He continued with a fierce edge in his voice, “You know why they won’t talk to you anymore? Because they don’t mind you losing, that’s why. So what if Voggoth is doing more than he’s supposed to on this planet. Why, I’ll bet they don’t even know what he’s doing here-they don’t want to know. They refuse to look. Deny it, even, like people who hear someone screaming for help but don’t want to be involved so they block it out. You’re being blocked out, Old Man.”
“Stop it, now.”
“As long as it’s not them, it’s all good. Why I’ll bet he’s whispered in their ear something like, ‘the humans have been breakin’ the rules so I’ll just even the odds a bit’ or ‘hey, Mr. Hivvan, just turn the other way while I do this and I promise to help you out on your world, too.’ That leaves you out in the cold, Old Man. It’d be funny, but I’m stuck in the freezer with you.”
The sound of bombs thudding to the ground echoed from the air field and in through the broken windows of the empty building. A shard of glass fell and shattered on the dirty floor.
“Where’s the smart old guy who I once thought might be God? Boy, was I an idiot. You aren’t any god. You’re just another human being like me and old Voggoth is playing the spoilsport in this little game of yours.”
The Old Man said nothing.
“Because of your arrogance every human being on this Earth is going to be wiped out.”
The Old Man sounded almost conciliatory in his tone, “There’s more to it than that, Trev, why there’s a whole bunch o’ universes out there and-“
“I don’t care.”
A bomb exploded much closer this time. Pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling; the walls rattled.
Trevor’s words came with a hefty force. The force of billions of dead people; the victims of this game the Old Man and his cronies played.
“Listen to what’s going on out there! I don’t care about you or the other parallel worlds or whatever the stupid-ass big picture is. I care about my people. Here. Now. That’s what it boils down to, you hear me? If you can help me it’s time to speak up, otherwise I’m done listening to you. I’m done with your cryptic messages, winks, nods and half-assed metaphors. If you got a trick up your sleeve then lay it out. If you don’t, stop wasting my time. Thing is, I think you’re all alone now. I think the others have abandoned you. But don’t worry, once we’re out of the way then whoever is left-well, they’ll all abandon someone else. Maybe it’ll be the Chaktaw next time. Maybe their Old Man or Old Woman or whatever will be on the outside looking in. And when the Chaktaw are done, the Centurians will be next, then the Witiko, then whoever. I don’t give a shit.”
A flash splashed through the lonely window on that side of the building. Trevor saw a dust cloud of debris drift by.
“Trev, listen, I know you’re upset and all,” a hint of pleading crept into the entity’s voice. “But look, you got to get this situation under control. Where’s the old Trevor who took it to em’ when they all ganged up on you?”
The Old Man referred to the Battle of Five Armies when three groups of alien warriors converged on the fledgling community of survivors during that first year. Trevor figured Voggoth orchestrated that, too; a more subtle attempt to destroy humanity’s resistance before it really got going. But they had won the day with a bold bayonet charge after their ammunition ran dry. That day became a turning point.
It seemed long ago. Simpler. A brave strike at the heart of the enemy with an unexpected move.
The Old Man took advantage of the brief silence to add, “You got to go for the throat, Trev. You gotta swing an Ali knockout punch-bam!” Yet it was obvious the Old Man had no idea what kind of knockout punch should or even could be thrown.
Trevor shook his head and a sardonic grin flashed across his face. He grabbed hold of a memory from one of the Old Man’s earliest speeches, twisted those words and spat them back at the mysterious entity.
“Yeah, that’s it. Shoot the exhaust port, is that it? Blow up the Death Star with one lucky shot and we’ll be all right as rain, right? Kill off the mother creature and all the little nasties will wither and die. Just like in Hollywood, right? Let’s wrap this thing up in the last five minutes.”
The Old Man’s expression drooped as if kicked in the gut.
Trevor went on, “You told me once this was a slug fest. That there’s no magic bullet. No one-shot. And you were right. And now Voggoth is out-slugging us. He may have broken all those dumb rules and I don’t care if you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true. He’s here and in force.”
For added emphasis, a large crash followed another nearby boom. Trevor heard something collapse in the distance; maybe a wall, maybe an entire building.
“He’s here in full force. He’s been behind this all along. The other races-they’ve been proxies. Pawns. They failed here on my Earth so Voggoth has come to my world to do the job himself and he’s conned your buddies into looking the other way because when we-when you — lose, things get easier for them. Or so they think.”
But it was Trevor who did the thinking; repeating his thoughts from a moment before: A brave strike at the heart of the enemy with an unexpected move.
He chewed on that while the old man rattled on as if he had already forgotten the rest of the conversation. “Yes sir, Trevvy, you got some work to be doing. Mind your flanks. Lots of your folks are begging to die for you. Say, maybe you should start arming the little ones. No reason grade schoolers can’t pick up a rifle for the cause!”
The rain of bombs quieted as the attack slowed.
Trevor Stone turned his back to the Old Man and walked away thinking of a brave strike at the heart of the enemy but, as he pictured the maps and markers that told the strategic tale, he could not possibly see where Voggoth might be vulnerable. Or how to strike a blow of any kind.
“Take it to em’, Trev! Give em’ hell!”
Jon Brewer did not like the situation at all. Before his Eagle transport even landed on the ruined tarmac at McConnell, he could already envision Trevor’s disapproving stare and if there was one thing Brewer did not need any more of, it was Trevor’s disapproval.
Trevor would want to know why Jon had forsaken his defensive preparations along the Mississippi to fly to Kansas. He would want to know why he had risked coming to an area under constant bombardment, the most recent of which had barely ended.
In answer to his own question, Jon glanced across the aisle. There, in the parallel row of seats in the Eagle’s passenger compartment, sat Omar Nehru. As he had since arriving in Missouri earlier that day, Omar smoked a cigarette and sat staring straight ahead. Whatever message Anita had given to Omar to relay to Trevor-a message he refused to share with anyone else-it had changed the man. He appeared shell-shocked. Afraid.
Omar’s history with Trevor and Jon Brewer could be traced to the first few months post-invasion. Therefore, when Omar Nehru arrived on the front lines looking for Trevor and insisting to see him personally, Jon Brewer listened.
Still, Trevor would not approve. He would not trust Jon’s judgment. That had not always been the case.
Up until last year Jon Brewer served as Trevor’s surrogate; Jon’s word equaled Trevor’s wishes. Jon Brewer- one of the first to join the estate along with his wife-held the role of second-in-command. He still held that position but more due to expediency than confidence.
Jon’s thoughts returned to last summer when everyone thought Trevor dead. A vote by the council resulted in Jon inheriting Trevor’s position although he later realized that Evan Godfrey and Dante Jones had manipulated the vote for that result.
And why did they do that, Jon?
And therein lay the dagger that remained stuck in Jon Brewer’s heart.
The entire plan had hinged one thing: Evan Godfrey saw Jon as an easy target for manipulation.
He was right, wasn’t he?
Yes.
Jon Brewer could command armies in the field, lead expeditions to the Arctic North, and turn a desperate battle against insane robots into a victory. But he could not lead a nation. In fact, he feared the very idea of such responsibility.
When Evan and Dante-supposedly Jon’s friend- proposed an easy way to escape that responsibility, Jon grasped it like a drowning man thrown a life preserver. He told himself it all sounded sensible. He told himself he considered Evan’s proposal intelligently and concluded that, yes, The Empire needed institutions and bureaucracy to survive and grow.
He had then handed it all over to Evan Godfrey, telling himself it to be a grand gesture to willingly give away
