Jon felt uncomfortable sitting behind Trevor's desk in the upstairs office, as if he betrayed his friend on some level. Ironic, he thought, because there were several people out there who coveted that seat, but for now it belonged to Jon, no matter how much he did not want it.
Gordon Knox, sitting across from him, said, "So far the K9s are doing everything their handlers ask. The only one acting strange is Tyr. He keeps slipping onto transports or sniffing around the estate. You want me to do something? Maybe tranquilize him?"
Jon shook his head. "No. He’s probably the only one doing anything constructive."
Knox offered a half-hearted smile and went on, "You ready for the bad news?"
"Huh? You mean there was good news? I guess I missed it."
The Director of Intelligence ignored the jest. "Two more distribution centers were overrun by mobs. A third one had a problem but the mob was dispersed by I.S. Two people were shot in the process, one is in critical condition."
"Internal Security actually broke up a riot? How nice of them to do their jobs."
"People are getting, well, they’re getting out of line. I think maybe you should start thinking about putting them in line a little more."
"What do you want me to do, Gordon? Pull more brigades off the front line to do Internal Security? It’s been well over a month with no word and nothing from us, only the same secret mission crap. No one is buying it anymore."
Knox waited as Jon released his frustration in a huff, a puff, and finally a sigh, then he said, "Look, Jon, I know who is stirring this whole thing up. You’ve got that editor over at the New American Press. You’ve got a couple of low-rent Senators and a southern Governor. They’re the ones accusing you of a coup or saying Trevor is dead. They’re the most visible."
Jon waited for Gordon’s point but that point did not come with words; it came in his narrow, staring eyes that sent an icicle along Jon's spine. Once he understood Knox's full meaning, Jon raised a hand.
"Wow. Hey, whoa, easy there Gordon. If you’re suggesting what I think…"
"We have to toughen up or things are going to get worse. As it is, our offensive in Ohio has a black eye and a handful of Hivvans are still holding out in front of Prescott down south. Right now we look weak to our enemies, both external and internal."
Jon jumped to his feet, partly as a physical manifestation of his agitation and partly because he wanted to escape that desk.
"So we knock off some trouble makers and you think things will be okay? We’re still leaderless."
"No!" Gordon shouted a little too loud. He glanced to the floor and modulated his tone to something closer to normal. "No. We’re not leaderless. You’re in charge now."
"By whose authority? Who put me here? What sense does it make? Trevor was in charge because he started it all. We pledged our loyalty to him. But me? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Gordon, but I’m a little short on the divine right clause."
Gordon decided to stand, too. He walked over to Brewer and the two men spoke in front of the glass doors of the mansion balcony. Beyond those doors was an overcast sky that threatened rain although snow was still a possibility on the tenth day of March. Underneath that overcast sky, just beyond the closed iron gate, lived a camp of protestors, activists, and lunatics. One guy actually held a sign reading, "The End is Near."
A ring of Internal Security tried their best to keep the group contained. On that day, the mob counted three dozen in their number, nearly double from a few days ago. Tomorrow?
Gordon snapped, "Who do you want in charge, Jon? Most of the idiots who want to take over are preaching peace. They want to stop the war, lick our wounds, and live in isolation. They're making all sorts of noise out there in the press and at town hall meetings. But you know, I don't care so much about them. It's the ones we haven't heard from that have me on edge."
Jon nodded in agreement and said, "Yes. I’ve been thinking that, too."
"So the question is," Gordon finished the thought. "Exactly why has Evan Godfrey been so quiet? What is he up to?"
– Sharon intercepted Evan at the front door of their mansion in the Washington D.C. suburbs.
"You’re going to play tennis?"
"Yes," he answered as he zipped his gym bag with one hand and twirled a tennis racquet with the other. "I’m going to play tennis."
As happened often in recent weeks when she confronted him over his lack of action, Sharon's jaw dropped and her eyes bulged.
At first the words came out as little more than gasps, but her voice improved as she managed to swallow more oxygen. "What is wrong with you? It's been weeks and you keep repeating that bull shit Jon Brewer and the military council keep throwing out about Trevor away on a secret mission. Every interview you give is about remaining calm and waiting for the Emperor to return. This is the opportunity we've waited for, and you're doing nothing!"
He stood there and listened to her rant while fiddling with the tennis racquet and nodding his head in agreement to her points.
