State of Alliance

by Summer Lane

  Commander Amal gestures next to the man with the CANADA placard, a white-haired gentleman wearing a camouflage jacket and thick black gloves. “Senator Marshal Sullivan, Commander of the Canadian militia confederation group The Strikers,” she says. Then she turns to a woman sitting behind the MEXICO placard. She is pale white with black hair and blue eyes. A deep, red scar cuts through her cheek, into her lip. And yet somehow she is still beautiful. “Senator Anita Vega, Commander of the Mexican militia group Coyotes.”

  Commander Amal surveys the room and then holds an open palm in my direction. “And representing California in the these Negotiations to join the alliance is Senator Cassidy Hart, Commander of the Freedom Fighters and Operation Angel Pursuit.”

  My face warms when she mentions my name. I feel slightly out of body, like I’m dreaming. I tell myself to relax. This is not a battlefield, but it might as well be. I have to go into this with the same mentality:

  Keep it together. Failure is not an option.

  “Senator Hart, since you are representing the state of California, the entity who wishes to join the Pacific Northwest Alliance, will you begin the Negotiations?” Commander Amal suggests.

  I nod. I have been around the block when it comes to this war with Omega, so I figure…why not be direct?

  “I’m representing California, as you know,” I say, projecting my voice. It echoes in the big room. “What do we have in common? We are all fighting Omega. Omega has taken everything from us – our homes, our families, our friends. Our way of life. But they haven’t taken away our will to fight, or to be free. That’s what unites us. That’s what brings us together.” I briefly lock eyes with Chris. I continue, “California, Mexico, Canada. It doesn’t matter that we’re independent countries. Right now we’re all on the same playing field. To stay alive and to maintain our freedom, California needs your help, and you need California’s help. Our coastline is huge, and we need help keeping it secure, and keeping Omega from pushing into the Central Valley and taking our agricultural resources. In helping us, you will be helping yourselves. As long as Omega can’t get a stronger foothold in California, their chances of breaking our defenses anywhere on the Pacific coast are significantly slimmer.” I hold my hands out. “It’s simple, really. We need you, you need us. It’s a win-win situation for everyone. Omega needs to be destroyed, and together, we can achieve that goal.”

  Seriously. It’s not rocket science.

  “And what guarantee do we have that when the war is over, California will not overstep its territorial boundaries?” Anita Vega, the representative from Mexico speaks up. “America has taken Texas and California from us in the past. Perhaps in exchange for our help you could return territory to Mexico?”

  I shake my head.

  “This isn’t about territorial claims or disputes,” I say. “This is about getting Omega out of our countries. This isn’t for our governments. I mean, come on. Our governments are all but destroyed. They’re a sad joke. What have they done to protect us from Omega? Nothing. The only reason we’ve got a shot is because people like you and me – average, everyday people – are taking it on themselves to grow a spine and duke it out with the bad guys.” I press my index finger on the table. “And right here is how we do it. We join forces now, and we make crushing Omega our main goal. End of story.”

  “So we don’t have any prizes for anyone,” Marshal Sullivan, the representative from Canada interjects. “Which means our incentive is the same – defeating our common enemy. That strengthens our cause. I agree with Senator Hart in this. There is no other way. I see no reason to deny California membership in the Pacific Northwest Alliance. We need California as much as they need us.”

  “True, but let’s say the war ends,” Anita shoots back. “Omega is hypothetically defeated and the world is restored to how it used to be. While we are rebuilding society, do we remain in an alliance, or do we break apart?”

  “We’ll establish that when the war ends,” I say. “Honestly, think about how long it’s going to take to rebuild everything. I mean everything. Right now we’re running on backup generators and some emergency supplies, but it could take a hundred years to completely restart. We’ve got limited technology left. A huge chunk of the population has been wiped out. It will take time. Right now we have one priority: destroy Omega, then worry about step two.”

