Trevor, Rick Hauser, and two other sailors grabbed oars and rowed vigorously as their boat rode breakers in to shore. When the oars hit bottom, all eight men aboard jumped over the side and splashed into the cool surf, leaving JB and his well-wrapped Bunny stuffed animal alone in the RIB.
The second boat and its eight men-including the former Executive Officer of the Newport News — followed suit. A minute later the bows hit beach and Trevor helped his son hop from rubber boat to shore.
Ahead of them lay unknown land shrouded in the darkness of midnight. Only a small flashing beacon lying further up the beach provided any source of light outside of the spotlights on the rim of the boats.
The waves rolled in to shore one after another filling the air with a gentle but constant roar. A very cool breeze with salt water vapor carried across the beach belying the summer season.
“Welcome to France,” the XO muttered as his men mustered on the shoreline. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a welcoming party?”
Rick Hauser moved several paces ahead of the rest and reached the flashing beacon on the sand. He held the small device in his hand and switched it off.
Trevor said, “We’re more than a day late. Maybe they didn’t stick around.”
“Father, are we in the correct place?”
The XO had spent the last 36 hours consulting his compass and maps. His computations resulted in several course corrections during their journey from dying sub to coastline. He answered Jorgie with sureness in his voice, “You are at the beautiful beach resort of Soulac-sur-Mer. Besides, I don’t think it’s an accident that this beacon was here.”
The sailors stood in a tight group in what would have been the open space of the beach, but the complete darkness surrounding them created the illusion of isolation and cover.
That illusion shattered as a pair of bright spotlights burst upon them. Trevor raised his hand over his eyes, effectively blinded. He did hear the cock of several pistol slides among the sailors.
“Everyone stay calm,” he told the crewmen. “If they were bad guys we’d be dead by now.”
He heard the crunch of footsteps crossing the beach from the spotlights to his position. Slowly Trevor pulled away his hand and squinted in the light. He saw a line of silhouettes approach; human silhouettes. He noted weapons among the strangers: FAMAS military assault rifles.
The person in front waved a hand in the air and the spotlights changed their aim so as to illuminate the beach, but not blind.
Trevor took stock of the welcoming committee: four people standing twenty yards back beside a pair of vehicles-some kind of light military cars-parked along the remains of a sidewalk comprised of warped wooden planks. Closer, across from Trevor, stood a trio of men with their weapons pointing toward the sand.
The leader of the group stood over six feet tall, although not quite as imposing as Jon Brewer. He was lanky but his forearms and legs struck Trevor as well-toned. He had thin but not balding black hair, stubble beneath a sharp nose, and wore round glasses with a sport strap securing them to his head. He dressed in a black, zippered sweatshirt with red shoulder stripes and the brand name ‘Ducati’ embroidered where a chest pocket should be and covered his lower half in leather pants that featured a variety of zip pockets as well as strategically-placed padding.
The man in front sort of sneered at Trevor’s wet and tired group, turned to his closest comrade and sarcastically muttered, “The Normandy landings were more impressive, I would think.”
Trevor snipped, “My grandfather fought at Normandy.”
His words surprised the men. The leader’s eyes widened and his mouth nearly dropped, but he quickly regained his composure and replaced his surprise with what appeared to be his natural expression: a sneer.
He said to Trevor, “I thought you were going to bring an army.”
Trevor glanced at his son and then answered the man, “I did.”
Again, they appeared surprised.
“You were supposed to be here yesterday.”
“We almost didn’t make it at all. But that’s another story. My name is Trevor Stone. Thank you for meeting us.”
The leader took great pains to sound neither friendly nor antagonistic: “My name is Armand.”
Jorgie jumped, “Hello, Armand. It is very nice to meet you.”
“I was told I would meet Alexander,” Trevor said.
“Well you got me, instead. How lucky am I? We will shelter in what is left of the beach houses for tonight and then take a helicopter out in the morning. It is relatively safe in this area except for the bats. They will eat you if they get a chance. I do not like bats. So we had better get under cover for now. Follow us.”
Trevor addressed his crew, “Okay, you heard them.”
The sailors glanced nervously at one another.
Rick Hauser spoke for them all when he said, “Heard them? Not really. You, that guy, even your son, you were all speaking French.”
The Fennec Eurocopter’s blades blew waves across the grassy field. Trevor kept his head low and jogged away from the transport while holding JB by the hand. He, in turn, clutched his wrapped up Bunny tight, afraid the raggedy stuffed animal might blow away in the wind.
