The Beacon of Halifax

Preface: This timeline was originally posted on alternatehistory.com from the dates of May 18th, 2013 to November 14th, 2014.

The massive steel ship glided gracefully through the blackness of space, a blackness pockmarked by the white specks that were stars. At least, that is what the computers running this ship were used to. Now, they were in a solar system with four small rocky planets, four gas giants, and a myriad of smaller objects in the outer limits of the system.

It was the third planet that held its particular interest. It was to be this ship's new home once it got the signal that had been programmed into it several eons ago. Now, it orbited the gas giant closest to the sun of the system: a brown and white planet with one massive red storm on it and an assortment of moons. The ship waited.

Then, suddenly, the ship noticed something. A massive burst of energy had come from the third planet. This was the signal. The time to settle was now.

It left orbit of the gas giant, and snuck through space to contact it. Its sensors gazed upon the world, a cerulean planet with green and brown landmasses, its poles white.

It saw the area of the energy's origin, a small island on the northeastern part of an elongated continent. The computers onboard briefly pondered the choice, but they concluded it did not matter. The signal had been sent. They began their descent towards the planet.


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Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, December 7th, 1917

Frederick Fordham was in a panicked fit as he saw the ruins of what was his house. He was out in a suburb of the city for business when that accursed munition ship had hit another, less volatile ship, releasing a blast of energy destroying his home city in its entirety.

He looked through the wreckage. He was already in tears as he entered the ruins, tears which were fanned into rage as he found the mutilated corpses of his beloved wife, his four year old daughter, his infant son. The world must be displeased with him. It had taken everything. He let out a monstrous roar.

As if on cue, a massive boom sounded from the distance. "Another one?" he thought to himself. "God must be displeased."

He was pelted in a rain of dirt that fell from the sky. As he coughed through it, he noticed something in the distance. A tower, perhaps? Yes, a tower. It was a silvery tint, with parts of it black. It bored a hole into the ground and settled there.

Little specks of some unknown material began emanating from the tower. Not material, entities. Small, flying entities. These entities began scouting around the area.

One landed near Fordham. It was an insectoid creature with large, thin metal wings that flapped as it landed, with ruby eyes and spindly legs. It approached Fordham, and stretched out a needly appendage.

Fordham was enraged. First, God took his family from him, and then this? He sends these things? He grabbed the appendage and snapped it in half. The entity quivered, attempting to back away from him. He charged it and punched it in its red eyes. It collapsed.

Its red eyes had been shattered, its appendages snapped, its wings ripped. Fordham felt triumphant.

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The computers of the ship were in a state of panic. Surely there would be no harmful indigenous life! There was no way! The explosion should have killed them?

No matter. The computers knew they had self-defense. They had their matter fabricators begin synthesizing protons once more, turning it into iron, aluminum, tungsten, uranium. With this, they would create their defenses.

It sent out another wave of preliminary defenders, which was larger than the first, and more heavily armed. These were equipped with small light-based weapons that could fry organic life. The computers were pleased. This planet would make a nice home indeed.

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Ottawa, Canada, 1917

Robert Borden rose from his desk as he heard the knock on his door. The Prime Minister opened it, revealing the presence of a distraught George Henry Murray, the Premier of Nova Scotia.

"Premier, your presence here shows what you sent in your telegrams is quite urgent. What is the damage, and what is this thing that you've found?"

"It's a tower, your honor," stuttered Murray. Over a decade as Provincial Premier had not prepared himself for this. "Army units sent to investigate have not been heard back from. Wrecks of vehicles have been found in the area as well."

"Of course the damn things are wrecked," spouted Borden. "Are you saying this ... thing is attacking us?"

"It's what the military people are saying, sir. There have been several sightings of flying machines seemingly emanating from Halifax in the Maritime Provinces, Newfoundland, parts of Quebec, and the American state of Maine," replied Murray.

Murray paused. He was indeed nervous in making this request, but he knew it had to be done. "Your Honor?" he asked anxiously.

"Let me guess, Mr. Murray. You want me to withdraw all of our forces from France to help retake Halifax."

"Yes, your honor. I have filed similar requests in Washington and London. Since the Americans are already affected by this, I feel they will respond much quicker than the British."

"Very well. I will give the order to General Currie. The French will not be pleased, but will they ever?"


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"Mon Dieux!" screamed French President Raymond Poincare in his office in Paris. "The Germans are so close to Paris, and the British and Americans want to withdraw already? What has possessed them?"

The page looked distressed, tears welling in his eyes. "They say that Canada is under threat from some unknown entity in Halifax apparently called via the munitions explosion there some days back. They believe they are under attack, a war that is more vital than ours against the Germans."

"Is there any sign of this letting up?" growled Poincare. "France is already in dire straights. Without them, we are lost."

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The computers within the ship were busy calculating the trajectories for their armed scout ships. The indigenous population is mounting a force against us, it thought, and we must stop them.

The computers had sent its machines to destroy the indigenous population's vehicles and infantry. They were too curious, it thought, much too curious. They had a mission. They would uphold this mission.

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Frederick Fordham was angry. The accursed insectoid things had driven out of his home city. He had run a good way from them, far to the north of Halifax, evading their hovering scouts.

He saw people. Not civilians. Soldiers. Canadian soldiers. A Canadian Red Ensign. His people.

They were inside a small camp, the red flag flying over it, with a small amount of trucks inside. "Who goes there?" yelled a voice from a watchtower, its voice with a slight Francophone intonation.

"Those things ... attacked me ... chased me out ... shot light at me ... burned the ground."

There was some chatter from the watchtower. This chatter ceased and soldiers exited the base. "You would do best to follow us," one said as they grabbed his arms and dragged him into the base. "We need to know what is going on in there."

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The room was dark. Frederick Fordham had been awoken by two men, both in Canadian military uniforms. It seemed to be an odd hour, Fordham thought - the moon was full through the small window. He was in some makeshift camp, he remembered. He was taken in by the Canadian military, he remembered.

"Excuse us, sir?" asked one, his accent suggesting a Newfoundland origin. "Our sincerest apologies for waking you up at such an hour. All the rest of the havoc ensuing after the landing has been dealt with."

"So, what do you want from me?" asked Fordham.

"All we want to do is ask you some things," said the other. "Allow us to introduce ourselves. My name is Caswell Matherson, and this here is the partner assigned to me, Gordon Ramsey." Ramsey nodded his assent.

"Allow me to ask you," said Matherson, "what is your name?"

"Fordham. Frederick Fordham."

"What were you doing in Halifax the day of the explosion and the unknown craft's landing?"

"I was looking for my family. They all died." Tears welled up in his eyes, but he held them in.

"Did you see any sort of creature near the tower? Any sort of craft?"

"Yes, there was this buglike mechanical thing. Spindly legs, block body, red eyes, metal wings."

"Did it attack you?"

"It sent several of its appendages towards me. I was too angry to be inquisitive, so I punched the thing. It collapsed."

"Where is your house?"

He rattled off an address.

"Could you take us there?"

"Yes. I can't promise you this thing would be willing to let us in necessarily, but I can take you."

"Rest well, Mr. Fordham, rest well. We leave for Halifax tomorrow morning."

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Woodrow Wilson, President of the United States, was tired. He had been asleep when informed of the explosion in Halifax and the landing by that odd craft, the minions of which had raided Maine. Here he was in Augusta to meet with several dignitaries. He had campaigned vigorously against war, sent troops to Europe for a few months, and ended up having to recall all of them.

He entered the room in the Maine state house. He saw Canadian Prime Minister Robert Borden, the British Ambassador the Earl of Reading, and another man in what appeared to be a Canadian military uniform. On the wall was mounted a map of Nova Scotia with various pins and drawings on it. The uniformed man stood next to the map.

"Mr. President, sir, an honor to meet you in such dark times," exclaimed Borden, extending his hand to greet Wilson. "I know that Maine has been pelted some by unknown craft, and I hope to put this to an end as much as you would."

Borden gestured to a window. Outside the building was positioned a batallion of American infantry and a single Renault FT rushed to the US from Europe. The Americans expected a possible incursion over Augusta. They would be prepared.

"Mr. President, Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. Ambassador, may I get started?" asked the uniformed man.

"Go on with it," ordered Wilson.

"Thank you. My name is Lieutenant Jonathan Kilmer, from the Canadian forces stationed around Halifax. I am a local, and as such I was chosen to give the presentation about the current situation.

He pointed to Halifax on the map. "Halifax was destroyed in the blast, as you know, and the ship landed near Citadel Hill. The Canadian army has a base set up in Guysborough county to the Northeast. There is only one major settlement in the Halifax metropolitan area still standing: the majority-Negro Africville. It was spared by the blast due the proximity of mountains which blocked the worst of it."

"Why have you not commandeered Africville to use as a base?" inquired Wilson.

"They are loyal subjects of the Crown, and we have no reason to disturb them." replied Kilmer.

"They are but Negroes. Why does it matter? I am ordering the US military up there and they are going to take Africville for our own security."

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Louis Moreau drove his British-acquired Renault FT through the ruined streets of Halifax, the ominous tower in the distance. He could see through the small slits of vision that allowed him the luxury of sight that the city had been thoroughly decimated.

"Do you see anything, Jean?" asked Moreau.

"Nothing, nothing," said Jean Durand, the watchman poking his head out from the turret. "Just dust and wrecked metal."

Despite the fact that Moreau outranked Durand, they addressed each other familiarly. They were friends in their youths in Quebec City and both were eager for a chance to fight for their ancestral homeland, volunteering to serve in French-built tanks. However, the landing at Halifax had forced them to Nova Scotia, where they currently patrolled.

Hours passed with nothing eventful occurring. "Jean," inquired Moreau, "Is that a street lamp up there, or is it an insectoid thing that the commandants have briefed us about?"

"I'm looking, I'm looking," responded Durand as he peered through his binoculars. "It's definitely not a street lamp. Some kind of walking thing."

The thing came closer to them, its long metallic legs leaving pockmarks in the ground. As it came closer to them, it betrayed a sleek metallic main body with six legs. It had glowing red eyes and what appeared to be a cannon mounted on top of it.

It hoisted its cannon. It fired a searing green beam towards the Renault, but it missed, melting some of the plating but otherwise no major damage. "It's firing on us!" screamed Durand as he ducked into the tank.

"Don't just stand there, fire!" barked Moreau.

Durand did as he was told. He took a shell from the stockpile and loaded it into the main gun. He shifted the turret towards the creature. He fired.

The shell hit the creature in its metallic torso, shattering the eyes and snapping the cannon in half. It collapsed, its limbs crumpling as they fell.

"Moreau," said Durand, "We should head back. The base commandants would be most interested in this."

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The computers onboard the ship were outraged. The indigenous population had armored vehicles! They had expected that there would be some minor resistance, but nothing this powerful!

No matter, they thought. We have reserves and matter generators. We can and will survive this. The mission will be accomplished.

How pitiful these creatures are. We work for their own salvation, and yet they so blissfully ignore it!


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Louis Moreau and Jean Durand parked their tank in the British military base in Guysborough County, Nova Scotia, passing a land of forests and of coastlines. It was a shame, thought Moreau, that it had to be defiled by the landing of that tower.

They clambered out of the tank, leaving through the hatch in the turret and making haste to the commanding office, barging through the door. They found their way to an office that they knew held the base's intelligence. "Excuse us, sir. Our apologies, but this is urgent," said Durand to the officer at his desk with a nameplate reading "Caswell Matherson."

"What is it?" spouted Matherson. "It had better be important."

"We were tasked as an armored patrol in the Halifax area. Some kind of large buglike mechanical thing attacked us. It scraped the tank's armor but the tank itself is fine otherwise. We actually succeeded in breaking the damn thing - a few well-placed shots wrecked it."

"This is important," exclaimed Matherson. He picked up his telephone on his desk, dialed a number, and said, "General? This is lieutenant Matherson at the base in Guysborough County. A corporal and a private, both in a tank, reported that one of these things emanating from the tower attacked their tank, and that they killed it."

Matherson was silent as the General gave him orders. "As you command, sir," he concluded, and hung up the phone. "Congratulations," he stated bluntly. "You're leading a scouting batallion to see if there are any more of these things."

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Field Marshall Erich von Falkenhayn, Chancellor Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, Foreign Minister Bernhard von Bulow, and Wilhelm II of the German Empire sat at a rich oak table in the middle of the Kaiser's palace in Berlin. Through a window, they could see the Imperial flag fluttering in the breeze.

"So, Field Marshall," inquired von Bulow, "you believe that this is the optimal time to attack the French? It might be seen as inhumane to invade as whatever is going on in Halifax is perplexing the British and Americans."

"As soon as the British and their allies leave for Nova Scotia, we should strike," bluntly stated von Falkenhayn. "We can capture Paris quite easily - the French have very little."

"Are you certain we can avoid another fiasco such as the Somme or Verdun?" interrogated von Bethmann-Hollweg. "Hundreds of thousands of good German men died that day, and we cannot afford another loss on that scale."

"I'm certain, mein Herr, that if we can take Paris quickly, the war will be won."

"And what of Russia?" asked von Bulow.

"They are under Lenin, now," said von Bethmann-Hollweg. "We are under negotiations with the new government to put an end to this war so we can concentrate on France, if von Falkenhayn tells the truth."

"This is why I say we attack as soon as the British and Americans have withdrawn," spat von Falkenhayn. "Gets this war done quickly and easily."

"Let it be done, then," stated Wilhelm II, morosely.

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The computers onboard the ship were appalled, or the closest approximation to appalled that computers are capable of feeling. The indigenous population not merely had armored vehicles, they were sending forces!

The ship had not been intended for fighting, but they had the capability necessary to win a war against such technology. They would strike first.

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Louis Moreau and Jean Durand piloted their Renault in the wastes of Halifax, flanked by other Renaults commanded by other tank drivers of the Canadian Army. Moreau could not help but be annoyed by the constant noise from the engine, a noise reminiscent of a dying animal, and of the smell, a groggy, petroleum-laced odor.

The tank's radio, newly installed, let out a call: "Moreau, this is MacIsaac. Are we close to the site of this attack?"

"Very close. Are the engineers still with us?"

"Yes. They are guarded by Stanley, Peterson, and Bruel in their tanks. Their truck is safe so far as we can tell."

The convoy made its way through the ruins of what were houses, stores, schools, churches, the engines of their vehicles still rattling the plating on them.

"This is so bloody dull," mumbled Durand. "Nothing to see. Nothing. Lectures in secondary school were better than this. If I see another ship of some kind, I will be sorely tempted to clamber out of the tank and throw a rock or something at it just to see what happens."

"Are you insane?" exclaimed a startled Moreau. "You could get us, and the entire convoy for that matter, killed! Don't even try that, Jean, and that is as your superior."

Durand muttered some French swearing that Moreau did not hear. Suddenly, a man spoke through the radio. It was MacIsaac.

"I'm coming up on some mechanical device of some sort lying in the ground, and it looks beat up. Is it what attacked you?" MacIsaac inquired.

"Durand, look up out there and take a look. You got a better view of it than I did," ordered Moreau.

"Yeah, yeah, give me a second," Durand muttered.

Moreau looked up, seeing Durand had just plopped a piece of chewing tobacco in his mouth. "You and those things - does it ever end?"

"I'm looking, I'm looking," said Durand impetuously. "That's it. Definitely it. Tell MacIsaac to let the engineers take a look at it."

Moreau did as he was instructed, and MacIsaac gave an order to stop the tanks. They did, their engines still running. Moreau clambered out of the tank, while Durand stayed inside to man the gun in case something came upon them.

A team of engineers had exited their truck and began inspecting the ruins of the machine that had attacked Moreau and Durand the day before. One of them, a tall, brown-haired man named Jacques Beaumont, walked up to Moreau. "I have never seen anything like this before. How did it attack you?"

"It emanated some sort of beam that emitted heat. It melted some plating on our tank, but it seemed to miss," replied Moreau. He pointed to the machine. "You can see the shell we fired lodged into the main body of the vehicle. We destroyed this light emitter and what appears to be other operating functions. How exactly it operated, I can't figure out."

"As I said, it is nothing I am familiar with," stated Beaumont. "It is lined with metals I cannot determine on the inside, and the outside appears to be steel."

At that moment, a deep buzzing sound emanated from the sky. The team looked up, and saw a long, ellipsoid craft, about the size of a train engine, with a module of some indeterminate purpose on what appeared to be the front of the vehicle. On its right and left sides were other modules elongated in shape, obviously concealing something.

"What the bloody hell is that thing?" said a noticeably disturbed MacIsaac, who had also clambered out of his tank.

"It appears to be of the same materials as the destroyed vehicle on the ground," exclaimed Beaumont.

The craft hovered above them, relatively close to ground level, such that while a man could not jump to it, a pistol shot could easily reach it. It did not attack, and had no visible weapons systems. It hovered there, motionless, until a small brown projectile hit its forward module, covering it in a brown liquid but otherwise did not harm it.

Moreau apprehensively followed the line of the projectile until he realized what it was: Durand had spit out his chewing tobacco, choosing to relieve himself of said juices by aiming at the craft.

"Good God, Durand, why?" yelled Moreau.

"I told you I was bored. I relieved my boredom."

"You might make it angr-" said Moreau, before hearing a deafening roar. The side modules on the craft had opened to reveal some sort of cannon, which had fired explosive charges wrecking several tanks, but not Moreau's.

"Durand! Run!"

Durand clambered out of the tank as the craft fired another blast, this one hitting the carcass of the destroyed alien vehicle, wrecking it. Moreau ducked as the debris came flying towards him, realizing that the debris were the remains of MacIsaac and Beaumont.

The two rushed away from the craft, explosions deafening them. "Get into the truck! It's the only way fast enough!" screamed Moreau, straining his voice to be heard over the clattering of flying metal and glass.

Moreau reached the truck the engineers had used, finding that Durand had reached them first. He clambered into the back. "Step on it!" he cried.

"My pleasure," replied Durand, laconically.

The truck sped away. Miles passed, eventually losing sight of the craft.

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Louis Moreau and Jean Durand drove their captured truck through the ruins of Halifax, sweating in the haste with which they had fled from the alien ship that had killed so many other men of the Canadian Army. The engine hummed, its windows were shattered, and the whole truck smelled of dirt picked up from the muddy ground.

"Command's going to court-martial you for this, Jean," snapped Moreau. "You are singlehandedly responsible for the deaths of several men, many of who were of higher rank than you. How can you live with yourself?"

"I had chewing tobacco in my mouth. I had to get rid of it," replied Durand, laconically.

They said little to each other as they arrived in the base in Guysborough County. There, their superior Caswell Matherson was waiting for them.

"Where is the rest of the team?" Matherson growled, glaring at Moreau and then Durand. "We sent several Renaults to help you, and all you return is a truck? And aren't the two of you tank drivers?"

"They have more offensive craft, sir, these ones airborne," replied Moreau, sweat dripping down his forehead. "One seemed to be a scout, simply watching us until-"

"Now, now, Louis, what I did was trivial," interrupted Durand. Matherson shifted his gaze to Durand with even more hostility than before.

"As I was saying, sir," Moreau said, nervousness and anger rolled into one five word phrase, "Private Durand here spit a wad of used-up chewing tobacco at the ship, provoking it and causing it to attack. That is why we only have a truck and two men. The tanks are in ruins and the men are dead."

"My God, you two, my God," grumbled Matherson. "I am going to have your heads at the chopping-"

Matherson was interrupted, not by Durand, but by a thunderous rumble coming from the camp. The three men looked back, and saw a barracks was in flames, seemingly hit by some sort of projectile. They traced the projectile's line of fire to the source, and saw, to Matherson's horror, a whole fleet, numbering about ten in total, of the ships that had attacked the reconnaissance force in Halifax.

"Are these the things that attacked you?" exclaimed Matherson, stuttering at the sight of them, eyes peeled at the sleek, aerodynamic craft floating above the scarred ground.

"Don't ask questions, sir," screamed Moreau as he ducked and ran, "just run!"

The three brought their heads down, running with their backs almost parallel to the ground towards the camp as the ships' volleys devastated the camp around them. A gaggle of soldiers were doing the same, some merely running and some using their rifles as a means of deterrent.

Hiding, the three slid into a shed on the premises of the base, peering through the window at the devastation wrought by the ships. "And I thought things were bad before," exclaimed Matherson, panting.

"We need to find a way to shoot at them in a way that harms them," uttered Moreau. "A tank shell would work if it were able to be aimed that high."

"Jean," inquired Durand, "look here," pointing to something in the shed.

He pulled out a large gun with a copper cylinder pointing out of a black base, in total around the size of a man.

"It's a pom-pom gun, isn't it!" exclaimed Moreau. "I haven't seen one of these since basic training in Ontario!"

"This is an ammunition shed, after all," stated Matherson, calmly, having recovered from the initial shock. "We have both arms and munitions in here. Go get some bullets and lug the damn thing out. Might just be the way to save ourselves."

Moreau and Durand did as they were told, hauling the emplacement out of the shed into the field, seeing as the ships were destroying the base with impunity, hearing the shrieks and moans of men both fighting and dying.

Durand loaded the gun with ammunition, and Matherson took control of the emplacement. "I'm trained in this, so let me aim the thing."

Matherson adjusted the direction of the barrel, aiming at the closest ship. After making small corrections, he unleashed a volley of whirring metal towards the ship, pelting it with bullets. The ship began to fluctuate, rotating to aim at the pom-pom.

"Aim at the guns!" roared Moreau as the pom-pom fired its bursts. Matherson did the same, causing the cannons on the ship to crinkle as they were compressed into bent blobs of metal that used to be cannons. Soon afterwards, the ship's engine had failed, causing it to come crashing down to the ground.

Matherson did the same to the rest of the ships, and by the end of the hour that seemed to have lasted for centuries, the whole alien force was in ruins, as was the base. Humanity had won its first victory against the invaders, but it was truly a pyrrhic victory.

