Beyond Armageddon IV: Schism

  BEYOND ARMAGEDDON

  Book IV: Schism

  By Anthony DeCosmo

  1. 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 kne
w, 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."