"Have you heard the news, Evan? Just about every newspaper outside of Baltimore and even some of Trevor's hand-picked Governors are saying the Emperor is dead and Brewer is just covering it up. And where are you going? To the health club to play tennis?"
He quickly answered, "Well, it's still too cold for the outdoor courts."
She ignored his flippancy. "I thought you were the voice of the opposition. Maybe you're just a second-rate politician after all. A Coward."
Sharon’s eight year old son approached through the cavernous living room of the old mansion crunching an apple as he moved. Sharon swiveled around and glared. The boy retreated at nearly a gallop.
"You really should treat him with a little more respect," Evan said to his pseudo-wife. "He’s getting older now. He’s turning into a young man."
"Don’t tell me how to treat my son. Tory is none of your business."
"Ah, yes, sometimes I forget," Evan put a hand on her shoulder. "This is a business relationship. We have our rules and regulations. Tory’s stewardship is not in my contract."
He gave her a peck on the forehead. Sharon stepped away, nearly shivering in anger.
"The problem, my husband, is that you aren’t living up to your end of the bargain. You have your cute little wife and her son, both victims of the Emperor’s cruelty. I go to your political rallies and smile. My child is a boy scout and excels in school. Why, you have yourself the perfect little family, don’t you?"
He flipped his racquet in the air and caught it. "Why yes, Sharon, I have the perfect little family. Makes a great postcard."
"And why are you not living up to your part of the bargain?" She jabbed a finger in his chest. "You promised me, you were going to bring down the Emperor. You were going to-"
His smile evaporated and he placed a finger over her lips. Apparently he no longer found her tirade humorous.
"Oh, now, no Sharon. Careful. Careful. I have no intentions of ‘bringing down the Emperor.’ But I do have other intentions. You know that. That’s why you came to me, Sharon. You know where I’m going. It just so happens that to get there, well, to get there the structure of power in our new nation will have to change."
In a more humble tone she said, "You speak a good game, Evan, but you are short on action. Today- right now — the people are ready for a new leader. Trevor Stone is gone, yet you hesitate. Maybe I made a mistake in making our little arrangement."
She stopped her speech with a grunt that said take that.
Evan waited to be sure she had finished. When she said nothing more, he spoke.
"Trevor Stone is gone? Sharon, oh Sharon, is he really gone? I don’t think we can be quite so sure of that yet. You see, I’ve known Trevor for a long time and there’s one thing I’ve learned; never underestimate him. It's quite possible that he’s in hiding waiting to see who moves against him. I would not put that past him. That's what I’d do."
She looked as if she wanted to speak and he knew what she would say: You’re afraid.
Again held a finger to her lips.
"Before you say it, remember that your father underestimated Trevor Stone, and where did it get him? Hmm? No, I think it is best to move slowly, with caution. Let others be the first to storm the Bastille. If Stone is gone for good, then eventually the mob will need a leader. If he returns to clean house, then all those who would challenge him will be knocked from their perches. Well… almost all."
"So you’re going to do nothing?"
"No," he twirled his racquet again. "I’m going to play tennis at the health club."
She spat, "Tennis."
He paused at the front door and glanced out the window. His motorcade waited: a big armored limousine and two Internal Security escorts on hover bikes.
"Yes. I’m going to play tennis. Doubles in fact. Doubles with the Captain of the Washington garrison, one of Jim Hutch’s top men in the labor guild, and the Director of the company that services all the military’s telecommunications."
Godfrey smiled to his wife then walked out the door.
He had a match to play.
– Stonewall McAllister pushed his steed at a fast, anxious gallop across an open field with a dozen riders from his command post following including Captain Kristy Kaufman, dressed in a stylish bomber jacket and riding boots.
She maneuvered her horse closer to his and shouted over the sound of drumming horse hooves, "Still no contact from the depot, General!"
Kristy referred to the supply depot at Ft. Campbell. No one had heard from or received re-supply from the depot in over twenty-four hours.
Fortunately, Army Group Center had not encountered any enemy armies during their sweep of western Kentucky and Tennessee. Operations remained of a "rural and urban pacification" nature, a job they had performed successfully in places such as Murfreesboro, Bowling Green, Nashville and Hopkinsville.
Nonetheless, the soldiers required food, rifles needed bullets, and vehicles ran dry if not fueled. Even a brief interruption of supply created difficulties, but the lack of communication turned the situation from curious to alarming.