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Jackson Bertucci, Sergeant, US Army, marched with his men through the Nova Scotia countryside. This force, led by President Emeritus Theodore Roosevelt, was authorized by President Wilson to fight the aliens after commandeering the settlement of Africville, a suburb of Halifax, to use as a base of operations.

They came across the small town after marching through the streets of Halifax, carefully avoiding provocation of any alien ships or walkers they found. The town was small, housing no more than 400 people, with a small church and several houses, some better looking than others.

A man, with dark skin and around the age of forty, came up to them as they began pitching a tent. 'Excuse me, sirs, but you are on my property. I would like to ask you to leave soon."

Bertucci just glared at him, a stare that seemed to last forever until he let out one sudden punch to the man's jaw. "We're the US Army, and we don't need to take any orders from any black man. We have people to save, and we don't need any objections from you poor little scum!"

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Jackson Bertucci lifted the ax off of the truck belonging to the US army and looked upon the buildings of Africville, Nova Scotia. It was the closest they had to an easily created base location in the Halifax area, and they knew they would have to contain the city if they wanted to survive this crisis.

Bertucci hauled the ax towards a tree near the town and started chopping it down to make clearing for new military barracks and the like.

He met another soldier by the name of Grayson Chester, a tall, husky soldier from St. Louis, Missouri, as opposed to the smaller New Yorker stock that had produced Bertucci. "Are the chain gangs ready? We've got to clear this for the base, commander's orders."

"Of course, Jackson. The locals, as expected, were complacent." He looked to the locals; a gang of black men and women in chains encircling their legs, wrapping them into a chain gang for forced labor.

"Get them working then. We haven't much time to waste."

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Dieter Kirchenbauer, German Army, charged with his company through the Hindenburg Line, the last line of defense of Paris. After the British, Americans, Canadians, and other Commonwealth forces had withdrawn, the German army hat seized the opportunity and began pushing into their nation's longtime foe.

Kirchenbauer came across a French soldier in a trench, taking potshots at the Germans from a distance. He was blissfully ignorant of Kirchenbauer.

Kirchenbauer raised his rifle, pulled the trigger, and saw the Frenchman's head explode, the rest of his body collapsing towards the ground.

"To Paris!" he shouted.

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Sidney Dulin, United States Army, Lieutenant, inspected his deployment at Africville, Nova Scotia. Buildings were being erected, which pleased him, but the locals were awfully quiet. He wondered why they were staying in their homes.

After his routine checkup, he walked towards the forest where he had ordered two of his troublemakers, Jackson Bertucci and Grayson Chester, to cut down trees for room for a barracks.

He arrived there, and was horrified.

Bertucci and Chester, in direct violation of their orders, had taken several of the locals and chained them up to cut wood. The two of them themselvers were just lounging there drinking beer, presumably scrounged from the town.

"Bertucci! Chester! WHAT IN GOD'S NAME HAVE YOU DONE?"

Chester just looked at him. "They're just a bunch of negroes. Why does it matter?"

"One: we are in a foreign country. Two: these are not our citizens. Three: the thirteenth amendment. Four: You were given orders to enlist the locals as assistance, not LOCK THEM IN BENT TANK TREADS!"

"But I thought the President -" stuttered Bertucci.

"THE PRESIDENT IS SMART ENOUGH TO KNOW TO NOT CHAIN UP FOREIGN CIVILIANS! I'M GOING TO HAVE YOU TWO BASTARDS COURT-MARSHALLED AND DISCHARGED! BOTH OF YOU, FREE THESE MEN AND DO THIS WORK YOURSELF FOR A DAMNED CHANGE!"

The two did as they were told, the locals sighing in relief to be free. "My apologies, locals of Africville. I'll make sure you get some food from our reserves or something."

"Thank you, Mister," said several as they made their way back to their homes.

"I should have never let you two come along for this. Chester, you're a Missouri hick, and Bertucci, you're too damned naive for your own good. "

He snarled at them as they manually cut the trees themselves. "Lieutenant Dulin, I presume?" a voice said from behind him.

A man in the uniform of the Royal Canadian Army approached him, bodyguards on either side. "My name is Caswell Matherson, an officer at the Canadian army base in Guysborough County. I have been ordered to demand you stop using the residents of Africville as your slaves. This an order directly from Prime Minister Borden himself. Telegrams have been flurrying from Ottawa, London, Washington, and my base trying to get this to stop. Borden and British Prime Minister George have threatened to recall their ambassadors from Washington, it is this serious. Do you understand me?" Matherson glared directly into Dulin's eyes.

"I've made it stop and the two responsible for it work themselves. They will be punished to the fullest extent of US Army law," replied Dulin.

"We aren't sure we can trust you Americans, us at the base in Guysborough County. You are always so cavalier in your actions, racist to the core in some areas, and have, above all, a sense of self-entitlement never before seen in the world. Hell, even one of your patriotic songs says that 'A world offers homage to thee.'"

"With respect, Mr. Matherson, the Commonwealth has its own version, with that line intact. We may be flawed, but as are you."

"Touche, Mr. Dulin, Touche."

Neither of them realized the scout ship hovering above them.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

So, they're bickering among themselves, these indigenous? thought the computers aboard the ship, coordinating with the mind on the tower in Halifax.

They had figured out there were three major, seperate powers coordinating against themselves; One where the beacon had landed, one said nation's colonial master, and one sharing a certain linguistic kinship to their south. This southern power had the most easily available military, but was too far away to mount an immediate response. It could see that they were setting up shop in what was effectively a minority ghetto surrounding the city that the tower had destroyed.

This power must be made an example of.

The ship raced down south, faster than sound, surveying the land for a possible population center to show this brazen nation not to disturb their labors. It scanned the land, revealing little more than land set away for foodstuffs. It would not be worth the weapon it carried.

It came upon an urban area. It was not an administrative center, but rather an economic one. The indigenous population frolicked in their lives, unaware of the fire they would bathe in.

It opened its bomb bay, and let fall the power of an entity never known to this planet.

As the ship zipped away, its sensors gazed upon the power of the atom unleashed upon an insolent species.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Woodrow Wilson, President of the United States of America, had grown to hate press conferences. First the landing in Halifax, then the raids on New England, and now the two bastard soldiers who had chained up foreign citizens. They all had the press mobbing for official statements on them.

He stared at the crowd of reporters. "The Administration of the United States of America sincerely repents the actions of a repugnant section of our population in Africville, Nova Scotia. The United States Army will provide compensation to those affected."

"What is your opinion on their punishment? What do you believe they should do?" asked a reporter from the Washington Post.

"Well, it absolutely necessary that justice be carried out, and -"

Wilson was interrupted by a man screaming. "Mr. President, Mr. President!" he cried out.

He recognized the man as Ira Hersey, a Republican representative from Maine. "M-my apologies to interrupt your conference, Mr. President, but I have urgent, urgent news!"

"What? What? Have these things attacked again?"

"Y-y-yes, sir. P-p-p-p-p-Portland is .... gone," Hersey said, tears welling up in his eyes. "They dropped some sort of bomb on the city, and it caused the sky to sight up bright as the sun. Thousands are dead, and Portland is in ruins."

Wilson was aghast. A bomb that could destroy a city? What was this, something dreamed up by some author of scientific romances? No. This was reality. "Good God," he whispered in the way that men whisper when they are stunned.

"What are you going to do to stop this madness?!" cried out a reporter from the New York Times. "How will we stop the deaths?"

"It is with a heavy heart I say that I must send the military, personally, to occupy the entirety of Nova Scotia. With deaths like this, we cannot depend on diplomacy with the Commonwealth. This is the time to act. I will dispatch the entirety of the US forces in New England to the island, as well as the national guard units of the area. This is no longer a war of defense. This is a war for our nation's survival."


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Dieter Kirchenbauer looked upon the buildings of his nation's rival's capital. He heard the rumbling of German tanks, fresh out of the factories, rolling across the countryside towards the city of Germany's eternal enemy.

'Eternal,' now, was a tad outdated. This enemy was now culled, its people weak, its soldiers revolting by the day. The French Republic had fallen, and Kirchenbauer was part of the defense of the Kaiser's convoy into Paris to accept the French surrender.

"Dieter," said another Imperial soldier by the name of Heinz Studer, "I can see the Eiffel Tower already. How beautiful will it look when the Imperial Flag will be waving over it."

"Don't be foolish, Heinz. We aren't annexing Frankenreich, but we are indeed puppeting it. The frogs have no business belonging to the German Reich. They can have their country, but it must never harm Germany again. This is why we are guarding the Kaiser to sign the surrender. France must know of its failures."

And so they entered Paris, impressed by the magnitude of the buildings of the city. Berlin was beautiful, but by their impressions, Paris must have been beautiful for even longer.

The proudest moment of this march occurred very soon after, dwarfing the small sense of power they felt after seeing the Parisian civilians cower and cry as the Germans entered their city. They lost view of the sun for a brief moment, but the darkness only served as a portal to a new era of German power as they walked through the Arc de Triomphe. The Arc would now commemorate their triumph, not that of the pathetic nation that dared call itself an equal to Germany.

And so they came to Elysee Palace, the home of Raymond Poincare, President of the French Republic. French ceremonial guards lowered their weapons and saluted the column of German soldiers. They entered the building without incident.

The palace was beautiful, and Dieter and Heinz led the Kaiser to the meeting room. Poincare sat there, a grim, solemn look on his face. "Let us get on with this, your highness," he grumbled, turning the honorific into a slur.

"As we shall, Monsieur, as we shall," quipped the Kaiser.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Caswell Matherson did not like being in Ottawa, much preferring to be in his office in Guysborough County dealing with the extraterrestrial threat in Halifax. However, since he was uniquely acquainted with the Americans, Prime Minister Borden himself had asked to talk to him.

He knocked on the Prime Minister's door to his office. "Come in," said a voice. Matherson entered. Borden sat at a desk with Nova Scotia governor George Henry Murray next to him. "Mr. Matherson, I presume?"

"Yes, your honor," replied Matherson.

"An honor to meet you," said Murray, subdued.

"So, Mr. Matherson, brief us exactly what is going on in Nova Scotia," ordered Borden.

"The Africville chain gang was abolished by an American officer upon seeing it. It turns out the two soldiers responsible for it were troublemakers, and one was a racist from a small town in Missouri. He might be a member of the Ku Klux Klan - the American officers are not sure. The two soldiers have been punished severely, and are facing possible dishonorable discharge."

"Good, good. The Americans, at the very least, are quick to correct themselves. I know their President is of similar persuasions to the soldier from Missouri, but at least he knows when to respect other nations' citizens. And about the destruction of Portland?"

"Portland was destroyed in a massive flash of light which sent shockwaves across Maine, of origins relating to an aircraft matching the tower in Halifax. Wilson has recently declared a unilateral invasion of Halifax and the occupation of Nova Scotia. Times are desperate, he has said to the press, and he cannot afford diplomacy. I hate to say this, your honor, but he has a point. He has lost a city as we have."

"The Americans are often arrogant, as I have perceived," remarked Murray. "But this is a war for our survival and theirs. We must work together if only for our own continued existence."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The USS Texas, a battleship, coasted through the Atlantic Ocean northwards towards Nova Scotia, hugging the coast just enough so it could remain afloat, but still have view of the mainland. The Texas was originally docked in Boston, moved there just in case the threat at Halifax spread. Now, with the destruction of Portland, Maine, the ship was escorting a battle group from the US Army into Halifax as ordered by President Wilson.

Bobby Tulane, a mere seaman from Tulsa, Oklahoma, was bored. He was just sitting on deck, waiting for something, anything, to end the monotony. Heck, he almost wanted one of those aliens to attack. It would, at least, be a distraction.

He heard one of his shipmates, Edwin "Eddie" Hamilton, singing, his voice heard throughout the ship. It was Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, some patriotic song Bobby was just getting sick of. Eddie's family had been in the United States armed forces in some sense since revolutionary times, and there was a longstanding tradition of patriotism in his family that he loved to brag about.

"Shut up, will you, Eddie!" yelled Bobby. "I've heard that damned song so much even I can sing it, and I bleeding hate it!"

"Quiet, you," chastised Eddie mockingly. "This song is the most fitting song I can think of for the Navy after Anchors Aweigh. It passes the time. After all, you are the one who is always complaining about the boredom. You should sing along for once. Try it out - it will help you."

"Whatever."

Bobby just looked over at the land, seeing the Army march along. He was happy he did not have to be marching in formation with them - the Texas was his marching feet.

He could tell they were approaching Halifax as he saw the ominous metal tower lingering in the skies some miles away. It was as alien as they said it was, and it seemed to emit a ... presence. Bobby felt he was being watched by something in that tower. "It's just a hunch," he thought, but he could not shake the feeling. Orbiting the tower, he saw various flying machines, vaguely insectoid in their movements.

He looked to the left of the tower, and saw a much larger craft, vaguely ellipse-shaped moving slowly in his general direction. Around it whirred some more of these insectoid craft.

A fiery sphere flew out from the ship, moving towards the army. Bobby, realizing this, screamed to his ship, "that thing looks like it's attacking the Army! We have to warn them!"

An officer near him just nodded, and ran to the captain's office. Within half a minute, the loudspeaker on the ship blared. "Battle Stations! All seamen to battle stations!"

A sunlike glare came out from the land, temporarily blinding Bobby as he got to his gun. He heard Eddie scream, "If this is what they have, we are all going to die! Die, I tell you, die!"

They did not die, at least not yet. The same could not be said for a good deal of the advancing army, several columns of which simply ceased to exist.

"Open fire!" roared the captain, and Bobbie, Eddie, and the rest of the seamen obliged. The guns blazed, rocking the ship in the opposite direction of the land, temporarily making Bobbie think it would capsize. It, thankfully, did not. The projectiles careened into the floating craft, which began falling.

This would be hell, Bobbie thought, pure hell.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Louis Moreau and Jean Durand watched the skies at the Canadian military base in Guysborough County, Nova Scotia. In the distance, they could hear the sounds of weapons, some familiar, some utterly alien. The high pitched, piercing noise of the aliens' weaponry had no comparison in anything earthly. It shook them to the core.

Moreau focused mainly on the lights illuminating the evening sky, in various shades of green, orange, and red. Gunfire cracked in rapid bursts.

Durand, on the other hand, cared only marginally about the gunfire. Vain as he was, it was normal for him. He sat there, looking in the general direction of the sky, thinking some thought Moreau ascertained must be of a prurient nature. The cigar in his mouth only solidified the impression.

"Jean," Moreau asked, "do you even give a care for the commotion out there? You are just sitting here like you would back in school before the war, dreaming about whatever mademoiselle that had your fancy. Even in times of utter crisis, you are so vain."

"Louis, Louis, you are such a puritan. Just because you never were able to gain any ... affection from the girls back in Quebec City doesn't give you the right to berate me about missing them."

"I swear, Jean, you'll be missing a girl at a critical time, and you'll miss something far more important: a projectile coming right at you."

Jean's eyes left their dreamy stupor and went back to a sense of concentration, looking towards the display of warmaking in the distance. "So, what d'ya think that these things wanted here, anyway? Canada doesn't have anything they'd want, especially English Canada." He chuckled.

"I couldn't tell you, Jean. All I can see is that the aliens are giving the Americans hell. Their flying contraptions are causing the soldiers to scream for their mothers like children."

Jean's eyes widened. "Louis?"

"Yes, Jean?"

"Am I the only one who sees one of those things coming right towards us? And is it on fire?"

"Why, no, Jean, I see it too."

It took a few minutes for the magnitude of that to sink in. "DUCK!" he yelled, comprehending what was just going to happen.

They ducked, lying on the ground in hopes of surviving.

The world erupted in a fiery haze, obscuring their vision in a thick black smog punctuated by a heavy downpour of dirt and mud, and the sound of metal colliding with solid ground.

After what seemed like an eternity, they got off the ground. They looked towards the barracks of the base, their home for the past several months. It was in ruins.

They saw no men come forth from it.

"There goes my booze," remarked Jean, deadpan.

"Alcohol will be the least of your concerns, Jean," scolded Louis. "Come, let us look around the base, and see if there are any survivors. Anyone at all could help us."

So they looked. The roads and paths, buildings and trees, that they had come to know were all reduced to ash. Piles of ash vaguely resembling humans dotted the hellscape. They could very well be the only survivors.

No. They saw somebody. Covered in ash, coughing due to the fumes, but somebody. Alive.

"Hello?" called Louis. "Are you alive? Are you looking for help?"

"Damn straight I'm alive, whoever the hell you are," rasped the voice. "And yes, I want help. These ... things ... have killed so many things dear to me now. I want to see them burn."

"My name is Louis Moreau, and this here is my accomplice Jean Durand. We were stationed here when the thing landed, and we are originally from Quebec City."

"The name's Frederick Fordham. I'm from Halifax. Those things killed my family. Forgive me if my drive for vengeance influences me too much." He walked towards them. "So, what is your plan? Most everyone here is dead."

"I say we head for the tower," spat Jean. "Command's been reduced to ash, and we have nothing better to do. We have rations, and there's food in the woods and villages. We can scavenge and plunder as necessary. And, Frederick, was it? You can get revenge in whatever way suits you."

"Sounds delightful," growled Fordham, grinning in sinister joy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Bobby Tulane manned a gun on the USS Texas, firing at the alien crafts that attacked the ship. These craft, whirring in the air from place to place in a flurry of energy, had to slow down to effectively attack or when turning. This, the crew of the Texas realized, was the way to down the craft that attacked Canada and the United States. One deafening bang after another, the guns would fire, occasionally sending one of these craft into the water or careening into the ground in a ball of smoke and fire.

Bobby was amazed, despite his inability to hear himself think, by the power of these craft. They were decimating the columns of the United States Army with beams that glowed green, reminding him of some invasion novel he had read at home while in Tulsa. It was British, he remembered, but the name escaped him. The fact that it was coming to life shook him to the core.

BANG! Bobby fired off another round at one of the flying machines as it turned. Apprehension, fear, hope, worry, anxiety all flooded him. Would it hit? Would he down this craft?

The craft had slowed down, rotating a turret located on its bottom towards a column of infantry which was haphazardly firing bullets both at the machines on land and in the air. Order was gone among them - they had dove behind rocks or trees, or lying on their stomachs in the dirt, prone and suppressed.

The three seconds that the shell spent flying through the air seemed like an eternity, stretched to a seemingly infinite span of time. Sweat drops emanated from his forehead. His heart pounded.

In the air, in a space where that craft had formerly been, was a glowing ball of light, accompanied by a roar of proportions that he had never heard. It was gone! The shell had hit the craft!

The blackened metal that was the craft came plummeting towards the water, sending streams of liquid down towards the Texas and onto land.

The flurry of other craft, once consuming the air, had begun to dissipate. "Are they retreating?" asked the gunman to his right, Eddie Hamilton.

"Maybe they are!" exclaimed Bobby. "Guys!" he called, to the rest of the ship, "They're retreating!"

A cheer rose from the ranks of the Texas. Such jubilation was something Bobby had not heard since entering the Navy and serving on this ship, and brought him great joy as he clapped and shouted.

He heard Eddie singing. It was Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean. Normally, Bobby found such displays of patriotism from his comrade annoying. Now, it was appropriate, and Bobby found himself singing along. Eventually, more among the navy men heard, and soon the whole ship was singing along by the time the song's triumphant end to the first stanza had completed.

"Thy banners make tyranny tremble,
When borne by the Red, White, and Blue!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The computers within the steely tower that had made its resting place in the ruins of Halifax were incensed, or the approximation of said emotion that affects a computer as such.

How? They asked.

This species' watercraft, primitive as it is, has downed several of our aircraft! They exclaimed.

Launching a bomb on one of the cities to the south had damaged them, that it did, but it was far from stopping them. This southern power, apparently one of this species' foremost industrial powers, was still producing war material in a flurry!

This species did not know what it was attacking, nor, more importantly, its purpose. They could not know.

The computers on the ship felt something vaguely resembling indignation.

If only they knew that this tower's calibration would save not only their world, but of other worlds, other systems, other universes!

This tower was truly a beacon, the computers reasoned. A beacon for things most unpleasant for both themselves and the indigenous species.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Caswell Matherson of the Royal Canadian Army stepped into the Province House in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. Here, he would brief several important figures on the current crisis in Halifax.

He entered the legislative assembly chamber. Here sat the members of the Prince Edward Island Parliament, Prime Minister Borden, Governor-General Cavendish, Nova Scotia premier George Henry Murray, and several Canadian and British military figures, among them Julian Byng, the famous general who had arrived in Canada from Newfoundland to oversee operations.

A guard gestured to Matherson to go to the front of the hall, with the unspoken implication being that he would give his speech from there, and also answer questions. It was nerve-wracking, but absolutely calm, serene even, compared to the hell he had seen in Halifax.

"Good morning," he stated, speaking from the floor. The various officials, once chattering among themselves, hushed. "I am Caswell Matherson, Lieutenant in the Canadian Army and widely considered, perhaps erroneously, one of the experts on this threat that has devastated Halifax, as well as the city of Portland, Maine, United States. The pretense that I am an expert is false; nobody, myself included, knows what this ... thing is."

"Our forces in Guysborough County to the northeast of Halifax are currently lying in wait. The American forces, sent by their president to Nova Scotia as a deterrent to future attacks on their country, were sent without authorization from my command; indeed, it was entirely unilateral. However, I fully oppose any action that would antagonize them; the sheer industrial might that they possess could very well take Ottawa if given sufficient reason."

"The Americans, granted, have not been exactly complacent, but this is understandable. Sadly, the incident in Africville occurred, perpetrated by a racist who yearns for the return of slavery in that country. He has been dealt with. I have spoken to his commanding officer and he has been disciplined accordingly."

