Prior to Armageddon, the Sikorsky Super Stallion helicopter transported officials of the American government. Now the plush interior of leather seats and fancy trim accommodated a new breed of politicians.
The shudder reverberating through the craft and the constant drone of whirring rotors reminded Trevor why he preferred to fly in quiet, smooth Eagle shuttles. However, the theme of the day was "Trevor loves Internal Security and the Senate," so bye-bye Eagle One, hello Internal Security VIP transport.
As bad as he found the situation, his elkhound, Tyr, suffered more due to his acute senses. The dog curled at his master's feet as if trying to hide from the noise.
His escort also included Ray Roos and plain-clothes I.S. agents, all part of the plan to emphasize subtlety. After all, an entourage of soldiers and a dreadnought floating above Evan's home would have spoiled the whole sucking-up-to-Godfrey ambiance Dante felt necessary.
Nonetheless, he remained well protected. A squad of agents secured the interior of Evan's home, army units from the Washington D.C. garrison manned checkpoints a mile from the meeting site, and the Excalibur waited on station to the south outside of Richmond.
Still, the phrase for the day was "low key." Trevor had arrived in D.C. in time for a breakfast with Chairpersons of several Senate committees. A tour of the rejuvenated Smithsonian followed where updated exhibits included a small but working matter-transformation machine taken from the Hivvans, a collection of extraterrestrial gear, and a Duass War Skiff.
Trevor particularly admired a twenty-foot interactive diorama depicting the collapse of Washington D.C. during the invasion a decade ago. The display included a two-inch replica Skip Beetle outside the Pentagon and toy-sized Hivvan Battlebarges advancing along Pennsylvania Avenue. A narrator stoically relayed information such as, "the Texas delegation turned the Hart office building into a modern Alamo where they survived for three weeks," and "the junior Senator from New York fell victim to a Crawling Tube Worm inside the Capitol Building."
Dante accompanied Trevor for most of the morning, but as lunch neared the Internal Security Director broke away from the main group to visit the Tambourine Monitoring Center. That station collated information from the smaller stations up and down the east coast that stood as an electronic fence protecting against attack from the Atlantic.
An hour later, Trevor boarded the helicopter and departed from Capitol Hill crossing the Potomac on course for Evan Godfrey's estate outside of McLean, Virginia.
Trevor glanced across the aisle at Ray Roos. The man's usually thin face appeared a little more drawn that day; a tad pale, maybe.
"You okay, Ray?"
Roos answered, "Yes sir, just fine thank you. Guess I don't like it too much in D.C. with all these Senators walkin' around and all."
"I know what you mean," said Trevor as he glanced out one of the portals to view the scrolling streets, expressways, and-the further they flew-woodlands and gentle hills.
While Washington had been cleansed and pacified, most of the homes in the metropolitan area and suburbs remained empty. In fact, in terms of population Washington ranked behind Miami, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia, although D.C. did surpass New York in residents.
The helicopter overflew a cluster of softball fields, making Trevor think of baseball and how Jorgie neared Little League age. He thought about all the other 'ages' Jorgie would soon see, and how many already passed by.
Trevor knew he was not the father he wanted to be. He loved his boy greatly and he tried to spend time with his kid. If home, he would tuck JB to bed, often times reading him a book or telling stories from the war (edited to not incur mommy's wrath). He would wrap the same stuffed bunny in the same little blanket every night, and while that might sound silly, it had become an important ritual to both Trevor and his son.
JB's eighth birthday party had gone well, exactly the type of get together they needed in the wake of Stonewall's death. The Nehrus, Knox, Dante, and of course the Brewers attended, not to mention hordes of children including Catherine Brewer. JB's favorite gift came from Jerry Shepherd: a Feranite war cloth; essentially woven threads painted in bright colors to symbolize a chief's great victories. For Trevor, it served to remind that a band of Red Hand nomads remained at large in the Midwest.
"We'll, looks like we've arrived, sir," Ray said as the helicopter descended.
Godfrey lived in a colonial-style home nearly as large as Trevor's lakeside mansion. The red brick appeared recently re-pointed and three sharp gables gave it a taste of Victorian style.
The Sikorsky lowered to the finely manicured lawn behind the home, a yard large enough to accommodate one of those softball fields Trevor spotted during the flight.
Trevor saw no cameras or reporters, but that had been the case all day. The itinerary called for no media before or during their get together. Presumably, when finished, the two would address the media together in a dramatic showing of solidarity and mutual respect.
The helicopter landed. The rotors powered down. Trevor glanced out the window, noting Evan and several I.S. guards standing at the rear of the home near a colorful garden of red, orange, and yellow. Still, no sign of cameras. Whatever political trap Evan planned to spring would either not need the media or could wait until they addressed the reporters after lunch.