Hauser and two seamen from the Newport News followed Trevor who, in turn, followed Armand. He led them a short distance to a dirt road that ran between the grass and a gentle, forested hill. Two fuel trucks sat idle on the road. Several men-most older-wearing caps, jeans, and work shirts took hold of a hose and dragged it toward the waiting helicopter.
Trevor eyed the men as if hoping his glare would cause them to hurry; the Executive Officer and ten more of the crew waited to be ferried to where Trevor had just arrived: the small town of Murol located in the south central French administrative region of Auvergne (not that such designations meant anything anymore). Regardless, he did not appreciate his party being split.
The men struggling with the fuel hose returned Trevor’s glare with what might have been contempt. A glare from Trevor Stone in Europe did not mean nearly as much as a glare from Trevor Stone in North America. For the first time since his trip across dimensions, Trevor felt out of his element.
Dampness carried on the mid-morning air. Gray clouds combated patches of blue sky for control of the heavens.
To the southwest he spied rows of small buildings between rows of decorative trees. The precise spacing between the structures suggested either a planned community or a more commercial purpose but in the post-Armageddon world the buildings worked as an ammunition dump and motor pool.
In addition to piles of crates draped beneath camouflage netting, Trevor noticed a pair of Leopard 2 main battle tanks under tents; one lacked treads the other lacked a main gun. Both sported well-worn Danish insignia. A couple of sour-looking mechanics stopped their work on the armor to stare across the field at Trevor’s entourage.
Raised woodlands blocked his view to the east and the field stretched on to the south. From the west came two vehicles. At first Trevor thought them to be Hummers but the Renault badge on the front grille said otherwise. The lead vehicle lacked a roof but did have a sturdy-looking roll bar between rows of seats.
Both cars came to a halt behind the fuel trucks, kicking up a small cloud of brown dust in the process.
The man driving the second car wore plain clothing and a dark-colored trilby hat. He sat and waited like a taxi cab driver.
From the lead vehicle emerged another man who eyed Trevor with a mix of awe and curiosity. This man stood average height with strong shoulders and the hint of a pot belly. He wore sandy blond hair combed across but without much thought to style. His clothes consisted of a dark leather jacket over an even blacker shirt and brown pants hiding all but the tips of work boots. He held a clipboard under one arm and Trevor thought the concentration of his stare suggested an analytical mind.
Armand approached the newcomer and whispered in his ear. For a moment the man’s stare left Trevor and focused on Armand. He nodded to the Frenchmen and then walked to Trevor.
“Welcome to Europe, Mister Stone,” the man spoke English with a hint of midlands cadence but he tried hard to hide any accent. “My name is Alexander,” and the man offered his hand without losing grip of his clipboard.
Trevor returned the grasp. Alexander sported large hands and Trevor felt strength there, but at the same time Alexander did not try to impress with his grip. No test of power; no test of egos. Instead, Trevor immediately sensed a mildness to Alexander. He could sense immediately that here was a sturdy leader, one with both patience and strength.
“Armand tells me that you did not arrive as planned.”
“No,” Trevor answered and he recalled the conning tower of the Newport News slipping beneath the Atlantic on its final dive. “We ran into-difficulties. I am grateful for the ride, Alexander, but I do not like leaving so many of my men behind at the beach. Armand refused to radio for a second transport.”
“With good reason. The Duass have deployed technology that allows them to hone-in on radio transmissions. You would have been just as likely to find a missile coming your way as a second helicopter. But I am surprised you did not know of this. They developed the weapon last summer. I know I forwarded a written report to your government.”
Trevor thought about last summer. He thought about President Evan Godfrey. If Godfrey had even bothered to read the report he probably discarded it, given that he cared little about the world outside of America.
Regardless, this bit of information suggested that the Duass occupying large sections of Europe were better equipped than the force The Empire had encountered in Ohio. Yet another sign that the gateways which brought the invaders to Earth did not always hit their targets, leaving some of the extraterrestrial forces separate from their main bodies.
Seeing no reason to recap all that, Trevor gave Alexander a succinct yet honest answer, “I did not read that report. I was unavailable at the time it came through.”
Armand, in rough English, asked bitterly, “Too important to bother with our little reports. More important things, yes?”
Trevor answered, “I was dead.”
Alexander said, “Oh. I see.” But of course he did not. “And is this your son?”