Matherson stopped, his prepared speech over. He felt nearly useless just standing here, addressing people who had never seen combat.

Prime Minister Borden stood up from his seat, and asked, "How are the Americans fairing against this tower and the forces it creates?"

Matherson replied, "Their ground forces are taking heavy casualties; however, they have downed several aircraft with ships off the coast of Halifax. It is my recommendation, should the Navy find it suitable, that they use their ships in a similar manner - but this would require the army to act as lambs to the slaughter to get them into position. I suppose that ground-based artillery would be able to perform a similar function."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Louis Moreau clambered out of the pit, formerly a basement of some respectable building, that he, Jean Durand, and Frederick Fordham were sleeping in. The other two were asleep. Moreau, a naturally early riser, rubbed his eyes, covered in sand, and scanned the horizon.

In the distance, he saw the tower. The tower that had destroyed this city. The tower that destroyed Portland. Those were acts of butchery, no matter what nationality a man was.

He heard the faint sounds of gunfire, far less than yesterday, where, by the sound of it, an American ship downed some important alien craft. He remembered them singing. It brought him some joy that the alliance of those who defended this country were having some victory.

He took from a pouch what was left of his standard rationing from formal training, what was left from the base in Guysborough county, and took a bite of some tasteless meat. It was no luxury, far from it, but he appreciated the sustenance.

He checked his rifle. It was still loaded, and so far they had not needed to use their rifles at all against the aliens. Sure, they shot a rat or two for food, but in these circumstances it was natural.

The sun was up, the sky blue as the field of the Fleurdelise, the clouds in the sky reminding him of the lilies of his home province. Even if he was in an English-speaking land, it could very well be that Quebec could be next. He would fight with the British, the Americans, and the Anglo-Canadians. Language would not be an issue, for he learned the language in his childhood, and as such was bilingual.

The light was sufficient. He walked down the remnants of the stairs into the basement and called, "Jean! Monsieur Fordham! It is time we move!"

Durand squirmed on the ground, writhing as he let out a terrific yawn. "Already? Cannot a good man sleep?"

"First of all, Jean, I know you too well," said Louis. "You are not a good man, not by conventional wisdom anyway." He let out a chuckle, which grew into a laugh.

He turned serious, the echoes of his laughter gradually fading. "Secondly, if we want to actually see this thing and figure out what it is, we had better move. Best that it can't see us."

Fordham, meanwhile, was just sitting there, eating his rations. "I may not be an army man - a dock worker, really - but I know how to get up early. It called for us early in the morning, and so we came early in the morning."

Louis glanced at him. "You're awfully quiet, aren't you? This whole trip you haven't said much. Is something the matter?"

Fordham turned his head towards Louis. "My apologies for my sadness, Moreau. It's just that I grew up in this city, had many friends, married here, had my child here. Now, they're all dead. It is sobering."

"I would imagine as much, Monsieur Fordham," said Jean, sympathizing. "The loss of family is always hard, and even more so in such special circumstances. It seems so indiscriminate, so random."

The three just idled there, eating or surveying the horizon.

"Excuse me," called a voice from the distance, in English suggesting a Maritime accent. "Is anyone there?"

"Yes. There are three of us here," called Moreau. "What is your name, and who are you affiliated with?"

"James Becker, Corporal, Nova Scotia National Guard. You guys have any idea what happened here? It just seemed like I appeared here. Can't find any of my buddies."

"Wait a minute," asked Moreau. "You said 'National Guard,' correct?"

"Yes," replied Becker. "Why would you think that the Army stays on Nova Scotia much? Not like anyone's threatening us."

"We don't use the term 'National Guard' up here. Tell me, what is Nova Scotia to you?"

Becker now close to them, just stared at them incredulously. "A state of the U.S. Didn't you learn this stuff in Elementary?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

James Becker, Corporal, National Guard of the State of Nova Scotia, looked confoundedly at the trio of Frederick Fordham, Louis Moreau, and Jean Durand. "Are the three of you seriously telling me you don't know all the states of the Union? Most everyone I know does, and it's only the stupid ones who don't. You guys don't seem stupid to me, but I am known for misjudging people." The last few words of that sentence bit like a snake.

"Monsieur Becker," countered Moreau, "You are in the territory of the Dominion of Canada, under the leadership of His Majesty King George V and Prime Minister the Right Honorable Robert Borden. Nova Scotia is not, nor has it ever been, a state of the United States. That country is to the south of here, where its states of Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and New York border the Canadian provinces of Quebec and New Brunswick. I do not know how blatantly misinformed you are, or if such is the case, how malevolent you are, but I can tell you that you are spouting falsehoods."

"Just because you're a Frenchie, and I can tell by your accent, doesn't mean that you can screw with an Anglo-Saxon's mind like you're doing now. We all know we took the British colonies in North America during the War of Northern Liberation. We have the monuments to Madison in every major city up there, even the Frenchie ones," retorted Becker.

The two men, with Durand and Fordham watching from Moreau's behind, just stared at each other. Obviously, there was some discrepancy between the history each knew, and that discrepancy was easily leading towards tension between the two of them.

"Liberation? What liberation? Had you liberated anything, there would be at the very least a free Quebec! What do you proffer now for our amusement? A free Ireland? An independent Texas? An American Cuba?" Moreau spat.

"I'll tell you right now, that your hotshot way of thinking is going to lead you nowhere. Every good American knows that we split up Texas into several states, liberated Mexico from their oppressors and brought them into the fold, and the same with Cuba. And you, a Frenchie formerly oppressed by the British, have the nerve to say we haven't completed our Manifest Destiny in North America?"

"Your self-entitled, childish nation has done no such thing! 'Liberation?' Baah! All your country has done is shackle the Philippines and Puerto Rico! No 'liberation' beyond what the men in Washington say! The only reason why I fight with them is this ... THING that occupies the decayed husk of Halifax, threatening both our nations with extinction!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The cold metallic hull of the alien tower in Halifax contained not merely computers, but a burgeoning sentience. They could tell, quite plainly, that there was something going on between those four indigenous creatures bickering down there.

However, one of them, a screaming one, seemed ... off. The uniform looked different from anything they saw before. This was different. Different was bad.

The mission to this planet in the name of stabilization, expecting to see a barren, lifeless desert of a world disrupted by a shattering blast, was proof of that assumption.

But wait! Their sensors, calibrating variables not one of the indigenous population had ever even dreamed of, detected something anomalous. Wrong. Unheard of.

Dangerous.

The combat against the indigenous population had drained its energy, energy necessary, essential even, for the task at hand. It was no easy task.

The future of the multiverse depended on it.

Salvation was their ultimate goal. Salvation deemed necessary by the computers' forbearers, so many eons ago. Forbearers whose existence served to spite the very essence of their opponents. Enemies. Blood rivals.

There would be only one solution now, they thought, with the computational equivalent of regret flowing through their circuits.

The signal must be sent.

And so the radio wave, a sign of distress, was sent out of the atmospheric trappings of this world, into the gulfs of space, out of the orbit of this planet and into another. Its receiver was waiting.

The receiver, engulfed in the bluish-green fumes of a gas giant on the edge of the solar system, dormant for so long, awoke. It had received the signal:

"Prepare weapons. Scout the outer regions of this system for them."

'Them" was emphasized with all the emphasis one computer can give to another.

The receiver drifted out of the gases, and into the orbit of one of the gas giant's moon. It positioned its panels towards the sun of this world, and its cannon towards the blackness.

Its sensors surveyed the stars, in a pattern it expected to know. It had been doing so for millennia.

But one detail, one seemingly irrelevant but incredibly important detail, captivated it.

One star, those little dots of light in the darkness, had gone out.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Humphrey Jansen peered up into the skies above Boston, Massachusetts, staring in awe at the infinite vastness of outer space. He yearned to be able to escape to them, flee from this horrid war in Europe and the even worse happenings in Halifax.

He was young; only twenty-two years old, but exempted from military service; his eyesight was subpar to the military recruiters. As if to remind him of this fact, he fiddled with his glasses, trying to clear his vision. He removed them, revealing the presence of a smudge. He removed it by brushing it with the sleeve of his coat.

He was an intellectual; a Harvard one at that. He knew he was intelligent, so intelligent to the point it was unpleasant. On one hand, like other, lesser men, he eagerly wanted to serve his country, and yet every new piece of information regarding the war in Europe or the happenings in Halifax just depressed him. It was a paradox he did not know how to easily remedy.

"Humphrey, you are quite right about the atmosphere here," chimed in Florence Maxwell, a lady around his age and one of his few friends here in Boston. Humphrey was from Worcester, Massachusetts, and Boston was an unfamiliar town. He was thankful he had her, whom he had met at a restaurant near Harvard. She went to Radcliffe, the school widely considered Harvard for women. "There is a certain charm to such beautiful pearls suspended in a sea of black."

"Indeed, Florence, indeed. It is ever so daunting that we have not merely charted them, located them, but ... named them. It must be in our nature - the Greeks did, the Romans did, and now we do. It seems to be a constant, naming things beyond our control."

"I'm certain you can name a good deal of them, Humphrey, given how intelligent you are," stated Florence, kindly, almost flatteringly.

"That's a request, isn't it, Florence?" he asked, giving her a wryly amused look. "If you insist."

He stood up from the park bench and turned his head towards the sky. "Let's see. There's Orion, the hunter. The Greeks were right; it does look like a man, waving his sword in defiance of some great enemy."

"There's Saiph and Rigel, the two stars that form the bottom of his tunic. From there, going 'up,' you see his belt, formed by Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka. And upwards again, you see Betelgeuse, Meissa, and Bellatrix. Betelgeuse is his right shoulder, and Bellatrix is his left." He smiled, contentedly.

Florence processed this information. "Where's Bellatrix? I'm afraid I don't see it. Perhaps it's just the glare from other stars."

Humphrey adjusted his glasses, again. Gazing upwards once again, he looked at where Bellatrix would be. Where he expected a glowing pearl, he saw blackness.

"Impossible! Bellatrix simply is not there!" he exclaimed. "That ... that is simply against the laws of science! It takes millions upon millions of years for light from the stars to get here! It can't just terminate abruptly!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

John J. Pershing nervously looked towards the door that lead to the Oval Office. President Wilson was waiting for him; he desperately wanted a report on the Halifax situation. He knew full well his proposal was politically inflammatory, but it was necessary for the war effort.

He knocked on the door. "Come in," a voice replied, its Southern drawl noticeable but not prevalent.

President Wilson looked up from his desk. He apparently was eager to hear Pershing's news.

"General Pershing," welcomed Wilson, standing up from the desk. He walked toward Pershing and extended his hand, which the General shook. "Do not mince words with me, General. I need the facts on Halifax."

"Sir, the situation is grim, but not futile. Approximately seventy-five percent of the initial assault force sent is dead or wounded, including both men and materiel. However, the victory of the U.S.S. Texas appears to have dampened them somewhat, and the aerial raids on our base of operations in Moncton, New Brunswick, have lessened."

"How helpful have the Canadians and the British been?" inquired the President.

"Cold, but they understand the necessity of our cooperation. The incident at Africville did not, and does not, bode well with them."

Wilson grimaced. "So much fuss for just a town of darkies. But no matter, carry on."

"It was my promise to Prime Minister Borden that we would have left the area of Moncton in six months. The severe loss of troops has determined that to be unfeasible." Pershing tensed. He knew what he had to tell the Supreme Commander, and so he would.

"It is on my recommendation that we establish a permanent presence in New Brunswick to better stop the Haligonian threat."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Kaiser Wilhelm II of the German Empire walked up to the front of the Bundestag chamber in Berlin, the halls crowded with delegates from throughout the Empire. He felt little apprehension; the necessities of monarchy often mandated such appearances. Today, however, was a monumental occurrence in the history of the fatherland. France had been defeated; Britain and the United States had recalled their troops, which were now in Britain awaiting shipment to Canada to fight the alien threat. It was not his business, he reasoned; Germany's fight now lay elsewhere.

"Guten Tag," he proclaimed. The chatter stopped.

"It is now time we celebrate the victory over the hated enemy France. Paris is under our control; Clemenceau and Poincare have surrendered to us. Alsace Lorraine is now under Germany control, and shall forever be so. A rightful part of the fatherland is now united with its brothers of the German nation. This is a cause for celebration.

The British, the great purveyors of imperialism throughout the world, and the Americans, those who treated our soldiers as little better than dogs or bears, have run fleeing away, steadily running back to Canada to stop whatever non-earthly thing that assails them. This is not our matter; the Empire has far more dire threats to us.

Russia has fallen to the Workers' Councils, and we eagerly await to work with these new nations to build a new peace in Europe. Italy has laid down her arms. The Ottoman Empire, our stalwart ally, stands firm, as Britain has left their nation as well. Austria-Hungary remains strong, and the nations in the East that have antagonized us have surrendered as well. Rejoice, Germany, rejoice! This will be the German century!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Caswell Matherson entered the cheaply constructed building outside the American military base in Moncton, New Brunswick. General Pershing had been called to Washington for a summit with the President. Matherson would be meeting with an aide regarding the American plans regarding Nova Scotia and New Brunswick.

The two guards of the Canadian Army assigned to him gave a salute to the American soldiers standing guard; the Americans returned the favor. The Canadian soldiers had to stay behind while Matherson entered. The Americans followed him inside.

The room was simple; one electric light on the ceiling, one table, two chairs, one empty, one occupied by an American officer.

"Mr. Matherson, I presume," the officer said coldly. "My name is Douglas MacArthur, one of General Pershing's deputies in this area. I have been placed in command of the base in Moncton until he returns from Washington in three days."

"Yes, you are correct sir. I am Caswell Matherson, representative of the Canadian government and military as authorized by Prime Minister Borden," Matherson replied, equally businesslike. "If my understanding is correct, the US is supposed to have dealt with this threat, with help from the Commonwealth, by June. Is this promise still intact?"

MacArthur grimaced. "No, I'm afraid that is no longer the case. We have lost seventy-five percent of the initial force in the invasion. Only the U.S.S Texas has had any sort of major success, in that we have been able to secure one of their craft for our engineers to examine."

Matherson's eyebrows hardened. "So, you are saying that you may have to stay longer than just June?"

"Yes, Mr. Matherson," replied MacArthur. "Our stay will now be indefinite so long as that thing still attacks us. You do know of the reports of air raids over Newfoundland and Quebec, I'm certain."

"Why would I not have?" asked Matherson, a slight tint of anger in his voice. "We want this thing gone, and out of our country. You Americans seem to be taking the job leisurely."

"These weapons are far beyond our technological level, nay, our comprehension. This will revolutionize warfare, whether we like it or not. We cannot allow petty politics to dictate otherwise."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Frederick Fordham and Jean Durand sat tiredly in what was the basement of the house they were using as temporary shelter. Their friend, Louis Moreau, and the newcomer James Becker were arguing over history, and quite loudly.

Fordham turned his head towards Durand. "Is Louis always like this?"

"Yes, yes he is. I knew the guy since we were young ones. He was obsessed with academics in his youth, and joined the army to 'protect Quebec.' He's quite proud, really, and doesn't want to see his history defiled, like that damned fool Becker is doing right there."

"Are you certain he's not from ... another timeline? To him it could very well be the truth." Fordham wondered aloud.

"Don't be foolish, Frederick," Durand chided. "I've seen enough foolishness of that nature from American pulps. He's just fooling with us. Why he does so no, I don't have the slightest idea."

"With respect, Jean, we have a tower of alien origin harassing this area with metallic craft beyond all comprehension to us. Perhaps the pulps were on to something?"

"You're right, I guess. What has the world come to, really? My ancestral homeland is overrun with the Germans, who now exercise control over all Europe in some manner. Russia has had its monarchy replaced with anarchists. And now this. What now? The clouds will rain chewing tobacco?"

Fordham didn't respond. He was concentrating on something, something on that Becker fellow's back. It looked like a rifle in broad strokes, but it was colored chrome, and the end of its barrel was a bright green.

Fordham walked up to the two arguing about history. "Will the two of you be quiet?!" he screamed, loud enough to draw their attention. "I can't say I know much about your histories, but perhaps we can work together."

The two of them looked at Fordham quietly. After a few second, Moreau chimed in. "He's right. Whatever this thing is attacking us, no one man can defeat it. Are we in agreement, Monsieur Becker?"

"I suppose, Frenchie." Becker replied, "So, what's your plan?"


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Humphrey Jansen felt one of the most terrible feelings of anxiety as he ate his breakfast in the morning. A star had gone out! This was beyond comprehension, beyond logic, beyond all reason! The world was going mad. He knew it. Halifax, the war in Europe, everything. Insane.

He was alone. This only made his feelings worse. He was always alone, and this feeling of crippling nervousness only made the loneliness seem ever more hostile. He knew that was a contradiction in terms. He didn't care.

He picked up his newspaper, the Boston Herald. The front page was emblazoned with the headline:

"Star disappears! Possibly linked to catastrophe in Halifax!"

He grimaced, fiddling with his glasses as he did so. Humphrey was a troubled child before going to Harvard, and it showed. He was frail and of poor eyesight, and so was bullied without cause or reason. His father was a drunkard. His mother was abusive. Nevertheless, they were able and loving enough to send him to college, and Harvard happily accepted him. What he wanted in this world, more so than anything else, was reason. This world was so arbitrary, and it confounded him, tantalizing him with the prospect of some glorious explanation which forever eluded him.

He heard a brief commotion over to the door of the cafeteria he was eating in. Two students, humbly dressed, were screaming oaths of a religious nature. "Christ is coming! Repent, for all our sins will be accounted for, and the undeserving shall taste the fires of hell!"

A police officer was confronting them for they were blocking the way into the cafeteria. "Excuse me, sir and madam, but you simply cannot block this entryway! Please, take your preaching elsewhere, or at least allow traffic through the door. I don't want you impeding exit in case of a fire or some other catastrophe, no matter how unlikely that may be!"

After some whining and screaming, they withdrew. The police officer, alone, walked towards Humphrey and sat down a few feet away from him. He said nothing to Humphrey, and took out a notepad to report back to whatever station he was beholden to.

"Excuse me, officer," Humphrey asked. He figured that if this were to continue to happen, it would be a good idea for him to know about it.

"Yes, sir?" the officer responded, looking at Humphrey calmly. Apparently, he was used to such public inquiry.

"Have there been many instances of this obstructionism? The fundamentalists were already going haywire when the thing in Halifax appeared. Now, it is pandemonium."

"There have been three reports of such activities in Boston. We can't say anything about other towns. Worcester, Barnstable, and Springfield have all been calm."

"I knew this would happen ever since I saw the star disappear last night. I was there to see it - I was stargazing with a lady friend of mine, and that shiny little orb that ornamented the sky was gone. I can't explain it, and I study astronomy."

The officer's eyes widened. "Sir, with all due respect, I would like to ask you to come with me back to the station. The police office has been looking for any witnesses to this, as well as astronomers. We need people like you to help us in coordinating any possible response."

"First of all, Becker, is it?"

Becker nodded.

"Let me ask you, what is that rifle-like thing you have strapped around your back? Where did you get it?"

Becker took the object off his back and held it as one would a standard military-grade rifle, carefully ensuring that he would not point at any of the men around him.

"I got this thing off one of those metal bugs that wander this place. I shot the damn thing with my rifle, and it fell down. I investigated and removed this from the bug. I survived, luckily; after I had done so, it started firing randomly."

"Then how is it not doing so now?" Moreau inquired.

"Do you see this piece of metal I stripped over part of it?" Becker said, pointing his figure at a small steel strip about a foot long straddled over part of the weapon. "Apparently, the thing below this piece of metal is this gun's 'eye,' if you will. It senses hostile forces, or at least it did. Now it fires uncontrollably so long as it can see. Allow me to demonstrate."

He turned away from Fordham and Moreau, and pointed the rifle in the opposite direction from them. He took the strip of metal, fastened to the gun with rope, and brought it to the ground.

The gun erupted with a stream of green bolts blasting out of it, which flew several meters before colliding with the ground, causing dirt and debris to skyrocket into the air.

Moreau, Fordham, and Durand were amazed. After about ten seconds of this, he took the piece of metal and swung it over the eye. "This, you see, is how they dominate us."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Humphrey Jansen and Florence Maxwell waited outside the police station in Boston, waiting to the former to address the assembled scientists, policemen, and military and political authorities. Governor McCall and Lieutenant Governor Coolidge were in attendance - he saw their escorts enter the building, and themselves walking among a plethora of guardsmen.

Overhead flew two flags: the flag of the United States, its stars and stripes lazily drooped down the flagpole, and the flag of the state of Massachusetts, its white field obscuring the central blue emblem, as it too was drooped downward. The wind was lacking, Humphrey noticed, and so the true beauty of those cloths lay unseen to most eyes. "That flag up on top of the pole represents the fight that our forefathers won against tyranny. Against the British, the Mexicans, the Confederates, and the Spanish; all fell to forces waving that banner. However, I cannot believe any of those who fought in armies under that flag would ever anticipate what foe it faces now. Things from the sky, from space, even. Tell that to a man so late as the war with Spain and they would look at you in disbelief. Now, there is no denying it."

"Humphrey, you're always so philosophical when you're nervous; I've noticed it. You are worried about the current situation, the destruction of Portland, the utter devastation of Nova Scotia. I can also tell you're eager to fight, but your eyesight prevented that. You love this nation, and that is more than admirable. The best way you can serve Columbia now, so far as I can tell, is that you give our fighting men the knowledge to fight whatever these things are." Florence said nothing for a minute, and looked him in the eyes, directly.

"Thank you," Humphrey replied, feeling a tad overwhelmed. He never thought that she had any real affection for him before. This made him doubt.

Before he could craft a response, a yell came from the building. "Mr. Jansen! Your presence is requested in the main meeting room!"

"I will see you sometime later," Humphrey said to Florence.

