Ten years before, on the day the hellish creatures and invading militia appeared on Earth en masse, Richard 'Trevor' Stone had run away from the dead bodies of his parents and into the forest, where he met the Old Man.
A decade later on a surprisingly warm, mid-May morning nearly two weeks after the funeral procession for Stonewall McAllister, Trevor Stone entered those woods again.
Trevor consulted the Old Man on occasion, hunting for clues to the greater purpose of the invasion or to seek counsel. In both cases, his mysterious benefactor rarely provided any useful information, other than to remind Trevor of his purpose: kill all aliens.
However, in the three years since his return from an alternate Earth, Trevor tended to walk into those woods for something else: companionship, in some bizarre fashion.
The mixed eastern forest burst with spring, a stark contrast to the Fall-like brooding in Trevor's belly. Birds of Earthly origin swooped through the tree tops where young broad leafs grew a canopy of fresh green. Shrubs and wildflowers sprouted with color and the smell of life slowly overcame the rotting stench of last autumn's dead foliage.
Trevor found the Old Man sitting by his campfire with his white wolf. To Trevor's surprise, the Old Man seemed delighted about something. Trevor had not seen the old timer in such a mood since the day Trevor aired his frustration over nuclear warheads failing to detonate. The Old Man had found that whole situation amusing while physicists found it inexplicable.
The thing mimicking an Old Man noted Trevor's glum disposition.
"Now, what's got you all gloom 'n doom, Trev? The ways I see it, you should be making with the whoopee's. You put your toesies in the Pacific. Pretty good work."
"Yeah, sure," Trevor sat on red rock. "Can I ask you something?"
The Old Man rolled his eyes. When they had first met the entity told Trevor not to ask questions, yet Trevor rarely visited the Old Man and did not have questions.
"There is no other way, right? I mean, I couldn't have let The California Cooperative stay in one piece. The Witiko had to go, right?"
"Ha! That sounds like three questions, Trevy," the man failed to lighten the mood.
After two weeks of reading bad press it would take much more to chase away Trevor's gloom. Voices across the spectrum complained about casualties, the missile strike, and a military-intelligence conspiracy. Some of the outcry came from a general weariness after a decade of fighting. However, Trevor also knew he bore some of the responsibility for the problem, not only from the missile strike but also from the rift between himself and the Senate.
"Now lemme give you one little piece of skinny on them Witiko. Get them out fast. Personally, I'd much rather you put the sword to all of them, those silver tongued devils. Sometimes I wonder if they ain't up to more than meets the eye in all this."
"Nothing has changed over the years, has it? You said I had to survive, fight, and sacrifice. On and on it goes. I'm a link on that chain, right? Thing is, from where I’m standing I don't see any other links. I just see myself."
The Old Man's good mood over something-seemingly more than the defeat of the Witiko-loosened his lips.
"Oh, yeah, Trev. You know, every bit of life on this here rock comes from one seed, yessir. A seed that sprouted roots and grew a big tree, hehe. Over there, on one branch, is a red robin, and over there is a lion out there prowlin' the jungle being the king of his shit. All branches on a tree. But all from one seed, Trevor. One-oh, now what would the eggheads call it? — one gee-netic strand."
"Strand?" Trevor mulled the word. "You mean, chain?"
"From that seed came one pure root of life, going straight up the middle of that tree while everything else was branchin' off. Take a look at yourself, Trevor. Some folks can trace their grandparents back to coming off the boat from Italy, others all the way back to royalty in the old world or Chinese dynasties or whatever. But you can trace your great-times-a million-or-so grandparents back to the first slimy little things that swam around in the primordial soup."
Trevor extrapolated, "Life. Our entire ecosystem. The fight is about the entire genetic pattern. We've got a lot in common with the Duass and the Geryons and all, but each a little different. But wait, Voggoth and his bunch are completely different. And from what I saw, he doesn't have an Earth to defend. Why doesn't Voggoth have something to lose?"
