Beyond Armageddon: Book 03 - Parallels

by Anthony DeCosmo

  She stepped forward and translated for Fromm, speaking in an unnatural monotone that suggested her humanity had retreated deep within her shell.

  "You are Emperor Stone. We believed you to be dead."

  Trevor kept his eyes focused on Fromm and answered, "I am not the same Stone."

  Fromm's lips clamped shut and his eyes of two different colors appeared to bulge in the slightest. Trevor easily recognized that the Chaktaw leader stood at the edge of rage. After all, how would Trevor have greeted the Hivvan leader or one of The Order's Bishops?

  The translator took Fromm's words and spoke, "Jaff told us your stories of universes and duplicates. I found those stories amusing. My amusement has ended. You will die."

  Rifles pointed at the two captives.

  Despite a stoic translation, Trevor heard the sarcasm as the woman relayed, "If any more Trevor Stones come, we will be sure to kill them, too."

  "Wait! I know about the key. I can help you win this war. I have a gift for you."

  A barrel pressed against his temple.

  Fromm said, "I will kill every creature that does not belong on my world. I will leave you to rot on the ground as a warning to others that Earth belongs to the Chaktaw."

  29. Bargaining With the Devil

  The Internal Security guard raised a bull horn and tried to speak but the tremble in his lips made him stop and re-focus. After a moment, he found the strength to shout, "Disperse now!"

  His command cut through the evening air with plenty of volume, but despite his best effort, did not sound authoritative in any way. He sounded, in fact, scared. Shouts and jeers from the crowd that had grown into a mob that would soon be a riot easily drown his hollow order.

  That Internal Security agent and his six comrades stood on the lawn outside the Maryland Governor's colonial-style mansion. In this case, 'Maryland' was more a general territory as opposed to the rigid borders of the old state of the same name. The idea of state governments remained a fluid and vague concept.

  Regardless, the Governors and the territories they governed were symbols of Trevor Stone’s control over "The Empire." They stood in contrast to the districts carved and marked to elect Senators, which became symbols of the fledgling 'democracy' movement.

  No one had seen Trevor Stone in nearly two months. With a flimsy cover story on one hand and, on the other, activists warning that Stone was dead and the military had taken control, the settlements and outposts and mechanisms of "The Empire" threatened to unravel.

  Had he been killed outright, perhaps the people would have shown more patience. His disappearance not only fueled speculation, it fueled fear. With fear came panic. With panic came mobs. With mobs came riots, as the case at the Governor's residence in Annapolis that night.

  Internal Security agents held position inside a temporary chain link fence installed after gun shots hit the Governor’s residence two days ago. The crowd numbered close to one hundred protestors.

  The I.S. agents noticed boards and bats and crow bars among the crowd. Fortunately, no sign of guns, probably because if the mob carried actual firearms they could no longer be billed as 'peaceful.'

  Still, it made little difference because just last week the Governor's security detail had been cut in half, despite the growing threat to the residence. That decision baffled the local commander but since it came from the 'top' he saw no recourse. Of course, in recent weeks it seemed difficult to discern exactly who or what was at the 'top'.

  "Disperse now!" The I.S. man shouted again although the only people who looked ready to disperse were the Internal Security agents themselves. Even the twenty Doberman Pinchers assigned to protect the Governor appeared unnerved by the growing volume of the crowd.

  Instead of jeers, this time the mob reacted with action. The mass pressed forward into the fragile fence. It bent in and then the support poles—held in place by cinderblocks and stakes—buckled and fell.

  Bottles and rocks rained on the security detail who lacked both body armor and non-lethal weapons. Their only tools were ineffective bullhorns and overly effective automatic weapons. With the choice being either flee or gun down the protestors, the agents chose the former and left the K9s alone to stem the tide.

  The barricades collapsed and the mass of angry people swarmed the wide lawn, trampled the hedges, and stormed toward the house. With the human agents escaping via the back yard, the dogs could only buy time.

