Trevor knew the feeling of powerlessness. The first day of Armageddon after running from the gored bodies of his parents-things felt beyond his control then. More recently, for a few moments in the temple he felt powerless and insignificant in the face of Voggoth.
But he had never experienced anything quite like that first week after leaving the land once known as Satka, Russia.
He remembered what happened to the Feranites when the self-appointed Gods of Armageddon deemed them defeated. Given the situation in North America when he departed nearly six weeks ago, Trevor feared that even Jon Brewer’s best efforts would have fallen short by now.
Based on the reaction from JB’s peers, a vote to cast humanity into the abyss might have already concluded. At any moment-one heartbeat-he could find his molecules warping into some beast built to satiate Voggoth’s taste for irony.
The Feranites had loved nature, so they became what they most despised: machines. Perhaps the Roachbots had been highly-intelligent beings, but now were forced to live in madness with the brains of other species serving as their CPUs.
What about the Ghouls? Barbaric monsters created from a formerly well-ordered society? The Mutants? Perhaps a civilization that prided itself on its caste system reduced to the equivalent of an alien biker gang?
The nightmares seemed endless. But the biggest nightmare of them all came from the feeling of failure. In the end Trevor had lost everything. Nina. His son. His people.
And so he spent that week in a semi-daze, barely eating and rarely speaking. He waited. He waited for his body to change; for a descent into Hell.
Despite vanquishing Voggoth’s monsters, the march west from the destroyed temple felt like a retreat. He tried to explain what happened. Alexander understood on some level although he could not comprehend the idea of spontaneous mutation.
Armand refused Trevor’s conclusion. He pointed to the physical evidence: the temple fell, The Order’s monsters slaughtered. Victory, no matter how you sliced it. Trevor did not argue. He could have pointed out to Armand that history was full of stories of wars won on the battlefield but lost in the halls of power.
On day six of the return trip, the convoy halted outside a large city in northeast Ukraine. While Trevor sat in the back of an armored Sherpa holding the last memory of his son-Bunny, the stuffed animal wrapped in a small blanket-Alexander walked forward to investigate the delay. Trevor expected a horde of Voggoth’s minions attempting to intercept the convoy. Such attacks were long overdue.
However, he realized he heard no gunshots; no sounds of battle. When Alexander returned he appeared grim-faced and hurried.
“What is it?”
Alexander replied, “We are needed in the town.”
“Here? Where are we-Kharkov?”
“Yes,” Alexander said and directed Rick Hauser to drive the vehicle around the main convoy and into the city. “Ukrainian and Russian partisans retook this area last year while Voggoth was hammering us. Tenacious people, they are.”
Trevor’s mind filled with negative thoughts. Did these people want tribute to allow passage? Or would they beg for food and ammunition? In the end he supposed it did not matter because at any second his world would change.
He soon found out how right he was.
The Sherpa followed a pair of Ukrainian or Russian motorcyclists into the heart of Kharkov with Armand and a small group of his followers trailing behind.
The city remained in surprisingly good condition, apparently spared from large-scale fighting. It surprised Trevor to see so many green trees in the heart of what had once been a metropolitan area.
“Things look in good shape,” Trevor muttered.
“They really put it back together nice. They told me they’ve got the Malyshev Tank Factory back on line. A lot of them survived most of the last decade in the underground subway beating up the Duass when they were here and The Order later but they went to great pains to keep from permanently harming the city.”
They drove into the heart of Freedom Square, a teardrop-shaped cul-de-sac with a park at its center as well as large and buildings around the perimeter, several of which were massive including one that occupied 300 meters of frontage with multiple skywalks between multiple towers. Trevor guessed it to be an older government building built in a Soviet style meant to impress with strength of design but lacking in ornate detail.
Whatever the case, the motorcade worked its way toward the Kharkov Hotel. As they made their way in to town, Trevor realized this was no band of partisans scraping out an existence. These people managed to rebuild a tiny bit of civilization, much like his people had re-populated Wilkes-Barre that first year. There may not be many of them, but they were on the right track.
All for nothing.
“Alexander, what is this about?”
“Someone here looking for us. Messengers, I think.”
Trevor, Alexander, and Hauser exited while Armand’s bikers came to a halt curbside.
