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 24 ^ th to May 31 ^ st, 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 amp;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 Council 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
