to defend ourselves."
     He smiled, pausing before continuing.
"But behold, if ye seek to destroy us more we will
seek to destroy you; yea, and we will seek our
land, the land of our first inheritance."
     "Those words were spoken by Moroni. We must
gird our loins for battle against the ultimate enemy. At
such times as this even women must be used in a
manner unnatural to them. Do you know how much
Delta-V is required to move a moon, even one as
small as Deimos? Why should I believe you?"
     I blinked, nonplussed by the change in subject.
Glancing quickly at Arlene, I saw she was controlling
her reaction to the "unnatural" crack, her face impas-
sive. Good girl!
     "We, ah, fight the same enemy," I said.
"This is what you purport. You also claim to have
hopped out of orbit and landed on your feet. Pray that
we may prove both to our satisfaction. Until such
time, we must be careful. If what you say is true, you
will be able to demonstrate this to us on a mission.
Only then, if you earn our trust, will you"--he
pointedly stared at me, ignoring Arlene--"be allowed
access to our special wisdom. The audience is over,
and good luck to you."
     I worried that Arlene might say something stupid
when I saw her mouth open and the danger sign of her
eyebrows rising faster than any rocket. Hell, I was
worried about myself. But we were ushered out of
there without any disasters.
     "As far as I'm concerned," said Albert, leading us
back to our room, accompanied by Jerry, "you just
flunked spy school."
     "Huh?"
"I don't imagine a spy would concoct so ridiculous
a story and annoy the President so thoroughly."
I said nothing; privately, I thought that was exactly
what a spy might do. It worked, didn't it?
     We felt tension leaking from the corridor, like air
escaping from the dome on Deimos. At least the
President was taking some kind of chance on us. He
didn't realize how big a chance he'd taken talking that
way to Arlene.
     "We belong to the brotherhood of man," Albert
said. "If you think you have problems now, just wait
until people begin believing your story. Then we'll
start treating you like angels!"
     9
I guess they believed our story, somewhat at
least. Fly and I were left alone at last when that rugged
stalwart, Albert Whatever, scurried off on some er-
rand.
     Fly gestured me close. "We really should report in,"
he whispered in my ear.
     "Report in? To whom?" A good question. If the
country were as devastated as we'd been led to
believe, there wasn't much of a military command
structure left to report to anybody.
     If. . . I saw at once where Fly was coming from.
"How much do we really know about these guys?"
asked Fly, confirming my cognition. "Whose side are
they on?"
     "You'd have a hard time persuading me they're
demon-lovers," I said.
     "All right . . . maybe. They're patriots. But are they
right?"
     Wasn't much I could say to that. Fly had a point. . .
as patriotic and pro-human as these Mormons might
be, they still might be wrong about the extent of the
collapse. "You're saying they could be deluded by
their apocalyptic religion."
     He raised his brows. "Mormons aren't apocalyptic,
Arlene. I think you're confusing them with certain
branches of Christianity. I'm only saying that they're
pretty cut off from information . . . the whole govern-
ment might look like it's collapsed from this view-
point; but maybe if we contacted somebody some-
where else, in the Pentagon or at least an actual
Marine Corps base, maybe we'd get a different pic-
ture."
     "All right. Who, then?"
"Chain of command, Arlene. Who do you think we
should contact?"
     I'm always forgetting about the omnipresent chain.
Usually, all I see are enlisted guys like me, maybe one
C.O.--Weems, in our case. I'm not used to thinking
of the Great Chain of Being rising above my head all
the way up to the C-in-C, the President of the United
States. Guess that's why Fly makes the big bucks (heh)
as a noncom, while I'm just a grunt.
     "Um, Major Boyd, I guess. Or the great-grandboss,
Colonel Karapetian."
     "Hm . . . I'm betting this is a bit above m'lord
Boyd's head. I think we should take this up with God
Himself: the colonel."
     "I agree completely. Got the phone number?"
"Yeah, well, that's the next problem. Surely in a
facility this size, there has to be a radio room some-
where, wouldn't you think?"
     We did a lot of thinking over the next hour; we also
did a lot of quiet, careful questioning, staying away
from those obviously "under arms," questioning the
less suspicious civilians instead. But what we mostly
did was a lot of walking. My dogs were barking like
Dobermans long before we found anything radio-
roomlike.
     The "compound" actually comprised a whole series
of buildings, different clumps far away, and included
a large portion of downtown Salt Lake City. There
were other buildings and residences all around, of
course; SLC is big. Well not compared to my old
hometown of L.A., of course, but you get the idea.
"The compound" might include two buildings and
not include the building in between them; it wasn't
defined geographically.