  “I think it would be of interest to the company gathered here to note that we have had limited communication with the United Kingdom, Germany and Russia,” Ken Thrawn, the Oregon representative states, his voice deep and bellowing. “They’ve been wiped out by an EMP, as well. They are in the same boat as us. There are few places in the world that have been left untouched by the scourge of Omega, and most of those locations are completely taken over by the enemy.”

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?” I ask. “We really are Earth’s last hope. If we go down, we take the last free continents on the planet down with us. Omega takes over Mexico, Canada, and the United States. They take over Europe, the Middle East and Asia. The planet is ruled by a dictatorship, we all die, and everything good goes up in flames.” I look at Chris again. His eyes are sad, knowing. “So there it is,” I say. “That’s the truth. Are you going to help us win this thing or not? Because even if you say no, even if you don’t want California in the Alliance, I’m still going to go out there and fight Omega every day until the day I die. Because they’re killing us – all of us. I know where I stand. The question is, where do you stand?”

  There is a heavy silence in the room. And then Nathaniel Mero, the scarred young representative from Washington finally says something.

  “The Senator is right,” he says. His voice is slightly slurred. “This is not a question of politics or revenge. This is about right and wrong. It is wrong for us to stand by and do nothing – we know this, otherwise we wouldn’t have created the Pacific Northwest Alliance. It is our moral obligation to fight for what we believe in and to defend our homeland from this invasion. We all know this. It is absolutely necessary is to allow California to join us. Our survival depends on it.”

  His words hang in the air.

  Let the games begin, I think.

  I have done my part. Now it is in their hands.

  I pray to God they do the right thing.

  Chapter Seven

  The Negotiations adjourn for the night. I was under the impression that my heartfelt – and, in my opinion, pretty inspiring pep talk – would open the Alliance’s arms to California. And it did, as far as I know. But the representatives will take a vote, and I will know tomorrow if California is in for sure. I am clearly not a politician, and the complexity of negotiations and strategies may always elude me, but I know the difference between right and wrong. I have common sense, and I am not afraid to draw a line in the sand. My first priority is to destroy Omega, and I will do that in any way that I can.

  “You did outstanding, Cassie,” Chris says.

  We are walking toward the Herrmann Hall ballroom. The hallways are lit with generator-powered lights, dull orange colors that thrum and hum against the pale walls. My fingers are still shaking and my face is warm. Public speaking has a way of doing that to me.

  “Are we in?” I ask quietly.

  “We’d better be,” Uriah interjects. “I don’t see any reason why they would reject us. Everyone but Anita Vega seemed pretty enthusiastic.”

  “Anita was fine,” I say. “She’s just trying to negotiate.”

  “I can’t believe it will take them until tomorrow to take a vote on this stupid thing,” Vera snaps. “This is a state of emergency – we’re at war. We’re either in or not. How long do they have to drag it out and talk about it?”

  “Let them talk,” I reply. “We know what we need to do.”

  We reach the ballroom. It’s a huge space. Generator powered lamps and lanterns light the eating area. Tables are lined with food and beverages, and officers of all colors, shapes and sizes are eating with cloth napkins on t
heir laps.

  “Very fancy,” Andrew says. “Too fancy.”

  “Seems unnecessary to make everything so formal during wartime,” Sophia snorts.

  I say nothing. Devin May replies,

  “It’s how they keep going on, even when everything is so bad. We stick to protocol, we make things nice, and we feed our people well while we still can.” He shrugs. “Eat up, folks. Tomorrow is going to be a long day, trust me.”

  The activity in the room seems to pause for a moment as the officers and troops eating dinner stop and look at our group. There are ill-concealed whispers and murmurs. I walk to the buffet table. There is meat, potatoes, vegetables and bread. I take the bare minimum – taking more than that would be selfish when supplies are so difficult to come by – and grab a cloth napkin. I find an empty table and sit near the edge of the window, overlooking the dark foliage outside.