Or, a part of Trevor suggested, maybe Evan is really reaching out here. "Sir, this way," Roos directed Trevor to the exit. "You sure you're okay, Ray? You don't look so good." "Fine, sir."
Tyr went first, Trevor and Roos followed with four bodyguards not far behind. Evan approached Trevor wearing a big grin; so big and so forced it could only be phony.
Trevor glanced to his left and noticed the beautiful but simple design of the Godfrey mansion. Not quite as flashy as Trevor would expect from a man so concerned about image. He then looked to his right and surveyed the open expanse of well-kept lawn surrounded by forest.
"Trevor, I'm very glad you could come."
The two met half way.
"How could I refuse such an invitation. Besides, Dante Jones twisted my arm. He seems to think that I have misjudged you all these years."
Evan's phony grin changed, a little. His teeth flashed; his eyes narrowed.
"Yes, Trevor. You have misjudged me."
A low, electric humming that Trevor recognized as the quiet engines of an Eagle transport drifted to his ears, pulling his attention to the rear of the yard. From there flew in-low and fast-one of The Empire's white Eagle transports.
The sudden appearance of the shuttle startled Trevor for only an instant. He had anticipated a political trap and was only surprised that no cameras played to capture whatever grand embarrassment the President of the Senate planned for The Emperor.
The ship landed and the passenger compartment opened. Out poured men in white and red body armor with full face plates-no, not men. Aliens. Centurians or, as they had been nicknamed during the battle of Wilkes-Barre, "Redcoats," the original owners of the Eagle shuttles.
In a flash, Trevor understood that an extraterrestrial assault team landed in Evan's back yard. It took Tyr even less time to smell the threat.
The dog charged as the attackers fired their first volley. While those energy blasts missed the K9, the shots did hit the ground next to The Emperor and the Senator. The explosive impact sent both of the men first into the air, then onto the beautiful green grass. Trevor's head hit hard, but he remained conscious.
He heard small arms fire as well as the crackle of energy bursts. Trevor felt a hand haul him up, expecting it to be Roos, but it was a member of the estate detachment. The man pulled an Mp5 machine gun and returned fire while struggling to drag Trevor to cover.
Trevor should have come to his senses and acted, but the sight he saw in Evan Godfrey's yard confused him. He saw alien plasma bursts firing into the air and into the ground; not really hitting anything. He saw Tyr rip into the arm of one of the Redcoats, but the alien reacted sluggishly, as if not feeling the pain. He spotted Godfrey cowering on the ground, arms over his head. He saw some of his escort firing at the attackers, knocking at least two of the dozen aliens to the ground with solid hits. He saw other I.S. agents firing at… firing at other I.S. agents.
"To the chopper!" Shouted the guard holding Trevor's arm.
Something streaked by Trevor. Something hot. Then he felt a warm liquid splash on his cheek. That liquid came from the man dragging him toward the helicopter; blood from his head. The hot thing had been a bullet fired by another I.S. agent, one from the estate, a short man with gray hair who held his pistol steady in both hands for the best possible aim.
Tyr bolted at that gray-haired agent, clamping down on the short man's arm. With his free hand, the agent blasted the Norwegian Elkhound, exploding the skull of Trevor's friend.
Another energy bolt hit at Trevor's feet, sending him rolling. He looked up and saw that while almost the entire security detail had died, the majority of the Redcoat aliens remained alive but stood still with their rifles held aloft but not firing, not advancing. Trevor pulled himself to a sitting position and called, "Evan! Are you okay?" Ray Roos cast a shadow over Trevor and pointed a gun at his boss saying, "He's fine, but you're dead." The gun fired. Trevor felt a hot sensation in his chest and his limbs went numb… — Chaos.
"Confirm that message. Confirm it, NOW!"
General Jon Brewer stood on the bridge of the Excalibur alongside the command station where Woody "Bear" Ross operated as the 'brain' of the ship.
"Message confirmed from D.C. Station," Ross replied in his booming voice. "All friendly air traffic is grounded. The contact is not responding to hails."
Jon yelled the obvious order, "Intercept it, goddamn it! Intercept!"
The Excalibur's main engines increased to maximum thrust, propelling the massive vessel over the Virginia landscape at speeds approaching one-hundred and twenty miles per hour.
Jon, staring out the bridge windows at blue skies, growled at his unseen quarry, "Where are you going? Are you trying to get back to Mexico? Is that it?"
Nothing yet appeared on the Excalibur's scopes, but if I.S. spotters were correct then the getaway transport for the alien assassination team would soon be in range. As Jon waited for intercept, he played over the events of the last sixty minutes, according to reports from Internal Security, the media, and the Department of Medical and Health Services.