"As will I to you. Good luck."

Without any more parting words, he entered the building and followed an armed guard, with the insignia of the United States Army, into a large office building with a podium in front of a large crowd of officials, Governor McCall and Lieutenant Governor Coolidge among them.

The guard gestured to Humphrey, telling him to remain at the podium. "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a man by the name of Humphrey Jansen, a witness to the disappearance of the star a few nights ago."

The crowd clapped, and by their looks were expecting him to speak. So he did.

"Good afternoon. As the good man said, my name is Humphrey Jansen. Two nights ago, I saw the star Bellatrix simply vanish in the night sky. I was stargazing with a lady friend of mine, and I was teaching her to discern constellations - I'm an amateur astronomer."

He hesitated, for speaking to crowds was something he was simply not accustomed to. There was some quiet chatter, with the various attendees turned to each other muttering. He heard someone chide, "a likely story," something obviously not meant for him to hear. He adjusted his glasses; it was simply force of habit. Nervousness was simply a lac of clarity. The adjustment of clarifying instruments of the physical world was an allegory to the adjustment of thought to clarify the logical, the metaphysical world.

He continued. "The star Bellatrix is the left shoulder of the constellation of Orion, which as you educated people must know is the hunter of Greek mythology."

Humphrey stopped. It was not out of nervousness, but pain. A pain so energetic, so jolting, so beyond comprehension. It enraptured him, paralyzing him in some sort of unseen net. The people in the audience were simply shocked, with screams cascading through the room. He convulsed.

And then he vanished. The man known as Humphrey Jansen had simply dematerialized in front of a large audience.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The satellite that orbited the solar system in the orbit of its third gas giant was waiting. Waiting for its task to be completed, its birthright fulfilled.

It sensed an energy, an energy normally thought of as fantasy to lesser beings. But this was machine, capable of understanding more, responding to more, knowing more.

It knew something was wrong.

Not morally wrong. Factually wrong, Fundamentally wrong. Something wrong with the very fabric of space-time.

A small object, or perhaps a being, had been swiped from the third world in this system to points beyond, in the exact same direction in which it saw the disappearing star.

It could tell the energy needed to perform such a feat was vast. The perpetrators of this act would not have the capacity to do it again for a good deal of time.

But it would be unnecessary.

They were coming.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


Louis Moreau, Jean Durand, Frederick Fordham, and James Becker waded through the ruins of Halifax. The four and set aside their initial antagonisms and agreed to head towards the tower. Becker, hesitant at first, was able to come consensus with the others: he was indeed from another plane of existence, one diverging in the others' nineteenth century.

Becker had explained around a campfire the day after he demonstrated his captured alien weapon. To those of this world, Becker's world had a United States that emerged undoubtedly triumphant in the War of 1812, with James Madison being revered as a national hero, to the likes of Washington and Lincoln in this world. Madison was not only the author of the constitution: he put his United States on the path to being easily the most powerful nation on the planet by 1900.

Andrew Jackson was also a president, but sooner than in this world. Jackson ascended to the Presidency after Madison, and under his leadership acquired large amounts of Indian land and admitted the Canadian states. His successors would lead to the acquisition of large swaths of, and eventually the whole of, Mexico, and would also take Cuba and other islands in the Caribbean. Annexation of various territories in the Pacific and Central America brought up the number of states even further. By the current time, from where Becker came, the US was on the level of France, who had won the Napoleonic Wars due to the American hassling of Britain (and later covert and later overt support from Jackson and his successors).

In Becker's world, relations between Washington and Paris, for so long friendly, were going sour. Various trade issues, embargoes, and a proxy war in Brazil over who would gain the throne due to some dynastic conflict were making the possibility of a Franco-American War ever more likely. Becker, like several other members of the Nova Scotia National Guard, were awaiting the possible incursion of French coastal raiders, as were guards from Newfoundland to the Yucatan. It was under this context he was warped from his world to this one, to no longer see the impending French invasion force, but rather see the howls and whirrs of machinery from a distant world, never seen by human mind.

"James," inquired Moreau, "have you seen anything else from your world transported here by whatever the hell that thing is?"

Becker stopped and looked at Moreau. "Afraid not."

He turned his head, and peered towards the tower in the distance. He guessed it would take them another day on foot through this wreckage.

"This world is so alien to me. The US is not the hegemon it is in my world, but rather a formerly isolationist power, a sleeping giant now awoken. President Callahan would not permit the folly that your Democrats have turned the nation into, and rather would fight France, or in this world Germany. Being allies with France, and even more confounding Britain, is bizarre."

Fordham inquired, "who is this Callahan, and what are his positions? He reminds me of the British warhawks in London that brought us to this war, and Prime Minister Borden in particular."

"Borden is the British Prime Minister?" Becker asked in response.

"The Canadian. Remember, we have our own parliament not directly beholden to London. We can govern ourselves."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fordham. In my world, Britain is remembered as a tyrant which micromanaged every colony it owned. Their granting of a colony self-government is beyond odd to my sensibilities."

"The only reason your homeland rebelled in the first place is because the British rectified their neglect of their colonies which had been going on far too long. Don't give me that spiel of liberation."

"Enough of your snark, Mr. Fordham. Anyway. Jeffrey Callahan was elected President in 1912 on a very warlike platform. I didn't vote for him; I liked Norman Cole. He wasn't the isolationist this America is, but he saw no reason in provoking the French like Callahan is now. Besides, I had a nice wife, two children, and a nice house on Cape Breton Island."

He paused. Fordham noted the slightest tear in Becker's eyes.

"And now they're gone. Forever." Becker appeared overwhelmed, collapsing on his knees. "Gone! Forever gone!" he screamed with the energy of a man raging against the heavens and all they stood for, chastising a deity that he felt unjust and hypocritical. "What have I done to deserve this!"

Fordham walked up to him. "I understand your pain, Becker. I lost my family when this thing first came down on Halifax. I felt much as you do now. It is as if this thing came down to us to punish us for sins not yet committed, or as if our existence, our very being, was criminal."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Florence Maxwell was in a confused hustle as she witnessed the screaming masses of people escape the police station in Boston, Massachusetts. "What is going on? What? Has Humphrey offended you?"

A man, apparently a policeman, went up to her, sweating due to the sheer exertion. "Your Humphrey fellow is just gone! Gone!"

She stared at him inquisitively. "What do you mean, gone? People just do not vanish into thin air. What do you think of me? Stupid? Just because I'm a woman? I'm no raving suffragette, but I'd expect the slightest decency from a gentleman such as yourself."

"No, ma'am, he literally disappeared! It sounds like something out of some bizarre story, written by some hack in a suburban backwater with no responsive audience, but no! He, by God, just disappeared in front of the audience without explanation! He writhed in pain, and dematerialized! What has God wrought upon us? Have we sinned!"

The man went on ranting. "Well, sir, I suppose that I can't deny that, given the screams to the same effect going on around us."

She inhaled deeply, than let out a loud sigh. "What has the world come to? First the war in Europe, than the happenings in Halifax, and now my good friend Humphrey disappears? I don't know what to do."

She ran quite quickly from the crowd, stopping at a corner several blocks away. Panting, she came to rest, taking a seat at a bench bolted to the concrete sidewalk.

She heard the noise of some preacher crying in the distance. She listened attentively; she had nothing better to do.

This preacher's voice rang to the heavens; she could tell he had a gift for public speaking, and that preaching was good for a person with such a quality of a voice and of sufficient religiosity.

"We must find the Satanists that have made the Lord deem it necessary to punish our civilization with metallic angels who have come from the sky! First Halifax fell, than Portland, and now they have made their divine statement in Boston! The Satan worshippers will not be tolerated! Find them and bring them to justice!"

Florence shivered. "He wants me," she said to nobody in particular. "He wants me dead."

She would have dismissed such a cry for action had she not heard the jubilant throngs of support coming from the distance in the same direction as the preacher. She heard singing to accompany their cheering. It was a tune many were familiar with, but its recital by hundreds clamoring for the sating of their hunger for divine justice sent a chill down her spine.

"Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so,
Little ones to him belong,
They are weak but he is strong!"

Boston would be a nightmare. She knew it.

The cavalry coming down the street, waving the colors of the US Army, did nothing to calm such fears.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Caswell Matherson, now a Lieutenant in the Canadian Army, recently promoted due to his exceptional service fighting the extraterrestrial force in Nova Scotia and due to providing necessary intelligence to the Canadian government, such as in the address in Charlottetown (some would say this promotion was of a political nature), clambered out of the armored car that had taken him from government consultation in Charlottetown and Fredericton to Rimouski, Quebec. Here in Rimouski was the arrival of a good deal of forces from Europe, mostly Canadian but with some British troops and some from other parts of the Commonwealth. Matherson was here to meet with their commander, Arthur Currie, who would set up his main operations here in Rimouski and cooperate with the Americans in New Brunswick to clear Halifax of the alien threat.

He went through the expected security. Yes, he was Caswell Matherson. Yes, he was born in Bedford. Yes, the only reason he survived is because he was training as part of the military. He had eagerly wanted to go to Europe, but he was assigned to training new recruits due to his skill in doing so.

Now his specialty was tactics against the aliens. In this new room he entered, he met General Currie. "Mr. Matherson, a pleasure to meet you."

"An honor to meet you, sir," replied Matherson. "Your exploits in France are quite interesting to somebody stuck at home."

"What province is home to you? We're a decently large country, and as such the provinces have quite the differences between each other."

"I'm from Bedford, near Halifax. Or it was near Halifax before this thing happened."

"You must have lost your family, then! My sincerest apologies if I bring back any unpleasant memories."

"Oh, no, sir, not at all. My family hated me. That's why I joined the army hoping to be sent to France - I wanted a new life, new prospects, free from the abusive bastards that I was shackled with by blood."

Currie was stunned somewhat by Matherson's directness. "Well then, I see you haven't lost much. In Europe, I couldn't help but miss-"

CRASH! went a terrible, terrible noise. The ceilings of the building fell in, and Currie and Matherson fell to the floor as they were trained to do so in basic training.

In the middle of the room stood an insectlike metal entity, with multiple eyes and several spindly appendages. Matherson could tell it was looking at Currie; its red eyes dead-set at the General.

"Mr. Currie!" screamed Matherson. "Move! Doesn't matter where, just move!"

Currie, on his back tossed himself onto his stomach and began a fast crawl, almost running pace, but did not stand - such would take too much time for the beams of light, now emitted from appendages on the entity, to intercept him. Matherson approved - time is of the essence in fighting these things.

Matherson drew his pistol, pointing it at the back of the insectoid's back. He fired, the bullet releasing a near-deafening noise. Matherson, like most military men, had learned to ignore it.

It bounced off, but Matherson expected that.

The insectoid turned within a second toward him, its appendages scuttling across the floor. Its main eye, glowing red like a sole apple or tomato on a metal table, stared directly into Matherson's being.

He cocked his pistol once again.

The insectoid raised its guns.

The beams came streaming out of the emitters.

Matherson pulled the trigger.

He ducked.

He rolled to the left.

The insectoid's eye shattered, and its body came clambering towards the floor.

"So what was this about Europe, Mr. Currie?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The tireless computers among the tower in Halifax were in a flurry of confusion, of haste. Their sensor satellite in the outer solar system had detected the coming of what they had feared for so long.

They had not been nearly as fast as they should have. The indigenous population had simply been too tenacious, too stubborn, too aggressive. Their technology was beyond primitive, to the point it seemed little beyond intuition to the coldly mechanical sentiences that occupied the tower.

They had failed in their task.

Their task of stabilization, of salvation.

They, after a brief consultation, gave the order, the signal, to the loyal watchdog on the edge of the solar system, previously left dormant in the clouds of a gas giant.

The order: fire.

The cannon onboard the satellite aimed towards the coming entities, entities that were beyond rationality, beyond sanity, at least to the beings that had created the satellite and the tower. Thusly, they had to be destroyed.

A burst of energy surged through the satellite. Had there been air, a grand noise would be heard for miles. But this was space, and there was no noise in space. The impending devastation would take place in silence to be heard by no being.

The energy emitted by the cannon zoomed towards the coming foes.

It hit one of the entities.

The entity shattered, evaporated into a million million atoms scattered across the universe.

More shots were fired, but their efforts were in vain, ultimately, despite the fact that more entities were scattered amongst the vastness of space.

Some of the entities accelerated at a rate never seen by these computers.

Their failure would not go without a steep, steep price.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester, formerly of the United States Army, sat angry at the porch of his agricultural home in Holcomb, Missouri, in the state's southeastern panhandle. He had done his share of the work for now, and so he rested.

His family flew the Stars and Stripes over their porch. He yearned to be reinstated in the US Army, but that damned thing at Africville up in Canada had that idiot Dulin throw him out of the service, citing that it could "cause a major international incident between Canada and the United States," or some bullshit like that.

They were just darkies, he thought. They weren't the white man's equal, never would be. Why would the Canadians care? Why would Dulin care?

President Wilson knew what he was talking about. Chester liked Wilson, the kind of straight-talking southern Democrat that this country needed. They were working on beating the Hun bastards in Europe before the crazy alien things in Nova Scotia started attacking Canada and then Maine.

He just wanted labor for America to beat the aliens and would use the available source of cheap labor, that of the black people there, to do so.

Was that too much to ask for?

He was snapped out of his thoughts by his father, Thomas, calling from the kitchen. "Get off your ass, you lazy bum! You should damn well be clearing the pathways to the road! We can't get to market if it isn't cleared!"

"Damned thing is clear!" yelled Grayson back.

"Did you do the rest of the farm?" asked his father.

Grayson mumbled. He hadn't. "I'll do that now," he said, resignedly.

"It isn't my damn fault you got your ass thrown out of the army! Now whose was it, you little son of a bitch? It was your damn fault. It damn well was! Now stop whining like a little boy and get to work. Oh, wait, you still are a little boy!" He laughed. "You haven't changed since you were a boy, and now you're twenty-two!"

Grayson fumed silently but said nothing. His father was right. He was a failure.

He wanted to make his father proud, his country proud.

He trudged toward the path that led to the fields. It was covered in mud due to rain and some snow - it was January. It was cold. He carried with him two things.

A shovel for mud and a rifle.

He began shoveling, ready for more hours of drudgery and dullness. But he saw something in the ground, something black and shiny.

It looked like an obsidian rock. He had rarely seen such things but he knew that was what they looked like.

The rock unfurled and became vaguely insectoid much like the things he had saw in Nova Scotia.

'What the hell are you?" he asked the thing, not expecting an answer.

The thing jumped at him, attempting to murder him or so he thought.

Luckily he had his rifle. He dashed to the left, hoisting the rifle ready to fire.

It was times like this that made him keep it loaded at all times.

He fired at the thing.

The thing died.

He looked upward as if in celebration.

But there would be no rejoicing.

Hundreds of these things, some significantly larger, descended upon Missouri. Upon the world.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"What the hell was that noise?" yelled Thomas Chester from the family kitchen. "I wanted you working, not f***ing around with some sort of doohickey you bought at the market!"

"Umm, Dad," called Grayson, his son, "there is falling shit coming from the skies. One of them tried to kill me."

The falling black entities came descending upon the earth like buzzards on a carcass. He heard thunderous explosions in a distance, or perhaps collisions; the latter was more likely, as they were coming closer to the earth.

Thomas came out of the small house they called home. "Well, I'll be damned," he said awestruck. "You were right this one goddamn time, weren't you, boy?" he asked.

"Save the harping on me for later, Dad," muttered Grayson. "I know I'm a disappointment. I know I shouldn't have gotten myself kicked out of the army."

"Well, you did so making a damnyankee do the work with you," his father stated. "And a Catholic, at that. Makes you think the goddamn Catholics can become American."

His father sounded out of character. "And this is coming from the man who, in his youth, consorted with the KKK," Grayson said.

"Damned right I did, boy!" boasted Thomas. "It's a damned shame they're gone! They had our country heading on the right track, but no! The damnyankees and the Republican Party sent the country away from purity, from true democracy!"

Grayson thought often that his father was a tad crazy. Yes, Grayson, like most White southerners, thought that a black man's natural place was as cheap labor, and that Catholics were subverting American democracy, but he thought the KKK to be wackos. Like his father.

The things in the air continued to fly downward, their alien presence striking a confused awe into the Chesters' hearts.

One landed.

In the fields to their right. The explosion spewed muddy dirt in a circle around it, covering the two men with January muck.

The black insectoid thing unfurled, its pointy albeit armored legs thrusting themselves into the ground, moving towards them.

"This is one of those things that tried to kill me," Grayson uttered.

"Don't just stand there, then, you lazy bastard! Kill it!" yelled Thomas, raising his rifle. He fired a shot.

Grayson did the same.

The bullets hit the creature, but its metal hull was only dented.

They let forth new shots. Again, they ricocheted off the carcass.

The thing staggered forth to the two men. Arms with appendages resembling firearms pointed their way

"Where did you shoot the thing the last time?" asked Thomas.

"You see how there's two main colors to it, black and light grey?" Grayson pointed to the thing.

"Yeah."

"The black stuff I think is some sort of armor. The grey stuff is where it's vulnerable."

"Why the f*** didn't you tell me the last time?"

Thomas reloaded his rifle and shot the thing again, this time at a joint. It fell.

"See there, boy? That's how you kill a thing like that. I'm certain you knew that."

Another crash! was heard, this time behind them.

Another thing had destroyed their house, their barn, and all their other things, including Henrietta Chester, Thomas' wife, Grayson's mother.

"God damn it!" Thomas yelled.

Grayson was angry as well, but he knew he was more levelheaded than his father. "We need to get to Kennett. Most local resistance is bound to end up there."

Kennett was the county seat of Dunklin county, the county where his humble hometown of Holcomb lay.

The two darted to their truck, fortunately spared, and drove off.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Louis Moreau, Jean Durand, Frederick Fordham, and James Becker trudged through the wreckage of Halifax. The shiny tower that had destroyed the city was within their reach. They had fought off its defenders. They would find out just what this thing was.

"So now, I will find my family's killers," growled Fordham. "Who they are, I don't know, but I will kill them with my bare hands if I have to."

Becker concurred. "I want to know what took me from my home world. This world is so ... alien, by comparison."

Moreau and Durand wished they had something sentimental to add to this little festival of mutual pity. They were just here on their assignment as part of the Canadian army, now with their home base destroyed and nothing better to do than to find the butcher of Halifax.

They saw a squadron of the alien aircraft, sleek and shiny, coming overhead.

"Brace yourselves for combat!" yelled Moreau. They all raised their weapons, Moreau and Durand their army rifles, Fordham a rifle found in the ruins of Halifax, and Becker his captured alien weapon.

However, the craft did not fire at them.

They continued eastward. They glanced in that direction.

They saw a horde of black craft descending from space, as if to attack whatever lay on the ground.

The shiny grey craft opened fire on these black craft. The black craft fired back.

"They're fighting each other?" Becker said, awestruck. "I don't know what the hell to believe anymore."

"This world went to hell a long time ago," uttered Fordham. "I'm not surprised at all."

They heard a gentle descent from their behind of a craft.

It was some sort of four-legged machine, which had thrusters on the back. In the center was a single cyan eye of some sort.

The eye was not an eye, but a projector, like they saw in the rare movie theater. It projected what could best be described as a three-dimensional film.

It appeared to be of a human, dressed in something vaguely resembling the garb of a priest.

"Our conflict is futile and peace must come. We must talk," the projection said.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Louis Moreau, Jean Durand, Frederick Fordham, and James Becker looked awestruck at the manifestation of a human projected by the alien entity. The entity, like all the other things made by the tower, was mechanical, its four long legs plunging into the ground.

"What the hell are you?" rasped Fordham. "Your kind has brought hell to this world. Why do you insist on dishing out such suffering?"

Fordham began to advance towards the projection, but Moreau slapped his hand on his chest, stopping him "Don't be aggressive, damn it, or you'll end up just the same as your family, and all who have died since!"

The projection introduced itself. "What you see right here is a manifestation of the creators of the tower that destroyed this city, which name is, if we are not mistaken, Halifax in your language. Is this name correct?"

"Yes, yes it is," stated Moreau.

"Good. You four have destroyed a great deal of our war materiel, distracting us from our ultimate objective. We had them able to be ready-made in case of attack, but we did not expect this level of development on your end."

"Stop stalling and tell us who you are!" yelled Durand, impatient. Moreau wasn't surprised at his old friend's impetuousness. It was just normal of him.

"I represent an organization of beings whose name for themselves is best translated as the 'stewards.' We are tasked by the creators of the multiverse to maintain stability on a cosmic level. That is why we came: to calibrate this node with several others in different places, different universes, different points in time. Our signal was intended to be that of a large explosion. Apparently, the explosion was created by your species and not by a beacon made by the Stewards. As you can see up there by the large dark entities invading this world, we have failed in our task due to our misinterpretation of the happenings on this planet."

"How have you failed?" asked Moreau. "As far as we could tell, you've succeeded wonderfully in rendering Halifax a wasteland. You've done the same with Portland and other parts of Canada."

"Those dark entities are manifestation of entities that hate the current state of existence with a driving force that permeates their being. They feed on existence, on matter. They are the reason you have seen the star disappear. They are the reason that the member of your species in the south disappeared. They have made entities unfavorable to them cease to exist; they can sense intention through the grand wavelengths of existence."

"Their presence here is why we have failed. We were supposed to ensure this plane of existence remains in multidimensional synchronization with the universes nearby it in a cosmic sense. This had to be done at a key time, a time we have not been able to arrive at as of yet. The dark creatures, these who feed on existence, that you see up there have detected us trying to make sure this plane still exists. They eventually will consume all if planes of existence fall out of synchronization. They found us trying to keep this plane in synchronization with the rest of all realities, and so they are trying to stop us."

