"There! That fixed him!"
Jorge scooped up the dead bug with the newspaper and threw it in a waste basket. Pleased at his victory, he moved to the table and re-positioned his toy soldiers.
"Well done, son. You took care of that pest."
JB did not respond. He appeared devoted to his command.
Trevor briefly pinched the bridge of his nose then walked to the head seat at the table; the place where he usually held council with his advisors about war, the economy, industry, and more. This time, in the empty room, he came to tell his son that he would be leaving next week for D.C. JB, however, pre-empted his father's speech.
"You're going away again."
"How do you know that?"
The boy remained fixated on plastic tactical maneuvers but paused long enough to answer in an emotionless voice, "I can sense it. It's in your voice, whenever you bring me bad news," he changed the subject to his toys, "My army is going to engage the Centurians. The odds are great, but I anticipate victory."
Trevor shook his head in amazement. He knew his boy to be special; knew it long before Dr. Maple found far more neurotransmitter types in JB's brain than the typical human being. Their purpose? Unknown. Trevor figured someday they would find out.
In any case, JB had a way about him. A greater understanding of things. Most boys would hate their father leaving so often for dangerous missions or important meetings. Jorge embraced it. Encourage it. Yet this time JB sounded not quite as enthusiastic.
"I'm sorry JB. But I'll be here for your birthday tomorrow, and most of the rest of the week. Are you excited about turning eight?"
Jorgie replied with a huff that suggested he had grown weary of answering questions about his birthday. "Yes. I am excited."
A silence grew between the two, punctuated only by imaginary gunfire. However, after a moment a new sound caught Trevor's ear: another buzzing insect flying overhead.
"Uh-oh," Trevor said. "Sounds like we have another intruder. Better get that newspaper."
To the contrary, JB remained focused on his battle.
"I will have to let this one go, father. If I spend all my time dealing with pests the battle will never be won. You understand, don't you?"
Trevor smiled politely, having listened to his son but not actually hearing.
9. Sic Semper Tyrannis
Prior to Armageddon, the Sikorsky Super Stallion helicopter transported officials of the American government. Now the plush interior of leather seats and fancy trim accommodated a new breed of politicians.
The shudder reverberating through the craft and the constant drone of whirring rotors reminded Trevor why he preferred to fly in quiet, smooth Eagle shuttles. However, the theme of the day was "Trevor loves Internal Security and the Senate," so bye-bye Eagle One, hello Internal Security VIP transport.
As bad as he found the situation, his elkhound, Tyr, suffered more due to his acute senses. The dog curled at his master's feet as if trying to hide from the noise.
His escort also included Ray Roos and plain-clothes I.S. agents, all part of the plan to emphasize subtlety. After all, an entourage of soldiers and a dreadnought floating above Evan's home would have spoiled the whole sucking-up-to-Godfrey ambiance Dante felt necessary.
Nonetheless, he remained well protected. A squad of agents secured the interior of Evan's home, army units from the Washington D.C. garrison manned checkpoints a mile from the meeting site, and the Excalibur waited on station to the south outside of Richmond.
Still, the phrase for the day was "low key." Trevor had arrived in D.C. in time for a breakfast with Chairpersons of several Senate committees. A tour of the rejuvenated Smithsonian followed where updated exhibits included a small but working matter-transformation machine taken from the Hivvans, a collection of extraterrestrial gear, and a Duass War Skiff.
Trevor particularly admired a twenty-foot interactive diorama depicting the collapse of Washington D.C. during the invasion a decade ago. The display included a two-inch replica Skip Beetle outside the Pentagon and toy-sized Hivvan Battlebarges advancing along Pennsylvania Avenue. A narrator stoically relayed information such as, "the Texas delegation turned the Hart office building into a modern Alamo where they survived for three weeks," and "the junior Senator from New York fell victim to a Crawling Tube Worm inside the Capitol Building."
Dante accompanied Trevor for most of the morning, but as lunch neared the Internal Security Director broke away from the main group to visit the Tambourine Monitoring Center. That station collated information from the smaller stations up and down the east coast that stood as an electronic fence protecting against attack from the Atlantic.
An hour later, Trevor boarded the helicopter and departed from Capitol Hill crossing the Potomac on course for Evan Godfrey's estate outside of McLean, Virginia.
Trevor glanced across the aisle at Ray Roos. The man's usually thin face appeared a little more drawn that day; a tad pale, maybe.
"You okay, Ray?"
Roos answered, "Yes sir, just fine thank you. Guess I don't like it too much in D.C. with all these Senators walkin' around and all."
"I know what you mean," said Trevor as he glanced out one of the portals to view the scrolling streets, expressways, and-the further they flew-woodlands and gentle hills.
While Washington had been cleansed and pacified, most of the homes in the metropolitan area and suburbs remained empty. In fact, in terms of population Washington ranked behind Miami, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia, although D.C. did surpass New York in residents.
The helicopter overflew a cluster of softball fields, making Trevor think of baseball and how Jorgie neared Little League age. He thought about all the other 'ages' Jorgie would soon see, and how many already passed by.
Trevor knew he was not the father he wanted to be. He loved his boy greatly and he tried to spend time with his kid. If home, he would tuck JB to bed, often times reading him a book or telling stories from the war (edited to not incur mommy's wrath). He would wrap the same stuffed bunny in the same little blanket every night, and while that might sound silly, it had become an important ritual to both Trevor and his son.
JB's eighth birthday party had gone well, exactly the type of get together they needed in the wake of Stonewall's death. The Nehrus, Knox, Dante, and of course the Brewers attended, not to mention hordes of children including Catherine Brewer. JB's favorite gift came from Jerry Shepherd: a Feranite war cloth; essentially woven threads painted in bright colors to symbolize a chief's great victories. For Trevor, it served to remind that a band of Red Hand nomads remained at large in the Midwest.
"We'll, looks like we've arrived, sir," Ray said as the helicopter descended.
Godfrey lived in a colonial-style home nearly as large as Trevor's lakeside mansion. The red brick appeared recently re-pointed and three sharp gables gave it a taste of Victorian style.
The Sikorsky lowered to the finely manicured lawn behind the home, a yard large enough to accommodate one of those softball fields Trevor spotted during the flight.
Trevor saw no cameras or reporters, but that had been the case all day. The itinerary called for no media before or during their get together. Presumably, when finished, the two would address the media together in a dramatic showing of solidarity and mutual respect.
The helicopter landed. The rotors powered down. Trevor glanced out the window, noting Evan and several I.S. guards standing at the rear of the home near a colorful garden of red, orange, and yellow. Still, no sign of cameras. Whatever political trap Evan planned to spring would either not need the media or could wait until they addressed the reporters after lunch.