  K9 teeth tore away fingers, severed a hand, and took chunks of flesh out of legs, but they were quickly run over and beaten with boards and planks and metal bars. Barks turned to squeals. Four-legged carcasses oozed red and lay still on the grass.

  The Governor and his two personal bodyguards hurried the young children of the family upstairs and prepared to shoot any who trespassed into the home.

  Windows smashed, door knobs rattled. The shouts and jeers and boisterous hollers of the attackers created one big churning ball of noise like a violent thunderstorm.

  Then another noise came. One that sent a vibration through the walls of the mansion.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  A Blackhawk helicopter arrived overhead but failed to impress. Someone threw a rock at the chopper. The act of defiance elicited a response from a fifty-caliber machine gun that tore into the crowd below. Suddenly, the mob lost its stomach for violence and vandalism.

  Bodies of rioters fell alongside beaten dogs. The machine gun fired with more than the goal of dispersing the crowd, it fired in anger. Anger as real as the anger that had propelled the mob in the first place.

  After several moments the gun fell silent. The moans of the dead and dying could not be heard over the oppressive drone of the rotors.

  ---

  The man with the thick glasses zipped his wool coat over a plaid shirt, stepped out onto the dark stoop, then locked the building's door behind him, the one with the placard reading, The New American Press. Philadelphia Editorial Offices.

  Not so long ago, Evan Godfrey's newspaper consisted of a small office in northeastern Pennsylvania and a handful of couriers. Since the massacre at New Winnabow, more people took an interest in The New American Press’ anti-Imperial, pro-democracy message.

  Godfrey had graduated to a full-time politician and handed over the day-to-day operations to his staff, including Philadelphia branch Editor Jim Huffman, who locked up after a long day at the office. Of course, in recent weeks most days felt long. With the face of Trevor Stone off center stage, his staff no longer contended with a cult of personality. Instead, they focused on Imperialism, war-mongering, and a modern-day post-Apocalyptic military/industrial complex.

  Huffman paced the wide sidewalk of Broad Street. He saw no cars but he did hear a distant clop-clop-clop from horse shoes. A few—not all—of the street lights shined but the brightest light came from a torch flickering outside a small restaurant a half-block ahead.

  A much closer sound grabbed his attention, the sound of footsteps approaching at a fast clip. He turned to look and but before he could identify the newcomers, Huffman went flying backwards, his jaw rattled and something—teeth?—loose in his mouth. His arms flailed and his thick glasses tumbled away. His head hit the cold concrete. Before he could even fathom what was happening, boots and shoes slammed into his ribs and chest again and again.

  "The sons of Trevor Stone, mother fucker! That’s right! He’ll be back! Watch what you write, or next time we’ll kill your traitor ass!"

  Huffman fell unconscious.

  ---

  The morning sun was out there, somewhere, but far removed from the conference room in the basement of the estate where gloom prevailed.

  Jon and Lori Brewer, Gordon Knox, General William Hoth, and Omar Nehru sat at the conference table. A handful of aids waited in the wings.

  "And that is all I can be saying," Nehru finished his report. "Other than the radiation on which you have been told already, there is no evidence of any place to which the structure has gone or to whom it might have belonged."


  "That’s just great," Jon's chair squeaked as he leaned back. "All this time and you’ve got nothing? Shit, we’ve got nothing."

  General Hoth said, "Army Group North has temporarily pacified the surrounding countryside, and we’ve secured Cincinnati as a result of the…," Hoth, uncharacteristically, stumbled to describe the mass vanishing in that southwestern Ohio metropolis. "…the situation there. However, I require the return of the brigades you pulled from the lines last week."

  Gordon jumped in, "We need those brigades for domestic security. You’ll just have to tough it out until we can free them up."

  "Let me rephrase," Hoth paused, gathered his thoughts, and then did just that. "Short of additional mass disappearances, I can not take any more of the major cities with my current manpower. My forces are barely adequate for maintaining defensive positions."