Jorgie volunteered, “Hello, Mr. Alexander. I read a lot about you over the years and what you were doing over here. I really liked your raid into Algiers two years ago. That was brave. And the Italian Alpine soldiers? I would really like to meet some of them after what they did in Zurich.”
Jorgie turned to his surprised father and explained, “Mr. Knox reads me the intelligence reports when you are not around, Father.”
A chuckle by Armand partially disrupted the conversation. Apparently the man knew enough English to follow along.
“We should get going,” Alexander changed the course of the conversation. “There are people waiting to meet you.”
They loaded into the Renault Sherpas with Armand taking the lead vehicle’s driver’s seat, Alexander in the passenger’s side, Trevor and JB in the rear. Hauser and the two crewmen boarded the second car.
After a quick U-turn the cars drove a dirt road heading northwest until it connected with a paved one. At that point they turned north and traveled toward the center of the small village.
Murol lived in the elevated region of France referred to as Massif Central, an area shaped by substantial volcanic activity an eon prior that left its mark in the form of mountains and plateaus rippling across the landscape like frozen, angry waves. Clumps of thin forests blanketed many of the slopes but sharp cliff faces and stone peaks held their share of the high ground as well, making for a diverse and dramatic collection of terrain.
Murol might have once been a sleepy tourist village, but on that day it buzzed with life.
As they approached an intersection on the edge of town, Trevor glanced to his right and saw a collection of tents complete with tin pots cooking over camp fires, drying laundry hanging from rope strung between metal poles, and a parked water buffalo where a line waited with jugs in hand.
Among the tents loitered people wearing a variety of clothing ranging from well-worn coveralls to bright-colored sun dresses. Men and women, old and young, white, black, and brown. Some carried side arms, some carried buckets or shovels, one middle aged woman struggled with a pile of stacked books and her hurrying gait made Trevor think of a school teacher late for class.
To his left he saw an old farmhouse and barn from the outside of which hung a white sheet with a big red cross stenciled upon it. An old-style Peugeot ambulance sat outside the main entrance. A large dumpster around the side appeared full of bloody linens and old furniture. A man and a woman-both dressed in dirty white-stood near that dumpster smoking some kind of cigarettes.
Trevor glanced at a street sign and saw that they crossed over Rue Pierre Celeirol as they followed Rue de Jassaguet. The open fields and view of the imposing mountains disappeared, replaced by quaint shops, homes, and hostels along a tight street that wormed its way through the village.
The convoy slowed to weave around a series of vendor carts selling less-than-fresh fruit and questionable meats to a boisterous crowd. Trevor made eye contact with a chubby, older woman who reflected his stare with tired but resolute eyes. He saw dirt caked beneath her fingertips and a strawberry scar on her cheek.
The Sherpas continued on. Trevor noticed that no one else traveled by car, but he did see an old man pulling a donkey laden with sacks along a side street as well as several people riding bicycles.
Jorgie tugged at his father’s sleeve. When he held his dad’s attention, the boy pointed to a three-story building with a blue awning announcing it as the Hotel le Parc.
The hotel had turned in its ‘visitors welcome’ matt in exchange for status as an army barracks. An anti-aircraft gun sat atop the roof, the tennis courts now served as parking spaces for an AMX armored Infantry Fighting Vehicle with a 20mm cannon as well another Sherpa with an anti-tank gun mounted on its roof.
Several soldiers congregated on the terrace in a variety of camouflage outfits including what Trevor recognized-through his bank of genetic memories-to be the old pattern Swiss Leibermuster. Other emblems on shoulders and chests suggested fighters from Denmark, Spain, and the Netherlands.
The terrace looked over a shaded park. In that shade lurked several pickup trucks, a pair of cargo containers, and piles of supplies. Trevor saw crates of bullets and artillery shells, fuel drums, stacks of tires, and boxes of canned rations. He knew that some of those items-particularly the tires and fuel-had traveled across the Atlantic from Omar’s Hivvan matter-makers.
The convoy kept driving through the crowded streets. A pungent aroma mixing smoldering fire with filth and petrol vapors lingered over the entire village. It smelled to Trevor like too many people crowded into a small spot with too little sanitation and too few supplies, but a palpable feeling of excitement carried in the air, as if the carnival arrived in town.
They left the village along a road rising up a gentle slope to the north where forest and grassland claimed the scenery again.
