Beyond Armageddon IV: Schism Read online

  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 l
ink between war planning and what the Senator calls the military and intelligence complex…"

  Evan answered, "I just need to make a few more speeches."

  8. 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. "None-the-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 confidenc
e 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."