Anthony DeCosmo - Schism

A few lonely clouds hovered above but the sun provided plenty of golden rays. The prevailing wind pushed east, nonetheless traces of the odor of battle brushed overtop Trevor’s hilltop position, carrying an eclectic mix of burning metal, spent powder, and gasoline.

Desperate California artillery fell haphazardly among rumbling tanks. Those errant shots caused smoky fires to erupt in a field of sagebrush where a yard of Bloodhorns-slender, red-eyed extraterrestrial ungulates-grazed. The creatures scrambled back and forth, chased first by the burst of artillery in one direction, then the other way as tanks emerged from an adjoining neighborhood.

To the south and west of 73, the enemy’s defense lines included infantry as well as light armor operating from the Big Canyon Country Club. Those vehicles-mainly APCs and Bradley’s-darted out and fired shots at the approaching spearhead, then retreated only to repeat the tactic when circumstances permitted.

Witiko-made war machines joined the human-built ones. The alien vehicles moved fast on six massive tires, stopped and unfolded metal support legs much like a back hoe might when digging trenches, and spat well-guided but very short-range rockets from both fore and aft launchers. While only lightly armored, they packed a punch.

Trevor saw one of the mobile missile platforms fire a dozen strikes at the forward thrust of the Imperial advance crossing the field where the Bloodhorns had grazed. The first hit literally split a Dodge Durango 'up-armored' with metal plating in half. Another slammed the ground at a harsh angle and tipped the sixty-plus tons of an Abrams on its side.

However, the Witiko vehicle did not last long.

A TOW-equipped Humvee circled behind the launcher by cutting through the tightly packed homes and passages of Buffalo Hills Park. The Hummer hit the offending machine with an anti-tank round. The rocket fuel in the reloaded launchers ignited and the vehicle-along with its crew of six aliens in a dome-like cabin-burned to cinders on a soccer field.

Tyr grumbled something, pulling Trevor’s attention from his binoculars. He saw General Tom Prescott exit the parked eagle and walk toward him.

Prescott had risen to the rank of Major in the U.S. Army by the time Armageddon came. He kept a hundred soldiers and a smattering of civilians alive after the military’s command structure fell to pieces until finding Trevor's lakeside estate. Prescott then worked with Jon Brewer during the Battle of Five Armies and, in the years since, proved an enthusiastic leader with a knack for tactics.

Forty-something Prescott showed a youthful bounce in his step as he joined Trevor atop the hill and reported, "7 ^ th Armored has broke through the defenses at UC and took the bridge at Campus Drive. I’ve switched the axis of attack that way."

Trevor returned his binoculars to his eyes and scanned in that direction. He saw plumes of smoke rising one after another across sedate neighborhoods then through the libraries, lecture halls, and pavilions of what had been one of the largest universities in California.

If the 7 ^ th Brigade could exploit the breakthrough-a relatively easy task considering the tactical situation-then The Empire could gain control of the "John Wayne Orange County Airport" and the Tustin Marine Corps Air Station. Those facilities would prove valuable as staging grounds for a final assault on Los Angeles.

Prescott absently scratched the back of his neck and said, "Got one other thing, boss."

Trevor, through the field glasses, watched a friendly tank crew abandon their mine-damaged smoking vehicle at the big intersection of 73 and Bonita Canyon Drive.

Prescott told Trevor, "My Captains tell me I.S. teams are taking custody of Witiko officers from forward positions. Pardon my French, but ain’t that a little off, you know?"

Trevor's binoculars dropped and hung from the strap around his neck. His eyes narrowed and he grumbled, "What did you say?"

"Internal Security has prisoner control and transport teams operating closer to the front lines than usual. They're bypassing military police and taking custody of Witiko-especially officers-right up by the front lines. Kind of out of the ordinary, don't you think?"

Trevor smelled the hand of Evan Godfrey. Internal Security had strong ties to the Senate and Trevor already knew how much Evan liked the Witiko. He sensed a plan to embarrass him or force an early end to the campaign.

"What about Governor Malloy? Where’s he at?"

Prescott scratched the back of his neck again. "Well, Intel says he’s held up at L.A. City Hall with a bunch of mayors and ministers. The top dogs, I guess, on the human side of the whole Cooperative thing."

Trevor told the General: "Hit it."

"What’s that, sir?"

"Get on the horn to the Philippan and have them hit City Hall. Knock the whole damn building down."

Prescott said nothing but his face corkscrewed with confusion.

"What’s wrong, General, haven’t you ever heard of taking out command and control?"

"Well, yes sir. But those guys up there don’t have any freedom of movement. Or, I guess, they won’t after today. Shouldn’t we be talking to that Governor about surrender? I’m guessing he’ll listen and he’s still got clout with what’s left of the true-believers."

Trevor felt one part anger and one part fear with a spice of urgency. The thought of Evan slipping Witiko officers away made Trevor uneasy. The idea of Malloy and his top lieutenants-the human core of The Cooperative-remaining intact bothered him even more. In an instant he saw press conferences and debates, sad stories of dead Californians, protests against the military, and calls to rethink war strategy in the light of the ‘human’ toll. He did not want anyone with ‘clout’ left from California. They must be beaten in every way to clearly display the folly of siding with aliens.

He did not need to kill Malloy to win the war but a part of him-the cold calculating part that had made his doppelganger a dictator on another world-saw an ends that needed justifying and he knew he possessed the means.

"I said hit it. Don’t make me repeat myself again."

– Governor Terrance Malloy stared out from the Tower Room on the top floor of City Hall. In the old world, the large square room hosted banquets and awards dinners, meetings and other prestigious events enhanced by the panoramic views of Los Angeles.

Like most of that metropolis, during the war against the Witiko City Hall endured much damage. Several levels had been charred black by fires. Furthermore, chunks of the structure’s concrete-concrete made with sand taken from each of the state’s fifty-eight counties and water from each of its 21 missions-had been blasted away to the streets some thirty-two floors below. In other words, an important icon of Los Angeles and, therefore, California had suffered greatly.

City Hall had not been alone in that regard.

As if to emphasize the thought, the Governor’s eyes sought out and found the dusty hole to the north; all that remained of Dodger Stadium after a bombardment of Witiko rockets had struck that makeshift rescue center, killing more than five thousand refugees on a fine summer day during the first months of the alien invasion.

Whether those missiles targeted the refugees or, as the Witiko explained during negotiations, resulted from a malfunction, did not matter. That hole served as a symbol.

When that first war ended, Malloy worked to cleanse the scars, starting first with renovating City Hall. Similar projects in other cities erased some-certainly not all-of the wounds from that five-year conflict.

At the same time, the social structure underwent renovations. Their Witiko allies brought new technologies and new ways of thinking that might have repulsed small minds. But Malloy convinced his people that survival depended on re-thinking how they viewed government, work, and life in general.