     However, we quickly discovered we were restricted
to a small, two-block radius surrounding the Taberna-
cle. An electrified fence cut that central core off from
the rest of the facility (and the rest of the city); guards
patrolled the fence like a military base; there were
even suspicious pillboxes with tiny bits of what might
have been the barrels of crew-served weapons poking
out, and piles of camouflaged tarps that might conceal
tanks or Bradleys. And the guards were as tight about
controlling what left the core as they were about what
entered.
     I saw a lump that looked suspiciously like an
M-2/A-2 tank, state of the art; I turned to point it
out to Fly, but he was busy staring at the tall office
building at our backs. "What's that up top of that sky-
scraper?" he asked.
     "Skyscraper? You've lived in too many small towns,
Fly-boy."
     "Yeah, yeah. What's up top there? That metal
thing?"
     "Um ... a TV aerial."
"Are you sure? Look again."
     I stared, squinting to clear up my mild astigmatism.
"Huh, I see what you mean. It could be, but I'm not
sure. You think it's a radio antenna, right?"
"I don't know what they're supposed to look like
when they're stationary, only what they look like on
the box we carry with us."
     "Well, you have an urgent appointment, Fly? Let's
check it out."
     "Sure hope they have a working elevator," he said,
surprising me; I thought after our experiences on
Deimos, he'd never want to look at another lift again.
There was an armed guard at the front entrance of
the building, which was a mere fifteen stories tall. . .
hardly a "skyscraper." The rear entrance was barri-
caded. The guard unshipped the Sig-Cow rifle he
carried. "Aren't you the two unbelievers who claim
they stopped the aliens cold on Deimos?"
     "That's we," I said, "Unbelievers 'R' Us."
Fly hushed me. He always claims I make things
worse in any confrontational situation, but I just
don't see it.
     "The President sent us on an inspection tour," said
Fly with the sort of easy, confident lying I admired so
much but could never pull off. "Supposed to 'famil-
iarize' ourselves with your SOPs." He rolled his eyes;
you could hear the quotation marks around familiar-
ize. "As if we haven't had enough military procedures
for a lifetime!"
     The guard shook his head, instantly sympathetic.
"Ain't it the truth? Few weeks ago, you know what I
was? I was a cook at the Elephant Grill, you know, up
at Third? So what do they make me when the war
breaks out? A sentry!"
     "You know this building well?"
"Well, I should! My fiancee worked here. Before the
war."
     "Look, can you come along with us, show us the
place? I come from a small town, and we don't have
buildings this size. You're not stuck as the only guard,
are you?" There were no other guards in sight; I'm
sure Fly noticed that as well as I.
     "'Fraid so, Corporal."
"Fly. Fly Taggart."
     "I'm afraid so, Fly. I can't leave. Look, you can't get
lost. It's just a big, tall square. See the Tabernacle
there? Anytime you get lost, just walk to the windows
and walk around until you see the Tabernacle. You
can't miss it."
     "You sure it'll be okay?"
"You can't miss it. No problemo."
     "Look, if I get in trouble, is there a phone I can call
down here on?"
     "Sure, use the black phone near the elevator, the
one with no buttons. Just pick it up; it'll ring here."
"Thanks. This way? The elevators over here?"
The helpful sentry showed us how to get to the
elevators. They were actually behind some partitions;
we might not have found them ... for several min-
utes.
     We climbed aboard, and Fly said in a normal
speaking voice, "Don't trust these elevators. May as
well start at the top and walk down, floor by floor,
familiarizing ourselves with the procedures. Then we
can report back to the President and tell him where
we'd do the most good."
     To me, he used hand signals: Start top; find radio;
broadcast report.
     The antenna was atop the roof, of course; but that
didn't mean that's where the radio room would be.
We wandered around every floor, trying to look
official. Early on, I found a clipboard hanging on a peg
in the rooftop janitor's shed, where they kept all the
window-washing stuff. Fly took the clipboard and
made a point of officiously writing down reports on
everybody in every office, with me trailing along
behind looking like his assistant.
     It worked; people tensed up, stopped talking,
worked diligently, and not a one confronted us to ask
us who the hell we were. It helped that Fly had been
inventory control officer for a few months. He stirred
them up and made them sweat.
     Finally, twelve floors down from the top, we found
the damned radio room. Two operators, both civil-
ians. One had a pistol; we were unarmed, of course.
Fly strode in like Gunnery Sergeant Goforth on the
inspection warpath. "On your feet," he barked; the
startled operators stared for a second, then leapt to
their feet and stood at a bad imitation of attention.
"Classified message traffic from the President," he
snarled. "Take a hike."