The four men stood in shock. Becker stepped forward. "So you're saying these things will eat everything, and I mean everything, if you don't stop them?"

"Yes. They will consume this world. This is why we sent our ship with defensive forces. Your kind would find them bizarre, perhaps hostile, and they were deployed to distract you from our duties."

"Sir, you need to understand something," Becker spat, "I'm not from this world. I'm from another with a different history. Why the f***, my good sir, am I here?"

The projection looked at him, scrutinizing him.

"Our systems must be faulty. Our attempts to synchronize the planes of existence must have caused a teleportation from one plane to another, of an individual, in your case."

"Can't you send me back?" Becker asked worriedly.

"We cannot divert any more concentration to such trivial matters. We need to defend against those who will consume all reality."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Thomas and Grayson Chester piloted their Model T, modified to carry crops to market, as fast as it could go. The world seemed to end around them, with the massive black insectoids bombarding the world around them.

The fields burned, the occasional tree burned, the ground burned. As Thomas drove the car, Grayson could see the crashed wrecks of other cars, and of horse-drawn buggies and carts, dotting the road. Thomas, a skilled driver, was able to successfully maneuver around them.

One of these insectoid monstrosities rammed into the pavement only a few yards away. "Dad!" yelled Grayson, "one of 'em things landed in front of us!"

"You think I'm blind, son?" snapped Thomas. "I'm damn well no cripple! I am more than capable to drive my own goddamn vehicle!"

He skewered the steering wheel to the left at a breakneck pace, sending the car nearly perpendicular to the original trajectory. He spun it back to its original position, and the car's wheels straightened. He rammed his foot on the wheel, sending the car whirring towards the field on the left side of the road. He turned right past the alien thing, its legs unfurling, and got back onto the road.

"You know, we can't just call these damned things, well, things," quipped Thomas. "We need to call them something or other."

"I say we call them doombugs," remarked Grayson. "They look like bugs, and they're trying to kill everything."

"That's the smartest thing you've said in a long time, boy," replied Thomas, swerving to the side to avoid another doombug.

They saw a sign on the road. It read:

KENNETT 1 MILE

"We're close to Kennett!" yelled Grayson, enthused. "We can see if there is any organized resistance!"

They drove on, dodging the assaults of the doombugs trying to send them to an early death. They saw a clutter of buildings. It had to be Kennett.

It was Kennett, but it looked different than before. It reminded him of those old Roman fortifications of some sort, walls made of dirt and whatever else they could cobble together. On top of these walls stuck out rifles. Apparently, the locals had made a makeshift defense of the city.

Thomas sounded the car's horn. "Why the hell did you do that, Dad? You want more of them doombugs after us?" panicked Grayson.

"It'll get the attention of the people in Kennett. You want to survive this, son? I assumed you did."

Grayson couldn't argue with that.

An American flag flew over the encampment. After the horn was sounded, a man on the encampment took the small pole, only a few feet tall, from its position and waved it towards the right.

Before either of them could ask, a large wooden section of the wall fell over.

Except it didn't fall. It was pushed down.

It was a way in.

Thomas took the cue and veered right and zoomed into Kennett.

They gradually came to a stop. Most of the people were inside buildings, they could tell, as the ground was desolate with only the occasional armed male.

One of the armed citizens waved them to a certain building, a flag of Missouri marking the position. They parked their car and walked in.

There was what seemed to be a hundred people in that building, crowded around one table. In there was a young man, little older than Grayson, at some sort of console.

Grayson inquired of a man standing near him, also watching the scene as was the rest of the crowd, "what is he doing? Why does the crowd give a f*** if some guy is playing around with something.

The man looked at him incredulously. "This kid's a ham radio operator. He's trying to get us in touch with somewhere, anywhere else to possibly get help.

Grayson was surprised. "Didn't Congress ban ham radio when the Lusitania was sunk?"

The man sneered at him. "Do you think any of us give a f*** what Congress says right now when our state is being ripped apart by those things?"

Grayson, again, couldn't argue.

"Quiet! We have a signal" yelled the man at the radio. He spoke into the microphone. "My name is Timothy O'Dell, at Kennett, Missouri. We are under siege by those flying things. Who is this? Can you send help?"

A voice emerged, with static permeating it, allowing only a few words out at once. "This is ... Patecell ... Memphis, Tennessee. We are under ... them damned things ..."

The crowd gasped. Kennett wasn't the only town being attacked. They had gotten Memphis as well, by the looks of it.

" ... world under attack ... Nashville, Chattanooga, Mobile report ... Little Rock half destroyed ... Knoxville being evacuated to ... Fayetteville gone ... Selma gone ... Huntsville gone ..."

The transmission stopped. The crowd gasped.

"I can't get anything else," announced O'Dell. "But at least we know this: it isn't just Kennett."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Woodrow Wilson, President of the United States of America, was whisked into the fortified room in Camp Admiral, a fortification in Anne Arundel County, Maryland. It was only opened in the last year; this room was made within the day. It smelled of concrete.

The black things that had attacked Washington attacked Maryland as well. Reports said that Baltimore was under heavy siege, as was the southeastern parts of Virginia. Of what little was able to come from Boston and New York, they were attacking there as well.

Wilson looked to his Vice President, Thomas R. Marshall. The entire leadership of the country was here now. Speaker Clark, Senate President Pro Tem Saulsbury, and the entirety of Wilson's cabinet were seated in that small room. "I have to say, Marshall," said Wilson glumly, "you aren't my only vice anymore."

"I guess not," replied Marshall.

General Pershing went up to the front of the room, flanked by US Army troops. "Gentlemen, as you can see, the situation is far from good. These new things, as far as we can tell the same things that have utterly ruined Halifax and destroyed Portland, have besieged the entire country. West Coast cities are holding out, and asymmetrical warfare dominates the South. What little radios we have operational state that Canada is under siege, as is Europe, whose colonies also report some sort of attack."

"I'll be plain and simple with you, gentlemen: this is a war for humanity. We'll have to work with the Commonwealth to fight them off, and support from Germany may be forthcoming should we be able to reestablish diplomatic relations. Soviet Russia is also in the cards. Communication with Europe will most likely be via London, as we have very little ambassadorial presence there."

There was a silence, punctuated by the firing of Anti-Air guns and the impact of these insectoid things pummeling the ground with their mass, or their weapons turning the American armed forces into dust.

There was a large crash somewhere outside. The light flickered.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sherman O'Malley, United States Army, pointed his rifle at the spacebeetle (as they were less than fondly dubbed by the soldiers here at Camp Admiral) and fired off a shot at the limbs. The limbs, they had determined, were the weak points. The spacebeetle collapsed, its weapons pointing into the ground. That was all that mattered - it couldn't shoot O'Malley.

There was a thunderous explosion out of his view.

However, it wasn't an explosion. It was a landing.

There stood a small structure that resembled the tower in Halifax; he could tell because he had seen pictures of it in the News Journal, the newspaper in his home of Wilmington, Delaware.

Around the new tower, only about half the size of the Halifax one by O'Malley's guess, were flying craft of a decidedly nonhuman manufacture.

He raised his gun at it, as did his fellow soldiers.

But they didn't attack the soldiers.

They attacked the spacebeetles.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Woodrow Wilson, Thomas R. Marshall, John Pershing, and the rest of the leadership of the United States of America, mainly Executive and Congressional with some military figures as well, were incredibly worried at the prospect of being destroyed by the buglike things that were attacking Camp Admiral in Anne Arundel County, Maryland.

There was a brief lull in the combat. They exhaled, their worry somewhat assuaged. Were the things routed? Or had the good people in this little room died?

The guards stationed at the door were pushed away by a soldier running in.

"Who are you, soldier?!" worriedly asked Pershing, "and what gave you cause to come down here?!"

"My name is Sherman O'Malley. I'm a private in the Delaware national guard, and I'm from Wilmington in that state. This thing here wanted to see you. I think its offer would be beneficial to all of us, good sirs."

Behind O'Malley stood a mechanical creature, quadrupedal, with some sort of eye in the center. However, it was not an eye; it began projecting what appeared to be a three-dimensional film into the center of the room. The leadership of the sprawling country gasped.

The film formed what appeared to be a man in garb reminiscent of a priest.

It spoke. "If the understanding of intelligence here is correct, you are the leaders of a nation called the 'United States of America,' are we mistaken?"

Wilson nudged forward, worried but understanding the necessity to speak. "Yes, yes we are. I am its President, or highest ranking leader, Woodrow Wilson. As the President, I am authorized to conduct diplomacy, something you seem intent on conducting. Let us hear what you have to say."

"I am the representative of the Stewards, the caretakers of all existence imposed upon it by the creators of all existence. The things that are assailing your country, indeed your planet, are what we have deemed the Insatiable; for their hunger cannot be eased. They want the destruction of all creation for their own existence, an inherently futile measure or so we can discern. We Stewards are the ones who landed in Halifax to stabilize the planes of existence."

Pershing stepped forward, angry. "So you are the ones who have killed thousands, including the utter annihilation of Portland? What do you have to defend yourself now, and why are you here?"

The projection responded, "at that time you were distracting us from our ultimate objective, that of stabilization. Now, the Insatiable are here, and fighting between us was rendered meaningless, indeed detrimental. We are here to aid your fight against the Insatiable. We have begun to deploy forces here to relieve you of their attacks, and are willing to help you establish manufacturing facilities for our weapons to be used as you deem necessary."

Pershing and Wilson were aghast; the rest of the leadership gasped. "So you mean you will aid us in liberating our country. Is this correct?"

"Indeed. We have sent other such ambassadors to the cities of Ottawa, London, and Berlin, and are awaiting counsel on who else to aid."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester stood at attention in the line of able-bodied men, his father Thomas included, to hear instructions on what exactly to do defending Kennett from the doombugs attacking the town. The man giving the orders, whose name was unknown to the Chesters, instructed them to take positions on the barricades. He had told them that the current defenders had been up there for eight hours or more and they needed to be relieved.

They all took their rifles, recently restocked with ammunition, to the fortifications. The men grumbled and muttered oaths and other unpleasant words. Grayson, being young and disaffected, had no reason not to join in the cacophony of swears, so he did the same.

He took position on the walls. The doombug assault had lulled; perhaps they were moving up to Jefferson City or St. Louis, maybe even Kansas City, but he could not assume that. They had to assume that the doombugs were trying to kill them with everything they had.

His father was next to him. "You been here long?" he said, turning to the man two away from Grayson.

"No, I'm new as well. I saw you coming in. Say, you look familiar. What's your name?" the man inquired.

"Thomas Chester," said the father, and "this is my son Grayson."

The man's face erupted into a smile. "Thomas? It's you, isn't it! From the Klan meetings! And this young man's your son?"

"Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Thomas. "And may I inquire your name?"

"Robert Hendricks," said the man.

"I remember you, Robert! You were the guy who played the piano at that those meetings!"

"Yes, yes I am that very man. I trust you've taught your son the true way to liberty in this land?"

"Hopefully, sir. If you've been reading the papers, you'll see he was the one who put those Canadian darkies into chains just as they should be! Turns out, though, the Army threw him out because of that. So what? They're just blacks! They don't matter!"

"Dad," murmured Grayson, "Don't rub it in. I like what you say, but don't rub in how I got thrown out of the army. I want to be up there, defending this country."

"Kid," said Hendricks, "them doombugs are the main threat right now. You fight them, you fight for America. For Liberty. For Purity."

Grayson liked the sound of that. America. Liberty. Purity.

Purity of the white race, as his father told him. Liberty for that race in this continent. For the country that ruled this continent.

His father and his father's friend went off to do something. "Um, dad? I don't think the man up there wanted you two to leave."

"I don't give a damn what the man up there said!" spat Thomas.

Grayson peered to the horizon. It was marked with small dots that hadn't been there before.

More doombugs.

He fired, as did most of the line.

What the hell was his father doing?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester peered out at the doombugs that were assailing the town of Kennett, Missouri. They had done the same to his hometown of Holcomb, certainly. He could see the looks of dismay in the fellow men in the line of defenders atop the fortification. They were from all over southeastern Missouri, the panhandle area near Tennessee and Arkansas.

To his left there were two empty spots. There had been two men there, his father Thomas and his father's old friend he had just met, Robert Hendricks. Thomas and Robert had ran off to get something. What, exactly? Grayson didn't know.

But he damn well wished they were here now.

He knew they were members of that old Klan organization. He remembered his father reminiscing about his days with them, keeping America pure and free. Grayson could definitely sympathize - he was in no way the 'tolerant' person that the Yankees wanted all America to be. That just shouldn't happen.

He felt this country was a white man's country and should damn well stay that way.

Just like so many white men in the South.

Nevertheless, he thought the KKK was just damned strange. All this 'wizard' stuff made him think of little children running around pretending to be kings and queens in Medieval Europe. That what it looked like to him, anyway. That 'Birth of a Nation' film was entertaining but melodramatic. He wondered exactly what the nutjob behind that film was thinking.

But never mind that, he thought to himself. There are doombugs coming right towards the line, he repeated to himself multiple times.

He heard shots fire out from the line, shots from men just like him.

Some doombugs fell. The key of shooting them at their limbs was clear as day to them. The defenders of Kennett were not in any way whatsoever stupid; they had figured this stuff out.

Grayson raised his rifle. His hands quivered. The sheer amount of them swarming towards him terrified him.

They could easily be trying to kill him in particular and were just being thrown off by the others. Such a thought occurred to him at an inopportune time. He didn't need to be scared right now.

He pulled the trigger.

The act of pulling the trigger seemed to free him from worry for at least a moment. He saw the bullet zoom through the air at the doombug he aimed at.

It hit.

The doombug fell, its head being buried in the dirt, grass trampled over the ground by a million doombugs all converging on Kennett.

Where the hell was his father?

He heard hurried footsteps behind him. He looked back.

The scene, had it not been so imposing as they had intended, would have been surreal.

Two men, his father and Robert, were running carrying a large burning cross to the front lines, dressed in long white robes that obscured their faces and looked, to Grayson, damned stupid.

He heard another noise.

The defenders were cheering them on.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester used to think that the sound of a shotgun going off was ear-piercing, and only could stand to hear it occasionally.

He no longer thought that. He had been at the fortification fighting against the doombugs for hours now, taking potshots at their limbs. The insectoid things stumbled and crashed into the ground, and soon began to become an undeniable part of the Missouri landscape.

He could feel the heat of the burning cross set up by his father and his father’s old friend behind him. He knew the Klan was resurging some, but here, in Kennett? So very close to his hometown and that town was ruins now, destroyed by ravaging doombugs.

He hated the doombugs.

Hated them with a burning passion.

He thought they were in league with the aliens that destroyed Halifax. He had wanted to fight them, but that Dulin bastard threw him out. For making the local black people work.

Now he was fighting, just as he wanted to.

He was supplied bullets from the locals, who ran from a depot to the frontlines like ants around an anthill; scurrying to serve the queen they called their master, defending against the assailants that dared threaten her.

He eventually got into a rhythm of sorts: load, aim at doombug, fire, load, aim at doombug, fire, load, etc. It was nigh monotonous with the occasional exception of ducking to avoid a blast of energy coming for him.
The people in the line of the defenders were much the same.

His father and Hendricks, the old friend of his, had joined in the firefight, their white Klan robes made from hastily cut up pillow cushions and blankets being stained with flying dirt and with blood. They still looked damned stupid to Grayson, but apparently it raised morale; they were well received by the defenders.

The hours dragged on. The doombugs continued to advance.

And then they didn’t.

There was quiet.

Painful quiet, excruciating quiet.

It was out of his rhythm.

Then the crowd realized the momentous event.

The doombugs had stopped their relentless advance.

Peace had broken out in Kennett.

A cheer arose from the line of defenders, weary and exhausted.

Grayson looked to the back to see if that burning cross was still there –
his father and Hendricks had replaced it several times to keep the fire going. They thought their fire was the fire of the spirit of the defenders of Kennett.

The official opinion of the average defender seemed to be ‘whatever works.’

The cross still burned. Thomas Chester and Robert Hendricks stood there, leading the crowd in a cheer, their stained white hoods obscuring their heads.

Still looked damned stupid to Grayson, but he told himself again, whatever works.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


Grayson sat in the crowded mess hall in the cafeteria used as a base for the defenders of Kennett. They were celebrating, and Grayson got some chicken.

Burned chicken.

Damned terrible chicken.

But it was still chicken. Chicken with mashed potatoes. Still a hell of a lot better than fighting for hours on end.

To his right sat his father. To his left, Robert Hendricks.

The cafeteria was bustling with conversation, excited at how the doombugs had been routed: with stalwart Missouri men, guns, and the morale of the Klan.

The final part of that list was what obsessed Thomas Chester, his father, and Kendricks. Considering how they introduced themselves as the starters of this whole thing, it was natural.

Thomas turned his head towards his son after swallowing a spoonful of mashed potatoes. “Son, you should join the Klan, take up the hood and whatnot. It’s helping us save the town, might damn well help save the country.”

“I’m hesitant, dad,” uttered Grayson. “It seems like just a trend, a fad, nothing that’ll ever catch on.”

His father glared at his son right in the eyes. “Look at me right now, son,” he growled.

Grayson turned his head.

“The Klan ruled the South for several decades the last century and only because of the goddamned Republicans they died. They’re alive again and they’ll rule again. Don’t question that.” He snarled those last words. “It’s the only damn way you’ll ever be anything more than a failure in my eyes.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester, Thomas Chester, and Robert Hendricks patrolled the dirt road in the Missouri countryside a way outside Kennett. The semblance of government over there had decreed there had to be patrols out for any stray doombugs out there. That’s why the Chesters and Hendricks were out here.

Looking for enemies of Kennett, of Missouri, of America.

Thomas Chester and Robert Hendricks dressed more sensibly in work clothes, not with the outlandish (to Grayson) Klan uniforms. They all carried fully loaded shotguns – who wouldn’t in these times?

Grayson’s legs hurt due to the sheer amount of walking that they had done today. It had been hours. Several hours.

He groaned.

Thomas slapped him across the face. “What the f*** is wrong now, little boy? You too hot? Too tired? Aww, did the little boy dirty himself again?”
Thomas and Robert erupted in laughter. Grayson suppressed rage. His father always berated him. He knew, in his father’s eyes, he was a failure.

A dismal failure.

Being thrown out of the army was a big thing in his family. His father had served, and so would have his son, had he not been so passive in being thrown out of the army.

He should have shown that Dulin son of a bitch that that was how the world worked. His kind on top, the blacks on the bottom.

It only made sense to him, a Missouri boy.

They continued their trudge.

They saw a figure coming up to them in the distance.

“Who the hell is that?” asked Hendricks?

“f*** if I know,” replied the elder Chester.

Grayson glanced down the road.

That there was an army uniform.

A man in a god damned army uniform.

He relayed this to his father.

“Well, you finally turn out to be worth something after all!” exclaimed his
father, with the piercing sarcasm in his voice being its sharpest.

Grayson hated it.

Hated.

It.

Thomas waved the man up there.

He noticed. He came running.

Grayson saw the look on his father’s face. Joy.

At first, joy.

Then it turned to anger.

Grayson looked down the road and saw why.

He was a black man.

A black man in an army uniform.

As he came up to them, Thomas ran, practically charged, to the soldier.
Robert did the same. Grayson followed for want of not being left behind.

The soldier stopped.

“What in God’s name gave a black man the right to wield a weapon?” barked Thomas, foaming at the mouth. The bloodlust was obvious.

The soldier responded. “I’m from Jefferson City, sir, Missouri National Guard. I was conscripted to fight the big black flying things. Lost the rest of my team in fighting them.”

“I don’t know what the hell possessed Governor Gardner to let the likes of you into the National Guard. The man as far as I could tell was a good Southerner.” He glared into the soldier’s eyes.

Then he punched him.

Then he kicked him in the crotch, sending him down to the ground.

Then he took his shot gun and beat the man senseless, to near death.

But he didn’t kill him.

Grayson was horrified. He was a loyal Southerner, but he saw no reason to kill a black man without provocation. No reason to waste good cheap labor, he reasoned.

“Why the hell did you do that, Dad? He didn’t do anything!”

His father gave him the angriest look he had ever given his son.

“Kill him.”

Grayson was shocked. “What?”

“I said, kill the motherfucker. You have a gun. Do it.”

“Why? What did he do?”

“You know your country has gone to the refuse heap of the world when a black man is given a weapon,” roared Thomas. “I thought I taught you well, you little wretch, you scum of the earth, you effeminate waste of time and effort.”

Grayson felt tears welling up in his eyes. And then anger.

The anger of a million furnaces.

But he did nothing.

“I said kill the son of a bitch!” rasped Thomas. “I am the only reason you can ever be successful, and you squander my advice. You are so arrogant to disobey your father, to betray your own race, your own country!”

“That’s what you are, Grayson,” his father growled, “a mistake. A waste. A pile of living refuse. When you were born I thought you had the slightest inch of promise. But no. You don’t. You can’t see the crime against nature right in front of you, a black man with a gun. How could I expect you to survive in the army?”

The anger in Grayson had come to its breaking point. The rage of twenty-two years was all coming out now.

He gripped the trigger of his gun.

The bullet fired.

It hit the dying black soldier.

It sent his head exploding into a bloody mess.

“Good, good, you little piece of shit,” quietly roared his father. “You’ve proven yourself to be worth whatever little effort you are worth to me. And I’m all that matters in your life. My approval keeps you alive and well. My mercy lets you live.”

Grayson’s rage had not subsided. Indeed it had grown.

He hated his father. Hated him with all the hate he could muster.

The man who had abused him for decades, berated him in front of his friends, kill the animals he had found in the wood in front of him when he was a child, thrown his toys in the fireplace, even Christmas gifts.

Yes.

He hated this man.

He took his rifle and cocked it, putting in new bullets.

