not need a translator to catch Ukrainians and Russians speaking amongst themselves:
“Is that him?”
“How did he do it?”
“They mentioned him by name.”
While the exterior appeared dull, the interior was luxurious: marble floors, thick gold bands of trim, stately columns, and crystal chandeliers.
A large gathering of people-easily 100-crowded the lobby. The escorts pushed past. The crowd parted and they approached a meeting area of leather seats and sofas facing a magnificent fireplace. There they found the reason for their summons.
Gaston-Alexander’s lanky, black, Russian spy who had been scouting for the return convoy-stood by the couriers and explained, “They are spreading the message. Here, you should see it first,” and he handed a scroll to Trevor. “You are mentioned by name, Trevor Stone. They had to write all of it down. They are not very good with our language.”
A trio of couriers stood alongside Gaston. Duass couriers. The three-legged duck-billed aliens left to watch over a conquered Europe when The Order had withdrawn to attack North America. They wore cloth garments and some kind of wrappings around their legs that served the same purpose as hip boots on humans.
Armand pushed forward, his face turning grim and his fingers searching for weapons he had left outside. Gaston intercepted him with a raised hand.
“Easy, my friend.”
Trevor read the document. Alexander could not wait. He asked Gaston, “What is it? What is this about?”
Gaston told him, “It is over.”
Trevor regarded the Duass ambassadors with suspicion as they exited the lobby under Ukrainian protection.
He had to admit, the aliens demonstrated great courage. The three entered the city with merely a promise of safe passage from the people they had brutalized for more than a decade. Apparently many such Duass patrols-and those from other alien groups except the Witiko-sought out human leadership with the same message.
Trevor hoped, for the sake of peace, that other human enclaves proved as honorable as Kharkov, although he could not entirely blame any mob that chose retribution over reconciliation.
Regardless, they delivered a simple message: The end of war. Cooperation in rooting out any remaining entities from the realm of Voggoth. Retreat to specific outposts until such time as travel through the runes (something unknown to most humans) could be arranged through consultation with Trevor Stone, the man who had brokered this resolution. Release of all prisoners by both sides and assistance in re-building necessary infrastructure to ensure the survival of the human populace as well as extraterrestrial forces until their evacuation from the planet.
The duck-like Duass disappeared from the hotel and the commotion carried outside. Alexander sat across the lobby in deep discussion with the representative of Kharkov; a big man with a deep voice.
Another leader of men.
Trevor’s mind considered Kharkov and the people there. He wondered if the weather was harsh here. He thought about the return to Europe and what manner of transport he would secure to re-cross the ocean. He…
He stopped thinking about all that. A wave of weakness traveled across his body and he slumped deep into a leather chair.
It hit him. Not like an explosion or a powerful force, but with the exact opposite effect. As if his muscles had been tight and tense for a decade and now relaxed. Not quite calm. Exciting on some level.
Relief.
Gaston had said, “It is over.”
It.
What exactly was ‘it’? Constant fighting. Always thinking ahead to the next battle. Counting casualties like taking inventory. Speeches to rally. Providing direction for the people even when Trevor could not be sure of what to do next. Serving as symbol, and facilitator. Worries. Concerns. Desperate measures. Brutality and stoicism in the face of tragedy. Sacrificing his sense of right and wrong and replacing it with a blind focus on completing ‘the mission’.
‘It’ was finding his parents torn apart so badly that he mistook them for shaggy, rolled rugs; feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders; killing the man named ‘Richard’ and replacing him with the icy leader known as ‘Trevor’; sacrificing his innocence on an altar of bloodshed in the name of the bottom-line equation of survival; carrying on alone because destiny chose his path and allowed choices only between evils.
He suffered no illusions. In the Armageddon war Trevor did not fight for a greater good; he fought to save his species. An ends justified by any means and the responsibility for those ‘means’ lay squarely on his shoulders. His responsibility.
It is over.
“No. It’s not over. Not yet.”
“What is that?”
Trevor realized he spoke aloud and disturbed Alexander’s conversation.
Trevor repeated, “I said, it’s not over yet.”
“I do not understand,” Alexander’s mouth hung open in what appeared to be a pang of fear. Perhaps he worried the dictator had not yet tired of wielding power; a power born from the fires of this conflict.
Trevor wondered if his doppelgangers on parallel Earths would refuse the order to stand down. Would they- would he — accept the end of the war that gave him his power in the first place? Would the despot walk away from the throne so easily?
He envisioned settlements all across his Earth waking up tomorrow to find the war over. How many petty warlords had Trevor’s Empire found in North America alone? What would happen to the isolated islands of survivors struggling to live another day? A lack of adequate food and medicine could kill as efficiently as Hivvan guns or Witiko rockets.
The war against the invaders had ended. The purpose given to the survivors by the goal of victory now gone. What will fill that vacuum?
“There’s something more left to do. Alexander, let me borrow your clipboard.”
He tentatively handed the board and pen to Trevor who wrote feverishly on a blank page.
“Armand,” Trevor called as he scribbled
The gallant motorcyclist stood near the hotel’s front desk sipping a glass of something-and-vodka in celebration of the day. He quickly discarded the drink and walked fast to the rows of furniture near the fireplace.
“Yes, Trevor?”
“I need you to do something. You and your cavalry,” Trevor glanced at Alexander and added, “With your permission, of course. I have a message that needs to be sent.”
Alexander-still wary-asked, “One last order from an Emperor?”
“An invitation. My last-my last act, if you will.” He turned to Armand. “Will you and your riders deliver it?”
“Where to?”
Trevor told him, “Everywhere.”
The messengers began their journeys in convoys of 100 or more but divided into smaller groups as their paths branched off in different directions. The larger cruiser models were vital to each mission due to the cargo capacity for extra provisions, but eventually almost all the riders needed to live off the land for weeks at a stretch despite fuel trucks sent along major routes to top their tanks as often as possible.
Many fell victim to the extraterrestrial predators roaming the wild lands or bandits of various species. Others lost their way never to be seen again. The world remained a dangerous, unforgiving place with pockets of civilization-alien and human-surrounded by vacant cities and barren wastelands. Plenty of the riders failed to find fuel reserves and ran dry, changing them from riders to walkers or other means of transportation. Nonetheless, they searched for pockets of humanity and carried Trevor’s invitation to the world.
The second week in July, couriers stumbled upon a community of Ukrainians, Russians (mainly former naval personnel), and Tartars living around the harbor and old fortresses of Sevastopol on the Crimean Peninsula. Nearly a