     "Sir, we're not supposed to--"
"Sir? Do you see these?" He angrily pointed at his
stripes. "Do I look like a God-damned pansy-waist
gut-sucking ass-kissing four-eyed college-boy officer to
you?"
     "No sir! No--ah--"
Fly leaned close, playing drill instructor. "Try
COR-POR-AL, boy. Next time you open that hole of
yours, first word out better be Corporal Taggart."
"C-C-Corporal Taggart, sir! I mean, Corporal
Taggart, we're not supposed to leave."
     "Did you hear what type of message traffic I said
this was?"
     "Classified? Sir--Corporal!--we're fully cleared
for all levels of classification."
     "Do I know that, boy? You got some paper you can
show me?"
     "No, not on me."
"Then take a hike, dickhead. Go back and get
something from your C.O. We'll wait right here."
The man dithered, looking back and forth at the
door, the equipment, and his partner, a small, frail-
looking man who pointedly looked away, saying No,
way, bud, this is your call. "All right. You won't touch
anything while I'm gone, will you?"
     "Scout's honor," sneered Fly. Was he ever a Boy
Scout? I couldn't remember.
     The man slid sideways past Fly and almost backed
into me. I glared daggers at him and he split. After a
couple of seconds Fly turned to the mousy compan-
ion. "What're you still doing here? Get after your
partner!"
     Meekly, the man turned and darted out of the
room.
     "Fly, what's going to happen when they get across
the street and find out there's no message traffic from
the President?"
     "Well, we'd better hurry, A.S., so we're done before
they get back!"
     Fortunately, they'd left the equipment on, because I
had no idea how to turn it on. It was some new,
ultramodern civilian stuff I'd never seen before. I
found a keypad next to a small LED display. At the
moment, it showed the frequency for Guard channel,
plus another freak above that.
     I tapped at the keypad; they hadn't locked it out,
thank God. I typed the freak for North Marine Corps
Air Base, office of the SubCincMarsCom, Colonel
George Karapetian. It was no great trick remember-
ing it; I was the radioman for Major Boyd when we
were stationed on Deimos on TDS to the Navy.
I wandered all over the band from one side to the
other, looking for the carrier. Finally, I found it; it
was weak and intermittent, as if the repeaters were
blown and I was picking up the source itself. But I
boosted the gain, and we were able to pick out the
words from behind the snow.
     I engaged the standard CD encrypter, digitally
adding the signal to a CD of random noise from
background radiation; they had an identical disk at
North--if we were lucky, they'd figure out that the
signal was scrambled and pull their encryption on-
line.
     "Corporal Fly Taggart, commanding officer of Fox
Company, Fourth Battalion, 223rd Light Drop Divi-
sion, to SubCincMarsCom, come in, Colonel
     Karapetian."
Fly broadcast the message over and over, and I
started to get nervous . . . both about the time and
about the lack of response. Finally, a voice sputtered
into life on the line. I recognized it; it was the colonel
himself, not some enlisted puke.
     "Fox, connect me to Lieutenant Weems. Fourth
Battalion, over."
     "Fourth Battalion, Weems is dead; I am in com-
mand of Fox."
     "Who is this?"
"Corporal Taggart, sir."
     "Corporal, give me a full report. Over."
Fly gave the colonel the verbal cook's tour of
everything that had happened to us in the past few
weeks. When he finished, Karapetian was quiet for so
long, I thought we'd lost the carrier.
     "I understand," he said. "Now where the hell are
you? Can you get back here, like yesterday?"
"We're at a resistance center in Salt Lake City," Fly
said. Suddenly, I got an uneasy feeling in my stomach;
should we be spilling this much intel, even to the sub-
Commander in Chief of the Mars Command?
     "Use rail transport," ordered Karapetian. "Get
your butts to Pendleton as fast as you can. We've got
to talk face-to-face about this. Got that, Corporal?"
"Aye, sir."
     "Good. Then I'll expect you tomorrow at--"
With a loud thunk, the entire system died. All the
dials, all the diodes, all the cool flashing lights.
I looked over my shoulder; Albert towered over us,
his face set in a mask of concrete. On one side stood
our friendly guard from the entrance; on the other
was the radio tech Fly had bullied, holding a remote-
control power switch in his hands.
     I gasped; framed in the light, Albert looked like he
had a halo.
     "I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me,"
Albert said.
     "Where?" I asked.
"To the President. Only he can decide cases of high
treason against the Army of God and Man United."
10
     With a heavy heart, I brought our two mis-
creant warriors to the President of the Twelve. I tried
to keep angry thoughts from my mind; judgment and
vengeance are the Lord's prerogatives, not ours.
