Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion (36 page)

Trevor bit into the final chunk of bread and savored the taste. The bread ranked as the best part of the meal, although the stew certainly stuck to his ribs despite only a few morsels of meat—probably pork—in a bowl of broth and old vegetables.

To his surprise, Jorgie did not complain or wrinkle his nose. Something in the broth (which hinted of red wine) captured the boy’s taste.

Hauser ate, too, but his not-so-well-hidden expressions of disdain indicated he certainly would have preferred more traditional cuisine. Back home old-world fair such as burgers, chicken breast, and cheese made a strong return after the liberation of the Midwest.

After two days in Europe, Trevor came to know that the majority of their diet consisted of seafood for those villages near the ocean or lakes and produce for the rest, such as vegetables and baked goods made from wheat and flour. Meat from cattle in the Murol area remained a rare luxury because there existed little excess crops for the creation of livestock feed and the trade routes to other fiefdoms had been greatly diminished after Voggoth’s European offensive last summer.

Wine, however, could be found. Apparently there were some sacrifices up with which the French would not put.

The trio of visitors sat at a wooden table in a café at the village center. Plastic plants decorated tadelakt walls on the inside while natural ivory grew on black metal latticework erected between the dining area and the side walk. The tables remained beneath shade but out beyond the reach of the protective awning a sunny day bloomed. Horses, bicycles, and pedestrians traveled the tiny street outside.

The tables inside were mainly full. Customers wore garb ranging from a variety of military clothes to borderline rags. A handful of waiters tried to keep pace with demand, but food came slow and what came did not usually match the quality of Trevor’s stew and bread. Nonetheless, the café maintained an aura of propriety. Conversations remained hushed; proper table manners observed; servers treated customers with politeness and received the same.

Armand sat with them. His bowl and bread held his full attention.

Jorgie drank a metal goblet of milk; another rarity but the woman running the café insisted growing boys needed calcium. As JB finished—careful to drain every drop from the cup—he asked Armand a question. In French.

“Pardon me, Mister Armand, but I have a question I would like to ask.”

Armand spoke something that sounded like ‘yes?’ through a chewing mouth.

“I appreciate your looking after us,” Trevor listened to Jorgie’s words; all very polite and chosen to emphasize respect. “But do you not speak for the people of France in Camelot?”

Armand licked his lips and answered Jorgie in the warmest tone Trevor had heard from the man since landing.

“Lady Theresa speaks for what remains of my country. I am a warrior, not a politician.”

Hauser continued eating without interruption. He had grown accustomed to not understanding a damn thing anybody said.

“Have you seen many battles?”

Trevor spotted a glint behind Armand’s glasses; a sparkle.

“Young Jorgie, I have seen a hundred battles and slaughtered a thousand enemies.”

This time JB’s eyes sparkled.

“I would love to hear the stories some time. Will you tell them to me? My father has told me many stories of the war.”

“Maybe little boys should not hear such things.”

Trevor broke in, “Were you a soldier before the invasion?”

“I was fifteen then,” Armand answered. “Snowboarding in the mountains—water skiing—motocross—those were the things I did. Other than the television I do not think I saw a gun until the ducks and the other things came here.”

Jorgie said, “Mr. Armand, but you seem very comfortable with all of it. I mean that as a compliment.”

“I
am
comfortable with it. The first time I fired a gun I shot one of the big bats right in the head while it was flying.”

Trevor asked, “Do you think it was a lucky shot?”

Armand hesitated. His eyes glanced down and he bit his lower lip as if the answer might be embarrassing.

“No. No it was not luck. As your boy said, I felt very comfortable with it.”

Trevor smiled. A little.

Armand sneered, “What are you laughing at?”

“I’m not laughing. It’s just that, well, I think I know someone just like you back home. And for some reason, that gives me great comfort.”

“Hello! Armand! You’re wanted!”

The voice came from a young man wearing a BMW shirt and leather pants similar to Armand’s. He stood at the open driver’s door of a small sedan idling at the curb.

“That’s it,” Armand pushed away from the table. “You had better come with me now. I am guessing that Camelot has reached a decision on your request.”

Trevor stood as well, then JB. Hauser—not understanding the words—lagged behind as he struggled with the last drops of stew.

“And what do you want them to decide?” Trevor asked.

“I want them to do what I have always wanted them to do. I want to fight.”

For the third straight day Trevor returned to the Château de Murol. This time, however, he would learn if the previous two days’ worth of persuasion would pay dividends. The Europeans—the collection of enclaves calling themselves Camelot—would have acted more readily last year, before The Order and The Duass hit them with a pre-emptive strike. Everything rested on whether or not he, and JB to some extent, adequately conveyed the notion that they either fought now or would find themselves voted into oblivion by the Gods. The same fate as the Feranites.

While Hauser stayed behind in the guard shack, Trevor and JB climbed the stone steps with Armand, up and into the courtyard where they nearly collided with the mass of men and women exiting the door to the meeting chamber. Lady Cai was there, too.

Armand hurried to her. The two conversed in French. Trevor caught a few words that sounded like ‘convinced’, ‘instinct,’ and ‘good luck.’ Then Cai pressed her hands against Armand’s chest and gave him a kiss. Armand grasped her hips and pulled her close as if wanting to be enveloped by her essence.

Jorgie watched, fascinated by the display of such intense affection.

Of course, it would amaze him, Trevor considered. He never saw that type of affection between me and his mother.

When their embrace ended, Armand led Trevor and JB into the meeting room. Cai made eye contact with Jorgie before they moved out of sight and smiled sweetly at the boy.

Inside they found the meeting room deserted save for Alexander who worked his way around the empty table gathering papers that, no doubt, had served as part of his presentation to Camelot.

