Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

An important link in the eastern security fence or ‘Tambourine Line” was established on Governor’s Island and the old financial district of Lower Manhattan came to life again a few years after Continental dollars replaced an economy of barter.

Ellis Island eventually earned new purpose as a survivor processing center while several amateur playwrights and wannabe starlets re-opened two Broadway theaters and played for small audiences. At the same time, Battery Park became a popular recreation spot.

On the afternoon of May 28, the 10,000 or so people and military personnel working in and around New York harbor enjoyed a spring day beneath a band of white clouds.

The buzz started at about two o’clock with radio chatter coming in from Rockaway Point. Word spread through Internal Security. A half hour later a reporter for the National Broadcast Network on Liberty Island overcame a myriad of technical challenges and cleared a phone line to NBN’s main office.

Within minutes the construction crews, the fishermen, and the businessmen, left their jobs and headed to the harbor. Traffic on the Brooklyn bridge came to a halt as truckers parked their rigs to watch. Dockworkers stopped loading ships and soldiers vacated their posts.

They lined the Jersey coast, the ferry launch at the tip of Manhattan, the piers on Staten Island.

A helicopter flew in from the west, swinging around and set down hurriedly on the park at the tip of Ellis Island. Jon Brewer and Jerry Shepherd bound out onto the lawn, hurrying to the water’s edge.

On liberty island a father hoisted his daughter onto his shoulders to afford a better view but the best view of all belonged to the volunteer construction workers atop Lady Liberty’s torch.

The armada sailed up New York bay in haphazard formation. Hundreds of ships of every conceivable ocean-going kind: small to medium-sized military vessels from a dozen countries, a powered catamaran that once served as a ferry, 20 sea-worthy yachts with sails hoisted, a cargo ship, and a pair of small cruise ships.

Trevor Stone stood on the deck of HMS Cornwall, a British frigate that survived the invasion and fought for the court at Camelot. He stepped forward on the deck as the mixed crew of English and American seamen guided the ship inland.

In a fit of spontaneity, Trevor pumped his fist in the air and let loose a shout of joy. He did not know if that joy came from the sight of his homeland, from the understanding of what he had accomplished, from the war’s end, or from relief at knowing his personal journey neared conclusion.

Whether they saw his joy or heard his shout or merely felt the energy radiating from the fleet, the crowds along the shore and on the bridges burst into a frenzy of celebration. A magnificent ovation of clapping hands, victory cries, and tears.

In their celebration, Trevor felt something greater. A sense of gratitude. Appreciation. For all their suffering, he had taken the responsibility upon his shoulders. He had done what needed to be done, no matter the personal cost. A decade-long act of sacrifice.

The fleet dispersed to the various docks around the harbor bringing the representatives from a thousand human settlements and enclaves; representatives elected not on the basis of political boundaries, ethnic backgrounds, or religious manifestos, but on their ability to speak for the ones left behind.

The Cornwall slid into port at Ellis Island. The crowd at the base of the gangplank roared with approval as Trevor led a procession to shore.

The crowd parted. Jon and Shep approached.

“Permission to come ashore, General.”

Shepherd tipped his Stetson to Trevor then shook Rick Hauser’s hand vigorously.

Jon stared at Trevor with no expression at all for several long seconds before admitting, “I can’t think of anything smart to say.”

“Well-why start now, right?”

Jon took his hand but the handshake turned into a hug. When they released, Jon asked, “Jorgie?”

Trevor’s jubilation hesitated.

“He-he went away.”

“So we won,” Jon laid it out. “But paid a hell of a price.”

Something in the inflexion in his tone-Trevor’s heart thumped hard.

“Lori?”

Jon shook his head and repeated, “We paid a hell of a price.”

The crowd at the pier would not let the mood sour. A wave of cheers carried among the mob. Trevor let a smile-an unsure smile-flicker on his lips.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll remember the dead. Today, we celebrate life.”

Trevor stared out the closed sliding glass door on the second floor of the estate, watching a gaggle of geese float across the lake waters as midafternoon turned to late afternoon. He saw the dock where Jerry Shepherd used to fish during that first year, before he had moved south as the armies of liberation marched.

He spied Omar Nehru-rolls of blueprints under his arm and a cigarette between his lips-walking hurriedly to a waiting car. Trevor knew that Omar’s wife, Anita would never regain all of the sanity she lost in the bowels of Red Rock.

Nonetheless, the estate felt peaceful. Relaxed. And, admittedly, a little dull.

I could use a little dull for now.

Dull did not describe Trevor’s trip to Montreal the day before where he addressed the global congress of hundreds of representatives from around the world; the people who responded to his invitation to build a better future.

And what did they do?

They bickered. They argued. They demanded. They protested. Some proposed and some rejected. One big mob shouting and pointing at one another.

Trevor had felt certain that the relief of having survived the invasion would result in cooperation. He hoped for a communal spirit that would lead almost immediately to all kinds of treaties, a commitment to one world government perhaps based on a global federalism, and a format for electing representatives: a post-Armageddon constitutional congress that spoke for the entire world.

He had given a speech saying as much, detailing how the old world’s political in-fighting and an overbearing bureaucracy failed man’s nations when the invasion began. He spoke of our common bonds, the insignificance of superficial differences, and the need to reject the pre-Armageddon divides that had made civilization susceptible to outside attack.

They smiled. They nodded. They clapped at the right moments and in the end roared with a standing ovation. So moved were they that a vote to create a ceremonial position of ‘Emperor’ passed without a single objection.

And then the arguing began anew.

All the old ‘isms’ made the rounds: socialism, capitalism, communism, despotism, along with monarchy, oligarchy, and anarchy. Trevor heard them all. He sat in on the discussions for three hours until a headache forced his retreat to a transport. He left Jon Brewer behind.

Trevor had realized as he fled the convention center that he did not know how to handle the debate because debate had never been a part of his mission.

Evan Godfrey, where are you when we need you?

And there was the irony. If only Evan had been patient. This could have been his moment. His ability to inspire with speeches, to boil politics to their essence, to find common ground-it would have been something to behold and Trevor would have gladly handed the reins to him now, with the world safe.

Instead, chaos ruled in Montreal. The old lines of divide reared their ugly heads: nationalism, ethnicity, religion, tribal loyalties and a plethora of other excuses to divide groups into further divisions.