A lonely Humvee pulling a trailer halted on Interstate 5. Overhead, a clear sky waited for the sun to climb the green foothills that cast shadows across the highway.
Garrett "Stonewall" McAllister stepped out onto the pavement and loitered behind the open door, glancing first left and then right as if searching for spying eyes.
"General, we’re going to be late," said Benny Duda who also exited the vehicle.
"Please, Benjamin, you know I have an image to protect."
Garrett looked first at the soldier sitting at the driver’s wheel then the one standing in the cupola behind a. 50 caliber machine gun. Neither dared meet the General’s glare.
"Yessir, I understand. We do have a time table, though."
Stonewall grunted then walked to the horse trailer. The sound of his boots clicking and his sword jingling bounced between the foothills.
They retrieved two horses-both saddled and ready-and detached the trailer. A moment later, the two riders trotted along the Interstate as it hooked east then south again with the Humvee coasting obediently behind.
Two miles later they arrived at the entrance to a small town situated amidst forests and high desert plains. The volcanic rock of Mt. Shasta dominated the eastern horizon, its flat peak covered in snow. Stonewall eyed it as he brought his horse to a halt.
Duda’s voice pulled his attention to the task at hand: "General?"
Unlike the encounter at Crater Lake two days prior, Garrett did not want to come across as intimidating or eccentric. Today called for diplomacy, for the ground on which he stood separated two armies. Duda appeared to have remembered this strategy and had already dismounted. Stonewall joined him. The Humvee, meanwhile, came to a complete stop several yards behind. The soldier in the cupola moved to the passenger's seat, far away from the gun.
The road sloped down through an archway that featured an illustration of Mt. Shasta along with the town's name of "Weed." Under that arch gathered a line of five men dressed in black coveralls and jackets with shield-shaped patches. Their collars flaunted insignias of rank. They displayed expressions ranging from frightened eyes to stern jaws of determination with a variety of blends in between.
Stonewall sympathized with those frightened eyes; The Empire had arrived at California’s door after a year of anticipation.
At the same time, he feared that those stern jaws meant a stubborn pride that The Cooperative’s militia officers would translate into a conflict he very much wanted to avoid.
Stonewall glanced toward an old gas station situated away from the meeting. There he saw a group of California’s front line fighters mulling about. Among them he saw that same collection of frightened eyes and stern jaws, but much more intense. After all, these men would do the fighting and dying should conflict come.
I would like it very much if these men would join my ranks so we could fight the Earth's enemies together.
Alas, those men gathered in the shadow of the problem. A ship towered over the station from its landing spot on the far side. Colored silver and black, it stood three stories tall on rows of landing gear and stretched fifty yards long. Its name reflected the general design: Stingray.
The extraterrestrial machine sat silent but it spoke of stealth, energy weapons, speed, and maneuverability. It spoke of the battle to come in the skies over the Golden State.
One of The Cooperative’s officers approached. The man displayed extra girth that appeared the work of time, not gluttony and he appeared well-groomed, almost painstakingly so. What remained of his gray hair fluttered in a chilled breeze.
He wore a silver star on his collar and a patch on his breast displayed the image of two outstretched hands meant to show unity but, to Stonewall's eyes, they appeared to arm wrestle. One of those hands shined silver, the other a politically correct brownish shade representing the diverse skin colors among the human part in The Cooperative’s equation.
Stonewall raised his arm in a textbook salute and said, "General Stonewall McAllister, Second Mechanized Division of Virginia."
The other man did not return the salute. Instead, he gaped the way most people gaped at Stonewall when first meeting the man in the Old Mist uniform.
"Exactly what war is it you’re fighting, son?"
Garrett, who had recently passed forty years of age, held his temper.
"Ah, you might believe that I endeavor to fight the War Between the States. However, I have not come here to discuss my choice of wardrobe. We have urgent matters to resolve."
The other man sneered, "The only thing that needs to happen is that you and your followers need to stay out of my state."