At 1:15 p.m. on May 22, an alien-operated Eagle transport-most likely a Centurian ship painted to resemble The Empire's versions-landed without warning at the estate of Senator Evan Godfrey. Within thirty seconds the bulk of the I.S. security detail had been killed. Godfrey and Stone had both been hit, although Godfrey's wounds appeared minor.
Less than two minutes later, the alien assault force flew off, chased away by the encroachment of perimeter guards and military units.
At 1:23 p.m. an I.S. transport helicopter departed with the injured, including Emperor Trevor Stone, to the Medical and Health Services facility in Washington D.C., where none other than Dr. Maple himself-a member of the Imperial Council-began emergency surgery on Trevor for a direct hit by an alien energy rifle.
At 1:45 p.m., Dante Jones, who was at D.C.'s I.S. complex and Tambourine Central Station, ordered the grounding of all Eagles in an attempt to locate the enemy craft that still had not appeared on any of the regional radar stations, or the Excalibur's own scopes.
At 2:12 the Internal Security station in D.C. reported contact with a suspect vessel matching the profile of an Eagle. Said ship did not respond to hails. Ross shouted, "Got it! Radar contact coming from the northeast. Fifty miles and closing." "Why didn't we see the damn thing sooner?" "Maybe he was hiding in the mountains," Ross answered.
Brewer knew they might only have once chance. From what he remembered, the Redcoat shuttles could run at speeds close to one-hundred and fifty miles per hour, meaning the aliens could outrun the Excalibur, and the ship's fighter compliment was stowed below decks.
Jon wanted to know how the aliens managed to fly from Mexico to D.C. without detection. Could the Centurians have a hidden base inside the boundaries of The Empire?
For the next several minutes Brewer watched monitors and listened to Bear direct navigation to intercept. The radar blip closed to within missile range and while Jon's naked eyes could not see the enemy, Bear's telescopic lenses provided confirmation.
"That's it. We got em'. Do you want me to fire?"
Jon replied, "Hold for a moment. Contact them. Tell them they will be destroyed unless they respond."
Woody Ross relayed that order several times over the course of three minutes with no answer. The radar blip crossed the Excalibur's path heading from northeast to southwest at a high rate of speed.
"They ain't answering," the Brain stated the obvious. "They're going to outrun us if we don't do something about it. Should I get the crews to their fighters?"
"No. We don't need the jets. Fire."
One, two, three, then four radar-locked missiles streaked away from launchers. Jon turned from the open windows of the bridge and walked to the tracking station.
The missiles flew straight and true. The alien vessel either did not know that death fast approached or lacked any countermeasures. Ross, watching through telescopic lenses, yelled, "First one is a hit…it's smoking. Wait…second hit. And the third. Damn, that Got em! They're in pieces, no chance of survivors."
The blip disappeared from the scope. Jon visualized chunks of debris twisting and falling to the wilderness below.
Cheers erupted around the bridge but not from Jon Brewer. He knew what had happened. He knew the damage had already been done.
The General left the radar station and returned to the Brain area. Woody Ross did not cheer, either. In fact, he absolutely scowled as one finger pressed an earpiece tight.
"What? What is it?"
"Communication from Ray Roos. Trevor Stone is dead."
10. Wrath
The forty-acre tract of land called Highland Beach jutted out into the Chesapeake Bay a few miles southeast of Annapolis. The tiny municipality originated as a getaway for affluent blacks from the Washington D.C. area in the early 20 ^ th Century. That unique identity had been fairly diluted by the time Armageddon and Hivvan occupation arrived. Many of the resort homes and businesses burned to ashes during those dark years prior to liberation.
On top of the ruins, The Empire built the Southern Command facility to help prosecute the war against the Hivvans. From there, General Jerry Shepherd had directed tens of thousands of human forces, armored columns, and air assets against the lizard-like aliens until breaking the enemy's back at Atlanta.
As the war moved west, the Southern Command morphed from active headquarters to communication station and training facility.
For Nina Forest and the Dark Wolves, the vertical landing pads and communications office off Bay Drive served as a muster point prior to missions. They would usually catch an Eagle or a chopper from there and fly either to a larger airport or a dreadnought. The flattened rubble to the north of the facility also provided grounds for tactical training and weapons ranges.
When news surfaced mid-afternoon that Trevor had been badly wounded during an alien assassination attempt, Captain Nina Forest followed her first instinct and gathered her gear, caught a bus from her apartment complex to the transportation hub on Douglas Avenue at Highland Beach, then jogged passed the beach to the old Southern Command buildings.
The entire process-from saying goodbye to Denise to walking in the front doors at the center-lasted half an hour. Yet in that time, things changed drastically.