"Oh, now what's that old thing they used to sing on Sesame Street? What was it?" The Old Man tried-poorly-to carry a melody, "One of these things don't belong with the other, one of these tings just ain't the same…"
Trevor cut off the song: "Okay, Voggoth is different. But he still has troops here. And he sure has been messing with the works, right? He got the humans in that other world to lure me over. I'm thinking he did that not only to hurt my Earth but to help me beat up the Chaktaw on their Earth. The way I figure, he was trying to wipe out two races with one move."
"Yeah, ole' Voggoth has pulled a few fast ones, that's for sure," the Old Man said, "But we done a few things ourselves to try and righten that, didn't we?"
Trevor figured the Old Man had broken the 'rules' that governed the invasion by sharing knowledge of the runes, which first helped him find those runes here, then helped him seek out those runes on the Chaktaw's Earth as a means of getting home. That posed another question.
"Let me guess, you guys can play fast and loose with time, too?"
"I told you time don't mean nothin'. It's irrelevant. Just made up by men. I suppose, though, if you were to think of creation as a big bottle of soda pop, then inside all the fizz is a bunch of bubbles, each one their own bubble of what you think of as time. But look, you know I can't be sayin' too much. Still playin' by the rules, as much as those rules are getting' fudged-up these days. Yessir, things getting' all haywire and no one is liking that too much, let me tell you."
Trevor spied a glint in the Old Man's eye. A mischievous glint. He invited, "Tell me what's on your mind, old timer."
"Now I can't go makin' a bunch of noise, but let's just say you're doing pretty good. In fact, some are thinking you're going to get it done. But some other folks ain't doin' as well, hehe."
Trevor jumped, "Are you trying to tell me that on some other Earth a race is losing?"
"I'm not tellin' you nothin'!" the Old Man's words sounded defensive but he winked as he spoke. "None-the-however, you sure are doin' good, relatively speaking. Real good."
Trevor considered ten years of warfare, the slaughter at New Winnabow, the weed-like re-growth of politics, the distance between himself and Ashley, the loss of Nina, and the bloodshed in California.
"Yes," he mumbled. "I'm doing real good."
– Ashley followed the photographer's direction and stepped to her left, crowding a little closer to the big smelly guy with the cowboy hat while two children stood in front, each with a wounded K9 at their side.
Ray Roos-Chief of Security for the estate-shuffled out of the way, as did Ashley's two assistants who helped organize public relations events such as this.
Around the photographer buzzed a quartet of reporters. Ashley recognized the anxiousness in how they paced, tapped their notebooks, and darted their eyes about. She nearly felt sorry for them. There they were inside the hollowed grounds of the Emperor's estate but stuck at the canine barn covering a story about families and wounded dogs.
One of the reporters asked with little enthusiasm, "Mrs. Stone, has the Grenadier adoption program been a success?"
The reporter turned his eyes to his notebook, pencil ready, to copy the pat answer certain to follow. Ashley hesitated, ever so slightly, at the title "Mrs. Stone."
That title implied marriage to Trevor, something that had never occurred. Marriage, in turn, implied confidence, commitment, romance, and child-rearing. While she had confidence in Trevor and raised his child, their 'relationship' no longer held either commitment or romance. When Trevor had disappeared three years ago, Ashley feared she lost him to the forces of Armageddon only to learn that she had lost him to the forces of the heart.
"We've placed more than five hundred K9s through the program."
The camera flashed, the shutter snapped, and the photographer adjusted so as to include the nearby memorial statue of a stalwart dog of indeterminate breed in the next picture.
"Mrs. Stone, are there concerns about the temperament of the K9s around kids?"
"Not at all. Grenadiers placed in homes are even more affectionate then the household pets we knew before the invasion."
Ashley had known since the day they pulled her from her ark ride in a coffin of green goo that the Richard Stone she knew no longer existed. Fair enough, because it did not take long for the new reality to changer her, too. She found a purpose as the softer side of the Emperor and as mother to their very special boy. In the old world, such a role might have sounded limited but she knew she served the same cause as Trevor in her own way.
A reporter asked, "What are some of the typical injuries to the K9s?"
