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 24th to May 31st, 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&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 C
ouncil 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 a
go. 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."
Beyond Armageddon IV: Schism Page 16