Their hosts wore a variety of clothing that again reminded Trevor of his own people; summer casual wear, blue jeans, slacks, cargo pants, dress shirts, and military uniforms of various kinds. Several of the more stoic types guarding the main entrance carried AK-47s or similar weapons, apparently a part of the city’s militia.
Trevor eyed the people and they returned his glances with smiles and what might be laughs. Excited, friendly laughs. Celebratory, even.
“No weapons,” Alexander explained. “Not inside the hotel.”
Trevor carried none. He did not think a machine gun would provide any defense against the coming judgment. Hauser, however, dropped his MP5 in the front seat of the Sherpa and Armand left an entire arsenal of small arms with one of his biker brethren.
The crowd spoke in excited chatter as the travelers moved away from their convoy into the hotel. Trevor did not need a translator to catch Ukrainians and Russians speaking amongst themselves:
“Is that him?”
“How did he do it?”
“They mentioned him by name.”
While the exterior appeared dull, the interior was luxurious: marble floors, thick gold bands of trim, stately columns, and crystal chandeliers.
A large gathering of people-easily 100-crowded the lobby. The escorts pushed past. The crowd parted and they approached a meeting area of leather seats and sofas facing a magnificent fireplace. There they found the reason for their summons.
Gaston-Alexander’s lanky, black, Russian spy who had been scouting for the return convoy-stood by the couriers and explained, “They are spreading the message. Here, you should see it first,” and he handed a scroll to Trevor. “You are mentioned by name, Trevor Stone. They had to write all of it down. They are not very good with our language.”
A trio of couriers stood alongside Gaston. Duass couriers. The three-legged duck-billed aliens left to watch over a conquered Europe when The Order had withdrawn to attack North America. They wore cloth garments and some kind of wrappings around their legs that served the same purpose as hip boots on humans.
Armand pushed forward, his face turning grim and his fingers searching for weapons he had left outside. Gaston intercepted him with a raised hand.
“Easy, my friend.”
Trevor read the document. Alexander could not wait. He asked Gaston, “What is it? What is this about?”
Gaston told him, “It is over.”
Trevor regarded the Duass ambassadors with suspicion as they exited the lobby under Ukrainian protection.
He had to admit, the aliens demonstrated great courage. The three entered the city with merely a promise of safe passage from the people they had brutalized for more than a decade. Apparently many such Duass patrols-and those from other alien groups except the Witiko-sought out human leadership with the same message.
Trevor hoped, for the sake of peace, that other human enclaves proved as honorable as Kharkov, although he could not entirely blame any mob that chose retribution over reconciliation.
Regardless, they delivered a simple message: The end of war. Cooperation in rooting out any remaining entities from the realm of Voggoth. Retreat to specific outposts until such time as travel through the runes (something unknown to most humans) could be arranged through consultation with Trevor Stone, the man who had brokered this resolution. Release of all prisoners by both sides and assistance in re-building necessary infrastructure to ensure the survival of the human populace as well as extraterrestrial forces until their evacuation from the planet.
The duck-like Duass disappeared from the hotel and the commotion carried outside. Alexander sat across the lobby in deep discussion with the representative of Kharkov; a big man with a deep voice.
Another leader of men.
Trevor’s mind considered Kharkov and the people there. He wondered if the weather was harsh here. He thought about the return to Europe and what manner of transport he would secure to re-cross the ocean. He…
He stopped thinking about all that. A wave of weakness traveled across his body and he slumped deep into a leather chair.
It hit him. Not like an explosion or a powerful force, but with the exact opposite effect. As if his muscles had been tight and tense for a decade and now relaxed. Not quite calm. Exciting on some level.
Relief.
Gaston had said, “It is over.”
It.
What exactly was ‘it’? Constant fighting. Always thinking ahead to the next battle. Counting casualties like taking inventory. Speeches to rally. Providing direction for the people even when Trevor could not be sure of what to do next. Serving as symbol, and facilitator. Worries. Concerns. Desperate measures. Brutality and stoicism in the face of tragedy. Sacrificing his sense of right and wrong and replacing it with a blind focus on completing ‘the mission’.
‘It’ was finding his parents torn apart so badly that he mistook them for shaggy, rolled rugs; feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders; killing the man named ‘Richard’ and replacing him with the icy leader known as ‘Trevor’; sacrificing his innocence on an altar of bloodshed in the name of the bottom-line equation of survival; carrying on alone because destiny chose his path and allowed choices only between evils.
