foot on the throat of a dangerous enemy but all alone. So what did he do? He bargained. He bargained from what you thought was a position of strength, so you gave in because you thought you were saving yourselves but the truth is that you saved the Witiko.”

“That’s a lie!” Malloy burst.

“Hey, man,” Gannon tried his best to sound stern but came across as childish. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. D’Trayne here is, just, a great guy. They coulda wiped us out, but they didn’t.”

“Oh no? Tell me something, Governor, what’s the human birth rate in California?”

Malloy straightened in his chair and wavered. Trevor held a hand aloft.

“Don’t bother, I’ll tell you. You’re at zero population growth and the life expectancy of your citizens is falling, fast. Probably because your average guy in California has to work two jobs to get enough credits to eat and usually one of those jobs is in a Witiko factory or mine.”

Evan jumped, “Don’t even try that, Trevor. These are no slaves here.”

Gannon spoke, “Hey, it’s just, we have limited resources so we gotta watch how many babies we’re making.”

Malloy assured, “Every one in California has a role to play. There are more humans than Witiko therefore humans make up the bulk of the labor force.”

Trevor nodded. “Right. Humans are the peasants while the Witiko and a few select people sit at the top like royalty.”

“Don’t preach about royalty,” Evan warned. “Not when you’re the undisputed leader of an Empire. California has more democracy than—”

“Democracy? I know how they work. A ruling class. Assemblymen appointed for life. Leaders come only from that pool and the only way to get in is to be selected by the Chancellor or Governor. That’s right, I know about your Cooperative because there are plenty of people living in it who want out. They’ve been talking to us for months.”

Evan countered, “There’s always the disgruntled. There are always those who are unhappy. How many people back home would love to see you go?”

Trevor did not take the bait. He kept his attention on the one voice on the other side of the table that mattered; the one voice yet to be heard.

“Here’s the deal,” the Emperor found the bottom line and gave it directly to D’Trayne. “I don’t want to fight you. I offer you passage to your home world through the runes. These guys may not know what that means but you do. I have fought and killed thousands of invaders and I am tired of killing. I don’t want my people to die and I don’t want to kill your people. We’ll send you home, safe passage guaranteed.”

Malloy, Gannon, and Godfrey all tried to speak. Their words mixed together into an unrecognizable mish-mash.

Chancellor D’Trayne silenced them.

“This is our planet now, too, Trevor Stone.”

The alien spoke in a soft voice but his words carried much weight in part because his eyes shined a luminous green. He needed no translation device; he spoke in perfect English, apparently as comfortable with the language as—Trevor understood—all Witiko had become.

“I offer a negotiated peace. I offer to share our technology with you. I offer to merge our great races into one nation and to help you fight off the rest of the invaders. But I will not leave this planet. You will find that my people do not retreat.”

Trevor eased in his chair.

“I offer your people a chance to return to their home. You do not belong here. I will not tolerate your presence here.”

Evan barked, “It is not up to you to make the decisions for all humanity.”

“You have no authority to attack us,” Malloy shot. “We have chosen to ally with the Witiko. Attacking us would be immoral and wrong.”

“You would be nothing more than Ghengis Khan or Hitler,” Evan suggested in a tempered tone that came across more a warning than an insult. “You don’t want to invade. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself.”

Trevor finished, “There is nothing more to say. I have communicated with you for nearly a year. My message has not changed. We have arrived at a juncture, Chancellor. There will be no more negotiation. You must decide.”

The Chancellor stood. Trevor did the same.

“The Witiko do not take well to threats.”

Trevor corrected, “You mean The Cooperative, don’t you?”

D’Trayne’s eyes burnt crimson. The alien leader turned to Evan Godfrey.

“You are a wise man, Senator Godfrey. Perhaps you can still salvage this situation before it deteriorates into war.”

Trevor said forcefully, “Time is running out Chancellor. I will give you a few days to consider. Your choice is simple; return to the home world from where you came, or die here, on my world in a fight you could have avoided.”

The Chancellor suggested grimly, “Perhaps some things are unavoidable.”

Maneuvers

Gordon Knox walked the first floor of the mansion, his eyes fixed on a paper. A few couriers and assistants shared that hall, each giving the broad-shouldered man a wide berth, no doubt in some small part due to his more intimidating appearance these days; in an effort to go bald on his own terms, Knox had shaved his head last year.

The Director of Intelligence stopped walking as an interesting piece of data grabbed his interest. He traced a line on the sheet with a finger and leaned against an open doorway. A flash in the corner of his eye—movement—diverted his attention.

He stood at the entrance to the “den”, a chamber that served as a library, a playroom, and sometimes a classroom. The movement that caught his attention came from the side yard as visible through the den’s casement windows.

Gordon crossed the room slow, almost trance-like, and came to the window.

Ashley and her son, Jorge, played in the yard. The sun had baked the muddy lawn hard and a slight hint of green infiltrated the otherwise brown grass. The mother and son kicked a soccer ball between them.

JB—still two months from his eighth birthday—giggled incessantly as his mother tried to steal the white and black ball from between the blond haired boy’s legs. The sound of his playful laughter managed to squeak through the window pane, albeit muffled and dulled.

Gordon watched.

Ashley smiled as she lunged one foot then another at the ball, as if actually trying to steal it away. Gordon knew it a mother’s ruse.

Knox grew transfixed by that smile, by those giggles, by Ashley’s lunging at the ball, at JB’s clumsy but successful dodges. He pressed a finger against the glass, as if maybe he could touch the giggles, the fun, and the mother’s love through the window. But he felt only a cold barrier.

He did not dream of winning Ashley’s love. He lacked these designs not merely because of the twelve years separating their ages or his unflinching loyalty to Trevor Stone. No, Ashley lived on another plane. He watched her with the same sense of awe that a young art student might feel strolling The Louvre; studying and watching but knowing his hands could never grasp such splendor.

Ashley showed The Empire her smile when they needed to see the warmth of the mother of the post-Armageddon world. She gracefully walked at Trevor’s side as per the script drawn for her character to play on the public stage. She lent her name and her words to the fight against infant mortality, to gather volunteer work parties to build new schools, to conservation initiatives during times of rationing.

He pulled his finger from the glass. At that moment the ball careened toward the house and smacked into the side of the mansion below the window, drawing both sets of playing eyes to the man watching them.

JB waved enthusiastically. Ashley flashed an unsure smile.

Gordon walked away.

*

Trevor Stone sat at the head of a long table in the mansion’s basement. A collection of televisions, audio equipment, and computers surrounded the room in cabinets and on counters.

Two doors led away as did a set of stairs. One of those doors opened to the armory. The second to a small utility room.

Unbeknownst to the council members gathered at the table, that second door led to more than a hot water heater. Trevor’s portal to the strange device that provided him with access to mankind’s genetic memories lay hidden in there while the key that unlocked that door—a key visible only to his eyes—hung on his neck.

Trevor glanced around the table at the assembling military council. They had met on numerous occasions in the three years since Trevor returned from his cross-dimensional excursion yet he still missed Reverend Johnny’s booming voice.

However, Jon Brewer attracted Trevor’s full attention as he began the meeting with a disturbing report.

“We found the same thing in Seattle that we found in Grand Forks, Oklahoma City, Dallas, and Cincinnati,” Jon licked his lips and fidgeted in his seat. “We found nothing.”

“Nothing?” Dante Jones, Director of Internal Security, repeated with a question mark.

Brett Stanton scratched one of the scars on his thin, pot-marked face and asked, “There were supposed to be bad things there. Now wait, this wasn’t a reconnaissance goof, was it?”

Gordon Knox answered definitively, “I had people in there a month before the troops. Seattle was crawling with Deadheads, Mutants, and we even had reports of Wraiths.”

Brewer responded, “Well they were gone when we got there. Not a trace. Well, I mean, lots of bodies of people.”

“Wait a second,” Dante asked. “You found bodies? Human bodies?”

When Jon nodded Dante concluded, “So they were there not long before you guys marched in. They just vanished.”

Trevor noticed Anita Nehru sitting at the far end of the table with her head cradled in one hand while vacantly swirling a twizzle stick in a cup of coffee with the other. Her husband, Omar, sat across the table trying to get her attention but failing.

“Trevor?”

“Huh?

Gordon repeated what Trevor missed, “I said, the way the hostiles are disappearing reminds me of how people were disappearing before all this.”

Dante agreed, “Yeah, this looks kind of familiar.”

“Alllrriiigghtty then, does that mean they’re all going to come back, too?” Lori Brewer’s flippant remark raised a scary question.

Brett Stanton leaned forward and scratched his noggin as he laid it out, “Okay, now, well, if we were to go thinking back to all that, when was the last time we know for sure a bunch of people went missing?”

Trevor closed his eyes and revisited those chaotic days some ten years prior. The first signs of impeding Armageddon came in the form of mass disappearances. Those disappearances included Ashley.

Her group had been the first recovered, but not the last. For more than four years the expanding armies of the human Empire happened upon caches of ‘ark riders’, pulling them from gooey green sarcophagi with no recollection of their ordeal. However, no such riders had been found in the three years since ten thousand baseball fans showed up at Wrigley field. That group had disappeared the day before the invasion began in earnest; an invasion triggered by the conception of Trevor’s son.

Unfortunately, the baseball fans at Wrigley field completed their journey through time before Trevor’s armies marched into Chicago. Instead of finding people waiting to be liberated from green globs, they found torn and shattered corpses. The ark riders, in that case, had completed their time travel too soon, arriving in the midst of a hostile city where they ended up a food source for a variety of nasty predators.

Trevor spoke, “I think Ashley was the last to disappear and the Wrigley field mess was the last to reappear.”

Knox postulated, “So something stole away people, maybe to try and save them, at the start of all this. Now, here we are and something is stealing away monsters…to save them?”

“Not just any monsters,” Trevor said.

Brewer agreed, “You’re right. It’s stuff from Voggoth’s place.”

Trevor looked to the far end of the table again. Anita remained silent with one hand stroking her long dark hair and her eyes focused on that cup of coffee. Omar, frustrated at her trance-like demeanor, sat in his chair puffing on a cigarette.

“Anita.”

She did not respond. Trevor repeated, “Anita?”

“Huh? What? Oh, sorry.”

Trevor took a good look at her face.

Anita and Omar had immigrated from India to the United States long before the end-of-the-world. He spoke in a purposely bad accent and often times appeared more than eager to embrace the stereotype, if it served to his advantage.

Trevor considered Anita to be an amazing woman. The more he learned of her the more intelligent he knew her to be. That’s why he had named her Chief Analyst Hostile Information and Tracking, placing her in charge of the Red Rock research facility. After Reverend Johnny’s death, Anita also took the role of Chief Analyst of Hostile Biotechnology.

While she lacked a hard science background, she could translate scientific data into understandable information. Anita served as the perfect translator between the council and the scientists doing the hands-on research at Red Rock.

Trevor said, “We were discussing the fact that the hostiles disappearing in the major cities all seem to be from Voggoth’s realm. Is that the case?”

She ran a hand through her hair, sighed, and changed her posture from slouching to stiff. Still, the bags under her eyes suggested a severe lack of sleep.

“As far as we can tell, yes. Um, well, as I’ve detailed before, our analysis of the genetic structure of the various hostiles collected over the years has shown, that, um…oh yes, has shown that this invasion has come from…come from…come from eight different points of origin. We have…we have come to this conclusion by finding…I mean…tracking I guess or measuring the amount of cell damage done by radiation that we think the organisms were subjected to during their travel here.”

She glanced nervously around the table, perked again, and spoke in a stronger voice, “Basically, we found that there’s eight different places these things are coming from. Maybe there’s more, we don’t know, but so far we found eight.”

Trevor led, “And seven of them…”

“And seven of the different types of creatures, I guess, coming here share a DNA structure almost identical to our own. You could say we share the basic building blocks of life and are, um complex organisms.”

Dante said, “Hey, like that goes for both the organized armies and the animals, right?”

“Yes,” Gordon Knox answered while Anita nibbled on a finger nail. “We know that the Chaktaw and the Jaw-Wolves and Rat-Things all come from the same place. We know the Plats and Bloodhorns come from another. It’s like if we were to launch an invasion of another planet and take lions, tigers and sheep along with us for the ride.”

Trevor’s heart skipped a beat as Gordon’s words hit home. On that parallel Earth mankind played invader to a world belonging to the Chaktaw. Not only had human armies come through, but also pigeons and wolves and Grizzly Bears.

One man’s animal is another man’s monster.

Stanton, Jon Brewer, and Dante started a round of cross talk but Anita’s suddenly firm and loud voice silenced the room.

“Listen! I said there were eight different points of origin but only seven are like us. The others…the eighth … their cells aren’t like ours or the Hivvans’ or the Duass’. They aren’t complex organisms, and they don’t even seem to be alive! That’s Voggoth. Wraiths and Mutants come from Voggoth’s place! Goat-Walkers and Deadheads. Totally…” her voice trailed. “…totally…different…”

Dante said, “Well wait a sec’. We always called The Orders stuff bio-mechanical. Johnny said the stuff was grown, as if they were one part machine and part organic. How does something grow that isn’t alive?”

Anita snapped, “A balloon grows when you fill it with air. Is a balloon alive?”

Knox, his hands clasped on the table top, pushed to the point, “And those are the things that are disappearing. I guess we’re just going to have to tough it out and see where this goes.”

“I like them disappearing, man,” Dante Jones explained with the edge in his voice he always used when addressing Gordon Knox. “It’s them reappearing that bothers me.”

An awkward silence hung in the air for several seconds. Trevor kept his eyes on Anita Nehru who returned her attention to the coffee and the twizzle stick.

“Jon, let’s get through this other stuff,” Trevor desired to tackle the real focus of this meeting: California. He knew, however, that to get there they had to climb over other issues first.

Jon examined one of many papers piled on the table.

“Okay, yeah. Um…Hivvans. There are still Hivvan remnants operating in Cuba, Haiti, and a bunch of other islands down there, all the way to Trinidad.”

Knox chimed in, “They have some fuel reserves in those areas, that’s why we’re seeing the occasional Screamer raid into Florida and along the Gulf coast.”

“I didn’t think their Screamers had that kind of range,” Dante said.

Brewer explained, “They’ve developed a longer-range version. Looks to have external tanks and better fuel economy. We think they may be capable of hitting deep into our territory.”

That caught Trevor’s attention.

“Oh. So what are we doing about it?”

Brewer answered, “Intelligence is gathering info. After we’re done with the big stuff,” everyone knew what Jon meant, “I’m thinking about sending a couple of dreadnoughts down there to finish the job.”

Gordon broke in again as he often did when Jon spoke, “But there’s more than the Hivvans to worry about. They might not even be priority number two.”

Jon huffed in a way that suggested I’m getting to that, hold on.

Before he could, Trevor asked, “What else? What’s priority number two?”

Jon answered, “Redcoats. Centurians. Whatever you want to call them, Intelligence indicates they’re active south of the Rio Grande.”

Trevor had heard those reports but Jon presenting them in a formal council meeting suggested the threat grew.

“Break it down for me.”

Gordon, not Brewer, did just that.

“We’ve been trying to map out this whole thing. It’s becoming clear that the invasion was well planned. Interrogation of Hivvan prisoners suggest they were told to take most of what was the eastern United States. We haven’t got much more information than that on them.”

Lori Brewer wondered, “Why not?”

Knox answered, “SiSPA.”

Lori cocked her head and asked, “Huh? Chutzpah?”

Jon corrected, “SiSPA. Sentient Species Protection Act. One of Evan Godfrey’s pet projects. After he toured Red Rock a few years ago he decided to push a law through the Senate keeping us from dissecting anything with any intelligence.”

Stanton felt it important to remind every one that, “The whole thing wasn’t just the Senator’s idea. No, now wait, it would not have gone through if it didn’t have backing.”

Eyes fell on Trevor who defended, “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Sudden change in attitude, if I remember correctly,” Gordon Knox threw out his comment and studied Trevor’s reaction.

Trevor forced himself to keep a straight face but Lori Brewer, on the other hand, nodded in understanding.

Brewer moved the briefing forward. “The Witiko, we think, started in California probably with the hope of expanding. The war they had with the Californians, then the closing of the gateways stopped that cold.”

Omar Nehru raised the question, “I am wondering then about the Red Hands and what they were doing around here. I would think the same could be asked of the outposts of The Order that we were finding in the early years.”

Trevor presented his thoughts on those two: “I think the Feranites—the Red Hands—are basically cannon fodder. As for Voggoth, I think he does whatever he wants.”

Brewer said, “Well, the Redcoats—Centurians—came in to South America. I mean, primarily. Of course, we found a bunch of them up here back that first year.”

Remembering what he had learned on an alternate Earth, Trevor told them, “Sometimes the gateways can misfire, sending groups of invaders off-target. The Redcoats we fought at Wilkes-Barre may have been a case of that. But wait a second, let’s boil this down. Whatever is left of the Hivvans is hanging out in the Caribbean. Can they hurt us?”

“Air raids,” Brewer answered. “A few here and there. I think they’re holding on by a thread. With the gateways closed, they’re in no position to cause us serious trouble.”

“Gordon,” Trevor ordered, “I want you to get people on those islands. Complete information. Jon, have your staff put together plans to hit whatever is left of the Hivvans as soon as we get the time. I also want better intel on Mexico. It sounds to me like you’ve got some guesses and hunches but that’s not good enough.”

Brewer defended, “Most of our resources have been pointed west.”

“The dreadnoughts were supposed to give us flexibility. I want to flex.”

Gordon nodded, “We’ll get it done.”

“Um, one other thing,” Jon, given Trevor’s blooming bad mood, hesitated to speak but could not avoid it.

“What?”

“Red Hands again. You know, Feranites; whatever.”

Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Go ahead, give it to me.”

“A bunch of settlers got taken out in Boulder by Red Hands last Saturday. Must’ve been a mess of them.”

Dante Jones spat, “Why am I just hearing about this now?”

Jon told him, “Because Dustin McBride’s cavalry found them.”

Trevor remembered, “Didn’t we have problems with Red Hands last fall in Colorado?”

Gordon Knox glanced at a paper and read, “Supply train hit by Red Hands last August outside of Cheyenne Wells. Ten I.S. agents killed and the train crew. Double that number in Red Hand bodies recovered. In November the garrison at Pueblo took a beating during a night raid by Red Hands. Another dozen people killed and ten more missing, probably taken by the Feranites.”

Omar exhaled a ball of smoke and said, “I thought these aliens were of a kind to stay in one place.”

Trevor said, “You’re right, Omar.”

Omar stuck a finger in his ear, wiggled it, and begged, “Would you mind repeating that, my ears may have not heard what it is you said.”

Trevor ignored the quip. “The Hivvans are adding long-range tanks to their Screamers, the Red Hands have changed from stationary tribes to nomads. And here we are, building giant air ships. Guess it’s true, life adapts.”

“Got to be a lot them,” Dante suggested. “Probably headed into the mountains last winter and are on the move again. I don’t have the manpower to—”

Trevor cut off Dante as he turned to Jon Brewer and ordered, “Handle this. A regular military unit. Can’t have that many of those bastards running around on our territory.”

“First Cavalry is on it. Dustin will track them down. It might take a while, but he’ll do it.”

“Hey, isn’t this my area?” Dante’s reaction sounded both hurt and angry.

Trevor answered, “That many Red Hands is a job for the military, not Internal Security. You’ve got enough to worry about, like the Tambourine line. What’s the status?”

Dante shifted uneasily.

Gordon Knox offered the answers Dante lacked: “Intelligence’s part of the deal is about done. We’ve finished the last stretch of sonar buoys along the Carolina coast. The stuff south and north of that, you know, has been on line for months. Now the computers are fully integrated, my people made sure of that. The last piece of the puzzle is the final batch of staffing in the control centers and the ground-based radar systems.”

Trevor’s eyes went to Dante who explained, “Man, it’s been tough finding the right people for this; tech people. Hell, I don’t even know how half this shit works.”

Omar—perhaps emboldened by Trevor having told him he had been right about something—joined the conversation, “Mr. Jones, it is not for your people to be worrying about the bolts and the nuts of this thing. If they have eyes they can see the radar sweeps and listen to the lovely little pings of the sonar.”

Brewer said, “The Tambourine line is a big part of our defense program. If that isn’t going to be on line then I don’t feel good sending the Philippan to California.”

Dante countered, “What difference does that make? The Tambourine line is an early warning system, it’s not armed.”

Gordon pointed out, “Right now the Philippan is part of a surveillance network guarding the east coast until the tambourines are on line. At that point, it can go. But if the tambourine line doesn’t become operational we need to keep it here as part of that network.”

Jones’ next excuse: “I don’t have enough staff for the main monitoring station in DC.”

Brewer answered, “You don’t need a main monitoring station in DC. Just keep it compartmentalized.”

“I’ve got a bunch of politicians who want it in D.C. And guess what, buddy, they control the financing for this thing.”

Knox said, “For God’s sake, tough it out man and tell those politicians where to go stick it. Who’s in charge of Internal Security? Dante Jones or Evan Godfrey?”

Trevor held a hand aloft. When the cross talk subsided he said, “Dante, finish up your end. Quick. I need Hoth’s ship out west. I don’t care how you do it, get it done.”

Dante opened his mouth, paused, exhaled a quick burst of disgust, then shut his mouth.

Trevor pushed things forward saying, “Okay. California. We’re going to war. At least that’s how I’d bet.”

Dante found his voice again: “That’s it, just straight to war? Did you talk to them?”

“Yes, I talked to them. I made the same offer I made last month and the month before that. Now our troops are at their border. We’ve reached the tipping point.”

Lori used a soft, reserved voice, “They don’t want to go through the runes? They refuse?”

Stanton ran a hand through what little hair he had left and observed, “Now wait, isn’t there a log jam on going through those? Don’t we still have Hivvan and Duass prisoners?”

“We’ve got another three months, at least, to go before all the prisoners we have are through,” Dante, told them. “We take them in small groups because I don’t have enough people to provide security for large groups. Probably another six or seven thousand sitting in prisons in Pennsylvania and Maryland.”

Trevor did not want to get bogged down by talk of the runes. Everyone at the table knew the two mystical pillars had been retrieved from the Arctic Circle by Jon Brewer almost five years ago, an action that had shut down the alien gateways while the runes themselves still offered a one-way ticket home for those same aliens.

The runes were not the issue. The Cooperative was.

“The people in charge over there have their heads so far up the Witiko’s asses they can’t see daylight. There’s no choice. I’ll issue an ultimatum and then we invade. Jon, break it down, what are we facing. The big picture, not the details.”

“We’ll be facing a combination of human and Witiko forces. The human groups have Witiko advisors and officers. We’re thinking about thirty combat-ready air superiority fighters and one small company of helicopter gunships, mainly Super Cobras.”

“On the ground?”

“Between twenty and twenty-five thousand troops broken up between garrisons and rapid deployment forces. The Cooperative’s ground forces have a strong center core of law enforcement and National Guard troops but they also have a nice chunk of raw recruits.”

Lori said, “A lot like us.”

Jon defended, “Yeah, well, we’ve been fighting for ten years now, we’ve got two academies, and good training programs. The ground troops in California haven’t been well trained and their equipment is getting old.”

“Of course,” Trevor told them. “The Witiko don’t want the human armies becoming too strong. The fewer, the better. Less of a threat. Might just bite them in the ass now, though.”

Brewer continued, “They don’t have a lot of heavy weapons or armor. Most of that was wiped out when they were fighting the Witiko. Bottom line is that the ground forces aren’t going to be a big deal. First Corp by itself could probably do the deal on the ground. Throw in Prescott’s Second Corp coming in from Arizona and we’ll be able to overwhelm them.”

Jon’s words spoke of an easy victory. His eyes told a different story as he glanced at Knox. The Director of Intelligence grasped another page in a stack of papers, coughed, and began his report.

“The Witiko have a dozen Stingray cruisers in their arsenal. We believe two of these are non-operational and are being farmed for spare parts. On the ground, the Witiko have small infantry units integrated into human battalions. They also get a kind of close air support from their Skytroops.”

He glanced around the room as if to ensure everyone heeded his next words.

“Skytroops are individual soldiers who use jet back packs. It sounds funny, but you won’t think it so when they launch an anti-tank or anti-air missile at you or drop a grenade on your head before disappearing behind a building. Most Skytroops are officers, are heavily armed and capable. There are reports of individual Skytroopers taking out Blackhawks and even attack choppers during the California war.”

Although Trevor already knew most of the details, he told Knox to, “Go on.”

“The Witiko don’t need a lot of troops because they have a neat trick for recruiting.”

Jon Brewer took the proverbial ball and ran with it: “When I think about it, Trevor, it reminds me of the Redcoat battle for Wilkes-Barre way back when. The Witiko can get animals to fight for them. Except, well, they’re a little more direct about it.”

As Jon spoke, Gordon slid a photograph across the table to Trevor. It showed a metal glove long enough to extend to the elbow of the wearer. A compartment—much like a miniature computer—had been built into the forearm while a silver sphere about the size of a golf ball rested on the back. Two small metal prongs projected outward from that sphere.

“We don’t know how,” Gordon said, “but my sources are working on it. Once the fighting starts, I think we need to make it a priority to get a hold of one of these things because…”

Gordon’s voice faded from Trevor’s ears as a bout of lightheadedness hit. His mind left the room…and went to a place of tall glass and steel towers in cities adorned with fantastic art and magnificent landscaping all on the rim of wastelands littered with churning volcanoes spewing clouds of thick ash. A world with small oceans so dense with salt and minerals that life only lived in the farthest depths while vast lakes high in mountain plateaus poured fresh water to the lands below in gigantic waterfalls.

He saw herds of big but docile beasts of short fur and long necks stalked by armor-plated lions and roaches as big as dogs spitting acid to battle large, carnivorous jellyfish floating in the air.

He saw the picture of the Witiko device in his hand…and understood.

He must have faded out for more than a split second because Lori Brewer, Jon, and Dante hovered over him pleading to know if he were, ‘okay’ ‘all right’ and ‘get a doctor down here!’

“Um…guess I blanked out there, huh?”

“Yeah, man, you could say that,” the fear faded from Dante’s eyes but suspicion remained. “What was that all about? You on something?”

Trevor shot Dante an angry look. Dante defused the situation with a ‘just kidding’ smile. After a moment, Trevor smiled back…then focused on the picture of the Witiko device.

“It’s a slaver. They calibrate it to specific animals, shoot the prongs into the target, then they can control those animals, to a degree.”

“Wow,” Jon gasped. “Want to tell us how you know that?”

Trevor smiled and told him, “I just picked it up.”

“Not that shit again.”

Trevor ignored Dante. “The Witiko map brain waves of certain animals, so they just can’t shoot these things into anything. They have to plan it out.”

Gordon said, “Our intelligence indicates that the Witiko use some big insects the same way we use guard dogs.” Knox thought about that and rephrased, “I mean, the way we used to use guard dogs before, well, before those guard dogs became Grenadiers.”

Trevor explained, “It causes a considerable amount of pain to the subject animal. So much so that most of the time the Witiko put down the animal before releasing the slaver device. Animals released early tend to go nuts, sometimes turn on the Witiko handlers. So it’s a way for them to increase their fighting power but it has limits and dangers.”

Lori Brewer asked a disturbing question, “Can it be used on humans?”

“I don’t think so. Humans and other sentient life have far too complex brain patters and personalities. It’s not like this thing thinks for the animal, more like it implants an urge. From what I can tell, the subjects don’t like being under this thing’s thumb. But it is effective.”

Gordon turned to Omar and asked, “We could use a means of blocking the signal.”

“Oh! What a wonderful idea you are having Mister Knox! I will go build something right now! Let me get my erector set!”

Trevor kept things under control, “Good idea but that will take some time. Jon, how do those Stingrays match up?”

“They’re dangerous. First, they have both missiles and a short-range energy weapon. It can do some damage, but the beam itself dissipates after a half mile. Very much a close range weapon that they use more against stationery targets. Also, the Stingrays generate a stealth field. It’s not like an F117; it’s not a passive stealth but an active one. The Witiko have a good handle on electronics and jamming. We’ll see how they work in practice, but our information from the California war says no one ever saw them coming. Could be a problem.”

Knox presented more bad news with photographs to match. “The Stingrays have built-in stealth field generators, but the Witiko have designed stealth fields in north and south California, one at Beale Air Force Base outside of Sacramento, another just went on-line at the old Marine Corps logistic base outside of Barstow.”

Brett Stanton asked, “What do you mean, stealth field generators?”

Gordon answered, “The Stingray ships generate their own stealth capability but the Witiko have put together a system that, in theory, will allow all their ships in certain areas to become stealthy, as long as they have been upgraded with the right components.”

Trevor examined Knox’s photos. One showed what could have been a massive, three-sided stereo speaker with sloped walls stretching dozens of feet into the air.

“What kind of strange alien device is this?”

Knox corrected, “It’s not alien at all. It’s one of the PAVE PAWS phased array radar facilities. The US Air Force Space Command used to use them to detect missiles. The Witiko worked some of their high-tech alien magic on them. Now they emit what we’re calling a ‘stealth field’. Their human-built jet fighters and helicopters will have the same stealth capability as their Stingrays, as long as they’re within the radius of these generators, pretty much most of northern California and a nice chunk of the south.”

“Wait a sec,” Dante leaned forward. “We won’t be able to see their planes coming on radar? Are you kidding me?”

Jon said, “Our fighters won’t be able to get radar locks on enemy targets. We don’t think they can mask heat signatures, but we will be at a disadvantage in dog fights. The Cooperative’s human-built fighters will have a much greater standoff distance. Could be a problem.”

“Then we work the problem,” Trevor grew agitated. He had heard bits and pieces for months now, but it seemed to be adding up to a bigger battle than he had hoped.

Gordon assured, “It’s all very theoretical, of course. These stealth fields might not work at all. We just have to buck-up and see what happens.”

Dante shot, “Easy for you to say. You won’t be flying in a jet.”

Trevor cut the confrontation off, “We have people inside; people who want out. The Cooperative isn’t the utopia this Brad Gannon paints it to be.”

Lori reminded, “He’s spent the last three days touring The Empire trying to drum up resistance to an invasion. He even met with the religious tribunal. Why did you let him in?”

Dante answered for Trevor, “Hey, the guy is a human being. Last I heard, we were taking in anyone who wanted to come over.”

“Enough,” Trevor brought the meeting to a close. As he spoke he made eye contact with everyone around the table. “Jon, you’ve been working on plans for this for months. Coordinate with the stuff Gordon has lined up and let’s get ready. I’m going to put together an ultimatum, we’ll give them a few days, then we take care of this. Now let’s get moving. There’s a lot to do.”

Everyone gathered their papers and faded off toward the steps leading from the basement.

As he headed for the stairs, Trevor saw Anita Nehru and Omar standing in a corner talking. Or, at least, Omar talking and Anita not listening.

Trevor drifted over and asked, “What’s going on?”

Over the years, Trevor heard all manner of sarcasm from Omar as well as excitement, puzzlement, and terror. Yet he had never seen an expression of such desperation on the man’s face. Worse, Omar spoke without a hint of his usual accent, suggesting a great deal of worry.

“It is Anita. She has not been home to see the family in three weeks. She has been working non-stop at Red Rock. She does not call. She does not tell us anything.”

Trevor studied the woman: vacant expression, her long black hair unkempt, bags under her eyes, chewed nails on fidgeting fingers.

“Anita, what’s going on?”

Her tired eyes widened as if forcing attentiveness.

“Nothing. I’m fine. Omar is over reacting.”

“Over reacting? No, no, when have you been home last? When have you slept?”

“I sleep. I catch an hour or two at the lab.”

Trevor jumped in, “Maybe you’re pushing yourself too hard. What’s going on?”

“I’m not pushing too hard! Damn it, just leave me alone. I’m close to something, Trevor. I’m close. We’re making breakthroughs.”

He contradicted, “I’ve seen nothing new out of Red Rock in a while.”

“You can’t put everything in a report. Some of it…some if it…”

Omar pleaded, “You see! She is exhausted. She is not even thinking straight.”

Anita rebounded, “I’m on to something, Trevor. Do you hear me? I’m on to something. Those…those…” her eyes glazed as her mind drifted back to the underground corridors and labs and containment cells at Red Rock. “…those things from Voggoth’s realm…I’m getting a feel for them… something to them…something…familiar.”

“She is talking nonsense! Trevor, you must do something.”

“Yes,” Stone agreed. “Anita, take the next week off.”

She reacted as if stung by electricity. “No! I have important work to do.”

“It can wait,” he ordered. “And if you can’t pull yourself away from your work to take a week with your family, then I’m going to place you on forced medical leave and make you go see a counselor or something. Got it?”

She slammed her mouth shut so fast the two men heard teeth click. Her eyes flared with anger for a long moment, to the point that Trevor felt uncomfortable. Then that anger faded. She placed a hand to her head and closed her eyes.

“I’m…I’m sorry. Yes, you’re right. I need…I could use a break.”

Omar put an arm around his wife.

Trevor said, “I’m ordering relaxation and family time.”

Omar smiled.

“One of your better orders, I must be saying.”

Invasion

Few aircraft appeared less aerodynamic than an Eagle shuttle. The front featured a pointy capsule with a thin window. To rear, a pair of engine baffles pushing hydrogen-generated thrust.

Like many of humanity’s tools in the war, the Eagles came to Earth with one of the invaders and had been adapted for man’s use thanks to the engineering genius of Omar Nehru.

Trevor occupied one of the two seats in the cockpit, the other manned by his personal pilot, Rick Hauser.

Hauser wore a pair of bulky goggles that tricked his eyes into thinking that he was the craft, not merely a passenger inside; a fusing of pilot and ship like nothing any human had experienced before.

While Hauser flew, Trevor stared out the cockpit window thinking about the coming battle now that The Cooperative had ignored his ultimatum.

Through that window he saw the ultimate example of confiscated alien equipment aiding the human cause. Thanks to the same anti-gravity technology that kept the Eagles aloft, the dreadnought Excalibur hung in the air two thousand feet above the blue waters of massive Walker Lake, Nevada just east of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

The Excalibur presented an aggressive profile. The rounded lip at the bow of the rectangular behemoth marked the start of a flat top. The ‘tower’ section dominated the rear third, one side a gigantic aircraft hangar, on the other—to stern—terraced levels peppered with launch pads, gun barrels, antenna, observation windows, and more. A squat dome on the tower housed the bridge, or the ship’s “brain.”

Hauser eased the Eagle to a landing pad with little noise from the smooth engines. The shuttle turned and lowered with so little fuss that Trevor could imagine he road an elevator.

After touching down, the pad descended and the morning sun disappeared as a protective bulkhead shut overhead. Bright white lights illuminated a hangar complete with fuel hoses, technicians in gray coveralls, and a greasy floor. Had it been full of Chevrolets, it could pass for a corner garage.

Trevor unbuckled his safety harness and stood.

Before leaving he said to Hauser, “You’re briefed, right?”

“Yes sir,” the pilot answered. “We’ll be on standby if you need us.”

As Trevor exited the cockpit and walked through Eagle One’s passenger compartment, his eyes darted to the specialized equipment that had replaced one row of seating. That equipment included two lockers holding special combat suits rigged to a charging station. There was also a weapons rack stocked with plasma rifles stolen from Duass infantrymen, a human-made M-4 carbine, a Chaktaw rail gun, and several pistols. Each held special meaning to Trevor and each offered a different way to kill.

A ramp extended from the ship’s sliding side door to the floor of the bay. Tyr, who had been sleeping at the rear of the shuttle, trotted ahead and down the ramp.

The smell of grease and the sounds of tools and chatter filled the hangar. A water hose extended to refuel the hydrogen-powered shuttle.

Trevor entered the standby room. Rows of chairs, a large television, and plentiful storage compartments of spare parts, uniforms, fire suits, and other emergency gear lined the walls. There he met Woody “Bear” Ross, a one-time professional linebacker turned artillery commander by Stonewall McAllister and now the Excalibur’s first officer.

Trevor asked, “Anything?”

The black man with the bull dog jowls usually spoke in a booming voice. This time, however, his voice sounded soft and sorry.

“No, sir. I think they’re resolved to fight.”

Trevor closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, letting all the reluctance and doubt and questions dissipate.

He opened his eyes and hardened his jaw.

“Launch the invasion.”

*

Trevor stood on the crescent-shaped bridge of the Excalibur. Ahead of him stretched a gray wall with rectangular windows offering a breathtaking view of thousands of feet of flight deck reaching toward the bow.

Under those windows and along the outer walls sat workstations with computer screens, microphones, and electronic displays. In front of each of those stations labored technicians in black and gray coveralls, most with communicator headsets.

Every one busied themselves with checks and re-checks, status updates and reports. Yet, despite the intensity of their work, those busy technicians served as redundant cogs in a system controlled by a solitary individual.

Jon Brewer acted as the Excalibur’s ‘brain’ that morning. His station dominated the center of the control room on a slightly raised platform surrounded by handrails with a Captain’s chair waiting behind for those moments that allowed for rest.

He stood in a cone of colorful touch screens hanging from the ceiling with angled keyboards mounted in arm’s reach. He wore a headset combining a microphone with a visor that worked similar to the Eagles’ Nav goggles and he carried a small electronic device that acted one part pointer and one part computer mouse.

All of the ship’s functions funneled through the ‘brain.’ Jon could control them directly or quickly delegate to any station on the bridge. To serve as the ‘brain’ of a dreadnought required quick reflexes and a thorough understanding of the ship’s workings.

Trevor fixed his eyes on the sky beyond the windows while the bridge crew shouted and discussed and hurried to war.

“Alert five, Aardvarks and F-15s in the pipe.”

“Holding at angel two.”

“Grav-pult green, ready to smack.”

The chatter mixed and raised to a crescendo…and stopped.

Trevor realized the crew waited for him. He turned to Jon. The brain removed his goggles and asked, “Go or no-go?”

Humanity’s Emperor shut his eyes.

After more than a year of preparation, months of negotiation, and hours of trepidation, the time had come. The decision rested on Trevor Stone’s shoulders. He could pull them away from the precipice if he chose. He could re-open negotiations. He could try to persuade.

Or he could continue the war he seemed cursed to fight. The war that served as his purpose, according to the Old Man.

Trevor saw the bodies of Chaktaw fighters dangling upside down from makeshift crosses on the wastelands outside the city of Thebes on a parallel Earth. He saw himself relishing the slaughter only to learn that he fought on the side of the invaders; that every victory he won there had furthered Voggoth’s cause.

Could he be so sure that striking at the California Cooperative served man’s interest?

Trevor did not find the truth behind his closed eyes, but he did find the answer. The only answer he knew. There had been a time when he had known that answer with surety. Now he spoke the answer because he did not know any other way.

“Attack.”

The chatter returned twofold

Jon issued orders through key strokes and voice commands. Shouts around the bridge echoed those orders: “Condition Red. Battle stations. Battle stations.”

“This is Air Boss; Brain says smack the fighters. Repeat, get my birds off the deck.”

“Roger that, priority smack on the MiGCAP, two by two.”

Far below, the flight deck exploded into organized chaos. Men in magnetic boots raced across the tarmac. Navigation lights flashed. Klaxons warned of an erupting storm.

At the rear of the flat top beneath the cover of the mammoth hangar, two horizontal bulkheads slid open, each at the end of a long strip of white runway lines.

Two F-15s rose from those holes and hovered a few feet above the deck in the grip of the ‘gravity catapult’. Painted on their tail fins was a feminine arm holding a bolt of lighting.

From his observation point high above, the Air Boss ordered, “Dasher One, Mother says smack your ass.”

The first F-15 catapulted forward, thrown by a current of gravity ‘smacking’ it off the flight deck into the air ahead of the Excalibur. The stressful maneuver would not have been possible without substantial structural upgrades and a corresponding gravity ‘magnet’ situated inside the jet’s fuselage.

As it cleared the deck, Dasher One banked hard to the left just as the Excalibur ‘smacked’ Dasher Two along a parallel runway.

Seconds later another pair of planes felt a smack from ‘Mother’ on their own asses. The process continued until six F-15s circled in a holding pattern around the dreadnought.

“Aardvarks, in the pipe.”

The F-111 tactical fighter-bombers had received a new life in the post-Armageddon world after having been all but retired from the United States arsenal. Two of the green-painted flyers rose to the deck and then sprung forward, shaking and rattling from the intense g-forces until swooshing into the clouds overhead the Excalibur.

Moments after, another pair of Aardvarks joined the fleet flying overhead.

“Air Boss to Thunder and Lightning, you’re good to go, happy hunting.”

The escorts took point and led the bombers west toward California.

*

“Dasher One to Thunder and Lightning, snuggle up folks we’re hitting the dead zone, watch your scopes.”

The formation of fighters and bombers flew through a perfectly blue sky high above the jagged, white-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountains. The steady drone of engines and the crackle of radio chatter presented the only distractions in a mission that began without a hitch.

As per Dasher One’s orders, the pilots tightened formation as they entered the estimated zone of effect for The Cooperative’s “Stealth Field” generated out of Beale.

“Dasher One, this is Dash Two, my scope is clear.”

“That’s great, Billy.”

“No, Dash-One, I mean it. Clear.”

The female weapons officer on board the lead F-111 joined the conversation, “Dasher Two, this is Dash Seven, I read you, I got a cold nose. Nothing. Not even us.”

The veteran pilot who went by the call-sign Dasher One understood.

“Christ, you’re right. Nothing. Hang on. Excalibur, this is Thunder and Lightning, we have total black out on our scopes. Nothing on radar. Not even each other.”

Another voice joined the air waves from an F-15 pilot on the far side of the formation: “Dash One, this is Dash Six, look twelve o’clock, is that a contrail?”

“Easy bubba, let’s see…”

A flash broke the formation as Dash Six exploded in a ball of metal and fire. The concussion rocked the planes.

“Charlie Foxtrot! All planes, activate ECM! TACAN this is Dasher One we’ve got incoming!”

“Dash One, this is Two, more coming at twelve. Christ! There’s nothing on my scopes!”

“Excalibur, this is flights Thunder and Lightning, we have incoming missiles but nothing on our scopes. Taking evasive action.”

The planes broke formation. Electronic counter measures tried to fool incoming missiles fired from unseen assailants.

“Dasher One this is Dasher Four, executing Yo-Yo…”

“Dash Two—Billy, punch it and do a barrel roll, maybe we can get ‘em to over shoot.”

The planes split and raced up, down, and off. Afterburners glowed hot; thrust plastered pilots into cockpit seats and strained both men and machine.

One then two of the enemy shots missed, a third clipped off the wing of Dasher Ten, an F-111. As the bird spiraled toward the spiked mountains below, the cockpit assembly separated with the pilot and weapons officer inside. A chute deployed and it descended into the unknown.

Dasher One and Two completed their maneuvers and re-aligned. The other F-15s and F-111s found formation again.

“Bogey! Bogey!”

“Electric Jets at twelve o’clock coming in fast!”

“Hit the burners!”

The Imperial planes followed Dasher One’s orders and created maximum thrust on their afterburners. The sudden jolt of speed surprised the enemy flight of four black F-16s, once known as ‘electric jets’ to old school aviators.

The opposing fighters roared by in a blur. Streams of jet wash rocked the passing planes like boats caught in wakes.

“Dash Two, take Thunder flight and hit your primary target. Dash three, take my wing, four and five you two are married. Swing around, it’s time to bump heads.”

“Dash One, that’s a negative, you’ve got no scopes.”

“Follow orders, Billy, I don’t need a scope to splash these pricks. You got your orders.”

Dasher One executed a high-g turn about and ordered, “Find their tailpipes and use the heaters. Thunder, get your asses in gear. Every one else, snuggle up to these bandits we want a knife fight in a phone booth here.”

The F-16s held a huge advantage not only in radar but also in maneuverability. Their only chance was to use heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles at close range.

“Dasher One this is Dash Seven, roger that, tallyho.”

Four of the F-15s closed ranks and sought targets. The three remaining F-111s followed Dasher Two’s fighter to the west.

*

Trevor shifted uneasily aboard the bridge of the Excalibur as the radio chatter echoed through the control room.

The first question of the day had been answered: the California Cooperative’s stealth field worked as advertised. Imperial jets in the zone lost their radar, rendering radar-locking munitions ineffective and blinding them to the enemy.

The fight played over the radio.

“Dash One, Fox Two.”

“Dash Four, you’ve got one on you six.”

“Heater found its mark! Sierra Hotel! Splash one bandit!”

“Roger that Dash One, Bravo Zulu.”

“Dash Four, turn to your…”

“Dash Four is down. Mother send a Helo, I’ve got one of my boys in trouble.”

“Dash One, this is Dash Five, negative, I didn’t see a chute. He didn’t get out, man.”

“Dash Three, Fox Two, missile away.”

“Christ. This is one fucked up fur ball. I can’t see shit on my scopes! How the Hell we supposed to fight these guys?”

“I’m hit! This is Dash Three, I got—”

Static.

“Three? Three? What’s your status?”

“Dasher One this is Dasher Five, three is gone away, no chute.”

“Flight leader, Dash Five here, bandits bugging east, tell Mother company’s coming.”

“Dasher one, Fox Two! Missile track…shit…missed.”

“Excalibur to Lightning Flight, disengage.”

“Lightning lead to Mother, you got bad guys heading your way.”

*

Dasher Two led the three Aardvarks low and fast over the sharp peaks of the Sierra Nevadas. Those peaks became less pronounced and more green than white as the target approached.

Billy—the F-15 pilot—knew the target zone from photographs and computer mock-ups salvaged from Pentagon records and maps. The older pilots in his group—guys like Dasher One who had been flying before ‘all this’—told stories of mission planning that involved detailed satellite imagery and real-time Intel.

Must be nice.

Alas, military satellites were unreliable and rarely accessible. No more GPS-guided munitions, at least for the time being. Throw in the interference of the Stealth Field and that meant laser-guided and even gravity—‘dumb’—bombs. Of course, the whole point of Thunder flight was to take out that Stealth Field. The target should be easy enough to hit: a big three-sided building resembling a 1970’s stereo speaker.

“Thunder, we need altitude. Let’s grab some sky.”

Each plane gained altitude. While this made them easier marks for the defenses at Beale, it also allowed the gunners on the Aardvarks to better target their quarry.

“Dash Two this is Dash Seven, we’re locked and loaded just get us to the party.”

“Roger that,” he answered her voice. “Make it count.”

The old PAVE-PAWS facility sat three miles east of an airport. It came in to view as the mountains faded away, replaced by trench-like mounds of rolling earth.

Billy spied the three-sided structure on the far side of a group of featureless, rectangular buildings which, he knew from his briefings, had stood for decades. However, he also saw that The Cooperative had made some changes.

A tower with dark-tinted windows and an array of sensors on top rose from the center of the compound. A pair of mushroom-shaped objects protruded from the sides of the tower. No one in the briefing knew their function.

On the south side of the complex the Witiko had constructed a square, open-roofed building that intelligence labeled the ‘pen’ but that was all they shared on that subject.

Next, Billy spotted three horizontal boxes atop short bases, what intelligence guessed to be anti-air batteries.

To the north of the three main buildings sat a cluster of fuel tanks. Billy thought how confident the Witiko must be in their defenses to locate such explosive materials close to their facility.

“I’m painting the target now,” the female weapons officer aboard Dash Seven reported.

Billy saw a flash, then another, from the base. Despite a clear scope, he understood.

“INCOMING!”

“One more second…”

He saw—literally saw—the weld marks and bolts on the surface of an anti-air missile as it streaked by his cockpit.

The three bombers stayed on course even as the missiles closed. The first two missed but the third hit Dasher Eight. The plane disintegrated into a cloud of fast-flying debris. Thrusting engines—no longer attached to an airframe—flew off aimlessly like rogue fireworks.

Nonetheless, the remaining two Aardvarks dropped clusters of ordnance following laser beams toward the PAVE PAWS building.

That’s when the mushroom-shaped devices revealed their nature.

Metal covers on each slid away revealing honeycombs. From those holes fired a veil of shells in a dense storm creating a bubble of safety overhead of the base, hitting and destroying the incoming payloads.

Some of the laser-guided bombs exploded in the air, others smashed off-course and landed inside the chain link fence surrounding the Stealth generator, causing damage to secondary buildings.

Another anti-air missile scored a hit, tearing apart Dash Seven and sending lifeless pieces—mechanical and otherwise—tumbling from the sky.

With their strike thoroughly defeated and more missiles aiming their way, the remaining Aardvark and Billy’s F-15 retreated as fast as their engines allowed.

*

Jon Brewer—the Brain of the Excalibur—darted his eyes from display to display. Voices and tones played through his earpiece. His right hand rolled a track ball fixed in a side rail that in turn moved a pointer on the Air CounterMeasures screen to the Heat-Defeat option.

At the same time, on the right eyeglass of his goggles he saw the image of approaching F-16 jets. Beyond those goggles he could see—on another of the mounted screens—a radar image that offered no warning of the approaching threat.

His left fingers found the buttons he wanted not by looking, but by training. The voices in his ear piece echoed his orders.

“Sparrow tubes loaded and ready.”

“Securing flight deck; closing hangar doors.”

“Close Support Batteries ready to fire.”

He waited. The F-16s closed. Soon enough, The Cooperative’s fighters would have to leave the safety of their Stealth Field if they wanted to engage the Excalibur.

And when they did…

First one, then three flashed on the radar.

I see you now.

Jon’s fingers tapped a warning.

“Incoming enemy fire. Brace for impact.”

Three more faster-moving blips painted on the radar screen. Missiles. His missiles.

“Sparrows away.”

Rockets raced from the Excalibur and passed more rockets heading in for the massive ship, fired by the F-16s. A bank of radar-controlled Gatling guns on swiveling turrets along the bow of the Excalibur fired in tandem, managing to knock out the first of the inbound projectiles.

The second missile skipped across the flight deck and exploded near the closed hangar bulkhead. The third flew over the flight deck and hit the superstructure square-on. A tremble vibrated across the bridge.

Jon’s eyepiece found the appropriate camera. His inspection of the damage saw it as superficial. It would take much more to penetrate the thick hide of a dreadnought.

The cluster of six missiles he had rapid-fired from Sparrow tubes Bow 1 and Bow 2 chased after The Cooperative’s F-16s. Those planes banked hard and flew fast for the safety of their Stealth Field.

Jon watched on both radar and telescope.

The missiles closed. The planes ran like antelope from lions.

C’mon, c’mon…

The three blips disappeared from radar. Then the six tracking blips of the Sparrows also disappeared. Through his view finder, Jon saw the F-16s slow and change altitude. Now inside the dead zone, the Sparrows lost their radar track and flew off without guidance.

He announced for Trevor to hear, “Damn, they made it back to their side before the missiles hit. They got away. I think…wait a second…”

From his position at the command station Jon monitored everything; a continual flow of information and images. One of those images came from a camera on the belly of the ship.

He saw them two miles out moving through crevices between mountain peaks, hugging the ground nearly hidden from view while their self-generating Stealth Fields hid them from electronic surveillance.

“INBOUND! Two Witiko Stingrays, starboard side contact in five seconds!”

The weapons officer repeated an order that the Brain sent electronically: “Close support batteries to manual control. Gun crews, man your stations.”

With their stealth capability hiding the Stingrays from his scopes, Jon attempted to grab an infrared lock on the warships’ rear thrusters.

The black and silver attack craft swooped up from the mountains like frenzied sharks swimming for the kill. The speed and agility of the Stingrays stood in stark contrast to the stationery bulk of the Excalibur.

High powered cannons fired in defense at the rate of thousands of rounds per minute, but without radar locks they could not do to the ships what they had done to the missiles.

In contrast, the Stingrays could not fail to hit. They raced toward the undercarriage of the dreadnought, pushed by twin rockets.

Once in the dreadnought’s shadow, the attackers fired thick gold energy beams. As the ships moved so did their beams, cutting a path across the belly of the mechanical beast and penetrating the tough hide of Steel Plus. Sparks exploded from the slice, bursts of flames and smoke erupted from the lacerations carved in the hull.

The Stingrays turned off their weapons momentarily, stayed in parallel formation, adjusted their flight, and swung up and around the stern of the Excalibur.

They then flew sideways and cut two more slices into the rear of The Empire’s flagship. This time the weapons pealed open the bulkhead on one of the Eagle landing pads and also tore a gash in an engine baffle.

In response, a bank of aft-mounted turrets sprayed rapid rounds across the first Stingray’s port side, rupturing the ship’s skin and causing a small explosion. Flakes of its metal skeleton blew off and the attacker rocked side to side like a boxer taken by a surprise upper cut.

The Stingrays nearly clipped the tower as they dove toward the flight deck. Their lasers blasted streaks in the runway causing smoke to rise from twin lines of seared steel.

Jon finally found his infrared lock. The Witiko must have received warning, for the two cruisers rocketed away at full power, dipping toward the mountains just as two heat-seekers streaked away from launch tubes.

One smacked into the rear of an enemy ship. An explosion tore away chunks of hull and knocked an engine off-line. The cruiser wobbled and, for a short moment, looked as if it might tumble from the sky. Instead, the Witiko craft righted itself and continued on, albeit at less velocity.

The second heat seeker fell sucker to flares and exploded far away from its target as the Witiko attackers disappeared from sight.

Around the bridge, alarm klaxons rung and technicians spoke in rushed voices as damage control parties and medics reported in.

Jon—the Brain—re-opened the flight deck to gather his flock of wounded fighters.

With the Air Boss in control of that operation, Jon removed his head set and turned to Trevor.

“Thunder flight reports bombing run ineffective. They say the base is well-defended against air attack.”

Trevor kept his eyes staring forward. The first salvo in the war against California had ended in embarrassment.

Jon questioned, “I suppose we should take in the dreadnoughts directly. Pound Beale with the boppers until they’re nothing but dust.”

This time Stone did speak, first with a slow shake of his head then whispered words, “No. That’s exactly what the Witiko would expect. It’s what they want. Two of those Stingrays cut us up pretty good and were on us before we knew it. We go into their space while the Stealth Field is still up and they’ll mob us with jet plans, SAMS, and cruisers.”

“So then what?”

Trevor told Jon, “Plan B.”

Plan B

Stonewall walked across Interstate 5, his eyes fixed on the trio of burning tanks. Black, oily smoke rose in plumes and intertwined as if dancing as they drifted into the overcast sky.

Two of his bodyguards followed but they said nothing. The only sounds other than the crackling and popping blazes came from the soft jingle of the General’s sword as it swayed on his belt, and the dull thud of his boots on the pavement.

Garrett pulled off his hat and wiped a sleeve across his forehead but kept his eyes on the burning wrecks; funeral pyres for three tank crews courtesy of an enemy Super Cobra.

These were not the only such crematoriums. In two days of fighting, the Second Mechanized Division of Virginia lost a dozen tanks—nearly half their compliment—and an equal number of trucks, Humvees, and armored cars not to mention more than seventy soldiers killed and twice that number injured.

Of course, the optimists bragged that Stonewall’s spearhead penetrated nearly forty miles into California, threatening The Cooperative’s northern outpost at Weed. Not a lie, but not exactly the truth, either. Weed served as The Cooperative’s only sizeable defensive line in the northern part of the state. In fact, McAllister had set up camp at Yreka—well inside California’s northern border—days before hostilities began.

Captain Benny Duda approached on horseback. He hurried a salute to his CO although the latter refused to look away from the dead armor.

Stonewall spoke first, “I wonder if this adventure would proceed more favorably if we had Dustin’s Cavalry Brigade,” Garrett waved a hand toward the foothills on either side of the road. “He would travel through the wilderness, away from this open highway, like we did in the early days. When we followed my vision. Or was it a dream? Whatever the truth, we did not travel on the main roads, we stayed in cover.”

“Yes, General. Things were different then, sir.”

Garrett’s eyes widened. “Oh yes. Much different. The times, as they say, have changed.”

“Dustin is still in Colorado, sir. He won’t be joining us anytime soon.”

“Ah, yes, General Shepherd has use for Dustin there. Besides,” Stonewall watched his tanks burn and repeated in an acidic tone what Intelligence told him before the attack, “we won’t be needing him here.”

The first two days of fighting The Cooperative had been bad days. The advantages of California’s Stealth Field generator out of Beale were easy to see on Interstate 5 that afternoon. They never knew the chopper approached until its missiles hit the armor.

“I’m sorry, Benny, you came here to tell me something not listen to my rambling.”

“Oh, um, yes, General. We’ve been ordered to send a detachment over toward Callahan.”

“Pardon me, but did you say Callahan?”

Stonewall knew the tiny gold-rush era town of Callahan rested approximately fifteen miles to the west on the rim of the Shasta National Forest and sat squarely in the middle of Route 3, a north to south thoroughfare paralleling Interstate 5.

“Benjamin, you must be mistaken. Several thousand enemy infantry with gun ship support await us outside of Weed, a far more important target than a poorly armed garrison numbering less than two hundred.”

“No sir, that’s the order. You need to confirm receipt with the courier who brought it.”

Ten minutes later, Stonewall stormed into his command tent at a rest stop along the Interstate. There, sitting in one of two chairs around a big map unfurled on a wooden table, waited a man with a bushy mustache and a shaved head wearing green camouflage but no rank on his collar. Stonewall’s urgent steps stopped as he recognized his visitor.

“Ah yes, Mister Gordon Knox. I should have guessed that an order to send my troops on a foolish errand could only come from Imperial Intelligence.”

Gordon stood and smiled. Stonewall, in contrast, found it difficult to smile after having watched so many of his tanks burn due to The Cooperative’s Stealth Shield, a technology Intelligence thought would be ‘unreliable.’

Knox stood next to one of the hanging oil lamps lighting the tent and told McAllister, “I need you to occupy Callahan. That isn’t too much to ask, is it?”

“No, of course not. Just do me a favor and ask The Cooperative not to send any of their attack helicopters in our direction. You see, we’re having a devil of a time spotting their approach. Why, before we even know what hits us, we lose two, three, sometimes more of our tanks and a fair number of troops. And veteran troops such as mine are so difficult to replace.”

“Oh, now never fear, General. We just need to tough this out a little while longer. Trust me, taking Callahan will be easy. The garrison will not only surrender to you, they will replace some of those valuable veteran troops you have lost.”

That captured General McAllister’s attention.

Knox continued, “You see, while The Cooperative’s Stealth Field works rather well, it seems the rest of their little paradise isn’t quite as wonderful for the rank and file.”

Stonewall could not help it. He matched Knox’s smile.

*

The Eagle airships sat in the dark wedged between tall Ponderosa Pines. It had taken skill for the four ships to find landing zones in the dense hillside forest, but it had taken even more skill to fly low enough among the mountain crevices and gorges to avoid detection.

Inside Eagle One, Trevor Stone opened a locker and pulled out a gray suit covered in a kind of wiry mesh. Other soldiers already wore the suits, including rubbery helmets and metallic faceplates with goggles.

Rick Hauser walked from the cockpit to the passenger compartment.

Trevor, slipping one leg then the other into the body suit, asked, “Time?”

Hauser answered, “Thirty minutes. What if she’s late?”

Trevor slipped his left arm in one of the sleeves and said, “Then we’re all dead.”

At first glance, the strange battle suits might be mistaken for padded scuba gear. In truth, the suits provided extra support, actually enhancing the wearer’s endurance. Just as he reverse-engineered alien technology from the invading armies, Omar Nehru had reversed-engineered the suit Trevor brought home from the humans of an alternate universe.

He fit the mask on and peered through the goggles. Hauser double-checked the mesh that covered the suit and Trevor’s assault rifle, and ensured all the power cords were connected. The mesh had not come from that alternate Earth but, rather, came from the Chaktaw; another piece of alien technology adapted for humanity’s use.

Hauser asked, “Sir, are you sure you should be in the front lines on this one?”

He placed a hand on Rick’s shoulder. That served as answer enough.

“Let’s go.”

The lights in the cabin turned off. The side door slid open.

Hauser watched the strike teams head off into the forest behind a line of K9s.

*

Sparkling stars covered the midnight sky above the buildings once home to the Seventh Space Warning Squadron. The fence-enclosed facility sat atop one of the many small, grassy hills west of the Sierra Nevada range and housed the PAVE PAWS antenna that resembled a three-sided 1970s era stereo speaker standing several stories tall.

The Witiko enhancements—a tower, anti-air emplacements, a fuel depot, a box-like building known as ‘the pen’—gave the compound a cluttered, messy look.

That clutter provided cover for Nina Forest and Vince Caesar, the Dark Wolves charged with infiltrating the main building. At the same time, Carl Bly and Oliver Maddock lay in ghillie suits atop hills within sniping distance of the complex.

Two days since the failed air strike, the Dark Wolves did what the F-111s failed to do; breach the facility’s defenses. Unlike the planes, Nina’s team received considerable help in the form of one disgruntled janitor (a former Cal-Berkley Professor) who hid the two commandos on a maintenance truck.

Armed with a detailed layout of the complex, Nina and Vince made their way to the roof of the four-story building at the center of the base. There they knelt in the darkness, their black tactical suits blending with the night.

Nina dribbled sizzling yellow goo from a small packet onto the iron bolts holding a metal grate above a ventilation shaft. Vince helped her pull the shield away after the bolts dissolved.

With that obstruction cast aside, Vince Caesar assembled a tripod hoist from which dangled a stretch of nylon rope. Nina slipped the hook at the end of that rope around a latch on her body suit and then adjusted the small, but heavy, pack slung on her shoulders.

As for armaments, she left behind her assault rifle and sword, planning to rely on stealth and speed as opposed to firepower.

Nina swung her legs into the shaft…

…A guard in black coveralls continued to walk his rounds between tan-painted walls. His boot steps echoed along the marble floor, announcing both his coming and going.

Nina—hiding behind dusty old crates stacked in a dead-end corridor—allowed the guard to continue unmolested. Moments later, she moved from cover into the open, traversing the brightly-lit corridors.

She had memorized the map provided by the janitor and walked fast for her objective. Of course, she knew she would be discovered eventually, she only hoped to complete her job on time. And while completing her job was always her primary goal, tonight’s mission meant even more; she knew Trevor Stone led the assault on the base.

Why he chose to fight in the front lines she did not know. Indeed, the more she thought about Trevor Stone the more he confused her. Ironically, as that confusion grew she found herself more and more intrigued by the man.

Three years ago Stone traveled into hostile territory to rescue Nina and her team, for reasons she did not understand. But now—tonight—she did understand that Trevor trusted her to take out the base’s defenses, to the point that he essentially placed his life in her hands.

Yes, she would complete the mission. No one—human or alien—would stand in her way.

Nevertheless, she scurried through the enemy’s hallways with a silenced pistol ranking as her most lethal weapon. If things came to a firefight, she stood at a serious disadvantage. Then again, if a firefight erupted before she breached the main computer room her mission would fail.

Captain Nina Forest came to a stretch of corridor where an ancient wall-mounted security camera swung on a motorized swivel. She pressed against the wall and hurried under the device, timing her movement so as to be below the camera’s arc of vision as it panned…

…Trevor led the two dozen soldiers of the strike team from the mountain slope onto the rolling, grassy hills surrounding the generator complex. With the cover of the mountainside behind, the time had come to take advantage of Omar Nehru’s hard work in studying and adapting Chaktaw battle ponchos.

“Suits on,” he radioed.

One by one the soldiers touched small units mounted on their belts. The chameleon mesh on the suits powered up and adjusted to match the ambient colors around the wearers. In this case, the gray suits changed to a pattern of brown and faded gold in reflection of the dipping and rising field they crossed. The soldiers did not turn invisible— not truly—but only the keenest eyes could depict their moving silhouettes against the background…

…To Nina’s left, a thin hall stretched twenty yards to a ‘T’. At that ‘T’ waited a wall of tall glass windows and a corresponding glass door. Behind those windows and that door stood a forest of Cray Supercomputers controlling the network of security sensors around the exterior of the base.

While the place hosted only a small garrison of Cooperative soldiers, a protective shield of automated turrets could rip apart any ground force.

Nina spied two humans with side arms standing in front of those glass windows, one a short bald black man, the other taller with curly dark hair. The two shared words over something written on the bald black man’s clipboard.

She also noticed a shadow stretching from around the corner, indicating a third person—human or otherwise—waiting in the wings. She also knew that at least two technicians worked inside the computer room.

Nina momentarily closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. She exhaled that breath in a softly-whispered battle cry no louder than her heart beat…the cry of a dark wolf: “awwwooooo.”

She turned the corner and ran full speed, her ponytail wavered behind like a rippling streamer. The two men in front of the glass windows pulled their eyes from the clipboard to see a woman in black BDUs charging.

Nina leapt and drove a flying sidekick into the bald black man’s chest, sending the clipboard off in one direction and the man hard into the glass behind. His head whiplashed against the window, causing a crack and sending him into a state of unconsciousness before his body hit the floor.

Nina landed where that man had stood a split second before and turned on the taller, curly-haired guy. Even as she moved to deal with him her eyes identified the shadow: a silver-faced Witiko officer armed with one of the aliens’ standard-issue rifles, a weapon resembling a cross between a long rifle and a Gatling gun.

While her eyes identified the Witiko, Nina kicked the curly-haired man’s knee before he could draw his pistol. As he crumpled she drove a hammer fist to the soft spot at the back of his skull. He fell unconscious.

The motion of her hammer-fist carried through to her utility belt after hitting the man’s head. In the blink of an eye, she grabbed a sharp throwing star from that belt and reversed the motion of her arm in a graceful arc. The shiny, deadly star lodged in the Witiko’s throat at the same moment he brought his rifle to bear.

Captain Forest wasted no time. She pulled her silenced pistol from a thigh rig and fired a circle of shots into the glass. Next, she un-slung the small but heavy satchel around her shoulder and flung it against the center of the circle she had cut in the glass with her bullets. That weakened slab fell inwards and the satchel tumbled into the computer room. The two shocked technicians scrambled for cover; Nina dropped to the floor and covered her head.

The charge exploded not with shrapnel but a blast of sound, flash, and concussion. Several banks of the Cray computers toppled like dominoes. What remained of the glass wall shattered. One of the technicians—a woman in brown coveralls—flew against the far wall and suffered a fatal head injury. The second tech—an older man—rolled across the floor and came to rest a few paces from the primary upload console, known to Nina Forest as the mission objective.

She walked into the computer room with her eyes fixed on the CD drive at the upload console. Her shoes cracked and snapped over broken glass.

The older technician lay flat on his face, moaning and wiggling. Nina casually popped one round into the back of his skull with a dull thwump.

She knelt in front of the upload console, pulled a disk from her belt, and slipped it into the drive. A moment later a monitor confirmed UPLOADING FILE BRUTUS.EXE…

…Midnight duty in the Operations Tower meant two less technicians and a junior officer running the show instead of a senior one. What did not change, however, was that that officer would be a Witiko Skytroop officer.

Human specialists manned the bank of monitors at the front of the tower, using the electronic devices to search for potential threats that could then be dealt with via automated turrets and computer-controlled anti-air missiles.

“Sir,” one of the specialists called for the officer on duty. “Something is wrong.”

The Witiko hurried to the man’s position and glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, the perimeter infrared system flickered then went dead. The same occurred at the radar station, visual monitoring station, and motion detector console.

“Check with the computer room.”

“Sir,” another technician shouted. “There’s no answer from the computer room.”

The Witiko officer ordered, “Send a security team down there,” as he grabbed a red phone from a bank of telephones along the wall. That line called directly to the main gate…

…With the virus fully uploaded, Nina pulled the CD from the console and snapped it in two. Her mission complete, she walked toward the smashed glass at the front of the computer room. She heard the sound of running boots; shadows flickered from a side passage.

She held her pistol in one hand, took a breath, then ran forward. She jumped through the smashed plate glass and hit the marble floor, sliding across like a baseball player diving head first into home plate.

Eight California Cooperative security personnel approached with assault rifles raised. As she slid, Nina fired from her silenced pistol, hitting one of the men in the forehead, another in the leg. Both dropped, one would never get up.

Her bold maneuver surprised the enemy. Nina took advantage of that surprise, rolling around a corner then standing. When on her feet, she raced away retracing her steps from earlier. As she fled, she used her free hand to reach to her pack and grasp the collapsed frame of her ‘little buddy.’

Without looking, she tossed it into the air at the same time releasing a spring. The unit tumbled end over end. As it did, three short legs flipped open. The metallic device landed upright on the marble floor, standing two feet tall on three legs. At its top, a round orb and a short barrel.

The security personnel pursued around the corner.

The ‘little buddy’ wobbled side to side emitting an electronic whop whop whop and fired small energy bolts to cover Nina’s escape. Those bolts hit kneecaps and bellies knocking more men to the ground with third degree burns and forcing others to retreat…

…At the main gate a human sentry answered the buzzing phone in the guard shack while two more heavily armed men strolled along where the road entered the complex.

The sentry sighed as he raised the receiver to his ear. The voice on the other end—a Witiko voice—spoke in a monotone dialect, “We are experiencing sensor failure. Have you seen anything unusual at your post?”

The sentry turned his attention away from the gate and threw his eyes toward the control tower fifty yards away and fifty feet in the air. He focused on the tinted windows there as if trying to make eye contact with the officer to whom he spoke.

“No. Everything is clear down here.”

Behind him, the night itself appeared to move but neither of the patrolling guards took notice until a line of strangely dressed commandos materialized at the gate. The pair of armed sentries could do nothing other than raise their hands in surrender.

The man at the guard shack hung up the telephone with an air of disgust, only to turn and face a gun barrel pointed directly at his eyes.

One of the strangely dressed commandos raised a Javelin rocket launcher and fired. The missile slammed into the Operations Tower. Glass and bodies fell, a cloud of smoke billowed out.

After a moment, three objects came from the tower flying out through the debris cloud: Witiko Skytroops.

Two did not make it far. Sniper rounds from Oliver Maddock and Carl Bly hit the moving targets. They dropped like dead birds.

The third Witiko officer pushed his booster pack to full throttle and arched toward the south of the base, avoiding carbine rounds from the strike team. He landed on the wall of the building Imperial Intelligence had identified as ‘the pen’ and fired the slaver device mounted on his arm into that open-roofed building.

Something big roared…

…Trevor removed his mask and hood as he strolled through the main gate of the complex. His team spread through the facility to secure the relatively small garrison; a task made simple now that the sensors and automated defenses did not function.

The whole place radiated a smell of metal and electricity burning. All controlled, of course, but the Witiko knew much about electronics and rocketry. Trevor felt certain that—like the chameleon suits—captured Cooperative equipment could be assimilated.

Yet despite all the high tech gadgets and captured technology, he knew the victory they won that night came not from wizardry but the skill and reflexes of Nina Forest.

As much as it might cause him pain, he hoped to catch sight of Nina. To tell her…to give her his congratulations on a job well done.

To his left—the south—one of the Eagles came in low over the fence now that the defenses of the base had fallen. It moved slow in support of the commando team with the energy turrets beneath the nose cone swinging from side to side in search of targets. The other ships would arrive soon as well, to provide tactical air support and surveillance.

Regardless, the operation proceeded without a hitch. So much so that Trevor allowed himself to whisper, “Well, that was easy.”

The ground shook. Trevor turned to his left. The thing—the giant—marched into the parking lot from around the corner of a building to the south; thirty feet tall and seemingly made of boulders strung together by red tendons. Its two big legs plodded hard on the paved lot between the main gate and the cluster of buildings. On top of its wide shoulders sat a round rock of a head with two eyes glowing like searchlights and a circular orifice that could swallow a compact car whole.

Trevor noted a Witiko Skytroop hovering over the shoulder of the thing. Suddenly he regretted removing his hood and helmet as the Witiko recognized humanity’s champion.

The walking mountain-thing stepped forward and punched—literally punched with one of its two hands of stone—the hovering Eagle air ship. That craft flat spun over Trevor’s head with engines roaring. The rear landing gear dragged into the fence tearing it down before the ship itself skidded into a grassy slope beyond.

The Witiko’s monster moved in ten-yard strides toward Trevor who ran for his life.

Ignoring the annoying sting of rifle fire, the creature pursued, sensing an opportunity to strike a heavy blow to humanity’s Empire.

Stone bolted to the north, sprinting across the parking lot around a black-painted military Humvee with a California Cooperative insignia two seconds before one of the monster’s feet squashed that vehicle.

Trevor’s hand found the chameleon generator button and switched it on. He felt the camouflage of the suit power up. The mesh covering flickered and morphed into tones of gray and black to blend with the pavement and shadows of the complex.

The creature’s eyes, however, swept the ground like the searchlights they appeared to be. The cones of light found Trevor easily enough.

Trevor ran faster, whipping around the corner of the northern-most building and bolting to his left—.

He stopped.

Trevor stood alongside the tanks, pumps, and cisterns of a fuel station.

The ground shook again. A shadow turned the corner, following Trevor. He heard the hissing of the Witiko officer’s jetpack.

Trevor pulled two grenades from pouches on his battle suit and yanked off the pins.

Glowing cones of light from the beast’s eyes swept the pavement in search of its quarry. A massive rock-like oval foot pounded down.

Trevor tossed the grenades. One rattled against a small cistern, the other between two fuel pumps. Then he ran again. His legs pumped hard and he eyed a green dumpster sitting in a lonely alcove near a pair of doors marked “Cafeteria.”

The gigantic rock-thing passed the fuel depot just as the grenades detonated. One blasted the fuel pumps, sending a streak of burning liquid up like a geyser. The second explosion ignited the fumes inside the cistern.

Trevor dove behind the dumpster and covered his head.

A stormy inferno engulfed the rock-creature, scorching its stony plating and igniting the red tendons between those plates. Its round mouth expanded wide and it bellowed so hard a gust of wind roared over the rooftops. The flames slipped beneath its exoskeleton and torched tender parts.

Scraps of metal from the tanks and pumps dropped around the dumpster. A wave of heat covered the entire area.

When Trevor emerged, he found flames consuming the entire beast. The giant screamed as it cooked alive.

Just as Trevor realized he had survived another against-odds encounter, the creature toppled forward, forcing him to run for his life once again. A moment later the beast crashed into the building above the dumpster.

He stopped running and watched the surreal sight of the motionless, burning monster. Its Witiko master hovered overhead, stymied by the sudden change in fortune but only for a moment; he presented an easy target for Oliver Maddock’s sniper rifle. The silvery goon fell from the sky into the burning pile.

Trevor, half amused and half aghast, walked backwards away from the destruction, trying to escape the foul smell of burning monster-flesh as well as the waves of intense heat emanating from the pyre.

His ass-end bumped into something fleshy. Before he realized that he had bumped into another person, that other person sent him head over feet in a judo flip. Trevor landed hard on the concrete looking up at the silenced end of a pistol barrel…and two blue eyes under blonde hair.

Nina’s hard expression turned to shock as she realized whom she had flipped and pointed a gun at. Her jaw unhinged.

“Oh shit,” she muttered and holstered the weapon.

Trevor, still on the ground, gazed at her.

“Um, Captain Forest. Well done.”

She helped him to his feet, then also helped him brush debris off his battle suit. Swells of heat blew around them from the mass of burning creature.

“I’m sorry. I mean, I’m sorry, sir.”

She frantically tried to dust him off as if dusting him off could also dust away the embarrassment. He grabbed her hands and stopped the dusting..

Soldiers from the strike team hurried around the bonfire to come to the aid of their leader.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re the best, you know.”

Trevor realized he still held her hands. He let them go, nodded, and retrieved his rifle from the ground. And while he no longer held her hands, he held her attention for a while longer.

Brothers in Arms

The Witiko Stealth Field Generator at Beale went dark on March 27th.

The next day, the garrison at Callahan surrendered without a shot to a small force from General McAllister’s Mechanized division. Many of those Cooperative turncoats accepted advisory positions in Stonewall’s ranks while the rest simply went home.

More Californians followed the Callahan example. Over the next ten days, coastal defenses along the northwest shoreline at Crescent City and Trinidad Head either sat out the balance of the war or actively assisted The Empire’s advance from the north.

Without the advantage of the stealth field, Cooperative jets lost control of the skies north of San Francisco. Two dreadnoughts—the Chrysaor and the Excalibur—with their compliment of air superiority fighters, fighter-bombers, and support craft cut in from Oregon and Nevada. Witiko Stingray cruisers engaged in hit and run attacks but failed to stem the advance.

On April 5th, after enduring constant air bombardment and facing the threat of two inbound dreadnoughts, the defenders at Weed slipped away on Interstate 5, hoping to re-form to the south at Shasta Lake.

Imperial Apaches and A-10s chased the retreating columns, finding and destroying almost every ground vehicle. That destruction came at a high price as Stingrays knocked four choppers and two Warthogs from the sky.

On April 12th elements of General Tom Prescott’s 2nd Corp., crossed from Arizona into Southern California along Interstates 40 and 10 covered by General William Hoth’s Philippan.

A massive air battle inside the dead zone of The Cooperative’s southern Stealth Field Generator just outside of Barstow ensued a day after the new front opened. The Philippan suffered nearly fifty crew killed when a California F-16 scored a direct hit on a crowded flight deck. However, the stoic General Hoth—serving as Captain aboard the ship—showed his customary resolve and pushed forward despite holes in the Philippan’s superstructure and shrinking reserves of heat-seeking anti-air missiles.

His fortitude bore fruit on April 15th when the Pennsylvania 1st Armored Division blasted through well-manned ramparts east of Newberry Springs and rushed the Stealth Generator at the old Marine Corp Logistics base.

On that same day, the Excalibur obliterated the heavy artillery, well-dug entrenchments, and Witiko officers of two hundred stubborn hold outs barricaded inside government buildings in Sacramento. Brewer used the ship’s ‘belly boppers’; powerful energy weapons based on technology stolen from the Redcoats.

At that point—with three of the mighty ships moving with near-impunity over the state’s skies—garrisons south of San Francisco reconsidered their allegiance.

Still, the Witiko used what cruisers still functioned to cover retreating loyal soldiers and managed to mount local counter-attacks to buy time. Time for what, however, became a question because unlike The Empire, no relief force waited in the wings and their war stocks dwindled.

After his mission at Beale, Trevor shuttled between dreadnoughts, forward operating bases, and the various fronts but remained relatively out of the line of fire.

This did, however, expose Trevor to what he had hoped to avoid: news from home. Or, rather, the political and PR battle.

While most of the media praised the military’s success, some commentators and reporters—not to mention a certain Senator—remained focused on casualties.

Years had passed since Trevor’s military fought in a major combined arms assault against an equally inclined enemy. As such, it had been years since the daily casualty report covered so many pages.

By the time Prescott’s armored spearhead took out the Barstow generator, The Empire had suffered over four thousand killed in action on the California front and double that number wounded. The newspapers who shared Evan Godfrey’s point of view emphasized that most of those causalities died at the hands of other human beings and The New American Press printed full-color pictures of smoke rising from the Philippan as well as somber images of coffins at train stations back east.

To further fan the flames of discontent, Brad Gannon continued to share “reports from home” during his tour of The Empire. Those reports spoke of civilian casualties, destroyed infrastructure, and a rising death count on both sides (not including Witiko, of course).

The religious tribunal called for the immediate cessation of hostilities. An alliance of ‘moderate’ Senators passed a non-binding resolution labeling the attack a ‘failure of diplomacy.’ Meanwhile, more radical politicos led by Godfrey marched in the streets of D.C. and Boston chanting slogans characterizing the California war as a crime against humanity.

On April 23rd Trevor—motivated as much by a desire to get away from the political and public relations war as a desire to get back into the action—flew to the First Armored Division’s assembly area in Mission Viejo south of Los Angeles…

…Prior to the end of the world, Richard Trevor Stone had never visited California. Yet by the second week of the invasion he understood why so many people in the pre-Armageddon world chose to suffer the Earthquakes, high taxes, congestion, and screwed up politics to live in the “Golden State”.

The forests of the northern region, the beautiful white-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevadas that also hid the natural splendor of Tahoe, the dangerous but beautiful desert in the southeast, and the jagged Pacific coastline that inspired poets and songwriters made for a collection of majestic scenery few regions of North America could match.

Mission Viejo fit with that scenery with neatly planned residential neighborhoods surrounded by natural beauty. A tremendous number of small parks—nearly two every square mile—made perfect muster zones for the Pennsylvania 1st Armored Division commanded by General Bobby Bogart and the 1st Tactical Support Wing under the charge of Five Armies veteran Jimmy Bragg.

About half of the locals locked themselves inside their homes, a few even sniped at patrols but soon found that K9 noses could sniff out their positions.

The rest welcomed the advance, mostly the folks who worked at the cylinder-shaped Witiko factories outside Los Angeles or who played servant or chauffeur to the better-off.

On the morning of April 23rd, the tanks and helicopters set out from their encampments…

…While the San Joaquin Hills sit atop the Pelican Hill fault zone, the shaking that afternoon came not from subterranean tremors but Abrams tanks and armored cars making their way northwest on Route 73.

Mortar fire from pro-Cooperative partisans operating out of Laguna Hills slowed but could not stop the advance. That changed as the formation’s destination came in to focus. At that point, The Cooperative responded by dispatching twenty light armored vehicles of various configurations and nearly two thousand worn and weary infantry to greet the onslaught. The defenders hurried to forward positions centered around the campus of UC Irvine—about forty miles south of Los Angeles—backed by artillery on the west side of Upper Newport Bay.

Governor Malloy—who fled Sacramento prior to the Excalibur reducing the government buildings to slag—and what remained of his top-ranking cohorts had taken refuge in the city of Angels. Prescott’s 2nd Corp aimed to punch a hole in the ring of defenders protecting that city. More specifically, he wanted to capture the southern anchor of those defenses by taking Long Beach. Such a move would sever communications between The Cooperative’s leadership and San Diego where their largest remaining army waited.

As for the Witiko, California propaganda claimed that Chancellor D’Trayne took to the skies in a Stingray to fight to the bitter end, something Trevor highly doubted.

Whatever the truth, he watched artillery duels and advancing armor from atop the mountains sandwiching Route 73. Eagle One—playing host to Prescott and his staff—sat nearby. Tyr—Trevor’s loyal but aging Norwegian Elkhound—stood alongside his master.

A few lonely clouds hovered above but the sun provided plenty of golden rays. The prevailing wind pushed east, nonetheless traces of the odor of battle brushed overtop Trevor’s hilltop position, carrying an eclectic mix of burning metal, spent powder, and gasoline.

Desperate California artillery fell haphazardly among rumbling tanks. Those errant shots caused smoky fires to erupt in a field of sagebrush where a yard of Bloodhorns—slender, red-eyed extraterrestrial ungulates—grazed. The creatures scrambled back and forth, chased first by the burst of artillery in one direction, then the other way as tanks emerged from an adjoining neighborhood.

To the south and west of 73, the enemy’s defense lines included infantry as well as light armor operating from the Big Canyon Country Club. Those vehicles—mainly APCs and Bradley’s—darted out and fired shots at the approaching spearhead, then retreated only to repeat the tactic when circumstances permitted.

Witiko-made war machines joined the human-built ones. The alien vehicles moved fast on six massive tires, stopped and unfolded metal support legs much like a back hoe might when digging trenches, and spat well-guided but very short-range rockets from both fore and aft launchers. While only lightly armored, they packed a punch.

Trevor saw one of the mobile missile platforms fire a dozen strikes at the forward thrust of the Imperial advance crossing the field where the Bloodhorns had grazed. The first hit literally split a Dodge Durango ‘up-armored’ with metal plating in half. Another slammed the ground at a harsh angle and tipped the sixty-plus tons of an Abrams on its side.

However, the Witiko vehicle did not last long.

A TOW-equipped Humvee circled behind the launcher by cutting through the tightly packed homes and passages of Buffalo Hills Park. The Hummer hit the offending machine with an anti-tank round. The rocket fuel in the reloaded launchers ignited and the vehicle—along with its crew of six aliens in a dome-like cabin—burned to cinders on a soccer field.

Tyr grumbled something, pulling Trevor’s attention from his binoculars. He saw General Tom Prescott exit the parked eagle and walk toward him.

Prescott had risen to the rank of Major in the U.S. Army by the time Armageddon came. He kept a hundred soldiers and a smattering of civilians alive after the military’s command structure fell to pieces until finding Trevor’s lakeside estate. Prescott then worked with Jon Brewer during the Battle of Five Armies and, in the years since, proved an enthusiastic leader with a knack for tactics.

