Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

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 power for the betterment of the people.

You ran away. Just like you ran away when your Guard unit was overrun during the invasion.

Eventually Jon Brewer realized his mistake and sided with those seeking to expose Evan’s conspiracy. This resulted in saving both Trevor and his son as well as the destruction of a gestating invasion force off the eastern seaboard.

In the end, however, it came down to one thing: I let Trevor down.

Jon felt certain that if it had not been for The Order’s surprise invasion Trevor would have shuffled his Generals. But he was too busy breaking up the Senate and re-organizing it to his liking; finding and executing those involved with the conspiracy; and gutting Internal Security in order to rebuild it as another extension of Trevor’s will, much like the military.

He had not the time for upsetting the military hierarchy, not with California turned into a giant graveyard. And that is why Jon remained number two. Yet he still had trouble looking Trevor in the eye.

The transport landed in a parking lot not far from Eagle One. Jon exited with Omar and an armed escort. They weaved through throngs of medics, engineers, and makeshift stretchers carting wounded to emergency triage areas. A few of the soldiers stopped to salute, but most appeared too busy to notice the general and his snappy black uniform with gold insignia.

Jon led Omar to the wounded and charred communications center. In they went and up to the second floor where they found Trevor studying maps on the main table. As they entered they heard Casey Fink ask The Emperor, “I don’t understand. What is it you’re looking for?”

“The heart of the enemy,” Trevor answered without taking his eyes from the map.