Besides, I genuinely liked Fly Taggart, and I even
believed his wild story about fighting the alien de-
mons on Phobos and Deimos. And Miss Sanders,
now . . .
     No, that's wrong. I had no right; I didn't even know
her.
     I brought them into the chamber of justice to find
the President and his mast already seated. He wore a
suit; I sighed a hearty prayer of thanksgiving to the
Lord that this was to be mast, not a court-martial; the
President would have worn his robe for the latter.
"Sit," I commanded, putting a heavy hand on each
prisoner's shoulder and pushing him into the waiting
chair.
     "Who speaks for the outsiders?" asked Bishop
Wilston. He was a stickler for legalities.
     "They can speak for themselves," said the Presi-
dent, "this isn't a formal trial. I just want to find out
what the devil happened--and to find out whether
the devil himself was responsible."
     "Or just the imp of stupidity," I said. The President
glared at me; but I learned my manners under his
predecessor, who would listen to even the youngest
child with a mind to speak. This new fellow was from
out of state and a personal mentor of our old Presi-
dent, may he rest in peace.
     "You're rude," said the President, "but you may be
right. Corporal Taggart, as the responsible NCO, what
on Earth possessed you to start broadcasting all over
the globe from our radio room?"
     "Well, um . . ." Fly looked distinctly pink. "It
seemed like a good idea at the time."
     "Why are you so flipping surprised?" demanded
the woman. "Why shouldn't we report to our C.O.?
We just got back from a mission. What the hell did
you expect?"
     For a moment I thought the President was going to
burst a blood vessel. We all turned in annoyance to
Fly; couldn't he control his woman? His team
member?
     He was not a stupid man; he spoke up quickly:
"Arlene is tired, upset--you know how women get."
Now it was Arlene's turn to turn angry-red, opening
and closing her mouth like she wanted to say some-
thing devastating but couldn't even find the words.
Wisely, she pressed her lips together and said nothing.
A soft answer turneth away wrath, says the proverb;
or again, Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is
counted wise. The President was mollified and chose
to take the question seriously.
     "Miss Sanders--"
"Private Sanders, if you will," she said, voice
betraying the seething emotion within. Her red hair
flamed like a burning house, setting off her green eyes.
"Private Sanders, the 'why' is because the entire
military structure of the erstwhile United States, from
top to bottom, has been co-opted by the demons. Our
former government has capitulated . . , they surren-
dered, to put it bluntly, two weeks ago."
     "Oh, really! Maybe everybody but the Marines.
Semper fidel--"
     "Even the Marines," said the President softly. The
sudden change from loud and angry to quiet and cold
lent him an air of authority, as was befitting. I must
admit, the man had the mark of divine awe; the Lord
definitely moved through the President, when he let
Him.
     "Do you two know what you've done?" asked the
bishop. "Even the broadcast itself might have been
traced. But to actually tell the forces of darkness
where we are . . . ! That passes understanding."
"Look, maybe I shouldn't have done that. But they
must already have known this was a pocket of resist-
ance."
     Don't dig yourself a deeper grave, Fly, I thought
urgently. Outwardly, I kept my face impassive; no
need to draw the judges' attention to the attempt at
blame-shifting.
     "But Corporal," said the President, voice at its
quietest and most dangerous, "they did not know that
you were here. If you still maintain that you and
your--your comrade aborted the division invading
through Deimos, don't you think you might have
incurred a special wrath, a wrath now transferred to
us? Perhaps they consider you Demonic Enemy Num-
ber One. Did that cross your mind?"
     Fly remained silent. Good man. So did Arlene.
I stared at the woman; she was not at all bad-
looking, not what I would expect of a female Marine.
I had never served with one in my three years of active
duty service; she looked tough, but not like an Ameri-
can Gladiator.
     In fact, the swell of her breasts and hips was quite
womanly; she would be a sturdy woman, well able to
bear many children and face the rigors of life under
siege. I could almost see her standing in a doorway,
babe in arms ... or lying bare on the bed, awaiting
me--
     Ow! My conscience hammered on my head. What
are you DOING, you godless sinner! Here I was, in the
presence of the representative of Jesus Christ Himself,
and I was mentally undressing this woman!
     Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an offense to
me: for thou savorest not the things that be of
God, but those that be of men.
     I concentrated on verses from the Bible and the
Book of Mormon, mentally reciting them so quickly I
lost all track of the trial and Miss Sanders.
When I blinked back, Fly and Arlene looked chas-
tened, humble. They clearly repented of their foolish
act and had found their way back to friendship with
God. Pride and Arrogance were banished--well, for
the moment.