Stonewall saw that the man standing across from him wore one of those stern, stubborn jaws. He realized that any threats he might conjure would fail to impress and, for obvious reasons, Stonewall had not brought along Captain Kaufman’s Chrysaor to drop from the sky. Besides, while much smaller than a dreadnought, Stingray attack cruisers did not lack teeth.
He did, however, find something to say.
"Well, if you choose not to talk perhaps your Masters will. Are any of your leash-holders about?"
He threw in a wry smile but maintained his gentlemanly disposition, not an easy task for a man with a handlebars mustache and thick sideburns.
The gray-haired officer frowned, but before he could respond a sound grabbed the attention of everyone at the Weed city gate: two quick bursts that could have been a high-pressure air hose hissing.
All eyes shot to the gas station. An object moved over there somewhere behind the crowd of soldiers. That object shot into the air a dozen then fifty feet and flew forward, glinting silver in the sun then descended to the gathering. Two more quick bursts sounded, this time close enough so all could see the blasts of vapor from the jetpack.
The object-a humanoid very much like a man-landed standing with a thud that sent a gentle tremor amongst the group.
Stonewall studied the newcomer; it marked the first time he had seen one in person.
Two eyes and a pointed nose, a mouth with thinner lips than a man's and ears without lobes, but otherwise a close match to humanity in appearance including two legs and opposable thumbs with ten total fingers on two hands.
The alien would have stood only as tall and wide as Garrett himself, if not for his equipment that gave him more bulk, including an open-faced helmet with a curved visor that, Stonewall knew, served a myriad of functions. Patches of bright silver armor protected his arms and thighs while knee-high heavy boots with various metallic fixtures-no doubt to aid landing-covered his lower legs.
All the apparatus combined to give the alien added size: an illusion of greater presence.
While this race’s natural skin tones varied from gray to dull yellow, silver served as their predominant color as found in the trimmings of their battle gear as well as a silver cosmetic rubbed on their cheeks, necks, and other exposed areas. As the newcomer stared at Stonewall with an intense glare, the pupils in the alien's eyes morphed from green to a soft red. The true power of California joined the discussion. The Witiko. — Trevor Stone flipped another page in the binder and read yet another column of text and numbers. Scribbled notes in Omar Nehru's nearly illegible hand writing marred the margins.
Those columns dealt with industrial output from both the ‘matter makers’ stolen from the alien Hivvans as well as traditional manufacturing. Omar’s notes drew attention to looming shortages in rubber and plastics.
However, the definition of ‘shortage’ changed over the years. Not too long ago, shortages meant starvation, disease, or forced a halt in the war effort. Nowadays, shortages meant inconvenience and rationing.
Expansion across what had once been the continental United States resulted in greater access to natural resources. Perhaps more important, over the last four years the nature of the war had changed. With only remnants of the Grand Army of the Hivvan Republic remaining in isolated outposts in the Caribbean, The Empire faced mainly alien wildlife and human warlords and little in the way of organized military forces during the push west.
Of course, the 'liberation' of North America still left vast tracks of land-including several metropolitan areas-filled with dangerous predators, keeping the K9/paramilitary "Hunter-Killer" teams busy. Travel between population centers remained dangerous.
At the same time, Trevor appreciated the growing stockpiles of fuel, munitions, and equipment that resulted from the reduction in all-out warfare. Of course, those stockpiles would soon be called upon to tackle California.
That unpleasant thought caused him to snap shut the binder and slam it on the table next to the easy chair, startling the black and gray Norwegian Elkhound sleeping at his feet. Tyr raised his head, eyed his Master, and then slept again. The dog had aged from vibrant hunter and fighter to a tired veteran whose role as the Emperor’s personal K9 became more a symbol than a true bodyguard.
Trevor rubbed his eyes and glanced around the chamber. The VIP stateroom offered significantly more space than the typical quarters of a dreadnought, but still felt cramped due to the slanted, low ceiling and lack of windows. The decorator had attempted to hide the dull gray walls behind paintings of famous historical battles (Gettysburg, El Alamein, Five Armies, etc.,) and fine furniture such as a sofa and coffee table. Regardless, the dressing could not chase away a claustrophobic feel.