  My security detail splits in half. One half sits at the table with me and enjoys a meal – Andrew, Uriah and Vera – while the other half makes their rounds in the ballroom. Sophia is among the latter group. Chris seats himself across from me.

  “You know,” he says, looking at Uriah, “when the Alliance accepts California’s proposal, things are going to change. We’ll have so much more access to better weapons and security.”

  “If they accept us,” Vera mutters.

  “Stop being such a pessimist,” I say. “Everything’s going to work out.”

  Vera shakes her head, and I get a flash of Angela Wright’s strained, bloody face; a broken expression seconds before death. I look down at the gravy on my potatoes, my appetite evaporating.

  I grab my wine glass, filled with water.

  “Where’s Manny?” I ask, directing my mind elsewhere.

  Uriah answers, “He’s somewhere in the compound. Probably talking with the Air Force, getting a feel for what they’re up to. You know Manny. He’s always got to be hanging around pilots.”

  “Yeah, that’s a true story right-” I begin, cut off by an earsplitting bang. The wine glass in my hand shatters, sending small shards of glass across my cheek, into my hand.

  I freeze. I comprehend the fact that something struck my glass, broke it, and kept traveling, hitting a man seated behind me at another table. He slumps forward and his head hits the table, blood spilling down the back of his white haired head.

  I drop to my knees behind the table, speckles of blood appearing on my hand where the wine glass shattered. Uriah is on my right and Chris is crouched beneath the table. Yelling and screaming echoes loudly throughout the ballroom. I have already drawn my handgun. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins.

  Chris yells, “KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN!”

  Uriah takes my arm, as if attempting to steer me away from the conflict. I jerk away, glaring. I don’t need to be led like a lost schoolgirl.

  I turn my head, sensing movement behind me. I see another National Guard trooper push through the crowd and lunge at me. He’s brandishing a knife. I don’t have time to fire my gun. He is too fast and too close. I roll onto my back and kick upward, smashing the heel of my boot into his hand. The knife falls from his fingers and clatters against the floor.

  He keeps coming. His one hand grabs my gun, wrenching my wrist sideways. The weapons falls to the floor. He is incredibly strong and determined to kill me any way he can. His hand closes around my throat and I feel the lack of oxygen immediately. I reach for the knife on my belt but I can’t get to it. I drive my knee into his gut with all my might. He heaves and his grip loosens. His hesitation allows me the split second I need to pull my knife from my belt.

  My turn.

  I grip the handle firmly and drive it up into his chest. He cries out in pain and I use the strength of my legs to push his body off mine. I pull the knife out, hot blood running down my arms. He is far from dead but he is wounded. Uriah places a boot on his throat and slams the butt of his rifle into his head, knocking him out.

  I breathe hard, looking around for Chris. Where is he?

  He has vanished into the chaos of the ballroom. There is a struggle in the far side of the room. I raise my head above the table just enough to see Chris take someone and slam their body against the wall. The poor sucker is crushed by the sheer power of Chris’s muscle mass.

  “He’s down, he’s down!” someone shouts.

  I stand up.

  Chris is kneeling over a thin man in a National Guard uniform. Chris’s knee is on his chest, his hand around his throat. There is a gun just out of the man’s reach. Andrew picks up the weapon, examining it closely.

  “Who is he?” I breathe.

  Uriah shakes his head.

  “No idea,” he says. “My best guess…an Omega spy.”

  “Who are you?” Chris growls.

  The man laughs. It’s a cruel sound.

  “You’re going to die,” he says gruffly. “All of you. You can’t stop Omega.”

  He jerks his head toward me. Even though he can’t see me – or touch me – I feel like I’ve been slapped. A dark, ugly feeling of foreboding squeezes my chest like an icy fist.

  Chris punches the man in the face, and he goes out like a light.

  “Take him,” Chris says, rising. He looks at Uriah.

