Anthony DeCosmo - Schism

"Yes! Yes," the Missionary remembered better days. "That was after we secured the end of hostilities in California. My Lord was eager for such good news after Stone had shut down the gateways. I received such glorious gifts!"

"Hey, good for you. Hope it works out well this time."

"But it won't, Gannon. I have no great deeds to show for my efforts. Landing Stone here, to suffer at the hand of Voggoth, is a great prize that came at a great price. More will come from the seeds we have planted by supporting this Godfrey, but what blooms from those seeds will be credited to his Excellency. My role in this larger plan is far less than I had hoped."

Gannon nodded. The conversation had returned to his world, an arena in which he knew how to play.

"From the sounds of things his Excellency doesn't think fondly of me right now, either."

The two watched as the Bishop entered the chamber below, moving toward Trevor Stone's secured body. As he approached, the Bishop reached to the wall of the machine. The organic structure grew a bulb-like appendage that enveloped the Bishop's hand.

The Missionary explained, "But there is one thing you and I can do together, Mr. Gannon. One thing that will certainly please Voggoth and his Excellency does not need to be aware. After all, he has more urgent matters to attend."

Gannon sneered, "Yeah, what now?"

"Tell President Godfrey that I will kill Trevor Stone immediately, in exchange for one minor concession."

"Yeah, what's that?"

"You heard the Bishop. Trevor Stone is the purest sample of your strain of life. Except for one. Bring me the boy so we might insert him into the machine, too. Bring me Trevor's son."

– Reality. Not a dream, not a memory.

Trevor could smell the rotting corpses of canines, Red Hand warriors, and Sal Corso on the grounds of the estate. He did not merely remember that smell, he re-lived it in its entirety. Along with the smell came the feeling of failure. Of responsibility.

He could feel the texture of the pages in Sheila Evan's diary; he could sense the lingering scent of her perfume. On the pages of that diary, the thoughts of a lonely soul who wished only to feel welcome; only to be comforted by another human being.

Mr. Stone…

But he had not been able to comfort Sheila. His mission held precedence; a mission of numbers, not individuals. Rebuilding from the ashes was a job for a cold-hearted General.

Mr. Stone…can you hear me?

The guilt, the insecurity, the self-loathing remained but the sights, sounds, smells, and feel of the horrible moments faded into a swirl of darkness in his mind's eye.

It is good to be with you again, young man.

He knew that voice: The Order's Bishop, the one who had held the reigns of the torture spider.

It's not your fault, Mr. Stone. You are not personally to blame. It is the nature of your race. It is why you are inferior. Your attachment to false measures of morality and your dependence on emotions weakens your species. For example, do you know how it is you came to be here? You were betrayed by your own kind.

The swirling darkness disappeared, replaced by the smell of aviation fuel mixed with the scent of fresh-cut grass. Slowly colors came in to focus: red, orange and yellow from a flower garden adjacent to a beautiful green lawn.

Then it happened all over again. The Eagle air ship landed and out came Centurians in battle armor, firing their weapons. Evan Godfrey dropping to the grass. Internal Security agents…firing on other Internal Security agents.

Tyr-his best friend-shot and killed by a gray haired member of Evan's security detail. Another blast. Trevor on the ground looking up at Ray Roos. Roos pulled a gun and fired. Trevor felt the sting in his chest but when he glanced toward the wound he saw a small dart.

They betrayed you, Mr. Stone. And you should know that Evan Godfrey now rules your Empire. Piece by piece he is undoing your work. Soon he will weaken your people enough…enough so that…well, I am afraid that you won't live long enough to see the end result. However, today is a great day for blessed Voggoth. Allow me, Mr. Stone, to show you why.

Whatever magic fed new realities into Trevor's mind now took him to another place. Another Earth. He flew through the clouds and to a world where nature ruled supreme. A world without pollution, an Earth where the masters of the environment lived in harmony with all around them.

Trevor felt a cool, clean breeze across his face. He saw rolling green fields, thick and healthy forests, rivers and streams where crystal blue water flowed. He flew overhead with great speed, unsure if he traveled only in his mind or on some kind of transport.

Far below on a mountainside meadow Trevor saw a primitive village with small dwellings constructed of animal hides and a pair of larger structures made from timber and thatch.

All around that village…near the entrances of the homes…near escape paths leading to the cover of the deep forest…bodies. Bodies of slender humanoids dressed in skins and cloth, creatures who comprised one of the eight invading armies on Trevor's Earth but who were indigenous to this Earth in a parallel world where the Feranites-what Trevor's people nicknamed 'Red Hands'-fought to survive.

He soared above, cresting the mountain and beholding a carnival of horrors. In the fields below, the woods had been clear cut and replaced with ugly box-like buildings and dome-shaped homes and tall barricades. Smoke stacks poured soot into the atmosphere; the smell of burning iron works chased away the aroma of nature, the sound of massive machinery toiling away for unknown industries thundered in a symphony of noise pollution.

Trevor saw Feranite warriors, and females, and children in bondage driven by the whips of the bipedal lizard aliens Trevor knew as Hivvans, some too weak to carry on felt the deadly crunch of a master's boot.

And he kept flying still, circling the globe. Feranite slaves tending to the whims of egotistical Witiko owners…Geryon dirigibles burning Red Hand villages so thoroughly that only scorch marks remained where buildings and people had stood…Chaktaw infantry shooting fleeing warriors in the back and tossing the bodies into pits filled with rotting Feranite corpses…human tanks closely matching the Abrams armor in his own ranks blasting the last wooden barriers protecting yet another village.

The world Trevor had first thought to be full of nature turned black from the smoke of the dying civilization that called that Earth home…

Blackness again.

This is the fate that awaits your people, Mr. Stone. You have failed and I wanted you to see what that failure will mean for the people of this Earth. Given your unique knowledge of the greater scheme of things, I believe you can appreciate the vision. But I must go now, to tend to matters of an official nature. I will leave you to your miseries…

The Bishop turned his attention elsewhere, but remained plugged into the machine that contrived Trevor's torture. He needed that machine and its advanced engineering to complete a task for his master. As he did so, he did not fully disconnect from Trevor's mind. In essence, he failed to hang up the phone, allowing Trevor-through the great machine-to be a fly on the wall at a meeting of the Gods…

…"The representative of Voggoth calls the gathered’s attention to the Feranite host world. The Feranite free population has fallen below one percent and no longer offers any organized resistance. Furthermore, nearly five million of their number is in servitude to the other races and the Feranite surrogate has been terminated. The representative of Voggoth calls for the Feranites to be ruled defeated."

"The Feranites challenge this claim."

"The Witiko agree with the representative of Voggoth: the Feranite race has been subjugated and destroyed to the degree that its current state reflects the parameters previously defined as defeat." "The Feranites charge Human violations." "The Geryons support this charge." "The Hivvans object. Rules violations have been counter-balanced."