In addition to his army, Stonewall's responsibilities included thousands of humans found in isolated camps and villages uncovered during the trek through the Smokey Mountains. The topography of that part of the world had been hospitable to human survivors in that it provided good cover and defendable positions.
Those survivors embraced the expanding Empire, particularly when penicillin and antibiotics rolled into town. But those medicines and more could not roll into town if the supply depot at Ft. Campbell-pre-war home of the 101 ^ st "Screaming Eagles"- did not answer their radio.
It irked the General to an even greater degree that he believed that the problem most likely lay not with an alien attack, but negligence. Ft. Campbell’s operation depended on Internal Security because the supply depot there was not purely military in nature; it had been established to service population centers in Clarksville and Oak Grove.
At the time of its opening, the idea of using I.S. to staff the depot sounded good because it freed Army Group Center's logistical people for other duties, a decision he now regretted.
From what Stonewall saw in recent weeks, Internal Security lost their focus; their drive. The glue that was Trevor Stone was losing its adhesion, and the I.S. branch appeared to be the first part to peel away from the whole.
A four-lane road surrounded on both sides by muddy grass and slightly-frosted barrier trees led into Fort Campbell. As it approached the base, the road split off leaving a big, triangle-shaped yard lined with shrubs to welcome newcomers. At the far end of that yard stood a large, three story white building with a parking lot.
Stonewall’s cavalry stopped at the tip of that triangle. Garret McAllister dismounted and retrieved his field glasses. The rest of the troop readied their carbines and waited for orders.
The white building that served as the heart of the supply depot was surrounded. Several of the vehicles in the parking lot had been stomped and smashed. What worried Stonewall was that those cars were not leftovers from the early days of Armageddon; they were military Humvees and cargo trucks.
"The depot is not deserted," he reported. "I note movement inside the building. Getting to them, however, may prove difficult."
Stonewall referred to the six extraterrestrial monsters besieging the compound. They resembled armadillos the size of cement trucks with nasty snouts like crocodile jaws. A protective shell covered their bodies and spiked balls hung at the end of long tails.
Kristy Kaufman said, "If I may quote the General, sir, you did say this would only be a 'quick ride' to the depot to 'set those idiots straight'. Therefore, sir, we failed to bring along any anti-armor weaponry."
"Yes, Captain Kaufman, those words are mine," in a whisper he continued, "much to my regret." His voice rose again and he told her to, "consult our radio and see what assets might be lurking about."
One of the creatures smashed yet another hole in another wall with its wrecking-ball like tail. A second stood on its hind legs and took several steps toward the building and tried to bite a second-floor window.
Beyond the Armored Mammoths, Stonewall spotted several fatigue-wearing persons daring looks out the window. He then swept his binoculars across the parking lot, examining the vehicles crushed by the creatures. He shared an observation with everyone in earshot, "That explains how we came to this point. I do not discern a single Internal Security vehicle among the wreckage."
Kaufman continued a radio conversation she had started a moment ago on the General's orders, "Understood, standing by," and then said to McAllister, "I.S. pull out?"
"Apparently so," he responded. "No doubt absconding with their supply of heavy weapons, leaving behind clerical staff and accountants with small arms."
"That's desertion, sir. They should be hung," Kaufman answered but a voice on the radio pulled her attention away.
Stonewall spoke as much to himself as anyone else, "Desertion? That is a word nearly unheard of in recent years. But these are not normal circumstances. I fear a dangerous divide is growing between the military and Internal Security, given the current political climate."
Kaufman broke in with good news, "Today must be our lucky day, General."
Stonewall mused, "I was certain I had used up my allotment of lucky days in Georgia last year. Do tell, Captain."
"T-A-C is directing an AC-130 our way. Puff is on his way back from knocking out a nest of Spider Ants outside of Roaring Spring."
"Splendid! See if Puff the Magic Dragon would be so kind as to hunt down and blast our fleeing Internal Security agents. No doubt they are somewhere east of here on 71."
"I assume that is a jest, General."
"I would hope so, yes, but we will see how things develop in the days ahead."
Fifteen minutes later, a large plane circled overhead, its engines creating a sound like thunder filling the sky and nearly shaking the ground. The AC-130 Specter Gunship banked hard and opened fire from the heavy cannon stationed in its side. The shells did to the Mammoths what they had done in the old world to tanks and armored vehicles; ripped them to shreds, while leaving the building untouched.
When the nasty work completed and the gunship flew away, Stonewall led his group forward much to the delight of the besieged staffers who had endured hours of virtual captivity. Their radios and radio operators, it was learned, had been destroyed by the initial charge of the over sized hostiles.