Part of that feel came from the constant low hum carrying through the ship. It did not matter if you walked the catwalks above the building-sized anti-gravity generators, stood in one of the VT amp;L launch pad standby rooms at the stern of the craft or, for that matter, sat reading in the Emperor’s personal quarters, the hum remained constant. Even the crews on the fixed-wing flight deck could hear that hum when not engaged in take off and landing operations.
He stood and walked through a tight archway, leaving behind the main room for the master bedroom: a queen-sized bed flanked by nightstands. In there, the art work was more personal, such as pictures from JB’s kindergarten graduation and a snapshot of the Atlantic Ocean taken from Trevor’s summer beach house in New Jersey.
A suitcase rested at the end of the bed. He sighed, zipped it open, and unpacked despite knowing his stay aboard the Excalibur would be short.
He carried his shaving kit into the bathroom, writing a mental note to remember to cut away the stubble on his cheeks in the morning. He had already cut away a few inches of hair and indulged in a ‘professional’ manicure.
While not quite qualifying as sacrifices, he found such trivialities annoying. However, he knew the Witiko to be a vain people. He knew their ways held influence over the Governor and his cabinet. Investing in extra grooming might pay dividends at the bargaining table.
Bargaining table?
Trevor stopped in front of the bathroom mirror, rewound that thought, and played it again.
What bargaining table?
There would be no bargaining. That had been and would continue to be the story of his rule. The Old Man never said anything about bargaining, but said plenty about fighting, killing, and sacrifice.
Trevor found his eyes in the mirror.
Who you kidding?
The other Trevor-the one who had led an invasion army to an alien world in a parallel universe-never needed an old man to learn how to kill. It had been his nature.
He stared at the reflection and thought about what he knew lay beneath the surface. He wondered if that surface had the strength to keep the monster inside at bay.
Lori had suggested that the difference between the Trevor Stone she knew and the Trevor Stone in that other universe revolved around his friends as well as humbling experiences such as finding Sheila’s diary or…or falling in love with Nina.
He hoped that would be enough.
It is one thing, he figured, for a man to know his limitations. It is another to realize that maybe…just maybe…he had no limitations.
A soft buzz pulled Trevor away from another bout of introspection. Part of him knew he spent too much time dwelling on the revelations of another world. Distractions could be deadly.
He moved out of the bathroom and to the stateroom door to answer the bell, pulling a heavy handle and sliding open the metal door.
Jon Brewer stood there in full dress uniform: gray and black with lines of metals and ribbons. Dress uniforms, a pet project of an Imperial Senate sub-committee, entered circulation a year ago but were rarely worn outside of dinner parties in Washington, D.C. Brewer smiled, Trevor frowned. "Come on now, it’s tradition for you to eat at the Captain’s table." "You’re going to make me wear mine? You can’t be serious."
"Yes, I’m serious," Jon insisted. "I’ve got a bunch of junior officers on board and they’re looking forward to eating with their Emperor. Do I need to give you the speech about how these guys are fighting and dying for you?"
"All right, all right. Give me a sec."
Trevor's version differed from Jon’s at the collar where gold braids stood out on the black fabric. He dressed carefully, as if handling hazardous materials. Trevor did not feel comfortable with the title "Emperor" and he felt even less comfortable with the trappings of that rank.
Tyr accompanied the two men as they exited the VIP quarters and walked the corridor.
As with the other two operational dreadnoughts, the Excalibur offered more square footage than the downtown districts of most small cities. The passages resembled those found in naval vessels but somewhat larger, offering room for two men to walk abreast as well as ceilings tall enough for even Jon-at over six feet-to stand straight.
The core building material went by the name of "Steel Plus," a composite that would be impossible if not for the matter makers. Omar Nehru had developed his understanding of the machines to the point that he managed to tweak the molecular deconstruction and reconstruction phases, allowing him to combine various materials into something new.
"Steel Plus" offered strength several times greater than its namesake but at substantial weight savings.
The available production of Steel Plus remained earmarked for the dreadnought program. That program envisioned three more of the massive ships to join the trio in service as well as a total of four Super Carrier cargo vessels. Additional uses for Steel Plus would have to wait the estimated five more years for the construction of the floating giants to finish.