Forty-something Prescott showed a youthful bounce in his step as he joined Trevor atop the hill and reported, “7th Armored has broke through the defenses at UC and took the bridge at Campus Drive. I’ve switched the axis of attack that way.”

Trevor returned his binoculars to his eyes and scanned in that direction. He saw plumes of smoke rising one after another across sedate neighborhoods then through the libraries, lecture halls, and pavilions of what had been one of the largest universities in California.

If the 7th Brigade could exploit the breakthrough—a relatively easy task considering the tactical situation—then The Empire could gain control of the “John Wayne Orange County Airport” and the Tustin Marine Corps Air Station. Those facilities would prove valuable as staging grounds for a final assault on Los Angeles.

Prescott absently scratched the back of his neck and said, “Got one other thing, boss.”

Trevor, through the field glasses, watched a friendly tank crew abandon their mine-damaged smoking vehicle at the big intersection of 73 and Bonita Canyon Drive.

Prescott told Trevor, “My Captains tell me I.S. teams are taking custody of Witiko officers from forward positions. Pardon my French, but ain’t that a little off, you know?”

Trevor’s binoculars dropped and hung from the strap around his neck. His eyes narrowed and he grumbled, “What did you say?”

“Internal Security has prisoner control and transport teams operating closer to the front lines than usual. They’re bypassing military police and taking custody of Witiko—especially officers—right up by the front lines. Kind of out of the ordinary, don’t you think?”

Trevor smelled the hand of Evan Godfrey. Internal Security had strong ties to the Senate and Trevor already knew how much Evan liked the Witiko. He sensed a plan to embarrass him or force an early end to the campaign.

“What about Governor Malloy? Where’s he at?”

Prescott scratched the back of his neck again. “Well, Intel says he’s held up at L.A. City Hall with a bunch of mayors and ministers. The top dogs, I guess, on the human side of the whole Cooperative thing.”

Trevor told the General: “Hit it.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Get on the horn to the Philippan and have them hit City Hall. Knock the whole damn building down.”

Prescott said nothing but his face corkscrewed with confusion.

“What’s wrong, General, haven’t you ever heard of taking out command and control?”

“Well, yes sir. But those guys up there don’t have any freedom of movement. Or, I guess, they won’t after today. Shouldn’t we be talking to that Governor about surrender? I’m guessing he’ll listen and he’s still got clout with what’s left of the true-believers.”

Trevor felt one part anger and one part fear with a spice of urgency. The thought of Evan slipping Witiko officers away made Trevor uneasy. The idea of Malloy and his top lieutenants—the human core of The Cooperative—remaining intact bothered him even more. In an instant he saw press conferences and debates, sad stories of dead Californians, protests against the military, and calls to rethink war strategy in the light of the ‘human’ toll. He did not want anyone with ‘clout’ left from California. They must be beaten in every way to clearly display the folly of siding with aliens.

He did not need to kill Malloy to win the war but a part of him—the cold calculating part that had made his doppelganger a dictator on another world—saw an ends that needed justifying and he knew he possessed the means.

“I said hit it. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

*

Governor Terrance Malloy stared out from the Tower Room on the top floor of City Hall. In the old world, the large square room hosted banquets and awards dinners, meetings and other prestigious events enhanced by the panoramic views of Los Angeles.

Like most of that metropolis, during the war against the Witiko City Hall endured much damage. Several levels had been charred black by fires. Furthermore, chunks of the structure’s concrete—concrete made with sand taken from each of the state’s fifty-eight counties and water from each of its 21 missions—had been blasted away to the streets some thirty-two floors below. In other words, an important icon of Los Angeles and, therefore, California had suffered greatly.

City Hall had not been alone in that regard.

As if to emphasize the thought, the Governor’s eyes sought out and found the dusty hole to the north; all that remained of Dodger Stadium after a bombardment of Witiko rockets had struck that makeshift rescue center, killing more than five thousand refugees on a fine summer day during the first months of the alien invasion.

Whether those missiles targeted the refugees or, as the Witiko explained during negotiations, resulted from a malfunction, did not matter. That hole served as a symbol.

When that first war ended, Malloy worked to cleanse the scars, starting first with renovating City Hall. Similar projects in other cities erased some—certainly not all—of the wounds from that five-year conflict.

At the same time, the social structure underwent renovations. Their Witiko allies brought new technologies and new ways of thinking that might have repulsed small minds. But Malloy convinced his people that survival depended on rethinking how they viewed government, work, and life in general.

The result? California survived. No easy task, particularly when the rest of the country descended into chaos ruled either by aliens overtly enslaving human survivors or dangerous wilderness with no laws, no organization, and no hope.

On long nights when the faces of the former Governor and others who had been in front of Malloy in the line of succession haunted his sleep, he admitted to himself that, yes, his embracing of Witiko ideals served as much his self-interest as the interest of California. Yet he also knew one truth: the peace deal had stopped the fighting.

In the years since, human and aliens rid the cities and suburbs of dangerous predators, re-established industry, and built a functioning society.

Certainly that society lacked perfection. The human population in California shrank with a slow but steady drop in life expectancy and a low birth rate. Malloy and his people agreed with D’Trayne that the best hope for prosperity lay with a smaller population base.

The Governor dropped his eyes to a closer sight: tents and tables cluttering a parking lot across the street. Lines of people waited for their portion from pots of bubbling stew made with vegetables, fish, wild game, and lots of water. Dinner time at the “Municipal Feeding Station.”

Malloy felt a vague sense of pride in the station. These people lived. If the war with the Witiko had gone on, they probably would have been killed. The Governor did not buy Trevor Stone’s explanation that it had been the Witiko—not California—in danger of losing that war.

No, Malloy felt that his decision to seek peace, to share power, to accept new (alien) ideas resulted in survival for Californians while the rest of the world died. It was mere coincidence that doing the right thing helped make his life easier.

While food lines were not new, something else down there was: the presence of cameramen. Such pictures had not been transmitted across the state before the invasion by Trevor’s “Empire.” To do so, Malloy believed, would merely hurt morale and paint an unflattering picture of life in The Cooperative. In contrast, with the start of the new war images of breadlines, homeless citizens, and poorly-functioning hospitals served a purpose, especially when subjecting the context of those images to heavy editing. As a lifelong politician, Malloy understood the value of propaganda.

He sighed and walked away from the view.

Four men in fine suits and one woman in a business skirt hovered around several banquet tables. A half-dozen guards stood at the entrances to the Tower Room bearing assault rifles and dressed in black coveralls. No sign of any Witiko, officer or otherwise.

Witiko or no, so few people gathered in a room meant to hold so many did not sit well with the Governor. The emptiness of the chamber made him feel small.

A young courier hustled in. He wore a muddy uniform and sported bruises and cuts on his face and forearms.

“One of The Empire’s dreadnoughts is approaching. Spotters identify it as the Philippan. It’s out by San Bernardino. My commander sent a message to the airport.”

Malloy knew the courier meant his commander had tried yet again to get the Witiko Cruisers at LAX to engage the approaching threat. The Governor also knew that with the regular air force destroyed, the Stingrays did not desire to engage the dreadnoughts head on, despite the advantages of their radar cloak. Apparently the mighty Witiko preferred the company of human jets as cannon fodder when flying into battle.

“I see,” the Governor spoke. “What am I supposed to do?”

Malloy surveyed his gathered advisors and focused on his Minister of Defense, a diminutive man in his mid-forties with scruff on his cheeks and a balding head.

During the Witiko War, that man served as a soldier in a regular army unit. But when his commanding officer refused to recognize the peace treaty, that officer disappeared, the unit fell into line, and the subordinate who had made all that possible received an appointment to lead a new Defense Department.

Malloy asked, “Minister Snowe, what is the military situation?”

Snowe said, “The attack coming up from the south is moving on Long Beach. They’ll take it sometime in the morning, we think. We don’t know what the dreadnought is up to, but I doubt it will fly downtown.”

A fifty-something woman with thinning hair and a sharp nose who served as the Secretary of Family Planning questioned, “Why? Can the Stingrays hold it off?”

Snowe answered, “No. But The Empire knows we have surface to air missiles and artillery batteries that are effective against dreadnoughts. Besides, a direct assault on downtown L.A. would lead to a lot of civilian casualties, and we don’t think they want that.”

“This is true,” Malloy said. “But so far our public relations campaign has not borne fruit. What is Gannon doing over there? I have not heard from him in over a week.”

The assistant Director of Information loosened his striped tie and spoke, “Gannon has made a lot of friends among the Imperial Senate, particularly our ally Mr. Godfrey.”

“For all his talk, Godfrey has done me little good.”

The Information Director continued, “Well, it appears Godfrey has friends in their Internal Security apparatus. We have received a recommendation that when the time comes, we surrender to their Internal Security units, not regular military. I understand a number of Witiko officers have already been taken into custody by them.”

The Secretary of Family Planning jumped at the word ‘surrender’ in a tone that suggested the idea intrigued her: “Surrender? Are we talking like that yet?”

Governor Terrance Malloy ran his hand over his head and sighed.

“I may not have any other choice. Our forces are being pushed back.”

Snowe countered, “We’ve got five thousand troops in San Diego that are fresh and haven’t been used. We’ve got another fifteen hundred or so veteran troops outside of Monterey. Some of those are the guys who gave the Imperials a good pasting outside of Stockton last week. We can count on them. They’re not going down without a fight.”

“Ah yes, I remember the type,” Malloy mused, thinking of Snowe’s CO who preferred to die fighting than bargain with aliens.

Snowe finished, “If we can drag this out longer, maybe we can win the PR battle. Maybe there’ll be enough pressure on Stone to pull back. Or, negotiate something favorable.”

The Governor considered the situation. His forces no longer held any kind of strategic front, only isolated islands with lines of communication nearly cut. By morning he would no longer have the ability to command forces beyond the Los Angeles city limits and those limits appeared destined to shrink. The Witiko, for all their high talk, appeared to have abandoned the effort after the Barstow generator went down.

Where is D’Trayne?

If they continued to fight, the additional blood on Trevor Stone’s hands might be enough to gain Malloy a sympathy card to play, but he doubted he could play that hand into any power or authority. At best, maybe a comfortable retirement.

Surrendering now could save thousands of Cooperative soldiers and leaders. They would become citizens of this Empire, in one form or another. If he made the right speech, maybe framing himself as a peace broker interested in the greater good, if those loyalists channeled their devotion into a political movement inside The Empire, maybe he would have a chance.

A long shot, but a much better shot than the military situation.

“I will prepare a communiqué. I will end this fight to save lives on both sides.”

The Secretary of Family Planning said, “Governor, how very far-sighted of you.”

A harsh beeping grabbed the attention of Defense Minister Snowe. He produced a communicator of Witiko design and walked away from the gathering to better hear the message.

“What? When? Okay.”

Snowe then hurried to the windows on the east side and told them, “Spotters say the Philippan just launched a lot of missiles. Probably cruise missiles.”

The Information Director nearly cried, “I thought they didn’t have GPS munitions?”

Snowe explained, “They don’t. I think they use radar altimeters and digital strip maps. Not exactly low tech, but not dependent on GPS, either.”

Malloy insisted, “Those missiles are not meant for me. They need me to tell our soldiers when to stop fighting. Without me—”

Three missiles slammed into the observation windows of the Tower Room; five hundred kilograms of explosives in each warhead. The blast incinerated the ministers, guards, and Governor. The concussion broke the top floors of City Hall into blocks of concrete, glass, and steel. Those blocks rained down on the streets below, including the bread line.

For all purposes, the California Cooperative died at that moment.

*

Fremont Boulevard and Canyon Del Ray Boulevard crossed in a big ‘X’ about a half-mile away from the Monterey Peninsula airport, which was Stonewall’s last objective for the day. He found it intolerable that his formation’s vanguard remained stuck at that intersection, so close to the airport but seemingly unable to make that last push.

Part of that vanguard lay in ruins at the center of that big ‘X’ with treads popped off and armored chassis’ burning among craters and charred patches where a combined total of sixteen lanes of roadway crisscrossed.

The rest of his division stretched northeastward on Fremont, waiting for their chance to punch through for the airport.

Stonewall paced behind an ad hoc bunker constructed with sandbags among the skeleton-like remains of two cars.

“Benjamin, please explain why my division is not currently moving forward.”

Stonewall just arrived at the front line from his headquarters further back in the column. So far he saw his damaged war machines but no sign of what caused that damage.

Before Duda answered, a Bradley Fighting Vehicle moved into the cluttered intersection, weaving through the carnage and attempting to drive south. Stonewall stopped pacing and eyed the Bradley’s progress, still wondering what had caused the fuss.

The answer came in a long hiss and crackle heard above the pops and snaps coming from the smoldering wrecks in the center of the ‘X’. Just as the Bradley cleared those wrecks, a glint of silver flashed in the rays of sunset as it rose into the air from behind a cluster of buildings.

Stonewall watched as that silver flash swooped toward the Bradley. The armored vehicle spotted the threat and fired its main gun, but the Witiko Skytroop zigzagged.

The turret rotated, but not fast enough. The Witiko hovered a hundred feet in the air for one quick second and fired a missile from a portable launcher. That missile lumbered relatively slow for a rocket. Despite its slower-than-expected speed, the projectile ruptured the protective armor of the vehicle and exploded inside the cabin, killing another crew.

“Oh dear. Get anti-air units forward.”

“Sir, wait a second,” Benny Duda pointed toward the spot in the air where the Skytroop had hovered. That trooper remained visible, having risen higher into the sky but not retreated toward the airport as had been the routine during the standoff. Four more Skytroop officers joined the first.

Stonewall ordered, “Hurry with those anti-air units. Time is of the essence.”

But the Witiko airborne soldiers did not attack. They turned their thrusters to full power and raced off to the northeast at a fast pace, maybe as fast as eighty miles per hour. Whatever their actual velocity, their speed and height allowed them to easily avoid carbine fire from below.

“Well, what an interesting development,” Stonewall said.

Duda replied, “They look like they’re headed toward our rear area.”

Stonewall considered the events of the last few days, up to and including the news that the Governor and his staff died earlier that evening in a missile strike on Los Angeles. One of the more interesting developments in those few days had been the willingness of Witiko officers to go to great lengths to bypass the front lines and surrender to Internal Security units.

“Fear not, Benjamin, I believe our Witiko friends will be well received.”

Stonewall stepped from cover and stared to the southeast. He knew the airport waited to be overrun, probably abandoned by the Witiko. If lucky, he might find one or two Stingray cruisers there for the taking.

Beyond the airport rose rough mountains. On the far side of those mountains, the Carmel Valley Ranch resort where, according to aerial surveillance, nearly fifteen hundred hard core California soldiers dug in.

Stonewall had already held dealings with that lot. They had stopped his advance outside of Stockton last week, inflicting a fair number of casualties and, according to eyewitness reports, executed a squad of his engineers who had taken a wrong turn into enemy territory.

“Looks like we’re clear,” Duda said enthusiastically.

“Yes,” Stonewall lamented. “On to the next battle.”

*

“They surrendered about an hour ago,” General Prescott explained from the front passenger seat of the moving Humvee. “After Bogart broke their front lines they pulled back near Rainbow Lagoon to try and protect access to Interstate Seven-Ten. We used Bragg’s Blackhawks to land units and some light arty behind them at the harbor. They gave up the ghost after that.”

Trevor listened to Prescott but kept his eyes focused out the window. He saw crowds of California civilians daring to move outside now that the guns had stopped. They did not know that the man who led The Empire sped by as part of a motorcade. Even if they did, their attention focused on the dead bodies, broken machines, and damaged buildings left from the battle for Long Beach.

A Chinook flew low overhead, no doubt ferrying more infantry forward to secure the newly taken prize. Further off, a cloud rose from atop Signal Hill on the north side of town where earlier that morning a bombing run reduced Cooperative artillery to a pile of melted iron.

Closer, they passed a Humvee driving slowly along East Ocean Boulevard broadcasting, “All Witiko are ordered to report to the processing station at the Hilton near the old Trade Center. Failure to comply will result in forcible arrest.”

Soon, Trevor knew, the Hunter/Killer teams and their K9s would enter the city and sniff out alien hideaways. Doors would be smashed. Witiko children and their parents would be forced into custody prior to being shipped across country for a one-way trip through the runes.

He felt bad about what was to come, but not guilty. No one invited the Witiko to Earth. The fact that they had bargained their way to power in California with the help of human accomplices changed nothing.

Trevor glanced to his right. Resort homes, condominiums, hotels, and shops came and went. When he looked out the window to his left, his heartbeat changed to heavy, fast thumps.

The Pacific Ocean. Trevor held a hand to the window, as if trying to touch the sparkling blue waters on the far side of a brilliant white beach.

Ten years of war replayed in his mind. He saw those first battles in northeast Pennsylvania, when his army could be counted on two hands. Then four years of skirmishes and local battles to expand across the state and into neighboring regions. After that came the Hivvan War; a raging combined-arms fight across the south until the entire Mid-Atlantic region as well as the heart of Dixie had been wrested from the invaders.

The march to the Mississippi and the problems in Ohio; the re-settling of the new American frontier, crossing the Rockies and into the Northwest, and now the Pacific.

He knew the war to liberate humanity would rage for decades more with battles in the jungles of South America, the deserts of the Middle East, the plains of the Ukraine, the frozen tundra of Scandinavia, and across the vast expanse of Asia. That’s what waited for Trevor, his children, and their children.

Yet today—right now—they achieved a milestone.

“Stop the car.”

The Humvee escorts pulled to the curb outside a mansion surrounded by palm trees identified as the “Long Beach Museum.”

“Sir? What is it?”

Trevor did not answer Prescott. He opened the door and stepped outside the armored cabin. A fresh morning breeze carried the scent of salt and a hint of blowing sand. Seagulls cackled over the beach. The sun shot in behind him, casting shadows across the sand but with a strength that hinted at a hot day to come.

With a dozen soldiers scrambling to form a protective cocoon around him, Trevor cut behind the museum, walked through the garden that once hosted the finest weddings in all Long Beach, marched across a small parking lot, and stepped onto the sand.

The deserted beach stretched little more than one hundred feet wide, much thinner than the beaches further to the south and puny compared to the one in the backyard of his summer house in New Jersey.

With Tyr at his side, he walked to where land met ocean. Low waves curled and crashed then flowed in. A few inches of water brushed against Trevor’s boot, lapping over the top and tickling the bottom of his pant leg.

He felt the heavy weight the Old Man had placed on his shoulders. A weight that demanded Trevor think in the most focused of terms: victory at all costs. For the sake of generations to come and for the sake of those whose memories gave Trevor the skills and perspective to lead, he could think of nothing other than total victory. He could not afford the luxury of the moral high ground or the release of passing the baton of command to others.

Yet for a few moments he stood on that beach in the face of the Pacific Ocean and felt a sense of accomplishment. The weight still bore down, but with what had once been the continental United States now under one banner that weight shed a pound or two.

Tyr walked forward and sniffed the remains of a white cap as it rolled in. The spray tickled the dog’s nose. Tyr sneezed and retreated a step.

Trevor knelt and held his hand to the water, letting the chilly flow wash over his fingers.

Only his canine companion saw the tears in his eyes.

*

The Carmel Valley Ranch resort sat on four-hundred acres surrounded by the forested slopes of the Santa Lucia Mountains. The golf course, the pavilions, the luxury cottages…all fell dark beneath the shadow of the Chrysaor.

Captain Kristy Kaufman, her hair sculptured into a small bun and her black uniform perfectly pressed, stood on the bridge hooked into her ship as the “brain.” The ship’s infrared sensors displayed on one of the many monitors at her control station, illuminating the body heat of California hold outs dug deep into the buildings and brush of the resort.

General Stonewall McAllister’s voice spoke into her ear from his forward position on Carmel Valley Road: “I have attempted to convince them that their position is untenable, but they refuse to listen. Therefore, Captain, I must ask that you undertake a most distasteful task.”

“I understand, General. Are you sure the civilians are out? Any innocent bystanders—”

“Yes, I know. At this point, I believe we have done all we can possibly do, and I would much rather not lose any more of my division when your services are so readily available.”

“I understand,” she replied. “Your officers have confirmed forward positions with my tactical station, so I believe we’re ready to go.”

“I guess I should say ‘happy hunting,’ but somehow those words taste rancid right now.”

Kristy knew what the General meant. She only wished the fools holding out in the Carmel Valley Ranch Resort knew. Almost in response to her thought, through her video feeds she saw the trail of a portable anti-air missile fire up from the enemy position. A moment later the war head explode, barely scratching the undercarriage of the Chrysaor.

She spoke her orders aloud for the crew to hear but her fingers did most of the work.

“Charging the Belly Boppers to twenty-percent. Energy dispersal pattern set tight.”

A digitalized readout reflected the amount of power to be turned into destructive energy. The Chrysaor’s energy weapons had come from the seed of alien rifles taken during the battle for Wilkes-Barre that first winter of the invasion, and utilized the same principle when it came to power: the more the weapons charged, the greater the destruction to the target.

Kristy had served as the Chrysaor’s captain since its christening six months ago. Now she would see through the purpose for her ship. With Cooperative units falling apart across the country, their leadership dead, and their Witiko allies surrendering in droves to Internal Security, the battle at Carmel Valley seemed likely to be the last.

At least she hoped so. To visit this type of destruction upon any enemy—particularly a human one—required a reason. A good reason.

“Weapons charged. Burst pattern confirmed. Target area locked. Firing.”

Death came in two massive blobs of incinerating energy hitting the ground and splashing out in glowing waves. The beautiful bungalows fell apart like sandcastles in a tornado and acres of forest charred and fell as if discarded matchsticks.

Having ordered the attack, General McAllister felt obligated to ride in with the first wave of infantry to secure the area, although he knew ‘securing’ would mean little more than sweeping up the ashes. As he approached on horseback, he realized there may not even be ashes remaining.

Small fires erupted from secondary explosions and a dirty haze hung over the target area. No walls remained intact. Ash and dirt fluttered on the wind like a warped ticker-tape parade in celebration of Lucifer. The temperature rose to nearly one-hundred degrees as the ground radiated residual heat from the energy weapon.

“Oh my,” the General gasped as he surveyed the destruction.

He maneuvered his horse to the circular pavement that had once led to the main entrance, the pieces of which now rested in a smoldering pile. McAllister directed his horse at a slow trot, his sword jingled as he moved.

Such a complete victory should have elicited celebration, but these had been humans.

A breeze blew in and pushed some of the smoke off, revealing acres of green turned black and brown. Flames flickered in the distance. Puffs of smoke rose from heaps of leveled buildings. Far away, a tree line at the base of a hill marked the limit of the Chrysaor’s fury, a line between destroyed woods and healthy forest.

Gunfire reverberated through the smoky air. Benny Duda galloped to the General’s position. He held a radio to his ear until he stood alongside Stonewall’s horse.

“Sir, we’ve got survivors up on the east ridge taking pot shots at us. Must’ve been out of the blast radius but Kaufman says she can’t spot them on the infrared, too much residual heat from the boppers.”

“Very well, Benjamin,” Stonewall said. “Let’s get over there and root them out.”

At that moment, the leather reigns fell from General McAllister’s hands, he slumped forward, and pin wheeled off the saddle, landing hard on the charred-black ground.

A sharp pop slapped the air.

Benny Duda watched, confused over what he just saw while the General’s escort dismounted with carbines drawn.

“Sniper! Sniper!”

“Gen…General..?”

Benny eased from the saddle.

Stonewall rolled over on his back. Benny knelt and lifted the General’s head. In the distance, more gun fire erupted. More shouts.

“Oh dear,” Stonewall stared toward the sky as if trying to find the blue on the far side of the debris cloud. “Benjamin, I believe I have been shot.”

A red stain pushed through the heavy fabric of the Old Mist colored uniform Garrett McAllister dressed in since the day Armageddon chased away the alcoholic in favor of a noble, courageous gentlemen.

A soldier shouted, “Medic!”

Benny Duda sobbed, “You’ll…you’ll be okay.”

“Ben…,” he licked his lips. “Benny, please do give my sword to Trevor Stone. Per—perhaps it can still serve him in some capacity. There is so much left to do.”

Stonewall reached up with one gloved hand. Benny grabbed tight.

“Hold on…hold on, General.”

“It’s okay, Benny. It’s okay. I have,” he coughed. His eyes closed for a moment, then opened wide again. “I believe I have…paid my penance. My family…my family will be waiting for me. I expect I shall do much better this time.”

“General…please…”

“Yes…I can see them now….”

Requiem

Eagle One sat amidst the ruins of the Carmel Valley Ranch Resort a few hours after the death of Stonewall. His soldiers—the shock finally setting in—shuffled across the smoky wasteland like zombies.

Captain Benny Duda walked up the ramp and met Trevor inside the passenger module of the transport.

“Sir, it was the General’s wish that I present you with his sword. He felt that you may yet have some use for it.”

Trevor stared at the brass hand guard and pommel of the weapon. Benny held it across both hands with his palms up and his head bowed.

“Benny…I’m sorry.”

“The General wished you to have this,” Duda repeated.

Trevor sensed that Benny Duda wanted to ask if the missile strike on L.A. might have cost Stonewall his life. He wanted to know if the destiny Trevor Stone served really demanded that men fight other men.

As he felt the cool metal in his hand, Trevor realized how much time had passed since he visited Stonewall. During the early days of Armageddon, he and Garrett often conversed. As the group of survivors grew into “The Empire,” Stonewall became a distant leader out in the battlefields fighting the war Trevor directed.

Trevor realized how much he would miss General Stonewall McAllister as he placed his friend’s sword on the rack of weapons aboard Eagle One so that he would never forget the troubled, eccentric gentleman who had become a legend.

*

The cherry blossoms no longer bloomed in Washington D.C., having been the preferred snack of alien herbivores in the years between the collapse of the United States government and The Empire’s liberation of the city.

It would not have mattered. Even the bursts of color and sweet scent of cherry trees could not chase away the gloom coating the town on the afternoon of May 1st.

Despite the successful end of the California war and regardless of the bright spring day, the crowds along the national mall gathered in great sadness to bid farewell to the most beloved General in man’s army.

A horse-drawn cart carried Garrett McAllister’s coffin to the stairs of the refurbished Capitol building. Draped over his last vessel was a black flag featuring a hand holding a sword in angry defiance of the alien invaders.

Washington hosted thousands of mourners coming from across the emancipated lands, as far as Miami to the south and Maine to the north. Such a relatively small gathering would have barely caught the attention of the old media back in times when demonstrators by the hundreds of thousands would sometimes mass in the streets of Washington. However, in terms of the new world, some ten thousand onlookers seemed like a mass of humanity.

Canine Grenadiers flanked the route, their noses and ears scanning for threats. Behind the funeral cart followed the larger-than-life figures who held the reigns of The Empire, but who somehow looked very small in comparison to the image of the fallen General.

Trevor held one of his wife’s hands as they walked, his blond-haired eight-year-old son held her other hand. To their sides and behind trailed the council including the Brewers, Omar Nehru, Dr. Maple, Dante Jones, Eva Rheimmer, and Brett Stanton as well as General Shepherd and Ray Roos who served as Trevor’s personal Chief of Security.

As remarkable as it was to see the ruling cabal marching together in somber steps, those missing grabbed the most attention. While few of the watchers wondered about the absence of Gordon Knox or Anita Nehru, the lack of Evan Godfrey fueled much gossip. Especially since most knew that Evan himself had pushed for D.C. to host Stonewall’s last journey.

Instead of joining the procession, Evan Godfrey hosted a separate memorial service not too far away in the shadow of the Washington monument. There he stood with his head bowed in respect for the fallen hero, but he would not march with those who, Godfrey told the press, shouldered responsibility for a “needless death.”

The casket reached the Capitol and was moved into the rotunda by an honor guard. Velvet ropes would soon mark public lines through the cavernous round chamber, but not until the Emperor and his entourage privately bid their farewells.

For the moment the rotunda belonged to a select few, with guards posted beyond closed doors, K9 sentries inside, and Ray Roos standing a respectful distance from the others.

Trevor’s footsteps echoed around the imposing chamber as he drifted to the coffin and placed a hand on its stainless steel surface.

“He was a good man.”

Murmurs of agreement.

“I figure he died doin’ what he felt called to do,” Shepherd added.

Trevor noticed that Dante kept his distance from the others. He cocked an eye and approached his old friend who wore a dark blue Internal Security dress uniform.

A week had passed since Stonewall’s death in the last major battle of the California invasion. The war ended without any formal surrender because The Cooperative lacked the leaders to issue such decrees.

Trevor spent the last seven days consolidating the territory and dealing with revised force deployments, all with a growing belly ache of anger born from Internal Security’s overzealous efforts on the front lines. That anger received extra fuel from the decision to hold the memorial in D.C., a move Trevor saw as yet another step toward the old world; the types of steps Evan Godfrey liked to take.

“What’s wrong, Dante? This man was a hero, don’t you think?”

Lori tried to intercede. Her husband stopped her. The others stood silent as Trevor and Dante’s words reverberated around the massive dome. Ashley hurried JB from the chamber in anticipation of the coming explosion. Roos held the door for the mother and son but he remained.

“Yeah, he was a hero. Look, Trevor, you got something you want to say to me, say it.”

Trevor stood directly in front of Dante. Their noses nearly touched.

“Okay. What the Hell were your I.S. guys doing so far out on the front line?”

Dante took a hesitant step backward, sighed, then answered, “So that’s it? I get bitched at for not having the manpower to do my job and now I’m getting bitched at because we came through? Is that what this is about, Trevor? I think you just don’t like I.S.”

Trevor lunged without thinking, allowing his anger to get the better of his wisdom: “What is that supposed to mean? I don’t’ like I.S? I made I.S, Dante. I made you, too, remember that.”

Dante spat, “You made me? What the—”

“So I got to wonder how in Christ’s name all the Witiko brass ended up in your hands. You’re playing a game and I don’t like games.”

“Listen to yourself. You don’t trust Internal Security, is that it? Because when you were gone three years ago some of my people thought maybe Evan was right about a few things. Is that it? You need to get over yourself. There’s a Senate now, and just because I have to do some things they tell me to do doesn’t mean I’m playing some game on you.”

Trevor’s head cocked to the side and took Dante’s words as confirmation.

“So it’s true. The Senate told you to be operating so far forward. The Senate told you to pick up the Witiko officers. Maybe you don’t know the score but—”

Dante burst and knocked Trevor off balance with his words: “I know the score, Trevor. I know the Sentient Species Protection Act. You know, the one you signed into law? Under the law that you signed it says Internal Security is responsible for the protection of those aliens that aren’t supposed to be ripped apart and studied. That’s the law you signed after you found out you were playing for the wrong team on some other Earth, right? Tell me something, man, why didn’t we ever make that little bit of info public, huh?”

The council had agreed to limit the amount of information revealed to the general population about what Trevor found on that other Earth. As far as the citizens were concerned, the battle to save humanity raged across parallel Earths, making their own struggle seem all the more important. The fact that in those other universes mankind came from Sirius and played the role of an invader was kept secret.

Lori Brewer, despite being held at bay by Jon, called, “You know why we didn’t tell anyone about that, Dante. Same reason we kept secret what we found at Cheyenne Mountain. The people didn’t need to know what happened to the last President and his staff; it would have been too gruesome. Same with what Trevor found. If people heard we were the bad guys somewhere else, then maybe they’d ask more questions about the war here. If we’re going to survive, we can’t afford that.”

Dante glanced at Lori, listened, and then said, “You mean the Emperor can’t afford that.”

“Oh, now you sound like you’ve got something to say, Dante. What is it?”

“Okay then, fuck it. Everyone heard you killed the California Governor and his top people when the war was already won.”

Brewer defended, “Taking out command and control is a military tactic.”

“Bull. Trevor murdered them because they were making nice with aliens. Maybe they had a better idea, a different idea. Everything around here has to be exactly as Trevor says, right?”

“We pledged an oath,” Lori recalled their vow to follow Trevor without question.

“Things have changed,” Dante stared at Trevor. “People signed on to kill aliens. And even this California thing, I get it. Sure. But there were a lot of people wondering if there was a better way, but the more they wondered the harder you pushed to do things the way you wanted. You won’t listen, Trevor. You can be a real stubborn son of a bitch.”

“I negotiated with California for a year. I got a job to do, Dante, you hear?”

“I got a job to do, too. This time the job came from the Senate. They told me to make sure the Witiko people didn’t get gunned down or something. They want to hold hearings and shit like that. They want to interview the Witiko.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Trevor said. “This is Evan Godfrey trying to score political points.”

“There you go again. Everyone is out to get Trevor, is that it? Not everyone who isn’t one-hundred percent with you is against you. Think about it, man. We got a shit load of Witiko officers, they know our language, and they’ve been on this planet for like ten years. Did it ever occur to you to talk to them? To ask them why? To find out what brought them here? I think the Senate is going to do that. Sounds like a smart idea to me. But hey, what do I know? You made me, right? I’m just your dumb friend, the one you threw a scrap to back when all this started. Maybe that was a mistake.”

“I needed you, Dante. You got a good head on your shoulders, most of the time. But you’re getting caught up in political games. Don’t you see? Evan wants everything to be like it used to be, because that’s the only way he can ever be the politician he always wanted to be. I stand in his way. So he’s always looking to score points against me. When he does that, he weakens the war effort. Don’t you see that? Are you that blind?”

“I’m not blind, buddy. I see a friggin’ paranoid egomaniac who can’t stand the idea that maybe he’s wrong once in a while; that maybe someone like Godfrey or the people in the Senate might just have a good idea now and then. Jesus, Trevor, those people were elected for a reason, but you keep treating them like shit.”

“That’s out of line.”

Dante held his arms wide and dared, “Fine, it’s out of line. Fire me. Give the job to some lackey who’ll do whatever you want without question. Hey Ray,” Dante called over to the Chief of Security. “You want to be Director of Internal Security?”

Roos shifted uncomfortably but did not speak.

Trevor said, “You don’t get out of it that easy. I want the Witiko through the runes fast.”

“I can’t do that. Senate’s orders. You could veto those orders, but that means you’ll be vetoing the law you signed, Emperor. Then again, you’re all-powerful, right? Why don’t you just make it up as you go along.”

While the rest of the council stood and watched as silently as mice in a room full of cats, Shepherd asked, “How many of them fellas you got hold up?”

Dante, still looking at Trevor, answered, “Fifty officers, including Chancellor D’Trayne. They’re in I.S. facilities in Kansas waiting for transfer to Maryland and Virginia. They’ve been separated from the rest of the Witiko civvies and grunts; the Senate only wants the officers.”

Trevor stuck a finger at Dante, nearly poking his chest.

“The rank and file, through the runes. Top priority. I want those fifty Witiko to be the only damn Witiko on this planet by the end of the month. Shove aside the Hivvans and Duass and whatever, I don’t care. All of their gear—Stingrays, weapons, whatever—gets turned over to the military and Intelligence this week. Got it?”

“Yeah man, I got it. Is that all, sir?”

“Dante,” Trevor’s voice cooled a notch. “You’ve been my friend since we were little kids. Don’t’ screw us up now, just because you can’t handle how things changed between us.”

“Oh man, you don’t understand, do you, Trev? I’m still trying to be your friend. You just aren’t letting me.”

*

Evan Godfrey lived on a sprawling, isolated estate not far outside of Washington D.C. The grounds were surrounded by tall trees, ensuring privacy and blocking the view of any prying eyes. However, the Senator often liked prying eyes, so at the front of the home by the circular driveway waited a pedestal and seating, always ready to accommodate a press conference.

On this day, no members of the press waited for words of wisdom from the President of the Senate. They were too busy in their newsrooms following the events of earlier that afternoon including the funeral procession, the massive crowds, and the Emperor’s speech.

On the television inside Evan Godfrey’s personal den played another speech, one he had made a few hours earlier from the grounds around the Washington monument.

After a snippet of Evan’s words the reporter recounted, “The Senator suggests that a conspiracy exists between the military and Imperial Intelligence akin to the old military-industrial complex thought to have driven foreign policy in the 1950s and 1960s. As part of his heated remarks, the Senator questioned why we still plan to fight when the, quote, ‘sea to shining sea’ of the continental United States has been liberated and we still have much work to do within our own borders. Based on the response of the crowd as well as the prominent union and political figures in attendance, it’s fair to say that the Senator found his message well-received.”

Godfrey switched off the television with a click on the remote control.

His wife, Sharon, leaned on the desk.

“Oh that’s great, Evan,” she mocked. “Another fantastic speech.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

“That’s right,” she recalled and rolled her eyes. “I’m not a good poker player.”

“Not playing poker any more. The game has changed.”

“Is that so? Tell me, my loving husband, what game is afoot?”

Evan did not speak but Sharon got an answer as three men entered the room. More specifically, two men and one alien.

One man, an Internal Security guard, was quickly dismissed. The second was Brad Gannon, former actor and most recently an ambassador of propaganda for the now-defunct California Cooperative.

Evan addressed the third newcomer, an alien wearing a robe over a bodysuit and painted in silver cosmetic. “Chancellor D’Trayne, it is good to see you again.”

The leader-turned-prisoner did not share Evan’s good mood.

“Neither of you fulfilled your pledge to disrupt the invasion. I have nothing to say.”

“You think not, Chancellor?” Evan motioned for the two to sit at chairs opposite his desk and, in the same motion, waved his wife from the room. She closed the door behind her.

Evan went on, “I’ve been speaking with Brad, here, and I think there are some things left to be done. But only if you approve, Chancellor, because I’m going to need your help.”

“I do not understand, Senator.”

“Brad here tells me of your…of your friends. Let’s just say, I think we could all be friends. I think there are ways we can all work together, for the common good. The way you worked with Malloy for the common good in California.”

D’Trayne’s pupils glowed orange.

“I do not believe you are in a position to bargain, you have no power, Senator Godfrey.”

Brad ran a hand through his jet black hair and said, “‘Chancellor, Evan here is real high speed. And I’ve been talking to our friends, just like five years ago. They’re interested in what the Senator here has to say. Man, I think we might just be on to something.”

“I say again,” D’Trayne argued, “the Senator is in no position to make deals.”

“I soon will,” Evan snapped.

“Oh,” D’Trayne grinned grimly. “Exactly what will you do to get that power?”

Evan turned on the television again. A news anchor reported, “Senator Godfrey’s speech appears to have struck a chord. Several prominent community and business leaders have voiced concern about a link between war planning and what the Senator calls the military and intelligence complex…”

Evan answered, “I just need to make a few more speeches.”

Bad Press

Ten years before, on the day the hellish creatures and invading militia appeared on Earth en masse, Richard ‘Trevor’ Stone had run away from the dead bodies of his parents and into the forest, where he met the Old Man.

A decade later on a surprisingly warm, mid-May morning nearly two weeks after the funeral procession for Stonewall McAllister, Trevor Stone entered those woods again.

Trevor consulted the Old Man on occasion, hunting for clues to the greater purpose of the invasion or to seek counsel. In both cases, his mysterious benefactor rarely provided any useful information, other than to remind Trevor of his purpose: kill all aliens.

However, in the three years since his return from an alternate Earth, Trevor tended to walk into those woods for something else: companionship, in some bizarre fashion.

The mixed eastern forest burst with spring, a stark contrast to the Fall-like brooding in Trevor’s belly. Birds of Earthly origin swooped through the tree tops where young broad leafs grew a canopy of fresh green. Shrubs and wildflowers sprouted with color and the smell of life slowly overcame the rotting stench of last autumn’s dead foliage.

Trevor found the Old Man sitting by his campfire with his white wolf. To Trevor’s surprise, the Old Man seemed delighted about something. Trevor had not seen the old timer in such a mood since the day Trevor aired his frustration over nuclear warheads failing to detonate. The Old Man had found that whole situation amusing while physicists found it inexplicable.

The thing mimicking an Old Man noted Trevor’s glum disposition.

“Now, what’s got you all gloom ‘n doom, Trev? The ways I see it, you should be making with the whoopee’s. You put your toesies in the Pacific. Pretty good work.”

“Yeah, sure,” Trevor sat on red rock. “Can I ask you something?”

The Old Man rolled his eyes. When they had first met the entity told Trevor not to ask questions, yet Trevor rarely visited the Old Man and did not have questions.

“There is no other way, right? I mean, I couldn’t have let The California Cooperative stay in one piece. The Witiko had to go, right?”

“Ha! That sounds like three questions, Trevy,” the man failed to lighten the mood.

After two weeks of reading bad press it would take much more to chase away Trevor’s gloom. Voices across the spectrum complained about casualties, the missile strike, and a military-intelligence conspiracy. Some of the outcry came from a general weariness after a decade of fighting. However, Trevor also knew he bore some of the responsibility for the problem, not only from the missile strike but also from the rift between himself and the Senate.

“Now lemme give you one little piece of skinny on them Witiko. Get them out fast. Personally, I’d much rather you put the sword to all of them, those silver tongued devils. Sometimes I wonder if they ain’t up to more than meets the eye in all this.”

“Nothing has changed over the years, has it? You said I had to survive, fight, and sacrifice. On and on it goes. I’m a link on that chain, right? Thing is, from where I’m standing I don’t see any other links. I just see myself.”

The Old Man’s good mood over something—seemingly more than the defeat of the Witiko—loosened his lips.

“Oh, yeah, Trev. You know, every bit of life on this here rock comes from one seed, yessir. A seed that sprouted roots and grew a big tree, hehe. Over there, on one branch, is a red robin, and over there is a lion out there prowlin’ the jungle being the king of his shit. All branches on a tree. But all from one seed, Trevor. One—oh, now what would the eggheads call it?—one gee-netic strand.”

“Strand?” Trevor mulled the word. “You mean, chain?”

“From that seed came one pure root of life, going straight up the middle of that tree while everything else was branchin’ off. Take a look at yourself, Trevor. Some folks can trace their grandparents back to coming off the boat from Italy, others all the way back to royalty in the old world or Chinese dynasties or whatever. But you can trace your great-times-a million-or-so grandparents back to the first slimy little things that swam around in the primordial soup.”

Trevor extrapolated, “Life. Our entire ecosystem. The fight is about the entire genetic pattern. We’ve got a lot in common with the Duass and the Geryons and all, but each a little different. But wait, Voggoth and his bunch are completely different. And from what I saw, he doesn’t have an Earth to defend. Why doesn’t Voggoth have something to lose?”

“Oh, now what’s that old thing they used to sing on Sesame Street? What was it?” The Old Man tried—poorly—to carry a melody, “One of these things don’t belong with the other, one of these tings just ain’t the same…”

Trevor cut off the song: “Okay, Voggoth is different. But he still has troops here. And he sure has been messing with the works, right? He got the humans in that other world to lure me over. I’m thinking he did that not only to hurt my Earth but to help me beat up the Chaktaw on their Earth. The way I figure, he was trying to wipe out two races with one move.”

“Yeah, ole’ Voggoth has pulled a few fast ones, that’s for sure,” the Old Man said, “But we done a few things ourselves to try and righten that, didn’t we?”

Trevor figured the Old Man had broken the ‘rules’ that governed the invasion by sharing knowledge of the runes, which first helped him find those runes here, then helped him seek out those runes on the Chaktaw’s Earth as a means of getting home. That posed another question.

“Let me guess, you guys can play fast and loose with time, too?”

“I told you time don’t mean nothin’. It’s irrelevant. Just made up by men. I suppose, though, if you were to think of creation as a big bottle of soda pop, then inside all the fizz is a bunch of bubbles, each one their own bubble of what you think of as time. But look, you know I can’t be sayin’ too much. Still playin’ by the rules, as much as those rules are getting’ fudged-up these days. Yessir, things getting’ all haywire and no one is liking that too much, let me tell you.”

Trevor spied a glint in the Old Man’s eye. A mischievous glint. He invited, “Tell me what’s on your mind, old timer.”

“Now I can’t go makin’ a bunch of noise, but let’s just say you’re doing pretty good. In fact, some are thinking you’re going to get it done. But some other folks ain’t doin’ as well, hehe.”

Trevor jumped, “Are you trying to tell me that on some other Earth a race is losing?”

“I’m not tellin’ you nothin’!” the Old Man’s words sounded defensive but he winked as he spoke. “Nonethe-however, you sure are doin’ good, relatively speaking. Real good.”

Trevor considered ten years of warfare, the slaughter at New Winnabow, the weed-like re-growth of politics, the distance between himself and Ashley, the loss of Nina, and the bloodshed in California.

“Yes,” he mumbled. “I’m doing real good.”

*

Ashley followed the photographer’s direction and stepped to her left, crowding a little closer to the big smelly guy with the cowboy hat while two children stood in front, each with a wounded K9 at their side.

Ray Roos—Chief of Security for the estate—shuffled out of the way, as did Ashley’s two assistants who helped organize public relations events such as this.

Around the photographer buzzed a quartet of reporters. Ashley recognized the anxiousness in how they paced, tapped their notebooks, and darted their eyes about. She nearly felt sorry for them. There they were inside the hollowed grounds of the Emperor’s estate but stuck at the canine barn covering a story about families and wounded dogs.

One of the reporters asked with little enthusiasm, “Mrs. Stone, has the Grenadier adoption program been a success?”

The reporter turned his eyes to his notebook, pencil ready, to copy the pat answer certain to follow. Ashley hesitated, ever so slightly, at the title “Mrs. Stone.”

That title implied marriage to Trevor, something that had never occurred. Marriage, in turn, implied confidence, commitment, romance, and child-rearing. While she had confidence in Trevor and raised his child, their ‘relationship’ no longer held either commitment or romance. When Trevor had disappeared three years ago, Ashley feared she lost him to the forces of Armageddon only to learn that she had lost him to the forces of the heart.

“We’ve placed more than five hundred K9s through the program.”

The camera flashed, the shutter snapped, and the photographer adjusted so as to include the nearby memorial statue of a stalwart dog of indeterminate breed in the next picture.

“Mrs. Stone, are there concerns about the temperament of the K9s around kids?”

“Not at all. Grenadiers placed in homes are even more affectionate then the household pets we knew before the invasion.”

Ashley had known since the day they pulled her from her ark ride in a coffin of green goo that the Richard Stone she knew no longer existed. Fair enough, because it did not take long for the new reality to changer her, too. She found a purpose as the softer side of the Emperor and as mother to their very special boy. In the old world, such a role might have sounded limited but she knew she served the same cause as Trevor in her own way.

A reporter asked, “What are some of the typical injuries to the K9s?”

“Most have lost legs, eyes, ears, and require specialized diets and physical therapy.”

Ashley spied Gordon Knox walking with one of his subordinates around the corner of the mansion. After a moment, Gordon dismissed the young man and watched the show.

“How many of the K9s are available for adoption?”

Gordon scared Ashley but also fascinated her, the way a person might admire the symmetry of a hurricane. She knew he had grown fond of her, perhaps because she was unattainable. People tended to covet things beyond their grasp.

“We currently have fifty-two canines waiting for adoption. Several dozen more will be available in a few weeks as they are released from veterinarian care.”

While his attraction unnerved Ashley, she knew he would not approach her: Gordon held a fanatical devotion to Trevor Stone and would never betray that trust.

“Mrs. Stone, do you think it was right for your husband to assassinate the human leaders of The California Cooperative when the war was already won?”

Usually surprise questions would not catch Ashley unprepared, but she had been lulled into daydreams. Her smile faltered enough that the reporters sensed an opportunity to strike.

“Were you shocked at the number of Imperial casualties?”

“Any plans to set up an adoption program like this for the orphans in California?”

She spoke to the man with the cowboy hat and two children, “Thank you for adopting. Unfortunately, I believe our pleasant morning has come to an end. If you’ll excuse me…”

Ashley motioned for the family and their new pets to follow her assistants away from the brewing skirmish. Those assistants wavered, unsure if they should abandon her. Ashley, however, had become quite adept at handling the press. But in case she failed, just outside the peripheral view of the reporters lingered Gordon Knox, a guard dog in his own right.

She answered, “The California invasion was unfortunate. I only wish the extraterrestrials had chosen to return to their home, instead of causing more destruction to ours.”

Gordon smiled in approval causing Ashley to smile a little, too, as they shared the fun in her playing the press. Yet beneath her smile lingered that unease.

“Don’t you feel any remorse over all the human casualties?”

“I grieve for all the victims of the alien invasion, including the millions murdered in California by the Witiko. I admire the people of California for fighting against the aliens for five years. I wish we could have helped them sooner.”

“Is it the Emperor’s plan to overrun any government that opposes his rule?”

“Trevor’s plan has been the same since the early days when he gathered a handful of survivors on the grounds of this estate: expel the invaders who came to our planet without provocation. Even as we speak, millions of human beings around the world remain enslaved or living in harsh conditions, something to which every citizen of The Empire can relate. It remains our duty to save those people the same way Trevor, directly or indirectly, saved each of us.”

Unable to knock her off balance, the four reporters hesitated.

She took the opening to end the session: “Thank you. I hope you have a wonderful day.”

Ray Roos jumped in and led the reporters toward the main gate. Ashley watched them go, purposely keeping her eyes on the group longer than needed. When she felt she could avoid it no longer, she turned toward the corner of the mansion. Gordon had gone.

*

Trevor Stone finished lunch in the basement cafeteria of the Methodist church near the estate. Dustin McBride long ago painted a caricature of the kitchen’s founder, Sal Corso, on a wall behind the counter. Sal had died in a Red Hand—or Feranite—attack that first year.

As Trevor climbed the stairs and exited the building with his faithful companion Tyr at his side, he found it ironic that Dustin had painted the picture of Sal who had been killed by the Red Hands and now, far away in the mountains of Colorado, Dustin’s cavalry tracked a large band of those same alien warriors through the wilderness.

According to the latest report, snowfall during April had inhibited the pursuit for weeks. The search restarted, but the unit faced slow going in the rough terrain along the Colorado and Wyoming border. A lack of available air reconnaissance assets—due to California commitments—aggravated the situation.

Reports from other quarters offered better news. The surviving five Witiko Stingrays were safely under military control. Furthermore, while the highest ranking Witiko officers remained in Internal Security holding areas preparing for testimony before the Senate, a large portion of the rank and file had shuffled through the gate. Dante, it seemed, managed to do something right.

That thought gave him pause. He considered that maybe he was being too hard on his old friend. Dante, no doubt, felt stuck in the middle. And while the I.S. Director sometimes seemed too close to Evan, Jones had managed to smooth things over after the New Winnabow affair. Without his negotiations the situation could have deteriorated.

Trevor arrived at the mansion and entered. Lori Brewer’s voice carried along the hall from her office in the old dining room: “Alllrrigghtty then, would you like me to get Trevor on the phone? He personally requested those food stuffs get up to Renton this week.”

Of course, Trevor did not know a word of what Lori discussed but he approved, nonetheless. She had her own way of getting things done.

Just like Dante? Maybe he has his own way, too?

Trevor climbed the stairs to his second floor office where Dante Jones stood at the glass balcony doors, staring out toward the front grounds of the estate and the lake waters.

He spoke without turning, “I really didn’t want this job when you first gave it to me. But I figured it would be easy, right? I mean, back then there were hardly any of us. So even though I didn’t have any experience being a cop, I figured I could just use my common sense and all. Man, things have gotten a lot more complicated.”

Trevor crossed the room and stopped several paces behind his old friend.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to handle Internal Security because of experience. Back then, no one had experience doing anything. The way I saw it, the slate was wiped clean. A new start for everyone. So I wanted you nearby. Maybe I was selfish, but the truth is that I wanted my friend at my side because I always could trust your judgment.”

“Seems to me, Trev, you don’t trust my judgment anymore.”

Trevor ran a hand through his hair, sighed, and stood alongside his friend.

“I’m sorry. Two weeks ago, at Stonewall’s service, I jumped all over you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Yeah, well, I kinda guessed that you weren’t jumping all over me. You were jumping all over the Senate, I just happened to be standing nearby.”

“I suppose,” Trevor admitted. “They’re old style politicians, the type of people who let Earth fall the first time. I don’t trust them to do what is right.”

Dante glanced at Trevor then away, refusing to hold eye contact.

“Well buddy, you had better start listening to what’s going on out there, because there’s a lot of people on the street who don’t trust you right now, either.”

In the last two weeks the idea of a military-intelligence conspiracy and questions about the prosecution of the California war grew from isolated columns and protests to speeches on the Senate floor, news specials, and ‘rallies’ in Washington D.C. Not out of control; not yet, but reminiscent of the problems after New Winnabow.

“Things will calm down,” Trevor tried to convince himself. “Most of the media is still pro-war. We just have to sit back and let the fires burn themselves out.”

“That sounds like Knox talking. Truth is, if you do nothing it’s going to get worse.”

“Oh? What is it you think I should do, Dante?”

Trevor stopped himself. He heard a tone creeping into his voice again, the same tone he had used with Dante at the Capitol two weeks ago. Dante had come today for some kind of reconciliation—something. Trevor did not want to chase him away.

Dante asked, “Tell me, why do you think people are giving you shit about this?”

Trevor waved a dismissive hand, “There are some politicos out there who want to stir up headlines for themselves. Don’t think I haven’t noticed Godfrey doing most of the talking. Of course, politics is his game, not mine.”

“Then you better make it your game. This isn’t a handful of survivors any more, Trevor. This is a full-blown nation, man. Like it or not, it is a lot like America was.”

“No, it isn’t. I won’t let it become that again,” Trevor walked away from Dante with disgust building in his belly. “America lost the invasion. Do you want politicians to come back into style? Do you want the Evan Godfreys of the Senate holding us back?”

“I’m not the one who wants that, Trevor. You are. You’re the one who makes them hold things back.”

Dante moved away from the window and spoke in a pleading voice but still looked more at the ground than at his friend.

“The more you fight the Senate, the more it drags things down. The people are complaining because they’re worried that the Senate means nothing. They’re worried you’re going to be a dictator for life. Hey, like it or not most of the people living in your Empire were Americans before. You know, land of liberty and freedom and all that. They’ve followed you this far, but they need some assurances before they take this fight around the world.”

Trevor grunted and said off-the-cuff, “That sounds like Evan Godfrey talking.”

“It is.”

Trevor whipped around on Dante and glared.

Before he could say a word, Dante Jones reminded, “When things went to Hell after New Winnabow, I worked with Godfrey to keep it under control. When you went away, I worked with him and Jon to hold together the mess you left us in. With everything happening now, Godfrey came to me off the record to offer, I guess, an olive branch.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, really. And he makes sense, man. People are worried about the future.”

“There won’t be a future if we don’t win this war, Dante.”

“There won’t be any war if this falls apart. Can you put aside your ego for five minutes?”

“Ego? You think I like this?”

“No, man, I know you never wanted any of this. I get it. But when it comes to Godfrey, you’ve got an ego. You once told me that you’d do anything for the great cause, right?”

From the moment he had been given responsibility for humanity’s survival he knew he had to be a leader like no other. Everything he did must be to further the cause. Sometimes that meant standing his ground with complete resolve, other times that meant a humiliating retreat in order to live to fight another day.

He could do all that…yet refused to swallow his pride and deal with Godfrey.

Dante said, “Some of the shit that’s happened these past few years has really, you know, divided everyone. You act like you don’t trust Internal Security and you don’t trust the Senate. In fact, you really dig on them sometimes, like you’re trying to insult them. You got to remember, those people got elected so each one of them has some kind of following. When you pick on the Senate, their voters take that personal.”

Trevor opened his mouth, said nothing, and closed it again.

Dante went on, “You need to show some confidence in I.S. and in the Senate. Show the people out there that you respect these, I guess, institutions. Maybe you’ve got to kiss some ass, but you’ve done worse in the name of keeping things together.”

“What exactly does Evan want? A campaign donation?”

Dante threw his arms up, grunted, and walked toward the door saying, “Never mind, Caesar. Forget it.”

“Wait.”

Dante stopped and turned to face Trevor but his eyes found the floor.

“What does he want?”

“He just wants to meet with you, man.”

“Great, have him come up and we’ll meet.”

“No,” Dante shook his head. “You need to go down there, to D.C.”

“What? Why?”

“To show that you respect what they’re doing down there. Don’t you get it? All you need to do is go down there, kiss some Senate ass, and meet with Evan on his turf. Show him and the other Senators some love. Show the public that you aren’t some kind of brutal dictator. You know what people are thinking about that missile strike, Trev? They’re thinking maybe next time it might just be your political enemies at home. That maybe anyone who speaks out against Trevor Stone might end up the same way.”

It angered Trevor that Dante would suggest such a thing but the very emergence of that anger caused him to stop and wonder. On that other Earth, a Trevor Stone had led invaders to the Chaktaw’s world for conquest. On that other Earth, this Trevor Stone had touched his own dark side. If alcoholics were told that they could never be cured until they admitted a problem, could the same hold true for despots?

He held his temper and replied, “So I go down there and bow down to the great politicians. All that does, Dante, is weaken my position.”

Dante stepped forward and sold the package: “Not if Evan he holds a press conference, praises your leadership, and commits to keep the war going beyond the U.S. borders.”

Trevor stood shell-shocked at the idea of Godfrey supporting the war beyond old America’s boundaries.

Dante reacted to Trevor’s gape, “That’s right, buddy. With Godfrey supporting it, anyone else who speaks out against the war will be on their own. You won’t have any hassles, the Senate can go on worrying over the shit you don’t care about, and everyone will be happy.”

“All Godfrey wants is a little respect? If I do this, we announce it to the press and all?”

“Evan suggested that you just announce you’re going to D.C. to meet with him. Don’t make it seem arranged. Then it’ll come across like you two had a real heart-to-heart which ends up with you thanking him for what the Senate is doing and him giving you his full support.”

Trevor’s mind spun. He could not believe Evan Godfrey had given up the game. He felt certain that the Senator plotted some political trap and that he had turned poor Dante Jones into an unwitting accomplice. Nonetheless…

“I’ll think about it.”

Dante looked Trevor in the eye for the first time during the conversation and asked, “What have you got to lose? What’s the worst that could happen?”

*

After Dante delivered Evan’s olive branch, Trevor strolled the halls of the estate for two hours trying to come to some sort of conclusion. He could list a dozen reasons why he should not reach out to Evan. How could a man be expected to make good with another who had slandered him so? Who stoked dissent and, possibly, even violence?

Trevor decided not to go, and immediately heard Dante’s voice ringing in his ears: “Trevor murdered them…maybe they had a better idea, a different idea. Everything around here has to be exactly as Trevor says, right?”

No, Trevor would not do this for Evan Godfrey, but he might do it for Dante. Maybe if he took this one little step—showed this one concession—then when Evan springs his political trap Dante would see the truth about the Senator. If not, and if Dante stayed this close to Godfrey, Trevor would have to replace him. Maybe with Ray Roos.

By the time Trevor descended the steps to the council chamber in the basement, he had decided to go to Washington D.C., next week, meet with Evan Godfrey, go through the motions, and walk right into whatever game Evan meant to play. Trevor knew he always managed to out maneuver the Senator, perhaps whatever Evan planned would backfire; maybe even drive a stake through the pest’s heart. More important, perhaps Trevor could repair his friendship with Dante Jones and prove to both himself and ‘the people’ that he would not become a tyrannical dictator.

Trevor found several dozen soldiers in the basement, some with bazookas, others with flamethrowers, even a few with mortars. They were plastic, of course, and scattered across the top of the otherwise vacant council table.

Those particular troopers ran in the ranks of JB’s army, no doubt mustered to face a phalanx of Duass infantry or grapple with the metallic monsters of the Geryon’s Steel Guard (forces Trevor had encountered on that parallel Earth and believed to be in Asia on this world).

However, JB battled a more immediate threat. He crept along the wall next to the armory door with a rolled newspaper in his hand.

“Um, JB?”

JB held a finger to his lips, “Sshhhh.”

Trevor listened and, after a moment, he heard JB’s prey: the buzz of a fly as it flew around the ceiling light above the table.

The boy raced forward, swung his newspaper, and missed the insect. It buzzed off.

“Trying to slay a fly, son?”

“Yes,” Jorge Benjamin Stone answered in a stout voice. “It has been annoying me. I don’t think I can finish the big battle with this constant buzzing in my ear.”

Trevor nodded the way fathers nod at young boys about such things.

JB circled the table, cocked his newspaper, and swatted yet again. This time Trevor heard the sharp flap of the weapon striking home. JB grew a huge grin on his face and tracked down the corpse with glee.

“There! That fixed him!”

Jorge scooped up the dead bug with the newspaper and threw it in a waste basket. Pleased at his victory, he moved to the table and re-positioned his toy soldiers.

“Well done, son. You took care of that pest.”

JB did not respond. He appeared devoted to his command.

Trevor briefly pinched the bridge of his nose then walked to the head seat at the table; the place where he usually held council with his advisors about war, the economy, industry, and more. This time, in the empty room, he came to tell his son that he would be leaving next week for D.C. JB, however, pre-empted his father’s speech.

“You’re going away again.”

“How do you know that?”

The boy remained fixated on plastic tactical maneuvers but paused long enough to answer in an emotionless voice, “I can sense it. It’s in your voice, whenever you bring me bad news,” he changed the subject to his toys, “My army is going to engage the Centurians. The odds are great, but I anticipate victory.”

Trevor shook his head in amazement. He knew his boy to be special; knew it long before Dr. Maple found far more neurotransmitter types in JB’s brain than the typical human being. Their purpose? Unknown. Trevor figured someday they would find out.

In any case, JB had a way about him. A greater understanding of things. Most boys would hate their father leaving so often for dangerous missions or important meetings. Jorge embraced it. Encourage it. Yet this time JB sounded not quite as enthusiastic.

“I’m sorry JB. But I’ll be here for your birthday tomorrow, and most of the rest of the week. Are you excited about turning eight?”

Jorgie replied with a huff that suggested he had grown weary of answering questions about his birthday. “Yes. I am excited.”

A silence grew between the two, punctuated only by imaginary gunfire. However, after a moment a new sound caught Trevor’s ear: another buzzing insect flying overhead.

“Uh-oh,” Trevor said. “Sounds like we have another intruder. Better get that newspaper.”

To the contrary, JB remained focused on his battle.

“I will have to let this one go, father. If I spend all my time dealing with pests the battle will never be won. You understand, don’t you?”

Trevor smiled politely, having listened to his son but not actually hearing.

Sic Semper Tyrannis

Prior to Armageddon, the Sikorsky Super Stallion helicopter transported officials of the American government. Now the plush interior of leather seats and fancy trim accommodated a new breed of politicians.

The shudder reverberating through the craft and the constant drone of whirring rotors reminded Trevor why he preferred to fly in quiet, smooth Eagle shuttles. However, the theme of the day was “Trevor loves Internal Security and the Senate,” so bye-bye Eagle One, hello Internal Security VIP transport.

As bad as he found the situation, his elkhound, Tyr, suffered more due to his acute senses. The dog curled at his master’s feet as if trying to hide from the noise.

His escort also included Ray Roos and plain-clothes I.S. agents, all part of the plan to emphasize subtlety. After all, an entourage of soldiers and a dreadnought floating above Evan’s home would have spoiled the whole sucking-up-to-Godfrey ambiance Dante felt necessary.

Nonetheless, he remained well protected. A squad of agents secured the interior of Evan’s home, army units from the Washington D.C. garrison manned checkpoints a mile from the meeting site, and the Excalibur waited on station to the south outside of Richmond.

Still, the phrase for the day was “low key.” Trevor had arrived in D.C. in time for a breakfast with Chairpersons of several Senate committees. A tour of the rejuvenated Smithsonian followed where updated exhibits included a small but working matter-transformation machine taken from the Hivvans, a collection of extraterrestrial gear, and a Duass War Skiff.

Trevor particularly admired a twenty-foot interactive diorama depicting the collapse of Washington D.C. during the invasion a decade ago. The display included a two-inch replica Skip Beetle outside the Pentagon and toy-sized Hivvan Battlebarges advancing along Pennsylvania Avenue. A narrator stoically relayed information such as, “the Texas delegation turned the Hart office building into a modern Alamo where they survived for three weeks,” and “the junior Senator from New York fell victim to a Crawling Tube Worm inside the Capitol Building.”

Dante accompanied Trevor for most of the morning, but as lunch neared the Internal Security Director broke away from the main group to visit the Tambourine Monitoring Center. That station collated information from the smaller stations up and down the east coast that stood as an electronic fence protecting against attack from the Atlantic.

An hour later, Trevor boarded the helicopter and departed from Capitol Hill crossing the Potomac on course for Evan Godfrey’s estate outside of McLean, Virginia.

Trevor glanced across the aisle at Ray Roos. The man’s usually thin face appeared a little more drawn that day; a tad pale, maybe.

“You okay, Ray?”

Roos answered, “Yes sir, just fine thank you. Guess I don’t like it too much in D.C. with all these Senators walkin’ around and all.”

“I know what you mean,” said Trevor as he glanced out one of the portals to view the scrolling streets, expressways, and—the further they flew—woodlands and gentle hills.

While Washington had been cleansed and pacified, most of the homes in the metropolitan area and suburbs remained empty. In fact, in terms of population Washington ranked behind Miami, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia, although D.C. did surpass New York in residents.

The helicopter overflew a cluster of softball fields, making Trevor think of baseball and how Jorgie neared Little League age. He thought about all the other ‘ages’ Jorgie would soon see, and how many already passed by.

Trevor knew he was not the father he wanted to be. He loved his boy greatly and he tried to spend time with his kid. If home, he would tuck JB to bed, often times reading him a book or telling stories from the war (edited to not incur mommy’s wrath). He would wrap the same stuffed bunny in the same little blanket every night, and while that might sound silly, it had become an important ritual to both Trevor and his son.

JB’s eighth birthday party had gone well, exactly the type of get together they needed in the wake of Stonewall’s death. The Nehrus, Knox, Dante, and of course the Brewers attended, not to mention hordes of children including Catherine Brewer. JB’s favorite gift came from Jerry Shepherd: a Feranite war cloth; essentially woven threads painted in bright colors to symbolize a chief’s great victories. For Trevor, it served to remind that a band of Red Hand nomads remained at large in the Midwest.

“We’ll, looks like we’ve arrived, sir,” Ray said as the helicopter descended.

Godfrey lived in a colonial-style home nearly as large as Trevor’s lakeside mansion. The red brick appeared recently re-pointed and three sharp gables gave it a taste of Victorian style.

The Sikorsky lowered to the finely manicured lawn behind the home, a yard large enough to accommodate one of those softball fields Trevor spotted during the flight.

Trevor saw no cameras or reporters, but that had been the case all day. The itinerary called for no media before or during their get together. Presumably, when finished, the two would address the media together in a dramatic showing of solidarity and mutual respect.

The helicopter landed. The rotors powered down. Trevor glanced out the window, noting Evan and several I.S. guards standing at the rear of the home near a colorful garden of red, orange, and yellow. Still, no sign of cameras. Whatever political trap Evan planned to spring would either not need the media or could wait until they addressed the reporters after lunch.

Or, a part of Trevor suggested, maybe Evan is really reaching out here.

“Sir, this way,” Roos directed Trevor to the exit.

“You sure you’re okay, Ray? You don’t look so good.”

“Fine, sir.”

Tyr went first, Trevor and Roos followed with four bodyguards not far behind. Evan approached Trevor wearing a big grin; so big and so forced it could only be phony.

Trevor glanced to his left and noticed the beautiful but simple design of the Godfrey mansion. Not quite as flashy as Trevor would expect from a man so concerned about image. He then looked to his right and surveyed the open expanse of well-kept lawn surrounded by forest.

“Trevor, I’m very glad you could come.”

The two met half way.

“How could I refuse such an invitation. Besides, Dante Jones twisted my arm. He seems to think that I have misjudged you all these years.”

Evan’s phony grin changed, a little. His teeth flashed; his eyes narrowed.

“Yes, Trevor. You have misjudged me.”

A low, electric humming that Trevor recognized as the quiet engines of an Eagle transport drifted to his ears, pulling his attention to the rear of the yard. From there flew in—low and fast—one of The Empire’s white Eagle transports.

The sudden appearance of the shuttle startled Trevor for only an instant. He had anticipated a political trap and was only surprised that no cameras played to capture whatever grand embarrassment the President of the Senate planned for The Emperor.

The ship landed and the passenger compartment opened. Out poured men in white and red body armor with full face plates—no, not men. Aliens. Centurians or, as they had been nicknamed during the battle of Wilkes-Barre, “Redcoats,” the original owners of the Eagle shuttles.

In a flash, Trevor understood that an extraterrestrial assault team landed in Evan’s back yard. It took Tyr even less time to smell the threat.

The dog charged as the attackers fired their first volley. While those energy blasts missed the K9, the shots did hit the ground next to The Emperor and the Senator. The explosive impact sent both of the men first into the air, then onto the beautiful green grass. Trevor’s head hit hard, but he remained conscious.

He heard small arms fire as well as the crackle of energy bursts. Trevor felt a hand haul him up, expecting it to be Roos, but it was a member of the estate detachment. The man pulled an Mp5 machine gun and returned fire while struggling to drag Trevor to cover.

Trevor should have come to his senses and acted, but the sight he saw in Evan Godfrey’s yard confused him. He saw alien plasma bursts firing into the air and into the ground; not really hitting anything. He saw Tyr rip into the arm of one of the Redcoats, but the alien reacted sluggishly, as if not feeling the pain. He spotted Godfrey cowering on the ground, arms over his head. He saw some of his escort firing at the attackers, knocking at least two of the dozen aliens to the ground with solid hits. He saw other I.S. agents firing at…firing at other I.S. agents.

“To the chopper!” Shouted the guard holding Trevor’s arm.

Something streaked by Trevor. Something hot. Then he felt a warm liquid splash on his cheek. That liquid came from the man dragging him toward the helicopter; blood from his head. The hot thing had been a bullet fired by another I.S. agent, one from the estate, a short man with gray hair who held his pistol steady in both hands for the best possible aim.

Tyr bolted at that gray-haired agent, clamping down on the short man’s arm. With his free hand, the agent blasted the Norwegian Elkhound, exploding the skull of Trevor’s friend.

Another energy bolt hit at Trevor’s feet, sending him rolling. He looked up and saw that while almost the entire security detail had died, the majority of the Redcoat aliens remained alive but stood still with their rifles held aloft but not firing, not advancing.

Trevor pulled himself to a sitting position and called, “Evan! Are you okay?”

Ray Roos cast a shadow over Trevor and pointed a gun at his boss saying, “He’s fine, but you’re dead.”

The gun fired. Trevor felt a hot sensation in his chest and his limbs went numb…

*

Chaos.

“Confirm that message. Confirm it, NOW!”

General Jon Brewer stood on the bridge of the Excalibur alongside the command station where Woody “Bear” Ross operated as the ‘brain’ of the ship.

“Message confirmed from D.C. Station,” Ross replied in his booming voice. “All friendly air traffic is grounded. The contact is not responding to hails.”

Jon yelled the obvious order, “Intercept it, goddamn it! Intercept!”

The Excalibur’s main engines increased to maximum thrust, propelling the massive vessel over the Virginia landscape at speeds approaching one-hundred and twenty miles per hour.

Jon, staring out the bridge windows at blue skies, growled at his unseen quarry, “Where are you going? Are you trying to get back to Mexico? Is that it?”

Nothing yet appeared on the Excalibur’s scopes, but if I.S. spotters were correct then the getaway transport for the alien assassination team would soon be in range. As Jon waited for intercept, he played over the events of the last sixty minutes, according to reports from Internal Security, the media, and the Department of Medical and Health Services.

At 1:15 p.m. on May 22, an alien-operated Eagle transport—most likely a Centurian ship painted to resemble The Empire’s versions—landed without warning at the estate of Senator Evan Godfrey. Within thirty seconds the bulk of the I.S. security detail had been killed. Godfrey and Stone had both been hit, although Godfrey’s wounds appeared minor.

Less than two minutes later, the alien assault force flew off, chased away by the encroachment of perimeter guards and military units.

At 1:23 p.m. an I.S. transport helicopter departed with the injured, including Emperor Trevor Stone, to the Medical and Health Services facility in Washington D.C., where none other than Dr. Maple himself—a member of the Imperial Council—began emergency surgery on Trevor for a direct hit by an alien energy rifle.

At 1:45 p.m., Dante Jones, who was at D.C.‘s I.S. complex and Tambourine Central Station, ordered the grounding of all Eagles in an attempt to locate the enemy craft that still had not appeared on any of the regional radar stations, or the Excalibur’s own scopes.

At 2:12 the Internal Security station in D.C. reported contact with a suspect vessel matching the profile of an Eagle. Said ship did not respond to hails.

Ross shouted, “Got it! Radar contact coming from the northeast. Fifty miles and closing.”

“Why didn’t we see the damn thing sooner?”

“Maybe he was hiding in the mountains,” Ross answered.

Brewer knew they might only have once chance. From what he remembered, the Redcoat shuttles could run at speeds close to one-hundred and fifty miles per hour, meaning the aliens could outrun the Excalibur, and the ship’s fighter compliment was stowed below decks.

Jon wanted to know how the aliens managed to fly from Mexico to D.C. without detection. Could the Centurians have a hidden base inside the boundaries of The Empire?

For the next several minutes Brewer watched monitors and listened to Bear direct navigation to intercept. The radar blip closed to within missile range and while Jon’s naked eyes could not see the enemy, Bear’s telescopic lenses provided confirmation.

“That’s it. We got em’. Do you want me to fire?”

Jon replied, “Hold for a moment. Contact them. Tell them they will be destroyed unless they respond.”

Woody Ross relayed that order several times over the course of three minutes with no answer. The radar blip crossed the Excalibur’s path heading from northeast to southwest at a high rate of speed.

“They ain’t answering,” the Brain stated the obvious. “They’re going to outrun us if we don’t do something about it. Should I get the crews to their fighters?”

“No. We don’t need the jets. Fire.”

One, two, three, then four radar-locked missiles streaked away from launchers. Jon turned from the open windows of the bridge and walked to the tracking station.

The missiles flew straight and true. The alien vessel either did not know that death fast approached or lacked any countermeasures. Ross, watching through telescopic lenses, yelled, “First one is a hit…it’s smoking. Wait…second hit. And the third. Damn, that Got em! They’re in pieces, no chance of survivors.”

The blip disappeared from the scope. Jon visualized chunks of debris twisting and falling to the wilderness below.

Cheers erupted around the bridge but not from Jon Brewer. He knew what had happened. He knew the damage had already been done.

The General left the radar station and returned to the Brain area. Woody Ross did not cheer, either. In fact, he absolutely scowled as one finger pressed an earpiece tight.

“What? What is it?”

“Communication from Ray Roos. Trevor Stone is dead.”

Wrath

The forty-acre tract of land called Highland Beach jutted out into the Chesapeake Bay a few miles southeast of Annapolis. The tiny municipality originated as a getaway for affluent blacks from the Washington D.C. area in the early 20th Century. That unique identity had been fairly diluted by the time Armageddon and Hivvan occupation arrived. Many of the resort homes and businesses burned to ashes during those dark years prior to liberation.

On top of the ruins, The Empire built the Southern Command facility to help prosecute the war against the Hivvans. From there, General Jerry Shepherd had directed tens of thousands of human forces, armored columns, and air assets against the lizard-like aliens until breaking the enemy’s back at Atlanta.

As the war moved west, the Southern Command morphed from active headquarters to communication station and training facility.

For Nina Forest and the Dark Wolves, the vertical landing pads and communications office off Bay Drive served as a muster point prior to missions. They would usually catch an Eagle or a chopper from there and fly either to a larger airport or a dreadnought. The flattened rubble to the north of the facility also provided grounds for tactical training and weapons ranges.

When news surfaced mid-afternoon that Trevor had been badly wounded during an alien assassination attempt, Captain Nina Forest followed her first instinct and gathered her gear, caught a bus from her apartment complex to the transportation hub on Douglas Avenue at Highland Beach, then jogged passed the beach to the old Southern Command buildings.

The entire process—from saying goodbye to Denise to walking in the front doors at the center—lasted half an hour. Yet in that time, things changed drastically.

Nina, a duffle bag thrown over one shoulder and her M-4 cradled on the other, staggered away from the building after learning that nothing more remained to be done.

She moved along the shaded sidewalk with the plan of returning to the transportation hub. On the far side of the short beach the gentle waters of the Chesapeake lapped to shore. A series of rotting wood posts marched out into the surf, all that remained of a dock washed away long before Highland Beach burned.

A small park with rusty playground equipment stood vacant under a warm afternoon sun. Charred branches and logs lay in circles around the rim of the park. Nina knew that kids—kids like Denise and her boyfriend Jake—came here at night to build campfires.

Her legs weakened. Nina accepted the invitation of an empty bench and sat facing the swooshing waters.

It came at her unexpectedly: a powerful, unstoppable surge of sadness forming a horrible rock of despair in her stomach and sending a quiver across her body. She dropped her bag with a thump on the sand at the edge of the beach and set the M-4 down. A breeze carrying the scent of salt blew by and seagulls cawed over the water oblivious to the tragedy of the day.

Trevor Stone had died after suffering a direct hit from an energy weapon. He had been dead, in fact, before arriving at the hospital but Dr. Maple explained to the press that he had wanted to exhaust every avenue of treatment before abandoning hope.

Nina’s face fell into her hands. Her breath came in labored gasps. Her eyes squeezed shut.

Nina Forest wept not only for the loss of a great leader but for something more. Something personal. She did not know what or why, but as she absorbed the news of Trevor’s death she felt she lost a part of herself.

*

Gordon Knox lived in many places over the course of his life. From the Watergate hotel in Washington D.C., to the American embassy in South Korea to Camp Pennsylvania, Kuwait, Knox had toured his share of living spaces in locales both exotic and dull.

Nonetheless, if asked where he called home, Knox’s answer would be Miami, Florida. He had lived his first twelve years in South Florida before his father’s military assignments led the family elsewhere. He moved there again during the early 90s as part of his ‘job’. And while he returned to the greater D.C. area prior to the invasion, his heart lingered in Dade County.

Unfortunately for Knox, his post-Armageddon position as Director of Intelligence meant residing in northeastern Pennsylvania. However, he found a slice of home a mere fifteen miles from the lakeside estate: a one-story Mediterranean style house with a glass-enclosed lanai complete with heated pool, pastel colors, ceiling fans and lots of glass. Whoever built this home in the old world shared Gordon’s love of all things Floridian.

The place sat on an acre in a secluded valley among a cluster of mini-mansions, most only partially constructed when Armageddon hit and all currently unoccupied, hence earning his neighborhood the nickname of “Knoxtown.”

On the day Trevor Stone died, a malaise overcame The Empire. Those in the larger cities gathered around televisions hypnotized by repeating video of their slain leader. In the smaller towns, the local gathering spots (from bars to churches) filled with groups who spoke in hushed whispers and waited to see what would come next.

That malaise infected Gordon, too. He returned to Knoxtown and took a front row seat to sunset on the lanai with a dusty bottle of Makers Mark bourbon. He could have felt sorry for himself. He could have wondered what would become of him without Trevor.

Yet nothing like that entered his mind.

As Gordon came to grips with the loss of Stone, he came to understand one thing above all else: he had lost a friend.

So he sat there, eyes fixed on sunset, glass in hand, and a tear running down his cheek.

*

General Thomas Prescott exited a Blackhawk helicopter at LAX and boarded an armor-plated Humvee. His motorcade worked its way to the coast as late afternoon turned toward evening.

While all appeared quiet, Prescott kept in close contact with Brewer and the military council in an attempt to prepare for any contingency, particularly the notion that the assassination served as a preamble for an attack.

Nevertheless, he was quite unprepared for what he saw along the streets of California. People—not all, but some—stood on those streets and cheered, pumping their fists and waving special edition newspapers announcing EMPEROR DEAD!

For a moment—one quick and fleeting moment—Prescott felt the urge to stop the convoy and let bullets fly. Who were these people to cheer the death of the person who had pulled humanity from the brink of extinction?

That moment passed as Prescott remembered that, to some of these people, Trevor Stone would not be remembered as hero or a leader, but as a conqueror.

General Thomas Prescott’s motorcade drove for his beachfront headquarters where he would guard the Pacific Coast.

*

Jorge Benjamin Stone, dressed in blue race car pajamas, stood straight and still alongside his small bed, staring at his mother. In his arms he held a well-worn stuffed bunny—an Easter gift from Jon Brewer many years ago—partially wrapped in a red and white blanket.

Ashley hovered nearby, waiting for a reaction.

Jorge turned away, crawled into bed, and pulled the blankets over his eyes.

*

A STATEMENT FROM EVAN GODFREY, PRESIDENT OF THE IMPERIAL SENATE

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE, ALL MEDIA OUTLETS

“The attack today was not merely an attack on Trevor’s life or my life, but an attack on humanity. I join my friends in grieving the loss of the man responsible for saving our people and turning the tide of war against the invaders. In the same way in which I have personally suffered injury in this assault, The Empire has been wounded. But like me, The Empire will recover if we work together. I call for all citizens, community leaders, and officers of the military to rally behind the temporary leadership of General Jon Brewer. Furthermore, this act of aggression demands a swift and overwhelming response. I stand by our military commanders as they, no doubt, prepare devastating retaliation. While my injuries will limit my duties the next few weeks, know that I will ensure that the armed forces have the resources and bipartisan support they require to deal righteous vengeance upon the Centurians who were responsible for this tragedy.”

*

Jon Brewer sat in the Excalibur’s Captain’s Hall, his head in his arms on the wide, vacant table. In front of him sat a speaker phone dialed into a conference call with three other people.

“We know what comes next,” he spoke. “After what happened three years ago, Trevor left instructions about what to do.”

Brett Stanton—Director of Industry and Manufacturing—answered, “Well now wait, that puts you in charge for up to thirty days, right?”

“The ranking military General will be the highest authority for up to thirty days. During that time, a new Emperor will be elected from among the members of the full Imperial Council, to be voted on exclusively by the current members of that council.”

Lori Brewer spoke in a wobbling voice, “Was this whole thing to set up an invasion?”

“I spoke to Shepherd. He’s moving from Colorado down to Texas just to keep an eye on the border, but so far no signs. Prescott is dug in on the west coast. The Tambourine line off the east coast has been online for weeks now. Not a peep from anywhere. All is quiet, I guess.”

“Too, um, quiet,” Dr. Maple said the obvious line.

Lori asked, “Where is…he?”

Dr. Maple understood and answered, “Internal Security took custody of the remains. I believe Dante Jones is in possession of—I mean, he is with, um, Trevor.”

“We’ll, now, I guess we’re going to have to think about arrangements,” Stanton said.

“I spoke to Dante earlier,” Jon told them. “He had a good idea. He said we should have the body tour The Empire. Sort of a glass coffin, I guess, so all can pay their respects. Doc, I hate to ask this but—”

“No fear, um, General, the remains will be, um, suitable for viewing. I can see to that.”

Lori asked, “So what do we do now?”

*

From May 24th to May 31st, the body of Trevor Stone traveled the eastern half of The Empire in a glass casket accompanied by an honor guard of Grenadiers and soldiers. The first train stop came in Baltimore where Nina Forest, her daughter, and Jerry Shepherd laid their hands on the casket in the Mt. Clare roundhouse at the B&O Railroad museum.

When it stopped in Raleigh, North Carolina, the procession drew nearly three hundred thousand from across the south. The people of Dixie felt a special connection with the man who had freed them from the Hivvan slave camps.

Stops in Tennessee, Missouri, and Indiana drew smaller crowds but those who did attend often braved long drives through hostile wilderness.

Columbus, the shipyards in Pittsburgh, the military academy at West Point, and the slowly rebuilding metropolis of Manhattan each hosted thousands of mourners.

The last stop came at Public Square in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, the first city Trevor Stone saved. Internal Security closed off downtown, creating a line of pedestrians stretching for a mile to view the leader lying in state at the center of the square.

At the forefront of that line walked Ashley, her son JB, and Benjamin Trump—Ashley’s father—surrounded by Jon and Lori Brewer, Dante Jones, and the Nehrus. Further back followed the remainder of the Imperial Council except for Evan Godfrey who remained under a nurse’s care at his home outside of D.C.

Unusually cold weather greeted the memorial; temperatures dipped into the high forties but felt worse due to a sharp wind. The mourners—dressed in heavy coats on the last day of May—entered the square from the south, passing the human and canine honor guard.