  "Why are we even talking about your army?" Lori Brewer shot. "We need to be focused on Trevor. It’s now or never."

  Jon explained to his wife, "General Hoth either needs those brigades back or he needs to withdraw across Ohio. Maybe even abandon Cincy. Between Plats, Roachbots, and predatory hostiles, his position is becoming untenable."

  "Withdrawing now would be a sign of weakness," Gordon said. "At the same time, I think we’re going to need those brigades back here."

  "I do not understand why," Hoth spent most of his time at the front where he received little information on the degenerating situation on the home front. Further, could not understand the idea of neglect of duty, therefore he did not understand why Internal Security units failed to do their job, or could not be trusted to do so. He did, however, notice that the day's meeting did not include Dante Jones.

  "You want to know why?" Lori turned in her chair and grabbed a newspaper from the top of what had once been a basement bar. She read from the headlines. "Riot at Governor’s mansion turns deadly…the ‘Sons of Trevor’ strike in Philadelphia…labor guild promises wild cat strikes if elections are not held…Senate refuses to allocate funds for the military…should I go on?"

  Jon ran a hand across his forehead and closed his eyes.

  Omar offered, "If I may be suggesting, perhaps it is time for us to admit to tell the people of what has happened."

  "No," Gordon nearly shouted. "We need to assert military control and publicly recognize Jon Brewer as the acting head of state. We have to follow a military hierarchy."

  "And why is that being?" Omar asked.

  "Because this is a war," Knox answered "Now is not the time for politics. We have to be tough on this. If we’re tough I know we can assert control over the situation."

  "It is a question of legitimacy," Hoth’s voice sounded soft but seemed more an explosion to the ears in the room. The man commanded an entire Army Group of loyal soldiers. If he broke from the rest of the military, things could actually get worse in a hurry.

  However, before anyone could react to Hoth, the basement door opened and Dante Jones descended the stairs and stood next to the conference table.

  Jones did not look at Brewer as he said, "Jon, there's a call for you on line one. You need to take it."

  "Who is it?" Lori somehow beat Knox to the question.

  "Evan Godfrey. I think you should talk to him."

  Every eye in the room focused on a lonely phone sitting atop the conference table. On that phone blinked a solitary red light.

  Lori placed a hand on her husband's shoulder as Jon reached for the receiver. His index finger extended and—trembling—pushed the blinking red button, activating the speaker.

  Evan Godfrey's voice came across calm and self-assured. "Good morning, Jon. I assume the usual cast is present. You know why I am calling. Things have reached a critical juncture. Jon? Are you listening?"

  Brewer licked his lips, swallowed, and answered, "I’m here."

  "Good. As of this moment, Washington D.C. is an independent city. That is to say, the Senate has taken direct control of administering this city. Notice I did not say Imperial Senate. "

  "You can’t do that, Evan," Jon protested in a stumbling voice.

  "That’s where you are wrong. The D.C. garrison and the majority of senators support this position. However, this is a temporary move. One that will certainly be matched by more cities and voting districts across what used to be The Empire."

  "Used…to…be?"

  Lori Brewer said, "You’re going to destroy everything Trevor worked to build!"

  "Where is Trevor Stone? He is not on a secret mission, Jon. Maybe he was, but he’s gone now. I have been patient so far but it is obvious that he is not coming back. I told you, there will be no new Emperor. The people loved him and followed him but he is gone."

  "Are you so sure?" Brewer did not so much confront Evan as confront his own fear of Trevor's disappearance. His way, perhaps, of finally admitting that Trevor was gone for good.

  "It is time for our society to make the transition to democracy. I’m sorry but I don’t trust you, Shepherd, and the likes of Gordon Knox to run this nation. Neither do the people."

  Dante Jones implored the assembled, "Listen to him. I know you don’t like him. I know you’ve had disagreements. Trevor always put those aside to do what was right. Now you have to do that, Jon. Now you have to do what is right for the greater good."

