Anthony DeCosmo - Schism

At the forefront of that line walked Ashley, her son JB, and Benjamin Trump-Ashley's father-surrounded by Jon and Lori Brewer, Dante Jones, and the Nehrus. Further back followed the remainder of the Imperial Council except for Evan Godfrey who remained under a nurse's care at his home outside of D.C.

Unusually cold weather greeted the memorial; temperatures dipped into the high forties but felt worse due to a sharp wind. The mourners-dressed in heavy coats on the last day of May-entered the square from the south, passing the human and canine honor guard.

The casket rested on a round stage surrounded by floral arrangements and photographs of Trevor at historic moments, including a famous picture of him standing at the steps of Atlanta City Hall with a dirty, tired face and a well-used assault rifle in his bloody hands.

Ashley and JB approached the body with grandpa a step behind. Ashley had spent two days practicing the moment. She knew the eyes of The Empire watched.

With her eight-year-old boy holding her hand and her father's arm on her shoulder, Ashley peered at the still body of Richard Trevor Stone, his eyes closed, his hair neat but still shoulder-length, his hands clasped over a heavy dress uniform.

As the softer side of the Emperor, Ashley had attended more viewings and funerals than she cared to remember, either by her husband's side or as the only available representative of the ruling sect. Many times the body on display looked quite different from the person who had lived that life. Sometimes relatives would say "he looks good" while others would say "it just doesn't look like him at all".

The Trevor Stone inside the glass casket looked exactly like the man who had lived Trevor Stone's life. Indeed, the figure inside the coffin seemed sleeping, not lifeless. The embalmers, she noted, had done good work; his skin appeared smooth and perfect, lacking the hard edges that had grown there during years of battle.

JB stepped closer, pulling at his mother's arm. When she gave no ground, he stood on his toes and craned his neck for a better view.

"He's at peace now," Benjamin Trump consoled through watery eyes as he recalled the funeral for his wife who died of breast cancer two years after 'riding the ark' with the rest of her family.

Ashley raised a handkerchief to her eye. Surprisingly, she shed no tears at that moment as her mind focused on projecting the proper image, but that image demanded a handkerchief and tears, so she went through the motion.

She had lived ten years as a character called "the Emperor's wife," and now she needed to play the role a while longer for the good of others, no time for her own feelings. Perhaps, she thought, Trevor had felt this way for the last decade.

The three moved away from the casket and stopped off to the side where they waited for their friends to pay respects.

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.