by Schism
City Hall had not been alone in that regard.
As if to emphasize the thought, the Governor’s eyes sought out and found the dusty hole to the north; all that remained of Dodger Stadium after a bombardment of Witiko rockets had struck that makeshift rescue center, killing more than five thousand refugees on a fine summer day during the first months of the alien invasion.
Whether those missiles targeted the refugees or, as the Witiko explained during negotiations, resulted from a malfunction, did not matter. That hole served as a symbol.
When that first war ended, Malloy worked to cleanse the scars, starting first with renovating City Hall. Similar projects in other cities erased some-certainly not all-of the wounds from that five-year conflict.
At the same time, the social structure underwent renovations. Their Witiko allies brought new technologies and new ways of thinking that might have repulsed small minds. But Malloy convinced his people that survival depended on rethinking how they viewed government, work, and life in general.
The result California survived. No easy task, particularly when the rest of the country descended into chaos ruled either by aliens overtly enslaving human survivors or dangerous wilderness with no laws, no organization, and no hope.
On long nights when the faces of the former Governor and others who had been in front of Malloy in the line of succession haunted his sleep, he admitted to himself that, yes, his embracing of Witiko ideals served as much his self-interest as the interest of California. Yet he also knew one truth: the peace deal had stopped the fighting.
In the years since, human and aliens rid the cities and suburbs of dangerous predators, re-established industry, and built a functioning society.
Certainly that society lacked perfection. The human population in California shrank with a slow but steady drop in life expectancy and a low birth rate. Malloy and his people agreed with D’Trayne that the best hope for prosperity lay with a smaller population base.
The Governor dropped his eyes to a closer sight: tents and tables cluttering a parking lot across the street. Lines of people waited for their portion from pots of bubbling stew made with vegetables, fish, wild game, and lots of water. Dinner time at the “Municipal Feeding Station.”
Malloy felt a vague sense of pride in the station. These people lived. If the war with the Witiko had gone on, they probably would have been killed. The Governor did not buy Trevor Stone’s explanation that it had been the Witiko-not California-in danger of losing that war.
No, Malloy felt that his decision to seek peace, to share power, to accept new (alien) ideas resulted in survival for Californians while the rest of the world died. It was mere coincidence that doing the right thing helped make his life easier.
While food lines were not new, something else down there was: the presence of cameramen. Such pictures had not been transmitted across the state before the invasion by Trevor’s “Empire.” To do so, Malloy believed, would merely hurt morale and paint an unflattering picture of life in The Cooperative. In contrast, with the start of the new war images of breadlines, homeless citizens, and poorly-functioning hospitals served a purpose, especially when subjecting the context of those images to heavy editing. As a lifelong politician, Malloy understood the value of propaganda.
He sighed and walked away from the view.
Four men in fine suits and one woman in a business skirt hovered around several banquet tables. A half-dozen guards stood at the entrances to the Tower Room bearing assault rifles and dressed in black coveralls. No sign of any Witiko, officer or otherwise.
Witiko or no, so few people gathered in a room meant to hold so many did not sit well with the Governor. The emptiness of the chamber made him feel small.
A young courier hustled in. He wore a muddy uniform and sported bruises and cuts on his face and forearms.
“One of The Empire’s dreadnoughts is approaching. Spotters identify it as the Philippan. It’s out by San Bernardino. My commander sent a message to the airport.”
Malloy knew the courier meant his commander had tried yet again to get the Witiko Cruisers at LAX to engage the approaching threat. The Governor also knew that with the regular air force destroyed, the Stingrays did not desire to engage the dreadnoughts head on, despite the advantages of their radar cloak. Apparently the mighty Witiko preferred the company of human jets as cannon fodder when flying into battle.
“I see,” the Governor spoke. “What am I supposed to do”
Malloy surveyed his gathered advisors and focused on his Minister of Defense, a diminutive man in his mid-forties with scruff on his cheeks and a balding head.
During the Witiko War, that man served as a soldier in a regular army unit. But when his commanding officer refused to recognize the peace treaty, that officer disappeared, the unit fell into line, and the subordinate who had made all that possible received an appointment to lead a new Defense Department.
Malloy asked, “Minister Snowe, what is the military situation”
Snowe said, “The attack coming up from the south is moving on Long Beach. They’ll take it sometime in the morning, we think. We don’t know what the dreadnought is up to, but I doubt it will fly downtown.”
A fifty-something woman with thinning hair and a sharp nose who served as the Secretary of Family Planning questioned, “Why Can the Stingrays hold it off”
Snowe answered, “No. But The Empire knows we have surface to air missiles and artillery batteries that are effective against dreadnoughts. Besides, a direct assault on downtown L.A. would lead to a lot of civilian casualties, and we don’t think they want that.”
“This is true,” Malloy said. “But so far our public relations campaign has not borne fruit. What is Gannon doing over there I have not heard from him in over a week.”
The assistant Director of Information loosened his striped tie and spoke, “Gannon has made a lot of friends among the Imperial Senate, particularly our ally Mr. Godfrey.”
“For all his talk, Godfrey has done me little good.”