The casket rested on a round stage surrounded by floral arrangements and photographs of Trevor at historic moments, including a famous picture of him standing at the steps of Atlanta City Hall with a dirty, tired face and a well-used assault rifle in his bloody hands.

Ashley and JB approached the body with grandpa a step behind. Ashley had spent two days practicing the moment. She knew the eyes of The Empire watched.

With her eight-year-old boy holding her hand and her father’s arm on her shoulder, Ashley peered at the still body of Richard Trevor Stone, his eyes closed, his hair neat but still shoulder-length, his hands clasped over a heavy dress uniform.

As the softer side of the Emperor, Ashley had attended more viewings and funerals than she cared to remember, either by her husband’s side or as the only available representative of the ruling sect. Many times the body on display looked quite different from the person who had lived that life. Sometimes relatives would say “he looks good” while others would say “it just doesn’t look like him at all”.

The Trevor Stone inside the glass casket looked exactly like the man who had lived Trevor Stone’s life. Indeed, the figure inside the coffin seemed sleeping, not lifeless. The embalmers, she noted, had done good work; his skin appeared smooth and perfect, lacking the hard edges that had grown there during years of battle.

JB stepped closer, pulling at his mother’s arm. When she gave no ground, he stood on his toes and craned his neck for a better view.

“He’s at peace now,” Benjamin Trump consoled through watery eyes as he recalled the funeral for his wife who died of breast cancer two years after ‘riding the ark’ with the rest of her family.

Ashley raised a handkerchief to her eye. Surprisingly, she shed no tears at that moment as her mind focused on projecting the proper image, but that image demanded a handkerchief and tears, so she went through the motion.

She had lived ten years as a character called “the Emperor’s wife,” and now she needed to play the role a while longer for the good of others, no time for her own feelings. Perhaps, she thought, Trevor had felt this way for the last decade.

The three moved away from the casket and stopped off to the side where they waited for their friends to pay respects.

Dante Jones, waiting behind the Brewers, ran an arm over his forehead to clean away beads of sweat that had formed despite the cold day. As he did, he caught sight of Jorge pulling his mother to a stoop so as to whisper in her ear. As Ashley listened, her eyes grew wide in something akin to shock, but she regained control and painted on the face of a consoling mother dealing with a child who could not comprehend the truth of the day.

Dante turned his attention to the memorial as his turn came. He approached the coffin, glanced at the contents, closed his eyes, bowed his head, then moved off, making way for Eva Rheimmer and Brett Stanton.

He stood next to Ashley, curious as to why she appeared annoyed at JB even though her son remained quiet and still.

When that curiosity got the better of him he asked her, “What was it JB said to you?”

Ashley, a little surprised at Dante’s intrusion, answered, “It was nothing. He’s trying to cope. He doesn’t understand.”

JB, overhearing, faced Dante Jones and repeated what he had whispered.

“That’s not father.”

*

The malaise that had gripped The Empire after the assassination burst. First came the financial markets; they fell apart. Inflation turned Continental Dollars into worthless paper. This led to labor problems, shortages, and a spike in unemployment, but surprisingly little violence.

Dante Jones personally led the investigation. By the time Trevor was entombed inside a stone mausoleum on the grounds of St. Mary’s cemetery south of Wilkes-Barre, the focus had narrowed to a few select lines of thinking.

First, the Centurians had flown from a secret base in Mexico, somehow avoided the various radar stations along the way including the intense monitoring around D.C., refueled their hydrogen engines at various rivers and lakes, and managed to ascertain The Emperor’s schedule from news reports.

This theory held several obvious flaws but did offer a rather obvious motive: the Centurians must assume that the death of Stone would delay any attack on Mexico.

A more elaborate version of this theory suggested cooperation between the Centurians and the remains of the Hivvan Republic in the Caribbean. Both alien groups sat in The Empire’s cross hairs; both would benefit from Trevor’s death.

More theories arose, including a few from the most ardent pro-Trevor pundits that suggested a conspiracy involving Trevor’s domestic enemies and the former residents of The California Cooperative. Those theories nearly gained traction, until the day after the last formal viewing of Trevor’s body. On that day, Dante Jones and Jon Brewer were summoned to the Internal Security extraterrestrial penitentiary outside of Washington.

Chancellor D’Trayne of the Witiko resided in a well-appointed prison cell complete with mirror, vanity, and queen-sized bed. The guards treated him with respect. He counted Senators, media representatives, and peace activists among his daily visitors, and received meals prepared for his extraterrestrial palate

As Jon and Dante arrived at D’Trayne’s cell, the alien sat down to just such a meal at a table facing the bars.

While the Chancellor received almost every luxury and necessity he craved, he did lack the silver cosmetic his people seemed addicted to. This made him appear somewhat uncomfortable—naked, even—with his gray skin on display for all to see, despite the toga he wore over a tight body suit. The Witiko, apparently, did not like to show their true colors.

Nonetheless, the Chancellor maintained a dignified tone in his voice. Confident, even.

“You’ll have to excuse me, but I am a slave to the prison schedule,” the alien insincerely apologized as he prepared to eat.

“Don’t mind us,” Jon said with an equal amount of insincerity.

A guard delivered a metal tin the size of a shoe box accompanied by a bottle filled with orange-tinted water. The alien placed a napkin on his lap, slid open the tin, and—with a small skewer in each hand—stabbed into the water-filled container causing a few drops to splash out.

“I’m glad you accepted my invitation. I feared you would not.”

The Chancellor pulled a squirming fish from the tin and flopped it onto a plate next to a kind of creamed potatoes. He pinned the struggling food with one of the skewers then flayed the meal with a knife as he spoke.

“While you will find this hard to believe, I am sorry about the death of your Emperor.”

“I’m sure,” Jon sneered.

“I speak the truth. While I found him overly aggressive and myopic—I believe that’s the right word—his presence did keep your tiny nation rather stable. Stability, the Witiko believe, is a worthy goal of politics. Certainly I wish he would have maintained that stability by not invading The Cooperative. Had he listened to reason, perhaps we could have forged a real friendship. An alliance, even, that would have benefited both our races.”

“There’s a reason you asked me to come here,” Brewer grunted as his patience—already stretched thin—neared snapping.

The Chancellor’s eyes flashed red as he paused to tear off a chunk of meat from the struggling fish and plop the bite into his mouth. As he chewed, Jon heard the subtle crunch of tiny fish bones. The meal, meanwhile, slowed its writhing but still lived.

The Chancellor noticed their stares. His eyes faded to pink.

“Forgive me. Your species prefers cooking your meals. The Witiko, too, often times thoroughly cook meat or vegetables. Yet we still consider it a delicacy to indulge in live meals on occasion. Perhaps it is an impulse left from our barbaric age, thousands of years ago. I suppose we all must come to grips with our darker sides.”

“Wow, this is really interesting. But listen here, Chancellor, if you haven’t noticed I’m in a really bad mood. So either get to the point, or I’ve got more aliens to find and kill.”

D’Trayne paused with the bottle of flavored water at his lips and noted, “Yes, we all do have our dark sides, don’t we?”

He sipped. Jon huffed. Dante placed a calming hand on the General’s shoulder.

“Okay then,” D’Trayne wiped his lips with the napkin and then placed the cloth on the plate. The fish there flapped its tail while liquid and guts from the wound on its flank oozed onto the plate. “It is my understanding that it was a group of Centurians who managed to penetrate your security and assassinate Trevor Stone. Based on your outburst,” the Chancellor’s eyes changed to a soothing green, “you plan to find and destroy them.”

“Yes, so what?” Dante shot.

“You will have a difficult time finding them,” the Witiko said.

Jon and Dante shared a look and then returned their attention to the Witiko Chancellor.

Jon assumed, “You know where they are, is that it? Is there some big alien club?”

D’Trayne folded his hands and told them, “Not exactly. But we did have periodic contact with the Centurians, including a few…‘skirmishes.’ They do think themselves so superior. Still, we managed to come to an understanding, if you will, to avoid further entanglements.”

“Because you were too worried about wiping out humanity. Why start fighting among yourselves, right?”

The Chancellor wavered for a moment before answering, “We were content with our arrangement in California. However, the Centurians are a rather aggressive bunch.”

“Why would they want to assassinate Trevor?”

D’Trayne eyed Brewer as if the human might be an idiot. His eyes flashed yellow.

“Of course you are not serious, general. I can think of a hundred reasons why any number of the forces on Earth—including some of your own race—would care to see Trevor Stone dead. However, as to the Centurians’ specific reason, I do not know. I would suspect they see it either as retaliation for your famous victory over them ten years ago, or as the starting point for more dramatic action.”

The fish stopped wiggling on the plate. D’Trayne glanced at it. His eyes sunk.

Dante said, “Sorry. Looks like we killed your lunch.”

Brewer said, “So you’re willing to tell us where they are. We just have to do what in exchange?”

“Jon Brewer, I only ask that you tell the people of The Empire that I provided this information as a token of good will, so as to prove to you that at least some form of cooperation may be possible between our two species.”

“That’s it? Not a get-out-of-jail card? Not a promise to allow you to stay?”

“Admittedly such arrangements would be nice. I do have an appointment to address your Senate. I expect you’ll be keeping me on Earth until after that meeting, at the very least.”

“Okay then, you got it,” Jon promised. “If the information you provide is correct I’ll make sure the press spells your name right.”

“You are an honorable man, Jon Brewer.”

The honorable man pushed, “We know they’re coming up through Mexico.”

“The region you call Mexico is a big place.”

“You’re already made that point. Now tell me where they are.”

The Chancellor’s eyes cycled through several different hues before settling on green.

“A place you humans once called Monterrey. You’ll find a small Redcoat facility there in the shadows of the mountains your maps label the Sierra Madre Oriental.”

*

Jon Brewer stood at the foot of the basement conference table two days after the meeting with Chancellor D’Trayne. During those two days, he had spent much time meeting with council members, Senators, and the media to explain the process for selecting a new leader.

Things would have been difficult, if not for Evan Godfrey’s support. The Senator’s star shined once again, but this time he used his popularity to encourage support for the temporary military leadership, apparently forgetting all his fables of a military-intelligence conspiracy.

On another front, the press grew suspicious in regards to the lack of military action against the perpetrators of the assassination. The constant ‘no comments’ and denials of new force deployments began to pique the interest of the media.

Jon heard footsteps descend the stairs into the basement and turned to see Ashley. Her eyes glared and her words came across in a tone suggesting she shared the media’s curiosity.

“Tell me. I need to know that Trevor’s death isn’t going unpunished.”

Jon placed both hands on her shoulders.

“The Witiko Chancellor gave us the location of the Centurian base.”

“Is the information trustworthy?”

“Long range aerial recon confirmed the location.”

“What are you planning to do, launch an early invasion of Mexico?”

“No. We’re not ready for that. Besides, with the dreadnoughts I don’t need a whole army.”

“Good. Tell me, how many of the ships did you send?”

Jon’s mouth worked but no sound came out.

“Jon, How many did you send?”

*

More than three million once called the greater Monterrey area in northeastern Mexico home. Many of them thought of their city as “La Ciudad de las Montañas” (“City of the Mountains”) because of the abrupt peaks of the Sierra Madre Oriental range to the south.

Armageddon, however, had turned Monterrey into a wasteland.

In addition to dealing with alien predators and raiding parties attracted to such a large population base, the town of Monterrey faced another kind of danger back during that first summer of the invasion: an Earthquake. The disaster knocked tall buildings flat and also ruptured both fuel tanks and gas lines igniting an inferno that burned unchecked for three months. The quake and fire leveled or incinerated nearly two thirds of the city, creating uninhabitable barrens. Therefore, on the morning of June 3rd, the stretch of land that had once been a Mecca for tourists, history buffs, and Latin American business interests resembled a vast field of black ash and chunks of collapsed building blocks. Except, however, for the white modular alien buildings centered on the half-standing remains of the Estadio Tecnologico football stadium.

The base had grown in segments with each segment connected via covered walkways circling out in rings from a spherical center. The buildings came in a variety of shapes and sizes, some two stories tall, most only one; some with eight sides, a few with five, many more with four. High powered light posts blanketed the entire complex.

Round landing pads sat between the buildings, receptacles for the Centurians’ airships. Several large garages on the outer rings of the base served as holding pens for ground vehicles.

A storm had passed through the night before, leaving in its wake a trail of thin gray clouds. Those clouds bulged then parted then scattered before the might of humanity’s Empire.

All three of the massive dreadnoughts approached from the north, descending to five thousand feet at the edge of town. The Excalibur—the flagship of the fleet—led the way with the Philippan and the Chrysaor on her flanks. The engines reverberated like rolling, steady thunder; the shadows of the beasts blocked the sun.

Woody Ross led the fleet from his position as the Excalibur’s ‘brain.’ He eyed the Centurian base below through the ship’s telescopic lenses. He saw rows of Centurians standing outside their buildings dressed in variations of red and white uniforms. Those who did not wear helmets displayed their race’s big black eyes, thin noses, and dark green skin making the Centurians one of the few alien invaders conforming to pre-Armageddon notions of extraterrestrials, except that instead of being ‘little’ green men the typical Centurian stood taller and wider than a human.

Some of those extraterrestrials stared skyward at the approaching doom, others loitered as if unaware of fate’s approach.

Ross spoke a chilling order to his bridge crew as well as Captains Hoth and Kaufman.

“Prepare to fire; charge belly boppers to one-hundred percent.”

Next, Ross broadcast across several radio frequencies. As he transmitted, the energy pools feeding the Excalibur’s main guns filled to a level never matched outside of training missions, causing the vessel to tremble. The other three ships vibrated in the same manner for the same reason, causing a muffled sizzle that grew louder as the power levels increased.

The former linebacker’s voice spoke without his usual volume, but boomed all the same: “This is Captain Ross of the Imperial dreadnought Excalibur. In the name of Trevor Stone, I deliver the wrath of humanity.”

No reaction came from the aliens. A few wandered about like zombies; most simply stood and watched. They struck Ross as ants unaware of a boot stepping toward them, a sight that came across as surreal; almost comedic to Ross’ eye.

First the Excalibur fired, followed by the Philippan and then the Chrysaor. Each of the mighty vessels rocked from the kick.

Instead of pulses or blobs, the fully-charged “belly bopper” guns spewed streams of plasma into the ground below, kicking explosions of dirt and debris into the sky as if a volcano erupted. The destructive might engulfed the Centurian base several times over. A great churning river of fire glowed and rippled. The sound from the attack carried for miles, as did the tremor.

When the attack ended, Ross and his agents of destruction watched from the sky as the fireballs faded, replaced by steam and ash.

Nothing moved. The alien base no longer existed; replaced by a black scorch stretching across the already-scarred earth of Monterrey. The strongest beams and walls of the Centurian outpost melted into the soil.

Satisfied with their work, the three vessels gained altitude and turned for home.

Vacuum

The public fed on the red meat of photographs from the destroyed Centurian outpost with a vengeful zeal. Yet Evan Godfrey knew those images—from the fleet’s gun cameras—would stave off anarchy for only so long.

Still, as it had done often in the past, anarchy served as the Senator’s ally. He understood something that the best politicians and comedians knew: timing is everything.

Evan gazed into the mirror and recalled his stay in that same hotel three years prior. Back then his timing had been perfect, too, but with one tragic difference: Trevor Stone returned. Such would not be the case this time, of that Evan remained confident. Dante had done as instructed; he had persuaded Jon to send the body of Trevor Stone around The Empire, allowing all the loyal subjects to see the lifeless corpse.

Unlike three years ago, no uncertainty remained. There would be no sectarian strife between Trevor loyalists and the more reasonable crowd. Those loyalists concentrated on drowning their sorrows at the local pub or raising funds for this memorial or that. Evan heard that some two dozen schools had already been renamed “Trevor Stone Elementary” or “Stone High.”

“Let him have the high schools, I just want his job.”

“Did you say something?”

“I said I’m about ready to go,” he replied to his wife’s question from the bathroom.

Sharon strolled out from there wearing a white robe, still wet from the shower.

“Going? Already? Is it that late?”

“Yes, my lovely wife. It seems your hangover caused you to sleep in.”

She frowned for a moment, and then smiled again. Sharon smiled a lot in recent days. She had, in fact, attended two of the Emperor’s memorials, like going to see a good movie twice. As much as this amused him, he saw her enthusiasm for Trevor’s fate as potentially hazardous. His wife failed to grasp the importance of appearances.

“Well, we were celebrating,” she pressed against him. In addition to smiling, Sharon showed a lot more affection in recent weeks, too. “Now, are you set for today?”

“You know I have everything lined up. People just need to play their part, remember?”

“Ah yes, you’re big on role playing, aren’t you?”

Evan could not help but return her smile. Yes, Sharon had shown a great deal more affection in recent days, and creativity.

Still, duty called. He told her, “Enjoy your day shopping. Be sure to pick up some Trevor Stone remembrance mugs or scrapbooks or whatever it is they’re selling in the market.”

“I don’t think I can afford any of that, my dear, not with the way prices are skyrocketing. You’d think those damn politicians would do something about that, wouldn’t you.”

“I intend to do plenty. Now you have a wonderful day.”

Sharon grabbed Evan’s power tie, pulled him close and kissed hard.

Five minutes later the Internal Security motorcade arrived outside the hotel on Public Square in Wilkes-Barre. A short man with gray hair and a heavy bandage on his arm drove. Evan addressed him first, “How is the arm, Tucker?”

“Getting better, Mister Godfrey, sir.”

Dr. Maple had fixed Tucker’s dog bite and reported it as a glancing blow from a Centurian energy weapon.

Ray Roos shared the back seat with Evan.

“Big day for you, isn’t it now, Senator?”

As the car pulled away Evan responded, “I like to think that it’s a big day for our entire nation, Ray. Think about it, today we take our first steps toward democracy.”

“Oh yeah, that’s exactly what I mean, Senator. ‘Course, sometimes people don’t vote the way other folks are expecting. I seem to recall this Dewey fella…”

Despite how much he relied on him, Evan often found Roos rather grating. Probably because Roos saw through Evan at every turn, starting first with his maneuverings during the New Winnabow crisis then again during Trevor’s absence three years ago.

“That’s the wonderful thing about democracy, Ray, the results can be surprising sometimes. Of course, it can be easier to deal with those surprises when one stays in touch with the feelings of the people.”

Ray nodded with a big grin.

“Well, Senator, you know I do my best to stay in touch with the people. Well, that’s not exactly true. I stay in touch with the folks at the estate, as best I can. And since the only ‘people’ who’ll be voting on the next Emperor are the ‘people’ on the council, well I’ve tried to keep my ear to the ground. You know, just to be sure everything is on the up and up.”

“Of course. You know, Ray, I’ve come to trust your instincts. Tell me, what are your feelings on today’s vote?”

The motorcade—led by two I.S. officers on hover bikes and trailed by a tactical response team in a black SUV—left downtown and traveled along the river bank. Warm weather had returned to Wilkes-Barre, bringing with it joggers and picnickers and street performers along the grassy dike.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Senator, but I’m thinking you may not even get one vote today. Unless, of course, you vote for yourself.”

“Now Ray, that wouldn’t seem like a gentlemanly thing to do. After all, my modesty…”

Roos snickered before saying, “Of course not, Senator. But I think one guy who might just punch his own number would be that Gordon Knox. If that’s the case, I’m thinking he’s going to make a real run at this thing.”

The very mention of Knox’s name brought a grimace to Evan’s face. He could practically feel the cold barrel of the Intelligence Director’s pistol against the back of his head. Evan felt Gordon Knox to be a man with whom he could not deal.

“That does not surprise me. Still, there are ten votes in all among the council.”

“Well sure, I understand that. Like I was saying, Senator, I keep my ear to the ground; I hear things. There’s been a lot of the council talking amongst themselves. See, most of them think there’s really only two people in this race. People in one camp lean toward Knox. I guess part of that is because they might be a little afraid of him, isn’t that something? In any case, folks in the other camp are leaning toward Jon Brewer, kind of a sentimental vote and seein’ that he has all this experience and whatnot.”

Evan told Ray, “Well, that’s great. I think Jon should be the next leader. I’ll tell you this much, Ray, he’s got my vote. And I can think of a few others who are going to vote for him, too.”

“Awe, now, that’s terrific, Senator. But the way I see it—oh wait, the way I hear it—there might just be a few more people leaning toward Knox.”

Ray’s observation bothered Evan, but he had long since prepared for just this contingency. He turned and looked Roos straight in his brown eyes.

“Isn’t that just the neatest thing about politics, Ray. You never know what’s going to happen, do you? Especially when it seems there’s only this two party system. Say, do you remember Clinton’s Presidential runs?”

“Why yessir, I do. In fact, I remember watching one of his debates while I was marking time at Camp Hill. But I figure you’ve got something more to say on that, yes you do.”

“During his first Presidential election in ‘92, Clinton got less than half of the votes.”

“You don’t say.”

“So you figure that the other guy had to have gotten more than half and won, right?”

“Well, Senator, you know math has never been my strong point.”

“But he didn’t, Ray, because there was this third guy—Perot—and he took enough votes away from Bush that Clinton won with less than half the people voting for him.”

Roos played along, “So let me see if I get this. Are you saying that some other fella could muck up the works for the guy that looks like he’s going to win, even if this other fella doesn’t get much support?”

“Oh, now, Ray, who knows what could happen in politics, right? I mean, there are probably a few people who think they can only choose between Knox and Brewer, so they’ll pick Knox even though they’d rather have a third choice.”

Roos’ eyes grew wide and he scratched the thinning hair at the top of his head as he told Evan, “You know, it’s funny you should say that, Senator. In fact, Eva Rheimmer and Brett Stanton were having a conversation last night about that very thing. Why, if I remember correctly they were saying something about not really wanting to vote for Knox but Brewer just screwed the pooch so much last time that they had no faith in him. Imagine that, huh?”

“You don’t say.”

“I hate to tell you, though, Senator, I don’t think they would switch over to your side. Something about that being a slap in the face to Trevor and all. If you ask me—and I know you didn’t but since we’re talking anyway—that’s very short sighted of them.”

The motorcade climbed an on-ramp and merged onto the Cross Valley Expressway.

“I appreciate your sentiments, Ray, but I feel confident that Rheimmer and Stanton will sort things out. After all, it would be a shame if they had to vote for someone they did not think was right for the job. I bet they’ll find someone else to support. Call it a hunch.”

*

Eva Rheimmer never wanted to be anything more than a farmer. She certainly never held any political ambitions. She had only joined Trevor Stone’s council because people needed her. As the group of survivors grew into an Empire and Eva progressed into her seventies, she found less patience for the red tape and far more contempt for politicians.

Her husband told her to stick with it because she might be the only one in the whole darned works with half a head on her shoulders. However, that half-a-head could not sort out exactly what to do on this occasion.

She stood outside the sprawling fields surrounding what had started decades ago as a small family farm and waited for her ride to the estate, still undecided on whom to vote for.

Only two serious candidates were in the running. As much as that weasel Evan Godfrey might have the right credentials to do something with the position, he had caused so much trouble for the council over the years that even if she desired to vote for him she would be embarrassed to do so.

As for the rest of the council, most of them did not have either the desire or leadership skills to take the job. Eva could not imagine the nation governed by Omar, Lori Brewer, Dr. Maple, or even herself. Anita Nehru would have made a good choice a year ago, but that woman’s work in the dungeon named Red Rock had taken her for a turn down some dark alleyway that might just end in a psychiatric ward.

That left Eva with Gordon Knox and all the trouble he might cause and Jon Brewer who had led things for a while when Trevor took his alternate-Earth vacation.

She considered Brewer a great General and sound thinker, but he lacked the balls to take the nation by the horns. For all his brilliant military maneuvers, Brewer came across as ill-suited for full-blown leadership; too timid in the face of political hardliners and always questioning himself. Besides, one look in the man’s eyes clearly showed he did not want the position and he nearly said as much whenever the topic came up.

So in reality, that left Eva only one choice: Gordon Knox, and that’s how she finally decided to vote, until she climbed into the Chevrolet Suburban sent by I.S. to collect her. In the rear seat waited Dante Jones.

“Hey, Eva, good morning.”

“Mr. Jones? Interesting that you would come all the way out to fetch me yourself.”

Dante smiled, “Yeah, I thought we might have a little chat before the big vote and all.”

The car drove along the dirt road kicking up a cloud of dust.

“I sense you have something to say, Dante, so out with it.”

As usual, Eva Rheimmer got straight to the point. The council learned long ago that this gray-haired woman suffered no bull shit.

“Well, it’s like this. I’m not really good at this whole campaigning thing, but I just thought I’d let you know that I’m throwing my hat, you know, in the ring for this whole Emperor thing. Not that I like that title and all, you know?”

“I see.”

“I don’t want to know how you might vote, Eva, but I know that most people are thinking there’s only Jon and Gordon in the running. I didn’t want it myself, either, but I don’t trust Knox as the head honcho and I’m thinking Jon doesn’t really want it.”

“And why should I vote for you?”

“I was Trevor’s friend since he was a kid, I’ve been in charge of I.S. for ten years now and you know that Internal Security is involved in just about everything, from the war to guarding your farms and all that. Like I said, it isn’t something I used to think a lot about, but now that I do I see I’ve got the experience this job needs. Oh and it helps that I’ve got friends in the Senate, too. I think Jon or Gordon will have a real tough time with them.”

Eva glanced out the window, but still listened as Dante finished his sales pitch.

“Besides, like I said, most people think there are only two choices. I’m not going to put any pressure on you. Just think of me as another choice.”

*

“Daddy! Look what I drew!”

Jon Brewer worked the button on a cuff of his dress uniform and leaned over the breakfast table for a closer look at the piece of construction paper in front of his eight-year-old daughter. He saw a flower with four big petals in four different colors, a purple stem, and some kind of scraggly lines—maybe a butterfly—sitting on top.

“Wow, that’s good. Now your mom said to go brush your teeth and get ready for school.”

“But dad, school is just about over for the summer.”

“Right. Just about over. Not over. Now hustle along.”

His dark-haired daughter scrambled off, passing her mother as Lori approached the kitchen dressed in a business suit.

“Alright, you ready for the big day?”

Jon shook his head and told her, “I can’t wait to get all this off my shoulders.”

“Get what?”

“This whole leadership thing.”

Lori searched through her purse for her identification card. Security would be even tighter at the estate today with the entire council convening. As she rummaged through her purse, Lori said, “What makes you think you won’t win the vote? You’re the only one on the council who has any experience at the top. That means something.”

Jon burst into a short, sardonic chuckle and replied, “Experience? Yeah, I’ve got experience. I screwed things up.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Lori abandoned her search for a moment, stepped to her husband and threw her arms around his shoulders in her classic pep-talk maneuver. “Hey, you know I’m the first one to tell you you’re an asshole when, well, when you’re an asshole.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“That was a hard situation before. This is hard, too, but who else on the council is fit to be in charge?”

Jon shrugged and answered, “Gordon. Maybe even Evan.”

Lori spat, “No one is going to vote for Evan, you can count on that.”

“Oh yeah? Why is that?”

“It’d be a slap on the face to Trevor, after those two went head to head all the time.”

“Remember, Trevor was on his way to patch things up with Evan when it, you know, happened. Evan has been President of the Senate for a while now. He knows how to get things done. He’s got friends in the labor unions and that could help get the economy moving again.”

“Oh, I get it, you just want to make sure you don’t have the responsibility, is that it?”

He pulled her arms from his shoulders.

“I never wanted this kind of responsibility. It’s not who I am. Besides, I can’t handle all the crap that’s going on out there: inflation, strikes, political bull shit. That’s not me.”

“Trevor never wanted the responsibility either, but he did it because he was right for it.”

“It doesn’t matter. Like I said, no one is going to vote for me. And if they were to ask me, I’d tell them not to.”

He turned away from her to work on the other cuff. Lori considered for a moment, then walked up behind him and put her arms around her husband in a soft hug.

“You’re a good man, Jon Brewer. I love you.”

Jon, a fan of Clint Eastwood in the old world cinema, repeated one of his favorite Dirty Harry lines: “A good man always knows his limitations.”

*

The full council gathered in the basement of the estate: Evan Godfrey, Anita and Omar Nehru; Dr. Maple; Gordon Knox; and Eva Rheimmer all sitting around the table as Jon and Lori Brewer descended the basement stairs. After a few minutes, Dante Jones and Brett Stanton came down together, thus opening the meeting.

All ten sat in their usual positions, leaving the chair at the head empty although each of them knew that in a few minutes someone would earn the right to sit there.

Jon got things started, “We all know the procedure. I’ve placed paper ballots at each of your chairs. Those ballots hold the names of all council members. Circle the person of your choice, only one vote per ballot. Please do not abstain, this is too important. Also, this is a confidential vote, so there shouldn’t be anything to say at this point. When everyone is finished, I’ll pass around a box for you to put them in. Then I will pull the votes from the container and hold them up for everyone to see. The results of this vote are final, barring a tie in which case we will vote again. The person who wins this vote will immediately assume the responsibilities of the Emperor from this moment forward.”

Jon glanced toward Evan, expecting some kind of outburst. To the contrary, Evan sat quiet with his arm in a sling.

“Okay then, mark your ballots.”

Each of the council members examined the small paper at their place. Most marked that paper fast and folded it. A few, such as Eva Rheimmer, Brett Stanton, and Anita Nehru took considerably more time.

Jon circled the name of Gordon Knox, folded the paper and waited. When he saw everyone had finished, he placed his ballot inside a small square box and passed it around the table. A minute later the box returned to him.

His hand trembled as he pulled the first paper ballot, glanced at it, then unfolded it completely and showed the table, “Gordon Knox.”

Gordon folded his hands over his chest and leaned back slightly in his chair.

Jon opened the next ballot and, to his surprise, read, “Jon Brewer.”

The process continued with, “Gordon Knox”

Knox struggled to suppress a smile. Evan, on the other hand, grew a shade pale. The following ballot, however, caused Knox’s smile to fade.

“Jon Brewer.”

Then, to the surprise of most and the delight of Evan, Jon read, “Dante Jones.”

A moment later, Jon pulled the next ballot. His face twisted as he read it silently at first but he caught himself in time to read the vote aloud with a straight face: “Omar Nehru.”

Omar burst a big grin, nearly dropped the smoke hanging from his mouth, and shouted to his wife, “Oh! Thank you honey!”

Anita flashed a half-hearted smile then returned her eyes to the table in front of her place.

Lori Brewer placed a hand over her mouth to stifle a chuckle. Gordon’s chair made a thump as he leaned forward and stared intensely at the ballot box.

Jon pulled out the next paper and read, “Gordon Knox.”

Evan glanced at Dante. The two fidgeted. Gordon eased slightly in his chair as he had taken a three to two lead over Jon Brewer with Dante and Omar each receiving one vote.

The next ballot, however, evened things up. The temporary leader swallowed hard before reading his name, “Jon Brewer.”

Gordon bit his lower lip.

Jon grasped the next ballot with sweat building on his fingers. He prayed the name circled on the next paper would not be his. Those prayers were answered: “Dante Jones.”

Gordon’s eyes darted across the table to Dante who sat there trying very hard to remain stoic. Gordon’s stare next found Evan Godfrey. The President of the Senate appeared rather calm with one vote remaining. Knox and Brewer remained tied at three votes a piece and Jones with two; the possibility existed for a three-way tie.

However, that was not to be the case. The final ballot was pulled from the box. Gordon peered as if trying to see through the paper with X-ray vision.

Jon did not have the composure to read the name on the paper. He held the ballot aloft for all to see. Evan Godfrey spoke the name of the new Emperor.

“Jon Brewer.”

*

The office on the second floor of the mansion truly belonged to Trevor Stone, so Jon did not want to go there after the council meeting dissolved. He did not want to loiter in the basement, either, not when he felt sick to his stomach and certainly not with Gordon staring at him. He hit upon the idea of hiding in his wife’s office.

Before he could escape, he accepted the obligatory handshakes from Dr. Maple, Dante, and most of the others. He had expected some kind of speech or something from Evan, but instead received a hardy slap on the back and encouraging words.

“Good luck, Jon. When you get settled, we have to sit down and see how the Senate can be of assistance. As you know, I’m not in favor of this whole ‘Emperor’ thing, but I think the important matter right now is stability. Let’s stay in touch. I know I can help you.”

Jon then retreated in search of calm before the scheduled press conference on the front lawn. He made it to his wife’s office, the old dining room on the first floor. Lori followed him in but before she could shut the door Ashley and JB entered.

“Congratulations, Jon,” Ashley offered. “Be strong now, for the sake of the people.”

Jon, still in a state of shock, merely nodded. Jorgie ran over and gave him a big hug.

“I know you can do it, Mr. Brewer. Just keep things going until my father comes back.”

Even if Jon had not been shell-shocked into silence by the result of the vote, he still would not have known how to answer the boy.

JB pulled away. Before the two well-wishers left, Ashley told Jon again, “It’s all in your hands now. Trevor trusted you. Jon, be strong.”

As the two left, Lori close the door. Jon broke out of his daze.

“You voted for me, didn’t you?”

The tone of his voice suggested Jon planned to take out his fear and disappointment on his wife’s one vote. Lori, of course, would not accept such blame.

“Alllrriiigghhty then, that’s how this is going to be? It’s my fault? There were three other votes for you. Even then, I figured Gordon would win. I never guessed Dante would get a vote, let alone two. But yeah, I voted for you. I thought I would be the only one after what you said this morning.”

He paced from one side of her office to the other.

“Oh, a pity vote? Is that it? I don’t need your damn pity.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t need pity but it sounds like you need a good kick in the ass.”

He growled at his wife, “I don’t want pity, I don’t want a kick in the ass, and I sure don’t want this! Who are the idiots who voted for me? Didn’t they see what happened three years ago? Is that what they want? They want me to ruin it all?”

“Maybe people think that if Gordon Knox were in charge then we’d have ourselves some kind of tyrant. He’d probably slaughter the Senate and turn this whole thing into a fascist paradise. Maybe they have a faith that you’re a lot better than that.”

He clenched his fists and pounded his thighs.

“I am a General, a soldier. I am not a politician. I am not a leader.”

Lori sighed then placed her arms on his tall shoulders as he stopped pacing and gazed at the floor.

“Jon, don’t try to be the same leader Trevor Stone was. Do what you think is best, not what you think he would do.”

“That’s the problem. I think it’s best for us that I’m not in charge.”

*

Three hours after the press conference announcing Jon Brewer as the new Emperor, the freight handlers union went on strike demanding changed work rules to improve safety plus an insistence on regulations against mandatory overtime.

At midnight that same day, four off-duty soldiers were killed when an arsonist torched a popular military night club in Indianapolis; a caller claimed the fire was in response to the ‘military’ coup. Copycat crimes over the next two days included a homemade bomb detonating during a promotions ceremony in Bangor, Maine and bullets fired into the dreadnought shipyards at Pittsburgh.

While Evan Godfrey took to the air waves to urge calm and restraint, lesser known politicians sprung from the woodwork pointing to the General’s ascension to the top post in the land as a sign that there truly existed a military-intelligence conspiracy.

More workers walked off the job on June 12th in a wildcat strike at the matter-making facilities in Atlanta. This caused a shortfall in the supply of lubricants and petroleum products, which in turn ratcheted up the inflation rate to double digits.

About half of the media remained optimistic over Jon’s election. Several did long pieces on his exemplary battlefield record and credited him with the development of the dreadnought program. Those same newspapers and broadcast stations recapped Jon’s voyage to South America aboard the Excalibur the year before, calling it a ‘heroic’ expedition into the unknown.

At the same time, a fair number of media outlets attacked his election, citing his personal failures during Trevor’s absence three years ago and wondering why political leadership did not go to someone with political experience.

While the level of panic and problems did not rise nearly as high as three years ago, Jon felt uncertainty simmering out there. He felt it simmering in his own stomach, too.

Things changed on June 13th.

Jon sat at Trevor’s old desk, having been invited by Ashley to look for any items that might be of use. He had the place to himself: Benjamin Trump took his daughter and his grandson to a movie at the small theater in Wilkes-Barre at the request of Jorgie, who seemed obsessed with attending a ‘classic films’ festival featuring The Manchurian Candidate.

In any case, Jon found stacks of papers covering a wide range of topics, the sheer scope of which generated a painful thump in his temples. The headache forming there was interrupted when Dante Jones and Evan Godfrey entered the office.

“Hey, buddy, what’s up?”

“Hello, Dante. Just going through some stuff. You two in town for tomorrow’s council meeting?”

Evan made a point of walking over to Jon and extending his hand (his sling finally off) but carried himself in a much more humble—perhaps cautious—demeanor than usual. His voice faltered a bit as he said to Jon, “It’s good to see you.”

Godfrey then glanced at Dante and seemed to hesitate over something. Dante, however, said to Evan, “Go ahead, tell him. He needs to know.”

“Tell me what?”

Evan thought for a moment before saying, “Jon, my connection in the labor unions tells me that things are getting out of control. I don’t’ know how to say this, but they sense a moment of weakness with a, well…”

“With me as leader.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. But they do sense an opportunity to get concessions, both from their private employers and from government rules and regulations. I’ve heard rumors of at least another dozen strikes coming. The workers are trying for raises in the minimum wage, improved benefits packages, stronger safety regulation, tighter work hours, and so forth.”

Dante added, “My people are saying that the black market is growing, what with inflation so bad and all. There have been supply shortages in some areas, partly because of these strikes but also because people are hoarding stuff. I don’t know, but it seems like some people out there feel like the government is going to collapse or something.”

“So? What do you want me to do?”

Dante answered, “Hey, man it’s just info. We need to be prepared for these things. I mean, it’s getting pretty bad.”

Evan suggested, “We may need to take some, well, radical steps to bring stability back to the economy and, I think, society at large.”

Jon’s pride got the better of him for a moment, despite how little he wanted his new job. At over six feet tall, Jon towered above the other two as he got up from the chair and stood.

“I’m not doing enough, is that it? I’m screwing it up again?”

Dante calmed, “Jon, no, that’s not it. But listen to him, man. Everything is hanging by a thread and it’s all on your shoulders.”

Jon took a deep breath and nodded, giving Evan permission to speak his piece.

“Remember in the old world if you had a one-hundred dollar bill in your pocket you felt good? Why was that? Like our Continental Dollars, the old dollars were just printed on paper with ink. But right now, even the largest Contys aren’t held in much respect, are they?”

Jon closed his eyes knowing he could not avoid the coming lecture. Still, a small part of him welcomed Evan’s words. Maybe it was the way the man spoke. His voice sounded smooth and reassuring. Despite the economic chaos stretching from the Atlantic Coast to the newly assimilated territories in California, Evan’s voice suggested a simple answer to that chaos, if only someone would listen.

“It wasn’t the paper and ink of that one-hundred dollar bill that was worth anything, it was the confidence you had in what backed those dollars.”

“Oh? And what was that?”

“The institutions of the United States of America and the confidence people had in those institutions.”

“Evan,” the newly-elected Emperor said, “I know you have a point to make.”

“The people of this ‘Empire’ do not have those types of institutions.”

“I thought that was what the Senate has been doing. You rebuilt D.C. You put together programs, government departments and offices, procedures and all that stuff.”

“Yes, but everything was overshadowed by the Emperor. Whatever rule we passed, he could veto. Even after we managed to have the final word on budget allocations, even then the Emperor held so much power that he truly controlled everything in the government.”

Dante chimed in, “Yeah man, let’s admit it. Trev didn’t really like all that stuff, that’s why he tried not to deal with it. But if something took his interest, then he could change things around whatever way he liked.”

Jon snapped, “Trevor was a great man. He made this from the ground up. Without him, we would have been lost. Wow, I mean you, Evan, you would have been dead a long time ago.”

Dante agreed, “Yeah, I would have been a part of The Order, so I know what you mean. He was my best friend, back in the day.”

Evan said, “I know that, Jon. Just because I argued with Trevor did not mean I didn’t appreciate his accomplishments. Yes, he built us from the ground up. But now where are we, Jon? Trevor was mortal, like any other man. We knew—all those years we knew—that sooner or later he would be gone. In recent years, as he took to the battlefield again, we should have prepared for his end. Three years ago we had a glimpse of what could happen on this day, yet we failed to take adequate precautions. No one prepared, other than a procedure for electing a new, all-powerful leader.”

Jon grunted, but said nothing. Evan went on, “What you don’t understand is that I did not dislike Trevor. What I opposed was the idea of an Emperor. It does not matter if that Emperor be a good man or a bad one. What is happening out there, on the streets of our nation, only proves my point. I just wish it had not taken this tragedy for the truth to be revealed.”

Brewer walked to the balcony doors. A soft rain fell from low, fluffy clouds. A solitary beam of sunlight appeared over the lake, then disappeared, then appeared again but it could not chase away the dreariness.

Dante said, “He makes sense, Jon. The whole thing has been depending on one guy; on Trevor being out in front. It was like one of those houses of cards. With him gone, it was going to fall apart. Now we have to pick up the pieces and not make the same mistakes.”

Jon thought about the stacks of papers he had found atop Trevor’s desk; papers on subjects ranging from agricultural output to industrial capacity to drawing political boundaries in new territories. To his eye those papers resembled a complex equation from a discipline of math he had never studied that he was expected to decipher, decode, and correctly complete.

“I didn’t want to be Emperor. I don’t even know how I won the vote.”

“That doesn’t matter now. The point is that the council placed their faith in you to make the right decisions. You have the power Trevor had, and if you don’t do something fast you’re going to have to build it all up from the ground again because it’s falling apart right now.”

Jon, still gazing out the doors, placed a finger on the glass and traced the slow streak of one tiny water drop. He spoke in a quiet, reflective voice.

“Wow, things have changed. Dante can tell you, in the old world I was pretty much an arrogant ass. I thought I knew everything. I thought I was, in charge,” he spoke those two words in a voice that mocked the very idea of him being in charge. “Then, when it all went to Hell, I…I dropped the ball. Wow, sure did. When… when the chips were down I showed that I wasn’t in charge at all. That I had no business being in charge. Then Trevor came along. He gave me direction again, and I found that there were still a few things I was pretty good at. Things I had the confidence to do.”

Evan encouraged, “You’re the best General in the military, Jon. Your accomplishments are extraordinary.”

“Yeah, buddy, Trevor came to rely on you. He trusted you.”

“That’s right,” Jon agreed. “He trusted me to play my part. Then when he disappeared three years ago, I found myself in charge again. I found out that things hadn’t changed much. That I don’t have what it takes to be…to be at the top. Like I said, I didn’t want this.”

The rain drop slipped out of reach. Jon turned to face the two men.

“So the question is, what do I do now? The economy is falling apart because I’m the Emperor. The people and businesses are afraid of what is going to happen with me in charge.”

“Jon,” Evan consoled. “It’s falling apart because Trevor is gone yet there is still to be an Emperor. It wouldn’t matter if Dante, or Shepherd, or myself were in your shoes. As long as one man or, I guess, one position can overrule all the institutions then those institutions and rules and procedures don’t mean a thing. That causes instability. People don’t have anything to rely on, not the bus schedule, electricity, or even the enforcement of the laws that are on the books.”

“So what am I to do? I can resign this post. Have another vote and exclude myself.”

Dante jumped, “Whoever takes over will have the same problems. Jon, you said you didn’t want to be Emperor, right? You have the power to change whatever needs to be changed. Use it to change everything.”

Evan concurred with Dante, “You can set into motion a totally new form of government for The Empire. You can change us into a republic. Think back to the founding of America. George Washington won the Revolutionary War and was a beloved national figure. The politicians and the people were willing to hand him complete authority over the colonies, but he refused. He was elected President twice, but would not run for a third term because he felt that gave too much power to one man, a precedent that survived all the way up until FDR and then, after, the two-term limit was made a part of the Constitution because it was such a good idea.”

“You’re talking about things I know nothing about. I don’t know the first thing about political systems and governments. I’m a General. I know how to fight wars. This other stuff…it’s for someone else.”

“Point is,” Evan focused, “sometimes the greatest leaders are those who give up power. That is what we need now, Jon. We need organization and institutions, not individuals. The people need to have faith and confidence in the government as a whole, not in a new Emperor. But right now, you are the Emperor and that gives you the power to do whatever needs to be done. Change the fundamentals of our nation and the economy will stabilize, the people will calm, and our nation will unite again.”

Dante said, “We have a lot of it already. We have judges that just have to be organized into a new judiciary branch. We already have a Senate, so you’ve got the legislative branch.”

“But the Emperor,” Brewer conceded, “is not checked by those other branches. That needs to change. Is that what you’re saying? I’m not even sure how to do that.”

“Then find someone who can,” Evan said. “I’ll help, but I understand if you don’t trust me. There are plenty of political experts out there who can guide you.”

“No,” Jon spoke in a voice that sounded as if he had hit upon an idea. “I can’t do it. As long as there is someone with the title ‘Emperor’ then we’ll still have the same problem you just said. My first act as Emperor has to be the last act of any Emperor. This position has to cease to exist. I can go back to fighting the war and the people who know about this stuff can start building a new form of government.”

Dante said, “Well, yeah, that sounds right. But you can’t just have the Senators bickering about this. Someone has to lead. We need an election for, what, a President? That will take time. I don’t know if we have that kind of time with the way things are falling apart out there.”

Jon told them, “We already have an elected President; elected by the representatives of the people. You, Evan. We can morph your position into a new Executive Branch. From there, you can shape a new constitution and government through the Senate. You have friends in the trade unions and stuff, I got to figure you can use those connections to help calm things down.”

Evan acted surprised. “I don’t know what to say. There are those in the military and Trevor’s old circle who will oppose me gaining such a position.”

“You’re already there,” Jon said. “The only difference is ending the position of Emperor.”

Dante offered, “Evan can appoint people who were Trevor’s friends as advisors, plus the Senate will provide a check, just like the old President. That’s what this country used to have, so it will be familiar, people will take to it quick.”

Evan shook his head as if disappointed and said, “I’m afraid there is a certain amount of tension in regards to the military-intelligence complex. Many people fear the influence of this threat, real or imagined.”

“Then you appoint the right people,” Jon said, “in visible jobs. People who are trusted for their independent thinking. Me? I want none of it.”

“Someone must command our armies. I can think of no one better than you.”

“But not visible,” Jon told Evan in a voice that sounded relieved, “As long as I’m visible people might think I’m pulling the strings. Find the right people, Evan, and put together a new government.”

Commander and Chief

Jon pointed to a reporter in the front row who said, “Jim Huffman, New American Press. So we’re to believe that the military is just going to hand over control of the government?”

Several beads of water collected on Huffman’s glasses. Like half of the reporters in front of the mansion, he did not have an umbrella to combat the sudden sun shower. The VIPs—Brewer, Godfrey, and the rest—spoke from the mansion’s covered front porch.

Jon glanced at Evan who stood next to him at a bland podium. The President politely nodded as a signal that the General should respond. Indeed, the two came across as positively chummy on the porch that morning; a morning two days after Jon decided that the first thing he should do as Emperor was to end the existence of the Emperor’s position.

“Well, the military was never completely in control of the Government. Trevor focused on fighting the war, but he dealt with all aspects of running the nation. I think what’s happening here is that we’re getting better organized and trying to change over to a full-blown democracy. I feel this is the best way to go about things because there is no way myself or anyone could fill the shoes of Trevor Stone.”

Another reporter blurted, “Are you doing this because you’re afraid of all the problems you faced three years ago?”

Evan Godfrey marched to the microphone with focused eyes radiating indignation.

“Jon Brewer has never been afraid of anything in his life. It takes courage to embrace change. It takes courage to plot a new direction for our great nation. Speaking for myself, I am humbled by his bravery in this.”

Evan then selected the next question from the press pool. The wind blew a curtain of drizzle across the stage.

“Could you recap the major changes again? Is the new office of the President simply a new word for Emperor?”

“Not at all,” Evan smiled as if teaching simple children. “Jon felt that the easiest way to make the first steps toward change was to morph my position as President of the Senate into a new executive branch. His last batch of orders as Emperor made this official. As such, I have resigned my position as Senator. While we are still working out the finer details, we will use the old American presidency as the model. The legislative branch will have the responsibility of introducing legislation and the President will either veto or sign off on those bills.”

The reporter followed up, “Aren’t you concerned that having a new ‘President’ without a constitution defining the position could lead to despotism? What checks exist on your power?”

“I resent the implication of that question. No one has worked harder for democracy than I. Yes, there are plenty of gray areas right now but I will work with Jon, the old Imperial Council, and the Senate to answer those questions.”

The reporter would not let it go: “So you will be Commander and Chief? Does that mean Evan Godfrey is in charge of the armed forces?”

“As I mentioned, one of my first acts was to appoint Dante Jones Secretary of Defense.” Dante, standing behind Evan, waved. Evan went on, “General Jon Brewer is the most experienced of our officers. He will maintain operational control over the military. However, the army is now under civilian control, just as it was in the old days. But, as I said before, Dante was a lifelong friend of Trevor Stone so you can trust that the oversight of military matters by the administration will be done in a manner consistent with Trevor’s vision.”

“Do you mean to say,” another reporter joined in, “that the war will continue?”

Evan answered, “We remain at war. As President, I will give the military all the support and resources they require to fight for victory, although as the new system is developed I will need the Senate’s help through a declaration of war and other legislative mechanisms.”

Huffman, from the New American Press, asked another question: “Mr. President, how do you reconcile the policy you just articulated with your past, anti-war stance?”

“I have never been in favor of alien forces occupying American lands or enslaving human beings. These conditions are unacceptable. I have, on many occasions, protested the manner in which the war was prosecuted or offered counter-proposals on how to achieve our strategic goals. But we will fight this fight until we achieve victory. With Jon Brewer leading our armies and Dante Jones overseeing the military, I know we will finish the job Trevor Stone started.”

“Doug Coates, Atlanta Times. If Dante Jones has been promoted to Secretary of Defense, who will oversee Internal Security?”

“Ah, yes, well here is another example of how Trevor Stone’s influence will be seen throughout my administration. The new Director of Internal Security is Ray Roos, the man who served as Trevor’s personal Chief of Security. Ray isn’t here right now, I’m afraid, but I spoke to him by phone and he expressed his commitment to carrying on and even improving the fine work Dante did. Also, Jim Hutch will occupy the position of Labor Secretary. He’s not here today, either, but you know him from his work in the unions. That alone should help fix this economy.”

Coates followed up, “So you’re just appointing your secretaries? If your Presidency is to be modeled after the old American presidency, shouldn’t your advisors be subjected to congressional review? In this case, wouldn’t that be the Imperial Senate?”

Evan shifted, a little, but found an answer without skipping more than a beat.

“We are in an unusual situation. With the economy in shambles and a war to fight, we thought it important to streamline the process. It should be noted that I am actually an interim President. The position I have accepted is a midway point between what used to be the Emperor and what will soon be an Executive Branch elected by the entire population and subject to many checks and balances. One of my first jobs, in fact, is to begin selecting a committee of Senators who will start research on the parameters that will outline the initial stages of a new constitutional convention.”

A journalist shouted, “Is there a time table for that?”

Evan raised his hands and assured, “We’re working on that. This is going to take time, people. The first order of business is to stabilize the government then we will begin work on all the nuances that will turn us into a full-fledged democracy. Now, I think that ends today’s announcement. More information will be forthcoming over the next few weeks. We ask the public to bear with us and have patience. I promise you, everything will work out just fine.”

*

Omar Nehru originally started tinkering with alien gadgets during the first year of the invasion using a lakeside garage as a laboratory. With the expansion of his department and the constant influx of captured extraterrestrial gear, his operation ballooned. In fact, Omar Nehru’s Science and Technology Division operated dozens of locations including test ranges in South Dakota and Tennessee, warehouses in each of the liberated states including a temporary facility in northern California to catalog all the Witiko devices, and auxiliary units for theoretical studies attached to four of the Empire’s thirteen functioning universities.

Nonetheless, Omar maintained his lakeside garage. He and a small staff used it to handle special projects or personal work for members of the council.

While Evan and Jon Brewer finished their press conference to announce what Gordon Knox thought to be the worst decision since the Bay of Pigs, the Director of Intelligence paid a visit to Omar’s personal laboratory.

Mr. Nehru sat at a work bench wearing a pair of safety goggles, dressed in a white lab coat and—of course—smoking a cigarette. Omar wore something else that day; something he had been wearing often since receiving one vote during the council meeting last week: a smile.

“Hello, Mr. Gordon Knox,” Omar stopped playing with some small gadget. “What is it I may be of doing for you today?”

Knox eyed the garage. Two technicians gathered in one corner playing what might be a video game and another closely examined a Witiko jet pack. Lockers, cabinets, display cases, and trunks contained all manner of co-opted gear.

“I need the item you were working on for me, Omar.”

Omar’s smiling face changed to a confused expression. “I do not understand. The war with California ended. There is no use for the device. Besides, it was only a prototype.”

“But it worked, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Gordon Knox, it worked during the only test we ran.”

“Give it to me.”

“Um…well…if I were to speak in official terms then I would be needing a requisition from you to…to…”

Gordon’s narrow eyes and red face convinced Omar he would not require an official requisition. The engineer removed his safety goggles, walked away from the work bench and retrieved a leather pouch from a storage cabinet. The small bag appeared to hold something about the size and shape of a baseball. Knox zipped open the carrying case and glanced inside.

“This is it?”

“Yes, yes, this is it. But I am confused as to why you need to have such a thing? The Witiko are all but gone from here, are they not?”

Gordon considered the fifty Witiko officers waiting to testify before the Senate. He wondered if those aliens would ever pass through the runes.

“I’m not so sure about that, Omar. And if the Witiko are going to hang around a while longer, something like this could be rather valuable.”

“You are a confusing man, Mr. Knox.”

Gordon told Omar, “I’m a big believer in insurance.”

Omar’s good mood re-surfaced as he quipped, “Auto policy, Mr. Knox? Home and fire?”

The Director of Intelligence considered the change in power. He thought about an Empire with Evan Godfrey atop the pyramid.

Knox told Omar, “Personal injury insurance.”

*

Jon Brewer undid the top of his dress uniform and threw it over the couch. He then plopped onto that couch himself. Lori sat in the adjacent easy chair in their small living room watching the end of the special news bulletin.

A broadcast summed the day’s events: “To those who have been watching the tug of war between the Emperor and the Senate over the last several years, it appears that match up has been settled, and Evan Godfrey is the big winner. There are many questions about the scope of his powers, but in the short term the most intriguing question is whether or not he can reach out to the pro-Imperial elements he has clashed with in the past and still maintain the fractured coalition of labor, peace activists, and political idealists that serves as his base.”

Lori switched off the channel and snorted in disgust.

“So you handed everything over to Evan, just like that.”

Jon placed a hand over his eyes. “Not you, too. Not now.”

“Okay, you did what you wanted to do. You handed off the responsibility. Now what?”

He kept that hand over his eyes and answered, “Now Evan becomes President. He and the damn Senate spend months coming up with big long documents and papers that turn our government into a republic, like it used to be. The rest of us go on fighting the war.”

“And you feel okay with Evan in charge?”

“Evan isn’t in charge by himself. He has to work with the Senate, and he’s got Dante advising him and he’ll have a bunch of others doing that, too, as he gets settled.”

“But—”

“No buts, please. I never wanted any part of it. I’m not Trevor Stone, nobody is. No one could take his place and do the things he did. I’m a soldier. I get to keep on fighting, now the people who want to play politician can do that.”

Lori stood and walked to him. He still would not return her gaze. She spoke in a tone between sad and angry.

“Trevor fought all the time, too. One fight was out there on the battlefield against the things that came here to wipe us out. The other one was at home. Every day was a fight for him to keep us focused on the goal of winning this war. No matter how tired people got, he managed to keep us looking forward. So yeah, Jon, you’re a fighter. But today you chose not to fight; today you chose to run away. Sooner or later you’re going to either have to fight this one again, or surrender. Truth is, my husband, since the day the aliens invaded there hasn’t been a middle ground. Trevor knew this. You do, too, you just don’t want to deal with it.”

He finally pulled his hand away from his head and met her eyes.

“I love you Jon. But today you let a lot of people down, Trevor Stone most of all.”

*

Evan Godfrey slid open the top desk drawer and rifled through the pens, scrap paper, and notebooks inside.

He had trouble believing the day had finally arrived. There he stood in Trevor Stone’s office on the second floor of the mansion and while he may not be Emperor, he might as well be.

He would be President of The Empire. No, eventually they would hold a vote and he would be President of the reborn United States of America. Between now and then he held nearly as much power as Stone had wielded, only poor Jon Brewer did not realize as much. Trevor had ruled with an authority derived from his actions since the invasion. People saw him as a savior and his initial bunch of lackeys pledged an oath of complete devotion.

Evan knew his authority came from a different place. He wielded the power of uncertainty. With only the vaguest of guidelines and parameters on paper, he could expand his authority as far as he cared. Oh, there were a few bumps in the road that needed smoothing, but as the reporter had suggested the title “President” might as well be “Emperor.”

Trevor, Evan thought, used his power to create a cult of personality spiced with the fervor of a crusader. In contrast, with Evan Godfrey in charge, the people would not be wasted on some foolish crusade. Instead, he would help them build a utopia, of sorts. While perfection could never truly be achieved, Evan knew his vision of government and society would come as close to the ideal as any man dared to dream.

A ‘normal’ President in the old days might achieve one or two initiatives of note. But not Evan. Through the cloak of uncertainty he would command the authority to mold the new world to his liking; in his image.

Evan chuckled and played the past few weeks over again, enjoying the memory of each scene, of each victory, of each piece falling into place.

His fine mood spoiled as in walked Gordon Knox. The Intelligence Director paused at the doorway between the two Doberman Pincher dogs guarding inside the room, locked eyes on Evan, and then strolled forward in careful steps.

Evan, feeling the strength of his new position, did not let his stare waver. For the first time ever, he held the advantage over Knox. He planned to enjoy every moment of what few moments of their rivalry remained.

Knox spoke first, “Well, looks like you’re moving right in.”

Evan kept his voice calm, cordial, yet the glare in his eyes carried much darker overtones.

“I feel it’s important to get right to work. There are so many…so many projects I’m looking forward to completing. Things I think are long overdue.”

A grin flickered at the corner of Knox’s mouth. “I wish you the best of luck, Evan. With everything you’re contemplating, you’re going to need it.”

“I believe we make our own luck, Gordon. In fact, I’d say that luck is when preparation meets opportunity. I’ve been preparing for this for a long time, and now I have the opportunity to do the things I’ve dreamt of.”

“Just be careful, Mr. President, that you don’t bite off more than you can chew. People who do that have been known to choke.”

“Rest assured, when I put my mind to something I complete the task.”

Gordon asked, “Is that a fact?”

“You can count on it. And let me say, your contributions over the last several years have been much appreciated. In fact, I feel a debt of personal…personal gratitude to you. Alas, with the restructuring I envision, I think your services will need to be terminated.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Evan. You know, Trevor came to rely on me. He could always count on me to get the job done. He knew what I was capable of.”

Godfrey reminded, “Trevor Stone is gone.”

Gordon grew a big, sadistic smile. His tone dropped and he spoke in a slick and smooth voice that could have been a wizard casting a spell: “Trevor is gone? Is he really, Evan?”

Gordon walked over to one of the dogs guarding the entryway. The perfectly black and impressively muscular Doberman sat rigidly in a Grenadier’s version of military attention.

Knox glanced at the stoic dog then to Godfrey and warned, “I don’t think Trevor is gone at all, Evan. Look close now. Look into the eyes of each of the K9s. Can you see him, Evan? Can you see Trevor Stone looking back at you? Watching you?”

Evan licked his lips and, on impulse, glanced at the canine. He saw the dark, obsidian eyes of the mysterious beast. He saw the power Trevor held over the animals; the way they did his bidding without question, the way Trevor had been able to communicate—somehow or another—with the creatures. And in those dogs he saw all the things about Armageddon he tried to ignore: Trevor’s jaunts into the woods, nuclear weapons that would not detonate, the mystical runes.

Evan’s eyes wavered for a split second but that split second gave Gordon a victory.

Before Godfrey could recover, Ashley stormed into the room in big steps. Gordon’s evil grin disappeared immediately; he felt a woman of Ashley’s stature should not be exposed to his dark side.

She glanced at Knox quickly but reserved her anger for Godfrey.

“Get out of here.”

Evan’s mouth hung open for a moment before he replied, “But my dear, my new duties require that I—”

“I said get out of my home. This is Trevor’s personal office. My family lives on this second floor. I will go through the desk and forward to you anything of relevance.”

Between Gordon’s disturbing remarks about the K9s and the ferocity of Ashley’s indignation, Godfrey realized he held a weakened hand. He bowed politely and made for the door. He stopped when Knox said, “See you around, Mr. President.”

“No, Gordon, you won’t.”

With that, Evan Godfrey left the lakeside estate. He would never return.

Ashley and Gordon lingered.

“I should be going,” Knox volunteered, but did not move.

Ashley stood in the middle of the room staring at the floor with her body sort of swaying in a mixture of relief at Godfrey’s departure and unease at being alone with Knox.

“Gordon, you were always a good friend to Trevor. He counted on you a great deal.”

“He counted on me? Isn’t that funny. All these years I really think it was me counting on him. He gave me purpose. You know, I spent a lot of my years in the old world working some dirty jobs in the intelligence community. At first I did it because I believed in the ‘home of the brave’ and all that. Over time, I just did it because it was all I knew.”

Gordon stepped closer to Ashley. She kept her eyes on the floor.

He continued, “But when aliens invade your world, enslave and murder children…well then you know you’re on the right side. You learn that maybe there is a time when the ends do justify the means. That’s my time, you understand? That’s where I live. Trevor let me be who I am and still feel like one of the good guys.”

She said, “You are one of the good guys.”

He did not know how to respond and she did not have anything more to say. An awkward silence screamed through the room. Outside a car or truck or something drove around the lake; the chop-chop of distant helicopter blades echoed.

Gordon’s hand slowly rose in the air and gently reached to her cheek. She closed her eyes and stood as still as if I hunter’s knife touched her throat. For him—for one moment—no glass separated them. He felt the warmth of her life and knew her to be flesh, and blood, and real.

She trembled in what could only be fear.

He told her, “We each have had our bit to play in all this. The only difference is I’ve enjoyed what I’ve had to do. I think that makes me a bit of a monster.”

“Gordon,” she stumbled her words without pulling her eyes from the floor. “You’re not…you’re not a monster.”

He felt that to be very nice of her to say. She trembled at his touch, yet she still maintained the front. Still played the role.

Gordon said, “I loved Trevor, do you understand? I would have done anything for him. With him gone I want you to know…I want you to know that if you ever need anything…”

He stopped, unsure how to finish the thought without sending the wrong message. Ashley was a work of art far beyond his station. To feel her warmth for that moment was as close as he dared ever get. Monsters did not deserve so much.

“Gordon…”

His hand retreated. “It’s okay. I can be very scary.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she lied. Again, he thought it very nice of her to try so hard.

“It is good to be afraid of monsters, Ashley. Fear is a basic, fundamental response to danger. It’s healthy. But Ashley, Trevor sometimes needed a monster to do the jobs that others…that others should not be polluted by. The time may come when you need just such a monster. If so…well, if so, then just come catch a game.”

Gordon pulled a small slip from his pocket and held it to her. Ashley examined the paper before accepting the mysterious gift. It was a ticket. More specifically, a ticket voucher for ‘any event’ at the “Miami Orange Bowl.”

“I don’t understand. You’ll still be around. Evan will need an Intelligence Director.”

Gordon shook his head. “I think Evan has enough of his own monsters.”

“Where will you go?”

Gordon’s eyes glazed and he waited several seconds before answering.

“I’m going home.”

*

Ray Roos strolled the first floor of the mansion. He had already packed his bags and shipped off to D.C., his valuables from his home on the far side of the lake. He had also cleared out what few files, equipment, and paperwork he kept at the mansion and handed over all his important stuff to Tucker, who would handle security for the Stones for as long as Ashley and her boy would need security. Roos expected that that would not be long at all.

Nonetheless, one bit of business remained.

He waited until Lori Brewer left for lunch. The Chief Administrator of the Empire—who would soon serve in a greatly diminished capacity—left the mansion with her husband and General Jerry Shepherd, who had come to town for a week of meetings with the other brass. That brass, Roos knew, would soon be operating out of the Pentagon building in D.C., just as President Godfrey would soon occupy the re-opened White House.

In any case, he walked into Lori Brewer’s office, moved to her desk, bent over, and removed the small silver eavesdropping device he had affixed there months before.

He stood and examined the electronic bug. He considered how one tiny little listening device changed things so much.

Ray smiled to himself, stuffed the bug into a pocket in his sport jacket, and marched out of the room. He had a plane to catch.

13 – The Day They Tried to Kill Gordon Knox

Three helicopters buzzed across the Potomac River moving northeast. The merchants and customers doing business in the ad hoc marketplace on the Ellipse south of the White House recognized the lead chopper as Marine One, an H-3 Sea King that had served the last President of the old world and now served the first President of the new world.

Two Internal Security UH-1 “Huey” helicopters flanked the lead bird as the trio flew for the south lawn of the White House. An elated Evan Godfrey rode onboard Marine One accompanied by his wife Sharon, Dante Jones, Ray Roos, and a handful of bodyguards.

Evan took in the view from a starboard window. He saw the Washington monument—still scarred from Hivvan energy weapons—reaching into the sky. His skin tingled.

Roos, sitting in a high-backed chair, asked, “What’s the first order of business, Mr. President?”

Evan answered the new Director of Internal Security, “We have a reception tonight and I’ll be interviewing candidates for the positions in Agriculture and Science.”

Dante had been sitting with his head hung low but the discussion piqued his interest.

“What about Eva Rheimmer? Or Omar? They’ve been pretty much doing Agriculture and Science all along.”

Evan shook his head. “Yes, they’ve both done a great job. But like we discussed, Dante, we need to start fresh. Remember what we talked about; about not going half way.”

“Yeah, I know. Just I thought it would be easier and all.”

“I appreciate that, Dante. Let’s just stick to our playbook, shall we?”

Roos said, “Well now, along those lines let me say that our man Tucker is all set to get Ashley out of the estate and down to their summer home. Then again, I guess you knew that.”

Evan wished Ray had not brought that up in front of Dante but, then again, Roos had a way of trying to make Evan feel uncomfortable now and then, as if keeping his boss on his toes.

Dante jumped, “Ashley? JB? We never spoke about anything happening to them.”

Evan calmed, “Easy, Dante. We’re just moving them to their summer place in New Jersey. Like we talked about, we have to erase the estate from the public’s mind. The new center of power is Washington D.C., where the Senate is, where the Presidency is. It’s psychological.”

Dante chewed on his thumbnail and stared out a window.

“Anyway, boss, that should be taken care of by the end of the week,” Roos continued to aggravate the situation. “Seein’ as to all the threats and stuff we’ve been getting against the Stones, I figure it’s best for security reasons.”

“Oh look at all the people,” Sharon exclaimed as the formation of choppers flew over the marketplace on the Ellipse.

“Okay then,” Godfrey adjusted his tie. “Now listen, we want smiles on everyone’s face. Not big smiles because this is still a solemn day, but expressions of content and confidence.”

Dante did not respond. Roos looked to his boss and smiled a big, man-eating grin.

“Okay Ray,” Evan conceded. “Maybe you shouldn’t worry about smiling.”

Marine One descended to the south lawn while the escorts circled and then flew off. The big blades of the heavy helicopter created a small whirlwind rippling over the lines of press filming and photographing the arrival of the new President and his entourage. Internal Security officers dressed in policemen’s garb stood alert both across the grounds and on the roof of the White House. Doberman Pinscher K9s with spiked silver collars sat rigidly among the building’s pillars and entryways.

Evan Godfrey emerged from the helicopter and crossed the lawn toward his new home with his wife at his side and his closest associates trailing behind. That evening’s news broadcasts would describe his gait as ‘self-assured’ and that Mr. Godfrey appeared ‘at ease in his new role’, exactly ‘what the people needed in these turbulent times.’

Questions came from the press. He picked only one to respond to.

“How do you feel, Mr. President?”

“Like it’s morning in America.”

*

The flurry of activity that began that morning with Evan’s arrival continued for hours with press conferences and ceremony after ceremony. At last the media ran off to catch early suppers and file reports, taking advantage of a few hours respite before the inaugural reception scheduled for later that night.

Godfrey planned to change into a tuxedo and write a speech for the night’s activities. However, Sharon had taken a bottle of something bubbly with her upstairs, suggesting the time had come to break in the Lincoln bedroom. Based on Sharon’s disposition, he guessed they’d be breaking in just about every room in the White House. Evan wondered what would occupy his wife’s time after the excitement of her victory over Trevor Stone dissipated. She might, in fact, become a problem.

Problems of other kinds occupied Evan’s mind as he walked the red carpet along the Cross Hall on the first floor of the White House with Ray and Dante. With the press gone, only security and Evan’s trusted associates remained in the building. That would change in a few hours, giving him a small window to address a few things that needed addressing.

Evan spoke to Dante first, “This is for you,” he stopped and handed Jones an open envelope filled with a paper receipt and a key. “It’s a little vacation for you, my friend. After all you’ve been through I figure you deserve it.”

Dante read the receipt aloud, “Bryce Resorts. What’s this?”

“You did well, but I know you feel bothered by all this. I won’t go into that because we’ve been over it a hundred times. This is my way of saying thank you. Get away for a couple of days. I hear the Chrysaor is at the Pittsburgh shipyards this week for repair.”

Dante’s eyes grew wide.

“It’s okay. Most people know you and Captain Kaufman have had an on and off type thing ever since that reconnaissance mission to Binghamton that first year. Take her to this place. It’s the only high-class resort operating these days. Go horseback riding, get a massage, and enjoy some fine dining. It’s all taken care. You deserve it.”

Dante returned his attention to the receipt. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything. Dante. I can’t tell you that you’re ever going get over this, but you did the right thing. In the long run, you will see this to be true. Now go, enjoy yourself, there’s nothing going on here that can’t wait for a couple of days.”

Dante hesitated then, after a second, found a small smile. He shook Evan’s hand and walked off in search of ground transportation.

When he left earshot, Roos asked, “Is he going to be a problem?”

“Huh? Oh, Dante? No. He thinks of himself as an idealist. He’ll survive for a while telling himself what a great sacrifice he made for the greater good, he may even enjoy a certain amount of self-loathing for a time. Of course, some day he might just realize the truth about it, but until then he’ll be easy enough to control. Dante has cast his lot; there’s no turning back for him.”

“And you and I? Why’d we do it?”

“You did it for yourself, Ray. You knew someday I’d get here. What did you say that time? Oh yes, I’m the ‘horse you backed’. You’re an opportunist. But that’s okay because that’s the American way. Self-interest is a powerful thing.”

“Hmmm, you’re the idealist then, is that it? Yes, well, I guess you know that already. I just hope you’re right about Dante not becoming a problem. He seems a bit shaky to me.”

“Don’t worry about him,” they walked again, passing marble pillars as he and Ray traversed the rich red carpet. “We have other things to worry about. First off, what about Gannon? It’s been over three weeks. When is he getting back out there to check in on things?”

Roos shook his head, “Can’t do it yet, not with the Tambourine line going full steam. No sir, we’ve already messed with that once, can’t risk it again.”

“Well, we’re going to deal with that. Dante already processed orders to turn over two of the Stingrays to Internal Security for border patrol and testing.”

“You don’t say? And Brewer didn’t get himself all tied up on that?”

“Nope. Didn’t even raise an eyebrow. I don’t think General Brewer is even on the radarscope right now. He’s pretty much back at the estate pushing papers and thanking God he isn’t the one in charge. Without Stone, Brewer is fluttering in the wind. We’ll keep him and his wife busy with some pet projects here and there while I get settled in. Now, where’s our guest?”

“West Wing.”

Evan increased his pace and, with Roos in tow, made his way through the grand mansion toward the west wing. Two I.S. guards and their charge waited in the lobby there. Evan quickly dismissed the escort and addressed Chancellor D’Trayne directly.

“Chancellor, I’m so happy you could be here on my first day in the White House.”

“Senator—I mean, Mr. President—congratulations on your victory. I hope now that you will follow through on your end of the agreement.”

“I believe I already have, Chancellor, in regards to my predecessor. I trust your friends are satisfied?”

D’Trayne—coated in silver cosmetic—answered, “Yes, Mr. President, although I believe Mr. Gannon is serving as the liaison in that regards. As for my people—”

“As for your people, I need to ask a little more of you. However, if all goes as I envision, you will be able to remain here and in a much more…much more satisfying capacity.”

The Chancellor’s eyes turned lime green.

“What is it you require now, Evan?”

“There are loose ends to be tied, Chancellor. It would be wise to anticipate some bumps along the road, too. Ray, here, will be my point man on smoothing things out, but we could use a few of your officers on board. You know, the kind willing to sacrifice for the greater good.”

D’Trayne reluctantly nodded. “Witiko who could be characterized as outlaws or acting autonomously if their activities were discovered. I can provide the names of several such Witiko currently in your custody who will do as instructed and accept responsibility if discovered.”

“Good,” Evan smiled. “Two of your Stingray cruisers are being transferred to I.S. Then Ray is going to put together a small team of trustworthy associates.”

“I’ll need some of your boys as back up. Just in case, you see?”

“Yes, I see,” the Chancellor said. “And I appreciate your thoroughness.”

“Good. Ray, what’s our time frame on this?”

“I’m thinking in two or three days; Wednesday or Thursday.”

“Fantastic,” Evan beamed. “Why don’t you run along and see to it, then. I have a few things to go over with our guest, you understand.”

“Oh, you know me, Mr. President. I’m just a little cog in a big machine.”

The Director of Internal Security left Evan alone with the alien leader. The President motioned forward with his arm and the two made their way toward the oval office.

“Thank you, D’Trayne. Together we can finish this up nicely and move on.”

“I can be of greater assistance if my people were granted access to the artifact you call the ‘runes.’ I insist that this take top priority.”

Evan stopped fast causing D’Trayne to continue three paces before realizing he walked alone. The Witiko leader’s eyes glimmered a darker shade of green.

The President smiled but not in a friendly way.

“There are a few issues we must address. The most important being this…” Evan’s eyes narrowed. A subtle growl lingered behind his words. “…make no mistake, Chancellor, I am not your puppet. I am the President of what will soon be the reborn United States of America.”

The Chancellor blinked bashfully and his eyes morphed to a gentle, soothing yellow.

“Of course, Mr. President. I did not mean to—”

“Trevor Stone was right about a couple of things. He was right that the Witiko pulled all the strings in California, that Malloy was nothing but a figurehead. He was also right about something else. He was right that you only sued for peace because the gateways were shut off.”

D’Trayne held a pleasant expression but his eyes flashed red.

Evan spoke with the calm strength of a poker player holding all the cards.

“I’m calling the shots, Chancellor. You work for me, understand? If you don’t, then I’m sure the military would be happy to complete purging your kind from this planet. Most of your troops are already gone. I’ve got a feeling—call it a hunch—that the folks on your home world won’t be so thrilled to see you come back. I have a feeling you’ve got a stake in staying here.”

D’Trayne’s eyes nearly burned from their sockets. His arms fidgeted. His mouth worked as if to speak…then clamped shut. The red pupils lost some of their glow; a little.

Evan said, “Yes, good, that’s right. The sooner you accept that, the better. Because I can use you, Chancellor. You and I can get some things done. But everyone has to know their place. That’s how you ran California, wasn’t it? Everyone had a place.”

The Witiko leader licked his silver-coated lips and answered in a calm, resolved voice, “We have always believed in a ruling class.”

“Very good, yes, me too.”

Evan’s assertion puzzled D’Trayne. “But you speak of this democracy; of the rights of every person. Do you hide your true feelings on this?”

Evan shared his vision of democracy: “Oh, Chancellor, you may be hot stuff back on your world, but your style wouldn’t last a day here in America. Sooner or later the rabble in California was going to rise up and kick you and Governor Malloy out.”

D’Trayne snapped, “The people of California accepted their place.”

“Really? Is that why garrisons switched sides once Trevor invaded? Is that why people working on your stealth field generator project slipped us all the info we needed to take it out so fast? No, Chancellor, the people of California accepted their place for a short time, but eventually they would have tossed you out on your silver ass.”

D’Trayne’s voice trembled in the slightest, struggling to remain calm as he said, “You speak in riddles, President Godfrey. What is it you are trying to say?”

Evan enthusiastically embraced the opportunity to teach.

“Democracy is a wonderful thing when it’s managed properly. You must give the people the freedom to vote in or vote out whomever they wish. They must be completely vested in the system for only then will they accept the results of that system.”

“I see. So you paint an illusion of democracy and then control it. A deception, it is?”

Evan laughed at the Chancellor’s failure to comprehend.

“No, no. There is no illusion. No deception. Real freedom. Real opportunity for all.”

The alien shook his head in both confusion and frustration.

“But you said you believed in a ruling class. Your riddles are no clearer.”

“The cream rises to the top, Chancellor. Democracy is like a free market economy. Intelligence and money slowly but surely separate the ruling class from the masses.”

“Money? You buy elections?”

Evan threw an arm around the taller Chancellor and they walked again.

“Sort of. You buy marketing and public relations. You fine tune your message. You poll the people to get inside their heads. Along the way the best and brightest rise to the top, not because of deception or illusion but because they reach the people, earn their votes, and do what’s best for them even if those same people don’t know what’s best for them.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. But that’s okay. You just have to do what I need you to do.”

Evan led the Chancellor into the Oval Office. The new President had spent an hour there earlier posing for photos and greeting VIPs. Now, with everyone gone, he could truly take possession of the office; to make it his.

An American flag stood in one corner next to a black and silver flag depicting a hand holding a musket, one of the many icons of The Empire and a necessary prop for the photographers, but he knew that flag would not remain much longer.

A pair of Doberman Pinchers stood sentry just inside the door to the office. The President stopped, eyed the two canines, and then ordered, “Get. Get out now. Go.”

The confused dogs wavered for a moment before trotting into the reception area. Evan closed the door and circled to his desk. He faced the windows there and gazed out at sunset over the south lawn. He saw much more than the grounds of the White House; he saw the nation he had gained possession of.

“What is it you need me to do, Mr. President?”

“Ah, yes. Well, it’s not just for me, it’s for both of us. We share a common problem.”

“And that is..?”

“The Imperial Military, of course. The war mentality Trevor spent so much time instilling in the people remains, despite how wary of fighting the average person is.”

“Mr. Stone, it seems, was a great leader.”

Evan pivoted fast and lost his composure for two quick seconds before realizing D’Trayne had baited him.

“No! He was full of ego and self-importance. He would do anything to hang on to power! He knew nothing of leadership, only how to wage war.”

D’Trayne smiled in the slightest. His pupils flickered green.

Evan turned the tables on the Witiko: “Let us speak honestly, Chancellor. The Imperial military handed you your collective asses with only three dreadnoughts. I am no fool, D’Trayne. I know there are powers out there guiding this invasion. I know how desperately the aliens who are here want to stay here. Like I said, I think this was a one-way ticket for all of you. I think you don’t want to go home because going home would not be good for your career or your life. Whether you face dishonor or death is no concern to me, but I believe the other alien races are in the same situation.”

D’Trayne said nothing.

“Imagine, now, a dozen dreadnoughts, or more. That’s what the military wants, you know. And there will be pilots to fly them and crews to man them because our military academies are overflowing with volunteers. Every day that passes our engineers adapt more alien technology for our uses and our economy grows more diverse and powerful.”

“And now you command those armies, Evan. I thought you were against the war.”

“I look at the map and I see our armies on the west coast, the cities of the north occupied and fortified, and an early-warning detection system along the Atlantic. With the Centurian base in Mexico destroyed, so to speak, the south is secure for the foreseeable future. I see a nation with strong borders and armies capable of defending those borders. America is one nation again.” Evan reconsidered and waved a dismissive hand. “Except, of course, for Hawaii and Alaska, but that’s splitting hairs.”

D’Trayne asked, “So why is the military my problem and yours?”

Godfrey glided over to an antique globe in the corner and gave it a spin.

“It’s your problem because that military is now capable of projecting power far beyond our borders. I’m sure you heard that General Brewer took the Excalibur to South America last year. What’s to stop the military from sending a fleet of dreadnoughts across the Atlantic or the Pacific or over the North Pole into Russia or China? They could drop an armored division in…” he peered at the globe, “…Siberia or run a massive, sustained air campaign into west Africa.”

“Perhaps you over estimate your capabilities,” D’Trayne sneered.

“Perhaps. But do you think the military knows its limitations? No, D’Trayne, there are too many Generals who savor the idea of fighting for every square inch of this planet. Tell me now, do the other alien races look forward to facing dreadnoughts and gunships?”

When D’Trayne did not respond, Evan answered for him, “No, of course not.”

“How is your own military a problem for you, Mr. President?”

“I told you that the cream rises to the top in democracy. With a well-tuned message, a good campaign, and the proper amount of spending, the right people eventually earn their way into positions of authority. This, of course, is good for everyone. But war changes that, Chancellor. The people rally around flags and bravado, instead of reason and ideals.”

“Are you saying, Mr. President, that the people see through the political campaigns when they feel more important issues call?”

Evan gnashed his teeth and responded, “I’m saying that the masses can be distracted. Their blood boils. They make short term decisions and lose sight of the common good.”

“And if you are at war you feel your military is a threat to your Presidency?”

“My ascension to power has not been without….controversy. Over the years my…idealism has created unease in the military and intelligence communities. There are those who might feel that the alien threat could justify the removal of civilian leadership.”

“Are you not in the process of handling this threat? Is that not why you need the assistance of my officers and ships?”

“For one particular threat, yes, but that does not change the entirety of the situation.”

The Chancellor followed Evan’s thinking: “So as long as this war continues, races such as mine will face a human war machine that will continue to grow stronger and you will face the constant threat of being overthrown and replaced.”

Evan sat behind the President’s desk and folded his hands on this lap. He felt very much at ease there.

“Now you understand, Chancellor. And if I am replaced the war will go on unchecked, until either the invaders defeat humanity or humanity sends you all back through the runes.”

D’Trayne swerved the conversation around a wrong turn: “Of course, with the right assistance, the forces that have come to your world could overrun this ‘Empire.’ Those who help facilitate such a victory would receive great rewards, even governing authority.”

The growl returned to Evan’s voice as he warned, “Listen carefully, D’Trayne, I am on the side of humanity. I fought against you invaders in the early days. There is alien blood on these hands. I will do whatever it takes to protect the current borders of this nation and if an alternative solution cannot be found, I will authorize whatever measures are necessary to keep this country secure. Do you hear me?”

D’Trayne bowed his head.

Evan continued, “The question is, does your side want this to continue? Do you want The Empire to reach out across the oceans? Imagine how our armies on the march could unite the pockets of human resistance scattered around the globe. No extraterrestrial would be safe and even if we could not retake the whole planet, we could really upset the apple cart along the way.”

“But?”

“But if we reached a negotiated settlement. If we, here in America, agreed to stay within our borders and forget about the rest of the world, would your side be willing to sign a treaty recognizing our right to exist and respecting our sovereignty?”

“You seek security?”

“I seek a solution that benefits us both, D’Trayne. Your friends would no longer have to worry about our military knocking over whatever colonies you have around this world. If the war is over, I can snuff out the fire that powers the Generals, making my position more secure and creating a chance for things to return to the way they were before the invasion.”

The alien smiled and his eyes glowed a gentle yellow.

“You are a wise man, Mr. President.”

“Blessed are the peace makers, Chancellor.”

*

Gordon sat on the Lanai watching, for the last time, sunset from his house in northeastern Pennsylvania. He liked the smell of the chlorine from the pool mixing with sound of the gentle wisp of the ceiling fan from the master suite just beyond a pair of open sliding doors. For some reason, it made him think of Florida.

He heard a beep—the third one now—broadcast into the earpiece he wore that was, in turn, attached to a pocket device resembling one part calculator, one part remote control.

The higher pitch of the third beep confirmed what he expected: the generator shed would be their first target. At that point, he figured, they would execute a dynamic entry via multiple points, certain to include the front door and most likely either the garage or the Lanai. The fact that they had yet to nail him with a sniper round while he sat there easily visible through the glass confirmed another of his suspicions: the assassins meant to deliver a message, no doubt some sort of glib victory speech, the type of thing one would expect from Evan Godfrey.