None of the ships would be possible without captured alien technology, from those matter-makers blending special materials to anti-gravity technology that not only kept the ships flying but also provided tools that made the building process easier.
They left the executive living section, moved through a dorm area where nearly five hundred shipmates quartered, and continued along a passageway deep in the center of the ship. This stretch was known as ‘the spine’ because the halls there ran alongside the main support tube; a solid rod of Steel Plus' nearly one hundred feet in diameter stretching from bow to stern.
Along the way they passed storage rooms and power junction stations, a galley and a medical bay. Intercoms, fire suppression controls, and first aid lockers lined the gray walls. Every few minutes a harsh, quick tone broadcast over the address system to warn of an incoming message, followed by a synthesized voice. "Warning, flight operations underway." "Attention, Fire Control Drills Scheduled for Section Delta-Four in 30 minutes." "Crewman Mangus report to the nearest Security Station."
Trevor and Jon boarded an elevator and ascended into a wide, tall tower at the ship's stern. One of the upper decks hosted a rectangular chamber serving the dual roles of meeting room and Captain’s mess. While Jon Brewer officially held the title of "General," he commanded the Excalibur and hence played the part of Captain.
A half-dozen officers-most of them young enough to qualify as kids and evenly split between men and women-snapped to attention around a table draped in white linen.
Trevor circled the table, making eye contact with everyone in the room. At moments like this, he understood Lori Brewer's assertion that power is given, not taken. He felt it in the way they looked to him. A mixture of awe and fear and respect. They would do anything for him. How intoxicating a feeling and one that scared him.
Before sitting, he gazed out the observation windows facing aft overlooking a series of terraced levels descending away from the tower. There he saw circular landing pads designed to accept helicopters and 'Eagle' airships, as well as clusters of anti-air batteries and arrays of antennas. Around the giant vessel swirled misty gray clouds in twilight, generating a close feeling as if the dreadnought occupied an enclosed space, as opposed to actually hovering ten thousand feet above the Arizona desert. He felt their eyes staring at his back, waiting for his words, his commands. Expecting someone much more than a mere man. Trevor turned and walked to the head of the table saying, "Please, be seated." The group did as instructed. Trevor, at the head of the table, leaned to his left and whispered to Jon, "Who’s the brain tonight?" "Bear. Bear Ross."
Trevor nodded in approval. He knew Ross-a former professional football player-as a tough and competent officer. As it turned out, Ross also possessed the mental and physical reflexes to be the "brain" of a dreadnought.
White-dressed waiters swept the room with trays of meat and potatoes and beans and fruit. Plates clanked and silverware jingled, cloth napkins found laps and pitchers poured wine and water into goblets.
"It’s an honor for me to sit at the table with such a fine group of officers," Trevor made conversation as dishes arrived. He sought for and found formal words because they expected eloquent speech from their Emperor. "The Excalibur is not the fleet’s flagship by accident."
Trevor studied their reactions. Some stared humbly at their plates, others smiled without control. Even the simplest words of praise elicited gushes of joy from his followers. A young officer asked, "Sir, do you think California will surrender without a fight?" "Do you want them to?" "No, sir! We haven’t had a good fight in a long while."
He wanted to tell the man, ‘good, we don’t want to fight.’ Instead he answered, "I know you’re up to the challenge, should it come to that."
Trevor really did not have anything more to say, but they waited for more words so he obliged, "California is a delicate situation. When I meet with them tomorrow…"
Trevor’s attempt to provide a general overview of the situation in a calm, soothing manner fell apart as a phone mounted under the table rang with an obnoxious buzz.
Brewer answered and after a pause asked, "What? When?"
Jon returned the phone to its cradle, took to his feet, and marched in hurried steps to an audio-visual cabinet saying, "That was Ross. He’s getting a video feed from California that we’ve got to see. He’s piping it down here." Trevor stood, his cloth napkin fluttered to the floor. Some of the other officers stood, too, as if ready for action. "A video feed? From California? The Cooperative?" Trevor lost the eloquence in his voice. Jon flipped open a cabinet revealing a large television attached to a variety of recorders, transmitters, projectors, and more. "From California, but not The Cooperative." Brewer pushed a switch on the television set. A picture came into focus. "Jon…who? What?"