The Information Director continued, “Well, it appears Godfrey has friends in their Internal Security apparatus. We have received a recommendation that when the time comes, we surrender to their Internal Security units, not regular military. I understand a number of Witiko officers have already been taken into custody by them.”
The Secretary of Family Planning jumped at the word `surrender’ in a tone that suggested the idea intrigued her: “Surrender Are we talking like that yet”
Governor Terrance Malloy ran his hand over his head and sighed.
“I may not have any other choice. Our forces are being pushed back.”
Snowe countered, “We’ve got five thousand troops in San Diego that are fresh and haven’t been used. We’ve got another fifteen hundred or so veteran troops outside of Monterey. Some of those are the guys who gave the Imperials a good pasting outside of Stockton last week. We can count on them. They’re not going down without a fight.”
“Ah yes, I remember the type,” Malloy mused, thinking of Snowe’s CO who preferred to die fighting than bargain with aliens.
Snowe finished, “If we can drag this out longer, maybe we can win the PR battle. Maybe there’ll be enough pressure on Stone to pull back. Or, negotiate something favorable.”
The Governor considered the situation. His forces no longer held any kind of strategic front, only isolated islands with lines of communication nearly cut. By morning he would no longer have the ability to command forces beyond the Los Angeles city limits and those limits appeared destined to shrink. The Witiko, for all their high talk, appeared to have abandoned the effort after the Barstow generator went down.
Where is D’Trayne
If they continued to fight, the additional blood on Trevor Stone’s hands might be enough to gain Malloy a sympathy card to play, but he doubted he could play that hand into any power or authority. At best, maybe a comfortable retirement.
Surrendering now could save thousands of Cooperative soldi
ers and leaders. They would become citizens of this Empire, in one form or another. If he made the right speech, maybe framing himself as a peace broker interested in the greater good, if those loyalists channeled their devotion into a political movement inside The Empire, maybe he would have a chance.
A long shot, but a much better shot than the military situation.
“I will prepare a communiqu. I will end this fight to save lives on both sides.”
The Secretary of Family Planning said, “Governor, how very far-sighted of you.”
A harsh beeping grabbed the attention of Defense Minister Snowe. He produced a communicator of Witiko design and walked away from the gathering to better hear the message.
“What When Okay.”
Snowe then hurried to the windows on the east side and told them, “Spotters say the Philippan just launched a lot of missiles. Probably cruise missiles.”
The Information Director nearly cried, “I thought they didn’t have GPS munitions”
Snowe explained, “They don’t. I think they use radar altimeters and digital strip maps. Not exactly low tech, but not dependent on GPS, either.”
Malloy insisted, “Those missiles are not meant for me. They need me to tell our soldiers when to stop fighting. Without me-“
Three missiles slammed into the observation windows of the Tower Room; five hundred kilograms of explosives in each warhead. The blast incinerated the ministers, guards, and Governor. The concussion broke the top floors of City Hall into blocks of concrete, glass, and steel. Those blocks rained down on the streets below, including the bread line.
For all purposes, the California Cooperative died at that moment.
* * *
Fremont Boulevard and Canyon Del Ray Boulevard crossed in a big `X’ about a half-mile away from the Monterey Peninsula airport, which was Stonewall’s last objective for the day. He found it intolerable that his formation’s vanguard remained stuck at that intersection, so close to the airport but seemingly unable to make that last push.
Part of that vanguard lay in ruins at the center of that big `X’ with treads popped off and armored chassis’ burning among craters and charred patches where a combined total of sixteen lanes of roadway crisscrossed.
The rest of his division stretched northeastward on Fremont, waiting for their chance to punch through for the airport.
Stonewall paced behind an ad hoc bunker constructed with sandbags among the skeleton-like remains of two cars.
“Benjamin, please explain why my division is not currently moving forward.”
Stonewall just arrived at the front line from his headquarters further back in the column. So far he saw his damaged war machines but no sign of what caused that damage.
Before Duda answered, a Bradley Fighting Vehicle moved into the cluttered intersection, weaving through the carnage and attempting to drive south. Stonewall stopped pacing and eyed the Bradley’s progress, still wondering what had caused the fuss.
The answer came in a long hiss and crackle heard above the pops and snaps coming from the smoldering wrecks in the center of the `X’. Just as the Bradley cleared those wrecks, a glint of silver flashed in the rays of sunset as it rose into the air from behind a cluster of buildings.
Stonewall watched as that silver flash swooped toward the Bradley. The armored vehicle spotted the threat and fired its main gun, but the Witiko Skytroop zigzagged.
The turret rotated, but not fast enough. The Witiko hovered a hundred feet in the air for one quick second and fired a missile from a portable launcher. That missile lumbered relatively slow for a rocket. Despite its slower-than-expected speed, the projectile ruptured the protective armor of the vehicle and exploded inside the cabin, killing another crew.
“Oh dear. Get anti-air units forward.”
“Sir, wait a second,” Benny Duda pointed toward the spot in the air where the Skytroop had hovered. That trooper remained visible, having risen higher into the sky but not retreated toward the airport as had been the routine during the standoff. Four more Skytroop officers joined the first.