Armand remained near the entranceway. Trevor and Jorgie walked to the table and approached Alexander.

“I was married three times,” Alexander volunteered as he collected the discarded papers. Trevor sensed tension lingering in the room.

“Three times? I expect they were all lucky women.”

“Yes, yes they were.
After
each divorce, that is. My second wife nagged me nearly to death. Do you know what she nagged me most about? She told me that I thought about things too much. She said I needed to be more spontaneous and not so, oh, what would be the word?
Pragmatic,
maybe. Something like that. She threw around a lot of words that she did not fully understand.”

Trevor, still with a light tone in his voice, asked, “So why would such a smart man marry a woman like that?”

Alexander paused with the stack of papers cradled in one arm and said, “Why she was beautiful, of course.”

“Of course,” Trevor nodded.

“Anyway,” Alexander returned to gathering papers. “The point is that sometimes I wonder if she was not right. Maybe I am thinking about this too much. Ask Armand over there. He will tell you that sometimes you have to trust your gut. Maybe I should listen to him more.”

“You think breaking out now is a bad idea?” Trevor guessed.

“No. Well, yes. But I am in favor of it. I think I am wondering too much about what you have told us. Other worlds—the different races—parallel Earths—evolved super-beings and all of that. It can really set a mind to thinking. That is, if you can sort out the confusion.”

“I understand. Believe me.”

“I suppose you do,” Alexander finished gathering the papers and carefully slipped them into a small briefcase. “Point is, the group has voted to do as you request. I believe some chose so because they feel a sense of obligation for the material aid you sent to us over the years. Others are simply tired of hiding in these little villages. Many just want to fight because they would rather die on their feet. But they all know the stakes. First we have to get past the checkpoints the Duass have established to pen us in and break apart our lines of communication. Then an entire army from The Order waits.”

“I understand.”

“Trevor, the group trusted me to serve as the spokesperson and as a leader, of sorts. Over the years I have sacrificed many people so that others could live. I have made many hard decisions that will haunt me until I die. I sit in the responsibility seat. I did not ask for it, but as my third wife once told me, you get what you deserve. I believed her because I soon came to realize that she was punishment for something I must have done in a previous life. On the other hand, I do not know if my position here is a blessing or a curse. I suspect the latter.”

“Alexander, I—“

The Englishman held a hand up and Trevor stopped speaking.

“I want you to tell me, again, face-to-face that you are confident this will work. Convince me, one more time.”

Alexander waited. Trevor returned his gaze and told the truth.

“I
don’t
know that this will work, Alexander. I only know that if we do nothing then all of your people, and mine, will die. Or worse. We’re running out of time and any hope of victory has now shifted from my Empire to your Camelot.”

Silence. Alexander remained fixed on Trevor’s eyes, until JB tugged at his sleeve.

“My father is telling the truth, Mr. Alexander.”

Alexander closed his eyes, considered, and then opened them again. He first nodded to Trevor, then walked toward Armand.

“Prepare the cavalry.”

Trevor thought of Stonewall McAllister and his gallant horsemen galloping through a cloud of smoke to rescue him, Nina, and Danny Washburn when the Duass had trapped them in a bank building a few miles from the estate during that first year.

Trevor mumbled, “We have cavalry where I come from, too.”

Alexander glanced at Trevor then to Armand. The two Europeans shared a silent communication. Nearly a laugh.

Armand faced Trevor.

“Not like this you don’t.”

Armand’s war horses roared to life filling the garage with a chorus of mechanical screams and the smell of sizzling oil and smoky exhaust. Among the drab gray walls and naked fluorescent lights of the gritty pen, skins of red, black, yellow, and blue glistened.

The steeds wore badges: Kawasaki, BMW, Yamaha, and Triumph.

Riders wore racing gear complete with body armor branded Fox, Thor, Fly and more. They hurried in the call to arms with stops first at the armory at the rear of the chamber and then to their bikes. They grabbed machine pistols of varying types including Micro Uzis, Tuma MTEs, and Czech-built Scorpions. Everyone grabbed handfuls of grenades, a few satchel charges, and some larger packets that appeared to be homemade explosives. A few toted short-range mortar tubes with ammo crates strapped to the rear or sides of their bikes.

Most road singles; a few doubles. Most men, several women; some of the riders young and eager slapping high-fives and punching one another’s arms; others older and cautious checking safety straps and body armor.

Fifty bikes readied for war in the garage. A dozen of them—mainly touring style motorcycles—displayed modified windshields made from some kind of heavy plastic that seemed more to Trevor like a shield. Those riders wore the thickest body armor and carried large metal cylinder-like devices that enveloped one entire hand in a type of grip.

Trevor walked into the noise of the garage following Alexander and Armand with JB who plugged his ears with his fingers.

Armand—a FAMAS rifle slung over his racing gear—spoke as he fiddled with a red helmet. Trevor noticed the helmet came equipped with a transmitter and receiver and realized he was not dealing with a bunch of Hell’s Angels wannabes but a sophisticated force. Cavalry like Stonewall’s, except on steel horses.

Armand said to Alexander, “Hammer and Anvil, yes?”

“Exactly. Anvil will be ten minutes behind you, just as we have trained.”

Armand added, “The other regiments will meet us along the way in Saint-Nectaire and Montaigut-le-Blanc. We will number two hundred by the time we get on the A75.”

One of the riders—a burly fellow with a scruffy beard—paused on his way from the armory to his bike in order to ruffle Jorgie’s hair, apparently amused in a fatherly way at the kid blocking his ears.

JB responded with a smile and dared to pull a hand from his ear long enough to give the soldier a thumbs up. The fellow returned the gesture just before fixing a black and white helmet on his head and straddling a Yamaha Raptor ATV that carried several bundles of supplies strapped to its frame.