Anthony DeCosmo - Schism

The Mediterranean and Spanish-style ranch houses of Hialeah and Miami's north side sat in tightly grouped neighborhoods, belying the dearth of citizens in that part of town. Nina knew from her experience fighting in Florida a few summers ago that Miami had turned itself into a fortress after the onslaught of Armageddon, holding out against swamp things and other nightmares as well as the organized forces of the Hivvan Republic. That defense caused an evacuation of the outer-lying areas in order to form lines along the Airport Expressway on the north side and the Palmetto Expressway to the west.

During those years of siege, the Miami population fed themselves with bounty from the sea and citrus while defending their city with a combination of police, National Guard, Cuban refugees, and armed citizens, until The Empire arrived and lifted the siege.

While she had helped clear the surrounding territory, this served as Nina's first visit to the city proper. Despite the town's struggle-or maybe because of it-Miami felt different from the scores of cities and metropolis' liberated by Trevor Stone's armies. Most of those other places had abandoned their core; chased away by the monsters and extraterrestrial militia. Those who survived did so by hiding at the fringes or forming small pockets of resistance in the wild.

Not Miami. The city's heart never stopped beating. As the car carried her deeper into town, she felt as if she traveled through time to the days before the gateways opened. The small family shops and barter centers, intact billboards advertising products long since run out of stock, and the new-world chain of "In and Out" convenience stores selling everything from bullets to bread: it seemed a page from yesterday except for the occasional bomb crater, the remains of sand bag and junk barricades, and hundreds of small crosses arranged in neat rows across Grapeland Heights Park in tribute to "those who stopped the breach."

She arrived at her hotel, a beautiful building constructed on a peninsula stretching into a small lagoon, all within sight of the airport to the north and downtown to the east. A large parrot sat on a perch outside the sliding doors of the entrance greeting each visitor-man or woman-with a boisterous, "Hello pretty lady, hello." Calming instrumental music piped over speakers in the large lobby decorated with ferns and wildflowers. Signs pointed to the 'lunch' buffet in one direction; to the 'lounge' in another.

She approached a well-groomed female desk clerk who had a complexion of cocoa and shiny black hair pulled tight. Nina paid for the first night of her room with two hundred Continental Dollars, some of which came from her own savings and some from Shepherd. The clerk-noting the pale-skinned blonde-woman's sweat-soaked clothing-referred Nina to the gift shop where sun screen and shorts could be purchased alongside hand guns and marijuana.

Nina followed that advice before lugging her bag to her tenth-floor room. There she showered, napped for half an hour, then changed into Khaki shorts, a white t-shirt, and a black baseball cap. She also rubbed on a generous portion of sun block before descending to the lobby and hailing yet another taxi. "The Orange Bowl." The driver-maybe all of fifteen years old-warned, "Only practice there today, lady." "The Orange Bowl."

Nina sat in the rear of the car, eyed the ticket voucher, and reflected on her brief meeting with Ashley, on her covert mission, and on Trevor Stone's assassination.

She was sure of only a few things. First, Trevor's murder made her ill to her stomach, despite the passing of more than a month since the deed. On several occasions in recent weeks she woke in her bed from some fading dream with a great pressure sitting on her chest.

Second, with the slow-down in operations the Dark Wolves had nothing to do. The rest of the team sat around Southern Command at the beach playing cards and watching TV. Godfrey's big announcement about the end of the war suggested even less work would come their way in the months ahead.

Finally, she knew her 'mission' lay outside the normal framework of her duties. Shep had contrived an assignment with no specific objective: go to south Florida and train. Only a high ranking General could get away with such drivel. However, that did not make her feel any better. Captain Nina Forest followed the rules, she followed protocol, she did not deviate from her role. She was a loyal soldier. Problem was, she no longer knew to whom that loyalty belonged.

Before that fateful day last month, she knew Trevor Stone to be her leader. All the orders that flowed to her flowed ultimately from him. Her latest 'orders' came in the form of a request from Trevor's widow and the blessing of Shepherd. No paperwork, no responsible party other than herself.

So why did she do this?

The idea of Centurians assassinating Trevor made sense. But a human conspiracy? Why would aliens do the bidding of human assassins? If someone other than the invaders bore responsibility for the act, then Trevor's death should have come from a modern Lee Harvey Oswald. Besides, the initial findings from the Internal Security investigation supported the facts as the country knew them.

None of it made much sense, but Nina knew that understanding the complexities of politics did not rank as one of her strong points. She preferred things more straight forward.

The taxi drove into the surprisingly well-populated neighborhoods of Little Havana. Children rode bicycles in celebration of summer school recess, street vendors sold newspapers and all manner of food from hot dogs (of questionable pedigree) to flavored ices; a man sat on his steps strumming a guitar while his daughter and boyfriend danced; another man leaned against a palm tree watching traffic go by with a cigar in his mouth.

There was one part of Miami Nina did not like at all: traffic. Under normal circumstances she did not like riding in cars. She liked it even less in this city where traffic seemed to nearly match pre-war levels. Taxis and delivery trucks, motorcycles and convertibles zipped along side streets, up and down boulevards, on to and off expressways.

Many of those cars ran on standard gasoline, some drove on hybrid systems using electric engines and batteries. She saw a few that even looked as if they were steam-powered.

In any case, her ride brought her to the stadium, a decaying horse-shoe shaped football arena built in the late 1930s. She paid the driver and exited, adjusting her rifle as she strolled toward the 'West Plaza' gate where big letters welcomed: Miami Orange Bowl.

Three older men and a younger one sat under an awning at a portable table playing a game Nina first mistook for cards before realizing it to be dominoes. They gave her a passing glance as she approached the ticket window, interested more in another round of 'muggins' than they were in the pale blond woman with the big gun and ponytail. A thin man with a gray mustache put aside a newspaper and grudgingly welcomed her at the ticket window. "I have this," she slipped the voucher under the security glass. "No game today. Practice," he returned the slip.

Nina did not know what to do other than retreat. She stepped backwards and nearly bumped into the chubby belly of one of the domino players who, apparently, had actually taken an interest in her after all.

The man's breath smelled of sweet liquor. Small beads of sweat peppered his forehead below the brim of a baseball cap. He eyed her but not in the way most men eyed her. She felt certain he did not inspect her form but, rather, her person; evaluating her on some level.

His tightly-pinched lips suggested he did not feel comfortable with his next move, but he held out his hand anyway. She gave him the voucher. He spoke to the ticket-taker behind the window in a fast voice and in a language beyond her comprehension, probably Spanish.