Armand spoke to Alexander in what Trevor thought to be French, but the meanings of the words came through so clear to his library-mind that such a trivial thing as language did not matter. “Looks like the damn Italians are here.”
Armand-sitting behind the driver’s wheel in the front left of the car-glanced to a path on the west side of the road. There Trevor saw a line of horse riders, the leader wearing a wool sport snap hat with a bandolier across a peasant’s shirt. He eyed the convoy as they zoomed past as if both envying and disapproving of motored transport.
A chopping sound diverted Trevor and JB’s attention to the right. They swung their heads around and watched a green Eurocopter 135 transport displaying the stylized iron cross of the Bundeswehr fly in.
Alexander gave the helicopter a look and then returned his attention to the papers on his clipboard noting, “And the Germans, too.”
Trevor eyed the helicopter’s flight to the north as it flew parallel to the road they traveled. That road climbed a steep basalt outcropping as it snaked through light woodlands toward an impressive sight that overlooked the town and everything else for miles: the Chateau de Murol.
The castle’s large curtain walls had suffered greatly with age, but still stood although a layer of creeping ivory climbed the gray and brown stone.
It lacked the glitz and shine of a Hollywood scripted castle but Trevor found the gritty realism even more awe-inspiring. The Chateau de Murol stood defiantly for all the world-and all the invaders-to see. Weathered, bruised, but still ready to fight. Like the people of his Empire; like the people of Murol.
The road swept around, pushed through a patch of woods where Trevor spied a Harrier jump jet hidden under green netting, and emerged at a medieval gatehouse and a steep stone stairway. A machine gun behind sandbags covered the approach. Trevor also noticed a man with a sniper rifle at one of the higher windows on the curtain wall as well as a cluster of rectangular box-like structures atop the primary castle tower that he suspected to be anti-air missiles.
“Very impressive,” Trevor complimented.
Armand spoke in French, “What did you think? Did you think we were sitting around with our thumbs up our asses waiting for you Americans to ride in and save the day?”
“I am not an American, and you are no longer French,” Trevor corrected in the land’s native tongue. “Countries do not mean anything anymore.”
Armand snorted in either disgust or amusement.
The cars stopped and the passengers disembarked under the staring eyes of several sentries whose expressions suggested thoughts along the lines of “this is it?”
Alexander said, “Trevor, why don’t you come with me. The rest of your people can relax in the dining tent. I have to believe they’re hungry.”
At that moment Trevor’s stomach groaned and he realized he had eaten only canned rations over the last 36 hours or so. Still, he knew eating would have to wait, at least for him.
“That sounds good.”
“No! I want to go see, Father.”
Trevor placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy looked at his dad through those determined blue eyes of his.
“If it’s okay with you, Alexander, I’d like to have my son come with us. I think he deserves as much.”
Alexander glanced at Armand who shrugged either to say he did not understand what Trevor meant or he did not care. Whatever the case, Alexander nodded to the boy and the group ascended the stairs leaving Hauser and the two sailors in the care of the garrison.
The first stretch of stairs led into the gatehouse. Inside loitered a group of soldiers of various ethnic shades in a collection of helmets, berets, boots, sneakers, BDUs and jeans. Folding tables hosted radios and CCT monitors; a weapons rack offered a collection of rifles and shotguns.
Another set of open-air stone stairs climbed along the curtain wall. Small puddles on the steps spoke of rain earlier.
At the top of the stairs came the entrance to the courtyard above which loomed an ornamental lintel depicting knights in armor as well as a pair of griffins prancing above a coat-of-arms. Jorgie caused the procession to halt as he studied the crude bas-relief with wide eyes of wonderment. His father tugged his arm encouraging him onward.
A few militia men lurked in the courtyard among crates of supplies. A mess of replica shields, swords, and helmets were piled into one corner, certainly remains from the days when the Chateau drew tourists instead of warriors.
They crossed the courtyard and entered a wood-trimmed doorway a little small for the average modern man but perhaps just the right size for the knights of the dark ages. The interior offered cool, musty air as might be found in a cellar. A handful of windows allowed enough sunlight to prove they remained above surface.
Alexander led them underneath a stone arch and into a long rectangular room with a sloped ceiling three stories overhead. Light entered through high windows located on either side.
Two of the best-dressed soldiers in the place stood to either side of that entrance arch. Trevor immediately recognized the insignia of the British Royal Marines: a lion atop a crown, a globe, and banner with the words Per Mare Per Terram.