General McAllister noted that while this may have seemed as if it were merely another battle in the post-Armageddon world, the negligence that had forced the fight may have made it something more ominous.
A sign of things to come.
– General William Hoth stood outside of the Union Terminal building, a 1930’s vintage art deco railway station converted into the Cincinnati Museum Center back in the days when history and social studies held enough interest to draw nearly a million annual visitors.
Of course the goodies inside had long ago been looted or destroyed. Instead, the museum now hosted technicians and maps and communications gear, having undergone yet another transformation, this time into a hastily-constructed command post.
This newly-opened post and the old structure it occupied stood on the southern stretch of Cincinnati with the Ohio River and the Kentucky border a short distance away. In other words, near the heart of what had once been the third-most populated city in the state of Ohio.
As recently as twenty-four hours ago, reconnaissance assured that Cincinnati remained a well-populated metropolis, but populated by Mutants, Rollers, and Goat-Walkers. Furthermore, three more Roachbot slaughterhouses existed within the city limits.
Yet General Hoth now stood on the southwestern side of the city, having gained control of the entire metropolis at the expense of one Bradley vehicle crew incinerated when a rookie Apache pilot mistook them for a Roachbot.
Somehow, the entire population of Hostiles within the city limits of Cincinnati had disappeared in a matter of hours, without a trace. When his tanks rolled into town, they faced no opposition.
Just…gone. Poof.
The General had never seen anything like it.
No…he corrected himself. In point of fact, not only had he seen something just like it long ago, he had experienced a similar disappearing act himself.
The hostile forces of Cincinnati had been plucked from the Earth in the same fashion that the human ark riders of early Armageddon had been snatched from highways and baseball parks.
In the years since the invasion, those missing humans began showing up, just as Hoth himself had reappeared on the grounds of West Point.
"So the question is," Hoth spoke aloud to no one. "Where-or perhaps even 'when'-have these things gone?"
– Dante Jones-Chief of Internal Security-sat alone in the conference room in the basement of the estate. Brewer had left mere moments before after asking-actually shouting-a series of questions and accusations.
Why are we having these problems with Internal Security? Get your people in line. Stonewall nearly got killed out there yesterday! This isn’t the first incident!
Dante's responses?
It’s not just I.S., everyone is confused. I can’t control every last station commander. This won’t be the last incident, either, unless you start telling people who is in charge around here because it sure as Hell isn't Trevor Stone!
In truth, Dante was not sure what he could do, or even what he should do. After all, could he blame the people for wanting answers? Did Brewer and Knox actually believe the whole 'secret mission' story would work indefinitely?
With Trevor gone, Dante felt his loyalties pulled in several directions. Yes, he felt obligated to maintain the cover story due to his membership on the military council. Yet he felt a responsibility to the Senate, the body to whom Trevor himself had given oversight of I.S.
He placed a hand over his eyes and sighed.
"You okay, boss?"
The voice startled Dante.
"Oh, man, Ray, shit you scared me."
Ray Roos-Chief of the I.S. detachment for the estate grounds-joined his superior officer in the conference room.
"Sorry ‘bout that. You a little jumpy? Sure you are. Heck, we all are these days."
Ray stood alongside the table and waited for an invitation. Dante motioned to one of the empty chairs. Roos placed his Mp5 machine gun on the table top and relaxed.
Dante said, "We had another security unit abandon a post yesterday. They walked away from a supply depot in Tennessee. Some people got killed because of it."
Roos said, "Well, if I can speak my mind, I don’t like the idea of our boys holding sway over some of them depots that are further out. That’s the army’s job don’t you think? I think so."
"You know the drill, Ray. Internal Security gets whatever shit jobs the military doesn’t want. But we never had guys walk away from posts like this before. You know what I mean."
Roos nodded. "I know. But a lot of our guys haven’t been doing policing for a long time. You know that. Of course you do. With the big fella…" Roos hesitated as he tried to pick the right words. "With the big fella…off somewhere, well, you probably noticed that things are slipping up real good like. Yessir. You have noticed that."
"Hard not to notice, Ray. Trevor went running off and now we got to clean up the mess."
Roos cocked a finger toward Dante but in a friendly, casual way.
"Say, weren’t you and Trevor buddies before ‘all this’? You were, right?"
Jones answered ‘yes’ with the nod of his head.