He suffered no illusions. In the Armageddon war Trevor did not fight for a greater good; he fought to save his species. An ends justified by any means and the responsibility for those ‘means’ lay squarely on his shoulders. His responsibility.
It is over.
“No. It’s not over. Not yet.”
“What is that?”
Trevor realized he spoke aloud and disturbed Alexander’s conversation.
Trevor repeated, “I said, it’s not over yet.”
“I do not understand,” Alexander’s mouth hung open in what appeared to be a pang of fear. Perhaps he worried the dictator had not yet tired of wielding power; a power born from the fires of this conflict.
Trevor wondered if his doppelgangers on parallel Earths would refuse the order to stand down. Would they- would he — accept the end of the war that gave him his power in the first place? Would the despot walk away from the throne so easily?
He envisioned settlements all across his Earth waking up tomorrow to find the war over. How many petty warlords had Trevor’s Empire found in North America alone? What would happen to the isolated islands of survivors struggling to live another day? A lack of adequate food and medicine could kill as efficiently as Hivvan guns or Witiko rockets.
The war against the invaders had ended. The purpose given to the survivors by the goal of victory now gone. What will fill that vacuum?
“There’s something more left to do. Alexander, let me borrow your clipboard.”
He tentatively handed the board and pen to Trevor who wrote feverishly on a blank page.
“Armand,” Trevor called as he scribbled
The gallant motorcyclist stood near the hotel’s front desk sipping a glass of something-and-vodka in celebration of the day. He quickly discarded the drink and walked fast to the rows of furniture near the fireplace.
“Yes, Trevor?”
“I need you to do something. You and your cavalry,” Trevor glanced at Alexander and added, “With your permission, of course. I have a message that needs to be sent.”
Alexander-still wary-asked, “One last order from an Emperor?”
“An invitation. My last-my last act, if you will.” He turned to Armand. “Will you and your riders deliver it?”
“Where to?”
Trevor told him, “Everywhere.”
The messengers began their journeys in convoys of 100 or more but divided into smaller groups as their paths branched off in different directions. The larger cruiser models were vital to each mission due to the cargo capacity for extra provisions, but eventually almost all the riders needed to live off the land for weeks at a stretch despite fuel trucks sent along major routes to top their tanks as often as possible.
Many fell victim to the extraterrestrial predators roaming the wild lands or bandits of various species. Others lost their way never to be seen again. The world remained a dangerous, unforgiving place with pockets of civilization-alien and human-surrounded by vacant cities and barren wastelands. Plenty of the riders failed to find fuel reserves and ran dry, changing them from riders to walkers or other means of transportation. Nonetheless, they searched for pockets of humanity and carried Trevor’s invitation to the world.
The second week in July, couriers stumbled upon a community of Ukrainians, Russians (mainly former naval personnel), and Tartars living around the harbor and old fortresses of Sevastopol on the Crimean Peninsula. Nearly a thousand fishermen, farmers, and children of the new age gathered to hear the invitation.
By the end of that month the message found tribes surviving in the mountains outside of Almaty in southeast Kazakhstan-boat people hiding in the fjords of Finland-and nomads herding goats and hunting in the Carpathian ranges of Romania.
During August, the word reached far across Asia where remnants of the Russian and Mongolian armies had battled the Geryon Reich’s garrison at Ulan Bator for a bloody decade. Hostilities had ceased nearly two months before as part of the general armistice but Trevor’s invitation brought post-war direction to the combatants and they eagerly accepted the invite.
Around the same time, Duass water transports conveyed Armand himself to their prison colony on the Greek island of Mykonos, where the human POWs found the reason behind their liberation in the words of Trevor Stone’s message.
In late September, couriers who had traded in their motorcycles for horses came across the stubborn remains of the PLA’s 38 ^ th Mechanized group at their Baoding base 100 miles south of the ruins of Beijing. Since the first days of Armageddon, 5,000 soldiers and civilians held the city against Geryon battleships and Steel Guard Golems. Time and war had eroded any ideological objection to the invitation while Geryon-supplied foodstuffs proved the sincerity of the truce.
Back in North America, Jon Brewer received the message via HAM radio with the added information that Trevor Stone lived and would return ‘soon’. He and his generals spent the time rebuilding infrastructure.