"Most have lost legs, eyes, ears, and require specialized diets and physical therapy."
Ashley spied Gordon Knox walking with one of his subordinates around the corner of the mansion. After a moment, Gordon dismissed the young man and watched the show.
"How many of the K9s are available for adoption?"
Gordon scared Ashley but also fascinated her, the way a person might admire the symmetry of a hurricane. She knew he had grown fond of her, perhaps because she was unattainable. People tended to covet things beyond their grasp.
"We currently have fifty-two canines waiting for adoption. Several dozen more will be available in a few weeks as they are released from veterinarian care."
While his attraction unnerved Ashley, she knew he would not approach her: Gordon held a fanatical devotion to Trevor Stone and would never betray that trust.
"Mrs. Stone, do you think it was right for your husband to assassinate the human leaders of The California Cooperative when the war was already won?"
Usually surprise questions would not catch Ashley unprepared, but she had been lulled into daydreams. Her smile faltered enough that the reporters sensed an opportunity to strike.
"Were you shocked at the number of Imperial casualties?"
"Any plans to set up an adoption program like this for the orphans in California?"
She spoke to the man with the cowboy hat and two children, "Thank you for adopting. Unfortunately, I believe our pleasant morning has come to an end. If you'll excuse me…"
Ashley motioned for the family and their new pets to follow her assistants away from the brewing skirmish. Those assistants wavered, unsure if they should abandon her. Ashley, however, had become quite adept at handling the press. But in case she failed, just outside the peripheral view of the reporters lingered Gordon Knox, a guard dog in his own right.
She answered, "The California invasion was unfortunate. I only wish the extraterrestrials had chosen to return to their home, instead of causing more destruction to ours."
Gordon smiled in approval causing Ashley to smile a little, too, as they shared the fun in her playing the press. Yet beneath her smile lingered that unease.
"Don't you feel any remorse over all the human casualties?"
"I grieve for all the victims of the alien invasion, including the millions murdered in California by the Witiko. I admire the people of California for fighting against the aliens for five years. I wish we could have helped them sooner."
"Is it the Emperor's plan to overrun any government that opposes his rule?"
"Trevor's plan has been the same since the early days when he gathered a handful of survivors on the grounds of this estate: expel the invaders who came to our planet without provocation. Even as we speak, millions of human beings around the world remain enslaved or living in harsh conditions, something to which every citizen of The Empire can relate. It remains our duty to save those people the same way Trevor, directly or indirectly, saved each of us."
Unable to knock her off balance, the four reporters hesitated.
She took the opening to end the session: "Thank you. I hope you have a wonderful day."
Ray Roos jumped in and led the reporters toward the main gate. Ashley watched them go, purposely keeping her eyes on the group longer than needed. When she felt she could avoid it no longer, she turned toward the corner of the mansion. Gordon had gone.
– Trevor Stone finished lunch in the basement cafeteria of the Methodist church near the estate. Dustin McBride long ago painted a caricature of the kitchen's founder, Sal Corso, on a wall behind the counter. Sal had died in a Red Hand-or Feranite-attack that first year.
As Trevor climbed the stairs and exited the building with his faithful companion Tyr at his side, he found it ironic that Dustin had painted the picture of Sal who had been killed by the Red Hands and now, far away in the mountains of Colorado, Dustin's cavalry tracked a large band of those same alien warriors through the wilderness.
According to the latest report, snowfall during April had inhibited the pursuit for weeks. The search restarted, but the unit faced slow going in the rough terrain along the Colorado and Wyoming border. A lack of available air reconnaissance assets-due to California commitments-aggravated the situation.
Reports from other quarters offered better news. The surviving five Witiko Stingrays were safely under military control. Furthermore, while the highest ranking Witiko officers remained in Internal Security holding areas preparing for testimony before the Senate, a large portion of the rank and file had shuffled through the gate. Dante, it seemed, managed to do something right.
That thought gave him pause. He considered that maybe he was being too hard on his old friend. Dante, no doubt, felt stuck in the middle. And while the I.S. Director sometimes seemed too close to Evan, Jones had managed to smooth things over after the New Winnabow affair. Without his negotiations the situation could have deteriorated.