The last rays of sun dipped below the horizon. Gordon stood and strode away from the table and into the master bedroom where the ceiling fan turned. He closed the dual sliding doors and knelt next to the wicker dresser across from his bed. There, hidden in a corner, he opened a small electronic box, the contents battery powered for just this type of occasion.

Near the box rested a stack of CDs. Gordon examined the labels, made his decision, and tossed all but one aside. He grinned and slipped the disc into a slot on that electronic box while whispering, “I hope you I.S. pussies like classic rock.” Of course the transmitter did nothing; not yet. Like the rest of Gordon’s toys, this one would wait for his command.

Next he stood and opened a silver cabinet mounted on the wall above the dresser. From there he pulled a loaded Benelli M4 shotgun. The pouch Omar had given him a few days ago was also in the cabinet. He took it and tied it around his belt.

The ceiling fan stopped, the lights went out, the house went dark.

Game time…

…A wooded knoll rose above the cluster of homes where Gordon lived. On that knoll stood Ray Roos, peering down toward the soon-to-be-ex-Intelligence Director’s home through a pair of night vision binoculars. Even with the artificial illumination he could not see much.

A Witiko officer stood a respectful pace behind and to the side of Ray. Further back, two Witiko Skytroops.

Roos did not like Evan Godfrey’s order for a message to be delivered to Gordon Knox’s dying ears. Still, he would follow the boss’ commands as long as those orders did not put his own neck on the line. If that happened…well, Ray always believed in options, particularly when protecting his ass.

Ray did not think Evan realized exactly how dangerous Knox was. Roos, on the other hand, spent years working at the estate, overhearing conversations, and getting to know the people there as part of his role as Evan’s mole. He knew exactly how dangerous Gordon Knox was and how well connected. Only Roos’ listening devices, the intercepting of intelligence reports, and other acts of cover up had managed to keep Knox from discovering the plot to whack Trevor Stone. Even then, maintaining the secret ranked as a minor miracle, no doubt one Knox could eventually undo if allowed to live.

Roos raised a walkie-talkie and transmitted, “I said go, you boys listening?”

“Copy that, Control. All points entry in three…two…one…”

…The front door to Gordon Knox’s single-story home burst open. Two men dressed in black and wearing night vision goggles moved inside with silenced Mp5 machine pistols at the ready.

On the far side of the home, one panel in the glass Lanai smashed and a small object the size and shape of a hockey puck bounced across the tile surrounding the indoor pool. That object exploded in a flash of light that would have blinded anyone in the room.

A second later, more of the glass shattered and a third commando burst into the sunroom with yet another Mp5 searching for Gordon Knox.

The three intruders spoke with each other and their ‘Control’ via headset transmitters.

“This is Huey, west room clear, proceeding south to clear next area.”

“Duey and Louie splitting. Taking garage and master bedroom.”

“Control copy, boys. Exterior looks clear. Target still inside.”

‘Duey’ turned left from the foyer and cleared the small dining area. From there he reported, “Duey here, clear so far, moving south toward garage.”

“Copy that.”

At the same time, Louie moved right from the foyer, slowly opening and entering the master bedroom through one of that room’s two entrances. His night vision scope saw the open metal cabinet, a neatly-made bed, and closed double doors that led to the inside pool area, but no sign of the target.

“Louie here, master bedroom all clear. Looks like we got a gun cabinet that’s empty. Proceed with caution. Moving west to pool area in case target doubled back.”

“Copy that, Louie.”

The commando who had entered through the Lanai—Huey—moved slowly across a leisure room in the southwest quadrant of the home. He then approached the closed door to the guest bedroom, one hand reaching for the knob while the other steadied his weapon…

…Duey walked into the garage. That area appeared as pitch dark as the rest of the home…until Gordon Knox flicked a switch on his remote control and activated a battery-powered security light.

The sudden glare blinded Duey. He fired his silenced weapon at the glow—thwump, thwump, thwump—shattering one of the two bulbs even as he instinctively turned away from the blinding glow and directly into the barrel of the Benelli. Gordon pulled the trigger. The powerful shotgun blast killed the man instantly, sending him—light body armor and all—flying backward.

“All points, check in,” radioed Control at the sound of the shot.

“Louie, pool area clear.”

“Huey, in southwest bedroom, no sign tango.”

Knox could have exited his home through the garage door and made a clean getaway, but he decided more work remained to be done. He returned inside. As he walked, he balanced the shotgun with one hand while pushing another button on his remote control. He felt a sense of satisfaction that years of paranoia finally paid dividends.

That other battery powered device—the hidden electronic box—sprung to life. This one did not radiate light but, rather, radiated sound…

…Ray Roos stood on the knoll with one hand holding the binoculars, another holding his radio. That radio burst into static then it burst…it burst into…into music.

“In-a-gadda-da-vida, honey,

Don’t you know that I love you?

In-a-gadda-da-vida, baby,

Don’t you know that I’ll always be true?”

…The commando codenamed Huey moved from the extra bedroom into the dinette area with the goal of getting to the garage. He meant to radio Louie to meet him there, but when he activated his transmitter he could only hear music. Rock ‘n roll, in fact.

“Control? Louie? Anyone copy? I’ve got interference!”

Gordon Knox approached the confused killer from behind and drew a hunter’s knife across the man’s throat. Knox held him up as he gurgled last words, arms flailing as if shimmering to the sound of classic rock playing over his headset.

“Never send I.S. pussies to do a man’s job.”

The assassin went limp. Gordon thought the fellow might yet be of some use…

…Ray stared at the radio. The music continued to play, overriding any message to or from the entry team. For that matter, the team might already be neutralized.

The Witiko officer leaned toward the radio and questioned, “What is that?”

Roos answered truthfully, “Iron Butterfly,” while his eyes focused on the dark and—seemingly—quiet house. At that point, the Director of Internal Security decided to up the ante. He turned to the Witiko officer and nodded. That officer, in turn, waved to his Skytroops.

Both aliens stepped forward and activated their jetpacks. With a hiss of thrust, they leapt into the sky, more jumping than flying across the two hundred yards between the observation point and Knox’s house.

The first landed in a crouch on the beveled roof adjacent to the glass-enclosed Lanai. The second went further, dropping to his knees as he landed hard above the front entrance. He hopped down from the roof to the stoop, raised his long alien Gatling gun-like rifle, and stepped through the battered doorway.

The first Witiko smashed through the glass Lanai and dropped alongside the pool. In reaction to the darkness, the alien activated a small visor on his helmet. Instead of seeing the room in shades of light, the Witiko’s visor saw the room in shades of heat.

He walked around the pool to a set of closed double doors. While balancing his gun in one hand, the Witiko slid one open. His visor immediately spied the glowing orange and yellow heat signature of a human being. It took a half-second for his gun to whirl to speed and spit a volley of low-caliber projectiles: the Witiko favored quantity of fire over stopping power.

The heat signature bobbled side to side absorbing the rounds…but did not drop or flee.

Confused, the alien retracted his visor. In the darkness he saw a man standing like a rag doll. No, one man holding another man…

BOOM.

Knox’s shotgun blasted the befuddled alien, sending his big silver body to the tile floor of the Lanai with a metallic clang. Gordon then let go of the dead commando he had used for a human shield…

…The second Witiko heard the shot. He walked quietly toward the master bedroom’s inner door. Meanwhile, the last remaining human assassin—Louie—left Gordon’s den and proceeded cautiously into the kitchen area on his way toward the front of the house…

…Roos paced back and forth on the knoll. The Witiko officer eyed him but said nothing.

The Director of Internal Security considered his third and final option if the Witiko team did not complete the job. That third and final option would require a cover story about fuel tank ruptures and a house fire. Thankfully Knox lived in an isolated locale. That would give Roos the time and latitude to paint a picture for any parties who took an interest in the ‘accident’.

He tapped his thumb impatiently and waited for a sign…

…There were two ways into the master bedroom, one being through the double doors from the Lanai where the body of the first Witiko now lay. The other a smaller door leading toward the foyer. Gordon crept in that direction with the aim of sweeping through the living room and toward the kitchen.

He opened the bedroom door and took one step. An alien hand slammed down on his shotgun, spinning it from his grasp.

Gordon did not hesitate, but neither did the Witiko, who tried to bring his own weapon to bear. Knox managed to get one hand on the end of the barrel and another near the stock. They grappled in a test of strength between two evenly matched competitors.

First, Gordon pushed the alien into the wall. A framed and autographed University of Miami Hurricanes #55 Jersey with the name “Ross” on the back fell and cracked.

Next, the Witiko grunted and turned the tables, swinging Gordon into the wall. This time no collectibles fell but Gordon saw movement out the corner of his eye: Louie the commando stopped at the kitchen archway and stared across the wide open living room at the struggle.

Knox broke the stalemate with a solid knee to the stomach of the alien. The enemy crunched over but did not relinquish his grip on the rifle. Gordon admired his foe’s strength and determination, but the intent had not been to wrest the gun from the soldier. Instead, Gordon wanted access to the Witiko’s back.

It surprised the Witiko to feel Gordon let go of the gun. It surprised him even more when Knox pulled a wire on the alien’s jetpack. The rockets ignited in a brilliant blast of orange fire and sent the silvery humanoid across the dark living room like a giant bullet. With his arms flailing the alien slammed head-first into the bewildered I.S. commando, pushing him and the Witiko into the kitchen area where they crashed into a counter. The fuel from the jet pack ignited and a small explosion spread through the front of the house…

…Roos saw the sign he waited for: the flash of something big detonating inside Gordon’s home. He considered it possible that the explosion meant Gordon Knox just died, but the instinct that had served Roos so well since the onset of Armageddon told him that was not the case.

Writing off both entry teams, Roos waved his hand at the house and told the Witiko officer, “Fuck it. Blow it all up.”

The officer sent a signal via a wrist-mounted communicator.

High above the quiet cluster of homes nicknamed “Knoxtown,” a ship about twice the size as Gordon’s house broke through the clouds with running lights off and its profile invisible to the radar net protecting northeastern Pennsylvania.

Ray gazed skyward until he spotted the shadow of the Stingray descending. He heard the gentle roar of its rocket propulsion and began contemplating a series of cover stories should any witnesses catch sight or sound of the approaching ship. If need be, D’Trayne’s people would take the fall by playing the role of renegades seeking revenge. Hopefully it would not come to that, but Roos and the Boy Scouts shared the same motto: always be prepared.

The alien ship dropped to five hundred feet and hovered. Roos watched as a highly focused energy beam cut across the night above the treetops and directly into the home where Gordon Knox made his last stand. The crackling glow of the weapon cast the landscape in a soft illumination next of kin to moonlight. Roos thought it a beautiful sight.

Slabs of roof jumped off the home, walls collapsed, and flames engulfed everything.

If only, Roos thought, Evan had not been so egotistical in his revenge, we could have just done this from the start.

Still, Roos knew the cover story for the explosion would require planting evidence, bribing someone to come forward as a witness, yadda, yadda, yadda. Yes, it would have been better if the team put a bullet in Knox’s forehead and disappeared the body. As it was, Roos would have to go in after the flames died down, pull out the remains of his men and the Witiko, and—most important of all—identify Knox’s cadaver, because Ray Roos would not sleep until he knew for sure Gordon Knox no longer lived.

Beach Front

Jon sat at the head of the table in the mansion basement feeling relieved that this would be the last meeting in a week of meetings.

Joining him at the table were Phillip Rhodes—newly appointed commander of Stonewall’s 2nd Mechanized Division of Virginia— General Cassy Simms of the 1st Mechanized Division, General Casey Fink leader of the 3rd Corp currently stationed in Texas, General Shepherd who commanded the 1st Corp from HQs in both Colorado and California, General William Hoth of the Philippan which hovered in New England, and Captain Woody “Bear” Ross, commanding officer aboard the Excalibur, currently involved in a training mission in Georgia to be followed by a trip to the Pittsburgh shipyard in July.

A speaker phone in the center of the table brought General Prescott, commander of 2nd Corp, to the conversation from his base in Long Beach as well as Captain Kristy Kaufman of the Chrysaor who was vacationing in the Shenandoah Valley while her ship underwent maintenance.

“Sir?”

Jon realized he had drifted off and missed Rhodes’ question. Of course, Rhodes had a lot of questions. He was a good man; a good soldier. As such, he took to his promotion with an abundance of enthusiasm.

“I’m sorry, what was that Phil?”

“I was just confirming that we have no new deployment orders. Nowhere, well, to go.”

Shep jumped in, “Well, now I reckon that isn’t the case considering that Mexico was always figured to be the next stop on our little worldwide parade.”

Heads nodded in agreement. According to reconnaissance, only wild animals—alien and otherwise—lived on the tundra to the north beyond the major Canadian cities clustered around the old border.

In contrast, Mexico—as they had painfully learned—hosted Centurian formations. The destruction of the base in Monterrey may have blunted the enemy’s advance toward the Rio Grande, but intelligence suggested additional Redcoat armies mustered further to the south.

Therefore, Jon’s answer took them by surprise. “Well, we just have to wait and see. Right now I think we need to be focused on the domestic side of things.”

Cassy Simms glanced around at the others and asked, “Sir, what exactly does that mean?”

“It means that the military is under civilian control, just like in the old world. Dante is the Secretary of Defense. He was Trevor’s best friend so I think we can trust him. We all have doubts about our President but he was elected by the Senate twice and those Senators were elected by the people.”

A little voice from the back of Jon’s mind said, Keep telling yourself that. Must be nice to have someone to take orders from again.

Brewer ran a hand over his eyes. That little voice inside his head grew louder every day.

General Hoth raised his hand like a school boy in class.

Brewer nodded and Hoth asked, “I need to understand exactly what that means. Are you telling us that we ultimately report to Dante Jones?”

Sometimes dealing with Hoth drove Jon crazy. The man had a streak of lawyer in him. He not only lived by the book; he ate, slept, and shit by the book, too. He thrived on order and the chain of command, the types of things that were not so clear cut in the new world, even more so in the midst of the current power transfer.

Jon, however, told him what he felt to be true: “Yes, in the sense that Dante Jones speaks on behalf of the President. We all report to the President, now.”

Casey Fink blurted, “That does not make me feel so good.”

“I’m sorry about your feelings, Casey, but things have changed. We have to give this time, got it?”

“Easy, Jon, we’re all giving it time,” Shep said. “But it seems to me there are a lot of people sitting at this table who don’t have fond feelings toward our new President. That’s going to take some time getting used to.”

Jon heard, you gave in too quick; you handed it all over without thinking it through.

“These are tough times,” Jon said with a tremble of defensiveness in his voice as he paraphrased Evan Godfrey’s words. “What the people out there need now are institutions and things, not just personalities and Generals. You can see it already; a bunch of labor problems that were driving us nuts just two weeks ago have gone away. We have to give this time.”

“Does that mean we’re not going to invade Mexico?” asked Kristy Kaufman over the speaker phone.

Jon raised his voice, “We’re going to wait and let the new government settle in. We’re going to concentrate on defense for a bit. Once all is said and done, I expect the war to continue. But we can’t rush things. I’m asking for patience, people. Just give this a chance.”

*

The short gray-haired I.S. officer named Tucker repeated to Ashley, “Man, we’ve talked about this for two days now. It’s time to go. I have orders to follow.”

Ashley stood in Trevor’s old office on the second floor shaking in one part anger and one part fear.

“And I told you two days ago that I don’t want to leave here. This is my home.”

JB ran out from the master bedroom to his mother.

Tucker spoke to the boy, “Hey kid, why don’t you tell your mom how much you’re looking forward to going to the beach? Didn’t you spend summers with your dad down there?”

Jorge Benjamin Stone stuck out his lower lip, narrowed his eyes, and told the man now in charge of their security, “You mean my father? Yes. Every summer. I expect we’ll go again soon. How is the arm, Tucker?”

Tucker instinctively looked at his forearm. “Hey, it’s fine I—what do you mean?”

“Listen,” Ashley said to the brute who inherited Ray Roos’ job. “I do not see why President Godfrey cares where we spend the summer.”

Jon Brewer and General Jerry Shepherd walked into the room.

As had been the case ever since Evan had ascended to the Presidency nine days ago, Brewer refused to look Ashley in the eye. She, however, always searched for his. She knew that Jon Brewer held a lot more power than he realized. She knew that if any hope remained for Trevor’s vision, it remained with Jon, especially now that Gordon Knox had died in a house fire.

“What’s the problem?” Brewer asked as JB ran to Jon’s leg and gave him a hug.

“Sir, I have orders to transport Mrs. Stone and her child to their summer vacation home.”

Shepherd cocked an eye and asked, “Now why is that?”

Tucker answered, “Death threats, General. Apparently there are some people out there who want to hurt Trevor’s family.”

The last part of Tucker’s answer played sourly on JB’s ears. He glared at the I.S. man, pulled away from Brewer, and retreated to his mother’s shadow.

“Death threats?” Shep scratched his head. “Well, now, that surprises the heck out of me.”

Jon gently waved his hand as if to calm the situation and turned his attention to Ashley, still not quite looking her straight in the eye.

“Is there really a problem with going? I mean, maybe it’d be for the best. There isn’t going to be much security around here now that everything important is moving down to D.C.”

JB asserted, “But you’ll still be here, won’t you Uncle Jon?”

After a pause he answered, “Well, I’ll be working out of my house for a while and with Omar in his work shop. Then, I guess, I’ll be headed down to D.C., too, to work in the Pentagon.”

“Jon, this isn’t about security,” Ashley said. “This is about Evan Godfrey hiding away any reminders of the way things used to be. He wants people to forget about this estate. He wants people to forget about me and you too, Jon.”

“Ashley, we just have to give this time.”

She stared at him for several seconds, but Jon refused to look back at her. Ashley then let out a frustrated huff and said, “Okay then, we’ll go. I’ll take my son and we’ll disappear down to the shore. Just like you, Jon, but you’re going to disappear right here under a mountain of filing and busywork while Evan Godfrey turns Washington into everything we hated about the old world. I suppose I can’t stop that, but maybe someday you’ll wake up and realize that you’ve created a real problem, and you’re the only one able to solve it.”

“Ashley, please,” Jon nearly pleaded. “I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

Before the conversation could progress, Tucker jumped in, “Your things are already packed, Ma’am, and the car is waiting.”

Ashley took a big, angry step toward the door but before she stormed out she stopped, turned, and gave Jerry Shepherd a big hug.

“I’ll miss you, Jerry,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear. Her warmth and familiarity surprised him most of all.

As she hugged him tight, Ashley placed her lips to his ear.

“Send Nina Forest to see me, quietly.”

His expression wavered for a moment but as she drew away he smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll miss you too, Ashley. But I reckon we’ll see each other around soon ‘nuff.”

JB grabbed his mother’s hand and, after stopping to gather a stuffed bunny and blanket from the boy’s bedroom, they left the mansion.

*

The trees of the Medicine Bow forests had once been favorites of the Arapaho and Cheyenne for crafting bows. In the post-Armageddon world the jagged mountains, deep woods, and myriad of lakes and ponds throughout the Medicine Bow wilderness of Wyoming provided sustenance and cover for another tribe who felt at one with nature, albeit one from another world.

Captain Dustin McBride spent three months searching for the elusive band of alien “Red Hand” warriors, finding dead campfires, garbage pits, and animal carcasses but unable to engage.

In fairness, weather and the turbulent events of recent months forced numerous delays upon the 1st Cavalry. From bad April snow to General Stonewall McAllister’s death to the assassination of Emperor Trevor Stone, Dustin’s pursuit stopped as often as it started.

Nonetheless, Dustin begrudgingly gave the enemy his due. The Red Hands/Feranites lacked fire arms and body armor, moved almost exclusively on foot, and used only the most primitive of tools. Yet for all they lacked, they easily outclassed humanity when it came to living, moving, and hiding in the wild.

However, for the first time Dustin felt the quarry within reach. In fact, the Feranites must have sensed the pursuit, as evidenced by the ambush party left behind to delay Dustin’s force.

Captain McBride stood on a rocky slope gazing across Lake Marie at the Snowy Range Mountains with the red sash around his gray uniform fluttering in the wind and a Stetson sitting half-tilted on his head. Those mountains across the way offered a magnificent, foreboding sight: walls of gray rock that could have passed for the battlements of God’s castle.

The main body of the Feranite tribe he followed waited somewhere on the far side, after having sacrificed several dozen of their number to delay the pursuit.

“What you wanna do with these fellas?”

Corporal Brown’s lazy drawl pulled Dustin’s attention from the mountains to the bullet-ridden alien bodies on the rocky mountainside.

The pale-skinned warriors with the ivory eyes had surprised McBride’s lead riders with bows, arrows, and spears, killing four of Dustin’s men in a close-quarters battle.

“Huh? What’s that, Agarn?”

“Whaz wrong, did I talk to the wrong ear?”

Brown could get away with jokes about Dustin’s missing ear because he had saved his ass more than once. Of course, the Corporal’s joke also served to distract Dustin from the casualties suffered. Agarn seemed well-tuned to his commander’s state of mind.

After responding with his middle finger, Dustin answered, “We’ll toss the Reds in the lake. Shit, let the fishes have em’. Our boys, well, I think this ridge makes a good resting place.”

Brown pulled one of his hand-rolled cigarettes from a pocket in his uniform, struck a match, and cupped the flame as he lit the smoke.

“I reckon so, yeah. What then?”

A trio of dismounted soldiers trotted by leading their horses by the reigns as they descended the steep incline. Supplies dangling from the mounts jingled and clanged.

“What do you mean, ‘what then’? You wanna give up, is that it?”

“Gee, Cap, and give up all this fun? Seems to me this more a vacation than workin’.”

Dustin returned his eyes to the scenic vista surrounding the lake and explained, “We keep going, Agarn.” McBride’s voice softened and he spoke as much to the ghost of his beloved friend Stonewall McAllister as to the Corporal. “I can feel them out there. We’re getting real close.”

*

Shep blew his nose into a handkerchief and, at the same time, felt a rough scratch across his throat. He could no longer ignore the fact that he had caught a cold.

Nothing worse than a summer cold. Sneezing in June? That just isn’t fair.

Fair or not, Shep dealt with the burgeoning aches and pains as best he could as he walked toward the landing pad at the estate. With the meetings closed and plans made—or, rather, a lack of plans made—the time came for him to return to his duties, such as writing readiness reports and re-organizing his units in California.

Things certainly had changed drastically in only a few months. First Garrett McAllister, then Trevor, and now Gordon Knox dead when a gas leak destroyed his house.

Shep felt that the lakeside estate that had served as the heart of humanity’s comeback would soon be an empty hall. That thought added a new misery to his stuffy nose and scratchy throat; a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

An Eagle transport waited on the landing pad for the General. A vaguely familiar face waited at the open door above the entry ramp.

“Evening, General, sir. You need a ride?”

Shep squinted and tried to recall the pilot’s name. The blonde-haired man wore glasses, which probably made for a devil of a time with the navigation goggles.

“Sure do,” the General walked inside the passenger compartment where he saw computers, specialized communications gear, and electronic warfare goodies as well as a collection of weapons ranging from the mundane to the exotic including a very familiar sword.

“What a sec, this is Eagle One. That makes you, um, Hauser, right?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Rick Hauser. And actually, sir, I think the official designation is EC-CM one double-oh seven. ‘Eagle One’ was really just a call sign.”

Shep translated: Eagle Class Command Module operating number 1007. On paper the shuttle appeared exactly the same as several dozen others, the difference being that EC-CM 1007 had spent the bulk of its service time as Trevor Stone’s personal ride.

“Now don’t take this the wrong way, son, but what the heck are you doing playing taxi? You’ve got a Hell of a reputation as a flyer and this ain’t no ordinary bird.”

The passenger compartment door slid shut. Shep realized he had the ship to himself.

“Well, General, I think I got lost in the cracks. My assignment hasn’t changed from the estate and I don’t think many people know exactly how modified this thing is. Besides, I get the feeling the new President doesn’t much care for Eagles. He likes old-world stuff.”

“So you’re just passing time shuttling folks from here to air ports and whatnot?”

“Yes sir. Been kind of dull since…since…” The pilot fought back a swell of emotion. Shep guessed few people had spent more time with Trevor than his personal pilot, Hauser.

Shep put an arm on the man’s shoulder and said, “Sounds to me like you’re going to waste considering that pretty soon this old house isn’t going to be a lick more than a museum. How about you join up with First Corp. I could use a pilot like you.”

Hauser grinned, “I’ll fly rings around anyone, sir. Me and number one here.”

Shep paused as the tickle of a sneeze built…built…and released in a messy expulsion safely covered by a quickly drawn handkerchief.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks. Anyway, good. Let’s high-tail it.”

“I understand you’re catching a military flight out of Philly. That still the plan, sir?”

Shep thought about that. He thought about Ashley whispering a request to meet with Nina Forest. Now what could that be about? Still, no loyal follower of Trevor Stone could ignore a request from Ashley. Hell, even without Trevor, Shep figured few folks could resist Miss Ashley; she had a dignified way about her. Royalty, in fact.

“Get me a radio so I can assign you to me lickity split, then you won’t have to worry about orders from anyone but me.”

“Sounds like you’ve got something in mind. A little side trip?”

Shep figured Nina, like Hauser, waited in Annapolis with nothing but time on her hands.

“Yeah, a little side trip.”

*

Ashley had fallen in love with the stucco, contemporary beach house along the Wildwood, New Jersey shore the first time Trevor brought her there. That had been five years ago, back when their relationship had been cold but, at least, there had been a ‘relationship.’

Every summer they spent at least two weeks there. JB loved the boardwalk with its amusement rides, cheesy games of chance, and the yellow Tram Car with its recorded voice constantly warning, “Watch the Tram Car, please.” Of course, half the rides did not run and the summer vacation season brought a few thousand—not hundreds of thousands—of visitors each year. Even during the heart of summer the resort town felt more like a ghost town.

Still, Trevor would jog the quarter-mile-wide beach with Tyr at his side and they would spend nights cooking flounder in lemon juice or scallops with butter and garlic.

As for Ashley, she enjoyed the ambiance of the place. She could lose herself in a good book out on the deck or just lay in bed watching the ceiling fan spin while listening to the distant, repeating drone of white caps breaking on the sand.

Those summer weeks were the only times when—for a few days—she could convince herself they were a normal family. This trip felt much different.

Tucker and his security team ushered Ashley, JB and Grandpa away from the estate on Thursday, June 19th, the day after a gas explosion turned Gordon Knox’s private residence into a pile of embers. Everyone assumed Gordon to be dead, the result of an accident that—according to a statement from President Godfrey—“could not come at a worse time for our nation.”

A constant drizzle kept Ashley and her son inside that first night. JB spent the evening glued to a second floor window gazing south toward the boardwalk. From his room he saw the lights of a huge Ferris wheel and the rolling humps of a rollercoaster. The echo of voices and rumble of rides joined the constant in-rush of the ocean creating a melody of summer sounds that wrapped around the boy and his mother like a comfortable blanket of feelings and memories.

Clouds remained on the second day. Ashley took JB (and their security detail) to the distribution center for food and supplies. Mundane tasks often provided an illusion of normalcy.

On Saturday a warm front pushed off the dreary weather and brought sunshine to the shore. The two spent most of the day on the beach. An influx of jellyfish captured JB’s attention.

On Sunday, JB got his chance to visit the boardwalk. Tucker managed to get Morey’s Pier sealed off for two hours, making Ashley, JB, the security team, and a flock of seagulls the only souls on the big wharf full of rides and games. JB loved it, but to Ashley it felt sad, especially with the scent of fresh roasted peanuts and scraps of napkins and discarded tickets drifting among the amusements and kiosks.

She took him round and round the carousel, and on the kiddy train, and watched him zip up and down in a miniature airplane. Her son enjoyed the rides, but not in the same way other children might. From the saddle on the merry-go-round, JB shouted fantasies of riding with the cavalry. On the train he imagined himself escorting a supply convoy to isolated colonies out west. From the cockpit of the mini plane he shot Hivvan Screamers from the sky.

Near the end of their day, mom and son entered a fun house. Once inside they moved along a passage through a slowly-turning tube that played havoc with their sense of up and down. They wobbled across a rope-bridge above paper alligators in a phony river made from blue streamers. Further along, crazy inflatable clowns burst from barrels with synthesized chuckles.

Near the end of the attraction they came to a hall of mirrors that absolutely fascinated Jorge. He ran to one in particular that warped his already small body even smaller, as if he were a soda can crunched at both ends.

“Look at this one, mommy! It makes me look smaller than I really am!”

Ashley smiled but movement from behind another mirror grabbed her attention.

“General Shepherd said you asked to see me.”

Standing in the shadowy hall of mirrors was a woman who could easily have passed for her early twenties but Ashley knew her true age to be over thirty. She had sharp blue eyes and blonde hair with wavy curls that, for some inconceivable reason, was pulled tight into a pony tail that drooped between her shoulder blades.

“Nina Forest,” Ashley said almost certainly too loud; voices echoed in the fun house.

The two women stood silent for a moment, listening for any sounds of suspicion from the I.S. team waiting outside. When nothing happened, Ashley walked closer to the soldier while Jorge bounced about the hall of mirrors giggling at how the glass stretched, flattened, or otherwise warped his image.

Nina wore green camouflage BDU pants and a black t-shirt. She did not have a rifle but did carry a sword strapped tight to one leg and a pistol on a thigh rig along the other.

Ashley did not recall if she ever met Nina Forest in person before. Perhaps she had, back in the early days after Ashley had been pulled from her ark ride. However, she had seen this woman before in photographs taken during the time that Ashley had been thought dead; a time when Trevor had fallen in love with this woman.

In a sense, Ashley realized they shared one thing in common; both women had lost a year of their lives. The difference being that Ashley’s year passed in the blink of an eye, but Nina lived those months, only to have the memories stolen by an alien implant.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Ashley told Nina the truth. “You are highly regarded.”

Nina, her eyes wandering around the chamber, said, “I am very sorry for your loss. I mean, I feel badly for you and your son. It must be very hard for you.”

Ashley wondered how hard Trevor’s death hit Nina. Were the memories and feelings truly gone, or merely suppressed? How had she taken the news of the assassination?

“I think it has been hard on all of us, but thank you for your concern.”

“Mrs. Stone—”

“Ashley.”

“Ashley, whatever you need from me, I’ll do my best. I like to think that Trev—your husband—could count on me. That is, to get the job done.”

Ashley saw that the poor girl felt uneasy. The hardened warrior fidgeted and stumbled with her words. Was it possible that Captain Forest had grown fond of Trevor from a distance? What would it do to her now to find out about the year she had shared with Trevor?

Ashley told her, “Yes, Trevor counted on you. He needs to count on you one more time.”

“Mommy!” Jorge raced over to another mirror. “This one makes me look really funny!”

Ashley pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of her blue khakis. She handed it to Forest, who read the words printed on the ticket.

“A voucher? For the Orange Bowl in Miami?”

“You’ll need Gordon Knox’s help.”

Nina’s brow furled. “The Director of Intelligence? He died in a fire a couple of days ago.”

Ashley smiled, a little. “I think Gordon decided it was time to make his exit. But if he is still alive and they find out, they will try to kill him again.”

“Who?”

“Gordon gave me this ticket and told me to use it if I ever need anything. You use it. Tell him you’re working on my behalf.”

Tucker’s shout reverberated through the fun house, “Ma’am, are you okay in there?”

“We’re fine! Jorge is playing. We’ll be out in a minute.”

“I still don’t know what this is all about. What do I need Knox’s help with?”

“I want you to find out who was really behind Trevor’s assassination.”

She could tell by Nina’s expression that a million questions shot through the woman’s mind, starting with the idea that the assassination had been something more than the official account. Ashley saw that while Nina Forest may be an expert soldier, she still had much to learn.

Out of those million questions, Nina focused on one: “Why me?”

Ashley replied, “Do this and I’ll tell you the truth you’ve always wanted to know. I’ll give you all the secrets about the year you can’t remember.”

Nina Forest blinked fast but said nothing. JB tugged on the soldier’s sleeve and pulled. Nina—shocked into silence—let the boy turn her to face a mirror that stretched her petite body to long and tall. Jorge giggled.

Footsteps ended the meeting. Nina—eyes still wide—disappeared toward a maintenance area and a manhole cover that led below the boardwalk. Tucker and two guards entered the hall.

“Hey, was there someone in here with you? I swear I heard voices.”

“It’s a fun house, Mr. Tucker. Your imagination must have got the better of you.”

Mother and son left. Tucker stood amongst the mirrors while the other two guards followed their charges.

More than voices, he was certain he heard a name.

Nina Forest.

Peace Dividend

The midday June sun beat down hard on Washington D.C., but a breeze—not cool, but not quite so hot, either—blew across the roof of the White House. Dante closed his eyes and let the gust sweep over his body, enjoying a split-second’s relief.

He had followed a security team to the roof as they patrolled the grounds in preparation for Evan Godfrey’s big press conference. While the team moved on, Dante remained behind. At first he told himself this was simply an impulse left over from his previous post but the longer he lingered on the roof the more he realized he was really trying to hide.

From his vantage point, Dante saw a podium and chairs on a small patch of south side lawn. A few early-bird members of the press and their cameramen waited there, scribbling notes and checking equipment. Like so many of the sights these days, the one below seemed somewhat surreal; pieces of the old world re-assembling. A press corps, trade unions, vacation resorts, and even rush hour traffic at a few of the major settlements. Not nearly the size or scope as before the invasion, but eerily close.

Jones turned his eyes toward the city surrounding the White House. He spied the ragtag kiosks and carts of the markets on the Ellipse, the scarred Washington monument sticking up into a clear blue sky, and the pillars and posts marking the remains of the Jefferson memorial.

Further off loomed the corpses of buildings that died in the fires of Armageddon but alongside those skeletons worked cranes lifting beams into place and scaffolding wrapped around new construction. That process of rebirth gave Jones hope, as did the subject of the day’s press conference. Hope that maybe everything he had done had indeed been for the best; that his betrayal grew from honorable intentions.

A voice broadcast over the walkie-talkie attached to his belt next to his side arm.

“Hey, Dante, are you out there?”

The voice belonged to Ray Roos, the new Director of Internal Security.

“Yeah, man, I’m here. I’m up on the roof. I came up here with one of the teams.”

Roos chuckled, “Say, you trying to do my job?”

Dante—his eyes still staring into the distance—answered, “Old habits die fast, I guess.”

“Well, now, the boss is expecting you down here for the big show.”

He heard the chatter among the reporters below grow but told Ray, “I think I’ll stay out of the spotlight. The view is a little better up here.”

*

The Duncan Phyfe-crafted cabinets and furnishings from the late Federal period that once adorned the White House library had been pillaged or destroyed during the Hivvan occupation. Therefore, it remained one of the more incomplete rooms in the refurbished White House. Nonetheless, a portrait of George Washington remained above the neoclassical mantel and the soft gray and rose tones of the paneling gave the chamber a cozy feel.

Tory—Sharon Godfrey’s eleven year old boy—stretched on the floor in one corner of the room with sneakers kicked out behind as he built a plastic model car on top of newspapers laid to protect the wood. The smell of Testor’s glue permeated the air.

His mother used glue of her own as she sat at a round wooden table. Spread in front of her were clippings taken from the newspapers that now served as Tory’s drop cloth. She carefully positioned one clip after another in a thick scrapbook, taking care to ensure perfect placement.

Mother and son worked in a silence punctuated by the ticking hands and grinding gears of a lighthouse clock bearing the likeness of Marquis de Lafayette on its base.

“Ah, there you are,” Evan entered the room. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Sharon remained focused on affixing yet another memento to her scrapbook. Evan glanced over her shoulder and saw the headline EMPEROR DEAD on one page and ASSASSINATION on the other.

Sharon pressed until satisfied the glue held. To her annoyance, Evan reached in and flipped backwards through the scrapbook. The headlines flashed one after another as he traveled into the past.

CALIFORNIA INVASION OPPOSED BY RELIGIOUS COUNCIL.

TREVOR STONE DEAD? EMPEROR NOT SEEN IN TWO MONTHS.

WHERE IS TREVOR STONE?

EVAN GODFREY CHOSEN PRESIDENT OF THE IMPERIAL SENATE.

STONE GIVES IN: SENATE TO BE ELECTED.

SLAUGHTER AT NEW WINNABOW.

Evan stopped paging and sighed.

“What’s wrong, my dear? You don’t approve of my collection?”

“When you said you and Tory would be in the library, I thought you would be spending time with him before he heads off to summer camp. But you’re too busy collecting scalps.”

Tory did not have to be asked to leave, he instinctively knew, abandoning the unfinished model as he searched for a new place to play. It was a big house, after all. Plenty of places for a child to get lost.

“My son is my business.”

“But you are my business, Sharon. Tell me, what will you do now?”

“I don’t understand,” she replied while thumbing through the memories as if perusing her high school yearbook.

“Who will you hate now, my love? All these years you’ve fixated on the fall of our beloved Emperor in revenge for what he did to your home and your father. He’s been vanquished, but one look at you and I can see that the hate has not diminished.”

“Soon there will be much to keep me busy. After your press conference today, I’ll be in charge of getting rid of those damned dogs. I look forward to being at your side for that.”

Evan grabbed her arm and hoisted her from the chair.

“Yes, you will be at my side. Remember that, Sharon. I don’t need you and your vendettas screwing anything up. I want you to smile. I want you to be happy. You’ve gotten everything you’ve always wanted, you saw the end of Trevor Stone. Now get over it. Move on.”

“Easy for you to say, Evan. What have you lost? There is still a debt owed for what he did at New Winnabow. Tell me, who was the assassin who put the bullet in my father’s neck?”

A straw broke in Evan’s back.

“Enough! I won’t have this, Sharon. Instead of spending your time scheming, maybe you should spend more time with your son. Or is he just an inconvenience now?”

Sharon’s hand cocked. A voice interrupted the blow.

“Mr. President,” a forty-something woman with strawberry blond hair and a scar on her face interrupted the brewing fight.

“Yes? Yes, what is it?”

“Chancellor D’Trayne has arrived. The press conference is ready to begin.”

With that, the woman withdrew.

Evan painted on a smile. Sharon calmed and forced a smile of her own.

“I need you by my side now, Sharon.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. President.”

*

Armageddon caused much damage to the White House grounds. In the years since humanity’s armies chased the lizards from D.C., the Senate, Evan Godfrey, and other like-minded politicians and historians invested in fixing, repairing, and otherwise returning the White House to pre-Armageddon form. They, by and large, succeeded. However, the scars of destruction still lingered and Evan chose one such scar as backdrop for his big speeches.

While the lawn grew as green as ever, the trees and shrubs between the south face of the White House and the West wing had been burned to nothing and removed. Instead of full-grown replacements transplanted from a nursery, Evan Godfrey insisted on planting new trees and shrubs as a symbol of America’s rebirth. For the next several years, he would stand there and deliver initiatives and speeches and progress reports to the eager media with those baby plants growing behind him in the same way he planned to grow the nation anew.

In that cozy corner of the new seat of power gathered two dozen members of the press on folding metal chairs facing a podium bearing the seal of the President of the United States. Around that podium lurked Brad Gannon in slick hair and a pearly-white smile as well as Chancellor D’Trayne in all his silver glory. No one noticed Dante, mixed with a security team, watching from the roof.

Ray Roos escorted Evan and his wife to the edge of the yard then waited behind. The President approached the podium; Sharon lingered off to the side. The press stood in a sign of respect but he quickly motioned for the reporters to be seated.

“My fellow countrymen, today marks the end of the greatest struggle in the history of mankind. The war is over.”

Evan let that sink in, not only for the men and women in the audience, but those who watched on T.V. While only the local population witnessed the announcement live, the tape of the conference would soon play from sea to shining sea.

“Ten years ago alien armies marched through interplanetary gateways to wage war upon our people. Why did they come? Did we provoke this aggression? I have spent years searching for that answer. With the help of Chancellor D’Trayne, I have finally found the truth. This has been a coordinated invasion with the aim of defusing the danger humanity represents to life throughout the universe. That danger comes not from our weapons or technology, but from the nature of our persons. In short, you will find the answer as to ‘why’ not by looking toward the stars, but in reading a history book: crusades, holocausts, inquisitions and Dark Ages. Whether due to religious zeal, unbridled nationalism, racism or merely our natural inclination toward violence, mankind has a history of brutality and militarism, and the universe took note.”

Evan took a moment to make eye contact with the reporters and, most important, the camera lens.

“The intelligent life forms of the galaxy came together for a pre-emptive strike on mankind before our technology could turn us into a threat to other civilizations. This was not a decision made lightly and one that went against the otherwise peaceful nature of these cultures. Before we pass judgment, consider that pre-emptive war has been a distasteful but common action among our own race. While we cannot excuse this act of hostility that has brought misery to our world, we must come to terms with the reality of our nature.”

Evan cast his eyes down, shook his head in sadness, and sighed: the perfect picture of a man who has accepted the faults of his people.

“Still, I am not one to give up easily; not when the fate of my people is at stake. In recent days I have worked closely with Chancellor D’Trayne who has been in contact with the other races. Based on his experience in California, he managed to convince the invaders that there is another way besides war without end. He has convinced his brethren that the people of this nation can overcome their instinct for violence, that we can be good neighbors, that there can be an end to the struggle that has already cost so much to all sides.

“As I have explained to the Chancellor, I cannot speak for all of humanity. I can only speak for those of us in our tiny nation. I have assured him that our people seek peace. I have assured him that we only want to live our lives and return to the world we knew before the invaders came. He has accepted these assurances, with conditions to ensure the cease-fire holds.”

Murmurs rolled through the audience.

“Conditions?”

“Cease-fire?”

“Assurances?”

Evan calmed the gathered with a wave of his hand.

“Our aggressive military campaign will end. We will live within the boundaries of the continental United States, and as long as we do so there will be no more attacks, no more war. In a manner similar to United Nations peacekeeping missions in the old world, Witiko observers will be positioned throughout our nation and government so as to monitor our good intent. We will demobilize three of our eight active army divisions and several of our combat air wings. The dreadnoughts will be restricted to flights within our borders and K9 breeding programs will be curtailed. With our defensive line on the east coast and the eventual construction of a similar line off California, we will know security and will not need such a large military force. Instead, demobilized troops will either transfer to Internal Security or…” Evan licked his lips, smiled, and in a fatherly voice told, “…or they can go home. They can go home to be with their families, to raise their children, to build farms or businesses. In short, they can go home and live again; live without war. In short, life will return to normal.”

Again, worried looks throughout the press corp.

“My friends,” Evan assured, “the truth is that we have won the war. Our soldiers and the workers at home have removed the organized alien armies from our lands. We can be proud of their sacrifice. Our choice now is either to risk losing all we’ve gained by continuing this fight to foreign lands or celebrating our victory and sheathing our swords. We will maintain a strong home defense to secure our borders and monitor the activities of the newcomers to our planet. Many details remain to be reconciled and much work must be done to transition from a war footing to a normal way of life. Nonetheless, this is a day for rejoicing. We have known a time of war; now this is our time of peace.”

*

Another flash bulb, another pose, this time Evan shaking D’Trayne’s hand in the Oval office.

“Okay, that will be enough for today, thank you ladies and gentlemen,” the middle aged woman with the scar—Evan’s Administrative Assistant—hustled the press away leaving the room to the President, D’Trayne, and Ray Roos.

Evan slumped into the chair behind the big desk and D’Trayne paced. Roos watched from a position near the closed door.

“Your media asks a lot of questions,” D’Trayne said.

“Yes, all good questions, Chancellor. Guarantees. What kind of verification do we get that you’re keeping your end of the bargain? People are understandably wary.”

“You have received my word. I will work on getting something in—what did you call it?—‘writing.’ But you already appear hesitant in fulfilling your end of the bargain. We originally discussed a fifty-percent demobilization of the armed forces.”

Evan stood and jabbed a finger toward the silver alien. “Three divisions for now, Chancellor. No more until I feel comfortable that I have those assurances. I only jumped into this cease-fire announcement so quick because I want the military under control.”

“And have you succeeded? Are your internal enemies no longer a concern?”

Roos interrupted the conversation, “Well, there, hold on for a sec, this is where I’ve got a little cold water to throw on this parade.” Ray tapped his thumb on his thigh as he told them, “My folks have gone through the ashes for almost a week now and, well—”

D’Trayne answered for Roos, “You have not yet found the body of this Knox person?”

Evan’s face turned to rock.

Roos explained, “We pulled out our people and the Chancellor’s officers, but—to put a fine point on it—no Knox.”

“Maybe,” D’Trayne hoped, “he was vaporized in the explosion.”

“No,” Evan grunted. “Ray is telling us that Gordon Knox got away.”

“Yeah, well, I figure that’s about right.”

D’Trayne snarled at the President, “This vendetta of yours may upset our arrangement. If he is alive, why has he not come forward?”

“That ain’t his style,” Roos explained. “He’ll lay low and try to figure this out.”

“I will not have our newfound peace disrupted by a barbarian like Knox,” Evan insisted and stared at Ray to make the point that the job must be finished, yet the expression on the Director’s face gave Evan pause. “What? What more is there?”

“Well, now, might be nothing but I got a little nugget from Tucker in New Jersey.”

“Tucker?”

Evan answered D’Trayne, “The man in charge of security for the Stone family.”

“He thinks Ashley got a visit from someone, sort of covert-like the other day.”

Evan guessed, “Knox?”

“No. No, that’s not it,” Roos’ face twisted as he tried to piece together the puzzle. “Tucker thinks he heard a name. He thinks he heard the name ‘Forest.’ Sounds to me like that army-gal that did a lot of Stone’s dirty work.”

“Captain Nina Forest,” Evan said aloud. He recalled Nina and Trevor being close. He knew of their relationship. He knew it had ended but not given it much thought even though he had helped save her life during the Battle of Five Armies.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Roos agreed. “And here’s the funny part. I did a little snooping and it seems Captain Forest just got sent down to Florida by General Jerry Shepherd.”

Evan snapped his fingers and said, “Ashley is suspicious. She has Nina looking into this. Maybe trying to hook up with Knox.”

“Of course she’s suspicious,” Roos said. “If her hubby’s offing wasn’t enough, then old Gordo dying in a house fire would be more then plenty to start her radar beeping.”

D’Trayne tried to keep pace with the conversation, “You said no one would miss Knox.”

Evan mumbled, “No one in the public. Knox kept a low profile and did not have many friends outside of his own agency.”

Roos told D’Trayne, “Ashley knew Knox rubbed the President here the wrong way. Got to figure she’d be asking questions. Another good reason to send her and the rug rat packing.”

Evan guessed, “She went to Miami, didn’t she?”

“Now how’d you know that?” Roos asked.

“Gordon Knox was always pestering Shepherd and Brewer to get him autographed footballs and jerseys from Woody Ross. Ross played football at the University of Miami before turning pro. I remember Knox saying something in a meeting one time about Miami being his true home. I’ll bet he’s moved down there. I’ll bet she’s going to meet him.”

“What is football?” D’Trayne asked.

Roos told his boss, “Maybe he’s retired or something like that. Ain’t that nice?”

“No, no retirement,” Evan strolled away from the desk in a daze. “You need to get down there, Ray, and take care of this.”

D’Trayne inquired, “Is it possible that this Mr. Knox will be scared into staying underground? Perhaps he is not such a threat.”

“Oh yeah, he’s a threat,” Roos figured.

Evan’s lips trembled as he told his subordinate, “Get going. Get down there. Chancellor, you coordinate with Ray here. I think we may need your assistance once again.”

“This is not going as smoothly as you had assured.”

Evan’s face twitched—a little—and he countered, “Everything is on track. I told you we would have issues to address. The only real problem we could ever have is if your friends don’t finish off the job. I don’t like the games they play. It seems…it seems petty.”

Roos lamented, “Should have just finished it at the house. What is it they’re doing with him again?”

“That was not the deal,” D’Trayne told Evan. “I did not set the parameters of this undertaking, but we all agreed that the final outcome will be the same, regardless.”

“Enough!” Evan shouted before continuing in a calmer voice. “We will not discuss this again. The only thing more I want to hear about Stone is the final word from Gannon when the time comes. For now, we have work to do. But know this, Chancellor, I’m watching very close. I told you once, my first priority is the safety and security of this nation. I will let loose the dogs of war without hesitation if I sense any threats on your end and I would not have agreed to demobilize a portion of our forces if I did not feel we were in a secure position. In other words, Chancellor, we still have teeth. Sharp teeth.”

The Chancellor’s eyes flickered yellow as he reminded, “Our word is plain to see. No armies gather on your southern border or to your north. Your country is secure. The only problems you face appear to come from your own kind.”

That channeled Evan’s attention toward Roos again. “We’ll take care of that. Ray, what are you still doing here? Get to Miami.”

Roos offered a sarcastic salute and opened the door. Two Internal Security men—the Chancellor’s escort—waited there.

“It was good speaking with you, Chancellor,” Evan’s voice carried into the adjacent room where assistants and guards could hear. “Today was a historic day for mankind.”

“And for the Witiko as well, Mr. President.”

D’Trayne bowed respectfully and walked to his escort.

“Senator Trimble to see you,” Evan’s assistant announced through the open door.

“Give me a moment, will you? Yes, just close the door. I need two minutes to myself.”

She did just that, giving the new President sole occupancy of the Oval Office.

Evan stood for a moment of relaxation, taking in not only his surroundings but the distance traveled to get there. Ironic, he thought, how in the old world he prepared for a life of politics by making contacts, networking, honing his speaking skills, and developing a sense for both manipulation and strategy. He had known—back then—that to become a leader in the United States would take patience, vision, and persistence.

Then Armageddon came. Trevor Stone had seized power and lectured Evan—lectured me!—on how the world had changed so much; on how all Evan’s connections and studies and planning had been for naught.

But oh how Trevor had been wrong. The new world, it seemed, played even better to Evan’s strengths while at the same time freeing his hand for more aggressive action. The chaos and lack of communication throughout the nation gave Evan an advantage he never would have had in a world with 24-hour news networks, video phones, and the internet.

Evan chuckled. He had orchestrated the downfall of an absolute monarch without raising an eyebrow. Of course it was all for the best; he did it for the sake of the people. Nonetheless, Nixon failed to cover up a mere burglary and Clinton could not even keep a blow job secret.

But in this new world of monsters and alien armies, the people concentrated on survival to the exclusion of almost everything else and communications remained limited to the extent that few people asked questions, even after the convenient death of Gordon Knox.

No. That’s not quite right. Knox isn’t dead.

Evan’s good mood spoiled, replaced by a new feeling. Suddenly he did not want to be alone in the office. Suddenly he felt the phantom of Gordon’s gun barrel pressed against the back of his head. He heard Knox’s warning after that confrontation three years ago: “Good. Remember. Especially when you go to sleep at night…all safe in your bed. Just like that Hivvan governor in Richmond…”

Evan’s hand drifted to his skull and rubbed the spot where the cold steel had touched him. He quickly removed that hand and scowled.

“No!”

He froze, worried he spoke too loud, but no one rushed in from outside.

Evan repeated, “No.”

He strolled to one of the windows and stared at the grass and grounds beyond. He grew acutely aware of the shadows out there, the sharp corners around the West Wing just beyond his view, the dark spots between shrubs and trees, security officers too far away to see clearly (is that one bald? Is that a bushy mustache on that one? Who is that man? I don’t recognize him…).

Evan forced his mind to cease babbling.

I will not live in fear.

He wondered…were the cross hairs of a sniper rifle focusing on him at that very moment? Did a bomb tick away its last few seconds just outside the window? Did an intruder creep across the floor behind him with a knife drawn?

I will NOT BE AFRAID.

Evan closed his eyes and felt the thump of his heart, the controlled gentle breathing in his chest, the light tremble in his arms.

While standing at the window, he slowly raised both hands like Jesus on the cross.

Evan whispered, “Here I am. Get it over with.”

He waited like that, eyes closed and arms stretched, for several seconds.

No bullet came. No bombs exploded. No assassin pounced.

Evan opened his eyes and lowered his arms.

I refuse to live in fear.

Miami

On Thursday, June 25, two Amtrak F40PH diesel locomotives rolled into the train station in Hialeah a few minutes before noon. Passengers of all shapes, sizes, and intentions disembarked, most having spent nearly two full days onboard during the journey south. At least they were not covered in soot like passengers riding the steam locomotives that handled the majority of rail travel.

A handful of the disembarking passengers wore shorts and wide-brimmed hats, hallmarks of northern tourists, a rare commodity in the post-Armageddon world.

Others dressed in short-sleeve shirts with colorful ties and briefcases. That breed might be representatives from food service companies looking to procure citrus crops, or industrial headhunters combing the survivor ranks to find those with specialized skills, or maybe even government census workers sent to register refugees. Of course, many of the arrivals were military personnel wearing BDUs.

Among the crowd walked Nina Forest in black tactical pants and a matching shirt with a duffle bag thrown over one shoulder, an M-4 assault rifle over the other, and a scabbard holding a sheathed sword tight to one leg.

Unlike the business men and tourists, Nina appeared completely unprepared for the South Florida heat. The humidity soaked into her cloths before she reached the shaded platform. The ceiling fans and the cover inside the station helped a little but by the time she hailed a taxi her face had turned red and she felt short of breath.

The driver provided her a complimentary bottle of water while Nina provided him with a destination: the Airport Hilton and Towers on Blue Lagoon drive. The rusting old Chevrolet Impala with a bobbing statue of Jesus on the dash and an older Hispanic male driver made its way south into the upper suburbs of Miami proper.

The Mediterranean and Spanish-style ranch houses of Hialeah and Miami’s north side sat in tightly grouped neighborhoods, belying the dearth of citizens in that part of town. Nina knew from her experience fighting in Florida a few summers ago that Miami had turned itself into a fortress after the onslaught of Armageddon, holding out against swamp things and other nightmares as well as the organized forces of the Hivvan Republic. That defense caused an evacuation of the outer-lying areas in order to form lines along the Airport Expressway on the north side and the Palmetto Expressway to the west.

During those years of siege, the Miami population fed themselves with bounty from the sea and citrus while defending their city with a combination of police, National Guard, Cuban refugees, and armed citizens, until The Empire arrived and lifted the siege.

While she had helped clear the surrounding territory, this served as Nina’s first visit to the city proper. Despite the town’s struggle—or maybe because of it—Miami felt different from the scores of cities and metropolis’ liberated by Trevor Stone’s armies. Most of those other places had abandoned their core; chased away by the monsters and extraterrestrial militia. Those who survived did so by hiding at the fringes or forming small pockets of resistance in the wild.

Not Miami. The city’s heart never stopped beating. As the car carried her deeper into town, she felt as if she traveled through time to the days before the gateways opened. The small family shops and barter centers, intact billboards advertising products long since run out of stock, and the new-world chain of “In and Out” convenience stores selling everything from bullets to bread: it seemed a page from yesterday except for the occasional bomb crater, the remains of sand bag and junk barricades, and hundreds of small crosses arranged in neat rows across Grapeland Heights Park in tribute to “those who stopped the breach.”

She arrived at her hotel, a beautiful building constructed on a peninsula stretching into a small lagoon, all within sight of the airport to the north and downtown to the east. A large parrot sat on a perch outside the sliding doors of the entrance greeting each visitor—man or woman—with a boisterous, “Hello pretty lady, hello.” Calming instrumental music piped over speakers in the large lobby decorated with ferns and wildflowers. Signs pointed to the ‘lunch’ buffet in one direction; to the ‘lounge’ in another.

She approached a well-groomed female desk clerk who had a complexion of cocoa and shiny black hair pulled tight. Nina paid for the first night of her room with two hundred Continental Dollars, some of which came from her own savings and some from Shepherd. The clerk—noting the pale-skinned blonde-woman’s sweat-soaked clothing—referred Nina to the gift shop where sun screen and shorts could be purchased alongside hand guns and marijuana.

Nina followed that advice before lugging her bag to her tenth-floor room. There she showered, napped for half an hour, then changed into Khaki shorts, a white t-shirt, and a black baseball cap. She also rubbed on a generous portion of sun block before descending to the lobby and hailing yet another taxi.

“The Orange Bowl.”

The driver—maybe all of fifteen years old—warned, “Only practice there today, lady.”

“The Orange Bowl.”

Nina sat in the rear of the car, eyed the ticket voucher, and reflected on her brief meeting with Ashley, on her covert mission, and on Trevor Stone’s assassination.

She was sure of only a few things. First, Trevor’s murder made her ill to her stomach, despite the passing of more than a month since the deed. On several occasions in recent weeks she woke in her bed from some fading dream with a great pressure sitting on her chest.

Second, with the slow-down in operations the Dark Wolves had nothing to do. The rest of the team sat around Southern Command at the beach playing cards and watching TV. Godfrey’s big announcement about the end of the war suggested even less work would come their way in the months ahead.

Finally, she knew her ‘mission’ lay outside the normal framework of her duties. Shep had contrived an assignment with no specific objective: go to south Florida and train. Only a high ranking General could get away with such drivel. However, that did not make her feel any better. Captain Nina Forest followed the rules, she followed protocol, she did not deviate from her role. She was a loyal soldier. Problem was, she no longer knew to whom that loyalty belonged.

Before that fateful day last month, she knew Trevor Stone to be her leader. All the orders that flowed to her flowed ultimately from him. Her latest ‘orders’ came in the form of a request from Trevor’s widow and the blessing of Shepherd. No paperwork, no responsible party other than herself.

So why did she do this?

The idea of Centurians assassinating Trevor made sense. But a human conspiracy? Why would aliens do the bidding of human assassins? If someone other than the invaders bore responsibility for the act, then Trevor’s death should have come from a modern Lee Harvey Oswald. Besides, the initial findings from the Internal Security investigation supported the facts as the country knew them.

None of it made much sense, but Nina knew that understanding the complexities of politics did not rank as one of her strong points. She preferred things more straight forward.

The taxi drove into the surprisingly well-populated neighborhoods of Little Havana. Children rode bicycles in celebration of summer school recess, street vendors sold newspapers and all manner of food from hot dogs (of questionable pedigree) to flavored ices; a man sat on his steps strumming a guitar while his daughter and boyfriend danced; another man leaned against a palm tree watching traffic go by with a cigar in his mouth.

There was one part of Miami Nina did not like at all: traffic. Under normal circumstances she did not like riding in cars. She liked it even less in this city where traffic seemed to nearly match pre-war levels. Taxis and delivery trucks, motorcycles and convertibles zipped along side streets, up and down boulevards, on to and off expressways.

Many of those cars ran on standard gasoline, some drove on hybrid systems using electric engines and batteries. She saw a few that even looked as if they were steam-powered.

In any case, her ride brought her to the stadium, a decaying horse-shoe shaped football arena built in the late 1930s. She paid the driver and exited, adjusting her rifle as she strolled toward the ‘West Plaza’ gate where big letters welcomed: Miami Orange Bowl.

Three older men and a younger one sat under an awning at a portable table playing a game Nina first mistook for cards before realizing it to be dominoes. They gave her a passing glance as she approached the ticket window, interested more in another round of ‘muggins’ than they were in the pale blond woman with the big gun and ponytail.

A thin man with a gray mustache put aside a newspaper and grudgingly welcomed her at the ticket window.

“I have this,” she slipped the voucher under the security glass.

“No game today. Practice,” he returned the slip.

Nina did not know what to do other than retreat. She stepped backwards and nearly bumped into the chubby belly of one of the domino players who, apparently, had actually taken an interest in her after all.

The man’s breath smelled of sweet liquor. Small beads of sweat peppered his forehead below the brim of a baseball cap. He eyed her but not in the way most men eyed her. She felt certain he did not inspect her form but, rather, her person; evaluating her on some level.

His tightly-pinched lips suggested he did not feel comfortable with his next move, but he held out his hand anyway. She gave him the voucher. He spoke to the ticket-taker behind the window in a fast voice and in a language beyond her comprehension, probably Spanish.

The man behind the glass acted surprised, shrugged his shoulders, said something defensive in the same language, and then sighed.

The chubby domino player ripped the stub on Nina’s voucher and pointed toward the window again before returning to the table and the dominoes. Nina’s second trip to the window resulted in a hand-written ‘ticket’ giving a row and seat number in ‘Section C.’

She walked the empty halls of the stadium’s infrastructure, watching the stenciled symbols until finding her section, then ascending the concrete vomitory into the late afternoon sunshine again.

Orange seats arranged in two tiers swept around a finely-trimmed football field, enclosing the stadium except for the east end. There stood bent and damaged support pillars that, she figured, once held a scoreboard. Further off through that opening she saw the relatively intact skyscrapers of downtown.

Nina found her seat and became the only spectator in the stands although several kids and coaches gathered on the far side line. The players—about thirty—wore white practice uniforms and helmets. Different coaches worked with different groups of players.

A kicker used a tee to boot a field goal through the east goal posts from the five yard line. A boy no more than eight retrieved the football for him. The kicker moved the tee to the fifteen yard line, and kicked again. The process repeated for several minutes as his field goal attempts grew more challenging. He missed from the twenty and the forty-five but hit everything else in between before beginning the process again from the five.

About mid-way through the kicker’s second go-around and as the quarterbacks started throwing to receivers running out and up patterns, a man took the seat next to her. He wore rugged tan pants and a gray golf shirt. His eyes hid behind dark sun glasses and a white straw hat with a batik print band covered what she guessed to be a bald head. He spoke in a cheerful tone from a mouth partially hidden under a bushy mustache.

“Well hello, Ms. Forest.”

“Captain Forest. Do you know me?”

He recited, “Nina Forest, born and raised in Kutztown, Pennsylvania. Entered the Army National Guard out of high school and trained as a Blackhawk pilot but also drew some juicy ferry missions for Apaches and Cobras. You joined the Philly police and quickly qualified for SWAT duty as well as air patrol. You may not know this, but records recovered at the Pentagon suggest you fired the first shots of this war when you killed what we now know to be a Jabberwock in the Kimmel Theater at the National Constitution Museum. Big attaboy for you.”

He removed his sun glasses, turned to her and winked.

“Then it’s true. Gordon Knox is still alive.”

“I don’t suppose you’re here to catch practice, are you? The Hurricanes have a big game this week but not too many people have the time to come out. I guess college football just isn’t what it used to be.”

She said, “I didn’t know they were still playing college football. I thought most of the college-aged kids were in the military.”

“Well, it’s not like it used to be,” Knox admitted. “Faculty members and people from the community round out the roster. It’s more like an amateur football club as opposed to old-world collegiate athletics. Not too many schools holding classes these days, either. Florida State is playing again. They’ve got the campus running up in Tallahassee. I hear they’re trying to get the University of Florida going, but it seems no one wants to be in Gainesville these days; the smell from the Jaw-Wolf feces still hovers over the whole town.”

Nina glanced around at the players, the stadium, and the skyline saying, “Well this place almost feels like the invasion never happened. Seriously, traffic? Football practice?”

“Miami held out,” Gordon told her. “For all the fighting and suffering here, the city kept working. Not because of government, but because of the people. So they recovered faster here. Business, agriculture, industry…there’s a sense of normalcy here, but if you look close you can see the scars. Still, no where I’d rather be.”

“Listen, I didn’t come here to talk about business or football, but you know that.”

Knox smiled and pointed to the practice field where a receiver lay flat on the grass with a defensive back hovering overhead and the ball cascading away end over end across the turf.

“Did you see that hit? I don’t think the receiver even saw it coming. Still, a good hit doesn’t mean much if you can’t get the other guy to drop the ball.”

“Is that what happened with you?” Nina asked in an effort to get to the point. She hated double speak and pretension. “Or did you just want to retire and faked your own house fire?”

He chuckled, stroked his mustache, and answered, “Let’s just say I had a visit from some people who thought I was in the way of the changing of the guard. I had some fun, then decided to move on. I’ve always preferred Miami, anyhow. I consider this town my home.”

“So you gave Ashley a ticket voucher, so she could find you if she needed your help.”

“And here I find you sitting.”

“I guess that’s a bit of a surprise,” she said.

“Not really.”

“What do you mean? Look, no one is more surprised about me being here than I am. I’m just saying, I’m not sure how I’m mixed up in this.”

“Is that so? Well, I guess it would be to you. But to me it fits. From what I understand, there’s a whole year of surprises you can’t remember. How strange is that?”

Nina sensed something in his tone akin to a cat playing with a mouse.

“W-what do you mean? What do you know?”

He shrugged. “No more than you, not really. I wasn’t by Trevor’s side in those days and no one kept really detailed records back then. It was all too small, I suppose. Still, I’ve got to give you credit. You all toughed it out when you could’ve just packed it in and played it safe. Guess that’s what I always liked about Trevor.”

Nina gazed down, her eyes looking not at her hands but at the dark spots in her mind where memories should have been.

He said, “I guess I don’t know any more than you do. I know you had some sort of implant from The Order. The story goes that there were two implants and that they had to spirit you away from one of Voggoth’s bases in order to save you.”

She nodded absently. “Trevor led the rescue mission. At least that’s what Shep told me.”

Gordon pushed on, “Interesting, I’ve heard a couple of variations of that story, including Trevor being one of The Order’s prisoners at the same facility, near Allentown. I wonder how he ended up there. And then I think of you, and how they had you under their control for a spell. Sometimes I wonder if, well, if they didn’t use you to get to him.”

Her eyes widened and she spat, “Are you suggesting I betrayed him? Is that it? That’s not possible. I’m just saying, I could never have done that.”

“Really?” He stroked his mustache again with the air of a scientist observing an experiment. “Now wouldn’t that be something, if they got to you and made you give Stone up.”

Nina wondered. She felt Shepherd kept information from her. Maybe to protect her. Maybe so she would never know that she once betrayed Trevor.

Her mind could not accept that. She refused to accept that.

“Look, I’m not here to play games. His wife said you would help.”

“Help with what? What is there to do, Captain Forest?”

“Don’t give me that,” she scolded. “I know about you, Knox. I know you had your fingers in everything. If Trevor’s assassination was more than it’s been made out to be, then you’d have some place to start.”

He answered, “I’ve been making a few phone calls, visiting with some old friends, and reading the newspapers. I particularly like this morning’s edition. The front page story is about our President’s peace deal. Isn’t that wonderful? Nothing like blaming the victim. A great way to dampen the anti-alien feelings and an even better way to turn a nice chunk of the population into gutless sheep. Our new President’s big revelation is that mankind brought this upon ourselves. The only way we can have peace, of course, is if we show how non-violent we are.”

Nina broke in, “Seems to me like being violent was winning this war.”

Gordon smiled; it seemed he absolutely loved her response. “So the politicians get everything they wanted and can make at least some of the people distrustful of the only group that might replace all these new-age sleaze-balls, the military.”

“So you think he’s lying? You think there’s another reason for this whole invasion.”

Gordon nodded and said, “Only people who want to believe that it’s our fault are going to believe that. I doubt Godfrey even believes it himself, but it gives him what he always wanted, a chance to turn back the clock and make America what it used to be.”

She narrowed her eyes and said, “Tell me something, Mr. Director of Intelligence. If this was a conspiracy within our own government, how come you didn’t see it coming?”

Something flashed over Gordon’s face, some mix of sadness and regret; her question had stung. He took a moment to compose himself and then spoke slowly, measuring each word.

“That’s a good question, one that has kept me up at nights. The truth is, Imperial Intelligence isn’t as big as people think and those assets are deployed behind enemy lines, or scouring the planet looking for other survivors. I can tell you about the resistance in Europe or the southern hemisphere, but not much about what was going on in our territories. We were more like the C.I.A., not the F.B.I.”

He paused for a moment. Just when Nina started to speak, Gordon turned to her and his demeanor changed from something sad to something mad.

“But let me tell you this. Even with those excuses, there should have been hints coming through, reports that never made it to my desk. Of all the people who might have been involved in this, at least a couple had to have top clearance and access to the flow of information to Trevor, to me. I have my suspicions.”

She felt his eyes nearly burn through her. Gordon made his point; he had a score to settle.

A series of whistles from the practice field signaled the end of the work out. The players hustled toward water coolers, pulling off their helmets along the way. Nina wondered how they kept from passing out in this heat.

“So what about it? Are you going to help me?”

“Help you with what?”

She grunted, “To do what Ashley Stone asked me to do. To find out the truth about the assassination.”

“But here’s the thing, Captain. I’m quite happy watching football, lying on the beach, and sipping cold drinks. I’m thinking that if I’m lucky, the bad guys or old age will put me out of my misery before all the mistakes our President is making causes everything to collapse.”

“I don’t believe you. Besides, Ashley thinks that you’ll help, even if just for her sake.”

He turned to her as if ready to speak, but held his tongue. His eyes studied her for a moment then he asked, “You are a very interesting person, Captain Forest.”

“Stop wasting time.”

“Take your hair, for instance. You have very nice blond hair, with some soft natural curls in it. From what I can see, it easily lays on your shoulders, yet for almost all your life you’ve taken that hair and bundled it up into a ponytail. The question is, why bother? Why not just cut your hair short? Have you ever let it fall loose to your shoulders? If not, why do you hide it? I’m thinking there’s more than just your hair hidden. I’m thinking there’s a lot more to you that maybe you don’t even understand.”

“Look, I’m not in the mood for games. I’ll ask again. Are you going to help me?”

Gordon paused and watched the players file toward the locker room. After several seconds of consideration, he warned, “There’s nothing half way about me. If I’m going to help, I’m going to bring it full bore. All out, do you understand?”

“I understand. I think.”

“But it’s not me I’m worried about,” he cautioned. “It’s you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Tell me, Nina, are you willing to do whatever it takes to find out the truth of Trevor’s assassination?”

She answered, “Yes.”

His words grew rougher, “Will you keep pushing, even when people start pushing back?”

To ask a second time annoyed her. She snipped, “Yes.”

Gordon’s voice growled and grew to shout, “I’m talking about kicking over every rock to see what slithers out. I’m talking about biting into this thing with your teeth and not letting go until we know what really happened. Are you willing to do that? Will you? Even if it tears The Empire apart?”

Nina answered so loud and forceful her voice echoed across the stadium.

“Yes, damn it! Yes!”

Gordon’s eyes widened, his head tilted, and his voice softened.

“Why?”

Nina felt her breath heave in and out. But as for her motivation, she did not really know.

*

Director of Internal Security Ray Roos glided down the stairs and onto the tarmac of Miami International Airport. Behind him the whine of a Learjet’s engines slowed from a roar to a hum.

The I.S. jet parked away from the public terminals but a reception committee waited, led by a portly mustached-man dressed in a short-sleeved police uniform with a shiny gold star. Sweat stains radiated from the man’s armpits and along his back.

Two associates stood on either side of the policeman. The silver of their armor reflected the setting sun in sharp glints. Despite their heavy gear, the two Witiko Skytroops did not appear uncomfortable in the humidity.

Roos slipped out of his black sport jacket as he approached the gathering, revealing both a white dress shirt and a nine millimeter handgun. He casually hooked the jacket with one finger and carried it over his shoulder.

“How you boys doin’? You must be Chief Hobbs. Yes, I’ll bet you are.”

Roos extended a hand and cocked his head in a cheesy grin.

“That’s right…uh…Mister Director,” Hobbs’ hand felt slippery and sticky all at once. “This here’s K’Beel and M’Pwitt, they’re my liaison officers down here.”

Roos eyed the two aliens. Their pupils glowed yellow.

“Hmm…okay. That my ride?”

Roos referred to a white and gold Bell LongRanger helicopter in front of the hangar.

Hobbs nodded.

Roos walked toward the chopper. The two aliens and Hobbs followed. Roos stopped. He wagged his finger first at Hobbs then the two Witiko. He spoke in a voice that sounded one part friendly, one part friendly warning.

“I’m in charge down here, just so there’s no misunderstandings, see?” He focused on the Witiko. “Besides, you guys do things too subtle-like. Yes you do.”

The Witiko glanced at one another. Roos started toward the chopper again, still talking. The Witiko hovered behind, unsure what to do.

“I’m gunna show you my idea of subtle. Yessir.”

Roos held one finger up and moved it in a circle.

“Okay now, let’s get this whirlybird in the air, we got work to do.”

The sun set over Miami.

*

Gordon finished the top button on a blue silk shirt, thought better, and unclasped it again in deference to June in Miami; despite nightfall the heat showed no sign of abating.

He found a snub-nose .38 revolver in the top drawer of a white oak dresser, thumbed open the chamber, confirmed a round in every hole, and flipped it into place again with a flick of his wrist. The .38 slipped nicely into a small holder at the base of his back.

Gordon stroked his mustache and checked for gray. Nothing but black there.

Satisfied with his appearance, Gordon walked from his master bedroom to the wide and bright white living room. Along the way he wrapped two knuckles on the guest room door.

On the other side of that door Nina finished preparations of her own. As Gordon had suggested, she stowed her combat fatigues to better blend with the night crowd on South Beach. So she traded her combat gear for a basic white sun dress with spaghetti straps.

Nina placed one short-heeled shoe on the bed, grabbed a .380 automatic from atop the mattress, pulled the dress high on her leg revealing a thigh band holster, and eased the pistol into place…

…Gordon’s black BMW 540i sedan made its way through Coral Gables and turned north on Route 1. Nina fidgeted pensively in the passenger’s seat as Gordon pushed hard on the gas pedal, rocketing along the boulevard, switching and swerving between lanes as if purposely adding to her discomfort.

Scattered lights bounced off the windshield, mainly from isolated street lamps, some burning electricity, others from oil. Periodic splashes of pink, yellow, or blue came from neon lights outside trading posts and gathering spots. Of all the cities reborn after Armageddon, Miami felt the most unchanged yet it still seemed strange to her. Yes, mainly empty streets but pockets bursting with color and energy. She wondered, would the old Miami have been even more alien to her?

Prior to the end-of-the-world, the gold coast hosted an eclectic collection of ethnic groups, religions, traditions, and races. The invading aliens turned Miami into a fortress city, in which all those different groups came together for the common defense, joined in that defense by boatloads of Cuban refugees as well as a sizable portion of the Cuban coast guard. The sheer determination of the city’s well-armed residents held the invaders at bay for years until The Empire relieved the pressure.

The gallant fighters of Miami not only embraced The Empire with open arms, they turned their city into one of the largest and most productive in the nation.

Much to her chagrin, Miami also had the distinction of being one of the few metropolitan areas with lots of traffic, a fact emphasized as Gordon swerved along Route 1 at a rapid clip. Not nearly at pre-war levels, of course, but after all the emptiness she had seen around the country, it seemed surreal to pass seven cars in a row.

Truth was, Nina did not like sitting in a car’s passenger seat. She could jump out of airplanes, ride in choppers, and fight monsters yet Nina Forest never felt comfortable in a ground vehicle, at least not as a passenger.

The 540i left behind Coral Gables and headed toward Miami proper. As had been the case before Armageddon, the Miami skyline glowed with color; its remaining skyscrapers shined like beacons of steel and light but instead of calling out to tourists and immigrants those lights called out in defiance. This city would not only survive; it refused to lose its identity. But the reminders of battles fought remained.

Nina spied the remains of what a partly shattered sign identified as the “American Airlines Center”. While palm trees still lined the sidewalk in front of the modern arena, the circular structure had been torn in two, the front half peeled away like a child’s doll house. The debris from whatever calamity had shredded the facility had long since been hauled away, but squatters lived inside, probably figuring half a house better than none.

Gordon navigated the sedan through a concrete maze of ramps and merges, leaving behind the mainland and rocketing out across Biscayne Bay via the MacArthur Causeway. The lights from downtown shimmied off the water revealing silhouettes of cigarette boats, yachts, and military patrol craft cruising the calm seas.

The causeway ran parallel to the Port of Miami. Most of the port glowed with activity as ships both large and small either arrived from points north or departed from the port to trace the inter-coastal waterway up and down the eastern seaboard.

However, the part of the port that had once been the heart of the cruise industry lay dormant, like a graveyard. The stern of the Norwegian Sun stood in the waters there, its silent turbines pointing toward the stars. The rest of its 78,000 tonnage had long ago splintered and jammed into the harbor depths. The even-larger Royal Caribbean Navigator of the Seas listed to port further long, its windows and hull burnt black.

Nina gaped at the massive ships, once mighty symbols of man’s power to sail the seas, now sitting idle as symbols of the limits to that power.

The 540i followed the causeway as it swooped into Miami Beach…

…High above downtown, a white and gold LongRanger police helicopter flew amidst the skyscrapers unaware of the sedan below.

Ray Roos sat alongside the pilot holding a pen light. He lifted his eyes from a clipboard to survey the city. It felt good to be out on the streets. He had spent too much of his post-Armageddon time listening, snooping, playacting, and waiting. He wanted to be doing; getting things done more directly. And now he had the power to do things how he saw fit.

Being his first visit to Miami, Roos intended to get a feel of the city from above. It did not take him long to dislike the place. Too many people—more so than even post-Armageddon New York or Boston—and they were too laid back. Roos did not like laid back. Laid back people were harder to motivate, even with threats.

Too many lights, too. What were these people thinking? Why not put a big sign out front that said, “Come squash us!”

Roos shook his head disapprovingly.

This city needs an attitude adjustment.

“Uh, Chopper 1 this is downtown, you copy?”

Ray clicked the button on his transmitter.

“Yeah, Hobbs, what you got for me?”

The helicopter banked right and headed east, following the same circle pattern for the last half hour. The entire bird vibrated with the running of the rotors.

“I’ve got Ernie Cordera.”

Roos’ discomfort with the city surfaced as agitation in his voice.

“Yeah? So what? What’s his connection to Forest?”

“No connection to Forest.”

Ray shook his head in even greater agitation and tapped his thumb impatiently on his leg.

“You know I don’t like to waste time. Yes, you know that.”

“The connection is to Gordon Knox. Cordera is an I.S. officer supervising a tambourine monitoring station down here.”

Roos stiffened in his seat and growled into the microphone, “Knox has a connection to an I.S. officer and this is the first I’m hearing about it?”

“The connection goes back to before everything went to Hell. In the old world, Knox and Cordera worked CIA Cuban operations out of Miami.”

“So what,” Roos spat. “Half the folks in Dade County used to spook Castro back then.”

“Yeah,” Hobbs’ voice carried an edge of its own that came through over the crackles of the radio. “Well half of Dade County didn’t get a phone call tonight from an old friend then go running off without telling the wife where he was going. At least, that’s according to the misses. You’d like her, she talks a lot.”

Roos chewed on that then transmitted, “Sounds like I would. Yes, I think I’d like to meet her, too. I think I’d like to be there when Ernie gets home tonight. What’s the address?”

“Miami Shores.”

Roos turned to the pilot and waved his hand north.

“Miami Shores.”

The LongRanger changed course, this time banking hard left and swooping lower as it gained speed…

…The black 540i inched along Ocean Drive carefully picking its way through the throngs of party goers and sight seers who crossed the street between the beach and the strip with drinks in hand and arms around waists. Had it not been for so many holsters and the occasional police officer with battle armor and automatic weapons, it might just be another pre-Armageddon night on Miami Beach.

Music drifted from the glitzy fascias of night clubs, playing an eclectic mix of Latin, Caribbean, Reggae, rock and pop, most from the old world but a few tunes composed in recent times.

Gordon responded to the wave of a young, white-dressed male attendant who wore gold chains that glimmered against his tanned chest. That attendant guarded a prime parking spot.

Knox eased the car into place and killed the engine. The attendant hurried to the passenger side and held the door open with one hand while offering the other to the lady inside. Nina ignored the assistance, swung her legs onto the pavement and stood. She further ignored the young attendant’s leers.

She stopped and surveyed her surroundings. People packed the street, shoulder to shoulder. Nina had not seen so many people so closely grouped outside of military camp.

Gordon motioned toward the brightest and loudest building on the block. Nina furled her brow in displeasure at Gordon’s choice of rendezvous’. She did not understand why a public spot would be preferable to a quiet alleyway or empty parking lot.

She sighed and brushed passed the attendant. As she moved, Nina became aware of eyes studying her.

Her shy temperament surfaced for the first time in years and she felt out of place. She hurried next to Gordon and the two entered a doorway below a logo sporting a red and blue parrot sitting on a green palm tree under the name “Mango’s.”

The entrance opened to a rectangular club stretching deep across a two-story hall with banisters and spectators gazing down from above. On the far side a band strummed a methodical Latin beat that made for slow but sharp sways on a dance floor situated between clusters of round-top tables.

The crowded complex bathed in electric blue and pink amidst palm trees, ceiling fans, and walls painted with land and seascapes. Scantily clad waitresses with flowers in their hair shuttled trays of exotic concoctions, somehow managing to balance the glassware while pushing through the gulf of humanity.

Nina found herself drifting in the tide of people. Her eyes darted back and forth. The music drummed in her ears like a hypnotist’s watch, the aroma of cigarettes and perfume and cologne and fading coconut-scented sun lotion swirled together and tickled her nose. The tapestry of people rolled and twisted around her.

She saw a dark black man with three gold loops in each ear swaying alone at the end of the bar; a Hispanic woman with a necklace made from seashells mixed with rubies smiling and talking to a red headed girl sporting a tattoo of a screaming eagle above well-displayed cleavage; a boisterous, sun-burned fat man dancing fluidly with a pair of oriental women hanging on his wide arms who slipped sips from margarita glasses in his mouth one after another; a cluster of young women posed like mannequins eying the dance floor while holding techno-colored drinks to their lips.

Armageddon brought monsters to Earth, yet this room of people felt far more alien to her than anything she had faced on the battlefield.

Suddenly, Gordon’s hand pulled her between dancers and servers and voyeurs. He led her to a table in a shadow below a palm tree. There waited a man with bushy eyebrows and a tight-fitting white shirt over a hairy chest. In one hand he held a short glass with something green inside. The man eyed Gordon until Nina entered his range of vision. Then his eyes switched.

Gordon spoke first, “Ernie, mi amigo, demasiado largo puesto que hablamos.”

The man with the bushy eyebrows put aside his drink, rose to his feet, and shook Knox’s outstretched hand while flashing a genuine grin.

“Soy donde he vivido siempre. Usted, Gordon, movido a cosas más grandes.”

Gordon’s response came in a grin.

Ernie, motioned for the two to join him. His eyes held on Nina for a long second.

“Usted trae un presente hermoso para mí.”

Gordon warned Ernie, “Cuidadoso. La señora rompe más que corazones.”

Nina sat and grunted at Gordon.

“It would be best, my friend, if we spoke in English, for the sake of my companion.”

The man nodded. “Si. Oh. That means ‘yes.’”

Nina frowned in Ernie’s direction. The men found that funny. Ernie’s good humor lasted only a moment.

“Tell me Gordo, are you serious?”

“Very serious.”

“Then what do we know? Hmm? What do we know about the assassination?”

Nina felt uncomfortable discussing the matter in such a public place. However, as she glanced around she realized that the sound of the band and the crowd meant that the only persons in earshot sat at the table.

Gordon stated what he knew: “One ship. A Redcoat shuttle landed at the meeting site, killed Trevor and his bodyguards, wounded Evan and others, then took off. It got blasted out of the air an hour later.”

“Yes.”

Gordon nodded, “And then our Witiko ‘friends’ gave us the location of the Redcoat base. So we could wipe them out.”

“Damn straight,” Nina murmured.

Ernie said, “That leaves a lot of questions no one has been asking.”

Nina agreed. “Listen, the big question is how they got all the way from Mexico to D.C., without being spotted at one of the radar stations. Especially since the D.C. station is supposed to have all that area covered.”

Gordon shook his head.

Nina reacted, “What? I’m just saying, how the Hell did they get all the way up there?”

Ernie offered, “Their ship was painted white, like our Eagles. To most people, it just looked like another one of our shuttles. But the radar stations, your friend is right Gordon, they control air traffic at the Mexican border and in key spots along the way. They should have spotted the flight and known it was unscheduled.”

“It’s almost like they had stealth capability, don’t you think?” Gordon considered his words and added, “Wonder who else we know has that kind of ability?”

Nina connected the dots but her conclusion did not come as a shock to the two men.

“The Witiko. I mean, what if they gave the Redcoats a stealth field generator. Something like their Stingrays have?”

“Or what if the Redcoats stole one? You know, the way we stole their shuttles?”

