"Confirm that message. Confirm it, NOW!"

  General Jon Brewer stood on the bridge of the Excalibur alongside the command station where Woody "Bear" Ross operated as the 'brain' of the ship.

  "Message confirmed from D.C. Station," Ross replied in his booming voice. "All friendly air traffic is grounded. The contact is not responding to hails."

  Jon yelled the obvious order, "Intercept it, goddamn it! Intercept!"

  The Excalibur's main engines increased to maximum thrust, propelling the massive vessel over the Virginia landscape at speeds approaching one-hundred and twenty miles per hour.

  Jon, staring out the bridge windows at blue skies, growled at his unseen quarry, "Where are you going? Are you trying to get back to Mexico? Is that it?"

  Nothing yet appeared on the Excalibur's scopes, but if I.S. spotters were correct then the getaway transport for the alien assassination team would soon be in range. As Jon waited for intercept, he played over the events of the last sixty minutes, according to reports from Internal Security, the media, and the Department of Medical and Health Services.

  At 1:15 p.m. on May 22, an alien-operated Eagle transport-most likely a Centurian ship painted to resemble The Empire's versions-landed without warning at the estate of Senator Evan Godfrey. Within thirty seconds the bulk of the I.S. security detail had been killed. Godfrey and Stone had both been hit, although Godfrey's wounds appeared minor.

  Less than two minutes later, the alien assault force flew off, chased away by the encroachment of perimeter guards and military units.

  At 1:23 p.m. an I.S. transport helicopter departed with the injured, including Emperor Trevor Stone, to the Medical and Health Services facility in Washington D.C., where none other than Dr. Maple himself-a member of the Imperial Council-began emergency surgery on Trevor for a direct hit by an alien energy rifle.

  At 1:45 p.m., Dante Jones, who was at D.C.'s I.S. complex and Tambourine Central Station, ordered the grounding of all Eagles in an attempt to locate the enemy craft that still had not appeared on any of the regional radar stations, or the Excalibur's own scopes.

  At 2:12 the Internal Security station in D.C. reported contact with a suspect vessel matching the profile of an Eagle. Said ship did not respond to hails. Ross shouted, "Got it! Radar contact coming from the northeast. Fifty miles and closing." "Why didn't we see the damn thing sooner?" "Maybe he was hiding in the mountains," Ross answered.

  Brewer knew they might only have once chance. From what he remembered, the Redcoat shuttles could run at speeds close to one-hundred and fifty miles per hour, meaning the aliens could outrun the Excalibur, and the ship's fighter compliment was stowed below decks.

  Jon wanted to know how the aliens managed to fly from Mexico to D.C. without detection. Could the Centurians have a hidden base inside the boundaries of The Empire?

  For the next several minutes Brewer watched monitors and listened to Bear direct navigation to intercept. The radar blip closed to within missile range and while Jon's naked eyes could not see the enemy, Bear's telescopic lenses provided confirmation.

  "That's it. We got em'. Do you want me to fire?"

  Jon replied, "Hold for a moment. Contact them. Tell them they will be destroyed unless they respond."

  Woody Ross relayed that order several times over the course of three minutes with no answer. The radar blip crossed the Excalibur's path heading from northeast to southwest at a high rate of speed.

  "They ain't answering," the Brain stated the obvious. "They're going to outrun us if we don't do something about it. Should I get the crews to their fighters?"

  "No. We don't need the jets. Fire."

  One, two, three, then four radar-locked missiles streaked away from launchers. Jon turned from the open windows of the bridge and walked to the tracking station.

  The missiles flew straight and true. The alien vessel either did not know that death fast approached or lacked any countermeasures. Ross, watching through telescopic lenses, yelled, "First one is a hit…it's smoking. Wait…second hit. And the third. Damn, that Got em! They're in pieces, no chance of survivors."

  The blip disappeared from the scope. Jon visualized chunks of debris twisting and falling to the wilderness below.

  Cheers erupted around the bridge but not from Jon Brewer. He knew what had happened. He knew the damage had already been done.

  The General left the radar station and returned to the Brain area. Woody Ross did not cheer, either. In fact, he absolutely scowled as one finger pressed an earpiece tight.

  "What? What is it?"

  "Communication from Ray Roos. Trevor Stone is dead."

