On day six of the return trip, the convoy halted outside a large city in northeast Ukraine. While Trevor sat in the back of an armored Sherpa holding the last memory of his son-Bunny, the stuffed animal wrapped in a small blanket-Alexander walked forward to investigate the delay. Trevor expected a horde of Voggoth’s minions attempting to intercept the convoy. Such attacks were long overdue.
However, he realized he heard no gunshots; no sounds of battle. When Alexander returned he appeared grim-faced and hurried.
“What is it?”
Alexander replied, “We are needed in the town.”
“Here? Where are we-Kharkov?”
“Yes,” Alexander said and directed Rick Hauser to drive the vehicle around the main convoy and into the city. “Ukrainian and Russian partisans retook this area last year while Voggoth was hammering us. Tenacious people, they are.”
Trevor’s mind filled with negative thoughts. Did these people want tribute to allow passage? Or would they beg for food and ammunition? In the end he supposed it did not matter because at any second his world would change.
He soon found out how right he was.
The Sherpa followed a pair of Ukrainian or Russian motorcyclists into the heart of Kharkov with Armand and a small group of his followers trailing behind.
The city remained in surprisingly good condition, apparently spared from large-scale fighting. It surprised Trevor to see so many green trees in the heart of what had once been a metropolitan area.
“Things look in good shape,” Trevor muttered.
“They really put it back together nice. They told me they’ve got the Malyshev Tank Factory back on line. A lot of them survived most of the last decade in the underground subway beating up the Duass when they were here and The Order later but they went to great pains to keep from permanently harming the city.”
They drove into the heart of Freedom Square, a teardrop-shaped cul-de-sac with a park at its center as well as large and buildings around the perimeter, several of which were massive including one that occupied 300 meters of frontage with multiple skywalks between multiple towers. Trevor guessed it to be an older government building built in a Soviet style meant to impress with strength of design but lacking in ornate detail.
Whatever the case, the motorcade worked its way toward the Kharkov Hotel. As they made their way in to town, Trevor realized this was no band of partisans scraping out an existence. These people managed to rebuild a tiny bit of civilization, much like his people had re-populated Wilkes-Barre that first year. There may not be many of them, but they were on the right track.
All for nothing.
“Alexander, what is this about?”
“Someone here looking for us. Messengers, I think.”
Trevor, Alexander, and Hauser exited while Armand’s bikers came to a halt curbside.
Their hosts wore a variety of clothing that again reminded Trevor of his own people; summer casual wear, blue jeans, slacks, cargo pants, dress shirts, and military uniforms of various kinds. Several of the more stoic types guarding the main entrance carried AK-47s or similar weapons, apparently a part of the city’s militia.
Trevor eyed the people and they returned his glances with smiles and what might be laughs. Excited, friendly laughs. Celebratory, even.
“No weapons,” Alexander explained. “Not inside the hotel.”
Trevor carried none. He did not think a machine gun would provide any defense against the coming judgment. Hauser, however, dropped his MP5 in the front seat of the Sherpa and Armand left an entire arsenal of small arms with one of his biker brethren.
The crowd spoke in excited chatter as the travelers moved away from their convoy into the hotel. Trevor did not need a translator to catch Ukrainians and Russians speaking amongst themselves:
“Is that him?”
“How did he do it?”
“They mentioned him by name.”
While the exterior appeared dull, the interior was luxurious: marble floors, thick gold bands of trim, stately columns, and crystal chandeliers.
A large gathering of people-easily 100-crowded the lobby. The escorts pushed past. The crowd parted and they approached a meeting area of leather seats and sofas facing a magnificent fireplace. There they found the reason for their summons.
Gaston-Alexander’s lanky, black, Russian spy who had been scouting for the return convoy-stood by the couriers and explained, “They are spreading the message. Here, you should see it first,” and he handed a scroll to Trevor. “You are mentioned by name, Trevor Stone. They had to write all of it down. They are not very good with our language.”
A trio of couriers stood alongside Gaston. Duass couriers. The three-legged duck-billed aliens left to watch over a conquered Europe when The Order had withdrawn to attack North America. They wore cloth garments and some kind of wrappings around their legs that served the same purpose as hip boots on humans.
Armand pushed forward, his face turning grim and his fingers searching for weapons he had left outside. Gaston intercepted him with a raised hand.
“Easy, my friend.”
Trevor read the document. Alexander could not wait. He asked Gaston, “What is it? What is this about?”
Gaston told him, “It is over.”
Trevor regarded the Duass ambassadors with suspicion as they exited the lobby under Ukrainian protection.
He had to admit, the aliens demonstrated great courage. The three entered the city with merely a promise of safe passage from the people they had brutalized for more than a decade. Apparently many such Duass patrols-and those from other alien groups except the Witiko-sought out human leadership with the same message.
Trevor hoped, for the sake of peace, that other human enclaves proved as honorable as Kharkov, although he could not entirely blame any mob that chose retribution over reconciliation.
Regardless, they delivered a simple message: The end of war. Cooperation in rooting out any remaining entities from the realm of Voggoth. Retreat to specific outposts until such time as travel through the runes (something unknown to most humans) could be arranged through consultation with Trevor Stone, the man who had brokered this resolution. Release of all prisoners by both sides and assistance in re-building necessary infrastructure to ensure the survival of the human populace as well as extraterrestrial forces until their evacuation from the planet.
The duck-like Duass disappeared from the hotel and the commotion carried outside. Alexander sat across the lobby in deep discussion with the representative of Kharkov; a big man with a deep voice.
Another leader of men.
Trevor’s mind considered Kharkov and the people there. He wondered if the weather was harsh here. He thought about the return to Europe and what manner of transport he would secure to re-cross the ocean. He…
He stopped thinking about all that. A wave of weakness traveled across his body and he slumped deep into a leather chair.
It hit him. Not like an explosion or a powerful force, but with the exact opposite effect. As if his muscles had been tight and tense for a decade and now relaxed. Not quite calm. Exciting on some level.
Relief.
Gaston had said, “It is over.”
It.
What exactly was ‘it’? Constant fighting. Always thinking ahead to the next battle. Counting casualties like taking inventory. Speeches to rally. Providing direction for the people even when Trevor could not be sure of what to do next. Serving as symbol, and facilitator. Worries. Concerns. Desperate measures. Brutality and stoicism in the face of tragedy. Sacrificing his sense of right and wrong and replacing it with a blind focus on completing ‘the mission’.
‘It’ was finding his parents torn apart so badly that he mistook them for shaggy, rolled rugs; feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders; killing the man named ‘Richard’ and replacing him with the icy leader known as ‘Trevor’; sacrificing his innocence on an altar of bloodshed in the name of the bottom-line equation of survival; carrying on alone because destiny chose his path and allowed choices only between evils.