Nina did not get Gordon’s point. Ernie extrapolated: “That could be a believable cover story if they were ever caught. But, their ship was blown from the sky into pieces.”

“Leaving no evidence,” she finished.

Gordon, however, made a more important point. “You’re both missing the big question. The big question is not how did the Redcoats get all the way from Mexico to D.C., without being spotted. The question is why did they get spotted when they made their getaway? How did the Excalibur catch a sniff of them during their escape?”

Nina tried to follow, “Maybe their stealth field failed?”

“Or maybe,” Gordon nearly growled, “they wanted to be found.”

The conversation paused for a moment. Music filled the gap.

Gordon continued with a question for Ernie, “And what have you found?”

The man smiled as he answered not to Gordon but to Nina, “Tell me, miss, are you aware of the ‘tambourine’ fence along the eastern seaboard? Hmm?”

Nina took pleasure in showing the scope of her knowledge.

“An early warning system of radar and sonar designed to spot and track anything in the air or sea that gets close to the Atlantic coast. It’s managed by Internal Security.”

Ernie leaned forward, took a sip of his drink, and shared much more.

“I am one of the tambourine…drummers, I suppose. Our station in Miami oversees the coastline here, so as to keep us safe from all the bad things in that great big world out there. I have a friend. The way Gordon has me as a friend. You’ll find that we all have many friends in this business, yes, Gordo? This friend of mine works in tambourine central control outside of D.C., where all the data from all the stations is collected and analyzed.”

Gordon added, “To coordinate response.”

“Si. Oh, um, yes. Anyway, I did what you asked, Gordon. This friend of mine, he is certain—he swears—that a station on Long Island identified an inbound air ship of unknown origin penetrate the tambourine line off the coast of New Jersey, heading southwest.”

Nina perked. Gordon kept a poker face and asked, “How long?”

“Less than an hour before the assassination. But there is more, Gordo. Another ship—this time outbound—tripped the electronic fence in the same area not long after.”

“The same ship?”

Ernie answered, “This is unknown. But the size of the vessels was similar.”

Nina pounced, “Did they raise the alert? I mean, what did they do?”

“This is just the thing, miss. They did nothing. On that day, they had a very important visitor who was overseeing operations.”

Gordon knew the answer before Ernie could speak: “Dante Jones.”

Knox’s tone suggested satisfaction, not surprise. Nina’s head swiveled fast between the two men. She noted how their eyes seemed to speak without words.

“You knew? You knew, didn’t you?”

Ernie explained, “Gordo had me check the D.C., center first. He knew Mr. Jones to be there that day.”

“A hunch,” Gordon admitted. “As soon as I heard what happened, I wanted to know where all of Trevor’s people were. Jones was in an important place. I had my friend here ask questions.”

“And that’s when my friend told me about the air space…hmmm…violations.”

Gordon spoke fast, “And the data tapes aren’t around anymore, are they?”

Ernie nodded his head and sipped the last drops of his drink.

Nina said, “So there’s no record? Only your friend’s word that he saw something. I mean, no evidence.”

“Si. He went back to check the center’s logs for that time and found no warnings, no sightings. As far as Internal Security is concerned, all was quiet on the…hmmm… eastern front.”

Again Nina spotted a silent conversation between the two old comrades. Ernie smiled.

“What? What is it?” Nina’s voice carried the slightest hint of a pout.

Gordon said, “The buoys. The network. You have someone on it already, don’t you?”

“Another one of our friends, Gordo.”

Ernie pulled a folded paper from his pocket and stretched to hand it to Knox who examined the contents and nodded. He spoke when he noticed Nina glaring at him, “The tambourine line is a series not only of monitoring stations but computers. Networked computers. Some on land, some on buoys in the Atlantic Ocean. With the right encryption codes, someone could access the backup information on the hard drives on those computers. Assuming they haven’t been erased.”

Ernie laughed, “These amateurs? Half of the I.S. officers I work with don’t even know how the tambourine line works. Our friend is going to the buoy off Abaco Island tonight. He will meet you in the morning.”

“Wait a sec,” Nina’s voice wavered. “You said the fence was tripped near New Jersey. Why would that info be down here?”

“It’s a network,” Gordon answered. “Someone with the right skills can hack into the whole system from one terminal.”

“Yes,” Ernie laughed. “Someone I know made sure this to be the case, did you not?”

Nina glared at Gordon yet again. “You? You built this into the tambourine line?”

He answered, “Always have a backup plan, Captain.”

Ernie quipped, “And oh yes, hmmm, never trust anyone.”

“What matters,” Gordon insisted, “is that we’ll have some answers tomorrow.”

“No, Gordo. What did you always tell me? You’ll have more information. Answers are the stories you tell from that information and stories can be told a lot of different ways.”

Fast Attack

“Untie the stern line.”

Nina—who felt only slightly more comfortable in a boat than in a car—searched around until finding and letting loose one of the thick cords keeping the vessel attached to the dock. The rope had barely released when Gordon thrust the throttle. The twin Mercruiser engines propelled the thirty-foot Sleekcraft away from the marina on the west side of Key Biscayne.

Gordon wore his straw hat, Nina had ditched the previous night’s sun dress in favor of more comfortable garb: camo BDUs and a black tank top. Not quite right for a hot South Florida afternoon, but about as casual as Nina would get again anytime soon. A baseball cap provided some shade and layers of protective lotion covered every square inch of her body, a reaction to the patch of burning red on her neck from the day before.

In any case, Gordon steered his low-profile, high-performance boat to the south. Nina walked gingerly toward the front trying to find her sense of balance as the boat bounced. She stumbled, practically falling into the forward V-berth.

“Easy does it,” Gordon suggested. “You gotta get your sea legs.”

Nina righted herself into the passenger seat. The salt water spray from the bobbing bow fell across her face in a loose veil. She found it slightly refreshing.

In fact, slowly—as they passed the southern tip of Key Biscayne and turned east into the Atlantic proper—she began to appreciate the cooling blast of wind and water vapor.

For the first half an hour, she spied other sea goers ranging from long sail boats to a freighter headed north, a military patrol ship watching the waterways and a pair of dueling cigarette boats engaged in a test of speed. However, Nina soon saw herself and Gordon as the only human beings within miles.

Knox closely kept watch over the gauges and readings on the dash, occasionally consulting the folded slip of paper Ernie provided last night.

Still, the further they went the more Nina grew apprehensive. Part of that came from the real worry of sea monsters, but most from her anxiety over the investigation. Clandestine meetings, hacked computer systems, and conspiracy theories did not sit well in her gut. Nina Forest wore a soldier’s uniform, not a spy’s cloak. While she had an eye for tactics and an instinct for fighting, she did not trust her ability to sift through deception.

Apparently Nina’s concerns surfaced in her expression. Gordon asked, “What’s wrong?”

She lied, “Nothing.”

“You’re wondering why Ashley chose you. Are you the right person for the job?”

She sighed. “So you’re a mind reader now? Is that it?”

“I wondered the same thing,” he rubbed salt in the wound. “You have a reputation as a tremendous soldier. But you’d think Ashley would turn to Jon Brewer or Shep to dig this up. Whatever the reason, it’s not because of your talents, but because Ashley has faith in your ability to get the job done. She sent you to me so that you’d have help with the spooking around. She knew I have the contacts.”

Nina confessed, “She told me she knew everything that happened during that year I can’t remember. If I do this, she’ll tell me.”

“Ah, so there is a big secret or two. Is that it? I suppose she has faith, then, in your motivation. The good news is I don’t think our conspirators are going to be too hard to find. A few more pieces of the puzzle and we…” Gordon’s voice trailed as he checked the instruments on the dash, thought, and slowed the Sleekcraft. “A few more pieces of the puzzle and I think everything is going to come into view.”

The high-powered boat stopped and drifted on calm seas. The bow slowed its bobbing; their wake faded.

“This is it,” Gordon checked his wristwatch and added, “Right on time, too.”

Nina grabbed a pair of binoculars from the starboard settee and raised them to her eyes. She revolved in a complete circle, scanning the horizon in all directions for any sign of activity.

“There’s nothing out there.”

Gordon glanced at his watch once more and suggested she, “Look again.”

A vibration shook the Sleekcraft. Fifty yards off the port bow the water bubbled and foamed. A groaning klaxon echoed. A spout of water shot like a geyser, followed by a mammoth beast jumping from the sea like a killer whale performing at Sea World.

Black and gray, two eye-like windows at the front, sixty feet long with a bow shaped like a hammerhead shark that hovered in the air for a long second then slapped the water’s surface with a heavy splash. The spray fell across Gordon and Nina like a sheet of rain.

The submarine sat on the surface where there had been nothing seconds before. Its sleek body resembled an alligator floating with its spine poking above the surface and its eyes scanning for prey. It made Nina think of a smaller version of Captain Nemo’s Nautilus from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea; a book her father had read to her nearly thirty years ago.

Gordon said, “Barracuda fast attack sub. First one went into service two years ago.”

Nina knew of the vessels and rattled off, “Crew of twelve, used primarily for coastal patrol, designed specifically to combat underwater hostiles. Oh, and it runs on something called a magnetohydrodynamic drive that makes it quiet and fast. The military has about a dozen.”

Knox added, “And Intelligence has a couple, too.”

He turned on the twin Mercruisers again and guided the boat closer to the new arrival. As they closed the distance, a pair of hatches on the smooth skin of the man-made beast popped open. Four men in black wet suits stood on the deck. Gordon maneuvered the Sleekcraft alongside and threw the stern line to one of the seamen who held it secure to allow boarding.

Gordon told Nina, “You go ahead. I’ll wait here.”

“Huh? These are your friends, aren’t they?”

“It’s your mission, Captain. I’m just here to help. Are you afraid of going in there alone?”

Nina narrowed her eyes and then swung her leg onto the sub, refusing a helping hand from one of the crewmen in the process.

Gordon called, “Ask ‘T’ where they were!”

She glanced back at him before eyeing the dark portal leading below. Nina crouched and lowered herself inside.

Two decks comprised the small sub. Nina did not know about the lower level but the upper one felt cramped and humid. It was, in essence, a long tube. She saw two wheelmen sitting at helms in the two ‘eyes’ that were actually darkly tinted windows. Consoles and monitors lined the walls manned by crewmen who leered as she entered their world.

A small, raised platform with a chair sat in the center of the cramped chamber. A white man in a dirty shirt with a Captain’s hat occupied it, chewing on a toothpick. When she took a step in his direction he pointed her toward the rear of the deck and a heavy door amid pipes and wires and valves and storage compartments. Nina knocked. The crew laughed. Nina did not wait, she turned the knob and entered.

The room probably served as the Captain’s quarters but someone else had usurped that privilege from the boat’s master. He sat behind a desk with a big grin revealing one gold tooth. He wore his hair in long dreadlocks and dressed in a blue, short-sleeve shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal a scar across his black chest. A shoulder holster displayed an ivory-handled revolver.

Papers, curled maps, and a laptop computer cluttered the desktop. Closed metal cabinets and a chart table occupied the rest of the space but enough room remained for a metal seat in front of the desk.

Nina still felt the leers of the men on her back. Without looking, she reached and closed the door. The man at the desk found that very funny. He laughed and spoke with a Jamaican accident, “Hello! Gordon did not come himself?”

“He’s outside…waiting.”

“That is too bad. You tell Gordon that ‘T’ sends his best. You tell him that he still owes me fifty continentals and I will not forget, no matter how he tries to avoid me. Understand?”

“I will,” Nina said trying hard to hide the feeling of being trapped in a floating tomb.

“This is what you came for, I think.”

The man with the gold tooth—‘T’—opened the lap top. The black screen of the hibernating computer came to life and showed line after line of numbers.

“Tell Gordon that his suspicions are correct. These are back up files from two tracking stations in New Jersey, understand? Something did trip the alarms way up there but no one seems to know nothing. Well, except for you and I now, I think.”

She peered at the data tables, easily translating date and times while assuming the rest to be coordinates.

“I’ll tell you what it says so that you can get off this little boat of mine before the men start going crazy. They have been at sea for a month so it would be best if we speed this along, understand? One something trips the wire in New Jersey not long before the assassination. Then not long after, another something trips the wire again on the way out.”

Nina said, “But this doesn’t tell me what that something was. I’m just saying, this is all a bunch of numbers. Nothing concrete.”

“Oh, now I would not be saying that, I think. It tells you that there was an unidentified flying object that slipped its way into our air space and then out again, all on a heading that would have taken it first right toward D.C., and second right away from D.C., if you start drawing lines on charts and whatever. But what it really tells, I think, is that someone who was operating the switch for all this high tech mumbo jumbo decided not to report these numbers.”

Nina wondered, again, why Ashley entrusted her with this job.

‘T’ popped open the laptop drive, slipped the disc in a jewel case, and handed it to Nina.

“And there you are. Now as much as I enjoy a visit from such a lovely woman, I think you should be leaving now. I have a trip to make to Trinidad with a hold full of weapons for the resistance. Quite a problem for the Hivvans, I think.”

She stood but paused, remembering, “Gordon wanted me to ask where you were.”

The man with the dreadlocks smiled again and stooped to grab something. He handed an unlabeled bottle of red liquid to Nina who accepted the unknown substance with caution.

“Wine from the Rhone Valley. Tell him that our friends at Camelot are waiting, but with all that has happened here in the last month I think they may be waiting a long while for us.”

She studied the bottle for a moment then hardened her face, opened the door, and marched past the leers of the sailors again, climbing from the humid, shadowy confines of the submarine’s interior to the warm, sunny deck.

Nina jumped into the Sleekcraft where Gordon Knox waited.

“I think your friend gave us some good stuff, but I’m not the expert. He says it’s evidence of a second plane or ship of some kind entering our air space then leaving again.”

Gordon powered on the engines and moved them away. Nina heard that klaxon again and the fast attack sub slipped below the waters.

“Good, that’s what we needed,” Knox increased speed to hurry for shore. “But there’s a lot more work to do.”

“Yeah, like your pal Ernie is going to have to come forward and tell us who his friend is. Maybe then we can figure out exactly what happened. I mean, this data doesn’t change much about what we know, it only makes things more complicated.”

“Ah, but it does tell us that there’s a cover up going on,” Knox pointed out as the Sleekcraft gained more speed. The nose bobbed so fast that Nina had to hold on tight. “That means there’s more here than meets the eye.”

“So now what?”

“So I think you’re right. We’re going to see Ernie again.”

*

Much to Nina’s dismay, traffic nearly cluttered all five of the northbound lanes on Interstate 95. Dump trucks, pickups, commercial vans and 18-wheelers hauled citrus, seafood, fuel, and other goods between the docks, warehouses, and train stations.

Scooters were a popular choice for couriers and individuals commuting to the fishing wharf or industrial centers. Most everyone moved along at a comfortable seventy miles per hour, a few slower and a few faster with lumps of like-minded drivers attached together to form herds of a sort. Gordon, much to her surprise, kept his foot light on the accelerator as they cruised with the flow on their way for Ernie’s home in Miami Shores, a suburb north of downtown.

She glanced out the window, noting the Miami skyline. Several signs of battles fought dotted that cityscape, but not nearly the type of wounds other metropolises showed. She wondered if the early years of Armageddon would have been different had other people joined together with the same tenacity as the people in Dade County. She recalled her own home—Philadelphia—and how chaos, conflicting orders, and panic turned neighborhoods into isolated islands, law enforcement into small groups, and the chain of command into a joke.

Gordon grabbed her attention saying, “We get to Ernie’s, he gives us the name of his contact, and then we have someone to corroborate this data.”

“So what? What does this mystery ship have to do with the assassination? I’m just saying, it could be a coincidence.”

“Someone is covering it up,” he reminded. “That means it’s something more.”

“Will he help us? Is he even home?”

“He’ll help us. He owes me big time. If he’s not home…if he’s not home…” Gordon peered first in his rearview mirror, then a side mirror before finishing, “…then we wait.”

She asked, “Problem?”

“I don’t know, but I think I just saw something silver flying around back there.”

He did not have to say ‘Witiko’ for her to understand but the overpasses of the Dolphin Expressway disrupted their view as they drove through the sprawling arms of a concrete cloverleaf.

With their attention distracted to the sky, neither Gordon nor Nina noticed the black Suburban loitering on the grassy median alongside the Interstate. Chief Hobbs sat behind the wheel with sweat gleaming on his forehead; Ray Roos occupied the passenger’s seat watching traffic through dark sunglasses.

The Witiko Skytrooper Gordon and Nina failed to spot—the one with the portable rocket launcher—landed on the roof of an old office building to the east of the thoroughfare, joining another of his breed. The first alien nodded his head toward the SUV. Roos responded by pointing his finger at the aliens

The Skytroop with the rocket launcher reacted to the gesture. As he watched the target car—the black BMW 540i—drive northbound, the alien opened a small panel on a heavy gauntlet and sent a signal.

It began.

They came from the shade alongside the ramp connecting 395 west to I-95 northbound, following the curve of the on-ramp toward the interstate. An old, half-drunk hitchhiker wearing a tweed sport jacket over a Hawks jersey stood at the end of the on-ramp with a cardboard sign reading ‘Atlanta or Bust’. The first blur went by him so fast that his sign flew from his hands; the second blur knocked him off his feet.

The Suburban watched the attackers race forward and then the SUV joined the pursuit from a safe distance. The Witiko Skytroopers rocketed away from their perch…

…Fast. Faster. The urge to find and destroy so complete, so compelling…an intense addiction that muffled the hatred for those who had enslaved them.

Like guided missiles, they burst onto the crowded freeway ignoring anything they had not been programmed to kill. A small passenger car—an obstacle—powered by a makeshift steam engine got knocked spinning across three lanes of traffic and over the concrete barrier into the southbound lanes where it sheered the side of a commercial van. That van careened over the west guard rail, disappearing toward Northwest 20th street below.

A man dressed in a suit and tie wearing a white helmet road an electric scooter with his briefcase tied to a rear luggage rack. One of the living guided missiles rammed his ride, propelling the man off the seat into the air while sending the scooter bouncing away where it smashed the windshield of a speeding Toyota that, in turn, skidded and rolled end over end…

…Gordon glanced in his mirror and saw a sedan rise up as if shoved from behind and nearly fly toward his car. He shifted the manual transmission down a gear and slammed the accelerator, speeding from seventy to eight-five in a heartbeat. The tumbling car fell onto and crushed its roof in a veil of sparks. A chain-reaction ensued, sending more vehicles sideways, skidding, and crashing into one another.

Nina panicked at the sudden jolt of speed.

“What? What is it?”

“We’ve got a problem,” he calmly relayed as he steered the car from the left-most lane to the center of the five, between two big trucks, then to the left again. “Get your rifle and open the sunroof. You’re going to have to keep them off us.”

Even though her fear of the moving, weaving, and speeding car caused a shake in her hands, she did as instructed, pulling her M-4 from the rear seat while opening the sunroof with the push of a button.

Gordon swerved right again to avoid a flatbed tractor trailer hauling a piece of construction equipment. As he did, Nina saw his face change. His eyes, in particular. They grew sharper, but she also saw a grin poking at the sides of his mouth under that bushy mustache.

“Hey,” he said without taking his eyes from the road. “Find something good on the radio, will you? This shit goes great to music.”

She ignored his request, offering only a grunt of disapproval as she hauled the upper half of her body through the open sunroof with her assault rifle ready to fire.

Nina’s ponytail got caught in the wind of the rushing automobile and fluttered in front of her face as she looked rearward. Traffic in grouped bundles seemed to fall away from either side of the car as the BMW raced at an insane speed.

Their adversaries appeared, running along the freeway on four legs faster than most cars ran on four wheels. They could have been earthly lions—perhaps slightly larger—save for the armor plating covering their heads in a flesh akin to iron.

She could not believe an animal could run so fast. She watched as one side-swiped a compact car, flipping it sideways.

Nina fired first at the beast to her right as it came close enough to nearly nose the BMW. Her bullets hit the monster square in the forehead. The rounds bounced away, unable to penetrate its natural shield. However, the beast scrunched its head and neck to absorb the impact, causing its pace to slow. That one fell behind, at least for the moment.

She turned her gun on the second and let fly several volleys, only vaguely aware of the cars passing in the background. Her first shots ricocheted off the highway pavement, possibly into bumpers and windshields, she did not know.

The BMW banked hard to the left. Nina saw why as they zoomed by a slow-moving cement truck. That bigger vehicle caused the closest attacker to hurriedly adjust its path, darting across two lanes to the far side.

Nina turned her barrel to the first Speed-Lion as it caught up again and fired, hitting it once more on its front end. Its eyes—featureless red bulbs—glowed hotter in what had to be frustration or anger. Yet still, while the bullets did not hurt the beast the impact of the shots caused it to decelerate. It faded a good fifty yards back, taking out its frustration on a motorcyclist that it sent—bike and all—over the bank and off the Interstate.

Nina again changed her focus just in time to ward off the second attacker as it cut across the lanes and tried to side swipe the BMW. One of her bullets hit the flank of the creature where a splash of crimson liquid squirted forth, but either the damage did not hurt the thing or the impulse to pursue and kill overrode any pain. Nonetheless, its swipe at the BWM’s side was temporarily chased off.

When Nina pulled the trigger again, she heard a depressing ‘click’ from an empty magazine. Standing there in the roaring wind and taking pot shots at beasts that ran like race cars had caused her mind to lose track of munitions. However, Interstate 95 entered another cloverleaf and a mass of additional vehicles joined the northbound parade. The new traffic forced the Speed-Lions to adjust their course, buying her a few seconds respite

Nina descended into the cabin of the car and secured a fresh clip. Gordon’s hands gripped the steering wheel tight but his expression remained almost childlike in its fascination. She figured him to be ‘high’ on the adrenaline of the situation, having seen similar looks in the eyes of her men during firefights.

Amidst the roaring engine, the shifts from third to fourth gear and down again, and the squeal-inducing lane changes, Gordon found time to speak.

“Well, looks like we know how high up this goes.”

Nina spoke in a melodramatic voice, “You mean, like all the way up to Evan?”

“Oh now honey, if you’re just figuring out that Evan is involved, you’re way behind. The question has never been if Evan is involved,” he rocked the car to the left to pass a station wagon full of day laborers. “The question has been, who’s in it with him? I think it’s safe to say that Dante Jones, the Witiko, and Internal Security are up to their eyeballs.”

“Internal Security?” Nina pushed a fresh magazine into her rifle.

“Oh c’mon. Here we are in the largest city in The Empire on the busiest road around in broad daylight. Where are the choppers? Where are the patrols? Where is Internal Sec—”

The steering wheel spun in Gordon’s hands as the entire vehicle was shoved to the right by one of the Speed-Lions nudging the rear quarter panel as if to say ‘don’t forget about us.’ Nina shouted anxiously while Gordon struggled to regain control. They skidded across four lanes of traffic heading hard toward a concrete retaining wall.

He pointed the wheel in the direction of the slide and lifted his foot from the accelerator. At the same time Nina watched the wall grow bigger…harder, the smell of frying rubber shot in through the air vents, the out-of-control sedan cut off two half-ton trucks that blared air horns then slammed into one-another—

Gordon caught the slide, the rear-drive car fishtailed as he pointed north again and hammered the gas with a fury, throwing Nina back into the passenger’s seat.

Nothing more needed to be said. As the car straightened…as the scenery around the freeway again turned into one big blurred tapestry…Nina climbed her way to a stand with her top half sticking out the sunroof and her gun sights searching for targets. The car crossed lanes again—this time in a controlled fashion—and took station in the center of the highway as the road cleared of traffic for a stretch.

Nina spotted the creature that had hit them, ten yards behind. She unloaded burst after three-round burst at the beast. It seemed to shrug its shoulders so as to increase the protection of its armored mane. Then it hopped straight up and over a slower-moving gold and silver Rolls Royce. The shots Nina fired at the Speed-Lion hit, instead, the windshield and front hood of the luxury car. A red splash from the driver’s seat exploded onto the inside of the Royce’s shattered glass and the vehicle spun round and round like a top, seeming to fall away from her as the chase continued forward at break neck speed.

The four-legged hunter landed on its feet in full stride. Nina did not have time to weep for the innocent killed by the crossfire. She fired again at the same enemy as her ride turned hard to the right, following the bend in the road as they traversed through another cluttered combination of on and off ramps. She hit the Speed-Lion in the face but, once more, only managed to annoy it. However, it did retreat with a jump across the center concrete barrier into the oncoming southbound lanes as if searching for shelter from the pestering bullets.

Meanwhile, Gordon realized they had long since passed the exit for Miami Shores, but that did not matter. There would be no going to Ernie’s house. He needed no more evidence than the Witiko Skytroops he spied shadowing them and the creatures pursuing that Ernie had been compromised. Suddenly Miami burned too hot even for him.

Nonetheless, before he could do anything about that, he had to get them out of their current situation. No small task but—

—he swerved into the far right lane to bypass a pair of motor coaches then maneuvered the crisp-handling sedan to the center of the road again.

No small task but he figured he could turn this problem into an opportunity; the type of thing he always did either for Trevor Stone or for his masters in the old world. The little piece of insurance he took from Omar before saying goodbye to Pennsylvania would give him—if it worked—the one ace he needed.

In the driver’s side mirror he saw one of the creatures move off to the southbound lanes. Nina’s shots did not damage the monsters but the creatures did not enjoy being shot, either.

Gordon glanced to the passenger’s side exterior mirror.

Oh shit.

The second attacker had avoided Nina’s watch and neared for the kill. It raced alongside the sedan bounding forward with its iron-ish head and ruby eyes bobbing up and down like a galloping race horse. Gordon thought fast. He turned a problem into an opportunity.

Knox jogged the wheel to the right as if threatening the beast with a collision. This encouraged the Speed-Lion to instinctively move…just enough.

The monster that could run as fast as a Ferrari slammed into the rear end of an 18-wheeler full of foodstuffs. The trailer crumpled and the cab jackknifed. As the mess faded quickly from view, Gordon saw the truck topple over but no sign of that attacker.

One down.

Nina admired Knox’s handiwork from her view in the sunroof. On the other side of the highway, the remaining Speed-Lion sped along pre-occupied with dodging oncoming traffic and considering a new avenue of attack.

Above the honk of horns, the gush of wind, and the constant race-car growl of the BMW’s engine, Nina heard a noise. A hiss, maybe.

She glanced around until finding the source of the new sound. It came from an object several hundred feet above and behind. There against the backdrop of a beautiful blue sky she spied a light. No, not a light, a flash. A silvery flash reflecting the south Florida sun.

The Witiko Skytroop’s jetpack roared at full throttle to keep pace with the pursuit…then he stopped and hovered in mid-air and took aim with his one-shot rocket launcher. The alien’s hovering body wobbled as the projectile fired. A plume of gray smoke spat from the orange flames at the tail of the missile as it swept down, locked on the speeding car.

Nina’s eyes widened and her pulse quickened but she could offer no defense against the descending rocket. Like all such Witiko weapons, this one moved relatively slow, lumbering through the air. But she also knew it to be very precise. Despite the weave and bobs of the car between traffic, the guidance system in the nose of the thing remained focused on its target while the igniting liquid fuel caused it to dive bomb on perfect course for her destruction.

Her mouth hung open.

This is it.

She heard the rumble of the rocket’s flames, she saw the red-tipped nose where a deadly charge waited to finish its mission, she could nearly read the alien symbols on the outer casing.

The car drove faster and faster but the missile lunged for the kill and—

—darkness shrouded Nina and the car. She heard the clap of an explosion and felt a shake from the shockwave. Then a burst of light again as the day’s brilliant sunshine enveloped them once more.

Nina saw a cloud of smoke and a sheath of concrete debris billow skywards from the pavement of the Ives Dairy Road overpass that crossed atop the Interstate at exactly the right moment. The missile—interrupted in its journey by luck—detonated there a few yards above its intended target. Instead of destroying the fleeing car it destroyed concrete.

As the life-saving overpass faded fast behind the speeding BMW, Nina stood in the open sunroof breathing out gasps of air. Her heart thudded fast and those gasps turned to a laugh of relief—not humor—as she understood she still lived for no reason other than sheer chance.

Her moment of rejoice was chased away by the zing of bullets mere inches from her nose. She turned to her right and saw a second Witiko flying parallel to her over lanes of southbound traffic some twenty yards away with his Gatling-gun whirring.

She huffed a determined grunt, raised the M-4 to her marksman’s eye, and squeezed the trigger. The first round of shots went wide, but the second hit the alien’s jet pack. His controlled flight turned into something akin to a pin-poked balloon. His body barrel rolled over and over while streams of hissing vapor escaped from a ruptured line in his rockets.

GONG.

The out-of-control Witiko slammed into the backside of an exit sign straddling the southbound lanes. His broken body stuck there for a second, then dropped like a dead sack to the lanes below where it crunched beneath the wheels of a garbage truck.

Over there in that same area, the pursuing Speed-Lion raced along with its eyes on the BMW but still hesitating to attack.

Nina felt a tug on her BDU pants. She lowered into the cockpit of the car.

Gordon told her, “Get buckled up. I want to get off this highway. I want to find somewhere quiet and isolated, like a dead end or something.”

“Oh,” she sarcastically remarked. “You mean like a trap?”

“Yeah,” his eyes gleamed at the suggestion. “A trap. Now hold on!”

Gordon swung the car onto an exit ramp that descended east off the Interstate. The Speed-Lion saw the move and cut across both the southbound and the northbound lanes of 95 in pursuit. Instead of following on the concrete ramp, it leapt the guardrail and descended a grassy embankment a few dozen yards behind the fleeing automobile.

Gordon nearly lost control as he moved them off the ramp onto a neighborhood street, racing by one of the new “In and Out” convenience stores on the corner where the off-ramp met the avenue. That store sat directly in the path of the fast-moving beast.

Instead of slowing…instead of going around…the Speed-Lion crashed through the rear wall of the market and disappeared from view as the black sedan accelerated to escape. The front plate glass windows with neon beer signs and poster board advertisements for homemade cigarettes exploded outward as a monster-sized bullet fired through the entire store. The Speed-Lion never missed a step, erupting from the tunnel it had punched through the market and falling in behind the BMW.

Gordon hammered the gearshift down and accelerated at full power as the car and the creature that chased it caught up with a herd of migrating automobiles across two lanes heading east and two more heading west. Instead of fast-moving Interstate travelers the chase found itself in the midst of crawling neighborhood drivers moving between sidewalks filled with pedestrians, family shops, and street vendors. A red light held the lanes at a standstill as the action raced toward an intersection.

Nina closed her eyes as Gordon side-swiped a rusting SUV waiting for the green and sped through the stoplight.

The Speed-Lion leapt in the bed of a waiting pick up then soared across the intersection through the air, landing at a fast gallop.

Far behind the chase near the blasted-through remains of the “In and Out” convenience store, the black Suburban that had observed the battle on the Interstate from afar swerved off the ramp and onto the side street with Hobbs driving and Roos impatiently tapping his knee. The remaining Witiko—the one that had fired the unlucky rocket and who controlled the slaver device on his wrist—flew above the Suburban’s roof.

In the meantime, the Speed-Lion tried to close for the kill but Gordon expertly swerved through the gridlock using the mess to block the enemy’s approach. Frustrated, the creature bound over a hatchback, crushing its roof, then tried running on the sidewalk to avoid traffic where it tossed pedestrians aside.

“Here,” Gordon whispered more to himself than Nina, “this will do.”

He slammed the brakes, released, and steered hard to the left, skidding sideways as they left behind the markets and vendors of the main drag and sped between neglected warehouses and a defunct U-Haul dealership. The enemy followed first at a distance but then closer as the lack of obstacles allowed it to reach top speed.

The black SUV and flying Witiko Skytrooper also fell in behind.

Gordon kept the gas pedal to the floor, topping eighty miles per hour on a street designed for less than half that in the old world. Rusted cars, bent street signs, and trash-filled parking lots blurred in the side windows.

“Gordon,” Nina noted their path and warned. “Dead end.”

Ahead they saw the silhouette of a raised highway, no doubt I-95 but no on-ramp invited a merge; no exit presented itself. Instead, a concrete barrier wall separating the quiet street from the confines beneath the Interstate offered a sudden stop as the only option while the right side of the road dropped off steeply into a drainage ditch and the left side was dominated by a featureless, cinderblock exterior belonging to a building whose purpose had died with Armageddon.

Gordon laughed under his breath. Behind them the Speed-Lion slowed as it sensed its quarry to be trapped.

“Gordon!”

His hands worked fast as he depressed the clutch, turned the steering wheel, and pulled the emergency brake. The BMW 540i’s ass-end swung around while its front felt glued in place. Nina’s head banged hard off the passenger’s side window to the point that she saw stars. The tires erupted in torched rubber.

Everything stopped.

The car ended facing precisely the way it had come. The engine idled. The monster that followed slowed to a trot then held its position a dozen yards in front of its prey, blocking escape and pacing side to side., as if something had tugged on its leash.

“Just as I thought,” Knox said as he spied the approaching Suburban.

“W-what?” Nina held a hand to the bump on her head.

Gordon reached across her lap to the glove compartment. There he found a small sack holding a shiny metal sphere about the size of a baseball and sporting a red button.

Knox told Nina, “Get out with your hands up, but leave your door open.”

“Huh?”

“Just do it. You’ll know when it’s time to jump back in.”

Gordon exited with his hands held high, although one of those hands palmed the device he had taken from Omar Nehru before abandoning Pennsylvania.

The Suburban stopped alongside the pacing Speed-Lion. A chubby policeman stepped from behind the wheel with a revolver pointed in their direction. The Witiko Skytroop with the slaver device descended and hovered a few feet above the pavement with his jet pack hissing and his legs bent as if auditioning for the part of Peter Pan in a stage play.

Gordon waited for the other door to open. When he saw who got out, he nodded his head in a manner that suggested admiration for how well they had all been deceived.

“Now looky here,” Ray Roos said. “If it ain’t Gordon Knox holed up in a corner.”

“Ray Roos,” Knox volleyed. “I always figured Evan had a friend working at the estate. Jones couldn’t do it by himself. Got to admit, never guessed it was you.”

“Oh, now, Mr. Knox, we all do what we have to do.”

“Like what Jones was doing at I.S. Central in D.C., the day Trevor was killed?”

Roos smiled, “Now, c’mon Gordon, you don’t think I’m going to stand here and read you the whole laundry list, do you? Things only work like that in James Bond movies.”

“Of course not,” Gordon admitted. “But you’ve already given me what I needed to know for now. I’m sure it will all come clear in a few days.”

“Well, now, see that’s the problem, Gordon. I let you sneak away up in PA ‘cause I had to do things the boss’ way. But now, well, I’m just going to have to get this over with. But which would you prefer: a couple of bullets or this thing over here to rip you up?”

The pacing Speed-Lion’s eyes focused not only on Gordon and Nina, but also on the men standing to its side. Gordon could nearly feel the rage the beast felt for those who had entrapped it; enslaved it. Nonetheless it would follow the command from the Witiko to kill. Unless, of course, that command failed to transmit.

“Hey Ray, do you know how that slaver-device thing the Witiko has works?”

Roos—unimpressed—shook his head, “No.”

Gordon smiled. “Omar figured it out.”

Gordon hit the button on the silver ball. An unheard, unseen blast of radio waves cut the control between the Witiko’s wrist and the implant in the monster’s skull. It reacted immediately to its freedom and grabbed the nearest meal—the chubby policeman—in its gaping jaws. Hobbs’ revolver discharged harmlessly in the air.

Knox and Nina reacted nearly as fast. He got behind the wheel and she grabbed her rifle from the car.

The Witiko Skytroop swept a shocked Ray Roos up in his arms and ignited his jetpack to full power, rocketing them away from the ambush-gone-bad, dodging shots from Nina’s assault rifle as they disappeared over the nearest building.

“Get in!”

She followed Gordon’s orders, closed the passenger side door, and the BMW drove off, leaving the hungry Speed-Lion with its meal and Gordon and Nina with a better understanding of their enemies.

The Dead Speak

The President walked from the residence to the West Wing with a bounce in his step. His assistant—a woman with strawberry hair and a scar—offered a cup of coffee, that morning’s D.C. Post, and a smile.

“Good morning, Mr. President.”

Oh how sweet that sounds.

She warned, “Your new Press Secretary, Jim Huffman, was cornered by reporters this morning and there’s something you should see on page two; a lot of talk about the military maybe trying some kind of, well,” she whispered, “trying to take over.”

Evan drew a serious face and responded, “Well, they’ll have to get by you first.”

His smile returned. She blinked bashfully and sat behind her desk.

Evan, of course, did not worry about the rumblings of a military takeover because he directed those rumblings with the skill of a concert pianist.

The window behind his assistant offered a view of the rose garden’s rich colors. The President enjoyed that view, sipped the piping-hot java, and allowed himself a moment of self-congratulations in regards to the political concerto he played in the papers.

His assistant grabbed his attention once more as she read from a stack of notes. The music in Evan’s head turned a sour note. “Lots of messages for you, Mr. President. First, Senator Trimble called yesterday while you were playing tennis and wanted to set up a meeting. She said she has not heard from you on the creation of a committee to begin drafting a new Constitution.”

“The Senator has to learn patience.”

“Also, General Brewer sent a fax from the estate. He has the report you wanted on future force deployments and recruitment, but he’s confused about the level of detail you need.”

Evan generated more busy work for the neutered General: “Um, yes, tell him I need exacting detail. I want all the nuts and bolts. That should keep him busy for another week or so.”

“Yes, Mr. President. Also, Secretary Hutch called. He said something about you needing to give a contract to the Boston Laborers Guild.”

“What? I’ve already given them four contracts! I can’t give all the work to his friends.”

“Of course not, Mr. President. Would you like me to call him?”

He gulped a mouthful of coffee. It did not taste as good as it had on first sip.

“No. But our Labor Secretary needs to think in bigger terms than paying off his buddies.”

“I imagine so, Mr. President. Also, Senator Whitman called. Oh yes, this had to do with Senator Trimble, too. He says that Senator Trimble is circulating a petition to demand a Constitutional convention in thirty days. Apparently she’s planning a press conference—”

Evan slammed the coffee cup on her desktop. A blob of the drink splashed out. The President’s face turned nearly as red as the roses waving in the breeze outside the window.

How dare she! I am the President!

Evan regained control, changing from quick jab-like breaths to deep inhales followed by slow exhales. “I’m sorry,” he straightened his tie. “I seem to have spilled my coffee. Would you be so kind as to clean that up?”

She nodded, slowly.

The phone buzzed once…twice…

“Are you going to answer that, or shall I?”

That broke the trance. She answered the phone.

“W-white house. President Godfrey’s office. Yes, he is here,” she hit the hold button. “It’s Director Roos for you, sir.”

Evan walked into the Oval office saying, “I’ll take it in here.”

The President closed the door and entered his fiefdom. He kept the office perfectly clean, his desk clear, and the fixtures well-dusted. Evan believed in appearances and he refused to appear anything other than organized, confident, and in control. Nonetheless, before he answered the phone he walked to the window, closed his eyes, and held his hands out to either side.

“Here I am. If you’re going to kill me today, get it over with.”

He waited. A bird chirped.

As with the day before, and the day before that, no assassin’s bullet came.

Evan dropped his arms, stood behind his desk, and pushed the speaker button on the phone. He listened to Roos while scanning the front page of the paper. The dateline read: Tuesday, July 1st. The headline exclaimed: MILITARY OPPOSES FORCE DRAWDOWN.

“Go ahead, Ray. I’m alone in the office.”

“Is that so? Good, but there is nothing new to report. I think our friends are no longer in Miami. Probably a good idea to have that Gannon fellow start the ball rolling on clean up.”

“I spoke to Brad last night. He sent a message. I understand that his associates our going to…” Evan searched for the right word. “…they are going to start erasing things very soon. I understand it to be a big deal for them, so it may take a few days.”

“Well, that’s all right and fine,” Roos answered, “but if our friends decide to take a trip south of the border before then, there just may be more flies in the ointment, if you follow.”

Evan grew impatient. His frustration over Roos’ failure to kill Gordon Knox and Nina Forest in Miami last Friday boiled over.

“If you squashed those flies when you had a chance then they wouldn’t still be out there.”

“A man can’t argue with the truth, no sir. I’m not trying to put a bee in your bonnet but I sure would feel better if Gannon’s buddies would get the job over with. Seems to me they’re dragging this out, maybe to put you over a barrel, if you see my meaning.”

Evan had thought of that. Until the assassination was complete a shadow loomed over his shoulder. The last time power seemed in his grasp he experienced a drastic reversal. This time he had moved fast, consolidating his grip; this time he had allies and control.

Nonetheless, it remained possible that Gannon’s associates intentionally desired to make Evan feel uncomfortable over the lack of closure. If things did not progress, he might have to enlist a team of Internal Security paramilitary to finish the job.

Evan pushed away those thoughts with a grunt.

“What’s that, Mr. President?”

“You just get your job done and let me worry about the rest.”

“I know that, yessir. But if things go down the tubes like three years ago, well it ain’t just going to be your head on the chopping block, if you get my meaning.”

*

Gordon Knox lurked in a dark corner of the den, next to a futon and behind a potted plant. He stood there so casually Nina wondered how often he hid in rooms behind potted plants during his career.

Nina attempted more drastic measures to remain unseen, but failed to find a suitable closet or trunk in which to hide. Worse, the rifle slung on her shoulder bumped into a bookcase with a thump. Thankfully that thump occurred before Dr. Maple and his two I.S. escorts entered the brick town home. She settled on crouching behind the burled walnut Spinet desk.

The two intruders listened to a series of muffled beeps as the newcomers punched in the appropriate deactivation codes on the home’s security system keypad, unaware that security had already been breached. A moment later, a black man in a sport jacket appeared in the open doorway to the den and surveyed his surroundings. His shadow blocked what little light sneaked in from the hall.

“It’s clear,” the agent said unenthusiastically and waved his hand toward the front door.

“Um, thank you,” muttered Dr. Maple.

The agent disappeared from the den doorway, joined his comrade at the front and told their charge, “We’ll be outside if you need anything.”

“Yes, um, thank you,” Nina and Gordon heard the former council member answer. A solid thud from the closing of the front door followed that reply.

Maple rummaged about in the hallway before walking into the den. The fifty-something physician with a spot of thinning hair on his crown approached the small desk with his attention focused on papers in his hand.

Nina stood and turned on the desk lamp. The sudden illumination did not startle the doctor, it confused him. He did not become startled until he saw the blond woman in soldier’s garb. The papers in his hands dropped, as did his mouth. He turned fast to face a bald man with a bushy mustache in a black polo shirt.

“Hello, Doctor Maple.”

The new administration’s Director of Health and Human Services used an index finger to push his drooping eye glasses higher on his nose. It appeared as if he tried to cry out, but could not find any oxygen.

“Now don’t say a word, Doctor,” Gordon warned. “I spent the last few days hopping trains, riding in pickup truck beds, and stealing cars. To tell the truth, D.C., puts me in a bad mood to begin with anyway. So let’s not have any unpleasantness.”

Maple mumbled, “It’s…it’s true.”

“What’s true?” Nina asked.

“The President warned us. Some people think that you—um, Mr. Knox—faked your death to, well, um…”

Knox’s face twisted as he demanded, “To do what? Tell me, Doctor.”

“Uh, um, to, well, that you are a part of, well, a conspiracy by the military and, um…”

Knox finished for the bumbling man, “A military and intelligence conspiracy to overthrow the civilian government, is that it?”

Maple nodded fast. His glasses nearly slipped off.

“Now isn’t that ironic,” Knox smiled. “Got to hand it to Evan. He knows that the best way to lie is to hide a lie in a sea of truth.”

“So what?” Nina said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“He’s laying the groundwork. He’s going to start seeing who in the government he can trust. Those he has any misgivings about will be investigated for being part of this phantom conspiracy. Very Stalin-like. Good for him.”

Maple tried desperately to find courage. “I’m warning you. There are two, um, Internal Security guards outside. Go away before they find you here.”

That courage faded when Gordon’s eyes met the doctor’s. The latter looked to the floor.

Knox said, “Doctor Maple, you should be more worried about those guards than us. Why do you think they’re out there? To protect you? Ha!” He leaned close and whispered, “When the time comes that Evan thinks he can get away with it, those two guards are going to drive you to the middle of nowhere and put a bullet in your head, Doctor.”

“Nonsense!”

“They will concoct a story about how this ‘conspiracy’ is killing off members of the new administration. Or maybe they’ll say you were a part of that conspiracy. I would not be surprised if Dante Jones meets the same fate, sooner or later. Don’t worry, for every murder Evan will find someone to blame.”

“You are being, um, foolish. You’re just trying to scare me.”

“Oh, Doctor, you should be scared. You see, you’re the weak link in the master plan. Why I’ll bet you’re the one Evan has the most doubts about. In fact, you would be dead already if not for Evan’s hatred for me. He wanted to kill me for spite, but you he needs dead to protect his tracks. Problem for him—and lucky for you—is that so many big names dropping like flies that fast would cause way too many questions; too many questions for even the President’s friends to cover up. But give it time, Doctor. Give it time.”

Maple’s head swiveled from Gordon to Nina and back again.

“Plan? Master, um, plan? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look me in the eye, Doctor. Yes, that’s good. Now tell me, did you have anything to do with Trevor’s murder?”

The doctor closed his eyes and answered, “Of course not. That is ridiculous.”

“Now Doctor, here is another interesting bit about lying. If you’re going to tell a lie, don’t close your eyes. It’s a dead-set giveaway.”

“You…you’re crazy. Trevor was killed by aliens.”

“That’s right. He got blasted at close range by an energy weapon.”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“You did the autopsy yourself, right Doctor? I.S. got hold of you real quick so that maybe you could save him. They brought Trevor right to you. Was he alive when he got to you?”

“No. I wanted to try and, um, save him but he was gone by the time he got to the hospital. There was, you know, nothing I could do.” Maple cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses.

“Yes, what a shame,” Gordon nodded. “Do you know where the Captain and I were last night? We spent some time at the hospital morgue. Yes, that’s right, the place where you personally performed the autopsy. In fact, it took some doing and, well, a little poking around but we caught a glimpse of the autopsy files.”

Again, Maple alternated glances between the two intruders. Nina kept her angry blue eyes focused on the little man. Gordon smiled in a vile manner.

“You know, I find it interesting that the autopsy did not contain any tissue samples, no blood samples, nothing. No physical evidence from the body.”

“Well, um, that was not, um, necessary because the cause of death was obvious. A, um, direct hit in the chest from an energy—”

Gordon spoke over the doctor’s explanation as if his guilt had already been established.

“Now I’m not saying that you killed Trevor personally, Doctor. I—”

“Killed…him? Me?”

“—I really want to give you the benefit of the doubt on this, but it’s tough with all the coincidences. How you were in the right place at the exact time Trevor needed medical attention. How you declared the body off-limits until after it was prepared for the memorial service. How the only staff allowed in the operating room while you tried to ‘save’ Trevor were people with I.S. clearance, none of the hospital’s regular staff.”

“There were security considerations that—”

“But the real question that the Captain here has been asking is…why?”

Doctor Maple stopped babbling but his face grew red and his hands shook.

“Yes,” Gordon went on. “That is a good question. You were with Trevor that first year. You helped Reverend Johnny put together a new health care system. Trevor appointed you to the council. You delivered his son and cared for Ashley during her pregnancy. You were their family doctor for years. Trevor trusted you, completely.”

“I…I had nothing to do with it.”

“And I look around this place of yours,” Gordon cast his eyes around the room. “Nothing pretentious. You could have had a big house filled with all sorts of luxuries. Instead, a small, old townhome. I see a simple desk, your diplomas and accreditations hanging on the wall in boring frames; nothing fancy. You never married, you drive a boring sedan, and you don’t seem to go on many vacations. So you didn’t do it for personal gain, did you?”

“I did not do anything!”

Gordon’s eyes narrowed to daggers. His hands reached out and grabbed Maple’s collar. His words became a growl but not merely from anger; Nina heard a shade of disappointment or disgust there, too.

“I know why, Doctor. Evan Godfrey black mailed you. He found out something I found out years ago. He found out that you were going to lose your medical license, that you were facing charges of inappropriate contact with a patient. I believe she was seventeen years old when you put her under anesthesia.”

Maple struggled in Gordon’s grasp and defended, “No, that’s not true!”

“Do you want to know how I know that, Doctor? I know it because it was my job to know these things. Years ago, after I started working for Trevor, I found your legal records. I found that you had been a few weeks away from losing your license before Armageddon came.”

“I didn’t do it!”

“I told Trevor about it. Do you know what he said? Do you?” Gordon pushed Maple against the desk. “He said the slate is clean. That’s what Trevor said. He said whatever you did in the old world didn’t matter. The same thing he told me when I let him know that his Chief of Security, Ray Roos, served time for theft and assault or his Director of Industry Brett Stanton had been an alcoholic.”

Nina saw something in Gordon’s eyes. Anger, yes, but also sadness. He might rip Maple’s head off, or he might start crying. She did not know which.

“That’s what I hate about people like you and Evan! You can’t get it through your heads that our lives are on the line here, can you? He had faith in your better nature and you sold out Trevor Stone to a snake like Godfrey because you were worried about your reputation. The old world is gone, Doctor. And with it your sins got washed away. But that wasn’t good enough. You still put your vanity above the good of us all! You helped kill the man who gave you a second chance. The only man who really understood how different this world is!”

“No! No! I didn’t do anything! I just…I just, um, tried to save…”

Gordon’s voice grew a notch softer but he still held the doctor in his grasp.

“You just did what they told you to do, didn’t you? It seemed so simple. Why, you weren’t doing anything wrong at all. You weren’t a part of their plan, just someone stuck in the middle. You made it look like an energy rifle blast—”

“It was an energy rifle blast,” the man insisted. “I saw it! I had a hell of a time stitching him up to look good for the viewings.”

Gordon’s eyes grew a hair wider.

“But they did not want an autopsy, did they? Maybe you would have found a bullet under that blast, or some other cause of death. The real cause of death. No, they wanted you to confirm that Trevor had died, and to say it could be nothing other than the official story they painted. Then you patched him up so he could be put on display for all The Empire to see.”

Nina, who had watched the interrogation silently, asked, “Why was that so important?”

Knox said, “Because we had to see him dead. Last time, when Trevor disappeared, there was uncertainty. Not this time.” He then commanded, “You’re going to help us, Doctor. You’re going to atone, or I’ll kill you right here.”

Maple stammered, “I, um, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t think—”

“You’re going to come with us and do what you should have done in the first place. Evan went to a lot of trouble and risk to make the doctor here cooperate. He did it so that Trevor’s body could be on display, but he didn’t want the body getting a good look-over. That tells us there are answers with the body.”

Maple stuttered, “W-what do you want me to do?”

“You’re going to do that autopsy you never did. It’s time for the dead to speak.”

*

A trio of children ranging from six to twelve waded into the water with their hands locked together. Behind them, on a beach blanket, mom and dad encouraged the kids as gentle breakers rolled to shore. The youngest one—a little boy—tried to retreat as his bare feet met water that, no matter how warm, would feel cold on a ninety degree day. The oldest sister, however, would not let him give up and coaxed her brother further out.

Nina watched the family drama from the shade of a park bench on the far side of the concrete walkway running along Highland Beach on its way toward the Southern Command building. She wore a white halter top in deference to the heat but refused to exchange her green BDU pants for cooler apparel.

As much as she perspired, General Shepherd had it worse in his black dress uniform.

“We kidnapped Dr. Maple,” Nina told him. No sense lying or even trying to sugar coat it. Not to Shep.

“Well I’ll be. Quite a bold little step.”

“Knox figures that Evan is just as likely to figure Maple flew the coop on his own as he is to figure out we got him.”

Shep scratched his head and asked, “Tell me again, what did Knox have on Maple that made him give up the ghost?”

Nina smiled; a little.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just the lack of an autopsy and circumstantial evidence about him being in the right place at the right time to cover things up. But, look, the guy pretty much gave himself up. I asked Gordon about that afterwards. I told him he hadn’t had anything on Maple; nothing concrete, just guesses. But I got to give it to Knox. You know what he said? He said Maple knew he was guilty, and his own conscience did him in. The Doc’s mind, Knox said, filled in the blanks. It was all psychological warfare, I suppose. Kind of scary how Knox has a feel for all this. Makes me wonder what he used to do in his old job.”

Shep chuckled.

“Listen, there is something going on,” Nina had already told the story of the data tapes and air space violations and Ray Roos’ attempt to kill them. “There are a bunch of things being covered up, starting with the tripping of the Tambourine Line and also the body. That’s next. But look, we’re starting to have trouble moving around. More I.S. showing up at train stations and hotels. I saw a couple hanging around my building so I didn’t go to see Denise today, I came here and I saw a suspicious car by the HQ.”

Shepherd said, “They might not have been here for you. A few weeks ago the buildings down here were almost empty. Now I’ve been recalled and so have a bunch of others. We got meetings and meetings. Nina, they’re smothering us. Lots of busy work, but you can tell it’s all about keeping us close to home. Hell, I told Dante that I’ve got people in the field trying to track down those Red Hands, but he still said he wanted me back here. It’s like they’re keeping a real close eye on us and showin’ us who’s boss. They’re making us tap dance for them.”

“Maple said something about a military conspiracy to take over the government.”

The General spat, “Now I reckon that to be the biggest bit of bunk to come out of Washington in ten years. Yeah, it’s been in the newspapers and we keep getting speeches about teamwork and whatever. But these new guys, they’re the ones that don’t know about teamwork. They’re so busy trying to be in charge of the whole shootin’ match that they’re stepping on a lot of toes. Makin’ noise about the idea of a coup d’état is real insulting to the military.”

“Gordon figures our new President is looking for an excuse to purge all his enemies. Shep, you’re out on a limb here.”

“Oh, now don’t you worry ‘bout that. You just get done what Ashley asked you to do. If Evan did set this up, then something is gunna have to give. As much as I can’t stand the little weasel, I sure hope he ain’t behind this. That could tear everything apart.”

“Well, yeah. But like I was saying, I.S. is crawling all over looking for us. Getting around is becoming an issue. Is there any way you can help?”

Shep thought and then nodded. “I think I can. Got someone new on the team and I’m pretty sure you can trust him. Is that it, Captain? You just stopped by lookin’ to find a ride?”

She returned his kind smile and answered, “I also picked up some help. Oliver and Carl are going to go with us to Pennsylvania.”

He asked her about the other member of the Dark Wolves: “And Vince?”

Nina shook her head. “I didn’t ask him. He wasn’t around, anyhow.”

“Hey, whoa, you can trust Vince Caesar. He’d pretty much jump off a bridge for you.”

“I know. I didn’t want to put him in a bad spot. I’m just saying, Vince is really by the book. What we’re doing, it’s not exactly authorized.”

Shepherd pointed out, “You were always Miss By-the-book yourself. Now look at you.”

A burst of giggles from the beach goers drifted to their bench on a cool wind carrying the smell of salt water. The six year old raced across the sand chasing a seagull.

“I suppose so, yeah,” she admitted. “This is…I dunno…”

“Personal?”

She cocked her head and considered.

“You know, it is. She asked me to do it. Me. I didn’t think she knew I existed. Still, it’s like I feel a personal debt to Trevor. Strange, huh? But anyway, I didn’t ask Vince to come along because I didn’t want to put him in a bad spot. He’d come but he wouldn’t feel right about it.”

Shep said, “Lots of folks feeling that way these days.”

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“I mean other officers and such. They don’t like our new President and they sure think this whole peace deal is a fool’s bargain. But they also know that if the military does anything it will tear all of this apart. I think most of us are just biding our time, hoping either our ‘President’ comes to his senses or we make it long enough to vote in someone new. If anyone is hoping the army is going to throw Evan out on his butt, they’re wrong. Unless, of course, you find something to motivate us. Otherwise everyone is feelin’ it’s really important to play by the new rules, even if we think those rules are for shit.”

“What about General Brewer? I haven’t seen anything about him in the newspapers.”

“Brewer…” Shepherd’s mouth bent as if he bit into sour candy. “Brewer is back at the old estate doing paper work. Truth is, Jon is pretty much out of the game for now. I think losing Trev was hardest on him. Then he goes and hands over the keys to the kingdom real fast and I’m guessin’ he’s come to realize how big a whoops that was. I think he’s kind of locked himself away and Evan is doing everything he can to keep that door closed. No, for the time being Jon Brewer is dead in the water. Although I’m sure his wife is givin’ him an earful.”

“That’s too bad. I always sort of liked him.”

“Yeah,” Shep’s voice drifted off. “Me too, I guess. But look, you got to finish up what you’re doing. Sounds as if you’ve got your teeth into it now. I’ll help you best I can, but that ain’t much. Like I said, they’re watching us real close.”

“You can do one thing for me, can’t you, Shep?”

He raised a suspicious eyebrow.

She asked, “Give Denise a hug. Tell her I love her.”

“And tell her you’ll be home soon?”

Nina shook her head. “No, don’t tell her that. No reason to lie.”

*

OUR BELOVED ANN SOMMERS, January 15th, 1922-August 9, 1964

IN MEMORY OF JOSEPH STEINHARDT, November 1875-February 4, 1950

HERE LIES A LOVING FATHER AND A GENTLE MAN, ARTHUR TURTLEDOVE, LAID TO REST ON OCTOBER 21, 1975.

The markers stood in lines on the two square miles of green hills comprising St. Mary’s cemetery on the southern outskirts of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Most were humble stones baring fading names, a few more grand with stone crosses and weeping angels.

A group of thieves stalked the grounds under the cover of night, stepping lightly between markers and moving from the open hillside into a stretch of trees. Nina led them with Odin the Norwegian Elkhound at her side. Gordon came next, prodding along Dr. Maple who stumbled every few steps. Oliver Maddock and Carl Bly—members of Nina’s Dark Wolves unit—flanked the group to either side.

They approached a tumulus mausoleum built into the side of a shaded ridge. Rows of pillars gave the crypt classic, Greek architecture but the small tomb was nearly hidden by drooping tree branches, making it a surprisingly quiet and sedate resting place for an Emperor . Etched above the door was the family name STONE surrounded by carved arrows.

Nina approached the entrance while the others waited. The sword strapped to her leg and the rifle slung on her back jingled. A wind shuffled leaves and the sound of a night bird whizzed overhead, the lone witness to their trespass.

She stopped and produced a spray can. Gordon held a heavy but small tank in one hand and a flashlight in the other. He pointed that flashlight toward Nina and the tomb’s entrance.

The spray can Nina used released a fine mist that, in turn, revealed the red beam of a security sensor spanning the door about chest-high. While the sentries at the guard station near the main entrance had already been incapacitated, the alarm might broadcast a wider alert.

She motioned Knox forward. He, in turn, gave Maple a polite shove. The doctor’s glasses nearly fell off but he did as instructed.

As they approached, Nina sprayed the beam again. Gordon bent under the electronic trip wire, rested his parcels on the ground, and produced a tiny packet from a pocket in the black assault vest he wore. He ruptured that package and spread its contents against the mausoleum door locks. A pasty acid burned into the bolts. A moment later, a gentle push swung the portal open. Cool, musty air drifted out from the crypt.

Gordon gathered his items and entered. Nina used the spray can to highlight the security beam once more, then pushed Dr. Maple’s head lower, so he and his medical bag slipped underneath without tripping the alarm.

The Captain turned to the remainder of the party. Maddock gave a thumb up and crouched alongside a tombstone. Bly did the same with his eyes focused in another direction. Odin hovered between the two, his canine nose searching the air for threats.

She slipped inside the crypt avoiding the man-made alarm beam keeping watch over the final resting place of Trevor Stone. But just inside the door, high up in a black corner, a patch of what could be mistaken for moss glowed a soft light of alert.

As the trio of intruders approached the metal sarcophagus at the rear of the room, a wakeup call transmitted to the tomb’s other guardians…

…In the thin forest along the perimeter of St. Mary’s cemetery, on a branch of a birch tree, drooped two large green bulbs easily mistaken for discolored bees nests or the rotting remains of Gypsy Moth cocoons. The bulbs shimmied and curled open with a soft crackle. Vile liquid dripped in long, stringy strands as two greenish spheres birthed from the sickly wombs…

…Flashlights found the Emperor’s coffin. Its shiny reflection in the artificial light contrasted starkly with the dreary, aged stone of the small room.

A sophisticated electronic lock affixed to a bar controlled a series of seals along the frame. Cracking the lock’s code would take time, which was why Gordon Knox brought along a more direct method of penetrating the final ring of security protecting the Emperor’s last vessel.

He slipped on a pair of welder’s goggles and ignited a blowtorch. The furious fountain of sparks from burning acetylene lit the chamber like a holiday fireworks display. The metal glowed as it melted and broke under the assault.

Captain Forest and Dr. Maple stood off with their hands protecting their eyes. The heat from Gordon’s work chased away the coolness of the room.

Nina felt uneasy inside the burial site. She felt even more uneasy as she spied Dr. Maple examining her as if she might be a bug under a microscope.

“What? Is there a problem?”

He pushed his spectacles higher on his nose and answered, “You really don’t remember, um, a thing. Do you?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

Gordon finished cutting through one section of the locking mechanism, slid the torch tank to the other end of the coffin, and continued his work.

“Well, um, I was there, you know,” the Doctor explained. “Me and Reverend Johnny, you see, found the, um, memory implant in your head. We had to, well, break the news—so to speak—to Trevor.”

Nina’s eye narrowed. She felt a shiver in her spine.

“And what? What do you know about all that?”

Maple smiled. He tried to appear confident and in control with that smile, but it came across as weak and unsure. Nonetheless he tried, shaking his head and saying, “It would be treason, um, you see. Trevor said it would be treason to tell you anything about the times you, um, can’t recall.”

She ignored the irony in Maple speaking of treason and wrapped a fist around his collar.

“Listen, you had better—”

“Get me out of this! Get me out of this in one piece…protect me and I’ll tell you.”

“Right now, you need protection from me. I want you to tell me—”

A heavy clang interrupted the interrogation as the locking mechanism fell away.

Knox, unaware of the conversation, turned off the torch and raised his goggles.

“That should do the trick,” he said.

Nina stared at Maple for a long two seconds, and then released his collar as she turned her eyes to the coffin.

As the moment arrived, Nina found she did not want to gaze upon the rotting corpse of her beloved leader. It had been bad enough to view his perfectly preserved body as it lay in state more than a month ago. But to see the man she had admired rotting away…to see him as nothing more than an empty shell…that made her stomach ache.

Yet she could not avoid this duty. Based on Maple’s confessions, she agreed with Knox that clues waited inside the Emperor’s body.

She grabbed one end, Gordon the other. Together they lifted the heavy lid and dropped it to the floor.

Inside the coffin lay the body of Trevor Stone. His skin not decayed, not blotched, and not running but clean and clear without a blemish to be seen. His eyes closed peacefully, his hair combed perfectly, his strong hands still crossed across his chest.

“My God, Doctor,” Gordon spoke first. “What the Hell did you use to embalm him?”

Maple swallowed hard and admitted, “We didn’t embalm him…”

…From each of the sick round spheres lying on the soft forest floor sprouted a trio of sharp and boney protrusions. They hinged at an unseen joint and returned to the ground, stabbing into the mush there. At the center of each creature rose a glowing orb alongside a fleshy cylinder that sat on a tendon-like shoulder.

The creatures—both of them—rose five feet in the air…

…Odin stood still between the two Dark Wolves commandos with his curly tail rigidly held aloft and the fur of his mane standing like porcupine prickles. A scent carried through the air to his snout; a scent of death and decay different from the cemetery’s stench. He had not smelled that particular aroma in many years.

Odin growled and turned his eyes toward the line of trees to their right. Something wicked approached…

…“I did not embalm the body. I was told only to stitch the wound.”

The flashlight—propped on the casket—shined on the perfectly preserved remains of Trevor Stone.

Nina insisted, “Doctor, someone did something to him. I’m just saying, dead bodies don’t hold up like this.”

Before she even finished, Gordon pulled a hunting knife and drew it across the dead man’s tunic. The fabric tore, revealing somewhat scorched skin beneath a row of stitches running from his upper chest to his stomach.

“That’s where the blast was,” Maple explained. “A terrible wound. He was certainly hit by one of the alien energy rifles.”

“I see,” Gordon mumbled.

Nina acted on a hunch. She carefully reached toward the dead man’s face and, after a moment of hesitation, lifted the eyelids. Two intact eyes with no sign of rot stared out with a glossy glimmer; the pupils dilated not too much, not too little.

A soft gasp escaped her lips.

Knox grabbed the bag in Maple’s hand and shoved it against his chest.

“Cut him, Doctor.”

“I can’t do a proper autopsy here. I can barely see!”

“I don’t think you’re going to have to dig very deep. Now cut him.”

The doctor did as instructed. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves then pulled a scalpel from his bag and went to work releasing the stitches. They snapped apart one after another.

Nina curled her nose and sniffed the air. Her eyes danced around as her mind drew a conclusion.

“Do you smell that?”

Her question pulled Knox from observing the doctor’s work. “Huh? What? Smell what?”

“That’s what I mean,” she answered. “Look, there should be a smell. He’s cutting open the chest and there’s no smell. No dead smell, no body smell. Nothing.”

“No,” Gordon corrected. “There is a smell. Almost sweet. Not the smell of a dead body. Something different. Very strange.”

Maple finished re-opening the wound and hesitated.

“Go ahead, doctor,” Knox said. “Do your job.”

Maple huffed and examined the contents of the corpse. He first bent back the perfectly intact rib cage.

“Interesting. These bones are…well they’re almost rubbery. Not so much bone. More like tissue. There’s also a lot of blood down here.”

Gordon said, “You mean coagulated blood.”

“No, very much a liquid.”

Nina stood on her toes to peer over his shoulder but lost her nerve. Instead of watching she asked, “Well? What do you see?”

“Internal organs,” Maple answered.

“No kidding,” she hissed. “But do you see any problems?”

“The lungs, the liver, the heart, all are in perfect condition.”

Nina asked, “I mean, do you see anything unusual?”

Knox repeated the doctor’s words, “Perfect condition.”

“Yes,” Maple’s voice wavered, suspicious of his own conclusions. “Perfect condition.”

“They shouldn’t be in perfect condition, Doctor,” said Knox. “They should be decomposing, rotting away. The blood should not be flowing around in there, it should be dried and dead. His eyes should be rolled, his skin sagging. Why isn’t it, Doctor? Why?”

For a few moments, the doctor’s professional curiosity swept aside his circumstance. He spoke as if he might be in a laboratory at work, studying a specimen.

“No rigor mortis. No decay. But yet…”

Knox pounced, “What?”

“The organs. Everything is exactly where it should be. No settling. The body has not lost any cohesion. It’s not right.”

Nina’s eyes widened and she pushed herself between the doctor and Knox. She saw the carved open chest of the body that appeared to belong to Trevor Stone. In the hole there she saw globs of pink and splashes of red.

She said, “You’re saying that this is not Trevor Stone.”

“What?” Maple gasped.

“It’s a fake.”

Knox scratched his chin and echoed, “A fake? Interesting thought, Captain.”

“Impossible,” Maple decreed meekly. “I mean, everything looks exactly as it should.”

“Yes,” Nina’s mind buzzed. “It’s too perfect. Look, I mean, you said it yourself. All the organs are intact, there’s no decay, it looks like a human body but it was never alive so it could not rot to begin with. This isn’t Trevor Stone.”

The assumption left Knox befuddled, one of the few times in his life.

“That makes no sense. There’s no logic to it. Evan assassinated Trevor Stone. What would he have to gain by a fake body?”

Maple stumbled, “But who could do such a thing? This is not some sort of Hollywood special effect. These organs look exactly as they should; the glands, the blood vessels…everything is straight from a text book.”

“But never any life,” Nina knew the answer as if by instinct. “Just a prop. Just enough so that if you didn’t look too close you’d think he was dead. Listen, this changes everything.”

The grave robbers heard the sound of Odin barking fiercely….

…They came from the tree line, two monsters each with a yellow light for a face sitting at the nexus of three bony green legs. They moved forward methodically, closing toward the violated crypt.

Odin stood next to a marble angel and barked. Oliver and Carl raised their weapons. The creatures marched across the open as if unafraid of any human defense.

Nina and Gordon with Maple in tow burst out from the tomb, no longer concerned with the security trip wire. As they moved from the damp, cool confines of the grave and into the oppressive heat of the July night, the creatures began their attack.

A fleshy tube-like weapon alongside the glowing head fired from a clock-like face of holes, one after another. Deadly pellets sought out the three who exited the mausoleum. Nina pushed Maple to a sitting position behind a sturdy grave marker, then rolled to the grassy ground with her weapon ready. Knox took position behind one of the fake pillars—more sculpture than support—at the front of the crypt and readied his own nickel-plated automatic.

The Dark Wolves fired at their assailants. The creatures seemed to not even notice the bullets and continued their approach.

“What the Hell are these things?” Carl Bly shouted as he let fly another three-round burst.

Oliver added his firepower to Bly’s and assured, “Easy chap, we’ll put them down.”

The approaching horrors fired again, this time with far more accuracy. A series of shots not only hit one of the tomb’s fake pillars where Knox stood, but literally ripped away the stone there. It exploded off the façade in big dusty chunks, chasing Knox from that spot to a more concealed position behind the crypt.

Another volley aimed for and disintegrated the gravestone behind which Nina had placed Maple. The marker blasted away from top to bottom, becoming nothing but powder floating away on a summer night’s breeze. Maple tried to flee as his protection evaporated. The powerful projectiles punched through his hide and did to his body what they had done to the tombstone.

“No! No!”

Nina’s shouts could not stop the doctor’s destruction and her well-aimed bullets that hit the attacker did not dissuade its assault. Indeed, like the other shots flying in the monsters’ direction the creature did not even feel the impact. It just moved forward, alongside its partner, and strolled in for the kill; to silence those who had learned the truth.

“We can’t hold these things!”

Nina agreed with Carl but a glance at her watch told her that they must hold these things for another two minutes.

She found an anti-personnel grenade on her battle suit, pulled the pin and threw it toward the approaching danger. The explosive detonated between the two creatures, showering them with shrapnel. They wobbled in response to the deadly rain, halting their approach briefly. But as the shrapnel faded so did their hesitation. The creatures marched forward again, thirty yards and closing, their strange weapons firing and forcing Nina to seek new cover further away.

Maddock followed his Captain’s lead, using the M203 launcher on the barrel of his weapon to lob another explosive grenade at their assailants. This one hit directly beneath one of the things and detonated, peppering the undercarriage of the monster, causing it to hop, but any damage remained light. It strutted forward on its tripod of legs, firing in flashes that brought light to the lightless meadow of headstones.

Knox popped out from behind the mausoleum, held his pistol in both hands, and fired in heavy thunder claps at the creatures now twenty yards away. His addition to the fight only brought unwanted attention. A flurry of alien pellets whizzed by his head. He dove to the ground and rolled between rows of markers, the tops of which were torn away by pursuing fire.

Odin barked and ran to Nina’s side as she knelt and squeezed more shots from a fresh magazine.

Oliver Maddock reloaded his M203 launcher and caused another delay in the monsters’ approach when the projectile exploded. A very brief delay.

“We need to fall back!” Carl spoke the obvious.

Nina objected, “We have to get the body! Listen! We have to take it with us.”

Knox ran to her position, grabbed her arm, and pulled her in retreat saying, “Forget the body! Fall back!”

Carl Bly stood with a grenade in hand. A series of shots hit the tombstone he used for cover, pushing through the granite and hitting him. He managed to toss the explosive but with much less strength than intended. It stopped far shy of its target and exploded harmlessly.

Maddock hooked an arm around his friend’s waist and dragged him off at a fast limp.

“We can’t move fast enough!” Knox shouted.

“Leave me,” Bly said.

“Not a chance, buttie,” Maddock insisted with a touch of Welsh slang. “Now shush your noise.”

Knox, however, appeared to be right. The four people and their dog retreated down an open hill face among row after row of monuments to people long past. Those same monuments proved an obstacle for the three-legged pursuers, causing them to step daintily between statues and tombstones. Nonetheless, they gained ground and their deadly projectiles came closer and closer to hitting another mark.

Nina turned and fired again, kneeling behind a wide grave marker. Alien rounds chipped away at that stone fast. She consulted her watch, and then turned a hopeful eye toward the sky.

“C’mon, c’mon, don’t be late.”

A swoosh of air and flashes of searching spotlights announced the arrival of Shepherd’s contribution to the team as Eagle One roared in over the slope of the hill with the twin plasma cannons under its triangular nose firing flame-like bursts of energy at the aliens.

The expert pilot flew the craft with precision, swinging its back end around toward a suitable landing position while the turret-mounted guns under the nose cone stayed locked on target. The blasts from the ship’s guns obliterated stones, spat earth and grass into the sky, and forced the hideous guardians to halt their pursuit. In turn, the strange pellets from those animals took aim at the aircraft, punching divots in its hard hull in a series of clings, clangs, and dings.

Hauser lowered the Eagle between the attackers and the escaping team, opening the starboard side door from his position in the pilot’s seat. The bright light of the passenger module cast a glow over the grassy hillside.

Nina entered last, covering Maddock and Knox as they helped the injured Bly inside. Odin—in a running leap—jumped up and in.

The Eagle’s powerful main guns managed to blast off one of the creatures’ legs, but could not destroy them; their hides appeared much stronger than their spindly frames suggested. Still, they could not advance into that fire and they could not stop the Eagle from lifting off and away from the grounds of St. Mary’s cemetery.

Inside the passenger compartment, attention turned first to Bly. Blood oozed from his side. They laid him on one of the bench seats and removed his clothing to assess the damage.

“Got right through your armor, mate,” Maddock said.

“Yeah—ouch—and through a tombstone on the way there—argh—too.”

Nina told him, “Good thing, too. Goddamn tombstone saved your sorry ass. But look, it’s bleeding pretty good. You need to see a doctor.”

“Yeah, and we lost ours,” Knox said.

Nina computed quickly. “Okay, listen. We’ll stop at one of the hospitals down town and get him to emergency. Maybe we can get him patched up and out again without too many questions.”

Knox shook his head, “No way around this, Captain. We’ve got to toughen up and keep moving. Those things weren’t there by accident and I’m guessing Internal Security and who-knows who else will be all over us real soon. But there are more things to consider.”

Nina turned to him with angry eyes. She would not leave comrades behind. She would not let Bly bleed to death.

Gordon, however, gave her reason to reconsider: “They’re going to know we saw the body. They’re going to figure out how close we are to figuring this all out. They’re going to start covering their tracks; erasing everything. We have to move fast, Captain. Remember that promise you made to Ashley.”

Her brow furled. She did not like lectures.

“He’s right,” Bly spat between grunts of pain. “Just drop me off and you keep going. Cap, you gotta find out what is going on.”

“I’ll stick with this one,” Maddock volunteered. “Maybe we can get in and get out of the hospital quick. But you’re gunna have to move a shade faster, methinks.”

Knox grabbed Nina’s arm so as to grab her attention. “Let them go, Captain. You have a mission to complete.”

“W-what? Where? We have everything.”

“No, we don’t. There’s a lot more to do. More places to go.”

“Like where?”

“Someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look like the Redcoats flew all the way up here to kill Trevor Stone. They then made sure those assassins got shot down and then put together a fake body. That means there’s still another place to look for answers.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Come on, who could do this? Think. A body that was not a body. Something that resembled a living thing but was never alive. And those things that attacked us. Where have you seen something similar?”

“I-I don’t remember them. I’ve never seen anything quite like them.”

“Get out the hostiles database, Captain. Page through it. Go back to the first edition, when the illustrations were sketches by Anita Nehru. What did they look like? Whose work did they resemble?”

Her eyes widened as realization hit home.

He told her, “There’s one more place we have to look for answers. One more place to check before we can be sure.”

She answered, “The Redcoat base. In Mexico.”

“We have to be sure that they were the fall guys. If I’m right,” Gordon let go her arm and his eyes grew tight, “then Evan has been a bigger fool than I thought possible. He’s made a deal with the devil and our time is running out.”

“What are you two talking about?” Bly interrupted from his position on the bench seat where one hand held a wad of gauze to a bloody wound.

Gordon warned, “There’s someone pulling the strings in all this. Someone we haven’t heard from in a long, long time.”

Fly on the Wall

“Danny! Danny, run!”

Too late.

The expanding vortex enveloped Washburn and his team. Trevor heard Danny’s confused voice over the radio, barely audible beneath the moaning, crying maelstrom.

“Wh-what? What is this?”

Stone watched his friend warp and stretch…

“What is this? Oh God, Trevor! Help us!”

…and disappear into Hell….

“What is this place? It hurts! TREVOR! HELP US FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! YOU CAN’T LEAVE US! TREVOR! HELP ME! HELP ME! WHAT ARE THESE THINGS? GET OFF OF ME! GET OFF! OH GOD OHGODOHGOD…”

The vortex collapsed and disappeared, its shriek silenced. The radio frequency cut.

The cold snow of a December afternoon fell fast so as to fill the wide round crater where a part of the Earth had once been.

Another victim of Armageddon with one difference: this one had been sent—ordered—to his doom by Trevor Stone.

I could have waited a while longer; could have observed the gate more. I could have sent in Stonewall’s relief force. Why didn’t I do that? Did Danny really have to die?

Trevor watched the spinning vortex engulf his friend again. He heard the pleading for help once more. And then he saw…

…Beautiful golden fields surrounded New Winnabow. Beautiful golden fields of tall grass sloping up to meet the woodlands.

As dawn rose above New Winnabow, Trevor’s army came from those woods.

First a few…then more. Trotting forward at a steady pace neither rushed nor slow.

The mass of K9 Grenadiers swarmed from the forest and into those golden fields. Their paws stamped and flattened the grass. Breath from panting snouts sent clouds of frost into the sky like steam rising from machines.

Killing machines.

They came.

Not dozens. Not hundreds.

More.

As they descended the slope, their pace hastened.

Unseen behind them, the will of Trevor Stone. The dogs served as his hand. More personal than his human armies; as if his soul descended upon the peaceful village standing in the way of his campaign to rid his world of alien invaders.

Row upon row upon row pouring across the grassy field. Snarling, charging, growling; the mass of invaders smashed into the town like a tidal surge. Their columns streamed down every passage and every street and through every open door as if they were a deluge of water filling all avenues.

The first group of defending militia did not fire their weapons; they turned to run. The dogs dragged them down from behind, arms and hands and throats torn and ripped and crushed in the jaws of the merciless beasts.

Trevor could feel their fear. He heard their cries for mercy but the beasts knew no mercy; they only knew the commands of their master. He saw fathers torn to shreds in front of their children; mothers gored by the demonic legion.

Still they came, smashing through windows and knocking open doors. Every death another red stain on Trevor Stone’s hands. He felt it so vividly he might as well be standing among the horde. The sounds of destruction and the hollers for help; the smell of the morning dew. All very real to him even though he had been hundreds of miles away at the time of the assault.

Trevor saw the truth in the eyes of the dead there; the truth of how far he would go in the name of victory. Those dead eyes stared at him in contempt for the man who called himself a liberator but chose to conquer that day.

That hatred for him stuck in his conscience; the fear the people of New Winnabow had known as the K9 corps ravaged their town took root in Trevor’s heart. He saw his face in the mirror of his mind and cringed at what evil lurked there. He saw…

…Nina Forest; but no, not her. The imposter. He saw her bound to a bed by straps tied with his hands. He felt an angry, dark lust explode inside his soul, one part violent and jealous of all he had lost, another desperate to taste even a poor copy of the only woman he loved.

He had taken her but not in passion and with no trace of romance. He had taken her in anger; revenge toward the powers steering his fate.

To pervert the act of making love into something more akin to assault, more possession or abuse, made Trevor feel sick and diseased; unworthy to ever feel love again. It seemed a blasphemy to all he had shared with the real Nina.

And he saw that same alternate Nina cowering in the face of his rage as he projected his battlefield failure on to her because the ego of a dictator allowed no room for self-doubt.

Reel after reel of his miseries, of his failures as a person, of his guilt; rewound and played over and over again. Not memories, but a reenactment of each horrible moment. Everything very real, from the smoky smell of a smoldering Red Hand campfire inside the room where he found the body of Sheila Evans to the emptiness in his heart—an ache as brutal as any injury—as he told Nina goodbye.

Each wound tore repeatedly with no respite, no forgiveness, no chance for redemption.

Trevor Stone was in Hell.

*

Brad Gannon walked through the damp, cramped passageway dimly lit by sporadic glowing globes imbedded in the green walls. As usual, the place felt more like an organic artery than a constructed building. The scent of the sea water seeped through the walls giving the entire place a salty smell, like the inside of a fish factory.

The first time he visited one of The Order’s facilities had been in Japan. As he recalled, just prior to the invasion his agent landed the up-and-coming actor a role in a Japanese commercial, the added exposure perfectly timed to coincide with the release of his breakout movie, a summer action-flick. Gannon found himself on the far side of the Pacific in a crowded Tokyo hotel when the bad things came calling.

Suddenly the swarm of press and awe-struck Japanese teenagers disappeared. Suddenly the limousines and translators at his beck and call were nowhere to be found.

He knew something to be horribly wrong but did not realize it to be a global phenomenon until he tuned CNN International on the hotel TV. That’s when broadcasters speaking in English clued him in on alien invasion forces and monsters.

Still, it did not seem real until his hotel caught fire and he was chased into the streets with the rest of the tourists. That’s when he saw a Leviathan for the first time, moving through downtown. At that moment, Brad Gannon realized the world had become a very different place and he soon came to believe that that new place would belong to Voggoth.

During his days of commercials, soft porn straight-to-DVD flicks, and soap opera fillins, Brad Gannon learned that being a successful actor did not mean being a good actor; it meant being in the right place at the right time. It meant surviving things such as auditions, contract negotiations, and studio management changes. He saw talented kids end up working at fast food restaurants and hacks given parts in tent-pole movies. Talent, Gannon saw, contributed only a small part to the greater equation.

Those experiences proved an epiphany for the young, struggling actor, and his fortunes changed as a result. Yes, he continued to strive to be a great thespian, but he also strived to know who would be at which cocktail party, which executive had an axe to grind with which director, or how to get a screen writer a meeting with a producer in exchange for a part written in to the film for Brad Gannon.

At that moment when he spied the Leviathan towering above the twin tops of the 800-foot tall Metropolitan Government building in Shinjuku, Brad Gannon felt certain that his efforts in playing the Hollywood game had become irrelevant, that he was now nothing more than a face in the crowd running for his life before the next blast of supersonic wind could tear him apart along with the rest of what remained of Tokyo. Indeed, he remembered laughing hysterically as he fled, knowing he had become an extra in a real-life Japanese monster flick.

Not until Spider Sentries and sword-wielding ‘monks’ attacked the shelter in Yokosuka did Gannon realize his skills might yet have some application. That is when he met one of the missionaries of The Order. Gannon convinced the odd fellow that he could help the man—or, whatever he was—coax the refugees from behind the barricades.

Using a combination of his acting skills and his pre-end-of-the-world status as a celebrity, Gannon managed to do just that. Dozens of Japanese men, women, and children were carted off for parasitic implantation while Gannon survived, intact. He felt he deserved an award for that performance, considering he performed for a Japanese audience but spoke only English.

Gannon did not see himself as a traitor, a sell-out, or a puppet of propaganda. He saw himself as a survivor. One without a Voggoth implant because he proved more useful than the typical drone.

He now found that usefulness to be a curse. His role as an intermediary between The Order, the Witiko, and President Godfrey resulted in constant shuttle trips from the mainland to the base, usually in one of the radar-evading Stingrays. And like his other recent trips, he found himself confronting his leash-holders with Godfrey’s demands.

Gannon moved along the organic hall followed by two robbed monks, creatures that had once been human. They were armed with unsophisticated swords as well as growths on their wrists capable of firing some type of lethal pellet.

Gannon knew that when the day came that he angered his masters or lost his usefulness, he might just receive one of those implants and join the ranks of the monks. Or worse. He had long ago vowed to do whatever necessary to avoid that day.

“Greetings, Mr. Gannon.”

The voice belonged to Gannon’s contact. At first glance, he resembled a man, perhaps even a priest based on the black clothes he wore. He had a thin frame but broad shoulders; the skin on his face drew tight around his jawbone and his wide eyes seemed afire with life. Old, perhaps, but not elderly.