     The President sighed heavily. "Go and be stupid no
more. And prepare for an attack, for surely one
arrives within an hour or two." He nodded to the
bishop, who, as General of the Armies of the Lord,
had primary responsibility for readying our defenses.
I already knew my station: Jerry and I manned the
dike west of the city, along with two thousand other
stalwarts.
     I had an idea. "Mr. President," I called. He turned
back, pausing at the door. "Sir, I'd like to suggest that
Taggart and Sanders be assigned to the defense along-
side me."
     He stared at me, and I squirmed. "Any particular
reason? They've already had their chance and
botched it."
     "That, sir, is the reason. Let them atone for their
mistake. They may have cost the lives of righteous
men; let them at least stand beside those men and put
their own lives on the line. Let them be at peace."
I glanced at Fly and Miss Sanders, and was tremen-
dously relieved to see a grateful look on their faces. I
was right about them: stupid, maybe; but they had
honor, and they probably felt like children whose
rough play accidentally killed the pet dog. I sure
would.
     The President was a hard man; but he was a just
man--else the Lord would not have allowed him to
serve as President of the Twelve; the Father has His
ways of making His pleasure known. He shook his
head, but said, "I think you're too forgiving a man,
Albert; but you know them better than I ever could.
Take them, if your C.O. approves."
     The bishop was smiling, though not in a friendly
way. "He'll approve," he prophesied.
     Less than half an hour later we were at the line. I
took care to see that both Fly and Miss Sanders were
armed, so they would know we still extended our
trust. It was part of the healing process. And the
President's prophecy came true, albeit a little late: in
fact, it took the forces of darkness two hours to mass
and attack, not one.
     Squinting into the distance, I saw first a column of
dust at the ragged edge of vision. We watched for
several minutes before even hearing the sound; you
can see a long, long way in the Utah desert, where ten
miles seems like one. The dust came from a column of
Bradley Fighting Vehicles, the same type in which I
had trained as a gunner before going to sniper school.
Thank the Lord they hadn't yet had time to scrounge
any M-2 tanks!
     As they roared up, we surprised them: the antitank
batteries opened up at two klicks. In the still air, the
artillery captains had the eyes of angels; they dropped
the first load of ordnance directly on the advancing
line. The laser spotter-scopes helped.
     Once the troops knew they were not up against
cowed, frightened refugees, they separated and ad-
vanced while evading. I took a risk, standing atop the
dike and focusing through binoculars mounted on a
pole. It was the BATF in the vanguard, as usual,
backed up by FBI shock troops. Reporting the battle
order over my encrypted radio, I saw the gold flag of
the IRS and realized we would doubtless have to face
flamethrowers and chemical-biological warfare shells.
The bastards. Regular Army filled in the gaps and
supplied most of the grunts--cannon fodder, as we
called them.
     They brought a contingent of brownies and bapho-
mets, but no molochs, praise God. Probably didn't
have any nearby. But I'd bet my last bullet there'd be
molochs and shelobs aplenty before the week was out.
There were a few of the unclean undead, but most
of the soldiers, horribly enough, appeared to be living
allies of the demons. I hoped to spare Fly that
knowledge, that our own species would willingly
cooperate in the subjugation of men to demons from
another star; but maybe it was better he find out now.
I guess he realized how wrong he was . . . but it was
a horrible way to find out.
     Contact was established a quarter hour later, on the
north side of Salt Lake City. Within a few minutes
battle was joined in my quadrant as well.
     Fly and Arlene acquitted themselves admirably;
they were no cowards! I especially enjoyed watching
the girl in combat, too busy and scared even to worry
whether my interest was righteous or sinful. She loped
forward to the out perimeter and spotted for the
mortars; my heart was in my throat--if they spotted
her, that beautiful body would be blown to tiny pieces
in seconds.
     Bombs and shells exploded left and right, but our
positions were secure; except for the occasional lucky
shot, the evil ones hit only stragglers. But I was very
glad for my earplugs; Fly had refused a pair, but
Arlene took them.
     We threw back the initial blitzkrieg; the demons
simply weren't prepared for that savage a level of
resistance. They'd probably never encountered it be-
fore. Like the heroic Jews of the Warsaw Ghetto, who
stood up to the Nazi butchers, without despair, we
forced the bastards back and back, until at last they
withdrew and formed a circle around our force, three
klicks back--out of range, they thought.
     After two more hours passed without movement,
Arlene and Fly took a chance and returned to me.
