The duck-like Duass disappeared from the hotel and the commotion carried outside. Alexander sat across the lobby in deep discussion with the representative of Kharkov; a big man with a deep voice.
Another leader of men.
Trevor’s mind considered Kharkov and the people there. He wondered if the weather was harsh here. He thought about the return to Europe and what manner of transport he would secure to re-cross the ocean. He…
He stopped thinking about all that. A wave of weakness traveled across his body and he slumped deep into a leather chair.
It hit him. Not like an explosion or a powerful force, but with the exact opposite effect. As if his muscles had been tight and tense for a decade and now relaxed. Not quite calm. Exciting on some level.
Relief.
Gaston had said, “It is over.”
It.
What exactly was ‘it’? Constant fighting. Always thinking ahead to the next battle. Counting casualties like taking inventory. Speeches to rally. Providing direction for the people even when Trevor could not be sure of what to do next. Serving as symbol, and facilitator. Worries. Concerns. Desperate measures. Brutality and stoicism in the face of tragedy. Sacrificing his sense of right and wrong and replacing it with a blind focus on completing ‘the mission’.
‘It’ was finding his parents torn apart so badly that he mistook them for shaggy, rolled rugs; feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders; killing the man named ‘Richard’ and replacing him with the icy leader known as ‘Trevor’; sacrificing his innocence on an altar of bloodshed in the name of the bottom-line equation of survival; carrying on alone because destiny chose his path and allowed choices only between evils.
He suffered no illusions. In the Armageddon war Trevor did not fight for a greater good; he fought to save his species. An ends justified by any means and the responsibility for those ‘means’ lay squarely on his shoulders. His responsibility.
It is over.
“No. It’s not over. Not yet.”
“What is that?”
Trevor realized he spoke aloud and disturbed Alexander’s conversation.
Trevor repeated, “I said, it’s not over yet.”
“I do not understand,” Alexander’s mouth hung open in what appeared to be a pang of fear. Perhaps he worried the dictator had not yet tired of wielding power; a power born from the fires of this conflict.
Trevor wondered if his doppelgangers on parallel Earths would refuse the order to stand down. Would they—would he—accept the end of the war that gave him his power in the first place? Would the despot walk away from the throne so easily?
He envisioned settlements all across his Earth waking up tomorrow to find the war over. How many petty warlords had Trevor’s Empire found in North America alone? What would happen to the isolated islands of survivors struggling to live another day? A lack of adequate food and medicine could kill as efficiently as Hivvan guns or Witiko rockets.
The war against the invaders had ended. The purpose given to the survivors by the goal of victory now gone. What will fill that vacuum?
“There’s something more left to do. Alexander, let me borrow your clipboard.”
He tentatively handed the board and pen to Trevor who wrote feverishly on a blank page.
“Armand,” Trevor called as he scribbled
The gallant motorcyclist stood near the hotel’s front desk sipping a glass of something-and-vodka in celebration of the day. He quickly discarded the drink and walked fast to the rows of furniture near the fireplace.
“Yes, Trevor?”
“I need you to do something. You and your cavalry,” Trevor glanced at Alexander and added, “With your permission, of course. I have a message that needs to be sent.”
Alexander—still wary—asked, “One last order from an Emperor?”
“An invitation. My last—my last act, if you will.” He turned to Armand. “Will you and your riders deliver it?”
“Where to?”
Trevor told him, “Everywhere.”
The messengers began their journeys in convoys of 100 or more but divided into smaller groups as their paths branched off in different directions. The larger cruiser models were vital to each mission due to the cargo capacity for extra provisions, but eventually almost all the riders needed to live off the land for weeks at a stretch despite fuel trucks sent along major routes to top their tanks as often as possible.
Many fell victim to the extraterrestrial predators roaming the wild lands or bandits of various species. Others lost their way never to be seen again. The world remained a dangerous, unforgiving place with pockets of civilization—alien and human—surrounded by vacant cities and barren wastelands. Plenty of the riders failed to find fuel reserves and ran dry, changing them from riders to walkers or other means of transportation. Nonetheless, they searched for pockets of humanity and carried Trevor’s invitation to the world.
The second week in July, couriers stumbled upon a community of Ukrainians, Russians (mainly former naval personnel), and Tartars living around the harbor and old fortresses of Sevastopol on the Crimean Peninsula. Nearly a thousand fishermen, farmers, and children of the new age gathered to hear the invitation.
By the end of that month the message found tribes surviving in the mountains outside of Almaty in southeast Kazakhstan—boat people hiding in the fjords of Finland—and nomads herding goats and hunting in the Carpathian ranges of Romania.
During August, the word reached far across Asia where remnants of the Russian and Mongolian armies had battled the Geryon Reich’s garrison at Ulan Bator for a bloody decade. Hostilities had ceased nearly two months before as part of the general armistice but Trevor’s invitation brought post-war direction to the combatants and they eagerly accepted the invite.
Around the same time, Duass water transports conveyed Armand himself to their prison colony on the Greek island of Mykonos, where the human POWs found the reason behind their liberation in the words of Trevor Stone’s message.