With the help of Chaktaw and Centurian aides, Jon and Jerry Shepherd oversaw the demolition of dormant gateways in Atlanta, Sacramento, and Northern Mexico. Based on the concept of ‘leave well enough alone,’ such gateways had remained observed but untouched after being shut down by the runes six years ago. Demolition charges placed at specific points disintegrated the structures-of various design-into harmless pieces.
Ambassadors reached the Hivvan holdings in the Caribbean and brokered the return of human prisoners there. At the same time, well-armed rebel forces in Trinidad and Haiti agreed to release hundreds of the intelligent bipedal lizards they had captured in recent years, many in as poor physical condition as human slaves freed from Hivvan labor camps.
Mass graves holding victims from both sides were uncovered; a rogue human sniper killed a Centurian inside a declared alien safe zone; an anti-air missile fired from a Chaktaw position knocked a Chinook transport from the Missouri sky killing a dozen men onboard-but the truce held.
Jon Brewer had overcome great odds in war; he worked just as hard to maintain the peace. He sat in judgment at a junior officer’s hanging for shooting a Hivvan prisoner; he accepted a Geryon Captain’s assurances that the soldier responsible for badly beating a human civilian would be severely disciplined.
Alien consulates were established in vacant Pennsylvania cities to serve as staging points for repatriation and with each day more of the invaders found their way home through the runes in the caves behind the estate.
Centurian soldiers as well as civilians-the offspring of an invading army-came from across the Americas to the empty streets at Towanda. Soon they would come from outposts scattered across the world. Chaktaw personnel gravitated to Tunkhannock, Geryons established a community among the farms and rural homes of Huntington Mills. Eventually such bases for the Duass and Hivvans would be needed.
By autumn, hundreds of invaders from those civilizations returned to their home worlds via the runes. Thousands more waited to make the trip. Considering the runes served as the only means of returning them home and considering the spread of invaders across the globe-often times grossly off their original intended mark-Jon Brewer estimated it would take at least three years to complete the task, assuming they could contact and establish transportation for all the extraterrestrials in a reasonable amount of time.
That job grew easier as the aliens sought out that exit as part of their new orders. The Geryons proved the easiest to assemble. Their airships offered effective transportation from their primary bases in Asia to northeastern Pennsylvania. The dirigibles made constant sorties while human airliners helped shuttle evacuees from points across the North American continent.
A world away, in November Armand and a convoy of his best riders met the Kurdish governors of Mosul, Iraq where they shared their homeland and oil reserves with refugees from across the region; an oasis of calm in an otherwise desolate land.
Armand learned that few remained alive in the great expanse from the Mediterranean shore to Baghdad: the arrival of Armageddon provided an opportunity to settle old-world scores. The forces of hatred from all interests in the Middle East had battled one another, often times at the expense of fighting the invaders. A decade of assassinations, ambushes, massacres and slaughter left empty lands soaked in blood. The well-fed vultures tasted no difference in religion or ethnicity.
The more civilized minds from that region took flight in those early years and, as Armand discovered in December, camps of the more reasonable from all flavors of diversity survived in settlements along the lower Nile where brigades of the Egyptian army bravely carved safe zones and tolerated no in-fighting. Although disease and starvation culled their numbers over the course of a decade, they survived on cooperation and tolerance; the lack of which had doomed many of their kin.
It took until January for the invitation to penetrate the jungles of southeast Asia where The Order’s rampaging monsters had forced civilization into the wilderness. Many riders lost their lives, but the message was delivered and preparations made.
The fortress of Hong Kong with 20,000 people-well-armed partisans in the Philippine archipelagos-a flotilla of Indonesian military and civilian vessels linked together in an ocean-bound city-all accepted the message.
No one lived in Japan or Taiwan to hear the call. The couriers found an infestation of Voggoth’s creatures on both islands. Meanwhile, Witiko forces-rejecting any peace overtures-fired on the couriers from their enclaves in Papua New Guinea and fortifications along the northeast coast of Australia.
Still, Sydney remained a human city thanks to a combination of Aussia military and civilian recruits. They eagerly accepted Trevor Stone’s invitation, but the Aboriginals from the continent’s interior chose to remain recluse.