The soldiers closed ranks and blocked entrance.
Alexander explained, “No weapons.”
Armand, knowing the rule, un-slung his FAMAS, a side arm, a big knife, and a pair of anti-personnel grenades. Trevor came unarmed; Alexander handed over a revolver. The soldiers let them pass.
A long oval table hosted eleven persons in garb ranging from formal dress to military tunics to the clothes of farmers. Yet the way they sat formal and rigid-their icy stares at the newcomer-the confidence in their eyes-Trevor knew they may wear different dress, but all were cut from the same cloth.
Alexander turned to Trevor and told him, “Welcome to Camelot.”
No trumpets. No applause. No cheers.
Stares. Judging eyes. One tapped his thumb on a table top. Another absently stroked her hair.
They waited for Trevor to speak. He turned first to Alexander who remained by his side. Armand moved to one wall and casually leaned with a smirk that suggested he enjoyed the moment of awkwardness.
“English,” Alexander told him. “English is the language we use in groups.”
“Do you know why?” Armand asked but he answered his own question: “Because for years in most of our countries we got to know English as a second language so that we could sell you cars and wine and take money from your annoying tourists every summer.”
It was Jorgie who spoke to the group first, ignoring Armand’s venom.
“Hello!” And he waved with his arm that did not clutch Bunny. “This is a really neat castle you have here. Is it really the Camelot castle from the days of King Arthur?”
Trevor nearly did not recognize his son’s voice, not with all the enthusiasm and ordinary-kid awe in his tone. Such things did not come from JB’s lips. In an instant, Trevor understood that his boy-his nine year old son-had taken the lead in breaking the ice.
And it worked.
“Um, well, no,” answered an elderly man with a white beard wearing a sport jacket. “That was in England, and no one really knows exactly where. Besides, we have many of these places. Camelot is no longer one castle or building, but an idea.”
“My name is Jorgie,” the boy spoke directly to this man with the white beard and balding head. “What is yours?”
Alexander answered for the man, “You are addressing Sir Hadwin. He represents the survivors in England. The southern stretch of the British Isles, that is.”
“I thought that would have been you,” Trevor said to Alexander.
A young woman-perhaps mid-twenties-with short red hair, freckles, and fiery green eyes answered with-surprising for her looks-a gentleness in her voice, “Alexander did represent that territory at one time, but we elected him to lead.”
Alexander provided a verbal nameplate for the speaker: “Lady Tarah, of-”
Trevor cut Alexander off with a smile, “Ireland, of course.”
Alexander nodded and returned the smile, albeit not so heartily.
One of the other men at the table-a strong-looking fellow with shoulder-length blond hair-broke up the cordial conversation. “Where are the giant flying air ships? Where are your panzer brigades and jet air craft? I see only a man and a boy here. This is not what we expected.”
Alexander: “Sir Tobias, representing a confederation of clans in Austria and refugees from the Czech Republic.”
Trevor met the man’s glaring eyes and replied, “Things changed drastically for us last summer. We had-well-the enemy has hit us with surprising strength. All of our resources are committed to the battle.”
“So what are you saying?”
Armand, from his position along the wall, gave that answer, “It means this is all we get, a father and his son. We have been waiting around for the Americans all this time and they have made us more empty promises.”
“That’s not fair,” a defense came from a middle aged athletic-looking woman with a muscular build and deep voice. “We have been receiving supplies from the Americans for several years as well as technical advisors and intelligence.”
“Lady Verena,” Alexander whispered. “Of Switzerland.”
Armand protested, “I have been saying for years that we should not wait for them. That we should have been doing more. But you kept telling me to wait. Well what has it gotten us? Now we cannot fight back like we could have last year. Wasted time!”
One of the women at the table-a lovely girl with shiny black hair that stretched all the way down to her waist-waved for Armand to approach her. He did and as she spoke quietly to him she stroked his arm in a gesture of familiarity and warmth. He nodded his head, as if relenting in some fashion, then returned to his position against the wall.
Trevor asked Alexander, “What is he talking about?”
“Of course, you do not know,” Alexander answered. “Most of our radios had to be shut down and apparently you were-um-dead last year.”
A stocky man with a complexion that suggested a hint of Caribbean in his background offered an explanation, “Last year the group which calls themselves The Order launched a major offensive against our villages in central Europe. They, and the Duass, wiped out an armored division we had been building for years. Many of the spare parts and fuel you sent us were destroyed in this offensive.”
