Anthony DeCosmo - Schism

The object-a humanoid very much like a man-landed standing with a thud that sent a gentle tremor amongst the group.

Stonewall studied the newcomer; it marked the first time he had seen one in person.

Two eyes and a pointed nose, a mouth with thinner lips than a man's and ears without lobes, but otherwise a close match to humanity in appearance including two legs and opposable thumbs with ten total fingers on two hands.

The alien would have stood only as tall and wide as Garrett himself, if not for his equipment that gave him more bulk, including an open-faced helmet with a curved visor that, Stonewall knew, served a myriad of functions. Patches of bright silver armor protected his arms and thighs while knee-high heavy boots with various metallic fixtures-no doubt to aid landing-covered his lower legs.

All the apparatus combined to give the alien added size: an illusion of greater presence.

While this race’s natural skin tones varied from gray to dull yellow, silver served as their predominant color as found in the trimmings of their battle gear as well as a silver cosmetic rubbed on their cheeks, necks, and other exposed areas. As the newcomer stared at Stonewall with an intense glare, the pupils in the alien's eyes morphed from green to a soft red. The true power of California joined the discussion. The Witiko. — Trevor Stone flipped another page in the binder and read yet another column of text and numbers. Scribbled notes in Omar Nehru's nearly illegible hand writing marred the margins.

Those columns dealt with industrial output from both the ‘matter makers’ stolen from the alien Hivvans as well as traditional manufacturing. Omar’s notes drew attention to looming shortages in rubber and plastics.

However, the definition of ‘shortage’ changed over the years. Not too long ago, shortages meant starvation, disease, or forced a halt in the war effort. Nowadays, shortages meant inconvenience and rationing.

Expansion across what had once been the continental United States resulted in greater access to natural resources. Perhaps more important, over the last four years the nature of the war had changed. With only remnants of the Grand Army of the Hivvan Republic remaining in isolated outposts in the Caribbean, The Empire faced mainly alien wildlife and human warlords and little in the way of organized military forces during the push west.

Of course, the 'liberation' of North America still left vast tracks of land-including several metropolitan areas-filled with dangerous predators, keeping the K9/paramilitary "Hunter-Killer" teams busy. Travel between population centers remained dangerous.

At the same time, Trevor appreciated the growing stockpiles of fuel, munitions, and equipment that resulted from the reduction in all-out warfare. Of course, those stockpiles would soon be called upon to tackle California.

That unpleasant thought caused him to snap shut the binder and slam it on the table next to the easy chair, startling the black and gray Norwegian Elkhound sleeping at his feet. Tyr raised his head, eyed his Master, and then slept again. The dog had aged from vibrant hunter and fighter to a tired veteran whose role as the Emperor’s personal K9 became more a symbol than a true bodyguard.

Trevor rubbed his eyes and glanced around the chamber. The VIP stateroom offered significantly more space than the typical quarters of a dreadnought, but still felt cramped due to the slanted, low ceiling and lack of windows. The decorator had attempted to hide the dull gray walls behind paintings of famous historical battles (Gettysburg, El Alamein, Five Armies, etc.,) and fine furniture such as a sofa and coffee table. Regardless, the dressing could not chase away a claustrophobic feel.

Part of that feel came from the constant low hum carrying through the ship. It did not matter if you walked the catwalks above the building-sized anti-gravity generators, stood in one of the VT amp;L launch pad standby rooms at the stern of the craft or, for that matter, sat reading in the Emperor’s personal quarters, the hum remained constant. Even the crews on the fixed-wing flight deck could hear that hum when not engaged in take off and landing operations.

He stood and walked through a tight archway, leaving behind the main room for the master bedroom: a queen-sized bed flanked by nightstands. In there, the art work was more personal, such as pictures from JB’s kindergarten graduation and a snapshot of the Atlantic Ocean taken from Trevor’s summer beach house in New Jersey.

A suitcase rested at the end of the bed. He sighed, zipped it open, and unpacked despite knowing his stay aboard the Excalibur would be short.

He carried his shaving kit into the bathroom, writing a mental note to remember to cut away the stubble on his cheeks in the morning. He had already cut away a few inches of hair and indulged in a ‘professional’ manicure.

While not quite qualifying as sacrifices, he found such trivialities annoying. However, he knew the Witiko to be a vain people. He knew their ways held influence over the Governor and his cabinet. Investing in extra grooming might pay dividends at the bargaining table.

Bargaining table?

Trevor stopped in front of the bathroom mirror, rewound that thought, and played it again.

What bargaining table?

There would be no bargaining. That had been and would continue to be the story of his rule. The Old Man never said anything about bargaining, but said plenty about fighting, killing, and sacrifice.

Trevor found his eyes in the mirror.

Who you kidding?

The other Trevor-the one who had led an invasion army to an alien world in a parallel universe-never needed an old man to learn how to kill. It had been his nature.

He stared at the reflection and thought about what he knew lay beneath the surface. He wondered if that surface had the strength to keep the monster inside at bay.

Lori had suggested that the difference between the Trevor Stone she knew and the Trevor Stone in that other universe revolved around his friends as well as humbling experiences such as finding Sheila’s diary or…or falling in love with Nina.

He hoped that would be enough.

It is one thing, he figured, for a man to know his limitations. It is another to realize that maybe…just maybe…he had no limitations.

A soft buzz pulled Trevor away from another bout of introspection. Part of him knew he spent too much time dwelling on the revelations of another world. Distractions could be deadly.

He moved out of the bathroom and to the stateroom door to answer the bell, pulling a heavy handle and sliding open the metal door.

Jon Brewer stood there in full dress uniform: gray and black with lines of metals and ribbons. Dress uniforms, a pet project of an Imperial Senate sub-committee, entered circulation a year ago but were rarely worn outside of dinner parties in Washington, D.C. Brewer smiled, Trevor frowned. "Come on now, it’s tradition for you to eat at the Captain’s table." "You’re going to make me wear mine? You can’t be serious."

"Yes, I’m serious," Jon insisted. "I’ve got a bunch of junior officers on board and they’re looking forward to eating with their Emperor. Do I need to give you the speech about how these guys are fighting and dying for you?"

"All right, all right. Give me a sec."

Trevor's version differed from Jon’s at the collar where gold braids stood out on the black fabric. He dressed carefully, as if handling hazardous materials. Trevor did not feel comfortable with the title "Emperor" and he felt even less comfortable with the trappings of that rank.

Tyr accompanied the two men as they exited the VIP quarters and walked the corridor.

As with the other two operational dreadnoughts, the Excalibur offered more square footage than the downtown districts of most small cities. The passages resembled those found in naval vessels but somewhat larger, offering room for two men to walk abreast as well as ceilings tall enough for even Jon-at over six feet-to stand straight.