Dante Jones, waiting behind the Brewers, ran an arm over his forehead to clean away beads of sweat that had formed despite the cold day. As he did, he caught sight of Jorge pulling his mother to a stoop so as to whisper in her ear. As Ashley listened, her eyes grew wide in something akin to shock, but she regained control and painted on the face of a consoling mother dealing with a child who could not comprehend the truth of the day.

  Dante turned his attention to the memorial as his turn came. He approached the coffin, glanced at the contents, closed his eyes, bowed his head, then moved off, making way for Eva Rheimmer and Brett Stanton.

  He stood next to Ashley, curious as to why she appeared annoyed at JB even though her son remained quiet and still.

  When that curiosity got the better of him he asked her, "What was it JB said to you?"

  Ashley, a little surprised at Dante's intrusion, answered, "It was nothing. He's trying to cope. He doesn't understand." JB, overhearing, faced Dante Jones and repeated what he had whispered. "That's not father." — The malaise that had gripped The Empire after the assassination burst. First came the financial markets; they fell apart. Inflation turned Continental Dollars into worthless paper. This led to labor problems, shortages, and a spike in unemployment, but surprisingly little violence.

  Dante Jones personally led the investigation. By the time Trevor was entombed inside a stone mausoleum on the grounds of St. Mary's cemetery south of Wilkes-Barre, the focus had narrowed to a few select lines of thinking.

  First, the Centurians had flown from a secret base in Mexico, somehow avoided the various radar stations along the way including the intense monitoring around D.C., refueled their hydrogen engines at various rivers and lakes, and managed to ascertain The Emperor's schedule from news reports.

  This theory held several obvious flaws but did offer a rather obvious motive: the Centurians must assume that the death of Stone would delay any attack on Mexico.

  A more elaborate version of this theory suggested cooperation between the Centurians and the remains of the Hivvan Republic in the Caribbean. Both alien groups sat in The Empire's cross hairs; both would benefit from Trevor's death.

  More theories arose, including a few from the most ardent pro-Trevor pundits that suggested a conspiracy involving Trevor's domestic enemies and the former residents of The California Cooperative. Those theories nearly gained traction, until the day after the last formal viewing of Trevor's body. On that day, Dante Jones and Jon Brewer were summoned to the Internal Security extraterrestrial penitentiary outside of Washington.

  Chancellor D'Trayne of the Witiko resided in a well-appointed prison cell complete with mirror, vanity, and queen-sized bed. The guards treated him with respect. He counted Senators, media representatives, and peace activists among his daily visitors, and received meals prepared for his extraterrestrial palate

  As Jon and Dante arrived at D'Trayne's cell, the alien sat down to just such a meal at a table facing the bars.

  While the Chancellor received almost every luxury and necessity he craved, he did lack the silver cosmetic his people seemed addicted to. This made him appear somewhat uncomfortable-naked, even-with his gray skin on display for all to see, despite the toga he wore over a tight body suit. The Witiko, apparently, did not like to show their true colors.

  Nonetheless, the Chancellor maintained a dignified tone in his voice. Confident, even.

  "You'll have to excuse me, but I am a slave to the prison schedule," the alien insincerely apologized as he prepared to eat.

  "Don't mind us," Jon said with an equal amount of insincerity.

  A guard delivered a metal tin the size of a shoe box accompanied by a bottle filled with orange-tinted water. The alien placed a napkin on his lap, slid open the tin, and-with a small skewer in each hand-stabbed into the water-filled container causing a few drops to splash out.

  "I'm glad you accepted my invitation. I feared you would not."

  The Chancellor pulled a squirming fish from the tin and flopped it onto a plate next to a kind of creamed potatoes. He pinned the struggling food with one of the skewers then flayed the meal with a knife as he spoke.

  "While you will find this hard to believe, I am sorry about the death of your Emperor."

  "I'm sure," Jon sneered.

  "I speak the truth. While I found him overly aggressive and myopic-I believe that's the right word-his presence did keep your tiny nation rather stable. Stability, the Witiko believe, is a worthy goal of politics. Certainly I wish he would have maintained that stability by not invading The Cooperative. Had he listened to reason, perhaps we could have forged a real friendship. An alliance, even, that would have benefited both our races."

