Anthony DeCosmo - Schism

Stonewall reached up with one gloved hand. Benny grabbed tight.

"Hold on…hold on, General."

"It's okay, Benny. It's okay. I have," he coughed. His eyes closed for a moment, then opened wide again. "I believe I have…paid my penance. My family…my family will be waiting for me. I expect I shall do much better this time."

"General… please…"

"Yes…I can see them now…"

Eagle One sat amidst the ruins of the Carmel Valley Ranch Resort a few hours after the death of Stonewall. His soldiers-the shock finally setting in-shuffled across the smoky wasteland like zombies.

Captain Benny Duda walked up the ramp and met Trevor inside the passenger module of the transport.

"Sir, it was the General's wish that I present you with his sword. He felt that you may yet have some use for it."

Trevor stared at the brass hand guard and pommel of the weapon. Benny held it across both hands with his palms up and his head bowed.

"Benny…I'm sorry."

"The General wished you to have this," Duda repeated.

Trevor sensed that Benny Duda wanted to ask if the missile strike on L.A. might have cost Stonewall his life. He wanted to know if the destiny Trevor Stone served really demanded that men fight other men.

As he felt the cool metal in his hand, Trevor realized how much time had passed since he visited Stonewall. During the early days of Armageddon, he and Garrett often conversed. As the group of survivors grew into "The Empire," Stonewall became a distant leader out in the battlefields fighting the war Trevor directed.

Trevor realized how much he would miss General Stonewall McAllister as he placed his friend's sword on the rack of weapons aboard Eagle One so that he would never forget the troubled, eccentric gentleman who had become a legend.

– The cherry blossoms no longer bloomed in Washington D.C., having been the preferred snack of alien herbivores in the years between the collapse of the United States government and The Empire's liberation of the city.

It would not have mattered. Even the bursts of color and sweet scent of cherry trees could not chase away the gloom coating the town on the afternoon of May 1 ^ st.

Despite the successful end of the California war and regardless of the bright spring day, the crowds along the national mall gathered in great sadness to bid farewell to the most beloved General in man's army.

A horse-drawn cart carried Garrett McAllister's coffin to the stairs of the refurbished Capitol building. Draped over his last vessel was a black flag featuring a hand holding a sword in angry defiance of the alien invaders.

Washington hosted thousands of mourners coming from across the emancipated lands, as far as Miami to the south and Maine to the north. Such a relatively small gathering would have barely caught the attention of the old media back in times when demonstrators by the hundreds of thousands would sometimes mass in the streets of Washington. However, in terms of the new world, some ten thousand onlookers seemed like a mass of humanity.

Canine Grenadiers flanked the route, their noses and ears scanning for threats. Behind the funeral cart followed the larger-than-life figures who held the reigns of The Empire, but who somehow looked very small in comparison to the image of the fallen General.

Trevor held one of his wife's hands as they walked, his blond-haired eight-year-old son held her other hand. To their sides and behind trailed the council including the Brewers, Omar Nehru, Dr. Maple, Dante Jones, Eva Rheimmer, and Brett Stanton as well as General Shepherd and Ray Roos who served as Trevor's personal Chief of Security.

As remarkable as it was to see the ruling cabal marching together in somber steps, those missing grabbed the most attention. While few of the watchers wondered about the absence of Gordon Knox or Anita Nehru, the lack of Evan Godfrey fueled much gossip. Especially since most knew that Evan himself had pushed for D.C. to host Stonewall's last journey.

Instead of joining the procession, Evan Godfrey hosted a separate memorial service not too far away in the shadow of the Washington monument. There he stood with his head bowed in respect for the fallen hero, but he would not march with those who, Godfrey told the press, shouldered responsibility for a "needless death."

The casket reached the Capitol and was moved into the rotunda by an honor guard. Velvet ropes would soon mark public lines through the cavernous round chamber, but not until the Emperor and his entourage privately bid their farewells.

For the moment the rotunda belonged to a select few, with guards posted beyond closed doors, K9 sentries inside, and Ray Roos standing a respectful distance from the others.

Trevor's footsteps echoed around the imposing chamber as he drifted to the coffin and placed a hand on its stainless steel surface. "He was a good man." Murmurs of agreement. "I figure he died doin' what he felt called to do," Shepherd added.

Trevor noticed that Dante kept his distance from the others. He cocked an eye and approached his old friend who wore a dark blue Internal Security dress uniform.

A week had passed since Stonewall's death in the last major battle of the California invasion. The war ended without any formal surrender because The Cooperative lacked the leaders to issue such decrees.

Trevor spent the last seven days consolidating the territory and dealing with revised force deployments, all with a growing belly ache of anger born from Internal Security's overzealous efforts on the front lines. That anger received extra fuel from the decision to hold the memorial in D.C., a move Trevor saw as yet another step toward the old world; the types of steps Evan Godfrey liked to take.

"What's wrong, Dante? This man was a hero, don’t you think?"

Lori tried to intercede. Her husband stopped her. The others stood silent as Trevor and Dante's words reverberated around the massive dome. Ashley hurried JB from the chamber in anticipation of the coming explosion. Roos held the door for the mother and son but he remained. "Yeah, he was a hero. Look, Trevor, you got something you want to say to me, say it." Trevor stood directly in front of Dante. Their noses nearly touched. "Okay. What the Hell were your I.S. guys doing so far out on the front line?"

Dante took a hesitant step backward, sighed, then answered, "So that's it? I get bitched at for not having the manpower to do my job and now I'm getting bitched at because we came through? Is that what this is about, Trevor? I think you just don't like I.S."

Trevor lunged without thinking, allowing his anger to get the better of his wisdom: "What is that supposed to mean? I don’t' like I. S? I made I. S, Dante. I made you, too, remember that."

Dante spat, "You made me? What the-"

"So I got to wonder how in Christ's name all the Witiko brass ended up in your hands. You're playing a game and I don't like games."

"Listen to yourself. You don’t trust Internal Security, is that it? Because when you were gone three years ago some of my people thought maybe Evan was right about a few things. Is that it? You need to get over yourself. There's a Senate now, and just because I have to do some things they tell me to do doesn't mean I'm playing some game on you."

Trevor's head cocked to the side and took Dante's words as confirmation.

"So it's true. The Senate told you to be operating so far forward. The Senate told you to pick up the Witiko officers. Maybe you don't know the score but-"

Dante burst and knocked Trevor off balance with his words: "I know the score, Trevor. I know the Sentient Species Protection Act. You know, the one you signed into law? Under the law that you signed it says Internal Security is responsible for the protection of those aliens that aren't supposed to be ripped apart and studied. That's the law you signed after you found out you were playing for the wrong team on some other Earth, right? Tell me something, man, why didn't we ever make that little bit of info public, huh?"