While the riders carried the word across Europe, Asia, and the Pacific rim, Trevor personally led an expedition into the heart of the dark continent.
In the early months of the new year, his convoy of Land Rovers drove across a golden savannah under the harsh beams of an unforgiving sun. Drinking water had become a commodity as precious and nearly as scarce as gasoline. Fortunately, human settlements in Algeria and Mali as well as a Centurian outpost in Niger willingly helped re-supply the travelers.
In any case, Rick Hauser slowed the lead Rover of four to a halt on what passed for a road. A wooden fence and armed check point blocked their way. Trevor exited the vehicle and approached the guards, one of whom accepted and then hurried off with a copy of the note Trevor came to convey.
The soldiers wore patches on their green uniforms suggesting old-world affiliations with the Central Africa Republic, Cameroon, or the Democrat Republic of Congo; political entities devoured by Armageddon’s fires.
Some appeared older: veterans, no doubt, of those countries’ old world militaries. Several more appeared younger-late teens, even-new recruits for an army of new thinking.
Movement on the plains caught his eye. Trevor saw a small herd of zebra daring the heat of the afternoon to graze. They paid no attention to the shaggy brontosaurus-sized creature sporting spiked tusks that wandered by on its way toward the delicacies offered in a nearby cluster of trees.
If Trevor had his way, all such otherworldly beasts would be purged from the planet to restore the natural balance of things. But as he watched the docile giant bite into the branches of a hardy umbrella thorn acacia, he realized that the new life brought to Earth by the invasion had grown roots. And besides, if he truly believed what he had argued in the temple of Voggoth, then all the universe’s life shared common beginnings and thus would find a new, acceptable balance here on Earth.
The guard directed Trevor beyond the checkpoint to a more shaded stretch bordering a large pond. As he moved forward he saw buildings. A few were makeshift shanties built from scavenged metals and stone; a few more crude shacks of thatch and bamboo. But at the heart of the settlement stood a series of sturdy concrete structures.
Around it all ebbed the currents of life: a woman in a flowered Senegalese-style Bubu pushing a cart loaded with vegetables; a man in a silk shirt and work pants carrying a tool box en route to some repair job or another; a cluster of children kicking a soccer ball on a makeshift playground near the skeletal remains of a well-scavenged truck; two elderly men embroiled in a tabletop game on a porch; a mother humming a soothing tune to an infant.
The activity slowed and then stopped as Trevor and his party strolled along the main path. The newcomer grabbed their attention. Or perhaps the rumors of the invitation had already begun to spread.
A tall man of the darkest complexion emerged from the town hall with the note in hand and approached Trevor, eyeing him through wise eyes that had shepherded a village during years of uncertainty and peril. On his tunic he wore the stars of a general, but the way the villagers regarded him told Trevor this man was more than a warrior; he was a leader.
The general stopped in front of Trevor and studied the visitor.
Trevor raised his arm in a rigid, proper salute; a salute for a soldier who had demonstrated his valor by the evidence of success displayed in the thriving village. The gesture of respect struck the right chord and the general returned the salute with equal precision.
As their hands left their foreheads they reached out and grasped in a firm shake. The man wearing general’s stars smiled as the crowd gathered to hear the news.
Trevor leaned against a corner at the rear of the school room next to Rick Hauser and watched the last stages of the process, as did dozens of onlookers in seats, from the hall, and through windows along the wall.
The general sat at the teacher’s desk overseeing the counting of ballots. The blackboard kept score with strokes of chalk. As the last slip of paper was pulled from the wooden box, the general marked the final tally.
A middle-aged woman with braided hair gasped and raised her hands to her mouth in a vain attempt to suppress glee. The trio of losing candidates grimaced for a moment and then congratulated her with hugs and smiles.
She controlled her enthusiasm as the general approached. Then, in a rare display of affection, he let his stoic guard drop and embraced the moment as he embraced her.
Children conveyed the last of her luggage as well as jugs of water to the convoy of Rovers parked outside the town hall. The braided-hair woman’s husband slipped into the lead vehicle’s rear seat alongside Trevor Stone.
She waved to the crowd of well-wishers one last time and then joined the other passengers. The convoy drove away from the village and across the savannah.