"The media. Our media. As for the rest…you just better watch."
The dark set shimmied with light and static. As the picture took form so did an identification tag on the top right of the screen. This identified the video as raw feed meant for a television station somewhere further east. There the station would edit the footage and prepare it for broadcast.
Jon translated the tag: "Looks like it’s bouncing off the relay station in Phoenix. That’s how we’re getting it."
Trevor and Jon both knew that for the transmission to travel all the way to the east coast it had to leap frog from transmitter to transmitter. Satellite feeds were a rarity and, if successful, counted as much on luck as planning.
"Yeah," Trevor squinted as the image took shape. "But you can bet it’ll be on the news networks in twenty minutes."
The camera framed a set of stone stairs, apparently the entrance to a city hall or mansion serving as a backdrop to a stand of microphones and a trio of players.
Trevor recognized the man to the right of the bank of microphones. He had exchanged letters with him for weeks now and studied the man’s face in intelligence photos. He wore a fine silk suit with a silver tie draped over the hint of a belly. His spotless, creamy complexion helped him appear a decade younger than his actual age of fifty.
Governor Terrance Malloy.
Trevor knew the man had not always been Governor. At the time of the invasion, he ranked somewhere far down the line of succession, if at all. His rise to power, from what Imperial Intelligence uncovered, had come with little legal support. However, few people asked questions when they were busy fighting for their lives.
The man to the left of microphones also looked familiar to Trevor, but he could not immediately place the face. The fellow sported a perfect tan, broad shoulders, a pearly white smile, and jet black hair that appeared welded in place.
However, Trevor immediately recognized the third man, the one speaking at the microphone.
Evan Godfrey.
President of and Senator in the Imperial Senate as well as a member of the Imperial Council.
Jon gasped, "Wow. Evan. Um. Wow."
Trevor felt a tremble in the pit of his stomach that vibrated through his person. His cheeks burned red, his teeth clamped together. Jon noticed and told the attendees to, "Clear this room." Trevor mumbled, "What…is…he…doing…in…" Evan’s voice-beaming over the airwaves and destined for the ears of all The Empire-explained for himself.
"I have come here to shine the light of truth on California. To present this truth to my fellow citizens. To unmask the costume of mischaracterization that has been crafted by the military. To show that the people of California are our friends, not enemies."
Off-camera applause confirmed that the three men spoke not only for the camera, but to a live audience.
"I came here of my own accord, not as the President of the Senate but as a citizen. A citizen not merely of The Empire, but of Earth. Governor Malloy and the people of California have been gracious hosts and I have spent the last twelve hours meeting not only with the leaders here, but with the people. I come away with one overwhelming impression. California is a refuge for humanity and fertile ground on which a new era of partnership and interstellar camaraderie has begun to grow."
Again, more applause.
Evan held his hands aloft to quiet the enthusiastic response.
"When I return home, I will tell my fellow citizens that California is not to be feared. That The Cooperative is not to be feared. And that the Witiko are our friends."
Thunderous applause.
"And I shall tell the Emperor do not attack these people! Live and let live in peace! The time for war is over! Now is the time for healing!"
Godfrey allowed the glorious reaction to carry on for several long seconds. He turned to the Governor and shook his hand and then turned to the other man and nodded.
When the crowd finally calmed he continued, "I want to take a moment to offer a special thanks to the two men standing here with me. The Governor- your Governor, a man who shares his power and rules with the consent of his people-took a great risk in accepting my request to visit. A great deal of distrust exists between our two nations. But Governor Malloy- Terrance — is a man of vision and peace. He knows that you must take risks for the sake of the future and sometimes the biggest risk is not to fight, but to talk. Thank you, Governor."
More applause but this round faded fast.
"And Brad, you may have the hardest job of all…"
Brad..?
Trevor mulled the first name about. Jon, however, found the answer: "That’s Brad Gannon."