  Knox eyed Jones with a hawkish glare while Jon Brewer remained fixed on that red light.

  Evan continued, "We're getting things organized here in D.C. We’ve written a charter for a new governing structure. Of course, each of you will play an important part in the transition. And each of you is welcome to run for office. But Jon, we’re not staying in Washington forever. This is about our entire country and all the people. You have a few days or so. Then we’ll be coming up there to see you. We’re going to march on the estate. It will be a peaceful protest. I expect you to show restraint but just incase, there will be several members of the military marching with us. Some officers, some rank and file, as well as Internal Security, representatives of the labor guild and many more. So you wait up there in your bunker and think things through. In a few days, I’ll be coming to see you."

  ---

  Trevor closed his eyes.

  So this is how it ends? Maybe it won’t be so bad…

  A sound. No, a voice. A Chaktaw voice from the crowd of surrounding Fromm. The human slave translated as if on instinct, "Wait."

  Trevor saw movement among the assembled witnesses. A child squeezed to the front. She wore her hair in braids along the scalp and watched the world through hazel eyes that stood apart among the green eyes of her people.

  "Wait. Father. Stop," the girl’s pleas translated.

  Trevor recognized the expression on Fromm's face. He saw that unique combination of annoyance and concern blended with the unmistakable love of a father for his child. The Chaktaw leader stooped to speak with his daughter who pleaded with him in their native language. The translator did not share the discussion but Trevor did not need to understand the words to see that the daughter's urgings caused her father no small measure of confusion.

  Trevor saw something more there, too. The girl's ranting not only puzzled her father, but the way Fromm's mouth hung open and how he squinted--as if searching his daughter's eyes--suggested he stood in awe of her the way Trevor often found himself in awe of Jorgie.

  The human captives waited on their knees with gun barrels pressed to their heads. Finally the discussion came to an end with the girl doing what so many stubborn children do: she crossed her arms and showed her dad a stiff upper lip.

  Fromm threw his arms in the air.

  Her victory complete, the little girl stepped to Trevor and grinned.

  "You are funny looking."

  It took Trevor a moment to realize that the girl, not the translator, spoke the words. Her understanding of the human language not only surprised Trevor, but caused grumbles in the Chaktaw audience.

  As a result, the slave switched roles and translated Trevor's conversation
with Fromm's daughter into the Chaktaw language.

  "Yes.Yes I am. What is your name?"

  "My name is Alenna."

  "That’s a very pretty name. My name is—"

  "I know who you are," she said. "I know you don’t belong here. I have told my father he should listen to you. He does not want to. He wants to kill you."

  "I don’t blame him."

  "That’s how it has to be, you know," she said quite seriously. "But you do not belong here and I think you can help us. That’s why you risked meeting my father."

  "I want to go home," he then nodded at Major Forest. "She wants to go home, too."

  Alenna's expression narrowed. She did not like Nina. She did not like Nina at all. Trevor could see that. He feared what the little girl—or Fromm—might suggest and acted preemptively.

  "She goes home, too."

  "My father does not feel you should be telling him what to do. He may still kill you."

  "I know. But what I offer is worth much more than my death, or hers. It may be the key to saving your people…to saving your Earth."

  "You do look funny," she said again.

  Fromm stepped forward and spoke in his native tongue. The human slave turned those unrecognizable syllables and sounds into Trevor’s language. "For my daughter, I will listen. She is exceptional and sees things others miss. For her, I will listen but I will not listen long."

  Trevor quickly accepted the opening saying, "I have a son. He is much like your daughter. Very smart. Very special."

  With hands held aloft, Trevor slowly rose to his feet.

  "That’s not all we have in common," he told the Chaktaw leader. "On my Earth, I have a key around my neck, too. A key no one else can see."

  Fromm absently stroked two fingers against his chest. Stone found he missed the feel of that key. It had disappeared since coming to this parallel universe.