“That is Sir Jef, representing Belgium and survivors in parts of the lowlands.”
A young man-maybe twenty-one at best-but with the build of a football player, chimed in, “Those tanks were planned to be a critical part of the offensive we were supposed to launch when you sent one of those air ships over here. We had an opportunity to take back areas of the continent from the enemy, but we were told to wait for your reinforcements.”
“Lukas is correct,” broke in a tall man of middle age with a shaved head, “the Americans made promises and we waited-for what?”
Armand jumped, “Same old thing. Wait around to see what the Americans want to do. I say we do not need them. We never have.” A disapproving glance from the woman with the long black hair stopped Armand’s rant. He seemed to slump against the wall as if trying to disappear.
Trevor asked, “What happened?”
“They hit us very hard,” the man with the shaved head explained in an accent Trevor identified as Scandinavian, perhaps Norwegian. “We had taken back much of the countryside and some cities from the Duass. We developed communications links with survivors in eastern Europe, Spain, and even Turkey.”
Alexander continued, “Then they came at us. Very violent. Very fast. The Order led the way with the Duass mopping up pockets of resistance. They hit areas where our population gathered in significant numbers-slaughtered civilians without regard.”
“The worst,” Lady Verena of Switzerland added her deep voice, “was that they found and hit our largest military concentrations. We had two operational air bases and nearly a dozen jet fighters combat ready. Both gone in the first day of the assault.”
“Our armor and heavy infantry units suffered the brunt of the attack,” Alexander said.
Armand spit on the floor with disgust and in French boasted, “We made them pay a high price.”
“But not enough,” Jef of Belgium spoke in English but obviously understood Armand. “We have been set back five years! All in no more than three weeks of fighting. Now we are like caged animals.”
“What?” Trevor asked. “What does that mean? Caged?”
Armand moved away from his position against the wall and strolled toward Trevor in a gait he could think of only as a slink. A cocky and angry slink.
“You want to know, American? Those dumb ducks have occupied the big cities and placed road blocks all through France and Europe. They have cut off our lines of communication. It took us days to get all of the knights here to meet you. My cavalry brought them here at great risk. I lost ten of my best men in the Ruhr valley and two of Sir Hadwin’s escort ships were blown to pieces crossing the channel.”
Alexander said, “We were forming up, becoming a nation until last summer. Now we are back to small groups of survivors holding out in the mountains, the forests-piecemeal.”
Armand stopped in front of Trevor, jabbed a finger into his chest, and growled, “For what? Huh? Tell me, American.”
“I told you, I’m not an American,” Trevor kept his calm. “If you keep thinking like that, you’re more piecemeal than you know.”
“What I know? What I know is that you sat over there on the other side of the ocean and told us what to do but it was not what was best for us, it was best for you. Well to hell with you. We never needed you. We still-“
“Armand!”
The shout stopped his words in mid-sentence. That shout came from the woman with long, black hair who rose to her feet to accentuate her command.
Armand did not look at her; he kept his eyes on Trevor who could feel snorts of breath from his sharp nose like a dragon puffing when it would prefer to blow flames. Nonetheless, Armand retreated a step.
The woman with the dark hair walked slowly-gracefully-from the table to where Trevor and JB stood. She smiled warmly.
“My name is Cai. It is a pleasure to meet you, Emperor.”
And she bowed her head in the slightest; a sincere show of respect.
Trevor did not know what to say.
Jorgie spoke instead, “Where are your people from, Lady Cai?”
She knelt before the boy and studied him the way a mother might examine her newborn; searching for the answers of life in his eyes with both warmth and wonder.
“I represent the people of Wales. It is a beautiful place. I wish you would come and visit there with me some day.”
“I would like that.”
“Please excuse our selfishness, Master Jorgie. In our haste to share our troubles, we have neglected to ask about your people. I sense things are not well where you come from.”
Jorgie admitted, “Bad things are happening. People are dying.”
While Cai remained on a knee studying JB, Trevor shared with the room in a humble voice, “From what you tell me, I believe the attack against your positions was a prelude to what is happening in North America. The Order launched a full-scale invasion on our western coast. They had planned an invasion on the east as well, but we managed to stop that before it started. Point is, they hit you hard enough to knock you back into place before they came after us full bore. Now my military is on the verge of breaking. We’ve lost tens of thousands of soldiers and as many civilians. The Order hit you good to slow you down and is now intent on destroying us.”