  "There's a reason you asked me to come here," Brewer grunted as his patience-already stretched thin-neared snapping.

  The Chancellor's eyes flashed red as he paused to tear off a chunk of meat from the struggling fish and plop the bite into his mouth. As he chewed, Jon heard the subtle crunch of tiny fish bones. The meal, meanwhile, slowed its writhing but still lived.

  The Chancellor noticed their stares. His eyes faded to pink.

  "Forgive me. Your species prefers cooking your meals. The Witiko, too, often times thoroughly cook meat or vegetables. Yet we still consider it a delicacy to indulge in live meals on occasion. Perhaps it is an impulse left from our barbaric age, thousands of years ago. I suppose we all must come to grips with our darker sides."

  "Wow, this is really interesting. But listen here, Chancellor, if you haven't noticed I’m in a really bad mood. So either get to the point, or I've got more aliens to find and kill."

  D'Trayne paused with the bottle of flavored water at his lips and noted, "Yes, we all do have our dark sides, don't we?"

  He sipped. Jon huffed. Dante placed a calming hand on the General's shoulder.

  "Okay then," D'Trayne wiped his lips with the napkin and then placed the cloth on the plate. The fish there flapped its tail while liquid and guts from the wound on its flank oozed onto the plate. "It is my understanding that it was a group of Centurians who managed to penetrate your security and assassinate Trevor Stone. Based on your outburst," the Chancellor's eyes changed to a soothing green, "you plan to find and destroy them." "Yes, so what?" Dante shot. "You will have a difficult time finding them," the Witiko said. Jon and Dante shared a look and then returned their attention to the Witiko Chancellor. Jon assumed, "You know where they are, is that it? Is there some big alien club?"

  D'Trayne folded his hands and told them, "Not exactly. But we did have periodic contact with the Centurians, including a few…'skirmishes.' They do think themselves so superior. Still, we managed to come to an understanding, if you will, to avoid further entanglements."

  "Because you were too worried about wiping out humanity. Why start fighting among yourselves, right?"

  The Chancellor wavered for a moment before answering, "We were content with our arrangement in California. However, the Centurians are a rather aggressive bunch."

  "Why would they want to assassinate Trevor?"

  D'Trayne eyed Brewer as if the human might be an idiot. His eyes flashed yellow.

  "Of course you are not serious, general. I can think of a hundred reasons why any number of the forces on Earth-including some of your own race-would care to see Trevor Stone dead. However, as to the Centurians' specific reason, I do not know. I would suspect they see it either as retaliation for your famous victory over them ten years ago, or as the starting point for more dramatic action."

  The fish stopped wiggling on the plate. D'Trayne glanced at it. His eyes sunk.

  Dante said, "Sorry. Looks like we killed your lunch."

  Brewer said, "So you're willing to tell us where they are. We just have to do what in exchange?"

  "Jon Brewer, I only ask that you tell the people of The Empire that I provided this information as a token of good will, so as to prove to you that at least some form of cooperation may be possible between our two species."

  "That's it? Not a get-out-of-jail card? Not a promise to allow you to stay?"

  "Admittedly such arrangements would be nice. I do have an appointment to address your Senate. I expect you'll be keeping me on Earth until after that meeting, at the very least."

  "Okay then, you got it," Jon promised. "If the information you provide is correct I'll make sure the press spells your name right." "You are an honorable man, Jon Brewer." The honorable man pushed, "We know they're coming up through Mexico." "The region you call Mexico is a big place." "You're already made that point. Now tell me where they are." The Chancellor's eyes cycled through several different hues before settling on green.

  "A place you humans once called Monterrey. You'll find a small Redcoat facility there in the shadows of the mountains your maps label the Sierra Madre Oriental."

  – Jon Brewer stood at the foot of the basement conference table two days after the meeting with Chancellor D'Trayne. During those two days, he had spent much time meeting with council members, Senators, and the media to explain the process for selecting a new leader.

