Trevor recognized Fromm. The Chaktaw leader stood out from his brethren in the same manner that the Fromm he had killed at Five Armies stood out: one green eye and one of hazel.
To his surprise, however, a human woman-skinny and malnourished-stood among Fromm's entourage. Her messy brown hair and sad brown eyes suggested a beaten woman despite any sign of wounds. While he did not recognize the face, he certainly recognized a slave. The leash around her throat held by a Chaktaw soldier accentuated the fact.
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!'