In late September, couriers who had traded in their motorcycles for horses came across the stubborn remains of the PLA’s 38th Mechanized group at their Baoding base 100 miles south of the ruins of Beijing. Since the first days of Armageddon, 5,000 soldiers and civilians held the city against Geryon battleships and Steel Guard Golems. Time and war had eroded any ideological objection to the invitation while Geryon-supplied foodstuffs proved the sincerity of the truce.
Back in North America, Jon Brewer received the message via HAM radio with the added information that Trevor Stone lived and would return ‘soon’. He and his generals spent the time rebuilding infrastructure.
With the help of Chaktaw and Centurian aides, Jon and Jerry Shepherd oversaw the demolition of dormant gateways in Atlanta, Sacramento, and Northern Mexico. Based on the concept of ‘leave well enough alone,’ such gateways had remained observed but untouched after being shut down by the runes six years ago. Demolition charges placed at specific points disintegrated the structures—of various design—into harmless pieces.
Ambassadors reached the Hivvan holdings in the Caribbean and brokered the return of human prisoners there. At the same time, well-armed rebel forces in Trinidad and Haiti agreed to release hundreds of the intelligent bipedal lizards they had captured in recent years, many in as poor physical condition as human slaves freed from Hivvan labor camps.
Mass graves holding victims from both sides were uncovered; a rogue human sniper killed a Centurian inside a declared alien safe zone; an anti-air missile fired from a Chaktaw position knocked a Chinook transport from the Missouri sky killing a dozen men onboard—but the truce held.
Jon Brewer had overcome great odds in war; he worked just as hard to maintain the peace. He sat in judgment at a junior officer’s hanging for shooting a Hivvan prisoner; he accepted a Geryon Captain’s assurances that the soldier responsible for badly beating a human civilian would be severely disciplined.
Alien consulates were established in vacant Pennsylvania
cities to serve as staging points for repatriation and with each day more of the invaders found their way home through the runes in the caves behind the estate.
Centurian soldiers as well as civilians—the offspring of an invading army—came from across the Americas to the empty streets at Towanda. Soon they would come from outposts scattered across the world. Chaktaw personnel gravitated to Tunkhannock, Geryons established a community among the farms and rural homes of Huntington Mills. Eventually such bases for the Duass and Hivvans would be needed.
By autumn, hundreds of invaders from those civilizations returned to their home worlds via the runes. Thousands more waited to make the trip. Considering the runes served as the only means of returning them home and considering the spread of invaders across the globe—often times grossly off their original intended mark—Jon Brewer estimated it would take at least three years to complete the task, assuming they could contact and establish transportation for all the extraterrestrials in a reasonable amount of time.
That job grew easier as the aliens sought out that exit as part of their new orders. The Geryons proved the easiest to assemble. Their airships offered effective transportation from their primary bases in Asia to northeastern Pennsylvania. The dirigibles made constant sorties while human airliners helped shuttle evacuees from points across the North American continent.
A world away, in November Armand and a convoy of his best riders met the Kurdish governors of Mosul, Iraq where they shared their homeland and oil reserves with refugees from across the region; an oasis of calm in an otherwise desolate land.
Armand learned that few remained alive in the great expanse from the Mediterranean shore to Baghdad: the arrival of Armageddon provided an opportunity to settle old-world scores. The forces of hatred from all interests in the Middle East had battled one another, often times at the expense of fighting the invaders. A decade of assassinations, ambushes, massacres and slaughter left empty lands soaked in blood. The well-fed vultures tasted no difference in religion or ethnicity.
The more civilized minds from that region took flight in those early years and, as Armand discovered in December, camps of the more reasonable from all flavors of diversity survived in settlements along the lower Nile where brigades of the Egyptian army bravely carved safe zones and tolerated no in-fighting. Although disease and starvation culled their numbers over the course of a decade, they survived on cooperation and tolerance; the lack of which had doomed many of their kin.
It took until January for the invitation to penetrate the jungles of southeast Asia where The Order’s rampaging monsters had forced civilization into the wilderness. Many riders lost their lives, but the message was delivered and preparations made.
The fortress of Hong Kong with 20,000 people—well-armed partisans in the Philippine archipelagos—a flotilla of Indonesian military and civilian vessels linked together in an ocean-bound city—all accepted the message.
No one lived in Japan or Taiwan to hear the call. The couriers found an infestation of Voggoth’s creatures on both islands. Meanwhile, Witiko forces—rejecting any peace overtures—fired on the couriers from their enclaves in Papua New Guinea and fortifications along the northeast coast of Australia.
Still, Sydney remained a human city thanks to a combination of Aussia military and civilian recruits. They eagerly accepted Trevor Stone’s invitation, but the Aboriginals from the continent’s interior chose to remain recluse.
While the riders carried the word across Europe, Asia, and the Pacific rim, Trevor personally led an expedition into the heart of the dark continent.
In the early months of the new year, his convoy of Land Rovers drove across a golden savannah under the harsh beams of an unforgiving sun. Drinking water had become a commodity as precious and nearly as scarce as gasoline. Fortunately, human settlements in Algeria and Mali as well as a Centurian outpost in Niger willingly helped re-supply the travelers.