An Italian man with a prickly beard and wearing a sport snap cap asked, “What is it that makes you think you are the first priority of this Order?”
“Simple. We’re further along than you folks. This time last year we had secured the heart of North America and were prepared to hit alien positions in Mexico. Our industry was running great thanks to some alien technology, we no longer had major shortages of anything, and we had developed the means to project power anywhere on the globe. To put it bluntly, we were winning. None of the alien races could stop us; not since we shut down the gateways a few years ago.”
“That’s what you told us,” Sir Kaarle-the man with the shaved head-of Scandinavia countered, “but then The Order attacks us with an entire army. Right now there are large formations of Voggoth’s forces supporting the Duass and penning us in.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, Trevor,” Alexander confirmed. “That is so.”
“There is a lot we don’t know,” Lady Cai-still sharing smiles with JB-interrupted. “And you’re here to tell us a great deal. Is that not true?”
Her hand reached out and touched JB’s cheek. She closed her eyes as if bathing in the child’s essence.
Armand stepped forward and in French asked her, “What is it, Cai? What is it with this boy?”
Trevor asked in English, “I don’t understand.”
Alexander shared, “Lady Cai-she-I’m not sure how to explain this…”
“I feel things,” she did the explaining for herself. “I have a very natural-oh, what would I call it? Sensitivity.”
Trevor-the man who spoke to dogs, periodically met with a mysterious old man in the woods, and had magically gained access to a library of genetic memories-asked in a skeptical tone, “What do you mean? A, like, psychic or something?”
“Father!”
Cai found that amusing. She exhaled a soft, comforting laugh.
“Nothing so exotic. Sometimes I feel things. Call it an understanding of people. Of things.”
“She sells herself short,” Armand said although the sneer in his voice showed that he did not like having to explain to the American. “She has had dreams of things to do, things to come. And she can tell a good heart from a bad one.”
Trevor remembered Stonewall McAllister. A vision had led him to the lakeside estate during that first year.
Cai jumped, “And Armand, what would you say if I tell you these two have good hearts? Would you stop projecting your frustrations onto them? Would you treat them as honored guests?”
Armand fidgeted but held his tongue.
The Lady then removed her hand from Jorgie’s cheek and addressed the boy in a soft one, “You are a very special child. But you know that, don’t you?”
He nodded. His eyes held the same fascination for her as she did for him; the same wonder.
She said, “I have thought about you before.”
Trevor asked, “You knew he would be coming?”
She corrected, “I knew he should come. Not that he would.”
“Trevor,” Alexander tried to move the conversation in a more purpose-orientated direction. “You say your army is in a battle for its life. You say you do not have the forces to spare to help us right now. To be blunt, why is it you came here? Why did you need to see us?”
Trevor realized his next words would cause a stir, but he had no choice other than to say them.
“Because if The Empire falls, all of humanity loses.”
Grumbles and snaps in a variety of languages circulated the room. Armand appeared ready to burst.
“It is not always about America!”
“We survived without you, we will keep on surviving!”
Alexander stepped forward and raised his hands to calm the commotion. The ‘knights’ quieted but the scowls and narrowed eyes suggested they did not calm.
Trevor sidestepped Alexander and addressed the gathering, “This is not about America, or Europe, or Asia or whatever. It is about our species, and that means a lot more than you might think.”
“If you are destroyed,” Sir Jef observed, “then we will remain in hiding until our strength returns. We spent years stockpiling fuel and raw materials. What we imported from you has been a great help, yes, but we will continue on. We will survive.”
“No, you will not,” but it was not Trevor’s voice that said those words. It was Jorgie’s.
A hush fell over the room. Lady Cai appeared quite pleased with JB. She touched his cheek again briefly, then rose to her feet and addressed the group.
“You keep calling him arrogant, but I think we have enough arrogance in this room ourselves. We still use names that have no meaning any more: England, Wales, Germany, Ireland. Pride can be a source of strength, but not vanity. Set that aside and listen to him. I am sure we can teach Mr. Stone a few things. But I am equally sure he has come here to share with us important information.”
Alexander asked, “What is it you expect from us?”
Trevor slowly surveyed the room, making eye contact with each of the knights and when he came to Armand he offered the answer that that man craved as surely as Nina Forest craved it.
“I expect you to fight.”