Gannon first met this agent of Voggoth upon his return to the Americas. Apparently the ‘Missionary’ suffered a setback on the east coast during the early years of the invasion only to be re-assigned to California.

They had worked together, in secret, after Gannon earned a public position with the California resistance. When the gateways closed and the tide of battle appeared destined to turn against the Witiko, the Missionary ordered Gannon to change from spying to public relations. The result? The California Cooperative.

While not as effective as a complete Witiko victory, The Cooperative—the Missionary often said—still served Voggoth.

Gannon left behind his escort and followed the Missionary along a side corridor into a half-circle room with closed skin-like shutters. Protrusions from the wall served as seats but Gannon did not sit; not when he saw what waited in that room.

The actor bowed his head and addressed the other, “Your Excellency, I was under the impression you would have departed by now.”

Another human form, this one dressed in an ornate robe of red and gold. The splendor of his garb contrasted with his decaying, flaking skin. Patches of green covered his throat. While his eyes may have once been human, now they appeared as emerald balls with pulsing red veins.

“Mr. Gannon,” the Bishop replied. “I leave today for other commitments. However, I am quite pleased to see you one last time.”

Gannon felt the hair on his arms stand straight. As much as he had come to accept the Missionary, the Spider-Sentries, and the living machines that were not really alive, the presence of the Bishop caused him a cold sweat.

“I serve, you know, at your pleasure.”

The Missionary steered the conversation, “What brings you here again so soon?”

Gannon licked his lips. “The um, President, that is, Evan, asked me to relay a message.”

Brad knew that his associates would translate the phrase ‘message’ to ‘demand.’ The Bishop—as he always did—stood patiently and watched but the Missionary—as he almost always did—showed more reaction.

“What is it this time? We have already begun cleansing operations. After all we have done for him, he had best remember that he serves Voggoth.”

Gannon coughed. He knew President Evan Godfrey did not, in any manner, work on behalf of Voggoth. Godfrey had never even met one of The Order’s ambassadors. To Godfrey, Voggoth remained just another alien invader and a convenient ally against Trevor Stone.

While Gannon did not feel compelled to recap all that, he did feel the need to remind, “Evan Godfrey does not think he serves Voggoth at all.”

The Bishop spoke in a soft, almost sympathetic voice, “No, his kind never do.”

“Well, yeah, but the point is the President would like you to, well, he requests you finish up what you’re doing and get it over with. I mean, he’d feel a lot better with Trevor Stone dead.”

“How dare he dictate to us,” the Missionary pounced in a manner Gannon felt sure was for the Bishop’s benefit. Despite how inhuman these creatures had become, they still maintained a trace of human weaknesses. Ambition, in the case of the Missionary. He certainly served Voggoth, but made sure his service was noticed.

Gannon said, “Well, now, from his point of view you gained a lot. He’s just asking that you finish it up. For his sake, you know?”

The Bishop said, “We have only had access to Stone for a week. More time is required for blessed Voggoth to be satisfied.”

Gannon paused and cocked his head. In the silence, the steady hum—almost a breathing sound—of the complex filled the room. “Wait a sec. I mean, you’ve had him since day one. That’s, like, six or seven weeks now.”

The Bishop enlightened, “Do you think we were prepared for this? In short order we arranged for the necessary pieces in the plan to deliver Mr. Godfrey into power. Do you know how great a sacrifice this was? Hundreds of Voggoth’s children slaughtered in order to cover the truth. We asked only that Stone be given over to us, intact, for the greater glory of Voggoth.”

Gannon remembered those negotiations. He remembered how Godfrey insisted that Stone could not merely disappear; his body—a body—needed to be seen by the public.

“Yep. I mean, yes, your Excellency, I am aware of this.”

The Bishop appeared agitated. Whatever lurked beneath his robe squirmed. Gannon gulped. He did not want to know what waited behind those covers.

“Yes, we received Stone and before the tranquilizer dart wore off we put him into stasis…to wait until we were ready.”

“I don’t get it. Ready?” Gannon glanced around the room but thought of the entire complex. “You’ve had this place out here for months. You weren’t ready for Stone?”

“This facility, yes, but not what we needed for Stone’s arrival.”

The Bishop turned away from Gannon and glided toward the shuttered windows. Those membranes pulled away, revealing the room to be an observation area looking down on a much larger chamber.

Gannon hesitantly followed to the plastic-like windows.

Over the years, Gannon witnessed many iterations of The Order’s machines. He once viewed a field of gestating Lesser Guardians, first mistaking them for massive fungi before knowing their true purpose. He once met with a contact in Japan at an implant growth and processing assembly line.

Still, in all his experience he learned little about the technology used by his masters. The equipment, the walls, and the apparatus that served Voggoth appeared to be alive; organic. Yet what little human intuition remained in Gannon’s beaten mind told him that Voggoth’s machines were very much not alive. They were, it seemed, the antithesis of life. A mockery of it.

The machine filling the large room below resembled a miniature mountain of blob, its surface broken by ribbed lines that could have been spines of a kind. The entire assembly of fleshy material pulsated like a disfigured heart.

At the very top worked a disturbing sight; an image that told Gannon this machine served a special purpose. At first, his eyes thought he saw a giant spider stuck in the taffy-like top of the machine. Then he came to realize that the struggling, thin appendages that worked up and down were not a separate being, but a part of the greater whole. Those thin appendages might be typing away furiously on a keyboard hidden in the muck; or maybe they weaved some unseen silk inside the mound. Regardless, their fast work made them resemble some kind of big insect drowning in sticky quicksand: up and down, up and down, squirming and tangling then untangling without pause.

Gannon’s face twisted in revulsion, despite all he had seen and done before.

“Behold,” the Missionary proclaimed, suggesting that he did so as much to impress the Bishop, “the greatness of Voggoth has created what others might only imagine. An inspirational testament to his superior status in the universe.”

Gannon’s eyes moved from the pumping, churning appendages at the top of the machine and cast down. There he saw a pair of monks standing idly, like robots lacking instruction. Between them, at the base of the giant mound-like machine, lay Trevor Stone.

The former Emperor wore black pants and boots, but his shirt had been removed. A tangle of slimy hoses wrapped around his body. A smaller patch of fibrous tendrils held tight over his eyes like a badly frayed blindfold. Tentacle-straps secured his wrists and ankles.

The man screamed a forlorn holler echoing through the chamber.

Gannon gasped. “What…I mean, what are you doing to him? Torturing him?”

The Bishop closed his eyes and smiled in appreciation of Stone’s agony.

“I attempted to purify Trevor Stone a long time ago. We subjected him to a great deal of physical distress,” Voggoth’s Bishop spoke as if visiting a fond memory. “You see, there is debate within The Order as to the greater weakness of your kind: is it your attachments and emotions, or is it—as I first believed—your physical form? In our first encounter, I subjected Stone to a great deal of physical duress, an attempt to weaken his mind by breaking his spirit with pain. I felt certain we had succeeded, but somehow he overcame the therapy and his mind survived. A failure, and when he escaped, Voggoth was displeased.”

“You did all you could,” the Missionary consoled.

The Bishop went on, “Do you know what Mr. Stone is? He is a pure strain of what you might call human life, second only to his son. His line can be traced throughout the history of your species, all the way back to the first DNA strand that sparked the growth of men, your animals, your entire ecosystem. As such, he is a symbol of great importance.”

“Um, okay, so what is it you’re doing? Studying him?”

As the Bishop replied, his emerald eyes grew wide. Not for the first time, Gannon saw the darkness that existed inside the creatures of The Order. Gannon knew that at any moment, if he did not play his role perfectly, he could be eclipsed by that darkness.

“Yes, studying him, in a fashion. We could not destroy him with physical harm, but now we are destroying him without causing a single injury to his flesh. We are tearing him apart from the inside out, Mr. Gannon. Creating the physical likeness that we left to fool your people was an easy task compared to this magnificent machine. It required weeks to grow.”

The Missionary chimed in, “How splendid!”

“Years ago, when Stone failed to succumb to physical duress, there were those who suggested his success proved the superiority of your form of life; those who suggested he had earned some kind of victory for your race. But now look at Trevor Stone! He is in agony!”

“How? What?”

“That is the beauty of this machine. We have done nothing but take memories and experiences from his mind and allow him to re-live them, while also warping his perception of time. For you and I, seconds have passed. For Mr. Stone, a day? Two days? These are not phantasms; not deceits. His life. His failures. The times that broke his spirit, or caused him to question his very existence. Voggoth has turned his emotions and attachments against him, and in his brilliance he has illustrated the weakness of your strain of so-called ‘life.’”

“Why? Why not just kill him? Isn’t he a danger to you? I mean, it’s just, what’s the purpose of putting him through all this?”

The Bishop turned to Gannon. “There is a point to be made, to others who watch events on this planet. Stone’s suffering shows humanity for the frail, undeserving creatures they are.”

The Missionary celebrated, “Glory to Voggoth!”

Gannon chewed on that idea. In his dealings with The Order, he tried to tell himself they were merely another alien race. Yet there were times when he realized Voggoth and his followers to be something more. Something worse.

Brad Gannon had cut his teeth in the entertainment industry, a progressive world full of gray; nothing simple or absolute. Now Gannon found himself in the company of pure evil. More so, he served that evil.

I am a survivor, nothing else. Nothing else!

The Bishop finished, “In a short time, Mr. Stone’s descent into insanity will prove human life to be fragile. We will show how inferior the thing you call ‘life’ really is. And by proving you inferior, the superiority of Voggoth will become all the more evident.”

Gannon’s eyes wavered between the monstrous machine and the grinning Bishop.

“You do not approve, Mr. Gannon?”

“Hey, you know, I’m a team player and all, I just—”

The Bishop lost his grin and warned, “Your approval is not necessary. In fact, your usefulness has become suspect. You did not stop Stone’s forces from invading and conquering California. If not for the ambition of this fool named Godfrey the so-called Empire would be in complete control of North America and in a position to threaten this facility as well as our facilities in the Pacific. Furthermore, we insisted on a fifty-percent decrease in their armed forces and that has not occurred.”

Gannon stumbled as he explained, “Hey, you know, it’s just Godfrey isn’t a complete moron. He’s a power-hungry politician but he’s still going to protect his people. But look, if I go back and tell him Stone is dead for good then maybe he’ll listen.”

The Bishop moved his skull-like face full of flaking flesh closer to Gannon and instructed, “You will return to President Godfrey and tell him to complete the terms of our treaty, immediately. If you cannot accomplish this task then Voggoth might find a capacity in which you might be more useful.”

Gannon whispered, “Yeah, s-sure.”

The Missionary broke in, “Your Excellency, transport is on standby for your journey.”

“I will be leaving shortly. But first, I must participate in an important communication on behalf of Voggoth. The components of this machine will serve that duty. You,” the Bishop looked to the Missionary, “will remain to oversee this facility until your pilgrimage. We are at a critical, vulnerable time. The extra resources spent to arrange for Mr. Stone’s assassination and the cleanup operations in Mexico have caused some difficulties. Remain vigilant.”

“Of course, your Excellency.”

The Bishop bowed his head politely to the other two, then walked—glided—from the room. The Missionary watched him go with a hawk’s eye. Gannon stepped away, as if to return to his Witiko transport. One of the Missionary’s cold hands grabbed his shoulder.

“Wait, Gannon.”

“Yeah?”

“You heard the Bishop. I will be making a pilgrimage to see Voggoth in the near future.”

“Hey, yeah, good for you. I remember when you did that last time.”

“Yes! Yes,” the Missionary remembered better days. “That was after we secured the end of hostilities in California. My Lord was eager for such good news after Stone had shut down the gateways. I received such glorious gifts!”

“Hey, good for you. Hope it works out well this time.”

“But it won’t, Gannon. I have no great deeds to show for my efforts. Landing Stone here, to suffer at the hand of Voggoth, is a great prize that came at a great price. More will come from the seeds we have planted by supporting this Godfrey, but what blooms from those seeds will be credited to his Excellency. My role in this larger plan is far less than I had hoped.”

Gannon nodded. The conversation had returned to his world, an arena in which he knew how to play.

“From the sounds of things his Excellency doesn’t think fondly of me right now, either.”

The two watched as the Bishop entered the chamber below, moving toward Trevor Stone’s secured body. As he approached, the Bishop reached to the wall of the machine. The organic structure grew a bulb-like appendage that enveloped the Bishop’s hand.

The Missionary explained, “But there is one thing you and I can do together, Mr. Gannon. One thing that will certainly please Voggoth and his Excellency does not need to be aware. After all, he has more urgent matters to attend.”

Gannon sneered, “Yeah, what now?”

“Tell President Godfrey that I will kill Trevor Stone immediately, in exchange for one minor concession.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“You heard the Bishop. Trevor Stone is the purest sample of your strain of life. Except for one. Bring me the boy so we might insert him into the machine, too. Bring me Trevor’s son.”

*

Reality. Not a dream, not a memory.

Trevor could smell the rotting corpses of canines, Red Hand warriors, and Sal Corso on the grounds of the estate. He did not merely remember that smell, he re-lived it in its entirety. Along with the smell came the feeling of failure. Of responsibility.

He could feel the texture of the pages in Sheila Evan’s diary; he could sense the lingering scent of her perfume. On the pages of that diary, the thoughts of a lonely soul who wished only to feel welcome; only to be comforted by another human being.

Mr. Stone…

But he had not been able to comfort Sheila. His mission held precedence; a mission of numbers, not individuals. Rebuilding from the ashes was a job for a cold-hearted General.

Mr. Stone…can you hear me?

The guilt, the insecurity, the self-loathing remained but the sights, sounds, smells, and feel of the horrible moments faded into a swirl of darkness in his mind’s eye.

It is good to be with you again, young man.

He knew that voice: The Order’s Bishop, the one who had held the reigns of the torture spider.

It’s not your fault, Mr. Stone. You are not personally to blame. It is the nature of your race. It is why you are inferior. Your attachment to false measures of morality and your dependence on emotions weakens your species. For example, do you know how it is you came to be here? You were betrayed by your own kind.

The swirling darkness disappeared, replaced by the smell of aviation fuel mixed with the scent of fresh-cut grass. Slowly colors came in to focus: red, orange and yellow from a flower garden adjacent to a beautiful green lawn.

Then it happened all over again. The Eagle air ship landed and out came Centurians in battle armor, firing their weapons. Evan Godfrey dropping to the grass. Internal Security agents…firing on other Internal Security agents.

Tyr—his best friend—shot and killed by a gray haired member of Evan’s security detail. Another blast. Trevor on the ground looking up at Ray Roos. Roos pulled a gun and fired. Trevor felt the sting in his chest but when he glanced toward the wound he saw a small dart.

They betrayed you, Mr. Stone. And you should know that Evan Godfrey now rules your Empire. Piece by piece he is undoing your work. Soon he will weaken your people enough…enough so that…well, I am afraid that you won’t live long enough to see the end result. However, today is a great day for blessed Voggoth. Allow me, Mr. Stone, to show you why.

Whatever magic fed new realities into Trevor’s mind now took him to another place. Another Earth. He flew through the clouds and to a world where nature ruled supreme. A world without pollution, an Earth where the masters of the environment lived in harmony with all around them.

Trevor felt a cool, clean breeze across his face. He saw rolling green fields, thick and healthy forests, rivers and streams where crystal blue water flowed. He flew overhead with great speed, unsure if he traveled only in his mind or on some kind of transport.

Far below on a mountainside meadow Trevor saw a primitive village with small dwellings constructed of animal hides and a pair of larger structures made from timber and thatch.

All around that village…near the entrances of the homes…near escape paths leading to the cover of the deep forest…bodies. Bodies of slender humanoids dressed in skins and cloth, creatures who comprised one of the eight invading armies on Trevor’s Earth but who were indigenous to this Earth in a parallel world where the Feranites—what Trevor’s people nicknamed ‘Red Hands’—fought to survive.

He soared above, cresting the mountain and beholding a carnival of horrors. In the fields below, the woods had been clear cut and replaced with ugly box-like buildings and dome-shaped homes and tall barricades. Smoke stacks poured soot into the atmosphere; the smell of burning iron works chased away the aroma of nature, the sound of massive machinery toiling away for unknown industries thundered in a symphony of noise pollution.

Trevor saw Feranite warriors, and females, and children in bondage driven by the whips of the bipedal lizard aliens Trevor knew as Hivvans, some too weak to carry on felt the deadly crunch of a master’s boot.

And he kept flying still, circling the globe. Feranite slaves tending to the whims of egotistical Witiko owners…Geryon dirigibles burning Red Hand villages so thoroughly that only scorch marks remained where buildings and people had stood…Chaktaw infantry shooting fleeing warriors in the back and tossing the bodies into pits filled with rotting Feranite corpses…human tanks closely matching the Abrams armor in his own ranks blasting the last wooden barriers protecting yet another village.

The world Trevor had first thought to be full of nature turned black from the smoke of the dying civilization that called that Earth home…

Blackness again.

This is the fate that awaits your people, Mr. Stone. You have failed and I wanted you to see what that failure will mean for the people of this Earth. Given your unique knowledge of the greater scheme of things, I believe you can appreciate the vision. But I must go now, to tend to matters of an official nature. I will leave you to your miseries…

The Bishop turned his attention elsewhere, but remained plugged into the machine that contrived Trevor’s torture. He needed that machine and its advanced engineering to complete a task for his master. As he did so, he did not fully disconnect from Trevor’s mind. In essence, he failed to hang up the phone, allowing Trevor—through the great machine—to be a fly on the wall at a meeting of the Gods…

…“The representative of Voggoth calls the gathered’s attention to the Feranite host world. The Feranite free population has fallen below one percent and no longer offers any organized resistance. Furthermore, nearly five million of their number is in servitude to the other races and the Feranite surrogate has been terminated. The representative of Voggoth calls for the Feranites to be ruled defeated.”

“The Feranites challenge this claim.”

“The Witiko agree with the representative of Voggoth: the Feranite race has been subjugated and destroyed to the degree that its current state reflects the parameters previously defined as defeat.”

“The Feranites charge Human violations.”

“The Geryons support this charge.”

“The Hivvans object. Rules violations have been counter-balanced.”

“The Feranites assert that the counter-balance to Human rule violations were implemented in a manner outside of the linear time line of the host world and, in fact, served to further strengthen the Human position on the host world and therefore failed to compensate for said violations. It is further charged that Human violations also benefited the Chaktaw.”

“The Centurians call for further investigation into alleged rules violations by the Humans and Chaktaw.”

“The Chaktaw counter-charge that the actions of agents of Voggoth on the Human and Chaktaw host worlds precipitated a series of rules violations that, in actuality, served as counter-balances to maintain the integrity of the host worlds.”

“The Humans support this counter-charge.”

“The Witiko consider the Chaktaw and Human counter-charge preposterous.”

“The Chaktaw further call into question the objectivity of the Nyx based on observations of cross-time and cross-dimensional travel outside the scope of gateway activity.”

“The Hivvans point out that the Nyx are not sentient and therefore their objectivity is not and cannot be in question.”

“The Humans suggest that fluctuations in the time line of their host world give reason to suspect that the Nyx may have interfered with linear events both in the local past and the local future, the full effects of which have not yet been determined.”

“The Witiko believe that if the Nyx have been misused it has been to the benefit of the Humans, as evident by cross-time travel by segments of the Human population, including the surrogate’s genetic line, in an apparent attempt to protect said population.”

“The Duass remind that the source of the suspect travel has not yet been determined due to the constraints of local linear time.”

“The Humans object to the suggestion of impropriety and counter-charge that an investigation should be launched into the coincidence of how such a large number of surrogates on all the host worlds were immediately and directly threatened upon the commencement of the challenge.”

“The representative of Voggoth observes that these charges, counter-charges and speculations are not germane to the disposition of the Feranites. The host cosmos’ were prepared in a manner unanimously accepted and designed to prevent rule violations or unforeseen circumstances from corrupting cosmos’ outside of those directly affected by said circumstances.”

“The Witiko remind the Feranites that their race embraced this concept and voted with the majority for utilizing the parallel cosmos.”

“The Feranites call for a re-evaluation of this structure.”

“The Duass reject this call.”

“The Chaktaw reject this call.”

“The Humans reject this call.”

“The representative of Voggoth rejects this call.”

“The Centurians reject this call.”

“The Hivvans reject this call.”

“The Witiko reject this call.”

“The Geryons reject this call.”

“The representative of Voggoth calls for recommendations as to the disposition of the Feranite race.”

“The Witiko reminds all participants that the Feranites have now failed the challenge. Their pattern of life is lacking.”

“The Feranites dispute this assertion. The Feranites dispute the classification of their race on the host world as defeated. The Feranites call for an investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death of the Feranite surrogate and whether or not said death constitutes a rules violation.”

“The Duass reject this dispute. The dominant sentient species of the Feranite environment has been subjugated. No alternative species in that environment have proven viable.”

“The Witiko reject the call for investigation and remind all participants that surrogates serve primarily as markers and observers and are still subject to the same frailties possessed by their races.”

“The Chaktaw point out, however, that the death of the surrogate does reduce the long-term viability of the Feranites’ Deus.”

“The Humans are confused by the Feranite’s dispute of the circumstances of their disposition. Do the Feranites contend they are not the representative species of their life pattern? If so, what alternative representative of their life pattern should be considered?”

“The Feranites strongly object to the Human suggestion and consider it offensive and counter-productive.”

“The Hivvans remind all participants that the Feranite race developed additional challenge balances to compensate for the technological differences at the time of surrogate conception including control over a greater number of non-sentient helper species from within their environment.”

“The Feranite call attention to the circumstances of non-sentient helper species and suggest further investigation into the nature of and development of these species. The Feranite race believes that a better understanding of the nature of the helper species will support the Feranite claim to greater spirituality and promote a better understanding of the origins of the root cosmos.”

“The representative of Voggoth strongly objects to the Feranite suggestion on the grounds that that matter is considered closed.”

“The Chaktaw further point out that despite these added balances the Feranites are the first to attain defeated status.”

“The Feranites call for closer inspection of the incidents of genetic memory leak between races and suggest that the answers to these leaks may provide greater insights into the origins of all life patterns.”

“The representative of Voggoth dismisses this suggestion and encourages the gathered to remain focused on the disposition of the Feranite race.”

“The Geryons move that the gateways on the Feranite host world be ruptured so as to sterilize that host world.”

“The representative of Voggoth reminds all participants that the consequences of failure in the challenge are not isolated to the host cosmos, as per the agreed upon structure.”

“The Witiko recognize Voggoth as the oldest and most learned of all the participants and therefore request guidance in the resolution of the disposition of the Feranites.”

“The Geryons second this recognition.”

“The Duass agree.”

“The Hivvans support the Witiko position.”

“The Humans remind all participants that only one outcome was considered at the time of implementation of the agreed upon structure.”

“The Feranites object.”

“The Witiko move that it would demonstrate the superior abilities, strength, and intelligence of the remaining participants if an alternative to complete sterilization is considered.”

“The Centurians agree.”

“The Duass call for the expulsion of the Feranites from the root cosmos.”

“The Chaktaw call for the Feranites to be de-evolved to a lower life form.”

“The Geryons reject the Chaktaw call.”

“The Feranites object.”

“The Humans suggest the Feranite race be divided and given over in servitude to the other races.”

“The Feranites object.”

“The Witiko observe that the Feranites are no longer in position to object to these proceedings.”

“The representative of Voggoth offers an alternative.”

“The Witiko suggest that Voggoth’s proposal be accepted without question due to the superior status of Voggoth as the only immortal entity in existence.”

“The Chaktaw reject the Witiko suggestion.”

“The Duass also reject the Witiko suggestion.”

“The Centurians call for Voggoth to state the alternative.”

“The Humans second the Centurian call.”

“The representative of Voggoth recognizes that the Feranite life pattern has met the parameters for defeat on the host world and therefore has shown its species to lack the strength necessary to remain among the dominant races.”

“The Witiko agree with this recognition.”

“The representative of Voggoth further suggests that this failure clearly demonstrates that the Feranites, as they currently exist, will never be capable of achieving immortality nor are they worthy do to so.”

“The Witiko recognize Voggoth as the only such being or race.”

“The Chaktaw suggest the Witiko refrain from flattery.”

“The Humans second the Chaktaw suggestion.”

“The representative of Voggoth offers an opportunity for the Feranites to achieve immorality and remain intact, although only if the Feranite race will renounce their current life pattern in recognition of its inferiority.”

“The Hivvans object to this offer as outside the agreed upon structure.”

“The Duass remind the Hivvans that their own progress in their parallel cosmos suggests that the Hivvans might be next to appreciate such an offer.”

“The Hivvans condemn the Duass suggestion on the grounds that it is inflammatory and premature.”

“The Centurians agree with the Hivvans and further point out the Duass’ own vulnerability.”

“The Feranites request further information as to the nature of the offer presented by the representative of Voggoth.”

“The representative of Voggoth states that it is possible for the Feranite genetic structure to metastasize into one compatible for existence within the realm of Voggoth. Under these circumstances, the Feranite people will become immortal.”

“The Chaktaw question if under such circumstances the Feranites will remain a distinct, independent species.”

“The representative of Voggoth answers no.”

“The Witiko point out that this action may be the only means of any form of survival for the Feranite race.”

“The Duass question if the Feranites will maintain the ability to reproduce and evolve.”

“The representative of Voggoth answers no with the caveat that the Feranite race will experience instant metamorphosis across all cosmos to a higher life form compatible with the domain of Voggoth.”

“The Chaktaw express reservations about this alternative form of closure.”

“The Witiko move that the Feranites either willingly acquiesce or be compelled.”

“The Feranites request additional time for consideration.”

“The Humans question which linear sphere will the Feranites use to acquire more time?”

“The Centurians object to the Human question on the grounds that it is flippant and counter-productive.”

“The Witiko call for either the immediate acceptance of these terms by the Feranites or the immediate sterilization of the Feranite race from both the root cosmos as well as all parallel cosmos.”

“The Feranite Deus accepts the offer from Voggoth on behalf of the entire Feranite race. May He who created us all have mercy upon the souls of my people.”

“The representative of Voggoth asks the Feranites to refrain from repeating fantasies of a being superior to the gathered and reminds the Feranites that any soul their race may indeed possess, now belongs to Voggoth.”

*

Captain Dustin McBride lay on his belly with binoculars staring down at the dusty, almost barren water basin at the heart of Seminoe State Park in Wyoming. There along the featureless, rocky banks waited his quarry packing their wigwams and extinguishing fires.

For months the Red Hands eluded McBride’s vaunted 1st Cavalry, remaining several days ahead and varying their movements so as to escape pursuit. In recent weeks, the hunter gained ground, fighting several skirmishes with Red Hand rear guards. Those skirmishes cost his enemy dearly, dwindling the Feranite numbers to nearly half their original size.

Of course those tribesmen still outnumbered McBride’s fighters, but arrows and spears would be no match for assault rifles and grenades, especially with the Red Hands caught along the reservoir banks. Perhaps their chieftain had guessed that his pursuers fell for the false trail left outside of Sinclair. McBride, however, felt the signs leading south to be far too obvious for an enemy proven so coy.

After such a long hunt, McBride regretted that a slaughter would be his only reward.

“Agarn.”

Corporal Lawrence Brown crawled next to his commander and shared the view from the brush line at the basin ridge. A rumble marked the approach of a rare morning thunderstorm caused by the remarkable heat wave sweeping through the Midwest. That heat, as much as anything, had slowed McBride’s horses and men in recent days. No doubt that same heat tapped his enemy’s strength, a strength McBride had grown to admire. Regardless, a good storm might cool things down for a spell.

“Ooo, now ain’t that a sight for sore eyes.”

“Yeah, man, it’s been a long time coming. The boys ready?”

“Hooyah, roger that. We’z been spoilin’ for a fight. ‘Bout time you found us one.”

Dustin set his binoculars down and crawled away from the ridge. Waiting behind cover were two hundred horse soldiers with another two hundred hurriedly circling around to pinch the Red Hands from the flanks. All of them itched to finish a job started long ago.

A radio message broadcast to Dustin, “Hope here, we’re in position,” followed thirty seconds later by a woman’s voice, “Chambers speaking, we’re all set.”

A bugler played ‘charge’ and three formations charged the trapped Feranites, including McBride and Brown leading the attack from the ridge. Enthusiastic hoots and hollers joined the stomping sound of horse hoofs that broke the morning calm. In the distance, a bolt of lightning reached for the ground and a veil of water fell on the lake, moving toward the slaughter like a curtain about to close.

Dustin led his warriors down the ridge, careful in steering his horse across the rocky slope and also careful to watch for incoming arrows. The Feranites never showed any fear of modern weapons. They would fight to the death no…matter…what…

The hoots and hollers quieted. Horse hoofs slowed.

The Feranites stood along the lake, trapped in the open with no chance of escape. They stood straight and still, the whole lot of them. No drawn blades, no raised bows.

“What the shit-nuts are these fellas up to?”

McBride did not answer his friend. A trap? Or were the Feranites—for the first time ever—ready to surrender? Had the pursuit broken both their backs and their spirits?

Following McBride’s lead, the other attacking elements halted some fifty yards from the primitives.

Radio calls came in, “Sir? Should we fire?”

“Am I seein’ things?”

Dustin dismounted.

Agarn—Corporal Brown—told him, “Now, don’t be gettin’ no stupid ideas.”

McBride first shot Brown a middle finger, then waved to him. The two soldiers descended the hill on foot with pistols drawn. No enemy weapons rose to greet them.

“Hold positions,” McBride radioed.

Dustin came within twenty feet of an elderly female Feranite standing perfectly still with her hands resting on the shoulders of a child. A ribbon in her hair made from a collection of nut shells and flowers fluttered in a gust of wind coming from the closing storm.

The woman…the child…all of the Red Hands appeared frozen in time, their eyes wide open but just standing. Dustin could not even see signs of breathing.

Rain fell. A pitter. A patter. More.

The Red Hands started to shake.

“Holy Christ, Dustin…”

It seemed to McBride as if every member of the Feranite tribe stuck their fingers into an electric socket, causing their spines to wobble…their eyes to roll white…and their mouths to open and stretch as if made of rubber.

“Agarn…back off…back off…”

A horrible moan came from the hundreds of aliens along the reservoir; a moan coming from mouths that grew impossibly wide on heads that tilted back…and then split. Split open in two.

“Holy fucking shit! Get outta here!”

Rain fell harder and harder. The moan grew louder. The bodies shook faster. And up from the torn gashes in the Red Hand necks rose iron-like bars supporting big spheres. Vein-like strands of metal flowed out from that bar and ran along the arms and legs of each of the Feranites.

The moan morphed from an animalistic cry into a digitalized sound seemingly born from computer speakers.

The orbs split open like metallic Venus flytraps sporting daggers for teeth. Skin exploded and out came a trio of shiny legs with hydraulic muscles and round pads for feet.

McBride’s cavalry waited no more. Machine guns and carbines fired but they did not tear into skin, they ricocheted off mechanized units that had been born from flesh.

As the storm broke and the deluge fell and the lightning sent flashes across the gorge, the Feranite race completed their transformation into the very thing they despised: technology. They changed from creatures at one with nature to something built from metal and gears and lenses where eyes once watched.

Where their arms once hung came two metal pipes. No, not pipes; barrels.

The rat-tat-tat of counter fire came from the mob of mechanized warriors out toward the cavalry. Explosive shells detonated in the belly of horses, shrapnel decimated riders, more mounts spooked and dashed away, most throwing their owners to the wet ground.

As grenades fell into the mob of emerging monsters, two of the creatures died as the concussion from the explosives tore apart their new limbs and shredded circuitry. But those small victories proved no relief as the outnumbered horse soldiers suddenly faced a superior foe.

Corporal Brown grabbed his commander’s sleeve and pulled him up the ridge. McBride fired his gun as the nearest Red Hand finished its transition into an artificial beast. The metal bar that held the round mouth bent and the mechanical legs chased the hunter as parts of torn clothing and the remains of discarded flesh dropped off like a snake shedding its skin.

Rounds from Dustin’s pistol sparked off the chassis. A bear-trap-like mouth clamped down on the pistol and the arm holding it. Brown tried to help his friend and discharged his own gun at point blank range into the beast, to no effect. In exchange, the newly-born demon swung around one of its gun barrels and pumped ordnance into Agarn’s belly. He exploded into upper and lower halves.

The shrapnel tore into McBride, eliciting a scream. The monster’s mouth finished biting off his arm then chomped his head. Blood and gore drizzled along its shiny new metal chassis.

As Dustin died, so did his cavalry; baptismal gifts for a newborn race.

Away from the lake and across all the universes marched the children of Voggoth.

Seven to go.

Erasers

Jon Brewer walked the first floor hall with a bundle of file folders tucked under his arm. The sound of his footsteps caused a flat echo that drifted through the nearly empty mansion.

He intended to head for the second floor office which, according to Ashley, now belonged to him. Of course that made little difference. The skeleton staff at the estate held little in the way of responsibility. What had been the beating heart of humanity’s comeback now resembled something like a morgue.

Guess that makes me a zombie, he thought.

Instead of climbing the stairs, he turned to the old dining room. He found his wife in there sitting behind her desk staring at the calendar blotter (bearing an advertisement for North Run Rail “Steam or Diesel, we deliver”).

“Boo,” but his jest held no humor.

She glanced up, sighed, and told him, “My phone hasn’t rung all day.”

He sat in the chair across from her.

“Wow, is that so bad? I mean, you were pretty over worked before.”

Lori looked at Jon. No, he realized, she looked at the chair he sat in.

“Trevor used to come in and see me, from time to time. He’d sit there and we’d just bull shit. Sometimes serious stuff, sometimes nothing important.”

“I know.”

She went on, “With all the changes…well I guess it’s starting to hit home. How permanent it is.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Now the work has dried up. At least that was keeping me busy, but now,” she motioned to the nearly empty desk top.

“All this will sort out, Lori. It hasn’t been that long. Besides, before it seemed like you had your hand in everything. You had almost no time for Catherine, no time for yourself. Now you’re doing important work with more free time.”

His explanation, despite how hard he tried, sounded weak even to his hears.

“Allright, yep. I’ve changed from the Administrator for the entire nation to the regional director for Adoption and Child Placement. Woo-hoo.”

“Helping kids.”

Her eyes narrowed and her voice grew rough, “I helped kids before, too. I also worked with logistics, and supply, and the military, and Internal Security. A couple of months ago, I could tell you how many bags of flour they had on the Chicago docks or the name of the engineer on the west bound mail express. And yeah, I also placed orphans in new homes, made sure they had schools to go to, and made sure those schools had text books. What now, Jon? What? You know what the problem is?”

He did not have an answer. She supplied one, “The problem is Trevor. He made sure that each of us knew we had a stake in all this; that we had a responsibility to fight and to work hard to save our people. Hey, look, I like having extra time with my daughter. But I don’t like this feeling that I should be doing more. While I sit here bored, somewhere out there is a kid being eaten by a monster or in an alien slave camp because that asshole in the White House decided the rest of the world isn’t worth fighting for. And you can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way.”

His mouth unhinged. Jon struggled for words.

“I’m a soldier.”

“You’re a clerk now, Jon. Dante has got you filling out paper work and doing studies and making reports, keeping you here. You’re like me, General; we’re big paper weights now.”

He stood fast and with a hurt edge in his voice told her, “This damn paper weight has work to do. Maybe it seems quiet to you, but it’s not.”

Jon threw down one of the files he carried and said, “That’s a security bulletin, Lori. Two members of the Dark Wolves commando unit were arrested at the General Hospital emergency room after breaking in to Trevor’s tomb. There’s a BOLO out for Nina Forest and a man who fits the description of Gordon Knox.”

Lori stared at the paper in disbelief and read, “Suspects are wanted in connection with the death of Secretary Maple, a homicide that may be part of a larger anti-government conspiracy.”

Jon continued, “Dante called me earlier. He asked me about loyalty, Lori. He’s saying that there are those in the government that think someone is going to try a coup real soon.”

“Nina Forest? I mean, Gordon Knox, sure, but not Nina Forest.”

“Maybe she started to get some memories back, I don’t know,” Jon ran a hand across his cheek as if checking for razor stubble. “Point is, things are really tense out there. I’ve got to calm things down. I have to go make some phone calls.”

Lori spoke with poison-laced sarcasm, “Right. Make some calls. Tell you what, I’ll put a pot of coffee on, too. Why, we’re really going to change the world today, aren’t we?”

*

At one o’clock in the afternoon on Saturday, July 5, Eagle One landed along the banks of Spruce Knob Lake. Thick forests, colorful wildflowers, and the mountain peaks that represented the highest point in West Virginia surrounded the remote landing area.

Pilot Rick Hauser had not chosen that location for its vista but, rather, for the clean lake water. With Gordon’s help he managed to fill the transport’s hydrogen tanks. Nina waited inside, gazing at the weapon collection. She even dared to run a hand of admiration over the shiny blade of Stonewall McAllister’s sword.

In any case, the Eagle took to the skies again and managed to make it most of the way across Kentucky before being challenged by a monitoring station at the old Warren County Airport in Bowling Green. Before intercept jets could make it on-scene, Hauser found a suitable hiding spot inside the Mammoth Cave National Park. While hiding from air patrols, they dined on a late supper of emergency rations.

After night fell, Eagle One went airborne once more, hugging the ground and relying on Knox’s recollection of radar zones to weave their way across Tennessee into Mississippi.

However, with Hauser the only Eagle-trained pilot, they had to stop for a few hours of rest before he fell asleep at the sticks. He chose a landing spot alongside the Tennessee River. While Hauser slept, Gordon and Nina replenished the ship’s tanks.

As they continued their journey, Knox’s knowledge of radar stations combined with the computer maps onboard helped them avoid air defense systems. They stopped to refuel water at the Toledo Bend Reservoir on the Texas/Louisiana border then pushed on through the day into the night to the Rio Grande.

At that point, Eagle One could go no farther. An extensive net of radar installations and surveillance Eagles kept a close watch on the Mexican border. There would be no flying over it.

The Eagle carried a pair of personal hover crafts based on reverse-engineered Mutant bikes resembling a cross between a jet ski and a snowmobile.

While Hauser and Odin the Elkhound remained behind to guard the ship, Nina and Gordon crossed the border at high speed heading south toward Monterrey.

*

They rode all night, moving much too fast to be distracted by shadows in old towns, specks of fire on the horizon, or wild beasts.

According to surveys conducted before Gordon “retired” from his post as Director of Intelligence, most of northern Mexico remained a dangerous wasteland prowled by predators as well as human bandits in coastal areas.

The two followed the main roads heading south, using the powerful front headlights of the hover bikes to illuminate the path in fifty yard stretches. On more than one occasion they felt the presence of airborne predators overhead, but even those hunters could not keep pace with the determined riders.

Three hours before dawn, the two found shelter among the remains of an abandoned Mexican army convoy covered in a decade of dust, including an intact armored vehicle. More specifically, a World War II vintage half-track painted in modern camouflage patterns. Nina could not believe Gordon when he told her that such an old vehicle had, in fact, been a part of the Mexican armed forces at the time of the invasion.

Regardless, they spent a few hours catching some sleep within the relative security of the abandoned vehicle. As the first flickers of dawn’s approach glowed orange on the horizon, a sound stirred the travelers awake; a low rumble of a sound.

They exited the temporary shelter and scanned the fields of broken buildings, brush, and foothills around the deserted convoy. After a moment, they realized the rumble came from the south; it came from Monterrey.

Nina and Gordon mounted their rides and hurried off in that direction surrounded by the shadows of morning twilight. The whiz and whir of the speeding hovercraft could not block out the growing roar of the noise, but it was not until they climbed the brush-covered hills northeast of the ruins of Monterrey that they could trace the source of the sound.

Nina dropped to her belly and wiggled forward amidst the dusty ground and dried sage at the crest of the mountain. Her black tank top and green BDUs quickly grew covered in powdered dirt. Gordon knelt low beside her with a pair of binoculars in his hand. The sun—while still very new that day—grew hot fast, drying the air.

Towering above the city to the south were the Sierra Madre Oriental Mountains. That range trailed off into the distance in a line of dramatic ridges and steeply banked slopes of brown and fading green. The sound that had roused them from their slumber reverberated everywhere, like a million heads of cattle stampeding.

Between their position and those mountains lay several square miles of what had once been Monterrey. The rising sun shed light on the devil’s work.

“What the Hell is this?” Nina’s brow furled tight but her mouth fell wide open.

She expected to see the singed and melted remains of the city and the Centurian base. Indeed, the smoldering smoke rising from the flattened ruins there did not surprise her, she had witnessed the handiwork of dreadnought belly boppers before.

However, it did surprise them to find that half of those ruins were gone, combed neat and flat into graded dirt. Indeed, the view from the hill resembled a before and after advertisement for a vacuum cleaner: the western side of the city cleansed of debris with only sand-like dirt remaining. The east still a tangled mess of flattened concrete, melted metal, and scorched land with the tallest piles of debris rising no more than six feet.

“Good God,” Gordon mumbled in a choppy voice. “It’s…it’s being erased.”

The droning sound came from a swirling cloud hovering and moving southward nearly a mile away from Nina and Gordon’s observation point. At the rear of that cloud shot streams of freshly-cleaned dirt, for some reason reminding Nina of the combine harvesters on the farms in her home town in Pennsylvania.

Something worked within that cloud, but it hid inside one of the last remaining shadows at the base of the mountain peaks. Nonetheless, the path the thing followed was easy to see, in its wake it left flat, featureless soil.

“They’re cleaning it all up,” Knox managed a better handle on his words. “Whatever evidence is down there….we have to hurry.”

Nina and Gordon retrieved their hover bikes and swooped down the hill. At the base of that hill stretched a field of debris so flat that the two could see—unhindered—all the way across the remains of town to where that large dust cloud moved at the base of the mountains.

They stopped at a series of stone blocks piled one atop each other to the height of five feet. They stopped because that great cloud on the far side of the old city began to pivot as it reached the end of another line of cleansing. As it turned to head north—to head toward Nina and Gordon—the veil of dust blew off, revealing the machine.

It stretched a half a mile long from side to side and rose some fifty feet into the air. It took Nina’s eyes several seconds to understand what she saw. At first, her mind likened the sight to the head of a gigantic push broom, but with squirming bristles. As the dust dissipated, she thought it more a long, hovering wing with thousands of tubes hanging down to the ground, each scrubbing the earth below while a great suction of wind scooped up burnt buildings, melted cars, broken planks, and shattered steel.

It moved slow and methodic tearing away the old, sifting through the mess, and leaving behind a trail of soil cleaned of any evidence the ruins of Monterrey might hold.

“Listen, we have to get in there and find something.”

Gordon said, “If I’m right, you’re going to need a Centurian body. I’m thinking a head alone would do the trick.”

A flash from somewhere between them and the machine caught both their eyes. A stream of liquid light tore between the two people and slammed into the stone pillars. Those pillars evaporated into grains of sand. The explosion knocked both Nina and Gordon from their mounts.

“It’s armed!”

Nina corrected, “No. There’s something else out there.”

She dared a peek from a prone position. Far away the great machine did its work, ripping evidence from the ground a half-mile at a time. But closer…about five hundred yards away…Nina spotted three dark figures, each standing nearly eight feet tall and spread in a picket line with fifty yards between one another.

She raised binoculars for a better view.

The machine’s guardians wore dark cloaks, hiding any features. They walked in determined but slow steps, traversing the ground ahead of the cleansing unit. As she watched, one of the two robed arms raised. She saw something that resembled the exhaust end of a jet engine. A golden ball glowed from its end—

“Get down!”

Another blast of energy streaked toward the infiltrators. It missed high and slammed into the hillside behind them where it knocked great clumps of rock and dirt off a ridge.

“Damn it,” Knox groaned. “We can’t get anything with these things around!”

Nina’s head snapped around and she glared at him through slits-for-eyes. In that instant he clearly saw that she would not retreat after having come so far.

“I’ll take care of this.”

Before he could protest, Nina jumped into the saddle of her hover bike. While one hand worked the throttle, her other hand slipped the sword from her leg.

Meanwhile, Gordon pulled a Dessert Eagle .44 from a thigh rig and gripped it tight.

Nina kept working the throttle as she swept to the east flying over the remains of the city. One of the things defending the machine raised its arm, took aim, and fired, but its weapon moved too slow and too clumsy to hit the speeding craft.

Like a dive bomber aiming for a target, she turned the hover bike hard and accelerated at the robed creatures. As she did, she spied another glob of gold…she waited…waited…and jogged to her left as the watery fire streamed by.

Faster…faster…her sword raised…the creature turned to try and follow her approach but moved too slow.

Her sword—moving with her at an incredible speed—slammed into the thing’s outstretched gun. The impact nearly threw her from the bike. And then she was passed, her sword still in her hand but her elbow aching from a near-hyperextension.

She dared a glance behind in time to see golden energy consume the thing from the inside out. Its robe exploded in a sunburst. As it did, she saw the hood fall away revealing a translucent skull encasing an organic brain above a metallic jaw. Two eyes—maybe lenses, maybe flesh—bulged from the face of the thing.

Nina turned forward in time to see that she closed on the massive eraser machine. The roar of its toil blocked out all other noise. She felt the first pull of sucking wind. She saw the feelers reaching to the ground and scrubbing away traces of the Centurian base.

She banked hard and sought out the other two robed defenders, accelerating toward another of the guardians. It fired and missed as she raised her sword…closed the distance…

BLAM!

Her ride wobbled. She yanked the handle grip brakes. A yellow blast from the farthest away of the two remaining creatures changed her course. Her bike slammed into the eight-foot tall robot she had intended to decapitate, knocking it over and her from her mount. She fell amidst a pile of twisted, blackened metal beams.

Sword in hand, she staggered to her feet, ignoring the sting of a laceration in her upper arm and fighting a wobble in her walk.

The creature she had collided with remained on its back for the moment. Nina swiveled about to spy the other robotic guardian, the one that had scored a near-hit on her hover bike. It stood fifty yards away with its gun barrel preparing to target her again.

Before it could fire, Gordon Knox zipped in behind the monster on his own ride, pulled his automatic cannon, and with both hands gripping the pistol he fired again and again and again at close range. The heavy shells tore through the robe and into the machine-body beneath. A series of electrical surges burst from the thing, knocking off its hood and revealing a frying brain and chattering jaw.

The creature stopped working and froze in place.

Nina’s eyes found Gordon with the intention of saying thank you. He, however, urgently pointed behind her where the last guardian rose to its feet like Dracula rising from his coffin in a melodramatic horror movie.

Just as important, the cleanup craft approached. Dust and debris kicked into the sky. The tubes hanging from the floating wing cast their shadow over the two people and the one remaining machine.

The suction pulled off the robot’s hood. She saw the blood and juices of a living brain hardwired into the circuits and metallic chassis of a humanoid robot.

Its jaw dropped open in what might have been a smile. Its gun rose.

Nina leapt forward, her sword slashing in both hands. The blade struck into its shoulder and slid across into a solid neck. Sparks burst; part of the robe caught fire.

As she jumped onto her hover bike to escape, the damaged guardian was caught in the suction of the giant eraser machine, disappearing with the rest of the junk to be crushed and sifted until nothing but dust remained.

With time running out, Nina and Gordon moved to the last remains of the Centurian facility. They found control panels and bulkheads, the nose cone of a transport, and computer equipment. But most important, they found the melted remains of bodies, little more than black goo stuck to tattered red and white body armor.

Gordon found the upper half of an armored Centurian intact, save for legs. He threw it on the back of his ride and they rocketed away. A minute later, the massive machine sucked in the final pieces of the Centurian base cleansing it from the Earth.

The two investigators stopped in the foothills beyond the cleaner’s reach. There Gordon removed the dead alien’s helmet, revealing big black eyes and fine green skin…fine green skin covered in red blotches.

“What do we need to find?”

Gordon pulled out a hunting knife and sliced open the fried corpse.

“Those blotches are the first clue, remember? Now if we’re lucky…”

The skull fell apart in Knox’s hands. There amidst the decaying remains of the alien’s gray matter he found what he sought: a petrified little creature—also long dead—about the size and shape of a slug.

“And there you have it, Captain.”

Nina gazed at the tiny thing, knowing that at some time in her past two such creatures had violated her body and mind; that such a creature had robbed her of a year of memories.

She said, “I’ve never seen this before. I’m just saying, I never heard of them infecting one of the other aliens, only humans.”

“Me neither,” Gordon agreed as he wiped a glob of sweat from his forehead. “But whatever way you cut it, it wasn’t the Redcoats who assassinated Trevor, it was The Order.”

“What is going on?”

Knox said, “I don’t know for sure, but I’ve got a feeling we’re running out of time.”

Sacrifices

Ashley raced to the glass sliding door in the kitchen that led to the rear deck in response to the roar flying overtop the house. First the sand of the beach rustled and tossed, then it turned into a maelstrom, obscuring the ocean view.

As she watched the Witiko Stingray descend to the beach, her belly fluttered anxiously. Bits and pieces—observations—from recent days tied together, such as Tucker hurrying out of ear shot to answer a radio call and a feeling of unease from the four agents guarding her family. It seemed they could not look her in the eye and as she watched the alien craft land behind her summer cottage she instinctively knew that those bits and pieces led to this, whatever ‘this’ was.

It settled to the ground on feet-like metallic landing gear. A ramp extended from the side of the black and silver ship. Two Witiko aliens wearing their shiny cosmetic and carrying rifles came out flanking a human with jet black hair whose pearly white teeth sparkled as he spoke something to his escort.

Ashley knew she needed to act. In a split second she decided that the three of them—Ashley, Jorge, and her father Benjamin—would bolt for the garage and drive off. She turned—

Tucker grabbed her arm hard enough to leave a bruise.

“Just stay here. Don’t move now.”

Before she could respond, a man and a woman agent hustled Jorgie toward the sliding glass door. He still wore the tan shorts and black polo she dressed him in that morning.

“Mommy? What’s going on, Mommy? They said they’re taking me somewhere.”

Her son’s voice sounded calm but his eyes darted from her to the security guards and to the ship outside.

She growled to the guards, “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Yes,” Tucker corrected as he opened the sliding glass door, “he is.”

Brad Gannon stood on the deck alongside the pair of Witiko. He put both hands on his knees and stooped to speak to JB at the boy’s eye level.

“Hey there, buddy, wanna go for a ride in a spaceship? Whatdya say?”

JB glared at Brad Gannon.

Ashley stepped to intercept. Tucker shoved her against the wall.

“Stop!” shouted Benjamin Trump as he stormed into the kitchen wielding a golf club.

Tucker took his hand off Ashley and pulled an automatic pistol, but she grabbed at his arm, forcing the gun high where it blasted away a chunk of plaster.

However, a fat agent with a goatee hustled in behind grandpa Trump, relieving him of the club and bracing him against the kitchen counter.

Tucker shoved the barrel under Ashley’s chin.

“No! No please!” JB screamed as tears burst from his eyes. “I’ll go! I’ll go with you!”

Tucker calmed and removed the gun from the woman’s face, but kept a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, just, easy goes it, okay? He’ll be back in a few days,” Gannon delivered his lines with the same poor acting he had been known for in the old world. “Some pretty important people want to meet you.”

“You can’t get away with this,” Ashley’s voice wavered as she realized the pretense had ended; they were prisoners.

“You shut up,” Tucker spoke with a previously unheard meanness. “You’re doing what I say from now on. That’s right, princess, you ain’t nothing anymore. I’m giving the orders.”

Brad Gannon gained custody of JB from the bodyguards.

Ashley felt a wave of fear and rage tear through her like a bomb exploding in her belly. Her teeth clenched and she rolled her hands into fists. No man, no alien would take her child.

But Tucker saw it coming. As she lunged forward he walloped her with a back hand, knocking the first lady of Trevor’s Empire to the linoleum floor, her senses spinning to the verge of unconsciousness.

She managed only enough strength to reach for the glass of the sliding door, as if trying to grab the alien ship her son boarded before it flew off over the Atlantic Ocean.

*

Evan Godfrey nodded politely and smiled, doing his best to appear engaged in the conversation. It was important, he knew, for the President to appear interested in the people’s problems. They were, after all, his people.

However, these particular visitors overstayed their welcome. Worse, the trio refused to see that they faced a brick wall. Evan would not break the treaty that brought peace to the United States, regardless of how impassioned the pleas. He sympathized with the Pakistani fellow, the Spanish woman, and the skinny Italian guy, all of whom had been stuck in the U.S. on business when the invasion began ten years ago.

The Pakistani explained for the sixth time that Trevor had assured that the world—not merely North American—would one day be free. The Spanish woman told for the ninth time that the trio represented hundreds of foreign nationals with family and interests beyond America’s borders. The skinny Italian guy just glanced around, obviously impressed with the Red Room.

Evan understood the Italian’s feelings. The room had been furnished by the Kennedy Administration back in ‘62 in a style known as “American Empire,” a style closely related to “French Empire.” Evan appreciated the European connection and hence it served as the logical place for the doomed meeting with the three foreigners.

The furniture featured designs of dolphins, acanthus leaves, lion’s heads, and sphinxes, all velvety red and atop a carpet of beige, gold and more red.

While the Italian and the Spaniard sat on a couch, Evan and the Pakistani squared off over a small table with Sharon—the first lady—in another seat. An elegant tea service sat on a nearby server. Evan watched traces of steam from the pot slip into the air and evaporate. He also saw the Doberman Pincher with the sliver collar inside the door. That spoiled his mood.

“So is there anything you can do about this, Mr. President?”

Evan painted on a sad face. “At this time, I am greatly limited by the new treaty. However, it is my intention to strike a dialogue with the extraterrestrial powers with the aim of expanding the treaty’s scope to the other nations of the world. I hope that—”

The President’s attention was diverted again, this time not by boredom but by the intrusion of Dante Jones. Evan—always the quick thinker—took advantage of the new arrival.

“Ah, the Secretary of Defense is here. I must end our meeting at this time,” he stood. “I will discuss the matter with Secretary Jones. In the meantime, if you’ll excuse me…”

The red-headed assistant with the scar on her face came from a corner of the Red Room and pointed the visitors toward the exit. The Pakistani huffed in disappointment, the Spanish lady appeared ready to say more but a stern look from Evan dissuaded her, the Italian gazed around at the paintings and furniture one last time. Regardless, all three finally left.

Evan collapsed into his chair once again.

“Well handled, my dear,” Sharon spoke but Evan could not tell if she spoke sincerely or sarcastically.

Jones heaved a deep breath and boomed, “What the Hell did you do? What is going on?”

Evan did not need specifics to know Dante referred to the taking of Jorge Stone from his family beach house, a move Evan personally approved based on the promise Gannon made on behalf of The Order.

Godfrey sighed, stood, and lifted his cup from the tea tray. As he raised it to his lips, he noticed Dante’s expression change—slightly—from pure anger to puzzlement.

Evan realized that the hand with which he held the tea cup shook…a little. He concentrated, stopped the shaking, and then quickly replaced the cup on the tray.

A little shake in the hand. No big deal.

Jones’ anger returned. Sharon smartly closed the Red Room door leaving the three of them and the dog alone in the chamber.

Dante pressed in rapid-fire words, “I just heard through Roos that you let them have JB. Is that true? What do they want with Trevor’s kid? This is bull shit!”

“Relax, Dante,” Evan tried to appear calm but he found himself agitated at Roos having told Jones about the boy, no doubt because Roos wanted to force a confrontation such as this.

“I will not relax!”

“It’s a sacrifice, Dante.”

“What? That’s bull! It’s wrong, Evan! I didn’t sign on for this type of shit.”

“It’s no different than things Trevor did,” Godfrey rationalized, drawing a wide-eyed expression of disbelief from Jones. Godfrey continued, “What? You don’t think so? Trevor murdered hundreds at New Winnbow, he assassinated political leaders, and for the longest time he took no prisoners on the battlefield. He built an underground complex at Red Rock to take apart sentient alien beings piece by piece.”

“Yeah, but he hated doing all of that.”

“Yes! He did, didn’t he? He sacrificed because he thought it the best thing to do. Why is this any different? It’s better, I tell you. It’s better because these sacrifices are for something more than war. They are for peace, and security.”

Dante shook his head and pleaded, “No more, no more. Man, I can’t take this anymore.”

Evan rested a hand on the Secretary’s shoulder.

“Don’t you give it a second thought. It’s not your responsibility; it’s on my shoulders. You have more important things to do.”

“Yeah, yeah, I, a, yeah…”

“I have something I want you to look into.”

Jones said, “I can’t find anything that makes me think the military is going to move against the government. I don’t know where these rumors are coming from. But Jon Brewer is talking to the leaders in the army. He says they’re all anxious, but on board.”

“Yes, that’s great, but that’s not what I mean. I’ve heard rumors that some of the troops we are demobilizing are signing up with mercenary groups to go fight overseas. It seems they did not get enough violence to satisfy their appetites fighting here. We can’t have this.”

“Huh? How can I stop people from leaving? They’re private citizens they, well, like they have rights.”

“They do not have the right to jeopardize all of us. Put a stop to it, Dante. That’s your number one priority right now.”

“I thought this whole conspiracy thing was my number one priority.”

Evan smiled and assured, “Leave that to me, I’ve got it covered.”

During the course of their conversation, Evan successfully maneuvered them to the door. He opened it, offering Dante the exit.

“Yeah, okay, whatever.”

The Secretary of Defense—either frustrated or de-toothed—left the Red Room with no hint of the anger that had accompanied him inside.

Sharon made to leave but stopped to say, “He could be a problem, my dear.”

“Perhaps. But not right now. He’s easy enough to manipulate.”

“You do have a knack for that, don’t you,” she kissed his cheek. “But as for Trevor’s wife, it seems to me that she may be so distraught over her husband’s death that she might just take her own life. Why, some might even think that the noble thing to do.”

“Yes,” Evan agreed but thought of the boy’s disappearance when he said, “that is possible. But there are other things to address before that.”

“I suppose I’ll leave that to you, my champion,” her words slithered and she left the room.

Evan—in need of a few minutes of alone time—closed the door to the Red Room. His hand shook as he pulled it away from the knob. Just a little. Merely a tremble. Nonetheless, he clamped his free hand over the other as if to silence an annoyance.

Evan gave his attention to the art work and regal furniture in the room.

“It’s all mine,” he said to no one.

No, wait, a pair of ears still listened.

Evan swirled around and eyed the Doberman Pinscher sentry sitting perfectly still and perfectly straight inside the closed door. The dog’s dark brown eyes stared straight ahead as if it might be a statue.

The President tilted his head in curiosity for the beast and—slightly hunched over—stepped toward the canine, speaking as he moved.

“This is all mine now, you know. Not Trevor. Mine. I worked hard to get here, got it? I won’t let anyone take it away from me, not this time. I belong here.”

Evan leaned over and nearly touched his face to the snout of the sturdy animal. For its part, the K9 blinked, sniffed the air, but otherwise did not react.

Evan gazed into those brown eyes. The voice of Gordon Knox haunted, ” Can you see him, Evan? Can you see Trevor Stone looking back at you? Watching you?”

“I don’t see anything in there,” Evan insisted. “Nothing but a mindless animal. Nothing but a product of training. Just a dumb dog!”

Evan turned fast, frustrated and scared at the same time then…then stopped and faced the K9 again. He took a deep breath, calmed, and stepped close again.

“Do you understand what I’m thinking? I am the leader now. You must obey me.”

The dog blinked. Evan waited. Nothing happened.

The President laughed out loud; a chuckle.

Oh how silly of me. How ridiculous. It’s only a dog. Nothing more.

He stood straight, adjusted his sport jacket, and left the room.

Trigger

Waves curled into white caps, crashing in on themselves and rolling to the quiet beach where they faded one after another under a cloud-filled night. Those clouds added a new sound to the steady onslaught of breakers: the pitter-patter of a light rain on the grassy dunes as well as the patio pavers outside the Stones’ beach house.

The drizzle dripped on the roof, rolled along gutters, and filled the darkness with a constant dribble that helped mask Nina and Gordon’s footsteps as they crept toward the sliding glass door separating the rear patio from the kitchen.

The pair moved silently, speaking with gestures and intuition, but they moved with urgency: the lone exterior guard walked a loop around the beach house and—if his timing held true—he would return to the patio within three minutes.

Nina held a silenced nine millimeter pistol, knelt alongside an Adirondack chair, and covered Gordon as he used a screw driver to bypass the rudimentary latch securing the door.

Knox succeeded in undoing the lock and the two slipped inside. Nina softly slid the glass door closed behind them then followed Knox across the kitchen.

The kitchen opened to the living room where a television screen flickered a frozen image reading “end of broadcast day”. An armed man snored on the couch.

The square-shaped living room not only linked to the kitchen, but also linked to two short halls on opposite sides.

Nina held her gun with both hands and pointed the barrel at the sleeping guard’s head, prepared to pull the trigger if he stirred. She nodded to Gordon who took advantage of her cover and traversed the living room toward the hall leading off to the southwest. When he arrived there, he leveled his Desert Eagle at the slumbering sentry’s noggin’ and motioned Nina to join him, which she did.

Knox peered around the corner. He saw an empty chair outside of a closed bedroom door. With Nina watching his back (and watching the sleeping guard), Gordon turned the unlocked knob. He opened the door slowly and stepped into the pitch black master bedroom.

He first noticed bars on the windows that had not been there last summer when he had been Trevor’s guest for a Fourth of July celebration. Gordon realized those bars kept Ashley and her family inside.

Before he stepped toward the bed, his survival instincts kicked in and he pivoted about. Someone lunged at him from behind the door brandishing a vase or something.

Gordon grabbed the weapon before it could strike. Despite the darkness, he saw that it was Ashley who attacked him but her frazzled hair and seemingly crazed disposition caused him to second guess his eyes. This was not the sophisticated, classy woman he left behind at the estate before disappearing.

“Ashley, it’s me,” he whispered.

“Gordon?”

Nina peeked inside the room and said, “We got to move.”

“We’re taking you and JB out of here,” Gordon explained. “No time for your things.”

Before Gordon finished his explanation he realized something to be terrible wrong.

“What?”

“They took him. My son…they took him away.”

This served as yet another twist on Gordon’s perspective of the situation. Who would take her son? Why? What purpose would it serve? Yet he had no time to find those answers.

“Okay, let’s go then,” he simplified.

“My father…he’s in the other room, get him, too.”

Ashley grabbed a pile of clothes from a cedar trunk. Gordon led the trio along the hall to the sleeping guard in the living room. He next hustled Ashley to the kitchen area. Nina waited until they were clear and then crossed behind the quiet guard on the couch toward the far hall.

Before she turned the corner there, a hard chop from strong hands came down on her wrist, knocking free her pistol. The short, gray-haired man named Tucker stepped out from his ambush position and reached for the pistol tucked in his shoulder harness.

In a flash, she twisted his wrist and sent the automatic to the carpet.

The guard on the couch stirred.

Tucker did not hesitate. He smacked Nina in the cheek with a left jab then used a front snap kick to send her backwards stumbling over an easy chair near the sofa. As she leapt to her feet, she saw Tucker retrieving his gun and the stunned-but-now-awake guard on the sofa coming to his senses.

She abandoned the mission and bolted for the kitchen. A pistol round whizzed by her shoulder and exploded plaster from a wall above an oil painting of a lighthouse. More rounds pursued as she joined Gordon and Ashley as they scrambled across the patio toward the beach.

Knox needed no explanation. He hurried Ashley with one hand and leveled his gun toward the open sliding door with the other firing several cannon-like blasts toward the two guards, forcing them away from the kitchen for the moment.

A small flashing light announced the approach of Eagle One from its holding pattern out over the Atlantic. It zoomed toward the shoreline fast.

Ashley stumbled on the sand but managed to hold on to the pile of clothes that would replace the shorts and t-shirt she had worn to bed. In response, Gordon reached to steady her pace, dropping his guard for an instant.

Three I.S. agents raced to the patio with weapons drawn. Before they could fire, Benjamin Trump tackled Tucker from behind, yelling some obscenity or another. The surprise hit bought the escaping trio a crucial two seconds; time enough for the transport to swivel about and hover two feet above the beach blowing sand and concentrating its blinding spotlights on the agents at the house. The side door slid open and there stood Odin the Norwegian Elkhound barking encouragement.

Nina jumped into the ship and took Ashley’s hand to help her onboard.

Back at the house, Benjamin Trump suffered a solid punch on the chin, sending him unconscious but the former proprietor of the fourth largest fence company in Luzerne County had bought his daughter just enough time: if Tucker had fired his gun a moment sooner he would have hit his intended target, Ashley Trump. Instead, that bullet slammed into the lower back of Gordon Knox as he jumped into the passenger compartment of Eagle One.

He grunted. Everything below his waist went numb. His upper arm strength managed to clutch the ship.

“Gordon!” Ashley called as she saw an expression of bewilderment paint over his face.

She frantically reached for his belt and, with Nina’s help, they hauled him inside.

More bullets ricocheted off the ship but Nina closed the door, eliminating any threat from small arms. As she did, the ship banked and flew away from the beach into the rainy night.

Ashley lay on the floor of the compartment with Gordon’s head on her lap. Nina broke out a first aid kit and examined the wound. Blood gushed from the small of his back.

Nina understood battlefield first aid and put that knowledge to work in slowing the bleeding with pad after pad of gauze and direct pressure. But she could not discern the seriousness of the injury.

He did not cry out but the contortions on his face suggested great pain. Nina injected him with morphine from the medical kit. Before Gordon drifted into unconsciousness he told them, “I can’t feel my legs.”

Ashley cradled his head and whispered, “I knew you’d come.” He once seemed so scary but was now revealed to be, like her, a fragile human being. “Thank you.”

Blood seeped from the bandages, no amount of field triage would suffice. He would need serious medical treatment soon. No exit wound meant the bullet remained inside.

Nina raced through a mental checklist of options as she pulled a blanket from a cabinet and helped Ashley wrap it around Gordon to stave off shock. He needed medical attention, but unlike her Dark Wolves companions Nina knew she could not simply drop him off at a hospital and expect nothing worse than internment. No, Internal Security—once they knew his location—would kill him.

Nina turned her attention to Ashley.

“You said they took your son. What do you mean?”

“That bastard Brad Gannon and a Witiko ship took Jorgie away yesterday.”

That explained Ashley’s condition. The woman looked a far cry from the dignified first lady of The Empire. She had not slept or probably even ate in the time since her boy vanished.

A buzz on the intercom grabbed Nina’s attention.

“We got a problem!”

She responded to Hauser’s call by opening the interior bulkhead and joining him in the cockpit, leaving Ashley holding Gordon on the floor between two rows of seats.

Despite her background as a helicopter pilot, Nina had never learned to fly an Eagle. Nonetheless, the ship fascinated her. The roomy cockpit with redundant controls for pilot and co-pilot, the virtual reality goggles that created the illusion of actually being the ship…everything about the craft intrigued her.

She sat in the co-pilot’s chair and asked, “What’s the problem?”

Hauser, the pilot, told her, “The Chrysaor. She’s coming down from the north. We can out run her but…”

“Where are we?”

Cape May now, heading south. We’ll be over water in a minute. But I think…oh shit.”

Tones burst from the console. A flashing light warned of calamity.

Hauser translated, “We’ve got incoming. Three. Damn it, heat lock and radar lock. Shit!”

Nina felt the transport accelerate. She saw an expression of grim determination on the pilot’s face. The new thrust—from Eagle One’s modified boosters—pushed her into the chair.

“Hold on…activating counter measures. Chaff away!”

A burst of radar-inhibiting particles dropped from Eagle One’s undercarriage, fooling the first of the incoming missiles. It veered away, eventually landing in a long-abandoned coastal neighborhood.

Nina slipped on the duplicate pair of navigation goggles to follow the action. The view astounded her: she saw a night-vision enhanced image of the space in front of the Eagle and, as she turned her head, saw the area all around, including the glint of fire coming from two more inbound missiles.

A symbol on the goggles’ display blinked ‘heat defeat’ as Hauser activated another countermeasure. Flares fell from the craft, pulling the heat seeker into the water below as the New Jersey coastline faded behind.

One more…

Nina saw the missile zoom closer…closer. The warning chimes blared. Hauser grunted.

More chaff. More countermeasures.

BAM!

The Eagle rocked side to side as the warhead hit high on the spine of the ship throwing Nina from her chair. Her goggles fell off. She saw a thunderstorm of sparks and electrical bolts engulf the pilot’s side. Flames shot out from the side panels. Hauser slumped in his restraints.

She scrambled over, pulled an emergency fire extinguisher, and doused flames. Then she shook his body while also feeling for a pulse, which she found, but Hauser remained unconscious.

Nina sat on her knees on the grating between the two seats. Beyond the thin windshield she saw only darkness as the fast-moving craft began to descend toward the harsh waters of the Atlantic. The Eagle would be torn to pieces on impact.

She gazed at the empty co-pilot’s chair. The controls there appeared undamaged. But who would fly the ship?

I will.

Her palms grew sweaty; her heart beat hard as adrenaline pumped into her veins.

Nina cautiously returned to the chair, unsure of how or why she felt she could conjure such a miracle. Yet as she fixed the goggles over her head…as she gazed at the control panel and took hold of the sticks on either arm of the chair…things appeared, just a little, familiar.

For the first few seconds she gently maneuvered the pistol-grip sticks. Her feet worked the pedals to stabilize altitude. Each action rocked the craft clumsily, but the ship did steady.

How can I do this? This is not possible!

She gauged at the altimeter: fifty feet, practically skimming the Atlantic, certainly under the radar net cast by the pursuing Chrysaor. No doubt that dreadnought would soon launch fighters for a detailed search.

Still, Nina faced more immediate concerns. She managed to steady the transport and keep it on course, but could she change that course? If not they would be easy to find, regardless of darkness or altitude.

With full fuel tanks range would not be a problem, but where to go? And they had to go somewhere. While the damage from the missile strike appeared contained, Gordon required medical attention that would not attract Internal Security.

She first thought of Shep. The Southern Command Headquarters lay to the southwest of their position. She could fly them across Delaware Bay and be there in a short time. With Ashley’s testimony—

No.

That’s the first place they would look. Ashley would not have the opportunity to testify before the public, a judge, the press, or whatever. Nina doubted they could make it into Annapolis air space. The conspiracy surrounding the apparent assassination of Trevor Stone stretched from the new President to the aliens known as The Order and throughout the Internal Security apparatus. Such a conspiracy had the means to defend itself. She envisioned mobile Internal Security Anti-Air batteries sent to the Highland Beach coast with orders to shoot any incoming transports on sight. If that were not enough, certainly Captain Kaufman would order her jets to sweep the area between the Eagle’s last known position and the coast.

Her head swirled, not from the enhanced night vision of the goggles but from the scope of the task before her. Ashley’s son kidnapped, Gordon Knox dying, and Trevor Stone…alive?

Maybe.

They needed to hide where Gordon could be looked after and where she could contact people who could expose the conspirators and knock Evan Godfrey from his perch.

Nina pulled off the goggles and consulted a small monitor screen displaying an electronic map. Her hands and feet wobbled but held the craft on course a few meters above the ocean. Rain drops splashed on the windshield that seemed pointed at a wall of black.

She scanned the map and considered. As she reached a conclusion, the bulkhead to the cockpit slid open and Ashley walked in. The first lady of The Empire rushed to Hauser.

“What hit us?”

“A missile.”

Hauser stirred.

“Rich looks like he’ll be okay,” Ashley said. “But Gordon needs help, fast.”

“I know.”

Ashley knelt alongside Nina in the co-pilot’s chair.

“How long have you been flying these?”

Nina said, “As far as I know, today is the first time.”

Ashley’s eyes bulged.

Nina went on, “I’ve thought of somewhere for us to go; someone for us to meet up with.”

“Can you trust this person?”

Nina thought about the days she had spent fighting the Hivvans in North Carolina. She thought about Mutants taking hostages, about clearing Wilmington at the head of a massive Hunter-Killer team, and about meeting Denise for the first time. She thought about other things, too. Things that once held promise only to turn to disappointment.

“I hope so.”

*

Dawn came but with no fanfare; a ceiling of gray clouds remained stuck overhead in a gloomy quilt, turning the sun from bright to dull like light hidden behind curtains. The rain still fell but with little enthusiasm; nothing more than a soft drizzle sprinkling into puddles remaining from the night’s more impressive downpours.

Jim Brock crossed the living room of his small home, careful not to wake the sleeping baby in the first bedroom or the teenager in the second.

His biological clock did not allow him to sleep in, not on a day that promised a lot of activity. The Wrightsville Beach Community Club had scheduled a cleanup along the south beaches in the morning and Jim planned to attend a luncheon of ‘Concerned Citizens’ to discuss the changing political landscape and, of course, to celebrate the end of the war.

On top of that came the needs of an eight-month-old daughter as well as a fourteen-year-old boy, and Jim had promised his wife a Friday night break from diaper changes so she could attend practice with the newly formed Wilmington Oratorio Society.

As hectic as his scheduled sounded it did qualify as a “normal life,” the idea of which once seemed a fantasy in a world where aliens occupied most of the globe, monsters lurked in the swamps to the south, and where a young man had crowned himself Emperor and sent his armies marching off to re-conquer the world.

Brock had often told his day care kids in the old world and his students in the new one that two wrongs did not make a right. That and the usual, ‘the ends do not justify the means.’

Thoughts of Emperors and Empires drifted through his mind as he examined the front page of the North Carolina Reporter. He read the Reporter and not the Wilmington News because he found the latter to be far too militaristic.

Brock shook his head in disappointment as he sipped hot tea at the breakfast counter and glanced over the stories on the front page.

FUGITIVES AT LARGE; REWARD OFFERED.

SECRETARY’S DEATH LINKED TO DISGRUNTLED MILITARY AND INTELLIGENCE OPERATIVES.

PRESIDENT ASSURES NATION SECURE.

FINANCIAL MARKETS WAVER IN CONCERN OVER POLITICAL STABILITY.

“Some people just don’t know how to live without war,” he thought between sips.

A series of soft thuds interrupted his musings over headlines, politics, and conspiracies. He realized those thuds came from his front door. Knocks, actually.

Brock set his mug on the counter top and gazed at the door curiously. He knew the people of Wrightsville Beach liked to attack the day early, but so soon after dawn?

Nonetheless, he stepped from the kitchen, crossed the living room, and opened the front door. Outside, the rain splashed intermittently on the long sidewalk curving through a landscaped lawn with a stone garden and a small but well-trimmed dogwood tree.

In his doorway stood a woman covered in drizzle, her curly blond hair matted flat and a waterlogged ponytail drooping behind to her shoulder blades. She wore a soldier’s uniform and carried a rifle.

The sound of a visitor stirred Jim’s wife awake. The petite brunette drifted into the living room tying a powder blue robe while trying to suppress a yawn. She squinted and, when seeing a soldier, asked in a voice one part annoyance and one part fear: “What is this, Jim?”

Brock stared at the blue eyes he had once found very mysterious. Yet what surprised him most of all was not her appearance at his front door, but how her shoulders slumped and how those mysterious blue eyes struggled to stay awake. He recalled her to be a confident, strong woman but on that morning in the rain at his door step she appeared anything but.

“Nina?”

The woman at the door muttered humbly, “Hello, Jim.”

Schism

Jon Brewer stood behind the desk staring out the closed balcony doors down at the front lawn. He saw a pair of K9 sentries walking the fence, one of his wife’s assistants driving out the main gate, and a hot July sun reflecting off the lake

He spoke into the phone, “Dante, I’m in the dark out here. Maple’s dead, Gordon was dead and now he might not be? You want me to report any contact with Captain Nina Forest because you think she’s up to something and two of her team are under arrest on suspicion of anti-government activities? Things are going on and you’re not filling me in. I don’t like it.”

Dante’s voice wavered across the long connection stretching from Washington D.C., to the lakeside estate in northeast Pennsylvania.

“Jon, man, relax. You know as much as I do.”

“Really? Do I? Wow. That’s a real pile you’re trying to shovel at me. The newspapers seem to know something. Half of them are talking about some kind of military coup in the works. Well let me tell you, I am the military and there’s no such thing going on. Something stinks. And I’m getting pissed off at sitting out here all alone. I’m getting pissed off with having nothing but paperwork getting thrown at me.”

“Hey, whoa, easy Jon. Here are the facts. Someone kidnapped Maple down here in D.C., back on the first. Three days later he turns up dead outside of Trevor’s tomb up there in your neck of the woods. Those two guys from Nina’s team were a part of that. They aren’t saying’ much.”

“I want to talk to them.”

That took Dante off guard. He stumbled. “No, hey, I mean Roos has got them in a high-security spot interrogating them.”

“Those two men are military. Ultimately they’re under my command.”

“I’ll talk to Evan.”

“What’s he got to do with it?” Jon’s anger—his first real wave of anger since long before Trevor’s death—grew. He could almost hear his wife suggesting he watch his temper.

No, this is one case where she would want me to lose my temper.

Jon went on, “I thought this was about not having one man in charge? You’re telling me that I can’t talk to my soldiers without Evan’s approval?”

“Hey, easy does it, Jon. I understand, man. I hear you. But there are a lot of people talking a lot of shit. Some folks say they saw Gordon Knox alive again, that he was with Nina Forest. What’s that make you think, Jon? What do you think Evan thinks about all this? He sees Knox still alive, maybe, and running with military people who were close to Trevor and then one of Evan’s Secretaries ends up dead. Don’t know about you, but I’m starting to wonder if there aren’t some people cooking something up.”

“I’m coming to Washington,” Jon said. “Out here I’m no good. There’s no one left except me and my wife and a couple of paper-pushers.”

Paper weights.

“I’ll talk to E—” Dante caught himself. “Okay, look, we’ll set something up. If you come bursting in here out of the blue that could send the wrong signal. Let me set something up and I’ll get back to you in a few days. Just sit tight, Jon. It hasn’t been that long. Things have to, you know, settle down.”

“Yeah, right,” Jon’s tone suggested he knew no such thing.

“Look, I’ll talk to you in a day or two. Might be a good idea for the President to meet with all of us again, especially you and some of the other commanders. You know, to show we’re all on the same team.”

“Are we, Dante? I’m starting to wonder if I did the right thing.”

“Yeah, man, you did the right thing,” the Secretary of Defense said. “Just relax.”

Click.

Jon stared at the dead receiver for a moment before hanging up. He then kicked a small garbage can, sending it tumbling across the room. The metallic clang echoed through the empty halls of the mansion.

*

Dante stormed into the West Wing arriving at the Oval Office at the same time the door to that office opened. The President stood there, ushering out two gentlemen, one portly the other tall and thin.

“I don’t understand how you can do this,” the portly man complained. “I was the legally appointed Governor.”

“Appointed by Trevor Stone,” the President clarified while maintaining a smile. “He is gone, and all of his edicts are null and void. On behalf of our new nation and on behalf of the people I can rescind any unilateral decisions he made.”

“But you have no right!”

“I have every right. We are in a transitional period. You will find that my decision on this will be enforced by both Internal Security and the military. It would be best if you accept this change quietly, for the good of the nation. Now I expect you to vacate the Governor’s residence by tomorrow afternoon or you will be arrested for trespassing.”

The tall, thin and newly-appointed Governor tried to suppress his emotions but a cocky grin tugged at the sides of his mouth. Conversely, the portly man grew a darker shade of red.

“You can’t do this. You have no legal grounds!”

Evan’s smile turned to a scowl. “I have the authority and power to enforce this decision. It would be best for you and your family not to make this into an incident.”

The dismissed politician huffed and barged away.

President Godfrey turned to the tall, thin man and said, “If he gives you any problems, call Director Roos at I.S. In the meantime, congratulations. I know I can count on you.”

The new appointee grinned and walked off with a bounce in his step.

Evan noticed Dante and frowned, but in the span of a half-second caught himself and turned that frown into a welcoming smile.

“Mister Secretary, what can I do for you?”

“We need to talk.”

“Yes, we always seem to need to talk. Well, come in, Dante. I have a few minutes.”

Evan led them into the Oval Office. As soon as the door shut behind them, Dante jumped on Evan in a panicked voice, “Things are coming apart!”

“What? Wait a second, Dante. Relax. Take a deep breath.”

“I can’t relax! I just got off the phone with Jon Brewer. He knows something is up. He’s starting to think he shouldn’t have handed it all over to you. I’m starting to wonder that myself.”

“Easy, easy. Things are not coming apart. Things are under control.”

“How can you say that? You sit here in the White House like it’s some kind of bunker or something. When is the last time you went out there to see what’s going on? Do you know there are Senators who are talking about impeachment because you haven’t put together that Constitutional committee yet?”

“There are always malcontents. But listen, Dante, it hasn’t even been a month since I took power. People have to be patient.”

Jones pleaded, “But you haven’t done anything! No movement on elections. You haven’t appointed anyone to work on a new constitution. And now you’re appointing Governors; the same type of thing Trevor was doing that we were against!”

Evan did not appear to hear. He took Dante by surprise as he redirected: “I know why you’re so worried. It’s because Knox and Forest are out there running around still. I admit Roos has not done nearly as good a job as I had hoped. He’s a bit of a disappointment. Still, I think I can solve this. We need to bring this to an end. Captain Forest has a daughter, does she not?”

“W-what? Huh?”

“She has a daughter, right?”

Dante blinked as he absorbed the change in direction. “Um, yeah I think so.”

“And she’s very close to General Shepherd. And those commandos we arrested in Wilkes-Barre were under his command, just like she is, right? Well, I’ve told Ray to arrest Shepherd and bring him in for questioning. He may be behind this whole conspiracy.”

“Wait a sec…”

“There’s nothing we can do about Knox except put him down like a sick dog when we get him. But Forest…I’m going to have Roos pick up her daughter. Maybe that will pull her to us.”

“You want to kidnap her daughter?”

“It makes sense,” Godfrey coolly calculated. “She’s been on the run but that will bring her out of hiding. If we get her, Knox, and Shep we’ve got a real front-page story about a conspiracy. Of course, they won’t give up without a fight I expect. All the better.”

“You’re crazy,” Dante’s mouth gaped. “I can’t believe this. How didn’t I see this before?”

“Now Dante, we’ve had this discussion. It’s about sacrifices. It’s about the greater good.”

“No it’s not. I believed in you. I listened to you. You talked about doing things right this time. But something changed in you.”

Godfrey tried to assure, “Dante, that’s what this is about. It’s about doing what’s right for the people. I know what is right. That’s why you trusted me.”

Dante placed a hand on his forehead as if staving off a headache and shut his eyes.

“You changed. Somewhere along the line you changed. Oh man, and I didn’t see it. I’ve been such an idiot. It’s not about ideas any more, is it, Evan? You talked a great game but all along it was about beating Trevor; about winning, wasn’t it? And now that you beat him…now that you’re the President like you always wanted…now you’re just the same dictator he was.”

“Enough, Dante. I won’t tolerate disobedience.”

“And I helped you get here! I listened to you! You’re a phony, Evan!”

“Oh spare me! Just spare me the lecture, Dante,” the President abandoned kindly persuasion. “Why did you do it, Jones? Why? Because you wanted to live in the perfect democracy? Because you desired a new Constitution?”

Jones tried, “Too much power for one man. He was too powerful. We saw that when he disappeared three years ago. Even if he meant well, it was too dangerous for just one man to—”

“Yes, yes, tell yourself that, Dante. Maybe you actually can sleep through the night believing that lie. Do you know why you did it, Dante? Do you want to know why you helped kill your friend? I’ll tell you. You didn’t do it for freedom. You didn’t do it because you thought him a despot. You did it for something far more personal.”

Jones raised a hand as if to ward off the assault.

“No. No, Trevor was my friend. It was hard to do. I did it because one man can’t be that powerful, no matter how much he tried. So I believed in you; that you were different.”

“You would have believed anything I told you as long as you could justify betraying your friend. And you know why, Dante?”

Evan stalked toward Jones who, in turn, retreated one step then another.

“In the old world you and Trevor were friends, yes. But you were the leader, weren’t you? You had all the answers. He was your lackey. You told him the way of the world because Dante Jones knew it all. And Trevor listened. And he did what you said because you were the one in charge. You were the Alpha male and he followed your lead.”