In any case, Rick Hauser slowed the lead Rover of four to a halt on what passed for a road. A wooden fence and armed check point blocked their way. Trevor exited the vehicle and approached the guards, one of whom accepted and then hurried off with a copy of the note Trevor came to convey.
The soldiers wore patches on their green uniforms suggesting old-world affiliations with the Central Africa Republic, Cameroon, or the Democrat Republic of Congo; political entities devoured by Armageddon’s fires.
Some appeared older: veterans, no doubt, of those countries’ old world militaries. Several more appeared younger—late teens, even—new recruits for an army of new thinking.
Movement on the plains caught his eye. Trevor saw a small herd of zebra daring the heat of the afternoon to graze. They paid no attention to the shaggy brontosaurus-sized creature sporting spiked tusks that wandered by on its way toward the delicacies offered in a nearby cluster of trees.
If Trevor had his way, all such otherworldly beasts would be purged from the planet to restore the natural balance of things. But as he watched the docile giant bite into the branches of a hardy umbrella thorn acacia, he realized that the new life brought to Earth by the invasion had grown roots. And besides, if he truly believed what he had argued in the temple of Voggoth, then all the universe’s life shared common beginnings and thus would find a new, acceptable balance here on Earth.
The guard directed Trevor beyond the checkpoint to a more shaded stretch bordering a large pond. As he moved forward he saw buildings. A few were makeshift shanties built from scavenged metals and stone; a few more crude shacks of thatch and bamboo. But at the heart of the settlement stood a series of sturdy concrete structures.
Around it all ebbed the currents of life: a woman in a flowered Senegalese-style Bubu pushing a cart loaded with vegetables; a man in a silk shirt and work pants carrying a tool box en route to some repair job or another; a cluster of children kicking a soccer ball on a makeshift playground near the skeletal remains of a well-scavenged truck; two elderly men embroiled in a tabletop game on a porch; a mother humming a soothing tune to an infant.
The activity slowed and then stopped as Trevor and his party strolled along the main path. The newcomer grabbed their attention. Or perhaps the rumors of the invitation had already begun to spread.
A tall man of the darkest complexion emerged from the town hall with the note in hand and approached Trevor, eyeing him through wise eyes that had shepherded a village during years of uncertainty and peril. On his tunic he wore the stars of a general, but the way the villagers regarded him told Trevor this man was more than a warrior; he was a leader.
The general stopped in front of Trevor and studied the visitor.
Trevor raised his arm in a rigid, proper salute; a salute for a soldier who had demonstrated his valor by the evidence of success displayed in the thriving village. The gesture of respect struck the right chord and the general returned the salute with equal precision.
As their hands left their foreheads they reached out and grasped in a firm shake. The man wearing general’s stars smiled as the crowd gathered to hear the news.
Trevor leaned against a corner at the rear of the school room next to Rick Hauser and watched the last stages of the process, as did dozens of onlookers in seats, from the hall, and through windows along the wall.
The general sat at the teacher’s desk overseeing the counting of ballots. The blackboard kept score with strokes of chalk. As the last slip of paper was pulled from the wooden box, the general marked the final tally.
A middle-aged woman with braided hair gasped and raised her hands to her mouth in a vain attempt to suppress glee. The trio of losing candidates grimaced for a moment and then congratulated her with hugs and smiles.
She controlled her enthusiasm as the general approached. Then, in a rare display of affection, he let his stoic guard drop and embraced the moment as he embraced her.
Children conveyed the last of her luggage as well as jugs of water to the convoy of Rovers parked outside the town hall. The braided-hair woman’s husband sli
pped into the lead vehicle’s rear seat alongside Trevor Stone.
She waved to the crowd of well-wishers one last time and then joined the other passengers. The convoy drove away from the village and across the savannah.
One mid-May afternoon a young barefoot boy with a Mediterranean complexion ran as fast as his small legs could carry along the jetty stretching out on a bed of rocks from the charred remains of Palermo. He joined the gathering of curious children at the end of the pier in time to add his voice to the chorus of “Arrivederci! Arrivederci!”.
The boys and girls offered their farewells to a 300-foot luxury yacht and a salvaged corvette of the Italian navy breaking port.
The convoy that had scoured Africa for months returned north to make final preparations. They crossed from Morocco to the Iberian Peninsula on a series of helicopters.
Dozens of persons from dozens of enclaves of African survivors exited the choppers alongside Trevor in the shadow of the giant rock of Gibraltar. A face Trevor had not seen since last fall waited to greet him: Alexander.
The two spoke on the grounds of a long-abandoned Royal Navy base that recently found new purpose.
After exchanging pleasantries, Trevor dove straight into the matter, “We’re getting near the deadline.”
“Yes,” Alexander agreed as they walked toward the ocean side of the base. “I have received word that many of the others have already departed for the rendezvous.”
“What about the round table at Camelot?”
Alexander assured in a light-hearted tone that belied his usually serious personality, “I told you last year that everyone would accept the proposal. You need to learn to relax.”
Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion Page 51