"What was he like before the whole shootin' match got turned downside-up?"
Jones grew a hint of a smile. "Trevor? He was a good guy. He always treated people pretty much the same. He was the type of guy you could count on to keep his word and all."
"So, you could see this whole thing coming with him being the big leader and all? Sort of natural-born?"
Dante laughed. "Are you kidding? He was a care salesman, man. Look, he was definitely not mister take-charge. I mean, when we were in high school I had to lead him around or the guy was like socially, lost. See, couldn’t really even talk to girls. Didn’t know what he was going to do with his life. I mean, he was a good guy but he was lost half the time."
Jones snickered as he remembered. Ray joined in with a polite chuckle of his own.
"Seems like you were taking care of him back then, huh?"
"Yeah, well then he met Ashley. Then the two of us took care of him, I guess."
Roos said, "Must’ve been strange reversing roles and all. Yeah, that had to be strange."
"What’s that mean?"
"I mean, in the old days you were leading the way. Then all of a sudden the world goes topsy-turvy and he’s the one leading the way, and you’re following."
Jones scratched his head and admitted, "Yeah. That was kind of weird. I guess I got used to it. I figure we all had to get use to a lot of different stuff."
Dante drifted into memories. Roos remained quiet for a few moments but opened a new line of thinking, one that brought Jones to the edge of his chair.
"You got to know, sure you know, that all of us in I.S., we follow you, Mr. Jones. No doubt about it. You’re a good guy and you always do right by us. You’ve got our loyalty. I think I can say that matter-a-fact on behalf of most of the guys."
Dante's eyes narrowed, a little. "Oh, well, so what does that mean to me?"
"Well, it means a lot of people out there trust your judgment. Maybe you don’t realize that. Maybe you’re too humble to let yourself see it. But I.S., folk, we trust you. After that stuff went down at New Winnabow, we all saw how you helped smooth things out. None of us wanted to be firing water cannons on protestors, you know that. Sure you do. That’s why you worked so hard to find a solution. You and that guy, that Senator guy."
"Evan Godfrey."
Roos waved a hand. "Yep. That’s right. Evan Godfrey. Why the two of you did right by everyone. If you ask me-and I know you haven’t but I’ll tell you anyway-if you ask me you pulled Trevor Stone’s bacon out of the barbecue. Now that’s what I call leadership."
Jones closed his eyes as he remembered those scary times after New Winnabow.
"Can I say something, Mr. Jones, without getting my own bacon in the barbecue? I can understand if you’d rather I just went about my business and kept my mouth shut."
Dante nodded an approval for Roos to speak freely.
"I know Trevor is your friend, but allow me to set that aside for one moment. Let’s forget who he is and see him for what he is. Just for a moment. I don’t want you taking offense at this."
"Go ahead, Ray."
"I have to figure you know more about what’s going on with Trevor being disappeared than little old me. But the story is that he’s off on some mission. Hey, I ain’t asking for the skinny, that’s not my department. But my point is that maybe it’s a good thing this is happening right now. Now hold off now, I’m not saying it’s good that he’s gone. I’m saying it’s good it’s happening now when things are kind of quiet. You see? You see my point?"
Dante listened.
"If he comes back, fine and dandy. Or maybe not. I mean, sooner or later Trevor Stone ain’t going to be steering the ship. He’s not immortal. At least, I expect not. So maybe we need to find this stuff out now. I mean the stuff about how things could fall apart without him."
Dante said, "I think I see your point. It’s pretty bad now. Just think of how bad it would be if we were in the middle of the full-scale Hivvan war or something."
"We’re getting taught a lesson, yes we are. A lesson that maybe we’re too dependent on Trevor Stone. Even with the Senate, he's still the guy in charge of just about everything."
Dante said, "Yes. He is. But I get your point. Let's just hope he gets back, soon."
"Oh yeah, that's what we're all hoping, Mr. Jones."
The conversation paused.
After a second of reflection, Roos chuckled and said, "Man, that must be funny from your point of view. A real gasser. I mean, here you are watching all of us be so dependent on Trevor Stone but in the old days you had to lead him around by the nose to keep him going in the right direction. I got to hand it to you, Mr. Jones. Sure I do. There are guys out there who I just know that type of thing wouldn’t sit well in their belly. But you, you've done one heck of a job putting that aside and working for Trevor nowadays. Still, that’s got to be kind of, oh, kind of ironic. Funny, like I said. A real gasser."