"Ha! That sounds like three questions, Trevy," the man failed to lighten the mood.
After two weeks of reading bad press it would take much more to chase away Trevor's gloom. Voices across the spectrum complained about casualties, the missile strike, and a military-intelligence conspiracy. Some of the outcry came from a general weariness after a decade of fighting. However, Trevor also knew he bore some of the responsibility for the problem, not only from the missile strike but also from the rift between himself and the Senate.
"Now lemme give you one little piece of skinny on them Witiko. Get them out fast. Personally, I'd much rather you put the sword to all of them, those silver tongued devils. Sometimes I wonder if they ain't up to more than meets the eye in all this."
"Nothing has changed over the years, has it? You said I had to survive, fight, and sacrifice. On and on it goes. I'm a link on that chain, right? Thing is, from where I’m standing I don't see any other links. I just see myself."
The Old Man's good mood over something-seemingly more than the defeat of the Witiko-loosened his lips.
"Oh, yeah, Trev. You know, every bit of life on this here rock comes from one seed, yessir. A seed that sprouted roots and grew a big tree, hehe. Over there, on one branch, is a red robin, and over there is a lion out there prowlin' the jungle being the king of his shit. All branches on a tree. But all from one seed, Trevor. One-oh, now what would the eggheads call it? — one gee-netic strand."
"Strand?" Trevor mulled the word. "You mean, chain?"
"From that seed came one pure root of life, going straight up the middle of that tree while everything else was branchin' off. Take a look at yourself, Trevor. Some folks can trace their grandparents back to coming off the boat from Italy, others all the way back to royalty in the old world or Chinese dynasties or whatever. But you can trace your great-times-a million-or-so grandparents back to the first slimy little things that swam around in the primordial soup."
Trevor extrapolated, "Life. Our entire ecosystem. The fight is about the entire genetic pattern. We've got a lot in common with the Duass and the Geryons and all, but each a little different. But wait, Voggoth and his bunch are completely different. And from what I saw, he doesn't have an Earth to defend. Why doesn't Voggoth have something to lose?"
"Oh, now what's that old thing they used to sing on Sesame Street? What was it?" The Old Man tried-poorly-to carry a melody, "One of these things don't belong with the other, one of these tings just ain't the same…"
Trevor cut off the song: "Okay, Voggoth is different. But he still has troops here. And he sure has been messing with the works, right? He got the humans in that other world to lure me over. I'm thinking he did that not only to hurt my Earth but to help me beat up the Chaktaw on their Earth. The way I figure, he was trying to wipe out two races with one move."
"Yeah, ole' Voggoth has pulled a few fast ones, that's for sure," the Old Man said, "But we done a few things ourselves to try and righten that, didn't we?"
Trevor figured the Old Man had broken the 'rules' that governed the invasion by sharing knowledge of the runes, which first helped him find those runes here, then helped him seek out those runes on the Chaktaw's Earth as a means of getting home. That posed another question.
"Let me guess, you guys can play fast and loose with time, too?"
"I told you time don't mean nothin'. It's irrelevant. Just made up by men. I suppose, though, if you were to think of creation as a big bottle of soda pop, then inside all the fizz is a bunch of bubbles, each one their own bubble of what you think of as time. But look, you know I can't be sayin' too much. Still playin' by the rules, as much as those rules are getting' fudged-up these days. Yessir, things getting' all haywire and no one is liking that too much, let me tell you."
Trevor spied a glint in the Old Man's eye. A mischievous glint. He invited, "Tell me what's on your mind, old timer."
"Now I can't go makin' a bunch of noise, but let's just say you're doing pretty good. In fact, some are thinking you're going to get it done. But some other folks ain't doin' as well, hehe."
Trevor jumped, "Are you trying to tell me that on some other Earth a race is losing?"
"I'm not tellin' you nothin'!" the Old Man's words sounded defensive but he winked as he spoke. "None-the-however, you sure are doin' good, relatively speaking. Real good."
Trevor considered ten years of warfare, the slaughter at New Winnabow, the weed-like re-growth of politics, the distance between himself and Ashley, the loss of Nina, and the bloodshed in California.
"Yes," he mumbled. "I'm doing real good."
– Ashley followed the photographer's direction and stepped to her left, crowding a little closer to the big smelly guy with the cowboy hat while two children stood in front, each with a wounded K9 at their side.
Ray Roos-Chief of Security for the estate-shuffled out of the way, as did Ashley's two assistants who helped organize public relations events such as this.
Around the photographer buzzed a quartet of reporters. Ashley recognized the anxiousness in how they paced, tapped their notebooks, and darted their eyes about. She nearly felt sorry for them. There they were inside the hollowed grounds of the Emperor's estate but stuck at the canine barn covering a story about families and wounded dogs.
One of the reporters asked with little enthusiasm, "Mrs. Stone, has the Grenadier adoption program been a success?"
The reporter turned his eyes to his notebook, pencil ready, to copy the pat answer certain to follow. Ashley hesitated, ever so slightly, at the title "Mrs. Stone."
That title implied marriage to Trevor, something that had never occurred. Marriage, in turn, implied confidence, commitment, romance, and child-rearing. While she had confidence in Trevor and raised his child, their 'relationship' no longer held either commitment or romance. When Trevor had disappeared three years ago, Ashley feared she lost him to the forces of Armageddon only to learn that she had lost him to the forces of the heart.
"We've placed more than five hundred K9s through the program."
The camera flashed, the shutter snapped, and the photographer adjusted so as to include the nearby memorial statue of a stalwart dog of indeterminate breed in the next picture.
"Mrs. Stone, are there concerns about the temperament of the K9s around kids?"
"Not at all. Grenadiers placed in homes are even more affectionate then the household pets we knew before the invasion."
Ashley had known since the day they pulled her from her ark ride in a coffin of green goo that the Richard Stone she knew no longer existed. Fair enough, because it did not take long for the new reality to changer her, too. She found a purpose as the softer side of the Emperor and as mother to their very special boy. In the old world, such a role might have sounded limited but she knew she served the same cause as Trevor in her own way.
A reporter asked, "What are some of the typical injuries to the K9s?"
"Most have lost legs, eyes, ears, and require specialized diets and physical therapy."
Ashley spied Gordon Knox walking with one of his subordinates around the corner of the mansion. After a moment, Gordon dismissed the young man and watched the show.
"How many of the K9s are available for adoption?"
Gordon scared Ashley but also fascinated her, the way a person might admire the symmetry of a hurricane. She knew he had grown fond of her, perhaps because she was unattainable. People tended to covet things beyond their grasp.
"We currently have fifty-two canines waiting for adoption. Several dozen more will be available in a few weeks as they are released from veterinarian care."
While his attraction unnerved Ashley, she knew he would not approach her: Gordon held a fanatical devotion to Trevor Stone and would never betray that trust.