One mid-May afternoon a young barefoot boy with a Mediterranean complexion ran as fast as his small legs could carry along the jetty stretching out on a bed of rocks from the charred remains of Palermo. He joined the gathering of curious children at the end of the pier in time to add his voice to the chorus of “Arrivederci! Arrivederci!”.
The boys and girls offered their farewells to a 300-foot luxury yacht and a salvaged corvette of the Italian navy breaking port.
The convoy that had scoured Africa for months returned north to make final preparations. They crossed from Morocco to the Iberian Peninsula on a series of helicopters.
Dozens of persons from dozens of enclaves of African survivors exited the choppers alongside Trevor in the shadow of the giant rock of Gibraltar. A face Trevor had not seen since last fall waited to greet him: Alexander.
The two spoke on the grounds of a long-abandoned Royal Navy base that recently found new purpose.
After exchanging pleasantries, Trevor dove straight into the matter, “We’re getting near the deadline.”
“Yes,” Alexander agreed as they walked toward the ocean side of the base. “I have received word that many of the others have already departed for the rendezvous.”
“What about the round table at Camelot?”
Alexander assured in a light-hearted tone that belied his usually serious personality, “I told you last year that everyone would accept the proposal. You need to learn to relax.”
Stone stopped walking, considered, and said, “You know what? In a way this part scares me more than the fighting did. There is an opportunity here, Alexander. I don’t want to blow it. But yeah, once all this is done I’ll relax.”
“Do not get your hopes up. I know human nature. If you’re looking for a storybook ending, you are likely to be disappointed. Besides, nothing ever really ends. Things simply move to a new stage.”
Trevor realized that therein lay the difference between himself and Alexander. He-Trevor-felt born for Armageddon. The three gifts-his sense of responsibility-his very genetics-all groomed for this one fight. Alexander came from a different breed. More pragmatic, perhaps. Not as hasty. Not as driven. Better suited for the long haul.
The world will belong to people like him, now.
Trevor asked, “Where is Armand? Is he coming with us?”
“No. He and Cai are getting married and taking care of southern France for the meantime.”
“Good for him. Do you think he can make the switch back to being ‘just a guy’?”
After a laugh Alexander answered, “I do not think Armand was ever ‘just a guy’. Besides, there is much work left to be done. Lots of nasty things out there that will need to be hunted down, even after the main forces have departed. Voggoth’s pets, the Witiko bases-much more blood will be shed for years to come.”
“Alexander, are you trying to cheer me up?”
The Englishman grunted at Trevor’s sarcasm.
The sight at the docks changed the conversation.
Alexander told Trevor, “About half of the original crew remains onboard. They helped us keep lines of communication open between England and the continent during the worst of times. The remaining officers and surviving sailors of your submarine-the Newport News — have volunteered to serve onboard for the return journey.”
Trevor eyed the magnificent ship from stem to stern. As he did, a stalwart British Captain descended the gang plank. Trevor saw this veteran of the sea as a spiritual brother to Farway; the man who had brought him to Europe a year before and whose sacrifice had bought vital time.
The Captain acknowledged Alexander with a nod and then spoke to Trevor, “It would be an honor, sir.”
“The honor will be all mine.”
Enthusiasm and energy returned to the lakeside estate. Vehicles drove the perimeter road; administrative personnel walked the grounds-even a handful of young K9s served human masters again.
An Eagle transport left the landing pad, ferrying away a Hivvan representative under the escort of Internal security.
In the basement of the mansion at the conference table surrounded by televisions and communications gear, Jon met with Jerry Shepherd, Gordon Knox, and Eva Rheimmer on the topic of logistics: the logistics of transportation and seed corn for the families returning to their homes west of the Mississippi; the logistics of aviation fuel and rail lines for the alien passengers traversing the land in search of the way home; the logistics of bullets and guns for the highly-active Hunter-Killer teams taking to the wilderness in search of monsters.
Jon rubbed his eyes and answered Gordon Knox yet again, “It has been eight months since we saw any sign of a farm or any of The Order’s organized facilities.”
“We have to be sure. You heard the lizard-“
“Hivvan,” Jon corrected as he fought the daily battle of hearts and minds.
“You heard the Hivvan,” Gordon sneered as he accepted Jon’s correction. “One of their air patrols saw a Goat Walker in St. Thomas.”