Nina, a duffle bag thrown over one shoulder and her M-4 cradled on the other, staggered away from the building after learning that nothing more remained to be done.
She moved along the shaded sidewalk with the plan of returning to the transportation hub. On the far side of the short beach the gentle waters of the Chesapeake lapped to shore. A series of rotting wood posts marched out into the surf, all that remained of a dock washed away long before Highland Beach burned.
A small park with rusty playground equipment stood vacant under a warm afternoon sun. Charred branches and logs lay in circles around the rim of the park. Nina knew that kids-kids like Denise and her boyfriend Jake-came here at night to build campfires.
Her legs weakened. Nina accepted the invitation of an empty bench and sat facing the swooshing waters.
It came at her unexpectedly: a powerful, unstoppable surge of sadness forming a horrible rock of despair in her stomach and sending a quiver across her body. She dropped her bag with a thump on the sand at the edge of the beach and set the M-4 down. A breeze carrying the scent of salt blew by and seagulls cawed over the water oblivious to the tragedy of the day.
Trevor Stone had died after suffering a direct hit from an energy weapon. He had been dead, in fact, before arriving at the hospital but Dr. Maple explained to the press that he had wanted to exhaust every avenue of treatment before abandoning hope.
Nina's face fell into her hands. Her breath came in labored gasps. Her eyes squeezed shut.
Nina Forest wept not only for the loss of a great leader but for something more. Something personal. She did not know what or why, but as she absorbed the news of Trevor's death she felt she lost a part of herself.
– Gordon Knox lived in many places over the course of his life. From the Watergate hotel in Washington D.C., to the American embassy in South Korea to Camp Pennsylvania, Kuwait, Knox had toured his share of living spaces in locales both exotic and dull.
Nonetheless, if asked where he called home, Knox's answer would be Miami, Florida. He had lived his first twelve years in South Florida before his father's military assignments led the family elsewhere. He moved there again during the early 90s as part of his 'job'. And while he returned to the greater D.C. area prior to the invasion, his heart lingered in Dade County.
Unfortunately for Knox, his post-Armageddon position as Director of Intelligence meant residing in northeastern Pennsylvania. However, he found a slice of home a mere fifteen miles from the lakeside estate: a one-story Mediterranean style house with a glass-enclosed lanai complete with heated pool, pastel colors, ceiling fans and lots of glass. Whoever built this home in the old world shared Gordon's love of all things Floridian.
The place sat on an acre in a secluded valley among a cluster of mini-mansions, most only partially constructed when Armageddon hit and all currently unoccupied, hence earning his neighborhood the nickname of "Knoxtown."
On the day Trevor Stone died, a malaise overcame The Empire. Those in the larger cities gathered around televisions hypnotized by repeating video of their slain leader. In the smaller towns, the local gathering spots (from bars to churches) filled with groups who spoke in hushed whispers and waited to see what would come next.
That malaise infected Gordon, too. He returned to Knoxtown and took a front row seat to sunset on the lanai with a dusty bottle of Makers Mark bourbon. He could have felt sorry for himself. He could have wondered what would become of him without Trevor. Yet nothing like that entered his mind. As Gordon came to grips with the loss of Stone, he came to understand one thing above all else: he had lost a friend. So he sat there, eyes fixed on sunset, glass in hand, and a tear running down his cheek. — General Thomas Prescott exited a Blackhawk helicopter at LAX and boarded an armor-plated Humvee. His motorcade worked its way to the coast as late afternoon turned toward evening.
While all appeared quiet, Prescott kept in close contact with Brewer and the military council in an attempt to prepare for any contingency, particularly the notion that the assassination served as a preamble for an attack.
Nevertheless, he was quite unprepared for what he saw along the streets of California. People-not all, but some-stood on those streets and cheered, pumping their fists and waving special edition newspapers announcing EMPEROR DEAD!
For a moment-one quick and fleeting moment-Prescott felt the urge to stop the convoy and let bullets fly. Who were these people to cheer the death of the person who had pulled humanity from the brink of extinction?