Trevor arrived at the mansion and entered. Lori Brewer's voice carried along the hall from her office in the old dining room: "Alllrrigghtty then, would you like me to get Trevor on the phone? He personally requested those food stuffs get up to Renton this week."
Of course, Trevor did not know a word of what Lori discussed but he approved, nonetheless. She had her own way of getting things done.
Just like Dante? Maybe he has his own way, too?
Trevor climbed the stairs to his second floor office where Dante Jones stood at the glass balcony doors, staring out toward the front grounds of the estate and the lake waters.
He spoke without turning, "I really didn't want this job when you first gave it to me. But I figured it would be easy, right? I mean, back then there were hardly any of us. So even though I didn't have any experience being a cop, I figured I could just use my common sense and all. Man, things have gotten a lot more complicated."
Trevor crossed the room and stopped several paces behind his old friend.
"Yeah, well, I didn't want you to handle Internal Security because of experience. Back then, no one had experience doing anything. The way I saw it, the slate was wiped clean. A new start for everyone. So I wanted you nearby. Maybe I was selfish, but the truth is that I wanted my friend at my side because I always could trust your judgment." "Seems to me, Trev, you don't trust my judgment anymore." Trevor ran a hand through his hair, sighed, and stood alongside his friend. "I'm sorry. Two weeks ago, at Stonewall's service, I jumped all over you. I shouldn't have done that."
"Yeah, well, I kinda guessed that you weren't jumping all over me. You were jumping all over the Senate, I just happened to be standing nearby."
"I suppose," Trevor admitted. "They're old style politicians, the type of people who let Earth fall the first time. I don't trust them to do what is right."
Dante glanced at Trevor then away, refusing to hold eye contact.
"Well buddy, you had better start listening to what's going on out there, because there's a lot of people on the street who don't trust you right now, either."
In the last two weeks the idea of a military-intelligence conspiracy and questions about the prosecution of the California war grew from isolated columns and protests to speeches on the Senate floor, news specials, and 'rallies' in Washington D.C. Not out of control; not yet, but reminiscent of the problems after New Winnabow.
"Things will calm down," Trevor tried to convince himself. "Most of the media is still pro-war. We just have to sit back and let the fires burn themselves out."
"That sounds like Knox talking. Truth is, if you do nothing it's going to get worse."
"Oh? What is it you think I should do, Dante?"
Trevor stopped himself. He heard a tone creeping into his voice again, the same tone he had used with Dante at the Capitol two weeks ago. Dante had come today for some kind of reconciliation- something. Trevor did not want to chase him away.
Dante asked, "Tell me, why do you think people are giving you shit about this?"
Trevor waved a dismissive hand, "There are some politicos out there who want to stir up headlines for themselves. Don't think I haven't noticed Godfrey doing most of the talking. Of course, politics is his game, not mine."
"Then you better make it your game. This isn't a handful of survivors any more, Trevor. This is a full-blown nation, man. Like it or not, it is a lot like America was."
"No, it isn't. I won't let it become that again," Trevor walked away from Dante with disgust building in his belly. "America lost the invasion. Do you want politicians to come back into style? Do you want the Evan Godfreys of the Senate holding us back?"
"I'm not the one who wants that, Trevor. You are. You're the one who makes them hold things back."
Dante moved away from the window and spoke in a pleading voice but still looked more at the ground than at his friend.
"The more you fight the Senate, the more it drags things down. The people are complaining because they're worried that the Senate means nothing. They're worried you're going to be a dictator for life. Hey, like it or not most of the people living in your Empire were Americans before. You know, land of liberty and freedom and all that. They've followed you this far, but they need some assurances before they take this fight around the world." Trevor grunted and said off-the-cuff, "That sounds like Evan Godfrey talking." "It is." Trevor whipped around on Dante and glared.