  Things would have been difficult, if not for Evan Godfrey's support. The Senator's star shined once again, but this time he used his popularity to encourage support for the temporary military leadership, apparently forgetting all his fables of a military-intelligence conspiracy.

  On another front, the press grew suspicious in regards to the lack of military action against the perpetrators of the assassination. The constant 'no comments' and denials of new force deployments began to pique the interest of the media.

  Jon heard footsteps descend the stairs into the basement and turned to see Ashley. Her eyes glared and her words came across in a tone suggesting she shared the media's curiosity. "Tell me. I need to know that Trevor's death isn't going unpunished." Jon placed both hands on her shoulders. "The Witiko Chancellor gave us the location of the Centurian base." "Is the information trustworthy?" "Long range aerial recon confirmed the location." "What are you planning to do, launch an early invasion of Mexico?" "No. We're not ready for that. Besides, with the dreadnoughts I don't need a whole army." "Good. Tell me, how many of the ships did you send?" Jon's mouth worked but no sound came out. "Jon, How many did you send?" — More than three million once called the greater Monterrey area in northeastern Mexico home. Many of them thought of their city as "La Ciudad de las Montanas" ("City of the Mountains") because of the abrupt peaks of the Sierra Madre Oriental range to the south.

  Armageddon, however, had turned Monterrey into a wasteland.

  In addition to dealing with alien predators and raiding parties attracted to such a large population base, the town of Monterrey faced another kind of danger back during that first summer of the invasion: an Earthquake. The disaster knocked tall buildings flat and also ruptured both fuel tanks and gas lines igniting an inferno that burned unchecked for three months. The quake and fire leveled or incinerated nearly two thirds of the city, creating uninhabitable barrens. Therefore, on the morning of June 3 ^ rd, the stretch of land that had once been a Mecca for tourists, history buffs, and Latin American business interests resembled a vast field of black ash and chunks of collapsed building blocks. Except, however, for the white modular alien buildings centered on the half-standing remains of the Estadio Tecnologico football stadium.

  The base had grown in segments with each segment connected via covered walkways circling out in rings from a spherical center. The buildings came in a variety of shapes and sizes, some two stories tall, most only one; some with eight sides, a few with five, many more with four. High powered light posts blanketed the entire complex.

  Round landing pads sat between the buildings, receptacles for the Centurians' airships. Several large garages on the outer rings of the base served as holding pens for ground vehicles.

  A storm had passed through the night before, leaving in its wake a trail of thin gray clouds. Those clouds bulged then parted then scattered before the might of humanity's Empire.

  All three of the massive dreadnoughts approached from the north, descending to five thousand feet at the edge of town. The Excalibur — the flagship of the fleet-led the way with the Philippan and the Chrysaor on her flanks. The engines reverberated like rolling, steady thunder; the shadows of the beasts blocked the sun.

  Woody Ross led the fleet from his position as the Excalibur's 'brain.' He eyed the Centurian base below through the ship's telescopic lenses. He saw rows of Centurians standing outside their buildings dressed in variations of red and white uniforms. Those who did not wear helmets displayed their race's big black eyes, thin noses, and dark green skin making the Centurians one of the few alien invaders conforming to pre-Armageddon notions of extraterrestrials, except that instead of being 'little' green men the typical Centurian stood taller and wider than a human. Some of those extraterrestrials stared skyward at the approaching doom, others loitered as if unaware of fate's approach. Ross spoke a chilling order to his bridge crew as well as Captains Hoth and Kaufman. "Prepare to fire; charge belly boppers to one-hundred percent."

  Next, Ross broadcast across several radio frequencies. As he transmitted, the energy pools feeding the Excalibur's main guns filled to a level never matched outside of training missions, causing the vessel to tremble. The other three ships vibrated in the same manner for the same reason, causing a muffled sizzle that grew louder as the power levels increased.

  The former linebacker's voice spoke without his usual volume, but boomed all the same: "This is Captain Ross of the Imperial dreadnought Excalibur. In the name of Trevor Stone, I deliver the wrath of humanity."