That moment passed as Prescott remembered that, to some of these people, Trevor Stone would not be remembered as hero or a leader, but as a conqueror. General Thomas Prescott's motorcade drove for his beachfront headquarters where he would guard the Pacific Coast. -
Jorge Benjamin Stone, dressed in blue race car pajamas, stood straight and still alongside his small bed, staring at his mother. In his arms he held a well-worn stuffed bunny-an Easter gift from Jon Brewer many years ago-partially wrapped in a red and white blanket. Ashley hovered nearby, waiting for a reaction. Jorge
turned away, crawled into bed, and pulled the blankets over his eyes. — A STATEMENT FROM EVAN GODFREY, PRESIDENT OF THE IMPERIAL SENATE FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE, ALL MEDIA OUTLETS
"The attack today was not merely an attack on Trevor's life or my life, but an attack on humanity. I join my friends in grieving the loss of the man responsible for saving our people and turning the tide of war against the invaders. In the same way in which I have personally suffered injury in this assault, The Empire has been wounded. But like me, The Empire will recover if we work together. I call for all citizens, community leaders, and officers of the military to rally behind the temporary leadership of General Jon Brewer. Furthermore, this act of aggression demands a swift and overwhelming response. I stand by our military commanders as they, no doubt, prepare devastating retaliation. While my injuries will limit my duties the next few weeks, know that I will ensure that the armed forces have the resources and bipartisan support they require to deal righteous vengeance upon the Centurians who were responsible for this tragedy."
Jon Brewer sat in the Excalibur's Captain's Hall, his head in his arms on the wide, vacant table. In front of him sat a speaker phone dialed into a conference call with three other people.
"We know what comes next," he spoke. "After what happened three years ago, Trevor left instructions about what to do."
Brett Stanton-Director of Industry and Manufacturing-answered, "Well now wait, that puts you in charge for up to thirty days, right?"
"The ranking military General will be the highest authority for up to thirty days. During that time, a new Emperor will be elected from among the members of the full Imperial Council, to be voted on exclusively by the current members of that council."
Lori Brewer spoke in a wobbling voice, "Was this whole thing to set up an invasion?"
"I spoke to Shepherd. He's moving from Colorado down to Texas just to keep an eye on the border, but so far no signs. Prescott is dug in on the west coast. The Tambourine line off the east coast has been online for weeks now. Not a peep from anywhere. All is quiet, I guess."
"Too, um, quiet," Dr. Maple said the obvious line.
Lori asked, "Where is…he?"
Dr. Maple understood and answered, "Internal Security took custody of the remains. I believe Dante Jones is in possession of-I mean, he is with, um, Trevor."
"We'll, now, I guess we're going to have to think about arrangements," Stanton said.
"I spoke to Dante earlier," Jon told them. "He had a good idea. He said we should have the body tour The Empire. Sort of a glass coffin, I guess, so all can pay their respects. Doc, I hate to ask this but-" "No fear, um, General, the remains will be, um, suitable for viewing. I can see to that." Lori asked, "So what do we do now?" — From May 24 ^ th to May 31 ^ st, the body of Trevor Stone traveled the eastern half of The Empire in a glass casket accompanied by an honor guard of Grenadiers and soldiers. The first train stop came in Baltimore where Nina Forest, her daughter, and Jerry Shepherd laid their hands on the casket in the Mt. Clare roundhouse at the B amp;O Railroad museum.
When it stopped in Raleigh, North Carolina, the procession drew nearly three hundred thousand from across the south. The people of Dixie felt a special connection with the man who had freed them from the Hivvan slave camps.
Stops in Tennessee, Missouri, and Indiana drew smaller crowds but those who did attend often braved long drives through hostile wilderness.
Columbus, the shipyards in Pittsburgh, the military academy at West Point, and the slowly rebuilding metropolis of Manhattan each hosted thousands of mourners.
The last stop came at Public Square in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, the first city Trevor Stone saved. Internal Security closed off downtown, creating a line of pedestrians stretching for a mile to view the leader lying in state at the center of the square.
At the forefront of that line walked Ashley, her son JB, and Benjamin Trump-Ashley's father-surrounded by Jon and Lori Brewer, Dante Jones, and the Nehrus. Further back followed the remainder of the Imperial Council except for Evan Godfrey who remained under a nurse's care at his home outside of D.C.
Unusually cold weather greeted the memorial; temperatures dipped into the high forties but felt worse due to a sharp wind. The mourners-dressed in heavy coats on the last day of May-entered the square from the south, passing the human and canine honor guard.
The casket rested on a round stage surrounded by floral arrangements and photographs of Trevor at historic moments, including a famous picture of him standing at the steps of Atlanta City Hall with a dirty, tired face and a well-used assault rifle in his bloody hands.
Ashley and JB approached the body with grandpa a step behind. Ashley had spent two days practicing the moment. She knew the eyes of The Empire watched.
With her eight-year-old boy holding her hand and her father's arm on her shoulder, Ashley peered at the still body of Richard Trevor Stone, his eyes closed, his hair neat but still shoulder-length, his hands clasped over a heavy dress uniform.
As the softer side of the Emperor, Ashley had attended more viewings and funerals than she cared to remember, either by her husband's side or as the only available representative of the ruling sect. Many times the body on display looked quite different from the person who had lived that life. Sometimes relatives would say "he looks good" while others would say "it just doesn't look like him at all".