Before he could say a word, Dante Jones reminded, "When things went to Hell after New Winnabow, I worked with Godfrey to keep it under control. When you went away, I worked with him and Jon to hold together the mess you left us in. With everything happening now, Godfrey came to me off the record to offer, I guess, an olive branch."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah, really. And he makes sense, man. People are worried about the future." "There won't be a future if we don't win this war, Dante." "There won't be any war if this falls apart. Can you put aside your ego for five minutes?" "Ego? You think I like this?"
"No, man, I know you never wanted any of this. I get it. But when it comes to Godfrey, you've got an ego. You once told me that you'd do anything for the great cause, right?"
From the moment he had been given responsibility for humanity's survival he knew he had to be a leader like no other. Everything he did must be to further the cause. Sometimes that meant standing his ground with complete resolve, other times that meant a humiliating retreat in order to live to fight another day.
He could do all that…yet refused to swallow his pride and deal with Godfrey.
Dante said, "Some of the shit that's happened these past few years has really, you know, divided everyone. You act like you don't trust Internal Security and you don't trust the Senate. In fact, you really dig on them sometimes, like you're trying to insult them. You got to remember, those people got elected so each one of them has some kind of following. When you pick on the Senate, their voters take that personal."
Trevor opened his mouth, said nothing, and closed it again.
Dante went on, "You need to show some confidence in I.S. and in the Senate. Show the people out there that you respect these, I guess, institutions. Maybe you've got to kiss some ass, but you've done worse in the name of keeping things together." "What exactly does Evan want? A campaign donation?" Dante threw his arms up, grunted, and walked toward the door saying, "Never mind, Caesar. Forget it." "Wait." Dante stopped and turned to face Trevor but his eyes found the floor. "What does he want?" "He just wants to meet with you, man." "Great, have him come up and we'll meet." "No," Dante shook his head. "You need to go down there, to D.C." "What? Why?"
"To show that you respect what they're doing down there. Don't you get it? All you need to do is go down there, kiss some Senate ass, and meet with Evan on his turf. Show him and the other Senators some love. Show the public that you aren't some kind of brutal dictator. You know what people are thinking about that missile strike, Trev? They're thinking maybe next time it might just be your political enemies at home. That maybe anyone who speaks out against Trevor Stone might end up the same way."
It angered Trevor that Dante would suggest such a thing but the very emergence of that anger caused him to stop and wonder. On that other Earth, a Trevor Stone had led invaders to the Chaktaw's world for conquest. On that other Earth, this Trevor Stone had touched his own dark side. If alcoholics were told that they could never be cured until they admitted a problem, could the same hold true for despots?
He held his temper and replied, "So I go down there and bow down to the great politicians. All that does, Dante, is weaken my position."
Dante stepped forward and sold the package: "Not if Evan he holds a press conference, praises your leadership, and commits to keep the war going beyond the U.S. borders."
Trevor stood shell-shocked at the idea of Godfrey supporting the war beyond old America's boundaries.
Dante reacted to Trevor's gape, "That's right, buddy. With Godfrey supporting it, anyone else who speaks out against the war will be on their own. You won't have any hassles, the Senate can go on worrying over the shit you don't care about, and everyone will be happy."
"All Godfrey wants is a little respect? If I do this, we announce it to the press and all?"
"Evan suggested that you just announce you're going to D.C. to meet with him. Don't make it seem arranged. Then it'll come across like you two had a real heart-to-heart which ends up with you thanking him for what the Senate is doing and him giving you his full support."
Trevor's mind spun. He could not believe Evan Godfrey had given up the game. He felt certain that the Senator plotted some political trap and that he had turned poor Dante Jones into an unwitting accomplice. Nonetheless…
"I'll think about it."
Dante looked Trevor in the eye for the first time during the conversation and asked, "What have you got to lose? What's the worst that could happen?"
– After Dante delivered Evan's olive branch, Trevor strolled the halls of the estate for two hours trying to come to some sort of conclusion. He could list a dozen reasons why he should not reach out to Evan. How could a man be expected to make good with another who had slandered him so? Who stoked dissent and, possibly, even violence?