  I take a few steps closer as the guards gather the man’s limp, unconscious body. As far as anyone knew, he – and the man who tried to stab me - was a soldier in the militia just like everybody else here.

  Not anymore.

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “He shot the man behind me.”

  I turn, seeing the dead officer at the table behind ours.

  “No,” Chris replies, his voice dark. “He was aiming for you.”

  He places his hand on my shoulder.

  We’re not safe here, either. We’re not safe anywhere.

  The shooter’s name is Luther. The man who tried to stab me is in critical condition, in a jail cell somewhere. Luther is sitting in a room with concrete walls and a one-way window. I stare at him through protective glass, watching his bloodshot eyes dart to the door.

  “He’s not insane,” Devin says, standing there, arms crossed. “He’s an infiltrator. An Omega hack.”

  Chris pauses. “We had an infiltrator aiming a laser at the Capitol Building dome in Sacramento,” he says. “And now you’ve got an assassination attempt on a California senator inside what should be an impenetrable compound.”

  “It was impenetrable,” Devin replies. “This guy is a patrol, a grounds guard. Remember Commander Amal, the Mediator in the Negotiations? She’s the Commander of the militia group Seahawks. He’s one of her men. Supposed to be trustworthy.”

  “Trusting people is the first mistake we make,” I murmur. “Trust no one.”

  Devin and Chris remain silent. My words sink in and I watch the spy in the interrogation chamber. He is not a psych case. He is calmly, defiantly sitting there, fully aware of what he has done.

  How is Omega doing this?

  How are they planting people so blatantly within our ranks?

  I say, “Let’s keep our priorities straight. We’ll find out if California was accepted into the Alliance by morning. This can wait.”

  “The vote was delayed,” Devin replies. “You might not find out until tomorrow afternoon.”

  I sigh.

  Vera is right. How long does it take to come to a decision? California should join. Period. What’s there to talk about?

  We exit the room – a dark, sterile place meant for observation of those being interrogated.

  “Senator, this won’t happen again,” Devin promises. “I mean, since the EMP, we haven’t had anything like this happen here. This is a freak thing.”

  “My security detail will take care of it,” I tell him, smiling slightly.

  In the moments after the assassination attempt, my mouth went completely dry, my hands shook and I felt slightly faint. Something about nearly being killed in a place that I trusted to be completely safe rocked my core.

  I have
confidence that Chris, Uriah, and the rest of my unit will keep me safe while I’m here – and not for my sake. For the sake of California.

  By the time we reach our hotel rooms, Devin turns to Chris.

  “Hey. Can I talk to you for a second, man?”

  Chris nods. I stand at my hotel room door and watch the two of them wander to the end of the hall, still in sight but out of earshot. Judging by the expression on Chris’s face and the way Devin gestures to me, I’m guessing that they’re talking about me.

  Shocker.

  I roll my eyes and take my room key out of my pocket, slip it into the lock and open the door. It’s cool inside, musty. The dark wood of the bed and the table blend in with the floor. A solar-powered lantern is sitting on the table. I flick it on, giving the room a soft glow. Someone has cleaned and stocked the room for me. There are bottles of fresh water on the table, along with some energy bars and what looks like basic items for the bathroom.

  Nice.

  I grab a water bottle and walk to the window, instinctively pulling the curtains across the window. Since the assassination attempt in the ballroom, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that someone is watching me. Waiting.

  I pop the water bottle open just as Devin and Chris return to my room.

  “Cassidy, come out in the hall for a second,” Chris says, holding his hand out.

  I cross the room, step over the threshold. Elle Costas – lithe and black-haired – is standing there with Uriah on her left, a firm grip around her bomb dog’s harness.

  “Elle is going to check the room,” Devin tells me. “That’s what Bravo does. Right, boy?”

  He smiles at the dog.

  I raise an eyebrow and Elle enters the room with the dog.

  “So you think somebody planted a bomb in my room?” I ask. “Then why did you let me go inside?”