Trevor responded in surprise, "The actor? Holy shit, you’re right. It is."
Brad Gannon had been a young and upcoming Hollywood heart throb prior to Armageddon, having wooed the young female demographic with a series of romantic comedies despite critics likening his performances to plywood. He often popped up in the shadow of Hollywood's heavy hitters at activist events, like global warming protests and anti-war rallies.
The summer of the invasion promised to be a big year for Brad Gannon as he stepped up to action movies. Yet the big break never came and no one paid attention to celebrities once the monsters started appearing. At that point, the Hollywood elite were just other men in an ‘every man for himself’ environment.
Apparently Gannon had found a role in California.
Godfrey finished his speech, "Brad, I’m personally counting on you to take the message of peaceful coexistence to my people. Me, I’m a politician. A leader, if you will. But you are a familiar face from before the war. I think the people back east will want to see this from your perspective. I’m counting on you to change hearts and set the record straight."
Brad stepped forward, shook Evan's hand, and spoke.
"Thank you, Senator. This is, just, a great day for California. I think I speak for everyone here when I say that you, Evan, are really, just, well, just high speed. And you are the first bit of hope that maybe we can all just get along."
More applause. Gannon smiled a big, brilliant white smile.
"What the people of your, um, Empire need to know is that California fought longer and harder than the rest of the country when things started happening. Our policemen and soldiers and even ordinary citizens fought for five years. Up and down the coast, in the mountains, in the desert. We, just, stuck together and, I think, California really showed what it’s made of."
A clap. Then two. A round of clapping.
"But there’s something else everyone needs to know, too. We were losing. The Witiko came to this Earth and were told we were their enemies. So they, just, fought us. And after five years they had us on the ropes. But then, almost five years ago now, they came to us to seek peace. They told us that they had grown tired of war and wanted to live with us in peace. Just like that. They chose this, when they had us beaten. I think that speaks a lot about the greatness of the Witiko and how we can all just get along."
The signal flickered, then steadied. Perhaps a sign of the camera jostling or maybe interference in the transmission. It did not matter, Trevor barely noticed. He watched everything through a veil of red.
"And that’s the point here, you know? That’s the lesson we’ve learned," Gannon did his best to deliver a speech on the scale of the Gettysburg address but, as he had done in so many movies, he fumbled his lines. "It's not just about the individual, or even about us. I mean, people. I think we’ve learned it’s a bigger universe. So with that in mind I, just, want to introduce some one who really deserves a lot of credit. I’d like to introduce Chancellor D’Trayne."
The applause boomed. Everyone around the microphones clapped; Evan hardest of all. Brad Gannon retreated a step to make room for the next speaker. The camera pulled out to catch the approach of D’Trayne.
The tall alien stepped forward with a nod of his head and his eyes blinking rapidly as if emotion threatened to overwhelm his dignity. He dressed in a toga-style robe with a body suit of a kind underneath. As with all his people, silver played the prominent color, particularly on the otherwise gray alien’s arms and cheeks where the Witiko’s favorite cosmetic had been applied in generous doses.
Chancellor D’Trayne shook Gannon’s hand, he shook Governor Malloy’s hand, and then dramatically reached across and firmly grasped Evan Godfrey’s hand.
Then the Witiko faced the camera, and smiled.
– The Mohave County Courthouse had been constructed of tufa stone nearly a hundred years prior in a town that had itself been carved out of hard surroundings. The city of Kingman took its name from an early railroad surveyor and, after World War II, billed itself as the ‘heart’ of historic Route 66, a passage made famous in song and legend.
Situated in the Hualapai Valley between the Cerbat and Hualapai mountain ranges, Kingman offered dramatic natural vistas in all directions. However, the most striking scenery that morning came not from nature but from man…and alien.
To the southeast along a jagged wall of mountains hovered the Excalibur, a thousand feet in the air, its massive shadow covering a dead bedroom community.
To the west, on the grounds of Kingman Muncipal Golf Course, sat three silver and black Stingray cruisers. While not nearly as imposing as the dreadnought, the fact that they had flown into the city without appearing on the Excalibur’s radar made them seem giants.