“We were friends! I did this for the people!”

Dante retreated against the wall; nowhere left to run.

“You did it for your ego! You couldn’t stand being second fiddle to Dick Stone. You couldn’t stand that he was the man with the answers; he was the man in charge and you were his lackey. He gave you the job in Internal Security like a Christmas gift so that his friend had something to do. You knew you were in over your head and you knew he knew it, too. And that’s what bothered you. You were nothing in the new world and Trevor felt sorry for you; he fed you his table scraps so you wouldn’t starve. Each year The Empire grew and each year you were more out of your league, but Trevor still supported you for no other reason than you were his friend!”

“That’s bull shit. I didn’t envy him. No one should have that power, not him, not you!”

Godfrey ignored any counter arguments and pushed on, “He scared you, too, didn’t he? You saw what he could do at places like New Winnabow and in California. Hell, you saw it back at Five Armies. How many Red Hands did he slaughter that day?”

“That’s the point, he was too powerful. He was—”

“He was leading the human race back from extinction and playing the hero. People called out his name. Trevor! Trevor! But you could only remember Richard Stone, the kid you took under your wing. But the tables turned, Dante. It’s been eating at your ego for years.”

“He was my friend. He stood up for me. I did this for the sake of our world.”

“I just needed to give you a reason. Yes, to turn your anger into a righteous cause. And oh how you struggled with your conscience and you told yourself how noble you were to betray your best friend because it served the greater good. Oh Brutus, how you fooled yourself! Well now you have to live with it, Dante. I don’t care what you tell yourself at night, but you belong to me, now. If word gets out of what we’ve done then yes, I am finished and what is left of humanity will fall apart in one great schism. But you, Dante, the lowest circles of Hell are reserved for those who betray friends. There will be no cleansing of your sins.”

Dante breathed hard but could not respond. Beads of sweat trickled along his cheeks.

Evan’s face turned from scowl into smile.

“But it doesn’t have to be that way. We’ve come this far, we need only go a little further.”

Jones shook his head and mumbled, “I didn’t want this…this isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

“Nothing goes according to plan,” Evan’s voice seemed almost fatherly as he adjusted his speech, his tone, his volume to accommodate the emotions of his audience.

“It’s falling apart. Brewer…”

“Brewer is irrelevant. Without Trevor he is a ghost of his former self. Still, we must make a public show of things. Too many whispers and rumors are causing uncertainty. We must make a show of how well things are going. Yes, yes, I have an idea.”

The President turned away from his beaten victim and spoke almost to himself, “I will hold a news conference here, at the White House. I will invite key Senators and—yes—several prominent military commanders. We will show unity. We will announce that the conspirators in this military-intelligence coup have been identified. With time, we’ll get confessions. In the midst of the fear and commotion we will break the old-guard once and for all.”

Dante shook his head either in disbelief or disgust.

Evan consulted his desk calendar: Friday, July 11th.

“I’ll need a few days to put together a guest list and fly them in. I’ll need a good speech, too.” His finger fell on Wednesday, July 16th. “Yes, Wednesday will work. That gives me enough time. Cheer up, Dante. Next week we’re going to put an end to all this. Yes, in a few days this will be settled once and for all.”

Infiltration

Gannon watched the Missionary Man savor the moment as he approached the child’s holding cell. Red and yellow fibers stretched across the green skin-like door there. Monks armed with swords—more like sharp metal rods—stood guard to either side.

Brad Gannon asked anxiously, “So, like, is everything ready and all? Can we off Stone?”

“You will wait until I rip apart the boy’s mind and present it as a gift to my Lord.”

Gannon huffed but his position allowed no room for bargaining.

The Missionary placed his hand on a soft brown patch in the wall and the membrane withdrew, opening to a pulsing chamber where an organic bench provided JB with a seat and a round orifice in the floor offered a means of waste disposal.

Jorge Benjamin Stone held half of a stale candy bar in his hand and a jug of water sat nearby. Bags of red skin surrounded his otherwise blue eyes in a sign of how little he had slept since his abduction. He still wore the black polo shirt and tan shorts his mother laid out for him two days ago, but those clothes had grown wrinkled and ragged.

A part of Gannon felt guilty for having delivered the boy to that place of evil. But Gannon long ago became proficient at hiding guilt in a dark closet at the back of his mind.

“Come out of there, child,” the Missionary commanded.

JB moved slowly at first; another sign of fatigue. But he straightened, swallowed a deep breath of resolve, and exited the cell. Gannon saw the Missionary’s smile of victory falter for a second, perhaps in surprise at the boy’s fortitude.

“Hey, sport,” Gannon spoke in as friendly a tone as his limited acting skills could muster.

Jorgie ignored Gannon and asked the Missionary, “What is going to happen to me?”

The agent of Voggoth answered, “You’re going to visit with your father.”

To Gannon’s surprise, the boy showed no enthusiasm. No matter how young his age, apparently Jorge was no fool.

JB told the Missionary man, “You should not be doing this.”

As Voggoth’s minion led them along a circular artery-like corridor lit by small glowing orbs he said, “I came looking for your mother many years ago; before she knew she carried you in her womb. Had I found you that first day this conflict would almost certainly have been settled quickly. Oh, how glorious that would have been.”

Gannon asked, “What do you mean? You went looking for him?”

“Voggoth sent me to draw a blade across her throat.”

Gannon wondered exactly how long the Missionary had served Voggoth.

In response to his captor’s revelation JB muttered, “I’ll remember that.”

“As for your father, several of Voggoth’s children were sent to greet him. I understand they found his parents, but of course he escaped.”

“You should not be doing this,” the boy repeated in a voice filled with a surprising tone of authority. “Your Master does not know.”

“Quiet, child. You are a present to my Lord. After I break you apart I will take you to Voggoth when I make my pilgrimage. He will demonstrate to all the inferiority of your species and perhaps hasten final judgment upon your people. My reward will be great”

“You don’t live,” the boy said. “You are empty. This whole place is a big empty space that needs to be filled.”

The kid’s words caused Gannon’s arms to bubble with goose bumps; he saw The Order in a similar vein as young Jorge. However, unlike Jorgie Brad Gannon chose to serve Voggoth in the name of self-preservation.

The Missionary argued, “You know nothing of The Order. You are of an inferior race. Your people are ignorant and fragile. Voggoth is strength. He is a living God.”

“He is no God, and he is not alive. You’re dead. You’re all dead!”

The debate halted as the corridor opened to the large room where spindly leg-like appendages churned atop a blob of machine. At the bottom of the pulsing, beating, rumbling contraption laid Trevor Stone, his eyes covered by a fibrous mask and slimy appendages wrapped around his body.

“Father…” JB’s voice shifted from defiant to that of a scared little boy. “Father! What have they done to you?”

Sobs came one after another in heaves as he raced to Trevor’s side and studied the motionless man. JB’s face twisted, alternating from agony to repulsion and back again.

But just as Brad Gannon felt certain the curtain would fall on Jorge Benjamin Stone’s composure, the child’s disposition took a turn in a new direction. More specifically, JB’s eyes grew sharp and so cold that it seemed the temperature inside the chamber dropped a dozen degrees in an instant. Then those eyes found the Missionary man and dug in like daggers.

The Missionary did not seem to notice; he was too busy soaking in the glory of what appeared to be a victory for him. As the agent of Voggoth spoke, Gannon worried that perhaps this particular minion’s surprising cache of ambition might prove his undoing.

“Your Father, the great leader of mankind, is weak. We have done nothing but remind him of his deeds. He is being destroyed by his own fears, his own guilt, his own sense of loss. And look at him…his mind has failed him. Surely the champion of humanity should be stronger. But like all of your species, he is weak.”

“You are a bad man. This is a bad place. You will wish you hadn’t done this!”

“Quiet! You are in the presence of greatness. And now you can join your father.”

Another platform protruded from the wall alongside Trevor. A circular bulge grew from the machine at the head of that platform. Tiny tendrils wriggled there like worms squirming through rotting meat.

The monks who guarded Trevor followed the Missionary’s orders and lifted the little boy on to the table. Jorgie offered no resistance; his eyes remained fixed on his father in an expression suggesting a thin line between sorrow and rage.

JB warned, “You are not supposed to do this. It’s not allowed.”

The wormy tendrils reached from the bulge and clamped on the child’s head like suction cups. Thicker appendages squirmed from the platform and coiled around JB’s wrists and ankles, securing him in place. The Missionary hovered alongside while Gannon stood several paces away, unsure if he wanted to watch. The guards—the monks—waited.

JB grunted and closed his eyes. His lips quivered, perhaps in pain. The Missionary leaned in and his eyes grew wide.

“Yes! Yes! The machine is pushing into your mind and sifting through the building blocks of your body. The Bishop says you are the purest sample of your race’s life pattern. Now I will rip that pattern apart and expose it as weak and unworthy.”

As he spoke, the agent of Voggoth reached to the machine. As the Bishop had done before, a bulb-like appendage sprouted from the wall and enveloped the Missionary’s hand.

Gannon watched, sparing a glance to the top of the contraption high up where the things that resembled the legs of a giant spider stuck in taffy cranked away at their hideous work faster and faster. The droning of the machine grew louder.

“Let me in your mind,” the Missionary urged through clenched teeth. “Let…me…IN!”

*

Tucker used his fingers to silently count to three. When he raised the third digit, one of the other Internal Security agents—the one with a barbed wire tattoo on his bicep—kicked hard, snapping the latch and busting open the apartment door.

Tucker led the three men inside, swiveling his pistol from side to side as he surveyed the living room. He saw DVDs and compact discs scattered on the carpet in front of a modest entertainment center. He caught a whiff of a harsh chemical smell then spied an open nail polish bottle on the coffee table.

“She’s here,” he said to the other two agents. “Denise! Come out, your mother sent us!”

The men slithered through the apartment. Tucker barged into a small bedroom decorated with old school rock and roll band posters including Led Zeppelin and DEVO. Bright sunlight and a warm July breeze blew in through an open window there. Tied to one leg of the small bed was a rope, the rest dangled out the window.

Tucker scanned outside and saw nothing but a patch of closely grouped White Ash trees two stories below.

“Damn it! She’s gone rabbit. Let’s go.”

Two minutes later Tucker knocked at a first floor apartment where a placard indicated “Supervisor”. A one-armed chubby fellow with splotches of sweat all over his green tee shirt opened the door.

“Yeah? Whatya want?”

Tucker flashed his Internal Security badge. “I’m looking for Denise Forest. I’ve got a message for her from her mother. She wasn’t home. Do you know where we can find her?”

“Denise?” The chubby fellow grew a frown as if Denise’s name caused a sour taste in his mouth. “Don’t surprise me that she wasn’t home. Probably out causing trouble.”

“Do you know where we can find her? It’s urgent. Important business.”

“Oh yeah, important business,” the man considered. “Well, she goes off on her bike and hangs out with friends sometimes down at Church Circle. You might find here there in some of the abandoned buildings. Kid knows how to hide, so she’s gunna be tough to find.”

“We’ll find her,” Tucker assured and then led his men outside to a sedan. The chubby caretaker watched them go and then closed the door.

Denise popped up from behind the counter of the eat-in kitchen.

She asked Barney, “Where’s Church Circle?”

*

The Order’s massive machine pulsated like a beating heart. The strange legs or arms or whatever they were at the top of the mound moved up and down and around faster and faster. The steady drone grew louder and louder sending a tremble through the walls.

JB lay on the table secured by tentacles with smaller tendrils stuck to his head. His face seemed frozen with his eyes closed and his lips tightly sealed as if chomping a bit.

The Missionary loomed over the child with fiery wide eyes. One of his arms remained attached to the roaring contraption.

“OPEN YOUR MIND! OPEN IT TO ME!”

Two zombie-like monks stood silently by with no reaction to the Missionary’s struggle but Gannon instinctively stepped back, ready to retreat. His finely honed sense of self-preservation suggested that things neared a breaking point; a breaking point not for the boy but for The Order’s monstrous machine.

“YOU INSOLENT CHILD! STOP…FIGHTING…DO NOT RESIST!”

The ribs supporting the fleshy walls of the vile mechanism bulged then retreated then bulged again as if a great force pushed out from within. Gannon retreated another step.

The Missionary’s glare changed. The fury on his face—pure rage—slipped away. His eyes stayed wide not in anger but in…but in fear.

“No! NO!”

His attention shifted from the boy on the table to his arm attached to the raging machine. He tried to yank it free but could not.

“Let go!”

The boy’s eyes snapped open. The machine churned harder and faster and louder.

“Let GO OF ME!”

A horrible sickening crunch sounded beneath the scream of The Order’s machine. The Missionary gasped and collapsed to his knees. As he did, what remained of his arm finally snapped away from the hideous contraption revealing a bloody stump.

Voggoth’s Missionary man screamed. The stone-faced Monks wavered but for lack of orders did not move.

The tendrils on JB’s head drew back as if shocked by electricity. The slimy bonds around his wrists and ankles warped from green to gray then fell to the floor and squirmed like wounded snakes.

The Missionary stumbled to his feet staring at his stump as JB sat up.

“Like, what the shit is going on?” Gannon gaped at the young boy. For the first time since he watched Tokyo die, Brad Gannon wondered if he had chosen the wrong side.

“Your machine is empty!” The boy shouted. “I am filling it! It belongs to me now.”

The Missionary scrambled to escape and ordered, “Purify him! Purify him with your blades!”

Both monks unsheathed their swords and descended on the young boy who greeted their approach with a devilish smile. As they raised their weapons for the kill, a pair of thin black poles, or maybe they were legs, unstuck from the top of the machine and seemingly stepped down, skewering the monks.

The Missionary placed his remaining hand against his temple and cried, “I am infected! Get out of my mind! Get your poison out of my mind!” Gannon saw a patch of the Missionary’s head turn gray as he hurried toward a side hall shouting “Defenses!”

Those defenses came to life. A woeful alarm that sounded similar to a dentist’s patient howling through a mouth of cotton reverberated through the base but it could not match the shaking and roaring machine in volume.

High up a section of wall bulged and then stretched into the form of a barrel.

JB glanced toward the weapon. A rash of gray patches grew on the barrel.

JB looked to Gannon as the human turncoat staggered side to side like a mouse caught in an open field below the shadow of a hawk.

The gun barrel curled and straightened, literally spitting bullets. The rounds slammed into Gannon one after another, tearing apart his body into chunks of flesh. The one-time actor turned quisling disintegrated into a pile of steaming garbage.

More monks tried to enter the chamber from side corridors. The gun swiveled and fired, killing several and forcing others to retreat.

JB jumped from the platform and approached his father. As he did, the fibrous bands over Trevor’s eyes withered and withdrew as did his bonds.

“Father! Father! Can you hear me?”

No response.

The machine grew unstable. Something popped; another something hissed. What remained of the working appendages at its top snapped apart spewing debris.

“Father! Wake up! I can’t control it much longer! It’s going to come apart!”

He grabbed Trevor’s head with both of his tiny hands and shook. Gray splotches popped up on the machine walls as if a disease like chicken pox infected Voggoth’s contraption.

Trevor’s eyes opened then shut.

“It’s me, Jorge! Your son! We have to go!”

The gun fired again, blasting to pieces a spider sentry as it marched into the room. Gooey alien innards mixed with the remains of Brad Gannon.

Trevor tried to open his eyes again; then again. His hands flexed then fidgeted as unused nerves and muscles struggled to reactivate.

“Please, father! Please…”

Finally his eyes stayed open, but they were not the eyes of JB’s father. They were not the eyes of the Emperor. They were the eyes of a madman, driven beyond the edge of sanity by the machine that had amplified all his guilt and fear and shame and turned hours of torment into weeks; days into years.

The body of Trevor Stone rolled off the platform as some combination of mental impulses caused a physical reaction. He fell to the ground with a heavy thump. A forlorn groan—a beast’s groan—slipped from his lips.

As small as he was in comparison to his dad, the determined son grabbed his father’s arm with both hands and tried to drag him.

“We have to go! We have to get out of here! Please, oh please…”

The splotches covering the great machine spread as the infection multiplied and advanced. Patches of gray formed on the walls of the chamber which splintered like drying skin creating lacerations spilling vile liquids and jells.

The basic instincts that remained in Trevor Stone allowed him to blindly react to the boy’s shouts. He tried to stand but fell, and then crawled on all fours like a wild animal; then he stood again but took only two steps before stumbling once more.

Jorge pulled and tugged, willing his dad from the room in steps, crawls, and staggers. As they moved, the walls of the complex cracked and trembled as the contamination spread.

Others came to stop the father and son, but the defenses of the base belonged to the boy. Gun emplacements, binding tentacles, and all the machines inside Voggoth’s lair turned against The Order, controlled by a child.

Lines of Battle

After several days of cloud cover, the sun finally broke through to kick off a hot and humid North Carolina Saturday. As the temperatures rose and the air turned sticky, Nina walked on wet ground through a small patch of woods to the north of Causeway Drive. There she came upon the damaged Eagle transport hidden among the overgrowth and drooping branches. Hauser—after regaining his senses—had done an excellent job in wedging the ship into cover.

They had been living at Jim Brock’s since Thursday and Nina felt pinned down. She worried about moving in fear of exposing themselves, but also feared that one of Brock’s friends would eventually turn them in.

“What’s our status?”

Hauser knelt just inside the open door of the transport, Nina stood on the ground below.

“We’re good,” the pilot with the burn mark on his forehead answered. “There are a couple of accessory systems that are still out but nothing important. The rest is just cosmetic. We can get going any time we want.”

“Going? I guess,” she answered. “But I think we’re out of places to go.”

Jim Brock caught the end of the conversation as he approached the hidden transport with a brown bag in hand and a frown on his face.

He said, “You’ve got to get going. And soon, too.”

Nina sighed and apologized for the one-hundredth time, “Listen, I’m sorry we just dropped in on you like this.”

“I know. I’ll bet it was just about the last thing you wanted to do,” he handed the bag to Hauser and explained, “Breakfast.”

“Hey, thanks man.”

While Hauser accepted the gift, Brock and Nina walked around the nose cone of the silent ship. A large frog hopped off while a song bird of some type crooned in celebration of the new day.

Nina started, “Your wife probably isn’t too thrilled about us being here, I’ll bet.”

“She’s not. But you’ve got to get moving for more than that. Your friend is in bad shape.”

Nina ran a hand over her forehead to wipe away moisture forming there.

As a favor to Jim, one of the local doctors made house calls to treat Gordon and actually engaged in what might qualify as low-level surgery.

She asked, “What’s the doc say today?”

“He said there’s nothing more he can do. The bullet is lodged in his spine. There might be some internal bleeding and there’s probably an infection because he’s been running a fever and drifting in and out of consciousness since he’s been here. Mrs. Stone says he’s barely spoken more than a few words and most of them haven’t made sense. Point is he needs real medical attention. You should get him to the hospital in Raleigh or he is going to die.”

Nina snapped, “And if I take him to the hospital in Raleigh Internal Security will pick him up and he’ll die anyway. Damn it.”

“You have to do something.”

“I know. I thought maybe you could have helped me get in touch with Shep.”

Jim said, “But he got arrested,” referring to the headline ‘TOP RANKING GENERAL ARRESTED IN COUP PLOT’ from yesterday’s paper.

“So I don’t know where else to turn.”

Brock leaned against a tree and said, “But you came to me. You trusted me, even though you know I’d support the new President and what he stands for. Why?”

Nina scratched the back of her neck and answered, “Listen, we don’t agree on a lot of things. I know most of the people around here never liked Trevor or what he did. But I also know you people aren’t traitors. I mean, I guess I just figured you wouldn’t turn us in.”

“I’m flattered. It’s also good to see you again, regardless of why. You really haven’t kept in touch much these last few years.”

Nina said, “What do you mean? Denise has been down here to visit you a bunch of times and the two of you are always talking on the phone. Well, when the connection holds up.”

“Denise, sure, but you and I don’t talk much. Whenever I’d catch you at home you’d hand the phone to her like it was a hot potato.”

Nina furled her brow and confessed, “Well look, every time we talked it always seemed to get down to how Trevor was doing this wrong or the war should be over or whatever. I kind of got sick of being preached to.”

He chuckled and mocked, “Me? Preach? I guess so. That’s the teacher in me always trying to lecture. Sorry about that. But you still trusted me.”

“Like I said, I knew you’d do the right thing. I know that no matter what you think about Trevor or Godfrey, you want what’s best for us. I guess I think you’re just about wrong about everything but you’ve still got a good heart.”

“Thanks. I think. But don’t trust me too much. Or rather, sooner or later the doc is going to talk or someone else is going to figure out what’s going on and who my strange house guests are. Sooner or later Internal Security is going to get a tip. I’m saying—”

“You’re saying we can’t stay here forever, even if it weren’t for Gordon. Look, I get it. I’m just not sure where to turn. I don’t know who else to trust.”

“Like I told you when we first met, everybody needs someone. Even the strong.”

“Problem is my people are either locked up or on the run.”

“Even Denise? Are you worried about her?”

“Yes I am,” Nina nodded.

“Wait a second,” Brock hit upon an idea. “Denise. That’s it. I know someone else who thinks pretty highly of you. Someone well connected. I bet you can trust her.”

“Who’s that?”

“I helped you adopt Denise, but so did someone else. Someone who made the final decision. And if I remember right, she might be in a position to help. It’s worth a chance.”

“Listen, I don’t like to take chances.”

“Nina, sometimes in life you have to take chances on people. You took one by coming here. You trusted me. Now you have to trust someone else, or Knox is going to die and sooner or later the people chasing you are going to catch you.”

“And what about that, Jim? If everything I’ve found out is true, it could mean the end of President Godfrey and maybe even the return of Trevor Stone. Would you like that? Are you willing to be an accomplice to that?”

“Well I might not get invited to the good parties down here anymore.”

Her stare would not allow him to blow off the question.

He answered honestly, “If what you told me is true, then Godfrey has gone against everything he’s stood for since I started listening to him. If it’s true, then he’s worse than Trevor Stone ever was. So yeah, I’ll help. As much as I can. Besides, I don’t think I could say no to you.

“So then,” she asked. “Who is this person I’m supposed to trust?”

*

The sound of the phone ringing startled Lori Brewer from the trance-like state she had fallen into while reviewing file after file of adoption records. What had once been a small part of her job as Administrator had become the focus of her entire existence since the change in governments morphed her position into Regional Director of Adoption and Child Placement.

The phone rang again. She eyed it suspiciously, worried her mind played tricks.

She cautiously lifted the receiver. “Hi, um, hello, this is Lori Brewer.”

“Mrs. Brewer, you have to listen to me. There isn’t much time and I’m sure your phone is bugged.”

Much to the caller’s surprise, Lori recognized the voice immediately. “Nina?”

The familiar use of her first name by Mrs. Brewer caught Captain Forest off-guard, but she had no time to get side tracked.

“Yes. There isn’t much time. Ashley Stone asked me to get involved. Listen, I need your help. That is, I need your husband’s help, especially. Do you remember that you helped me adopt my daughter?”

“Yes. Yes I do.”

“Do you remember who I adopted her from?”

Mrs. Brewer stumbled then answered, “I might. Either way I’ve got the records here…somewhere.” She thought of the archives piled in the garage.

The caller warned, “You have to know what’s going on. I mean, things aren’t the way the news is covering them. I’ve got nowhere left to turn.”

“Alrighty then. Tell me what you need.”

“First, there are a few things you have to know; that your husband has to know, about Trevor, about his son, about who is really behind all this. But they’ll be coming for you soon. There isn’t much time.”

“Then talk fast,” Lori said. “I’m a good listener.”

*

Jon glanced over the report again. The two divisions President Godfrey had ordered demobilized had been broken into smaller units and sent to their home bases. Their heavy weapons were secured in armories while most small arms went home with the individuals.

Having been a soldier for much of his life both before and after Armageddon, Jon Brewer empathized with the boys and girls leaving the fight. They were with their families again, would find real jobs, and get to watch their children grow.

Yet overshadowing his joy for the retiring warriors came a feeling of unease. Despite how strong the nation remained he could not help but worry that those two divisions made the difference between a quick response capability and forces spread too thin.

The dreadnoughts, of course, remained his ace in the hole. But they were limited in patrol areas and focused on the east coast for the time being, with his flagship undergoing repair and re-armament across state at the Pittsburgh shipyards.

His thoughts shattered as the door to the upstairs office burst open and his wife stormed in. The two dogs at the entrance jumped but relaxed when they saw a familiar face. However, Jon did not relax. He saw a fire burning in his wife’s eyes and determination in her stride.

He stood. Lori spoke.

“You have to make a choice now, Jon. No more waiting.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Lori glared at her husband and said, “I just got off the phone with Nina Forest.”

“Nina? Where is she?”

“You didn’t do anything when Evan started tearing apart everything Trevor worked for. You took your orders like a good robot when they demoted you to a paper weight. You’ve put up with Dante Jones keeping you in the dark for weeks now and yesterday when you heard Shep was arrested you made a phone call. A god damn phone call! That’s not the Jon Brewer I married. He could be an arrogant ass sometimes and a real stubborn pig head, too. But he didn’t sit back and let things just happen. He made things happen, right or wrong. Is that man still in there? Can you stop being afraid of screwing up and do what you know needs to be done?”

“Whoa, hey, what did Nina say? Where is she?”

“Here it is in a nutshell, Jon. Dante Jones made a deal with the devil, I.S. tried to kill Gordon Knox but he’s still alive, and a couple of days ago your President handed Trevor’s son over to the Witiko; and they’re just the front men for something worse.”

Jon’s face turned red, he blinked fast, and he ran a hand over his crew cut.

“How do you now this? Where’s the evidence?”

“The evidence is Nina Forest. You remember her, right? Back when it was just a handful of us, we could trust her to guard our backs. She was our friend. You wanna know something? I believe her. I trust her a lot more than I trust Godfrey or Jones or any of those sonofabitches who’ve pissed away everything. But it doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what you think.”

“Wow, wait, slow down…”

Lori did not slow down. “You need to do something and you need to do it now because in a few minutes I’m guessing Internal Security is going to come looking for us and suddenly we’ll be part of this phantom conspiracy.”

“Jesus Christ. This is out of control!”

“That’s right. Now you need to take control. Can you do it, Jon? Can you?”

His eyes wavered. His fingers drummed the desk and he muttered, “I’ve tried to do what I thought Trevor would want me to do; to keep it all going. The last time he left, we almost started fighting each other. I couldn’t let that happen again.”

“You’re a good man, Jon, but you screwed up.”

“I screwed it up last time, too, by not compromising. This time I bargain, and I fuck that up, too. I’m not made out for this. I’m not a leader.”

She warned, “Stop thinking too much. I hate to say it my husband, but that’s not who you are. You do things. You’re not a politician. You don’t sit around wondering about every little detail. You’re a soldier and you have a mission, now. Our friends are in trouble, our country is being run by a traitor, and if you don’t take things by the balls we may never have a chance to fix it. So what is it going to be? Are you going to fight, or are you going to run away again?”

His mouth hung open for a moment as she tore open the old wound of his cowardice. The wound he had worked to heal every day since Trevor Stone had brought him to the estate.

The pain of that hurt—of that shame—stung. His heart beat fast. In a flash he saw Trevor taking him to track Devilbats in what was more a test of Jon’s courage and trustworthiness than it was a hunt. He saw the Wyoming Valley Mall exploding in a massive fireball with an army of crazy mechanical Roachbots inside. He remembered leading an expedition to the Arctic Circle to capture the runes.

He could not have done any of that had Trevor Stone not trusted him; had his friend not re-energized Jon with spirit and confidence. And when the time had come for Jon to play caretaker of Trevor’s dream he faltered and handed it over to Trevor’s greatest adversary, all because he had been afraid to lead; afraid to fail.

Jon slammed a fist into the desktop. The pain felt good. It felt real.

The General of Trevor Stone’s armies commanded, “Get our daughter over here. Our transport leaves in five minutes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I should have done a long time ago.”

*

In 1992 the one billion dollar Pittsburgh International Airport went on-line and became one of the most important hubs east of the Mississippi. In its wake remained the old Greater Pittsburgh airport. Allegheny County tore down the main terminal building there to make way for an air cargo center and business park. Nonetheless, neglected tarmac cracked to make way for weeds, chain link fences rusted and parking lots became black-topped wastelands, and all that happened before the end of the world.

Ironically, that one-billion-dollar shiny new Airport crumbled under the weight of a pitched battle between Pennsylvania National Guardsmen and Duass War Skiffs the first summer of the invasion, leaving behind a smoking mess of tax payer investment. In contrast, the abandoned airport found new life with The Empire’s dreadnought program.

As the chopper carrying the Brewers descended to a helipad near the main administrative buildings, Jon spied the spoils of his grand vision floating overhead.

The Excalibur cast a shadow over most of the facility. Hovering maintenance platforms that resembled scaffolding atop anti-gravity saucers encircled the ship. In the distance—beyond the flagship’s shadow—lingered another vessel nearly as large, this one shaped like an American football with large engines at the rear and a gigantic nameplate reading Hercules.

The Hercules, Jon knew, was the second ship in the Super Cargo Carrier program: essentially massive flying warehouses designed to transport huge amounts of supplies.

Trucks and carts whizzed along terminal roads, between hangers, to and from the cranes and platforms beneath the floating battleship, taking no notice of the descending helicopter.

One man did take notice, however. Brett Stanton and an entourage of technicians approached the chopper as the pilot disengaged the rotors. Jon exited with his wife and eight-year-old daughter a few steps behind.

Stanton removed his cap just long enough to wipe sweat from his brow. The shade of the floating behemoth did little to stave the July humidity.

“General,” Stanton offered a cautious smile. No doubt the surprise visit raised his antenna and the presence of Jon’s entire family piqued his curiosity more. “What brings you out here?”

“What’s the status of my ship?”

“Well, now, let’s see. We’ve re-energized the anti-grav generators. We’re about half way done with engine maintenance but haven’t gotten to weapons systems, though they look in good shape. We still have a lot of paint and body work but before we’re done we’ll get her looking pretty again for you. Anyways, we still have to get started on the flight deck and I’m re-calibrating the radar and tracking systems. I’d say she’ll be ready to go in three more weeks.”

“I thought you’d be further along by now.”

“We’re not doin’ so bad. Well, no, now I guess that’s not exactly true. Seems our new Secretary of Defense keeps calling me and scrambling my priorities. He put the Hercules over there at the top of the list; bumped you down a notch. Thought you knew.”

Jon glanced at his wife then back to Brett.

“No, I didn’t know. I’ve been kept in the dark about a lot of things, Brett.”

“You don’t say? Yeah, well now, I’m sorta out here on an island by myself, so I know what you mean. Then Dante Jones will call one day and drop a fly right in my ointment.”

Jon asked, “What about the crew?”

“Most of them are on leave. No planes, either; they were shipped out for maintenance. Now there’s an engineering team onboard, military police pulling guard duty, some maintenance people, and Bear is up there with the bridge crew running simulations. Oh yeah, some trainees learning to fly Eagle transports from your launch pads. But other than that, she’s a ghost ship.”

Jon asked, “You have a medical team here, right? I’m going to need them.”

“General, can I ask what it is you’re doing here?”

Jon laid his cards on the table. “I’ve come for my ship, Brett. I’m taking her.”

Stanton did not react; not at first. He removed his cap, ran an arm across his forehead, sighed, and looked General Brewer straight in the eye.

“It’s ‘bout goddamn time.”

*

Less and less light shone through the windows of the guest bedroom in Jim Brock’s modest home. To Nina, it felt as if the day dragged: every minute seemed an hour every hour seemed a day unto itself.

In her line of work, waiting came with the territory. She knew how to wait. She had once waited for three days in a Florida swamp searching for some kind of dinosaur-thing terrorizing settlements outside of Orlando. One time she had waited inside an air vent for twelve hours to avoid Hivvan sentries in Atlanta.

But this time things felt different. This time Nina did not retain control. She waited for others to act. She waited to see if her conversation with Lori Brewer would result in a rescue, or an I.S. team crashing through the front door.

She also waited for something else. She waited for Gordon Knox to die.

Nina sat in the guest room alongside Gordon’s bed after convincing Ashley to take a rest on the living room sofa. Gordon’s chest rose and fell erratically as his breathing hastened and slowed, hastened and slowed. Occasionally he turned his head from side to side, or even opened his eyes for a few moments.

Yesterday Jim’s doctor friend had set up an IV with antibiotics and fluids, but none of that mattered. Gordon would soon die: any minute, in fact, unless Brewer could save the day.

Jim Brock’s wife pushed open the door. It creaked, a little.

“Hi,” she said and entered the room. “I’m just going to clean up.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

The small woman with a figure that held extra weight from recent child birth walked to the nightstand with the intention of removing discarded bandages and cloths.

“How is he doing?”

Nina yawned before answering, “No real change. The Doc said that every minute is a roll of the dice. I mean, he’s not going to make it much longer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry we barged in on you like this.”

Ann Brock did not reply with words, but the flash of a scowl on her otherwise pretty face offered answer enough.

“We really took you by surprise,” Nina added.

“I’m not accustomed to soldiers at my door,” she conceded as she eased to a sitting position atop the chest at the foot of Gordon’s bed.

Nina said, “But you’ve been very nice to us. Especially considering that you’ve got a new baby in the house.”

Mrs. Brock glanced at the ceiling, the floor, and otherwise avoided Nina’s eye.

“You don’t like soldiers very much, do you? You don’t like me.”

Ann Brock sat straight as if finding her spine and spoke quietly so as not to wake Gordon: “No. It’s nothing personal. I don’t like your kind.”

“And what kind is that?” Nina remained just as quiet.

“Your kind, Captain. Those who live to fight.”

“You think soldiers love to fight? We’re the ones who get killed and maimed.”

“No, not all,” Mrs. Brock answered. “I’ve known plenty of men who enlisted back in the old world only to regret it. But there are others—others like you—who don’t know anything except how to fight. You’re the ones who make war.”

Nina tilted her head and volleyed gently, “We’re the ones who are fighting the aliens who came here to exterminate everyone. I’m just saying, without us where would you be?”

“And who do you think those aliens are, Captain?” Jim’s wife appeared prepared for the debate even though the tone remained civil. “They are the same as you. Back home on their worlds there are others of their race, people like me, who want nothing to do with this war. I guess every species has its warriors. So yes, you’re here to fight with the invaders because you and they are of the same breed, Captain. Problem is the rest of us are caught in the crossfire.”

Nina chewed on that. Was it possible she shared something in common with the alien invaders? No. She rejected the idea.

“Listen, I’m not off trying to take over someone else’s world. I’m fighting to save ours.”

“Yes, good for you that you have the moral high ground. But if your Emperor commanded you to travel across the stars to steal another race’s planet, I believe you would find a justification for that and fight on.”

Nina shook her head but deep down she wondered. If Trevor Stone commanded her to travel across the stars to conquer, would she refuse? Had she not already done his bidding without question?

“Truth is, Captain, you scare me. I look at you and see a woman who could be me, or any one of my friends, but from what I understand you’re a killing machine. It’s scary that something so dangerous could live inside someone who could be the All-American girl.”

“And what does your husband think? About me, that is.”

“Jim,” Ann rolled her eyes as she molded her thoughts into words. “Well, he’s an idealist. When he knew you before he probably thought that all you needed was someone like him, someone who could help you overcome whatever problem made you the way you are. Probably figured his goodness could help you turn away from all the violence and release the real person inside. You were a mystery to him; you still are. He has talked about you often over the years. But I don’t think he understands you.”

Nina wondered, “So why haven’t you turned us in? I’m just saying, you make one phone call and I.S. would be crawling all over this place.”

Ann appeared somewhat offended at the idea. “Because my husband promised you a safe place to stay. Because he believes you. Or, I guess, he believes in you.”

“What do you think? I mean, I’ve told you that the President you admire so much is behind the assassination, that he has bargained with our enemies to do this, and that he might have even made a deal with the most dangerous aliens who have come here.”

Mrs. Brock said bluntly, “I don’t believe you. Not a word of it.”

“You think..?”

“I think what I’ve read in the papers is right. I think you and Mr. Knox here are a part of a military conspiracy to overthrow the President and return us to a dictatorship.”

“But what if I’m right? I know you don’t believe me, but what if I’m right and everything I’ve told you is true?”

“I don’t know,” Ann said. “All I know is that since Godfrey has been in charge the war has ended and there’s hope for my son to grow up in peace.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. Brock. The war hasn’t ended. Your President just decided to stick his head in the sand. That means he’s left all our asses hanging out.”

The house vibrated. The windows rattled. What remained of the early evening sun disappeared into shadow.

“What in Heaven’s name is that?” Ann Brock gasped as she turned on a light near the bed.

Nina told her, “I think my ride is here.”

*

The Excalibur moved away from Wrightsville Beach and over the Atlantic Ocean heading northeasterly. Its running lights flashed like stars in a night sky made even blacker by the floating battleship’s shadow.

Nina Forest, Brett Stanton, Ashley and both Jon and Lori Brewer sat around the table in the conference room, the same room that also doubled as the Captain’s mess. The observation windows offered a view of moonlight peeking through a very thin veil of clouds.

Nina ended her lengthy explanation of everything she and Gordon had learned during their three-week investigation. While Stanton sat and listened to the tale with his usual aplomb, Jon grew angrier and angrier with the unpeeling of each layer of deceit. He pounded the table top with a fist when Dante Jones’ involvement came into focus, including Stanton’s revelation in regards to Jones’ solicitation of votes prior to the election.

“From the start,” Jon shook his head. “He’s been playing this from the start. Playing me. Wow, I can be an idiot but this is a whole new level.”

Stanton said, “But wait now, you’re not the only one who got duped. I think Evan just about twisted us all around. And if it weren’t for me and Eva swallowin’ the bait, Gordon Knox would probably have been chosen for the top spot. Then things mighta been a shade different.”

Lori turned to Ashley and said, “Speaking of which, how is Gordon?”

The question shook Ashley from a bout of deep thought.

“What? Oh, your Doctor says it’s still too early to tell. The only thing he knows for sure is that Gordon suffered damage to his spine. He is paralyzed from the waist down and is in critical condition.”

Brett said, “That about spells out our situation, too. Critical condition.”

“No, no,” Nina disagreed. “We’ve got this ship. I’m just saying, we can do something about all this. Fly in to Washington and arrest Godfrey or something.”

“Well, now no,” Stanton told her. “Can’t just do that. Godfrey’s got two more of these babies flying around in the area and we’re not exactly one hundred percent. Besides, D.C.‘s got enough anti-air batteries to give us a tough time even in top form. Bottom line is we’ve got a tall tale but not much evidence. In fact, I’d put a big stack of chips on our President having all his bases covered. I’m thinking he’ll have witnesses and all sorts of smoking guns to say you killed Maple and that we’re a part of some big conspiracy. Way I hear it, he’s got a bunch of the lesser brass lining up for a big press conference this week, to show the military is supporting him.”

Nina argued, “But we’ve got the tracking tape from the tambourine line. That proves someone else was involved.”

Stanton volleyed, “Maybe. But who? Could be nothing. What’s a radar blip?”

Lori nearly shouted, “What about the fake body?”

Ashley blurted, “JB.”

Her voice caught everyone’s attention.

She repeated, “JB. My son. You say this radar record shows ships coming in over New Jersey then back out, right? When the Witiko took my son they flew off the New Jersey coast.”

Stanton saw where she headed and tried to break the bad news gently, “Mrs. Stone, that may be true but the Atlantic Ocean is a heap of a big place. They could have headed all the way across to Europe if they wanted. Or up to Greenland.”

“No,” Brewer corrected. “Okay, think for a second. Let’s assume that the mystery ship that entered our air space before the assassination comes from the same place they took JB. Well if they took Jorge on a Stingray then they couldn’t be too far off, Stingrays don’t have great range. They burn a shit load of fuel.”

“They could have extra tanks,” Stanton said. “Or maybe in-flight refueling.”

“They could,” Jon agreed. “But we haven’t seen anything to say they do.”

Lori chimed in, “Hey, it’s a place to start.”

“And we have to start somewhere,” Jon echoed. “Like Brett said, we don’t have much in the way of solid evidence. But if The Order is behind this and if they have a base floating off the coast somewhere and we can find it that changes the whole equation. Besides, what’s one of the first things Evan and Dante did when they signed this bull shit treaty? Remember?”

Nina did, because the very idea of such a concession shocked her.

“He restricted dreadnought flights to within our borders. That means only a few miles out to sea and that’s it.”

“That’s right,” Jon nodded. “The type of condition I’d want if I had some kind of secret base within striking range of our east coast.”

“And Evan fell for it,” Lori said.

Stanton asked Jon, “So what is it you’re planning to do?”

“We’re going to follow those radar blips off the coast and see what we can find.”

The phone at the head of the table buzzed. Jon stared at it. No one from the government had tried to contact him yet, although they had to be aware he had taken off with the Excalibur.

In truth, he had done nothing outside his jurisdiction but sooner or later Dante would call to find out what he was up to. At that moment, either the game would be afoot or perhaps they could continue under the guise of a training mission for a few more days. He did not know. He did not feel comfortable with subterfuge.

After letting it buzz a few more times, Jon answered the call and listened to the message from Woody “Bear” Ross. Jon then hung up the phone and promptly stood.

“That was Bear, I have to get to the bridge.”

Lori noticed her husband’s face grow ghastly white.

“Jon? What is it?”

“Let’s go,” he repeated in place of an answer.

The group made their way to an elevator and rode the car one deck higher. Once there, they traversed a short corridor passed two of the handful of military sentries onboard, opened a bulkhead door, and walked onto the bridge.

Half of the stations were manned, the rest empty for lack of crew. Ross stood among the monitors and controls that turned him into the Excalibur’s ‘brain.’

A thin strand of misty cloud brushed across the bridge windows then cleared, providing a view of a massive silhouette hovering off the bow, blocking the Excalibur’s path.

The Chrysaor had come calling.

Confrontation

Two titans faced off in the middle of the night with no one to witness the confrontation; only the silent waters of the Atlantic below and the stars of a summer night above.

The bridge of the Excalibur grew so quiet that the skeleton crew could hear the jet thrusters of the Chrysaor’s alert fighters whizzing around the ship like wasps waiting to strike.

Outside, far beyond the windows passed the tip of the bow, hovered the black silhouette of the opposing dreadnought. The moonlight flickered off thin veils of clouds in the short space between the ships.

Woody “Bear” Ross—plugged into the command module in front of the Captain’s chair—broke the silence.

“Incoming transmission, General.”

Despite serving as the ‘brain,’ Ross knew the communication came for Brewer. A light flashed yellow on an empty station in front of the command area. Jon pushed a button on the panel, opening communications.

Captain Kristy Kaufman’s voice broadcast over a speaker. Everyone on the bridge heard her voice, but their eyes remained locked on the floating city blocking their path.

“General Brewer, this is Captain Kaufman. I need to know why the Excalibur is out of dry dock without authorization.”

Jon answered, “Kristy, last time I checked I don’t answer to you. And I am authorized to change the Excalibur’s duties as I see fit. She is my ship.”

“Excuse me, General, but my orders come from the Secretary of Defense.”

“What are your orders, Captain? Specifically.”

She explained, “To intercept your ship and ascertain your intentions.”

An F-15 flew close enough to shake the bridge window.

“I will tell you my intentions, Captain. I am investigating evidence that recently came to light in regards to the assassination of Trevor Stone. I am acting in reaction to an imminent threat to our nation.”

Kaufman transmitted, “Sir, I’m afraid I need more information than that. Or, I guess, the Secretary of Defense will need more information than that. What is your course?”

Jon leaned toward the speaker on the console and through clenched teeth told his opposite number, “That information is classified. But tell Dante Jones to come aboard my ship and I will share the info with him personally. Tell him we have a lot to discuss.”

“He’s, well, he’s not here, sir,” Kaufman answered. “He’s back in Washington.”

“Then I suggest you go back there and tell him what I just told you.”

The planes flew closer. The Chrysaor held its position.

“I can’t do that, sir.”

“What do you mean, you can’t do that? Let me make it simple for you, Captain. As your superior officer I’m giving you a direct order. Stand down.”

“My orders—”

“I just gave you new orders,” General Brewer commanded. “Now you have a choice to make, Captain. You can get out of my way, or you can open fire on my ship.”

That struck a nerve with Kaufman. “Sir! I have no intention of—”

“No? Isn’t that what Dante told you to do?”

“He—”

“Answer me, Kristy! You are talking to Jon Brewer, not some damn politician. You will answer me.”

“I was…I was given orders to turn you back, with whatever means necessary.”

Brewer cut through all the political posturing, all the gray areas, all the back room chit-chats with winks and nods. He spelled it out for Kristy Kaufman.

“The Secretary of Defense told you to come out here and shoot us out of the sky if you had to. So tell me Kristy, are you going to kill Bear, too? He’s standing right here, next to me. What would Stonewall think? What would he tell you to do? I know you’re close to Dante, but I can’t believe you’re going to follow orders as wrong as those. But then again, I didn’t think Evan would allow the Witiko to take away Trevor’s son, JB. You remember Jorge, don’t you? Weren’t you at the estate one year for his birthday party?”

“What? Trevor’s son? I don’t believe that. I can’t believe that.”

“I guess that’s up to you. You decide who to believe. What does your gut tell you?”

The Captain of the Chrysaor tried to find an easy way out: “I think… I think Dante and Evan are just interested in the fugitives. If they’re not on your ship, then I see no reason to—”

Jon would not let her take an easy way out. “They’re right here, Captain, standing on my bridge. Nina, Ashley, and Rick Hauser are right here and Gordon Knox is in my sick bay. My wife and my daughter are onboard, too. You remember them, don’t you? We started it all together, with Trevor. I remember the day you and Stonewall, Bear and Dustin and Benny came to the estate. Garrett told stories for hours and he had to keep reminding everyone that he knew he wasn’t Stonewall Jackson. Do you remember that?”

Silence for several long seconds. The planes continued to circle.

“Yes.”

“What’s happened since then, Kristy? How did we get here?” Jon’s voiced carried not only over the speaker, but around the bridge. “Somewhere along the way we lost sight of what’s really going on. Each year we had more and more bureaucrats; each year more side issues to distract us. There are politicians in Washington more worried about image and public relations than survival. They’re dancing around while the house is still burning.”

A hint of sadness came across the speaker: “The General, he knew how to boil things down to what was important.”

“I miss him, too,” Brewer said.

Ross muttered a soft “hoo-rah” from the command module.

Jon continued, “What would he say right now?”

Kristy chuckled and replied, “He’d say this is a fine pickle we’ve gotten ourselves in. Or something like that.”

Jon nodded, “Wow, yeah, that’s exactly how he would put it.”

“I’m in a tough spot, General,” she conceded. “I have friends on both sides.”

“You have to choose, Kristy. I thought I could keep it at arm’s length, but I was wrong. It’s up to those of us who’ve been a part of this since the beginning. We know the big picture and we worked too hard to come this far. We can’t let it fall apart now. We have an obligation.”

“But I have orders.”

“Then fire on my ship, Captain. Does that seem like the right thing to do? If it does, let’s fight this out right here where there’s no witnesses to see what fools we can be.”

“I don’t…I don’t want to do that.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” he corrected sternly. “What matters is what you have to do. It’s been that way since Trevor knocked on my door after the monsters came. If it was about what we wanted to do, then we would have stayed curled up in that lakeside house and let the world die. It’s about what we have to do. Trevor knew that. Reverend Johnny knew that. Stonewall knew that. And you know that.”

Jon turned to Ross and ordered, “Forward, one-quarter.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. Forward, one-quarter.”

Brewer returned his attention to the speaker and the Chrysaor.

“We’re going now, Kristy. Put your planes back on your deck and get out of my way, or we’re going to ram you. The decision is yours. Do what you have to do.”

The Excalibur’s engines thrust the gigantic ship forward on a collision course with the other titan.

Ross warned, “She can be stubborn, general.”

Jon glared at the former football player and said, “So can I.”

The silhouette grew in the bridge windows. Moonbeams reflected of portals and hatches, bulkheads and gun ports. Lori Brewer grabbed her husband’s hand and while he kept a stoic picture painted on his face, he returned her grip hard.

The Chrysaor sunk beneath the bow descending more than five hundred feet in a matter of seconds. The jets stopped buzzing and returned to their flight deck.

Kristy Kaufman sent another message. “When they find out that I let you go, they’ll just order Hoth to intercept you. He’s not far away, and he won’t be swayed by sentiment, General.”

“I know,” Brewer said.

Ashley asked, “You think General Hoth is a part of it?”

Jon glossed over with a simple, “No,” leaving Nina to explain, “General Hoth is a good man, but he’s by the book. Listen, as far as he’s concerned, his orders come from Dante now. He’ll follow those orders, no matter what.”

The Chrysaor set a leisurely course west toward the mainland. The Excalibur traveled north by northeast.

*

A fireball sun rose over the eastern horizon, its rays filled the bridge with a golden glow. Beneath that sun and the mammoth battleship nothing but calm Atlantic Ocean.

After taking a two hour nap, Brewer returned to the control center and met with Bear who had worked as the “brain” of the ship for hours.

“You need a break,” Jon placed a hand on Ross’ shoulder as he stepped from the command module, relieved. “And thanks for everything, especially last night. I mean wow, it got a little close there.”

“You don’t need to thank me, sir. I’m your first officer. You say the word, and I’ll jump.”

Jon knew part of that loyalty came from the innate character of Woody Ross, maybe from his football days when team work and discipline helped his University of Miami Hurricanes win a national title. But he also knew that a man named “Stonewall” McAllister had left his mark on those he had pulled from the ruins during that first year; people like Bear Ross and Kristy Kaufman.

Ross and Brewer parted ways with the former headed toward the exit and the latter stepping into the ‘brain’ compartment. Before either reached their destination, the bright rays of sun shining into the cockpit flickered.

Shouts and curses rang out among the bridge crew.

Jon raised a hand above his eyes to block the rays and stared outside. There, at the tip of the bow, appeared two Witiko Stingrays bouncing up as if launched from springs below. They hovered in front of the Excalibur for a second then their lasers fired with streaming beams of energy hitting two spots at the front of the ship. Jon saw debris rise from the hull there and felt the entire dreadnought shimmy.

The Stingrays raced forward, growing fast in the window.

Stanton hauled himself out from beneath a control panel and shouted, “They’re going to take out the bridge!”

Jon entered the command module and accessed a control screen, frantically pushing an icon on the touchscreen display.

The heavy duty bridge shield slid shut over the windows just as the Witiko lasers fired again. That shield glowed red, chunks of Steel Plus cracked and fell, a beam of sunlight and a gust of air blew in through a freshly burned hole. Had the shield closed a second slower, the entire bridge crew would have been killed.

Jon put on goggles and an earpiece, taking full control of the ship as “brain” in the command module. Displays relayed damage information, weapons readiness, and a visual image of the attacking ships, but the radar showed blank.

A series of warnings explained to Brewer exactly what the Witiko had hit with their first volley: PRIMARY BATTERY ENERGY CONDUIT INOPERATIONAL; DAMAGE TO HULL PLATES 117, 118, 119, 130,131,132.

Jon knew the dreadnought schematics well enough to translate the computer gobbledygook into practical information. In their first volley, the Witiko had knocked out the topside “boppers” with two perfectly-aimed shots, causing tremendous damage to the ship’s fighting capability.

And they nearly took out the bridge with another shot.

A voice came through the communications array: “This is Chancellor D’Trayne of the Witiko. Your presence here is in violation of the treaty. Turn back or you will be destroyed.”

*

Evan sat on the veranda unwrapping the shell from a hardboiled egg with one hand and holding a portable phone with the other. A glass of Florida orange juice waited in front of the President alongside toast and a slab of fresh bacon. While he worked to peel the egg, his wife paged through the day’s newspaper.

A clear sky and a light breeze made it an absolutely wonderful Sunday morning. The birds chirped. All seemed right in the world.

However, a phone call from Roos spoiled Evan’s mood and—if that were not bad enough—the sight of Dante Jones marching toward him soured the President’s peace completely.

First things first.

“Tell Tucker to give up. If he hasn’t found the girl by now he’s not going to find her. The locals have probably been running him in circles protecting the little rug rat. What? No. I want him and you back here for the Wednesday press conference. I need as many friendly faces around as I can get. Who? Keep Shepherd isolated for now. I won’t be sure how I want to use him until later this morning. I’ll let you know. Good bye, Ray.”

“Trouble?” Sharon asked without looking away from the newspaper.

“Just a few rough spots. Nothing to fret over, my dear,” he knew she would not fret anyway. Sharon had her revenge. Since Trevor’s deliverance into agony she had grown bored. That boredom made Evan nervous, but he would deal with that later. Next came Dante.

“The Chrysaor didn’t stop them,” the President guessed before the Secretary of Defense could speak. “I doubted they would. Captain Kaufman may share your bed on occasion, but her loyalties lay with the original band of survivors. It’s like an exclusive club or something.”

Dante tried to make amends for the misstep: “I dispatched attack subs from shore patrol to track the Excalibur. They can’t, you know, engage but they’ll let us know what he’s up to. They should catch them sometime this morning if their course holds.”

Evan focused on the last pieces of shell stuck to the egg.

“You needn’t worry, Dante. I have it on good authority that Chancellor D’Trayne will personally intercept the Excalibur with two of their Stingrays. That will be the end of that.”

The President’s lack of military knowledge shocked Jones.

“You’re kidding, right? They might do some damage, but a dreadnought will take out two Stingrays.”

Godfrey bit into the egg, chewed, and told Jones: “Usually, yes. That’s why I provided the Chancellor with the Excalibur’s blue prints and specifications. That should even the odds.”

*

“Fox one, fox two. Two heat seekers away,” Brett Stanton echoed the commands Jon Brewer entered from his station at the ‘brain’ of the ship, serving as a translator of the action for Lori Brewer who hovered at the bridge entrance.

Outside, two missiles fired in pursuit of the Witiko ships as the Stingrays made their third dive-bomb style attack on the top side of the dreadnought. Each time their lasers hit sensitive spots, the weaker bulkheads, and defensive emplacements, then they cut their dive off sharp and climbed again above the Excalibur.

With each pass, Jon fired infrared sidewinders. The missiles climbed in pursuit of the fast-moving attackers who seemed like bumblebees trying to strike an elephant. But Jon’s elephant lacked tusks. The Stingrays did not appear on any radar scopes and hence were immune to radar-locking munitions. Worse, their first strike destroyed the top side main batteries, meaning only the belly boppers remained.

It became clear to Jon that the Witiko’s initial shots had not been lucky but well-planned. They had known exactly where to hit, and now remained above the dreadnought where the belly boppers could not reach them.

Unless the Stingrays decided to fly under the Excalibur, Jon could only use his heat-seeking sidewinders to defend his ship. The damned things could pinprick him with near impunity.

Two of those sidewinders closed on targets, one for each Stingray. Brewer watched via telescopic cameras as his shots zeroed in on the powerful rear rockets of the alien fighters.

Closer…closer…

Both Stingrays ejected heat flares, completely fooling one missile but the second hit, causing a glancing blow to one of the attackers and damaging its hide.

“One hit, one miss,” Stanton offered the play by play. He did not bother to share with Lori that only four more sidewinders remained at her husband’s disposal…

…The aliens shot through a thin band of wispy cirrus clouds, hovered for a moment, then descended at faster and faster speed. The Excalibur continued its course at an altitude of nine thousand feet. Puffs of smoke trailed behind from wounds already inflicted.

Chancellor D’Trayne personally commanded the lead fighter and used the plans provided by President Godfrey to ensure each strike counted. And while he still respected the power of The Empire’s flagship, he felt confident in victory. His supply of missile-diverting flares remained high and as long as they did not wander underneath the dreadnought only the ship’s Vulcan-style Gatling guns posed any threat. A threat this pass intended to eliminate.

Sharp beams of concentrated energy and light shot from beneath the alien vessels and drew across the port side of the battleship. Like a scalpel, those beams cut into defensive batteries causing a series of secondary explosions as ammunition caches burst.

More trails of smoke came from the Excalibur as the Stingrays turned their backs and ascended into the heavens once more…

…On the bridge, more alarms rang and messages flashed across Jon’s screens. He fired two more sidewinders but neither found their target.

“Jon,” Stanton stood just outside the brain’s tube-like station of monitors, keyboards, and touch screens. “I think we’ve had it. Withdraw and maybe we’ll get free of this.”

Brewer insisted, “No! We’re getting close. That’s why they’re here. I’m not giving up.”

“Now, well, I admire your determination but there comes a time to live to fight another day. If we can get back to the shipyards I can fix her up.”

“Bull shit,” Jon answered as he watched the alien craft reach their ceiling and—for a few precious seconds—pause. “When we head back it’ll be the Philipan waiting for us and Hoth will shoot us down. We must push through.”

“We can’t! Those fellows are carving us up like a Thanksgiving Turkey! They know exactly where to hit us!”

The Stingrays descended again. This time Jon did not wait. He managed a clear lock on the one already damaged and launched his last two sidewinders.

A volley of flares deceived the first missile, but the second hit square in the Stingray’s face. The alien ship fell into a flat spin. Jon watched on monitors as aerodynamic stress tore it into three silver and black chunks. Fiery debris fell into the Atlantic.

“Splash one!”

Before the bridge crew could cheer this victory, the remaining enemy cut its beam across the hangar doors ripping it open like a can of sardines.

“You’re out of missiles, Captain,” Stanton told Jon.

With no heat-seekers remaining and the top side boppers out of action, the Excalibur no longer possessed the means to disable the remaining Stingray as long as it remained above the ship.

“Pull us out,” Stanton repeated. “You’ve done a good job. No, a great job. But you’ve only got the belly guns and I don’t think the Chancellor is going to take a peek up our skirt.”

Jon stood on the platform at the center of the bridge surrounded by advanced combat technology yet he felt helpless, like a turtle flipped on its back.

Obviously D’Trayne had inside information on the dreadnoughts. He found it incredibly aggravating that his mighty dream could be brought to its knees by such a relatively weak foe. He understood how Goliath must have felt. Or that turtle, on its back.

Wait a second…

…Another laser blast from the Witiko Stingray tore away Steel Plus plating along the starboard side. Then the enemy arched skyward seeking the shelter of altitude again, like a dive bomber completing one run and prepping for the next…

…Jon removed his head set and leaned out from his command center.

“Brett.”

Stanton stepped close.

“Brett. I want to tumble the grav generators.”

Stanton’s face drew blank as if Jon spoke Japanese.

Jon repeated, “We talked about this. Back during the christening ceremony for the Excalibur. Me, you and Omar.”

Stanton squinted and muttered, “Tumble the grav generators? I think I remember us joking about that.”

“At the reception after the christening, you and Omar said it was possible. Omar sketched it out on a cocktail napkin.”

“We were drunk!”

“You said it could work.”

“Jon, I know what you’re thinking. But no, now, wait a second, there isn’t any way even with it fully reversed that we’ll hold our altitude. The generators just aren’t made that way.”

“We’ll fall, but not fast,” Brewer insisted. “We can switch back as soon as I get a shot. Christ, Brett, there’s no other way!”

Jon stared at Brett Stanton with eyes allowing no room for discussion. Eyes that said they would either win the day or die trying. There would be no retreat.

Brett ran a hand over the back of his neck as if massaging away an ache.

“Okay, look, I have to time it right with our engineering guys downstairs. Give me a second.”

“You’ve got two seconds, Brett.”

As Stanton walked away from the command platform Lori asked him, “What is it Jon wants to do?”

“He wants to commit suicide.”

The Captain’s voice echoed through the mainly empty ship, “Set condition Red G. All sections, set condition Red G.”

Lori asked, “What does that mean? Condition Red G?”

“It means everything has got to get strapped down right away. Clamps on the transports, patients in sick bay will get buckled up, and you’d better find something to hang on to, Mrs. Brewer, because your husband is about to do something this ship wasn’t built to do.”

Stanton walked to the bridge’s engineering interface console and activated an intercom to speak to his technicians several decks below near the underbelly of the ship. “Hey boys, I need you to do exactly what I say exactly when I tell you to do it. You’re off by a split second, we’re dead. Hell, if you’re right on the money we might be dead any way.”

Lori stared at her husband who stood in the command platform plugged into the gizmos and gadgets that made the ship go. She saw a determined, stubborn expression on his face. She was proud of him again…

…High overhead of the Excalibur, the remaining Witiko Stingray fell down through the clouds diving toward its gigantic opponent as if it were a bird of prey. Its talons—its main laser—charged. The ship shook with energy. And when the dreadnought filled the front windshield a bright and deadly beam of energy ripped across the Steel Plus hull, peeling away another layer and sending yet another plume of smoke and fire from the beast.

Chancellor D’Trayne sat behind the helmsman and weapons officer strapped into a high backed chair with a smile beaming from his silver face.

His pilot pulled the ship from its dive mere meters above the damaged human vessel. The hawk ascended skyward with impunity, knowing the enemy could mount no defense. It was only a matter of time before one of these strikes provided the fatal blow…

…“Now! All stop! Starboard thrusters at maximum! Port side thrusters rotate one-hundred eight degrees and ignite! Stanton, tumble the generators!”

Brett Stanton stood at the engineering console observing a display of the Excalibur’s position. He shouted desperate instructions to his engineering teams via the intercom: “Rotate the force projection 20 degrees…a little more…keep up with it…watch our belly…another five degrees…more…more…”

Lori stood near the bridge entrance and felt her stomach flutter. Suddenly she felt lighter; or no, she felt as if her head was pulled in one direction, her feet another. She grabbed the edge of a console as she realized…realized…

“The ship! It’s turning!”…

…The Empire’s flagship stopped its forward progress and the massive vessel twisted in a slow-motion barrel roll; a maneuver seemingly impossible for something so large. The tower tipped and rolled over. The bottom side slowly became the top.

Gravity knew no direction inside the Excalibur. Lori Brewer seemed to float first toward the floor above, then the ceiling below. She felt a wave of nausea in her belly as her equilibrium was stretched and pulled like taffy.

She glanced toward Jon. He remained in the command module gripping side rails and focused on monitors. She heard Stanton cough then yell, “We’re losing altitude! The generators can’t output full power in this direction..!”

…The Stingray reached its attack height, slowed, and pivoted about to face down in preparation for another easy assault on the defenseless ship. And while the killing of the Excalibur would take many more such runs, D’Trayne found himself enjoying every strike, as if each wound he inflicted provided a small measure of satisfying revenge against those who had toppled his kingdom in California.

The alien ship descended. Its laser charge. It cleared the thin veil of clouds.

D’Trayne’s smile faltered. Something appeared different about his prey. He saw a series of drum-like protrusions; he did not see the bridge or even the streams of smoke from the damage they had inflicted; he saw two glowing balls of light…

…The belly boppers fired in a wide spread. Two massive globs of energy spat skyward, enveloping the Chancellor’s ship and melting it to scrap in a flash. Secondary explosions went unseen within the blinding fury of the Excalibur’s wrath.

Yet even as it obliterated its foe, the fire from the great ship hastened its fall from the sky: the ocean grew closer and closer…

…“Firing thrusters! Tumble those generators!”

Jon yelled his commands but kept his eye on the altimeter.

Seven thousand…Six thousand five hundred…Six thousand feet.

The gravity field warped and spun again. Loose objects—from pens to clipboards to coffee mugs—fell and clattered. Crewmen vomited from the flexing gravitational field. Sparks flew, equipment tugged in ways never foreseen, wires stretched, and consoles felt stress in unexpected directions.

Jon muttered, “C’mon…catch it…catch it.”

Stanton shouted at his technical teams.

The ship slowly righted its position. The bridge swung to the top side once more. The massive anti-gravity generators returned to the bottom. Yet the Earth kept pulling.

Five thousand feet…four thousand five hundred feet…four thousand feet…

The horizon straightened. The anti-gravity generators fired at full repulsion power. A heavy jerk shook everything onboard the flagship as if they had fallen on top of an invisible wall. The drop of the ship slowed.

Three thousand feet…two thousand seven hundred and fifty feet…two thousand five hundred feet…holding.

Jon Brewer collapsed to one knee inside the command module. Gasps of relief echoed around the bridge.

“Well,” Stanton spoke for everyone. “I sure don’t want to do that again anytime soon..”

*

“So now what?”

Lori asked a fair question. They managed to talk their way around the Chrysaor then fight their way through the Witiko’s Stingrays with the added bonus of sending Chancellor D’Trayne to whatever deity his race worshipped. Now they moved across the Atlantic Ocean northeast of New Jersey with black smoke rising from wounds to the hull, most weapons systems out, and no way of knowing where to head next.

Jon Brewer ignored his wife’s question for the moment and leaned over Gordon Knox who slept quietly in one of the beds sprouting from a gray wall in sick bay. Other beds were also occupied, mainly by members of Stanton’s technical crew who suffered falls and throws while executing Jon’s gambit.

“How is Gordon?”

Ashley sat at the foot of the bed where she had kept watch over the former Director of Intelligence since their arrival.

“He’s stable. Bleeding has stopped, the bullet still seems to be lodged in there but that won’t change until surgery. For now, though, he looks like he’s going to make it, but he probably won’t walk again.”

“So what now?” Lori repeated.

Ashley said, “Jon, we have to find JB. They took him somewhere.”

Lori spoke at the same time, “With this ship you have to be able to find where they took him. I mean, what is this thing good for?”

The General raised his hand to silence the two and calmly relayed, “We’re in pretty bad shape right now. We’ve got fires burning on some decks because we don’t have damage control parties on board to fight them. The Witiko hit our engines, our defenses, and the structural integrity of the whole thing. We have no choice but to move slow.”

Lori asked, “But you followed the course of that ship or whatever the radars tracked before Trevor’s assassination, right?”

“Yes. But this is a crap shoot. We followed that lead because it’s the only one we’ve got. It might be nothing.”

He saw Ashley’s eyes widened and her lips tense.

Jon added, “But we’re going to start a detailed search of the area. We’ve got a bunch of trainee pilots as well as Hauser and Eagle One onboard. I’m going to send them out. They’ve got radar and we even have a few sonar buoys. We’re going to get them going within the hour.”

Ashley relaxed as much as a mother with a missing child could relax.

A nearby intercom rang and Woody Ross’ voice called, “General Brewer, contact the bridge.”

Jon stepped to the wall mounted device, punched in an extension number, and answered, “Yeah Bear, what is it?”

“We’ve got surface contacts. Three ships closing fast.”

The General felt an instinctive shiver along his spine. He knew the Excalibur was in no condition to fight another battle. However, the very fact that these contacts were detected meant they were not Witiko ships.

“Hang on, General,” Ross added. “I’ve got identification. They’re subs. Barracudas. Ours. Three of them closing on the surface.”

“Probably coastal patrols sent out to spy on us.”

“General,” Ross’ voice blurted over the intercom. “I’m receiving an incoming message. For you. From one of the subs.”

Another warning, no doubt. Another threat.

“Pipe it down here, Bear.”

“Yes, sir.”

An audible click on the intercom confirmed a change in lines. A second later, a sturdy voice radioed, “…calling the Excalibur. Acknowledge.”

Jon transmitted, “This is General Brewer of the Excalibur. Identify yourself.”

The voice on the other end paused for a moment and then said, “General Brewer? Jon? This is Captain Farway. It’s been a while.”

A smile picked at the corners of Jon’s mouth.

“Farway? Captain? What are you doing on a Barracuda? I thought you were attached to the Newport News.”

The friendly voice answered, “I am. Out here doing a training mission for a bunch of cherries and next thing you know the Secretary of Defense sends me on a goose chase after you. Said you been up to no good, he did.”

When Jon Brewer had traveled to retrieve the runes from the Arctic Circle, Captain Farway—a pre-Armageddon naval veteran—and the Newport News submarine provided a ride.

“I hope none of those newbies are claustrophobic,” Brewer teased in recalling Farway’s warning when Jon had ventured onto a sub for the first time in his life.

A soft chuckle in the Captain’s voice suggested he remembered the reference.

Jon Brewer went on, “You’re not the first our Defense Secretary has sent our way. We just tangled with a couple of Witiko bastards.”

“I copy that. General, listen, I’m a fair judge of character and after spending far too much time with you under the waves a few years ago, I got the feeling you were a standup guy. If it was just me here…well, I’d be more than happy to find a little elasticity in those orders. But Jon, I’ve got three boatloads of kids here. I’m not going to let them get caught up in all this.”

“I understand, Captain.”

“So I’m going to follow my orders to the letter. I’m going to keep an eye on you.”

Brewer thought it over and finally said, “Okay then, Captain. Happy to have you along for the ride.”

*

Woody Ross stood on the platform in the center of the bridge, his eyes moving from display to display, his fingertips issuing orders and commands although far too few crewmembers were onboard to carry out those orders.

One hour after having made contact with the submarines and three hours since disposing of the Witiko attackers, smoke still poured from various wounds across the Excalibur. With so few men onboard, it would take many more hours—maybe days—to stop the bleeding. However, nearly all of the problems were contained, allowing him to turn his attention to more pressing matters.

“Flight two, clear for takeoff,” the brain ordered.

He watched via monitors as another pair of Eagle transports jetted off the stern launching pads, cut through swirls of smoke, and went off in search of that phantom radar trail.

Incubation

JB watched the sun slip toward the horizon, sinking as fast as his hopes. A chilling ocean breeze carried sprays of salt water across the boy and his father as they lay on what might be mistaken for a nearly flat island of rocks floating in the middle of the sea.

They had climbed through cramped tunnels and dark corridors, all the while protected by JB’s control of the base’s systems. Trevor could only stumble a few steps at a time, preferring to crawl like a beast and he never responded directly to the shouts and pleas of his desperate son.

Eventually Jorgie found some kind of service corridor running parallel to an aircraft hangar. There JB witnessed the deranged Missionary stumble into one of the featureless blob-like flyers The Order used for transport. He tried to kill the evil being with the tentacles in the bay that existed to load and unload cargo, but the ship escaped and flew off to the east.

A short time later JB managed to open a thick-skinned hatch and drag his dad to the surface, leaving behind the dungeon-like Hell hole where the mechanisms of the facility continued to rend and kill any remaining followers of Voggoth.

Jorge had not eaten anything since a stale candy bar nearly two days ago. His stomach ached with emptiness. He felt bruises, cuts and scrapes and a nasty cough brewed in his chest. He could only guess his father’s condition because his dad had not spoken a word. Even in the open ocean air the man did nothing other than lay on the spongy fake rocks with his eyes sometimes open, sometimes closed.

So they waited. A shivering little boy in shorts and his nearly comatose father.

Jorgie thought he heard something above the constant lap and splash of waves surrounding the half-mile circumference of the phony island. He had just begun to fear that his ears had succumbed to fantasy when a shadow appeared to the west.

He saw it…pushing aside clouds the same way a boat pushes aside waves. A massive thing seemingly too large to fly moving toward him even as the last rays of sun slipped below the horizon.

*

“Well what is it?” Nina, standing with Jon Brewer in the corridor outside the VIP stateroom, asked.

“It looks like an island of, well, rocks,” he answered. “I guess it’s really some kind of base. Sonar shows it’s like an iceberg; a lot more under the surface than on top, just sort of floating in the same place. They grew it, I think. Same way they grow all their war machines.”

“And it’s just out here, in the middle of nowhere?”

“In the middle of nowhere, yeah. We caught some luck when one of our Eagles saw a radar blip. Ashley’s son says that blip was the head bad guy making a getaway in one of The Order’s chariot ships.”

“Does this island have any defenses?”

“Nothing we’ve seen yet,” Jon answered and while he usually would not take well to being grilled by a subordinate, he felt that in this case, Nina had earned some leeway.

“Do you want me to lead a strike team down there?”

Jon realized this was a momentous moment for Nina Forest. She had spent weeks on a secret mission for Ashley, starting first with investigating the assassination, discovering Godfrey’s involvement, finding a dead body that was not a body at all, bringing to light a conspiracy that involved Trevor’s best friend, and then—the biggest shock of all—to find that instead of being assassinated, Trevor Stone had been kidnapped by The Order.

While Trevor’s current condition might be as good as dead anyhow, Nina had not let Internal Security, The Order’s monsters, or long odds stop her pursuit of answers.

She kept on fighting for him, while I sat in an office and pushed papers.

He told her, “No. We don’t have the personnel onboard to do that. We have to figure out what’s wrong with Trevor, first, and then go from there.”

After an Eagle pulled Jorgie and his father from the fake island, Trevor had been wheeled into his quarters on a gurney resembling something akin to a zombie. He breathed, his heart beat, and his eyes opened and closed on occasion, even his fingers and feet twitched every so often. But he did not react to anyone, including his wife and son. It was as if his body was there but his mind had been taken somewhere else.

Jon told Nina, “You did a great job. He would be proud and we all appreciate what you and Gordon went through. Now I’ve got to see the rest of this through. I don’t know what that will be but,” he nodded at the closed stateroom door, “it starts in there. Now get some rest.”

She nodded as if accepting his advice but Jon assumed she would likely end up on the shooting range on Deck 7. Whatever the case, Jon turned his attention to the VIP stateroom, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Ashley and JB sat on either side of the bed hovering over Trevor who lay with the blankets pulled to his chin. His eyes remained closed, either asleep or comatose.

Jorge had changed into a sweat shirt and jeans borrowed from Jon’s daughter’s wardrobe. An empty dinner plate and a half-glass of milk sat on the nightstand. Trails of tears shone on his cheeks, matching similar streaks on his mother’s face.

Jon walked in on the middle of a conversation. No, a berating. JB demanded his mother, “Do something! You’re his wife! You have to pull him out of this!”

In all the years Jon Brewer had known Trevor’s son, he had never seen the boy so upset. To Jon, JB usually exhibited an almost unnatural control over his emotions. Now he appeared angry, frustrated, sad, and confused all at once.

“Jorgie, I don’t know… I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“They made him remember bad things, mommy. They made him so…they made him sad. You’re his wife. You have to do something! You’re the only one who can!”

Jon felt awkward but he asked what he came to ask. “Jorge, excuse me. You were down inside that thing. What was down there?”

The child wiped the back of his hand over his eyes, huffed, and answered, “It smelled down there. It was scary. Lots of things that looked like people but weren’t. They call themselves The Order.”

“I know who they are. You say there were lots of them down there?”

Jorge nodded.

Jon asked, “We haven’t seen any activity from up here. Where are they, Jorgie?”

JB regained his typical composure for a moment, stared Jon Brewer directly in the eye, and told him, “I killed them. I killed them all.”

Jon shivered and glanced to Ashley. Her mouth hung open.

She questioned her son in a cautious tone, like a member of the bomb squad trying to diffuse a dangerous package: “What do you mean, Jorge?”

“They had a bad machine,” the boy tried to explain but his voice suffered from coughs and a touch of hysteria as his composure slipped again. “But it was empty. I filled it. I used it. It was the same machine they had father inside and you have to do something to help father! You’re his wife!”

Jon asked, “I don’t know what you mean. What did they do to him? What machine?”

JB clenched his fists and raged, “They kept showing him over and over all the things that made him feel bad. They put bad dreams in his mind, mommy. Make them stop! You always made my bad dreams go away!”

“Jorgie! Stop speaking to me like that!”

Jorge—frustrated and angry—jumped up from the bed, stormed from the room, and—after a struggle—opened the bulkhead door.

Jon said to Ashley, “He’s been through a lot. I can’t figure out what he means when he says he killed them, but somehow he got away and got Trevor to the surface. From what he says, they were on their own for nearly two days. Pretty remarkable boy you have there.”

“I know,” Ashley wavered, moving her hands to Trevor’s forehead, then covering her red eyes, then fidgeting on her lap. “I thought I lost him. It’s been Hell since they took him. To see him back, I still can’t believe it. I’m worried I’m going to wake up and find that this is a dream; that my boy is still gone.”

Jon said wryly, “It may feel like a nightmare, but it’s real. Too real.”

“As for what happened down there, I don’t know what Jorgie did, but he did something. He found his father like this.”

Jon recalled Trevor’s first imprisonment at the hands of The Order: “They tried to torture Trevor once before. What your son said, I mean it sounds like they got inside Trevor’s mind. We know…I mean you and I both know…he’s had it pretty hard. He’s done a lot of things he feels bad about. Guilty about. And he’s lost a lot of things in his life.”

Ashley whimpered, “And a lot of…people he loved.”

Her reference to Nina came across clear to Jon. It made him stumble. He felt uncomfortable. Yet he pushed forward.

“Yes. I suppose so. From what your son said it sounds to me like they got inside his head and made him experience that stuff all over again. I dunno, maybe dreams or something. Maybe enough to, well, to drive him over the edge.”

Jon thought of how he had run from the field of battle when Armageddon first came. Or, more recently, how he had run from responsibility.

He said, “A leader like Trevor needs to be able to put that aside; to forget about it or he wouldn’t be able to get anything done. Maybe they pulled it out of his mind and made him re-live all those bad things over and over. I’ve got to believe that that’d be enough to drive him insane; make him shut down.”

Ashley stood and cast her eyes toward the door. After having lost her son for several days she did not feel comfortable letting him out of her sight for long. Nonetheless, she took a second to ask, “But why? Why wouldn’t they just kill him?”

Jon shook his head.

“I don’t know. One thing we’ve learned about The Order is that, well, they’re evil. No other way to put it. The monsters and things that come from Voggoth’s world are the most vicious of the invaders. They kill in horrible ways, they take pleasure in torture. Maybe because they aren’t really alive they’re jealous of the rest of us. Or maybe they think beating down someone like Trevor Stone is an achievement. I’m guessing Trevor would know more about this than we would, if only we could talk to him.”

Ashley stood and moved toward the door in search of her son, stopping to tell him, “You have to finish all this, Jon. Godfrey cannot stand. Whether Trevor comes back to us or not, you have to finish it.”

He locked eyes on her and felt a harpoon of guilt pierce his heart.

“I know.”

Ashley left the bedroom and, a moment later, exited the stateroom in pursuit of her son.

Jon watched her go until the door closed with a clang. He turned his attention to his friend asleep on the bed.

“Oh man, I really let you down.”

He felt a burning sensation in the corner of his eyes, pulled his hand away, and stared toward the ceiling, afraid to make eye contact even though his friend’s eyes remained closed.

“When you left last time, we thought you might be dead. I tried to just keep doing the things you did, but they wouldn’t let me. That time, well, there were protests and people started choosing sides. It got ugly. I was determined not to let that happen again. At least that’s what I told myself.”

A deep breath. A long exhale.

“So I handed it over to Godfrey. He made sense, I thought. But I guess I was just looking to run away again. Truth is, I was afraid. Wow, yeah, big time. I just wanted to keep on being a soldier and let someone else make the decisions. I never would have guessed that Evan would be behind this. I suppose I just wasn’t thinking clear. None of us were. I dunno. I guess what I’m trying to say…I’m trying to say I’m sorry, Trevor. I failed you.”

*

When Farway had captained the Newport News on its expedition to the Arctic Circle, the bulk of his hair had been colored brown with a few streaks of dignified gray. In the five years since, the gray had consumed more of his scalp. Worse, that hair started to thin.

Thankfully, the evidence of gray and thinning hair remained somewhat concealed under his Captain’s hat, which he insisted on wearing inside the tube-like cramped quarters of the Barracuda-class sub he temporarily commanded.

In front of his Captain’s chair sat a helmsman and a navigator across from eye-like windows and surrounded by high tech consoles controlling the fast moving attack sub. To either side stood additional sailors at weapons, propulsion, sensor, and communications stations, all dressed in skin tight uniforms that doubled as diving suits if the need arose.

The air tasted heavy and humid, much different from the well-scrubbed atmosphere inside his boomer sub, the Newport News. Barracudas were streamlined and basic; lots of teeth and speed but little comfort. That’s why they were not meant to travel far from port. Of course, Farway knew that intelligence used Barracudas to insert agents onto foreign shores and deliver supplies to resistance fighters in far off lands. The idea of spending weeks inside one of these floating cigar tubes gave the experienced boomer Captain shudder.

In any case, he had signed on to lead a group of three Barracudas manned by fresh meat from the naval academy, a bogus assignment that smelled of the civilian brass trying to find something for war dogs such as Farway to do now that the fighting had blissfully ended.

In truth, the Captain had spent little time training on these boats so he saw this as opportunity to learn more about The Empire’s newest naval toy. He quickly realized that he did not like it much, but he respected the amount of fire power stuffed inside the boat.

The training mission had begun simple enough until the Secretary of Defense personally ordered them to track the Excalibur and its renegade commander. Apparently Dante Jones did not realize that Farway shared a brief but important history with Brewer.

With the aim of keeping this young crew away from the brewing shit storm, Farway originally decided to stay out of the mess by following his orders to the letter, and nothing more. But in the course of following those orders they came upon this…this island that was not, in fact, an island at all.

Then things had taken a turn into The Twilight Zone.

Brewer radioed that an Eagle transport had pulled Trevor Stone and his missing son from the top of this…this…island. Of course, Farway needed to confirm such a crazy claim. So an Eagle picked him up off the deck and carried him aboard the dreadnought where he stood alongside Trevor’s bed and listened to stories from Jon, a certain Captain Forest, and Trevor’s wife, Ashley.

It did not take the entire story to convince the old sea dog that the time had come to choose sides, and he chose the side of the warriors not the back stabbing two-faced politicians. The presence of an alien base so close to territorial waters impacted that decision greatly. Nonetheless, Brewer felt the Captain could best serve the cause in two ways.

First, continue to radio hourly reports to the mainland. The last transmission informed the Secretary of Defense that the Excalibur stumbled along in the middle of nowhere still smoking from wounds received during an attack of Stingrays. A reply to this transmission suggested that Farway should report the ‘enemy’s’ position directly to the Philipan, that ship now being in place to intercept Brewer should he re-enter Imperial waters.

As for the second way in which the General felt Farway could be of help…

“Engage the mag-drive, ahead one-half. Point our nose down, twenty degrees. Comm, alert all commands to follow.”

“Aye, aye! Dive planes twenty degrees.”

“Blue leader to Blue two and Blue three, message follows: Dive! Dive! Twenty degrees all ahead one-half. Maintain formation.”

Two brief bursts from a horn warned the crew of the dive.

The lead Barracuda slipped beneath the waves followed by the other two subs on her flanks. They approached the phony island.

“Fifty feet.”

“Steady, helm. Give me depth. Sonar, what do you hear?”

A sailor standing at a station along the starboard wall reported, “Looks like it hangs down to about five hundred feet, sir. I’ve got sea bottom at eight hundred feet, sir.”

“Bottom? A little shallow, isn’t it?”

“I’m reading this right, sir.”

“Helm, drop us to five hundred, let’s see what’s under her skirt. Comm, signal all commands.”

“Five hundred feet, aye, aye!”

“Blue two and Blue Three this is Blue leader message follows: dive to five hundred feet and maintain formation.”

The trio of subs dove deeper into the chilly but clear waters of the North Atlantic. As they descended they also neared the underwater portion of The Order’s facility. It began to take form as a murky shadow in the distance, visible through the small eyes at either end of the hammerhead bow.

“Sir! Sonar, getting some strange readings here.”

“Talk to me, Ensign.”

“Contacts…kind of faint, sir. I don’t know. Something between the target and the ocean floor. Maybe some kind of net. It’s hard to read, sir.”

Farway could not be sure if the difficulty in the sonar readings came from the sailor’s lack of experience or had something to do with The Order’s strange ways.

“Helm, turn on the lights. Let’s see what’s out here.”

Forward spotlights engaged illuminating the waters in front of the boat. The blob-like shadow of The Order’s complex floated ahead, still too far away to see clearly. The submarines continued to descend, trying to slip beneath the monstrosity.

“Sir! Sonar! Definitely contacts on the ocean floor. Holy—I mean, sir…a lot of them!”

The Captain stood and hurried to the sonar station. The naval veteran analyzed the data marching across a monitor in front of the young seaman. Farway mumbled, “All along the bottom…what the Hell?”

“Looks like a little movement, too,” the Ensign reported.

“Sir! Helm! We have visual, sir!”

Farway marched away from sonar to the front of the ship and peered out one of the forward windows. Spotlights helped explain the strange sonar readings.

The Order’s facility ended in a rough round base, probably the same spongy rock material as on the surface. But that was not all. A tangled web of white, flaky lines or ropes drooped from the floating base.