The Trevor Stone inside the glass casket looked exactly like the man who had lived Trevor Stone's life. Indeed, the figure inside the coffin seemed sleeping, not lifeless. The embalmers, she noted, had done good work; his skin appeared smooth and perfect, lacking the hard edges that had grown there during years of battle.
JB stepped closer, pulling at his mother's arm. When she gave no ground, he stood on his toes and craned his neck for a better view.
"He's at peace now," Benjamin Trump consoled through watery eyes as he recalled the funeral for his wife who died of breast cancer two years after 'riding the ark' with the rest of her family.
Ashley raised a handkerchief to her eye. Surprisingly, she shed no tears at that moment as her mind focused on projecting the proper image, but that image demanded a handkerchief and tears, so she went through the motion.
She had lived ten years as a character called "the Emperor's wife," and now she needed to play the role a while longer for the good of others, no time for her own feelings. Perhaps, she thought, Trevor had felt this way for the last decade.
The three moved away from the casket and stopped off to the side where they waited for their friends to pay respects.
Dante Jones, waiting behind the Brewers, ran an arm over his forehead to clean away beads of sweat that had formed despite the cold day. As he did, he caught sight of Jorge pulling his mother to a stoop so as to whisper in her ear. As Ashley listened, her eyes grew wide in something akin to shock, but she regained control and painted on the face of a consoling mother dealing with a child who could not comprehend the truth of the day.
Dante turned his attention to the memorial as his turn came. He approached the coffin, glanced at the contents, closed his eyes, bowed his head, then moved off, making way for Eva Rheimmer and Brett Stanton.
He stood next to Ashley, curious as to why she appeared annoyed at JB even though her son remained quiet and still.
When that curiosity got the better of him he asked her, "What was it JB said to you?"
Ashley, a little surprised at Dante's intrusion, answered, "It was nothing. He's trying to cope. He doesn't understand." JB, overhearing, faced Dante Jones and repeated what he had whispered. "That's not father." — The malaise that had gripped The Empire after the assassination burst. First came the financial markets; they fell apart. Inflation turned Continental Dollars into worthless paper. This led to labor problems, shortages, and a spike in unemployment, but surprisingly little violence.
Dante Jones personally led the investigation. By the time Trevor was entombed inside a stone mausoleum on the grounds of St. Mary's cemetery south of Wilkes-Barre, the focus had narrowed to a few select lines of thinking.
First, the Centurians had flown from a secret base in Mexico, somehow avoided the various radar stations along the way including the intense monitoring around D.C., refueled their hydrogen engines at various rivers and lakes, and managed to ascertain The Emperor's schedule from news reports.
This theory held several obvious flaws but did offer a rather obvious motive: the Centurians must assume that the death of Stone would delay any attack on Mexico.
A more elaborate version of this theory suggested cooperation between the Centurians and the remains of the Hivvan Republic in the Caribbean. Both alien groups sat in The Empire's cross hairs; both would benefit from Trevor's death.
More theories arose, including a few from the most ardent pro-Trevor pundits that suggested a conspiracy involving Trevor's domestic enemies and the former residents of The California Cooperative. Those theories nearly gained traction, until the day after the last formal viewing of Trevor's body. On that day, Dante Jones and Jon Brewer were summoned to the Internal Security extraterrestrial penitentiary outside of Washington.
Chancellor D'Trayne of the Witiko resided in a well-appointed prison cell complete with mirror, vanity, and queen-sized bed. The guards treated him with respect. He counted Senators, media representatives, and peace activists among his daily visitors, and received meals prepared for his extraterrestrial palate
As Jon and Dante arrived at D'Trayne's cell, the alien sat down to just such a meal at a table facing the bars.
While the Chancellor received almost every luxury and necessity he craved, he did lack the silver cosmetic his people seemed addicted to. This made him appear somewhat uncomfortable-naked, even-with his gray skin on display for all to see, despite the toga he wore over a tight body suit. The Witiko, apparently, did not like to show their true colors.
Nonetheless, the Chancellor maintained a dignified tone in his voice. Confident, even.
"You'll have to excuse me, but I am a slave to the prison schedule," the alien insincerely apologized as he prepared to eat.
"Don't mind us," Jon said with an equal amount of insincerity.
A guard delivered a metal tin the size of a shoe box accompanied by a bottle filled with orange-tinted water. The alien placed a napkin on his lap, slid open the tin, and-with a small skewer in each hand-stabbed into the water-filled container causing a few drops to splash out.
"I'm glad you accepted my invitation. I feared you would not."
The Chancellor pulled a squirming fish from the tin and flopped it onto a plate next to a kind of creamed potatoes. He pinned the struggling food with one of the skewers then flayed the meal with a knife as he spoke.