The courthouse in downtown Kingman held the middle ground.
Trevor Stone sat at a square table in the center of a large meeting room. A pair of Doberman pinschers stood rigidly near the east exit. Jon Brewer and two soldiers in dress uniforms-side arms only-waited in the wings.
Chancellor D’Trayne occupied a seat on the opposite side of the table flanked by Governor Malloy and Brad Gannon. Senator Evan Godfrey stood nearby. Two Witiko guards-side arms only-covered the west exit. "I suppose I should break the ice," Godfrey offered after two full minutes of silence. "You have no business here," Trevor replied without even glancing at Evan. Brand Gannon smiled and raised his hands, palms out, in a conciliatory fashion. "Hey, let’s get this off on the right foot, right? I mean, Evan here has been a great help."
Trevor kept his eyes on Chancellor D’Trayne and paid little attention to the humans on the far side of the table. In his mind, they might as well not even be there, regardless of any political gobbledygook suggesting otherwise.
D’Trayne’s eyes wavered between light yellow and light green. The silver lotion on his cheeks sparkled. To Trevor, the make up looked ridiculous; a concession to ego the way aristocrats of centuries past would powder their faces and wear wigs.
Trevor spoke directly to the Witiko, "Evan Godfrey has no authority here, unless you need funding for a sewage project. Whatever he’s told you, forget it. I am in charge."
"That’s right," Evan broke in. "You are in charge, Trevor. I know you may be mad at me for coming here, but I did it for you. To explain to these people more about you. About how you’re not a brutal despot. I told them that there’s more to you than conquering and killing."
He tried to ignore those words but they did strike a cord, reminding Trevor of his meetings with Lori. His fears.
"That’s right, Evan. You’re absolutely right. I don’t want to fight the people of California. I don’t want to fight the Witiko."
The Chancellor’s eyes turned full green. Governor Malloy stammered then boomed, "This is great news! You are indeed a reasonable man, Trevor Stone." Gannon echoed, "Ah, man, that’s just fantastic. Just, you know, fantastic." Trevor did not pull his eyes from D’Trayne. "I offer the Witiko peaceful passage through the runes to their home world."
The alien’s eyes flashed red for a moment, then green, then softened to yellow. Trevor found himself impressed by how well D’Trayne controlled his eyes considering the colors in his pupils apparently reflected his emotions.
"Aww Christ," Gannon huffed and slumped in his chair.
"The Witiko are our allies," Malloy attempted to counter the offer that Trevor had made on numerous occasions in recent months. "They are our partner and friends."
"Friends?" Trevor spat the word.
Godfrey said, "Think of how much greater we would be with the Witiko as allies. Don’t make the mistake of thinking them enemies. You don’t want to be on the wrong side again."
Again?
Trevor did not understand Evan’s reference, but it did remind him once more that, in the other universe, Trevor had fought for the wrong side.
Malloy reasoned, "If they were not our friends, then why would they have stopped fighting when they had us beat? You must remember this. It is important."
Trevor allowed a hint of a smile to curl at the edge of his mouth, but still kept his focus on the Chancellor who remained motionless and silent except for yellow to green pupils.
"They just stopped fighting, what, five years ago?"
"Yes. I remember," Malloy told Stone in a voice that suggested deep admiration for the Witiko’s gesture. "My predecessor, the former Governor who led the war effort, died in a tragic accident and I assumed the reins of leadership. I feared I would be remembered as the leader who watched humanity be destroyed. Instead, I was approached by the Chancellor who offered peace. I accepted, and together we washed the blood from our hands and forged The Cooperative."
Trevor saw why Evan liked Malloy so much; they spoke the same language.
"Do you want to know why the dear, peace-loving Chancellor sued for peace?" Trevor asked. Bright red flashed in the enemy’s pupils. D’Trayne tilted his head and willed his eyes green again. "The Witiko sued for peace because I shut down his gateway. I cut off his reinforcements and supplies."
More red. Then yellow. Then almost orange.