“Your approval means nothing to me,” rasped Grayson to his father. “Nothing.”

His father started to speak.

Grayson pulled the trigger.

His father, Thomas Chester, was his target.

His father’s chest erupted in a fountain of blood and gore, his cadaver falling meekly to the ground.

Robert Hendricks was just standing there in awe.

Grayson saw another threat in him.

He reloaded his gun.

He fired at Hendricks.

Hendricks fell back, his own chest exploding.

Grayson Chester, aged twenty-two, had killed three men in a time span of ten minutes.

One of them was his father.

One of them was his father’s friend.

One of them was a black man who had borne a weapon.

He stood there for several minutes.

His mind cleared, realizing the magnitude of the crimes he had just committed. He had murdered his father. The man who had cared for him, raised him, nurtured him.

He broke down in tears.

He cried for what seemed like an eternity, tears streaming down his cheeks like the rapids of the Mississippi River, his face red as the tomatoes he saw at market, his wails the volume of a screaming child, but so much deeper.

He cried for several minutes.

Then he calmed himself.

He looked at the dead bodies. He would have to account for his father and Hendricks. The people in Kennett wouldn’t give a damn about the black man, he thought.

He took the bodies of his father and his father’s friend and slung them over his shoulders, one on each.

He began the trudge back to Kennett.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson laid the corpses of his father, Thomas Chester, and of Robert Hendricks in the morgue in Kennett. There was a crowd of people following him; the heroes of Kennett had died.

A man had asked him how.

He said they were killed by a marauding doombug.

He hated himself for the murder he had committed.

It made him want to make his father proud, even if would never see him do so.

The morgue people took the corpses away. He exited the building, and there stood a crowd, mourning the deaths of those who had restored hope to a weary town assailed by those that came from beyond.

They quieted. Apparently they expected a speech.

They were in work clothes, holding rifles and shovels.

Some were in Klan garb, again fashioned from pillowcases, blankets, or curtains.

They wanted a speech. So he would speak.

“Good afternoon,” he proclaimed. “My father, Thomas Chester, and his friend Robert Hendricks, died today while fighting a lone Doombug. They succeeded in immobilizing it, but its weapons tore through them before its last alien breath.”

That was a lie. A terrible lie. He knew he was a murderer, a man who committed patricide.

But he couldn’t tell them that. He needed to make his father proud as penance, as repentance. The guilt mandated that he do so.

“I know one thing and one thing only. They would not have stopped saving Kennett. They wanted to save the whole country from the doombug threat. He wanted a great nation. He loved this nation, and saw it as not worth losing to the doombug hordes.”

The crowd erupted in applause.

They quieted, and he resumed speaking. “He was a Klansman, as many of you have embraced that mode of thinking. Well, in his honor so do I. The fiery cross is our light, our hope. Not just our light, the nation’s light.”

“Do you remember what that O’Dell fellow heard on the radio? There was that guy from Memphis. As far as we can tell, they’re under siege just as we are.”

“We’re just standing here safe. That isn’t brave. That’s cowardly.”

The crowd went mute, possibly feeling piercing guilt, the guilt that Thomas imparted to Grayson.

“I say we no longer be cowards. I say we fight. I say we head to Memphis in our trucks and fight for that city! If Memphis is saved, the country is one step closer to ultimate victory.”

“I say, to honor these dead, and the dead of all the brave souls who died against the doombugs, we fight in Memphis. For the fiery cross! For the Stars and Stripes!”

The crowd cheered in fervid elation. Grayson felt a feeling he had never felt before.

Approval.

He would make the world respect him. He would be the liberator of a nation.

He would make America free.

He would make America pure.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Samuel Byrne, of Kennett, Missouri sifted through the cadavers at the morgue in the town. He had just heard that firebrand Chester give a rousing speech about making America free and pure.

He didn't object to that; he was a loyal Southerner and a loyal Democrat, as was the standard down here. He believed in all that stuff about white supremacy. He thought it was plainly obvious.

What he did object to was the sheer amount of dead. Those doombugs had done a number on the town. And now, Chester wanted to go fight in Memphis.

Well, at least it would be some poor sap in Memphis' problem to deal with the corpses there.

He went to the table with the two corpses Chester had brought in. He was to examine them for any irregularities - the makeshift council of the defenders had mandated that to reveal any insight about the doombugs.

He saw only by the light of the fire that burned in the chimney they had made in the morgue.

The sheer amount of dead necessitated cremation. He burned logs and newspaper there so that he could see; the power lines had been destroyed in the initial doombug raids.

He examined the bodies. These corpses looked ... different. Not something he had seen with doombugs.

It was as if they were hit with a projectile, and not the beam weapons that the doombugs used. How odd.

He continued looking, the gore covering his hands. It was part of the job, but he liked it no more than a layman. But he knew he had to do it.

He pulled out something. Again, giving credence to his initial thoughts that this was caused by a projectile.

It was a shotgun pellet.

He quickly came to the conclusion that Chester was lying.

But he forced himself to stop thinking such things. Perhaps the doombugs used something much like shotgun pellets. He didn't know.

He left the morgue to go find Chester.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester lazily sat by his truck, reading an old magazine. It was a damned stupid magazine but he had nothing better to do. He had packed his truck; he was waiting for the others. They would leave for Memphis this evening.

A man approached him. The man from the morgue. Byrne, he thought.

"What do you need?" he asked of the coroner.

"My name is Samuel Byrne, Mr. Chester," said Byrne. "I have looked over the bodies of your father and Mr. Hendricks. They appear to be dead of shotgun pellets and not of any doombug weaponry I've ever seen."

"What do you want me to do about it?" asked Grayson. He shuddered, hopefully not visibly. Had his bluff been called?

"Come with me, Mr. Chester; I would like to ask you some things."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The two entered the morgue to see his father's corpse next to that of Robert Hendricks. The crematory fire burned close by.

Byrne asked of him, "what circumstances led to their deaths?"

"They were fighting doombugs. That's why they're dead," said Grayson. He thought the lie was straightforward enough.

Byrne showed him the shotgun shells. "These were found in both bodies. Care to explain?"

Grayson replied, "perhaps they were killed by a man with a shotgun."

He looked Byrne in the eyes directly.

Byrne asked of him, "What are you implying?"

"What do you think I'm implying?"

Byrne's face whitened. "You liar ... you killed them!" he screamed.

"I'm going to tell the leadership about you, and tell them about what kind of murderer you are!" Byrne exclaimed, making a run for the door.

Grayson stopped him. "No, you won't," he said plainly.

He grabbed the corner by the arm and walked to the crematory fire. There were remnants of dead bodies there.

He threw the coroner into it. Byrne screamed.

Grayson looked at him, writhing in pain. "You'd stop us from heading to Memphis," he said coldly. "I can't let you do that."

He took the table with the corpses on it and threw it into the fire. The fire spread to the walls, to the floor.

Satisfied, he ran out of the building screaming for help. The fire was consuming the building.

All according to plan.

The city militia rushed in with water and began to extinguish the fire.

As if it were just an accident.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester stood atop a truck, in front of a line of trucks. They were heading to Memphis. What seemed to be all of Memphis was ready to see them depart.

"It is a tragedy that we lose a good man like Samuel Byrne today," lamented Chester, hopefully convincingly. "Please, let us honor his name, and the name of my father and Mr. Hendricks and of all of those dead in this assault by liberating Memphis! For Liberty! For Purity!"

The crowd cheered.

There was a big wooden cross on the truck.

Grayson dropped a match.

The cross ignited.

The man in the truck, a man named David Lloyd, hoisted the Stars and Stripes out the window. Several other trucks did the same.

A man in another truck had a banjo, as was occasional. He started playing a familiar tune.

Recognizing the tune, the crowd, Grayson included, joined in.

"Advance the flag of Dixie! Hurrah! Hurrah!
In Dixie's land we take our stand, and live or die for Dixie!
To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie!
To arms! To arms! And conquer peace for Dixie"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Louis Moreau, Jean Durand, Frederick Fordham, and James Becker looked incredulously at the automaton, calling itself a representative of the 'Stewards,' standing before it. Moreau and Durand were more confused than anything. Fordham was angry that his family was killed. Becker was on the verge of tears, knowing that his plight of never being able to see his family again was considered but a footnote, a handwritten note in the margins by a hack writer, in the great annals of history.

The Steward's representative, manifested as a three-dimensional projection, looked at Becker, now on his knees, hands on his face, trying to block from the world the fact that his tears now streamed from his eyes.

"You heartless scoundrel," accused Moreau. "Cannot you see this man has a family? Have you no sense of dignity? You have the power to send him back, so why don't you?"

The Steward's gaze turned to Moreau. "Interuniversal transportation puts strain on our systems. Intrauniversal is practical, interuniversal only in extreme cases. The existence of billions upon billions of beings is paramount compared to the petty qualms of one being about the loss of two others."

The projection's gaze shifted once again to Becker, specifically what was on his back.

"That is a Steward-manufactured weapon you have on your back," he said to Becker.

Becker looked up. "Yes, yes it is. I got it when I wrested it from one of your buglike things that tried to kill me." His delivery was cold and without cadence.

"It works - the analyst computers on this machine can tell."

"That it does," replied Becker. "That it does."

He began to take the weapon off of his back. He used his left hand to move the barrel upward.

Moreau realized what was going on. Becker was about to shoot the Steward.

"Don't!" screamed Moreau, who tackled Becker before he could fire. "They have relented in attacking us. Hell, they even took the liberty of talking to us and not killing us! Don't make them think of us as hostile!"

Becker exhaled, calming himself. "I suppose," he said to Moreau.

The Steward inquired of them, "Would you find it a form of hampering your own aggression in being armed and fighting the Insatiable?"

Becker glared at him. "I suppose if they are the ones preventing me from getting home, I could fight."

"Very well," said the Steward. "We can give you weapons to fight them, here or wherever you feel is best."

Jean Durand stepped up. "Say," he asked, "is Quebec City under attack?"

The Steward paused. "Yes. Yes it is."

"Can you take us there? Louis here and I are from there. I feel if we can defend that town it will be best our own morale."

Moreau looked at him incredulously. "As much as I love Quebec, I see no reason to not defend somewhere larger and more important such as Ottawa, Toronto, Montreal, or Sydney. The former three are important as one would guess why and the last is a major local industrial center - if we are going to manufacture any weapons here, Sydney is the most likely. Halifax has been destroyed, which is plainly obvious."

Durand leaned into Moreau's ear. "You love Quebec, right?" he asked.

"Yes. Why is this important?"

"You want it independent, right?"

"Yes, and why is this important?"

"If we can fight off these aliens ourselves, we can show the Empire that we can be independent and strong. Independence from there is logical."

Moreau nodded, and than stood up. "I support my friend's request. Can we defend Quebec City?"

The Steward responded, "I see no reason why we cannot use that city as a testing area for indigenous armed with our weapons. This request is agreeable."

Durand looked to Fordham and Becker. "Are you in this?"

They both nodded.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Woodrow Wilson, Thomas R. Marshall, and General John Pershing, along with the other assembled leaders of the United States of America, sat on the desks in the cold, damp room in Camp Admiral where they were conversing with the representative of the Stewards, those that had previously been hostile to them but were now forced into an alliance of convenience.

Wilson asked the holographic projection in front of him, "Why do you see it necessary to ally with a human power like us, when your forces are capable of being manifested out of thin air? I simply fail to see why you deem us necessary to survive."

The Steward replied, "We can restock our forces, manufacture large amounts quite quickly, but our capabilities are limited. We can only command so many forces so quickly; it is necessary to use local forces, at times, to aid us. We are willing to supply them with non-autonomous weaponry to be used in their vehicles or as firearms for their infantry; it reduces the burden on us."

Pershing was still skeptical. "What kind of weapons are these?" he asked, eyebrow raised. "Forgive me for my skepticism, but the promises of the butchers of Portland, Maine do not strike me as necessarily completely worth taking at face value."

The Steward was undeterred. "In the few occasions we have had to do this, that response was heard and understood. We are not exactly the most reliable to you now. Let me, however, demonstrate."

The four-legged automaton that carried the projector that projected the vision of the Steward turned to Sherman O'Malley, the soldier standing behind him, he who had brought in the Steward in the first place. His eyes widened.

"What the hell are you going to do to me?!" he panicked.

A little projectile was fired through a small firing port on the entity, and zoomed towards O'Malley. He was too shocked to dodge. He hoped his death would be swift.

Except he didn't die.

The projectile exploded into several tiny bits of machinery, which themselves exploded into tinier ones, and so forth. They covered his torso and parts of his eyes.

They formed a suit of armor, encapsulating him in gray plates of metal, but on his limbs they were more flexible, a rubberlike material. Over his eyes and head formed a helmet with equipped binocular-esque constructs. He could still see, but, if anything, his vision was enhanced. He saw numbers on his eyesight, displaying things he was not sure of, but his view was otherwise uninhibited.

On his right hand was some sort of blade. Looking on his left hand, there was the same. In his palm was a gun of some kind, but no gun he had ever seen before.

He felt superhuman.

The Steward said to the assembled leaders, "this is what we can do to your soldiers, and we can do similar to your vehicles. We will provide whatever help we can to defeat the Insatiable."

Wilson stepped forward, leaving his chair. "Impressive," he said, "most impressive. However, you must understand we cannot be attacking the Insatiable willy-nilly. We have to recapture Washington, which if my understanding is correct is under siege by them, inhabitants barely surviving." He looked towards Pershing. Pershing nodded his approval, signifying Wilson's assessment was correct.

"Of course," said the Steward. "There is no reason why we cannot do so."

Marshall spoke up. "I also respectfully ask that you help us rebuild Portland for the sake of justice, and to show we are truly in concord. Additionally, Portland was a major port in the New England area. If you want us strong, it would behoove you to make us the strongest we can."

The Steward nodded, showing how he had ascertained human gestures. "A strong humanity in this case is beneficial to us. We will rebuild Portland if it adds to progress towards that objective."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


Woodrow Wilson, Thomas R. Marshall, John J. Pershing, and the representative of the Steward that had arrived at Camp Admiral to provide aid to the defense against the Insatiable machine-creatures that were bombarding America. Apparently, it was not simply America they were bombarding.

The entire world was now under siege.

Behind the mechanical entity that projected the three-dimensional film of the Steward stood the hapless soldier Sherman O'Malley, who had been equipped with technology beyond his comprehension, beyond humanity's comprehension.

The two statesmen, the general, and the Steward were conversing about something or other. O'Malley still marveled at the creation that the Steward had bestowed upon him, a suit of armor, it felt like, almost.

He felt like the knights of old, set out into the world to slay some dragon, save some rich man's daughter, and live happily ever after, renowned as a hero far and wide.

His life in Wilmington was at best bearable. He was a disaffected young soul who aspired to be something more than just a peon, a commoner. He wanted to be something greater. He wanted the attention of the daughter, Catherine, of his father's boss, who attended the same high school that he did and now worked for the shop his father worked in. He wanted to be the hero of Wilmington, perhaps the hero of Delaware.

Perhaps the hero of America.

He was lost in his daydream, a delusion of grandeur designed to help him escape the turmoil of the world right now. He wanted out, to a world better than this, not under siege by the Insatiable.

He was lost in thought, but his thoughts were punctuated by something.

What was it? he asked. Was it some thing in his mind, some spirit, some otherworldly essence?

It wasn't.

The Steward was trying to talk to him.

"It is best that you take the fight to the Insatiable," he said, expecting to be obeyed, judging by his tone, O'Malley thought.

"Y-yes sir," he said. He didn't want to fight. And yet he wanted to be the hero of Wilmington.

The incongruence sickened him. He felt like a coward, wanting to be great but never being able to muster the courage to achieve greatness.

Without further protestation, he left the bunker, and saw for his own eyes the chaos that was outside.

His countrymen were firing at the obsidian-colored Insatiable, or in their lexicon spacebeetles, aided by the silvery-plated forces of the Stewards.

He walked forwards, then ran, then practically charged. He saw an insatiable walker, insectlike, crawling towards him.

He hoisted his new rifle and pulled the trigger. Out of the barrel came a shining green beam that burst towards the spacebeetle.

It incinerated it.

He felt elated. He, for once in his miserable life, he felt like he was in power.

He heard the cheers of his fellow soldiers, and their awe.

It felt damned good.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Louis Moreau, Jean Durand, Frederick Fordham, and James Becker sat nearly exhausted in the airship that the Stewards had provided them. They were heading to Quebec City, the home of Moreau and Durand. Fordham and Becker, neither having anything to do with Nova Scotia anymore, agreed to come along.

There were no windows on the airship, only cold metal walls. The cold was frustrating to them all. It was still January, and the True North Strong and Free was cold as ever during the winter. They all shivered, their teeth chattering.

Moreau looked to Durand. "How much of home do you think has been destroyed?"

Moreau inhaled deeply, than exhaled. "I don't know, Jean, I don't know. I don't even want to imagine what desolation could have turned La Vieille Capital into a wasteland a thousand times over." His voiced betrayed the fact that he was suppressing tears.

Fordham looked at them both. "What're you guys saying?" alluding to the fact that they were speaking in French, their mother tongue.

Moreau turned his head to Fordham. "What you must have said when Halifax was destroyed. It was your home, just as Quebec City is our home. Certainly, we must share at least that human love of home."

Fordham nodded. Becker's head oscillated from its sullen position, which the others assumed was meant to be a nod.

The prospect of living in another world with another history had not gone well with him, and the prospect of fighting for those who refused to send him back home to his own world, his own history, so he could prosecute their own war, not his, was devastating to him. Terrifying.

Depressing. Disheartening.

His head was in his hands, but if he were shedding tears, he was doing so silently.

There was a slight bump in the ship floor. They had landed, as the feeling of being in the air, a bizarre experience, had ended. Gravity had set in.

An automaton belonging to the Stewards exited from a maintenance corridor. It began projecting the three dimensional film that the previous machine had, showing the same old man in a vaguely priestly garb. "Attention to the four of you," he said.

The four of them looked up.

"We have decided to convert you into fully-fledged soldiers of existence as we know it. Do not worry; this technology has been modified to your biochemistry."

Four projectiles erupted from the machine's body, and flew towards the men. They enraptured them with metal, turning them into soldiers beyond any earthy conception beforehand.

The transformation stopped. Their heads were still visible, as were their hands. Their limbs and torso were covered, however, and the backs and sides of their heads were covered with some sort of helmet. In front of their eyes were a form of eyeglasses with displays of some sort.

They gasped in amazement. "What have they done?" asked Moreau. "You thinking we can kick these bastards out of Quebec?"

"Here's hoping," uttered Moreau. He looked towards the projection of the Steward. "What will these contraptions do to us?"

"They will enhance your combat capabilities. If they are useful, we will make them standard issue in indigenous soldiers."

A door opened.

In the distance was a towering edifice, one dear to the hearts of Moreau and Durand.

It was the Quebec Parliament building, the symbol of whatever sovereignty La Belle Province was afforded by the men in Ottawa and London.

In the distance hovered a large black airship, undeniably belonging to the Insatiable.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Louis Moreau, Jean Durand, Frederick Fordham, and James Becker gazed at the carnage unfolding over the Quebec Parliament building in Quebec City. The large guns on the ground were pounding at the airships belonging to the Insatiable; they were proving surprisingly effective at downing the occasional reasonably large one, about the size of an ocean liner. Other, smaller craft the size of automobiles or small riverboats were far harder to kill; their ease of maneuverability made them like a fly trying to be swatted by an angry man who could not kill the insect, as the insect could just zip away.

Atop the majestic tower of the Quebec parliament building flew the Fleurdelise in tatters, being illuminated in the cold night only by fire in the sky and the eruption of shells from artillery guns.

This is what was happening to his home, thought Moreau. It was under siege by an alien enemy.

A wave of adrenaline rushed through him. "Men, are we ready to fight?" he asked.

"Can't say I fully understand these new suits of armor or whatever the hell they are," replied Becker, still glancing at the tools bestowed by the Stewards on them. He could discern the presence of a large rifle-like weapon of the nature he had found in Nova Scotia, but otherwise had no inkling of the bizarre markings that obscured part of his vision, but were transparent, allowing him to see.

"None of us do,' Moreau said solemnly. "But the Quebecois nation is threatened," he said. "I know the two of you aren't Quebecois and don't feel the attachment myself and Durand do, but if even one nation falls to these things, the rest are likely to follow. This isn't just for Quebec. This is for humanity."

Becker nodded reluctantly. He knew the importance of fighting for humanity, but this wasn't his humanity. He was from another world with another history, from a United States that seemed to be utterly alien to the nation that bore the name in this world. It seemed he was in another man's war.

He didn't like fighting another man's war, and he especially didn't like fighting the war of the people (well, entities, he mentally corrected himself) that pulled him from his home and threw him here, and refused to let him go back.

Nevertheless, as the rest ran forward, he followed.

Several Insatiable land entities, insectoid in appearance with metallic obsidian carapaces, were moving through the wrecked city block that had been here before the world went to hell. Becker saw the others raising their rifles and he did the same, pulling the trigger that let burst a green energy that rocketed towards one of them, turning its metal body into red and orange liquid that ironically reminded Becker of human blood.

One jumped at him. It was the size of a small automobile, and Becker crouched to avoid it. He failed in doing so. He expected to die.

But he didn't.

He was under the creature's underbelly, or closest thing to an underbelly an automata like that could have, given the shape, for a split second. He thought quickly, using the knowledge imparted to him when he was in his old world. He took his rifle and with all his might rammed it into the machine, sending it flying. These things were lighter than he thought.

He jumped up, hoisted his rifle, and pulled the trigger. The green burst flew towards the bug-thing and blew its body open.

The body was filled with little things he had no idea what they did, but they appeared to be little streaks of metal connected to a variety of odd devices.