Shepherd chimed in, “Them things sure ain’t a picnic, but they’re not exactly what I’d call organized forces. The way Anita has it figured, they’re just animals from some older race that got warped into Voggoth’s pets when he got the better of em’. We’re going to be finding them for a long time, but they can’t reproduce so there’s only so many out there.”
“We have to be sure,” Gordon insisted as he did at each meeting, albeit with a little less urgency each time. “It only takes one farm for Voggoth to start building an army again.”
“Gordon, we will never be sure, unless we find something. Until then, we keep our guard up. Omar’s re-starting the dreadnought program and we’ve got a shitload of intel from the other races.”
“One big happy family,” Gordon said with a sardonic smile. “Of course, tell that to the Centurian officer and his regiment that has refused to surrender. Then there’s that group of Duass who slaughtered their Internal Security escort and disappeared into the Louisiana swamps. Like I said, one big happy-“
“It’s not perfect,” Brewer interrupted. “There are also a hundred stories of our people taking revenge out on aliens. Cassy’s cavalry found about a dozen dead Hivvans refugees murdered and skinned just five miles from this mansion. But that’s not the point. Like you always said, we have to tough things out. In this case, we have to tough out the small things so that the big picture doesn’t get screwed up.”
Eva-wanting to move the discussion toward the important matter of food production-egged on Gordon with the question, “Aren’t you going away for vacation soon?”
Gordon-fully understanding her concern for what it was-tilted his head and offered a smirk that doubled for a popular phrase ending in ‘you’ as he answered, “Yes. We leave tomorrow. Thank you very much, Eva.”
The phone buzzed.
“I’ll grab that since there’s nothing going on down here other than a whole bunch of circles being run.”
Shep eschewed the tabletop phone and walked over to one mounted on the wall beneath the stairs. The others took up the issue of re-invigorating fields poisoned by Voggoth’s version of farms, which sucked the nutrients from the ground exchanging barren wasteland in place of fertile plain.
“Jon,” Shepherd called and held up the receiver. “It’s coastal security.”
Brewer left the table and accepted the phone.
“Yes? When-how soon-okay, we’re on our way.”
He hung the receiver harder than he realized; the result of a jolt of energy delivered by the message.
“We need a transport right away.”
“We’re we heading?” Shep asked.
“New York.”
Nina Forest drifted along the short hall in her apartment. Denise and Jake left just minutes before after having spent a belated Mother’s Day in Annapolis. Nina had been thinking about the class she was scheduled to teach later that summer at the academy when the television-left on in hopes of catching a weather forecast-grabbed her ear.
An excited anchorman reported, “We are getting some news from New York City right now-one of our reporters is in the city taping a story on the re-opening of the Statue of Liberty after hundreds of volunteers spent the last month repairing missile damage. Apparently there is a bigger story developing right now. Our reporter is describing it as the most amazing sight she’s seen in a decade. We’re trying to re-establish phone contact and hope to have an update here in a moment.”
Nina knew.
Her wait was over.
During the initial invasion, New York City became infested with alien pack animals gorging and vicious monsters from Voggoth’s realm inflicting horror and pain. Law enforcement as well as neighborhood street gangs battled to survive against an estimated 200,000 extraterrestrial creatures; most hungry and dangerous. The strict fire arms prohibitions in the city, however, made civilians easy targets.
Within 12 months after the invasion, New York City transformed into a new ecosystem including prey animals and predators with humanity belonging to the former category. Pockets of people existed in skyscrapers-turned-fortresses and the best-protected evacuation shelters while National Guard troops held out at LaGuardia until the military brass could no longer airlift in supplies.
Then things got really bad.
The forces of Trevor’s Empire attacked Manhattan island nearly six years later and fought in an atmosphere described by those who experienced it as a modern day Stalingrad. However, instead of alien soldiers, artillery, and armor, the human force of liberation fought giant beetles, hordes of Jaw-Wolves, flying Devilbats, and scores of other nightmares all hiding and pouncing from the ruins of the Big Apple.
Only a handful of survivors-many reduced to a primitive, barbaric existence-were found and much of the city suffered from blast and fire damage. The bulk of the five boroughs remained relatively uninhabited in the years since, waiting for the time and resources to invest in rebuilding.
The harbor area served as the exception. Many ships of The Empire’s small navy called the area home while supply vessels sailing from docks at Newark Bay, Jersey City, and Hoboken carried food, equipment, fuel, and passengers up and down the eastern seaboard.
