– Lori Brewer returned the phone to its cradle with a satisfying clunk. She knew the Internal Security moron on the other end of the line did not hear nor feel that clunk, but the slam provided a small vent for her frustration.
She ran a hand through her brown hair; hair she had cut short over the winter. Between work and an eight year old daughter, she found that long hair simply got in the way.
On her desk waited the work load of the Chief Administrator, including a stack of memos covering new housing policies, agriculture priorities, changes to the penal system, and-as usual-a dozen regarding transportation issues.
A hollow, wooden rap sounded at the doorframe of what had once been a dining room but now served as her office. She raised her eyes slowly in dread of yet another task, interruption, or complaint. Fortunately, the man standing in the doorway carried a platter of wrapped sandwiches and a pitcher of water, not memos.
'Howdy Miss, am I interrupting?'
That man at the door with the sandwiches could interrupt all he wanted. He was, after all, Trevor Stone, Emperor to the millions of saved souls living under his tutelage.
Yet no matter how grand his empire, how powerful his fleet, or how mysterious his connection to the forces behind Armageddon, Lori Brewer knew him best as that childhood friend named Dick.
'All-rrriiigghty then,' she jibed. 'I guess you’re a mind reader, too, huh? My stomach is grumbling for lunch.'
'Mind reading is my specialty,' Trevor placed the platter on her desk.
Lori did some mind reading of her own. Her first clue came from his forced smile. The second came when he closed the office door behind him.
Lunch with Trevor had become a weekly tradition in recent years. Most of those weeks they sat with the door open and shared a delicacy from one corner or another of the burgeoning nation. Sometimes crab meat trucked in from Maryland, other times beef steaks from the ranches of Texas.
A few of those luncheons-apparently like today-involved a closed door.
Lori peered at the platter. He had brought sandwiches but at first glance they seemed ordinary. She unraveled one from its wax paper wrapper.
'Roast beef?'
He nodded. She examined the bread. Fresh baked but nothing exotic. 'Take a bite.' Lori shrugged and bit into the thick meat. Her mouth found another taste. She chewed, thought, then burst, 'Cheddar cheese. You’ve got cheddar in here.' 'Real Wisconsin cheddar.'
Trevor sat in one of the two chairs facing her desk. He pulled his own sandwich from the plate and took a healthy chomp. Lori produced two plastic cups from a drawer and filled them with water from the pitcher.
'So the dairy farmers are in business, huh?'
Trevor replied, 'Yeah, the first batches are on their way to stores now. Enjoy this free sample, because it’s hitting the shelves at five contys a pound.'
Contys, Lori knew, meant 'Continentals' and that might as well mean dollars. She also knew that much of the high price reflected the cost in transporting dairy products hundreds of miles in refrigerator cars on steam trains. The bulk of that transportation cost, in turn, revolved around security. The Empire had grown across what had once been the continental United States in patches, leaving dangerous wilderness between islands of civilization.
Lori enjoyed the free sample but sensed today’s lunch did not fit the profile of a friendly chit chat. Before the world had gone to Hell, Lori Brewer was as a social worker and counselor. In recent years, it seemed as if she served as Trevor’s personal therapist. She saw him glance toward the wall calendar as he washed down the last bite of roast beef and yellow cheddar. Saturday, March 15. He said exactly what she expected: 'Well, it’s been just about three years now.'
Lori Brewer had come to know that, to Trevor Stone, the year divided into three parts: ‘nearly,' 'now,' and 'more than.’ Those parts related to the moment he had returned from his trip across dimensions to an alternate Earth.
Since December, he often remarked that it had been ‘nearly’ three years. At some point in April, he would change from ‘now’ to ‘more than’ three years. The cycle, she figured, would continue until he could let go of his guilt and his fear. She agreed, 'Yep, I guess so.' Lori, done with her lunch in record time, waited. Trevor hesitated, paused, then mumbled, 'Well, you know, just remembering and all.'
Lori did not dance with words. Sometimes that served her well as a counselor, other times it chased people away. Trevor, however, had no where to run.
'Wait a second,' her eyes drooped a little, then narrowed, and her head tilted slightly as she put on her counselor’s face. 'This is about California, isn’t it?'
Trevor fidgeted. Lori pushed.
'You know, Jon’s been telling me you’ve been moving really slow on California. He couldn’t figure out why. He says you could have made it to their border months ago.' 'Well, um, we had to secure supply routes and make sure our flanks were secure and all.' 'Uh-huh,' Lori clearly did not believe him. Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose between an index finger and thumb. 'I take it your ambassadors haven’t made any progress.' Trevor, still pinching his nose with his eyes shut, shook his head. Lori said, 'So that means we’re heading to a confrontation. They won’t back down.' 'The Witiko won’t let them back down,' Trevor spat.
'Well, wait, the people there aren’t slaves. The Witiko and the humans share the government. It’s not like the Hivvans or something.'
Her observation struck a cord, exactly as intended.
Trevor let go of his nose and stood. He paced as he spoke, his fingers flexing.
'The Witiko are in control, I don’t give a damn what that Governor says. They can call themselves a Cooperative all they want, but the Witiko and a handful of people pull all the strings. The average guy isn’t much more than an indentured servant, doing all the shit work while the elitists live in ivory towers.'
Lori suppressed a smile and pushed more buttons.
'So, you don’t think this is like New Winnabow? We shouldn’t just let them be?'
'Hell no, it’s not like New Winnabow,' his angry tone wavered only a little at the reminder of sending his personal army of K9s into that enclave of pacifists. 'New Winnabow… they were human beings like you and me who chose a different path. If it weren’t for the Hivvans, I would have left them alone. But California-The Cooperative-is different. The Witiko managed to trick a bunch of idiots into thinking they’re our friends. They’re not our friends. Every damn alien has to go, either through the runes or by my sword.'
'They have to go? They must? Are you sure?'
'Damn straight, I’m sure. The invasion, Armageddon, this war has never been about killing off mankind. They came here for another reason. To beat us. To subjugate us. The Cooperative is just one way of doing that. Instead of conquering California, the Witiko bargained their way to power. If they stay in power, they stay in control. I can’t let that happen. Earth belongs to humanity.' 'You’re sure?' 'I’m sure,' Trevor insisted. 'Then why are you worked up about this?' His anger eased in heavy exhales and he sat again, realizing she had played him perfectly.
Trevor Stone held the reigns of leadership reluctantly. She knew he had access to strange powers, from his ability to communicate with dogs to his uncanny knowledge of technology and skills. Indeed, it had been those gifts that had unlocked the confidence inside an apathetic young man and allowed him to muster human survivors from the ashes of the Apocalypse, then grow those ashes into an Empire. Yet since his return from an alternate dimension, self-doubt and a morose disposition plagued him.
'I don’t know,' Trevor lied.
'You don’t trust yourself. You leave more and more of the decisions to your Generals.'
He defended, 'That’s not true. I’ve been on the front lines these past few years. If we invade California I’ll be there to do the killing myself, not just read about it in reports.'
That, Lori knew, to be true. Much to the chagrin of the Imperial Council, the Senate, and most especially his military officers, Trevor showed a renewed interest in battle.
'I’ve noticed. Good for you. How easier that must be.'
Again her words bothered him. 'Easier? You think combat is easy?'
'Easier than sitting behind your desk and passing out orders. Easier because when you’re fighting you know what you have to do. You can see the enemy, you can shoot him and order your men forward. But when you’re behind that desk you have to deal with the implications of those battles. What a relief it must be to set aside that