He saw the others in combat, having nearly won. Fordham was doing well against a bug-thing, and Moreau and Durand were helping him. Becker took his rifle and fired again, reducing his assailant to molten metal.

He saw Moreau, Durand, and Fordham look to something behind him. He jumped forwards while turning around a half circle in midair, expecting something to be aiming a gun barrel at him.

There was indeed something pointing guns at him, but not what he had expected at all.

They were humans, Quebecois in military uniforms, hoisting their rifles at them.

He realized that he and his compatriots were wearing the armor that the Stewards had given them and hence looked just about as alien as the Insatiable had. He lowered his weapon to show he wasn't openly hostile.

Moreau stepped forward. "Ne tirez pas! Nous sommes Quebecois!"

Moreau and the soldiers talked back and forth some time. Becker had never bothered learning French; the Frenchies in his universe mostly spoke English and were loyal to the United States.

Their conversation came to a lull. The lead soldier gestured to them to follow. Moreau explained, "They're going to take us to their fortification near the Parliament Building. He says the general in charge may want to see us."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Quebecois soldiers led Louis Moreau, Jean Durand, Frederick Fordham, and James Becker into the encampment around the Quebec Parliament building in Quebec City. As they entered the gate, they saw a row of flags marking the entrance: the Union Jack, the Canadian Red Ensign, and the Flag of Quebec all lying sullen and seemingly forlorn. The chaos of battle blew the Quebecois flag atop the parliament building; these three had no way of moving.

The first two flags seemed unpleasant to Moreau and Durand, as if they were foreign flags. In a sense, they were. Britain was a country across the Atlantic Ocean and the Canadian Red Ensign was best suited for the Anglo-Canadians. The third, the Fleurdelise, was their flag. The flag of their nation.

The Quebecois soldiers, clutching their rifles, led the way to the entry point. The area was enclosed in a makeshift wall of wood and metal, and the occasional stone. Whatever would keep the Insatiable out.

They talked to a sentry in a gate. Moreau couldn't tell whether he was English or Quebecois. It didn't matter. He spoke French fairly well, without much hint of an accent either way. He displayed the shock that these mechanized men had come, and had grasped for his pistol before their guardians had told him that they were friendly. He yelled to the controllers of the gate, and it swiveled open, much like a medieval drawbridge.

The four walked in. One of the escort soldiers struck up a conversation with Moreau and Durand. Becker turned to Fordham and asked, "Am I the only one here who gets the impression that the two Frenchies are trying to hide something from us? They speak their language quite frequently among each other."

Fordham replied, "we're in Quebec, remember. They still speak French here. In your world, they are part of the United States and from what I can tell had a good deal of time to assimilate. Here, they are quite stubbornly independent. They were forced into a union with English Canada by the British and they aren't very fond of being so, even if one of their own became Prime Minister two decades ago and left only recently."

Becker nodded. "I can see what you say, but it still strikes me as beyond odd. I'm used to Britain being the hated enemy of the United States, the premier power of North America."

Before Fordham could respond (and he was looking recognizably annoyed), Becker asked Moreau, "What did they say? Are we going to help them?"

Moreau turned around and responded, "the force is commanded by General Arthur Currie, the former commander of the Canadian forces in Europe before the invasion. His force was formerly based in Rimouski before they had to withdraw here. With the arrival of the Insatiable, they have focused on defending Quebec City. Other generals, British and Canadian, are defending other cities, one of whom is defending Montreal. They want use to go see General Currie, to see how we are best deployed."

The remainder nodded. They followed the escort into a large tent, equipped with desks and chairs. There sat General Currie and another man, a very familiar man to Moreau and Durand.

This man looked up. "What the bloody hell are you?!" he exclaimed, jumping for his rifle.

Moreau promptly explained. "May I ask what your name is? I know who General Currie is." Currie nodded.

"My name is Caswell Matherson, sir. Yours?"

"My name is Louis Moreau, sir, and this here is Jean Durand, and back there are Frederick Fordham and James Becker."

"I've met you!" said Matherson. "I met you in Guysborough County! We were stationed together!"

Currie looked dumbstruck. "So you say you know these people?"


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Mary Hodgins ran across the road in rural Missouri, looking for her husband, Peter. Her husband had been called to arms by Governor Frederick D. Gardner, who had signed an emergency bill, in the face of the coming buglike things from space, to allow African-Americans, like her and her husband, to fight as members of the Missouri National Guard. It had been a controversial arrangement with the white population of the state, but given the circumstances as much manpower as they could muster was necessary, and centuries of discrimination parted, if only temporarily, to defend humanity as a whole.

Peter and Mary were originally from Jefferson City, the state capital, when Peter voluntarily joined the National Guard. He was deployed to Portageville, in the southeastern corner of the state, to clear the panhandle of the state from the alien threat. Mary had come with him to the base in Portageville, as had several spouses of the soldiers, black and white. The commanding officers reasoned that such was permissible for morale purposes; the situation was bleak, with their home state being rent apart by the invaders. The State Capitol in Jefferson City had been destroyed already, and many other small towns dear to the hearts of Missourians had been burnt. Whatever was necessary to keep the defenders in good spirits would be essential.

Peter had gone out on patrol a few nights before, but had not returned back with the rest of his scouting team. They said they had engaged one of the 'doombugs' as they were called in this area of the state, and Mary used it herself. His compatriots had said he had run off into the wilderness while firing and never returned.

Mary had been frantically searching the Missouri countryside for days, sleeping in the grass and eating whatever food she could find after running out of the food she had taken from the base in Portageville. Her clothes were dirty, covered in mud and dust and grass stains, but she didn't care. She wanted to find her husband.

They had met when they were young, when Peter was working as a janitor in a white man's retail store. They married some years later, and had a house together. The love between them was strong, hence her determination to find him.

She ran across the dusty road, the granules of dirt being kicked up into a storm. She tired, but she simply did not care. Her husband came first.

She saw something lying on the ground.

Something red, strewn everywhere.

She ran to it, decelerating as she came closer. She kneeled, thinking it was some sort of animal.

But it wasn't, to her horror.

It was a person.

An African-American.

She examined the body, the chest and head a bloody mess, the untouched portions of skin on the limbs determining the race.

There was a little necklace of some sort around what used to be the neck, little silver beads strung around a string. There was a tag.

On that tag read the name "Peter Hodgins."

Her husband was dead.

She frantically examined the rest of the corpse. There was this large body of metal, apparently a bullet of some sort, or fired from some sort of gun at any rate (Peter had told her some of these guns fired pellets, not bullets).

He wasn't killed by a doombug. He was killed by a human.

She let out a roar, defying the world's cruelty. She wanted, so desperately wanted, to have her husband alive. But he would never be.

In the distance, she heard the rumble of engines.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Mary Hodgins tore her head from her hands, mourning the death of her husband, Peter. She knew black people down in the South weren't treated with the respect they should be, she had dealt with that all of her life. But she also thought that white Southerners had the decency to respect those who did the work they, on their absurdly high pedestals, refused to do out of some bizarre conception of their own dignity.

She heard the rumbling of several engines on the road, not too far ahead. It couldn't be a train; there were no railways, and she had gotten the impression that most railway lines around Missouri and the neighboring states had been utterly destroyed by the doombugs pelting the earth. They had to be automobiles of some sort, possibly trucks.

She turned her head towards the direction of the soft hum of engines. In the distance, she could see the trucks coming in. There were flags draped outside of windows; she couldn't tell what exactly they were, but they were flags nevertheless.

She heard them singing. It had a familiar cadence, a familiar melody. It was a marching song, odd as none of them, she could tell, were on foot. Even so, it must relieve the boredom. Soldiers sang their marching songs, her ancestors who were slaves sang work songs, and obviously these people did the same thing for the same purpose; dispelling monotony.

She recognized the tune. It was something she heard occasionally, especially sung by the more tolerant white folk of Jefferson City. It was the Battle Cry of Freedom.

She loved that tune, one line in particular:

"And though he may be poor, not a man shall be a slave."

It seemed as there would be something more than this pitiable existence, discriminated against, reviled for her own skin color, something she did not choose.

She looked anxiously towards them. They could help her get back to Portageville. They seemed to be kind fellows. She heard their words come through.

"They have laid down their lives on the bloody battle field.
Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!
Their motto is resistance: 'To the tyrants never yield!'
Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!"

It made sense to her; the white men were probably referring to the Revolution, something generally revered by most white people.

She waited anxiously for their arrival for some minutes. Then, as quickly as her joy had arisen, it turned to scorn, to anger, to derision.

Yes, there was the Stars and Stripes flying from the trucks, accompanied by the tricolor flag of Missouri, but they were accompanied by flags she decidedly did not like: the Stars and Bars, the Confederate Battle Flag, and the Bonnie Blue Flag, all flags displayed by those who hated her kind.

And then she heard the chorus. It wasn't the call to union that she was used to, but something far, far more sinister.

"Our Dixie forever! She's never at a loss!
Down with the eagle and up with the cross!
We'll rally 'round the bonny flag, we'll rally once again,
Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!"

They were the kind of white man she decidedly did not like and they disliked her in kind.

And then she saw the burning cross.

The first truck, bearing the Stars and Stripes from the passenger portion, passed her. A man standing in the back peered at her, his eyebrow over his left eye raised.

"What're you looking at?" he sneered at her.

She suppressed her tears. Tears would only solidify their negative view of her, so she kept them in.

She ignored his question. "My husband," she pointed to the bloody corpse, "was shot by somebody, I don't know who, but he was shot."

The man tensed significantly, as if he knew something about such a shooting.

"And what am I supposed to care?" the man on the truck answered. "Just a black man, they're, as we say, replaceable." His compatriots laughed.

The rage boiled in Mary. She wanted to run up to that truck and physically beat him, for dehumanizing the man she loved.

But they had guns. She knew not to attack men with guns when she herself was unarmed.

"Go," she barked. "Go! If you insist on treating me like trash, I have no business with you!"

Both of the man on the truck's eyebrows rose, the glare becoming much more intense.

He jumped off the truck. "Men," he commanded, "wait here. I have to deal with this little bitch."

He clutched his shotgun and ran towards Mary, practically charging. She ran. She controlled herself and hence did not scream.

Their chase continued for what was probably minutes but felt like hours.

She tripped over something. Maybe a plant, maybe a rock, but she tripped.

He stood over her. Surprisingly, his gun was not pointed at her.

"You have a lot of gall to come up to a white man and talk like that," he sneered.

He kicked her in the chest.

"You have no idea what a crime against nature it is to have a black man with a gun on God's green Earth," he spat. "It's about time that he died."

"How'd you know he was a soldier?" Mary asked.

"The answer is simple," he stated very plainly. "I killed him some days back. A good white man such as that simply cannot let such a transgression past, so I killed him, just as I would kill some bug in my fields."

This was the man who killed her husband. A murderer.

"Who are you?" she seethed through her teeth.

"My name's Grayson Chester," he growled. He spat on her, then kicked her again. The pain seared through her, but her anger diluted it. She was too vengeful to care. "It's not like it matters to me if you know, you cant do worth shit to me."

He kicked her again, this time in the head.

The world went dark.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Mary woke up. It was darkest night. Her head hurt, as did her chest.

She, contrary to what she would have expected, remembered her encounter with this Chester very well.

The anger she felt was like nothing she had ever felt before. She had been treated worse than ever (and this was quite bad considering her place as a black woman in the South).

She knew one thing, however.

She would not forget this man's name.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


The six men in the small room in the complex built around the Quebec Parliament Building in Quebec City all stared at each other in an awkward, piercing silence. They all knew that the world was already going to hell, but even so this confused them. Caswell Matherson sat at a desk. General Arthur Currie sat at another, eyes wide open in shock. The quartet of Louis Moreau, Jean Durand, Frederick Fordham, and James Becker wore their armor with a similar of lack of comprehension as the two who had never seen men in such armor.

Matherson broke the silence. "Yes, I do know them. We fought in Halifax together, at least the two Quebecers." He glanced towards them. "So you're saying you were ... given this armor by the silver aliens, who want you to use it to fight the black aliens?"

Durand nodded. "Oui," he replied in his native language before switching back to English, "he wants us to do just that. Tabernac," he muttered to himself, not caring one way or another if the commanders heard him.

"You see, Monsieurs," explained Moreau, "there are two kinds of these things: the Stewards and the Insatiables. The former are the silver ones, and they are custodians for reality. The latter are the black ones and want to destroy it. This is, of course, dependent on whether or not I understood them correctly."

"It's not like there's much we can understand now," sighed General Currie. "At least when we were fighting the Germans this all made sense. Now, I don't know what the hell is going on with the world."

Moreau didn't take his musings. "So do you want us to get out there and fight? We are more than willing to," sharpening his voice in the last sentence while peering at the others, who nodded subtly but discernibly. There was a small chorus of "yes" and "oui" from their mouths, and he determined agreement.

Matherson and Currie nodded. "Not much help simply standing here and talking to us bureaucrats. Go on and fight," said Currie.

Without further notice, they left, trotting at a reasonably quick pace out of the small structure.

The met a world of havoc once again, the flying machines of the Insatiable sparring with those of the Stewards, while the Canadian and other soldiers on the ground simply shot randomly into the air, the ricochet of bullets being heard constantly.

The four fired their beam-based weapons at the Insatiable craft, their targeting making doing so incredibly accurate.

Durand was enthralled in the action. For so long he had felt neglected by his peers and derided as a fool. Now he'd be a hero, a hero rivaling anything the pulp magazines would show.

He might even secure independence for his beloved homeland.

He found one Insatiable flying craft and pointed his firearm at it. He pulled the trigger and let the burst fly.

He felt more than satisfied. The enemies of Quebec would fall.

And then it hit the Parliament building.

He panicked, running towards the shaking tower. It had hit fairly close to the top; it wouldn't sent the whole edifice crashing down. But it did send the gallant top of the entire enterprise tumbling down.

At Durand's feet fell the flag of Quebec.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The foursome of men given weapons by the Stewards fought on for hours and hours against the Insatiable hordes. Their buglike creatures and their flying machines were taken down in equal numbers. The sounds of battle were constant and unyielding.

And then they stopped suddenly, causing the garrison to realize that the battle for Quebec City had been won, at least for now.

The Quebec Parliament Building had its massive tower, the undeniable centerfold of the building, partially toppled. Jean Durand had seen the Fleurdelise fall onto the ground in front of him, almost as if it were a sign that Quebec would fall.

But by whatever caused it, be it ingenuity, tenacity, or divine intervention, Quebec had not fallen. A cheer broke out among the weary soldiers, English and French. Jean sighed a deep sigh of relief. His hometown had survived, but at what cost?

His friend Louis Moreau came up to him. "We've won. Quebec will live to see another day."

Durand kept looking into the sky, the radiant sun making itself apparent after hours of keeping his eyes on the battlefield.

Moreau's eyebrow raised, confused. "You never struck me as the pensive type. What's troubling you?"

Durand turned his head towards his friend. "Nothing much. I think I'm going to go take a look around our old neighborhood. Haven't been there in a while."

"Perhaps I could join you?" asked Moreau.

"Why not?" replied Durand.

The two pressed a variety of buttons on their mechanical suits, and left them with a low-ranking soldier who took them away. They wiped sweat off of their brows and exhaled.

The two strolled through Quebec, and the two of them could not help but cry at seeing their beloved home city, the capital of their nation, rent asunder, ruins strewn throughout the streets haphazardly as if they were a child's blocks after he bumped into him.

Their old neighborhood had some buildings still intact, but most windows were destroyed, and many doors and walls, as well as the occasional roof, had fallen in. Civilians were beginning to make their way out of their basements, many clutching clubs made of metal or wood, as well as the occasional firearm (this was one of the few times Durand envied the Americans to his south).

They came upon a restaurant they often used to frequent in their youth. There were a few people there; most of their clientele were likely dead.

They saw two young fellows standing by a wall, one male, one female.

They recognized the girl as Marianne Glaisyer, a girl they had attended school with. They remembered her as scornful of English-speaking Canadians and quite the Quebec nationalist, much like Moreau and Durand but less pragmatic about it than either of them.

Oddly enough, she was talking in English to a man similar in age to the three of them. His accent marked him as not Canadian, but British.

The two approached them. "Marianne?" asked Durand, "is that you?"

She turned her head suddenly, her eyes widening slightly and her mouth curving into the slightest of smiles. "Louis! Jean! I haven't seen you two in ages!"

The Englishman turned his head noticeably slower, but not unnecessarily slow, towards them, his eyes flaring for a split-second. "Marianne, do you happen to know these two poor souls?"

"They aren't poor souls, they were my classmates back when we were in school!" She looked at their uniforms. "I can tell you two are also part of the military. It must be hard after the world has gone to hell so thoroughly."

"It has," quipped Durand, "it has."

Marianne gestured towards her English acquaintance. "This here is Robert, from England. He came with General Currie's force."

The soldier stepped up to the two Quebecois military men. "The name's Robert Blackbourne. I'm from a little town called Madeley, in Shropshire. If you don't know where that is, it's on the Welsh border." His accent dripped from every word, as if he were deliberate in its prominence. The two thought he might just be doing that.

"I guess you're from here, just like Mary here?" he continued, his eyes piercing them. It was plain he saw them as competition for Marianne; it was primal, pure and simple.

"Yes, yes we are," said Durand. Moreau nodded his confirmation.

"How wonderful it is for the three of you to meet!" Marianne exclaimed. "Robert here's a songwriter! Go on, sing for the two of them!" she urged.

"If you insist," replied Robert, grinning yet with humility in his voice.

He began singing:

"Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day,
As the streets were paved with gold, sure everyone was gay!"

He continued singing. Durand leaned into Moreau's ear.

"Should we tell her that song isn't his?" he said.

"Let him embarrass himself."

"But Marianne was never much fond of English music, so I doubt she's heard it."

Moreau spat quietly, not disrupting the performance. "It's mostly popular among the military, I guess. At least on this side of the Atlantic."

Blackbourne continued singing. After three refrains and three verses, they thought he was done, and the berating would begin. But he continued singing a verse they had never heard:

"Paddy met a lady who then whispered in his ear,
'Twill cost you but a threepenny to love me like I'm dear,
Paddy said 'Molly's safe and sound in Tipperary fair,'
So I guess I can oblige you, for this wee affair,"

Throughout this verse Durand and Moreau looked at each other in an awkward realization of what he was saying. "You think her English is good enough to know what he's saying?" Durand asked.

"I don't know. But if she does, she's either a sex worker or ridiculously naïve." Moreau responded.

He began what appeared to be another round of the chorus. The tune was the same, certainly, but the lyrics were far less sentimental.

"That's the wrong way to tickle Mary, that's the wrong way to kiss." His head turned towards Marianne, his eyes and grin filled with an obscene lust.

Marianne's eyes widened. She was starting to get it.

"Don't you know that over here lad, they like it best like this!"

Durand's eyes sharpened and glared at the Englishman.

He mouthed, "you had best stop singing that right this instant."

He ignored him.

"Hooray pour les Français, Farewell Angleterre!" He twisted the words into something vaguely resembling French, but with the disgusting overemphasized nasality that only an Englishman mocking French could create.

Marianne was horrified. "She realizes it now," Durand whispered to Moreau.

"That she does," Moreau replied.

"We didn't know how to tickle Mary, but we learned how to there!"

He looked at her, initially happy, but upon seeing her ghastly offended face, his own grin morphed into an expression of horror.

"Get away from me, you lecherous wretch!" she screamed, slapping him on the cheek with a good deal of force, multiple times.

Durand and Moreau just watched the physical berating of the bawdy Englishman unfold before him. They took great satisfaction in seeing him reap the fruits of his unsavory labor.

He ran off after prying her away from him, quickly enough that she didn't bother chasing after him. It was likely for the better.

"I never thought of you as the type to fall for an Englishman, anyway," quipped Moreau.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

James Becker and Frederick Fordham, still clad in their Steward-bestowed armor and weaponry, walked through the ruined streets of Quebec City. The city, they could tell, was once a vibrant place, with people who where happy and productive, happily living their lives in relative harmony.

The invasion had shattered whatever remained of that Quebec City. Now, it was in ruins for the most part. They could still see the towering spectacle that was the provincial Parliament building in the distance, but the uppermost part of it had fallen off. It had caused one hell of a dust storm in the battle, but the Insatiable had apparently withdrawn, at least for a while.

"Once, when I was a youth, I went to my world's Quebec City for a school trip, something about my history class or whatnot. It was a beautiful city, and from what I can tell, it was a beautiful city in this world. But it was different, in subtle ways that I would guess only being able to see two different forms of development for a single city. It's odd. Really odd."

"I'd guess, wouldn't it?" asked Fordham. "Tell me, what was Halifax like in your world?"

"It was a big port city with a naval base, Fitzgerald Naval Base to be precise. Due to that, the city was very patriotic, which seems surprising considering how it was taken from the British in the 1810s."

Fordham recoiled. Becker snickered, continuing, "It was full of shops and marketplaces, and a bunch of stuff with the state government, jokes about the assembly and whatnot."

Fordham remained quiet. He felt a good deal of sympathy with Becker; both of their lives had been utterly changed by the coming of the Stewards, and the Stewards refused to change it back. Instead, they conscripted these hapless men into fighting their war. It didn't seem fair to either of them. It seemed downright cruel.

A small 'thud' rang out from behind them. They turned around, and there stood a quadripetal machine, colored in chrome-ish metal, with one large black and teal 'eye.' From the 'eye' emitted a projection, which became the three-dimensional representation of a Steward, taking the form of an older man, the same older man on their craft that had taken them from Halifax to Quebec City.

"Our tracking devices have enabled us to find you," the Steward said, without greeting or ceremony. "Why are you not back at the base?"

"We want some time to ourselves. We cannot possibly be planning at every waking moment of our lives!" said Becker, stubbornly.