Furthermore, the fishing industry found new life; between eight and twenty trawlers left the harbor every morning and returned to sell their catch to the highest bidders at the historic old South Street Seaport. Refrigerator trucks would then spirit the haul away, some sending the fish back out to sea on those supply ships headed to points south, others driving in-land to rail yards for distribution to the west.
An important link in the eastern security fence or ‘Tambourine Line” was established on Governor’s Island and the old financial district of Lower Manhattan came to life again a few years after Continental dollars replaced an economy of barter.
Ellis Island eventually earned new purpose as a survivor processing center while several amateur playwrights and wannabe starlets re-opened two Broadway theaters and played for small audiences. At the same time, Battery Park became a popular recreation spot.
On the afternoon of May 28, the 10,000 or so people and military personnel working in and around New York harbor enjoyed a spring day beneath a band of white clouds.
The buzz started at about two o’clock with radio chatter coming in from Rockaway Point. Word spread through Internal Security. A half hour later a reporter for the National Broadcast Network on Liberty Island overcame a myriad of technical challenges and cleared a phone line to NBN’s main office.
Within minutes the construction crews, the fishermen, and the businessmen, left their jobs and headed to the harbor. Traffic on the Brooklyn bridge came to a halt as truckers parked their rigs to watch. Dockworkers stopped loading ships and soldiers vacated their posts.
They lined the Jersey coast, the ferry launch at the tip of Manhattan, the piers on Staten Island.
A helicopter flew in from the west, swinging around and set down hurriedly on the park at the tip of Ellis Island. Jon Brewer and Jerry Shepherd bound out onto the lawn, hurrying to the water’s edge.
On liberty island a father hoisted his daughter onto his shoulders to afford a better view but the best view of all belonged to the volunteer construction workers atop Lady Liberty’s torch.
The armada sailed up New York bay in haphazard formation. Hundreds of ships of every conceivable ocean-going kind: small to medium-sized military vessels from a dozen countries, a powered catamaran that once served as a ferry, 20 sea-worthy yachts with sails hoisted, a cargo ship, and a pair of small cruise ships.
Trevor Stone stood on the deck of HMS Cornwall, a British frigate that survived the invasion and fought for the court at Camelot. He stepped forward on the deck as the mixed crew of English and American seamen guided the ship inland.
In a fit of spontaneity, Trevor pumped his fist in the air and let loose a shout of joy. He did not know if that joy came from the sight of his homeland, from the understanding of what he had accomplished, from the war’s end, or from relief at knowing his personal journey neared conclusion.
Whether they saw his joy or heard his shout or merely felt the energy radiating from the fleet, the crowds along the shore and on the bridges burst into a frenzy of celebration. A magnificent ovation of clapping hands, victory cries, and tears.
In their celebration, Trevor felt something greater. A sense of gratitude. Appreciation. For all their suffering, he had taken the responsibility upon his shoulders. He had done what needed to be done, no matter the personal cost. A decade-long act of sacrifice.
The fleet dispersed to the various docks around the harbor bringing the representatives from a thousand human settlements and enclaves; representatives elected not on the basis of political boundaries, ethnic backgrounds, or religious manifestos, but on their ability to speak for the ones left behind.
The Cornwall slid into port at Ellis Island. The crowd at the base of the gangplank roared with approval as Trevor led a procession to shore.
The crowd parted. Jon and Shep approached.
“Permission to come ashore, General.”
Shepherd tipped his Stetson to Trevor then shook Rick Hauser’s hand vigorously.
Jon stared at Trevor with no expression at all for several long seconds before admitting, “I can’t think of anything smart to say.”
“Well-why start now, right?”
Jon took his hand but the handshake turned into a hug. When they released, Jon asked, “Jorgie?”
Trevor’s jubilation hesitated.
“He-he went away.”
“So we won,” Jon laid it out. “But paid a hell of a price.”
Something in the inflexion in his tone-Trevor’s heart thumped hard.
“Lori?”
Jon shook his head and repeated, “We paid a hell of a price.”
The crowd at the pier would not let the mood sour. A wave of cheers carried among the mob. Trevor let a smile-an unsure smile-flicker on his lips.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll remember the dead. Today, we celebrate life.”