The helmsman muttered, “What the Jesus Christ is that?”

“Easy son. Keep it professional.”

Still, Farway shared the sailor’s sentiments. It looked to be a mass of lines connecting the base to something deeper.

“Helm, drop our nose ten more degrees. Let’s get a look at what’s down here. Comm, alert all commands!”

“Aye aye, sir!”

“Blue Leader to Blue One and Blue Two message follows: angle of dive increase another ten percent. Maintain formation.”

Farway reached for the low ceiling and grabbed one of the metal bars running the length of the ship on either side. Most of his bridge crew did the same as the front of the submarine tipped to a steeper dive angle.

“Okay, easy helm. Slow us down to one quarter. We don’t’ want to get tangled up in any of this. Comm, radio our sisters and tell them to hang back.”

Helm: “Aye, sir! One quarter!”

Communications officer: “Blue Leader to Blue Two and Blue Three message follows: all stop, hold position until further orders.”

Farway’s lead sub continued forward and down, moving closer to both the net of lines and the ocean floor. As they closed, the water grew murkier; white flakes floated about and puffs of greenish ink or mist seemed to drift in patches through the sea.

“Depth, seven hundred feet!”

“Sonar contacts all along the bottom, sir!”

Farway ordered, “Steady, helm. Steady…”

He stared out one of the front-facing portals hoping the powerful underwater spotlights might reveal what secret hid beneath The Order’s warped base.

The atmosphere inside the sub felt overly warm although the heat may have come more from the tension then the temperature. The crew grew silent with only the repeating ‘ping’ from the active sonar sounding.

Deeper…deeper…

“Seven Hundred fifty feet!”

“Helm, trim out the boat. Bring our nose up to ten degrees; I don’t want to go in too fast.”

“Ten degrees, aye, aye, Captain!”

The steep dive eased. Farway released his grip on the overhead bar and came to realize how sweaty his palms were.

The navigator muttered, “What is that…that noise?”

A sound came at the sub from the waters beyond. A soft sound that made Farway think of a breath. An exhale. The sound of someone breathing in and out while sleeping, but on a much larger scale. The noise grew until it caused a slight tremble in the hull.

The spotlights illuminated the murky water and the devil’s garden came in to view.

Those were not ropes and wires hanging from the underside of The Order’s floating base but, rather, umbilical cords. Each descended to the sea bed and attached to a house-sized white growth resembling an upside-down mushroom with luminescent skin. Around each of the fungi-things grew a patch of white bulbs arranged in rings. Inside those bulbs…things moved. Black balls, squirming masses, and worse. The sound of breathing came from whatever mechanism fed the garden.

A hush fell over the crew. Even curses could not capture the grotesque horror hidden at the bottom of the sea.

Captain Farway regained his composure—some of it—and ordered, “Helm! All stop!”

Nothing.

Farway barked in the crewman’s ear, “Helm! I said all stop!”

The shout shook the boat’s driver from the horror ahead.

“A-all stop, aye, s-sir.”

The jet-like drive at the bottom of the Barracuda ceased. The sub drifted ahead for several yards on inertia, then hovered in the water, a speck in the face of the hundreds upon hundreds of gigantic white sacs spread out like a farmer’s field.

The young Ensign at the Helm could not resist, “What is that, sir? Have you ever—”

“No, never saw anything like it, son. But I know what it is. It’s an army. An invasion army. Our President didn’t buy peace with our enemies; he bought time for them. For this.”

One of the beastly growths caught the Captain’s eye above all else. It had to be nearly as large as The Order’s entire base. He could see a face—he thought it to be something like a frog’s face—pressed against the interior of its protective sack. It moved, maybe even blinked. The creature inside that embryo had to be gigantic.

Farway removed his cap at the risk of showing off his bald spot, wiped an arm over his sweaty forehead, and then determined the best course of action.

“Communications Officer. Bring the other commands up. Battle stations.”

“Aye, sir! Blue Leader to Blue Two and Blue Three, message follows: rally to our position. Battle stations. Repeat, battle stations!”

“Weapons officer, get me a firing solution.”

“Sir, aye sir. Which one?”

Farway turned to face the crewman at the weapons station along the port side.

“Why all of them, son.”

“Sir, Blue Two and Blue Three approaching our position and awaiting orders.”

Captain Farway: “Weapons officer, coordinate targeting assignments with Blue Two and Blue Three.”

“Aye, sir!”

“I want every one of these damned things blown to bits.”

But the Captain wondered if they had enough torpedoes to do the job.

The Weapons officer began a series of intense conversations with the other two submarines, assigning fields of fire and timing. When the conversation concluded he reported, “Sir, Blue Two and Three are moving to firing positions. Attack will commence in two minutes. Mark 48 heavies in the tubes.”

The subs split off in different directions to encircle the massive field of incubating beasts. They faced no resistance. If any defensive weapons existed, Jorge Stone’s takeover of the complex had rendered them useless.

“Sir! Request permission to engage.”

Captain Farway eased into his command chair and gave the Weapons Officer the permission he sought: “Granted. Good hunting.”

The submarine shuddered as the first volley of sophisticated ‘fish’ sped away from torpedo tubes on either side of the Barracuda. Below, on the second of the boat’s two decks, crewmen operated the automatic loaders to replenish the tubes as fast as possible.

The deadly weapons streaked through the water and into the rows of white embryos. Additional torpedoes entered the zone from the other subs.

Farway’s fish hit first, detonating against one of the mushroom-like centerpieces and also into one of the bulbs. A shock wave traveled the waters and shook the boat, as did a scream. The beasts of The Order’s legions may not be truly alive, but as the torpedoes aborted their growth they cried like wounded animals.

More torpedoes. More explosions. More shrieks. As the sacs disintegrated, pieces of the partially-grown machines inside floated off. Farway saw clawed hands and limbs the size of a bus; armored plating that sunk to the bottom and gelatinous clouds dispersing from the blasts.

“Torpedo away!”

“Hit!”

“Reload!”

And so the process repeated for an hour as the three Barracudas drained their supply of munitions. Yet nearly half the field remained.

Captain Farway realized they could not finish the job on their own.

“Helm, hard about. Comm, signal all commands to follow. We’re heading to the surface for reinforcements.”

The trio of attack subs headed off, leaving behind piles of gore, shattered bulbs, severed umbilical cords, and half an army.

*

“Fire!”

The Excalibur shook. Two blobs of energy shot from its front under carriage. A shining burst of color brightened the night around the island like alien lightning as the belly boppers discharged and blasted into The Order’s island. Chunks of the complex erupted from the center of the rock façade.

Brett Stanton reported, “Recharge to twenty percent…twenty-five percent…” while Jon surveyed the damage below from the ‘brain’ module through a night vision scope. The initial assault cut a gorge in the middle of the thing. He saw fluids spraying from cut arteries and flickering lights.

“Forty percent…forty-five percent…”

Jon knew this would go on all night. He would fire, recharge, fire, and recharge again. The process would repeat until he melted away the floating complex as well as the growing invasion force on the seabed below.

Much like Trevor’s mind. How much had Voggoth’s machine melted away? The Emperor remained silent in his quarters watched over by his wife and child. He showed no reaction to any stimulus. The possibility existed that he would never return to normal.

“Seventy percent…seventy-five percent…”

Either way, Jon knew he had a job to do. He would finish destroying the fake island and then wipe out what the subs had failed to destroy on the ocean floor. Then he would dispatch Eagles to search for any similar facilities. If he found them, they would be destroyed, too.

Eventually, he would return to Washington and confront Godfrey and his conspirators. Perhaps the evidence of Trevor’s survival would be enough to convince Hoth that his orders were illegal. Perhaps he could rally the military, free Shep from captivity, and overwhelm the I.S. units in DC.

“Belly Boppers recharged one-hundred percent.”

“Fire.”

*

Ashley rested in a chair near Trevor’s bed. At first, the periodic rocking of the Excalibur from its bombardment kept her from sleeping. As the firing continued well into the night, her exhaustion overcame the shudders and jolts and she fell asleep with her son snoozing a few feet away on the couch.

She lost track of time, of course. She did not know that she slept not only until dawn, but well into the early morning. She did not know that the island that had served as a prison and torture chamber for her husband and son had disintegrated into pieces and that the field of soldiers growing on the seabed suffered a similar fate. She did not know that Jon Brewer dispatched his compliment of Eagle transports to search the waters for hundreds of miles in all directions for any additional threats.

But she did know that something had changed. She felt herself pulled from sleep by watching eyes. As she woke, she saw JB standing on the far side of Trevor’s bed, staring at a ball of sheets.

In a groggy voice she asked, “J…JB? W-what is it?”

JB pointed to an empty bed.

“Father has gone away.”

Wild Things

“And when he came to the place where the wild things are

They roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth

And rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws

‘till Max said, “Be Still!” and tamed them with the magic trick…”

— Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are

Ashley—with her son in tow—burst onto the bridge to report the disappearance of her husband only to find the crew in the midst of a different crisis.

Woody Ross had taken over as ‘brain’ but Jon Brewer hovered nearby leaning over a console alongside Brett Stanton. Jon’s wife Lori stood near the entranceway holding two cups of coffee that she had obviously brought to her husband as an end-of-shift gift. Alas she, too, found herself caught in the emergency.

Ross transmitted, “Scout Four, respond.”

“What’s his position?”

Stanton answered Brewer, “Northwest of us by about two hundred miles. Now, no, wait he’s making like a bat out of hell for the coast.”

Ashley’s head swiveled from side to side, her eyes wide, trying to find a voice to alert the crew of a much more pressing matter than an Eagle in duress. Lori, apparently, mistook her expression for confusion and explained, “They just received a mayday from one of the scout ships. Now it’s flying off without a word.”

JB calmly pointed out, “It’s father, mommy. He took the ship.”

Jon, Stanton, Lori, and the rest of the bridge crew heard the boy’s words over the commotion. His voice had a way about it.

“Wow, um JB, what are you saying?” Jon asked with a tone that suggested a newfound respect for the child. The lack of defenses at The Order’s complex made him believe that—perhaps—the eight year old boy had, in fact, killed off Voggoth’s minions.

Ashley answered, “We both fell asleep. Sometime early this morning…I don’t know…we woke up and Trevor was gone.”

“What do you mean gone? He couldn’t even move before!”

“Jon, wait,” Lori interrupted. “Could he have stowed away on that scout ship?”

Stanton said, “It left about an hour ago. Depends on the last time you folks saw him tucked in.”

Jon shook his head. “There’s no way he could make it into a hangar area unseen. Not with all the…all the…” Jon stopped himself. Under normal circumstances security guards, technicians, and pilots would certainly have spied an intruder in the hangar bays. In contrast, with his current skeleton crew it would be more likely that no one would be the wiser.

“Brett, which bay did Scout Seven depart from?”

A pause. An answer: “Level Four Bay Two.”

“Brett, call up the security cameras form Level Four Bay Two.”

Before the words left Jon’s lips a monitor on the console presented what the motion sensitive cameras had recorded outside the entranceway to Bay Two. After a second of searching, the grainy image showed a figure dressed in a short sleeve gray shirt, black sweat pants, and sneakers shamble from the hallway and into the hangar area.

“Oh Christ.”

“What the Hell is he up to?” Stanton grumbled. “Now, I remember thinking that he wasn’t even going to wake up, let alone go off for a ride. He come to his senses or something?”

Jorgie told them in a voice wavering on the brink of tears, “He wants to get away. He wants to run from the bad dreams.”

“But he can’t,” Lori Brewer, the former counselor, broke in. “He’s trying to run away but he can’t run away from himself. He needs help, Jon. But in some ways this is a good sign.”

Jon burst, “A good sign? What kind of shrink-shit is that?”

“Jon, listen. On some level he knew how to find his way to the hangar bay and stow away onboard an Eagle and if that’s him at the controls now then he’s remembered how to fly it. On some level Trevor Stone is still in there, covered up by layer after layer of all the bad images in his head. The stuff those things put inside of him. If someone can get through to him…I mean, maybe he can still be saved. That is, if he doesn’t become suicidal.”

Ashley gasped, “Suicidal?”

“Sooner or later he’s going to find that he can’t run away from who he is and all the things he’s done. At that point…” she left the blank unfilled.

Woody Ross interrupted, “Scout Four has crossed the tambourine line and is headed for Connecticut. She’ll be out of our range soon.”

“All ahead full,” Brewer commanded. “We have to catch her.”

Stanton warned, “General, no matter how many false reports your Captain friend sends, sooner or later the Philipan is going to see us for herself. Then she’s going to intercept us and that’s probably all she wrote.”

Ashley had the answer, “Jon, a battleship can’t bring Trevor back.”

Jon Brewer looked at Ashley. Her eyes showed a deep sadness that stretched to her very soul. In the old days he had seen this woman as shallow and self-serving. Like his wife, Jon figured Ashley to be a materialistic daddy’s girl.

No more. As Armageddon had changed him, and Trevor, and people like Reverend Johnny and Garrett McAllister, so too had it changed Ashley Trump. She knew she did not hold Trevor’s heart but yet she understood that heart. She understood his importance.

And now she stood on the bridge and spoke a simple truth: her husband could not be saved by the military strength, advanced technology, or even the arcane powers at his disposal. If anything could clear his crazed mind it would be something far more personal.

Ashley explained, “I’ll need Rick Hauser and his transport. A doctor for the pilot if he’s injured and for Trevor. Myself and my son, too. We’ll go after him.”

Jon tried to object even though he knew it the right thing to do. Stanton saw the General’s mouth begin to express that objection and cut him off, “General, the closer we get to shore the more likely Hoth is going to float out here and kick the crap out of us. He’ll do it, too. But he might not pay a transport any attention. They could follow Scout Four.”

Jon, frustrated, asked, “But where is he going?”

Lori answered, “Anywhere. He’s just running, Jon.”

Stanton told them, “He can’t go too much further. The way he’s bookin’ and how far he’s gone, well now, he’s going to have to stop to fill up the tanks soon, assuming he’s in a right enough mind to do that.”

General Brewer nodded to Ashley and told her, “Okay, go. Take Eagle One.”

Ashley led JB by the hand toward the exit. Before she left, she turned and spoke to the General. He could have sworn he saw a glimmer of a tear in her eye as she added the one last thing she would need.

“Oh and one more thing, Jon. We’ll need someone…we’ll need a good soldier. I think…I think that Captain Forest would be…it would be good of her to come along.”

*

The high speed booster rockets onboard Eagle One closed the distance with Scout Four fast. Hauser dropped low, nearly skimming the ocean top as he punched across the tambourine line. After penetrating the airspace around Connecticut, he rose to cruising altitude but could not locate Scout Four on radar.

Panic gripped all those onboard until a radio transmission from the ship’s original pilot went out in search of assistance, reporting he had been attacked by a crazed man and rendered unconscious, awakening to find his ship in the middle of a mountainous wilderness.

Hauser’s voice announced to the passenger compartment, “We have a location on Scout Four. She’s landed in the Catskills. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Sit tight.”

Ashley let out a heavy exhale, the only sound in the passenger compartment other than the distant hum of the engines. Her son sat quiet by her side on one of the bench seats. In the row behind her waited two medics with first aid equipment. Nina sat in the row ahead running a cloth over the metal of an assault rifle. At her feet rested a black and gray Norwegian Elkhound named Odin, or so Nina had informed.

Ashley studied Nina’s profile, watching those sapphire eyes staring intently at the cloth and the rifle. Ashley knew exactly who Odin was. She had been with Richard when he had picked the dog up from the breeder to join Tyr at the Stone family home. And now that dog lived with, worked with, and traveled with Nina Forest. The same way Trevor’s heart lived with the woman.

What made her so special? How had she stolen Richard’s heart from Ashley?

No, that isn’t quite right.

Nina Forest would never have stolen Richard’s heart from Ashley. But Trevor? Ashley had never actually held Trevor’s heart, so it was not hers to lose.

Certainly Nina Forest offered all the beauty a man might desire, although with a rough edge and in the package of a shy person. She looked to be a woman ten years younger, one might even think her more a ‘girl’ than a ‘lady’. Yet she seemed unapproachable. More so, she appeared unconcerned with anything other than battle: the curls of her hair wasted in a ponytail, her body slender but seemingly made of rock like a marble statue. There seemed very little warmth.

Ashley knew Forest to be a devoted soldier. Perhaps there lay the answer. The Lords of Armageddon had given Trevor a mission, with no room for compromise and no opportunity for respite. Indeed, it may be that no other person in the world could ever understand Trevor as Nina could, and no one could ever know Nina as did Trevor. They were reflections of one another.

So why had the powers behind Armageddon separated them? Surely Nina’s memory loss could be overcome. But no, Trevor had not been allowed to be with Nina for another reason: he was pre-ordained to be with Ashley.

She turned away from the soldier and gazed at her son. A son with a brain that worked far beyond the capabilities of the normal; a boy with unnatural insights into the world around him. A child who had apparently slaughtered legions of monsters inside The Order’s base with his mind.

What Trevor had needed from Ashley…what the Gods had fated…her genes. Her womb. She was a vessel, contributing half of a powerful equation. But to what end?

Ashley did not know. She only knew that her life might serve no meaning beyond being a mother, and that saddened her.

She stared at her hands and listened to the engines hum. Nina went on cleaning her rifle.

*

Despite their name, the Catskill Mountains are a dissected plateau. This discrepancy, however, made no practical difference to the rescue party onboard Eagle One. The mountainous ranges rolled away from the crash site one after another covered in dense forest with streams, rivers, dramatic waterfalls, and dense foliage presenting a variety of obstacles to any search.

According to the Scout Four pilot—who had suffered a concussion—Trevor Stone had raced off into the forest when the ship fell from the sky in a kind of controlled crash, what a helicopter pilot such as Nina might call a ‘hard landing.’

“We can’t search from the sky,” Hauser explained while the medics looked over the wounded pilot in Eagle One’s passenger module.

“Why not? We have to get father!”

Hauser answered, “Regional air defense has a couple of fighter jets out looking for us. I can get us out of here when the time comes but a slow search over all this terrain is a different story. We’d be an easy target.”

Ashley—the de facto commander of the mission—resolved the issue. “Then we go after him on foot. He’s got a two-hour head start on us. I can’t imagine he’d get far in his condition.”

Nina threw a back pack with emergency gear over her shoulders, picked up her M-4, and moved toward the exit with Odin at her heel.

“Okay then, I say we get going.”

“Yes, mommy, she’s right. We should get going right away.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Ashley told her boy. “I’m not going to lose you again. You stay here with Mr. Hauser and the medical team. We’ll radio for you when we find his location.”

Hauser protested, “Ma’am, I mean, shouldn’t we all go?”

“This is not a military matter, Rick, it’s a personal one. Family. Besides, the fewer people the faster we can move.”

Hauser did not like the idea but had no choice but relent.

“Okay then, we’ll wait to hear from you.”

Nina pushed a button and the door slid open. A cool breeze—surprisingly cool for July—eased in as did the smell of wild flowers, the sound of a nearby waterfall, and birdsong

Eagle One sat on one side of a meadow cut in a deciduous forest by a fire decades before. A few charred stumps remained but otherwise the area had grown over in weeds and flowers. On the other side of the clearing sat Scout Four, its starboard side smashed into a clump of trees.

Nina and Odin descended the ramp. Ashley followed, saying, “He headed northeast. I think there’s a path—”

Her sentence stopped in a grunt of pain. Ashley fell to one knee and grabbed her right ankle. Nina snapped about and raced to her. JB eyed his mother suspiciously.

“What is it? What happened?”

“I slipped off the ramp. I think I sprained it. You go ahead. Radio when you find him.”

Nina hesitated.

Ashley said, “Go, I’ll be okay. Find Trevor. You have to catch up to him.”

“Okay, I’ll go. And I promise, I’ll find your husband.”

She then turned and followed Odin into the forest on a game trail leading northeast.

Ashley remained on a knee until Nina entered the brush. At that point she calmly stood and—in perfect strides—ascended the ramp into the ship telling a stunned Hauser, “We wait until we hear from her.”

*

Nina entered the woods with a sense of urgency, moving at a fast walk and following the obvious signs: footsteps in soft ground along the trail, broken branches, trampled flowers, and flattened brush. It seemed that in his current state Trevor moved like an enraged bull, pushing through and knocking over anything in his way.

As the day wore on, she realized that while he had not moved softly he had moved quick. Whatever damage The Order had done to her leader, they had left him full of adrenaline.

The thick green canopy of forest could not keep out the heat of a strong afternoon sun. The air grew heavy with humidity, becoming another weight on her shoulders conspiring to drain her strength. But Nina did not slow. She willed herself forward. Her loyal companion—Odin—suffered even more so due to his heavy black and gray coat.

At the edge of a great waterfall she hid behind a fallen tree to avoid a massive StumpHide. Its long body and heavy feet crashed through the wilderness reminding her that amidst the natural beauty of the Catskills lurked the unnatural dangers of alien wildlife.

When the trail seemed to disappear at a stream, Odin’s keen nose miraculously found Trevor’s scent.

From the top of an open ridge she paused to drink from her canteen and watch the sun begin its descent, its rays changing to burnt orange.

In the forest again a yard of Bloodhorns crossed their path. She stopped and watched the graceful beasts graze at a patch of berry bushes before moving on. One regarded her through its crimson eyes. The ungulates wore a pair of slender horns similar to pronghorns and seemed to dance, not run. Not all aliens were predators.

As the forest darkened a wobble grew in her knees from exhaustion. Just as she worried she would have to make camp for the night, she came upon a lonely cabin sitting atop a clearing where a land owner had long ago cut away the trees, and shrubs, and grass and blanketed it all with gravel and rock.

Nina surveyed the clearing surrounding the cabin and Odin stood at her side with his nose in the air sniffing. She heard song birds celebrate the end of another summer day, her eyes saw no reason to fear, and her Elkhound did not advance any warning.

She adjusted the M-4 on her shoulder and then stepped out of the shadows. Her footfalls crunched on the white gravel. As they crossed the distance, Nina took note of the cabin’s isolation; of her isolation in those mountains. Inside the forest, she had not given it much thought. But there, seeing the cabin in the clearing under the wide open sky and against the backdrop of forested mountain walls, emphasized the point.

Nina and her dog arrived at and climbed the wooden stairs then stopped perfectly still. The door stood slightly ajar. Scrapes and splinters along the frame indicated forced entry.

She drew her pistol and pushed the door. It swayed open with a creak much too loud for her liking, but no response came from within.

She stepped inside first. A fresh cedar smell greeted her, riding on cold air trapped inside the home for a decade.

To her right, a small room with a desk and dusty wildlife oil paintings, an ancient typewriter, and a bundle of straw in one corner no doubt home for a mouse. To her left, a closet with empty clothes hangers and a cache of dusty fishing gear scattered below.

In front of her the hallway continued toward a kitchen. First, however, an archway to her left just beyond the closet.

Nina instinctively felt a presence in that room even before she peered inside. When she did, she saw a bundle on the floor; a person curled in a fetal position in front of a dormant stone fireplace and at the foot of a plush sofa.

Trevor Stone.

Before entering the room she listened and looked along the hall but her instincts now told her they were alone.

Those instincts were wrong.

She stepped into the living room, holstered her weapon, and cautiously took to a knee. Odin stood nearby, his nose in the air.

Nina felt a shiver shake her arm as she reached two fingers to his throat. For a long second she feared she had searched all day only to find a corpse. She closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as her fingers felt a soft pulse, but he did not stir.

His shirt had been torn to shreds during his blind race through the wilderness. He wore only one sneaker and she spied small patches of blood on his pant legs and arms. Nothing serious, but another sign of the craziness of his flight through the woods. Her Emperor—her leader— reduced to a wild animal.

Nina studied the rough lines in his cheekbones and the strong shoulders that had carried her people so far for so long. Lying there, on the floor, those cheekbones seemed soft and the shoulders vulnerable. She realized she looked not upon an Emperor, but a man.

In that moment all the admiration, all the loyalty, and all the respect she held for him doubled. Trevor Stone was no super being, no powerful entity, no demigod. She saw him as a human being, no more, no less. And while that realization stripped away his aura of invincibility, it made him real and his accomplishments more worthy of admiration.

And he lay there, on the floor, alone.

A wave of sadness flew over her. No, not over, but from that locked part of her heart.

He will not be alone. He deserves better than that.

She yanked a quilt from the sofa producing a cloud of dust that caused her to cough and wheeze, but he still did not stir even as she draped the cover across him.

Nina placed her backpack on the floor and retrieved the oversized radio from inside. With her attention focused on the communicator, she did not see the Old Man staring in the front window, his face contorted into an expression of deep grief; tears streaming down his cheeks.

The transmitter offered only static. Nina did not understand why. After several minutes of trying, she left the living room and moved outside in time to watch the last rays of sunshine fade behind the peaks. Odin remained behind, curled on the floor in one corner of the room nursing his own exhaustion.

Still, no contact. She did not understand. The high powered radio should work, even in such a remote area. Something obstructed her call for help.

She turned off the radio, returned inside, and knelt next to him whispering, “Trevor? Do you…can you…hear me? Um…it’s me…Captain…it’s me…Nina Forest.”

No response, only the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Nina considered her options. She could not carry him out of the mountains. Indeed, she could not walk out herself. The trip in had consumed her strength. Her legs needed rest. Furthermore, she suspected Trevor to be exhausted, which probably accounted for his lack of response. At least she hoped so.

The calendar, she knew, said July but they sat in the high mountains surrounded by forest. The cabin’s stale, cold air already felt chilly enough despite how hot the day had been. Certainly the temperature would drop even further as night rose.

She prioritized.

First, Nina slipped her arms under his legs and shoulders, grunted, and lifted him to the couch. He lacked weight. The Order had provided just enough nutrients to keep his body functioning.

With him secure on soft bedding and under the quilt, she turned her attention to the fireplace. On one side of the stone mantle a pile of yellowed newspaper, on the other a stack of dried logs.

Nina used the paper and twigs for kindling and a match from her survival kit to ignite the heap. After allowing the flames to build, she added wood to the mix. Soon a respectable blaze warmed the living room.

She slipped off her jacket and chugged from her canteen, careful to keep a healthy supply ready for him when he woke.

If he wakes up.

Nina found she had no appetite for rations. Eating could wait until morning.

With that in mind, she settled in for what promised to be a long but hopefully quiet night. She sat on the floor and propped her head against the side of the couch while he slept above and Odin remained in the corner.

An hour ticked by, maybe longer, and the world outside grew dark while the fire inside cast the two in a warm glow.

Nina’s eyes grew heavy and sleep beckoned…

…in a flash, her instincts chased off that sleep. She drew her weapon and leapt to her feet to confront the intruder.

“Easy…easy there, missy.”

He took a cautious step from the shadowy hall into the light of the living room. Odin glanced in the newcomer’s direction, but to Nina’s surprise her K9 friend appeared unconcerned.

Nina held the gun sure and steady.

“Hold it right there.”

“Oh now, calm down,” the Old Man spoke with his hands held up and his back slightly hunched. “I’m not your enemy, you know that, don’t ya’?”

She did not know that…or…or did she?

“Who are you?”

“Oh, now, that’s right. You don’t remember a lick, do ya? Probably for the best and all. Yep, definitely for the best. But now…well, now it’s a damned nuisance.”

The Old Man’s words suggested he wanted to come across as flippant, but the tremble in his voice fell far short, sounding sad, maybe scared, to Nina’s ear. Still…she saw something familiar in him. Not visions, but feelings. Feelings of wonder and awe.

The sight of Trevor lying on the floor had made her see the Emperor as just a man. The newcomer standing in the light of the fire…she knew—she knew—to be much more than that.

“Now what is that I see in them eyes? Could it be…naw…could you be thinkin’ you recognize lil’ old me?”

Nina did not react as the Old Man dropped his hands.

“I…I don’t understand.”

She did not feel threatened by the stranger; merely puzzled. She tilted her head and studied the lines of his face.

“We had a talk once, you and me, about our friend here.”

The old timer nodded toward the sofa. Nina followed his motion, glanced at Trevor, and then returned her attention to the newcomer. She turned the pistol in her hand, thought, then slid it into her holster.

“Mighty obliged,” he smiled a forced grin. “Anywho, I couldn’t really do you no harm even if that’d be my intention, seein’ how I’m not really here and all. At least, not the way you would be thinkin’.”

As if to emphasize the point, the man took another step forward on the wooden cabin floor, but his footfall made no noise.

Nina had seen enough in the decade since Armageddon to maintain her cool. Nonetheless, her voice dropped to a whisper. “Who are you? What are you?”

He walked in a clumsy gait suggesting frailty. Nina guessed that to be an illusion, too.

“I’m a friend. Now, you can’t tell me you haven’t heard all them stories, right? You know, the stories ‘bout Trevor walkin’ off into the woods and comin’ back with fancy notions.”

Nina had not heard those stories in recent years, but she had heard them.

She crinkled her brow and remembered the early days at the estate. However, to her memory those early days began nearly a year after she and Shep had crashed in northeastern Pennsylvania. From what Shep had explained, she had been spirited away by The Order and implanted with two dormant parasites before being returned to Trevor’s band of survivors.

Her mission, it appeared, had been to unwittingly collect intelligence for The Order. At some point in the process the parasites activated, recalling her to one of The Order’s bases. Or so Shep had said. Her discussions with Gordon and rumors of Trevor’s own imprisonment by The Order at the same time made her wonder…had she once betrayed Trevor Stone?

Regardless, the survivors raided The Order’s base and freed her, removing one of the parasites but not knowing of the second implant’s existence. That second implant had been tied to her memory. Months later doctors found and removed the second implant but, in the process, she lost her memories between its removal and when it had been first inserted.

Seeing the Old Man standing in front of her and feeling a sense of recognition for him confirmed what she had long suspected: more had happened during those months than Shep or anyone had shared. Indeed, Nina’s decision to unravel the mystery of Trevor’s assassination had been driven by Ashley’s promise to shed light on that hole in her memories.

“Hello? You awake over there, missy? Now, I can’t go fillin’ you in all over again and besides, I don’t think none of that matters right now.”

The Old Man hovered over the sofa. Nina watched as his shoulders sagged more and glints of moisture sparkled in the corners of his eyes. The Old Man’s words continued but she could sense his struggle to maintain composure.

“Guess…guess I just don’t understand as much as I’d like. No…not at all. I’m really sorry over this, Trevor. I always said, it ain’t about you. Maybe…maybe just this once…maybe we can make it about you.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

His lips quivered, “He’s alone.”

At first his answer confused her. But as she stared at the sleeping man named Trevor Stone, she began to understand. Her heart sank.

“What did they do to him?”

The Old Man chewed on his thoughts as if to sculpt the right words. “Now, let’s see. From where you’re standin’, Trev has been gone for, what, two months? That right?”

She nodded and resisted the urge to correct him that from her point of view, Trevor had been dead for two months.

“For his part, well, its felt more like a decade.”

Her head snapped around and she asked, “What do you mean?”

The Old Man snickered, a little, but without any good humor. “See, now, I keep on tellin’ Trevor time is irrelevant. It’s just a state of mind, really. What they done to him…they filled his head full of misery, stuffin’ it with visions and whatnot. Memories, if you will. Yeah, a whole bunch of bad memories. Nasty stuff.” The Old Man focused his eyes on Nina. “Bad things that he’s done and bad things happenin’ to people he’s got feelin’ for.”

Nina grimaced and asked, “What? You mean, they tortured him?”

“Trevor, he’s been tortured before on the outside. Messed him up real good, too. I was able to help out back then, to sort of undo the damage. Well, no, I’d say more like I took the edge off. This isn’t the same thing. This time they cut a shade deeper.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Honey, Trevor’s mind has spent ten years re-livin’ all the bad things he ever done; all his guilt, all the decisions he made that ate away at his soul. They brought his demons to life.”

“Dreams? You mean they gave him bad dreams?”

The Old Man shook his head.

“Nah, sweetie, reality. As real as you and me standin’ here. What are we if we ain’t the sum of our memories, right? I suppose he coulda pulled on through but they took all those feelin’ of guilt and fear and—what would you say?—oh yeah, they amp-la-fide them.”

“Ampli..fied?”

“Yep. Drove him over the edge, too, but I think you can see that. Scrambled him up good. Tell me there, missy, how good a day would you have if someone tore you up like that? Now make that day seem like ten years.”

He held his eyes on her for a moment to make his point, and then cast them to the person lying on the couch.

“It’s all bouncin’ around up there in him,” he spoke gently. “Powerful stuff, you know? Emotion and such.”

Nina could not be sure that she did, in fact, know. She had Denise—her daughter—and that had opened her to a wide range of feelings she never knew existed. Still, much remained hidden away waiting for the right trigger to bring it forth.

The Old Man went on, “It’s like energy, I suppose, over powerin’ the circuits of his mind. Shortin’ them out.”

Nina stepped closer to the couch and studied Trevor’s silent face. From what this strange old man told, a storm brewed underneath. A storm that had driven Trevor over the cliff of reason.

“So we’ve come all this way and it’s too late? Listen, I don’t believe that.”

He asked, “Why?”

Her head tilted with childlike wonder as she whispered, “Because I know him. I mean, I sort of know him. I know he’s beaten the odds every time. He’s won fights he never should have won. He’s been brave enough to make the hard decisions for all of us when someone had to do it. I’m just saying, everything Armageddon has thrown his way, he beat it. He can beat this.”

The elder told her solemnly, “Not this time, missy. This time he can’t do it by himself.”

She did not know what to say. The surety in the man’s tone offered no room for debate.

He continued, “I think I know everythin’, but this fella here, he’s been teachin’ me a bunch lately. Teachin’ me, ain’t that a hoot? Think I’m finally startin’ to understand a few things. And one of them is this; it don’t matter what fancy gizmos you give a guy, it don’t matter what neat tricks you play, sooner or later life ain’t something that can be lived alone. Sooner or later, everyone be needin’ someone.”

Nina thought she found a solution. “His wife. Ashley. Do I need to bring her here?”

The Old Man stood still and silent for several long seconds. The crisp, hot smell of the fire chased away the lingering taste of dust that had dominated the room. Just as Nina felt compelled to speak, he offered words of his own.

“That ain’t gunna do the trick, missy. Trev, here…well, he’s with who he had to be with; more like a job than anythin’ else. That’s part of the problem. I guess it’s better to be with no one than to be with the wrong one, ‘cause that only makes things all the more lonely. And both of them…” the Old Man coughed…or was it a sniffle? “…and both of them are all alone, even when they’re together.”

Nina understood…she thought. It fit, of course. Trevor Stone played the role of humanity’s savior. Perhaps he had been forced into other choices that had not been his own.

The Old Man finished, “So he’s layin’ here in a big mess. Maybe he won’t even wake up. That’d be for the best, you know? Maybe you should just walk away and leave him be. Tell everyone you didn’t find nothin’.”

Nina saw herself as a soldier, not a philosopher and certainly no expert on relationships or psychology. She knew something of loneliness, though. She tried to speak, but found her mouth had gone dry. Nina licked her lips, then tried again.

“Can I…can I help? Some…somehow?”

The Old Man turned to her with very serious eyes. She met those eyes with hesitation…and a tingle of fear.

“Now, watch what you’re sayin’. You think ‘bout that now, missy. You think long and hard. There’s only one thing that can be done here, and it ain’t pleasant.”

She swallowed. “What can be done?”

The Old Man leaned a little closer and spoke delicately. “He’s got a mind full of sorrow, of pain, of loss. Like I said, it’s like energy bouncin’ ‘round up there, overloadin’ his circuits. He can’t handle all that. He needs to…he needs to unload some of it.”

“What…what can I do?”

“Oh, now, honey, be careful ‘bout what you get yourself into. To help him…I dunno…you need to…well you’ll need to open up to him. You need to take some of that burden out of his mind. Take it on your shoulders.”

“I don’t understand you,” yet she worried she did.

“But missy, you need to know. What he’ll be givin’ you…a whole lot of sadness. A whole lot of doubt and scared and worry. These are the things that have taken over his noggin’. Things stuck up there with nowhere to go.”

Nina felt goose bumps spring to life on her arms despite the persistent warmth flickering from the fireplace. Her heart beat fast.

“That’s not possible. I mean, how could I even do something like that?”

“You have to want to. Can’t force you to; can’t force no one to do that. But like I said, it’s all like a big ball of energy bouncin’ around. If you want…if you are willin’ to take the chance…”

Nina staggered a step away.

“I…I can’t. I don’t know how to…I…”

Nina stopped her retreat, then shuffled forward and knelt next to Trevor on the couch.

“Tell me,” the old timer asked. “Tell me what you think of Trevor Stone.”

What did she think of him? She gazed at his silent and deceivingly peaceful person as she answered, “He always treated me with respect. Whenever we…whenever I met with him for orders or whatever…I mean…I’ve always felt I could trust him. And I knew—I knew—he trusted me.”

“And you’d do anythin’ he ordered?”

She nodded.

“And why did you go lookin’ for the truth about what happened to him? Why did you keep lookin’ even when people started tryin’ to kill you?”

Nina ran the back of her hand over Trevor’s forehead, telling herself that she needed to check for a fever but knowing what she really wanted was to touch him.

“He…he went looking for me once. I still don’t know why. But I was lost and he came after me. Besides, he deserves better than ending up like this, betrayed by people he trusted.”

“So let me get this straight: you respect him, you trust him, and you put your life on the line to find out what happened to him, huh?”

Nina had not considered it in such broad terms, but as the Old Man summarized she nodded in agreement. Her heart thumped harder.

“So now comes the 64-dollar question, missy. How far are you willin’ to go for him? You put your body in harm’s way, but can you offer more? How much are you willin’ to risk?”

How much?

Nina had spent her adult years risking life and limb in the National Guard, in the police force, in the post-Armageddon war. That had been easy. Her instincts, her abilities; they rose to equal the challenge of every fight. But her heart? Her soul? They remained safely locked away, touched only by the pangs of motherhood that had come with the adoption of Denise. A scratch on the surface but a far cry from full release. To Nina, emotions served only a hindrance.

Relationships? She dabbled, but never felt comfortable giving of herself.

Love? As a parent, she embraced the responsibility and the nurturing of Denise; a parent’s unique kind of love. But true love? Denise had been right; Nina knew nothing of real love.

Now the Old Man asked her to open herself to ease Trevor’s suffering. To lift a storm of emotional energy from his mind and make his pain hers. Certainly in that process some of her—that part hidden away—would be shared, too. She could think of nothing as intimate and, as far as her memories allowed, she could not recall ever letting anyone so close.

The idea scared her. She felt more willing to put her life on the line in battle than to put her heart on the line with another person.

What if he rejected her comfort? What if she lacked the compassion he needed? What if she dug deep into the middle of her soul and found nothing more than the same warrior who lived on the outside? What if she simply did not know how to love?

The Old Man said, “I can’t tell you what to do. And I understand if you go runnin’ off now and not give this a second thought. If I was you that’s exactly what I’d do, Hell yeah. Point being, you have to want to do it, missy. Not for the great ‘cause, not for your Emperor, but for Trevor…and for you.”

Her hand left Trevor’s forehead, stroked along his right arm and under the quilt until her fingers found his. She held his hand. It felt cold and limp, but alive.

“He’s in pain,” she said.

“Yep. That he is.”

“I’m afraid.”

“Everyone’s afraid.”

“I…I,” Nina fought to stay in control. “Am I good enough? I…I don’t know if I’m what he needs. I don’t know…”

“He’s just a man. He’s done some pretty big stuff, sure, but no matter what I helped him with or what he had buried down in his genes, he’s just a man. Flesh and blood. Truth is, you exactly what he needs, Nina Forest. No one else. Just you.”

The cabin grew quiet save for the crackle of logs in the fireplace.

Trevor’s eyes did not stir, but she felt his hand return her grasp, not tight but desperate as if searching for a life line. His cold palm began to warm from her grip; she felt a hint of strength in fingers that had been limp seconds before. All her doubt, all her questions evaporated.

“Yes. I’ll do it.”

For him. For me.

For us.

The Old Man shuffled to a sitting position in front of the fireplace.

“Hold him good, now, deary. Like I said, I’m not really here. Not like you think, that is. But that don’t mean I don’t have a trick or two up my sleeve.”

Nina sat on the floor, careful to keep Trevor’s hand in her own. She turned to the Old Man. He sat with his legs crossed and closed his eyes. She did the same.

“Now…you just sit still…probably going to feel a little buzz, hehe. But look, ain’t nothin’ here but the two of you…just the two of you…”

A feeling like static electricity built in the air above where their hands met, then spread up her arm. Her skin tingled. She could sense the bridge growing.

An ache formed in the pit of her stomach. Her breath grew rapid but each gulp of oxygen failed to satisfy her lungs. She felt the pores on her neck drain sweat and her cheeks blushed with warmth.

“What…what is…what are you doing?”

The Old Man did not answer.

“No… I’m not the person for this…”

She did not know why those words left her lips, but they came from a growing feeling of being trapped. Not in a cell or a room, but something else.

“I can’t do this! I can’t do this!”

Her voice quivered and the strength that had carried her into battle after battle eroded. Shadows and phantoms moved in the darkness behind her closed eyes. Giant shapes, much larger than she. Towering above. Pressing down.

“Not me! Not me!”

Her head swayed. Her eyes shut tight. Her hand squeezed Trevor’s harder and he responded in kind.

A flood of images broke through the dark. An eclectic collection that played as if it were a film, each frame a different picture. Cars and radios; a rich man staring out an office window. Helicopter control panels and technical schematics of all kinds. A soldier weaving through a dusty street firing a carbine. So many more that her mind’s eye could not keep pace.

Her breath eased. Her lungs accepted the nourishment of each inhale. Her grip on his hand relaxed. Strength returned.

She spoke, but did not know if the words belonged to her or Trevor.

“I see…I know. I must do this. It is my responsibility.”

The flashing images slowed, allowing for better understanding.

An attack helicopter flying over a desert. A professor building a solar panel. An army marksman hitting a distant target. A farmer planting his crop. A carpenter building a home. She not only saw those images, but understood them as if she had done it all herself.

The picture show froze and faded, leaving the dark of her closed eyes again.

“What happened?”

The sweat on Nina’s neck chilled into droplets of ice. The blackness behind her eyes froze, becoming a wall of cold. More feelings came with that cold. Feelings of frustration; a frustration not unlike a parent dealing with children too young to understand.

“I don’t have time for this! There isn’t time!”

Nina’s face twisted. She bit her lip.

“Why won’t they listen? You don’t know—I know! I know! Too much is at stake! Too much for this! Just do as you’re told. Listen to me, damn it! Listen!”

She felt a sharp cold—ice—in her heart but at the center of it burned an ember of warmth.

“No…no…this can’t happen. No, this is not for me. It’s not right. I won’t give in.”

Too late. The ice melted into a puddle and a speck of light glowed in the middle of the void. The ache in her stomach returned…but not so much a pain as a hunger. The light tried to take form. She could feel herself reaching for it, trying to touch.

“Can I? Is it allowed?”

The speck turned into a blob of golden rays shining comforting heat throughout. Her heart pounded faster and faster. Strength. So much strength. She felt…she felt invincible! As if muscles she never knew she possessed came alive with incredible power.

“You have made me stronger than ever!”

A welcoming, belonging feeling wrapped around Nina in a quilt of acceptance. She could feel that shapeless form lighting all of her; every dark corner and she accepted its searching glow willingly.

“Yes…see all of me. I give it all to you.”

Nina had never felt such emotion. Her eyes stayed shut; her entire body relaxed as if floating on her back in a pool below a brilliant sun. Her body tingled and she felt another there…entwined with her to the point of becoming one. She lifted her chin and her lips parted in the slightest. A gasp eased out and her entire person quivered.

“I…I…love…you…”

Then the voices came. She could not hear their words, but the meaning broadcast vividly. They needed. They looked to her. A thousand questions all at once demanding a thousand answers.

She felt pain. Not her own, but another’s. If only…if only she could take the glowing light in her hands and hold it. Comfort it. Chase away the pain.

“Me…I did it…I am responsible…I am responsible…”

She wanted to run away from the voices…and did. They faded and that tranquil quilt of comfort fell over her once more. She had found a quiet corner of her mind where she could hide but not be alone. No experience in her life could match that wonderful feeling.

And then it fell apart.

Not at once, but one piece at a time. One board. One plank. One nail. Pulled up and ripped away…a growing schism between where she went and where she wanted to be.

“No! No! No!”

Everything gone. The cold rushed in. The void drown away the light. Breathing became a labor. A salty sting built in the corners of her eyes. She lost control, bursting exhales like explosions of air. She became lost in the darkness again. The cold darkness.

“This is not fair! This is not fair!”

The good feelings—of warmth and comfort—faded so far as to be unreliable memories. The new cold felt more rigid than ever. It numbed her. Deadened the ends of her nerves…and slowly…morphed…into…

Nina growled. Her free hand clenched into a fist.

Anger. Bitter, horrid rage in its rawest form. Fury without focus. A whirlwind built in the darkness tossing unseen objects crashing and splintering and breaking.

“Shall I be a monster, then? Is that my fate? Then I will be the most terrifying monster!”

Legions on the march. Wave after wave; line after line; soldier after soldier. Tanks and planes; explosions and fires! It all boiled into one chaotic chorus played by Hell’s orchestra. The heat of the flames burned her inside and she relished every scar.

“One after another you shall fall! My rage is my sword!”

Flashing lights filled her mind; roaring destruction cut through the emotion and stomped it down…muffled it…disguised it…hid it…

…but not for long.

All the machines of war, all the sounds of annihilation could not keep the feeling at bay. It rose to the surface.

Emptiness.

The sounds turned off. She saw only black; heard only her breath.

If only she had never known the joy, then the emptiness would not hurt so deep. Not a sharp pain; a dull one. Taken in doses, she could grow accustomed to it. She could live with it. But she could not forget it.

Who am I?

The question drifted to her but she could not be sure if it were her thought, or Trevor’s. The bridge had opened completely. She felt herself inside of him. She felt him, inside of her.

The waves came. The waves implanted in his mind during his imprisonment. Hard peeks and deep valleys. Instants of happiness followed by horrific drops into sorrow and fear. One after another without end. A torture of unbelievable malice.

Tears of joy warped into tears of sad. Relief into shock. Peace into turmoil.

Nina grabbed hold of her consciousness. This storm had to be broken.

She concentrated as best she could amidst the disturbing sea, searching her soul for the confidence and strength that had allowed her to stay true to herself even in the days when she felt so disconnected from the world.

This is who I am.

She found it. And gave it to him. Dropping it into him as if it were a boulder cast into a raging stream.

Take what you need from me. Hold on…follow me back to where you belong.

She felt the desperation as he grasped at what she gave. He struggled to gain hold of it. And Nina knew she had yet more to do. That giving would not be enough.

Nina released the dam. The sea surged into her.

The torment of his broken heart; of his loneliness. The guilt for all the blood on his hands, for the cold decisions that sacrificed many to save more; for what he nearly became in another world. He had lived it time and time again in the belly of The Order’s sinister machine. So much, that it played over and over even with the machine gone. Now she lived it with him. Now she took it from him. Now it became a part of her heart.

His torment…hers.

His guilt…hers.

Her body jolted. Her mind scrambled. Her mouth stretched open with a gasp that turned into a cry that changed into a forlorn wail. The cabin shook.

Images played once more. Images of…Nina in his mind. Images of Ashley. Images of Trevor’s son. Images of the other Nina.

Trevor, trembling on the sofa, opened his eyes wide. His lips quivered and he gasped for air.

The weight of the deluge crushed Nina. Her heart broke a thousand times. She lost everything again and again.

She felt herself drowning…

*

The Eagle transport appeared over the treetops, glinted in the dawn sun, and then descended into the clearing at the front of the cabin.

Nina Forest stood by the porch door with Odin lying nearby. She held the radio in her hand. She gave only passing thought to how the radio miraculously worked that morning after having failed during the night.

She stood there, a blank expression covering her face. An expression not unlike a shell-shocked disaster survivor.

The door on the transport slid open; a ramp descended. Ashley stepped out followed by the two medics who hurried inside the cabin.

Ashley approached Nina whose eyes remained fixed on some distant point but she did speak. “He’s inside. He’s awake, but very tired. I think…I think he will be okay.”

Ashley studied Nina’s face as if searching for clues but her blank stare offered no answers.

“What about you? Are you okay?”

Nina told her, “No. But I will survive.”

Ashley asked, “What happened?”

Nina did not answer. Instead, she pulled her eyes from the horizon and looked at the other woman. “I want to go home now. I need to see my daughter.”

Ashley nodded.

The door to the cabin swung open with a creak and bang. The medics steadied Trevor as their Emperor walked with a wobble, the quilt still around his shoulders. He paused midway to the shuttle and focused on the two women standing several paces away.

His eyes sported deep bags, his hair ruffled, his clothes still tattered and bloody from rampaging through the forest. But it was Trevor; no longer a wild thing.

He did not speak. He had not the strength for speaking. But that strength would return now. Nina knew this to be so because some of that strength came from her.

Ashley looked to the ground in mild embarrassment as if she interrupted a private, silent conversation.

Nina saw herself in Trevor’s eyes. And felt him in hers.

Infection

Ashley sat across from Trevor at the otherwise empty conference table, but his lack of speech, movement, or even blinking made her wonder if she might actually be alone.

Whatever had happened between Trevor and Nina in the wilderness had chased the chaos from his mind. Yet shadows of the demons The Order placed in her husband’s head remained.

Nonetheless, Trevor had issued orders to Jon and the others. The skeleton crew onboard the Excalibur hurried to repair hull plates, damaged weapons, and the over-stressed gravity generators as if they meant to push through the Philipan and fly to Washington D.C.

Ashley knew different.

All of Trevor’s ships and soldiers could not save him from the nightmares The Order had constructed, just as the Excalibur could not now save The Empire from those who tore it apart. Salvation needed to come from Trevor himself.

Ashley knew that after failing Trevor so badly following the assassination, Jon Brewer would gladly fall on a sword or die in battle against the traitors. But such a fight—regardless of victor—could only serve Voggoth’s end.

Ashley Trump had been many things to Richard and Trevor Stone over the years, and since Armageddon there were many things she could not be for him. But at this moment she understood the role she needed to play, if even for the last time. She would speak on behalf of mankind and be the voice he needed to hear.

“Trevor, I know you never wanted to be an Emperor. Maybe that’s why it had to be you. I know about the other world, where you saw another version of you to be a brutal dictator. I know you’re worried that maybe there is some of that in you. Ever since you came back three years ago, you’ve been afraid of yourself. Afraid of what you might do.”

He did not respond but she felt confident he heard.

“You’ve kept that dark part locked away, bringing it out only when you fought the most desperate battles; only when you had to make the most difficult decisions. And every time you unleashed that part of you, you regretted it. I think it killed you, a little, each time. But you did it, because you have always stayed focused on the mission…because you know that when the survival of our species is at stake, then maybe the ends might justify the means.”

He raised his eyes and stared out the stern observation windows. Far away the first light of Wednesday, July 16th crept toward the horizon. Soon a new day would dawn. Soon Nina Forest would board an Eagle transport and fly to Annapolis to see her daughter again. Ashley remembered she owed that woman a debt; a debt that would be paid before the day ended.

More important, she knew Trevor had a debt to pay on behalf of humanity. And while it might kill another piece of him, it was his fate—or curse—to bear the burden.

“Trevor, you have to find that darkness again, for just a little while. It is there for a purpose. It is there to allow you to do what you have to do today.”

His expression remained stoic even as tears pooled in his eyes.

“Trevor, you have to go. You have to go and take back your Empire.”

*

The villages that once lived east of the Volga no longer existed, their buildings ground to dust and their populaces devoured by the worst of Armageddon’s nightmares; the same nightmares that had turned the steppes into charred wasteland. No animal, no human, no plant lived for thousands of square miles under a perpetually dark sky filled with angry clouds, lightening, and a chorus of rolling thunder, as if nature protested the presence of such vileness.

Above the forlorn landscape traveled a machine that could not possibly fly, but did. A floating blob that seemed to breath as it glided over the dead plains.

Its destination; a sickening hall of green and red infecting the land. Its massive size was dwarfed by the imposing peaks of the Ural Mountains behind it in a great wall of rock.

Rib-like supports held the rounded dome of Voggoth’s temple, five-hundred foot spires like sour vines reached to the sky at each corner, and smaller satellite buildings resembling blisters basked in the shadow of their Master’s shrine. Wisps of steam pumped from hidden vents, ghoulish beings marched in formation, and an oval landing pad flashed a creamy light to guide the vessel to its last stop.

From the impossible flying machine emerged the Missionary, stumbling forward cradling the stump of one arm. On the side of his face flexed a patch of faded skin while chopped tentacles sprouting from his neck writhed like wounded snakes.

A short flight of wide steps made from a substance like marble stretched before the grand entrance that was guarded by a pair of humanoid sentries standing eight feet tall with gray flesh, granite-like jaws, and tiny eyes beneath hairless scalps. Their legs and arms sported unnaturally large muscles that threatened to rip through the skin while metal cuffs and a matching collar symbolized their servitude.

As the Missionary approached, the fibrous front door retracted like a paper fan. He walked into darkness.

The inside of the temple was a great empty space with a ceiling stretching impossibly high and the far wall so distant it could not be seen. Humid air carried a smell of decay.

The Missionary walked alone, hobbling forward. Far overhead from the hidden rafters hung two massive, clear orbs each hundreds of feet in diameter and each filled with a pulsating black fog that beat against the glass like an imprisoned animal. From those orbs crackled energy of a kind not known to Earth until ten years ago.

Unseen voices from a universe away called to the Missionary through the energy of those orbs:

…you should not have touched the boy…

…this represents a rules infraction…

…an investigation is warranted…

…violation…

…the surrogates were not to be targeted…

The Missionary cringed and stopped. The pain had become too great.

“Master! Help me!”

A tremor announced His coming. It rolled from the blackness, filling the place from wall to wall and ceiling to floor like a mega tsunami, the details of its form hidden by the dark.

Just as it threatened to crash down upon the Missionary, the entity collapsed from gigantic to small, taking the form of a man: a man whose body had, years ago, become a vessel to facilitate the Master’s travel to the world of life; to the physical.

“My Lord, Voggoth! Help me! I am infected!”

The Missionary groaned in pain at the infection the boy had jammed into his mind.

“You failed. Now the plan must be accelerated before this opportunity is lost.”

The Missionary protested, “But his mind is shattered!”

Voggoth replied, “No. He will survive. He will fight again.”

“But how can you know this, Master?”

From the form of the man came a pair of barbed tendrils. They drilled into the Missionary and tore the occupied body to pieces. It would be the Missionary’s last pilgrimage.

The body of the man that now belonged to Voggoth stepped into the light cast by the crackling energy from the orbs so far overhead. He gazed upon the dying Missionary and found great pleasure in his cries.

“Because I know him,” said Voggoth, speaking from the body that had once belonged to Danny Washburn.

Maelstrom

General William Hoth sat alone in the conference room aboard the Philipan with a cup of warm coffee in one hand and stacks of papers—readiness reports, maintenance updates, weather forecasts, more—spread before him at the head of an empty table.

The ship’s XO interrupted his thinking via a rude buzzing from the phone and a report: “Sir, our scout ships confirm two or possibly three bogies launched from the Excalibur. Speed and radar profile suggest they are Eagle transports. Should I launch the alert fighters?”

Hoth answered with as few words as possible, “No.”

“Sir?”

“What’s the status of the Excalibur?”

“Holding position over the ocean, sir. No sign of movement.”

“Continue to monitor the Excalibur.”

“Sir, with all due respect, the transports, sir?”

Hoth did not like explaining himself. In fact, he absolutely hated it, something his Executive Officer knew. But these were strange times, even for a world invaded by aliens.

“Our orders are to engage the Excalibur, not transports.”

The General promptly hung up, but before he returned his eyes to the stacks of paper strewn across the table, he considered the situation. He did not like the idea of firing upon an officer whom he respected or upon a ship built to fight on his side. However, Hoth had also not liked firing on humans in California.

What he liked or did not like mattered little; he followed orders. And until he heard different, those orders came from the Secretary of Defense, Dante Jones, a man whom Hoth did not think very highly of. Nonetheless, had Hoth disregarded orders from civilian overseers he felt were incompetent all his career that career never would have made it out of the 1970s.

Like a doctor detaching himself from a patient, the General learned long ago to carry out whatever directives came along the chain of command. On those occasions when he did not care for those directives, he went to even greater pains to ensure he followed them exactly. In this case, his orders clearly stated to monitor the Excalibur and engage it with deadly force should it attempt to re-enter friendly air space.

He would do exactly that. Should Brewer’s dreadnought threaten such a move, General William Hoth would blast it from the sky. On the other hand, his orders said nothing about transports.

Hoth returned his attention to the papers and waited to see what would happen next.

*

When Barney heard the knock, he set aside the bowl of soup that served as lunch and walked around the kitchen counter toward the apartment door. Denise sprang to her feet from the sofa and rested one hand on the pistol in her hip holster. The Internal Security goons had seemingly left the neighborhood a couple of days ago, but one could never be sure.

Denise hid against the inside wall by the door. Barney waited until she reached position then, with his one arm, opened up.

Nina Forest stood in the doorway, a sagging pack on her back, an M-4 rifle slung over her shoulder, and a vacant expression in her eyes but that changed when she entered the apartment and saw her daughter..

“Mom! I thought you were…I mean…geez, you could have called.”

Nina responded with a strong hug.

Barney said, “A bunch of guys came looking for Denise a couple of days ago. They said they had a message for her from you. I didn’t buy any of it, hope that was the right call.”

“Yeah, um, yes, that was the right thing to do. Thank you, Barney.”

The mother-daughter embrace broke.

“Can I go home now, mom? All my CDs are upstairs.”

Barney reported, “Haven’t seen anyone snooping around since the weekend. Other than the folks living here, there’s only been the mail man today. Do you think it will stay that way?”

Nina answered, “I think things are going to…well, look, things are going to be okay in a day or two. We just have to keep our heads down for a while longer. Not too long, I think.”

“What about Shep, mom? I heard they arrested him.”

“He’ll be okay. Things are…things are different. The President just doesn’t know it, yet.”

“Mom, are you okay? What happened?”

Nina forced a smile and kissed Denise on the head.

“Lots of stuff happened. But look, I don’t have the time to go over it right now. Denise, you stay down here for a bit. I’m going upstairs to our place to make sure it’s clear, maybe take a shower. I think…I think I need a little peace and quiet if you don’t mind, Barney. Just for another hour or two.”

Barney nodded. “You take your time. We’ll be just fine.”

Denise folded her arms and stuck out her lower lip as her mother left the apartment.

Barney threw his arm around the girl and told her, “You just ease up there. Your mom’s been through something, doesn’t take x-ray vision to see that. There’s something she’s got to work out on her own.”

*

President Evan Godfrey walked along the marble pillars of the Cross Hall with Ray Roos at his side and a small binder under his arm. He could feel the electricity in the air, much like those first press conferences when he arrived at the White House last month. Certainly the media would pepper him with questions about the lack of a Constitutional Convention, the extent of Presidential powers, and his removal of nearly a dozen administrators and political leaders appointed by the old Emperor.

Yet today Evan would be on the offensive. Today he would stand surrounded by military VIPs whose loyalty would be on display for all to see, unlike the treacherous Jon Brewer and his clan of conspirators.

Such a display would further isolate those who opposed democracy and would make the coming clash with the Excalibur much more palatable to the public. Finally, after months of planted stories, phony confessions, and ‘unidentified sources’, Evan Godfrey’s story of a military/intelligence conspiracy would near its happy ending, leaving Internal Security in a stronger position and further accelerating the placement of friendly operatives into the armed forces hierarchy.

All for the greater good, of course, Evan thought. When the ends are so noble, certainly the means can be justified.

“Um, did you hear me, boss?”

“No,” the President admitted.

Roos repeated, “General Cassy Simms has arrived with her officers, as well as General Rhodes who took over 2nd Mech when Stonewall went down.”

Godfrey waved his hand, “Right, right.”

“Well I kinda figured that wouldn’t get you all up and rowdy, but both of them are from Shepherd’s First Corp.”

That grabbed the President’s attention. “And…and you think they’re loyal to us?”

“Nope, not really. If I was only to bring in folks who marched to our drum then we wouldn’t have any big faces for those cameras. But don’t worry, Simms and Rhodes have been out west for months. They don’t have much of a clue about anything that’s been going on around here as of late. They’ll be happy enough to smile for pictures and shake your hand when the time comes. But the point is Simms and Rhodes were both heroes at Five Armies and such. Besides, Simms never really liked the whole Winnabow thing, either. You got that in common.”

“Wait a moment,” Godfrey remembered. “Simms was with McAllister in the early days.”

“Don’t you just have the greatest memory? Yes you do. And along those lines I’ve also got Captain Benny Duda on the dance card. I hear he’s had a lot of questions about how our dearly departed fearless Emperor handled the whole California thing. Doesn’t make him one of ours, ‘course, but he’s not exactly singing campfire songs about Trevor Stone these days, either. I tried to get Dustin McBride, too, but it seems his unit has gone missing as of late.”

“And Simms is an African-American military officer, standing by my side. That has to be good. Where are my guests?”

Roos scratched his chin. “Well, they’re all out with Tucker by the northeast gate, kinda coagulating there like an impromptu family reunion. He’ll be movin’ them along real soon.”

“And Dante? Where’s my Secretary of Defense?”

Roos pointed a finger up, meaning the roof.

“In his usual crow’s nest. That fella has got himself some real issues. You sure you even want him at this?”

“Fine. Let him enjoy his air. But I want him down here in…” Godfrey consulted his watch… “in fifteen minutes. That’s when this thing takes off. I want the VIPs here by then, too.”

“And where you goin’ to be in the meantime?”

Evan answered, “I’m going out to mingle with the press.”

“I thought this thing didn’t start for fifteen minutes?”

Godfrey laughed, “Oh Ray, you just don’t know how to play the game, do you? Rumor has been that the President has been locked up in a bunker here at the White House for the last few weeks. Nothing to clear that air like some friendly, off the record chit-chats.”

Evan left Roos behind to tend to the security arrangements and exited the building for the southwest grounds. There three rows of chairs sat gazing at a Presidential podium standing in front of the saplings he had planted upon his move to the White House. Several reporters waited among those rows of folding chairs along with two cameras and a technician wrestling with sound equipment.

Evan felt that electricity intensify. He saw the podium as his piano, the press as his audience, and today a grand concert playing out under perfect July weather: sunny, but not too hot. It seemed as if even the heavens blessed the day.

The President strode casually across the well-manicured lawn with a friendly smile and settled into the character of an approachable populist. As important the press conferences and news releases, Evan found that reporters responded well—and in a favorable manner—when you connected with them on a personal level.

“Angela, I hear you just had a birthday? You must be thirty-five now, is that right?”

Evan knew darned well that the broadcast reporter had passed forty a few years ago. And while she usually responded well to flattery, today her mood appeared less friendly.

“Yes, Mr. President. Tell me sir, what is the status of General Shepherd? Why hasn’t he been charged yet? And I hear he has not been granted access to counsel. Is this true?”

Evan’s smiled wavered. “Angela, why don’t we save those questions for the conference. I thought I’d take this time to—”

“Mr. President,” called a skinny black reporter from the Atlanta Times. “Senator Trimble is attempting to establish a Constitution Committee without your input, citing your lack of action as justification. Do you care to comment?”

The smile faltered further. “Doug, I was hoping to have a more informal discussion before the conference began. The representatives of the military are only just arriving. Tell me, are things as hot back home in Atlanta as they have been here in D.C.?”

Evan heard how forced his reply sounded even before it left his lips. He realized he had misjudged the situation. Evan decided to retreat but he could not leave. If he did, he would cede control of the upcoming press conference to the reporters as if throwing red meat to a pack of sharks.

“Mr. President, there are reports that General Brewer has taken a dreadnought beyond the treaty borders. Do you know why and has this action been undertaken with your blessing?”

Evan grew quite warm inside the dark suit he wore.

“Mr. President, do you have plans to introduce a time schedule for the formation of a Constitutional Convention?”

President Godfrey waved his hand in a calming manner toward the growing crowd of media and assured, “I’ll get to that in a bit. Just give me a few moments to get set here.”

He turned his attention to his binder, buying time under the guise of reviewing notes…

…Nina’s keys jingled as she slipped one into the lock. The motion pushed open the busted door; no key required.

She moved inside with one hand instinctively resting on the butt of her rifle but quickly relaxed as she saw no further sign of intrusion. Satisfied no threat loomed, she closed the broken door as well as she could and stepped forward.

Her boot kicked something.

Nina looked to the floor. She saw a square package wrapped in brown paper, secured lengthwise with plain white string.

She stooped, grabbed the package, and stood again so as to better examine it. The delivery address listed Nina Forest, but no information in regards to sender…

…Ashley entered the lake side mansion through the front door walking in rigid but slow strides, feeling the eyes of the world upon her even though only a cleaning crew and a handful of bored staff watched.

That had been her way, of course. Ever since they had pulled her from the green goo through which she had rode time, Ashley’s life had been one of appearances, of duty, of responsibility.

As she returned home she tried to find sanctuary in that role. She focused every muscle of her being on remaining in control; on maintaining the front of the elegant, proud first lady no matter how empty and alone she felt inside.

She climbed the stairs keeping her eyes forward. Her son followed.

The staff stared at her, surprised to see her return and amazed at the dignity she projected; not realizing how much strength she burned to project that image over a bleeding heart…

…Dante Jones stood on the White House roof gazing off at the Washington skyline. He did not know exactly why he came there each time the President held one of his press conferences. He also knew that this time he would be forced to leave his perch and stand alongside Godfrey, flashing smiles and shaking hands to show how splendidly they all got along.

He peeked over the side and saw the gathering reporters that seemed more a gathering storm. Evan stood at the podium with his eyes locked on a binder while ignoring sporadic questions. Apparently the President had walked in on an unexpected hornets nest.

Dante sympathized. At least Godfrey could block out the questions and the doubt with his politician’s armor of arrogance. He wondered if Evan ever regretted anything.

Yet no matter what doubts bubbled in Jones’ belly, he knew he had cast his lot. There could be no turning back. He could never undo what he had done, no matter how badly he wished he had not chosen so poorly.

The sound of an approaching transport diverted Dante’s introspection. The sight of a landing Eagle did not surprise him, several such transports and helicopters had arrived and departed today. He wondered if it might do him some good to go downstairs and mingle with old friends. Or would facing those people only make his guilt more acute?

The Eagle flew in toward the northeast gate and descended.

A voice crackled from the radio attached to the holster strap around Dante’s waist.

Tucker sounded somewhat unnerved, “I’ve got a transport landing over here, and you will not believe its call sign.”

Far below Dante’s rooftop perch, Ray Roos hustled through the West Wing in a fast walk with his sport jacket fluttering behind like bat wings. He replied on his radio, “I’m on it…”

…Inside the passenger compartment of Eagle One stood a rack of weapons. One shelf offered a plasma rifle captured from the Platypus-like aliens known as the Duass, another presented a Colt M-4, Trevor’s weapon of choice.

But he chose another weapon for the day’s work. A weapon on the top rung of the rack: a shiny Civil War era sword once wielded by Stonewall McAllister and bequeathed to the Emperor in that man’s dying breathe.

An angry hand took hold of the blade, swiveled about, and opened the port side door. In rushed a blast of sunshine.

Trevor jumped from the compartment onto a makeshift receiving line complete with red carpet. To one side stood a small gathering of military officers. He noticed Cassy Simms and Benny Duda, as well as General Phillip Rhodes, Captain Carl Dunston, and others. In turn they saw a thin man with hair longer than they remembered, razor stubble on his cheeks, and energy—the energy of rage—radiating from his eyes.

Trevor ignored their gasps and shouts, keeping his attention straight forward as he stepped toward the entrance to the White House. In his way stood the short gray haired I.S. agent named Tucker.

Whether Tucker was too shocked to act or cowed into obedience did not matter; Trevor recognized the traitor’s face. The sword drove into the man’s belly, spearing him straight through. Tyr’s killer crumbled over. Trevor yanked the blade free and the dead body fell to the ground.

The audience of guards and soldiers and officers dared not intervene. They could not be sure…did they see an enraged ghost or a crazed murderer? Whatever the truth, they sensed that any force standing in the way would be swept aside.

Trevor entered the East Room, passing buffet tables and shocked servers. The crowd hushed. A tray dropped. A Senator screamed.

The vengeful demon left the reception area and moved into the long Cross Hall where a colonnade separated that corridor from the large Entrance Hall.

Ray Roos—on the opposite end of the hallway—stopped.

Trevor marched forward.

Roos pulled an automatic pistol from beneath his sport jacket.

Trevor dodged out of view between columns.

Roos stepped fast to the other side of the colonnade just in time to see Trevor—still moving forward—weave back again like a skier slaloming between flags.

Again Roos followed; again not fast enough to fire but fast enough to see Trevor slip to the far side.

He jumped back again, this time with his gun raised in his right hand. But no sign of Trevor.

Roos darted back.

Something flashed in front of his eyes and he stood nose to nose with Trevor Stone.

Roos did not hesitate. He pulled the trigger on his gun at point blank range…but nothing happened.

Misfire?

Ray Roos glanced at his hand holding the gun and saw it lying on the floor in a puddle of red, detached from his arm at the wrist. He raised the stump and examined it with wide, childlike eyes.

“Well looky here…”

Trevor’s sword swung again, sending Roos’ head rolling across the red carpet…

…General Tom Prescott followed his aide through the front door of what had been the Long Beach Museum but now served as 2nd Corp’s Signals and Communication station. He had been pulled from a meeting with community leaders by a message from General Bobby Bogart, one time assistant to General Shepherd but now the commanding officer of the Pennsylvania 1st Armored Division.

Meetings with community leaders were vital, especially now that attitudes toward The Empire, or nation, or whatever they were those days, finally started to show signs of change in California.

This particular meeting with the locals meant to win help in rooting out a handful of hit-and-run bandits sniping check points and harassing convoys. What a pity that meeting went unfinished. Bogart’s summons better be good.

Prescott hurried through the building passing tables of electronic equipment some of which linked to portable radar stations along the beach and others to a series of sonar buoys dropped off shore: a sort of makeshift west coast tambourine line.

Bogart—easily identifiable by his big Lebanese nose—waited at the rear of the building near a glass door leading to a beachside patio.

“Pardon my French, but what the heck is it, Bobby?”

Bogart answered in a voice bordering on panicked, “We’ve got contacts.”

Technicians seated at monitoring stations shouted, “Five Hundred Yards and closing,” and “Multiple contacts” and “Airborne! Repeat I’ve got radar contacts in the sky.”

Prescott hurried onto the patio with Bogart a step behind. A swift sandy breeze blew across the empty space there.

The General raised a set of field glasses. The hands holding the binoculars trembled.

He saw shapes climbing the horizon and closing on the shore line illuminated by a low-hanging sun. They seemed to be animals of a kind, born from some perverted nightmare. As they neared, they made a sound. A beastly groan from a chorus of damned creatures. Of war machines.

Of Voggoth’s children.

“Oh my God…”

…Ashley reached the top of the stairs and stepped through the open doorway to Trevor’s old office; the office that would be his once more. Her return to the mansion meant its rebirth. Once again that lakeside estate would become the epicenter of humanity’s survival. Once again armies would march to war commanded from that place, led by an Emperor but one more focused, committed, and—yes—more barbaric than ever.

Her husband, she knew, served a mission. Just as she did. But as she slipped inside the office and stepped to the side against the wall, she let the front fall. Ashley leaned there next to the office door and raised a hand over her eyes.

JB hovered just outside the door hearing a sound he had refused to hear before; his mother’s cry of loneliness…

…The string unknotted with a gentle pull; the brown wrapper peeled away in strips, leaving Nina holding a small box with a blue lid. No emblem. No markings.

Her hands quivered. Payment for her services had finally arrived from Ashley.

Feelings rippled through her; an ache in her belly; a hunger in hear heart.

The answers came in the form of a photograph and a disc labeled “New Year’s Eve.”

Her legs wobbled as she eyed the picture. It showed her wearing that black dress she had found hanging in her apartment the day her memories had been stolen.

In the picture, she stood among a row of people: Lori and Jon Brewer as well as Dante Jones, all of whom she knew to have been close friends of Trevor Stone going back to the earliest days of the invasion, maybe longer.

Next to her, with his arm slung around her waist and holding her close, stood Trevor. All of them smiling together. All friends. And yet, the way he held her so close…the way his arm wrapped around her…the look on her face; an expression of happiness so deep and real she nearly did not recognize herself…

…Evan Godfrey stood at the podium waiting for his VIP guests to arrive so that the press conference could begin. He had come outside early with the intension of gaining the media’s trust, of taking control of the event. Instead, he felt uncomfortable and vulnerable.

A commotion pulled his eyes from the pages of notes and quotes and background information. The line of reporters seated on folding metal chairs rose to their feet one after another like stadium fans doing the wave all with wide eyes staring beyond Evan.

The President swiveled around.

A man descended upon Evan Godfrey in determined strides. A ragged man dressed in BDU pants and a black shirt carrying some long object in his hands. A man with eyes locked onto Evan’s own.

Trevor. Trevor Stone.

The President’s shock stymied any defense, any attempt at escape.

The warrior King who had come to reclaim his throne raised the sword with both hands in a clumsy but brutal downward thrust. The metal pierced the double breasted suit dead center and slowly but firmly plunged into Godfrey’s sternum and out the other side.

The victim’s knees bent forward while his shoulders and body slumped back. The blade finished its blow by firmly lodging in the ground, pinning President Evan Godfrey in a half-standing position; his arms dangling.

He coughed blood once. An insane smile flashed on his lips. His eyes glazed over.

Video tape rolled, cameras flashed, but no reporter spoke in anything other than gasps.

Trevor Stone gazed at Godfrey’s corpse for a moment, and then instinctively shot his eyes up toward the roof of the White House. There Dante Jones stood, watching the carnage below with an unhinged jaw and scared eyes.

Trevor turned around and walked back inside…

…It wasn’t very big—maybe the size of a small car—but it made a Hell of a noise. A screaming noise, as if it were a wounded animal in horrendous pain. From a distance, it resembled a stained green sheet wrapped around a ball with the ends of that sheet flapping like a kite trapped in a gale. It made Prescott think of a ghost, a specter, some kind of spook.

However, this ‘Spook’—about the tenth so far—rose from the mouth of one of the whale-things. The ‘Spook’ hollered as it swept over the beach before finding a target and diving as if it were a kamikaze pilot, hitting a Bradley Fighting Vehicle and exploding both of them in a burst of fire, sand, and shrapnel.

“Get those tanks on the beach!” Prescott screamed at Bogart through a radio above bursts of automatic fire coming from the rear patio. “We have to hold them on the beach!”

Bobby Bogart’s voice replied from a tank cupola, “I’ve got two more columns coming up. They’ll be here in five minutes!”

Bogart’s first column of Abrams lined in a row of eight along East Ocean Boulevard. Their main guns fired one after another, slamming into the phalanx of rough-skinned whale-things that served as landing craft, each twenty yards wide and twice as long.

One of the ships suffered a critical hit, listed, and tossed about chaotically on the surf bleeding a type of yellow puss. The others—a hundred of them—continued toward shore stopping periodically to release batches of flying nasties.

Human infantry manned hastily-improvised barricades facing the beach from Ocean Boulevard. Machine guns and light artillery fired toward the Pacific at the mass of ships; or were they monsters?

In reply, one of The Order’s own battleships—something like a piece of coral with barrels—launched a bombardment of its own. The big round shells resembled water balloons, spreading a splash of killer acid on men and equipment, mortally wounding both. The disintegrating liquid worked too fast to allow for screams. Prescott saw a dozen of his troops melt away in the blink of an eye.

One of the flying ‘Spooks’ hit the roof of the museum and detonated. Plaster fell, glass smashed, someone cried out. A smell of burning wood drifted through the room.

Prescott ignored the hit and screamed to a radio man, “Get me a main line back east. They have to—”

“General!” A soldier’s shout managed to reach his ears above the sound of battle.

Prescott followed the voice toward the patio, only to be greeted by fleeing men.

“Stand your ground! We have to stop them on the beach!”

How silly that sounded even to Tom’s own ears as he saw the weapon Voggoth had sent against them.

It rose out of the water some five-hundred yards off shore. Rising…rising… impossibly big much like The Empire’s own dreadnoughts, but the grotesque form of the beast made it far more hideous.

Prescott wandered onto the balcony, transfixed by the sight. He forgot about the bullets and enemy projectiles whizzing by; the tanks firing; the kamikaze ‘Spooks’ dive-bombing armored vehicles. He forgot about all that because he knew none of it made any difference anymore. He was already dead.

At that moment, he came to see all their efforts for the last ten years to be in vain; all the battles won insignificant. At that moment, General Tom Prescott understood that someday soon, the Earth would belong to Voggoth.

It stood a thousand feet tall on two massive pillars that functioned as legs, but the thing was far from humanoid. Those legs sprouted from either side of a tube like body that faced upwards with fibrous strands lining either side.

There did not appear to be a head, but two columns of granite-colored spheres that might be eyes lined what could be thought of as the chest. But that was not quite right, for the chest was more like a slug facing skyward held in place by thick tendons wrapped around and around.

Whether to blame his eyes or his mind, Prescott did not know, but he could not understand what stood in the Ocean before him like a walking skyscraper so tall its top tickled the clouds.

The General heard a sound very much like an air raid siren cranking louder and louder. He saw the top of the Leviathan shake and what appeared to be…yes it had to be… gusts of wind sucked out of the sky above and into the creature; the clouds nearly succumbed to the suction.

The tendons along its midsection expanded. Sacs dozens of feet in diameter puffed up all across the body in bubbles of red and brown.

The sound stopped. The world grew eerily quiet.

At first, it appeared to Tom that the creature began to fall. But no, only the upper half of it moved, kind of crouching forward as if peering down at puny ants scrambling around its feet. The top faced forward parallel to the ground; facing its human enemies.

Prescott saw no eyes, no mouth, no features other than a sickly round orifice large enough to swallow an aircraft carrier.

Then came another sound. It made him think of a fog horn.

The building shook. The ocean waters sloshed about in unnatural directions. Every molecule around Prescott trembled as if the air shivered.

Then the wind came, so fast it outraced its own sound; a wide swath of wind that first birthed a miniature tsunami but before the destructive waters could reach shore the supersonic blast sent the remaining tanks flying hundreds of feet into the air; ripped apart every building along the ocean front so thoroughly that nothing larger than splinters remained; and literally tore the skin off General Tom Prescott…

…Nina sat on her knees facing the television screen and slipped the DVD into the player. The homemade movie offered scenes from a party; a New Years Eve party nearly a decade before during the year she could not remember.

The audio offered a range of music including sounds from a piano as well as a larger band and even a polka at one point, or so she thought.

Then came a wobbly shot as the camera man circled around a table occupied by a group of friends. First on screen came Dante Jones; a much younger Jones than the one Nina saw in recent days in the newspapers and press conferences.

“Hap—happy…what is it?…oh yeah, happy New Year!”

The off-screen voice of the cameraman—possibly Jon Brewer, Nina thought—narrated, “And now to our love birds…”

Her heart beat fast as the ‘love birds’ turned out to be Trevor Stone…and her.

Damned straight!” Trevor shouted in a voice warped by vodka. “I love this woman!”

Nina’s eyes darted back and forth at the images on the screen. Her heart raced. These were memories she should have. Seeing herself doing things that she did not remember doing…seeing Trevor sling his arm around her as she half-heartedly protested through a grin, “Oh stop, you’re embarrassing me.”

A lump formed in her throat. It became hard to breath. The more she watched the more real it became; the more she understood what she had felt when the Old Man had linked her heart and soul to Trevor’s. She understood those feelings because they were his feelings for her…and hers for him.

“I love this woman. Completely. With everything I am.”

“Get a room!” Lori Brewer’s off camera voice shot.

“Besides,” Trevor continued. “You’re cute when you blush.”

On screen, Nina let him pull her in, placed a hand on his cheek, and affirmed to him—to all of them, “I love you, too. I always will.”

I always will.

They hammed for the camera with a big kiss and a cheek-to-cheek grin.

Nina grabbed the remote control but clumsily dropped it. When she finally reached it a second time, she rewound the DVD and played through the scene again. And again. And again…

…Trevor reached the roof of the White House and stood on the opposite end from his best friend.

Dante rocked side to side but did not flee. Instead, after much hesitation, he pulled his firearm—an automatic pistol—and pointed it across the space between them.

Trevor walked toward Dante in determined strides.

Dante fired. The spent casing hit the ground and rolled away. The bullet flew over Trevor’s head like a warning shot.

Trevor kept advancing.

Dante fired again. Again the bullet flew overhead.

Trevor’s eyes remained locked on Dante as he closed the distance. The gun shook in Jones’ hand.

Another bullet fired. Another warning went unheeded.

Trevor reached Dante Jones who still held the gun but the barrel—like the rounds he fired—pointed off target.

Dante did not move, he did not blink, he just stared at the man who had once been his friend. The man he had known since childhood. The man he had betrayed.

Trevor’s lips pressed together, his eyes burned into Dante’s, his chest heaved in and out as the two faced one another for the last time.

Stone reached with both hands and took hold of the burning barrel of the pistol and—while leaving it in Jones’ grip—guided the gun directly to his head and let go. Trevor could feel the hot steel burn his skin. Dante need only pull the trigger to murder his friend but this time he would have to do so while looking him in the eye.

Jones at last blinked. His lip curled. Trevor’s stare did not falter. His eyes dug into the conscience of Brutus.

Dante pulled the gun away from Trevor’s forehead, put it to his own temple, and pulled the trigger. His body wavered for a moment, and then toppled over the edge falling to and rolling across the grounds below.

Evan Godfrey—once Trevor’s greatest rival—remained pinned into the green ground of the White House lawn. A few feet away rested the dead body of Dante Jones, Trevor’s best friend…

…The beastly war machines reached shore. Landing craft shaped like deformed whales opened, letting loose crawling Spider Sentries and hordes of cloaked, mutated monks. A pair of blob-like ‘Chariot’ craft swooped down from the heavens and flew in the midst of hundreds of smaller ‘Spooks’ screaming in agony as they searched for targets, but no targets remained.

The Leviathan towered above it all, stepping forward a quarter mile to a stride over a flattened Long Beach. Behind it more grisly ships sailed inbound, bringing with them the seeds of factories and farms to build thousands more such killers.

Smoke rose from the ruins. The ground trembled from the giant’s steps. And the army of Voggoth marched forward…

…The weight of her torment finally grew too heavy on her shoulders. Ashley slid her back against the wall until sitting on the floor, her head cradled in her arms and unabated sadness flowing in heaves and moans.

Jorge Benjamin Stone—the boy who had destroyed one of The Order’s bases—stood over his mother with his head tilted curiously. How had he never seen the sadness before? How could he not know how alone his mother felt?

He reached out, placing his arms around mommy’s head. She leaned into his grasp.

The boy’s tears joined his mother’s…

…The push of a button froze the video image of Trevor and Nina cheek to cheek on the television screen.

Nina slowly reached her hand across the void between herself and the static image in an attempt to grasp it; to fully comprehend. Her mouth worked open as if trying to scream away the chaos inside, but no sound came forth.

Nina Forest touched the screen and bowed her head as she realized that, yes, she could be more than a soldier, more than a warrior. But when The Order had stolen her memories they had also stolen away the one man—the one soul—able to find that secret part of her heart.

Trevor, my love.

END BOOK IV

Tony DeCosmo

June 27, 2006

Next: Beyond Armageddon Book V: Fusion

Table of Contents

BEYOND ARMAGEDDON

Book IV: Schism

Negotiations from Strength

California

Maneuvers

Invasion

Plan B

Brothers in Arms

Requiem

Bad Press

Sic Semper Tyrannis

Wrath

Vacuum

Commander and Chief

13 – The Day They Tried to Kill Gordon Knox

Beach Front

Peace Dividend

Miami

Fast Attack

The Dead Speak

Fly on the Wall

Erasers

Sacrifices

Trigger

Schism

Infiltration

Lines of Battle

Confrontation

Incubation

Wild Things

Infection

Maelstrom