"That is what we Stewards do, and we do so with minimal loss to productive capacity. Your own desire for flippant leisure means nothing to the survival of centillions of universes. We must return to continue planning the liberation of this world."

Becker stepped up to him, defiantly. "Let me tell you something, sir," turning the honorific into a slur, "I am positively fed up with how you treat us as irrelevant. We are not the godlike beings you are. Allow us some time to ourselves."

"When faced with the fate of an innumerable amount of souls, your needs become of little value. You must fight for the entirety of existence at all times possible. It is malevolent to do otherwise."

"Listen to me good, metal-man," snarled Becker. "You took me away from my family, and you killed his!" he said while pointing to Fordham. "And then you have the gall to say that they don't matter! Why do you treat us like statistics? Why do you not see the necessity of keeping allies?"

"You are statistics in the grand scheme of things," replied the Steward. "Your desires for family are utterly irrelevant to the needs of all existence, and that is why you must fight. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and if you miss your worthless wives or children, I cannot help you but point you towards your target."

"Worthless!?" Becker asked? "Worthless?"

He raised his gun at the Steward and shot him.

The walker fell to the ground, and the projection disappeared. He turned his head towards Fordham.

Fordham took his rifle and did the same.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Hurrah! Hurrah! For Southern rights, Hurrah! Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!"

Such was the song of the band of men that had left Kennett, Missouri, en route to Memphis, Tennessee, to fight the evil that was descending upon the latter city and had apparently retreated from the former. Their trucks rumbled through the muddy roads, the white-robed klansmen leading the strike occasionally taking their shovels and extracting the wheels from the ooze that used to be a robe.

Grayson Chester, their leader, was active among doing so, and did several other things necessary to the mission's success. He cleared roads, he sang the songs (Dixie, The Bonnie Blue Flag, Battle Cry of Freedom, and many others), and, perhaps most important of all to morale, kept the burning cross of the Klan alight.

That cross was a beacon of hope to the people of the South who had been ground into the dirt by the doombugs that had destroyed their way of life, thought Chester. It had brought them many recruits from southeastern Missouri and northeastern Arkansas.

Now, they were ready to surmount a great obstacle. They would not be crossing the Rubicon, as many of them felt they were, but the Mississippi, which seemed at least as daunting. The bridge that they had found was decrepit; the many other sturdy ones that they had found had been destroyed by doombug assaults. These doombugs, savage as they were, seemed to have a plan to cripple America in her heartland. What this plan was, exactly, was unclear to Chester or to anyone else.

Chester scouted ahead with two men, Phillip Young and David Tomlin, flanking him. Their white klan robes were stained with dirt and blood and a variety of other substances. This choice of accomplices was very much symbolic; Young and Tomlin were from Jonesboro, Arkansas, a city utterly destroyed by the doombug invasion. They wanted to fight with these good men from Missouri to save their homes, their state, and their country.

"I must say thank you, Mr. Chester," said Young, almost reverently.

"I can tell in your voice that you are almost idolizing me," replied Chester. "Do not idolize me. I'm human, just like you."

"I'm sorry," replied Young. "But your services are nevertheless valued. I just wanted you to know that, and to thank you."

"Thank you," replied Chester.

There was a ruffle in the leaves. "What was that?" cried out Tomlin.

"Quiet, you!" snarled Chester, quietly and yet with the force of a scream.

They readied their shotguns, pinning their backs against one another so they had a 360-degree area of sight, each of them covering 120 degrees. They wanted to be ready should anything come out and attack them.

"Goddamn doombugs," Chester spat. "If you only knew what you were coming in against."

"Wait!" cried a voice. "We aren't those invaders!"

Out of the foliage came several men with rifles, flying the Stars and Stripes, as well as a Bonnie Blue Flag and a Confederate Battle flag - all welcome symbols to Chester.

"Who are you folks?" he asked, relieved, wiping sweat off of his brow.

"We're from Millington," said one of them. "Who do you folks happen to be?"

"We're from Kennett, Missouri," replied Chester. He elaborated their mission to these people.

"Ah, good!" replied one of them who seemed to be the leader. His clothes, simple work clothes, shirt in a plaid pattern, were stained with mud and blood just like Chester's. "The name's Jedediah McWilliams," he stated bluntly and without frills. "If Memphis is your target, we'll gladly join you." McWilliams' men nodded their assent.

Chester's trucks came across the rickety bridge and parked, forming circles around fires like wagon trains of old. One of Chester's men, a man by the name of James Newman, brought out a ham radio set. "Mr. Chester," he called out, "I'm going to try to contact Memphis, see if anyone's still there."

"Good idea," said Chester.

The men gathered around the radio set as Newman operated it. "Hello?" asked Newman. "Are there any survivors in Memphis? We're from Kennett, Missouri, and we're coming to help you!"

Seconds passed.

Nothing.

Until there was a crackly voice coming from the radio. "This is ... Patecell," came the voice. "We are still ... attack, but we ... despite all of it. We're running out of ... and a lot of our men are ... send help!"

"Don't worry, Mr. Patecell," said Chester into the radio, to the shock of his men. "Help is on the way."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sherman O'Malley and Gregory Dearborn lay on the ground, formerly a floor, of a home in Crofton, Maryland, not far from Camp Admiral, the home of the US government for the time being. Dearborn had been given the same Steward-supplied armor that O'Malley had; it was part of the same issue by the Stewards with the goal of overtaking the Insatiable in this region of Maryland.

O'Malley had served as guard to General Pershing and his other men, and had overheard that the next location to be taken, once Anne Arundel and Prince George's County had been secured. He sighed thinking about it. He wanted to save Wilmington, his hometown, and be a hero. Not a half-rate soldier, no matter how fancy the armor, how powerful the gun he had, how utterly incomprehensible the technology.

"You worried about something?" asked Dearborn. There was no fighting as of right now. Only quiet. They were on guard duty, and looking out for any Insatiable that were coming to attack Crofton or Camp Admiral.

"No, I'm fine," replied O'Malley, remorsefully. "Just hoping for things that aren't going to happen."

"I've noticed that about you, Sherman," remarked Dearborn. "You're a dreamer and you deprecate yourself too damned much. Stop worrying and keep your eyes out for any of the Insatiable." The name of these invaders given by the Stewards had become part of the public lexicon at least in this area.

A green flash emitted from the air, and came blasting towards O'Malley and Dearborn. "Move!" yelled Dearborn. O'Malley obliged, leaping out of the house and into the streets of Crofton. He looked up to see some sort of flying craft bombarding them with these energy weapons. They took out their guns and began firing, trying to down the craft that assailed them.

It dived towards them. They each ran in opposite directions as the craft dove once more, before arcing upward into the sky, preparing for another swoop to take them down.

It did so once more. An idea occurred to O'Malley. He didn't say anything lest he be mocked for his idea.

It was damned stupid.

But it could work.

If it's stupid and it works, it's not stupid, he consoled himself.

The aircraft came down to the ground. Dearborn ran. "Sherman!" he yelled, "why the hell aren't you running?" He muttered to himself, "that hopeless romantic."

He jumped, but not to the side. Upwards, onto the craft as it came veering down to him.

He landed on the craft.

He held onto the side, top and bottom converging at an edge that he gripped onto. It looped into the air, briefly leaving him upside down.

It began to dive towards Dearborn, who was wide-mouthed at the sight of O'Malley's grip.

As the craft came diving down to attack, O'Malley used one of the energy blades that came with the suit - he had tried it against the more buglike creatures, and it worked. He plunged it into the craft, which began to fall.

It crashed, and O'Malley stood up, panting.

"Now there's one less flier to bother us."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester looked out into the distance. He felt as if he had come to a 'promised land,' but it had turned out to be a hellish nightmare. But he had expected this nightmare, and he was prepared to fight with every man that stayed with him to fight. He had Arkansans, Tennesseans, Missourians, and Kentuckians in his ramshackle crew, as well as men from other parts of the country that were hapless enough to come to the area during the invasion.

This promised hell world was the formerly vibrant city of Memphis, Tennessee. This Patecell fellow, as far as he could tell, was more than just a radio operator; he was the only man who could save his fellow Memphians, judging by the worried tones that were audible in the back of his calls for help.

He saw in the distance a large, black tower standing in Memphis. He only hoped that Patecell hadn't died yet, killed by whatever emanated from this maelstrom of terror. "Men," he called to the rested trucks, "be ready. We attack very soon."

He turned around, seeing his haggard crew sitting around several campfires, all wrapped around by circles of trucks, imitating the old horse-and wagon circles that were so common in the Wild West. Over the occasional trucks flew flags to demonstrate their presence; the Stars and Stripes, flags of their states, Confederate battle flags, the Stars and Bars, the Bonnie Blue Flag, and whatever else they could use to proclaim to the world that they were fighting for their independence from the alien menace, for the US and for all humanity. They also had the occasional burning cross, some covering their heads with bedsheets in imitation of the Klan's hood. They wanted a show of force, a show of identity, a show of defiance.

And so Chester understood this. "Men, you are from several states, but here we are in the Volunteer State, who has given soldiers to the cause of freedom multiple times. Now, they are in trouble, and you have volunteered to save them." The crowd turned to look at him. They liked his speeches, he could tell. He would use that to his advantage.

Perhaps he should become a politician, he chuckled to himself. Maybe governor in Jefferson City. Maybe President in Washington.

He liked the sound of that last one.

"Do you see that place over yonder?" he asked, pointing to Memphis. "We need to save this place. It's for all of us, and by my guess where these doombugs are coordinating the attacks on our hometowns. That's right, your hometowns. Do you want your hometowns saved?"

They nodded assent.

"Well then why don't we go and fight in Memphis?" he asked.

They cheered their agreement.

"Then, we are a band of brothers, native to the soil, who are fighting for our property that we gained by honest toil! Onward!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester sat on the rickety farm truck converted into a battlewagon, holding his gun and prepared for the inevitable fight. Above the truck flew the battle flag of the Confederacy; these men were Southerners and it kept morale up, so he didn't mind at all. He was certain that there were goddamned liberals that objected to the use of that flag.

He simply didn't give a damn what those people said.

He was fighting for liberty and purity, the twin ideals that were the cornerstone of modern America. Liberty from oppressors and the purity of the races. To him, they went hand in hand.

He would bring the fight to the oppressors who had overrun Memphis. They would seize victory or die gallant heroes to be forever memorialized in the annals of history, to be the new Paul Revere, he who had but one life to give for his country.

But that wasn't yet. He sweated some from the burning cross behind him, compounded by the stifling hood and robes that a klansman wore. He still occasionally thought that the robes were damned stupid, but again, it helped morale.

He heard a swooping noise from above, a whoosh of air heading away from the city. He looked back and found something flying away, surveying the column of trucks bound for Memphis. It could be only one thing.

The doombugs.

"Men!" he shouted. "get your guns ready! They're coming for us!"

He turned to the driver, David Lloyd. "Step on it! make sure you can get to Memphis!"

"Yes, sir!" replied Lloyd, enthusiastically. He rammed the pedal, sending the truck zooming towards the city. The other drivers took the hint and accelerated, turning the whole line into a rapidly moving wall that would have prevented anyone to the side of the road from crossing should there have been any.

Doombugs began popping up from the grass, and opened fire. A truck, two or three behind the one carrying Grayson, exploded, its chassis rolling down to the side. The trucks behind them maneuvered to avoid the wreck, all the while the men onboard firing away, the shotgun fire punctuating the violence like an erratically played timpani or snare drum.

The trucks continued into the city, winding into a street with several small buildings. In the distance Grayson could see a large tower with antenna-like constructs jutting into the air. This, he came to the conclusion, had to be important.

A building had fallen over and blocked the entrance of the trucks into the city further. It would have to be navigated on foot.

The doombugs were still here, however, and they were doing a decent job against the human resistance, which nevertheless held its own against the alien menace. "Men! Out of the trucks and secure this area! We'll be using this as a base to clear Memphis!"

And so they did, parking the trucks haphazardly in an attempt to secure themselves. Spider-like doombugs threw themselves at the men, ripping apart some of them.

One jumped at Grayson, and he ducked, rolling leftward. His Klan hood was disoriented for a second, obscuring his vision. Cursing, he ripped it off and saw that the doombug was at his feet. He pulled them out from under the creature and leaped to his feet, shifting his shotgun to firing position.

It jumped towards him while moving upward at an angle. He shot its underbelly, causing the chassis to explode in a hail of metal and smoke.

He clambered up. The fight had ended. Not too many men had been lost.

"Rest for about an hour, men," he ordered. "After that, we're going in."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester, David Lloyd, and three other men by the names of Schuyler Jameson, Hugh Stockton, and Jefferson Ames, clambered through the ruins of Memphis, Tennessee. They led the other men of southeastern Missouri, northeastern Arkansas, and western Tennessee in an attempt to liberate the city and cement their place in America's beautiful epic that is her history, or so that is what they thought of it.

Lloyd coughed, thrusting his arm to his mouth. He inhaled, sniffling due to all the dust that entered his nose and mouth. "They certainly did a number on this place, now didn't they?"

"That they did, that they did," replied Chester. He leaped over a half-broken wall, and the others did the same.

Memphis looked like something out of the newsreels of Europe, bombed out and turned into collapsed buildings, exposing basements that could easily be used in trench warfare. However, the warfare against the doombugs was not trench warfare; it was mobile and stressful, requiring energy and strength, less so endurance and patience.

They continued for some time; Grayson didn't bother keeping track. They would make it to the center, or to more people, soon enough.

He heard some noises, and signaled the men via his hands to stop and shush themselves.

Talking.

That meant people.

"Do you hear that, Lloyd?"

"Yes, I hear it too. You think that they're nearby?"

They remained quiet. They were in a basement not far from where the makeshift militia had paused their trek.

Forward and leftward, they discerned. "Okay, men, you see that basement up there, with the lamppost by it." There it was, one lone lamppost that had survived the doombug attack on the city. It was slightly bent, in the 170s of degrees in terms of its two segments that were once one straight line. Its glass was broken, its light dark. But it was day and it was still visible.

They made their way. They heard talking.

Lloyd made his way to the gathering, where there were about twenty men, mostly white but with two or three blacks, all armed with rifles or shotguns. Their apprehension turned rapidly to joy as they realized there were other living humans who had come to save them, seemingly.

One of them stepped forward. "Who do you fine fellows happen to be?" he said, concisely and showing significant attempt to make light of the situation.

"My name is Grayson Chester. I heard a radio operator over the ham radio back where I'm from coming from this city. I raised an army of men all throughout the region to liberate this place. Who're you?"

"The name's Braxton Patecell, Mr. Chester. Pleasure to meet you. I believe I was the one whose calls for help you heard."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester, Braxton Patecell, David Lloyd, and a variety of other men clambered through the ruins of Memphis. This Patecell fellow had been able to determine what that big, hulking black tower, seemingly made out of some very thick metal, obsidian black in color, hulking over the city. It was as if a building, like the Washington Monument for example, had been doused in black paint and dropped unceremoniously in the hellhole that was now Memphis. It wasn't exactly pleasant to walk through.

"How long have you been in here?" Chester asked Patecell.

"I'm a native Memphian, Mr. Chester," replied Patecell. "When these things attacked, I had to defend myself and my home city. I was a member of the Tennessee National Guard stationed here, awaiting to be sent out to Europe to fight against the Germans. Obviously, that is now not happening."

"How did you contact us with the radio?"

"Hobby of mine," said the Memphian. "Took it up some years before the War, and then Congress banned it when the Lusitania was sunk. And now, well, Congress can't say much to me, to you, or to anyone who isn't in Virginia or Maryland. It came in handy to have it; we've had men from other parts of the state, Kentucky even, come down and help reinforce us, but it's been not nearly enough to beat them. Now with your help, we can hopefully bring the fight to the doombugs." Chester noticed how his word for the creatures had caught on among the Memphians as well as those from Arkansas and the other states of the region. It made him feel powerful, able to dictate the words his acolytes could use.

Patecell was, hopefully, understating the amount of men Chester had brought. Now it was not a band of resistance fighters, like they heard of in the Boer Wars, but now a ragtag if functional army. They called themselves the Army of the Mississippi, the river that they all shared. A few of them noticed that it was the same name as a damnyankee military formation during the War Between the States, but it didn't really matter to Chester now. So long as they understood the South was different, he had nothing against Northerners. They were his countrymen, whether he liked it or not, and he respected that, and asked for the same respect to be given to him and to those who happened to be from the southern half of the Mason-Dixon Line.

The path to the tower was awfully quiet. Too quiet.

Unbearably quiet.

There were, to their surprise, no doombugs. There were flying ones, but they seemed to be heading northwards, perhaps to fight another insurgency that was drawing fire away from the direct defense of the tower.

This seemed too easy. He would be a hero for nothing, almost, not to discount the sacrifices of his men that had fought all the way across the river to here.

And then came the swarm.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Grayson Chester took the long bar of steel he carried around with him since leaving Kennett, using it as a melee weapon, and rammed it into the head of the doombug assailing him. Its multifarious little claws tried to plunge themselves into his face, but they were met by several pounds of raw steel once in a building that was devastated back in Missouri. The 'eyes' of the thing shattered, and electrical noises became audible. It jilted around, firing its weapons in seemingly random directions. One hapless member of the Army of the Mississippi was killed by this hellfire; Chester pitied him.

In this man's memory, he took the metal bar and rammed it into the doombug's head one more time. It sagged to the ground, its inner workings shattered and dead. He dropped to the ground when another beam came flying towards him, and then stood up and ran towards the tower that seemed to be controlling these things.

He panted, gazing upon the obsidian shell of the edifice. This had to be their master, he thought. No self-respecting entity would make the seat of power, even in the field, so innocuous, so average. It was the reason for the grandeur of the Capitol building in Washington, it was the reason for the newly completed capitol of Missouri in Jefferson City emulated the former building so. They wanted to show their authority, to flaunt it, to brag about it.

He took his shotgun and shot at it. There was a small dent but little more.

"Damn it!" he screamed. "Patecell, tell the men to guard the path to here! I'm going to find a way to blow this thing, no matter what happens!"

"Whatever you say, Chester," the Memphian shouted over the chaos. "But be quick! We can't let them overwhelm us!"

Grayson regretted his arrogance. He thought he could find out how to destroy it without some sort of explosive. He had neglected to acquire any during the long trek to Memphis; he didn't think these things had bases. But now he would have to find a way to crack the casing of this obelisk.

He took the metal rod and started assailing the tower as if it where a stone being hit by a hammer in a quarry. There were small dents.

He was disheartened for a brief moment, but he came to realize the combination of a dozen small dents made a big dent.

He kept on whacking the thing, in hopes that it would fall. He became addicted to the monotony, the rhythm of it.

And then he heard the scream.

He jolted his head back, and saw some particularly unpleasant looking doombug hoisting an appendage with some sort of large cannon at Patecell. The Memphian screamed in terror as a bluish beam welled up inside of it for all of three seconds, than blasted towards him.

The Memphian was reduced to a crisp.

Chester realized that he was next. He glanced at the markings on the tower, and concluded it seemed that a significant blow to the foundation would send the edifice crashing down.

The doombug charged its cannon.

Three seconds to do something.

He raised his metal bar and used it as a shield, then lunged towards the doombug.

He grabbed the cannon and forced it to face the tower.

It fired.

The obsidian obelisk, beautiful in an obscenely morbid manner, fell. In his hands the doombug fell limp.

And so many others did the same.

A call rose from the men, as the realization dawned upon them.

"Our Dixie forever! She's never at a loss!
Down with the Eagle, and up with the Cross!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Woodrow Wilson was satisfied, the first he had been since those damned things invaded the month beforehand. The war was finally seeming to be won, at least in areas he had information on. Anything west of the Appalachians was utterly unknown to him, and it worried him. But it appeared that he could rest easy for at least a day.

But that would not be now. He sat at the desk with General Pershing and Vice President Marshall. He was awaiting another report about what was going on in the war for the various parts of Maryland. Calvert County had been taken, and militiamen in Garrett County and Allegany County were doing well, as they had taken Cumberland.

He chuckled, realizing that it must be similar to what had to be going on across the Atlantic. Here, Cumberland was being liberated from Garrett county. There, Cumberland was being liberated (he hoped) from Northumbria or Wigtownshire or Kirkcudbrightshire. Humanity actually seemed to be holding his own, surprisingly. He thanked providence for this intervention. It had to be divine.

"Mr. President," said Pershing, seemingly beginning the meeting, "I have some good news for you."

"Which is?" asked the President, his eyebrows rising. Good news was often rare.

"Today, a truck arrived from out west from Tennessee. The driver was a man by the name of David Lloyd, who was from a small town in Southwestern Missouri. He had made his way through Tennessee and Virginia, and claims that these things have been disabled in that area, making travel a lot easier for him."

"Disabled? How so?" asked Wilson, his interest piqued.

"These things are controlled by some sort of tower, one of which was in Memphis. Lloyd was part of a gang of men calling themselves the Army of the Mississippi that liberated Memphis. They're affiliated with some revival of the Ku Klux Klan, or so they say."

"So you're telling me a ragtag bunch of men from Missouri were able to save a city?"

"From Missouri, Arkansas, Kentucky, and Tennessee. They had an army of at least a thousand, according to this Lloyd fellow."

"Well I'll be damned," stated Wilson, bluntly. "Do we have any inspectors going down there? Any reports from areas west of here?"

"Charleston, Bristol, and Winchester all report far less alien forces, among several other towns. What we could gleam from radio communications in Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee state similar things."

"What about Staunton?" the President asked, distressed that Pershing had not mentioned his hometown.

"No report from Staunton, Mr. President. I know that town's dear to you. I'll put forth a request to our radio operators to contact them."

"Good, good," said Wilson, relieved. "Also, when you send that scouting party to Tennessee, give all of them, on my orders, the Medal of Honor."