Stonewall ordered, “Hurry with those anti-air units. Time is of the essence.”
But the Witiko airborne soldiers did not attack. They turned their thrusters to full power and raced off to the northeast at a fast pace, maybe as fast as eighty miles per hour. Whatever their actual velocity, their speed and height allowed them to easily avoid carbine fire from below.
“Well, what an interesting development,” Stonewall said.
Duda replied, “They look like they’re headed toward our rear area.”
Stonewall considered the events of the last few days, up to and including the news that the Governor and his staff died earlier that evening in a missile strike on Los Angeles. One of the more interesting developments in those few days had been the willingness of Witiko officers to go to great lengths to bypass the front lines and surrender to Internal Security units.
“Fear not, Benjamin, I believe our Witiko friends will be well received.”
Stonewall stepped from cover and stared to the southeast. He knew the airport waited to be overrun, probably abandoned by the Witiko. If lucky, he might find one or two Stingray cruisers there for the taking.
Beyond the airport rose rough mountains. On the far side of those mountains, the Carmel Valley Ranch resort where, according to aerial surveillance, nearly fifteen hundred hard core California soldiers dug in.
Stonewall had already held dealings with that lot. They had stopped his advance outside of Stockton last week, inflicting a fair number of casualties and, according to eyewitness reports, executed a squad of his engineers who had taken a wrong turn into enemy territory.
“Looks like we’re clear,” Duda said enthusiastically.
“Yes,” Stonewall lamented. “On to the next battle.”
* * *
“They surrendered about an hour ago,” General Prescott explained from the front passenger seat of the moving Humvee. “After Bogart broke their front lines they pulled back near Rainbow Lagoon to try and protect access to Interstate Seven-Ten. We used Bragg’s Blackhawks to land units and some light arty behind them at the harbor. They gave up the ghost after that.”
Trevor listened to Prescott but kept his eyes focused out the window. He saw crowds of California civilians daring to move outside now that the guns had stopped. They did not know that the man who led The Empire sped by as part of a motorcade. Even if they did, their attention focused on the dead bodies, broken machines, and damaged buildings left from the battle for Long Beach.
A Chinook flew low overhead, no doubt ferrying more infantry forward to secure the newly taken prize. Further off, a cloud rose from atop Signal Hill on the north side of town where earlier that morning a bombing run reduced Cooperative artillery to a pile of melted iron.
Closer, they passed a Humvee driving slowly along East Ocean Boulevard broadcasting, “All Witiko are ordered to report to the processing station at the Hilton near the old Trade Center. Failure to comply will result in forcible arrest.”
Soon, Trevor knew, the Hunter/Killer teams and their K9s would enter the city and sniff out alien hideaways. Doors would be smashed. Witiko children and their parents would be forced into custody prior to being shipped across country for a one-way trip through the runes.
He felt bad about what was to come, but not guilty. No one invited the Witiko to Earth. The fact that they had bargained their way to power in California with the help of human accomplices changed nothing.
Trevor glanced to his right. Resort homes, condominiums, hotels, and shops came and went. When he looked out the window to his left, his heartbeat changed to heavy, fast thumps.
The Pacific Ocean. Trevor held a hand to the window, as if trying to touch the sparkling blue waters on the far side of a brilliant white beach.
Ten years of war replayed in his mind. He saw those first battles in northeast Pennsylvania, when his army could be counted on two hands. Then four years of skirmishes and local b
attles to expand across the state and into neighboring regions. After that came the Hivvan War; a raging combined-arms fight across the south until the entire Mid-Atlantic region as well as the heart of Dixie had been wrested from the invaders.
The march to the Mississippi and the problems in Ohio; the re-settling of the new American frontier, crossing the Rockies and into the Northwest, and now the Pacific.
He knew the war to liberate humanity would rage for decades more with battles in the jungles of South America, the deserts of the Middle East, the plains of the Ukraine, the frozen tundra of Scandinavia, and across the vast expanse of Asia. That’s what waited for Trevor, his children, and their children.
Yet today-right now-they achieved a milestone.
“Stop the car.”
The Humvee escorts pulled to the curb outside a mansion surrounded by palm trees identified as the “Long Beach Museum.”
“Sir What is it”
Trevor did not answer Prescott. He opened the door and stepped outside the armored cabin. A fresh morning breeze carried the scent of salt and a hint of blowing sand. Seagulls cackled over the beach. The sun shot in behind him, casting shadows across the sand but with a strength that hinted at a hot day to come.
With a dozen soldiers scrambling to form a protective cocoon around him, Trevor cut behind the museum, walked through the garden that once hosted the finest weddings in all Long Beach, marched across a small parking lot, and stepped onto the sand.
The deserted beach stretched little more than one hundred feet wide, much thinner than the beaches further to the south and puny compared to the one in the backyard of his summer house in New Jersey.
With Tyr at his side, he walked to where land met ocean. Low waves curled and crashed then flowed in. A few inches of water brushed against Trevor’s boot, lapping over the top and tickling the bottom of his pant leg.