"The Witiko sought an end to the war because they feared their ability to fight that war. The Chancellor here found himself stranded with his foot on the throat of a dangerous enemy but all alone. So what did he do? He bargained. He bargained from what you thought was a position of strength, so you gave in because you thought you were saving yourselves but the truth is that you saved the Witiko."
"That’s a lie!" Malloy burst.
"Hey, man," Gannon tried his best to sound stern but came across as childish. "You don’t know what you’re talking about. D’Trayne here is, just, a great guy. They coulda wiped us out, but they didn’t."
"Oh no? Tell me something, Governor, what’s the human birth rate in California?"
Malloy straightened in his chair and wavered. Trevor held a hand aloft.
"Don’t bother, I’ll tell you. You’re at zero population growth and the life expectancy of your citizens is falling, fast. Probably because your average guy in California has to work two jobs to get enough credits to eat and usually one of those jobs is in a Witiko factory or mine."
Evan jumped, "Don’t even try that, Trevor. These are no slaves here."
Gannon spoke, "Hey, it’s just, we have limited resources so we gotta watch how many babies we’re making."
Malloy assured, "Every one in California has a role to play. There are more humans than Witiko therefore humans make up the bulk of the labor force."
Trevor nodded. "Right. Humans are the peasants while the Witiko and a few select people sit at the top like royalty."
"Don’t preach about royalty," Evan warned. "Not when you’re the undisputed leader of an Empire. California has more democracy than-"
"Democracy? I know how they work. A ruling class. Assemblymen appointed for life. Leaders come only from that pool and the only way to get in is to be selected by the Chancellor or Governor. That’s right, I know about your Cooperative because there are plenty of people living in it who want out. They’ve been talking to us for months."
Evan countered, "There’s always the disgruntled. There are always those who are unhappy. How many people back home would love to see you go?"
Trevor did not take the bait. He kept his attention on the one voice on the other side of the table that mattered; the one voice yet to be heard.
"Here’s the deal," the Emperor found the bottom line and gave it directly to D’Trayne. "I don’t want to fight you. I offer you passage to your home world through the runes. These guys may not know what that means but you do. I have fought and killed thousands of invaders and I am tired of killing. I don’t want my people to die and I don’t want to kill your people. We’ll send you home, safe passage guaranteed." Malloy, Gannon, and Godfrey all tried to speak. Their words mixed together into an unrecognizable mish-mash. Chancellor D’Trayne silenced them. "This is our planet now, too, Trevor Stone."
The alien spoke in a soft voice but his words carried much weight in part because his eyes shined a luminous green. He needed no translation device; he spoke in perfect English, apparently as comfortable with the language as-Trevor understood-all Witiko had become.
"I offer a negotiated peace. I offer to share our technology with you. I offer to merge our great races into one nation and to help you fight off the rest of the invaders. But I will not leave this planet. You will find that my people do not retreat." Trevor eased in his chair. "I offer your people a chance to return to their home. You do not belong here. I will not tolerate your presence here." Evan barked, "It is not up to you to make the decisions for all humanity."
"You have no authority to attack us," Malloy shot. "We have chosen to ally with the Witiko. Attacking us would be immoral and wrong."
"You would be nothing more than Ghengis Khan or Hitler," Evan suggested in a tempered tone that came across more a warning than an insult. "You don’t want to invade. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself."
Trevor finished, "There is nothing more to say. I have communicated with you for nearly a year. My message has not changed. We have arrived at a juncture, Chancellor. There will be no more negotiation. You must decide."
The Chancellor stood. Trevor did the same.
"The Witiko do not take well to threats."
Trevor corrected, "You mean The Cooperative, don’t you?"
D’Trayne’s eyes burnt crimson. The alien leader turned to Evan Godfrey.
"You are a wise man, Senator Godfrey. Perhaps you can still salvage this situation before it deteriorates into war."
Trevor said forcefully, "Time is running out Chancellor. I will give you a few days to consider. Your choice is simple; return to the home world from where you came, or die here, on my world in a fight you could have avoided."
The Chancellor suggested grimly, "Perhaps some things are unavoidable."