  10. Wrath

  The forty-acre tract of land called Highland Beach jutted out into the Chesapeake Bay a few miles southeast of Annapolis. The tiny municipality originated as a getaway for affluent blacks from the Washington D.C. area in the early 20 ^ th Century. That unique identity had been fairly diluted by the time Armageddon and Hivvan occupation arrived. Many of the resort homes and businesses burned to ashes during those dark years prior to liberation.

  On top of the ruins, The Empire built the Southern Command facility to help prosecute the war against the Hivvans. From there, General Jerry Shepherd had directed tens of thousands of human forces, armored columns, and air assets against the lizard-like aliens until breaking the enemy's back at Atlanta.

  As the war moved west, the Southern Command morphed from active headquarters to communication station and training facility.

  For Nina Forest and the Dark Wolves, the vertical landing pads and communications office off Bay Drive served as a muster point prior to missions. They would usually catch an Eagle or a chopper from there and fly either to a larger airport or a dreadnought. The flattened rubble to the north of the facility also provided grounds for tactical training and weapons ranges.

  When news surfaced mid-afternoon that Trevor had been badly wounded during an alien assassination attempt, Captain Nina Forest followed her first instinct and gathered her gear, caught a bus from her apartment complex to the transportation hub on Douglas Avenue at Highland Beach, then jogged passed the beach to the old Southern Command buildings.

  The entire process-from saying goodbye to Denise to walking in the front doors at the center-lasted half an hour. Yet in that time, things changed drastically.

  Nina, a duffle bag thrown over one shoulder and her M-4 cradled on the other, staggered away from the building after learning that nothing more remained to be done.

  She moved along the shaded sidewalk with the plan of returning to the transportation hub. On the far side of the short beach the gentle waters of the Chesapeake lapped to shore. A series of rotting wood posts marched out into the surf, all that remained of a dock washed away long before Highland Beach burned.

  A small park with rusty playground equipment stood vacant under a warm afternoon sun. Charred branches and logs lay in circles around the rim of the park. Nina knew that kids-kids like Denise and her boyfriend Jake-came here at night to build campfires.

  Her legs weakened. Nina accepted the invitation of an empty bench and sat facing the swooshing waters.

  It came at her unexpectedly: a powerful, unstoppable surge of sadness forming a horrible rock of despair in her stomach and sending a quiver across her body. She dropped her bag with a thump on the sand at the edge of the beach and set the M-4 down. A breeze carrying the scent of salt blew by and seagulls cawed over the water oblivious to the tragedy of the day.

  Trevor Stone had died after suffering a direct hit from an energy weapon. He had been dead, in fact, before arriving at the hospital but Dr. Maple explained to the press that he had wanted to exhaust every avenue of treatment before abandoning hope.

  Nina's face fell into her hands. Her breath came in labored gasps. Her eyes squeezed shut.

  Nina Forest wept not only for the loss of a great leader but for something more. Something personal. She did not know what or why, but as she absorbed the news of Trevor's death she felt she lost a part of herself.

  – Gordon Knox lived in many places over the course of his life. From the Watergate hotel in Washington D.C., to the American embassy in South Korea to Camp Pennsylvania, Kuwait, Knox had toured his share of living spaces in locales both exotic and dull.

  Nonetheless, if asked where he called home, Knox's answer would be Miami, Florida. He had lived his first twelve years in South Florida before his father's military assignments led the family elsewhere. He moved there again during the early 90s as part of his 'job'. And while he returned to the greater D.C. area prior to the invasion, his heart lingered in Dade County.

  Unfortunately for Knox, his post-Armageddon position as Director of Intelligence meant residing in 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 neck for a better view.

  "He's at peace now," Benjamin Trump consoled through watery eyes as he recalled the funeral for his wife who died of breast cancer two years after 'riding the ark' with the rest of her family.

  Ashley raised a handkerchief to her eye. Surprisingly, she shed no tears at that moment as her mind focused on projecting the proper image, but that image demanded a handkerchief and tears, so she went through the motion.

  She had lived ten years as a character called "the Emperor's wife," and now she needed to play the role a while longer for the good of others, no time for her own feelings. Perhaps, she thought, Trevor had felt this way for the last decade.

  The three moved away from the casket and stopped off to the side where they waited for their friends to pay respects.