Trevor decided not to go, and immediately heard Dante's voice ringing in his ears: "Trevor murdered them…maybe they had a better idea, a different idea. Everything around here has to be exactly as Trevor says, right?"
No, Trevor would not do this for Evan Godfrey, but he might do it for Dante. Maybe if he took this one little step-showed this one concession-then when Evan springs his political trap Dante would see the truth about the Senator. If not, and if Dante stayed this close to Godfrey, Trevor would have to replace him. Maybe with Ray Roos.
By the time Trevor descended the steps to the council chamber in the basement, he had decided to go to Washington D.C., next week, meet with Evan Godfrey, go through the motions, and walk right into whatever game Evan meant to play. Trevor knew he always managed to out maneuver the Senator, perhaps whatever Evan planned would backfire; maybe even drive a stake through the pest's heart. More important, perhaps Trevor could repair his friendship with Dante Jones and prove to both himself and 'the people' that he would not become a tyrannical dictator.
Trevor found several dozen soldiers in the basement, some with bazookas, others with flamethrowers, even a few with mortars. They were plastic, of course, and scattered across the top of the otherwise vacant council table.
Those particular troopers ran in the ranks of JB's army, no doubt mustered to face a phalanx of Duass infantry or grapple with the metallic monsters of the Geryon's Steel Guard (forces Trevor had encountered on that parallel Earth and believed to be in Asia on this world). However, JB battled a more immediate threat. He crept along the wall next to the armory door with a rolled newspaper in his hand. "Um, JB?" JB held a finger to his lips, "Sshhhh." Trevor listened and, after a moment, he heard JB's prey: the buzz of a fly as it flew around the ceiling light above the table. The boy raced forward, swung his newspaper, and missed the insect. It buzzed off. "Trying to slay a fly, son?"
"Yes," Jorge Benjamin Stone answered in a stout voice. "It has been annoying me. I don't think I can finish the big battle with this constant buzzing in my ear."
Trevor nodded the way fathers nod at young boys about such things.
JB circled the table, cocked his newspaper, and swatted yet again. This time Trevor heard the sharp flap of the weapon striking home. JB grew a huge grin on his face and tracked down the corpse with glee.
"There! That fixed him!"
Jorge scooped up the dead bug with the newspaper and threw it in a waste basket. Pleased at his victory, he moved to the table and re-positioned his toy soldiers.
"Well done, son. You took care of that pest."
JB did not respond. He appeared devoted to his command.
Trevor briefly pinched the bridge of his nose then walked to the head seat at the table; the place where he usually held council with his advisors about war, the economy, industry, and more. This time, in the empty room, he came to tell his son that he would be leaving next week for D.C. JB, however, pre-empted his father's speech.
"You're going away again."
"How do you know that?"
The boy remained fixated on plastic tactical maneuvers but paused long enough to answer in an emotionless voice, "I can sense it. It's in your voice, whenever you bring me bad news," he changed the subject to his toys, "My army is going to engage the Centurians. The odds are great, but I anticipate victory."
Trevor shook his head in amazement. He knew his boy to be special; knew it long before Dr. Maple found far more neurotransmitter types in JB's brain than the typical human being. Their purpose? Unknown. Trevor figured someday they would find out.
In any case, JB had a way about him. A greater understanding of things. Most boys would hate their father leaving so often for dangerous missions or important meetings. Jorge embraced it. Encourage it. Yet this time JB sounded not quite as enthusiastic.
"I'm sorry JB. But I'll be here for your birthday tomorrow, and most of the rest of the week. Are you excited about turning eight?"
Jorgie replied with a huff that suggested he had grown weary of answering questions about his birthday. "Yes. I am excited."
A silence grew between the two, punctuated only by imaginary gunfire. However, after a moment a new sound caught Trevor's ear: another buzzing insect flying overhead.
"Uh-oh," Trevor said. "Sounds like we have another intruder. Better get that newspaper."
To the contrary, JB remained focused on his battle.
"I will have to let this one go, father. If I spend all my time dealing with pests the battle will never be won. You understand, don't you?"
Trevor smiled politely, having listened to his son but not actually hearing.