They looked shaken. I wanted to put my arm
     around Corporal Taggart, cheer him up; how could he
have known? But the gesture would not have been
appreciated. He stepped across the dead bodies of
righteous men to come to me; he knew what he had
done, and the last soul to forgive him would be
himself. He would probably carry guilt to his grave,
unless he found a minister to unburden himself.
I had the vague thought that he was a Catholic. I
would never condone such a perversion of the teach-
ings of Christ--in normal times; but in this world,
even to call oneself a Christian is a courageous step. I
hoped he would find a priest and confess; otherwise,
he might never give himself absolution.
     "We seemed to have scored a temporary stale-
mate," he said, sounding defeated.
     "We kicked ass!" argued Arlene.
"You're both right," I said, ever the diplomat.
"But how long can we hold out?" asked Fly. "A few
days? A week? Two weeks? Eventually they'll get
reinforcements and overrun us." He didn't add and
all because of me, but I could tell he thought it.
"Eventually," I agreed. "In about five or six years."
"Years? What the hell do you mean?"
     I winked. "We've been preparing for this sort of war
for a long time, my friend ... we just never realized
we'd be fighting literal demons!"
     "Jesus . . . who were you expecting to fight?"
The blasphemy angered me, but I let it slide. He
was an unbeliever and might not even realize what
he'd said. "Exactly who we are fighting; the forces of
Mammon. We'd hoped to avert the crisis by engaging
in the world, steering it toward the righteousness of
the Constitution ordained by God Himself in 1787.
We sent our members out into the world, joined the
Army, the FBI, the Washington power structure. We
increased our numbers within the IRS and even
within NASA. But in the end, all that effort bought us
only advance warning and some spies and saboteurs
within the enemy ranks."
     Fly shook his head, dazed. He said nothing.
"Now we are the last stronghold in the continental
United States. There is but one major enclave left on
the planet for humans and the godly; there centers the
Resistance."
     "Where?"
I chuckled. "Even if I knew, Fly, I wouldn't tell
you. Your interest rate on keeping secrets isn't very
high right now."
     He smiled sardonically. "I guess I wouldn't tell you
either, if you'd just done what we did. What / did."
"We," corrected Arlene. "You were right the first
time. I stood right beside you and helped you report
to Karapetian."
     He shrugged, neither confirming nor denying.
"Are there plans to get to the Resistance?"
     "If there are, we haven't executed them yet. We can
send brief messages--too quick to triangulate or
decrypt. But we can't send people."
     "Why not?"
"There is some sort of energy barrier that prevents
us from leaving the continent . . . and at times, even
from leaving an urban center. Los Angeles has one;
you cannot fly from L.A. to anywhere else unless the
demons drop the wall--which they do only for their
own, of course."
     "But if you go around the barrier?"
"We've tried; we can't find an edge. It seems to be
everywhere. What we need to do is find the source or
the control center and shut it off. At least long enough
to get our people out, join up with the Resistance.
Otherwise, eventually, we will fall; we have years
worth of food and medicine, but not decades worth.
And after a while they will mass enough troops
against us to overrun us in any case.
     "Worst-case scenario, you two, we lose this city
after a four-month siege. That's if they throw every-
thing in the world at us."
     "Are you kidding?" demanded an incredulous
Arlene. "What about missiles? Nuclear bombs
     dropped from airplanes?"
"Our agents were heavily involved in the Strategic
Defense Initiative . . . remember?" I winked. "And
we have anti-air defenses too. We're not worried
about nukes; we're more worried about tanks and
undead soldiers. None of our defenses were erected
with molochs in mind."
     "Molochs?"
"What you called steam-demons, I believe."
     Suddenly, the radio phone buzzed. The radioman
answered, listened for a moment, saying a string of
"yessirs." He turned to me. "Albert, the President
wants to see your charges."
     "Now?"
"Tonight. The captain says he has a mission for
them . . . something to prove themselves after their
incompetence ... no offense, guys; I'm just quoting."
"None taken," said Arlene, highly offended. My
eyes began to dwell longingly on her curves and swells
again, and I brutally forced my gaze to the dead and
wounded littering the battlefield . . . even their dead.
The corpsmen were already busy, collecting the casu-
alties for transportation to hospital.
     "Got a time?" I asked.
"Eighteen hundred," said the radioman. I didn't
know his name, even though he knew mine; it made
me uncomfortable.
     I nodded. "Okay, you heard the man. Fly, Arlene,
start polishing your brass. We've got three hours
before your mission briefing. And guys?"
     They waited expectantly.
"Try not to hose it up. This time."
     Arlene Sanders flipped me the finger; but Fly just
looked down at his boots, brushing the mud off with
his hands.