  No reaction came from the aliens. A few wandered about like zombies; most simply stood and watched. They struck Ross as ants unaware of a boot stepping toward them, a sight that came across as surreal; almost comedic to Ross' eye.

  First the Excalibur fired, followed by the Philippan and then the Chrysaor. Each of the mighty vessels rocked from the kick.

  Instead of pulses or blobs, the fully-charged "belly bopper" guns spewed streams of plasma into the ground below, kicking explosions of dirt and debris into the sky as if a volcano erupted. The destructive might engulfed the Centurian base several times over. A great churning river of fire glowed and rippled. The sound from the attack carried for miles, as did the tremor.

  When the attack ended, Ross and his agents of destruction watched from the sky as the fireballs faded, replaced by steam and ash.

  Nothing moved. The alien base no longer existed; replaced by a black scorch stretching across the already-scarred earth of Monterrey. The strongest beams and walls of the Centurian outpost melted into the soil. Satisfied with their work, the three vessels gained altitude and turned for home.

  11. Vacuum

  The public fed on the red meat of photographs from the destroyed Centurian outpost with a vengeful zeal. Yet Evan Godfrey knew those images-from the fleet's gun cameras-would stave off anarchy for only so long.

  Still, as it had done often in the past, anarchy served as the Senator's ally. He understood something that the best politicians and comedians knew: timing is everything.

  Evan gazed into the mirror and recalled his stay in that same hotel three years prior. Back then his timing had been perfect, too, but with one tragic difference: Trevor Stone returned. Such would not be the case this time, of that Evan remained confident. Dante had done as instructed; he had persuaded Jon to send the body of Trevor Stone around The Empire, allowing all the loyal subjects to see the lifeless corpse.

  Unlike three years ago, no uncertainty remained. There would be no sectarian strife between Trevor loyalists and the more reasonable crowd. Those loyalists concentrated on drowning their sorrows at the local pub or raising funds for this memorial or that. Evan heard that some two dozen schools had already been renamed "Trevor Stone Elementary" or "Stone High." "Let him have the high schools, I just want his job." "Did you say something?" "I said I'm about ready to go," he replied to his wife's question from the bathroom. Sharon strolled out from there wearing a white robe, still wet from the shower. "Going? Already? Is it that late?" "Yes, my lovely wife. It seems your hangover caused you to sleep in."

  She frowned for a moment, and then smiled again. Sharon smiled a lot in recent days. She had, in fact, attended two of the Emperor's memorials, like going to see a good movie twice. As much as this amused him, he saw her enthusiasm for Trevor's fate as potentially hazardous. His wife failed to grasp the importance of appearances.

  "Well, we were celebrating," she pressed against him. In addition to smiling, Sharon showed a lot more affection in recent weeks, too. "Now, are you set for today?" "You know I have everything lined up. People just need to play their part, remember?" "Ah yes, you're big on role playing, aren't you?" Evan could not help but return her smile. Yes, Sharon had shown a great deal more affection in recent days, and creativity.

  Still, duty called. He told her, "Enjoy your day shopping. Be sure to pick up some Trevor Stone remembrance mugs or scrapbooks or whatever it is they're selling in the market."

  "I don't think I can afford any of that, my dear, not with the way prices are skyrocketing. You'd think those damn politicians would do something about that, wouldn't you."

  "I intend to do plenty. Now you have a wonderful day."

  Sharon grabbed Evan's power tie, pulled him close and kissed hard.

  Five minutes later the Internal Security motorcade arrived outside the hotel on Public Square in Wilkes-Barre. A short man with gray hair and a heavy bandage on his arm drove. Evan addressed him first, "How is the arm, Tucker?" "Getting better, Mister Godfrey, sir." Dr. Maple had fixed Tucker's dog bite and reported it as a glancing blow from a Centurian energy weapon. Ray Roos shared the back seat with Evan. "Big day for you, isn't it now, Senator?"

  As the car pulled away Evan responded, "I like to think that it's a big day for our entire nation, Ray. Think about it, today we take our first steps toward democracy."

  "Oh yeah, that's exactly what I mean, Senator. 'Course, sometimes people don't vote the way other folks are expecting. I seem to recall this Dewey fella…"