"While you will find this hard to believe, I am sorry about the death of your Emperor."
"I'm sure," Jon sneered.
"I speak the truth. While I found him overly aggressive and myopic-I believe that's the right word-his presence did keep your tiny nation rather stable. Stability, the Witiko believe, is a worthy goal of politics. Certainly I wish he would have maintained that stability by not invading The Cooperative. Had he listened to reason, perhaps we could have forged a real friendship. An alliance, even, that would have benefited both our races."
"There's a reason you asked me to come here," Brewer grunted as his patience-already stretched thin-neared snapping.
The Chancellor's eyes flashed red as he paused to tear off a chunk of meat from the struggling fish and plop the bite into his mouth. As he chewed, Jon heard the subtle crunch of tiny fish bones. The meal, meanwhile, slowed its writhing but still lived.
The Chancellor noticed their stares. His eyes faded to pink.
"Forgive me. Your species prefers cooking your meals. The Witiko, too, often times thoroughly cook meat or vegetables. Yet we still consider it a delicacy to indulge in live meals on occasion. Perhaps it is an impulse left from our barbaric age, thousands of years ago. I suppose we all must come to grips with our darker sides."
"Wow, this is really interesting. But listen here, Chancellor, if you haven't noticed I’m in a really bad mood. So either get to the point, or I've got more aliens to find and kill."
D'Trayne paused with the bottle of flavored water at his lips and noted, "Yes, we all do have our dark sides, don't we?"
He sipped. Jon huffed. Dante placed a calming hand on the General's shoulder.
"Okay then," D'Trayne wiped his lips with the napkin and then placed the cloth on the plate. The fish there flapped its tail while liquid and guts from the wound on its flank oozed onto the plate. "It is my understanding that it was a group of Centurians who managed to penetrate your security and assassinate Trevor Stone. Based on your outburst," the Chancellor's eyes changed to a soothing green, "you plan to find and destroy them." "Yes, so what?" Dante shot. "You will have a difficult time finding them," the Witiko said. Jon and Dante shared a look and then returned their attention to the Witiko Chancellor. Jon assumed, "You know where they are, is that it? Is there some big alien club?"
D'Trayne folded his hands and told them, "Not exactly. But we did have periodic contact with the Centurians, including a few…'skirmishes.' They do think themselves so superior. Still, we managed to come to an understanding, if you will, to avoid further entanglements."
"Because you were too worried about wiping out humanity. Why start fighting among yourselves, right?"
The Chancellor wavered for a moment before answering, "We were content with our arrangement in California. However, the Centurians are a rather aggressive bunch."
"Why would they want to assassinate Trevor?"
D'Trayne eyed Brewer as if the human might be an idiot. His eyes flashed yellow.
"Of course you are not serious, general. I can think of a hundred reasons why any number of the forces on Earth-including some of your own race-would care to see Trevor Stone dead. However, as to the Centurians' specific reason, I do not know. I would suspect they see it either as retaliation for your famous victory over them ten years ago, or as the starting point for more dramatic action."
The fish stopped wiggling on the plate. D'Trayne glanced at it. His eyes sunk.
Dante said, "Sorry. Looks like we killed your lunch."
Brewer said, "So you're willing to tell us where they are. We just have to do what in exchange?"
"Jon Brewer, I only ask that you tell the people of The Empire that I provided this information as a token of good will, so as to prove to you that at least some form of cooperation may be possible between our two species."
"That's it? Not a get-out-of-jail card? Not a promise to allow you to stay?"
"Admittedly such arrangements would be nice. I do have an appointment to address your Senate. I expect you'll be keeping me on Earth until after that meeting, at the very least."
"Okay then, you got it," Jon promised. "If the information you provide is correct I'll make sure the press spells your name right." "You are an honorable man, Jon Brewer." The honorable man pushed, "We know they're coming up through Mexico." "The region you call Mexico is a big place." "You're already made that point. Now tell me where they are." The Chancellor's eyes cycled through several different hues before settling on green.
"A place you humans once called Monterrey. You'll find a small Redcoat facility there in the shadows of the mountains your maps label the Sierra Madre Oriental."
– Jon Brewer stood at the foot of the basement conference table two days after the meeting with Chancellor D'Trayne. During those two days, he had spent much time meeting with council members, Senators, and the media to explain the process for selecting a new leader.
Things would have been difficult, if not for Evan Godfrey's support. The Senator's star shined once again, but this time he used his popularity to encourage support for the temporary military leadership, apparently forgetting all his fables of a military-intelligence conspiracy.