     11
Arlene, Albert, and I sat in our little room
like old friends. "Albert, you were right," I said. "We
should have asked you before charging off to report to
Karapetian."
     "The fact that you had to sneak around and concoct
an absurd fairy tale should have told you something,"
he said, smiling faintly. I caught Arlene looking at
him with an interest I hadn't seen in her eyes since she
first began getting close to old Dodd. Could she . . . ?
Nah; that was a silly thought. Not with how she felt
about religion in general--and Mormons in particu-
lar. Not after her brother.
     She spoke, her voice tight and controlled. "Albert,
can you tell us what on Earth happened? I mean here
on Earth."
     "Gladly," said Albert.
Evidently, even with only half an invasion force,
the urban areas of Earth had fallen quickly. Albert
suspected that high-ranking U.S. government officials
and their counterparts in other governments, the
federal and state agencies and even the services
themselves--the U.S. Marine Corps!--actually col-
laborated with the aliens.
     I guess there wasn't much argument I could make
. . . not after seeing living human beings on the march
against us in the siege. If I cared to climb up to the
roof, I could see them still. I didn't care to.
The monsters promised a peaceful occupation and
promised each collaborator that his own government
would be given the top command slot. A tried and
true approach, with plenty of terrestrial examples: it
worked for Hitler and Stalin; now it worked for a
bunch of plug-uglies from beyond the planets.
Naturally, the aliens screwed the traitors, killing
hundreds of millions . . . utterly destroying Washing-
ton, D.C., and demolishing much of New York, Paris,
Moscow, and Beijing. The Mormons knew the invad-
ers were really serious when all the stock exchanges
were wiped out in two hours.
     "They control all the big cities now," Albert re-
ported.
     "So at least some things will feel the same," said
Arlene. Our newfound friend laughed uproariously.
He was taking to Arlene's morbid brand of humor.
"What's the Resistance like?" she asked, hanging
on his every word. I started to resent her interest.
Maybe I was only her "big brother," but shouldn't
that count for something?
     Albert turned up his hands. "How should I know?
We know only that they exist, and they have a lot of
science types, teenies. They're working on stuff all the
time . . . but so far, they haven't been able to shut off
the energy wall from outside--and the only way to get
to it from the inside is to mount an assault ... or
infiltrate."
     "Maybe that's what the President wants us to do," I
speculated; I don't think Albert had any more idea
than I, though.
     Jerry joined us again; now he too was in a dark suit,
though still heavily armed with a Browning Automat-
ic Rifle. It reminded me of a "Family" war between
Mafia soldiers I began to feel distinctly underdressed.
"What about the countryside?" I asked.
     Albert nodded and answered: "That's the local
resistance, such as it is. At least we are not alone. For a
little longer, at least."
     Jerry volunteered a comment: "They seem more
interested in taking slaves from the rural areas than
conquering the territory."
     Albert concurred: "It gives us a fighting chance,
they being so slow expanding their pale."
     "What is this 'special wisdom' the President offered
to share before the attack?" I asked. "Can you give us
a hint?"
     Albert and Jerry exchanged the look of comrades in
arms. "Don't worry about it," said Albert. "He's less
worried about what you know than what you see."
Albert insisted that Arlene and I rest and bathe.
The only choice offered was a cold shower, but that
was fine with us. We found clean clothes.
     Then we got the "fifty-cent-tour" from Albert, the
tour that wouldn't get him in trouble.
     Albert took us down to the hidden catacombs
they'd constructed beneath the Tabernacle complex.
The trip began with an elevator ride. The metal was
shiny and new. Everything was air-conditioned. The
doors slid open to reveal something out of the latest
James Bond movie. But somehow I was not surprised
at the vast complex they had constructed. We walked
under a gigantic V arch to bear witness to dozens of
miles of secret shelters. We were not taken behind the
locked doors to see the contents, but Albert told us
they had millions of rounds of ammunition, stores,
heavy military equipment, a whole factory, and more.
It was survivalist heaven.
     "I wonder what kind of heavy equipment?" Arlene
whispered in my ear.
     "Tanks and Humvees," I whispered back. "The rest
when he trusts us."
     "I'm sure he'll trust us plenty after we've died for
the cause," she concluded.
     "Can't hardly blame him." I could kick myself for
such self-pity, but I couldn't get my stupidity out of
my mind.
     We took a turn in the passageway and reached
another elevator marked for five more levels down.
"Jesus!" said Arlene, followed by: "Sorry, Albert."
He only shook his head. Even Albert was probably
cutting her some slack for being female. Arlene could
always sense a patronizing attitude, but she had too
much class to throw it back at someone working so
hard to play fair with her.