On another front, the press grew suspicious in regards to the lack of military action against the perpetrators of the assassination. The constant 'no comments' and denials of new force deployments began to pique the interest of the media.
Jon heard footsteps descend the stairs into the basement and turned to see Ashley. Her eyes glared and her words came across in a tone suggesting she shared the media's curiosity. "Tell me. I need to know that Trevor's death isn't going unpunished." Jon placed both hands on her shoulders. "The Witiko Chancellor gave us the location of the Centurian base." "Is the information trustworthy?" "Long range aerial recon confirmed the location." "What are you planning to do, launch an early invasion of Mexico?" "No. We're not ready for that. Besides, with the dreadnoughts I don't need a whole army." "Good. Tell me, how many of the ships did you send?" Jon's mouth worked but no sound came out. "Jon, How many did you send?" — More than three million once called the greater Monterrey area in northeastern Mexico home. Many of them thought of their city as "La Ciudad de las Montanas" ("City of the Mountains") because of the abrupt peaks of the Sierra Madre Oriental range to the south.
Armageddon, however, had turned Monterrey into a wasteland.
In addition to dealing with alien predators and raiding parties attracted to such a large population base, the town of Monterrey faced another kind of danger back during that first summer of the invasion: an Earthquake. The disaster knocked tall buildings flat and also ruptured both fuel tanks and gas lines igniting an inferno that burned unchecked for three months. The quake and fire leveled or incinerated nearly two thirds of the city, creating uninhabitable barrens. Therefore, on the morning of June 3 ^ rd, the stretch of land that had once been a Mecca for tourists, history buffs, and Latin American business interests resembled a vast field of black ash and chunks of collapsed building blocks. Except, however, for the white modular alien buildings centered on the half-standing remains of the Estadio Tecnologico football stadium.
The base had grown in segments with each segment connected via covered walkways circling out in rings from a spherical center. The buildings came in a variety of shapes and sizes, some two stories tall, most only one; some with eight sides, a few with five, many more with four. High powered light posts blanketed the entire complex.
Round landing pads sat between the buildings, receptacles for the Centurians' airships. Several large garages on the outer rings of the base served as holding pens for ground vehicles.
A storm had passed through the night before, leaving in its wake a trail of thin gray clouds. Those clouds bulged then parted then scattered before the might of humanity's Empire.
All three of the massive dreadnoughts approached from the north, descending to five thousand feet at the edge of town. The Excalibur — the flagship of the fleet-led the way with the Philippan and the Chrysaor on her flanks. The engines reverberated like rolling, steady thunder; the shadows of the beasts blocked the sun.
Woody Ross led the fleet from his position as the Excalibur's 'brain.' He eyed the Centurian base below through the ship's telescopic lenses. He saw rows of Centurians standing outside their buildings dressed in variations of red and white uniforms. Those who did not wear helmets displayed their race's big black eyes, thin noses, and dark green skin making the Centurians one of the few alien invaders conforming to pre-Armageddon notions of extraterrestrials, except that instead of being 'little' green men the typical Centurian stood taller and wider than a human. Some of those extraterrestrials stared skyward at the approaching doom, others loitered as if unaware of fate's approach. Ross spoke a chilling order to his bridge crew as well as Captains Hoth and Kaufman. "Prepare to fire; charge belly boppers to one-hundred percent."
Next, Ross broadcast across several radio frequencies. As he transmitted, the energy pools feeding the Excalibur's main guns filled to a level never matched outside of training missions, causing the vessel to tremble. The other three ships vibrated in the same manner for the same reason, causing a muffled sizzle that grew louder as the power levels increased.
The former linebacker's voice spoke without his usual volume, but boomed all the same: "This is Captain Ross of the Imperial dreadnought Excalibur. In the name of Trevor Stone, I deliver the wrath of humanity."
No reaction came from the aliens. A few wandered about like zombies; most simply stood and watched. They struck Ross as ants unaware of a boot stepping toward them, a sight that came across as surreal; almost comedic to Ross' eye.
First the Excalibur fired, followed by the Philippan and then the Chrysaor. Each of the mighty vessels rocked from the kick.
Instead of pulses or blobs, the fully-charged "belly bopper" guns spewed streams of plasma into the ground below, kicking explosions of dirt and debris into the sky as if a volcano erupted. The destructive might engulfed the Centurian base several times over. A great churning river of fire glowed and rippled. The sound from the attack carried for miles, as did the tremor.
When the attack ended, Ross and his agents of destruction watched from the sky as the fireballs faded, replaced by steam and ash.
Nothing moved. The alien base no longer existed; replaced by a black scorch stretching across the already-scarred earth of Monterrey. The strongest beams and walls of the Centurian outpost melted into the soil. Satisfied with their work, the three vessels gained altitude and turned for home.