     "Why would you have all this?" she asked.
He didn't hesitate in answering, "To equalize our
relations with the IRS."
     "Man, all I had was Melrose Larry Green, CPA,"
marveled Arlene.
     "I'll let both of you in on something," he said,
"because it hardly matters today. All you saw today
were ground troops; but did you know the IRS had its
own 'Delta Force,' the Special Revenue Collection
Division?"
     We shook our heads, but once again I wasn't really
surprised. "In case of another Whiskey Rebellion?" I
guessed.
     "An interesting way of putting it," he said, and
continued: "They had an infantry division, two ar-
mored cav regiments, a hidden fast-attack submarine,
a heavy bomber wing, and from what I hear, a carrier
battle group."
     Somebody whistled. It was Yours Truly. If the
Mormons knew about that, could they have wound up
with some of it? This was an obvious thought, and
would make full use of an installation this size; but I
wasn't going to ask. Arlene and I were lucky to be
learning this much.
     "How'd they finance it?" I asked.
"The IRS can finance anything?" suggested Arlene,
as if a student in school.
     "Well, even they had to cover their tracks," said
Albert. "Jerry thinks they hid the military buildup
inside the fictitious budget deficit. Unfortunately, the
Special Revenue Collection Division was seized by
the demons."
     "Aliens," Arlene corrected, almost unconsciously.
"Whatever."
     This seemed a good moment to clear up the nomen-
clature: "Actually, Albert, we named the different
kinds of aliens to keep them separate. We call the
dumb pink ones the demons."
     "How did the aliens get their claws on all that IRS
equipment?" Arlene asked.
     "Hm. Because Internal Revenue was the very first
group to sell out Earth," he answered. This was
definitely not a day of surprises.
     "Do we get to ride on the other elevator?" I asked.
"Later," he said. "And I'm sorry I can't show you
behind the doors."
     "No, you've been great, Albert," said Arlene. I
could tell she was impressed for real, no joke. This
was rare. "Why don't you tell us about your checkered
military past?"
     "That's next on the agenda," he said, "and the
President will want to brief you on the mission, if he's
picked it yet."
     We took the elevator back up to face the boss. I
promised myself that no matter how much I wanted
to do it, I wouldn't say, "Howdy, pardner."
     Three more bodyguards surrounded the President.
These guys didn't seem friendly like Albert or Jerry.
He led us to the auxiliary command center (I sup-
posed the real command center was at the bottom
level of the complex), where we learned that the
nearest nerve center of the alien invasion was Los
Angeles. The monsters had set up their ultra-
advanced computer services and war technology cen-
ter near the HOLLYWOOD sign. I didn't want to ask who
sold out humanity there. I was afraid to find out.
The President didn't waste time coming to the
point: "Two highly trained Marines who fought the
enemy to a standstill in space, then floated down out
of orbit, would be better qualified to lead a certain
mission we have in mind than our own people. This is
assuming that we haven't been subject to a certain
degree of exaggeration. A man and a woman alone
could only be expected to do so much against hun-
dreds of the enemy."
     Arlene was behaving herself, but it dawned on me
that I hadn't made any promises to keep my mouth
shut. This wasn't about religion. This was about
doubting our word after we'd swum through a world
of hurt to get this far.
     I reminded myself that we needed this man; I
reminded myself we'd already hosed the job . . . but
stupidity had nothing to do with dishonor!
     "If the two of you could get to Los Angeles," the
leader continued, "and make it into the computer
system, download full specs on their most basic
technology, and get it back to the United States War
Technology Center, it would aid our defense immeas-
urably."
     "What's that?" I asked.
"The War Tech Center was created a few weeks ago,
hidden--west of here. You'll be told where when the
need arises. When you get the download."
     I thought for a moment. It couldn't be as far as
Japan or China; Beijing and Tokyo were both de-
stroyed. He must mean Hawaii.
     I couldn't resist being a smart-ass; the President
brought that out in people. "It's either Wheeler AFB,
Kaneohe Bay Marine Corps Air Station, or Barber's
Point Naval Air Station, all on Oahu," I declared.
"Do I win anything?"
     "I love Hawaii!" said Arlene. "Great weather.
Hardly any humidity."
     "But those prices," I answered.
It was a trivial little protest against the man's
pomposity and skepticism, but it made us feel a whole
lot better.
     "Please," said the President, his face turning posi-
tively florid. "As I was saying, if you can penetrate the
enemy stronghold and bring the specs to the U.S.
technology center, there are scientists there who can
do something with it. We have refugees from ARPA,
the Lockheed 'skunk works,'